Listen close, all who wish to know the dark tale. A legend of the blackest of times, when the spirits abandoned us. I speak of the day the great Ghostclaw ravaged our village. I was still considered a pup on that day of days, barely able to hold spear or axe and unable to hunt alone. That I am alive today, regaling this tale, is but one mystery of that event.
I recall it with perfect clarity. It was a warm summer evening; a light wind blew through the trees, sending a quiet shiver among the leaves that danced down the valley to the sea. One of our trappers first spotted her, picking up the elf’s scent on the breeze. His name was Yerskiig, a keen hunter, and celebrated gnoll hero; revered for the time he single-handedly killed a party of orc bandits that threatened our settlement. His sharp eyesight saw the weak, female elf prancing along an overgrown path near one of our camps. Though the beast still remained dormant within the creature.
An ugly thing, tall and thin, with its pale skin and white hair, but alone and vulnerable. He alerted the rest of the camp, and we all came to watch the expert hunter stalk his prey. Oh, how I wish we had known what lay inside that fragile form. Perhaps we could have avoided the tragedy to follow. But who can say? Who can say?
Yersiig descended toward his would be victim, and the gathering crowd’s voices arose in celebration as they awaited this rare kill. “Fresh meat!” A Reaver Growled.
“More bones to gnaw on,” said a Brute.
Then it happened. No one noticed at first. It was like watching a dream that you knew wasn’t real, but it was real, so horrifically real. The gangly elf transformed in an instant and vanished, and before anyone realized it, Yerskiig was dead.
Next to his body prowled an animal I shall never forget, a bone-white cat with long elf-ears and blue markings across its glowing eyes and back. It was the Ghostclaw. It was the beast. Slowly, the gathered Woodpaw grasped what had occurred. We drew our weapons and set upon the creature. It was then that its true powers surfaced. Though we knew it not, it would be our doom. The beast moved faster than anything I had ever seen. Not Longtooth nor Ironfur could have caught the thing. It raced away from us, and we, being ignorant of its strength, gave chase, fueled by the rage and anger stemming from the loss of our champion. But the thing could not be touched, as it pranced along, comfortably out of reach.
Just as it seemed we would never catch it, the beast stopped, turned with lightning speed, and was upon us. With a single swipe, it tore through the fastest among us. Killing several warriors in an instant. It could tear flesh with such meager effort. It was no wonder we never stood a chance. The next wave charged. Their clubs raised high, they beat the thing with all their might. As if by some cruel witchcraft, the beast grew magical thorns and brambles that cut deep gashes into any who dared attack the white demon. The blows did little to the creature as another swipe murdered five more Woodpaw brothers.
If only the nightmare had been merely a dream from which I could awaken. Where hid the spirits, who we pray and sacrifice for daily? Why had they allowed such a terror to be unleashed upon us? The time had arrived to test the spirits and our faith. The tribal mystics began their incantations, summoning the very lightning out of the heavens to incinerate this creature and avenge our fallen. If physical strikes didn’t cause harm, without a doubt, the elements could tame this monster. We were fools to trust in strength of gnoll or power of spirit. Nothing could save us that dark day. Before the first mystic could finish his spell, the Ghostclaw cut him down. Then, one by one, the other mystics fell, mangled. Several of them finished their incantations, impacting the beast, but as with axes and spears, they failed to faze the killer.
In mere moments, this thing had murdered several dozen of our tribe. In all the battles with animal or orc, human or tauren, never had we incurred such brutal losses so quickly, so unbelievably. And it didn’t stop there. I watched as the monster went from camp to camp, slaughtering our tribe. Its demeanor lacked rage or hate, but appeared calm and methodical. As if its task of butchery mattered little. It killed without remorse and could cut down many tribesmen with a single swipe. Though once, and only once, a true Woodpaw alpha survived a single strike of the Ghostclaw. Reaver, Brute, Trapper, and Mystic all fell around him, but he remained standing after the mighty blow. A truly elite warrior. With blood spilling from his gashes, he brought his maul down, defying the creature, but again the thorny brambles surged from the beast’s fur and finished what its claws had begun.
Then it took sight of me. I sought cover among the bushes and tents, but its glowing eyes penetrated through all cover. Its speed had been unreal before, but now its body blurred into streaks of white as it ran with new nightmarish haste. I turned to escape, but it was upon me. Through the air it pounced, knocking me to the ground, dazed. I knew this to be the end. With no time to prepare for death, I let out a breath I thought my last.
A moment passed. Then another. I rolled over and looked around. The Ghostclaw had vanished. Its work, however, had not.
All around, in every camp, upon every trail and hill, lay the dead of our tribe. I scoured the damage; the scene overwhelming me. Other survivors joined in gathering the dead, at which point we discovered something as puzzling as the creature itself. For not only had it looted the fallen of copper and silver, but stripped them of their clothing. Our simple silk and mageweave garments, torn away and taken. Their discarded armor added further mystery. The beast even ignored our few rare enchanted objects.
Had this beast, the Ghostclaw, the nightmarish killer in white, come to our lands for a handful of coins and the tattered clothes on our backs? Surely a powerful creature possed little need for such a trivial sum and a stack of dirty rags. Why had it come to our village? What strange value had our cloth held for it? Had I known what would occur, I would have given it my pitiful dressings freely; we all would have! But we are ignorant fools, who the spirits abandoned that summer’s evening.
Since that day, it has never returned. And I tell you this, pray, pray every day to the spirits of forest, flame, and sky, that the Ghostclaw does not return to finish what it began that dark day.
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