This is the story of Luka Ansilo, Warrior from the North.
Former citizen of Lordaeron, Luka was an average woman. While she lived alone and had little family to speak of, she had a great love for her city and her king. Everything was good. That is, until the day she was heading home from the market and saw that same king begin to cut people down in the street before her very eyes. The shocking reality threatened to overwhelm her, but forcing herself to remain calm, she slipped out of view between two buildings to regain her composure. She carefully placed the grocery bags on the ground. After a deep, shaking breath, she resolved herself and started running. Leaving everything behind but the clothes on her back, she fled the city she loved.
Luka traveled South towards Khaz Modan over the next few months, never sticking around long in one place. Nowhere felt safe, not now. After a while she learned through word-of-mouth that the city had fallen, and virtually everyone had died. They had been purged. To make matters worse, anyone who wasn’t dead… wasn’t truly alive, either. She shuddered at the thought.
Luka kept quiet about her escape and made no mention of where she came from for fear of being slaughtered on sight. She had seen the same happen to other refugees, namely by the hands of the zealot-like “Scarlet Crusade”, as they called themselves. As far as anyone was concerned, she was a nomad with no name and no home.
Finally reaching the Loch Modan after many moons of travelling, Luka felt as though it was time to stop running for now. Lordaeron was far behind her now, and she couldn’t keep living this way. She was constantly consumed by fear, and by an aching sadness.
Luka knew what she had to do. Picking up a sword, she raised it high to where the sun gleamed off its hilt. It felt heavy and awkward, but for the first time in months, she smiled.
Luka didn’t have to be afraid anymore.