Ripples of Shadow
Chapter 2 - The Journey, and the Unfolding

The rolling hills of lush green grass and sparse farmland suited the name of the area quite well. Lightly forested trees and undergrowth met with even larger hills composing the foothills of the Hinterlands giving Hillsbrad Foothills its name. Less than a league off in the distance, those foothills split into a narrow valley, the main passage into the Hinterlands proper. Chilly air swept down from that valley, and ruffled the cloak at Rash’s back. He shifted the long gleaming claymore on his back, took a deep breath and couldn’t help but smile. It had been quite the journey getting here. The shipping lane out of Stormwind was making passage solely to Northrend, which in itself was quite an obstacle to Rash’s trip. He resulted to taking the underground tram to Ironforge, hiking to Menethil Harbor, then finally convinced the captain of a small fishing boat there to take him to Southshore. Letting his breath out slowly Rash combed a hand through his hair and traced the scar down his left cheek. It reminded him of failures past.

“This time I will not fail. I cannot fail." Moria’s face suddenly bloomed in his mind and he smiled again. “I will see you again soon my dear.” Rash worked his left shoulder a bit, it was a little sore. He met some ruffians back at old Durnhold Keep who thought they’d try and shake him down. Well, the score of them wouldn’t be bothering anyone else anytime soon. Rash chuckled. Yes, they had been amusing.

The impressive solid stone walls of Durnhold Keep loomed before Rash. Bands of green ivy snaked through the blocks of stone, giving the place a forlorn and forgotten feeling. Once a symbol of power of the Alliance, it was now hideout for bandits. He shrugged, no sense in making his way around and wasting time. As he trudged towards the keep, two fellows in all black, with a red scarf wrapped around their mouths emerged from the undergrowth. “Hail there traveler, I apologize, but there is a toll for this road.” The man on the left addressed him.

“Oh? I wasn’t aware. And how much would this toll be?” Rash responded, eyes going narrow.

“I think somewhere around one hundred gold marks will be just fine.” The fellow on the left chuckled. Rash was not amused.

“Hmm well you see, therein lies the problem. I don’t have a hundred gold marks.” Rash shrugged again and took another step forward.

“Not so fast friend.” Again the person on the left. He raised a hand to stop Rash. A rustling behind Rash produced two more men in black garb with red face masks. “If you don’t have the marks, then we’ll just be takin’ that fine sword on your back. And those boots on your feet.” Rash had a feeling that fellow was grinning like an idiot under his mask.

“No, I don’t think that’s acceptable. Sorry.” Rash stroked his chin, brown eyes suddenly going wide. “Oh, do you mean to take it from me then?” He said with his best mock-innocence. The sarcasm was lost on them.

“That, my friend, is the idea…” The four men closed on him, each drawing a long belt dagger.

Rash stood motionless as the two men from behind closed first. As one of the ones behind him lunged, Rash danced to his left, reached out with his right arm, grabbed the attacker’s knife hand, and using his right foot as leverage, tripped the man to the ground. Without batting an eye, Rash rushed forward, to the man on the right. The man on the left would be last. The man took a step back in surprise, but Rash was on top of him. The palm of his hand caught the fellow right under the nose, which immediately broke and sent him flying back several paces. In one fluid motion, Rash spun on his heel to the right and ducked. A long dagger flashed in the space where Rash’s head had been a moment before. The other man from behind had closed, but was now off-balance. Rash vaulted upwards off his heels. His uppercut caught the him right in the chin, knocking him in the air. Rash immediately sent his elbow into the man’s chest. He fell heavily to the ground, unconscious.

The one Rash had earlier tripped was just now getting to his feet, and the man that spoke earlier was side-by-side with him. They split up, attempting to flank him from either side. Rash arched an eyebrow. He reached into one of his belt pouches and pulled out a finely polished marble. He quickly determined that the man in front of him was the man that demanded the toll. Yes, he could wait. Rash spun so fast to the man behind him, and threw the marble so suddenly the man didn’t even react. The marble caught him squarely between the eyes, which rolled up in his head and he sunk to his knees and thudded to the ground. Now for the leader of this bunch. Rash turned, almost causally, to the last man standing.

“Well, your friends don’t look like they want to play anymore. Do you?” Rash smiled wryly. The fellow had sweat pouring from his forehead. He hesitated just a moment before turning tail and sprinting as fast as he could for the Keep. Drawing another marble from his pouch he threw it straight and true for the back of the man’s head. Rash chuckled with satisfaction as the fellow went down in a heap just like his comrades. Whistling to himself, he adjusted the claymore still on his back and started off for the valley again.

Rash gave himself a shake, and shifting the gleaming claymore on his back a bit, peered off to the valley in the north. “A minute squandered is a minute your enemy takes the lead.” Rash mumbled to himself as he started off again. It was one of those old sayings his blade instructor used to say during intervals of rest. Old Jolund back in the Stormwind barracks was quite the teacher. Both an excellent swordsman and tactician, Rash was lucky enough to have been his pupil. The air grew even cooler as he entered the valley into the Hinterlands. Rash cursed under his breath. He had left his black stallion, Swift, back in Stormwind and was now wishing he hadn’t.

While contemplating his choice of decision, a sound pricked at Rash’s ears. It sounded faintly like a war horn… Aerie Peak was close, less than half a league, only a six or seven minute run… and if that truly was a war horn. There, it sounded again. Rash’s walk turned into a jog. A faint clamor of steel on steel could be heard coming down the valley now. Rash’s jog turned into a dead run. No, no! I cannot fail. I cannot…A young woman’s face framed with soft brown curls and large brown eyes filled his vision. “Darla…” Thought dwindled to nothing as Rash put his all into reaching Aerie Peak. A minute squandered…

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