Frozon Blood

[Vilmah]

The blue skies above Hammerfall were deceptive of the peace that they might have once inspired. Sitting atop a rented windrider, Vilmah flew towards the small outpost in Arathi, her long purple ponytail billowing behind her in time with her thick brown and red cape. The young orc held tightly to the fur of her ride, staring ahead with lifeless eyes as she contemplated the letter that had been sent to her mailbox earlier.

Vilmah,

You did me proud in the Ring of Valor. There is someone I want you to meet.

Gor’mul Bloodborne

The letter was short and to the point, just as her father would always have it when it regarded communication with his only daughter. She was surprised that he would ask to see her once more, after having been repeatedly told that she was a black mark of shame on their family name, and that he would have been glad never to have sired her in the first place. With a deep breath, Vilmah bottled these fears inside of her. She was seventeen years old, now, and no longer the timid and shy child that she had been once regaining the memories of her first years in Hammerfall.

Landing atop the wooden platform, Vilmah took a few moments to compose her emotions before dismounting. She took another deep calming breath, looking once over her armor to make sure that nothing was out of place. She might not have done her father any service by being the leader of a guild he despised, but, at least her armor and weapons were nothing to be ashamed of. Sure of her appearance, she walked down the long wooden staircase to where a small line of cages lay rusted in the ground. Vilmah couldn’t take her eyes off of the old dark metal. She was born in one of these cages, raised in it, and spent the first eight years of her life within it’s cramped confines. If her mother hadn’t shown so much spirit, the guards would have made her join the other children born in captivity.

Finally peeling her eyes from the cages, her eyes settled on the thick build of an old looking orc standing amongst their ruins. Gor’mul turned to gaze at Vilmah, and their eyes met in a moment of strange reconciliation. Gathering her pride, Vilmah made the first move towards him and stood a good foot away from her father before giving him a typical greeting salute, beating her right fist against her chest plate to make a loud metal "thump thump!". “Hello, father.”

“Nh,” Gor’mul grunted, giving his daughter a salute in return. She might have been a peon, the way he regarded her. “I wanted to speak to you about... they said that your arm was lost.”

Blinking at the sudden change in topic, Vilmah glanced down at her metal prosthetic and rose it a few inches. “I had a metal one made. I can’t move it, but to hold up my shield.”

“Didn’t get something to regrow it?” her father asked suspiciously.

Vilmah stared at him blankly. “No,” she said with a monotone voice. “I lost it. I can live with that. Now, what did you want to see me for, father?”

Gor’mul grunted once more and turned around. He nodded with his head, and gave a beckoning signal with his hand. Looking past him, Vilmah saw a small group of orcs milling about the medical facility nearby. One of them in particular nodded in reply to Gor’mul, and began walking towards him and his daughter. The orc was somewhat tall for their race, his skin a brilliant green color that reminded Vilmah of the exotic plants of Outland. He wore a familiar hairstyle, long thick black braids that reminded her of the warchief. On his back was a thick and heavy axe, it’s handle somewhat worn by constant use.

Blinking with confusion at first, Vilmah nodded at the other orc and thumped her fist against her chest. “Throm’ka,” she said in greeting.

“Lok’tar,” he said in reply, the sunlight glinting off of a pair of almost troll-sized tusks. He seemed to be dressed like a member of the Kor’kron Elite, with dark red and black armor that made her own well-used metal seem dull and drab in comparison. Her memories of the Kor'kron brought sweat to her skin.

If this was their brilliant way of arresting me again, they needn’t have gone to all of the trouble… She thought to herself. Nodding again, she looked at Gor’mul.

“Vilmah,” he clarified, nodding at his daughter. “This is Tor’grak. One of the Kor’gron Elite. He was sent here to… investigate further, during your trial.”

The reminder of her previous humiliation brought an angry blush to Vilmah’s cheeks. “I see.”
“Since your name has been cleared,” Gor’mul continued. “You are now fit to continue your duties to the Horde. You aren’t anything special as a Senior Sergeant, but, your experience in communicating with the Alliance has at least proven you competent enough for an exploratory mission.”

“Exploratory?” Vilmah repeated, eyebrows knitted with confusion. “What exactly would I be exploring? And why couldn’t the Warchief just tell me this himself?”

“Because,” Gor’mul growled lowly. “You will be starting this mission from here, and, the Warchief seems to think that you might have wanted to hear this from me. Since it was you who made it so that I would not be sent on any missions anymore, apparently.”

The young orc blinked with realization. Thrall had told Gor’mul about how, years ago, she begged the Warchief not to send her father on a life-threatening mission when he was clearly not fit to lead. “Yes, well, I’ll not question the Warchief’s judgment. What’v you got to do with this, then?” She asked Tor’grak.

The larger of the three rose his chin as he spoke down to Vilmah, “I will be leading the men accompanying us. You will be in charge of communicating with any of the locals that we encounter.”

Vilmah grit her teeth, already wary of the answer to her question, “I see. Where exactly are we going?”

“Winterspring first. We will be investigating a possible route to Northrend. From what we have heard, there are humans residing towards the far North East of the continent, who may or may not have information on what is happening. It will be your duty to communicate with these humans.”

Scratching the tip of her nose, Vilmah nodded and accepted the inevitable. “I’ll have to tell my guild, but, that shouldn’t be a problem. How many are going with us?”

“Eight total,” Tor’grak answered, pointing towards the grunts behind him. Most of them dressed similarly to the guards in Orgrimmar. “There will be ten of us, on this expedition. As you and I are both warriors, the other eight are composed of five hunters, two shaman, and an assassin.”

“Alright then,” Vilmah relented, fidgeting slightly as she looked back at her father. “Thanks. I guess maybe after I come back, I’ll be reporting to you?”

Gor’mul nodded, then turned to walk away from them. “See that you do, Senior Sergeant Bloodborne.”

A few moments of silence passed, until Tor’grak awkwardly cut it with his voice. “..I take it that you and he are not on friendly terms?”

“No,” Vilmah said simply, walking past him to ready herself for the trip ahead.

[Vilmah]

The soldiers who were to accompany Vilmah didn’t say much in the way of pleasantries. Most of them regarded the Warboss with grunts of acknowledgement, and she learned quickly that she was the youngest of their party. The others had not only seen more battles than she had, but they had likely fought in the same battle that set her free from Hammerfall. Their experience in the field made Vilmah curious as to why exactly they were being sent with her. Did Thrall anticipate more than a simple excursion? Was there more to this mission than what she’d been told?

While they had grouped up in Hammerfall, their mission would take them by Windrider to Undercity, and from there to Orgrimmar. From Orgrimmar, Vilmah kept a safe distrance from the others as they gathered materials that would be required for their trek. She thought that they wouldn’t be deviating too far away from Winterspring, but the way they were preparing rations and other necessary items, she began having second thoughts. Vilmah had only brought with her enough whetstones and food for a few days, a bedroll, and extra blankets and bandages. Now she wondered if maybe she should pack a few more potions, or at least another extra weapon or two. She usually kept another on-hand just in case, but compared to what was being prepared by the others, it didn’t seem like enough.

“Do not worry about supplies. These ones are simply taking them as a precaution,” Tor’grak said suddenly, breaking Vilmah’s thoughts. The large male stood behind her, his arms folded across his chest with a stony expression on his old face. “The Warchief warns that we might be out for more than the allotted time, depending on what we find.”

Vilmah knit her eyebrows, “What are you planning on finding?”

“The Warchief has instructed that we search for any alternate routes to Northrend. He also commands that we search in case of anything unusual.”

The younger orc turned to look at Tor’grak, “What do you mean by ‘unusual’?”

“There has been word that humans have been sighted. Undead,” he clarified, then lowered his voice, red eyes boring into Vilmah’s own hazel ones. “You’re not to tell anyone, of course.”

Having been the recipient of enough intimidation tactics to last a lifetime from the Grim, Vilmah stared defiantly back at the male. “I’ve no reason to share that sort of information. Sir.”

Tor’grak grunted, leaving Vilmah to walk towards the other men. As he walked past the assassin, Vilmah could have sworn that she caught a familiar smirk.

[Vilmah]

The snow crunching underfoot of their mounts reminded Vilmah of the sound one made when snapping celery. She didn’t know why she was suddenly thinking of celery as they walked through Winterspring, but then realized how hungry she was at the sight of one of their party members chewing noisily on a piece of meat as he rode. The others didn’t seem to take notice, but Vilmah regarded the way he rushed through his meal with curiosity. They each had rations, which were to be given out accordingly, and their leader Tor’grak had assumed that they would be smart enough to know what to do with them. Until now, nobody had dipped into them. The long march however, seemed to be taking it’s toll. Since leaving the small Goblin outpost in Winterspring, they had been walking for a day. Seeing the other orc chew on a piece of food, as if he considered that they probably wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon, made what seem as if this was turning from out-of-the way outing into a mission of great urgency.

Riding up beside Tor’grak, Vilmah felt her wolf’s paws slip a little in the snow. Edmund was a good riding wolf, and the snow should have been second nature to him. She discarded the mistake and kept pace with their commander. “Will we be stopping to make camp? The sun’s going down.”

“Just leave those decisions to me,” Tor’grak said gruffly, not bothering to look at her.

Vilmah frowned slightly. It wasn’t enough that they all thought her a weakling traitor, but to ignore her too? “It’s going to get colder, when the sun goes down. We might injure the wolves if we can’t see where we’re going,” she reasoned, subtly reminding him of his decision that they not carry anything with light that might be seen from far away.

Tor’grak chuckled, but not in the friendly way she might have liked. “Are you telling me, orcling, that our wolves might get themselves hurt? That my men, some of them Frostwolves, might find themselves led astray by their companions?”

She felt stupid. Maybe I am, she thought grudgingly. What am I doing, questioning him?

Her quiet expression spoke volumes. “We’ll make camp when I say so. For now, get back into your place and keep quiet.”

Feeling no desire to raise his temper, or even see it met, Vilmah nodded and fell back with the pack. A few of them traded knowing smirks, as if they realized that she had just received a string talking-to by the commander. His ability to make her feel low multiplied, as she brought up the rear of their marching warband.

[Vilmah]

"My life is my honor,
my blade is my soul.
My mind is a trap,
and this makes me whole.

Hold high your axe,
steady your spear.
Stiffen your heart,
the battle draws near."

The old war song came easily to Vilmah's ears, like a familliar lullabye. In front of her, the banner-carrying soldier was singing. It wasn't loud enough to warrent much attention, and it blended in with their wolves' paw steps enough that she wasn't sure anyone else could hear. Despite their often violent themes, old orcish war songs usually lifted Vilmah's spirits. Hearing this one reminded Vilmah of her times in Arathi, and one time in particular when a certain orc warrior took the time to make her feel like she was more than she was worth.

Smiling in spite of herself, Tor'grak raised a hand at the front and called for a halt. The warband stopped in their track, the horde banner wafting gently in the breeze. Wind. If there was anything Vilmah hated more than cold weather, it was cold weather accompanied by wind. The wind stung her skin like tiny pinpricks accross her face. Tor'grak dismounted his wolf, and waved the warband towards a small copse of trees. The other orcs followed suit, moonlight keeping them from bumping into one another.

"Set up camp here. No fires," he instructed.

Vilmah blinked. No fires?

"We set out tomorrow morning, at first light. Keep your blades ready. We'll keep a rotating watch," he said, nodding towards the hunters. "You will take turns. You know what to do."

The hunters nodded promptly, their animal companions (all white wolves), circling them for a moment. Edmund lay down beside Vilmah, wrapping himself around her small body to keep her warm. More than ever she was grateful to have brought him allong, and that he seemed to recognize her needs before she spoke them. The cold wind bit her small nose, reminding her once more of her curiosity. No fires? Why no fires?

Glancing at Tor'grak, she noticed that he was sitting with his back against his own enormous black wolf. It's keen eyes seemed to glare at the darkness ahead, towards the direction that they were marching.

[Vilmah]

The splash of warm liquid on Vilmah's face was actually quite refreshing. For a few seconds, she was relieved of the cold that had been biting at her nose. Unfortunately, it didn't last very long, and after a moment the blood began to crystalize and solidify.

"Gosh darnit," she grunted to herself, wiping at her face with her fur-covered wrist. It became matted and red, but there was no time to worry about that right now. Furbolgs were upon the warparty, and as unexpected as their presense had been, the orcs were handling them swiftly.

Not too far away, the hunters were barking orders at their wolves. Jaws tore through hides, and blood splashed against the snow. The wanton violence sent thrills up the Warboss' back, although she would be hard pressed to admit it. Stealing a glance at Tor'grak, who was swinging a massive sword towards his own assailant, she snuck a grin of admiration as the blade cut mid-way through the creature's back and severed it's spine. A loud "thunk!!" of metal against bone was nearly jaw-dropping. There had only been about ten of them, and none of the bear creatures could put up much of a fight.

As the last of them went down with a sickening crunch of hammer against skull, Vilmah glanced around at the massacre. "Where do you suppose they came from?" She asked curiously.

"Settlement not far from here," answered one of the grunts. "Far as we know, we were stearin' clear. Must'v spooked 'em."

Hiding her sadness at the unneeded killing, Vilmah nodded and whistled for her wolf. Edmund came bounding up towards her, tongue hanging from his mouth, breath turning to vapor as he panted. His small mistress scratched at his neck, and wondered why he seemed so excited. Edmund had been away from them, during the fight. There was a keen sparkle in his face, which, as a warrior, Vilmah could not read at all. She could only tell that he was happy, here.

Figuring that it must be the cold, Vilmah shrugged and began cleaning her weapons with the others.

She didn't notice the figures watching their war party, several miles away.

[Vilmah]

Looking down at the warband, Yatojin narrowed his piercing blue eyes.

The troll was well hidden beneath his thick white pelts, most of his body having been submerged in layers of constantly falling snow. Most of his face was hidden behind a white cloth mask, which made both he and his mate, Ejuka, completely unseen.

"What do you reckon they're doing here?" Yatojin asked in a Gundraki version of the troll's language, glancing back without moving his head.

Ejuka snorted through her long nose, "Loa know what. I've no idea. From what I can tell, they're making their way towards the coast. I've watched them kill all of those in their way."

"I do not like the looks of this. An orcish warband, fully armed, marching towards the coast? What could they possibly be searching for?"

"You and I both know the answer to that..." Ejuka growled, sitting up, snow falling away from her pale blond mane. "Those corpses that we saw. The ones ravaged by plague. They're getting closer, washing up on the shore. Our cousins sent word of this, and though not by choice, we know of what happened so many years ago. It was foolish of us to bring out people so close to the road leading there."

"The hunt was good, Ejuka," her mate argued, keeping his eyes on the orcs. "Our survival depended on it. Although it seems like we will have to face this new intrusion, if we are to continue hunting here."

"Why not just leave?" The female reasoned. "They will send more, if we kill them. We needn't fight an entire Hor--"

"Do you take our people for cowards?" Yatojin spat. "You can cower like a rabbit. Find some hole to hide yourself in. Our people will not hide from green interlopers, trudging their way towards our land. Not now, not ever."

Ejuka sneered, "You dare--"

"I dare do a lot more then that, pretty one," her mate answered, picking himself up from the snow. Together, they blended in with the terrain and made their way back home.

[Vilmah]

Vilmah considered the possibility of making a mask for her face. The wind was cutting across her skin more than usual, due to Edmund’s quick bounds. He kept up with the other wolves well, considering his size disadvantage. He and the other wolves seemed so at home here, that Vilmah smiled in spite of herself at the sight of them all, running together as a pack should. They had been running since morning, and had covered more miles than Vilmah was used to covering in one day. They had stopped several times to rest their dogs, but all of their companions seemed eager to continue.

Seeing their pack leader ahead slow down, the others followed suit. Edmund came to a skidding halt, his body sliding forward a few feet in the snow before completely stopping. Blinking past the freezing wind, Vilmah shouted towards the nearest hunter, “Why’v we stopped?”

“Tor’grak sees sumthin’ up ahead,” he grunted in reply, looking somewhat curious himself.

Raising an eyebrow, Vilmah broke formation to ride up beside their leader. He seemed preoccupied with the vision on front of him, which seemed like nothing more than large heaps of snow. “Sir?” She said respectfully. “What’s up?”

“What do you see, Bloodborne?” He asked gruffly.

The younger of the two squinted, holding a hand over her eyes to survey the area better. Without the wind stinging her eyes, she was able to get a better look at what he was talking about.

What she had thought to have been heaps of snow were actually fallen tents. They had been sewn from animal skins and the snow had piled on top of them, but she could make out their vague shapes in between thick wooden poles. Beneath them were a few mixed articles; clothes, weapons, cooking necessities. Looking further ahead, she could tell that this was too large to have been a simple hunting party. This looked like it might have once been a village.

“..s’a troll village, sir,” Vilmah said with disbelief.

Tor’grak looked at her squarely, “You’re sure?”

“Yessir,” she replied with a nod. “See the markings, on that pole there? That’s a name. And those beads on the ground are a shaman’s sort. I remember Nojinbu tellin’ me about them.”

Her commanding officer gave a nod, as if uninterested in the rest, “Right, good. Any idea what happened to them?”

“Well…” Vilmah considered, eying the scene. “I wouldn’t know, really. I mean, where Nojinbu came from, dwarves were the enemy. Here, I’m not sure. Maybe a rival tribe?”

“It’s a possibility,” he concurred, turning his wolf to walk away from her.

Vilmah watched as the large male went towards one of his own men, and exchanged a few words in low tones. The grunt glanced back at Vilmah, nodded, and Tor’grak cleared his throat.

“We continue onward,” he said stiffly. “We’ll make camp after a few miles. Until then, get your asses in gear.”

Falling back into position, the youngest of their troupe pat Edmund on his thick back. The wolf whined and yipped, bounding off once more, his energy allowing Vilmah’s mind to trail. What were they talking about, when that grunt looked back at her?

[Vilmah]

It was hard not to be anxious as they continued marching. Every once in a while, Tor'grak would nod towards Vilmah and ask her, "Trolls?" To which she would knit her eyebrows, look around the frozen tundra, see nothing, and shrug. What sort of answer he was looking for, she did not know. It was as if he expected her to have a sixth sense regarding the enormous lanky creatures. The longer they marched, the more she understood why.

"Bloodborne!" Tor'grak yelled, a few yards a head of her.

Vilmah brought Edmund up closer to their leader, "Yes?"

"Trolls?"

The younger orc sighed. She might have been military, but her discipline had much to be desired. Looking around again, she saw nothing. "No. Nothing. If I might have permission to ask you--"

"Permission denied."

Vilmah snorted through her nose, "Well fine then, I'm asking anyway. Why do you keep asking me if there's any trolls about? You'd think one of the hunters'd be better at it than me. I'm not a tracker, you know."

Tor'grak grunted again, his eyes remaining focused on the snowy ground ahead. "They are doing their part."

"And why are you so focused on trolls?" She pressed on. "Shouldn't you be worried about those humans we're supposed to be encountering? Those other races that you brought me along for to communicate with?"

The other orc stopped in his tracks.

"What? What's wrong?" Vilmah asked with sudden alarm. "Look, if I asked too many questions--"

"Quiet, Bloodborne," he whispered.

The rest of the warband stopped as well. Another biting breeze blew accross them, causing Vilmah to sneeze as she awaited some sort of explanation as to why they were stopping.

"..ready yourself. INCOMING!"

The warband swiftly went for their weapons. Vilmah needed no explanation to retrieve her sword and shield, looking at the madness that was an orcish warband preparing for a fight. Even their banner-carrier struck the sharpened point of the flagpole into the ground, allowing their Horde flag to wave in the breeze as he planted totems upon the ground. The hunters' wolves snarled, looking every which way. The cut-throat hastily leaped from her mount, and found a way to blend herself in with the snow. The warband was ready, but for what, Vilmah couldn't tell.

"What in the.." she began, looking around with confusion, her face baring an expression of utter disbelief.

Tor'grak snarled, his teeth bared. "You'd think a troll-lover like you would have seen them coming, Bloodborne," he said beneath his breath.

"Troll lover??" She almost shrieked, tightening her grip on her sword. The tiny warrior might have taken that moment to bash her leader over the head, if it hadn't been for two things; one, her self restraint, and two, the movements the suddenly emerged from beneath the snow, revealing a mob of several dozen ice trolls covered in white pelts, wielding wicked looking daggers.

"..welcome ta troll country," one of the said, in a heavy accent. He grinned at them all. "Prepare ta get frozon, mon."

[Broxigan]

[[ -bites finger nails.- ]]

[Vilmah]

Vilmah had been in many battles before, and she could confidently say that half of them had been against trolls. Trolls were so numerous on Azeroth, what with their hundreds of tribes littered across the continents, that it was nearly impossible not to find a few who were ready to put up a fight. Unfortunately, she hadn't had the pleasure of fighting these types of trolls; frost trolls. Sometimes called ice trolls, Gundraki, and Drakkari, they were deadly in their own homeland. Far more deadly than the warband anticipated.

The hunters were the first to strike. Sending their dogs towards the closest of their enemies, they fired off arrows that struck true to several of their adversaries, causing red hot blood to splash against the snow. Unfortunately, these were trolls, and from the looks of things they were well-seasoned warriors. Those struck with arrows quickly grabbed the wooden shafts and pulled them out, oblivious to the pain as their barbed arrows tore through flesh. Their wounds healed quickly, perhaps even more so due to their nearby shamans.

An artificial storm was beginning to erupt around the warband. Wind and snow circled them, blinding several of their hunters as ice struck their eyes. Their rogue found herself crouched down low, hidden within the fray, and before long she managed to strike out against their enemies with her dagger. Unfortunately, her opponent had a different plan than she, and soon enough the cut-throat found herself the recipient of a swift kick against her chest that sent her flying into a snowbank. Vilmah watched this with a snarl, and held tightly to her own sword. In an effort to distract the trolls so that their other hunter and shaman could press forward with the attack, she charged through the swirling snow and bashed her shield against the first troll that she found. He stumbled in the snow, unused to such an open attack, but quickly recovered with a spin of the daggers in his hands.

Several of the wounded troll's comrades came to his aid, swinging at Vilmah with their knives, skillful enough not to get into each other's way. Her shield managed to take most of the blows, but those that passed through her defense luckily hit the thick plate armor covering her body, resulting in injured cries from their attackers as the bones in their hands shattered. For a few minutes she battled against the four rogues, taking steps backwards, glancing around to see if any of the others were helping. What she saw was disappointing, to say the least.

The shaman were busy with several of their own opponents, and hastily healed all that they could while attempting to make their kills. The hunters were still attacking with their arrows, but, most of the dogs had already been slain. Tor’grak was fighting tooth and nail against the troll who had spoken, his enormous weapon sweeping back and forth as his swift opponent dodged it over and over again. Pursing her lips, Vilmah kept up her defensive strategy. She prayed that soon, her allies would be finished with their opponents and help her. The pressure against the stump of her missing left arm was becoming unbearable as the metal prosthetic became bashed against her joint with every blow to her shield. She could feel the bone beneath it weaken and chip. Gritting her teeth, she made an enormous battle cry that at least resulted in surprising the trolls. This allowed her enough time to make an offensive maneuver, a harsh swing of her giant sword that cut through the belly of two of her attackers. The others snarled and continued the assault, eliciting a sigh from Vilmah as she continued walking backwards, waiting for help.

Finally, a gunshot.

Smiling with relief, Vilmah put her reserved strength into her defense, hoping that the hunter firing his gun would make it to her eventually. What she heard was not encouraging.

“Lor’tog, you idiot!!” Tor’grak yelled, stabbing his enemy with one final strike. “I said no gunshots!!”

Wondering why no gunshots were allowed was a luxury that Vilmah had no time for. Instead, she wondered why the ground began to quiver, and why suddenly, the trolls stopped attacking only to smirk at the orcs and bound away through the snow. The warband watched them, dumbfounded, panting heavily. “What.. why did they…”

“I told him not to fire that gun,” Tor’grak said with balled up fists.

The wolves started running.

The avalanche swallowed them whole.

[Vilmah]

It was an overwhelming feeling of numbness that awoke Vilmah, which was strange to say the least. Opening her eyes to see dazzling sunlight as it reflected off of the snow, she became acutely aware of the fact that she couldn’t feel her skin. Biting down on her lips, she attempted to move her limbs, but to no effect. Several feet away, she could see the fingers of her mechanical arm sticking out from beneath piles of snow. Apparently, it had become separated from her during the avalanche. She wondered morbidly what sort of injury that it might have caused her, considering how tightly latched the prosthetic had been.

“Told ‘im.. told ‘im not t’fire that damned gun.. told ‘im..” came a voice from behind her.

Turning her face, Vilmah could see that Tor’grak was also buried beneath the freezing white mounds. He seemed far worse off than she was, however, what with the blue that seemed to be tinting his otherwise vibrant green skin. “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

“Told ‘im.. not to fire.. damned gun.. idiot..” He mumbled, staring up at the sky.

Making another attempt at moving herself, Vilmah shut her eyes tightly and grunted, pulling at her arms. Her left arm, although just a stump that stopped at the bicep, responded better to her summons and soon popped out of the snow. Blinking in surprise, she used the leverage to attempt to pull out her right arm. After several minutes of fruitless labor, she lay back in the snow, panting. “Sorry, sir.. I can’t get myself out.”

“..get out.. couldn’t get out of it..” Tor’grak continued, his lips hardly moving. “Told ‘em.. told ‘em.. stupid idea..”

Strangely curious as to what he was talking about, Vilmah looked back at him again, “What was a stupid idea?”

Finally, her commanding officer offered Vilmah a look of realization, “You! You were a stupid idea, Bloodborne!”

“Gee thanks..” she grunted, straining once more to free herself.

Tor’grak laughed, then coughed violently, “Eheh.. heh.. told ‘em.. it wouldn’t work.. you think.. you really think the Warchief sent us? Stupid.. all of ‘em.. entire damn party we had, bunch o’ flamin’ idiots.. idiots t’believe a word of it..”

“A word of what??” The smaller orc demanded, leaning back again to rest herself.

“A word your father said,” he continued, lolling his head about deliriously. “Said you’d.. know where t’find ‘em.. know where t’find ‘em trolls.. so we’d be able t’kill’em.. kill ‘em early.. h’heh.. useful, for once..”

Vilmah’s expression faltered. “My father? My father organized this, because he thought I could help you kill trolls?”

“Well ya mated t’one, didn’ ya?” Tor’grak grunted, then coughed again. The snow in front of his face turned pink. “Mated a troll.. like these ones.. what’r ya, some kinda savage?”

Understanding at last why she had really been called to ride with him, Vilmah gave Tor’grak a pitying look. His coughing and delirium were signs of rapidly declining health. Without proper medical assistance, he would soon be dead. “I..”

A friendly bark broke Vilmah from her thoughts. Quickly turning her head to the source, tears built up around her eyes and almost immediately crystallized from the cold as she set her sights on Edmund. The large wolf bounded towards her excitedly, wagging his enormous tail the moment he reached her, and gave another bark.

“Edmund! Thank goodness, get me outta here!”

The wolf seemed to understand her words, if not her meaning. Burying his nose into the snow, he dug with his paws for a few inches until he could get at Vilmah’s arm. Once he’d dug far enough, she burst forth from the snowy prison and used her right arm to push the rest of her body from the ground. Pointing at Tor’grak, she nodded at Edmund again.

“Now him!”

As Edmund dug up the older orc, Vilmah went for her arm. Luckily, it was only buried a few feet, and she was able to dust off the snow. The straps that held it into place seemed broken however, and she wouldn’t be able to put it back on without removing her armor. As she contemplated the situation, Edmund gave another loud bark.

“You okay bo--, !!”

She never finished her sentence. As Vilmah turned to face Tor’grak, what met her instead was the ice troll that had ambushed them before. The one who had spoken before gave Vilmah another large toothy grin, his tusks fairly small by troll standards, turned down like another one that she knew. “Ah see ya su’vived, gi’leh,” he said slowly.

Vilmah looked around for her weapons. They seemed long gone, and so she attempted to bring herself to her feet instead. Sensing her desire for hand to hand combat, the troll grabbed on to her shoulders and pushed her back down. Despite her sluggishness, she managed to grab hold of one of his wrists. Unfortunately, the cold had taken it’s toll, and she was hardly able to keep her grip. The troll laughed, glancing back at Tor’grak.

“Takin’ care o’ dat one, see?”

Looking back at her commanding officer, the orc gave her a final look before closing his eyes in prayer. A troll she hadn’t seen swept a club down on his head, and effortlessly ended his life as his skull was crushed in the blow. Vilmah winced slightly, and glared at the one who had spoken to her.

“De rest is gone. Ah ‘tink it be yo’ turn, ya?”

The world went black.

[Vilmah]

As the courier walked towards the Sanctuary Guildhall, he scratched his head repeatedly. He was a grunt, and it wasn't his place to question, but it seemed to him like this was a job better suited to someone who understood what it meant. Which he certainly did not. In either case, he, Gort as he was called, walked towards the unimposing building in Shattrath and knocked on the door. When nobody answered, he shrugged, shoved the letter into the mail-slot, and made his way back towards the portal that would bring him to Orgrimmar.

Despite the fact that Gort forgot about this letter only moments after he delivered it, it held far more important news than he anticipated. At least, important to the people who lived within that building.

To the members of Sanctuary:

If you are reading this, it means that I, Vilmah Bloodborne, have been lost in battle. I hope that you won't have to read this until many years from now. However, bad things happen, and we have to be prepared for them. In the incident of my death, I made sure to write this so that you would all know for the last time that I am proud of each and every one of you. Whenever you wore the colors, I was proud. Whenever you stood up for yourself, I was proud. And whenever someone tried to knock you down for the beliefs that were wildly dismissed by the world, I was proud. I lived proud and I died proud. Be sure of that.

Do not take my death as a sign that Sanctuary won't survive, because it will. In the incident of my death, I will leave the reigns of this guild to one of my dearest friends, Broxigan. I know that you will respect him and his orders, probably more than you did mine. (That was a joke!) Please, remember your creed. Don't throw your beliefs away as so many others have. You are stronger than them. You are stronger than they give you credit for. All of you are examples of what the Horde should be, and I know that some day, they will all recognize that.

Fight for honor. Fight for truth. And above all, fight for justice.

Yours in spirit,
Senior Sergeant Vilmah Bloodborne
Warboss of Sanctuary
High Knitter of Orgrimmar

[Cabriel]

((O.O))

[Broxigan]

((O.O))

[[ DOOOOOOOOM! Brox reaction post: Coming soon once work quits being work.]]