Post by gort on Jun 18, 2011 11:38:45 GMT -5
Rommak Spinerip, Warlord of the Horde, rests his weary back against an oak tree. The tree is wide and tall, almost certainly older than the emerald creature collapsed at it's base. Black blood flows freely from his chest and face, staining the roots of the old oak. The Orc, having been born with two tusks, now carries only one. The other, broken, tusk lies among the bodies of the dead.
The Orc's warrior spirit forces a few thoughts into his mind. First to examine the surrounding, in search of new threats. Not that he has the strength to fight them off anyway. No enemies found, his spirit calls to mind a second thought. He is going to die soon. This being made clear, the Orc was allowed a third thought, and this one brings a harsh smile to the Orc's ruined face. There are three humans who will be joining him in death.
Three humans, wearing all black, lay dead before him. One was whole, only stabbed. The other two lay in various pieces around the small clearing. They bore insignia, but Romm did not recognize it. One had papers, which Romm read with his broken Common. They were assassination orders, but not for him. He had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time, finding his way into their camp.
Romm reflected on his life, beginning at this last battle and traveling backwards. It had been a glorious fight, he was strong and few. They were fast and many. But when his mighty heart ceased, noone else would ever know of the battle. The Orcs of his Warband would search for him, and find his body. They would take care of everything else.
Backward, through his life, his thoughts traveled. He thought of the Horde, of Thrall and Garrosh, of Cairne and Baine. Of the Trolls. Of the Forsaken. Of the Blood Elves. The Founding of Orgrimmar dominated his fading thoughts, of the joy and pride he had felt at this new, Orcish city. And he thought of how he had been let down, in so many ways.
Beyond that, he paused briefly on the camps before moving further back, to his childhood in the Valley. Gortuk had taught him to fish, how to clean and cook the wriggly snacks. Good thoughts. Peaceful thoughts. But....so weary, his mind cannot focus. The Warlord is forced to think of more present, relevant things.
Almost eighty cycles ago, Rommak had been born. He was born last of his siblings, into the Stormchild lineage. His family had always honored the storm for it's power, and so they had bound themselves to the spirit of the Storm.
In Romm's hand lay the Dae'axe. An axe imbued with the combined spiritual power of almost two-hundred generations of his family. It was black as a moonless midnight, with two green runes etched into the metal. They spelled simply "The Twisted Axe".
The old Orc's fingers tighten on the axe, grip so firm the axe trembles. The runes take on the strange green shine they always did when surging with the power of the Ancestors. Romm's sibling were all dead. Gortuk Stormchild, Kraz Soulrender, Khrand the Honorless, Kharda Shadowweaver. Three brothers, and a sister. All dead. Now it was Rommak's turn. He, and none of his siblings, had bore children. Rommak was the last of the Stormchild line.
The Orc mouths soundless words. He has no voice, in front of the power of the Dae'axe. But the words are a simple, ancient prayer.
"The Earth is my Strength.
The Fire is my Heart.
The Breeze is my Eyes.
The Water is my Head.
But the Storm is my Soul."
He mouths this only once, and the runes' cruel glow dies away, almost vanishing. The Orc, Proud Warlord of the Horde, Rommak Spinerip the Thunderbringer, The Vrykul Strangler, The Slayer of the Dragon of the Frozen North, Warleader of the Shadowmoon Warband, Grand Battleshaman of the Horde. This Orc draws in one deep, final breath.
Then exhales.
Two great, green fires leapt from his eyes. They had an evil look, not unlike a warlock's fel-fire. The flames did not shoot far, but stayed in his eyes. The runes on the axe begin to glow, and the Orc speaks with his old, deep voice.
"I have been born. I have lived. And now I die." And he did just that. His eyes close, smothering the green fire. His Dae'axe, so charged with power, explodes in his hand. Not into shards, or fragments, but into dust. That Great-axe, so massive only one with the strength of an Orc could hope to use it, simply...falls into dust.
This fine, black soot, is caught by a breeze where it floats into a draft and flies high to mingle with the clouds overhead. You see, a storm cloud, black and menacing, had been brewing overhead.
Five horrifyingly loud thunderclaps shake the forest, and if any listeners were paying attention, the words "BLOOD. THUNDER. MEAT. SLUMBER." could -almost- be heard. The Storm, apparently complete in it's task, begins a steady trek northward.
The Orc's warrior spirit forces a few thoughts into his mind. First to examine the surrounding, in search of new threats. Not that he has the strength to fight them off anyway. No enemies found, his spirit calls to mind a second thought. He is going to die soon. This being made clear, the Orc was allowed a third thought, and this one brings a harsh smile to the Orc's ruined face. There are three humans who will be joining him in death.
Three humans, wearing all black, lay dead before him. One was whole, only stabbed. The other two lay in various pieces around the small clearing. They bore insignia, but Romm did not recognize it. One had papers, which Romm read with his broken Common. They were assassination orders, but not for him. He had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time, finding his way into their camp.
Romm reflected on his life, beginning at this last battle and traveling backwards. It had been a glorious fight, he was strong and few. They were fast and many. But when his mighty heart ceased, noone else would ever know of the battle. The Orcs of his Warband would search for him, and find his body. They would take care of everything else.
Backward, through his life, his thoughts traveled. He thought of the Horde, of Thrall and Garrosh, of Cairne and Baine. Of the Trolls. Of the Forsaken. Of the Blood Elves. The Founding of Orgrimmar dominated his fading thoughts, of the joy and pride he had felt at this new, Orcish city. And he thought of how he had been let down, in so many ways.
Beyond that, he paused briefly on the camps before moving further back, to his childhood in the Valley. Gortuk had taught him to fish, how to clean and cook the wriggly snacks. Good thoughts. Peaceful thoughts. But....so weary, his mind cannot focus. The Warlord is forced to think of more present, relevant things.
Almost eighty cycles ago, Rommak had been born. He was born last of his siblings, into the Stormchild lineage. His family had always honored the storm for it's power, and so they had bound themselves to the spirit of the Storm.
In Romm's hand lay the Dae'axe. An axe imbued with the combined spiritual power of almost two-hundred generations of his family. It was black as a moonless midnight, with two green runes etched into the metal. They spelled simply "The Twisted Axe".
The old Orc's fingers tighten on the axe, grip so firm the axe trembles. The runes take on the strange green shine they always did when surging with the power of the Ancestors. Romm's sibling were all dead. Gortuk Stormchild, Kraz Soulrender, Khrand the Honorless, Kharda Shadowweaver. Three brothers, and a sister. All dead. Now it was Rommak's turn. He, and none of his siblings, had bore children. Rommak was the last of the Stormchild line.
The Orc mouths soundless words. He has no voice, in front of the power of the Dae'axe. But the words are a simple, ancient prayer.
"The Earth is my Strength.
The Fire is my Heart.
The Breeze is my Eyes.
The Water is my Head.
But the Storm is my Soul."
He mouths this only once, and the runes' cruel glow dies away, almost vanishing. The Orc, Proud Warlord of the Horde, Rommak Spinerip the Thunderbringer, The Vrykul Strangler, The Slayer of the Dragon of the Frozen North, Warleader of the Shadowmoon Warband, Grand Battleshaman of the Horde. This Orc draws in one deep, final breath.
Then exhales.
Two great, green fires leapt from his eyes. They had an evil look, not unlike a warlock's fel-fire. The flames did not shoot far, but stayed in his eyes. The runes on the axe begin to glow, and the Orc speaks with his old, deep voice.
"I have been born. I have lived. And now I die." And he did just that. His eyes close, smothering the green fire. His Dae'axe, so charged with power, explodes in his hand. Not into shards, or fragments, but into dust. That Great-axe, so massive only one with the strength of an Orc could hope to use it, simply...falls into dust.
This fine, black soot, is caught by a breeze where it floats into a draft and flies high to mingle with the clouds overhead. You see, a storm cloud, black and menacing, had been brewing overhead.
Five horrifyingly loud thunderclaps shake the forest, and if any listeners were paying attention, the words "BLOOD. THUNDER. MEAT. SLUMBER." could -almost- be heard. The Storm, apparently complete in it's task, begins a steady trek northward.