• Over 10,000 years ago, in the dark ages, a young vampire was born into slavery under werewolves. The werewolves were cruel and heartless masters. They abused their captives and gave them only enough blood to barely survive on. The boy’s name was Hethrus, which meant “last hope”. At age six, he witnessed the murder of his parents at the hand of the werewolves. With his parents dead, Hethrus saw no reason for him to stay and await his own brutal death, so he ran. He thought the werewolves would surely catch him, but, to his surprise, he managed to escape. Bloody, bruised, and starving, he knew a young vampire was not going to survive the barren plains, especially with all the werewolves, hunters, and other creatures around. He found a small clump of bushes and decided to stay the night there.

    Hethrus crawled under the bushes and curled up into a small ball. As the night grew colder he curled up tighter and started to cry. He missed his parents so much. His father had promised that no one would ever hurt him. His mother always gave him her share of blood and held him at night to keep him warm. The cold felt like a million tiny pinpricks on his bare skin without his mother’s body there to protect him. He began to shiver and moved farther under the bushes, all the while missing his mother’s warmth and kindness. He heard the blood curling howl of a wolf and cried even harder.

    “I don’t want to die… I never did anything to hurt anyone… I don’t deserve this!” He continued to cry until he finally fell asleep as dawn was approaching.

    When Hethrus woke up later that morning, he noticed that he was no longer lying under the bushes. He had not yet opened his eyes, but he was being jostled and there was no bright and burning sunlight filtering through branches. He opened his eyes and looked around him. He appeared to be in a wagon. He began to think that the werewolves had caught him, but then he noticed that he was no longer starving. Someone had fed him… Instead of being chained, he was lying on soft, blue silk sheets and pillows. The gashes that were on his back and arms from the werewolves’ whips were now bandaged. As he examined his surroundings, he noticed a woman sitting on a chair covered in silk pillows about 5 feet away. She looked like she was about 40 years old. As he studied her more closely, he saw that she was wearing a purple and black silk dress. She was watching him with a small smile on her lips. She looked friendly, but for all he knew she could be a vampire hunter.

    “W-who are you? How did I get here?” he asked when he finally got the courage to say something. She chuckled and smiled at him sweetly.

    “I am Queen Salvanah of the vampire city, Ogrimar. One of my guards found you beaten and asleep under a clump of bushes while out hunting for werewolves. He brought you back to camp and I couldn’t very well leave a cute, young vampire like you die, now could I?” Hethrus heard someone clear their throat and looked around for the source. He saw a man about 30 years of age, wearing gray, plate armor with red trim. He was carrying a large, triangular metal shield and the biggest sword he had ever seen, which he later learned was called a claymore. Afraid that this man would hurt him, he scurried away and hid behind the queen’s chair. Both the queen and the stranger laughed. His face became red with embarrassment. Would the queen let him stay if she knew he was a coward?

    Hethrus came out from behind the queen’s chair and looked down at the floor. She put her hand on his shoulder to calm him. This boy must have been through a lot to be frightened so easily, she thought. “This is my master of the guards, Alten,” she told him, gesturing at the stranger. Alten studied Hethrus with stone cold eyes that slowly softened.

    “What is your name?” Alten asked.

    “H-hethrus,” he stuttered. Alten smiled.

    “You have the name of a hero. The queen and I both see great potential in you, Hethrus. If you would like, I could teach you how to use a sword.” At first, Hethrus though it was a bad idea. Him, a warrior? He never thought he could stand in battle. He could barely catch a mouse at slave camp, let alone a werewolf. He thought about it. Maybe he could become a warrior and protect himself… He was about to accept Alten’s offer when the queen burst out.

    “No, Alten! I will not have this innocent boy exposed to violence! He will not grow up to be a violent man!” Hethrus looked up at her. Who was she to decide if he learned how to fight with a sword or not? She wasn’t his mother. His parents were dead and could no longer tell him what to do. If he wanted to, he would learn how to use a sword.

    “Well, um… Learning to use a sword could be useful. If I was ever attacked, I could defend myself,” Hethrus said in a shaky voice. The queen was about to say something when the man steering the wagon said,

    “We’re here.” Hethrus looked out of the wagon and saw a huge valley with a large forest. The forest was full of more trees and flowers than he had ever seen. Throughout the valley were towns, and at the far back was a large, beautiful castle made of white marble, which had a sprawling city outside its walls. The queen smiled at him.
    “Welcome to your new home.”