| abstract | - The sounds of battle echoed down the halls, covering the faint shuffle of her leather soles against the damp stone floor. She felt the hair rise along the back of her neck and knew that others were watching. The small Forsaken walked slowly, giving the whispers time to spread. She wanted them to bear witness to this. The clash of steel and cries of men grew clearer as she entered the cavernous hall that held the training grounds of the largest group of free-willed undead in Azeroth: the war quarter of the Undercity. Dead Jarven was waiting for her when she arrived at his sparring ground. "Lucky," he greeted her seriously. The students in the nearby circles broke off their practise, picking up on the tension in the air. A pocket of quiet formed around them as ears strained to hear. "Been a while." She nodded. It had been months since her last lesson. "Didja miss me?" she asked, her tone deliberately casual. She watched him from behind her mask as she headed to the weapon stand. He frowned at the impertinence. "If you are here for lessons, you had best adopt a more respectful attitude." She carefully selected twin daggers. The same ones she'd used last time, just as she remembered them. "No, Jarven. I am not here for lessons." She buckled the sheathes to her belt with practised ease. "I am here to show you that you have nothing left to teach me," she said simply. His eyes narrowed and he gave her a curt nod. The shadows writhed as both rogues vanished. Krelle spun away and sprinted over to the nearest support column, dodging around oblivious bystanders. She caught whispered wagers as she passed through the crowd. The odds made her smile. Chasing a shadow in the 'City was next to impossible - one of Jarven's most infamous fights had lasted nearly a week as the two rogues had searched for each other - but she had come prepared. She leapt as she neared the rough stone pillar, her hands grasping the handhold in the skull's open mouth. She used the momentum to swing her legs up and pushed as she twisted herself around, ending up in a crouch atop the skull, some eight feet above the floor. She shifted her weight, balancing on the macabre carving as she silently tugged the straps of her mask aside. This trick worked better without the enchanted leather in the way. She squinted as the mask came off to make sure the lenses didn't fall out of her empty sockets. It had been a bitch, trying to calibrate the focal point of goggles that are worn inside one's eyes, but she and Nerrok had managed it. When she had time she would mount them properly in a casing but for now the polarized lenses alone would do. She peered about, then grinned as her gaze caught on a flicker of movement in an empty patch of floor. She kept her gaze on the ripple, watching carefully as the form of her teacher revealed itself. He had made his way into one of the large empty training circles, barely moving as he scanned the area around him, swords drawn. She watched for a moment, savouring the knowledge that she had the upper hand. She couldn't afford to linger, though. She was here to send a message to the watchers and they were hoping for a show. It only took a few seconds to get herself ready. She slipped down from the column and made her way to the training circle silently, aware that the fighting in the area had all but died away completely. She lost her line of sight on Jarven several times but as she came into the empty training circle she found him again, pacing warily. She could have killed him. Maybe. That would be poor form, though, bordering on treason - Dead Jarven had taught many of the Lady's finest. She pulled her mask straps back down over her eyeless sockets as she snuck up behind him. No mercy. The slender blade of her dagger slid up through the gap between his leather vest and pants, slicing into a kidney. The shadows were torn from both of them as Jarven screamed in agony and Krelle had to dance back from the sudden, vicious counter-strike that came before he had even finished. It was a fight well started. Every movement was painful for him now and it showed plainly in his glowing eyes. Krelle fought defensively, parrying with both daggers, dancing backwards and to the side constantly, leading Jarven in a large circle through the training grounds. The odds she overheard as she parried and dodged had shifted but were still against her. Jarven was the better fighter - stronger, more experienced, longer reach, and psychologically the perfect weapon. No emotions - just the fight. Hence his moniker. Krelle kept her pokerface on as she danced around, using her speed and size to her advantage. Fel, he really is dead, she thought in exasperation before she saw the first snarl appear on the man's face. It had taken nearly a minute for the damn messah to kick in. The tone of the fight shifted as the drug took hold. Jarven's strikes got riskier, more vicious. His timing faltered and she could see the swings coming a mile away. In contrast, she was an elegant blur of defensive moves. It was one of those moments where time seemed to slow and everything fell perfectly in to place. She heard a high, girlish laughter as she parried another clearly-telegraphed strike and knew it was her own. He couldn't hit her. He was off balance and unsteady. She'd scored twice more, light strikes on his arms, before he pulled back. "What did you do?" he gasped, white spittle flecking his lips. "You mustn't let your emotions get the better of you, Jarven," she replied quietly. They circled each other warily, Jarven trying to pull is drug-inflamed emotions under control, Krelle waiting for an opening. "What's wrong, Dead Jarven?" she called softly, mockingly. "You seem upset. What's on your mind?" The man made a choking, incoherent sound. "What crawled up your ass and spawned, anyway, Jarven? Always so serious," she spotted something on his face and changed what she'd been about to say, repeating herself to try to get the flicker to appear again. "Did they call you Dead before the plague, too?" He let out a strangled gasp, like a sob. "She never understood," he said, and she could tell he hadn't meant to say it aloud. Krelle didn't know who he was talking about but it wasn't hard to guess. "Was she pretty, Jarven?" she mocked him, keeping his thoughts on the painful, so-very-distracting subject. He snarled and slashed at her with both blades. She dodged his left and blocked the right, catching it between her daggers. Before he could recover his balance from the lunge she'd kicked out his knee and wrenched her blades to the side. Jarven swore as his sword went flying. The odds shifted. "What did you do?" he demanded again, his voice edged in panic. "Just following my lessons, teacher." Strike at your enemy's weakest spot. No mercy. No honour. Win. She shot a series of quick jabs at his face. "I can't…" He staggered back under her sudden attack, barely parrying her daggers. "Yield," she said flatly. She feinted to the right, then spun left as he went for it and kicked high, her heel connecting with his temple. He shook his head to clear it. "You -" "You're losing. Yield." His second sword hit the ground at the same time as his knees. Jarven bowed his head and shook, his breath coming in the ragged gasps of a panic attack. It was almost sad. Krelle sheathed her daggers. As bets were settled she offered Jarven a flask. He shook his head, spitting to one side as his mouth watered uncontrollably. Another side effect of messah. "Drink it," she urged quietly, "It'll make it better." She left him there in the center of the training floor, the healing potion laced with deadvine in his hands. Deadvine to counter the messah, healing to counter the bladework. She owed him that much. A few fighters called her name as she left but she ignored them. She'd bring the training blades back later - after she'd cleaned them. Just outside the quarter, Reims fell into step beside her. "Quick fight," he said quietly. She smiled. "Make any bets?" He just winked at her. "I want a cut," she said firmly. "Of course. Nicely done." "Mm-hmm. Dirty fight. Reminds me of the first time I won a fight against Hakk." "Did you poison him, too?" "Naw. I pushed a bookcase over on him while he was sleeping. Made him way easier to hit." Reims's dry laughter echoed through the hall, muffling the sounds of their leather-soled boots as they walked away.
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