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“You’re late,” cried Maiev, catching her chakram as it flew through the air with a hiss, the blade painted black with demon blood.
“You’re loud,” said Illidan as he landed on the ground, scattering a tightly knitted group of demons, and cutting them down with a glaive.
Maiev waved a hand before her face and blinked away, several paces before Illidan, cutting off the retreat of a felguard with a brutal blow to it’s chest, before she turned, graceful, to behind, pulling the chakram with a twist of her arm, back to back with the demon, and then twisted back around to sink it into it's side.
And all the while, Illidan watched, as layer by layer fell away.
The skies hung above, heavy, blackened, the clouds thick and rumbling, making the hair on his neck, bristle. And as always, the darkness helped him see. The fel green of his eyes glowed through his blindfold, as his spectral sight flared, watching Maiev as she moved across the battlefield, like a harmony followed her steps, led by the melody of her blade.
As she rose, her cloak rippling like mist, his sight formed the outline of her body, shrouded beneath.
And she moved as if she were free; bare; void of the leather, the mail, the plate that obscured the elf beneath.
Beneath. Beneath.
Illidan heard steps behind, and turning just in time, rising several feet in the air, he avoided the bite of two fel hounds, their jaws bared, ready to bite. Landing with a thud, he let the hounds attack, before he cut them down.
“Sloppy,” called Maiev as she leaped over two dead fel guards, landing gracefully behind an inquisitor.
Did he remember the colour of her skin? Rose pink, wasn’t it. Darker on her neck and the tips of her ears. He remembered that, from when they were young. Was it darker elsewhere; on her stomach, that curved, elegantly, as she turned to swing her glaive, her cloak an echo of her grace; on the inside of her thighs; thighs that touched as she walked, as she ran, as she bent low to avoid the blast of magic from the Inquisitor’s hands, catching the tip of her silver hair.
How long was her hair? Did it cover her back; did it reach half way, the ragged, war worn ends curling, against a back that was so broad. Broad and powerful, with strength to match any of his Illidari - even him.
As she rose, pulling her blade from the Inquisitor’s chest, he wondered what she felt like to touch. Where was her skin smooth? On her neck, to her breasts, muscular and pert; did her thighs have the shimmer of stretch marks, weathered the silver of Elune’s light with age; did her hands tell a story, with the etch of scars?
When was the last time he had touched someone? Anyone?
But he didn’t want anyone.
He wanted her.