A/N: WTF is this? Apparently, my addiction to World of Warcraft was more severe than I thought.
I figured I'd give a shot at these AU things sneaking around in the shadows of HiNaBN fandom, although this is more like a crossover. And did you know that it's really hard to refer to characters when they're nameless? Especially when you have to use the same pronouns... guh.
But, yeah. Hopefully, the character's transitions into the world of Azeroth are believable.


I.

He couldn't remember a time in his undeath when he hadn't been holding a weapon.

From the minute he'd awoken and found himself free of an almost forgotten whisper, a raw, intangible rope that held itself around his mind and tugged at each urging to kill and take no mercy, he'd felt strangely empty, completely void of the anger his brethren showed when they rose with the prospect of freedom. But the undertaker had handed him a sword, and that was all he needed.

He supposed he was pretty talented with a weapon. After all, most of the creatures that the various inhabitants of Deathknell needed killed for various supplies and decreased threat to the community were dispatched with one good strike. But he didn't think that he was anything too special.
At least, until he set foot in Brill for the first time.
It had been at least a fortnight since he stumbled out of the crypts and into free existence. The Deathstalkers guarding the town nearly dropped into permanent death when they saw him, and immediately sent him in the direction of their commander, Executor Zygand. "Erm, Executor?" he said uncomfortably, trying to ignore the way everyone was staring.
With a sigh, the horse-mounted Forsaken held up a piece of parchment and a quill. "Name?"
"Excuse me?"
"You were sent to help fight the Scarlet Crusade, right?"
"W-well... actually, I was told to speak to you by the guards. And... I don't remember my name."
The executor looked up, probably ready to tell him off for wasting his time. But glowing yellow eyes blinked, peered closer. "By the Dark Lady... inside. Now."
Startled, he made his way into what he somehow knew was the town hall.

"The Nameless One," they dubbed him. The magistrate and a visiting apothecary recalled how he had been a ruthless agent of the Lich King, his talents on par with a Death Knight initiate. "You... don't remember?" Magistrate Sevren questioned, flipping open an old and musty tome.
"Nothing. I can't even recall my name." His eyes scanned the rotted wood of the town hall, seeing only inky blackness when he tried to look back and imagine the screams of the innocent lives he'd supposedly taken. "Nothing," he repeated softly.
"Sstrange. Ssomeone as experienced as you should have retained ssome memoriess." The apothecary stroked his jaw, frowning and pushing up on it. There was a loud pop as the jawbone locked into place, and when he spoke next, it was much clearer, his hissing dying down so that it was barely recognizable. "But I'm sure we'll think of something."
"In the meantime," Magistrate Sevren said, reaching for a quill. "I think it would be best for you to go and visit Aleric Hawkins. I'm sure he'll find a use for you."
"Aleric?" The nameless man quirked an eyebrow.
"A Deathstalker. He's assisting Captain Bragor Bloodfist - from the Kor'kron Guard." The magistrate started to scribble a message onto a frayed and wrinkled piece of parchment, slowly and deliberately. "They usually only accept those of the rogue profession, but with your talents, they'll probably make an exception." With a dry grin, he folded over the parchment and held it out. "Take this to him as soon as possible."

"We need a name," one of the Deathstalkers said, annoyance clear in her surprisingly unscathed features. She was young, most likely having died from the plague.
"I'd give you one, if I knew it," he replied as respectfully as he could, watching as the other Forsaken looked over his note from the magistrate. "But as the note states, my abilities would be useful here." He bit his tongue to keep from adding 'apparently'; confidence was probably the best value in this situation.
"We usually only accept those who deal in stealth," she added, eying him up and down. "Not too easy when you rush in screaming."
He met her yellow eyes with his own, slightly more orange-tinted ones. He could imagine what she saw: a thin and lanky, surprisingly decay-free cadaver, skin tinged green, black hair only as ruffled as it would be if he'd just rolled out of bed and marked with white tufts by his temples. "I assure you, I don't 'rush in screaming'."
"This sseemss to check out," the other Deathstalker hissed, beckoning the newcomer with a clawed finger. "But ve need to tesst you."
The man known as The Nameless One just sighed.

Deathstalker training came easily; all he had to do was procure a letter of introduction from a messenger in Silverpine and present it to an apothecary at the Sepulcher in order to gain information about possible double-crossing. Getting this letter came with an unforeseen bath in undead ichor, as the Astor fellow was quite paranoid and put up a fight. But either way, he was eventually inducted as the first warrior initiate of the Deathstalkers, appropriately named Deathstalker Nameless.
Which was how he got stuck on patrolling the road between the Undercity and the Sepulcher.
Hand on the hilt of his sword, he strolled slowly and carefully down the stone path, his eyes scrolling over the landscape in search of anything out of the ordinary. Occasionally, he caught a flash of black, matted fur from a passing worg, or the brief warning growl from a bear, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

The incoming thudding of hooves on the stone was the only warning he received before a blur of red shot past him, screaming out in a tongue so blurred that he couldn't even tell what it was. In an attempt to dodge, he jumped to the side, rolling right into the rotting fence to the side of the road. The hooves faded, slowed, then grew louder and softer. "Are you alright?" the voice called, sounding young, naive, and worried. With a groan, he looked up, coughing and grabbing at his sword. "Oh shit."
The young man who had nearly run him over looked to be very young, barely past adulthood, with a mess of fiery hair sitting on top of his boyish face. His eyes were a clear blue, like sapphires, hidden behind thick spectacles. He was clad in cloth, and his horse was a Champange mare, who whinnied and scuffed the ground with a hoof nervously. "Easy, girl," the human said, sliding off of the mare to rush to the Forsaken's side.
He was met with a blade to his throat. "S...state your business here," the nameless man coughed, pulling himself to his knees.
"W-whoa. Uh, I'm just... passing though, look, if you're okay, I'll just go now," the human stammered, eyes flicking to look over in the direction he had just come from.
"Towards the Undercity?" He straightened his back in an attempt to seem more superior, eyes narrowing more in curiosity than in contempt.
"J-just passing through," was the repeated response. But before he could question any further, there was a horrible shriek and a blast of frozen air that knocked them both onto the ground. "Get away!" He heard the young man yell in fear, nearly lost over the howling wind and the frantic neighing of the mare.
"You can't run forever, Cross!" a female voice hissed, a voice that he could immediately identify as a banshee's.
"Leave me ALONE!" He heard an odd noise, like something being shot at high pressure into the air, and his attempt to sit up was interrupted by hands covering his ears. As he opened his eyes, he saw that the mare had disappeared, and the banshee's mouth was open in what he knew was a deadly scream. He watched as, slowly and sluggishly, the human kicked his leg out, and a shot of blue energy struck out at the ethereal figure of a woman, the scream cut short by the blow. When the hands were released from him, part of him wanted to roll to the side and finish the banshee off with a good slash of his sword, but fortunately, the more logical part of his mind won; unless his blade was blessed, there was no way he could harm her.

The stranger, however, could. He rolled back the sleeves on his rail-thin arms, revealing runes etched all over his skin, and let loose. Flashes and whips of blue energy struck at the banshee over and over, each emphasized by a fearful insult. "Burn -" Slash! "In the -" Slash! "Nether!" And with one last cry, the wind slowed and died as she faded, its last remnants taking her energy with it. Slowly climbing to his feet, the Deathstalker initiate could only watch as the human fell to a knee, gasping and panting. "Damn. I... overdid it." Looking up, sapphire blue eyes searched around until they met the glowing orange of the Forsaken's. "Sorry..."

Making his way over to the young man, the Deathstalker almost felt sorry for him; he was very fragile-looking, like one shove would break him in half, the smallest stream of blood falling down face from his ears (from the banshee's scream, no doubt). But the innocence behind his eyes was the most noticeable; almost admirable. It wasn't really something you saw these days, after all of the war and disaster that had been striking the world. "Uh..." he said, unsure of how to continue. "...good job?"
Apparently, it was the right thing to say, because the human beamed, adjusting his glasses - miraculously, they hadn't fallen off in the fight. "Yeah, I've never expelled that much energy at once before. I'm getting better." His eyes flashed excitedly; he was definitely new to magic.

His expression fell into one of confusion when the Forsaken's blade went up to his neck. "Good. Now, you're coming with me."