Kazarak

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About Kazarak

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  1. When Kazarak awoke, the first thing he was aware of was the pain. Though his right arm, or the stump that remained of it, had been bandaged and treated, it still throbbed agonizingly, sending waves of sharp pain across his weary body. His armor and tabard were nowhere to be seen. All his supplies, bags, weapons, and his mask had been taken from him. He wore a vest and pants that had been fitted to his size perfectly, but they were void of any items or recognizable features to tell him anything useful. For all he knew, a troll could have stitched them, or a gnome, or any number of mortal races. Next, he noticed his remaining arm was shackled by the wrist, and chained to his legs. He could stretch out enough to stand if he moved carefully, but any attempt to do so resulted in a biting pain in his arm. Shoulder, he reminded himself grimly. That arm is gone so you could live. Don’t let your mind drag you back to the past. Prior to having awoken, his spirit had drifted from his body, as it was accustomed to whenever he lost consciousness these days. In the spirit world, he’d seen darkness unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before. It seemed even on the other side, the Legion’s presence was felt by all. The spirits had either abandoned him there, or were hiding from him as if he were tainted. Hell, maybe I am. The demon’s poison is subtle sometimes. My life may be forfeit already. Time will tell. Kaz didn’t intend to wait until time told him bad news. He called on the element of wind and blew cold air from his mouth to chill the steel that bound him. He could feel the chill biting his wrists and ankles after a few minutes. The fatigue made his connection to the elements foggy and distant, but he managed to shatter the cuffs with enough effort. He slowly lifted himself to his feet, adjusting to his new center of balance. Nausea erupted from his innards, and he doubled over, coughing up whatever had been in his stomach. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall his last meal being so recent. Whoever had taken him prisoner wanted him alive. That didn’t reassure him to stay and wait until they came and found him awake. Kaz regained his composure and wobbled clumsily to a barred door at the far end of the cave. He pressed his ear to the door, in part to listen to what was happening outside, and also to rest his already tiring body. From behind the door, he heard muffled boots scuffling along a rock floor. He sniffed the air, and recognized the distinct scent of humans, and some worgen. The elements could heighten his senses this way, but he would have given much to have the senses of a druid at that moment. A shapeshifter with enough practice could tell how many foes were behind the door by smell alone. He could discern only that there were many. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, and all the power from the world around him he could muster. Then he drew his leg back, and kicked with the fury of the storms, blowing the door open. Kaz nearly fell over with the effort. He grimaced. That much power should have blown it off its hinges. He tried to change form into a ghost wolf, but found his spiritual powers would not respond. He bolted out the door, and hid behind the open door, looking towards his right, where the door offered him no cover first. Guards stared at him, hands on their swords. The Gilnean sigil sat proudly on their chests. Kaz clenched his teeth and growled with effort as he peeled off the door and scrambled in the opposite direction. The guards shouted at him to stop. Kaz replied by tossing a sloppy burst of air back at them. He knew it didn’t hit anything based on the lack of pained grunting. The direction he’d run in was littered with humans wearing rags being treated by priests dressed in darkly covered robes. They all gaped at him as if they didn’t know he had been there in the first place. A woman in a black leathers wearing a gold-trimmed Gilnean tabard stared at him with deep brown eyes full of not fear or anger, but concern. He ignored them all and bolted past, calling on the winds to keep him upright. His vision started to grow foggy and bloody dribbled from his mouth, but he never stopped running. A lone night elf sat on a pile of demon carcasses in the middle of a crisp, fel-scorched Westfall field as the sun began to set. The wind was picking up, spreading fel ashes down the hill her kills had been laid upon. Two glaives, twins, sat shining in the dimming light of the sun, buried in the flesh of the most recent demons killed. The Azeroth sun was warmer than she remembered; it gave her comfort where in Outland and Mardum she had felt cold and alone at all times. It was good to be home. Only a week had passed since Maiev, the Warden, had released the Illidari from their prisons. It had been a long isolation. But not nearly as long as the imprisonment she had suffered for the crime of protecting her people. Still, Shanoris despised having her freedom taken from her. She swore she’d never set foot in another prison. It had been a fight through hell just to escape the last one, and the fight hadn’t stopped since. Westfall, Dun Morogh, Hillsbrad, Tanaris, Azshara, and the Barrens. They were all different from what she remembered. Even more so now that the demons were raining down on them. It was like the War of the Ancients all over again. It delighted her. It made her feel purpose again. An odd thought, the world teetering on the brink of destruction, not knowing if anyone she loved was still alive, and here she sat, waist-deep in demon blood. She felt alive. “Aaaagh!” Shanoris’ pointed ears twitched at the sound. She sensed one of the local farmers had fallen to the ground, holding his wrist, which was apparently broken. He backed off slowly from what appeared to be a troll. She grinned happily. A new hunt. It’s been a while since I hunted troll. She sprang off her pile, scooping her glaives from the flesh of the dead in a swift motion. She sprinted, a blur in anyone else’s eyes. She got behind the troll. He had a hatchet in his hand. His only hand. The man’s missing an arm, and wobbly besides. She licked her lips. I might be able to have some fun with this one… She tossed her glaives, one after the other, to land between the troll and the human. The armed man whirled to face her, clumsy with exhaustion. “A…Demon Hunter?” he asked in Darnassian, which surprised Shanoris. She’d never met a troll that spoke the same language as her. She smelled elemental energy about him, as well. Curious one, isn’t he? She thought playfully. “Haven’t gotten the news yet, savage? The Illidari walk amongst you once more!” she offered him a mocking bow as she spoke. The troll spat blood on the dead grass. “You’re full…of yourself…more than…you’re full of fel.” He spoke slowly, but not as if he were a simpleton. More like a man with a throat injury. She noticed the remnants of damage in his vocal cords, and not just physical. Very curious. She leaped into the air with a flip, her foot brought down on his upraised axe. It fell from his grip, only to be scooped up by the elf. The troll backed up warily. The wind picked up about him. Aww, how cute. He needs the air to keep himself upright. She tossed the axe in the air, catching it by the head of the shaft, then tossed it again. She kept that up to taunt him, daring the troll to try and take it. “I don’t think this belongs to you,” she said, as if scolding a child. “Tsk tsk tsk, what a nasty boy you’ve been! Stealing in the middle of a war, from a man defending his home. Somebody needs to teach you a lesson in proper manners.” The troll reached his hand out, tossing a ball of fire conjured from thin air. Shanoris sidestepped lazily, allowing the spell to set the nearby ground ablaze. She stamped it out with a few swift kicks. The air shifted, trying to take the axe from her. The troll charged forward to meet it as it fell from her hand. Shanoris grinned cockily, then kicked the axe to the shaft bashed the troll in the chin, nearly knocking him completely off balance. Shanoris ducked behind him before he could regain his feet, catching his ankle with a foot and swept his leg out from under him. He crashed into the ground, and lay spread-eagled, stirring slowly. Shanoris picked the fallen axe off the ground and handed it to the bewildered farmer with a cheeky smile. “I believe Sentinel Hill would be a bit safer than out here,” she said. “But, my farm…,” he stammered. “You can rebuild it. But you only have one life. Run along now. You can fight again another day.” Reluctantly, he ran off. By then, the troll was only on his knees. “By Elune, what in Azeroth happened to you? You’re a mess!” The troll snarled at her in response. Then he tossed a spear of earth from the ground at her. She spun, grabbing it, and threw it back at him. He dove out of the way, but it glanced his ribcage on the left side. He charged at her again. She grabbed his tusk and tripped him, ripping it off roughly before planting him face-first into the ground. She examined the tusk, a short stub of troll ivory, roughly cracked by her quick display of force. She flexed her biceps where the fallen troll could see her. “Not as scrawny as I look, huh?” The troll’s hand crackled with electricity. “Fuck…off…” he said feebly. Shanoris raised an eyebrow. A root rose from the ground and pinned his hand down. The electric crackles ceased. The rest of his body was tried up with entangling roots. “Enough! Both of you!” a young voice called in the Common tongue. Shanoris turned. A beauty of a human girl was running her way, joined by at least a dozen armed escorts. Judging by the billowing black cloak whipping in the wind behind her, she must have been some sort of nobility. She had hair almost as silky smooth and jet-black as Shanoris’. Almost. “Leave him be, he’s sick and injured from battle. He needs rest!” the lady said in a demanding, yet gentle voice. The elf tossed his tusk up in the air and caught it. She replied, “He was hurting an innocent man when I found him. Doesn’t seem he wants to rest.” The lady looked at Shanoris and then the troll. “He’s a prisoner. My prisoner. I won’t see him harmed while he’s still recovering. He lost his arm fighting the Legion, and he deserves respect for his sacrifice.” Shanoris’s face twisted into a grin as she faked a laugh. “Hah! An honored prisoner! My mistake, milady. I didn’t realize how important this savage was to you.” “Call me…savage again!” the troll threatened, writhing beneath the vines. “Call me that again…and I’ll--“ his voice cut off into sputtering, hacking coughs. Shanoris scoffed. “You’ll what? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you choking to death.” The lady released the vines, and her guards picked the troll up gently, but kept a steady grip in case he tried something. Shanoris could smell their nerves. Even wounded, they were afraid of him. I’ve stumbled on a rather fascinating individual. He must have quite the reputation among the Alliance if even wounded and crippled, they fear him. “What is your name, Illidari?” the lady asked her. “I saw how you fight. I was impressed. Shanoris felt the praise wash over her. She thrived on it. The elf walked over to her glaives with all the grace of a dancer and picked them up, fluidly strapping them to the harness on her back. “Shanoris Fargaze,” she presented herself like a work of art to be beloved. “Illidari, hunter of demons, slayer of men in more ways than one!” She dipped into another mockery of a bow. “At your service.” The lady smiled, amused. She replied, “Lady Esmerra Blackmane, of Gilneas. Shanoris Fargaze, how would you like a new job?” Shanoris said, “I’m listening.” When Kazarak awoke, the first thing he was aware of was the pain. Though his right arm, or the stump that remained of it, had been bandaged and treated, it still throbbed agonizingly, sending waves of sharp pain across his weary body. His armor and tabard were nowhere to be seen. All his supplies, bags, weapons, and his mask had been taken from him. He wore a vest and pants that had been fitted to his size perfectly, but they were void of any items or recognizable features to tell him anything useful. For all he knew, a troll could have stitched them, or a gnome, or any number of mortal races. Next, he noticed his remaining arm was shackled by the wrist, and chained to his legs. He could stretch out enough to stand if he moved carefully, but any attempt to do so resulted in a biting pain in his arm. Shoulder, he reminded himself grimly. That arm is gone so you could live. Don’t let your mind drag you back to the past. Prior to having awoken, his spirit had drifted from his body, as it was accustomed to whenever he lost consciousness these days. In the spirit world, he’d seen darkness unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before. It seemed even on the other side, the Legion’s presence was felt by all. The spirits had either abandoned him there, or were hiding from him as if he were tainted. Hell, maybe I am. The demon’s poison is subtle sometimes. My life may be forfeit already. Time will tell. Kaz didn’t intend to wait until time told him bad news. He called on the element of wind and blew cold air from his mouth to chill the steel that bound him. He could feel the chill biting his wrists and ankles after a few minutes. The fatigue made his connection to the elements foggy and distant, but he managed to shatter the cuffs with enough effort. He slowly lifted himself to his feet, adjusting to his new center of balance. Nausea erupted from his innards, and he doubled over, coughing up whatever had been in his stomach. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall his last meal being so recent. Whoever had taken him prisoner wanted him alive. That didn’t reassure him to stay and wait until they came and found him awake. Kaz regained his composure and wobbled clumsily to a barred door at the far end of the cave. He pressed his ear to the door, in part to listen to what was happening outside, and also to rest his already tiring body. From behind the door, he heard muffled boots scuffling along a rock floor. He sniffed the air, and recognized the distinct scent of humans, and some worgen. The elements could heighten his senses this way, but he would have given much to have the senses of a druid at that moment. A shapeshifter with enough practice could tell how many foes were behind the door by smell alone. He could discern only that there were many. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, and all the power from the world around him he could muster. Then he drew his leg back, and kicked with the fury of the storms, blowing the door open. Kaz nearly fell over with the effort. He grimaced. That much power should have blown it off its hinges. He tried to change form into a ghost wolf, but found his spiritual powers would not respond. He bolted out the door, and hid behind the open door, looking towards his right, where the door offered him no cover first. Guards stared at him, hands on their swords. The Gilnean sigil sat proudly on their chests. Kaz clenched his teeth and growled with effort as he peeled off the door and scrambled in the opposite direction. The guards shouted at him to stop. Kaz replied by tossing a sloppy burst of air back at them. He knew it didn’t hit anything based on the lack of pained grunting. The direction he’d run in was littered with humans wearing rags being treated by priests dressed in darkly covered robes. They all gaped at him as if they didn’t know he had been there in the first place. A woman in a black leathers wearing a gold-trimmed Gilnean tabard stared at him with deep brown eyes full of not fear or anger, but concern. He ignored them all and bolted past, calling on the winds to keep him upright. His vision started to grow foggy and bloody dribbled from his mouth, but he never stopped running. A lone night elf sat on a pile of demon carcasses in the middle of a crisp, fel-scorched Westfall field as the sun began to set. The wind was picking up, spreading fel ashes down the hill her kills had been laid upon. Two glaives, twins, sat shining in the dimming light of the sun, buried in the flesh of the most recent demons killed. The Azeroth sun was warmer than she remembered; it gave her comfort where in Outland and Mardum she had felt cold and alone at all times. It was good to be home. Only a week had passed since Maiev, the Warden, had released the Illidari from their prisons. It had been a long isolation. But not nearly as long as the imprisonment she had suffered for the crime of protecting her people. Still, Shanoris despised having her freedom taken from her. She swore she’d never set foot in another prison. It had been a fight through hell just to escape the last one, and the fight hadn’t stopped since. Westfall, Dun Morogh, Hillsbrad, Tanaris, Azshara, and the Barrens. They were all different from what she remembered. Even more so now that the demons were raining down on them. It was like the War of the Ancients all over again. It delighted her. It made her feel purpose again. An odd thought, the world teetering on the brink of destruction, not knowing if anyone she loved was still alive, and here she sat, waist-deep in demon blood. She felt alive. “Aaaagh!” Shanoris’ pointed ears twitched at the sound. She sensed one of the local farmers had fallen to the ground, holding his wrist, which was apparently broken. He backed off slowly from what appeared to be a troll. She grinned happily. A new hunt. It’s been a while since I hunted troll. She sprang off her pile, scooping her glaives from the flesh of the dead in a swift motion. She sprinted, a blur in anyone else’s eyes. She got behind the troll. He had a hatchet in his hand. His only hand. The man’s missing an arm, and wobbly besides. She licked her lips. I might be able to have some fun with this one… She tossed her glaives, one after the other, to land between the troll and the human. The armed man whirled to face her, clumsy with exhaustion. “A…Demon Hunter?” he asked in Darnassian, which surprised Shanoris. She’d never met a troll that spoke the same language as her. She smelled elemental energy about him, as well. Curious one, isn’t he? She thought playfully. “Haven’t gotten the news yet, savage? The Illidari walk amongst you once more!” she offered him a mocking bow as she spoke. The troll spat blood on the dead grass. “You’re full…of yourself…more than…you’re full of fel.” He spoke slowly, but not as if he were a simpleton. More like a man with a throat injury. She noticed the remnants of damage in his vocal cords, and not just physical. Very curious. She leaped into the air with a flip, her foot brought down on his upraised axe. It fell from his grip, only to be scooped up by the elf. The troll backed up warily. The wind picked up about him. Aww, how cute. He needs the air to keep himself upright. She tossed the axe in the air, catching it by the head of the shaft, then tossed it again. She kept that up to taunt him, daring the troll to try and take it. “I don’t think this belongs to you,” she said, as if scolding a child. “Tsk tsk tsk, what a nasty boy you’ve been! Stealing in the middle of a war, from a man defending his home. Somebody needs to teach you a lesson in proper manners.” The troll reached his hand out, tossing a ball of fire conjured from thin air. Shanoris sidestepped lazily, allowing the spell to set the nearby ground ablaze. She stamped it out with a few swift kicks. The air shifted, trying to take the axe from her. The troll charged forward to meet it as it fell from her hand. Shanoris grinned cockily, then kicked the axe to the shaft bashed the troll in the chin, nearly knocking him completely off balance. Shanoris ducked behind him before he could regain his feet, catching his ankle with a foot and swept his leg out from under him. He crashed into the ground, and lay spread-eagled, stirring slowly. Shanoris picked the fallen axe off the ground and handed it to the bewildered farmer with a cheeky smile. “I believe Sentinel Hill would be a bit safer than out here,” she said. “But, my farm…,” he stammered. “You can rebuild it. But you only have one life. Run along now. You can fight again another day.” Reluctantly, he ran off. By then, the troll was only on his knees. “By Elune, what in Azeroth happened to you? You’re a mess!” The troll snarled at her in response. Then he tossed a spear of earth from the ground at her. She spun, grabbing it, and threw it back at him. He dove out of the way, but it glanced his ribcage on the left side. He charged at her again. She grabbed his tusk and tripped him, ripping it off roughly before planting him face-first into the ground. She examined the tusk, a short stub of troll ivory, roughly cracked by her quick display of force. She flexed her biceps where the fallen troll could see her. “Not as scrawny as I look, huh?” The troll’s hand crackled with electricity. “Fuck…off…” he said feebly. Shanoris raised an eyebrow. A root rose from the ground and pinned his hand down. The electric crackles ceased. The rest of his body was tried up with entangling roots. “Enough! Both of you!” a young voice called in the Common tongue. Shanoris turned. A beauty of a human girl was running her way, joined by at least a dozen armed escorts. Judging by the billowing black cloak whipping in the wind behind her, she must have been some sort of nobility. She had hair almost as silky smooth and jet-black as Shanoris’. Almost. “Leave him be, he’s sick and injured from battle. He needs rest!” the lady said in a demanding, yet gentle voice. The elf tossed his tusk up in the air and caught it. She replied, “He was hurting an innocent man when I found him. Doesn’t seem he wants to rest.” The lady looked at Shanoris and then the troll. “He’s a prisoner. My prisoner. I won’t see him harmed while he’s still recovering. He lost his arm fighting the Legion, and he deserves respect for his sacrifice.” Shanoris’s face twisted into a grin as she faked a laugh. “Hah! An honored prisoner! My mistake, milady. I didn’t realize how important this savage was to you.” “Call me…savage again!” the troll threatened, writhing beneath the vines. “Call me that again…and I’ll--“ his voice cut off into sputtering, hacking coughs. Shanoris scoffed. “You’ll what? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you choking to death.” The lady released the vines, and her guards picked the troll up gently, but kept a steady grip in case he tried something. Shanoris could smell their nerves. Even wounded, they were afraid of him. I’ve stumbled on a rather fascinating individual. He must have quite the reputation among the Alliance if even wounded and crippled, they fear him. “What is your name, Illidari?” the lady asked her. “I saw how you fight. I was impressed. Shanoris felt the praise wash over her. She thrived on it. The elf walked over to her glaives with all the grace of a dancer and picked them up, fluidly strapping them to the harness on her back. “Shanoris Fargaze,” she presented herself like a work of art to be beloved. “Illidari, hunter of demons, slayer of men in more ways than one!” She dipped into another mockery of a bow. “At your service.” The lady smiled, amused. She replied, “Lady Esmerra Blackmane, of Gilneas. Shanoris Fargaze, how would you like a new job?” Shanoris said, “I’m listening.”