Sense

[AkuTazee]

((Firstly, an explanation. My topic is a take off on Fhenrir's journal entry (found here (http://tn.yzeens.com/modules.php?name=Journal&file=display&jid=237)), portraying Akutazee's side of things. It was an RP event we fleshed out ingame, so all of this happened at one point or another. Or not. Let me exercize the poetic license, alright? :P))

Tension had slowly scaled itself to the bursting point. There was tangible anger in the room, a small farmhouse just west of the Orgimmar gates, where the Horde's finest competed in a show of skill and strength, their battle cries ringing out over the parched red land. But in this cramped shack, there was no glory. Things were reduce to their most primal; the arrows fired in this battle were emotions.

A Troll Shaman, who if asked, preferred "Witch Doctor", glared at the Tauren warrior opposite him. His eyes were hot coals, his emnity for his one-time friend flared. Every ounce of reasoning in his body seared, until the whole lot of it blurred into mindless avenues of chatter and then faded completely from his thoughts. He wanted action, and the ignorance provided by Fhenrir only ignited him further. His reasoning seemed divine to him, of course. The ressurection of Hakkar was paramount. He knew the true power of the serpent god. And the cowhide proposed that he would be brushed aside as swiftly as a gnat in Thrall's ear?

Akutazee clenched and unclenched his fists. He wanted to lash out. To do all that was within his power to harm Fhenrir, simply to prove that he was superior, and that his arguments should be regarded as such. In his brazen empowerment, he murmured something he would forever regret.

"I am your leader," asserted Fhenrir. "You should treat me with the proper respect."

"Joo'll earn ma' respect! An' hangin' round dat -bitch- O' yours don' warrant!"

He felt a firm grasp on his collar.

[Rhowen-Prea]

(( I like! More! ))

[Fhenrir]

(( Akutazee has a great touch to his writing... me. :wink:

Seriously though, this is much better than my side of it. Keep it up! :D ))

[AkuTazee]

(("I can do dat."- Peon.))

"Strike like da scorpids; strike at da heart."

That particular Troll proverb came to Akutazee's mind as he felt the familiar wooziness often accompanying guiding a wyvern into the air. He remembered how crushing scorpids had been a tedious task when he first began his training in Durotar, and he wondered if it was his turn to be crushed. The plated hand that grasped him firmly by the neck split several of the links in his chestplate. He heard them whistle like bullets as they shot through the air, and grimaced slightly, desperately craning his neck to avoid the maddened glare of his Chieftain.

"Take it back," Fhenrir murmured murderously, with barely enough volume to carry about the entire room. The Tauren's face was flushed with barely-controlled rage, gaze easily able to melt pure thorium. Shook once, the Witch Doctor winced as his chain mail rattled loosely on his lanky skeleton. If the cowhide's resemblence to a molten elemental was to be matched, it met its equal in the Troll, who's eyes had hardened, voice cooling at a dangerous rate.

"Make meh." His icy defiance rang loudly, daring the Warrior to test him. It certainly didn't last long, however. An angry metal fist found his solar plexus. Unbidden spittle erupted from his mouth, shooting out like a fountain. Akutazee closed his eyes in an indication of pain. A good thing, too, as, a fraction of a second later, he was carried through the air towards the back wall of the hut, landing upside down on a table.

Whirling sensations assaulted him. He tasted blood in his mouth. His eyes opened to see a maelstrom of lights, constantly moving and never settling on a single detail. One thing he could clearly discern; the sound of two heavy hooves moving toward the door, and then the red desert beyond. Regardless of many things, one particular feeling blotted out all else. He had tasted blood... and whenever he tasted blood, he needed more. The Bloodletter. That was his name. That was his calling.

Hard-tempered metal shrieked against more of the same.

Fhenrir ducked just in time. A deadly axe blade whined by, and a patch of hair fell from the Tauren's midnight black mane that hadn't avoided the blow. More steel sounded. In an eyeblink, Dwarf-forged Uldaman iron swung back at the attacker. Akutazee parried, heavy-handed, and shifted his weight onto a single leg, rotating to slash diagonally at the large target in front of him. His eyes were filled with a temporary insanity, rapidly consuming him in his insaitable lust. He growled as his curved, saw-like weapon caught rigidly on the sword of his opponent. In the noonday sun he glimpsed the letters T I T A N in ruby inlays.

Akutazee snarled in frustration. The Tauren was slowly pinning him against the pen in which the swine where kept. Their quick footprints engraved the blood red earth. A flurry of blows knocked the fool cowhide off balance; Akutazee seized his chance. The red-black reverse-crescent imbedded itself in the left gauntlet of the Troll's enemy. His cry of triumph could be heard well inside Orgrimmar. So too could his cry of pain.

Fhenrir had spun around. A blade of dwarven make sliced through the pre-made crevasse that was Akutazee's eyesockets. The Troll was engulfed in instantaneous blackness, and collapsed slowly to the lifeless ground, surprised, an expression of pre-determined agony placed indelibly upon his features. The red sand was clotted with a liquid of the same coloration.