"Oi, Devon! Look what we have here!"
"Shut up Kirby, let me work. The sooner we go back, the better."
"Hear that, Bartley?" he chuckled, only for his voice to become thin, mocking and whiney the next time it was heard. "Devon wants to go back to the base! Back to mummy!"
And laughter was heard in the expense of another.
It was the night the Alliance had seen victory, repelling the forces of the Horde, or what at least remained of them, and locking them into their encampment. For once more, blood had painted the shifting sands, painted the brown with thick red. The enemy, not so many days ago, had been another, but none of that mattered anymore. No mortal truly needed the venomous song of Gorshalach to fall into bloodlust, only the faintest of excuses. Above them, the red eye of the blade feasted, as the world was torn by discord.
Not so far from Staghelm Point lay ruin and bodies. Crates with the Horde's emblem shattered, some of which once containing weapons, or even food supplies, now in the hands of the enemy. Scavangers had come quickly to salvage what they could. They were three, young and scrawny, wearing armour signigicantly larger than their person. The lions of Stowmwind were brown on their tabard, a mix of sweat and sand. They had probably never seen war before. They had probably never killed before.
Their set was simple. Kirby, the leader. Bartley, the loyal subject. Devon, the fearful. The youngest boy was going through the broken crates with care; every once in a while judging an item worth of being taken and placed it in his satchel, only to return it to the base. Silithus was the Alliance's priority for reasons the boy could not think of, but the supply routes could always be blocked. That could leave the troops starving.
Kirby and Bartley, however, did not seem so interested in the work that they had to carry out. The former was leaning over the wreckage of what had fallen and been abandoned from the Horde's forces upon their retreat from Silithus the previous night, only to soon be joined by Bartley. Unable to resist, Devon looked to their direction, just a little. And then, he saw it.
A corpse, that of an Orc, there was no doubt about that. He was poorly covered in armour, as one would expect of a brute, the hair of his chest clinging together under a pool of dry blood. Someone had pieced his heart. It was not an instant death and he had probably been trampled by several pairs of boots during the battle. His last moments must have been those of agony, knowing that he would die, that his companions could not save him. Quite possibly, they did not even try.
But such thoughts of pity never crossed the minds of the two boys leaning above the corpse, only the third. They were looking down at the dead Orc with squinting eyes. Until Kirby chuckled.
"How do you like that now, you filthy bastard?"
And he kicked the Orc with his boot.
Devon rose instantly, alarmed. But he did not do anything to stop the other boy, he could not.
"Teach him a lesson, Kirb!" Bartley cheered.
It only made Kirby's passion stronger. Each kick would come with greater strength, renewed rage. "You swines!" he yelled at the lifeless Orc, not minding the fact that he was defiling something dead. "You attacked our world!" Another kick, never to be felt. "You killed my father! You killed my father!"
"Kirby, that's enough!"
"Shut up Devon, you miserable shit! They killed your parents too, they deserve to burn!"
"Kirb..."
"I said shut up!"
"Enough!"
It was Bartley's voice this time. There was a frown on his features, making his orange eyebrows connect. He held a hand out for the two, signaling them to stop and wait alike, while turning his head to look to the North. "Listen."
They did. It was surprising how the sound had been concealed by the cries of their argument earlier, for it seems to be quite near. It was steps, heavy, perhaps those of an animal, as well as the chatter of two voices melodic in a language so beautiful that the three boys could have sworn was blessed by the Naaru.
"Elves." Devon announced lowly, joining his two companions.
The light of the travellers could be seen with clarity in the darkness, showing the figures of a snow-white, graceful creature, a bird, moving slowly on two feet, led by the tall figure of a man. He was pale, with long hair in the colour of his bird. Onto the creature was sitting a woman, with orange hair tied around her long ears. They were not just any elves. They were Blood Elves, their beauty unmatched throughout Azeroth, but that mattered little. They were carrying supplies and heading towards the Southwind Village. All three boys knew this was not meant to happen.
Kirby unsheathed his sword.
"You can't just-" Devon's eyes flashed in the night, his voice hushed. "They are probably just traders, they don't even seem armed! We should just let them go, or prisoners, or..."
Bartley remained silent. His eyes were locked on the prey, as were Kirby's.
"They wan to help those killed our parents!" he cried. "They betrayed our glorious Alliance!"
"Kirby-" Devon begged, but it was too late.
The boy began to run towards the light of the lanterns held by the two traders, followed by Bartley. Swords were brandished on the air upon their advance. Both of the elves turned, but they had little time to react. The man instantly abandoned the reins of the hawkstrider, urging the woman to run. He was the first to fall under the blade. As Devon had predicted, he was unnarmed.
Blood splattered across Kirby's figure as he cut the man's throat. He would not survive that blow, the boy most likely knew. It did not prevent him, however, from stabbing his weapon further into the man's torso, opening new wounds, making the not yet lifeless body twitch as the elf registered pain.
Next to him, the woman screamed and finally tried to mobilize her mount, but it was too late.
"Push her off the damn bird!" Kirby called to Bartley who chuckled, drunk by the smell of blood. It was not difficult to do so, for she was small and weak. And in spite of her small resistance, trying to kick back and pull away, the blade sank easily into her flesh, as if cutting through butter.
Not far behind, Devon was standing by the Orc's corpse, eyes wide, fearful as he was watching the two other boys claim their kills. They were not older than sixteen and they had enlisted, wanting to see the Horde perish. They were orphans once, nurtured by the hate and flame of war. They wanted to become soldiers. They had now become murderers.
Screams could be heard into the distance, mixed with laughter of triumph and cries of mourning and revenge. And finally, the two boys turned around, leaving their victims lay motionless onto the bloodied ground. Devon could see them, showered in red, emitting that heinours metallic scent that made his stomach twist. They dropped their swords, though not the masks of cruel expressions onto their faces. Fists tight. Bloodlust still there.
The youngest of the three tried to pull back, but he tripped onto the wrecked crates. His chance to rise was stolen as the two came too close, darkness in their eyes.
"You did not join us, did you, Devon?" Kirby asked. "You betrayed your Alliance."
Devon tried to cover his face as the two stood towering above him, but it would not do much, it was no use. A howling cry coming from two mouths pierced the silent night.
And the two boys started punching the third, until there was no hint of life left into him.
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