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| - In the darkness of the night, a huntress killed another of her targets. To elaborate, Kruss Cragshot, Huntress of Ashenvale and Winterspring, had just fired an exquisite arrow into the neck of an unfortunate goblin, whose crime was to work for the Venture Company. She watched with silent satisfaction as the little greenskin stumbled back, clutching pointlessly at his fatal wound. She had to admit that the time it took for her prey to actually drop to his back was impressively prolonged. Almost as if not at all ready to confront death, he struggled and huffed as life left him, until finally the undergrowth greeted his pale, and very still, form. As the goblin began his final rest, Kruss's eyes began to search for a way down the tree which she had been using as a vantage point. The natural network of vines which gave the tree a lush coat looked like they would be amiable to being gripped, and indeed this was how she had got up in the first place. But alone in this place, with no sergeant, Stone Guard, Den Mother, nor Chieftain to give her orders, she could be a little more adventurous. And right now, with the memory of that Tauren in Bloodhoof Village weaving its presence through her mind, she was certainly feeling like something more daring. "Do great deeds," the memory said, in the candlelight of a hut. She could even smell the memory, she realized. It was the scent of... of... burning Firethorn. Something which was rarely seen outside of Northrend, and certainly not in the abodes of humble Tauren... Deftly, the influence drifted up her nostrils, and warmed her. Reality knocked, wanting to be let in. Back in the here and now, she was aware of a flowing stream, down below. She had let Irritant have a paddle in the waters earlier ("let Irritant have a paddle" is an awfully optimistic term to use, when, truthfully, Irritant had simply run off to mercilessly cull crocolisks), and so she knew how deep it was. She knew it also by its freshness, it's sparkle, and its strength. All three factors were relaxing, and, in a continent replete with pain, conflict, and hostility from all sides, it was inviting like no other stream could be. Licking her left tusk in a mischevious concentration, Kruss threw a nimble leg over to other side of the thick branch she was poised upon. It could have served as a battering ram in itself. Setting her gloved hands out in front of her, she pushed herself forwards. The discipline and muscles of a homicidal athlete made this journey easy, with the only point of disparity to this competency being the sheer volume of the darkness presented to her. Her kill, as great as it had been, had only been achieved because of the goblin's torch, and the sheer noise he had been making whilst walking. It had been a veritable performance of sound, with coughs, whistles, profanity, and the occasional line or two of song all coursing from his mouth, and that was without the rather petulant stamping through foilage and, distressingly, liberal bouts of flatuence. The only possible thing which could have made the goblin's journey any more obvious to adversaries would be for him to have done it on a rampaging mammoth. There. She was at the tip. And it was looking down at the hints of the stream far below which reminded Kruss of how... her new assignments, whilst getting her to the frontlines, were also stripping away the things she had enjoyed so much about scouting. Now that she served within a more organised force, she had been made less indepedant, even as she had become more important. Kruss was now a huntress that even the Orgrim's Hammer was beginning to call upon, and not for sitting in a tree all day, with her only company being breakfast, dinner, and tea, and every so often the gestured declarations of an intensely annoying crab. No, they wanted her to fight, rescue other grunts, and gather supplies. It was direct, it was devoid of fluff, and it ran the wheels of the war machine. Because a war machine, unlike a stream, needed feeding from outside. Kill, kill, kill. Rescue, rescue, rescue. Gather, gather, gather. It was all to assist the Horde, and Kruss's greatest battles had mostly all been upon this continent - it was an honour to serve here, and the proceeding "but" did not come easily. But its formality, its sheer inability to let grunts express themselves... it meant that there was less time to hide up in trees. The handful of specialities the Horde called upon to win this campaign were catered for by a whole host of soldiers, and there was rarely a time that the speciality of taking a leap of faith into a water source was called upon. But in Sholazar? Away from very narrow expectations expressed by sergeants, warlords, and indeed overlords, there was more time to just... be yourself. Ironically, considering Icecrown was a battle for all of life, precious little of what made life great was in evidence there. And she knew that this was largely because such attempts to be someone other than a grunt would very likely lead to death, and that in itself would cause the Horde two problems. Minus one soldier, and plus one enemy. Whereas here, she didn't just feel alive - the land itself felt alive. If the prattlings she had heard were true, and this really was a Titan playground, then that explained how damned vibrant it was. And that, along with words such as "incredible", "bursting", and "beautiful" was a very good way to describe Sholazar. And, funnily enough, to describe the Tauren who had filled up her own house with joy and enthusiasm for life. And there had been a word which, whilst Kruss heard it often, had been imbued with a whole new meaning when "Charlie" said it. Hero. Carefully, she pulled her feet upwards, and onto the branch - her springboard. In the heat of the moment, she licked her left tusk. Her tongue, excitable as it was, stayed out, and lolled from side to side. All of this would seem to relay a sense of ignorance about Kruss, but that was far from the truth. Because she knew exactly what she was doing here. Here, she was putting to use skills which she had developed since she could first walk. Her first jump had led to this. Her first sprint. Her first leap. Her first charge. She had once been challenged, back in the orphanage, to chuck a rock over the top of the waterfall which towered over the building she, and hundreds of other young orcs and trolls, called home. It had been a way for Matron Battlewail to lightly punish the orcess for, unusually for her, breaking a rule. She had forgotten now which rule that had been. She could only now remember the flight of the rock, the stunned looks, and the rising heartbeat. She jumped.
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