The Chronicles of Manus: The Silver Hand Tales

[EnheilRas]

Chapter Index:

1: Mission in Stratholme (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=21216&postcount=2)
2: The Night of Falling Daggers (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=21217&postcount=3)
3: Soft Steps, Bitter Prey (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=21218&postcount=4)
4: How Not to Skin a Cat (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=21219&postcount=5)
5: The Crusader and the Condemned (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=21220&postcount=6)
6: The EnheilRas Retired (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=21223&postcount=7)
7: A Farmer's Aid in the Valley (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=21250&postcount=8)
8: Rumble at Razor Hill (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=21438&postcount=10)
9: Awaken to the Nightmare (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=22538&postcount=11)
10: First Strike at the Den (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=23227&postcount=12)
11: A New Hunting Ground (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=23520&postcount=13)
12: Diving in a Graveyard (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=24131&postcount=14)
13: Morbid Revelations (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=24639&postcount=15)
14: Dark Storms and Bleak Horizons (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=25567&postcount=16)
15: Trouble in Tiragarde (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=26422&postcount=17)
16: A Demon Familiar (http://wow-tng.org/showpost.php?p=26738&postcount=18)
17: Blood and Thunder (http://wow-tng.org/showthread.php?p=308646)
18: A Crimson Missive (http://wow-tng.org/showthread.php?p=311518)
19: Stalking the Righteous (http://wow-tng.org/showthread.php?p=326893)
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[EnheilRas]

Seven Years Ago...

"Come on Therion," Cyrus said. "The meeting is going to happen soon!"

Therion stood up and smiled, pushing his long black hair behind his shoulders. "We're fine," the human told the High Elf. "You worry too much."

THe Blonde, pale wait of a humanoid crooked his head, "Look, perhaps you and Edwin have some kind of understanding between you two, but I can't afford to fail him. Being exiled from Silvermoon is one thing, but Stormwind is another."

Therion laughed. "We are already criminals in Stormwind Cyrus, or haven't you heard? The city belongs to the Nobles, and we are but common people. They have told us Masons simply that we exist to serve them and give them our money. It won't happen anymore Cyrus. Not if Edwin's plan works out. But first," Therion informed, "we must get some Monetary aid. Stratholme is a big city, friend. There's a lot of money to be made here."

The two walked the cobbleston streets as Dusk began to approach and a light fog rolled into the city. The merchants started to close shop and head home, and the sounds of horses and wagons grew distant. Therion and Cyrus entered a pool hall, placing red bandanas over their faces before entering. The Blacktalon Hall was a finely decorated lodge, filled with all sorts of ostenatious amenities afforded by the Nobles of Stratholme. It was known that many of the more fancy-free ones would take young courtesans inside for discrete hedonistic acts. An orgy of the gaudy occured regularly, with no end to the drinking, feasting, and pleasurable immorality while the common folk and laborers starved to feed their families.

The two figures, dressed in Blackened Leather were approached by the Doorman. "Excuse me Sirs. This is a private club. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave."

Therion tilted his head, showing confusion. "A private club? What's so private? Surely nothing to subtlely illegal as to warrant guard activity, no? What must occur for such a place to deserve such a title; such a priviledge?"

"Not at all," The doorman answered. "We just have an exclusive memberlist."

Therion grinned under his bandana. "Ah, I see. An exclusive membership." He turned his head to Cyrus, "Which means we're not good enough I suppose. It means nobility only, right Sir?"

"Yes gentlemen. We cater to nobility." The Doorman said, brushing two fingers up in the air to summon two large bouncers. "So, I'm afraid you must leave."

"What makes them noble and not I?" Therion questioned. "Why is their name so much more prestigious? What gives them the honor? What have they done to earn it? They certainly don't work for it. We, the common people, work for it. We are the reason the nobility can afford to be noble. We give them their prestige. We built their house, grow their food, and fight their wars. But you know what? We're taking back what's ours."

"That's certainly enough!" the doorman exclaimed. "Rufio, Duncan," he said gesturing to the two strongmen. "Escort these gentlemen outside."

The taller of the two, with blonde hair, placed his hands on Therion's shoulders. "Come on now," the oaf said.

"I don't think so Tim," Therion replied, spinning an unsheathed blade in his right hand and jabbing it directly into the man's left kidney. The Bouncer flinched, cowering, and Therion ribbed a second dagger from his cloak and brought it high with his left hand, and jammed it downward into the back of the bouncer's neck, severing his brain cord.

As the ma collapsed, Cyrus quickly raised a miniature loaded Crossbow, and before the doorman could call for help, fired the bolt close-range, the arrow striking the man directly through the voice box and lodging inside his neck, the tip extending out the back. The doorman clasped his neck as his blood poured out both ends, and fell to his knees coughing up his life.

The second goon tore out a large sword, and thrashed it against Therion, whom bent over backwards to avoid the horizontal slice. The rogue stood up straight and laughed, unsheathing a Night Watch shortsword, a favorite weapon of his. "You going to show me your skill, big man? Fine. Let's see it." The strongarm growled and lunged forward, striking directly at Therion's stomach. The rogue turned sideways and slammed his shortsword on the blade, disarming the oaf as he thrust his left shoulder into the man's nose, crushing his nasal cavity.

The bouncer stumbled back in pain, holding his broken nose as Therion kicked up the Brute's sword and tossed it to him. "Try once more," he taunted. The dark haired muscleman gripped the blade and roared, raising it to slam into Therion's skull. Therion gripped his shortsword with both hands like a polearm, and blocked it with the widened edge of his blade. "Bad move,"he said, raising his right leg to strike at the man's kneecap, dislodging his leg. Therion spune to the right as the Bouncer fell and swung the shortsword across his neck, decapitation him.

Therion ripped his daggers from the first corpse and turned to Cyrus, sheathing his shortsword. "Let's clean house, my friend. This hall is now property of the Defias Brotherhood, and all nobility shall face death for trespassing." The Elf nodded, and the two headed upstairs.

[EnheilRas]

One Week Later...

"Lord Therion," Cyrus said, delivering a note. "A letter from the Master has arrived."

"Go ahead and read it Brother Cyrus," Therion said, placing down his pen from his desk. The Mess Hall had been turned into a bustling headquarters and recruitment office for the fledgling Defias Brotherhood in Stratholme. Its distance from Stormwind made it into a hidden temple, and a majority of refugees from the destroyed Kingdom of Alterac had become quite piqued about the idea of taking the Kingdoms back from nobility. The Royal Guard remained blissfully unaware, too busy about this ridiculous plague rumor circling around and hunting for members of some misbegotten cult. It worked out way too well for the cunning Therion, whom had dressed his victims in black robes and made them out to have taken their own lives as sacrificial victims to this supposed cult. It was much too easy now; He was getting away with cold-blooded murder right infront of the sentries' eyes, and their own paranoia would never allow them to see the truth.

"Hail brother Therion," Cyrus read. "News of your success in Stratholme has reached Westfall. Know that your progress is a shining beacon for the brotherhood to follow in our quest to reclaim our Kingdom. I have sent my collector to Goldshire in an effort to rally more support from the farmers there. Digging in Moonbrook goes well. We discovered a secret weapon, if retrofitted, could head the way for the brotherhood's ultimate victory. Keep me informed on your own progress. Edwin VanCleef."

"Excellent," Therion congratulated himself. "Is there any other news to report?"

"Yes, Lord Therion. Scouts have reported that none other than Prince Menethil has arrived here in Stratholme after a victory against the orc Legions in Redridge. He would make an excellent target for assassination. Lordaeron itself would crumble," Cyrus informed.

"No brother. Such a thing would be foolhardy. His protector, Uther, is always near him, as is the daughter of Kul Tiras. Those three, combined with the royal guard, would be too much to handle. After all, Lordaeron is not guilty for the crimes of Stormwind. The House of Menethil cannot beblamed for the House of Wrynn," Therion commanded. "Let's just try to keep things quiet until they leave."

"Understood, my Lord," Cyrus agreed.

The day went slowly as the Defias worked on administrative details. Therion recalled scouts, assassins, and dealers into the Hall, wanting nothing to tip the order of the Silver Hand to their presence. However, nothing would hide Therion from Fate, which came rushing inside that night.

"Therion!" Cyru yelled, waking the rogue. "Wake! Stratholme is in flames. The undea have come!"

Therion leapt up from his quarters, and sped to a window. Sure enough, both the East and West quarters of the city were aflame. On the streets, it ran silent. No Chaotic riots, no rushing armies of footmen. Nothing. "Grab my spyglass," Therion said.

Cyrus brought the ornate rube to the rogue, whom pointed it East towards the flames. There he witnessed a creature more than ten feet in height, sprouting large bat-like wings and devilish horns, leading a cadre of ghouls and stiched-up bloated corpses into houses, with only minor screams being heard before the inevitale. Therion's mouth went agape, and he quikly oomed to the west to witness, in horror, the Silver Hand Paladin prince and his royal cavalry breaking into buildings and pulling commofolk out to the streets where his forces bludgeoned them to death.

"Call the Brothers Cyrus," Therion said. "Everyone to arms. The Prince is killing the people and has aligned with the undead. We will defend this installation, even at the cost of Menethil's life."

The Elf ran to the mens' quarters, waking them up and rushing them to the armory, grabbing crossbows and shortswords, and decked along the second story windows, aiming down at the street. Therion walked along the hallway loading his blunderbuss rifle.

"Lordaeron has come to destroy us Brothers. It fate has ordained us failure, then we should make it painful for them. Aim for Arthas. Strike him down. In Death, we shall have victory." Therion leaned out to the window and pulled the flintlock trigger back on the rifle, aiming it towards the west, watching the flames of war come closer to the Defias Hall.

"I can see the mounted knights!" Cyrus shouted, and pointed down the street. Sure enough, and entire brigade of Lordaeron Cavalry, Dwarven Marksmen, and foot soldiers, led by the Prince himself, approached the Defias Base.

Therion licked his thumb, smearing saliva on the end of the rifle barrel, looking through his scope. "Ready your bows!" he commanded, and the Defias archers loaded bolts into their crossbows, winding them back, and aimed through the windows. The Hall had its lights turned off, and the advancing force had no idea of the pronged death which awaited them.

"Aim for the Prince, my brothers! Strike down the House of Menethil!" Therion ordered. The Defias Archers raised their weapons, watching the soldiers drag out a family of three, slaughtering them in the twilight streets like dogs. When they turned to the Mess Hall, the moment of truth had come. With Arthas' death, Therion's men would have stopped the holocaust of Stratholme, exposing the treacherous evil of the Nobles of Lordaeron and would have easily gained support of the entire city at the Defias' whim.

Yet before Therion could utter a command, a loud shattering was heard, and the sound of something breaking inside. The rucous caused premature firing in askewed aim, with several bolts piercing into the flesh of Knights and Horses, none straying close to the royal Paladin. Through his periphial vision, Therion saw a long, rusted hook thrown through a wall, knocking into a Defias before being reeled back, impaling through the man's stomach. In a mix of agony and guhes of blood, the horror of their brother being pulled through the wall by the chain caused a panick through the ranks, his screams fading to a gutteral 'munching' soud.

"It's the undead!" Cyrus shouted. "The Undead have broken through!" Therion turned to watch as half a dozen ghoulish creatures broke through the hole in the wall, followed by a stitched abomination. He raised his rifle, and fired the shell at one of the zombies, the bullet splitting through its skull, splattering bony bits and corpulent matter on the planks. Witnessing the ghoul's quick death by their leader gave the men resolve. "To Arms my brothers! They are not invincible!"

With swords drawn, the remaining fiteen Defias battled the Scourge. Several late bolts struck deep into the Abomination, unfettered by such weak sticks in its hulking mass. therion reloaded his rifle as more ghouls spilled into the Mess Hall, followed by a giant creature, lithe in ornate armor of fiery embers concealing albino flesh and devilish vestigial wings. An Orb of Ethereal Power orbited the obsidian nails of the demon, sharpened as claws to tear through armor and rip at flesh.

"Get them before the Prince does," Mal'Ganis, Nath'rezim commanded.

Therion fired a second shot, blowing off a ghoul's leg at the knee cap before drawing his daggers, leaping into a ghoul, slamming the knives into its shoulders, twisting them to dismember its arms and kicking the corpse down. The cries of the Abomination as it tore a Defias in two at the torso were unheard by Therion. He was lost in the battle. His men were dying as they became tired and overwhelmed, the scourge pouring into the building as the Dreadlord watched, fascinated by the one rogue tearing through the ghouls in a frenzy. Therion roared, throwing his dagger at a ghoul, pinning its hand to the wall to unshearth his night Wath shortsword, and ran it through the cretin.

"You there," Mal'Ganis called out to the Abomination. "Get that one now."

The stitched one grumbled and grunted, and threw the rusted chain at Therion, dripping with the entrails freshly removed from his fellow men. Therion quickly stepped evasively and stabbed his sword through the chain links, pinning it to the floor. While the creature struggled to retrieve the hook, Therion rushed up the chain, crawling up the beast's arm, and inserted his remaining dagger into the top of the Abomination's Skull, sliding down its back. The Giant of flesh hovered, waivering as a geyser of encrusted, foul blood oozed down its frame. therion ripped the chain back and around the torso, the hook gouging into its abdomen, and splitting it open as it twirled, tossing its insides out along the floor.

Several of the ghouls backed up as Therion ripped the sword from the floor. He was panting heavily, and blind to the fact that there was no one else to stand with him in this Defiance. The Dreadlord grinned. "If you wish to be so... difficult, fine. I shall deal with you myself."

Therion lowered his red cowl. "You'll do yourself a grave disservice falling to me demon." But the bluff wasn't working too well on a creature created to manipulate and deceive. Mal'Ganis' wings soared him through the floor charging Therion, who raised his rifle and fired a random shot, striking the Dreadlord's shoulder before rolling to the ground to avoid the fatal swipe of its claws. Mal'Ganis did not bleed from the fletchette inside and turned, blocking Therion's high strike with his nails, and quickly moved his hand down to pick up the pesky human, spinning to hurl Therion into an outside wall.

"Disservice you say? Quite.." Mal'Ganis boasted as therion slowly raised himself and steadied his stance. The Dreadlord laughed, waving his claw and immediately trancing Therion to sleep. The Dreadlord approached, formed his claws around Therion's skull, and slammed his body through the window, falling two stories onto the road, right in the middle of Arthas' garrison Army.

Therion coughed up blood, his legs broken by the fall and possibly his back. he looked up to see several knights pinning him down unnecessarily. the face of Arthas was not the last thing he saw, it was the face of the Dreadlord watching and siling down at him. Undoubtedly though, the last thing he heard before it all went dark was certain:

"By the Light, be PURGED!"

[EnheilRas]

Five years ago.,..

Aelen and Bryce rushed through the thick pinetrees of Windshear Crag, huffing breathlessly. The twohumans had gotten separated from the camp as the bas of Stonetalon Peak with the rest of the survivors of Lordaeron and gone scouting the ountaineous area with three others: A dwarven hunter, Elven Priest, and a sorcerous. They'd discovered an Orc camp south of the base. Now, one-by-one, they had disappeared. Something was chasing thm. The dwarf had fallen behind in their trek, and no one had nticed he was gone The sorcerous wa poisoned over night, and the elf never returned when he went to find anti-venom from the spiders in the Shissar Crag when the two footmen went to look for hm, the body of the mage was taken.

Out of stamina, Aelen bentover, waving down Bryce. "Stop! I can't go on any further."

OBryce turned around and puled his ally up to his feet. "We've got to keep moving. We need to get back to the--" He stopped in mid-sentence, and looked around with extreme paranoia.

Aelen noticed. "Wha--what's wrong?"

"Shut up and listen!" Aelen said.

Bryce held his breath and looked around. The Eerie hissing of the crag spiders was no more, and only the chirping of fowl high in the trees could be heard. Even the rumbling of the storm liards at the southern crag area had stopped. he exhaled, gasping, an the sudden flapping of birds' wings, one of escape, echoed down to them. Then, a lud and repetitive clicking--like from a tongue against the roof of one's mouth--could be heard.

"Is that you?" Bryce asked.

"No.." the other soldier replied.

A sudden rumbling in the overbrush quickly diverted their attention to its origin, weapons out. A insectisoid creature, in sleek black carapace with two menacing claws and a long, pronged tail, crawled out, squealing and clicking.

"Relax, it's just a scorpid," Aelen sighed in relief.

"I've never seen one like that before," Bryce exclaimed. "besides, there's no scorpids around these mountains. This isn't their habitat." He moved closer to get a look at it, and a 'click' was heard; not from the beast, but from above. Aelen looked up to see a troll, high in the trees, holding itself between two branches with its legs fully split apart, holding the scoped rifle of their dwarven ally.

"Bryce, look out!" He alerted.

Bryce stood, turning towards Aele as the shot ran out, launching a bullet to strike Bryce below his left rib. IMpacted, Bryce's body twilred and fell on his back. The troll dropped from the tree, hiking out a long spear. aelen could do nothing but scramble and run, listening to the final scream of his fellow soldier as the troll stabbed the pike down on the front of Bryce's nek, and pulled back on the stick, launching the trophy from the husk.

Quickly tying the scalp i a knot around its belt, the troll raised the rifle to its shoulders and fired a bullet aimed for Aelen's right calf. The Bullet blew a minor hole in his leg, and Aelen ell to the ground, immediately scrambling to a crawl. The troll holstered the rifle, and leapt up to a tree branch, nimbly launching himself from conifer to confier, before landing a few feet from Aelen.

"What do you want?!" the soldier screamed at the hunter.

The troll quirked its head, its dreadlocks flailing bak, and pointed to itself, "Ya'utja,"It sid, before branding claw weapons: Dual wrist blades.

Aelen reached for his sword, and was met with the Troll quickly stabbing its wrist blades into the human's bicep. Aelen screamed out, and the troll quickly recoiled, takinga long vine and began tying Aelen's legs, bounding him. The human whimpered, and suddenly felt lightheaded from his wounds. He passed out seconds later, with the maniacal troll cackling to soothe him.

[EnheilRas]

When Aelen came to, it was still daylight, but later in the afternoon,. He looked up to see the ground, his hands dangling with his fingertips inhces from the pinecone covered grass. Though sore where his wounds were, they were not bleeding. Faking unconsciousness, in his ignorance of the troll--apparently named Ya'Utja--he looked at his leg and felt his arm to discover sutures and a tourniquet. The troll had sewn him up, and he didn't know why.

Aelen glances around, inding no sign of his friends, save the troll, who was standing over wooden palette where the body of his dwarven ally was. Silently, Ya'Utja took a jagged knife and stripped the corpse of its close. The troll rolled the tubby humanoid and lifted it, removing all undergarments and stripping it of jewelry and piercings. Ya'Utja cocked its head to the side, and dipped the knife in some water beforearching above the cadaver and because shaving it, whistling to itself.

Confident that the hunter was ignoring him, Aelen shifted his weight to force the rope binding himto the confider limb to gauge his surrounding. Behind him, in great horror, he discovered a huge piece of flesh tanning, tied between two trunks. He looked keenly, and from the holes and aberrations, he determined that it was the kin of the Elven priest that was traveling with him. As Aelen, eyes wide, spun further, he saw the Elf's skinless body hanging upside down, blood and muscle missing in huge chunks as it fell to the groud where the black scorpid waited anxiously below, pincers snapping.

Ya'Utja tapped the knife in the water again, cleaning the hair from it, and raised the dwarf's chin, inserting the knife directly into its neck. With great glee, the troll slit open the skin,cutting very slowly so as to note puncture tthe jugular vein. He slowly, but skillfully, sliced the flesh along the bottom of the chin, creating a 'T' incision, which he brought down to the groin, and unfolded the corpse's flesh. He took a ripped piece of cloth, cleaning the blood from the edges of the skin, and dragged his finger along th vein uncovered inside of the dermis, licking it with a smile. He'd never tasted Dwarven blood. It was quite salty.

Ya'Utja tilted the dwarf's head forward, twiling the scalpel the full circumference of its neck. He placed all three fingers on the bald scalp, and with his claw-like nails, dug into the flesh and ripped the face clean off the skull. The Troll turned, facing the two hanging bodies, and klid the dwarf's face on his own, laughing ihis mad laugh, before pulling it off and tossing it to the dirt, unflinched from the blood now pouring from his face an dripping off his crooked nose.

The troll leaned in, polishing the skull a bit and dug out the eyeballs and nasal cavity. He opened the jaw, and gripped the tongue, and in a swift jerk, ripped it from the skul. This, to the troll, would make a fine snack. Grinning, he placed it in a ar for other 'edibles.' Ya'Utja tightened his hold on the de-fleshed cranium, and twisted the puled. With a loud 'crack!' toe it from the body, spinal cord and backbone still connected. He placed this near the jar, to be saved for cleaning like the two others: Elf and man, hanging from his belt. The Dwarf skull was notably larger, and thus would yield greater value as a trophy.

Taking the knife, Ya'Utja severed the hands and feet from the dwarf, sawing the jagged blade through the wrists and ankles spilling gore and tendons throughthe opening, and tossing the extremities to the ground. The holes drained the body of blood, leaking from the massive openings. Ya'Utjah slid the skinning knife across the arms and through the legs, peeling off the flesh to expose the big meaty frame of the Dwarven Cadaver. Ya'Utjah tossed the knife down and held onto the ankles. Roaring he pulled the body clean from the skin and spinned, tossing it into a conifer trunk with such force that it exploded in muscle and organs, intestines clinging to the bark of the tree as the hunk of tissue slid down. Using the rest of the clothes, the troll lovingly cleaned the skin and smoothed out the lumps.

The troll kneeled, taking four bolts of silk gathred from the spiders, puncturing the four extremities and tying loops with the thread. The Troll stood, and carried the pelt to two trunks, and began tying it between the two, spreadng the skin apart fully to let it bask in the setting sun. At this point, he noticed his prisoner.

"Joo b' lik'n da' shoo' 'mon? I'z b' 'op'n jooz b' pay'n 'tenshun 'cuz joo b' be'n da' nex' 'won, jah?" Ya'Utjah informed. "Joo 'oomuns dunna' mak'n da' gud prey 'cuz jooz be'z sof' an' slow, boot ja' beez gud 'nuff fo' Ya'Utjah, ri' mon?"

Aelen was just speechless as he witnessed the flesh of his former soldiers bake in the sunlight. Beams of hope peered through the gaping holes of horror.

"We'z Wahson', we'z b' know'n 'v joo lit'la camp up nort'," Ya'Utaj said to Aelen. "Aft' tomorra', da' Grom-mon b' go'n up d'ere wit' us, an' we'z gon' burn 'dem all down. Joo 'oomuns nah go'n b' 'urtin' 'den ahks no mo'."

"Hellscream?!" Aelen knew the name well. "Here?! With the Horde?" He gasped. "Oooh no... Lady Proudmoore!"

"'Nuff 'o joo mout' 'oomun," Ya'Utjah commande. "Itb' time fo' da' endin'." The Troll picked up his spear, and with a imple motion, jammed it into Aelen's heart, twisting it inside. Aelen's body immediately spasmed like a stuck pig, and he drowned coughing on his own blood.

[EnheilRas]

One Year Ago..

*Click*

Riga opened the barrel and split two heavy copper shots inside, cocking the barrel back on the muzzle loader and pulling the firing pins back. He raised the large-bored gun and with great care, took precise aim. A devilish smirk crossed the small orc's mouth as he pulled the trigger, the weapon blowing the large calibre shot outward towards his intended target.

"Squeeee!!" the boar yelled as the round made an exit wound the size of a fist, collapsing in blood.

"Riga.. Must you make so much noise?" Trabian asked his stout ally, smoothing a wrinkle on his red robe's sleeve.

The Blue haired hunter laughed, kneeling down by his skill, and ripped out a portion of its meaty ribs. "Less talking Riil, more cooking," he said as he tossed the bloody portion of fatty muscle at the warlock.

"Dreadful!" Trabian exclaimed, stepping aside to avoid the tossed meat, it falling and rolling on the dusty Durotar soil.

"Now damn it Trabe! You're gonna ruin dinner," Riga scolded. He walked to retrieve the slab, but was beaten by his Dorn, Beladrien, whom quickly observed the bloody scent, and began pawning at it with her splayed claws to tip it up, where the hairless worg-like creature picked it up in its long, horse-like maw. "No Bela! Bad Girl! My Food!" Riga shouted, dropping his gun and bumrushed his pet, tacking the wolfling to the ground and began trying to pray the boar ribs from its clamped down jaws. The dorn growled, not giving into its master, and the two began rolling along the arid ground, much to Trabian's awe and amusement.

Riga ripped the end off the meat, getting one gristly rib from the cage as Beladrien came away with the prize. Defeated, the High Inquisitor sat in the dust with his bone, and sighed. "Lopnel has Forsaken me," he dispaired, and stood up. Trabian couldn't muster to hide his coy smile. "Shut the fuck up and fry me dipshit," Riga yelled with spurned ire. He placed the six-inch rib in Trabian's hand, his brows raising insistingly.

"Oh, marvelous Riga. Of course," The warlock said, and a bright orange clame connected from his shoulder, traveling down his arm to collect in his hand, where the ethereal fire engulfed the porkstick, roasting it. The immolation, however, continued even after Trabian let go. Riga observed his ally's smirk as the demonic invocation burnt the meat to a black crisp.

Riga glared at Trabian after his snack was fully fried. His face grew sour when he bit into it, his teeth shattering the meat as if it were glass. He sucked on it a bit before tossing it to the ground: "A bit overdone Riil, but the marrow still had some taste to it."

"How about an actual Meal Riga?" Trabian pleaded. "I'd like to have something that I can eat without biting on a bullet slug." He clicked his tongue, which brought the attention of Azpep, the fire imp chained to the world under his command. Unlike the other demons, Azpep was at least something that could communicate, even if it only just complained and whined. The Imp shifted tangibly, having phased out immaterially beforehand, and crawled towards its master.

"What now Sire?" Azpep asked with a heavy tone of sarcasm.

"I believe we're going to town, Imp," Trabian informed, peeping at his partner for affirmation.

Riga sighed, watching Beladrien sniff the burnt slab for a moment, tilting it with its nose before dismissing it as inedible. Defeated yet again, he placed his leg on a small boulder, and dramatically pointed North. In his most gallant voice, he ordered, "Yes! To Orgrimmar!"

"Well, Razor Hill will do, Riga," Trabian spoke.

"To Razor Hill!!" Riga shouted in even more of an epic tone. He stepped off the rock, picking up his shotgun and large two-handed blade, and the two friends began their journey.

[EnheilRas]

Manus sighed, looking around his hut near the Jaggedswime Farm. The EnheilRas, Warmaster of the High Fist, Crusader of ChumRas Orka, Blademaster of the Horde, had enjoyed the last few years as a humble pig farmer. He would raise the piglets, silently caring for them, and growing them fat before selling them for slaughter with the fiercest ones sold to hunters' markets for domestication and war training. His life had been approaching his fiftieth year, at least to his recollection, and retirement of raising livestock and his daughter Felika's business in the Drag, wasn't really that bad of a life to look forward to for a couple decades. He would see his daughter married and have grandchildren, and seat himself in the Hall of the Brave to train Orclings to fight as his DanRas did. Though lonely, he was content.

In Trebelium's small hut lay a simple cot, and a dress dummy to which he hung his traditional Sentinel armor that was the mainstay of the Orcish Grunts of theHorde. His weapon rack consisted of a standard Orcish Bullova, a sentinel's Longbow he procured from the Battle of Felwood, and a poison-tipped ponespear from Mulverick, captain of the Frostwolf Wing Riders of Alterac. Against the far wall hung farmer tools and instruments: A shovel, pitchfork, lumber axe, and a broom. A single dresser lay leaning against the opposing side, in of its feet broken, sat up with two tomes covered in sand and mud. The Dresser--dust-blanketed--was crafted of hard Durotar wood before the trees were all cut down by Kul Tiras, leaving the Nation as Barren as the nearby Savannah.

Dawn had approached. The Scorching Star An'she was peering from the Stonetalon Peak to grace the Orcish nation with her warmth. Manus tied on his blue overalls over his red linen shirt, and drew his hair back before placing a straw cap upon it to keep the brightness from blinding him. 'The hogs would dry out today. It will be a scorcher,' he thought. He would have to get plenty of water to moisten the sty. But first,they would need to be fed, and Manus had some leftover Zhevra meat from his dinner.

Manus pulled a huge Zhevra leg from a canvas bag, setting it on a meat table, and ripped a bloody cleaver from the wood. He held it down, and as he beganchopping, a shadow fell upon him from the doorway.

"Thrall'hal EnheilRas," spoke the Orc. He was a stout courier, built like a peon. His hair lay behind him, and his legs were finely sculpted from a life of running. His voice was, however, a dead giveaway. This was the Herald of the Horde: The WarCaller.

"Throm'ka Gorloch," Manus replied. "You needn't call me that Brother. I'm retired. Manus is my name."

"Zugzug... Manus," Gorloch studdered. "News from the Front."

"Of course Gorloch. You always bring News, but since when has there been a front?" Manus asked the WarCaller.

"There's always been a front, Enhe--Manus," Gorloch retorted.

Manus laughed, peeling meat from the bone. "You mean the pigmen? The Horse People? Those winged whores? Please. Those things are no threat, just pests."

"Zugzug EnheilRas, but it is not they of whom I bring news about," Gorloch slapped a note on the table, sealed in an envelope with the Horde sigil on it. "It is at the Overlord's request, EnheilRas. I bid you safe journeys. Lok'Tar!"

"Lok'Tar Gorloch," Manus said in a confused tone. He picked up the envelope, broke the seal, and unfolded it over the carving table.


Throm'ka Manus,

In a time of unparalelled peace and prosperity, the Warchief wishes to extend his gratitude to all those brave warriors whom were the cause of the victories upheld by the Horde in the Exodus to Kalimdor and during the defense of Durotar. without brave soldiers such as yourself, there would be no Horde. These past few years, many old Warriors have earned their retirement as the outlook for peace seemed bright. However, as of late, that is no longer the case, and with heavy heart, the Warchief has issued command that all reserve soldiers such as yourself be called up for a contribution of your service to the Horde.

You have my condolences for the loss of your civilian life, but know that the situation is most dire that a warrior with such a long and exemplary history such as yours to have been given one final tour of duty. You are to meet with my Lieutenant Gornek in the South Valley. He will brief you and give you my orders.

Lok'Tar Ogar
Overlord Runthak

The EnheilRas sat down, resting his forehead upon his arched palms, and stared at the dirt for countless moments. How could it have come to this? How could the Wars not be Over? Was not there peace with the humans and the Elves? The Centaur and Quillboar couldn't have become such a threat that the retirees were brought back into service, especially since Manus had become Kor'Kron status. Hesitantly, he stood up and let out a heavy sigh. He reached for his armor, but stopped himself. Going into the valley dressed in full OCU (Orgrimmar Combat Uniform) would give the impression that he was eager for warfare. Though it marked him in the past, his retirement and sensation of tranquility restored his hopes in the Dream of the Warchief: To rise above the fighting and seek and understanding to coexist. He, like many Orcs, just wanted to be left alone; to work the land they found for themselves.

Keeping his farmer's overalls and straw hat on, Manus aimed himself with his shovel and pitchfork, draped in an X-Fashion across his back, and his meat cleaver and lumber axe hanging from his leather belt. Manus stepped outside, where he was instantly greeted by the unforgiving Durotar sun and the harsh dry winds, heated by the Barrens from the West and the cold salt spray from the Ocean in the East. He kneeled to pickup his mining pick from outside his hut. His presence alerted the attention of his sty, which oinked in anticipation of their unprepared meal. He could only hope this meeting would be short, else he'd have to sell his farm and start slumming it in the inns. The life of a nomadic warrior of the Horde was a path of honor, but it was a road of continual lost identity.

He tilted his hat down, and faithfully began his trek south.

[EnheilRas]

It was nearly noon when Manus had reached the fertile valley, where the last forests of Durotar dwelled that lay untouched by the reapings of humanity. There, under the grim gaze of overseer Thrazz'ril, the peon labor force worked tirelessly--well, most of the time--to harvest lumber for the Bulwarks of Ashenvale, Stonetalon, and shipments to Lordearon. Though the Warsong Kargathia outpost was the product of the majority of lumber, the valley's addition was still a notable source, as it was a rare target of Kaldorei terrorism.

The Valley itself was a natural fortress, with high mountains surrounding it in a circular fashion. It was such a natural border that the elementalists proclaimed it to be blessed by the Childer of Tharazane. As such, a resonance obelisk was formed and erected to pay homage and respect to the Elementals high atop the craggy hills. Near the Den, surrounded by little tents for the young to keep out of the sun, was a large circule of stones encasing a bonfire at the nucleus. Kalthunk, a type of commissar, sifting through new recruits and reporting them to their training offiers, stood with a line of fresh orcs and trolls. Many stood with nothing but the cothes on their back, a day's rations, and an axe in their hand.

Gornek, Runthak's subservient soldier, stationed himself comfortably inside the den, a shallow cave system traveling through the insides of the hills. Manus passed through the circle around the stressed Kalthunk, and approached Gornek, whom was sifting through a large bundle of scorpid tails, checking the volume of the venom sacs for antibiotic treatment.

"Throm'ka Brother," Manus accorded.

Gornek looked up at the farmer, "Lok'Tar. Did Kalthunk send you to me? If so I've got some pigs and scorpid you can hunt to get 'yer axe bloody."

"Afraid not soldier," Manus said, and handed Runthak's note to the Lieutenant. He watched Gornek's eyes scan the print, following some examining glances at Manus.

"Oh... I.. See," Gornek spoke. He rolled up the script and bowed. "It is an Honor, EnheilRas."

"What is the situation here?"

Gornek nodded. "Straight to the point? I like that. Apart from the pigs and bugs, the valley has been a good source for Durotar Lumber. Recently, our peons have spotted imps and felhunters emerging from a cave opening in the Northeast. We've been sending the younglings at them and its controlled the proliferation to an extent, but we can't get anyone in far enough to see from what they're emerging."

"Zugzug. THe Northeast, you say?" Manus questioned.

Gornek nodded again. "There's a warlock just outside. She works with Orgnil Soulscar. She will have some more enlightening thoughts on the infestation."

"Aka'magosh Gornek. Lok'tar," Manus said.

"Lok'Tar EnheilRas. Are you sure you don't need some weaponry?"

"I'll be fine," he reassured the soldier.

Manus stepped out of the Den, and glanced about the trainer's tents. Sure enough, amongst the Orcs and trolls learning hunting, fighting, and elemental practices, a single Orc female in a long brown ponytail, dressed in a long brown robe with a fiery imp on her shoulder loitered. He approached her, and dug his shoulder into the dirt to get her attention.

"Yes Farmer?" She sighed in honest apathy.

"I need you to tell me what you know of the cave Northeast of here," Manus demanded.

She laughed a hissing chortle. "What are you going to do? Throw corn at them? You are no warrior, old Orc. Go back to your fields and let the experienced deal with this."

Manus rolled his right sleeve up, each inch revealing his proud heritage: Frostwolf, Warsong, Bleeding Hollow. "I will ask you again, Orcling. What of the cave?" He demanded again in a menacing manner.

"The Eye of Kilrogg? Mark of the Bleeding Tear? Perhaps I was mistaken. I apologize Old one. Zareetha Firegaze at your service," she exclaimed. "The cave is festering with demons, and I believe they are pawns of the Burning Blade Clan."

"I thought the Blade destroyed by Lothar in Arathor?" Manus conjectured.

"From what we know is that it has been reformed as an Arm of the Shadow Council, whose members came with us in disguise, then let to pursue their dark ambitions. I believe the council communicates with its minions through medallions. If you go in there and find their leader, we could divine where their orders originate," She informed.

"The Shadow Council, are you sure?" Manus asked, freshly remembering Morg Wolfsong. The Far Seer and Manus befriended each other during the Battle of Felwood against the Corrupted Warsong. Morg rose to become a reknown hero and strong General of the Horde in Hyjal. Morg and his conclave, however, were brutally slaughtered by the Shadow Council near Skull Rock, where they captured a shaman relic before being killed by a vindictive Mok'Nathal and Troll. It was a heavy loss for MAnus to bare, and had never reached closure for Morg's death.

"I would not claim if I was unsure, Old One," Zareetha said. "The Burning Blade--and the Shadow Council--live."

"A Cave Northeast inside the Valley are where I will find these answers?" Manus confirmed.

"Zugzug," she answered.

Manus nodded, and tilted his hat down, facing the valley with a cold exterior. The heat no longer bothered him, and although the swear soaked through his Brow, he was ready. Vengenceful, the EnheilRas trekked Northeast across the arid wastes.

[Rajjah]

((awesome))

[EnheilRas]

Trabian flung his single orange braided lock behind his shoulder as he passed through the large wooden gateway of the Razor Hill Military Base. Riga, his stout companion, grinned brightly. "A-ha! Razor Hill. Soldiers, Weapons, and food. A True Delight! Lopnel be praised," Riga exclaimed. Riga, the smaller of the two by Trabian's imposing seven foot height, brought his triple-faced medallion to his lips and kissed each one before placing them inside the collar of his red shirt.

Two mounted raiders rushed past the two on large saddled timber wolves, tamed from the wilds of Northeron, ordrained in hard imperial leather. The two large canines padded towards the large taven and inn, dismouned by their riders, and as the two were tied to the large hunter stables nearby, drank freely from the large watery pulpit amongst the other mounts and pets. Riga made two clicking sounds with his tongue, and his Dorn scampered over between the large beasts, nudging between them before dousing her head to drink.

"I never knew you had a fondness for pets," Trabian commented, having watched the affair. Azpep leapt from the Warlock's Shoulder.

"It was a parting gift, Old Friend. A brave Dorn Rider by the name of Velin Meliviel. Surprised you've not heard of the fellow," Riga said. "'Sides, I never knew you had a fondness for demons."

Azpep burst into a flaming aura, and phased at his name being commented. Trabian strokd his shaggy facial hair dangling apathetically from his jawline. "Hmm.. Who said I did? Anyway, I am famished. Let's head in and get some real food eh?" The intangible demon squealed and frolicked close behind.

The two entered the large Inn. The acris cooking smoke exhaled from the tented top of the Inn, mixing with the blame plume of the nearby forge as copper smelters and smiths shattered and hammered ore together for ware sales. Engineers and metalworkers alike toiled under the heavy trade tent just north of it. Across from the Razor Hill Bazaar were merchant fletchers, tanners, and tailors that had racks of armor and hunting weapons with working tools and all the fixings for sale. The Bazaar surrounded the BArracks, the largest building in Razor Hill by Far, housing the regiment that was to be the first defense of Orgrimmar. Built at the mouth of Thunder Ridge and Drygulch Ravine, Razor Hill's numerous Burrows and High Towers erected on the cliffs made it a superb reconnaissance strongpoint.

Inside the INn, there lay cots adorning the walls around the circular building in double rows. Roughly a fourth were filled with lazy soldiers, or heavily sleeping younglings. A huge patchwork of furs collected from both continents layed along the floor of th establishment, and a central massive flaming cooking table, where the Chef stood cooking meats delivered bythe peons running from the hog farms near the Southfury and the Errand Boy harvesting pork from the Valley, was brightly burning. Groups of soldiers and vagrants sat in circles, eating their cooked meat and spirits from the bartender whom imported from Gryshhka's in Orgrimmar. Orcish customs were not want of chairs, and the patrons simply sat on their own legs and dined from their plates and tankards.

"This looks like my kind of place," said Riga excitedly. He stroked his long ponytail, his blue hair still a bit rough from the crystallized dye.

Trabian sighed. "Just don't start any trouble Riga," he warned. Trabian smoothed out his Blood Red robes, ordained with several runic designs stitched in, with golden and silver emblems dangling from his wrists and neck. These were the symbols of the Seraphim and the Firelands.

Riga hopped to the Cooking table, "Hey there meatsack. What's cookin'?"

The chef looked szternly at the small hunter, glaring, "Lok'tar Brother. I am Torka."

"I ain't 'yer brother, and if you're cookin' tar, then I'll fancy we go elsehwere," the blue-haired Orc replied.

He grunted, unamused: "Fried clam meat and roast Raptor, Hunter." Using a large double-headed axe, Torka slid the weapon under two cooked pieces of red meat, and twisted the handle swiftly, flipping the steaks. Flames spurred from the grill, and steam soared from the sizzling loins.

"I think whatever you've got there is good enough for my friend and I," Riga said, mouth watering.

"Four silver Brother," Torka demanded.

"Four silver?! Outrageous!" Riga bolted. "Riil, Pay the man his money."

Trabian sighed, and walked up to the table, sliding his right arm up his sleeve to unattach a coin purse. "One of these days Riga, you must endure the tribulations of poverty." He sifted through the bag, bringing the four coins and handing them to his Orcish companion. Riga gently juggled the stack of coins from palm to palm before pushing them to Torka. The Orc took the stack into his pocket, and flipped the meat again with his axe-spatula.

"When the Church sets root in Orgrimmar, we'll be set for life with tithes. Lopnel is the Guiding path, Trabian. We just need to better persuade these Orcs of that," Riga explained. "You'll see, Old friend. The Clan of the Red Blade will be reincarnated and the Juggernauts of His will shall rise!"

A large tauren, glancing over his shoulder in hearing Riga's boisterous speech, muttered, "Sounds like you've got a demon cult brewing, Green Child."

Riga immediately turned towards the Tauren, ignoring the plates of freshly cooked Raptor meat to his companion and he. Trabian brought the plate over and raised his hand, "Excuse me, Sir Chef. Where would I find some dining utensils?"

"A Cult!? CHILD!?!" Riga shouted, approaching the Tauren. The Bulking Tauren stood up, turning towards Riga. The Mammoth creature was easily twice Riga's dimunitive size, near eleven feet tall. He had a completely brown hide, with long curved full black horns. Three full braids hung from his chin. The Tauren gripped a large stone mallet from the ground, and snorted down at Riga.

"Indeed, Small one. Your God sounds like a demon akin the Shadow Council," The Tauren conjectured.

Riga's right arm began to shake, and he whispered up at the Brave, "Come down here. Let me tell you--enlighten, rather--of a prophetic sign."

Trabian sighed yet again, "Here it goes," and began to finish his meal quickly.

The Tauren leaned down, "Yes, young one?"

Riga smiled, his grin as toothy as a shark. "Never. I mean NEVER, call me SMALL!" he crescended, grabbing the bull by the horns and used the leverage to launch himself up, slamming his knee into the Tauren's chin. The tauren flinched up, lifting Riga off his feet in contact. With a painful Grunt, the Tauren roared as Riga pulled himself up by the horns to leap over its head, and pulled back by the same Horns to bring the tauren down on his back. Riga let go and peered down: "Now who's small, Bitch!?"

The Tauren rolled on its stomach, and pushed itself up, kneeling. "You have taken aggression against Arapaho Rageclaw of the Runetotem Tribe, Green One. I hope you are prepared."

Several of the patrons stood to watch the altercation. Riga, looking almost directly up to the standing Arapaho, seemed unamused. "And you dare insult High Inquisitor Riga of the Clan of the Red Blade, Lord of the Juggernauts and First among Lopnel's Chosen. Dare you face my crimson wrath?" he Bellowed.

"For such a short thing, you have an awful lot of hot air," Arapaho Mentioned. "Defend Yourself!" The Tauren lifted the Mallet and swung the heavy maul at Riga's ribs. The crazed Inquisitor leaned back into a crab-walking position, thrusting his right leg at the Tauren's right shin. The Impact moved it only slightly.

"'Yer a big fucker, aren'cha?" Riga concluded.

The Taurenr aised the huge stone club, its chest expanding. "As tall as you are small," Arapaho retorted, and slammed the hammer down, exploding an impact between Riga's Legs, then faced lleft and swung upwards, propelling Riga through the air like a small ball.

Riga cartwheeled in midair, quickly drawing his muzzle loader and firing a pot shot before landing on his stomach, rolling out to the Inn entrance. The wild shot impacted Arapaho in his right shoulder. He gripped the bullet wound with his left arm and growled. Riga pushed himself up, gripping his firearm tightly. "Bring it on you son of a motherless Kodo."

Arapaho leaned forward, sitting on all fours, and growled out at Riga ferally as his hands and hooves cracked and covered with a thick grey hide, overwhelming his form. Arapaho's jaw stretched down, his flat teeth cascading into a row of jagged, flesh-ripping fangs. The Ursa-Tauren roared at Riga, and dragged its right claw against the dirt.

"Oooh... shit," riga said before Arapaho ferociously charged at Riga, thrusting its head into Riga's stomach. The dwarven Orc shot into the air once more, spinning around and landing on his side, rolling along the dirt as dust rolled up around him. Angered at his embarrassment, Riga unsheathed his Giant two-handed Blade: A bright mirrored blade, golden hilt and Pommel, with a Blood Red glow eminating from the Essence of the Sword. Riga charged through the dust cloud, Blade raised high, to find his opponent missing. "C'mon you bear-Fucker! I'm not through with you yet!"

Trabian stepped out of the Inn as the other customers resumed dining. The Warlock dusted Riga's shoulder off, as Riga's face was covered in dirt clinging to his sweaty skin. "It's over Riga. He's gone. Let's continue."

The High Inquisitor growled and slid his blade behind him, retrieving his gun. "This isn't over. I will carve that bastard to pieces!"

[EnheilRas]

Join Us
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Redeem Yourself
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Live!

Therion woke up screaming. Even when he opened his eyes, it was a pitch black dark. He was confined in a box. Feeling around, he soon discovered himself trapped in a casket: His own coffin. Panic immediately engulfed him, and while hystrerically screaming, he began clawing and beating on the wood.

"Don't bury me, I'm not dead! I'm alive damn you all. Let me out!"

Feeling the ply give way, Therion bashes his fists against it, shattering the planks to splinters and tearing his coffin apart with a ravenous ferver. He sat up, gasping for fresh air, but it was only a stale, dead air. It was still near pure darkness that covered his surroundings, save for a dimly lit torch, flickering the illumination of his morbid environment. Therion was indeed in a mausoleum, but it had long stopped being maintained. Stepping out of the pinebox, he picked up the torch from the candlelabra, and searched his surroundings.

The brick had become grey and delapidated. Cobwebs had come, gone, and come again. Five other caskets lay perched near his, with three rows of cravasses along the walls filled with rotting bodies. His breath stagged with fear, expelling a mist of visible horror. Scaling his free hand along the wall, he treaded along the edge. He knew it was cold, but could not feel it. Scouring the wall, he felt the coarse stone turn to aged, broken wood. Therion brought the Candlelabra towards it to illuminate a large, bolted wooden chamber door, with obvious signs of a failed intrusion. The wood was splintered inward, like from a strong battering ram.

Therion placed the light down, and pressed down on the plank. The Hard pine moaned and creeked as it slowly bent down, and craked open, falling to the floor. A stream of murky light soaked into the crypt, giving Therion a sense of surroundings. He rose the Candleabra and quickly began thrashing the door, breaking it apart chip by chip until a sizable hole formed--one of escape. Therion tossed the brass to the ground and sighed in relief. He could go home now, and report on Stratholme. THe rogue bent down, preparing to fit inside when an angry, disturbed sound echoed in dull roar from the far right casket behind him. Gripped by sudden fear, Therion could only stare as the box jumped a bit, and began to rattle and shake with the muffled, incoherent madness only increasing in volume. Therion slowly kneeled, gripping a large board with a sharp, rusty nail protruding out the end as a loud shattering tore through the coffin.

Therion slowly approached the box as a clawed, mangled hand burst through in anger. The rogue apprehensively jumped and raised the board, drawing nearer in anticipation. A second hand thrust vertically upward, drawing the casket and ripping it in two. A screaming, disfigured corpse rose in shieking frenzy, looking around in a fearful exhilaration. Terrified, Therion yelled out at the ghoul and swung the plank in self-defense, the nail impaling through the newly liberated creature. It immediately spiraled to the floor, its limbs flailing weakly for a second before halting. Therion took one step to kick it twice for assurance of its demise.

"Hail! Who goes down there?" A voice called from the corridors above.

"Hey!" Therion called back, "I'm alive down here! Something tried to attack me, but I'm fine. Get me out of here!"

"Alive? Heh, I find that hard to believe," the voice came, drawing nearer as a yellow light brightly drew from the doorcracks. It was a proper accent with a slightly jovial undertone. In some manner, it was comforting. "But it's always nice to see another awake from the Shadow, with the Madness chained." A jingling sound was heard, and a creaky click of a locking mechanism, before the stranger opened the crypt doors.

Therion began to trot, relieved, to the man until the light illuminated the man's pale, decaying flesh with sullen, eyeless sockets that glowed with two ethereal balls. A long lock of greyish-green hair sprouted from his decomposing scalp. His robes were a dusty blue and green, covering his legs, but cut at the bicep where the flesh and muscle had completely rotted off at his elbows and torn in chunks along his hands and forearms. Each finger ended in a literal sharp, bony point.

Startled, Therion ripped the remaining coffin in its entirety and yelled at the undead, whom immediately cowered, raising his hands up defensively, "No No No!" He pleaded. "I mean youno harm Sir. I-I'm here to help; To free you!" The dead thing spoke. "Look! No weapons, right chap? Just relax and I can explain."

Taken by the Ghoul's eloquence, Therion lowered his guard and dropped the weapon. "Alright," He consented, sighing in effort to lower in apparent heartbeat out of habit when halting combat. "Who are you? What is this place?"

"I--" the Undead paused in narrative introduction to bow, "Am Mordo, Undertaker Mordo, at your service Sir. I am the Caretaker of these crypts. I manage the nothings and send the rest to purge. This is Deathknell, Sir, a small province of the Forsaken Kingdom of Lordaeron."

"Lordaeron?" Therion said, surprised. "That can't be. I was serving in Stratholme. How'd I get here?"

"Better here than there, I say," Mordo replied with a smile -- he oddly had all his teeth intact -- "Such a dreadful place that city has become. May not redeem it for quite a while." Mordo gestured THerion to follow and lead up the steps. "Come Forsaken. There is much to discuss. You've been asleep for quite a while."

Therion cautiously followed Undertaker Mordo up the stairs into an upper level of the underground Mausloeum. These were lit and maintained, not nearly at the untouched, derelict level he was sealed in alive. Except for decrepit mummies, the area was cleared of corpses. None lain upon the racks and no caskets were seen. "I don't understand Ghoul," Therion commented.

"Mordo, please," The undertaker requested. "Allow me what fond humanity I may retain, Good Sir. These are the Darknest of times, where the Light has rejected us. We've not a leg to stand, so our knees must suffice." Mordo chuckled lightly, "And even then, those fall off all the time."

"Sorry.. Mordo-- As I was saying -- How did I get here?" Therion demanded apologetically.

Mordo turned around and sighed. "Moved here I s'pose sir." He smirked and wrapped around a corridor to slowly ascend another staircase. "Probably by meatwagon."

"And what of the Silver city?" Therion asked of Stratholme.

"Gone, Good Sir," Mordo informed. "Even now, fabled Stratholme burns under his Reign. Baron Rivendale keeps it for him. Waiting for his return. The Lady is unable to reach Silvermoon while the city keeps the way blocked. That's why Mister Marris was called."

Even Therion had heard of Nathanos Marris. "So what does that mean? Who is he? What's this Lady? Why should Menethil worry about Quel'Thelas? You're confusing, creature!"

"Why, that's fine and dandy Sir. All newly Forsaken live in such a state. But be assured, Good Sir, that there's more surprises--OOoh so much more--and more riddles abound." Mordo said, turning through a top crypt level. A dim daylight permeated the grim abode. "I know you thought it was scary down there Forsaken -- I heard you scream -- but believe you me, the real nightmares are right outside. If you want to survive, you'regoing to need to learn to trust with a knight to the back. Trust your ears, not your eyes, and adapt to your role with the Shadow; Retain the Madness." Mordo creaked a door open, the exit from the crypt. "Welcome to Deathknell, Sir. Population Rising everyday."

Therion stepped into Daylight. Even though he had been in total darkness, his eyes did not need adjustment. The crypt, unsurprisingly, was surrounded by a large, gated graveyard. Therion was able to make out a town to the East. Civilization, or the idea of it, gave him a sense of relief, of hope. He turned towards the undertaker. "Thank you, Mordo. I think I can manage from here."

"Very well Sir," Mordo nodded.

"One question though?"

"Very well Sir?"

"Why hasn't Lordaeron destroyed you? They've no tolerance for Undead. Are you someone's Pet?"

Mordo grinned and laughed. "Under new management, Forsaken. Trust no one," he said, and turned back inside the crypt.

Therion walked slowly along the dirt path towards the gated arch. A rolling fog, usually stereotypical of such occurances, was absent. OTher ghouls -- Caretakers and Undertakers like Mordo -- were digging up graves and excavating crypts. By their mannerisms, THerion could tell that they were looking for something. Carelessly, they tossed corpses out into the pits they originated before moving to another grave. As therion reached the way to Deathknell proper, he heard one yell: "Got one!"

A loud shattering occured, and a grotesque shambling corpse burst from a coffin and leapt from the grave. It immediately surveyed the area with an animalistic rage, and brust sprinting directly at Therion, its arms flailing, flinging maggot-infested guts and rotted flesh side to side. Therion instantly froze in horror when he checked for his knives and found himself in wanting.

"Get it! Get it now!" The Undertaker shouted.

Therion flinched as a jagged trident soared from behind him, impaling through the ravenous ghoul and striking a tree, nailing the undead's backbone tightly to the trunk. The beast scratched and roared, tearing at the air which a murderous fury. The beast screamed and barked with an otherworldly madness. Its clear intent easily revealed to cause death to whatever it could for as long as it was able. This was nothing but a predator.

A tall zombie, dressed in a shininy set of silver plate and chain mesh, calmly walked past Therion. A large bucker with the sigil of a female mannequin's face crying a single tear over the crest of Lordearon hung over his back. A locked sword scabbard and several vials of a clear elixir hung from his belt. The zombie approached the pinned ghoul, and unlocked his sheath. Drawing the weapon, it quickly drove the blade through the wild ghoul's chest. Ignoring its obvious disproval of this action with horrid screamd and useless attempts to claw at the warrior, he opened a flask and emptied it upon the ghoul's temple. A pitch of stream rose from the disentigrating flesh as a high-pitched squeal eminated a lustful terror of imminent mortality's painful finality. It quickly began clawing and tearing at itself in vague attempt to stop its death through self-mutilation. Taken to this extreme, it only advanced its own doom. At realization, the warrior took a cloth and cleaned the liquids off the weapons before retrieving them. The ghoul's body slumped down into a smoking, festering ooze. The undead warrior spat on the bone puddle, "Fucking Scourge."

"What the hell just happened?" Therion exclaimed in utter confusion. THe dead were not supposed to fight each other.

"The scourge. EVery now and then one pops up. That's why we put them down. Fortunately, the Dawn can get some Holy Water from the Crusade. That shit burns those bastards real nice." The Warrior spat on the pool of ghoul again. "You must be Newly Forsaken. It's odd. Some have full memories, others reemember nothing. Most only recall their former lives."

"Former Lives?"

"Yes. What they used to be before he came for us. My kind just don't grow from the ground," the undead explained. "We were all human once. There's a lot who want that back, but there's more that want nothing to do with it."

Therion sighed. "SO what's the cause of you and them?"

"Control Forsaken. We have control. All these Scourge are eventually under his direct control. He no longer has us.. at the moment."

"Who is he? Who are you?" Therion inquired.

"I am Saltain, Deathguard of our queen. We do not say his name. It is a curse to call the beast."

"Queen?!" Therion exclaimed. "?"Since when does Lordearon have a QUeen?"

Deathguard Saltain laughed, "Since we took over. Rather, took back."

"And the House of Menethil?"

"Destroyed from within. He is the cause of this."

"You mean the Prince? He caused... this?"

"Quite, Forsaken," Saltain answered with a nod.

"Why do you keep calling me that?!" Therion inquired, irritated. The answers were heavy. HAd it been true, and Arthas did indeed go mad that night, it was indeed his failure to stop it when he had the chance. Arthas had spared him though, for he was still alive and breathing. He knew that getting to Azeroth and meeting his Defias brothers was the main priority.

"Because that is what you are. We are all Forsaken. Our formers reject us, and those like us hate us. We are denied both death and life. The shadow Embraces us while the Light only embraces our demise. The World has Forsaken us, and so are we Forsaken," Saltain rhetoricized. "The Dark Lady will lead us. She has plans for us all."

"This Dark Lady, she's the Queen of Lordearon? She's the ruler of you all?" Therion wondered.

"Yes, Lady SYlvanas is our Queen," He answered.

Astounding. Elves had taken Lordearon over in its moment of weakness and instilled an army of undead. Something just was not right. "How do I get to Lordearon from this place? If your Queen can help me, I have powerful friends that can aid your kind."

Deathguard Saltain cackled. "We do not need your former friends Forsaken. We have the power to shake the world. But you do have one thing right: You will help your Queen. Lordearon is a day's travel from here. Continue Southeast to Brill. The Magistrate there can offer you answers," Saltain unsnapped his sword scabbard from his belt and tossed it to Therion. "Beware the Shadow."

Therion caught the sheath and tied it to his belt. "If this land is filled with your kind, how do I distinguishh which corpse is on which side?"

Saltain laughed once more, hiking the trident up in his bony hands. "There are no sides, Fledgling. There's just survival."

THerion nodded. He looked out towards Deathknell -- A few buildings filled with several of these civilized undead creatures, with a row of pikes and armed warriors -- deathguards like Saltain he assumed -- behind the bulwark, guarding the Deathknell crypts. It seemed that the catacomb-like crypt system was highly valued, but nothing of monetary value was seen -- that is, unless they were just graverobbers. There was something more here. Something obvious, and THerion was just not seeing it.

Therion crossed into Deathknell, a large chapel to his left filled with several undead standing around the pulpit, using the once holy ground as a training ground. Therion stepped inside to witness priests teaching the laws of the Light. He was astounded at the irony. There lay magi and Warlocks near them, 'conjuring up blasphemy' as THerion's childhood Bishop would proclaim.

The undead seemed to mostly ignore him. Therion tried not to disturb them and just watch. Across the chapel was a broken down inn. The lights were inoperable, and like the other erections, the wood had rotted and become grey with termite damage marring each board. Signs of years of continuing neglect showed, but the dead seemed not to mind. Inside the Inn, a couple merchants held open shop for basic goods and flimsy armor; nothing fantastic. Though Therion was not particularly hungry, he took notice of the absence of any vendor of provisions.

"I'm wasting time here," Therion told himself.

A female ghoul, overhearing, chortled. "Time is all we have now. Waste away."

Therion sighed, and crossed through the Bulwark. Just because he found himself suddenly surrounded by corpses was no reason to give up the fight. He didn't have time to waste at all. Therion was a young man. He had a lot of living to do.

[EnheilRas]

"Kazok ix ay Tizip!" shouted the three foot tall, dark blue imp in demonic as it accosted Manus. Its hand burst in flame, madly skipping towards the Orc.

Manus grinned, sliding his left foot to the rear, stancing, and dragged the long shovel from its latch on his cross belt on his back. Handling it as an axe, Manus quickly stepped in to close ground on the imp pre-empatively, and with blunt side, swung the shovel hard left, smashing the grooved end into the imp's ribs. The demon's body jerked as it gained thrust, propelling in a rough cartwheel on the unfertile soil, stopping chest down. Manus leapt towards the hapless demon as it struggled to get up, and raised the shovel head-down and thrust downward, severing the imp in twain at the torso. Black blood poured on the yellow dirt and demon entrails dripped from the metal head as Manus raised the tool and swung it behond his neck.

"See? That was easy. I'm not too old for this. Still in my prime," Manus told -- reassured -- himself. He looked up at a cavernous opening in the crag before him. Three more imps danced around protectively in front of the entrance, launching immolative orbs at the scorpids and boars that wandered too close. This meant, to Manus, that this was no invasion force, but a stationary base, most likely for reconnaissance and, assumingly, recruitment. The more Manus thought about it, the more imperative the mission seemed.

"Lok'tar Ogar!" Manus roared as he charged directly into the trio of imps. rearing the bloody shovel back, the enraged Orc swung the tool horizontally, the edged end sliding through the middle imp's neck, severing bone and vein, tearing the demon's skull from its shoulders. The imp fell to its knees as its arterial bleeding shot a geyser of ichor, its heart continuing to beat. The other two imps screeched in demonic, their fists instantly glowing aflame and surged fireballs in Manus' direction.

Manus instantly dived to his right side, rolling along his waist, and sprung to his knees as the fireballs struck ground with a molotov-like splash of hellfire. Relentless, the imps continued their jackal-like chirping and launched a second volley. Manus ducked low, narrowly avoiding the incoming sphere as it singed his shoulder, and swung the shovel like a bat unto a ball in deranged attempt to deflect the second sphere. The incindiary incovation shattered against the shovel head, erupting in arcane force, blowing the metal end off the pole, flinging it behind Manus, leaving him with a long stick with a splintered end.

The imps cackled gleefully as Manus went wide-eyed, hopping in maniacal whimsy. Flame once again burst from their fists as they jumped up, hurling twin balls of fire at the Orc. Glancing behind at the shovel head, Manus quickly turned around and sprinted, using the handle to pole-vault himself into the air as the imps' projectiles exploded at impact around him in rising flame. Manus landed forward on his knees, lunging down to grab the shovel head. He rolled up, throwing it as an axe, the metal disc spinning along a horizontal axis. The shovel head soared through the air, and struck one of the imps directly in its forehead. The Bladed edge lodged deep into brain, the impact throwing the imp's head violently back. The demon stumbled backwards, falling on its back as blood and grey matter oozed from the headwound, streaming down the imp's face. Its limbs flung at odd intervals as its brain refused to die.

Manus hiked up the broken stick in a battle ready position, roaring at the remaining imp. The demon rushed at Manus, leaping at him, its black claws stiking down at the Orc. Manus lifted the handle horizontally to block it, and the imp shattered the bo staff in two pieces, shards of wood bursting in all directions. Manus stepped back, flipping the handle pieces splinter-side down in his left and splinter-side up in his right. The imp growled, and lunged at Manus, whom stuck the assaulting claws of the demon with his left and swung his right across the demon's face, the stick bashing against the cheek of the imp. Manus raised his left arm, stepping into the imp and jammed the splintered hammer down in a vicious arc, the sharpened spikes puncturing through the rear ribcage. The imp fall forward, and Manus turned, using the second stick to bash down on the first, hammering the stake through the creature.

Manus rose, nonchalantly discarding the piece of wood. The Imp's hands weakly clawed at the dust. The Orc snorted and snarled, raising his booted foot, and with a force of justice, snapped it down on the imp's neck with a pleasing 'crack' sound that caused Manus' back to go erect with sadistic pleasure. Manus calmly adjusted his staw hat, staring at the liberated opening of the Den.

"Not nearly too old," Manus further assured. He ripped the pitckfork from its bearing, carrying it across his chest with both hands as he cautiously entered the cave. The light quickly faded after two turns, where the Orcish innate nightvision filtered everything back visibly with a red tint. Faintly, Manus could hear the sloshing of falling water deep in the cave. Water was a universal conduit. Any cult leader would be sure to stay near a pool, as it aided in summoning. This was why the Portal to the Nether was in the Well of Eternity; Why the Dark Portal was in the Black Morass; Why the Sunwell was needed for Kel'thuzad's return. It was water that aided in the dimensional transitions. Any demon worshipper would be sure to have a water supply near.

As Manus crept along the rocky wall, the edge of his lumber axe skidded along the igneous stone, the grinding echoing his presence down the corridor. A nearing snarling could be heard and Manus froze, backing against the wall, tucking his pitchfork close. A felhunter soon rushed around the corner and stopped a foot away, its antenna scanning. MAnus had learned that these demons were blind, and relied on olfactory senses. However, they could only actively sense magic users, as they were vampiric dogs of the void. Luckily, the absence of attunement to unnatural power made the warrior quite invisible to the mana-sensing appendages of the felhound. As it sniffed and slowly trekked by the Orc, Manus carefully raised the pitchfork and quickly brought it down, the sharpened prongs stabbing through the thick demon skin and bursting through its underbelly. The felhound let out a ravenous growl before going silent and collapsing, its Mana sensors falling with a thud.

Manus lifted the pitchfork from the dead demon and peered around the corner from whence it came. A female orc stood watch over a three-way intersection with a small red imp brandishing a shield of flame. Manus breathed in deeply, raising the pitchfork in his right hand and stepped forward, hurling it through the air. The spinning tool jammed into the warlock's stomach, knocking her off her feet with a paintful grunt. By the time the imp turned to face him, Manus had rushed forward in full sprint, ripping the pitchfork out of the female and skewering the imp as it burst in fire. Manus thrusted the fork forward, pinning the imp to a rock wall. The female orc, holding her stabbed stomach to control the blood loss, began to wimper at the pain of bleeding to death. Manus strode to her, wrapping her life-long grown pony-tail around his left hand and jerked up, forcing her head to raise. He stoically grabbed the meat cleaver from his belt in his right hand, saying in a soothing manner to the crying girl: "Sorry child, but you have betreyed your people and your warchief. This is an inevitability. Please, close your eyes sister." Manus' teeth clenched as he forcefully brought the meat cleaver through her neck. It took three cuts to clear the spine and vertebrae, so when the body fell limp, Manus could still feel fresh tears dripping from the chin. The Cleaver must have dulled.

Replacing the bloody axe, Manus ripped the pitchfork from the wall, and tossed the skull aside. Scanning the three passageways, he noticed a stream running down, as well as a small waterfall high atop a crevasse. Water could not just appear in rock. It had to be coming from somewhere. The origin must be found and severed. As such, Manus turned right, once mroe re-adjusting his straw hat. Manus crept along the wall, following the trickling of drops and the ever increasing sound of a calm stream. The cavernous corridor lead to a sizable room with a small pond along the left side with a well-traveled trail circumnavigating it and ramping up, where a long creek was slowly filling the resevoir. A hulking male orc in dark green robes stood watch over the pond with a bulbous blue voidwalker, scanning for any sign of disturbance.

Manus reached around and grabbed his pick-axe in his right hand, throwing his hand back and grunting as he launched it, the spinning pick whistling as it jet across the pond and stuck the male orc lethally, the sharp point imbredding in his forehead in a clean crack. The orc fell to his knees, then its body slid into the water, sinking as the pond turned red. The voidwalker immediately rushed at Manus, whom girded himself with his pitchfork, thrusting it at the blue demon. The needles sank into its ethereal blue form with little effect as the demon picked Manus up, and threw him back against a stalagmite. The same electricity surged from its bracers as did its empty eyes as it floated over to the kneeling Orc with malicious intent.

Manus dived to the side of the voidwalker, narrowly avoiding the charging claw aimed for his head, and scrapped the pitchfork horizontally across its back with a horrid hiss eminating from the blue meanie. The demon quickly inverted itself, its back becoming its front and its from its back and let out a whispering roar. The very room began to brighten as the shadows dragged across the ground, sinking into the demon. Manus leaped up, and grunted as he forced the pitckfork through the regenerating demon's face. The pronged head struck deeply inside, ejecting a large blue crystal from its back, covered in dark blue ectoplasm, bouncing along the rocks.

The voidwalker screamed in a high-pitched tone as Manus turned, twisting the tool and releasing it, unsnapping his lumber axe and springing towards the crystal. The demon ripped the fork from its being as its shadowy consumption replenished its power almost immediately. Manus reached down to pick up the soulstone as the voidwalker spread its arms out to him and beelined over. Manus tossed the stone in the air, gripping the axe tightly in both hands. When the timing was right, he swung it hard with a raging war cry, shattering the reagent to glimmering shards that dissipated at touching the ground. The walker screamed as its body was purged viciously from the plane, its bracers falling to the ground.

Manus snapped his wood axe back to his belt, and kneeled down to retrieve his pitchfork. Next time he would have to take things a bit more seriously. Going in a demon's den unarmored with farmer's tools was ultimately a cocky decision, and one he ultimately regretted. He rubbed his back where he slammed against the stalagmite. It was sore and pulsed with pain. HIs back was getting worn out, but he'd never actually admit it. These were children, green troops. He was the EnheilRas -- was. . .

Manus groaned as he continued his tracking of the creek at a sharp incline up a tunnel to a T-section where the left fell into a pond where the entrance was, and the right twisted around into a second resevoir -- the origin. A felstalker sat by, scanning the creek for magic energies silently. Manus snroted out and swiftly assaulted the demon dog, stabbing it through with the pitchfork, not evengiving it time for a last growl of defiance in its quick demise.

The warrior grinned at the sudden ease, and turned along the descending corridor as it twisted left into a small cliff face with a pong beind fed from the ceiling, which spilled out into the stream running throughout the cave system. Manus traced along the cliff, scanning the water for signs of corruption when he was blindly in front of a large opening into a huge cavern, where perched across from him stood an Orc in deep blue robes with a strong oaken war staff, his face ashen with corruption and blackened, straggly facial hair. A Golden medallion with a demonic sigil draped from his neck. The warlock quickly pointed his staff at Manus and called out to him in a commanding tone.

"What the hell? Is that fool Kalthunk sending farmers now? Where are Izzek and Groma?"

Manus layed the Pitchfork against the wall, side-stancing to hide his arm, moving to grip and unlatch his meat cleaver. "They... are indisposed. These children you cultists enlist to do your dirty work are quite ignorant of the risks they take for betreying the Warchiefl A fate that is the result of a crime to which you, too, are guilty. So too must you share in their fate!" Manus said, taking a step forward and flinging the cleaver.

The warlock stepped back with his left foot and leaned to the rear, using his staff to counter-balance himself, dodging to clear as it flew off the cliff and into the lake below. "You see, I am not as inexperienced as those neophyte pawns, farmer. They can be easily replaced, as can any minion you vanquished. The void is eternal, and the Legion is all-consuming. Our place is back with them, where our true power could shine. You cannot avoid this truth!"

Manus took arms with his pitchfork. "There is but one truth, befouled: Might makes Right. You are about to experience the Might of the Horde, and your wrongs are to be righted in its merciful vindiction!" Manus unleashed a blood-curdling warcry, charging at the Warlock, his pitchfork steaded at a jousting position. "Lok'Narosh! For the Horde!"

The Warlock gripped the staff horizontally, striking the prongs of the fork to stop Manus' Assault flat. "Go back to your fields, Old Orc. The Horde is but a shadow of promised glory. The warchief is a fool whom has betreyed our chosen Heritage. His fate has been foretold by the Hand. We will only grow in power and retake what was ours!" The warlock slid the hard staff along the forkhead, using Manus' leverage to stumble him forward.

"It is only right, as we created the Horde. You must feel the agony of its betreyal upon us!" The Orc said, pointing the staff at Manus and circling it in an incantation. A large sigil crested on Manus' chest in runic blood ethereal. Instantly, surged of pain overtook him, pulsating like a heartbeat. "Know Pain!" The Warlock screamed, swinging the hard staff horizontally at the warrior.

Manus immediately regained his bearing, and dropped in a squat position to evade the oak as it soared above him. Feeling the opportunity, he thrust the pitchfork upwards from the crouched position towards the warlock's stomach. "You and any who follow you are the true traitors. You sold out our people and our world for your own selfish ambitions! You will pay for your transgressions!"

The warlock leaped up and to the side, bringing his staff down in an arc to slam the fortified oak against the old pine of the pitchfork, splintering the handle. "Old Orc, this fight is not yours. Farmers do not fight wars. Can't you see you are blinded by nationalism? Don't you want knowledge of the big picture? There's a war coming, and we're not the worst thing anymore. It's blind patriots like yourself that keep the Horde back, and leash its true potential. You only weaken the Horde. The weak exist only to be ruled by the strong." The warlock shoved the end of his staff hard into Manus' chest, causing the warrior to fall back. "And we are so much stronger than you," he said, and growled as he swung the staff up, bashing up alongside Manus' chin, sprawling him across the floor, his halves skidding away. "Give up, and I, Yarroc Bloodshadow, might let you die with your soul."

Manus rose to a knee, wiping the blood from his lip with his left handm as his right unhooked his lumberjack's axe. "You speak in ignorance in meausres unaccountable," Manus claimed. "Foremost being that you actually stand a chance." Manus exploded up from his kneeling position, and in blood fury, swung the axe in a wide diagonal arc, easily slicing the staff in two as the warlock raised it in defense. Manus roared, counter-swinging, knocking both pieces from the warlock's possession.

The warlock reared back, and raised his right hand towards Manus: "Clever cornhusker, but it will not save you." He spoke as a burst of fire shot from his open palm, the searing beam striking the axe, tossing it from Manus' grip. Unfettered, Manus bumrushed the warlock, taken by the adrenaline pumping in excess to kill the pain from the warlock's curse. Manus' right shoulder busted into his foe's gut, knocking both down.

Manus raised on top of the warlock, and held his head with his left and began harshly pounding his right fist on Yarrog's skull. "I'll break your face!" Manusshouted with each crushing blow down.

Yarrog Bloodshadowconjured a shadowbolt, firing point blank at Manus', hurling him off the warlock as the caster wobbled up, running his sleeve across his broken nose and bleeding lips from three missing teeth. "You thun of a bish. No more going eashy." Yarrog spit a large mixture of blood and murus as it dripped and drained from his face. "You die now!"

Manus sat up, his overalls having a hole where the bolt made contact, leaving a festering bruise of shadow energy burning on his flesh. "You've not earned that right Orcling. Not while Kilrogg's eye cries on my arm!"

Both orcs rushed at each other, clashing hand-to-hand. The Warlock threew the first hard right, which deflected with his own right, jabbing a left into Bloodshadow's ribs, then slamming his right fist against the warlock's left cheek. Yarrog stumbled back in pain, holding his face.

"Enoug of this!" Yarrog shouted, and enveloped himself in a flaming aura. "Burn in Felflames!" He said, spreading his palms as the fires of immolation shot from the warlock and covered Manus' body. Manus crossed his arms in front of his face as his clothes began to slowly burn away and his green flesh turned a soot black.

"Die! Know the touch of the Nether!" Yarrog Bloodshadow shouted, swinging his arms in evocation as a blackness ebbed from the Orc, striking at the Burning Manus. The singing flesh, under his bones in agony from the curse, and attacked his very soul. Manus became overwhelmed, and fell to his knees, roaring in pure torture.

Yarrog dashed over, ramming against the crippled Warrior with his strong shoulder, watching Trebelium rolling along the cave floor in a fetal position. Bloodshadow laughed, blood still draining from his broken face. "You came close. But you are but a farmer," he said, charging a shadowbolt in his palms. "No farmer can beat us."

Manus uncurled as the warlock approached, finding the top half of the shattered pitchfork just within arm's reach. As Yarrog stepped in to cast the fatal bolt, Manus quickly reached to grab the handle, and shoved it tightly into the warlock's abdomen. The warlock's eyes went wide and gasped out, his spells fizzling. Feeling his strength return, Manus weakly managed to stand up, his right arm holding the stuck fork prongs inside the chanter.

"Impossible," Yarrog croaked out, lines of blood flowing from his mouth. "Not by a farmer..!"

"I am no farmer," Manus shouted, ripping off his straw hat. "I am the EnheilRas!" Manus lunged forward, kicking the handle to fully impale all the prongs through Yarrog Bloodshadow's body. The Orc fell, gasping once, and stopped moving.

The ENheilRas limped over, reaching around Yarrog's neck to discover a necklace with a golden medallion with a black etched sigil upon it. Stuffing it into his overall pocket, the warrior triumphantly turned, making his way out of the cave. Back in the Den, on the otherside of the valley, Zareetha Firegaze hadn't moved an inch. It had grown later into the afternoon, and Gornek was busy making scorpid antidotes. Cactus apple surprise, a DUrotar Specialty, was being served right outside the Den. When Manus approached in a shambled condition, Kalthunk ran to his aid.

"Lok'tar Brother! You look beaten," Runthak's subordinate commented, lifting under the EnheilRas' side to alleviate his limping.

"I'm fine brother. You should see the others. There's less to stand. The Might of the HOrde was tested today, and it showed through," Manus said as Kalthunk lead him to the den.

"Glad to hear! Every victory for the Horde is a victory for Kalimdor," Kalthunk congratulated, and let Manus off on his own, returning to the circle. "I shall assuredly inform the Overlord of your success. He was pressed to send Reavers to clear that cave from Alterac; extremely cost-ineffective for such a small-scale incursion. You've saved the Horde a lot of trouble."

"In all honesty, the trouble has only begun," Manus commented, tossing the medallion onto the sunbathing warlock's lap. "Here is your trinket, now where did this cult come from?"

Zareetha lowered her engineering goggles that filtered out light, and glanced at the necklace, then looked up at the EnheilRas. "You look like shit," she said off-hand.

"Consequential of my business, Sister."

"And that business is?" She inquired.

"Killing. It's all that is ever required of a soldier. Now tell me what this is woman," Manus demanded.

"Zugzug," she sighed, examining the sigil. "This is indeed a stone from the Burning Blade. The Nefarious Clan has risen in power."

"The Lieutenant, an Orc named Yarrog Bloodshadow, spoke in plural. The site was undermanned," Manus informed. "I've reason to believe it was recon or recruiting. This operation was in no way independent."

An imp danced towards Firegaze, dressed in a formal black tuxedo and top hat, carrying a siler tray with a single glass of -- presumably -- iced tea. "If that is the case," she said, grabbing the drink, "Then my boss -- Orgnil Soulscar -- should be informed. He heads security at Razor Hill Barracks." She gave the necklace back. "But we have no time for you to limp back." The warlock sipped her tea and yelled out: "Gornek! Call Jrash!"

"Zugzug! JRASH!" Gornek shouted.

A grizzled, brown-haired, shirtless Orc in his mid-thirties wearing buting but a chain mail girdle, stepped out, "WHAAAAAAAT?!"

The Warlock stood up, "Get your wolf ready. This warrior needs express travel to Razor Hill. Important stuff."

"Zugzug. Wot kine 'uh stoof?" Jrash asked.

"The kind that doesn't concern raiders that forget to clean after their damned wolves! Now move!" She commanded. Jrash double-timed to the stables to saddle his Dire wolf. "We'll get you there right fast, Warrior."

"Aka'magosh," Manus thanked. "I will find this Soulscar, and we'll get to the bottom of this."

[EnheilRas]

Though Ya'Utja found it easier to hunt at night, it brought more challenge--and thus, greater honor--to hunt at day where the prey had a fair chance. The land of Durotar, which had been almost coxmpletely deforested and torn by a failed large-scale invasioon, insured that successful hunting relied on stealth, precision, and the element of surprise; there could be no stalking, no chasing, no camoflage, no hiding. It was different than what the troll preferred, but to be a great hunter, he could not avoid a hunt due to terrain. It was cowardice. It was dishonor.

Durotar was filled with raptors, scorpid, boar, and the occassional crab and tiger; mostly harmless fauna. The quillboar incusion across the Southfury were fleshy and uncivilized; the quillboar brought no challenge. Even though their skulls were big, their bones were brittle. They were a superstitious sort anyway, and unlike the centaur, retreated rather than died in honor. The troll did not appreciate that at all.

Southwest of the Razor Hill Military Base, to which Ya'Utja did his best to avoid civilization as much as possible, was the ruined site of Tiragarde Keep. This fallen building was the point of assault by Kul Tiras. When the Horde invaded Theramore and killed Admiral Proudmoore, the Horde's Warchief ordered the rest of the Tirisians to lay their armos, surrender, and be sp[ared. What he had not foreseen was that their compliance was only temporary, and they eventually regrouped under an officer named Benmedict, which retook Tiragarde and began reconstruction efforts. This meant militarily-trained, armored, civilized marines. This meant worthy prey. The hunt was on, and the troll had trekked from Malaka'jin, his remote home, in order to hunt these humans.

Tiragarde Keep was walled with two huge breaks in its fortification from Rexxar's invasion. Four of the five towers had been completely razxed. The fifth had been de-militarized and left into a rudimentary state. The Tirisians reclaimed this as a scouting watch station. The Keep itself was in distressing state, with most portion collapsed or in ruin. Yet even with this shambled estate, the sailors and marines were motivated by something to return it to its threatening status in full power.

Ya'Utja didn't care about all that. It was beyond and above him. He was a hunter, not a warrior; he had no cause to fight for, nor did he need one... yet. This was his hunt, and he cared not for political rammifications; such matters were for Kings and Warchiefs. The troll was only interested in honor -- his own honor as defined by him.

The troll loaded a solid shell in the long rifle, tweaking the gyroscope attached to the barrel, testing the targeting beam which projected a triangle in red lines. In the four years he'd been here, Ya'Utja had taken a grand liking to advanced technology and became a skilled engineer, able to work the most complex of machines while maintaining his primal heritage.

Kneeling down in a sand pit, Ya'Utja raised the scope to his right eye, sliding the butt along the tusk groove, and scouted ther Tirisian Tower. It was important for the integrity of the hunt to never rely on brute force, as well as always giving the prey a chance -- no long distant sniping, overuse of gadjets -- this meant prized trophies. Ya'Utja witnessed a female sailor, a human carrying a large-bored blunderbuss, she was the lookout. Ya'Utja knew that any alarm would spell the end of the hunt, but yet a long range kill shot would alert the armor-laden marine and scimitar-wielding sailor patrolling at the southeastern tower base to his position as well as be a plain cheap kill.

Dissatisfied, Ya'Utja stood, holstering the rifle, and removed a foot-long cane, and pressed a half-inch levbel which extended the cane six feet, and ended in a devilish black point with two sharp prongs. This was Ya'Utja's spear, his most prided weapon. The troll crept toward the northside of the tower, careful to keep it between the two sentries, and placed his back against the protective wall surrounding the base. Digging the spear into the ground, the troll vaulted into the air on top of the wall, crouching down. Ya'Utja reached down and ripped the polearm up, and flipped into the air, his left wristblades extending out eighteen inches and jamming into the white brick of the tower head. After thrusting the other parellel, Ya'Utja launched himself up into the air, raising the spear forward. In a single, silent instant, the troll forced the spear through the back of the female human with such power that the tip of the polearm stuck through the top level floorboards at an inverted fourty-five degree angle. The prongs dragged out intestine, and as the body slumped down the handle, Ya'Utja landed, and lifted the rifle.

The hunter rose, and faced over the tower, taking aim at the two sentries below. With one shot in the barrel, Ya'Utja flipped the sight on the unarmored Tirisian Sailor. Sliding the rifle into the fixed position against his tusk, Ya'utja fired. The rifled shell exploded out of the barrel, striking the sailor through his neck, spilling venous blood down his back. The sailor clapsed his hands around his neck as his mouth filled with asphyxiating ichor and fell to his knees, trying in vain to call for help.

The marine raised his shield and sword, facing up the tower where the gunshot sounded off and was witness to a troll leaping off the tower point in aerial somersault and landing in a cloud of dust in a small impact crater, staring vback at the marine with a most crooked smile. The hunter flicked his wrist, extending the jagged wristblades from his arms, and stood, circling the marine.

"We'z b' dancin' 'mon. Lez b' see'n ya' movez," Ya'Utjah taunted the human, and started the deadly tribal dance of the troll people, moving his feet side-toi-side and back and forth while dipping his hips and swinging his arms.

The marine brought the shield down, and stepped in to cleave the blade across Ya'Utja, The troll jumped up and performed a mid-air cartwheel along the horizontal axis and landed, dipping down and swinging his right leg against the back of the marine's ankles to knock him down and backwards. Ya'Utja backed up and cackled as the human stood, dropping the shield and taking a more powerful two-handed hold. The marine charged forward and brought the blade down to strike the troll, whom with agile guile, stepped left of the marine, and twirled on one foot, roundhouse kicking the man in the rear of his helm.

The marine stumbled forward and stopped himself by using his sword as a break. Ya'Utja turned around and flew into the air, landing on the marine's back and plunging both wristblades into the shoulder points of the human's neck, and wrapped his fingers under the chin, and wristed as far as he could in both directions. He kicked off the marine, tearing the head clean off, spine flailing from the discarded body as the troll backflipped and landed.

Ya'Utja unhooked cord from his belt, looking at the bodies, and then at the tower. 'These were good kills,' he thought, unsheathing his skinning knife. This would have to be quick, as the hunt would not end until the end.

[EnheilRas]

“Why are we here again?” Trabian asked listlessly on the shores of Durotar, shadowed by the ruins of Tiragarde Keep. The shelf beachhead was filled with the flotsam of sunken vessels, and broken masts and bows raised from the waves, ever mindful of the grand event which buried them there.

“Well, good friend, that dipshit in the Burrow at Razor Hill told us that these here ships were carrying major engineering supplies direct from Gnomeregan before the Thermaplugg Betrayal,” Riga said, combing his ponytail back. “And he wants those hordelings to find those Gnomish Devices and bring them back for him for study.”

“Right,” Trabian replied. “But—we’re not doing that.”

“Hell no!” Riga exclaimed. “We’re going to dive down and find the biggest most powerful phaser-cannon-star-beam-two-fuckton-million and go on conquest! It’s the calling of Lopnel Trabian!”

“So we’re going... looting and pillaging,” Trabian said, disinterested.

“No! Think of it as… treasure hunting!” Riga explained. “This world is filled with treasures; goodies ripe for the taking. We just need to find it. You can bethe greatest swordsman in the world, Trabe, but if all you have is a bokken, that amateur with the Doomhammer is still going to beat you.”

“Riga, are you implying..?”

“No. Not at all!” Riga shouted lightheartedly in exoneration. “Just a metaphor, you see. Now strip down to your skivvies!”

“I... think not,” Trabian replied, watching Azpep step to the oncoming tide and quickly retreat from it as it chased the imp, squealing in demonic.

“Why not? Do you not thirst for adventure? Yearn for the legends to carry your name? It’s all there Trabe! It starts right here!” Riga persuaded.

Trabian dipped his twisted enchanting staff into the sea water as it flowed to his boots. The blackened wood coils began to emit steam as Trabian channeled immolation through it, the arcane gem entangled by the branches glowing bright yellow. “It’s not that,” Trabian said, raising his staff. “It seems those ships have become home to a community of Makrura, and you know how territorial they are.”

“Makrura?” Riga asked, mouth agape. “You’re kidding me. Makrura? That’s it? Fuck those crab people. When we’re through we’ll be so stacked with meat that all of Mulgore will go on butter famine for a year.” Riga cackled, “Crustaceous mother-fuckers. They’re all worthless and weak!”

Riga began combat loading slugs into his muzzle loader when Trabian asked, “What happens when the Horde finds us?”

Riga stood still for a moment, and then grinned. “Faith to the Red God above all else, for I am his true disciple. So I just show them the Hellscream and they usually assume the worst,” Riga pulled his right sleeve and tapped the clan sigil of the Warsong. “Frostwolves almost always leave Warsong alone to their duties. It’s just the way shit works; just like old times with the High Fist and Red Blade.”

“I still feel dirty. Tell you what: I’ll stand guard here with Azpep and Beladrien and you can go splash around looking for copper bolts and wrenches,” Trabian compromised.

Riga sighed. “Fine, you stubborn son of a bitch. I’ll go at it alone.” He cocked his muzzle loader. “But you’re missing out ya’ dumb bastard.”

“Undoubtedly,” Trabian assured Riga sarcastically with a smart-assed smirk.

“Fucker,” Riga grumbled, and tightened his toughened leather chestpiece and rushed into the sea, diving down.

Trabian sighed, facing Riga’s dorn, Beladrien. The mut looked up at him, “If he hadn’t saved my life, I probably would have let him,” The warlock said. Beladrien yawned and nuzzled her lower maw against Trabian’s left left. Azpep threw a fireball at the sea in anger, which dissipated in depth.

Riga crested, breathing in, and submerged, swimming a few hundred yards from the shore, approaching the fleet graveyard. It was here where the Battle of Orgrimmar had its most devastating fights. The decommissioned Orcish Navy built with huge financial aid from the Undermine Trade Princes, sailed directly into the Tirisian Attack Fleet, cannons blazing. The battle lasted hours as ships fell and replenished, gamming up with sailors throwing themselves onto the main decks of enemy vessels in vicious melee combat at sea. The shores of Durotar were covered as the tide delivered remains of ships and sailors, and the ocean burned with the wreckage of the man-‘o-wars. Nothing was left afloat. The Horde couldn’t take the risk.

As the fleet wreckage came in sight, Riga came up for air again, treading. “Unenthusiastic bitch,” he mumbled of Trabian and chortled, free-style swimming to a capsized vessel with the forecastle ripping up from the clutches of the Great Sea. Riga dug his nails into the wood to test the sturdiness before unlocking the scabbards on his hips where his twin swords---decay and corruption—were held. Holding them upside down, Riga jammed them into the keel and began climbing up the hill to the bow. Riga hauled himself to the tip and stood, observing the graveyard. To Riga, it was as one bank vault after the other, all capable of delivering their own fortunes.

Riga slid down the weather deck, landing on the foreward mast, which had broken off halfway. “This is truly the result of Lopnel’s Blessings,” Riga assured himself piously. “The very scent reeks of the Red God. I am infused by his Odor!” The minute Orc bellowed.

A light foam rose from the depths, and two periscope eyes protruded from the blue, the black orbs spotting the loud, preachy orc as he began chopping into the main deck with a pick axe. The eyes then lowered to be momentarily joined by four other pairs, all intently watching Riga. The orc ripped out a board, and tossed the jetsam into the water, splashing behind the foamy grouping. “A-ha!” Riga yelled, reaching through the broken deck to take out a chest. “Jack pot already.” Riga greedily opened the box, and reached inside, pulling out a wrench. “What the hell? Those little shits!” Riga cursed, throwing the tool behind him, which landed directly on a pair of eyes with a hollow ‘clunk!’ Riga pulled out a small gold bag and opened it above his hand in hope of coin, and a fine yellow powder sieved through his fingers, piling upon the fore mast which he stood. “Must be on another ship. This must have been a support vessel!” Riga told himself. “Yes…! Perfect sense! Persevere! Lopnel will not forsake me. His gifts are here!”

Riga turned, ready to plunge down when he noticed the foamy sea below. “What the hell? There some kind of Murloc orgy happening? Well Grlrlrlrlrlrlrlrlrlrlrlrl!!” He shouted, ripping out his muzzle-loader. The foam immediately parted, and five angry Makrura clicked furiously, and clawed their way up, claws snapping.

“Hell’s bells and shotgun shells!” Riga exclaimed. “Taste Lopnel’s wrath you lobster-fucks!” Riga pointed the shotgun downward and unloaded the left barrel. The large-bored buckshot exploded outwards, ripping through the pointblade Makrura, tearing it in two at the torso. “Come get some! Your shells are about as strong as my wife’s wet panties!” Riga taunted, taking a potshot with the remaining shell, ripping into the left side of a second crabman as they reached the Mast, forcing Riga to retreat up the wooden log.

Riga unlocked the barrel, spilling out the chambered rounds. “So you bitches are serious? Okay. Let’s go!” Riga combat loaded a single round, cocking the chamber up as the enraged Makrura chased up the mast. “Can you crustacean fucks fly?” Riga asked, aiming for the blasting powder on the mast from the spilled back and fired.

The resulting explosion could be seen and heard from Trabian’s point, where the docile Warlock had set up a campfire with roasted boar meat simmering above it.. Trabian rose up, looking as a ball of fire erupted from a ship, spilling the cooking pan. The blooded meat was immediately snapped up by Beladrien’s ever-voracious maws. “By the Old Ones… Riga’s found trouble.” Trabian glanced at Azpep, who crossed his arms defiancely, shaking its head. Trabian sighed, Fine…” he conceded, and slid his robe off. “But next time I ask something, no lip.”

The imp cackled and skipped, bursting into an aura of fire, and phased out of tangibility. Beladrien tore into the pork, slamming its splayed foot to pin its meal as it tore strips off to eat whole. Trabian neatly folded his robe and placed his boots on top. “No one gets these. Understand you two?” He asked, and dived into the deep.

Meanwhile, the exploding powder had blown off the mast to sea, where Riga had dropped to clutch, and blew the three Makrura to the water below. Riga coughed as he stood on the floating log as shards of deck and cloth rained on the water. He holstered his firearm and roared: “For the Glory of the Red God!” Yet his celebration was cut short as two claws dug into the ends of the broken mast, lifting two Makrura up – surviving the blast also – with their shells cracked and broken off in portions to reveal a fleshy white skin.

“Tough stubborn bastards,” Riga complained, unsheathing Decay and Corruption. “I’ll cut you crabby bitches into sushi!” Riga rushed up the mast, ducking the pre-empative claw swing to get in close, bringing the blades down to only be deflected by the Makrura pincer. At contact, the spirits of Riga’s swords began to corrode the shell of the crabman, which squealed in unpleasant surprise. Riga turned to parry a thrusting Pincer from the charging Makrura behind him, and shoved his side into it, pushing it away.

“Let’s see how you fucktards can dance,” Riga challenged, stepping sideways. He began running, rolling the mast under his feet. The two Makrura clicked to each other, and their eight legs moved the creatures’ heavy thoraxes sideways. Riga laughed. “Those legs can move you shits fast, but how good are they for stopping?”

Riga stabbed his swords down as the log rolled with maximum velocity and let the blades jerk the Orc down into the water, around the log, and back up where Riga roared, pulling back on the hilts to halt the log, which sent both Makrura flying off the flotsam. Riga pulled himself up, and tore the blades out to place them into their respective scabbards. The orc laughed, slicking his ponytail back. “Guess they don’t double as swings, ya’ dumb-fucks!”

A trembling cry echoed from the water as the shellhide – one of the two – leaped out and landed on the log. Riga sneered, “Just give up!” and rushed behind him, taking a blade out just a few inches shorter than he. It was of bright silver and golden pommel, bleeding an ominous red aura.

“Feel his thirst!” Riga charged, swinging the giant blade. The Makrura rose its arm to block the sword only to have it cleaved clean off, the spongy flesh leaked blood from its open circulation system as it bawled in pain. “Let mommy make it better,” Riga taunted and jumped up as he raised the giant sword, stomping down as it split the Makrura in two down the eye stalks.

“There, no more tears,” Riga said, sheathing the Conquistador: The Sword of Lopnel. Riga sighed, and sat down on the lop, dipping his legs in as he layed the gun across his lap and loaded new shells. “Now where’s my butter?” He asked no one in particular.

The final Makrura, however, spun the mast, hurdling Riga into the water uncontrollable, his gun sinking to the depths. The Broken crabman jumped up on the mast, itzs jagged pincers snapping as Riga fought to treat. Its spiny legs hovered over to Riga and propelled it into the air to grab the struggling orcish swimmer and drag him down to the deep as it exploded in conflagration from a bolt of pure hellfire invoked from Trabian, standing on a makeshift raft of former deck board.

“Took ‘yer fuckin’ time Trabe!” Riga yelled as he was helped up to the raft. “I coulda had him though. You didn’t ‘have’ to butt in.”

“Of course Riga,” Trabian soothed.

“Bastard made me lose my gun. Quick! Let’s return to the city and get a new gun. One that has more than two shots,” Riga ordered.

“Aye aye,” Trabian said, and they paddled back to the shore where their pets awaited. As the raft beached, Trabian walked to his pile and began dressing while Riga twisted his hair to ring out excess water. “Enough treasure hunting for now Riga,” he pleaded to the pious, slipping his boots on his flat feet.

Riga looked at Trabian and sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “The sea is a harsh mistress, but I shall tame her onn day. Mark my words old friend: the sea shall know the name of Riga and bow to the Might of Lopnel’s Power!” Riga looked around lethargically. “But until then... to Tiragarde!”

Trabian’s dual-colored eyes widened in surprise of Riga’s brash lust, “Wha-what?! Surely you can’t be serious!”

Riga laughed haughtily, “Of course I’m serious, and don’t call me Shirley. Those ruins there have boatloads of goodies left from the war. There certainly must be armors of value that the Horde left behind for us to claim Trabian! So let’s go a-claimin’!”

Trabian clasped his face in his hands, letting out a moan of untold frustration. This was going to be a long day. Trabian had forgotten how much of a loose cannon Riga was back in the Old Kingdom. Riga was only allowed to enter battle before the Flaming Skull Clan, for he had always maintained an insane lust for conflict. As a strategist, Trabian used Riga’s suicidal tactics for victory, but now that once advantageous disposition was becoming a huge distraction.

Riga whistled to Beladrien, whom paddled to her master as the staunch orc climbed up a small rocky hill along the south wall of Tiragarde. “Well? C’mon!” He shouted.

Azpep glanced up at the warlock in anticipation, and Trabian sighed deeply, “You think I should tell him that I don’t believe in his God?”

“Echa xu Tarawa niktu!” The imp replied.

Trabian stroked his tangling chin hair. “I suppose it can wait until later. After all, we must find a way to rescue her.” The warlock looked up at Riga, and smiled warmly. “He’s all we have. We better keep close to protect him,” Trabian observed, and chased after Riga, imp in tow.

[EnheilRas]

The woods of Lordearon hovered over Therion ominously, the wind propelling the crooked branches threateningly towards him. Though still hours before dusk, it was already dark as night, and as Therion crossed the Solliden farmstead, his mind was preyed on by the dancing shadows in the mist. Therion could hear the menacing sounds of shambling bones and unworldly moans as ragged silhouettes roamed the fields of the stead. Therion kept a tight hold on the Deathguard Blade, but he was, at heart, all too ready to flee. Up ahead, Therion saw a wooden bridge over a valley. If he recalled, it was a half-way point to Brill.

The distant clanking of hooves turned Therion’s attention behimd him. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘some rube could give me a lift, and perhaps a horse.’ Therion turned, ready to wave down a traveler or some carriage, but instead saw a steed of bone and hellfire, stemming with twisted horns and covered with tattered cloth over its organ less frame. Upon the battered harness sat a rider stressed in blue and gold robes, its skinless right arm clutching a long staff with a fiery ember orb to which four crystals orbited. The left held tightly to the reigns, and as the skeletal horse rushed into a sprinting gallop, the rider’s hood fell back to reveal a grotesque red skill missing its jaw. The ghoul’s red, desiccated tongue lain limply along its throat, bouncing with the horse’s frequency. Its eyes burned with a yellow fire, and it was heading directly for the rogue.

Therion turned tail and sprinted towards the bridge in mad attempt to outrun his pursuer. Even at his fastest speed, as Therion’s breathing rate staggered, he felt no fatigue or increase in heart rate. It was as if he could keep the pace eternally. Glancing behind him, he could see the mounted undead quickly gaining ground, waving the staff from side-to-side, expelling explosive balls of fire which transformed into sparks of light upon contact with the black dirt. Therion refocused forward in a heightened state of fear. As he reached the rickety old bridge, imagining that it would serve as some kind of haven, dove headfirst into a cartwheel. Standing up and backing away, blade still drawn, Therion witnessed the Rider halt on the boundary of the bridge. The skeletal horse reared up and trotted left-to-right as the Rider raised the cane high. A small vortex of flame circulated around the central orb, powered by the orbiting jewels as sigils of blue arcane energy appeared below it. Therion braced himself as the mage pointed the channeling rod forward, expelling a three foot wide stream of flame directly into the valley which the bridge covered. The entire gorge became a river of fire, rising up nearly ten feet.

Therion stood straight up, walking to the rails of the bridge to witness dozens of ragged, monstrous-looking corpses – scourge – that wandered the gorge to kill anything that would fall in, now completely submerged in fire, melting their flesh and bones. Therion could not take his eyes off the minions as they acted completely oblivion to their plight: no pain; no logic; no feeling at all; just creatures driven purely by instinct – one of death for death’s sake. They wandered yet in search of their next kill until collapsing in piles from the fires engulfing them. A smoke – black, acrid, and filled with the horrid stench of pestilence – rose from the extinguishing flames as the mage bellowed out in a raspy voice: “Power to the Forsaken!” The skeletal horse trotted passed Therion, the mage paying no mind to him, and galloped along the road, disappearing quickly into the gloomy abyss.

Therion collected himself. “What hellish world have I awakened to?” He whispered, holding his head with his gloved hands. The Magistrate of Brill had the answers though, Deathguard Saltain had said so. Therion became determined once more, and continued his sojourn east along the road. Several miles, as Nightfall came, Therion’s alertness raised to that of extreme paranoia. Every stick snap and owl hoot drive him to face battle-ready. Duskbats and demon hounds swarmed in packs, but stayed off the road. Something had taught them not to go on the road else face dire consequences.

Therion froze as he heard a thundering thudding of heavy, unbalance steps from his left. Therion pointed his sword out, both hands holding tightly to the pommel as he saw the bridge green phosphorescent stench rising from a mammoth abomination trudging through the forest, staring directly down at the dirt. Its chain and hook dragged behind it, clawing into the soil as it thwomped down with each step, waving its putrid mass held by the tightest of stitches. The abomination muttered as it walked into a tree, bashing its head against the trunk with a crunching sound of broken bark. “Ugh..” the abomination moaned, and spotted Therion. The lug barreled over to the rogue and stopped in the road as Therion stanced, ready to fight.

“Not another step foul creature or I’ll rend you to pieces!” Therion dared.

The abomination turned its head at THerion, its contorted, disfigured face expressing confusion. “Wha? Yous help Gordo? Goomwee for Apth’cary. Gordo find. You find too?” The horror asked in a slow deep voice.

Therion nearly dropped his sword in surprise. Even these monsters had been tamed by the elves and received a manner of sentience. The world had indeed gone mad. Therion lowered the blade from the massive hulk hovering before him. “Uhh..” Therion started, showing his dumb-foundedness “No. I have business in Brill.”

“Yaaaah,” Gordo roared. “Brill where Apth’cary. He nee goom wee. Sen me fine goom wee. No goo. You fine and give?”

Puzzled, Therion stepped back. “Why would the undead be researching a silly herb like that?”

Gordo swayed, “Gordo no know! Apth’cary jus nee for Far’nel. He tell Gordo, Gordo Follow. Its what we do..! You no help Gordo? Gordo fine goom wee on Gordo own,” said the giant, and bent over, staring at the ground, and started walking in random direction.

Still a bit awe-struck, Therion continued down the road, hearing the abomination grunt once after walking into a tree again. The city of Brill awaited him, perhaps humanity as well.

Two of these ‘Forsaken’ Deathguards on skeletal horseback strode past Therion as he entered Brill, the hub city of Lordearon. The buildings were just as dilapidated as Deathknell’s: old, grey rotted wood with shattered windows and cold, dark houses trashed as if a raiding force pillaged through it, breaking everything and throwing it astray. In this chaos, civilization thrived, and even in the run down smith, ore was shoved into the burning and the steel temper was pounded on the anvils. To the north lay the remnants of humanity which awaited Therion in the mass graveyard of Lordearon. This was where all those lucky enough to be victims were lain. Yet the entirety of Tirisfal had in reality become a graveyard, and it was that which Therion was slowly coming to realize when he entered Brill to see a bustling, busy trade town with not a single ‘living’ human being.

Therion watched as these foul undead creatures carried on in mockery of actual human lives. The ‘forsaken’ crafted goods, operated a stable, created weapons and armor, brought wheel carts full of fools and fungus of all foods, and operated in complete defiance of their living-deficiency. Therion even spotted a troll – green-skinned, wearing light leathers, walking freely amongst the undead to the city hall, a large mostly-intact building in the dead center of Brill, and spoike to a mounted Deathguard wearing ornate plated armor. The Deathguard spoke back to him, through the hustling of the city, Therion could only pick up the words ‘Tower,’ ‘crusade,’ and ‘captain.’ The forest troll nodded, and walked past Therion, paying no heed to the rogue.

It seemed that the elves were out of the picture in Therion’s mind. No high elf would ever let a troll walk freely in their Kingdom. It seemed the closer Therion got to answers, the more questions he had. Yet Therion found himself resolved, and traversed through the crowded, dead streets of Brill to reach the city hall. As he stepped to the threshold, the mounted Deathguard stared him down, and noticed the sigil upon the hilt of his sword.

“You’re not one of mine, are you?” The High Executor asked. “No… not at all. Say.. Who are you? What business have you in Brill?” The High Executor’s voice was nasal, yet low in tone.

Therion dropped the Deathguard’s Blade, “A corpse named Saltain gave it to me in Deathknell. I’ve no need for it now anyway. I’ve come for answers. I was informed that the Magistrate of Brill knows all which I want to know.”

The forsaken crossed his arms and grinned. Most of his teeth had rotted out, leaving only jawbone. “Ooh. I see. You’re one of ‘them.’” The High Executor acknowledged. “Go right ahead inside them. High Executor Zygand will be waiting for you when you’re done fledgling.”

Therion stared at the High Executor oddly and was met by a scanning glance tracing him as he entered the city hall. Several candles lit the entryway when Therion stepped inside. A shattered bureau and broken coat hangar lay on the far wall with a torn picture dangling on the right. Therion stepped on an elliptical rug, and dragged his feet on it habitually. To the left a doorway led to the foray, where two undead assistants worked on reports in a makeshift reception area. One of the females, having a long tube of black hair rising up statically, turned towards Therion as his boots clamped on the hard wood flooring. “Yes? How may I help you?”

Therion did not stop as he headed up the few steps to the meeting room. “You can’t. He can. So continue, please.”

The two receptionists just nodded and carried on as normal business. IT felt to Therion that the steps he was taking were very traveled by many walks. It was unnerving to Therion the aloofness to which he was being treated; something of a child or pest.

“Greetings, Young one,” A nobly dressed male ghoul said to Therion as he entered the main room. IN the rear, a couple long tables and seats were placed along bookcases. The foreward end held three rows of pews and a podium, with a rising behind it – railed – where a table sat. This was where this Forsaken Magistrate stood. “I see you’ve made it this far, but that was easy. The tough parts are still ahead. We forsaken are on a long journey.”

Therion walked slowly down the pew aisle, drawing his cowl down. “You must be the Magistrate. You have the answers.”

“I am Magistrate Sevren, yes, and I assure you,” The forsaken said in a slightly raspy voice. “I can answer any question your reborn mind can conjure.”

“What has happened to Lordearon? The last I remember is fighting in Stratholme against you creatures,” Therion exclaimed.

“’Us’ creatures? The nerve. Stratholme fell. Even now it burns in civil war between the Knights Templar of the Scarlet Crusade and Baron Rivendale whom pools all the Scourge resources out of Plaguewood. Arthas joined him and turned on his Kingdom. Together, they were unstoppable, and all Kingdoms were lain waste: Lordearon, Hillsbrad, Dalaran, Strahnbrad, Silvermoon, Sratholme, Scholomance; All of it Dead Rising to him.

“Then his master’s Brother came and the Legion arrived. They left for the Unknown Lands of Kalimdor, leaving us slaves to his whim, but even he was their enemy. So when they were destroyed, even he celebrated.

“The Weakening occurred, and we slowly began to regain our wills – that which he stole from us. We were like you, fledgling, lost and confused. But she – our Queen – came to us, made us an army, and we retook our home from Arthas, sending the Death Prince back to him. He took our lives, we regained our souls. He took our homes, we regained our land. We all had lives once, but these are our unlives.

“We are not the enemy. He is. He is the shadow; the source of the madness; the originator of the plague. Through His death, all sins are redeemed. You, too, shall join us in this crusade.”

“Who is he?” Therion asked.

”His name is a curse, so do not invoke it lightly,” Magistrate Sevren warned. “The Lich King. His orcish name was Ner’zhul.”

“So this was the Horde’s plot all along?” Therion concluded presumptuously.

“On the contrary, the Horde have given us truce and coexistence while the Alliance – our former family and friends – have turned their backs on us and begin to wage a Holy Purging on all citizens of Lordearon. The Legion simply chose the most diabolical intellect for the task,” Sevren explained.

“That explains that troll I saw,” Therion noted.

“Quite. Every now and then some curious Orc, troll, or Tauren will hop over and snoop around. We offer them busy work like dealing with Scarlet encampments, nothing major,” The magistrate said. “They are too suspicious. We cannot fully trust them as they see us as a threat to them as well.”

“And what of Stormwind? What of my home?” Therion wondered. “Did this scourge get that far?”

“What we know is that King Varian Wrynn has disappeared, and the nobility under the houses of Fordragon and Prestor have main control of the Kingdom,” The Magistrate informed. “This has caused the Alliance to centralize under Magni Bronzebeard in Khaz Modan.” The forsaken stepped slowly to the podium, staring at Therion. “The Nation of Azeroth is not your home. This is your home.”

“This accursed place? Never! This place truly is Forsaken, and I shan’t be buried here. My duty is in Westfall,” Therion argued.

“Buried here?” Sevren laughed. “Oooh but you already have been. You honestly don’t know yet, do you? Blast! It’s Mordo’s job to do this. No one’s told you?”

“Told me what?!” Therion yelled.

“Tell me once thing: How do you expect to get to Stormwind looking like that?” He asked Therion as he grabbed a hand mirror.

“Like what?”

“Like this!” The Forsaken shouted, turning the mirror to show Therion his own reflection. Therion trembled as he hid from his own view the sudden reality of his situation. His skin had become grey and leathery, and his eyes sockets glowed a faint yellow from whatever neromantic curse sustained him. His nose and ears had mostly rotted off, and his once rich black hair had become shaggy and greyed. Therion slowly rolled up his long tlseves to see most of his arm was missing, save the bone. He felt ill, as if to vomit, but he had no stomach. This was why he couldn’t feel the cold, and why the concept of wind was nothing but a noise. This was why the dark didn’t bother him and the dead welcomed him. Arthas had killed him, but Ner’zhul had kept him. He was Forsaken.

Therion backed down and collapsed backwards. “This… this cannot be! This was not my Fate! I had plans, a future!” he cried out as he crabwalked backwards in hysteria.

“We all had plans. We all had futures. They were taken. Our fates are not ours to decide. Outside factors decide them. You must realize that fate and the fated have the same path. You and I – all of us – are the end result of a grand machination that began over ten thousand years ago. Our survival is the epitome of arcane engineering. This is no miracle, but neither is it a curse. It’s a transition.” The magistrate pointed out the window to the busy streets of Brill. “Look outside fledgling. The Dark Lady does not expect every Forsaken to be a warrior to the cause. Nay, most of the Forsaken were the common folk of Lordearon. When you look out there, what do you see? The common man. The working class,” Sevren pointed to the Balaclava around Therion’s neck. “Isn’t that who you brigands were fighting for?”

Therion froze, and stood to his feet slowly, bringing the Red Defias mask up across his face. He stared out the window for a moment before conceding. “Yes. It is the same fight. Stormwind drives to crush the citizens of Lordearon just as the Nobility had usurped the workers of Azeroth beforehand. Now that the King is gone and they have control, they had no power which to chain their lust of feudalistic oppression.”

“Yes, yes! Don’t you see? Your entrance to this dark blight is but a transition in your own goals. We will not stay in the way of your personal mission, but the Banshee Queen will indeed lend you great aid in return for valorous service in the name of the Forsaken,” Sevren spoke.

Therion nodded, “Queen Sylvanas of Lordearon,” he mumbled. “She will help me get back to Westfall?”

The Magistrate laughed, “The will of the Dark Lady knows no equal in strength. She has an unwavering determination. All promises kept; all deals made seen through until the end.”

“Then I must go to Lordearon,” Therion agreed. “One last thing: What were you before you.. transitioned?”

“Why.. I was the Magistrate of a quiet farming town under the Great Barov Family which owned most of the acreage in Eastern Lordearon called Brill,” he answered. “Most of us, after coming to terms which what we are and what happened to us, try our best to pick up the pieces of all that we remember, and move on, continuous our immortal lives as we lived our mortal lives. We’ve only time now. Everything else has Forsaken us.”

“I understand,” Therion said.

“Dark Lady watch over you,” The Magistrate saluted, turning his back to Therion and returning to his papers on the end table.

Therion turned around, facing the door out, and slowly left the Magistrate of Brill – in life and in death – to his business. Stepping down, Therion was met by the two receptionists.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked the same female with the tubular hair.

“And more. I’ll be leaving now,” He told her.

“Trust no one,” she warned.

Therion tied the red facemask tightly around the back of his head, acknowledging the woman, and turned to leave the building. Not a step out of the door occurred before the blade of a Deathguard pressed flat-side against him, held by High Executor Zygand. “I said I’d be waiting,” the congested Zygand cackled. “Are you now enlightened? One of ‘us’?”

“I may be Forsaken, but that does not make me once of you,” Therion scoffed. He pushed the sword away and started to walk by the High Executor, whom quickly cut him off.

“You’ve got an attitude. I bet you handle a knife real well. Varimathras will like you,” Zygand told him. “You’re heading to the Undercity right? That’s where most of them go.”

”The what? No,’ I am going to Lordearon,” Therion objected.

“One in the same,” Zygand said with a smug smile. “We didn’t built on top of the City. You’ll just be glad your nose fell off, fledgling.”

‘As if Things couldn’t get any more grim; The Undercity? That’s what they call it?’ Therion thought. “Whatever the hell it’s called, that’s where I am going.”

“That’s where you are called, rather,” The High Executor interjected. “And because the Royal Quarter calls you to be a Deathstalker, I shall show you the way. Beyond the Gallow’s End and around Denburg’s Tower are the walls of Lordearon. It’s less than six hours on foot. You needn’t rest anymore, fledgling. You shall never tire, nor go hungry. You will eventually get used to this.”

“So… South,” Therion confirmed.

“Indeed,” Zygan said. “Oh, and take this,” he spoke, tossing Saltain’s sword back. “If you see any human wearing red, you are authorized to kill them. Actually, any human you see out of the Eastern Bulwark is fair game. They should know better by now.”

Therion connected the scabbard to his black leather belt. “Understood.”

“Good. The Azerothiens are prejudice. They do not differentiate between us and the Scourge. Do not expect to be treated any differently,” Zygan warned as Therion departed.

Therion walked a little taller. Answers had been promised, and that promise had been kept. Therion had lost seven years of his life. Rather, he lost his life and it took seven years just to wake up. Yet, there were more things puzzling him, like: Why the Horde, a force of evil and war, be the Forsaken’s Allies? Would this be evidence enough to condemn these people? What was this new Land to the West? What was the Burning Legion and what happened to them? If the Forsaken goal of Destroying this Great Evil in the Lich King seemed so noble, then why did the Alliance, which was characteristically a noble force – though in truth it was Lordearon’s best effort to make every kingdom fight *its* War – be so against them? Is it just this racism? Would he be treated as Scourge, or was something else known, something deeply hidden?

“Seven years is an awful long time for a plague to take effect,” Therion noted to himself as he crossed Gallow’s End Tavern. He recognized a world which saw him as a stranger. Would he reintroduce himself or recreate himself? He would guess many made new identities for themselves, and left their lives in the grave. But Therion? He had a mission: Moonbrook or bust, Dead or Alive. If the Defias Brotherhood could accept Therion back among them, he could resume his duty. Yes, that was what Therion desired. Being alive was no different than being Forsaken; it was only a transition. It would not affect his calling to the VanCleef family in the slightest.

To get there, Therion would need the help of Sylvanas Windrunner, the Commander of the Forsaken. A favor for a favor, and Therion would find himself among the cornfields in no time. He could just leave this morbid place behind.

[EnheilRas]

A thick jet of yellowish-orange dust shot up as the big dire wolf's paws stomped into the cracked path. The dark grey mane shook with rocks and soil as the galloping canine roared through the desert plain, bouncing off the hardened bare flesh of Jrash. The rider's imperial leather helm bounbced on his hair head as he jerked the reigns connected to the wolf's muzzle, invigorating its sprint. Manus, perched on the ever-swerving ass of the dire wolf, his arms clutched around Jrash's waist, was quickly learning that riding wolves should not exceed the recommended rider capacity of one. Manus had never been on a wolf before. He was no raider, he served as a Kodo Rider; a morale officer and strategist. He could, however, remember leading a raider company, and marveled at how provicient they were with the dreaded Orcish Warblade.

"How much further?" Manus yelled.

"WHAAAAAT?!" Jrash shouted back.

"Razor Hill: How far is it?!"

Jrash turned his head, "It not far! We'z almosts thar! JRash gets da' orkzes thar reel fast! You's old Orks just hangs on to Jrash! You's stay on doggy. Only lost t'ree orkzes evar; Jus' one evars go die on Jrash! Jrash haves goodie-good record for survivals!" the raider impulsively decided to tell Manus.

"Splendid," Manus congratulation with a complete lack of enthusiasm. It had become apparent to Trebelium that Jrash did not naturally begin his Horde career in the military -- especially not in a raider battallion -- but was born and raised for quite a different lifestyle.

"Hay!" Jrash roared. "Why'z you old orkzes so impo'tants to Hordes? Jrash be ridens lots of old orkzes 'dis weeks. Theys not says why's."

Peculiar this information was to Manus. How many retired reserves had Runthak recalled? What campaign could be so important as to require the wartime army force? It certainly couldn't be this small-time demon cult. This was cheese and crackers. "I'm not so sure. Maybe this Soulscar knows why."

"Ahg'neel! Yar, Jrash knows da' Orc well! He by Gar'thok Burrow! Mean orkzes by Burrow. Shattered Hand trainees. Always lots baby am'nalls too; like petting zoo! Gar'thok Lieutenant of Nazgrel, yar! He supervisor of whole base; Ahg'neel new. Jrash don't know purpose!" The raider commented as the large canine sped past the fallen Tiragarde Keep.

A large explosion deep east slowed Jrash down to a halt. Manus dismounted and gazed, pointing to a small plume of white smoke rising from the water.

"Wot blow'd?" Jrash asked?

Manus put his hand over his brow to shade his eyes and squinted to focus. "Probably some Makrura detonated a munitions keg by accident. Those ships are pretty volitile. The Horde has been lax in salvaging the fleet," Manus explained.

"Yar, crabmen boom'd now," Jrash agreed. "Razor Hill only few more miles; less 'dan hour. Doggy thirsty; me can tell." The raider took a sizable bite of a cactus apple, and spat out a portion of core.

Manus sighed, and hopped back on Jrash's dire wolf, ready to go. "H'ya!" Jrash yelled, yanking on the reigns to send the wolf sprinting north. The large wooden walls of Razor Hill rose in the distance, surrounding the western and southern perimeter. The large barracks and tavern towered against the canyons and ravines to the North, where scout towers oversaw the farms and outlying Durotar territory.

Approaching the southern gate, an elderly female orc dressed in sentinel gear walked towards Jrash and halted him and the wolf. Jrash pulled back on the reigns, and glared at her: "Wot Kor'ja? Jrash need through!"

The aged orc tilted her head, "Lok'tar Jrash. What did Zareetha send you here for this time?"

Jrash growled. "Jrash no like Zareetha! Kor'ja not speak bad woman's name! Kalthunk and Gornek send old orc like Kor'ja to find Ahg'neel. Jrash carry fast!"

"Oh really? And who might this one be? Another impressionable Orcling that promises to be the next Thrall?" Grunt Kor'ja inquired.

Manus dismounted Jrash's pet, and slowly stroder around to the front. "No, I am no young pup, Orc," Manus told her. "But I do promise to be the next champion."

"By the Might of DoomHammer!" The elder grunt gasped. "It's the EnheilRas! I remember you. It's been yeared."

Manus smiled at her, "Indeed Kor'ja. I see you have stayed enlisted. You chose not to retire?"

Kor'ja coughed. It was a course, hacking thing. "Afraid not Sir. My duty will last me a few more years. We do not all age so handsomely as you, EnheilRas. You've come here seeking Soulscar?"

Manus nodded, "Zugzug. You do the Horde proud. Teach these orclings of proper heritage. Pride in the Orcish Way goes hand-in-hand with pride in the Horde." Manus turned his head to see Jrash acting quite antsy. "Yes, I've been recalled by Runthak to meet with this Soulscar. It's of high importance."

Kor'ja grinned, "I knew the Overlord was involved. Very well EnheilRas, pass through. I will give word of your return to the Horde Forces. You are most honored."

"Aka'magosh," Manus thanked. "Come, Jrash."

The raider grunted, "Jrash still upset! Jrash no like Zareetha at all!"

As the two passed Kor'ja, she let out a series of hacking coughs. Manus turned towards her, "Are you okay? That sounds distressing."

Kor'ja covered her mouth, "I've just been feeling ill lately, that's all. You needn't trouble yourself over me, EnheilRas."

Manus looked concerned. He could tell she was lying to him. She was dying but too proud to stop her duty to the Horde. This decision, however fatal it was, was one that Manus respected. She was, in the end, offering her life for the Horde; the sacred pact every grunt undertook. "Very well Kor'ja. Lok'tar!"

"Lok'Tar EnheilRas!" She saluted.

Entering through the piked drawbridge, Manus was immediately saluted by the two male grunts posted to secure the door. Jrash sped off to the inn and tavern, where a large stable and trough lay, which Jrash's wolf eagerly drank. The scruffy raider tied the leash down, and entered the tavern.

Against the Southern Wall lie a massive burrow, fortified with numerous jagged spikes and hard, stone walls along the domed structure. Manus approached it, and felt along the barricade, feeling intense flashes of the war against Grand Admiral Proudmoore. With every splinter, a loud clash of steel echoed through his mind. Four years was not long enough to erase fourty. In returning to a military life of fighting, he could return to a more raging beast. It had been a long time since Manus had walked the road of death. But as his hands trembled, sliding along the war pikes, he was absolutely terrified that his body was all too eager to engage a long journey down that path.

"Throm'ka EnheilRas," a middle-aged orc, dressed in a blue cap with torn trousers and a vest, wielding a crescent axe, addressed.

"Throm'ka. Orgnil Soulscar?" Manus asked, detaching from the burrow and meeting the agent.

"Daboo. It is an honor to meet you. Overlord Runthak expressed great concern of this mission. A great warrior was needed," Orgnil expressed.

"Zugzug Brother," Manus replied, reaching into his coverall pouch to retrieve the medallion. "I met both Gornek and Kalthunk. I saw the Demon Den in the valley. A warlock by the name of Yarrog Bloodshadow had this," Manus explained, handing over the medallion. "A warlock named Zareetha Firegaze said you'd have information."

Orgnil took the medallion and scowled. "What?! The Burning Blade is spreading?! EnheilRas, we must do something!" Orgnil traced over the black sigil. "Those cultists were following orders from Fizzle Darkclaw, a warlock who has kept a coven deep in Thunder Ridge. This goblin is a Lieutenant in the cause. He must be destroyed to stop the proliferation of the Burning Blade in Durotar."

Manus nodded. "Daboo. I am to go into Thunder Ridge and clear the coven. I will need to return home and fetch my arms."

Orgnil cackled. "We don't have time for that EnheilRas. Darkclaw is certainly aware that the Shattered Hand has released his location to the Horde. He's going to relocate, so we must strike now. Tarshan Jaggedscaw in the Barracks can offer you equipment.

"Zugzug," Manus replied, and turned towards the barracks on the east side. Surrounded by merchant terns and training fields, the huge barracks served as a military hospital and guardhouse. Tarshan Jaggedscar was the commanding officer of the Razor Hill Garrison. When Manus passed through the large doorway, pre-empted by a row of thick white turks sticking out from the ground, the two sentries pounded their chests with their right fists at attention before returning to position, shouting "Lok'tar EnheilRas!" in unison.

"What?! Who's here? En-heler-ass?" A loud, gruff voice yelled from the central round room.

Manus walked down the hall and turned inside the core chamber, "You never could say it right," Manus told Tarshan, a muscle-bound orc in his late twenties dressed in full overlord's platemail.

"Manus you son of a bitch!" Tarshan exclaimed. "I thought you retired. How the hell you been?"

Manus smiled and extended his right arm, shaking Tarshan's hand once before they thrust their arms back, slamming their chests together, simultaneously pounding their left fists on each other's shoulder. "Good to see you Brother. Been out there making a civilian living raising boar."

"You, a farmer?" Tarshan cackled. "I'd never suspect you going soft." The warrior padded Manus' bloody overalls. "You're a tad flabby brother. Too much meat and not enough blood."

Manus snickered. "Half that; age is more to blame. Runthak pulled me back."

"Really? By Orgrim's bald head, the Alliance should surely tremble this day. The EnheilRas has returned. The Overlord must be overwhelmed if he's recalling old warwolves like yourself. You sure you can still fight?" Tarshan wondered.

Manus grinned, "We're about to see. Orgnil Soulscar has me on a mission of mercy in the ridge. He says the armor's on you today."

Tarshan rubbed his clean-shaven chin, "That rat bastard eh? He got here a few weeks ago with some Shattered Hand and has been barking orders since. Gar'thok's been getting pissed off at him since Gar'thok is the orc-in-charge by Nazgrel's command and Soulscar won't fess up to what his mission is here. With the quillboar encroachment spreading across the Southfury and those damned humans in that keep, we're pressed to a corner and patience is slim."

"Sounds grim," Manus commented. "Unfortunately, I haven't the time to address those concerns."

Tarshan shrugged. We're always have problems, EnheilRas. There's always another fight. I hear Gar'thok got two orcs -- real fiery ones -- to take a good look at Tiragarde and send those humans a clear message of intolerance of their goals. We get hordelings every day that are eager to test their mettle against the pigment. All is well for our security." Tarshan turned to half a dozen armored mannequins, most of which were naked. "As for equipment: I don't know what Orgnil told you, but we're out of the good stuff. No plate, no sentinel or warden gear, and completely out of stock of the raider pads," Tarshan said as he sifted through the mannequins in his search. "We do, however, have some low-grade grunt mail. It's chain, just not a whole lot; on the plus side, it won't leave you sweatin' on the rocks out there."

The blademaster dragged a mannequin to the center ring where a large table sat filled with spread maps detailing stolen attack plans from a Kolkar tribe war party discovered and eradicated south of Sen'jin. "You like those?" Tarshan asked Manus upon realization that Trebelium was staring at them. "Some big ol' Tauren fella' came all the way from Moonglade upon Agent Prowltusk of the Shattered Hand's reconnaissance report that the centaur had set up camp. The beefcake went in alone and killed every last one; took no prisoners, and delivered these assault strats to the troll. He left west earlier after getting into a spat with some runt."

Manus nodded, "I'm sure we'll cross paths eventually." The warrior examined the armor set; a blue scaled mail of sabotans and shorts with tight gloves and some feathered shoulderpads. "It's not... much," he complained.

"Better'n overalls and dust boots," Tarshan pointed out. "Try 'em on while I find what weapons we can spare."

Manus unbuckled his overalls after Tarshan left, and slid out of his boots, moving his clothes down and off his frame. Bending over, he removed and slid the leggings up his firm, muscular legs, sucking in to attach the belt around his waist. Manus tied the sabotans around his calves and secured the shoulderpads around his shoulders. Snapping the bracers to the contours of his hard biceps, he was putting the scaled gloves on when Tarshan returned.

"Looks good," the warrior told him, carrying a thick silver shield molded in the shape of the Horde's symbol and a couple of bladed weapons: a long crescent bladed axe of jagged, chipped stone covered in blood runes on a staff of thick redwood, and a forked Y-Blade of the same chiseled rock, decorated in orcish hieroglyphics. "You will enjoy these."

Manus coughed, adjusting the girdle. "It's... rather tight upfront."

Tarshan tilted his head. "Hmm... you may have a female girdle on. We ran out of the male sets two days ago."

"Whaaa?!"

"Don't worry, just tuck and adjust," Tarshan suggested.

Manus growled in humiliation. "If it's for the women, then why is it so wide?"

Tarshan smirked, "Because we got some thick ladies in the Horde with a backside sweeter than the juiciest wolf steaks."

Manus continued his scowl, demanding, "Turn around," as he slid the girdle down, turned it around, and pulled it up backwards. Immediately he felt a tight discomfort sliding into the partition of his backside, but it was a needed sacrifice for the groin space.

"Well, that's an idea," Tarshan commented, looking oddly at Manus fidget with the armor. "Can't feel too good."

Manus sighed, "It certainly leaves little to the imagination."

"Guess that means luck with the ladies," Tarshan joked, laying the sword, axe, and heavy shield on the war table. "These here armaments are heirlooms EnheilRas. Take a look."

Manus approached the table, picking up the crescent axe, feelign with his left hand the bladed side, smoothing over the runic sigils. His right hand squeezed the wooden shaft of the hilt and pommel. "This is.. this is from home," he gasped breathlessly. He placed the axe down and took up the Rune Blade. "How did you come about these?"

"Like I said," Tarshan elaborated. "Heirlooms from a past generation; your generation. They belonged to my father, a proud warrior he was. He died in the camps an old, defeated soul. The lethargy hit him hard EnheilRas; too hard to sustain the blood that kept him breathing.

"I do not deserve these weapons," Tarshan insisted. "I am just beginning my career under the Warchief. You have earned an honor that it inspiring. It would bring a great pride to my father for you to have these."

Manus shook his head, "I couldn't accept these. They should be buried with your father's remains."

"No!" Tarshan rejected. "These arms are more than my father; more than any name. They have been forged not for the Horde, but for our people. You are to fight for our people, so these are the legacies to which you must carry."

"Then against my will, I shall accept your honor with gratitude," Manus thanked, spinning the Orcish Warsword and locking it into the chain mail belt. He lfited the lofty shield up and around his shoulders, across his back, and tied the crescent axe to a loop on his waist.

Tarshan nodded in approval. "This is all I can offer you. Good Luck EnheilRas."

"Aka'magosh Tarshan Jaggedscar. Lok'tar," Manus saluted.

"Lok'tar!" Shouted the warrior.

Manus turned, exiting the large circular room, and made his way out of the Barracks where both Orgnil and Jrash stood at the directory post in the T-Section of the road going through Razor Hill. Manus slowly walked out, ignoring the salutes of the guardian sentries

"The EnheilRas is ready," Orgnil informed.

"Yar!" Jrash agreed. "Now we go to Ridge and Defend Horde! Lok'tar Ogar!"

Orgnil slung a rugged leather quiver around his chest, and tightened the taut string on his long bow. "We're ready EnheilRas."

Manus' eyes widened. "You mean you two are coming?" The elder warrior laughed boastfully. "This is a one-orc job. I don't need help," he told the two.

"I don't care about what you think you need," Orgnil spoke with a sudden change of tone: One of command and dominance. "I only care about the Horde's needs, and I know that this mission is far too important to the Horde to trust to one Orc, even if it's you. So put aside your pride and allow us to help."

Manus grunted, crossing his arms defiantly as he stared both down. Moments later, he sighed, resting his arms to the side. "Very well," he said, defeated. "You two may come along, but don't dare become weight. I stopped dragging corpses long ago."

Jrash whistled, summoning his napping dire wolf over. The Raider ripped a six foot long orcish warblade strapped along its side. Its dark silver tone was stained with dirt and crusty blood, with the blade itself lightened in weight by having orcish hieroglyphics carved directly through the metal. Manus found this odd, as he was fully confident in Jrash's illiteracy. "Jrash strong fighter. He not let old orkzes down," he insisted.

"That's good enough for me," Orgnil said.

"Daboo. Can't doubt his heart. Come brothers, there's a warlock to kill and the future security of the Horde depends on it," Manus commanded.

Manus passed between the two, heading along the west road to Far Watch Post which acted as a waygate to the only other bridge through the ravenous Southfury River. Jrash hopped on his wolf, lifting the Warblade to lay upon his lap. Orgnil tied the bow crossways around his chest. The three Orcs left together as one out of Razor Hill; a single force banded in a time of hidden wars and political strife. The perimeter grunts slammed their fists against their chests at attention, shouting "Thrall'hal!" at Manus when the trio passed. Within half an hour, Razor Hill had disappeared into the setting sun, and the Durotar wilderness surrounded them. Large vines of Agamaggan sprouted along the mountain of the Fire Sapta, where Quillboar warparties set up camp, offering the only supplemental light than the rising An'she and the Blue Child. Dusk was quickly rising in the orange and red sky, and the many raptors, scorpids, and boar were returning to their nests and burrows for sleep. Nocturnal Durotar was one of peace and balance. It, too, would present itself to the three with a tranquil serenity on the ever of their bloody massacre.

[EnheilRas]

"What the Hell?!" Riga shouted at the three skinless humans hanging by their ankles, suspended over twenty feet in the air by a destroyed cannon tower around the Tiragarde Ruins. The bodies had been mutilated: Each was missing their head. They had been dropping pounds of muscle, fat, and loose organs in a pile of carrion which had been attracting wild raptors and starved boar for at least a mile. "In Lopnel's name! Trabian, what do you make of this?"

Trabian kneeled to pick up Azpep, and stood. The warlock leaned back, and launched the imp into the air. Azpep let out a strident "Eeeeyaaaaaahhh!!" as the imp latched onto the rope attached to the corpse's legs and began searing through the lines as it danced about the knots.

The strings singed and snapped with Azpep screeching and hanging onto the rope, cursing, "Ikzot cha fizik Ulep!" as the imp dangled from the swinging line. The three bodies fell swiftly to the ground in a foul 'plop!' Their bones stuck out of the piles of meat and entrails like piercing pikes. The carrion clumps immediately attracted the attention of flies and the rotting reek of remains diffused quickly into the air.

Trabian covered his mouth as Riga gagged a bit. "That was unnecessary. We only needed one," the warlock informed the imp. The tiny demon seemed amused enough as it scaled down the tower. There lay traces of guts and dust on Riga's pants and Riil's robe. Trabian poked one of the corpse piles with his staff. "It seems that they're quite beyond saving Riga."

"Yeah, no shit." Riga exclaimed, kneeling down. "Look here: these humans have familiar scars in the tissue, as if they were skinned like animals." The inquisitor turned a rancid pile around. "Someone took great concern in skinning these bodies."

"Quite astute Riga," Trabian congratulated, picking his staff from the remains. He grimaced as Riga's dorn eagerly dove its snout into the corpulence with excruciatingly grotesque mashing sounds of devoured dead. "Must it do that?"

Riga smiled and embraced the feeding Beladrien, "Awww... she's a growing girl! Back off Trabe," Riga pleaded. The hunter unsnapped the rope by ripping the feet off the human body. "Look at this brother. Tied and hung like animals. Whoever did this treated these humans as beasts; beasts ripe for the hunt." Riga tossed the rope down, looking at Trabian with a mischevious smirk. "I wonder how he'll treat us, eh?"

Trabian shook his head. "Not something I'd enjoy dwelling upon." He changed hands with his staff as Azpep climbed up his back to the perch on his right shoulder, crouching in wait.

Riga stood up, pointing behind Trabian. "Looks like the boys are coming to say Hello," he told the Warlock. Trabian turned around, watching the cadre of four heavily armored marines and three sailors marching in ranks towards them. Riga lowered his hands to grip his twin blades and just smiled. "Looks like we're quite outnumbered. I smell Glory."

Trabian leaned on his staff, "I smell something quite more vulgar." He stared at the seven as they broke rank, drew their weapons, and slowly began confronting the two orcs. "They certainly don't seem friendly," the Warlock lowered his right hand to a crooked twig dangling from his belt with an obsidian orb. "Ready?"

"Orcs!" One of the marines yelled. "Look at what these monsters have done to our brothers! Kill them! For Kul Tiras!"

"For the Glory of Lopnel! Conquest in his True Name," Riga shouted, and propelled himself into the air, drawing Corruption and Decay, and landed on the talking Marine, sliding both blades deeply through the chain mail, stomping down on the main as he pulled the swords out of the body.

"Impulsive Buffoon," Trabian commented as the humans crowded around Riga. Riil slammed the twisted staff down, spreading his legs apart. A sudden gust sent his robes back, billowing, as Trabian raised the staff. A mystic blue and red smoke rumed from his eyes, now fiercely burning an arcane flame. A darkened grey cloud funneled out above the mob of Tirisians, and as Trabian thrust his staff forward, a spark ignited the cloud, and flaming meteorites rained from the sky.

"Rain of Fire! Rain of Fire!" The marines shouted, raising their shields to block the flaming rocks doused in Felfire pummeling down fromthe manifested cloud. A flaming rock hurdled down, smashing into the chest of an unarmored sailor, knocking the brunette female down. "Get the Warlock!" Commanded the marines as the hurled enflamed rocks pelted the sailor to death.

One of the marines lowered his shield and rushed at Trabian. The Orc lowered his staff to cancel in invocation and swung his arm out, the twisted wand expelling a bolt of arcane energym deflected by the Marine's Shield. Azpep phased in and launched a bolt of fire directly at the human's shin, which impacted to trip the marine Forward. Trabian swung his staff upwards like a bat, bashing the falling marine's skull. The warlock raised, and then jammed down, the bottom end into the human's spine, before exhaling sharply. "Such brutes."

"For the Red God's Sovereign!" Riga called, blocking a downward cut by crossing his blades upwards in an X-Fashion. Riga jumped up and thrust his head forward into the plated helm of the marine, knocking the soldier down. Riga dropped his weapons, immediately holding his forehead as he stumbled back, yelling: "Son of a Bitch! Mother-Fucker! You fucking bastard! God damn it that hurt!" Riga began kicking the fighter, each stomping blow, spurting: "Why... must... you... Fuckers... wear... such... hard... armor...!" Before being tackled to the ground by a second marine.

"Time to die, Orc!" The marine told Riga, raising his blade before a powerful blast from a SHadowbolt landed on his left rib and threw him off the small Orc. Riga rolled up to see Trabian's staff smoking with a dull smirk.

"Cocky bastard," Riga muttered, oblivious to the sailor behind him loading a compound bow with a yelled arrow as a howling Beladrien leaped up and snapped its jaws around the male sailor's neck, biting down so hard as to squeeze the blood from the neck in a stream that shot out a full yard. The dorn growled and shook its maw, tearing out the Tirisian's throat.

A long Tirisian Broadsword stuck against Trabian's staff as a Marine assaulted the Warlock. Trabian backed away, holding his hands up defensively, palms out. "Now hold on, I'm sure there's a way we can work this out," he pleaded.

The Marine raised his two-handed sword and shouted, lunging forward at Trabian. The Warlock closed his eyes and pushed his hands forward, shooting a stream of fire, searing into the marine and expelling him to the ground, scorching his chainmail black. Trabian opened his eyes, reaffirming his grip on the staff. "Or I suppose that a compromise was in order, but you humans must always insist on the hard way."

Riga stomped back to Trabian as the three marines and one sailor recovered. "Any more Bright ideas?" Trabian asked of his companion.

"Are you kidding? We're doing great!" Riga assured him as his leveled the Crusader's Sword in his hands. The Tirisian Soldiers hiked up their shields and raised their weapons. The sailor blew out of a gold-plated bugle, which was repeated from the Tiragarde Walls. Three men on Horseback expedited with long polearms, galloping to reinforce the marines. "Cavalry? Fine you bitches! Let them come, I'll fuck them up too!"

As the cavalry charged out of the Keep, a loud blast occured from high atop the wall, blasting a hole into the Knight and blowing him off the stead. A tall, muscular troll fell off the fortifications, landing on the Horse. The impact caused the Horse to go into a dive, so the troll jumped off the saddle towards the second Knight, two blades extending out nearly a foot from its wrists as he spread out as a raptor. The troll descended upon the human as a true bird of prey, knocking the man to the side of the saddle as the vicious hunter repeatedly jabbed the jagged blades into the ribs and belly of the man, the serrated edges dragging out shreds of pancreas and intestine.

"To battle!" Riga shouted at the first notice of the Tirisians' distraction, and sprinted into the mob. His shoulder rammed into a marine as he turned and swung the Red Blade horizontally, slicing into the hip of the second Marine. The blood gushing from the fleshy incision coated the blade slowly down to the pommel, which caused a devilish gloss upon the metal. Riga ripped the blade out, and quickly brought it down on the falling marine to slice his chest open. "All the armor and no way to protect yourself? Dumbfucks," Riga insulted.

The sailor brought the bugle to his lips again, preparing to call in more High Horse when a firebolt crashed into the instrument, blowing it out of his hands. The snickering of a mysterious imp could be heard as the figure of the Orc Warlock burst into flame from the Blood Pact. "I don't think so," Trabian warned, extending his arm as the palm absorbed the granted fire shield and propelled the magic to the unarmored sailor. The fire instantly sparked the brown linen clothes, igniting the sailor. The man screamed and dropped down as Trabian intensified the heat of the immolation, burning the human to char.

The troll hunter tore his long spear from the back holster, rearing the Horse to slam against the final Knight. The Knight raised his lance and pierced it through the troll's horse in instant deathblow. The mount immediately collapsed, the hunter leaping off the saddle and thrusting the spear from his arms. The tip soared through the air and impaled through the back of the last mounted solider, its head ejecting four prongs. Still attached was a long sting tightly held by the hunter whom jerked back on it, throwing the Knight from the horse as the hunter dragged his trophy back.

Riga raised his blade to parry a lunge from one of the remaining two marines as the other rushed its claymore to the diminuative orc. Riga struck the giant sword in the ground, muttering, "Whuh-Oh..." and quickly scaled up to the pommel, balancing himself up by his arms. As the charge went by, Riga flipped down and raised the blade up, flipping a chunk of dirt and dust up into the air. Riga roared, swinging the Holy Sword against the Tirisian Steel. The enchanted metal shattered the Marine's weapon. The human looked up in panic from his broken hilt. "Well ain't you Fucked!" Riga cheered.

The other marine slowly approached Trabian, slowed to a crawl as his metal armor turned green-grey with quickly building rust and decay as it corroded and began to melt, turning his cuirass into an oven. Furthermore, he felt an incredible weakness engulf him, atrophy overwhelming his muscles. Yet the marine persevered, bringing his steadied longsword up in his arms. "Persistant, Human," Trabian commented, watching the Marine literally waste away before him, yet still strive to kill him. "Am I such a dreaded foe that these are the lengths to which you deem to end me? Ahem... Perhaps I should give you something worthwhile to fear?" Trabian raised his staff with his right hand as his left manifested a dark orb of Shadow. The Orc concentrated intensely, and pushes his hand forward as a blackened aura surrounded him, pumping the orb in size and intensity. The bolt of Shadow curved in its path, burrowing into the marine's chest, llifting him up and throwing him back in the air. "By the Graces of the Firelands, be consumed in the Love of the Flame!" Trabian chanted, pointing his staff out, shooting a pure yellow beam of fire striking through the human's chest, melting through his armor and burning an eight inch diameter hole instantly through the body. Trabian sighed, and leaned on his staff. He could sense Azpep's invisible presence. "I wonder how the runt is doing?"

Riga dropped the sword, raising his fists. "C'mon you bastard, gimme wha'cha got!" The marine swung the broken sword at Riga, still ending in shards of shattered metal. Riga leaned down, and with a hard clenched fist, thrust his right up into the Marine's abdomen. The guard let out a deep 'Oof!' bending forward, and Riga raised up. "It's your uncle Bingo. Time to pay the check!" Riga slugged his fist in full haymaker into the helmet with a loud 'Clang!' dropping the marine as the helm flew off, revealing its feminine gender. Riga immediately held his hand as it pulsed with severe pain. "Son of a God-Damned MotherFucking Son of a Fucking Bitch God Damn It! Fuck! What the Fuck are those God Damned things made of? Fucking Adamantium? Fuck! Wait, you aren't that asshole I headbutted were you? Fuckin' A..! God Damn It!" Riga shouted as he stomped around, mourning his hand.

As Riga cursed, the woman brought a knife from a concealed scabbard under her tabard. She stood slowly as she was assured of Riga's ignorance of her actions. Holding the knife upside-down, she dashed in the Orc's direction, raising her right hand into the air. She fell upon RIga, both hands forcing the dagger down to overpower the Orc as Riga caught her by the wrists. "Oh-ho! You're a fiesty bitch, aren'cha?" Riga said with a smile unknowing, or uncaring, of the weapon inches from his death and pushing. Riga roared as her, and as his arms shook from exertion, began to push the dagger back. At this point, a sharp, debilitating pain between his legs as the marine's greaves raised directly to his crotch shook him. Riga let out a squeeking yelp as he turned over and fell. "Fucking Whore!" He groaned, holding his groin.

The marine jumped on him, both hands forcing the knife down to his throat. Riga again caught her hands, but could not repel the weight pushing down upon him. "Lopnel shall not let the Crusade Falter," Riga spoke prophetically. As the tip pierced into Riga's neck, the loud cracking of skullbones shattered the struggle as the marine's face splattered on Riga's. The body slumped down and Riga quickly pushed the corpse off him,wiping the blood from his neck and staring at the troll and its high-powered rifle complete with smoking barrel. "What the hell was that for?!" He yelled, wiping flash and mucus from his bloody face. "I had her!"

The troll tilted his head, snapping a magazine clip into the barrel. He cackled. "Joo be'n luckee da' Ya'Utja not be'n hootin' ya's." The troll jammed the butt of the gun into the dirt and picked up his spear.

Trabian lifted his staff and approached the troll. "Well met Hunter. I am Trabian Riil, and this is my comrade-in-arms, Riga. What are you going out here?" Azpep clinged to Trabian's robe and crawled up his back.

Riga pulled Corruption and Decay from the ground and slid them into their respective scabbards. "Hell of a shot, Troll. Truly Lopnel has granted you divine perception."

The troll whistled, and a black scorpid shimmered from under the sands. "I'z be'z da' Ya'Utja. 'Dis be'z da' Kainde Amedha."

"Ya'Utja? What kind of fucking name is that?" Riga questioned as he sheathed his crusader's sword, and kneeled to summon Beladrien to his hands, where he rubbed her maw playfully.

"Id'd be Zandali. Be'n meanin' 'v da' hoon'tah," Ya'Utja answered.

"Hunter you say? Intriguing." Trabian commented, rubbing his scragly beard.

"Waydaminnit...You're the sick bastard that skinned those humans and hung 'em up to dry like big beef jerky strips," Riga claimed, standing to face the troll.

"Da' Ya'Utja nah be see'n 'dat 'dis be'n 'uh bad t'ing," the troll answered. Ya'Utja held the long barreled rifle along the back of his neck. "'Deys jus' beasts. Ahn'li 'gud fo' da' hoon'tin." The hunter turned around, where eight human skulls, most unskinned and carrying distorted expressions of death frozen in vigor mortis, hung. "Ev'un da' 'oomuns jus' be be'n an'mals."

"He has a point," Trabian said.

"He's also got more head than a Darkshore Pimp," Riga mused. "Troll, Lopnel has crossed our Fates. Surely it is in our destinies to join in Conquest. Let us continue into this dwelling of Defiance in his divine Masquerade!"

"Whoo'za 'dis Lopnel? Why'z 'e nah 'ere ta' stop da' 'oomun f'um coot'in ja' neek?" Ya'Utja asked the High Inquisitor of Divine Intervention.

"Nevermind that troll! We can discuss religion later!" Riga pleaded, reaching down to the sailor BEladrien tore into to relieve its compound bow from its possession. He unsnapped the leather quicker, filled with three dozen arrows, and tied it around his chest. "I ever tell you I beat the EnheilRas in an archery Tournament Trabian?" HE said, smirking.

Trabian crossed his arms, "I find that hard to believe. Didn't he have a magic bow or something?" The warlock shook his head.

Ya'Utja unleashed his skinning knife and leaned down to the cavalry bodies. As Riga witnessed the troll's gruesome work, he called out, "Hey! What about these ones?"

"'Deys na' be ma' keel. Joo 'wuns kin co'lekt," Ya'Utja told him as he ripped the spine from a body, and dangled the dismembered head by it until the steel helmet dropped.

"Uhhh... no thanks," Trabian said, and clapped his hands together. "Well! Let's get moving, shall we?"

"Yes! Lopnel does not forsee us Idling. You there troll-- Hotjog!" Riga called.

"'Dats Ya'Utja."

"Whatever. How would you like to get a real big trophy. Say, for example, the Admiral of all these little sailors," Riga persuaded.

Ya'Utja undid his trophy belt, which held the eight skulls and backbones, terraced left and right to keep cranium against vertebrae, and inserted the three new marks. Only one spot remained on his belt until it was full, and Ya'Utja would be forced to stop his hunt, lest the stock become too thin and die out. Riga's propasition perked Ya'Utja's interest in the loud-mouthed orc considerably. "Da' 'ead 'v da' chief be 'uh great 'onuh ta 'git. Joo b' know'n where 'dis 'oomun b' be'n?"

Riga grimmed, his tusks protruding from his jowls. Hook, Line, and sinker; He had a warrior for Lopnel's cause. Whether the troll knew it or not really wasn't an issue; bodies were bodies. "Indeed Gout-Jut. This chief holds reign high in the Keep. Join us and this 'trophy' is yours."

Ya'Utja wrapped the trophy belt around him and faced Riga. "Jah 'mon. Lez be go'n ta' co'lekt."

[EnheilRas]

Lordearon was once one of the strongest kingdoms in the world – the only city to successfully fend off a major Horde assault. Its highly charismatic King, the late Terenas Menethil II, was mostly responsible for the inception of the Alliance, and the armies of Lordearon backing the Regent Lord Anduin Lothar were ultimately the cause for humanity’s success in the Second War. Yet the brilliant blue city, etched in flawless granite and marble, was not present when Therion crossed into the courtyard, past the unguarded gate.

“What happened here?” Therion asked himself as he walked through the crumbling courtyard. He could hear the voices of spirits buried underneath the very soil upon which he treaded. The wind was gone, amid the hollowed dirt around the crumbled statue that once served as a fountain centerpiece was indistinguishable from the broken foreground surrounding it. Therion stepped to the edge of ‘The Island’ to see a vicious, yellow, photo florescent liquid flowing around it. This neon, glowing sludge had a flow to it. Something was circulating this grotesque moat, for it did not lie stagnant. Therion kneeled to pick up a stone, and tossed it off the island. The rock splashed into the bright river with minimal splash, and slowly was it engulfed by the consuming sludge.

Several forsaken scurried past Therion towards the Glades from the Throne Room. From the island, Therion could see a downed drawbridge from the Inner Keep, where side entrances lead into a deeper sanctum. Inquisitively, Therion crossed it, taking the left path. The destitute corridor featured inconspicuous busts of the unknown – perhaps the Menethil lineage? – as it twisted around to a T-room, where a massive bell had fallen and shattered, crushing the brick layered ground.

Therion slowly walked around this bell as a throng of Forsaken passed around him with a brutish orc carrying an axe resembling a type of pinwheel in black, gothic armor. Therion traced his fingers along the metal, his gloves gathering a mound of dust in the purity of the morbid silence. As Therion lingered, he could hear the faint chiming of the chapel bell. The spirit of the very Castle Lordearon too, Forsaken? Had it been the victim of a self-fulfilling prophecy? The ghost of the bells spoke to the dead; was there nothing alive?

”What sorcery is this?” Therion whispered as the crying of the broken bell, cracked and still before him, grew loud and silenced in pulses, making the rogue continuously second-guess whether or not it was real.

“’Tis no trickery; ‘tis home,” a passerby Forsaken woman answered in a dwarven accent. She smiled at Therion. “Perhaps not a place you’d call home, but it’d be a home ‘fer you still.”

“Aye,” Therion agreed, and followed her down the corridor to the Throne Room. The white stone corridor breathed a dead air as hard, decayed rose petals covered the walkway from the long dead bushes held along the side balconies. A cold feeling drifted through this passageway speaking of past omens and sins. It just felt evil.

The Throne Room was a large domed structure in the very center of Lordearon. Therion drifted inside as the Forsaken woman whisked away further into the keep through one of the two passages on the sides of the empty Royal Throne. Therion hesitated, examining the perfectly cut and placed marble set in orbital designs on the floor. Several balconies lined a second story, where advisors and national alliance figureheads and dignitaries would hold conference with Lordearon and pass the buck between each other, wasting time and money while people starved and died. Inaction against injustice is much more disconcerting than mere ignorance of injustice at all.

Therion slowly made his way to the Throne, crossing a large mural of Lordearon’s flag on the chipped and unclean bricks. The seat of Menethil was as expected, decorated with the mantle crest of a lion’s head. Peculiarly, Therion noticed wide shifts of dust upon the seat, leading him to assumingly believe more scornful Lordearon ‘citizens’ were sitting in the chair to express their grand mockery of the former royal establishment.

Therion kneeled down at the base of the chair – not out of obedience, but of investigation – his hands scaling down the frame to the floor, where upon sweeping his palms along it, discovered three small patches of bloodstains half a decade old. ‘Something bad happened here,’ Therion thought. Blood this close, and of this quantity, spelled very clearly a royal assassination; one of no resistance, not even by the King. ‘A most dire death of great violence and betrayal,’ Therion considered. Such an action of intensity could explain the ‘haunting’ of Lordearon. Perhaps Menethil’s vengeful spirit lingered, fueling the poltergeist machine.

Therion stood, and followed through the Throne Room down the right chamber to a sacred Mausoleum room, where a large stone slab lay surrounded by unlit ornate candles. It was here, inscribed upon an inset stone tablet, that the body of the slain King was meant to lay. Yet there was no body, not a trace. The existence of the slab meant that Lordearon went down not in a single event, but months after Terenas’ death, until replaced by the vile son. In this small, circular chamber, two pathways lead to similar walls, each having two massive abominations guarding these paths. The hulking monstrosities reeked of a green-yellow gas from their stitched leathery flesh.

Intrigued, Therion came to them. The abominations sluggishly moved to block his path, swinging large rusted hooks from chains entangling their arms. The creatures looked at Therion, not saying a thing.

“Well? Move!” Therion commanded with ill result. Therion grew angry as the abominations stared blankly at him, the gluttonous faces drooling plagued ichor down their heaving frames. “I need to see Sylvanas by order of Magistrate Sevren, now let me through!” But even his strong words did nothing to motivate the dead giants before him. Enraged, Therion dropped his red facemask, unveiling his emaciated skull with grey rotted flesh and his hollow eyes burned with a yellow glow.

“What we do?” The abominations instantly asked upon recognition of Therion as one of the Forsaken.

Therion tilted his head back in realization, and slowly pulled the scarf back up to his nose. “I see… let me through.”

The abominations waddled to the side, their obese mass jiggling as they parted. A large chamber door automatically sprung open to another round room with no other opening. The stitched ghouls groaned and waved from left to right.

Therion looked left to right suspiciously as he passed them into the room. After stepping inside, he turned around. “Hey,” he called towards the abominations as they closed in on the doorway. “Where do I g—“ he said before being interrupted by the closing door, trapping him. “What the hell?! You fucking maggotpies!” he cursed. The chamber creaked as the metal gears moaned and stretched. The floor dropped down with the loosening of a latch, propelling Therion to the floor as it fell hundreds of feet, stopping suddenly with the loud clanging of gears. Opposite the standing Therion rose a wall to the entrance of the grand machination: The Undercity.

Shakily, Therion exited the elevator to a grand cavern built directly under Lordearon’s Throne. A grand spire rose from a bubbling cauldron of the same yellow fluid that flowed through the moat. This was the wretched heart of the Kingdom. The undead inhabited this rotten core like rats. Countless were doing barter in the dozens of shops along the inner rim. Therion reached the tip of the ring, stepping on a mound of cockroaches as the insects scuttled about. He scraped his heel against the edge to remove the goo and exoskeleton, looking down at the bridges which lead down and into the middle ring. Therion dropped down, clutching the ledge, and released himself upon a cooking table, kicking plates of fried batwings into the swirling plasm.

“Hey!” The cook yelled, adjusting his white puffy hat. “That was dinner you rude ass!”

Therion hopped off the table, brushing himself off. “Consider them marinating then,” he taunted, and leapt off the kitchen area to a clean stone bridge over the sewage into the middle ring. Therion found the middle ring dark and abandoned without commerce, but filled with displaced artillery and procured Quel’dorei siege ballistae and orcish catapults. A trio of Forsaken women passed him, yammering on about some gossip. Therion found himself compelled to follow. The ladies, speaking in a guttural tongue completely unknown to him, turned left to the passage to the Outer Rim of Lordearon’s Undercity: The Four Quarters. It was here, as Therion drifted from the women as he became distracted by the industrious citizens of Lordearon. These Forsaken were feverishly churning out finely crafted platemail and thick shields and long blades. Dynamite, grenades, and firearms were constantly being worked on by talented engineers, and tested directly on an indoor firing range. Across the Outer Rim moat, dozens of Forsaken Warriors trained relentlessly at fencing against training dummies nearby fighting pits throwing them against each other in bare melee. This was just the War Quarter.

As Therion traversed the Outer Ring, he was witness to a large spire of inequitable power situated on some sort of Ley Line Nexus, absorbing the latent magical energies around it into some sort of arcane battery, while on the other inside portion of the Magic Quarter lay hubs of libraries with all manners of Arcanum and invocation Enchanted staves and robes sewn of runecloth and mageweave were readily available from the trademasters. This Nexus allowed for highly advanced summoning rituals practiced right in the open by the warlock masters and their initiates. Strong necrolytes held fast binding any creature strong enough to break control the warlocks sustained by kidnapping them from the nether.

In this, Therion came to an area full of reagent sellers and poison vendors with a highly protected area across the rivers. In the center lay a curved tunnel with highly decorated Deathguards standing watch. Unlike Saltain and the High Executor, these soldiers wore royal colors and stood as eunichs. ‘They must be ceremonial royal Deathguards,’ Therion considered. “Therein must lie the Royal Quarter,” He said to himself. On the sides of this entrance were chained doors closely defended by dagger-wielding Forsaken mavericks wearing a tabard of a Burning Skull on red cloth. Therion considered this quite suspicious, and from the glances from these sentries, the feelings were quite mutual.

Therion crossed the bridge over the swirling bubbling yellow sludge and entered the middle tunnel to the Royal Quarter. Two Royal Deathguards crossed their swords to stop him. “Halt! This is the Chamber of the Banshee Queen. You may not enter without proper authorization,” The warrior issued.

Therion smirked under his mask, and unsheathed the weapon given by Saltain, holding it lengthwise in his hands. “Do you see? I am one of you, Brothers. Magistrate Sevren has sent me to deliver a dire message to our queen.”

The Deathguards examined the blade and sigil upon the pommel before nodding. “You are cleared, fellow Deathguard. Victory for Sylvanas!”

Therion slid the Deathstalker sword into the scabbard and bowed. “Power to the Forsaken!” He lied, and passed into the tunnel as it curved left. Each compartment was covered by two more royal guards, carrying devilishly jagged swords and hard bucklers with the seal of Lordearon with Sylvanas’ face embedded upon it. The tunnel brought him to the Royal Quarter: a huge circular domed chamber with a large, elevated platform where Therion beheld ‘Queen’ Sylvanas Windrunner. The Quel’dorei was much taller than expected, and there existed a beauty – however grim in that she was dead – about her underneath the widows drab to which she wore. A serrated scimitar hung by her side; her only weapon. Astonishingly, she showed absolutely little, if any, sign of decay. She did not appear undead at all – just pale. On her left hovered a ghostly female with bright white flailing hair that seemed to stay in stasis.

Therion stayed as he saw on the side the same demon which he remembered the last night in Stratholme. The albino flesh, the thick fel armor, the bat-like wings, and the long razor nails; all of it there, and Therion became consumed in fury. He sprinted forward, vaulting up onto the platform, drawing the sword in mid-air, and rushed to the Dreadlord, driving the blade forward. The demon turned, grappling Therion’s arm and pulling him around, clutching its clawed fist around Therion’s neck; at least he didn’t have to breathe this time.

“Who are you and what makes you think you can kill me? The dreadlord asked, tightening its hold on Therion’s neck.

Therion grabbed the Nath’rezim’s wrist. “You don’t remember, you bastard? You don’t remember Stratholme? You killed me you son of a bitch!”

“What? Stratholme?” The demon asked. The Dreadlord tossed Therion off the platform, his lithe form rolling on the stone floor. “That was my brother Mal’Ganis you fool. I am Varimathras, subservient advisor to the Banshee Queen.” Therion raised up, and reached for his sword. “Restrain him,” Varimathras ordered, and half a dozen Forsaken bled from the shadows and held Therion down, kicking the sword away and holding a dagger to his neck.

One of the Forsaken picked the sword up and delivered it to Varimathras. “It’s-s-s a Deathguard’s-s-s s-s-sword, M’Lord,” The undead informed in a snake-like voice.

Varimathras took the blade. “Inventive. Thank you Deathstalker.” The demon floated down, looking at the struggling Therion. “You used this to bypass the Royal Sentries, Yes? Intriguing.” Varimathras waved the cadre to release Therion, whom jumped up, and struck the Deathstalker’s wrist to drop the dagger, catching it in his other hand. Therion kicked behind him, his heel slamming across the cheek, sending the Forsaken to the floor. Therion swung his fist backwards, jerking a second Deathstalker’s head to the left, and hopped up to kick off its chest to expel him town, twirling in the air to drive his right boot into a third Forsaken’s skull, throwing it to the floor.

The other three drew daggers and rushed towards Therion. The rogue put the pilfered knife in his mouth, sliding his mask down beforehand, and leapt into the fray, grabbing the center stalker’s skull and forcing it down to lift him into the air. He split his legs to throw kicks into the chests of the other two simultaneously, throwing them down. As Therion landed, he quickly dropkicked the remaining Forsaken, launching him back into the air as he grabbed the knife and flew at the demon in fury.

Varimathras quickly grabbed Therion’s thrusting wrist once again and forced it down, his free hand pressing to the Forsaken’s chest. The Dreadlord expelled a powerful shadowbolt that once more sent the rogue flying back, impacting into an inset statue on the wall before plummeting down. Instantly, Therion began to crawl back to his feet as four of the six Deathstalkers recovered. Therion twirled the dagger in hand, raising his scarf back up to cover his face.

”So, you are indeed Forsaken,” Varimathras figured. “You have some skill, and you seem to take punishment well.” The Dreadlord tossed the Deathguard Blade to Therion’s feet. “What intrigues me most are your abilities of infiltration and assassination. These skills are highly valued in our society. You should become one of my Deathstalkers.”

Therion placed his foot under the sword and kicked up, throwing the weapon into the air where he snatched it with his left hand. “Me? Serve you? Don’t be ridiculous. I already have a sire, and I’ll be damned if I call a demon master!” Therion stanced himself, spinning the sword in his left as he presented the dagger offensively.

“You already are damned,” Varimathras pointed out. “You have also served demons too.” The dreadlord grinned. “I recognize the cowl. So tell me: if you have a Sire, why don’t you go to him?”

“What business is it of yours, you bag of felshit?” Therion taunted.

“Because it’s a long way to Westfall. You came here looking for help. Sylvanas does not speak to unworthy… ghouls such as yourself. I deal with you Neophytes into ‘conscious undeath.’ It’s not what you can do for her, but what you can do for me,” Varimathras explained.

Therion relaxed a bit, “You will deliver me into Westfall?” Therion shook his head, “No! Why should I trust you? You are a creature of the Nether!”

The Dreadlord grinned. “Why should you? You shouldn’t. But what are your choices? You have none – plain and simple. You must become my Deathstalker. If not, what will you do? Wander around until the Scourge or the Alliance destroy you?”

Therion hesitated, “The Alliance are my enemy, the Scourge are my enemy, the Horde are my enemy, you are my enemy, and if I refuse you, the Forsaken are my enemy,” he reasoned. “So what are you asking?” Therion inquired after a moment of consideration. If this Dreadlord had the power to deliver him home, then he would take the risk and strike a deal with the devil.

“I’m glad we could reach an understanding, mister—“

“Therion,” he answered, “of Moonbrook.”

“I’ll be sure to remember it,” Varimathras promised. “I informed the Deathguard to place a bounty on the heads of three captains of the Scarlet Crusade recently by order of the Queen. Instead of letting some vandal collect from our coffers, I want you to kill all three. No payment, of course, will be given, but you will earn my blessing,” The Nath’rezim instructed.

“The Scarlet Crusade? You want me to go kill Paladins?” Therion asked.

“Do not mixyour former ideas of Paladins with what they are now. This faction are zealots – fanatical hunters of all things… inhuman. Their destruction yields to our survival. The death of their captains will ensure the continued security of Tirisfal from their advances from the Monastery,” Varimathras clarified. “High Executor Zygand – I’m sure you’ve met him in Brill – has all the information about their location. Return only when the deed is done,” He ordered. Varimathras lifted into the air and returned to the platform.

“What was that about?” Sylvanas demanded of her slave.

“Nothing, my Queen. Do not worry yourself over such miniscule matters. The Blightcaller has business,” The Nath’rezim insisted.

The four stalkers dragged the two yet unconscious comrades away, glaring at Therion as he dismissed himself. He couldn’t believe what manner of deals he was making. Consorting with demons, fraternizing with the undead, and now conspiracy against the Church of Light – though excommunication was the least of his concerns – he felt his damnation was becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Was being damned a state of being or a state of mind? Would one effect the other?

Therion entered the middle ring, where a dozen Forsaken were pushing a large catapult. Their taskmaster yelled out, “C’mon you rots! This meat weagon needs to get to the Bulwark pronto! That fool Abbendis is pushing from Hearthglen!” He recognized the name of Abbendis as being an exemplary Paladin in the Silver Hand; one he had been warned about by Lord Edwin when going to Stratholme. To think of him and his kind as mortal enemies seemed out of place. Therion refused to relinquish his own mortality.

As Therion rode up the elevators to Lordearon, momentarily escaping the humble horrors of home, he became overwhelmed with a sudden pang of hunger which caused him to weaken. Therion bent over, squatting, and vomited a crusty, dry blood mixed with soured bile. He continued coughing as his muscles heaved out the embalming fluid and every life-giving liquid from his system. The pool of juices simply drained away along the edge of the elevator in a crisp yellow color.

When he reached Lordearon, the rogue weakly stumbled out. His body was trembling and for the first time he truly felt cold. He could feel the gnawing hunger inside him but knew not what could sustain the dead. Therion fell to his knees, and that was when the voice began. It started as a faint whisper, like the wind circling around a pipe, but it grew sentient of Therion’s attending ear, and grew it pitch and volume. It was low, and best described as a frozen mist. It called his name, and demanded hs return to his place. Without him doing so, Therion’s hand reached for and drew his sword. In horror, he watched as a Forsaken female carrying blankets passed him, and the voice called out – demanded – him to kill her. The cold calling became one of dangerous command, its order growing strong with every successful word of power. Therion could no longer control himself as his body raised, and moved with vicious vigor towards the living dead girl. He roared, but his voice was no longer his, and quickly dismembered the forsaken woman. The Deathguard’s blade cleanly ripped through her limbs and neck.

A cold cackling echoed through Therion’s mind as it faded. Something inherently in control fo Therion suddenly let go. But he could still feel its frightening presence inside his head. In impulse, Therion dumped the corpse into the moat just as a small band of warriors entered the courtyard. They passed him without regard, and Therion quickly escaped the Kingdom of Lordearon.

[EnheilRas]

It was already hours past dusk when the three orcs had set up a small campfire, less than an hour from the lower chasm in Thunder Ridge. Jrash unpacked some freshly cut boar meat from his bag as Manus and Orgnil rolled some stones in which to sit upon. It had been silent the whole way until the wolf rider manufactured a rudimentary rotisserie with some sticks and placed a slab upon the fire to cook. The aroma of heated meat sparked discussion amongst the stoic warriors.

Orgnil was the first to make a delighted moan. “That old woman was gracious to offer us cuts from her pen.” The archer unbuckled and laid his quiver down on the dirt.

Manus nodded with a stern grunt. “A pity her boy went missing. Hopefully he turns up.” The warrior stabbed the Orcish sword into the ground and sat on his rock, his eyes attached to the flames, light dancing upon his aging visage. Fires to the EnheilRas were a portal. Manus had been visited by flames before. Nights of calm with the spark of a fire reminded him of the last days in Stonard. It was that night when Dorin visited him, and he lost the will of the ChumRas Orka. The Darkweaver prophesized to him that his people’s work had been folly. There was no great war for peace. There was only fighting for the sake of fighting. His kind were cursed by the traitorous elements of Earth and Fire to raze and burn. The Empire of Orcs would always expand. The orcish thirst for war was not something his people could give up. The Demon Haze of Draenor did more than modify them biologically, it completely changed their culture and civilization; parts of their history that can not simply be detached from them as a people. As the Darkweaver told him, ChumRas Orka could only last as long as it was eternal. The minute there was no one left to fight, his people would die, losing their very purpose to exist.

Jrash spun the meat slowly, crouching on one knee. “Lit’lun Orclings no good out here. Bad things in Southfury. Raptaz be meaner out there. Crokaz in da’ river like ta’ come up for da’ chompy. Bad wata in da’ river. Jrash have friend in da’ Far Watch Towaz. He says animals change bad out d’ere.” He seemed more focused in mumbling in peonese while watching the dinner cook.

Orgnil placed his leather-clad hands on his forehead, leaning down. “Far Watch Post has indeed reported minor bouts of corruption in animal life. But we can’t confirm anything until we consult my bosses. That won’t happen until we can guarantee the safety of Durotar. Our missions will expand to the Barrens afterwards, I assure you.”

Manus sighed, adjusting his chain mail. He wasn’t tired at all, but becoming restless. “We’re wasting time here. Going through the ridge at night would be best. We can find this goblin with surprise and be off with his head before anyone realizes we were there.”

Orgnil laughed. “I never figured you for the stealthy type EnheilRas. I thought you were more of a roaring berserker. We can go as soon as we have food in our bellies. I don’t fight on an empty stomach.”

Manus snorted. “Things change. Times change. Orcs change.”

“Yeah, but not you. You don’t change. Your type never does. A good death is the only way out EnheilRas. That’s all the old ones ever want nowadays. That’s why they’re jumping at the chance to re-enlist. They escaped their death. You can at least thank me one day that I’m giving you that opportunity,” Soulscar spouted.

Manus was eerily silent. He didn’t want to die, did he? Considering spending the next two decades of his life farming pigs wasn’t exactly thrilling, but he couldn’t really think that was a life truly worth living.

Jrash cut the cooked meat and served the other two. A grilled boar steak wasn’t a hard thing, but the way the wolf rider had it cooked, it became a hard thing. There was a certain lack of nourishment that came from eating it, and it went down like a slab of crusty fat than anything else. Orgnil didn’t seem to mind, and Jrash devoured the piece of gristle with a ravaging fervor akin to the beast he tamed. Within half an hour, Manus had stomped out the fire, and was leading the two towards the cavernous opening of the Ridge. Light had filtered through the cirrus clouds overhead, and drifted down in beams past the jagged orange rocks that made the chasm. The ridge had long been ripe for copper minerals. It’s abundance in the metal was the richest in perhaps the entire world. It was easy for a miner to achieve a hundred pounds of copper ore within an easy day’s work. The hazards of the job had more to do with clumsy miners falling to their deaths from high atop the canyon. It was unforgiving, but so was mostly everything else.

As Manus entered the canyon, he could hear the thunderous echoes through the slightly shifting rocks. Orgnil slid an iron-tipped arrow into his orcish war bow, sliding silently through the sands. Jrash, having been carrying his warblade horizontally on his shoulders the whole time, took to sniffing. He exhaled sharply, dust springing from his nostrils. “Smell like lizard dung in Ridge. Boom Lizards still awake. Old Orkzes betta be careful round Boom Lizards. They not been right in long time.”

Manus turned towards the raider, and raised his shield in his left forearm. Thunder Lizards had been through to have returned to their docile state after Drek’thar had pacified them years ago. Something dark must have riled them back up if they were still aggressive and hunting their territory at night. “Must be the goblin.” The Shadow Council coven inside the ridge must have been aggravating the Lizards against the Horde for some reason or another. Perhaps it was just a byproduct of their dark existence and rituals?

The trio turned around the corner, where the rocks diverged in a past to their left, through a long canyon, and to their right. Within that intersection slept a rumbling lizard, easily a couple tons of meat. It swiped its stubby tail as it snored, each inhalation causing pebbles to fall from the top of the ridge. Manus, leading, nimbly stepped around the lizard, the only sound the slight ringing of his mail armor in the few loose parts. He climbed up a minor hill, leading to a long stretch of orange sand, divided by three columns of rocks shooting out through the earthen canopy. Orgnil soon joined him on the hill, crouching. He pointed down the corridor, “The herd is sleeping the whole way down. We need to keep quiet. If one wakes up and lets out a burst, all the others will erupt and stampede in our direction.”

Manus held his palm against his forehead, learning down. “This place is a deathtrap for certain.” The two orcs watched with an abstract horror as the wolf rider rushed to the lizard, digging his massive sword into the ground to vault over its body and land in a crouching position, using the hilt to pick himself up. Manus saw Orgnil stand, the Lieutenant’s eyes flared up in anger, and was quick to slam him down by his shoulders, covering his mouth. Jrash simplemindedly dusted his torn trousers, and hiked his warblade across his shoulders, his toothy grin peering out from his mangy chin hairs, oblivious to the consequence the failure of his stunt would have created. When he joined the two, his head was met with a swift slap to its backside and a scornful scowl from Soulscar.

The three continued for more than a mile down the corridor, the canyon coiling around itself like a conch. As the smaller of the two moons filled the ravine with a blue evanescence, rays of the moonlight fired through holes in the columnar rock formations, bouncing off pieces of pure copper ore into a prismatic blast of color. The dusty soil of Durotar has since worn away into the cracked rock, covered in gravel over a cracked rocky waste, shifting noisily after each step. Even then, it wasn’t enough to wake the dozen slumbering thunder lizards the orcs managed to sneak around. The ravine closed near the very center of the ridge, where a narrow crevice between the crater of the canyon opened into a pit, where the clearing hosted several tents. A couple of small fires smoldered by two of them and a bonfire in the center. Manus quickly hugged the wall upon this realization, his left arm extending to press the two follows against it as well.

“There’s the camp,” he whispered to them. “I see five tents.” He leaned over to peer peripherally, counting the number of Orcs sitting around the fires eating. He could smell the fel energies, like a sulfur musk permeating the air of the center of the ridge. Many orcs could not pick up the scent of fel magic, but Manus’ nose was particularly articulate. He turned around, facing Orcnil, “Six of them, some with demons.”

Orgnil nodded in respect, and turned to face Jrash, pressing his index and middle finger into the wolf rider’s chest, “You’re taking out those demons and warlocks, and I’ll cover you from behind. Don’t hold back peon. You die here and you die as a worker, not a warrior.” The scruffy orc nodded, choking up on the pommel of the warblade and adjusting his quaint horned skullcap. The EnheilRas turned around, belting the thick shield to his left forearm as his eyes spied the short goblin, with an imp familiar frolicking by. Darkclaw was a diminutive sort, wearing a blue vest and some grey trousers, and standing near the center bonfire.

“Get to packin’ you twerps! We’ve got to be gone by sunrise! Those damned spies in Razor Hill are onto us. We’ve got to move north and meet up with Gazz’uzz for new orders,” Fizzle barked to the enclave of minions all his superior in strength. The six orcs, two with voidwalker demons in tow, began packing and dismantling the camp. The other four carried long zweihanders, sheathed in long scabbards strapped across their chests. None of them wore any armor to Manus’ delight.

Trebelium hiked the warsword from his belt, and gave a single nod to Orgnil and Jrash. They met him eye for eye with an understanding. Manus. He could feel his mind immediately surging testosterone and adrenaline through his body. His muscles bulged and his hair stood on end. An intense fury built up within Manus as he gritted his teeth and took a step into that crater. Without hesitation, he slammed the warsword into his shield, the metal clang echoing through the clearing, bouncing between the rocks as it resonated so every cult member could hear it. He saw them, each orc and demon familiar, that damned goblin and his imp, all stand in bewilderment, and their eyes all matched his; all the EnheilRas envisioned were targets, like a caribou in the Barrens about to be trampled by a kodo stampede; frozen in fear, unable to move or to react. They had tunnel vision to their own demise, and the EnheilRas bellowed out a warcry that was fierce and brave, which climbed the very rocks of that ridge.

“Who the hell do you think you are? Get him you punks!” Darkclaw scrambled out to jerk the minions out of their trance.

The nearest orc scrambled up the short hill, ripping out it’s long two-handed sword in a furious roar as Manus charged forth towards him. As the cultist reared the sword back, the EnheilRas swung his shield, bashing his forearm against the orc’s skull, knocking him offsides, and continuing straight for the goblin. “Your treachery ends here, you sniveling git!”

Fizzle laughed in a strident tone. “One orc against my cadre is nothing! Let me show you the gifts I have received,” he boasted, his red imp crawling up on his shoulder and launching a bolt of felfire in Manus’ direction as the goblin took a defensive stance, holding his hands together to gather the demonic energies. Manus coiled back, bringing the shield up to deflect the firebolt, the absorption of the spell against the steel causing it to flare out along the metal. Arching his right arm, he launched the sword at the demon, the blade spinning like a buzzsaw. The blade sank into the Imp on Fizzle’s shoulder, interrupting his concentration as his familiar was pinned into the fire. The demon screeched as it burst into flame and was dispelled back into the nether. “Get him you ingrates,” Darkclaw commanded and scattered behind the advancing cadre.

Manus dropped the shield, reaching behind his back to retrieve the large two-handed axe from Tarshan. His dirt-covered fingers slid along the long handle, the strong wood’s lines of lumber flashed memories of war into the EnheilRas’ mind. His eyes closed for an instant, washing him away to the battle yet to be, and all the battles past. Instant memories of predictable fights, memorable combat, and tactics flooded his psyche. Manus lost touch with the sound of the world; everything became silent and slow, as if shell-shocked. The raising orc to his left, slightly disoriented, was the first to brunt his wrath. Manus swing the two-headed blade swiftly in a horizontal arc, the blade digging into the stomach of the fiend. Immediately Manus felt a burning sensation surge through him. The smell of sulfur overrode his senses and it donned upon him that even the cultist warriors had been shielded with an ethereal felfire barrier. The longer he would be around him, the more he would suffer by their surroundings until overwhelmed. For now, his sense of pain dulled with the surge of adrenaline as he ripped the axe from the stomach of the orc, the strike being dealt just under its rip cage, felling the cultist in two pieces at the torso. He growled as the blood sprinkled on his face and pieces of intestines slid off the fin of the weapon. Quickly ducking the swing of an oncoming Burning Blade cultist, he shoved the head of the axe into the orc’s chest, spinning clockwise to arc the large weapon into a decisive fatal blow into it’s back. The cultist moaned in its deathroes, as it fall on it’s stomach, gribbing the gashing wound. Manus raised the axe once more, his bright orange hair flailing in the quick turn. He growled out towards the rest.

Fizzle cackled, “Those fools mean nothing! You’ll see true power soon enough!” His two warlock companions, gripping balls of nether energy in their palms, coincided their evocations with the goblin, launching a volley of shadowbolts directly at the warrior. The bolts slammed into Manus’ shoulder and chest, blowing him back from the force into the rock.

Manus tore off the mail chain, already beginning to corrode from the blasts of corruptive magic. As he stepped forward into the crater, he felt a huge weight on his back that caused him to stumble forward. Naturally looking up, he was witness to the screaming wolf rider, having used him as a ramp. Jrash tackled directly into the voidwalkers, bringing the massive warblade down to dissect them with a vicious precision. As the EnheilRas regained his balance, several zips of arrows flew above his shoulders from the bow of Soulscar, digging into the chests of one of the two remaining warrior cultists, who sneered as he ripped the arrow out defiantly.

His backup’s confidence regained, Manus twirled the axe in his hands, and defended himself by blocking the cultist’s downward assault with the handle of the axe. Surges of fire erupted against his skin, as if being pushed through a wave of fire. It seemed only to increase his anger and his fury for combat. Sliding his axe down, the bottom fin hooking the sword to rip the sword to the ground, Manus shoved his skull to butt against the head of the cultist, knocking him down. He raised the axe to the moon, and brought it down in a fierce execution, the blade shattering through his victim’s ribcage.

Jrash tackled his shoulder into one of the warlocks, interrupting its evocation and dropping the warlock to the ground. In a furious roar, he leapt on the female orc, and with clenched fists, and began bashing the hilt of his sword against her head until the warlock’s skull collapsed.

Soulscar, tore three arrows from his quiver, and stretched out his bow string, taking aim at the other warlock, invoking fel energies to launch another shadowbolt at the wolf rider. Pulling tight, his first notched arrow sang through the air, and pinned the warlock’s hand to the rocky wall of the ridge. Instinctively, the orc warlock attempted to pull it out, which the archer had bet on, shooting another arrow to pin it’s second hand. Laughing, the final arrow drove through the warlock’s forehead, the body slumping down and hanging by it’s pinned extremities.

“Lok’tar Ogar!” Jrash shouted as he ran across Manus, who slowly approached the goblin with gritted teeth and a grinding hold on the axe. The chaotic warrior’s battlecry pre-empted his wild guillotine assault, the warblade breaking through the final cultist’s longsword. With his left hang, he held the befuddled orc’s shoulder and ran the full six feet of steel through its stomach.

“So what?” Fizzle exclaimed, “They don’t matter. You can’t stop the Burning Blade, even if you kill me, but I don’t foresee that, even if you idiots dispatched of my minions.”

“You came to my people’s land,” Manus sneered. “You arrived here under our protection and survived on this land because of our leadership and defenses. You prospered from the wickedness of imprisonment and the shackles of slavery and our triumphs from that demonic shackle. You would dare decide to seduce and chain my people to that fate once more? Goblin, you will see your masters, and I will deliver you without hesitation!”

Manus raised the axe, and the Goblin thrust his palms forward, blasting a searing firebolt that knocked the head of the weapon and disarmed the Orc. “Eeeyaaah!” Fizzle cried out, quickly launching another shadowbolt into Manus’ chest, flinging the orc back along the ground near the bonfire. The goblin jumped forward, crafting a ball of fire in his right hand.

“EnheilRas! Catch!” Orgnil shouted as he kicked the discarded shield to the Orc. Manus turned to catch the shield in his hands, and without buckling it, slammed it sideways against the goblin. Turning his head to the fire, he doused his right hand into the flames, ripping the warsword from the flames, and sliced it quickly at the warlock, the blade cutting through Fizzle’s right wrist.

Fizzle Darkclaw screeched, holding his wrist as it spouted blood. His right arm fell to the ground, still covered in felfire, which turned that wretched claw black and stone-like. The goblin backed down, hysterically screaming as he applied pressure to stop his bleeding. “You’ll pay for that! The Burning Blade runs deep in the veins of the Horde. You can’t stop us!”

Jrash helped Manus up, and handed him the large axe. Orgnil’s boot shattered Fizzle’s dark claw as he approached the warlock. “Your kind always spread chaos. You, and your kind like you, must be scoured from our lands.” Soulscar turned his quiver, taking out an arrow made of steel, with an arrowhead of mithril. “Jrash, take care of this pest,” he commanded, handing the instrument to the wolf rider.

With an acknowledging grunt, Jrash took the arrow in his right hand, and with a thunderous motion, gripping the goblin by his neck, slamming him against the wall. Without a moment of protest, Jrash slammed the arrow down into the goblin’s skull, piercing out through its mouth. “Dat shut up bad gobbie for sure,” he chuckled as the body slumped down in a growing pool of blood.

Orgnil turned to face Manus, and extended his hand, “You do your clan proud, EnheilRas. Because of you, Durotar is free of one more agent of evil.” Manus grabbed his hand and the two extended a firm shake. “I have one more task for you before I can report success to Nazgrel though. If you could help me in this, it would lead to the destruction of the Burning Blade and the sanctity of our future.”

Manus eyed Jrash going through the tents and searching the corpses for petty cash and weapons as he nodded, “What needs to be done to ensure this corruption stops?”

“One of our Shaman, Margoz, knows more of the Burning Blade’s corruption. He speaks of a cave called Skull Rock – Just outside of Orgrimmar – that shelters a large band of Burning Blade cultists. Before you go there, speak with Margoz. He is wise and his council is valued in our operation. Follow his advice, but whatever you do, I want you to crush those cultists,” Orgnil assigned.

“Lookie wat Jrash find!” Exclaimed the wolf rider, holding up a shirt of chain mail. “Da’ badduns hide it in chest!” He tossed it to Manus, who held it by the sleeves. With a single glance to the corroded mail shirt in his fight with the goblin, this was better than nothing. He slid it over his barrel chest and hooked the shield around his shoulders to his back, securing his warsword afterwards to his belt. “You coming with me too?”

Orgnil shook his head. “Out of my jurisdiction, I’m afraid EnheilRas.” He pointed his head to the wolf rider, “His too. You’re going at this one alone, but I’m sure you can tackle it. It was an honor. Lok’Tar EnheilRas!”

“Lok’tar Orgnil,” Manus returned to him.

Jrash unhooked a loop of rope from his belt, at the end of which was a fish-hook like instrument. Swinging it around like a lasso, the orc tossed the hook up to catch the top of the ridge. He yanked on it three times to ensure it’s stability. “Quick way out,” he informed. The other two were not hesitant to follow him climbing out of the crater of Thunder Ridge. Upon reclaiming his rope, Jrash let out a high-pitched whistle, which his wolf appeared a couple of minutes later. “Jrash proud of Old Orkzes. They make Jrash better fighter. Aka’Magosh EnheilRas,” he thanked as he mounted his wolf, and saluted.

“Fight well, Jrash,” Manus returned.

Jrash clicked his heel against the hind of the wolf, and with a minor help and a loud “Hyaaa!” from the peon, he rode off south against the starlight, back to the valley.

“In your absence in our society, in your exile, EnheilRas, the children have become men. They are without a history. Their chapter is one without the individuals who laid the foundation for your own. I wonder, if given enough time, can an Orc re-invent the concept of Honor, and if he can, will it differ than what it was before?” Orgnil sighed, doused in the light of the moons at their zenith. “Good luck, EnheilRas.”

Manus watched Soulscar depart to the East. He leaned his right arm on the axe, the bottom brushing up the Durotar. Sharp pains in his chest wracked through his torso from the wounds he sustained as his bloodrage diffused in his system. He kneeled down, letting the axe fall, and gripped his chest. Tasting blood once more, Manus spit on the ground, the green-red mixture spattering on the ground. His hands searched for the axe once more, which he used to leverage himself up. His body was screaming at him, banging drums and shattering steel, trying to get his attention that he could not be the same warrior he was. His body didn’t want to die, but it faced failure. Manus slammed his left fist against his heart, the short pain giving him a false sense of vigor, but a sense nonetheless. He snorted once, brushing the blood-caked dust from the tips of his nostrils. Death in the line of duty was the only true calling he could muster. At least in that, he, like every orc from the scout to the overlord himself, had a purpose. With that purpose in sight and jingling through his old bones, he traveled northeast, hoping to circumvent the Drygulch Ravine and meet up with this Shaman Margoz. With the destruction of the Shadow Council, perhaps Manus would be remembered; perhaps the EnheilRas would have a name in orcish history once more.

[EnheilRas]

Riga pulled his two swords from the armored suit of the fallen marine near the doors of Tiragarde Keep. He locked them in his belt before pulling the composite bow from his back. Taking an arrow from the looted quiver, he squinted and let fly the missile into the chest of an oncoming Kul Tirisian sailor, knocking the seaman down with a loud grunt. The orc let the bow down and let out a haughty bellow. “These dumbshits ain’t worth my time! C’mon you two, I’d like to get my ass back to Razor Hill before fuckin’ dawn. We cannot delay in conquest, it is Lopnel’s calling.”

Their troll ally brought his black spear up to block the marine broadsword, and twirled around in a small leap, striking his foe in the back of its right knee, downing the marine. Ya’Utja spun the spear and thrust it down, piercing through the armor with a relative ease to pin the marine to the ground. The troll twisted the spear before pulling out. “’Dat wun al’weez b’ usin’ da’ fronta’ ‘proach ‘mon?”

Trabian nodded. “Yes. Dear Riga has never been the subtle type, I’m afraid. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never been one to knock.” Trabian placed his palms together, generating a yellow aura as he focused his fel energies, launching a blast of searing pain at a female Tirisian marine, knocking her down, rolling over in pain. “He has always preferred busting doors down, waving that big sword of his in every direction possible before looking.” Trabian grabbed his staff from his back, and covered the orb with his left hand, transfusing the nether energies coursing through his body. “It proved effective when he trained a dozen orcs to do the same thing with him.”

Ya’Utja retracted his spear, placing it on his belt, and slung his rifle from his back to hold it upwards. He spied the perched Riga, flinging arrows at unarmored sailors and laughing. “’Dat wun not b’ be’in’ bad at ‘dat t’ing mon, but ‘dat bow ain’t got da’ powa’ ‘v ‘dis t’ing.” He raised the rifle to his eye, and kneeled to absorb recoil into his shoulder. Trabian watched as the high-caliber rifle fired in a deafening shot, blowing a hole through the heavier armored marines along the ramparts. The bandolier sprung out after six shots, prompting Ya’Utja to pull another magazine from his belt, and slapping it into the barrel.

A couple dozen Tirisians lay dead, dying, and bleeding out in the courtyard when Riga kicked open the doors to Tiragarde Keep. Hooking the bow around his chest, their leader placed his palm on the head of the panting dorn. “Shh baby. You stay here. I’ll whistle if I need something,” he cooed. Beladrien sat up in response, then began pacing, sniffing the fallen soldiers for life before gnawing at their throats. Riga eyed his compatriot grimacing and chuckled in response, “Meliviel trained her from a pup, y’know? She’s the last one of her kind. Wouldn’t trade her for the world. Maybe one day you can be as much of a use to Lopnel’s cause, Trabe.”

The warlock rolled his eyes, “I can only hope, Riga, that my overall use may one day rival that of your mutt.” Azpep climbed on Trabian’s right shoulder as he poked his cane inside. A blue-red flame illuminated the entrance way as Riga and Ya’Utja pushed the doors open. The entrance way led to a T-Section, where the left path had collapsed. Debris of stone and wood filled in the entire hallway. Trabian waved the staff as he led the other two inside. A large mural of an anchor-sigiled shield was carved into the front of the wall. “To think the audacity of these humans to build fortresses along the beach within a day’s travel of Orgrimmar,” Trabian murmured.

“Yeah, well, that fucker’s dead now, so we’re left cleaning his shit four years later,” Riga answered, drawing his fraternal blades. “Humans are worse than cockroaches. They breed and expand. I would dare say the Red God favors them above Orcs in how they conquer! Surely, humans must be a test for His faithful. It’s the only way I can explain how fucking ugly the sons of bitches are, really.” Riga stepped forward, turning down the right into a long hall, ending with a berthing compartment. Adjacent was a large opening to the main dining and meeting chamber, which raised two stories in height.

Ya’Utja stretched his back once, holding his rifle high and ready as he followed behind Riga. “Ah ‘kin ‘ear ‘em mon. ‘Dey b’ wait’n fo’ us in ‘dat d’ere chamba’.”

Riga’s left brow raised at the troll, and he sheathed a single blade. “Hey Riil, c’mere for a bloody second.” Trabian stepped forth, but wasn’t prepared when the smaller Orc jumped up and grabbed his imp, and rolled it like a ball in front of the main chamber.

“There’s one!” was the shout in a baritone voice, followed by half a dozen bolts launching through the imp, exploding to ash.

Trabian sighed, “Was that really necessary?” He raised his right hand, and snapped his fingers, creating a spark of flame that puffed the miniscule demon back to flesh on his shoulder perk.

“Kawak na echuu paka ni!”

Riga sheathed his other sword, and pulled the composite bow from his chest. “That little shit know any other tricks?”

“As a matter of fact, since you asked nicely,” Trabian began, “Azpep does know a special trick.” Trabian extended his arm, and the imp crawled down, hopping onto the floor. The warlock bumped his staff down, and the imp twirled around, and phased out of existence. Trabian kneeled down, “Surprise them little one. We’ll take care of the rest.” The maniacal cackle of the mischievous imp resounded with the three as the thumping of his skipping down through the chamber was tracked by their ears.

Riga grinned, “That thing’s been a fucking thorn in my ass for the past few years Trabe, and it’s all forgiven now that there’s an actual use for him in Lopnel’s name.” Riga pulled a arrows from the quiver, one between each knuckle. “We won’t get a second chance at this.”

In the main chamber, four marines armed with crossbows had turned over the Keep’s dinner table, using it was a bulwark to cover their shots. Two other sailors were perched on the stone staircase leading up to the second floor. They kneeled with a steady hand, ready to fire the moment something appeared through that door. They didn’t expect the hissing and chortle of the invisible imp as it pranced behind their table, dancing and frolicking as its yellow eyes burned with a playful lust, dousing itself in a fiery aura as it launched a bolt of fire directly into their table, igniting the wooden table. With a raucous shout, the four stood up and turned as the table rose in flames.

Riga turned into the door, and fired all three arrows impulsively, two striking the table as the third pierced through the armor of one of the marines. Ya’Utja and Trabian were quick to aid, Trabian slamming his staff on the ground, cupping the orb in his left hand to siphon the shadow energy and launch a bolt of nether directly into the table, shattering it into splinters. The troll fired his rifle in a semi-automatic manner, each high caliber bullet striking the targets, no longer covered by their burning table. The Tirisian armor held no sway against the Ya’Utja’s bullets, boring holes through the cuirasses of the four marines.

One of the two sailors on the staircase, undeterred, fired the bolt at smaller orc, which struck him in his upper left chest. Riga, not missing a beat, ripped the bolt out of his chest. He pulled back on his bow, knocking the bolt into the string, and shot it back at the sailor, striking him in the neck. The sailor put his hands around his neck to try to apply pressure to stop the arterial bleeding, squirting from his neck as he slid down the stairs, coughing as the bolt was still stuck through his throat.

The second sailor began to fire, but a loud shot knocked the crossbow from his hands. Ya’Utja’s grinning could be seen through his two large tusks as he steadied the fire one more time. With the ping of the bandolier launching from the barrel, the final bullet left the chamber, expelling to the forehead of the sailor, splattering grey matter against the wall as the lifeless body slumped to the ground. Ya’Utja pulled another bandolier from his ammo belt, slamming it into the barrel, and pulled the bolt lock to ready the chamber. “’Dat worked well mon!”

Azpep’s snickered as the imp crawled up the back of Trabian, and sat like a gargoyle on his shoulder. “Yes, well, almost perfect. Are you alright Riga?”

Riga slung his bow around his chest, and gripped the bleeding wound in his chest. “How do I fucking look? I’ll be okay, that shitty little fuck. Lopnel has not foreseen I join him in Daka this day, Trabian. No, I am yet to be worthy of his grace. Get fucking rid of those goddamned flames Riil before this entire fucking place goes up.”

Trabian placed his finger to his lips, and with a gentle “Shhh” the flaming table extinguished itself. Using his cane, he walked over to the four dead marines, prodding their bodies. “Looks like a few of these have some copper pieces on them.”

“Take ‘em. Maybe we can get enough cash, we can finally get a meal worth paying for,” Riga replied, stripping off pieces of linen from the sailors clothes, and using it as a bandage to stop the bleeding on his chest.

“If’n ya’z gon’ b’ tak’n from da’ deed, why’z ya’z not b’ tak’n d’ere weapons an’ arma” Ya’utja asked. He slung the rifle around to his back, having never really infiltrated an actual human-built keep before. He considered it a bit gaudy and claustrophobic.

Riga turned around, tightening the bandage, “What was that?”

“I think he asked us that, if we’re going to go ahead and steal from these dead humans, why are we only grabbing a few copper coins and small strips of their tabards, and not all their armor and weapons,” Trabian attempted to explain.

Riga shrugged, “the fuck if I know. I wouldn’t want to haul all that shit around anyway.” The orc tied the bandage in a knot, a red spot already beginning to swell under it. “Let’s continue, my faithful comrades.” Riga pulled the bodies from the stairs, tossing them to the ground. “There can’t be much more of these assholes to kill,” he said as he climbed the steps.

The main chamber’s staircase lead up to one of the two main towers, which was build to gain access to a single second level, where the mission planning and secondary siege defense took place. As Riga stepped to look up, his shoulders were tightly grabbed by the troll and pulled back. Sure enough, less than a second later, an iron cannonball fell to the ground, impacting in the stone floor and bouncing twice, before rolling to the side.

“I’z be’n ‘earin’ ‘dem ‘oomuns ‘mon. ‘Deyz be’n gotz da’ nasty soo’prizes fo’ us. Lotz ‘o ‘dem big balls up d’ere fo’ ‘dos black shoota’s. Bes’ b’ let’n da’ Ya’Utja tak’n care ‘o ‘dis one, eh?” The hunter twisted his bracers, which extended the long wrist blades, and he clenched his fist. Pushing Riga back slightly to safety, he peered up, sneaking a look into the high ceiling of the tower. The staircase was wooden, going up two more levels where he saw a single sailor with a mound of cannonballs looking down. They matched eyes but for an instance, and he dropped a second ball. Ya’Utja bent back out of the room, and with another clang the second ball impacted the floor, creating a small crack this time, and bounced before rolling to the side. Ya’Utja quickly took action, leaping onto the staircase, using the wrist blades to stab into the wood, bringing up his legs in a spring position as his kept his eyes on the Tirisian sailor picking up another cannonball. The troll sprung off the wooden stairs to the wall of the tower, avoiding the third cannon, clinging to the stone, and climbed up the side of us like a bear up a tree. He flipped to the staircase against, just another level below the sailor, hearing the faint whistling of a fourth ball, yet again completely missing the agile troll. “Joo’z in da’ big trouble now ‘mon. Da’ Ya’Utja b’ com’n fo’ ya’z,” he warned. The troll stepped back and leapt across to the wall, kicking off of it and spinning around, outreaching his arms to impale the sailor in both his lungs. Hooking his feet between the handrails, he flipped back, launching the body over them, and retracted his blades to drop it.

The sailor’s body fell with a thump, landing on a couple of the dormant cannonballs. Trabian winced at the impact, much to Riga’s own amusement. “Ain’t he a squirrely motherfucker?” Riga asked with disbelief as he unsheathed his two-handed sword and impaled the sailor for good measure. “I’ve never seen fucking anything quite like that shit, you Trabe?”

The warlock rubbed his forehead, “No, not quite like that.” The two leisurely walked up the steps as the troll flipped back up onto the main platform. The exit way led to a T-Section, where the right way went into the siege tower and the roof, the left way to the head chamber. By this point, the stone had completely gone away, the rest being hardwood floors and walls. Large evidence of shoring and repair wood could be seen, showing that part of the Keep, much like its walls and the six cannon towers surrounding it, had been destroyed by the goblin-built orcish armada. Riga stepped forward, taking the left path, with Ya’Utja behind him, and Trabian third. Riga passed through to the main chamber, where one man stood, flanked with two heavily armored marines, carrying shields embossed with the Kul Tiras anchor. The man was much higher decorated, and carried two silver bars on his uniform.

Riga casually walked in, sneering at the man, “you must be the big fucking man in charge,” he said to the human, followed inside by his two compatriots.

“Orcs, and they brought a lowly troll cretin. I knew they would come for us one day,” the man told his bodyguards. Unlike the two marines, he did not wear a helmet, which allows his bald head, save for a brown goatee to be seen. “It was hardest to wait for you fiends to finally come and finish us off. We held off the best we could; the best we knew how, but you foul demons never stopped. We killed all those grunts that came at us, but we couldn’t replace the men we killed while your kind have been left to spawn here, unchecked.” The man turned to pick up a large scimitar, and belt a kite shield to his left wrist. “I am Lieutenant Benedict, Orc, in the Royal Service of the Navy of Kul Tiras. Your kind will remember my name.”

“Yeah yeah, quit ‘yer bitching already and prepare to die like dogs,” Riga interjected. “I don’t need sappy stories from dead motherfuckers like yourself. You weaklings shoulda stayed on your shitty little island and continued jerking yourselves off to how great you are, but you thought you could come around here and bring conquest to Lopnel’s own people? What fucking madness is that? All you’ve done is escape his claim over you. You’ve done nothing but hide, human, like a coward!” Riga peeled out his two swords, with Ya’Utja elongating his speed in a rapid throwing motion of his arm.

“You shortsighted fool. Your kind never faced the full might of our nation! Admiral Proudmoore, bless that great man, was smarter than that. You may have killed our king, but our nation is stronger than ever. My death will only mean a greater force. This land will fall, even if I do before it!” Benedict answered. “You die now!” Benedict leapt over the railing and moved at Riga, as the two marines raised their shields, each approaching a different target.

“Good, I like an enemy with a little fire in his belly!” Riga exclaimed, moving to meet Benedict in combat. Using Decay, he blocked the Lieutenant’s scimitar, swiping with Corruption, which promptly met the officer’s shield. Benedict shifting the shield inward, and threw it back, knocking Riga’s smaller frame a few feet away. “Well, you’re a tough shit, huh? Good.”

Trabian waved his staff around, weaving fel energies to invoke a shadowbolt at the assaulting marine. His foe stanced defensively, using the shield to absorb the spell, then continued his press towards the warlock, deflecting the firebolts from the imp. “Oh, this is bothersome,” Trabian commented. He pointed his open palm at the marine’s shield, and slowly clenched his fist. The corrupting energies of the nether enveloped the metal, and began oxidizing the iron, rusting it. “We’ll get rid of that first,” Riil told the marine as politely as possible, “then continue with our little spar.” The marine dropped the corroding shield, raising his sword to strike vertically at Trabian, who stepped to the side, swinging the back of his cane at the ankle of the marine to knock him down. He stepped back a few more feet, “You almost had me worried for a moment, sir.”

Ya’Utja twirled the spear, holding it sideways to contact against his enemy’s sword. Spinning downward, the troll hopped up to give his thrust a little more strength, but it slid against the shield of the marine, who knocked the blade down into the floorboard. The troll ducked under the horizontal slash the marine followed-up with, twisting around to knock the back of his heel in a roundhouse kick to the marine’s neck, knocking his helmet off. Pulling the spear from the ground, and spinning it up right, he remarked, “Joo gotz a nice ‘ead d’ere ‘mon. Ah wouldn’t mind b’ tak’n it fo’ m’self,” dangling his collection on his belt with his left hand and grinning.

Trabian readied his staff the marine he knocked down stood up, gripping his longsword with both hands. As he shouted, “For Kul Tiras!” Trabian pointed his staff at the man’s hands, blasting a force of searing pain at his palms, knocking the sword from his grasp. Surprised, the marine had no recourse when Trabian approached him, tearing his helmet off. “Let me show you what’s really to fear here human.” Trabian’s left hand gripped the man at the temples, and he began channeling into the nether. Intense energies of the Void and all the emotional vampires within that dark space invaded the man’s psyche as Trabian entered a 3-second period of Rapid-Eye Movement. The marine fell to his knees, clutching the Orc’s wrists, struggling to no end as his eyes widen and he began shrieking. When the warlock finally let go, the marine stood and ran from the room screaming. Up the stairs he went to the third story tower, holding his head as the horrors of the otherworld terrorized his very soul. He wasn’t paying attention when the balcony ended, falling to his death in the sand more than thirty feet down.

Riga swung his left sword to again meet the shield of Benedict, who swiped at Riga’s exposed left hips. The orc pivoted on his left heel, barely missing the tip of the blade, and with all his strength, slashed both blades against the back of the Lieutenant, cutting through the chains holding the metal plating protecting most of his body and slicing through his skin. Benedict groaned in pain, stumbling away. Riga just chuckled, “I think you’re time is done here.” He spun the blades in his hands, stabbing them into their sheaths on his belt, and slid out the Inquisitor. “I claim this Keep in the name of Lopnel!”

Ya’Utja raised the polearm up to block the downward cut of the marine’s sword, shifting his wrists and pounded the butt end into the marine’s chest. Kneeling down, he extended his leg in a swift sweep against the back of the man’s knees, toppling him. Turning around with a savage growl, he jumped on the human, and stabbed the polearm down directly into the marine’s unguarded neck, turning his head to avoid the jetting gush of blood from the force of the attack.

Riga shouted, “For the Glory of Lopnel” as he painfully swathed the blade in a huge arc, bashing against the shield of Benedict with such force is knocked him to the side. Without relent, Riga again swung the blade horizontally, slamming it against the slightly lower shield of Benedict. Each impact caused the Lieutenant to be moved two more feet; each impact causing his to groan in pain from the power of the blade; each impact cutting a dent into the metal. Riga swung mindlessly, chaotically, and still he swung without any method but to break the man he called his enemy. With a painful cry, he knew that he had shattered the man’s forearm, and the shield dropped. As Benedict dropped to his knees, his eyes met Riga’s once.

“We will return,” was all Benedict got out before the blade decapitated him.

Riga slid his sword behind his back. “Well that’s a fuckin’ job well done!” He congratulated. Trabian had found his way to a large table full of literature, shifting through books of theory, tactics, and history. Ya’Utja growled as he tore the skull and spine from his kill, using a carving knife to remove the skin.

“Interesting stuff here, Riga,” Trabian commented. “Looks like personal notes from the late Admiral about young Thrall’s Horde.”

Riga kicked Benedict’s head to Ya’Utja, “All yours bobo.” He kicked the body down, blood pooling out of the corpse at a great rate. A small glint caught Riga’s eye, and his hand immediately reached for it. Finding a small key, he tore it from the belt. “Hey Trabe, whaddya think this little shit’s good for? Ya’ think this fucker’s hiding a closet full of gold somewhere in this pigsty?”

Trabian placed the book down, “A lot of this place is in severe disrepair from the Horde’s dismantling initiative. The weapons are badly maintained. I don’t think you’ll find any great treasure here.”

Ya’Utja attached the marine and Benedict’s head to his belt, “T’ankee ‘mon,” he accepted. His ears perked up and his complexion became stone. “We’z gotz company.” The troll darted out of the room to the hallway, who, after meeting eyes with Trabian, quickly followed him. They peered down the stairs, where they saw near a dozen marines looking up at them.

“Commander Zalaphil, there they are! They must have killed the Lieutenant!”

“Destroy them! Don’t let them get the Admiral’s letter!”

“I think that’s time to leave,” Trabian insisted.

“I agree, friend. Lead the way,” Riga replied. “But first..” said the Orc he pushed the cannonballs down the stairs, thumping and bumping and bouncing down each step, colliding with the advancing company and knocking them and their shields down.

“I suppose the best way to go is up,” Trabian directed, and dashed right, rushing up the stairs, chased on his heels by Riga and Ya’Utja. The balcony on the roof of the Keep ended in an open corridor where a lone chest sat, shut with a single lock on it. “Now what’s the logic of putting a box up here? Any gust of wind would knock it down.”

Riga lifted the key from his bag, and kneeled down to place the key inside. He turned it with a surprising click, and the chest opened. “Well I’ll be damned. There might be rhyme or reason to this world somehow.” He opened the chest, and the only thing inside was an aged envelope. “Fuckers!” He cursed. “Who locks a bloody piece of paper inside a goddamned chest!? What the shit is that?!”

Trabian picked up the letter. “It must be what that human was saying, a letter from the late Admiral Proudmoore. We should take it to that Orc in Razor Hill that hired us.”

“But how the hell are we going to get there?” Riga asked as the sound of bouncing platemail resounded up the steps.

“’Dis way ‘mon!” Ya’Utja shouted from the scaled roof of the Keep. The two orcs ran to him, where the hunter had found the northside of the keep was facing a broken down human inn. Ya’Utja pointed to a window where a bed was, one of the private rooms in the Inn. “’Dat t’ing.” Ya’Utja retracted his spear, locking it in his belt, and gave himself a running start. Diving through the air like a missile, he landed on the bed, rolling off the springs, and crouched up.

Trabian slid his staff on his back, tying it to his belt, “Here goes nothing.” He took several steps back, and launches himself in the air, catching the windowsill in his chest. Azpep walked along his arms, laughing, as Trabian pulled himself up through the broken glass of the window. He turned, beckoning Riga, “Come on!”

Riga glanced back, finding several marines on the roof. “There they are! On the roof! After them!” Several climbed on top of the roof and began charging directly for the hunter.

“Bastards,” Riga muttered, taking two steps back and jumped as far as he could, swinging his arms as if he was swimming. His shorter legs, however, could not propel him as far, and Trabian reached out, shouting his name as they gripped each other’s hands. Riga dangled there for a quick second, laughing a bit to himself and giving Trabian a quick, thankful smile, as the warlock pulled him up with the troll’s help. Riga sat down on the floor for a second, holding his forehead. “Well, that was exciting,” he said before whistling. Seconds later, Beladrien came galloping upstairs to the orc. Riga looked outside the window, but could only see dead bodies still on the ground.

“We should probably head to Razor Hill now,” Trabian suggested. “At least before they get back down there and trap us here.” Trabian unbuckled his staff, and rechanneled into the orb, darkening the gem with a maroon glow.

Riga nodded, “Yeah, let’s be off now. You comin’ foghat?”

The troll nodded, “’Datz Ya’Utja ‘mon.”

“Whatever,” Riga replied apathetically.

[EnheilRas]

“You’re back huh?” Zygand didn’t seem pleased, but he didn’t seem displeased at the sight of Therion. “Find out what you needed fledgling?” The skeletal steed tromped about as the Executor lightly pulled the reins.

It hadn’t been a day, almost eighteen hours. Dark in the glades hadn’t changed the environment much during the day. It seemed the Blight the Scourge had inflicted during its reign in Lordaeron left the area in a perpetual dimness that the Forsaken residency had warmed up to a point that they didn’t mind the bleakness of the surroundings. For a moment, Therion wondered if the sun actually rose in the East, or had been banished from the area from some cruel necromantic magic.

“The only thing I know is that I need to kill three men and you know there whereabouts,” Therion rebuked towards Zygand. “The demon told me you’d cooperate.”

Executor Zygand dismounted, his glowing yellow eyes scanning Therion. “So Lord Varimathras thinks you can be a Deathstalker? You must have impressed him on some level to think some worthless fledgling like you has some potential to be a Deathstalker.” The heavily armored corpse shambled to the wall of the Brill Hall, and ripped down a piece of parchment tacked on the wood. Zygand rolled it up and tossed it to Therion, “That’s what we got a week or so ago from the Royal Quarter. Varimathras put a hit on three fleshbags who operate in a guerilla camp east, across the lake. They have been disrupting our routes to the Bulwark and basically being a nuisance. We can’t have those damned crusaders forward deploying from their little monastery.”

Therion glanced at the wanted poster before tucking it in his pocket. “So this is a security measure for the town?” It was tough to believe that the dreadlord’s motivation was altruistic, but perhaps this domesticated fiend actually had the best interests of these corpses in his black heart.

“Executor Arran, my intelligence officer, provided me documents that give the location of their encampments,” Zygand explained. “They’re all we need to drive this human infestation from our land. The armies of the Lich King grow every day, and we can’t allow the forces of the Dark Lady to be distracted from that cause by these wretched bugs. You’re not the only person involved in this task, fledgling. I saw you when you arrived like a confused boy. You saw that troll, did you? He was already sent southwest to a ruined tower to assassinate Captain Perrine and his friars.

“What you can do, is go to the Balnir Farmstead, about half a day’s travel east. There’s a scout tower that the Crusade sieged under Captain Vachon. You kill his soldiers, retake that tower, and cut off his head and I can report the victory to our Queen.” Zygand grinned a little bit,”The final one was the leader of the raiding parties, Captain Melrache, who operates in the western tower at the outside wall of the Monastery itself. I don’t expect a weakling such as yourself to be able to kill Melrache and his evil crew, but should you do so in the name of the Dark Lady, I will sign off on Lord Varimathras’ little task for you and see you on your way to whatever he has in store for you."

“You let that troll in here? Why would you let there kind wander about if you hate the living so much,” Therion inquired.

Zygand mounted the purple skeletal horse, “We Forsaken have an understanding with the Horde and its peoples. Namely that we don’t bother them and they don’t bother us. They mostly stay on their side of the world, and tend not to interfere. At least they don’t willingly confuse us with the Scourge. If you happen across that troll, send him back here for his money, unless they’ve killed him, of course.”

Dismissed from Zygand, Therion turned south once more along the road. His mind was trying to convince him of mortal concerns: fatigue, hunger, thirst, muscular dystrophy; but this psychosomatic nagging would take some time to be able to completely erase from his being. Unlife would take some getting used to, because he didn’t feel any different than when his flesh still held warmth so many years ago that felt like yesterday. With the High Executor’s directions, Therion supposed it would take almost twelve hours to walk, due to the farmstead being halfway to what was referred to as ‘The Bulwark,’ the frontline of Lordaeron’s war against the Scourge. The undead fighting the undead was hardly a concept Therion found natural. He had a lot of time to think about it as he walked alone down the roads of Tirisfal.

The farmstead was a place of near black soil. The Balnirs were renown amongst the Kingdoms for being royal horse breeders. The stables lay strewn in pieces, and as Therion crossed along the soil, he could see wraiths and ethereal spirits roaming along, their agonizing moans outwardly delineating their hostility towards anything made of flesh. Therion crept silently along to a raised plateau northeast of the farmstead, where the dilapidated tower overlooked the plain. He could see half a dozen men, flesh and blood men, dressed in red tabards. Their heads were shaved like a friar, and many held thick staves. ‘This Vachon must be inside the tower,’ Therion thought.

Sprinting across the field, he placed his back against the rocky wall, staying out of side of the scarlet sentries. Therion tightened his mask before sliding his dagger from his belt, sidestepping along the hill as it rose up the gradient of equal level to reach the tower. He could hear the scarlet friar above him, watching out into those fierce fields with all manner of spirits. He turned as soon as he could reach the top, and pulled himself up, surprised at how strong his corpse-like form had become, fueled by something other than muscle. He was quick to cusp his left hand over the friar’s mouth, before repeatedly jabbing of the dagger through his spine, twisting it ever so much in each thrust before tossing the body over the edge.

Therion pressed against the outer wall of the tower, out of sight should anymore friars approach the cliff. Drawing the Deathstalker blade in his left hand, he inched along the walls, stopping when the fortifications opened to the inner courtyard where the tower rose. Large white bricks, covered in mold and undergrowth, scattered the area, as wooden shoring kept half the tower standing upright. Therion could see two more friars walking around the front of the tower. He didn’t know how many this captain kept with him inside. This wasn’t exactly a winning situation, but he would have to make the best of it. For the first time, Therion wondered if he could actually die. He was dead already, wasn’t he? Did he feel pain, or just remember what pain felt like and forced himself to feel it? Could he bleed? Was it even possible for him to die again? Was he eternal?

Therion couldn’t wait anymore to ponder, and ran directly towards the nearest of the humans. He leapt into the air, raising his sword to strike the man down. What he received, however, was a long staff shoved into his torso, stopping his blade inches away, and being shoved to the ground. “Undead creature!” The friar yelled, pinning the surprised Therion down on the ground. He felt that. It hurt. But he still didn’t know if it actually hurt or his brain was insisting that what just happened to him should hurt. He could eventually turn this trigger off, just as he would attempt to turn off the pains of hunger and fatigue. Therion could be invincible.

As the friar raised the staff to stab it down into him, Therion swept his legs to knock the man down. He leaned back to flip up to his feet, grabbing his weapons in mid-crouch. The second friar had heard the shout of the first and came charging at him. Therion spun the sword to block the top of the staff, but as he thrust his dagger towards the friar’s gut, the holy man twirled the staff vertically, catching the back of Therion’s right ankle, and toppling him down. Therion quickly rolled to the side and stood up, avoiding another downward jab from the staff. “You two are getting on my nerves,” Therion warned.

One of the friars yelled out, running at Therion and striking a blow downward at him. Therion weaved to the left, spinning his dagger downwards, and swiftly stabbed it under the man’s ribs. He turned around to deal a deathblow, but the second friar slammed his staff against Therion’s back, knocking him off balance. The friar pulled the knife from his side, tossing it to the ground. His hand illuminated in a yellow glow, and he pressed it to the wound. When his hand retracted, the puncture had disappeared. “You ghouls stand no match against the wielders of the Light.”

Therion relaxed his stance, drawing his sword forward and arching his dagger back. “I didn’t want to do this, but you two are seriously starting to make me angry.” He rushed at the friars, leaning back to duck a sweeping strike of one of the staves. He brought his sword up to parry the second staff, and lunged into a steep kick into the first friar’s stomach. As his foe lurched down in pain, Therion stabbed from the left, impaling the dagger sideways through the friar’s neck. He ripped it out as soon as it went in, sliding his sword down to lower the staff of his next foe. He hopped up and spun, swinging his heel around to impact in the side of the friar’s head, knocking him down. Therion landed and thrust his sword down through the friar’s back.

Retrieving his weapons, Therion breached the tower, slinking within the walls as he snuck around the circular court to the entryway. He peered over to see two more guards on the side of the doors. Readying himself for another round, Therion halted as he spotted on the very other side the pointed ears of a green-fleshed troll, the same that he had seen the previous day in Brill. The creature pulled a long wire from it’s right sleeve, and holding it taut, jumped from the shadows to garrote one of the guards. As his victim choked, the other shouted and raised his metal staff. Therion took this grand opportunity, and kicked off the inner wall to launch himself into the air. Like a bird of prey, Therion raised his talons and jammed them into the back of the other friar, sword and dagger easily piercing through his flesh. The troll let his asphyxiated victim down, retracting his wire.

“who jooz be, ghoulie-mon?” It asked. The forest troll tilted his head. Therion noted the drab leathers the troll dressed itself in, with a severed human head carried in a netted bag from his belt, apparently from the other scarlet captain. A quiver of spears was drawn across the troll’s back, and a brick-like mace and curved kukri each hung at the ready.

“You’re moving in on my kill troll,” Therion informed. “Zygand told me that if I saw you to return to Brill to collect your bounty. This one is mine.”

The troll snickered, “If’n ‘dat be how joo fight ghoulie-mon, ‘den jooz gonna be need’n mah help.” The troll stretched out, easily standing more than three feet above Therion, concealed in its wiry frame. The beguiling structure of the troll did little to conceal its unnatural agility that, if tested, would surpass Therion’s own martial prowess.

Therion sighed, “fine. Let’s get this over with, but I get the kill.” The troll agreed, and the two charged into the tower, where the two guards and an armored Captain Vachon stood, carrying a long rapier and a thick iron shield.

“The scourge have come! They’ve brought one of those diseased trolls from the East,” the raven-haired Vachon proclaimed. “Kill them quickly. This tower must not fall!”

The troll slid one of his javelins and laughed, tossing it directly into one of the two guards, striking the man down before he even had a chance to react. Therion dashed left, running up the ruined staircase and dived off, his right arm raised high, knife held tightly. He was met with the broad shield of the captain, who followed through with a quick assault from his foil. Therion brushed the edge of the deathguard blade against the razor-sharp steel, causing sparks to fire from the friction as the pommels met together. “All I need is your head,” Therion said as he pressed against the scarlet captain. “That’s all I need from you. Why must you be so difficult?”

The troll dashed towards the other guard, reaching into his pouch to discharge three spherical objects which exploded in dust and smoke in front of the friar. The troll vaulted into the air in a somersault, landing behind the blinded man. Gripping his mace, he grunted as he swung the hammer, the impact against the back of the human’s skull making an almost hollow clunk sound, as if it was against wood. The troll quickly kneeled to slam the hammer down a couple more times on the skull to ensure the kill, each impact caving the skull in at the point of contact.

“I’ll do you a favor and make it quick,” Therion whispered Vachon. Raising his knee, he kicked off the scarlet captain’s stomach, which sent them both stumbled back from their locked position. As Therion backpaced, he reared his arm back and hurled his dagger. It soared directly to point and embedded into Vachon’s chest, causing him to fall with the added force. Therion balanced himself, and laughed, walking towards the captain. Vachon held the dagger in his chest, rasping as his lung collapsed, filling with blood. Therion’s crouched down, slapping the rapier away, and watched. “Y’know, nothing makes me happier than seeing Nobleman die,” he told Vachon. “You army officers are almost all nobility, right? Yeah, you are. I made a living killing you before I became this. Now I make an unliving doing the same. I’ll be sending your friend to hell with you soon,” he informed as he pressed on his dagger and retrieved it back to his belt.

“Uh leetle unda’handed ghoulie-mon,” the troll remarked as he picked his spear from the first friar, and slid it back into the quiver, “but joo can get da’ job done. Joo go’n to da’ udda’ ‘wun?”

Therion turned around to face the troll. “As a matter of fact I am,” he said with an indignant tone. “Why is that any business of yours?”

“’Dis ‘wun be easy, ghoulie-mon. ‘Dat udda’ ‘wun, up in da’ Nort’? Joo’z gonna need mah ‘elp, ‘cuz joo ain’t tuffa’ ‘nuff ta’ do it alone ‘mon,” the troll suggested.

“So you can get the award? I don’t think so troll,” Therion argued. “I have no reason to trust your thieving kind. For all I know you’ll throw me to those paladins to crucify and get the bounty for the work.”

The troll laughed. It was a mad cackle for the green-skinned creature. “Ah ain’t innit fo’ da’ money ghoulie-mon. Don’cha be worryin’ about me. Afta’ all, if’n d’ere be anywun ta’ t’inknin’ ‘bout not trustin’, it’d be me fo’ joo. Joo da’ ‘wun wit’out da’ flesh, ghoulie-mon.”

Therion slid his gloved hand over his mask. “Stop calling me that. My name is Therion. Therion Rayet of Moonbrook.”

“Ahs be Cuchumaquiq,” the troll answered, “’v da’ Revantusk. Mah clan be fah East ‘v ‘ere. Wha’choo gon’ be doin’ killin’ fo’ da’ ghoulies if’n joo dunna’ wan’ be da’ ghoulie?”

“I’m trying to get home, as if that’s any of your business troll,” Therion explained. “The Forsaken said that if I kill these men, they can arrange for my pass to Moonbrook.”

Cuchumaquiq nodded, rubbing his chin. “Ah ‘kin unda’stand ‘dat d’ere T’errian. Ah lef’ mah home in da’ Hinta’lans. We’s Revans b’ waitin’ fo’ da’ Zul’jin to be comin’ back to da’ Aman’i. Ah’s sat ‘round too long, so’s ah’s t’inkin’ ‘dat I go’s an’ finds ‘em. So’s maybe I’s come wit’choo, eh mon? Maybe he’s in ‘dat Moonbrook place.”

Therion had heard of this Zul’jin. Anyone born in the last twenty years knew the name. The troll apparently was so revered to the forest people that he managed to combined the tribal states. In his disappearance, they splintered and fell into combat over resources, allowing the Alliance to cull back their numbers and keep them in check. If the trolls didn’t know where Zul’jin was, and no body had yet been found, for Therion fully believed that, as a war criminal, he would have been publically executed by the elves as a show of strength, but nothing like that had occurred, then he was simply missing somewhere. “Fine,” he gave into Cuchumaquiq, thinking that, as simple-minded this adolescent was, he would be useful as another pair of weapons, “You can come along troll.”

Cuchumaquiq gave Therion a thumb’s up, “Ahri’t! So where’s ‘dis Moonbrook place anyways?” Had Therion eyeballs, they’d be rolling. The yellow flares that burst from his sockets could, unfortunately, do no such thing in order to show his utter contempt already growing for this troll.

Therion stepped out of the tower, glancing up at the sky, “You said you knew where this Melrache was?”

Cuchumaquiq grinned, “Jah ‘mon, Jus’ joo follow me, an’ ah b’ takin’ care ‘v jas.” Therion followed the scout through the northern Tirisfal forests. Evergreens were ever dark as demon wolfhounds and duskbats littered the wilderness. Therion could see a large lake to the west, but was informed to stay away from it, because his troll companion felt ‘bad juju’ on the island.

Cuchumaquiq eventually lead Therion to a strong dirt road, climbing up a hill, to where he could see the huge Scarlet Monastery high on top of the hill, easily overlooking all within Tirisfal. There would be no better easily defended place in the entire region. The bare deciduous trees lining up the path were covered with the hung corpses of corpses; a warning sign against the mindless and incomprehensible. Somewhere along the line, someone in the Crusade would have had to realize that there were undead creatures that regained their sentience. Why else would they use methods of communication and warning? Perhaps, Therion considered, it was just gloating.

A fork in the road was eventually reached, “We’z be go’n left ghoulie-mon,” Cuchumaquiq informed.

“What’s right?”

“Da’ chu’ch b’ up d’ere ‘mon. ‘Dey be much bigga’ an’ badda’. Ain’t gonna’ live lon’ if’n joo and me go up d’ere,” his scout said. “Da’ cap’n’s towa’ be da’ udda’ way. I dunno why it’s na’ up d’ere, but ah be t’inkin’ ‘dat ‘dey b’ lookin’ fo’ sumptin’.”

“Or looking out for something,” Therion interjected, and followed behind Cuchumaquiq along the left road. He scanned the Troll, now carrying two heads in his net bag. “What were those things you threw in the tower, troll? The ones that caused the smoke?”

“’Dos be mah boomas. Joo be pretty sooprized at wha’cha kin do wit’ da’ plants joo can fin’ in da’ ground ‘mon. Mebbe ah kin show joo ‘wun day, eh mon?” He dipped his hand in one of his two pouches, rolling out two brown balls between his three fingers. “’Deez wuns be da’ smokas. Joo jus’ need da’ right kinda’ t’ings togetha’ and ‘deys be all smokey. Good fo’ da’ vanishin’.” He tossed the two to Therion, who caught both with his right hand, and looked at them strangely. Alchemy was a thing of science and magicians. The savagery of the troll race didn’t match with his view of a sophisticated lab with all sorts of glass baubles and chemicals. “An’ deez be da’ flashaz. Joo be puttin’ a bitta’ da’ propa’ powda’ and dey’s a pincha’ daylight. Neva’ fail in distractin’ wunna’ deez basta’ds.” Cuchumaquiq tossed Therion just a single one of them, perhaps out of necessity.

The Scarlet Watch Post, a single cannon tower overlooking the northern flank, was in a better state of repair than the outpost by the farmstead, but its operational capability still left something to be desired. No robe-adorned monks walked around it either. Therion saw armored men, with shields and swords. The troll had been right. As confident as Therion was, he doubted he could take on half a dozen soldiers, possibly paladins, without being torn to pieces and strung up on some limb like apparent others had done.

“’Ow we gonna be doin’ ‘dis mon?” Cuchumaquiq asked him. “It’d be bad mojo if’n joo be wantin’ ‘ta walk right in, ja?”

Therion reached back to tighten his facemask, “Follow my lead troll.” He clasped his knife in his right hand and sprinted directly towards the tower.

“Scourge incoming!” The alert ran through the tower, emptying out in six scarlet soldiers. The captain, a long-haired man with a polished two-handed sword and covered in black chain, stood at the doorway, motioning for his two personal bodyguards to stay with him. The six raised their swords, and ran shield first towards the mad rogue.

Therion spun his knife around, and drew the Deathstalker sword and held it horizontally. The moment the blade came in contact with a swinging scarlet edge, Therion quickly twirled around clockwise, keeping his momentum to run past the first crusader, swinging his right arm back to jab his dagger into the kidney, pulling out just as quickly to face the second crusader. Therion brought his sword to block the downward strike of the second crusader, and thrust his leg forward to knock the man back, and turned to lean back to narrowly dodge the vertical attack from a third. He cart-wheeled back from the mob, and spun his wrists around, “Come on and get me.”

As the scarlet soldiers turned towards Therion, Cuchumaquiq was quick to act, wrapping his left hand around the head of the wounded one and quickly slicing his knife across the man’s throat. They didn’t realize the troll was there a second soldier fell the victim of Cuchumaquiq’s downward knife at the base of his neck. The mischievous grin of the troll, his two curved tusks protruding from his lips, did nothing to belie his pleasure as he rushed into the scarlet knights. “Ahs gonna cuh’cha gizza’ds ‘oot,” he cried.

Therion burst forward as Cuchumaquiq carried the distraction, running his blade through the back of one of the four remaining soldiers, cutting his dirk along his neck before disengaging him from his blade. Therion swung his sword to clash with the scarlet longsword of the second knight, and lowered himself to spin around, sweeping his leg out to trip the knight. He immediately pressed his boot on the gauntlet to immobilize the man’s weapon, and kneeled down to punch the dagger directly through his neck. Therion felt he could get used to this. The entropic murder was enthralling. These Forsaken did it without a second thought. Everything was ‘kill-or-be-killed’ to them, and, while Therion would never consider himself a mindless beast or serial murder; never some psychopathic knife-wielding stalker of innocents; it was almost exactly how he was and what he felt he was beginning to enjoy very much.

Cuchumaquiq recoiled as the scarlet blade wore down on him, holding it back with his kukri knife. His eyes rolled down for a second before matching back and swung his mace sideways into the soldier’s left kneecap, shattering the patella bone. The human’s legs bent inwards, and with that shortage of strength, Cuchumaquiq scraped his knife across the man’s face, cutting through his cheek in a vicious Glasgow smile before digging it into the man’s gut. The final soldier, cornered between the corpse and the troll, held his sword up, but Cuchumaquiq could smell the fear. Dropping his weapons, he gripped the man’s head, and yanked it forward, goring his tusks into the man’s eye sockets. The soldier screamed, holding his head as blood poured out of his skull.

The two slowly walked towards the tower, leaving the bodies behind. “You’re making this more difficult than it has to be Melrache,” Therion assured. “Why should these men die for you? All we need is your head, and we’ll leave.” He wiped the edge of his dirk along his pants to clear it of human gristle.

Melrache gestured for his bodyguards to move forward, “I’ll see you hung from this tower before the day is done you feckless zombie.” The two bodyguards carried forth, each having a large blade like the captain. Therion tossed his sword up, catching it before rearing back and throwing it like a missile. It burrowed directly into the left guard, slightly below his ribs. He clutched the pommel, falling to his knees. Under his mask, Therion grinned, and switched hands a couple of times with his dagger.

Cuchumaquiq gripped Therion’s shoulders, hiking him up where he used the forsaken rogue as a ramp. The limber troll somersaulted through the air over Melrache, and straightened out, where he tightly held his kukri knife. The Revantusk shouted as he fell on the other bodyguard, driving the dagger down into his chest. Melrache turned halfway in awe to see his men cut down so quickly, and backed away as his confidence melted. The troll picked up Therion’s sword, and pitched it to him. “Joo know ‘mon, if’n ‘deez guys ‘wuz any botha’ ta’ be fearin’ ta’ cut open, ah’d prolly hav’ ta’ eat d’ere brains or sumptin’, but’cha’in’t much ta’ kill.”

The scarlet captain stepped forward, cutting a wide swathe with the sword in an attempt to cleave Therion in two. His sword caught air as Therion ducked under in a three point position, and charged forth to pin Melrache to the rocky hill, just a dozen feet from innumerous reinforcements in the monastery. “Hold him troll,” Therion commanded. Cuchumaquiq’s hands wrapped around Melrache’s neck and bound his right arm to the wall. “Make sure he stays awake.” Therion moved his dagger slowly down Melrache’s face before jamming it into his stomach, cutting an incision. Therion shoved his hand into the man’s stomach, and began pulling out intestines. He leaned in, and shoved his arm up. “There we go,” Therion exclaimed, and with a quick tug, ripped Melrache’s heart out. His cadaver quickly fell, after which Therion discarded the organ.

As Cuchumaquiq cleaned up, adding the final head to his net back for Executor Zygand, Therion looked out into the sea of Tirisfal. He felt, for the first time, a cold shiver. There was coldness about it. It was really the only thing he could feel that he was certain wasn’t some psychosomatic illusion of feeling. Perhaps other Forsaken felt the same, and he wondered if it was linked at all to losing control of himself in Lordaeron. He would have to keep quiet about it, for fear that these Forsaken citizens would destroy him for any signs of mindlessness. After all, what were the Forsaken but the Scourge with a conscience?