The Legion - Lyelleth & Orannis

~ Five Years Earlier ~

~ Stormwind ~


The Rogue sat in the Guild hall in Stormwind, cleaning under her nails idly with a throwing dagger, earning herself reproving looks from some of the other occupants in the room, but she was unable to bring herself to care. The majority of her face hidden from view by her leather kerchief, she smiled a hidden smile as her long elven ears caught snatches of conversation from around the room, the majority of it centred around her, as it always was. Third in command of one of the highest-ranking guilds on Azeroth, leader of the Rogues and prized spy and assassin, the Night Elf had overcome a hellish childhood and carved herself a definite place in the world, albeit at the expense of never really having anywhere to call “home”.

Sighing, she straightened herself in her chair, slipping the dagger back into one of the many weapon containers secreted about her person, before rising slowly and flicking her silvery gaze around the room. Tristan and Sephyra were nowhere to be seen, and the meeting was due to start soon and the absence of her usually punctual co-leaders irked her. Half the room would refuse to listen to her, either afraid or contemptuous. The Priests and Paladins flat out despised her, and Lyelleth was quite happy to let Tristan deal with them, the Warlocks and Mages simply ignored her, so adoring of their leader Sephyra that any other woman was blanked out. The Rogues and Warriors were more her forte, and the Druids… well. They were Night Elves. She didn’t exist to them.

Rolling her eyes heavenward in a gesture of total disgust she headed for the platform, purposefully taking the route that took her close to knot of newly recruited Druids, accompanied by the one person who actually deigned to be decent to her. The conversation became stilted, strained as she gained on them, one of the younger women actually stepping into shadow rather than be close to her, and Lyelleth had to bite down a laugh. Only Valrendis reacted favourably, laughing at the over-reaction of the others, raising an eyebrow in her direction as she strode toward the front of the room just as the back door burst open and a concerned-looking pair entered. Lyelleth frowned. Tristan usually worried about *something* but Sephyra was far more easy-going; to garner her concern, whatever it was, must be big.

As the hour was chimed by the bells in Stormwind, the Guild meeting was called to order. The Rogue stood by her Paladin and Warlock cohorts as they intoned the usual warnings about Horde activity, piracy, the current calls to action in Ashenvale, Arathi and Alterac, Scourge in the Plaguelands and the general insanity in Silithus. Some of the newer members perked up at the mention of the deserts infested by strange, bug-like creatures and their Hives, especially the Druids, who seemed to be itching to help out their Cenarion colleagues. Lyelleth tried not to look bored; open warfare didn’t suit her, unless it was scouting troop numbers and occasionally quietly dispatching the occasional Commander. That was more fun, but it had been a long time since her skills as an assassin had been called for, and the Night Elf was debating a temporary change in speciality. Combat trained Rogues were more in-demand at the moment, and she was feeling so *bored* by the current “watch-and-report” jobs SI: 7 were entrusting her with at the moment…

Lyelleth’s attention snapped back into the room as the Guild was dismissed. She intended to rise and leave, when Sephyra, unusually pale and drawn, signalled her to stay along with Valrendis, Tristan and Tinksprocket, one of the Gnome Rogues. Arching a silvery brow, she settled back in her seat as the others watched the room empty before sitting around her. Tristan was clearly upset by something, Sephyra was painted with anxiety, Valrendis and Tink merely confused, yet before she had chance to make a cutting comment about her tardiness for her SI: 7 debrief, Sephyra uttered a sentence that made Lyelleth’s blood run cold.

“The debt is being called in.”

--

Hours later, Lyelleth was fuming in her quarters, one wall pocked with multiple daggers that had been thrown in anger and frustration. That stupid, damnable debt! Whose insane idea had it been to blood barter with the Horde anyway?

After Sephyra had delivered her bombshell, the Night Elf had risen, uttered a terse “Forget it” at her human co-leaders, and marched straight to SI: 7. Then, of all idioticies, they had refused to reassign or retrain her. Apparently Tristan had gone to them before the meeting, and spun them a lie about her services being required by the Guild. Indefinitely. Roaring in rage, she flung another dagger into the wall, taking small pleasure from the fact it tore deeply into the heart of the Guild crest hung on the wall.

[Proud member of Blade Dancers, my ass.] She thought to herself, exhaustion creeping upon her as the adrenaline wore off. The purple-skinned woman fought off desperation as she prowled her room, running through half-formed plans in her mind despite knowing that it was in vain. The debt had been called, and she knew all too well who would be servicing it. Cursing her race, her parents, her life, Lyelleth flung herself down on the bed like an angry teenager and stared at the roof of her quarters, [I’m being sold to the Horde. Elune above, what did I do to deserve this?]

Her mind drifted back to the day the barter had been made. Several of the Blade Dancers had been tracking the whereabouts of the lost King of Stormwind. It was fairly well-known the Horde did *not* have him, for the simple fact that the majority of their forces would have executed him without a second thought. However, it later came to be known that they might have possession of information as to his whereabouts, and whoever could be holding him.

And so, one night in Ashenvale, a contingent of Dancers led by Lyelleth had met with a band of Horde led by the Orc Shaman Orannis. Lyelleth knew how high he was held in Horde society, a Champion of his race and the Horde as a whole. She also knew the price he would pay should he be caught in negotiation with the Alliance, especially without the knowledge or approval of his people. The information they had provided was invaluable, but the price was steep. Orannis had demanded blood for blood – three of his people had died to bring this knowledge to them, and so he demanded three in return. At first, Lyelleth had planned to refuse, but the Orc had pointed out that those given over in the blood debt did not have to die, merely be surrendered to them. She had two volunteers from the group with her, a human Priest who had grown tired of war, and a Gnome Warrior who would be quite happy spending the rest of his days tinkering in an engineering shop. Orannis had laughed at this, and sworn to take the Gnome to a Goblin friend of his.

But there was no third volunteer, and so it became a debt between the pair, to be called in at a time of Orannis’ choosing. Before they had departed, his gaze had swept her admiringly, and he informed her that, should no volunteer be present at the time of the debt being called, he would happily take her instead. She had ignored him then, heading back for Ratchet to be on her way to Stormwind, information burning through her brain. Now the words haunted her. Of course there had been no volunteers; it was likely no one had even been asked.

He had asked for her; demanded her. She would be his.

--

~Orgrimmar~

Within his suite in Orgrimmar, Orannis was brooding. The Shaman had put it off as long as possible, but those who had been with him that night in Ashenvale were insistent, and he had finally sent word to the Alliance he had bartered with that the debt was to be paid. He had ignored all memory of the lithe Night Elf that had dealt with him, but in his sleep his subconscious refused his demands and haunted his dreams with her, slipping through his fingers like quicksilver until he awoke, unrested and disquieted. He had planned to accept anyone they sent, but word had spread that he was bringing one of the best Rogues of the Alliance to heel, and so he had demanded she, and only she, be sent.

Thrall had not been pleased. He wasn’t so much aggrieved by the negotiation, or the information sent off with the Rogue, more displeased by the blood barter. Even when the Shaman had assured him the Priest and Warrior initially handed over were well treated and well placed, the Warcheif’s sense of honour had been upset, and Orannis berated himself about listening to his compatriots’ demands of blood for blood during the deal.

Since word had escaped about who the Shaman would be receiving, much debate had occurred as to her fate. Flatly refusing her execution, Thrall instead offered a choice to his Champion – take her as his slave, or give her to Vol’Jin. The Shadow Hunter’s predilection for sadism and violence with his partners was well known, and Orannis saw that he wasn’t so much being given a choice, as an instruction, and he unwillingly agreed that she would be his prize.

He had wondered, at first, why the Dancers would even entertain answering the debt, but then he heard the words that echoed around the capitals – that the debt would be settled, or the fragile peace that had developed between the Horde and the Alliance whilst they fought mutual enemies would be shattered. The Alliance could not afford to fight a war on so many fronts, and so their complicity was assured.

Sighing, Orannis dragged himself from his musing to prepare. The handover was to occur in Neutral territory, and all parties had agreed to Booty Bay. The Night Elf would then be brought back to Orgrimmar, led through the streets to Thrall’s Chamber, and told her fate by the Warcheif himself. And then… She was his.