Broxigan
10-31-2008, 01:51 PM
[A continuation from my Night of the Living Dead (http://wow-tng.org/showthread.php?t=13678) story.]
Upon one of the cliffs that overlooked the goblin port town, Booty Bay, in the southern most regions of Stranglethorn, smoldering embers and blackened earth, burnt grass and scorched trees stood. Body parts of various races littered the areas, the flesh upon most of them rotted and decayed, before the explosion that tore them apart. The sun had begun to rise over the waters of the sea to the east. The clouds had rolled out, the air thick and humid after the rains.
Resistances from both the Alliance and the Horde have come down to the southern tip of the Eastern Kingdoms to fight back. Word had been delivered and the source of the plague needed to be stopped. Healers, Shamans, Paladins rode with the warriors, cleansing what they could, banishing what could not be saved. The hooves and paws of the mounts stomped through the muddy lands until the port town had been reclaimed for the goblins.
Giant bon fires lined the beaches, burning the crates that carried the disease that caused all the trouble. Things were looking up for the jungle with the cavalry that had come.
But, in the midst of the charred earth and smoldering brush lay a body, complete and whole beneath a toppled tree and the appendages of the zombies that had been ripped apart by Brox’s transporter reaction. The transporter that Brox used had never caused such an explosion such as this. Usually, it resulted in a loud crack and boom before ripping him to the location it was set to; even if the device had a lust for mixing up his matrices with that of a female gnome.
Twitch.
The leg of the humanoid moved, a low, deep grunt grumble from beneath everything before it had finally started to try and free itself from the prison it was held in. One deep earthy toned hand, with a hint if green, reached out, gripping at a nearby rock. Muscles flexed and tensed as the debris shifted around, the arm pulling the body free. Labored breathing, in deep loud puffs could be heard from beneath as the person struggled to get free.
In a fit of anger, the humanoid threw branches off of him, exposing that he was an orc beneath. The orc that was left behind in the exact center of the explosion radius tugged more at the rock, finally freeing himself. Grumbling and grunting came from deep within his chest as he finally pushed himself up from the ground, trying to catch his breath.
Cuts and burn marks covered parts of his arms and legs, though it was nothing a little rest and herbs couldn’t fix. Blackened tattoos covered his right arm, identical to Brox’s, right down to the wolf heads upon the shoulder. There was not a single article of clothing upon his body, everything exposed to the forces of nature. A long jagged scar, similar to Brox’s, traced from his right ear to the corner of his lip along his jawline. Everything about this orc screamed Brox, but something was different.
The hair upon his head was pulled back into a ponytail, but it was darker, almost black, the ends burned from the fires around him. Hair from the sides of his head that looked to have once been braided was also darkened, burnt, short.
Could it have been an accident?
The lumbering form of the orc stepped towards the edge of the cliff that over looked Booty Bay, breathing loudly, one hand grasping at his chest before stopping, looking out over the port. The eyes of the orc told a different story. There were not the same as Brox’s.
Anger. Hate. Bloodlust.
His eyes screamed for them.
He let out a blood curdling roar as he dropped down to his knees, both fists dropping onto the ground firmly.
Upon one of the cliffs that overlooked the goblin port town, Booty Bay, in the southern most regions of Stranglethorn, smoldering embers and blackened earth, burnt grass and scorched trees stood. Body parts of various races littered the areas, the flesh upon most of them rotted and decayed, before the explosion that tore them apart. The sun had begun to rise over the waters of the sea to the east. The clouds had rolled out, the air thick and humid after the rains.
Resistances from both the Alliance and the Horde have come down to the southern tip of the Eastern Kingdoms to fight back. Word had been delivered and the source of the plague needed to be stopped. Healers, Shamans, Paladins rode with the warriors, cleansing what they could, banishing what could not be saved. The hooves and paws of the mounts stomped through the muddy lands until the port town had been reclaimed for the goblins.
Giant bon fires lined the beaches, burning the crates that carried the disease that caused all the trouble. Things were looking up for the jungle with the cavalry that had come.
But, in the midst of the charred earth and smoldering brush lay a body, complete and whole beneath a toppled tree and the appendages of the zombies that had been ripped apart by Brox’s transporter reaction. The transporter that Brox used had never caused such an explosion such as this. Usually, it resulted in a loud crack and boom before ripping him to the location it was set to; even if the device had a lust for mixing up his matrices with that of a female gnome.
Twitch.
The leg of the humanoid moved, a low, deep grunt grumble from beneath everything before it had finally started to try and free itself from the prison it was held in. One deep earthy toned hand, with a hint if green, reached out, gripping at a nearby rock. Muscles flexed and tensed as the debris shifted around, the arm pulling the body free. Labored breathing, in deep loud puffs could be heard from beneath as the person struggled to get free.
In a fit of anger, the humanoid threw branches off of him, exposing that he was an orc beneath. The orc that was left behind in the exact center of the explosion radius tugged more at the rock, finally freeing himself. Grumbling and grunting came from deep within his chest as he finally pushed himself up from the ground, trying to catch his breath.
Cuts and burn marks covered parts of his arms and legs, though it was nothing a little rest and herbs couldn’t fix. Blackened tattoos covered his right arm, identical to Brox’s, right down to the wolf heads upon the shoulder. There was not a single article of clothing upon his body, everything exposed to the forces of nature. A long jagged scar, similar to Brox’s, traced from his right ear to the corner of his lip along his jawline. Everything about this orc screamed Brox, but something was different.
The hair upon his head was pulled back into a ponytail, but it was darker, almost black, the ends burned from the fires around him. Hair from the sides of his head that looked to have once been braided was also darkened, burnt, short.
Could it have been an accident?
The lumbering form of the orc stepped towards the edge of the cliff that over looked Booty Bay, breathing loudly, one hand grasping at his chest before stopping, looking out over the port. The eyes of the orc told a different story. There were not the same as Brox’s.
Anger. Hate. Bloodlust.
His eyes screamed for them.
He let out a blood curdling roar as he dropped down to his knees, both fists dropping onto the ground firmly.