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  1. The weather in Stormheim was not pleasant. The vrykul that she battled with constantly seemed accustomed to the elements, but Vilmah was not particularly fond of the rain. The moisture seeped into her armor, making the clothes she wore underneath damp and cold. Her mechanical arm creaked with hidden rust that grew inside of the contraption, despite her best efforts to keep it oiled and well-maintained. With each swing of her enormous two-handed sword, the sound of metal and the feeling of chaffed damp skin made the orcess grit her teeth. “I hate rain,” she said to herself, cleaving through a vrykul’s skull. The humanoid went down with a wet thud, still more rain pouring down on the corpse. He had been trailing her since she’d raided his village on a mission for Sylvannas, and she had no patience for stalkers. Not today. Not in this weather. Wiping off her sword on the wet grass, she heard a groan from nearby. “Hey, you!” Called a gruff voice from a few yards away. Vilmah peered toward the voice. It was coming from a group of bushes. A trap? Perhaps. A reason to continue to be out in the rain? Most definitely. With an irritated sigh, she approached the caller. “What?” Looking up toward the small warrior was another orc. He lay half-hidden in the bushes, a hand over his stomach, which Vilmah realized had been torn open. His intestines had spilled forth like a pile of thick ropes, and his lifeblood grew in a steady pool on the ground. “Heh... just my luck,” he coughed. “Another warrior. Wouldn’t happen to have a priest with you, huh?” She knelt down beside him, grabbing uselessly for some bandages. “No… sorry. Just me.” “Well, a fitting end,” he grunted, closing his eyes. “The glory of battle, ey warrior?” Vilmah tried to hide her scowl. “Sure.” “Listen…” the dying orc said quietly, his breathing slowed. “My name is Hak’gor Stonejaw. I need you to… do this for me. Take my axe,” he commanded. “Take it to Hammerfall. There’s a… a tree there. Leave it there.” The orcess blinked, confused. “Hammerfall?” She repeated. “But why a tree?” “No time…” Stonejaw muttered, his eyes glossing over. “Just… bring it to my son…” There was no more talking after that. Just rain, and the smell of orcish entrails. Vilmah waited until his breathing ended, and shut the orc’s eyelids. He seemed far older than her, his skin slack and weathered. A sick feeling overcame her as felt his dead flesh, but she swallowed the nausea and took up his axe. It was heavy.