Xelena - The Undercity

You know the drill. DROP AND GIVE ME... well.

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Undercity. The elf sighed, one of pleasure, as a limp figure sagged against her form. There was a knife in his back.

She pushed him off of her, rummaging through his robes until she found his purse, bulging with coins. She pocketed a few other items as well; a small silver necklace, a signet ring, and a dagger chased in silver. She tucked that into her new boots, soft, worn leather, but still usable. A perfect pair, well broken in. The purse went onto her belt, plain, and the ring and necklace tucked safely into the folds of her robes. They shimmered in the half-light softly, speaking of hidden finery. Her cloak was made of the same material, if a shade darker.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, leering at the corpse as she kicked it into the sewers. Turning away, the elf glanced at her hands. She needed gloves.
Drips, steady and incessant, followed the soft rustling of her robes as they glided across the cobblestones. She ignored the grime, and… other unmentionables that collected on the hem, making her way steadily to the Magic Quarter, where there was bound to be tailors.

As she reached the shoddy, torch-lit stalls, she sniffed disdainfully at the wares, but picked up a small pair of gloves nonetheless. “How much?” she questioned, picking at the dark cloth. They were threadbare, but she would make do.

“I have a better pair, that would better suit your attire,” the merchant said, grinning sickeningly at her. His voice was rough, that of decayed gravel. “If you would be so interested, Lady..?” The question hung in the air, and the elf glanced sharply at him, before turning to the pair of gloves he held out for her. “I used to be called Xelena, once,” she told said. Her eyes glazed over with memory.

That face. She would never escape it… Lady Eyones. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the image… the blood. Growling a curse that would make Arthas himself blush, she pulled a silver crown from her newly acquired purse and paid for the gloves. They were obviously made for the Undead, cut off at the second knuckle to allow for talon-like fingernails or protruding bone, but were still made from the finest cloth available—in a rotting city, that was.

Picking up her skirts, she climbed the small bridge leading to the true Magic Quarter. It was full of Warlocks, Shadow Priests, and the occasional Mage. Her breath caught in her throat as she found what she sought, the portal. It glowed dimly, and she hurried toward it, looking around with an icy gaze to see if anyone was following her. This small portal would take her to one much, much larger, and darker.

She crossed into the portal, enjoying the warmth that spread throughout her lifeless body. Time slowed to a crawl, and she snorted. As if time mattered to her now. The elf passed through the portal fully, catching herself before she fell. She took a deep breath, and promptly coughed. The arid, dusty air of the Blasted Lands clung to her nose and mouth. She started off towards the huge portal that loomed over the charred valley, dwarfing it in comparison. An ominous crack of lightning split the sky, a peal of thunder sounding just behind it threateningly. But, however threatening, in never rained in the blasted lands.

This portal was always the worst, the one she hated the most. Instead of warmth, a chill crept into her bones, seeped into her flesh, trickled down her spine, and stayed there. It was dark too, and not the comforting darkness of the first portal. This darkness moved, just beyond sight.

She took another deep breath, never mind the dusty air, and stepped forward, into the portal, vanishing like the very night before her.

Dusk had come to Azeroth.