[[Template core/front/profile/profileHeader is throwing an error. This theme may be out of date. Run the support tool in the AdminCP to restore the default theme.]]

Grisch last won the day on November 30 2016

Grisch had the most liked content!

Community Reputation

1 Neutral

About Grisch

  • Rank
    Senior Member
  1. "I said to store it, not strip it and sell it for scrap!" Grisch gestured wildly with the frustration of those dealing with what could possibly turn out to be terminal stupidity if the goblin continued to provoke him. "Well boss," cringed the goblin, "we's din think ye were coming back! Got to make ends meet! I've got mouths to feed!" "Not interested in your charming little goblin sayings. I need transportation!" "No such thing as a free lunch...?" ventured the goblin. "This far..." Grisch held two fingers a fraction of an inch apart and squinted at the goblin through the gap, "this far from electrifying you enough to send you back in time to the sundering!" "No rest for the wick..." The static shock picked the goblin up and flung him in an arc across The Valley of Honor. "GIVE ME MY MOTORCYCLE!" yelled Grisch as electricity arched around him and the stench of ozone burned in the air. He'd had enough. Barely back on this world for 24 ours and he was already wondering if having his soul separated in the Twisting Nether had really been that bad after all. He tried to think back on whether he'd ever seen any goblin merchants in the nether. "OKAY OKAY OKAY!" yelled the Goblin, managing not to sound utterly terrified, despite still arching tiny bolts of static electricity. "Don't shock me bro! I'll get yer bike!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 5 Minutes later Grisch stared down at a sad looking and grease stained pile of parts in front of him. A depressed pair of forks stuck out at an odd angle from the pile and two wheels attempted to hide under it in an embarrassed fashion. "This is not my bike" said Grisch slowly and quietly. "I paid an engineer a lot of gold to build a deathwheel. This is not a deathwheel. This is barely even a heap of scrap. Where is my bike?" "Weeeel that's the thing," whined the goblin, "that's all I really have left. Honestly, it's the best I can do. Some of those parts are even upgrades. Think of it as an upgrade job. Pre-repairs. Custom parts. Very expensive custom parts these days. You should be thanking me. I'm basically giving you a brand new dea..." The goblin shut up when he saw Grisch's eyes. From this angle, it looked like tiny fel sparks danced in the depths of them. "Please don't shock me again" said the goblin quietly. It's honestly the best I can do. Grisch sighed and walked wordlessly out of the shop into the sun. Behind him, his earth elemental rumbled into being, tearing a chunk out of the engineering shop's floor and began scooping up the pile of parts, all the while glaring angrily at the goblin. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Yellow light flickered off the walls of the alley. The fire elemental stood silently next to the wall. It's pretty hard for a 6 foot tall living pillar of flame to look put upon and bored, but it managed. It tried hard not to stand too close to the scraps of garbage nearby. They'd already had one accident tonight and it just wanted to get done so it could go back to its home plane. Nearby Grisch stared at the book on the floor and the strange looking part in his hand with a furrowed brow. He carefully turned the part the other way around and stared at it for a moment more, before looking back at the book. He grunted and reached down, turning the book around the other way. "Spark emmiter goes into the cylinder head doesn't it?" he muttered quietly. "No, no, that's a valve... wait, what's this round thing? Do I even need it still? Cursed goblins, just thinking about them gives me gas." If the elemental could have rolled its eyes, it would have. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The sun was coming up over the edges of the bowl that Orgrimmar was built in when Grisch finally stood up, multiple joints cracking loudly and took a look at his handy-work. Something rezembling a warlord's deathwheel stood in front of him. Wiped his hands on a rag and then stepped onto the machine. "Aight me purty, let's hear your voice then" he said as he drew back the kick-starter. He leapt into the air and as he came down he kicked the starter with all of his weight. There's something a lot of people don't realize about kickstart engines. You're basically kicking an explosion. What you want to happen is for the explosion to go off a fraction of a second AFTER the engine has turned past TDC or Top Dead Center, because then the force of the explosion would be directed into making the engine go, as opposed to directing itself into your leg if it happens too soon. It takes precision tools and some skill to set an engine up so that it fires at exactly the right time to cause this to happen. Grisch didn't have precision tools. What he mostly had was a hammer. He was also fresh out of skill. The engine fired. The kickstarter kicked back violently and Grisch sailed through the air, arms windmilling, colorful curses already forming between his teeth. A few moments later he got up from the ground fuming. "Filth encrusted crate of second-hand goblin dung!" he yelled as a massive charge of electricity slammed into the motorcycle from his outstretched hand. It was quiet for a moment and then the engine gave a deep 'chuf' sound, followed shortly by another and then another. A moment later the motorcycle idled quietly in the alleyway, black smoke drifting up from its twin exhausts. Grisch grinned. Finally, something worked. "Right," he muttered, "now to find the Warboss." He cranked the throttle a few time and then hung on as the mechanical beast thundered its way out of the alley.
  2. The Drag, Orgrimmar... Under a pile of boxes, beneath the dried skin of some unidentifiable and possibly long extinct creature, beneath some of the filthiest rags you could imagine, he sweated in the throes of the nightmare. His old, hoarse voice rasped meaningless sounds. This was not unusual. It happened most every night. What was unusual was what was happening several thousand leagues away on a shattered and storied piece of land in the Broken Isles known as Azsuna. Fel gates, demonic portals, corrupt passages into the Twisting Nether had been popping open like corruption filled blisters for days. The festering might of the Burning Legion spewed forth from them in an unending tide. One portal, however, did something different. The portal spluttered and flickered for a moment and burped out something bearded that yelled invective at the demonic host before scrabbling through the air like an angry, wiry, bearded windmill. A few demons stopped, unsure of whether they should be attempting to murder the thing or simply carry on with the daily business of murdering other things. Whatever it was didn't give them much time as it wound itself up like a top and then blasted off over the horizon, still spewing curse words into the distance. "...and shove THAT right up..." would be the last words any of them would hear from it. In the nightmare, clarity hit him like a goblin rocket racer slamming into the side of a mountain. Violent, messy and with a lot of screaming. What was left of his old withered body and desiccated mind prepared for what was coming, but in the apocryphal words, he was NOT prepared. The other half of his soul, the real half, the half that never backed down from a fight, the healer, the sage, the orc who had forged Sanctuary from the misfits and malcontents of other guilds, that half was finally coming home. Fighting its way through time and space it was on its final leg and nothing short of Ragnarok itself was going to stop it. It possessed all the good parts of Grisch. The strength, the will, the vigor and the sheer undying bloody mindedness that would never, ever relent in the face of injustice. His old, almost toothless jaw had enough time to gasp as his rheumy eyes blinked open. A pillar of earth shoved up from the ground below forcing him to sit upright and sending boxes and trash flying. Above his body a localized thunderstorm began to form and droplets of warm rain ran the caked dirt of his face into brown rivulets. ...and then it hit. Windows for half a block around him shattered as the missing part of his psyche slammed down from the sky like the fist of an angry god. His stinking and rag covered frame was hurled 3 feet into the air, back arched and mouth agape. Instantly the vitality of the elements themselves unleashed through his corpus. Frail and ragged muscles knitted, bunched and swelled again as parchment thin skin thickened and stretched. Teeth fired through his gums with such violence that they sprayed blood halfway across the alleyway. Inside his mind however was where the real stuff was happening. Ancient and atrophied synapses fired again as a burning roller coaster of life energy coursed through them. Memories slammed back into his forebrain, too fast to pay attention to. Nerves that had long since given up, suddenly remembered their purpose. He remembered all things, felt all things and in that brief moment of agony, he was all things. And then it was over. His body dropped back into the pile of trash from which it had risen. Where he landed he fell upon soft grass and flowers that had sprouted up from the overflow of life energy. Roots had snaked up from the ground around him and cracked ancient stone walls. In the silence that remained not even a cricket chirped. In a few moments worried parents would light lamps and look out of windows. Orgrimmar grunts would come running with questions and torches. Hours ago his addled brain would barely have been able to get him under a box to hide. Now, he vaulted to his feet, eyes glowing with life energy. Grabbing a large, hide bound pack, he swung it onto his back and started running. His grime encrusted face cracked into a grin as he ran. Back. Back in Azeroth and this time it was all of him.
  3. Several months later in Orgrimmar... He struggled desperately to hold onto his mind. Everything was wrong. He was sure he'd been here before, not just here but this moment. He recognized the fruitseller across the dusty road from him. He knew things about him. For instance that his wife liked those special U'ruk oranges that he could only get in once a year. When had he found that out? He couldn't remember how he'd found it out. He looked down at his hands. Gnarled, veined, liver spotted and... ancient... when had he gotten so old? For a moment he tried to work out how old he was but he gave up. It was hard to hold onto thoughts for very long. Something wasn't the way it should be. He almost knew what it was but the frustrating thing was that in a few moments his addled, old mind would drop all of it and worry about something like the weather or how much he hated yellow. "Come on!" he muttered to himself. "THINK! You can figure this out. What happened to you?" Time! That was it! The time wasn't wrong! He was... Fruit. Fruit was stupid. Most days he'd be happy with some bread. Fruit always made him feel queasy, yet he always wanted to eat more. It made no sense. Also the weather was funny today. He wondered if it would rain.
  4. The old, grizzled orc stumbled slowly out of an alley in the drag, pausing only in mumbling to himself to yawn widely. He sniffed the air and looked around. "Time.. time is it? Tole' em I did, but it was too late," he muttered matter of factly to himself before noticing the parchment fluttering in the wind. His eyes narrowed and he walked closer. He paused for a few moments, staring carefully at the message, his lips moving as he traced a finger painfully slowly over it. After several moments he smiled broadly and looked around. Satisfied that nobody was paying him any attention he pulled the parchment off of its nail and rubbed it slowly over his craggy face. His smile broadened. "Soft.." he muttered, "..so soft, been years... how many years? Too much time.." He carefully folded up the paper and then picked up his pace as he headed down the line of doors collecting more papers, all of which he carefully folded up and stowed somewhere unmentionable under his robes. "Soft paper.. one day them young 'uns 'ill appreciate it." Somewhere in the beleaguered little part of his mind that desperately fought for lucidity, rationality and on occasion regular meals a thought formed. "Better warn Warboss Julilee about this. This looks like a storm coming. Not sure if Sanctuary can weather one just yet. Still... soft paper... we don't get that every day."
  5. Twenty-seven years ago.. This would be their third drake kill this day. The first had been a narrow escape. They'd killed the drake but almost died when the rider had leapt onto Gedran's back as his dying mount fell from the sky. Whatever they were, these orcs held no fear. The orc had shoved a rusty dagger into Bailoch's lower back before being thrown off. The blade seemed to have missed everything important, but he was still bleeding profusely. Regardless of that fact, he was a Wildhammer. Wildhammers had no masters and those included pain and fear. They'd learned by the second kill to make two attacks. On the first Gedran would swoop in low from behind and drop his rider right behind the orc. While Bailoch distracted the rider and the drake, the gryphon would come up from underneath and strike at the weakest points. It worked well on the second kill, Bailoch gritting his teeth against the wound and swinging rather heavily back into the saddle as the dying drake plummeted towards the ocean below. The drake and its doomed rider spiralled down toward an ocean filled with tiny burning ships and drowning sailors, both orc and human, too small to see from here. The dragonmaws, forced to defend themselves against the tenacious Wildhammers, could not concentrate on igniting the surviving ships. The humans' superior seamanship was now rapidly showing its effect and Proudmoore's fleet was regaining the upper hand. As they fell into a dive toward their third target, their luck changed. The orc for some inexplicable reason glanced over his shoulder. Seeing the rapidly moving gryphon swooping in, the orc expertly spun his body around in the saddle and drew a short dagger, well prepared for their attack. His tusky grin widened as he waited. If they overshot, the drake would be on their tail and able to incinerate them at will. They didn't have many options. Gedran rolled slightly to the side as Bailoch dropped onto the drake's back and prepared to fend off the dragonmaw's attacks. His rider now able to keep the drake distracted, the gryphon started looping around and prepared to come in from below. Again, luck did not look fondly upon the two. Aware of the incoming attack, the drake pivoted in midair, almost sending Bailoch plummeting. It arched its scaly neck and inhaled a massive draught of air. Barely managing to hold on, the dwarf struggled to block and parry the orc's attacks, which gave the dragon rider plenty of time to assess the situation. The orc grinned ever more widely as it noticed the bleeding wound on his back. With its meaty left hand it reached out and clamped thick green fingers into the wound. As Bailoch lost focus from the pain, the orc easilly disarmed him. Gedran had enough time to close his eyes and tilt his head away before the drake's fiery breath washed over him. The gryphon's momentum carried him through the cloud of flame, searing away flight feathers, fur and skin and slamming him bodily into the drake. Instinctively his claws dug in and found purchase in the scaly hide, his beak scrabbling and slashing for a weak spot on the drake's neck where he could strike a mortal wound. His left eye seared shut from the blast, body numb, and the smell of burnt hair and skin thick in his nostrils, Gedran let out a roar of frustration and pain. Above him, Bailoch had somehow pulled himself into body contact with the orc rider. Their weapons now both lost in the furious combat, the two were exchanging punishing body blows without any regard for their own defence. It was purely a battle of endurance and it was not hard to see who would last. His back wound now sapping his life by the second, Bailoch's movements had already grown weak and lethargic. It seemed like hours before the gryphon felt the heat of the drake's pulsing jugular under his tongue and closed his beak with every ounce of rage and desperation he could muster. The battle changed instantly. Gushing blood and floundering in the air, the massive beast started to spiral, its still viciously scrapping cargo clinging on with everything they had. Clawing his way around the dying dragon's body, Gedran got within beak range of the orc and dwarf. With a stretch of his scorched neck, he closed his beak around the wildhammer's harness. Hanging onto his rider with all he could muster he slammed the orc repeatedly with his wing until, stunned, he could pull Bailoch free. As he leaped away from the drake's death spiral, Gedran could see the rest of the battle starting to wind down in the distance. Their flight had carried them far from the main battle and the other gryphons were merely specs in the sky now. Stabilizing his flight, he carefully passed the dwarf from his beak to his front tallons, trying not to cause any further damage to the barely conscious Wildhammer. He turned his head so he could see out of his right, unscorched eye, and looked down at his companion. The dwarf had a certain serenity to his face. His eyes had the glassy look of shock and bloodloss and he was fading rapidly. For a moment or two they hovered there, above the clouds. His flight feathers scorched and mangled, Gedran tried desperately to keep them both from plummeting down into the whispy masses of white below. The dwarf started to sing. It was just a whisper, a chant, but it slowly gained melody. It was a soft song with memories of open skies and grand peaks. It hinted at battles won and lost. Of friends, family and loved ones who would be proud to tell his tale... if only they knew his story. It was the dying song of a warrior of the Wildhammer clan and only he, Gedran, would hear it. The song finished and still hanging onto consciousness by a thread, the dwarf patted Gedran's scorched and blood encrusted chest as a final farewell. It was there where the grypon left him. There amongst the clouds and the winds, where his soul could roam free. His body falling, arms outstretched into their white embrace. No Wildhammer would have asked for more.
  6. "Brunn Flamebeard ye forty pound weakling! Put that hammer doon afore ye hurt yerself!" "Gotrek Gundersson ye filthy old wardog!" The two dwarves clasped forearms and proceeded to exchange pleasantries and insults with equal cheerfullness. After the exchange had died down the two stepped apart and took a look at each other. "So what brings ye all the way out ta this light forsaken valley?" said Brunn as he began filling two tankards with ale. "I want ta buy a gryphon lad," replied Gundersson as he took one of the tankards with an appreciative grunt. Still drinking, he dropped two rather heavy looking bags of gold onto the ale keg. Brunn picked them up with barely a glance and tossed them into a chest behind him, not bothering to open the bags or count the gold. "Aight.." said Brunn, the accent of the Wildhammers clear in his speech. "Let's take a walk then." Still drinking their ale they wandered off toward the stables, exchanging stories and reminiscing. Brunn stopped in front of a snowy white gryphon with feathers like freshly fallen snow and a beak like an axe. "This is Ailbe," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Her stock traces back to Sky'ree. She's a clever lass, sometimes too smart.. strong and agile of wing." The gryphon regarded them with one amber eye, intelligence sparkling in its depths. She carefully reached out her razor sharp beak and smoothed a wing feather into place. All the while watching them carefully. "Course she'll do anything fer attention," he grinned as he scratched the feathers on top of her head. The gryphon made a soft twittering noise and leaned her snowy head towards him as he scratched it. "Gonna be rather sad ta see her go..." Gundersson turned around to look for the boar. Hammerstein stood near another stall, apparently engaged in a staring contest with a large male gryphon. The gryphon was doing a fairly good job of appearing regal and elegant while still engaged in a vicious staredown with the pig. "Dun ye be bothern' the locals lad, they'll have ye fer dinner," remarked Gundersson as he walked on. The boar responded only by rotating an ear in his direction. The two dwarves moved on. "That's Ardan over there," said Brunn as he gestured in the direction of a dark colored gryphon bedding down in a pile of straw. "He's the best trained I've got. He'll do anything ye tell him to, no matter what. I wouldn't sell him to somebody that I didn't trust... not that I'd hand over any o' these beauties to somebody I didn't trust, but this one will follow yer no matter what. He's loyal, good natured an' totally selfless." Ardan shuffled some more straw towards his flank with his beak by way of comment. Over the next while they walked past several of the beasts. Brunn expounding the particular qualities and heritages of each one. "What aboot that one?" asked Gundersson as he nodded to where the boar was still engaged in a staring contest with the old golden gryphon. Brunn shook his head sadly. "Nah, that's Gedran.." he said as he steered Gundersson out of earshot of the gryphon. "He's a bit damaged that one. We think he's afraid of flying." Gundersson stopped and stared at Brunn. "Yer tellin' me ye've got a gryphon that's afraid o' flyin'? So why's 'e here then?" "Well he's sort of a retired war hero, a bit of a mascot really, but not much else. Nothing much we can do with him. Bit of a drain on resources, but as long as I've got the gold I'll pay fer his feed." Gundersson looked over at the old gryphon. He could see scars on its leonine flanks and hind quarters. Its feathers weren't as strongly colored as the others either and his beak was gnarled, scarred and rough. More telling than any of that though were the creature's eyes. The beast turned his large feathery head away from the boar, which remained stock still staring at him, and looked directly at the dwarf, matching his gaze. There were no illusions in that gaze. No facades. There were equal amounts of respect and fiercly guarded pride. "We don't really know what happend. The last time he flew was during the second war, back when Proudmoore went after that rogue orc fleet. Came back with the rest of Kurdran's squadron riderless, badly injured, burnt and near death. Took us months to nurse him back to health and he never flew after that, even though the healers say there's nothing wrong with him." Gundersson walked over and stood next to the boar and regarded the gryphon. The gryphon regarded him right back. Gundersson slowly drew himself up, heels together. Standing at attention he raised his hand slowly up to his eyes in a formal salute and held it there. The gryphon regarded him for a moment and then carefully dipped its head once in acknowledgement. He snapped his hand back down to his side smartly. The dwarf turned back towards Brunn. "I choose this one." "Lad.." whispered Brunn as he drew Gundersson aside again, "I can't trade him to ya with peace of mind. It's not a good deal. Maybe yer not understanding, this fellow doesn't fly! What use is a gryphon that doesn't fly?" "'Bout as much use as a soldier that doesn't fight," responded Gundersson. "Now ye goin' ta wrap him up fer me or do I just walk outa here?" Brunn sighed in resignation. A few short moments later, he watched as the strange trio walked away down the road together. The dwarf, rifle over the shoulder on one side, the gryphon walking in the middle and the boar on the far side. They walked the walk of old soldiers. Forgotten heroes with untold stories and fiercely guarded pride. "...crazy danged dwarf..." muttered Brunn with a smile. "Crazy danged dwarf."
  7. Zangarmarsh was what the dwarf had called it. He didn't really care what its name was, he was in love with the place. It was just the right temperature. Perfect humidity. The only downside was the mass of buzzing insects around the place, but they brought their own rewards, some were downright tasty. Others lacked flavor but made up for it in substance. He'd soon learned to roll around a bit in one of the plentiful muddy patches to shield his skin from the bugs. After that, the place became an amusement park for his nose and stomach. He'd eaten about four different types of roots, the last one being so bitter he could almost not finish it, however it left a pleasant salty aftertaste in his mouth which lingered for at least half an hour. One of the roots had squirmed as it went down his throat, but by that point it was too late, as whatever it was, was already being introduced to whatever horrors his digestive system held in store for it. At one point, a bug had flown straight into his mouth, a massive buzzing thing about the size of the dwarf's fist, all feelers and eyes. He'd been so surprised he'd simply bitten down and been pleasantly surprised by the taste. After their recent jaunt through the Hellfire Peninsula, he'd started to believe that the only taste left in this place was sulphur. Everything tasted like sulphur there, the rocks, the plants, the demons... This gastronomic orgy was quickly making up for it though. He hadn't gotten any more bugs to fly into his mouth, no matter how much he left it open, but he'd learned to snag a few now and then if they weren't paying attention. They'd made camp under what he soon realized to his delight was a gigantic mushroom. His knees had actually gone weak when he understood the reality of it. Tomorow he would try to eat it. The dwarf had eventually rolled over in his bedroll after giving him strict instructions to wake him if he started falling asleep. He took his watch rotations very seriously and had yet to ever fall asleep on one, yet the dwarf still reminded him. Besides, who could sleep in a place like this? He'd taken a slow walk around the outskirts of the camp when he saw it. There'd been other mushrooms before, but this one... this one was different. It was a bright glowing green color and it seemed to flicker coyly at him. It had the most adorable purple dots on the cap and a svelte, yet well formed stalk. He knew he had a weakness when it came to mushrooms. There was always trouble when he got involved with one, and this one had trouble runed all over it. He realized he was staring. He started to justify things to himself. After all, he was a grown boar. He could make his own decisions. One mushroom wasn't going to do anything. You needed to be adventurous in life... I mean it would all be the same in 5 years and after all, better to regret doing something than spend the rest of your life wondering how good it could have been right? ...besides... MUSHROOM! Gundersson woke up with the pig staring at him. The boar was sitting on his haunches looking directly at him, his tail twitched behind him and his pupils were gigantic. "Lad... you didn't.." As he moved the boar let out a squeal like a steam whistle and bolted. The dwarf muttered an oath, grabbed his rifle and his pack and set off after his porcine companion. It was after him. Right on his heels. It had gotten the dwarf and he was next. Now he knew the secret of this place and it would kill and eat him slowly for finding it out. All he could do was run. He could feel its hot, wet raspberry breath on his back. It growled at him in a choked drawn out murmur, obviously listing the despicable acts it would visit upon him when it inevitably caught him. "STOP! Ye crazy pig! Ye need ta calm down! Get back 'ere noo!" A hiding place... maybe! Perhaps if he could shake it for a moment. He feinted left and then spun right instead, running straight over a marsh hydra which hissed and thrashed in his wake. There was the sound of more hissing and cursing behind him a few seconds later. The best he could manage to find was a bush to huddle in. He tried to pull every bit of himself into the bush and none too soon. The monstrous, tentacled feet lurched out of the marsh where he'd just come from. The creature let forth a moaning call. He hoped it was lamenting the loss of its prey. This was when he looked behind him. He grunted in fear and then the rows of mechanical mushrooms started to advance. He squealed and ran again. This entire place was one living entity and it was out to get HIM. He thrashed through a small brook, crashing straight into the legs of one of those tall, gangly marsh walker things they'd been fighting yesterday. The creature thrashed around in a losing battle to try and regain its balance, but he was already running again. Behind him the sound of the marshwalker crashing to the ground blended with the surprised oaths of the creature as the two colided. Some time later... "I know you're awake, and if you don't come down here ret noo I'll climb up there an turf ye oot meself!" He opened one eye. The dwarf, miraculously alive and whole stood far below him waving a fist and cursing periodically. He shifted his bulk to see more clearly and the tree creaked in warning. Craning his neck, he looked over the edge again. The dwarf looked irate, but at least he was alive... and by Cenarius' left buttock he was hungry! The branch snapped. Thankfully the small stream below him was enough to break his fall. The dwarf continued to rant at him. "...and if ye ever do that again I'm sending ya to stay on that farm near Aunt Em's in Thelsamar where they feed ye nothing but water an' dry grass an' make ye sit in groups with other hunter pets an' think about what ye done an some such! Crazy danged boar..."
  8. Somewhere in The Dragonblight, Northrend. He hated undead. They tasted foul for one. He avoided taking a bite whenever he could. He'd resorted to grabbing a mouthful of snow every now and then to get rid of the taste. Also they habitually left bits behind. Like the bit that was stuck to his left tusk right now. The archers were already opening fire from the sides of the pass. The next wave lurched along it with some gigantic and putrescent white abomination in the lead. It already had several arrows sticking out of it. It didn't seem particularly bothered by this. From behind him came the sounds of somebody rapidly and intently reloading a rifle. He flicked his head again to try and get rid of the thing stuck on his tusk. It flapped around and smacked him in the muzzle with a wet slop. Stuff like this made his temper rise. His temper had been rising all morning. He was wet. He got cold the moment he stood still. He was hungry, but that was at least normal. He'd even be happy with some of the crunchy undead like you found back home near Lordaeron. At least with them there was some texture as long as you spat them out and didn't swallow, but Nooo, he got wet and cold undead instead. They were only good for giving you a disgusting taste in your mouth and getting stuck on your tusks. He backed away trying to shake the piece of stuff off his tusk. It slopped around the other way now and left a green stain on the side of his muzzle. If he could curse, he would have. Instead he grunted angrilly and took another step back. Nearby the front ranks of the shambling hordes had engaged the defenders. The dwarf fired his rifle into the mob, taking a step back after each shot. The forward defendes were fighting back with sword and shield. One of the defenders, a tall woman with blonde frizzy hair sticking out from under her plate helm, looked over at him and back at the dwarf. "OI! Hunter! GET YOUR PET IN THERE!" "Not yet lass, just hold..." came the reply. He blanked the fighting out of his mind and focused on the thing on his tusk. It hung there, just out of range of his tongue, not that he wanted to taste it anymore. It was infuriating though. Taunting him. He started shaking his head vigorously until his entire short stubby body shook like he was having some sort of seizure. The sounds of the frantic battle were all around him now. Defenders screamed for help. Wounded were being dragged off the field. Swords cracked against dry bone and swished through rotting flesh. Undead claws screeched across armor and gouged chunks out of unprotected defenders. He stepped back as the dwarf fired two more rounds right over his head. "HUNTER! I SAID GET HIM IN THERE! There's no time to waste!" "'S not tacticly viable right now lass, trust me... I know the right moment and the lad knows his job!" He could see it clearly from his left eye now. It looked like a piece of rotting skin, a grey-green color, still wet on the underside. It should by all logic have been dislodged by now. He watched its trajectory carefully. Timed the rythm. Counted and then quick as he could, switched his head upward like a whip. If his calculations had been correct, the tension would have been just right to flick it off his tusk. He watched in glee as it sailed upwards off of his tusk. In slow motion it flipped end over end above his head until the world around him got darker as a shadow loomed over him. The bloated horror that had been forming the core of the undead charge had reached him. It looked down at him with one bloodshot green eye. The other eye, blue, stared off at something unseen in the air above the battlefield. He stood for a moment deciding what to do. It was then that the 'stuff' finished its arc and still spinning, plopped down over his right eye with a disgusting wet sound, the lower half of the strip swinging round and smacked into his open mouth. For a split second he stood there with the piece of grey-green flesh draped over his one eye and looked at the horror with his other and then he lost it. He had simply had enough. The world around him turned red and his vision blurred. The only target upon which to vent his wrath stood over him, gently oozing unmentionable liquids from its stitching. He opened his jaw and let out a primal squeal. It was a warcry from the depths of beastial anger itself. It was that sound that was permanently wired into every predator's mind. The sound that said: "You have just gone too far. You have crossed the line and the world is about to become a very unpleasant and painful place for you." Some time later, When the rest of the world reaserted itself, he realized that he was standing in the remains of the monstrosity. He was covered muzzle to hoof in ichor and other bits he didn't want to think about. The most recognizable piece of the abomination was an arm still clutching a meathook. It lay a few feet from him in the snow and had toothmarks in it. Stunned defenders stood in a quiet circle around him. He looked up and the circle enlarged by a few feet. The dwarf stood nearby, reloading his rifle with a massive grin breaking through his long, braided white beard. "That's mah boy!" he said proudly. "Didja lot see that? Didja see what 'e did!?" Another defender studied him carefully over a shield: "I think it's rabid... you sure it's supposed to act like that? I never seen 'em do that to something before. You sure he's safe dwarf?" "'E's ok lad, just a big softie really." "..how did it even know how to do that thing with the knees? Did you see what it did to the knees?!" He stepped out of the remains of the thing and started heading away from the battleground in the hopes of finding a clean patch of snow to roll in. The soldiers rapidly moved out of his way, forming an opening in the circle. "...crazy danged boar..."
  9. As he ran, he searched. He needed a mind. Someone who wasn't that well connected to their reality. Someone who's strand of reality was frayed and messy. Forsaken... He grinned. Any one would do. Right there... THAT ONE! He seized it. Somewhere in a place not so much distant, but rather, disconnected, a desiccated corpse sat bolt upright.
  10. He ran. Technically he knew he wasn't really running. That the clicks and pops from his joints weren't real and the burning desire to breathe heavily wasn't real. So he didn't bother with the whole breathing thing. It seemed like a frivolous waste of mental power. Instead he pushed his complaining body harder. It wasn't about where he was running to at this stage, it was where he was running from. He had to keep it busy. How long he would have to do it for he had no idea. Time was... well it wasn't a straight line like most people thought it was. It wasn't a big cart either. You didn't just put things on it and send them down the time stream. It was more like a series of goblin tubes that wound and tangled their way through the nether. Sometimes those tubes got clogged... and then you found special places, places where time didn't work just right. He needed to find one of those places right now. He also needed help. Right now.
  11. Desolace was bordered in the north by tall, rolling hills. well, it should be. As he walked, he realized that all he could see now was mist. It roiled up from the land in front of him, dragged at his feet and covered everything in cloying whiteness. He set his head down and walked, tapping carefully on the ground ahead of him like a blind man with a cane. After what he guessed was an hour of walking like this, he turned his head and looked behind him, expecting white nothingness. He did not see what he expected. Desolace lay behind him. The road he'd strayed from over an hour ago, merely a few steps from him. He grinned mirthlessly. It started as a grunt and turned into dry, painful sounding laughter. His laughter grew and grew until he lay on the ground slapping his side in merriment. "All this time..." he gasped between guffaws. "All this time! Right here!" His laugther was joined by a deep, chuffing sound. It was also laughter, but from something that should never make that sound. It was deep, menacing and uncomfortable. It made his spine crawl. He knew what it was. He sat up slowly, his guffaws receding into chuckles and finally just a smile. A few feet away, it stood and stared now. Silence between them. "All this time..." said Grisch, "all this time I thought I'd won.... except.. I hadn't. You had." Its smile was terrible to behold. Too many teeth to fit into a mouth that was just way more expressive than it should have been. "You thought it was that easy, you pathetic, dying meatbag?" it whispered. "Really? You think you could just walk away, with what you know? You think I'd just let you leave?" The creature let out another hissing laugh and then clicked its sinuous tongue patronizingly. "Poor little Shaman." Grisch grinned back at it, saying nothing. "Oh? You find this amusing to, do you?" hissed the thing. "Or have I finally just broken your frazzled little mind?" Grisch continued to grin. For the first time something resembling worry flitted across the creature's nightmare visage. "What is it shaman? What could you possibly have to smile about? Anything you have, I've taken already. Hope? It's mine now. Purpose? Long gone. Faith? You never had it. Love? Pfft... you have nothing left." "I have one more thing. Something you don't," grinned Grisch. The creature narrowed its eyes quizzically. "What? What could you possibly have that I can't take from you?" "I have friends," said the old orc softly, and then he was gone. ((Sorry guys, this stuff is messy and badly edited. I'm trying to get the story down as fast as I can. I'll come back later and clean it up. Anyone in game... time to expect a visitor...))
  12. He stopped drinking and stared at his reflection. As he familiarized himself with the ragged white beard and rough, craggy skin, the face began to change. His large, orcish tusks turned to fangs, a lupine muzzle covered by white fur emerged from his face and then, without warning, whatever it was lunged at him. He flung himself backward, landing awkwardly on his back. A moment later a large, shaggy white wolf burst out of the water and landed square on him, knocking the air from his lungs. Gasping for breath he stared up into its salivating maw. "Leave this place shaman," it rasped huskily. "Go. Your time here is done." "Where? Where do I go to?" he gasped. "Purpose," rasped the wolf. "Find purpose. A mind without purpose will wander in dark places. You, Grisch, are in a very dark place. Go and find your purpose. Find your faith." With that, the wolf faded almost instantly, its weight disappearing from his chest. Grisch heaved himself painfully up onto his elbows and looked slowly around. "Purpose..." he muttered. "Faith." An hour later, his few possessions wrapped up in a kodo-hide bag and slung over his shoulder, Grisch walked arthritically along a dusty trail which toiled through the middle of Desolace. He still mumbled to himself. "Purpose," he muttered. "Dark Places. Wander. Where did I wander? Why?"
  13. So I wrote these a few years back and I've been adding to them bit by bit. They got featured on WoWInsider in top 5 favorite fanfics. Would love any comments and criticism. EDIT: So I just noticed Blizz seems to have deleted the fanfic forum and with it all my stories. Thankfully I had backups. Here's the first one. He awoke to the sound of his stomach rumbling. It wasn't a pleasant wake-up. It also wasn't rare. He'd had several apples, a few bowls of ale, some dwarven bread, which explained the gritty feeling on his molars and some chunks of jerky. He'd fallen asleep content with the fire warming his rear, facing out from the camp so he could keep watch. A ragged snore from the nearby dwarf made him aware of another reason he might be awake. Noisily licking his lips and muttering something under his breath about how winters these days had no gumption anymore the dwarf rolled himself more tightly into his blankets, one hand still gripping the heavy rifle at his side. Creeping forward, stomach still on the ground, he delicately tried to nose the pack open in search of a snack. After a moment spent rooting around in it he realised that all he could smell were the last remnants of crumbs. Disappointed he sat down again. It was at this point that he heard the twig snap. His body unmoving, an ear quickly rotated like some sort of gnomish tracking system. As his hearing focused on the sound he became aware of careful breathing and other sounds a body makes when it's trying to seem unimportant. Slowly his stubby back legs lifted his rump off the ground and he backed very carefully away from the camp and into the shadows. It was hard for something with his body-type to exhibit any form of stealth, but he did a fair enough job. The dwarf still snored and muttered in his sleep. As the presence moved slowly into the camp, he backed carefully away, matching it step by step, body low to the ground, one ear still focused on the intruder and one carefully rotated to pick up any sounds from behind him. Two things then happened almost at the same time. The intruder stepped into the fire light and his nose delivered a very important message to his brain. The intruder was about as tall as the dwarf, carried a crude spear and had a slimy fishy look to it. The message from his nose however might has well have been written in 10 foot capital letters and ended with multiple exclamation marks. It simply said 'mushroom'. A short distance to his left one of the big red ones with the white spots and the faintly earthy scent grew between the roots of a tree. How had he missed it earlier? The rich scent filled his nose and one leg twitched involuntarily at the delicious fragrance. The deep earthy scent with a faint musky note of wood and nutty overtones. The red speckled ones, when at just the right stage of growth captured a certain essence of the pines that grew in this area. They teased the palate with hints of a slightly wild fruitiness, which satisfied without being overbearing. The stalks had just the right amount of fiber for a certain 'al dente' freshness. The presentation of this particular mushroom was also exquisite, its smooth, slightly shiny surface and white spots contrasted perfectly with the texture of the stalk, leaving the taste buds excited, yet not overwhelmed. He froze there for a moment experiencing the fragrance as he decided if he would eat it right there or take it back to the fire to enjoy in comfort. Something gnawed at his consciousness for a moment and then he remembered. The intruder. He snapped his attention back to the camp site. How much time had he lost? He looked back to see the figure poised over the sleeping dwarf. Spear gripped in both hands and angled downward. It had wasted a few moments checking the dwarf's pack for anything of value. Those few moments meant the difference between life and death. Forequarters dropped close to the ground, rear raised up like a sprinter in the starter blocks, he dug his hooves into the ground and prepared to unleash his compact body. As the spear began to descend, his muscles had already kicked into action. Like a miniature steam locomotive he barrelled along the ground in a dead straight line, stubby legs churning furiously, hooves spraying up earth and leaves behind him. Every muscle in his front half contracted turning him into something akin to a speeding, self-propelled battering ram with a tempered steel nosecap. He hit the murloc mid-way up it's body. His feet had briefly left the ground moments before impact and not a single hoof touched the sleeping dwarf. Fine, fish-like bones snapped inside the thing and he felt a tusk gouge deep into flesh. They flew through the air, the murloc flailing madly, winded and unable to make a sound. A brief moment later the frantic, flailing mass of boar and murloc smashed into a large Azerothian pine. The murloc hit first and was pulped microseconds later by the solid weight of a healthy Dun Morogh boar moving at top speed. A couple of pine cones fell gently around them, making soft 'pluft-pluft' noises as they dug themselves into the forest mulch. He sniffed the inert mass of murloc lying against the tree. It twitched gently but didn't appear to be much of a threat anymore. Satisfied, he turned around and trotted back to the fire, pausing momentarily to wipe each hoof against the ground in a most self-righteous manner. Moments later he sat next to the fire again, contentedly munching on the large red speckled mushroom. He grunted softly in satisfaction. The dwarf sat up in his blankets and opened one eye to stare meaningfully at him. "Ya mind keepin' it doon lad? Some o' us arr tryin' ta sleep 'ere!" The dwarf rolled over again in his blankets after tossing a few pine cones on the fire. "Danged boar," it muttered.
  14. 5 years ago... Through the swirling mists of the nether he'd grasped at his world. His body still lay there, a rocky haven amongst the changing tides of the nether. He'd forgotten why he was here a long time back. He'd had a purpose here, but no longer knew it nor cared. All he wanted was his world again. Azeroth. Firm ground beneath his feet. The wind on his face, fire in his veins and water on his skin. He had friends back there. People he'd lived for. Purpose. Old memories that blurred and melded into each other in this swirling maelstrom of life force that was the twisting nether. Justice. Self sacrifice. Mercy. Honor. They were just feelings now in this state. Those feelings would lead him back. Lifetimes later he grabbed onto the essence of his body and dragged himself into it like a shipwrecked sailor pulling himself onto land. Time passed and Grisch sat up. He coughed and gagged and spat dirty brackish water from his mouth. Around him he made out a broken and sterile land. Desolace. The call of the elements had always been weak here. The spirit of the earth had died, the water was tainted and dead. He could barely feel his connection to them. For years he wandered. Raving sometimes, sitting motionless for days at other times. Memories became reality and the ghosts of friends long gone kept him company. He talked at length to a memory of Nojinbo, the young rogue. He told him how he'd drawn strength from his youth and ideals. He'd apologized in a sobbing fit to Vilmah for burdening her young shoulders with such great responsibility. He'd raved at Brakogar for leaving. Sometimes he was lucid enough to build a fire and warm himself. The old kodo graveyard offered sanctuary now. The dying kodo ignored him as just another being waiting to leave this world. Yet he didn't. He held on. Days blurred into weeks, months and years. Then one day life came back. He felt it like an itch under his skin at first, but it grew stronger and stronger. The world started to become more solid every day. He became more aware of his reality, his NOW. He first noticed that some of the kodos seemed to recovering. He found himself drawn places where he found fresh young grass under his feet. The water started to taste like something, instead of its sterile dead flavor he'd grown used to. For the first time he could remember, he caught a glimpse of his haggard old face looking back at him as he drank from a clear pool. "Grisch...," he rumbled from his old dry throat, "where did you go?"
  15. You had a life beyond WoW back then..? Someone was going to say it, might as well be me This thing really brought back so many memories. Most of them good. It was so cool seeing Grisch in a few shots there too. Regardless of the drama and a few errors, the guy's voice, cuts and music were really pretty cool. I think I still have his e-mail address somewhere, feel like dropping him a mail. I remember when we first met him, first I thought he was a griefer, then I thought he was just taking the piss out of us. When I realized he was probably serious it was actually kinda weird. Laughed at the "SILENCE ZUSTEAKI!" Geez, if I had a silver piece for every time somebody yelled that... well I'd probably have enough for a Morning Glory Dew.