Welcome to Gaia! ::

From where he was perched, crouched on a short hilltop in the treeline and concealed by low-hanging branches and plumed ferns, Matheus observed the orcish raiding party that had trudged its way into Ashenvale for the past week. Their progress had been slowed by the natural defenses of the wilderness; twice already, thick brambles had blocked their path and forced them to revise their route, and several members had been lost to the more sinister traps in the woods. Though it was lush and majestic, Ashenvale’s poisonous insects, venomous snakes and predatory fauna were unforgiving of intruders.

Now, the orcs rested their feet and grunted in frustration at one another, snarling their guttural language in protest of the arduous journey. The young elf watched every movement with keen eyes, rimmed with black tattooing that accentuated his face decoratively, but primarily acted as camouflage. His muscles tensed expectantly against his leather armor, perfectly designed for forest combat; sabatons and a warskirt protected his legs, bracers with thick elbow cops jointed to fingerless gloves provided an easy grasp, and a breastplate, though made of the same boiled leather, held metal plates within to deter enemy blades, all colored in an earthy umber that blended into the forest.

A second elf crept up beside him, setting one hand on his shoulder and lowering his bow, whispering that the “others” were at the ready. Matheus nodded once, prompting the scout to slither back into position. He waited for the opportune moment, commanding his body to stay still despite being mere feet away from his mortal enemies. Slowly, he raised his hand, hearing the ferns behind him and to his sides rustle faintly as he did. His patience was rewarded when the orcish captain called for a rest, and his soldiers found fallen tree trunks and smooth rocks to lean against, setting their weapons down in the tallgrass.

Matheus narrowed his eyes, and swung his hand downward. In an instant, sharp “twangs” broke the silence of the woods, followed by twenty arrows that came hissing from the darkness. They found their targets and sunk deep into green flesh, throwing orcs from their makeshift seats and effecting a chorus of agonized shrieks, piercing eyes and throats and ribs.
The young elf let out a ferocious battlecry and erupted from the treeline, the other members of his squadron following close behind. From his back he drew a large, round shield of ironwood and a short, leaf-shaped blade from his hip, sprinting down the hillside. Within seconds the orcs rallied themselves and rose to meet the elven attackers, a fierce roar in each of their throats. The squadrons crashed together as each combatant locked blades with another, gouts of blood filling the air instantly.

Matheus knocked aside the blade of the first beast he met in combat, the tip of his blade finding the orc’s gut and running it through, making it snarl in agony. With a strong kick, the elf freed his sword and found the next opponent, cutting it down just as swiftly. He moved gracefully, but his technique was undeniably that of a brawler, using anything at his disposal to incapacitate and finish his targets. The edge of his shield became a mace and crushed bone, his feet lashed out to break kneecaps, his shoulders and elbows pushed aside the fallen, and his blade’s pommel shattered teeth. Soon he was splattered with black ichor. All around him he heard his men fighting bravely, some of them crying out in pain as their opponents scored true hits.

Another orc charged through the fray to find him, swinging a heavy, crude stone maul. Matheus threw himself aside and barely avoided having his skull crushed, rolling on his shoulder and circling his enemy. Another swing rushed by his shoulder as he dodged, using his momentum to rush forward and drive his blade under the orc’s arm, piercing its innards. It snarled viciously and shoved him aside with one powerful arm, trying its hand again and missing. The two warriors locked weapons again, glaring at one another in hatred. Matheus could see into the orc’s yellow eyes, feel the rage in its veins fueling it to kill. No progress was made for a few moments, but it didn’t take long for the orc’s weight to give it the upper hand as it pressed the elf back, threatening to break the hold and win a free strike at his head.

Matheus let out one fierce snarl, throwing his head forward and feeling his skull meet the orc’s. Bone broke under his attack, and the beast reeled back with one hand covering its shattered nose. But its pain was short-lived; Matheus snarled again and rushed forward, thrashing his blade through any flesh he could find, again and again as he turned his opponent’s skin to ribbons. One final strike to the throat ended the brute permanently.

As the orcs realized their failure, the captain sounded the retreat and the skirmish broke. Those still alive threw themselves into a sprint in the opposite direction, trying to find the path they’d taken into the wilds and seeking cover from their assailants. Matheus panted from the effort of the battle, watching the orcish retreat with narrowed eyes. He brought up his hand once again, the other elves slowly knocking another volley of arrows in their bows. Another swing of his arm, and the arrows raced from their strings and sailed through the forest air. Seconds later, the now distant orcs flailed their arms and grasped at the shafts sticking out from their backs, one by one succumbing to their wounds and stumbling into the tallgrass to die.

Matheus lowered his weapons and surveyed the field, now covered by the corpses of orcs and drenched in their blood. Looking over his squadron, he saw no elves missing, though many had sustained superficial wounds. This was the fifth skirmish in three weeks, and this patrol was exhausted. It showed on their faces as they weakly sheathed their swords and slung their shields over their backs, looking to their leader for their next order. Matheus looked out at the wilderness, his ears twitching at the sound of new orcish voices in the far reaches of the forests.

This war, it seemed, had no end in sight.

The squadron of elves moved over the next incline in their path, using the softly rolling hills in the landscape to cover their movements. Through the deep purple haze created by the violent and blue boughs above them, they were nearly invisible to all but the keenest eyes, their skin color giving them another edge to camouflage. Matheus knew these techniques well; every member of the Oakenheart clan had studied them as diligently as the children of the Eastern Kingdoms studied their alphabet. He was at home in the forests, and that made his squadron all the deadlier.

The same sound arose from over the next ridge – orcs, barking in harsh tones. He had pursued it for minutes now, scouts reporting back to him from their positions in the far front of the column. Eventually he received word from one of the bowmen, who edged up to his side and spoke in a quiet tone.

“Vardasha, there is a pack of orcs just ahead of us,” he announced, fierce eyes behind wing-like tattooing staring back at Matheus. “And they seem to have a prey already in their jaws.” The warrior nodded and made an open palm motion with his hand, speaking in a bold tone of voice that resonated even at this volume.

“Move the archers ahead. We will take them by surprise.” With that command, the squadron returned to the brisk trot and followed their previous battle tactics, lining up on the hilltop and waiting for another order. Matheus knelt at the top of the slope, looking through the white, slender trunks of the trees in front of him. He could see a group of orcish soldiers snarling as they closed in on a creature he couldn’t identify, making his brow furrow in confusion. It appeared closely related to an elf, but it was strangely shaped and colored. Regardless, he was more concerned that the orcs appeared to be preparing to massacre their opponent. He raised his hand and shouted the command to fire, not waiting to overanalyze his battle plan.

The arches let fly and another twenty arrows ripped through the air, at this close range passing entirely through their targets. The orc with a greataxe raised over the odd stranger’s head was pierced twice, once in the throat and again in the sternum, letting out a gargling scream as blood poured from its mouth and it stumbled back in its death throes. Matheus roared again and led his men into the second charge of the day, meeting the orcs head-on and pushing his line past the newcomer, giving her time to recover. Another slam of his shield sent the next orc reeling, holding its shattered face.

“Let none escape!” he snarled in Darnassian, viciously carving into his next opponent. Friend or foe, the alien being was no threat compared to the beasts before him.

Matheus wrenched his blade from where it had become lodged between the ribs of an orc's corpse, swinging it aside to clear the layer of deep red blood covering its polished silver surface. He immediately turned to face the newcomer, not entirely convinced she was not a threat herself.

The group of elves standing before her were a fearsome sight to any trespasser in the forests. Now very close, she could see the tight braids holding back their wild hair, ranging from all shades of purple and blue even to green or black. Their skin was more homogeneous, mostly confined to the spectrum of blues, but here and there one was darker or lighter than the others. Filigree lines of black ink spread over their faces and arms, coiling and slithering like vines or arching like wings to conceal them, but make each man unique. And now, fresh from the day of killing, blood was splashed and splattered across their bodies from head to toe. The leader of the pack, obvious in his stature and demeanor, stepped forward and surveyed the creature.

He could see skin and hair that reminded him of his own people, and armor that denoted a connection to the natural. But the hooves, tail and horns all gave him reason to pause. His otherwise stoic and smooth brow suddenly furrowed, his eyes concealed in squinting lids. He had heard tales of creatures matching this description before, and he was suddenly filled with rage and suspicion.

He raised up his sword and pointed its tip at the humanoid being, twisting his head to the side and addressing her in his native tongue, an ancient deviation of Darnassian. "Are you Eredar, stranger?" he asked in a firm tone.

Matheus lowered his sword slowly, only to about a forty-five degree angle from his body, to show that while he would humor the idea of alliance with the newcomer, he was not to be tested. His eyes scanned over her, taking in the details of her dress, weapons, markings and figure - this was an Eredar, and yet not an Eredar. It spoke with dignity, respect, and no part of her accurately represented the demons that he had been warned of by past generations of elves.

"Your ship?" he asked in confusion, furrowing his brow at her questioningly. "I have never heard of creatures such as you faring the seas. Nor have I heard of a Draenor." One of his soldiers spoke up as well, looking to his leader with a suspicious expression.

"Vardasha, this could be an orcish trick," he advised. "But the Preserver did tell us of a sudden crisis on Loreth'Aran. He said the earth was heaved up and split asunder... perhaps this creature tells the truth."

Slowly, almost begrudgingly, Matheus sheathed his sword in a fluid, elegant movement of his hand, leaving its palm wrapped around the hilt of the finely crafted blade. "Very well," he answered. "I will assume your innocence. Explain your presence in our forest, outsider, and I will determine what occurs after."

Matheus once again narrowed his eyes at the woman before him, lilting his posture to one solid leg and shaking his head sternly at her. "So you are not in league with orcs, and you are not a demon. That means we do not have to kill you." He twisted his head lightly, producing a series of hard snaps between the vertebrae of his neck. "But you are still an outsider in our forest."

"That presents us with the task of returning you to the Preserver, to determine just what will be done next," he added, gesturing to two of his soldiers who found their way to the sides of the newcomer, setting their hands on their blades' hilts and giving her a stern look. "You will come with us, back to the clan lands of the Oakenhearts. We will not leave this forest until we are given orders by the Preserver, to confirm it for ourselves."

This woman was becoming furious, that much was clear to the warrior. He could see the tremors of fury running through her, making him question if she had told the truth about her heritage. More importantly, it seemed she would remain reluctant to follow him anywhere, which posed a greater problem. If he tried to take her back to the territory of his clansmen, the chances of her cooperation were slim. But if he disobeyed the orders of his Preservers, the elves selected to govern the clan and serve as its lawmakers, he would be in darker waters yet.

"Too many outsiders have come here in the past," he replied in a more solemn tone of voice. "Each one brings a new plague on our clan. I am not doing this because I distrust you personally. If we do not report you to the Preserver, every patrol in these forests will assume you are a target."

He paused at the name of the High Priestess, furrowing his brow once again, this time out of confusion; this was a matter of joint jurisdiction. It would come down to selecting the military law of the clan over the general laws of Darnassus, a place he had rarely seen himself.

"If you tell the truth," he added, trying to broker some manner of compromise, if begrudgingly so. "The Preserver will allow you to take our squadron back to your ship. I imagine you could use our help in some way, if you are indeed stranded."

"It's a trick, vardasha," one of the scouts immediately proclaimed when he heard the stranger's offer. "You will be ambushed, you must not-"

He was silenced instantly when the leader raised his open hand, keeping his eyes squarely on the woman in front of him. At this distance, she could see that his features were not entirely those of a fearsome warrior, closer to those of a young adult who had lived most of his life on the field - youthful, but scarred and marked by war. For several long moments, he gazed down at her sternly, meeting her stare without faltering. At long last he lowered his head in a shallow bow, letting his hand fall from his sword's hilt.

"So be it. You have my word," he replied in a softer tone of voice. "We will escort you to the Preserver, and if he agrees to this sojourn, I will accompany you to your ship."

With that, he turned to the other soldiers and gave them a second, silent order with his hand, half of them making a loosely-organized front guard that began to move through the dense forest, the other half protecting the rear of the column, and Matheus himself beckoning for the stranger to follow him.