Belzebeus
02-18-2006, 03:58 PM
In the Dark of the Ashenvale
The Undead made his way down the trail through the forest of Felwood. As quiet as he might be, he was pushing for time so it was luck more than anything that saw him safely into the Ashenvale. The great trees loomed about him, swallowing the sky in deep shades of green and emerald. The magic of these woods was far older than any Undead and somehow this inherent knowledge brought unease to the traveler. Tightly he gripped his missive and pressed on.
Out of the shadows of the thicket, and quiet as those same shadows, the Wildthorn Venomspitter struck! A creature from nightmares, the grotesque behemoth spider was upon the Undead before the Undead knew he was at its mercy. With ease the spider knocked the Undead prone in a single bound and held him fast with a couple of its appendages. The Undead lashed out at its attacker as best he could, fumbling with a dagger to gain time, or perhaps an escape from, the grip of the beast. The deadly fangs raised and the Undead was more afraid for his failure in delivering his missive than he was for his own existence.
The bushes and hedges which lined the trail erupted with a Troll’s appearance. Quick as a cheetah he was upon the Wildthorn Venomspitter in a flurry of blades demanding the vile creature’s attention. He held a sword in each hand and he danced about the beast with each swing of his blades slinging blood, guts, and gore in a glorious spectacle of barbaric fury. It was clear to the Undead that this Troll was as much a predator as the Wildthorn Venomspitter. Within moments the spider was dead. The Troll reached down and in a fluid motion brought the Undead to his feet.
The Troll stretched his muscles and stood again quite still. His muscles were coiled and tight, ready to pounce or spring should the need arise. His crimson hair was pulled tight into a top knot to keep it out of his face. His teeth barred in a grin were framed by two great tusks that jutted proudly forward. His eyes moved from side to side as he kept vigilance on his surroundings. The Undead noted something wild about his behavior but was still glad to have traded the company of the Venomspitter for that of the Troll.
“I be Ponga. Who you be?“ The Troll did not wait for an answer. “We must be movin’. Dese woods are not safe. “
“Ponga, I thank you. Can you get me to Splintertree Post?” The Undead queried.
“No.” Ponga motioned for the Undead to follow and made his way off the trail and into the thick of the trees and bushes of the Ashenvale. “Splintertree Post be undah attack. I be doin’ odd jobs- sword for hire- for dem- Orcs pay well. Too many Outrunners be comin’ dis way. I tink dey be lookin’ for choo mon. Splintertree be no safe. We will go south, ovah tha mountains an’ into tha Barrens.”
Together they made their way south. Ponga pushed the Undead to keep moving and to keep moving fast. Coming upon a small stream Ponga stopped and stooped over the water. Scooping the water with his open palm he drank deep and then spoke.
“Ill omen dead mon. The wind be against us.”
“Ponga I have this- “ The Undead held up the scroll tightly in his grip. “This Ponga is very important. It must reach Ogrimmar. This is why the Outrunners are hunting me. You understand?”
“I be a Troll notta Dwarf- “and Ponga laughed at his joke. “The wind be against us. Nightelves be fond o’ tha cats for pets. Dis wind will tell dose same cats were we be mon.
We willnah make tha mountains before dey be on us.”
Ponga moved the two parallel to the stream for a time and then cut away back into the thick of the woods. They pushed forward and the dark grew as the unseen sun sank down and the shade of the trees swallowed the forest. Ponga slowed their pace and moved them quietly through the underbrush, stopping frequently to read the paths and trails, to learn the forest immediately about them.
“Dey be here mon.” Ponga announced.
A slew of arrows came from the forest and peppered the pair. Several found root in the body of the Undead and he leaned forward stuffing his scroll into Ponga’s belt. Ponga turned into the arrows and gracefully swept the shield off his back and into the offending arrows. After the first torrent he threw the shield aside and grabbing his blades he rushed in the direction of the onslaught. He came upon one of the Nightelves and unleashed his blades to do their will. Two more came from the woods and were on him, but he moved with the cheetah’s speed, dancing and whirling about with lethal rage. He drove into the thick of his attackers, keeping them close to prevent more arrows, or at least put the Nightelves in as much risk as he, should they be fired upon.
Ponga fought. He was not afraid and he did not stop to count the dead as they fell about him. His eyes rolled back in his head and the blood ran from his gritted teeth. Under his chest mail, deep in his chest, his heart pounded and with each beat Ponga heard the beat of the drums. The drums of his homeland, down on the Isles, calling to arms with each beat, calling to attack with each beat, calling out the names of the fallen ancestors with each rhythmic beat, and he would not fail them. Ponga crouched low springing on his attackers with ferocity and savagery. He became the fury of the ancestors. He became wrath.
When respite at last came, Ponga looked for his Undead companion and found him. He was sitting on a gnarled root. His shin had been splintered by an arrow and it was clear to them both that he would not be going any farther on this journey.
“Ponga more will be coming soon- you must run! Take the missive, do not let them capture and it. See that it gets to Ogrimmar!”
Ponga moved through the woods, using his blades to forge a trail while he ran, leaping fallen logs and ducking under the great oak branches. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it, a great black cat, a panther, keeping pace and closing in on his right. He turned into the path of the stalker and it leapt with a predators grace into Ponga. The claws tore deep into the Troll and his blood flowed and then he bit back- clamping his teeth into the neck of the panther. The panther rolled, twisting and turning, drawing its hind legs into Ponga to disembowel him while Ponga did some twisting of his own, and with a few spare moments freed his dagger from his boot. As the hind claws of the panther dug into his gut, Ponga thrust up with his dagger into the stomach of the beast, not stopping until his knuckles felt the soft intestines of the panther’s innards. He rolled the carcass over and gained his feet again. The Outrunners were practically on him again.
Ponga crouched low and looked for signs. Quickly he followed the cold trail of a Wildthorn Venomsplitter to an old burrow. Squeezing his long lean muscular mass into the hole he slid into the earth, pawing and dragging, pulling with his strength to gain depth into the den. What bones and skulls littered the hole no longer smelled of death and Ponga knew he would be safe here- safe from a Venomspitter anyway. Inching further into the burrow, Ponga fell into the brood chamber and was relieved to be able to turn and sit. He gained his composure and breath.
Considering his situation, he knew it would not be long before he was killed or captured. He grabbed the scroll from his belt and gazed at it.
“Trade tha scroll for mah life?” He laid the scroll out and gazed at it. He had never had cause to learn to read. “If dey capture or kill me- dey get dis- dey win- I canna be let ‘em win now? Can I?” Ponga grinned. There in the burrow of a long dead Wildthorn Venomspitter, by a shaft of moonlight, Ponga gazed at the characters written on the vellum of an Undead’s scroll.
The Undead made his way down the trail through the forest of Felwood. As quiet as he might be, he was pushing for time so it was luck more than anything that saw him safely into the Ashenvale. The great trees loomed about him, swallowing the sky in deep shades of green and emerald. The magic of these woods was far older than any Undead and somehow this inherent knowledge brought unease to the traveler. Tightly he gripped his missive and pressed on.
Out of the shadows of the thicket, and quiet as those same shadows, the Wildthorn Venomspitter struck! A creature from nightmares, the grotesque behemoth spider was upon the Undead before the Undead knew he was at its mercy. With ease the spider knocked the Undead prone in a single bound and held him fast with a couple of its appendages. The Undead lashed out at its attacker as best he could, fumbling with a dagger to gain time, or perhaps an escape from, the grip of the beast. The deadly fangs raised and the Undead was more afraid for his failure in delivering his missive than he was for his own existence.
The bushes and hedges which lined the trail erupted with a Troll’s appearance. Quick as a cheetah he was upon the Wildthorn Venomspitter in a flurry of blades demanding the vile creature’s attention. He held a sword in each hand and he danced about the beast with each swing of his blades slinging blood, guts, and gore in a glorious spectacle of barbaric fury. It was clear to the Undead that this Troll was as much a predator as the Wildthorn Venomspitter. Within moments the spider was dead. The Troll reached down and in a fluid motion brought the Undead to his feet.
The Troll stretched his muscles and stood again quite still. His muscles were coiled and tight, ready to pounce or spring should the need arise. His crimson hair was pulled tight into a top knot to keep it out of his face. His teeth barred in a grin were framed by two great tusks that jutted proudly forward. His eyes moved from side to side as he kept vigilance on his surroundings. The Undead noted something wild about his behavior but was still glad to have traded the company of the Venomspitter for that of the Troll.
“I be Ponga. Who you be?“ The Troll did not wait for an answer. “We must be movin’. Dese woods are not safe. “
“Ponga, I thank you. Can you get me to Splintertree Post?” The Undead queried.
“No.” Ponga motioned for the Undead to follow and made his way off the trail and into the thick of the trees and bushes of the Ashenvale. “Splintertree Post be undah attack. I be doin’ odd jobs- sword for hire- for dem- Orcs pay well. Too many Outrunners be comin’ dis way. I tink dey be lookin’ for choo mon. Splintertree be no safe. We will go south, ovah tha mountains an’ into tha Barrens.”
Together they made their way south. Ponga pushed the Undead to keep moving and to keep moving fast. Coming upon a small stream Ponga stopped and stooped over the water. Scooping the water with his open palm he drank deep and then spoke.
“Ill omen dead mon. The wind be against us.”
“Ponga I have this- “ The Undead held up the scroll tightly in his grip. “This Ponga is very important. It must reach Ogrimmar. This is why the Outrunners are hunting me. You understand?”
“I be a Troll notta Dwarf- “and Ponga laughed at his joke. “The wind be against us. Nightelves be fond o’ tha cats for pets. Dis wind will tell dose same cats were we be mon.
We willnah make tha mountains before dey be on us.”
Ponga moved the two parallel to the stream for a time and then cut away back into the thick of the woods. They pushed forward and the dark grew as the unseen sun sank down and the shade of the trees swallowed the forest. Ponga slowed their pace and moved them quietly through the underbrush, stopping frequently to read the paths and trails, to learn the forest immediately about them.
“Dey be here mon.” Ponga announced.
A slew of arrows came from the forest and peppered the pair. Several found root in the body of the Undead and he leaned forward stuffing his scroll into Ponga’s belt. Ponga turned into the arrows and gracefully swept the shield off his back and into the offending arrows. After the first torrent he threw the shield aside and grabbing his blades he rushed in the direction of the onslaught. He came upon one of the Nightelves and unleashed his blades to do their will. Two more came from the woods and were on him, but he moved with the cheetah’s speed, dancing and whirling about with lethal rage. He drove into the thick of his attackers, keeping them close to prevent more arrows, or at least put the Nightelves in as much risk as he, should they be fired upon.
Ponga fought. He was not afraid and he did not stop to count the dead as they fell about him. His eyes rolled back in his head and the blood ran from his gritted teeth. Under his chest mail, deep in his chest, his heart pounded and with each beat Ponga heard the beat of the drums. The drums of his homeland, down on the Isles, calling to arms with each beat, calling to attack with each beat, calling out the names of the fallen ancestors with each rhythmic beat, and he would not fail them. Ponga crouched low springing on his attackers with ferocity and savagery. He became the fury of the ancestors. He became wrath.
When respite at last came, Ponga looked for his Undead companion and found him. He was sitting on a gnarled root. His shin had been splintered by an arrow and it was clear to them both that he would not be going any farther on this journey.
“Ponga more will be coming soon- you must run! Take the missive, do not let them capture and it. See that it gets to Ogrimmar!”
Ponga moved through the woods, using his blades to forge a trail while he ran, leaping fallen logs and ducking under the great oak branches. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it, a great black cat, a panther, keeping pace and closing in on his right. He turned into the path of the stalker and it leapt with a predators grace into Ponga. The claws tore deep into the Troll and his blood flowed and then he bit back- clamping his teeth into the neck of the panther. The panther rolled, twisting and turning, drawing its hind legs into Ponga to disembowel him while Ponga did some twisting of his own, and with a few spare moments freed his dagger from his boot. As the hind claws of the panther dug into his gut, Ponga thrust up with his dagger into the stomach of the beast, not stopping until his knuckles felt the soft intestines of the panther’s innards. He rolled the carcass over and gained his feet again. The Outrunners were practically on him again.
Ponga crouched low and looked for signs. Quickly he followed the cold trail of a Wildthorn Venomsplitter to an old burrow. Squeezing his long lean muscular mass into the hole he slid into the earth, pawing and dragging, pulling with his strength to gain depth into the den. What bones and skulls littered the hole no longer smelled of death and Ponga knew he would be safe here- safe from a Venomspitter anyway. Inching further into the burrow, Ponga fell into the brood chamber and was relieved to be able to turn and sit. He gained his composure and breath.
Considering his situation, he knew it would not be long before he was killed or captured. He grabbed the scroll from his belt and gazed at it.
“Trade tha scroll for mah life?” He laid the scroll out and gazed at it. He had never had cause to learn to read. “If dey capture or kill me- dey get dis- dey win- I canna be let ‘em win now? Can I?” Ponga grinned. There in the burrow of a long dead Wildthorn Venomspitter, by a shaft of moonlight, Ponga gazed at the characters written on the vellum of an Undead’s scroll.