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Abric

Abric - Confrontation (RP)

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The Searing Gorge was a dismal place. Located in the northern range of the Redridge Mountain, the once fertile valley became a wasteland in the wake of the Fire Lords return to Azeroth. The earth had been ripped asunder, making gentle hillsides into cragged rock formations and cliffs. The soil had turned to a red ash that seemed to stick to everything that it touched. Fissures had opened to active volcanoes, belching out noxious gases which blotted out the sky with a red haze. From these same fissures came rivers and lakes of magma, emitting an oppressive heat that burned all but the hardiest of plant life. The fauna was consumed and replaced by carnivorous spiders, which hid in the crevices and hollows of the landscape, preying on the unsuspected.

Only three groups tried to make this place habitable, the first being the Dark Iron dwarves. From Blackrock Mountain, their singular obsession was to rape the land of its wealth. The Cauldron and its surrounding outposts were where they ruled with an iron fist, working their slave army relentlessly to find the flame resistant metal that carried their clan’s name. Deeper and deeper they went, protected by stone and metal golems that held no remorse for runaways and the occasional adventurer.

Another was a splinter of the Dark Irons that called themselves the Thorium Brotherhood. From Thorium Point they controlled the only refuge for the Alliance and the Horde. Yet, they remained neutral to all but the most favored… and the favor was bought in hard currency and treasure. The last group was a sect of the Twilight Hammer. These religious fanatics flocked to a cave network in the northwest of the Gorge. There, they continued to plot and worship the Old Gods, trying to find a way to somehow harness powers beyond their control to bring about the destruction of what they considered was a mockery to their cause.

Yet… there was another in the Gorge this day; neither a group or a sect or even a clan. It was a single being, an undead who claimed the title of Forsaken. He sat upon one of many craggy formations that dotted the landscape. His sickened and taunt face betrayed little. The glow of undeath that once were eyes flickered in rhythm to the ebb and flow of a nearby stream of lava. His thin, skeletal frame was covered in ash, masking the leather armor that marked him some sort of warrior. Fingers tapped a silent tune against his thigh, as a battle was watched.

In search of food, one of the lava spiders left its lair to search the surface for prey. Yet, this spider soon became what it did not expect, as it was attacked by an adventurer. A short stature human female, she had come from behind it with the element of surprise. With two light maces in hand, the adventurer awkwardly pummeled the creature’s legs. A horrid shriek came from the spider as it turned to defend itself, though the chances were little against the speed of its attacker. The spider could only ward the blows with its legs, fangs unable to find a place to bite down. Moments after it started, it ended with a sickening crunch of an introduction with mace and head. The spider slumped to the ground, its death call mere gurgles and bubbles of ichor.

A smile of satisfaction came to the woman’s face, but quickly marked by some sort of scowl of personal ability. Leaning into the mace that made the death blow, she seemed to resting. It was at this time that the undead from above had stood and made his way silently down the hillside, almost as if floating through the haze of smoke and heat. A similarly matched scowl came to its face, as he moved behind the woman and brought the pommel of a dagger into the side of her neck. A surprised gasp of air was the only return, as the woman lost her grip on her weapons and fell into the body of the dead spider.

“Another peasant playing solider… how unendingly amusing and revolting it is,” said the undead. Sheathing his dagger, the being leaned down and placed hands roughly on the woman’s shoulders. Dragging her away from her kill, he turned her on her back, standing above her with feet between her sides. He looked down to her, more with disdain than interest or curiosity.

“Always is as it is, is it not? How easy it would be to destroy you now, without you knowing its purpose… its cause. Meeting death, without knowing its hand. How easy it would be for you, peasant. How grossly unsatisfying it would be for me.”

Bending at the knees, the undead leaned forward with one hand placed on the ground next to the woman’s head, supporting his weight. A curl to his lips, his eyes began to wander over her frame. Where another in his place may be allured to what was hidden behind so much leather and cloth… his was more. Where the heat of the Gorge was unbearable, the heat coming from her was agonizing. His hands wanted to wonder over her body, yet not for satisfaction of bodily pleasures. It was to get close to the heat, the breath of life that made her a beacon. The undead’s other hand hovered over her cheek, fingertips shaking in anticipation of a touch… a feel… a chance to be one with the heat of life.

“Mmm…”

A low growl held in his throat, fingertips wandering down her face; to her neck. From her neck, to her breast... her breast to her side. They followed the contours of the armor, yet contact was never made. The undead leaned in further, bringing his face close to the sweat and ash covered hair on top of the woman’s head. A deep breath was taken, even though sulfur and spider was the only smell that could be taken from it. The undead imagined spring flowers and scented oils as the stray strands of blonde hair lightly touched his lips.

Eyes fluttered closed as he raised his face to the sky, savoring a memory the woman unintentionally enacted. His hand moved from her side, as well as from the ground as he stood up. The dagger was drawn, held at his side. The moment was ecstasy, yet that moment was short. Soon, reality came back to the memory of the undead, and eyes opened to look down on the unconscious form below him.

Yet... where a thrust of the blade would be made, something new came into perspective. Bending down once again, the undead took his free hand and brushed at the grime covered emblem that was stitched into the tabard on the woman.

The low growl returned to the undead’s throat… yet where it had once held a sadistic passion, now it was hate.

“Lordaeron.”

Stepping away from the body of the woman, a second dagger was drawn from the undead’s side.

“So, it seems you are one who holds to traitors and cowards. For that, peasant, the hand will be known.”

The haze seemed to thicken as the undead faded from view. Steps were taken back as he positioned himself in a low stance, and watched. Watched as she started to stir and come back to the waking world. Come back to the realization of where she was… and the battle that would soon come.

{{ TBC - Two more parts will be added for scene completion }}

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Cold. Ice leeching the warmth from her; leaving white hot trails on her flesh. A presence looming above her hungrily. Tension.

Liadain blinked; her eyes adjusting to the hazy sunlight. There was a dull throbbing at the base of her neck and she winced as she slowly sat up. She remembered killing the lava spider that lay dead before her and then… She shivered. She reached up and touched her cheek; her fingers tracing a memory.

Lia rose into a crouch and scanned the immediate area. Staying low to the ground, she crept over to the pair of maces that lay discarded near the spider’s corpse. She picked them up and grimaced at their still unfamiliar weight in her hands. She could not see her enemy but instinct told her he was still here somewhere; watching her.

“Bloody hell.” Lia growled, cursing herself for not having her swords. She checked her gear absently, as she continued to peer into the swirling ash and smoke for any sign of movement. There was none. She set her jaw and began to move slowly and carefully away from the spider’s carcass.

Liadain circled the area, weighing the merits of fight or flight. A hint of a smirk appeared at the corner of her mouth.

Did she ever run when she should?

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