History
Stepping silently
I've seen a great many things in my time on Azeroth....Orphans raised to greatness, Great leaders brought low by their own greed. I've seen good men commit the gravest sins. I've seen evil men grasp redemption with their last breath...fel I even saw a goblin run on ice.
Without his pants.
That was a funny day. Believe it or not, I've had alot of days like that. Days that make you sit back and just marvel at the sheer oddities of the world we live in.
My name is Andann Flint. I'm fairly average looking, and fairly paranoid. Average is just that, average. I don't stand out in a crowd. I don't have a memorable personality, or even a memorable voice. I blend. Maybe that's why they grabbed me so early...I was forgettable. Still am.
I'm an assassin, formerly with SI7, or at least a splinter group. It's kind of hazy actually. All I really know is that they, as in the group, are responsible for everything I know. I can't say they are responsible for what I've done. I made my own choices, and I'm man enough to own up to that fact.
I infiltrate secure places and, via various methods, I remove people from this mortal coil. Always under orders, thank you very much, even if those orders are....questionable. Sometimes it goes off without a hitch, and no one even knows you were there. Those are the best jobs. Sometimes it gets messy and I have to deal with the fallout. Those are the jobs that make you kill your soul a bit because the fallout might be anything. Kill the help because they saw your face, poison the peasant outside the door to make a clean get away. Anything. I like to think that I'm good at my job, I've outlived all my fellows at any rate so I'm at least the best they've trained so far. I take a certain pride in that fact...well as much pride as any killer can. One day I'll meet my match, I get the feeling it will be a gnome, and I'll get put in a hole in the ground. My name will be lost, and my records, if any such records beyond this one even exist, burnt.
Andann Flint will exist no more, and that will be that. I'm sure the world will not stop turning, nor will the rain change its course to weep over the ragged patch of earth that contains my body. I guess you can ask the usual questions that any thinking creature wonders when the reaper comes knocking. Will I be mourned? Missed? Reviled? Will I have existed at all, or is this just a fever dream, the ravings of a half mad deity as it scrambles across the cosmos in the attempt to end it's ceaseless boredom? Did my life have meaning?
Fel if I know. All I do know is that as the scars mount up I feel the urge to write something down. A record, an accounting of who I am, what I've done, and why I did it. I can't promise that everything in these pages will be worth reading, or that any insight will be imparted at all. I can't say that you'll learn the secret of stealth within these pages, or even that you'll remain reading past this preface. What I *can* say is that these collected writings will encompass the entirety of my life up until my hand no longer guides the quill over the pages. All my thoughts, experiences, various missions, hopes...everything that is me will be in these pages. Maybe I'll find something out about myself. Maybe I'm just looking for a place to get some of these memories out of my mind so I can look at myself in the mirror and meet my own eyes.
Without his pants.
That was a funny day. Believe it or not, I've had alot of days like that. Days that make you sit back and just marvel at the sheer oddities of the world we live in.
My name is Andann Flint. I'm fairly average looking, and fairly paranoid. Average is just that, average. I don't stand out in a crowd. I don't have a memorable personality, or even a memorable voice. I blend. Maybe that's why they grabbed me so early...I was forgettable. Still am.
I'm an assassin, formerly with SI7, or at least a splinter group. It's kind of hazy actually. All I really know is that they, as in the group, are responsible for everything I know. I can't say they are responsible for what I've done. I made my own choices, and I'm man enough to own up to that fact.
I infiltrate secure places and, via various methods, I remove people from this mortal coil. Always under orders, thank you very much, even if those orders are....questionable. Sometimes it goes off without a hitch, and no one even knows you were there. Those are the best jobs. Sometimes it gets messy and I have to deal with the fallout. Those are the jobs that make you kill your soul a bit because the fallout might be anything. Kill the help because they saw your face, poison the peasant outside the door to make a clean get away. Anything. I like to think that I'm good at my job, I've outlived all my fellows at any rate so I'm at least the best they've trained so far. I take a certain pride in that fact...well as much pride as any killer can. One day I'll meet my match, I get the feeling it will be a gnome, and I'll get put in a hole in the ground. My name will be lost, and my records, if any such records beyond this one even exist, burnt.
Andann Flint will exist no more, and that will be that. I'm sure the world will not stop turning, nor will the rain change its course to weep over the ragged patch of earth that contains my body. I guess you can ask the usual questions that any thinking creature wonders when the reaper comes knocking. Will I be mourned? Missed? Reviled? Will I have existed at all, or is this just a fever dream, the ravings of a half mad deity as it scrambles across the cosmos in the attempt to end it's ceaseless boredom? Did my life have meaning?
Fel if I know. All I do know is that as the scars mount up I feel the urge to write something down. A record, an accounting of who I am, what I've done, and why I did it. I can't promise that everything in these pages will be worth reading, or that any insight will be imparted at all. I can't say that you'll learn the secret of stealth within these pages, or even that you'll remain reading past this preface. What I *can* say is that these collected writings will encompass the entirety of my life up until my hand no longer guides the quill over the pages. All my thoughts, experiences, various missions, hopes...everything that is me will be in these pages. Maybe I'll find something out about myself. Maybe I'm just looking for a place to get some of these memories out of my mind so I can look at myself in the mirror and meet my own eyes.
I was born....light what was it called...Darrowmere? That's it, Darrowmere Forest.
I was born in the lands of Darrowmere, in a little town called Corin's Crossing. My parents were good people, I think. They loved me, I know that much. I know they were hard workers...and that my father did something with the local smithy. What exactly I can't say, but something. Something noble I'd like to think, and simple. Nothing extravagant, but a task to be proud of. I remember crates...and hauling them around.
Maybe he hauled iron? Did I help him? I must have...what kind of son doesn't help their dad?
At any case that's what I remember. My father and I hauled Iron for the smith, my mother was just that. A mother. She chased me around and wiped my nose, kept me from getting into to much trouble. When folks came through the town, and my chores were done, I would run to the main cross street and gawk at travelers and their strange dress, dreaming of what such a life must be like! Certainly a great deal more exciting than my own. On my off time I would imagine myself as those strangers, fighting mighty foes and treading unknown paths. One day I would be a pirate, ranging the great sea. The next I would be a mighty paladin, maybe even Arthas himself! Still other days I would be a mighty knight, sweeping in to save the weak. My mother would scold, and my father would smile and poke gentle fun at my childish games until it was time for sleep and the recitation of the daily routine would begin again when the sun came up.
It was a good time...the best time of my life really. Full of bright days and laughter, honest work and childish dreams. Dreams that would be dashed at the coming days. The darkness of the scourge was closing on Darrowmere, and it would spread so thick that even the memories of those days would be swallowed up.
At first it was just scattered rumors, fanciful tales to frighten willful children to sleep at night. I of course thought nothing of it, my own days far to full of hauling and chasing dreams to ever pay more than passing mind to the actual news of the town. All that changed when the first real reports came in, and I caught my first glimpse of the shambling forces of the scourge when I was out in the woods near my home. I was in and about the trees...I must have been larking about before the days work, and I remember it was early, and that the stench was what tipped me off. Strange enough, the smell I can recall almost perfectly. My parents face...their names...friends and neighbors. None of it, but that footman and his horrible death stench. That I recall.
It was real then. Everything I had ever half heard came into stark focus when I first laid eyes on the walking dead. Skeletal...torn and cut. Armor dented into uselessness and a sword point dragging the ground from a slack arm. The head snapped around to and fro, the dead eyes rolling about in search of something. What, I couldn't tell but when they fixed on me all I could see was a monstrous hunger. It let out a strangled sound and started towards me, and I screamed louder and longer than anytime I can remember.
And I fled.
What? Don’t try to attach anything cowardly to that. I was a boy, and all I knew was that this....thing that should not be was here and it was awful, and it *stank*, and my mind was just... gone. I ran, and ran, and ran, and when I saw my father coming up the path from the house I flung myself at him like only a frightened child could. The last memory I have of him is a panicked look, there were more of the dead things now, and they were coming FAST. He had just enough time to push me at the house before the front runner leaped and drug him down. Blood splashed over me and...the rest is hazy.
How did I survive? There must have been a dozen of the things around our home, and we were a good distance from the town. I remember a woman screaming...and another. Siblings? Did they save me? The next thing that comes clearly is the town proper. It’s burning, men are fighting for their lives and a soldier has me by the hand behind him, his sword flashing around like a living thing, striking at anything that comes in range. Maybe the soldiers drove the scourge off?
Corin’s crossing was lost that day, and the alliance soldiers retreated in the face of the onslaught. We were withdrawing to Lordaeron, and later Stormwind. I learned after the fact that Lordaeron was destroyed by the mad prince but my tale had already moved on by then.
I was born in the lands of Darrowmere, in a little town called Corin's Crossing. My parents were good people, I think. They loved me, I know that much. I know they were hard workers...and that my father did something with the local smithy. What exactly I can't say, but something. Something noble I'd like to think, and simple. Nothing extravagant, but a task to be proud of. I remember crates...and hauling them around.
Maybe he hauled iron? Did I help him? I must have...what kind of son doesn't help their dad?
At any case that's what I remember. My father and I hauled Iron for the smith, my mother was just that. A mother. She chased me around and wiped my nose, kept me from getting into to much trouble. When folks came through the town, and my chores were done, I would run to the main cross street and gawk at travelers and their strange dress, dreaming of what such a life must be like! Certainly a great deal more exciting than my own. On my off time I would imagine myself as those strangers, fighting mighty foes and treading unknown paths. One day I would be a pirate, ranging the great sea. The next I would be a mighty paladin, maybe even Arthas himself! Still other days I would be a mighty knight, sweeping in to save the weak. My mother would scold, and my father would smile and poke gentle fun at my childish games until it was time for sleep and the recitation of the daily routine would begin again when the sun came up.
It was a good time...the best time of my life really. Full of bright days and laughter, honest work and childish dreams. Dreams that would be dashed at the coming days. The darkness of the scourge was closing on Darrowmere, and it would spread so thick that even the memories of those days would be swallowed up.
At first it was just scattered rumors, fanciful tales to frighten willful children to sleep at night. I of course thought nothing of it, my own days far to full of hauling and chasing dreams to ever pay more than passing mind to the actual news of the town. All that changed when the first real reports came in, and I caught my first glimpse of the shambling forces of the scourge when I was out in the woods near my home. I was in and about the trees...I must have been larking about before the days work, and I remember it was early, and that the stench was what tipped me off. Strange enough, the smell I can recall almost perfectly. My parents face...their names...friends and neighbors. None of it, but that footman and his horrible death stench. That I recall.
It was real then. Everything I had ever half heard came into stark focus when I first laid eyes on the walking dead. Skeletal...torn and cut. Armor dented into uselessness and a sword point dragging the ground from a slack arm. The head snapped around to and fro, the dead eyes rolling about in search of something. What, I couldn't tell but when they fixed on me all I could see was a monstrous hunger. It let out a strangled sound and started towards me, and I screamed louder and longer than anytime I can remember.
And I fled.
What? Don’t try to attach anything cowardly to that. I was a boy, and all I knew was that this....thing that should not be was here and it was awful, and it *stank*, and my mind was just... gone. I ran, and ran, and ran, and when I saw my father coming up the path from the house I flung myself at him like only a frightened child could. The last memory I have of him is a panicked look, there were more of the dead things now, and they were coming FAST. He had just enough time to push me at the house before the front runner leaped and drug him down. Blood splashed over me and...the rest is hazy.
How did I survive? There must have been a dozen of the things around our home, and we were a good distance from the town. I remember a woman screaming...and another. Siblings? Did they save me? The next thing that comes clearly is the town proper. It’s burning, men are fighting for their lives and a soldier has me by the hand behind him, his sword flashing around like a living thing, striking at anything that comes in range. Maybe the soldiers drove the scourge off?
Corin’s crossing was lost that day, and the alliance soldiers retreated in the face of the onslaught. We were withdrawing to Lordaeron, and later Stormwind. I learned after the fact that Lordaeron was destroyed by the mad prince but my tale had already moved on by then.
Last Forum Posts
| Topic | Posted | Replies |
|---|---|---|
| 58days ago | 3 Replies | |
| 68days ago | 0 Replies | |
| 76days ago | 0 Replies | |
| 91days ago | 0 Replies | |
| 1017days ago | 1 Replies |
