I wasn't sure what topic to put this under.. so please move it if it's in the wrong place. :P

I posted a snippet of this on a thread a few days ago, and a few people have asked for the full thing. It's super short, just a quick little thing I wrote one day while brainstorming.
I do take writing commissions, if you are at all interested.
The introduction to an OC of mine. His name is Arkaran and he is a Forsaken Rogue in the World of Warcraft universe.

The world was on fire.
Arkaran flew across the ground, feet barely touching the dead brush beneath him. He nimbly maneuvered the field, ever graceful, blades catching the orange glow of flames as he thrust them into cold bodies. Mindless undead flooded his old home land, controlled by what once was their Prince. The distraught cries of farmers, defending their homesteads, children screaming as they ran for their lives, all urged him forward, broke through his fear for his own life. This was his home; he would not let it fall.
The stench of death was everywhere. He found himself not only dodging flames, but the bodies of the fallen. The bodies of those who had risked everything to defend their land, the bodies of soldiers, and the rotted corpses that had been reanimated, and again slain; he grit his teeth, rage tightening his chest. He brushed a hair from his face and took a deep breath, trying to focus his mind and concentrate on putting down as many of the scourge as he possibly could. Adjusting the grip he had on his daggers, he leaped forward, bounding over the dead and flames. His blades flashed, one or two well placed jabs, and his target would fall.
Suddenly, his legs collapsed out from under him and his entire world slowed down. He commanded them to move, but they just crumbled. Surprisingly, the earth beneath him was cool. His face was pressed into the ground; he had fallen onto his chest, hands still clutching his daggers. The fresh scent of dirt wafted into his nose, momentarily replacing the acrid scent of charred death. He blinked, confused, why couldn’t me move? He was aware of a dull throbbing in his side, but couldn’t quite grasp what it was. He blinked slowly; desperately trying to get his thoughts together, why was the ground beneath him so wet? It hadn’t been raining, had it?
Around him the war continued. He was vaguely aware of the sounds, and his vision was fading. ‘You have to get up’, he told himself, ‘but why?’ His eyes closed, ‘I can’t remember but it’s important.’ The earth beneath his cheek was now damp, ‘I don’t remember it raining.’ He thought as his breath shallowed and then stopped.