Silent, The

“I will only ask once more.” This was spoke in perfect Draenei. Only a short while back, the two races intermingled from time to time...it was not surprising that this Warmaster knew their tongue.
The blood-red Orc walked down the line of captives, eyeing them angrily as his men leered and snarled, ready to tear the group of Draenei apart upon command. A few of them were on the ground, unable to rise...all of them were wounded, their arms bound. The femme’s white eyes look straight ahead, emotionless. This was the thing they had feared...this is what they had been trained for. 
Behind her back, her fingertips touched the prayer beads looped to her belt, and she tried to take hope. The Light would deliver them from this. One by one the beads passed through her grasp, and she prayed.
“Who is your ranking officer? Tell me now, and I may spare your lives.”
A lie. For seven years, the Orcs had never backed down, and slowly their numbers were decreasing. Many of the older officers had already been slain, her father amongst them. For Draenei, they were young...the eldest of them being only around his 30th decade. But they had been trained mercilessly so that they could take on the tasks of the experienced.
This was a rouse, they wanted the leader because he would have the information they desired. The Orcs were known for many things...but after the Corruption, they were not known for their mercy.
“If none of you choose to talk, we will kill you all.”
Now this...this she believed. The second part, anyway. They were going to die...unless the Orcs got sloppy and gave them an opening. It would come...she knew it. One would get too close, and she would attack in full fury. This would create a distraction, and her men could unload as much fight as they had left in order to try and press their way out the gate. Maybe then a few of them would be able to get away, send help in case some were kept for “questioning”. 
The Light would give them the opportunity they needed. So many of her regiment had already fallen, they had grown so few. Long past were the days where brave Draenei volunteered to join their purpose. It had become a death sentence, but it had to be done. Best these few...no family to speak of. If they were lost, they would not be missed. In exchange for their short lives, they were assured a place of glory. The Light would receive them as heroes, for they would have made the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good.
Do all for the greater good. You are nothing until you do this for your people. There is no joy for you other than this. Glory is all you have to live for. In order to preserve the good in the world, you will die not knowing it. The embrace of Light at the end of your pain is your reward.
Each bead beheld another prayer, taught to her like a chant. Her faith would keep her strong. It had to. She had nothing else.
“WHO IS IT?” The Orc screamed, his arm drawing back and backhanding an archer to her right.
Kiirjek. Her old friend; their families had been close. The Revanvolk and the Jir’Keldaad had always lived within stone’s throw of each other, the Lords of the families had always had each other’s back. The archer had been the shining example of their close bonds in lesser matters, and now, bleeding from his wounds, he said nothing. Kiiriek, her good friend. He was always so loyal, and such a good archer. He had saved her tail on many 
“Fine. Then you die one at a time.” The Orc waved over another...one wielding an axe. His crimson eyes looked over the small band, looking for the first. His hand started to raise.
“No!” The voice was from her ranks, quivering and fearful. Shakowiin…a Paladin of the Holy path. A sniveling prick of a male, one she would have never chosen to fight beside. But he was sentenced to this assignment, for fleeing battle. Figures, he would be the first to break. He had not endured this before...he probably already had pissed himself in fear. Her nose wrinkled a bit in disgust, and she could feel the cold wave of fate washing over her. Her knees grew numb, but she locked them and kept her hooves. Her white eyes closed. 
Please...please give him the strength to shut the hell up.
It seemed to happen in slow motion. The Orc pulled her “fellow” paladin forward, and, with fearful eyes, he nodded to her.
“That is our commanding officer. Now please...please set the rest of us free.” Her heart sunk to her hooves as she watched him fall to his knees before the Orc, begging for his life. There was the slightest of groans from her men...their situation had now turned from bleak to hopeless. Before their deaths would have been swift; a beheading, even run through with a blade or having one’s throat slit was quick and clean.
Ptehincala knew the way this worked all too well. Now that they knew who was commanding, she would be pulled aside for torture as the rest of her men were put to death. She had seen it first hand before...they had gotten lucky that time, and reinforcements saved their hides. She had been pulled from interrogation before she had died, but her flesh still held the scars, and, though she never spoke of them, her mind held the scattered images of agony. But she had lived. 
This time, the ranks of the Draenei had grown thin...it would take time for reinforcements to gather. By that time, it may be too late.
The Paladin that groveled at the Orc’s feet was the first to die...mercilessly the Warlord beat him down with a rough mace. The sound of his bones shattering was dulled out by the roaring cheers of the troops that stood around, watching them...waiting for their cue. As expected, she was separated from them, taken inside one of the dwellings and bound to a post. Outside, she could hear the cries of her men as they were swarmed. Ptehincala closed her eyes and tried not to think of the sounds...tried not to recognize the voices of her friends.
The Orc now paced in front of her, grinning in his devilish way. When he got near, she spat at him, her saliva reddened by her bleeding lip. He did not react much, only wiped his cheek with the back of his hand with a chuckle.
“I remember you well, Paladin, though you may not remember me,” he hissed. Ptehincala grinned his way, undaunted. She was ready to die.
“Sorry, but I can’t recall your face. Not that I would want to.”
A smirk...aye, he knew her from elsewhere. War for her was a blur…just a lot of noise and blood and sweat. She was too tired to try and recall one Orc out of many.
“Oh, we have met before. I remember, you are quite the quiet one.”
''
Ah, that’s where. He must be the one who usually hands this sort of messy business. Interrogation wasn’t for everyone. Too squeamish, and you don’t do a good job of it. Too over eager...and your prisoner dies before being of any use. This one knew what he was doing. On a professional level, she had to be impressed. His grip of her language was dead on...important in this kind of thing. And his tactics had been simple, yet effective.
Too bad she had been trained too well. She had denied him his sick pleasure, and never uttered a sound. No wonder he remembered her...his one that got away. He had probably had an eye out for her.
“I was hoping we would meet again.”
See? There you go. Ptehincala smirked.
“Aye, good to see you again. Maybe you should just let me walk out of here...from what I remember of our first meeting, you would have saved yourself the trouble.”
“Oh, I remember it as well. I mistook you for something you weren’t...some stupid dog just obeying commands.” The Warlord motioned to the guards by the door, and one of them went outside. He looked back to her. “I have something new to try, this time around.”
At that moment, the guard returned, pushing one of her men in front of him. This one had been spared...the reason why, all too clear to her.
With cold eyes she looked into the eyes of Kiirjek, and her heart died.
Her faithful friend and ally stared back into her face, his bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. Inside of the Paladin, her soul was writing in agony.
“Now. Tell me where I can find your base of operations.”
She knew all too well...the bulk of her people were hiding out in the marshes, hoping to escape extinction. She couldn’t tell him that. The whole of her people depended on it. But as she looked into her loyal archer’s eyes, every fiber of her being screamed. The location was on the tip of her tongue, ready to be spoken for the sake of her friend.
However, her sense was still with her. Her revealing the desired information would not save his life, nor hers. Still, she writhed internally.
Kiirjek...her wonderful friend. He gave her the slightest of smiles, he knew what was coming. Softly his lips mouthed two words...be strong. She could feel tears well up in her eyes, but they never fell. It was a sign of weakness, and such emotion had been beaten out of her by training.
“Oh, nothing to say? Very well then.”
Her eyes remained locked on her comrade’s. Not even when the Orc pulled his blade from its sheath, did they look away from each other. They were ready to die.
So end the houses of the Revanvolk and Jir’Keldaad. May the Light give us honor and sleep. Amen.
With a wet, sickening sound the blade was forced between her archer’s flesh and skin. A cry of agony broke their locked sights, and Ptehincala instinctively lunged forward. She was bound too tightly, however. There was nothing she could do.
“A strange thing, the skin of your people. Like the hides of Felboar, they can be cut from your bodies and tanned. The leather is of poor quality, however.”
The blade pulled down Kiiriek’s side, and blood spilt onto the ground as he writhed, yet the guards held him down as they did their horrible work. Ptehincala didn’t flinch, yet looked away, only to be grabbed by the back of her head and forced to watch. 
Soon, the room was filled with his cries, calling out for the Light to stop his pain. Ptehincala prayed feverishly, that he would just die. Yet death did not come, even as a wide swath of skin was pulled from his back with a wet, tearing sound. His screams rocked her soul, yet there was nothing she could do.
“Your flesh, too is quite like that of a pig. Easy to carve.”
Inch by inch, The Orc cut away the flesh from the bone, piling it between the both of them as the archer’s eyes grew wide. Once more his gaze found Ptehincala’s, and he screamed at her in earnest.
“Do not falter, Pteh!”
His words were cut off by a kick to the face. They were the last comprehendible words he was ever to speak to his friend.
For over an hour, screams poured from the doorway of the fated room. Slowly, they began to quiet, until finally there was silence. The Orc, his eyes burning with anger, stood over the femme, his blade wet with the blood of the archer, whose remains now lay dissected on the ground before her. Staring up at her still, was the head of her friend, his eyes dull and unseeing.
His pain had finally ended, and no salvation had been brought to him. No merciful death had come to relieve him. No Light had touched this soldier of great faith.
“How heartless you must be. Not a sound the entire time.” The Orc shook his head. “I would have made his death painless, yet still...” his hand raised and came down onto her, opening a wound on the side of her face. She made no sound. “What will it take to make you speak?!” In full frustration, he turned the blade upon her.
Ptehincala, cared not. She was already dead.
It was as if she was watching it being done to herself...the pain, distant, though definitely present. It burned in her mind, and the cold of the blade brought her back to reality once more as it slipped under her skin. A darkness grew inside her...where was the salvation she had been promised? Had her faith been too weak? She had done everything ordered of her...had never once faltered from the path.
A ripping noise as she was cut down her side, the Orc’s grubby hand pulling up the edge of her skin and peeling it back. It was too much for her, and a scream began to build.
Please...please...anyone...
The cool touch of something under her chin made her look up. Something stood over her, its eyes glowing a gentle green. This was…not the Light she had been expecting, but something very different. The scent of the forest filled her nose, blocking out the stench of Orc and the blood of her troops.
Ptehincala, I am here. Have no fear.
The figure lay down in front of her, its paws on either side of her face. Slowly, her chin was lifted, so that her eyes stared directly into his.
Who are you?
A soft smile on a long muzzle and the gentle caress of her cheek lulled her. It leaned down, and pressed its forehead against hers, its voice a soft chant as the pain from her body seemed to lift.
I am one who has heard your cry.
It spoke not in her tongue, but another...one she had never heard before in all her life. It was like a smooth growl in her ears. Her heart, which had been beating out of her chest, slowed to a faint throb. Her eyelids lowered, and then closed as she released an odd, relieved sigh. It caused those standing above her to blink and look at each other in wonder.
She had no idea what happened from that point on. Ptehincala dreamed now...she was in the forests of the Terrokar, running along side the ghostly form of a canine. She barely realized that she ran as it did...upon four limbs instead of two, her tongue lolling happily from the side of a muzzle. It was all so detached...as if she was only an observer. Ptehincala didn’t understand why they were running, for she clearly knew there was no one in pursuit. Thy were just...running, their leaps and bounds crisscrossing each others' paths in a silent dance through the trees.
Time passed without her realizing it, and soon the ghost beside her stopped and looked upon her with kind, approving eyes.
You are here, Ptehincala. Awaken.
She looked upon the spirit with confusion, but soon...creeping upon her, the pain was slowly returning. There was a flash of light...then another, as a familiar tingle filled her. Someone, was healing her. Slowly her eyes opened, gazing dimly out into the darkness that met them. There were voices all about her, some familiar, some not. The Paladin felt herself being lifted from where she had been left for dead. A patrol had found her body, and were now taking her back to base.
It was a while before she stood upon her own two hooves without help. It was not much longer after that that she was recommissioned for battle. There were not enough soldiers anymore, and they needed all they could manage. She walked past her new set of troops, their glances upon her and whispers barely audible. The ordeal she had survived was widely known. Her new name...The Silent...was upon the lips of the ranks these days. Silent she had been, and the position of her people had not been given away. Silent for the glory and preservation of the Light.
A Light, which never came to her aid.
You do not choose the Light, it chooses you. A saying she had heard over and over, and preached to others on many occasion. Now, the quote sickened her. Her prayer beads now lay at the bottom of a lake.
The Light did not choose me. After all I have done...it was another.
The driving force behind her fierce loyalty to battle was now gone. All that remained now, was the lack of knowing any other life but this one. She was bred for battle...no matter what happened, she was expected to fight. No one had asked her if she could go on...it was assumed that she would press onward, to death. The memory of the fallen was hers, and hers alone to bear, and, Light or no Light, her salvation still lay in death.
She saluted her commanding officer with a growl.
“What are my orders, sir?”
-End-