For the record, the Wildfire Riders do not typically employ individuals who have committed mass murder. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule. Case in point: Chystal Kaleigh, a woman who has been through hell and back–typically by escorting unsavory bastards to their proper demise–is one of the few Riders who has done really bad things and been forgiven. Repeatedly. It has something to do with her history and something to do with the way she fills out her armor…

Chryste went North with her family to keep them safe. But the North made her remember aspects of her past she frequently tries to make right.

An unspecified amount of years earlier; North Hill – Duskwallow Marsh…

Bodies lay strewn along the makeshift road leading up to the half-constructed watchtower. Several of them bludgeoned and gashed, some with what seemed to be burnmarks upon their flesh and armor. Armor signifying the men as members of Jaina Proudmoore’s loyal followers.

Towers were being constructed along the road, allowing the Theramore military a strategic advantage against any would-be invaders in this new and strange land of Kalimdor.

What fear should one have of invaders, however, when the natives were the ones on the offensive?

The North Hill Massacre is a quiet story in the fortress port. It’s not often told, and when it is, one in the service at the time shall quickly quiet the speaker of the tale.

The tale of a Demon Witch; a heart as cold as the north, and the beauty of a Stranglethorn sunset; and how she rained down hell upon twenty of Theramore’s best for tresspassing upon forbidden lands. Of how she drained them of their life and crushed their souls within her palm…

Superstition is a powerful motivator for exaggeration. Though the brutality of the story might not be so far off…

The last of the twenty men scurried away on the ground. Trying in vain to stand upright, he simply could not get his body to rise. He clutched at mud and stone – the sight of a sword and shield on the ground before him was salvation – and if he was going to die this day, this murderous harlot was going to come with him.

Grapsing the armaments, the man rolled onto his back to make sure his aggressor was not on the attack. She had, after all, been slowly following behind him for several yards now, taunting him with her steps, torturing him with the knowledge that he was the last of his comrades to die.

His gaze stuck as it landed upon her. This was no demon – nor was it even a full-grown woman. Seventeen at best, and well beyond her age in beauty, she slowly continued to approach, looming over the frightened soldier. Blackened dagger in one hand, and crackling warhammer in the other, she paused her scantily-leather-clad body over his. A massive longcloak whipping in the wind of the impending storm and crystalline eyes glowing like a fire, the raven-haired murderess twirled the dagger in her fingers. She was toying with him…

Whatever words the man screamed in protest were lost to the crackle of thunder, and quickly interrupted as she reached for him. Somewhere deep down, he had found his resolve, and rolled aside, staggering to his feet. He readied sword and shield, only to find the former useless as the murderess set upon him, bringing the warhammer down against his shield with deceptive strength, sending the man stumbling back and regaining his footing with a more well-trained stance.

Again and again, she battered the shield with the hammer; she moved at an unreal pace – her fury was absolutely blinding. She never seemed to tire, and her blows only grew stronger.

She reared back and brought the hammer down a last time, shouting a word of unknown origin in it’s arc. As the weapon connected with the shield, the burnmarks of the deceased became readily apparent; sparks flew into the air and an arc of lightning passed through the shield and along the body of the brave young man. He screamed in his last breath and crumpled to the ground; the last of the men had fallen.

Mavalos would be pleased. The first of her missions was more successful than he could have hoped.

Tearing her gaze away from the deceased, she turned to stare upon the blazing wagon of supplies, a smile of pure malice upon her lips.

-

She stared upon the roaring blaze from her seat on the log, hood covering most of her head, and thick cloak protecting her from the frozen climate of the Dragonblight. Stray strands of hair settled before her face, and the length of everything else on either side came down to two braided tails that rested short upon her shoulders. A veteran of many battles, and the killer of many men; the blank expression upon her face was entirely too uncaring for anyone with a shred of humanity in their heart.

Her hands clutched tight to the menacing axe that stretched across her lap. It’s obsidian-black blade glowed an eerie orange in the light of the fire, almost making it seem as if the weapon itself were ablaze.

There was still many things she never told those of her ‘family’. Many horrors and crimes that haunted her dreams. Every time she fought, she would see those soldiers at Witch Hill.

After seeing the Journal of Mavalos the Black, Jaina saw no need to fault Chrystal. The Black Butcher was dead, and Kaleigh no longer under his sway. She was free to be her own woman now.

It didn’t mean much to Chrystal.

Mavalos’ will be damned, it was still her hands, saw through whatever eyes Mavalos gave her – they were hers now. And they saw every last detail of the slaughter.

Her gaze lowered from the fire to the ground, and the plated boots that covered her feet. Soon after, she pulled her cloak tight and curled up on the log she sat, closing her eyes and resting her head on the flat of the axe’s blade, attempting to sleep.

She came to Northrend, not only for her family; she came to Northrend for that One Great Deed that would make those men rest in peace.

The blood of The Lich King would suffice.