(This is pretty much just a backstory for one of my favorite characters. Enjoy!)
Birth of the StormIt started with a spark. A mote of darkness that ate up the light around it until only nothing was left, an empty shell where life used to be.
The creator of the spark was a tall, unhealthily pale figure that looked something like a human, if the observer did not take into account the balls of green fire that burned where eyes should be, or his long, pointed ears. His fingers fluttered like a violinist's, playing not an instrument of wood but a seething red light that fed the darkness he had summoned. He spoke rapidly under his breath in words that were in no human language, nor even any elven one.
No, this elf called out to the great powers of the empty spaces between worlds in Demonic, that foul, snarling tongue of imps and succubi. The mote contorted as he paused, wiping the sweat off his face, in the midst of a particularly complex passage, but quickly returned to its normal shape as he focused his energies back on it.
The woman who watched him allowed herself a smile at his ineptitude. Long, thin tendrils shifted slightly forwards as she peered at the red light. This woman looked very much like the demons this warlock was trying to summon, in fact, with her cloven hooves, tail, and curling horns. But, her eyes did not glow with the green taint of fel energy, and her skin was blue.
Hiemalis, was, in fact, a draenei.
She shifted slightly in her careful crouch, hidden in a pile of rubble not ten feet from the elven warlock, and judged the progress of his summoning spell. She didn't want him to complete it before she killed him. Having the demon to slay as well was just extra effort.
Yes, it was perfect.
She vaulted out from her hiding place, her hooves steady on the blasted, crimson dust of the ruined land around her. The warlock, shocked, looked at her. Unfortunately, his incantations did not falter.
His eyes widened. "You!" he gasped between syllables of his spell.
"It's gratifying to be known," Hiemalis said softly, sweetly, and threw out her hand towards the warlock. He flinched, but when no attack came, his mouth curved into a sneer.
Hiemalis clenched the hand into a fist.
A gust of wind smashed into the warlock, throwing him twenty feet into a nice, sharp cluster of boulders. He let out a quick gasp of dismay before Hiemalis was on him, her long daggers in her hands.
"Velites," the draenei whispered, her eyes going bitter and terrifyingly ruthless. The elf began a fruitless plea for mercy just as Hiemalis sunk her daggers into his chest, impaling him like a butterfly on a card. The hate in her eyes dimmed, leaving only a terrible sadness as she looked at his body. She yanked her daggers out, wiped them on his robes, and thrust the m absentmindedly in their sheaths.
"Az lok maladath," she said, and held up her hand once more. Fire leapt from her fingers and devoured the elf's body, reducing his corpse into ashes before the draenei turned and ran, fleet as the wind, to where she had tied her elekk.
Behind her, only smoke remained to speak of her killing.
"I will never be able to avenge your death, Velites, but these vermin, these Man'ari will pay for it ten thousand times over," the draenei shaman thought, a leaden weight settling on her, pushing her down into her embroidered saddle.
"I will never forget you, Velites."
