Kanta Wildsabre.
Proclaimed Marksman, Veteran of the Templars, Former Marshal of the Silverwing Sentinels.
Orphaned as a child, husband, father, grandfather.
Respected, loved, liked, hated.
Ally, loyal, trustworthy.
Enemy, liar, backstabber.
Soldier.
“Murderer.”
Kanta was many things over his lifetime. As he was nearing his eighth millennia on this world, the aging kaldorei was many to things to many people. He knew he was, but many carried different ideas of the bow wielding elf. He had grown with a chip on his shoulder, having lost his parents and his sister young. He adapted, he grew, he learned. He raised children that were not of his own blood and kept them as his own. He grew to be hated, envied, loved, embraced, respected.
Kanta, for lack of a better way, was torn. Mentally, physically. He gave the public appearance of one who cared little or one who had little love for others. When in the background he would put his life on the line for each and every ally that has come across his way.
Kanta was a soldier, first and foremost. Times have changed to be complicated. From the time of the Orcish invasion of Ashenvale and fighting the Warsong orcs, to a point where he was pleading with an Orc that he once considered an ally. Lines were becoming blurred of allies and friends, to enemies and monsters.
Mumbling when Kanta would walk by. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.
Tired. Kanta was tired. Many days he wanted to give up on the fight, regardless of the enemy. There were plenty of thick-headed archers out there that thought the same as Kanta, if they were the best shot, that they were the next best thing since the Windrunner sisters. Let them take up the role that Kanta had planted his feet in. Let someone else become the disgrace of an order.
Kanta glanced down at the bow in his hand that he gripped tightly, years of sweat and blood that were put in into the handle he held tightly of Arrowsong, a bow that had been there with nearly every life taken since the venture to Northrend. Every life.
Exhaustion. Kanta closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slow before opening his eyes. An arrow soared from the tip of his bow, embedding itself into the skull of an Eredar.
“Took your time there, Wildsabre.” An Argussian ally called out, the Lightforged smirked up at him as he reloaded his own rifle. “Not getting tired on me, are you?”
“Never.” He remarked grimly, setting the next arrow into the shelf of his bow. “Can’t afford to get tired.”
Regardless of what one, or many thought of him. There were still plenty that relied on him and his skills. He couldn’t give up on those that needed him.
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