Karthok

Trouble in Shaelietown.

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“Rifles. Always rifles.” Faelenor hit the back of Karthok’s skull with the butt of his rifle. Karthok grunted, rubbing the back of his head and otherwise unmoving. The pain was minimal at best, compared to the biting shreds of shrapnel and lead imbedded in his body. Nothing serious, though the assassin wasn’t in the best of positions to properly assess his physical health. Three guns were pointed at him from three different distances. He could make a run for it, take the rifle at his head, throw it at Arath’dorei and be out of sight before Cobrak could land a decent shot. He’d have to leave his tools behind with the elf however. Karthok raised hus eyes from under the darkened cowl. Shaelie was being tended to by the Rayfeather priestess, undoing his hard work. “Will bring something instant next time, kill quietly and quickly. Gorgrond flytrap extr-” Karthok ceased his inner thoughts as a Kodo-tranquilizer shot into his arm. He sighed. “I hate you people.” The Orc muttered as he slumped over.

When he woke up, he was in front of the Grim base in Tirisfal. He was also completely bare except for the tattered remains of his chewed clothing. The grunts standing guard didn’t seem to care, unblinking eyes kept on the horizon, waiting for threats. Karthok was still bleeding, slowly. A bag containing his things had been dropped on top of him. “Foolish of them.” Grunting, the assassin got to his feet and ripped the bag open, throwing his damaged weapons and vials out into the woods. “Need blast resistant gear for open combat. Aquire it from beasts of the Firelands.” Tearing the bag in half and tying it around his waist as a makeshift loincloth Karthok strode into the Garrison, niether flaunting nor hiding his mostly naked burned body.

Finding his bunk and footlocker, Karthok took out a spare set of gear, writing tools and a piece of parchment. He wrote one letter and sent it without any marks of where it came from. The recipient would know. Karthok patched himself up, applied bandages and stitches where needed nefore slipping into his faded leather. He placed his medical tools back into the footlocker and retrieved a map with candles. The Orc set the candles and unrolled the map of Dragonmaw Port at the far end of a table in the Great Hall. An assassination must be prepared.

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