It was beyond Arron why the Alliance was trying so hard to invade Vol’dun. Sure, a foothold in any region of Zandalar would spell bad news for the Horde, but Vol’dun was an arid wasteland of little more than heat, fanatical snake-men, and sand. Lots and lots of sand. Part of Arron felt like just withdrawing and simply giving Vol’dun to the Alliance. They’d savor their victory for all of a few minutes before realizing what a truly terrible place they just purchased for themselves, and their victory would ring hollow. And then their boots would be filled with sand and their throats torn out by snake-men. That would be a delightful thing to see.
But alas, in the grand scheme of things Arron was little more than a grunt, and thus when he was directed to defend Vol’dun with every ounce of his remaining strength he had little recourse but to agree. And so it was that he found himself amongst a company of deathguards and dark rangers, the former providing as much protection as possible for the latter, as they all brawled against a seemingly endless incursion of 7th legionnaires. Behind them stood the Vulpera hideaway; the object of their defense. Perhaps Sylvanas wanted to stay in the good favors of the fox-folk who lived there, though for what purpose Arron couldn’t fathom. His eyes were fixated forward, for somewhere beyond the dunes was Shatterstone Harbor. If the Horde forces could somehow only take that harbor, the Alliance would lose its critical access point into the region.
But for now he was destined to fight a defensive battle, and the notion bothered him at his very core. The desolate dunes of Vol’dun stretched upwards on all sides, obscuring vision in a few crucial areas. It was difficult to determine from which direction the next enemy assault would come, yet the moment he saw a flash of blue armor he would, without fail, let an arrow fly towards the area where the wearer’s head should be. Each time he drew the bowstring taut and let loose another arrow, he counted. He was at seventy-nine shots now, and he had not missed a single one. He was determined not to, after all, for he couldn’t allow himself to make a single mistake. Not again.
Monotony began to sit in, but with monotony came complacency, and complacency was the enemy. He needed to fend it off; they weren’t getting anywhere just by standing like this out in the open. The push towards the harbor needed to come sooner rather than later.
To his left Arron saw no fewer than thirty helmets emerge over one of the dunes. Surely the other dark rangers had already taken notice, but it was up to him to thin the herd a bit. He quickly nocked an arrow and pointed it at the closest figure he could make out, but no sooner had he drawn the string than a powerful wind swept through the canyon, bringing with it a storm of sand that momentarily blinded him.
Now, he had to guess. He let the arrow fly towards what he thought was the most appropriate direction, but there was no way to confirm the kill now. With his right hand now free, he swiftly pulled out a rag and wiped his face clean, restoring his vision. He then nocked another arrow and whirled to face the oncoming band of legionnaires and-
Pain.
Searing, agonizing pain erupted from his chest. Stunned, Arron dropped both bow and arrow and fell to his knees. He feebly grasped at his chest to determine what was wrong, but he found nothing. No wound, no abnormality, no foreign object. This was wrong, all wrong. Since his rebirth he had felt little more than dull sensation, a consequence of his soul’s imperfect attachment to his body, or so he was often told. But this? This was something entirely different. He had not felt pain of this magnitude since his flesh was warm and blood flowed in his veins.
Perhaps he should have expected something like this to happen. In truth, he had not felt the same since…
Lordaeron.
Yes, he had survived the battle, but felt himself get progressively weaker with each passing day. He could not explain why, and chose instead to merely ignore it, or convince himself that he simply needed to push through it.
But this… he could not ignore this.
Yet he had to force himself to overcome it, for in this position he could not be any more vulnerable. He snatched up his bow and arrow and struggled to stand, yet just as he set the arrow in its place did he find himself face to face with a large brute of a man, fully garbed in plate armor, screaming at the top of his lungs and wielding his blade above his head. The enemy had taken advantage of that single moment of confusion and somehow closed the gap, and now there was nothing left for Arron to do but die.
Shunk!
A sharp blade pierced the legionnaire’s neck horizontally in a weak spot between the plates. The legionnaire stood frozen as blood dripped from the exit wound. Arron turned his eyes to his left and saw, hanging from the hilt of the dagger, a small goblin clad in brown leather. Arron could just make out the goblin’s face and recognize his battlefield savior; Steamratchet. The diminutive assassin gave Arron a half-hearted wave with his free hand before pushing himself off the legionnaire with his foot, freeing his blade and causing his kill to collapse upon the ground like a bag of discarded meat.
“That’s one you owe me, Arron,” Steamratchet said as he swiftly slid the dagger back into the sheath on his hip. “How about you stop daydreaming and keep your peripherals clear, hm?”
Arron said nothing, for he could not find the words. Just as pain gripped his chest, so too did shame hold dominion over his mind. Once again did he come face to face with death and it was only through the timely arrival of another that Arron would be allowed to walk away. What would Kialdrys think? He remembered her face as she carried his limp body to safety in the aftermath of Lordaeron as he lingered on the precipice of his final death. He never wanted to see her face contorted like that again. Not over him.
Yet here he was, helpless once more. She would be so disappointed.
Steamratchet tapped his foot impatiently, as if disappointed with Arron’s lack of a reaction. “Oh, come on,” he said, “it’s really no big deal. Say, if you want to settle your debt now, we can. What do you think your life is worth monetarily?” The goblin dipped his index finger into his pocket and swirled it around. “Sure, your life’s got a lot of wear and tear on it, so let’s set the price tentatively at… oh, say, two gold pieces and ten silver?”
The provocative creature’s antics were nothing abnormal, but still Arron began to tremble with anger. Steamratchet started snickering, as if wholly pleased with himself that his jabs were producing a tangible effect.
“Oh relax, relax. Don’t get mad with me now. It takes an incredible number of muscles to frown, you know. And you can’t afford to expend the energy, after all. Why, if you pull the right muscle in your face the wrong way, suddenly your whole jaw falls off! And then where does that leave you? I’ll tell you; like one of those tongue-hanging freaks! And that will be the end of our association, my friend! For I have standards, after all, and those standards dictate that I must refuse to partake in conversation with one who can’t put his lips together!”
“Steamer?” Arron said quietly.
“Yes, friendo?”
“Shut. Up.”
Steamratchet simply shrugged. “Suit yourself. Be seeing you!” With a quick wink he vanished into the shadows, but he wouldn’t go far. Arron knew him too well. He would remain nearby and look for any and all opportunities to show him up on the battlefield. Again. But that was the nature of the goblin; his most annoying qualities often turned out to simultaneously be his most reliable, and today, to Arron’s disgust, that is precisely what saved his life.
The battle had died down, for now. The dark rangers and deathguards seemed to have little trouble in mopping up the remaining legionnaires. The echoes of battles fought elsewhere in Vol’dun reverberated in the distance. Kialdrys was somewhere out there with a platoon of her own kind. Blood Knights. Arron hoped she was having better luck than he was. He hoped that she would never find out about-
An arrow sailed through the air and landed in the ground, missing Arron’s left ear by a fraction of an inch. He whirled to his left and saw, on top of one of the dunes, the silhouette of an Alliance archer.
Twice in one day was twice too many. With fiendish, inhuman speed, Arron set his arrow and shot it at the figure’s head. It struck true and the the figure collapsed upon the dune, completely immobile. But that was not enough. With a haunting, ghoulish scream, Arron bounded towards his fallen foe, reaching the top of the dune in a matter of seconds. The archer was fully geared in mail, as were most of the marksmen in the army, yet somehow this mask seemed to deny him a sense of satisfaction. He yearned to see the face of his victim, to know to visage of defeat and gleeful display his own survival over it, and so he tore off the mask.
And then he paused.
Before him lay the face of a boy, no more than seventeen. Pale cheeks, strong jaw, and long blonde hair. It was a familiar sight, for it greeted Arron every time he looked in the mirror. At least, it did a lifetime ago. Back when his flesh was still warm and blood flowed in his veins.
Arron seethed with hatred. He despised that face. He needed to destroy it. It wasn’t uncommon for the forsaken to consume the bodies of their prey, some even thought it made them stronger for doing so, but Arron chose never to lower himself to the behavior of ghouls. He always prided himself on being above that, but this? This was personal.
When it was over, and the sickening sounds of the meal had subsided, there was very little left to identify whoever that young archer was. But, to Arron, this was as it should be. What did he feel now? Pride? Glee? Vindication? All of the above! Yet he felt it for a moment, only a moment, before looking up and seeing Steamratchet standing before him.
He had never seen that expression of disgust on a goblin before.
“You uh… you get what you needed out of that, friendo?”
Arron merely gave a slight nod. There was nothing more to be said.
“Good. Because we’re pushing forward now.”
Forward. Indeed. There was never going to be a way to go back. Never again. But despite this, whatever lay backwards still existed, and it made its presence known to Arron with a deep burning throb in his chest that alternated between intensifying and abating with every step he took.
![:smiley:](https://d38bqls1q93fod.cloudfront.net/en/wow/images/emoji/twitter/smiley.png?v=6" ":smiley:")
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