So what is your game, "Borean Patrol," are you friend or foe, and if you are an enemy what are you planning. These were the questions the druid was attempting to garner the information too, unfortunately it was not going very well.
The Final Patrol ((Closed RP))
So what is your game, "Borean Patrol," are you friend or foe, and if you are an enemy what are you planning. These were the questions the druid was attempting to garner the information too, unfortunately it was not going very well.
"That should hold until a proper healing." he slurred slightly. He attempted to stand, hobbling slightly, but remained upright. He cracked his neck and rotated his shoulder, sighing, "so what's the game plan boys and girls?" he asked, mainly towards their Gnomish commander. He grabbed the sling of his rifle and snapped it up, catching the barrel and putting his arm through the sling, the rifle resting on his back. He set his plate vest next to his backpack and limped over to the main group, his hands in his pockets. He looked at their surroundings. The zeppelin crash, hills, mountains and fields surround them. Focusing on avenues of approach for enemy elements, an Alliance unit had found their position. He sniffed through his nose sharply when he looked at them and continued watching the area.
A slight shimmer. Adrian snapped back to that position. A shimmer in the shadows? He squinted slightly and didn't see much else. If it was an enemy they would have attacked, or maybe in his slightly drunken haze, he had just been seeing things.
"Bah," he said quietly to himself. He ignored it, but would glance over there every few minutes. His time in the military taught him to never ignore anything you notice. Better to be wrong and safe than ignorant and dead.
“You know, that time?”
“You're not making any sense...”
“YOU'RE not making any sense.”
Fiery pieces of debris rained from the sky, ashes burning the back of his throat. He could see nothing, being encased in complete darkness. There was a cold chill dripping down his spine, but not in the metaphoric sense. Something was actually creeping down him, slipping through every little dent in his armor.
The only dim shroud of light he had was the pale blue emitting off of his only functioning eye. His back was pressed against something sharp, and he found it difficult to move his legs.
He should have put the pieces together by now. It was blood. Blood from what exactly? Obviously it had something to do with his imprisonment. But it was no normal prison, obviously. So the question was, how easily could it be broken?
There's only one way to find out, Alistair...
With a slight nod, he put some strength into moving his arm into a suitable position from whatever it was under. The metal around him creaked insultingly at every opposition against it. He didn't exactly have a lot of room, now that he thought about it. But there was just about no other alternative option that outweighed this.
An a act of defiance against his inanimate tormentors, he struck out, his plated fist charging into the darkness. It collided with something, immediately throwing his arm back at him in recoil. At the same time of impact, there was a deafening clang. Despite the minor consequences, his actions had made progress. The prison shifted, and the darkness was whisked away instantaneously by a few beams of light.
If Alistair still had working lungs, he might have been breathing a sigh of appreciation.
The job was still unfinished, however. His escape back into the world above was blocked by only a sheet of steel.
Gritting his teeth as he riled up for another attack, he drew his fist back until his elbow connected with the dirt. Putting all his remaining strength into one blow, his fist of freedom was sent flying forward once more.
The steel sheet toppled forward, a large dent in the center. It would clatter down the hill of debris it was situated upon, and in its place, was its better. Alistair's bloodied hand grasped whatever was directly below the hole he had just made.
The pile of debris seemed to have gained new life. It roared with vengeance, seeming to rise up from the inside, pieces of broken zeppelin fleeing down the hillside as it did. From the center of the volcanic eruption of steel and splintered wood was the Death Knight, bloodied and barely... not breathing for awhile now.
At the pinnacle of his miraculous escape, he found himself snagged. As if the debris was putting forth it's final hurrah and trying to drag him back into it's depths. With a growl of defiance, he ripped it's grip from him and managed to slouch forward onto the ground.
For the moment, Alistair simply stared at the sky. The sun was shining directly over top him, causing the cold blood gathering around him to shimmer.
Suddenly, his fingers convulsed in all directions, his spine arching forwards. The blood around him retreated back into his body, some of the more obvious wounds on his face and arms closing up as he did so.
And with that, the Death Knight made an attempt to drag himself out of the mud. An attempt that failed five seconds after believed completion.
A snap echoed out, Alistair grunting in pain as it happened. As he looked below for the source of commotion, he found his culprit. There was a piece of metal bar stabbed completely through his right knee and out the other side.
Alistair sighed in annoyance. He used one hand to balance his now quite useless leg, the other being raised over his head. Without hesitation, he slammed his fist onto the metal bear. Again, and again, and again. Effectively pounding it straight through his leg until the tip of it burst out from the other side. It went clattering onto the ground, a trail of blood following it's descent down.
The Death Knight sighed loudly. Having already expended his runic power healing his other injuries, he was unfortunately stuck like this.
Begrudgingly, he hopped on his one working leg out into the open, blood comically squirting in a straight line directly behind him. What he didn't expect to find at the end of his trek however, was all the new faces around him...
He chose not to say a word, no matter how embarrassing his weakness must have looked. Instead he hopped closer to the bodacious little gnome that he followed for whatever reason. She was his commander for the time being, so if it came to blows, he would just have to make sure she understood that he was currently useless.
A dark and clearly unhappy figure dragged herself out from under some burning steel. If the Orc had been a work of crude, Orcish art, than this new figure was a walking homage to death itself. The figure was dead, many years dead. Her body had given up on her long ago, and the flesh had rotten off in dregs, the muscles and internal organs were long forgotten. Only her cage of bones was left, and she wore a robe over her body to disguise her vulnerability. To complete the macabre vision a jagged crack stretched through the bleached white skull of the woman and broke out the other side of her skeletal jaw.
If Garkha was still alive, his fury would be boundless now, as the skeletal figure approached his corpse. Virella had earned herself a new title since her arrival in the Twilight Highlands, and now was worthy of much more loathing. Virella the Black Rose was now known to some as The Desecrator. It was a title she was most pleased with, she appreciated the sentiment more than the title itself. It was nice to have her power recognized, even if it was only by a group of highlander dwarves. And in an effort of desecration she embraced her title...
Virella stood above the corpse of the fallen Orcish Sky-Captain and held her arms about her as if embracing some font of magic. In truth, she was merely channeling inner power, she was far too self-obsessed to resort to alternative methods too often. As she powered herself, her fingers clenched and stretched with the usual brutal hand-motions which marked darker more powerful magic. After a few short moments there was a gruesome cracking noise, as rib by rib the chest of the Orc split open and released buckets worth of blood out to douse the Forsaken Necromancer in.
“Undying,” she whispered with an unholy chill.
Commander Vimmi Spannershield was weary with far more than simple physical injury, but she allowed the useful Mara, -or 'Salle' as she had asked to be called-, to do her work. There was not much she could reach without removing her armour, but she did her best. Vimmi spent her immobile time reviewing the battlefield and frowning at the death and destruction. So far, she had not seen the corpse of any of her own men or women, and that was comforting.
“You made a bad call,” she whispered to herself, a single acknowledgment of her failure. However, she could not afford to dwell on it, she needed to command her survivors. The time for mourning, self-reflection and learning would come later.
“Borean Patrol!” she called again as she begun walking down the hill, “Fall in, if you are injured call for aid, I want you all in my field of vision, we need to be prepared for further ambush before we can move.”
It took a lot of the small woman's will to not force her men and women to stand, she knew it was folly but she hated lingering on the broken hill amongst the carnage of her own failure. The sky mocked her, stained with the blood of sunset, taunting her with the imminent night. But really, what did night mean? The Twilight Highlands contorted with conflict, broke with suffering, there was no more safety in the sun than there was in darkness.
As Vimmi fought internal conflicts, she shambled her way amongst the wounded, giving aid where she could and making a headcount. It wasn't long before she came across the new arrivals, they looked like they could be persuaded to help the wounded Patrol. Her reasoning was that the group of Alliance had not yet ravenously attacked the horde in her group, so either they were weighing up the odds or were considering being peaceful.
“Commander Vimmi Spannershield, The Borean Patrol,” Vimmi spoke, doing her best to stand straight despite her height and injury.
“If you here to arrest us,” she spoke, her voice taking a turn for the venomous, “I suggest you reconsider your intent. There has been and will be plenty of murder and death today, you do not need to make more.” Her accusation had been warranted, already the Alliance had marked them as traitors again, and no doubt because of her latest actions would attempt to apprehend them. She hoped they were more focused on the Twilight Cult.
“We require healing,” she admitted, “We were caught in Alliance-Horde crossfire, we're on our way to Grim Batol to...” she hesitated for a moment, searching for her actual intent. “To... finish this.”
The finality in her words was evident, this was in a sense the small warriors atonement. Through all the ash and fire, it was here that her judgment would be weighed. She had made many mistakes through her career, and it was time to cleanse herself of her failure. She stared up at 'Anguish' and motioned to her men and women. “We are the change of the tide, we can break Grim Batol, we need healing.”
As Vimmi spoke, the infamous Skeletal Bone Witch Virella wandered amongst the wreckage around the survivors, regarding them with disdain or disgust. She was a healer in her own right, but she was also a gamble most did not want to take. She was drenched with foul-smelling blood, the liquid caked her bones and flowed magically around her shoulders and dripped from her fingers. She decided to wait for a command before healing the wounded, when Spannershield was ready to move out she would force most of them to their feet.
"I'll be right back," he said to the others. Not wanting to raise alarm, he quickly spat out "to pee!"
He shifted his eyes slightly in embarrassment, and turned around. He limped over through the grass, stumbling slightly. Things were starting to double up in his vision. An effect of the whiskey, and he chuckled slightly. He hobbled up to the area and looked around, seeing another shimmer. He blinked once, twice and lost his balance slightly.
He looked around and everything began to spin. He dropped to a knee and rubbed his head. Drinking was probably something that shouldn't be done on a mission, but it was too late now. He stood up and did another scan of the area. Still suspicious, his weapon was still on his back and he turned and headed back to the group.
"If we get attacked by shadows, well, then that's my fault." he slurred to himself. Limping back up the hill, he returned to Vimmi's eye sight as per her orders, set his rifle on its bipods and sat on his pack.
The sound of approaching footsteps alerted the cat to the approach of the human from earlier, and he was awfully close, to the druid's position. So close that he felt the need to hold his breath, for fear of alerting the man, but he didn't need to worry, based on the man's way of walking, not to mention the smell, it was clear he was drunk. What kind of rookie drinks while on a mission, the druid had never understood people's love of alcohol, to him all those kinds of beverages did was dull the senses, and make one an easy target. The druid sighed in relief when the man walked away, though he thought he heard him mutter something, about the group being attacked by shadows, and the druid prayed, no one had noticed the man's actions.
As the rest of his company caught up and assembled behind him defensively, one of the surviving men quickly pulled a small pistol and checked it before turning toward him. The tone of his voice seemed defensive, and even a bit hostile.
"What is your purpose here? The Alliance is no friend of the Borean Patrol, so I would advise you to keep your distance unless you want to provoke a battle here."
Several of the men behind him started to whisper among themselves, but Adam Orris chose to ignore them and looked around apprehensively at the survivors of the crash. He smiled amusedly behind the skeletal helm. "Well wasn't that a bit brash? Considering the shape of your people," Adam motioned with his sword hand toward the survivors, "it doesn't look like the lot of you are in any sort of position to be doing much fighting."
Yet, even as he spoke, more survivors from this Borean Patrol pulled themselves from the wreckage to gather with the others. Still, with the exception of a few, many of them were outright injured just as much as the others, or, at the least, severely battered. The one he primarily kept his eye trained on was the skeletal one; though he possessed little affinity for magic, even Adam could sense the power emanating from the bloody figure, and immediately knew that caution would certainly have to be used should a fight break out.
"Calm yourself; I may lead these men at the moment, but I am in no hurry to put you to the sword just yet as I can see none of you are of the Twilight's Hammer. We saw the crash as we were departing from Highbank and I led this group here to investigate - never know if this vessel was carrying anything that the enemy might want." Adam Orris, or Anguish as he demanded the troops to call him, sheathed his sword once again, though he chose to retain the shield. "I wish to speak with whoever leads this group, and I would be most pleased if you would present them to me."
Almost without delay a Gnomish woman stepped forth from the ragged group, looking just as haggard as the rest of her group. Still, she spoke with authority and pride.
“Commander Vimmi Spannershield, The Borean Patrol,” Vimmi spoke, “If you here to arrest us I suggest you reconsider your intent. There has been and will be plenty of murder and death today, you do not need to make more.” The diminutive gnome seemed to pause for breath. “We require healing...” she finally admitted. “We were caught in Alliance-Horde crossfire, we're on our way to Grim Batol to... To...finish this.”
Adam Orris laughed. "Alliance-Horde crossfire brought you down? This whole time I thought you were attacked by cultists..." The armored knight noticed that his men had begun whispering again after the Gnome gave her name, and their hushed tones seemed to become more frantic after she stated the group she commanded. Adam turned in his saddle to regard the company behind him. "Do the lot of you have anything useful to say, or are you going to continue gossiping like school children?"
"I'll kill the next person to call me that."
This time a different soldier spoke, the same man who came to him before whilst they rested in the trees. "Anguish, Vimmi Spannershield, leader of the Borean Patrol, is a wanted felon by Alliance Command, as is her crew."
"Huh...until now I thought that was the name of their ship. How does this concern me?"
The soldier stared at him in shock. "You were placed in command of this company, and here stands a wanted criminal and her ilk! These people have even been harboring a necromancer among them! It is our duty to take them in or bring their heads back to Highbank!"
Adam Orris-Anguish turned to face the haggard group before him once more. His face hidden behind the helm and his eyes lost in shadows cast by the flickering flames, it was impossible to read the rider's thoughts. When Adam next spoke, his words were directed to Vimmi.
"You seek to enter Grim Batol and end this conflict? A desperate goal..." He stopped talking to look at the rest of the Borean Patrol. Adam then looked over his shoulder to regard the soldier at his side. "Attend to their injured; make sure these people are in fit condition to be fighting at their best."
Anguish suddenly reigned his horse back and lashed at the man by his side with the shield on his arm. The blow sent both the man and his helmet sailing through the air, and left the soldier in a daze on the ground, his nose broken and bloodied.
"Make sure you attend to him last. Now, you have your orders, carry them out."
"Spannershield...I would hear more of what you intend to do once inside Grim Batol...as well as how you now intend to get there without the use of your ship."
Coron had finished healing Lia's leg, the woman being able to stand easily on her own before she aided Core in healing his ribs. Perfection had asked the Druid if he could heal her as well and he agreed to do so. As Coron healed her, Lia took a look at the group "All these new faces...it's interesting, isn't it?". Perf chuckled, though she cringed as it made her ribs sting in pain "I wouldn't say 'interesting' but....if that's what you think, fare enough" she looked down at Coron as he continued to heal her "How long?"
"Not to long, just keep still a bit longer.....and..." his hands glowed a bit brighter in healing energies, wisps of it swirling around his hand and into the woman's side, where the injury would be "...There, got it" he would dig into a waist pouch and hand it to the girl "Drink that, it's a healing potion, need to save some strength in case we are ambushed". Nodding, Perfy quickly popped the cork off the vial and drank the potion down before standing up to stand in front of the Commander.
However, that didn't last long as a group Alliance lead by a man who called himself 'Anguish' showed up, and the Commander moving to address them. The Assassin glanced to Lia, who was already making his way to stand by Vimmi's side, her scythe in her hand in a reverse grip. Lia had decided to stay by Vimmi's side since War had left; Perf guessed it was one of either two reasons...she was a suck up or she just wanted to continue what War had been doing, which was 'watching over' Vimmi, even though she didn't exactly need to be watched over.
Perf wasn't really one to judge Lia, seeing as she had treated Perf kind of like a sister, which Perfection had kinda considered Low as, only Low was just a drunktard who liked to blow things up along with just bash the crap out of her enemies. While Lia stood with Vimmi, Perfection decided to go talk with the Talon Druid, Lia's...'lover?' she presumed. She didn't really know how that happen, she just happened to catch them hugging and nearing to kiss before she interrupted them. When she did, that had to be one of the most awkward 5 minutes that had passed, because no one spoke until Lia and Coron jumped away from each other.
Sighing and shaking her head, she walked onwards. When she reached the Druid, he was sniffing the air, growling as he did so like he was some feral animal "What's you're problem?" she asked, perplexed by his actions. "Can't you smell it? The stench of blood....and not blood from the corpses around us, but it has that evil tint....hazard a guess who it might be". Perfection took a few sniffs of the air herself, mostly she had been breathing through her mouth to try and avoid the smell of metal and sulfur. When she took that first breath of air through her nostrils, the smell of undeath and rotting bodies struck her like a hammer blow.
However, she did get where Core was coming from, it was not natural, it was....different. Turning, she caught the sight of the source; There, walking like the Grim Reapers wife herself, was Virella the Bone Witch....the one who went from the Black Rose to the The Desecrator. "Well, of course she would be alive, or survived at least...she's walking and living death for those who dare fight her". Coron shrugged "At least we know she is on our side...I mean...imagine if she 'wasn't' ". The thoughts that popped into Perfection's head made her blood churn, and her stomach flip. The feeling of your body exploding into nothing but blood and fluids for her to use against other enemies made her sick.
"I rather not think about that right now..." she said, obviously disturbed by the horrific thoughts. She turned away from the Bone Witch, looking around until she caught something in the corner of her eye. It was not the human man that was limping back to the group with a gun in his hand, it was more a slight shimmer in the shadows. She was no fool, nor was the name Perfection any indication she was a spoiled brat either, she was trained to be an Assassin and not the assassinated.
Vimmi mentioned a few things about being aware of ambushers from the shadows, and she wasn't going to let those Ambushers have a chance to get the drop on them. She looked carefully...yes...there was something there. Turning to Coron as she saw nothing, she tapped his arm with the back of her hand "Core...". The Druid listened, obviously he had seen the shimmer as well, but turned his attention back to the Bone Witch and other members of the group.
"In the garden, I'm a weed. In a Kingdom, I'm a traitor. In the Shadows, I reside, by a tree trunk, a rock, and what ever else casts a shadow, in this case, it's a bunch of junk..." Perfection said, using riddles as Coron had been using to tell her quick and obvious messages. Coron nodded, Perf glancing over to the Druid from the corner of her eye "You got this one?". Core nodded "Aye, meet me there"
As if on que, Coron would have swooped down and landed on the log near the shadow, quickly morphing back into his humanoid form with scythe in hand, which the long length and blade would curve around the shadow's body. "Is that a cat?" he thought to himself as he would have a had a better look at the shadow's form "If so, why is it hiding?". Coron shook his head and held his scythe ready to pull the blade to cut the cat in half "You can not run, you are surrounded. Move, I will easily cut you in half with my scythe, and if that doesn't work, you will be either burnt, frozen or crushed by my companion here, The Perfectionist"
Perfection would have already been standing on the other side of the shadow, two rather large flaming claws for hands would be held in a battle stance, ready to burn the shadow in case it tried to run "You have exactly five to seven minutes before we consider you a threat and end your life. So start talking"
"I am here because our vainglorious allies, decided they needed another scout more than they needed an expert marksman. Much like I imagine you're here because they decided the Alliance is the bigger threat here. In short? We're both here because we're not Orcs. We are not 'worthy' to take part in the attack on the fortress.'
The elf rolled her eyes in pure annoyance, returning her gaze to the camps. "I'm almost done here, and your mission is over. No arguments."
"Well, that orc wasn’t exactly being quire so clear with his instructions. I might have......misheard him, let’s say. I don't know what he said, but what I heard is to kill the commander of the western twilight forces. It is not my fault if the idiot orc commander did not check to make sure his orders were heard clearly, is it?" Gaream shrugs
The cat smiled inwardly, so how to get out of this jam, deciding to play it safe the cat said, "Well you caught me so what are you going to do with me, I would prefer you avoid the chopping in half, and all the other things you said your friend could do to me. I am obviously not a threat, or I would have attacked you a long time ago, but I guess I am in no place to make requests huh, and sneaking around definitely doesn't make me look any less suspicious." The cat smiled, of course egging them on probably wasn't the best idea, but if he judged right, they wouldn't do anything without first reporting to the commander, so he just continued to smile innocently, and waited for them to make the next move.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
It was always funny; the Chow Time bell always made the same sound as the sound one's ears made when explosions rocked them into uselessness. There was always an effect like this. Time slows, perception of events around you grinds to a halt and becomes focused and sharpened like the point of a spear. Times like these were when forces of will were tested. Times like these were when men and women either died in droves, or lived to see another day.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
And then, there were cases like this involving one Lowmaine McCormack.
A gauntlet-covered hand erupts from the pile of rock and gravel above her corpse, spasming once and then gripping the rocks around her. She feels...close. Pressure crushing her from all sides. Had her body still been in its original, char-broiled condition, this may have been a bad thing, but fate was cruel and ironic, and even had a sense of humor, so that wasn't going to be a concern. Another hand erupts from the pile of gravel and rock, and soon an armored form withdraws itself from the entombment. The closest thing her corpse will get to a closed-casket funeral for the next few years, if she's lucky.
She wipes her bloodied brow and gives her surroundings a quick survey, noticing that the ringing of bells in her ears was fastly dying, and the stillness of a dead battlefield quickly was coming to life Her still human sensibilities didn't know which was worse yet. Her mind goes into a rote routine of assessing damage done to her person; superficial wounds, a somewhat deep laceration in her stomach, and an oddly protruding piece of wood from one of her shoulders. Had she been human still, this would have all been very painful. Painful in a way she still remembers. The last few weeks have been intense for her, but they have not yet dulled her ability to feel, or even empathize with pain yet.
She hears voices in the distance as her hearing returns, something calling her to the rest of the group. Borean Patrol. “Yeah yeah, I'm comin'...” her guttural tone growls.
In her brain, she's relived her last moments countless times repeatedly, as if her mind is a gnomish music box broken and stuck on the same, slow, thumping melody. She can feel every sting of every wound now. She felt nothing when they pierced her flesh for the first time, as she ran through countless hordes reaping them like the farmer reaps his wheat in the fall. She was a reaper of souls, a farmer of death. A merchant of chaos and violence.
She is the same as she always has been, and shall be until her corpse ceases moving a second time. She is a soldier. She is a thief of life and an assassin of opportunity; war is her business.
An explosion sounds in the distance as she finally links up with the rest of the Patrol; business was booming with the Horde and Alliance at each other's throats again. There was need of men, women, dwarves, orcs, trolls and corpses like her again. It felt good to be needed, but it felt better to be part of something like the Patrol...something bigger. Something bigger than herself and working toward the actual betterment of the future of her people.
She relives the last stand at the Temple of Earth one more time, and pushes the memory from her consciousness. If she was truly given life once more, if she was truly allowed to exhale another breath on this earth to kill again, she was going to make it count.
She chuckles as the rag-tag group comes into focus, and she grins to herself and lights a cigarette with a practiced motion through sheer force of habit. The Commander was already ordering them about. Typical. Yet believable. The warrioress reaches for the offending piece in her shoulder, and wrenches it free without a second thought or so much as a yelp, and afterward takes a healing injector from her belt, stabbing it directly into her neck without so much as a flinch. Pain was scary...and yet, it was her ally now. Pain, or just remembering what pain felt like, was the only thing right now making her feel as if she was still alive. Why she was brought back she has yet to figure out, but she knows deep down that whatever the reason the fates saw for this turn of events, the reason must be good for her to have to experience it all again.
But so help her, she was going to have a little fun this time around...
...after all, you only lived once, right?
The small group he had been with scattered to the winds, he was truly lost. "Serves them right if they get themselves killed...what kind of idiots run off and leave the only one able to heal them cut off from sight and lost?" he muttered to himself. It was not the first group he had run into with no brains. He sighed in frustration as he made his way cautiously towards the crash site. Hopefully there would be someone in charge there who would appreciate a good healer.
It appeared as if the zepelin had collided with an Alliance ship. As Sydric approached he spied an Alliance patrol and several Alliance races gathered around. He hesitated and took care not to approach too rapidly. There was a chance a few in the group would be familiar with the Argent Dawn, or whatever they were calling themselves now. He surveyed the many bodies around the area and knew not a lot of them would have survived this crash.
To his surprise a few gathered around were Horde and they appeared to be working together with the Allliance members. This encouraged him, the idea of the factions cooperating to defeat the Twilight Cultists and Deathwing only made sense.
The stench of death and blood was everywhere, it had taken him only the first battle he had been in to be thoroughly sick at the smells. Gritting his teeth, Syd did his best to ignore the assail on his keen sense of smell. Taking a silk bandana out of his pack he held it to his face and attempted to filter some of the smoke and ash floating in the air. The cloth was white and he had the thought of using it as a form of peace sign to let them know he was not hostile. Though he held it to his face mostly.
He picked his way carefully through the rubble and avoided the pools of blood on the ground. He was not so fastidious to think he would avoid blood tramping through a battlefield, but it was not necessary to tramp uncaring through the puddles like a youngster either. His once pristine robes were stained with blood and slightly torn. He glanced to his clothing and made a face behind his silk kerchief. Not exactly the best way to present yourself to potential friends, but war tended to make such points moot.
He approached with caution, waving his silk kerchief slightly before clamping it to his nose again. He had to say something he knew, but what language would they understand? He decided to use Common, as that was a language most of the Argents used to communicate. "Hello! The camp...may I approach? I am a priest...I offer my skills as a surgeon and healer. I am not hostile to anyone but Twilight Cultists...or anyone who tries to harm me of course.." his voice trailing off as every eye in the camp turned to him.
Kortanus' head turned just slightly tracing the bellowing voice to an Orcish commander standing outside his hut. If there were in fact eyebrows beneath the hood and attached the undead's face, one would surely be lifted. As it were, he had none so he simply sat mute, staring at the Orc.
Greeted with the akward silence, the Orc proceeded foward, marching towards the Forsaken yelling at the top of his lungs. "I forget that the dead hardly have little brain capacity left! Let me try to tell you this one, more, time! SCOUT AHEAD! Report back if you don't die..again." His arms moved in wild gesticulation, somehow managing to point in the direction that he wanted the warlock to go. When he received no acknowledgement that his words were even heard, he raised his axe as if to threaten. Luckily for him, it was at that same time, he was called away by another officer to tend to one last detail.
Underneath his hood, shrouded in the darkness cast over his visage, Kortanus' smiled..or tried to. The expression wasn't quite what it used to be, not for a long while. Still, from that brief little "conversation", he had found out there were more Forsaken out and about. As much as he loathed interaction with anything, it would be better to be with them than dealing with chest-thumping Orcs all day long.
As he was about to direct his steed forward, he realized something. Well, things. One, he still didn't like Orcs. Two, Marilyna hadn't made so much as a peep from behind him. The latter being the most surprising. The warlock shifted, glancing back over his shoulder to find no one sitting behind him at all. Damn her. A sigh escaped his lips as he shrugged and gave a nudge with his bony heels to urge the steed foward. As it began to pick up speed, a loud screeching sound erupted from the camp behimd him.
"Massttterrr! Don't leave me here!"
A bony appendage esacped from the folds of his robes, waving in the air towards the succubus who was sprinting after him. The steed galloped off and soon the sounds of her wails were lost to the distance. Of course, she would find him again, it was impossible for her to be lost. It would also be a very trying experience considering the amount of whining he'd have to put up with when the time came. Still, peace always had a high price. He'd glady pay this one.
After a small distance of riding ahead, he finally came across what he was looking for. He had wandered exactly how he was going to find this "scouting" party but apparently fortune was smiling upon him. He happened to arrive just as fellow deadling was being ushered off into a hiding place behind a rock by another. Shrugging, he dismounted the fel steed, snapping his bony digits together as soon as his feet hit the ground. The steed burst into a cloud of fel which was abosrbed into the staff resting on his back.
Kortanus then made his way in the direction of the two behind the rock. It dawned on him that a cloaked figure with features barely visible would probably be considered suspicious. It was with that thought that he "carefully" made his approach, walking slow, hands at his side so they could at least see that no weapons were visible..not that he needed any to actually do any harmful things.
When he came within distance of being able to speak, his rasped voice escaped the hood. "Greetings fellow deadlings. Am i late to the party? The Orc insisted that I come out here." As he spoke, his arms folded over his chest, careful to make sure the robes were draped enough over the appendages to conceal what little flesh still clung to bone. Oh vanity.
And finally, as if the world needed another cruel joke, a shrieking sound rose up from the direction the warlock had traveled. A distant figure sprinting up the road following in his steps.
"Masttterrr!!" Kortanus could onl sigh, tilting his head forward in what could be described as nothing but shame. If here were capable of blushing, he'd probably be a bright red.
"I'm not with her." Was all he said before Marilyna finally caught up, running up behind him and throwing her arms about him in a bear hug.
"THERE YOU ARE! You forgot me back there, you silly bag of bones. I know it was an accident..but try not to leave me in a camp full of those green raging maniacs, mmkay?" She smiled sweetly and then directed her attention to the other two.
"....Who the hell are you?"
In Other Places:
Turle opened his eye..
What the hell, aren't I dead?
Wherever he was, he found he couldn't move..but he warm, definitely warm. Straining his ear, he could almost hear something, a distant voice..maybe? He was awake for less than a few seconds before he drifted again, back into darkness.
Turle closed his eye.
The pile of debris rustled and tossed about, the echoing sounds giving tell to the battle being taken place. From the depths, a clawed hand sprung through, clasping down on the first piece of steel it came in contact with. Its razor sharp claws dug into the metal, creating another ear piercing shriek.
All around, the pile of scrap scattered as a beast burst them all, it's gray fur being matted with a few specks of blood. And it looked very angry.
It turned to its right, and roared viciously. In a surprisingly display of agility, it leaped straight from atop the pile onto the ground below. In an instant, the beast calmed itself. What originally appeared to be a blur of gray and unpleasantries turned out to be an average, completely harmless Worgen. For just a moment, it's purple eyes scanned the horizon around it. Suddenly, it stopped completely in shock.
Its hand made its way slowly to his head, clamping down right over top of it.
With another bit of swift motion, it spun on its heel, purple energy skyrocketing down it's arm. In the blink of an eye, a blast of energy was sent rocketing out of its palm, blowing away the pile of debris it had just emerged from in a rather flamboyant explosion.
As pieces of steel, wood chippings, and perhaps a flaming body part or two soared some meters backwards, the Worgen had found what he was looking for.
One surefire classy top hat.
It scooped it out of the dirt, perching it neatly right on top of its head. As it stood there, it also retrieved what looked to be a very expensive black cane, a diamond adorning the tip of it. It took a brief moment to dust it's rather formal clothing off, and then took one large whiff of the air around it.
“That doesn't seem right...” It spoke to itself, rubbing it's maw in thought.
The Worgen shrugged, placing his cane underneath one arm. It got down onto all fours and suddenly bolted off deeper into the crash site. Occasionally it could be heard yelling “Oi, OI!” off in the distance.
The Worgen ran, and ran, and ran. It didn't run very far, considering the crash site probably wasn't any more than 20 yards long. But it still ran. It ran a lot.
Finally after an overly dramatic trek, it seemed to have found its prey, a very tiny shade beneath a piece of wood.
It squatted down and then very casually lifted his wooden adversary. What it found was nothing but disappointment.
“Oh, fried Gnome...” It mumbled to itself, dropping the wooden plank quite violently back on the Gnome.
It would take seventeen steps before the Worgen realized it was probably a bad idea to leave wounded. After all, it didn't even check to see if the tiny thing was dead, how could one let such looting potential go to waste?
And so it backtracked. And was again, disappointed. For the Gnome was quite alive, which meant he now had the burden of dragging it back.
The Worgen begrudgingly hoisted the Gnome up by its wrist, and then flopped it over his right shoulder before taking off running again. This time it moved toward the scent of everything that wasn't twenty percent burnt to death.
As it ran, it pondered the idea of how well a Gnome would deal with math problems.
The Worgen eventually came running through the smoke and ashes, into the openness where everyone else had gathered. Some familiar, and unsurprisingly, many not. Seeing as its job was done, it took the Gnomish victim, and dropped his limp body onto the grass.
And then it would sit, and it would wait. Hopefully the other other slighty-higher-authority-than-everything-else gnome would sort everything out before something horrible happened.
Rukurgan, with his companion, Silverfang, stepped off the vessel and onto the pier of Dragonmaw Port. The smell of salt water filling his nostrils much like it did this past week long underway. But, his sights displayed something quite different.
The orc had always thought on slaying a dragon as the few Horde elite hunters did. He had always heard of the Dragonmaw's prowess against the monsters not just today, but, during past wars in this region. This, however, was more than he expected.
Dragon skulls, and some fresh dragon heads, decorated spikes around the now Horde reinforced port. There was no mistaking this was Dragonmaw lands. Their architecture was unmistakable. They made the behemoths look like mere sport. Dragonbone fortified walls, used in weapons and armor as were the scales. All the flesh, save for maybe the heads left to rot on spikes, used for consumption. With the Dragonmaw Clan now sworn to the Horde, it's strength has now reached a new height.
Rukurgan managed to keep the look of awe from his face. Although, the sense of pride he felt looking upon this physical manifestation of the Horde's new might, it was easy to maintain a stern appearance as he walked off the pier. The crew of the Thura's Might understood why he had to leave upon arrival. The hunter helped whenever possible during the voyage across the Eastern Kingdoms to make up for his early departure from the vessel. He could not keep whoever was ordering him to this region waiting for a moment longer than neccessary.
His first step was to seek out the local quartermaster. Once there, he should receive further instructions. Fortunately, seeking out this person was not difficult. The Harbour Master was quick to direct him accordingly.
The quartermaster was an orc named Grot Deathblow. He learned Grot frequently traveled to and from Bloodgulch and happend to be at the port this morning.
Rukurgan reported to the hut where he found Deathblow seemingly taking a respite from his duties outside. The quartermaster was sitting on some crates with two other orcish warriors drinking fresh water. They were not speaking much and Grot just stared silently as the hunter approached with Silverfang at his side.
"Rukurgan, Outrider of the Warsong Clan, reporting," the hunter proclaimed.
He continued to stare for a moment longer before sitting up straight giving his attention to the new arrival. He waved his free hand at the other warriors as he took a long gulp from his canteen, dismissing them. The other two warriors nodded and left him with the hunter.
"Throm'ka, Rukurgan of Warsong," he finally spoke. "You're early. That's good."
"The ancestor's blessed our voyage with blue skies and calm seas," Rukurgan replied.
Grot grunted. "Gather what supplies you need and depart for Bloodgulch as soon as possible. There, you will report to Warlord Zaela. She, or one of her subordinates, will brief you on your mission. Any questions?"
"Very well. Make haste then and do not keep the Warlord waiting," he finished as he rose and walked off toward the other two warriors he had dismissed.
Rukurgan located the local mess hall and stocked up on dried meat and water for the journey. There was little more the hunter needed for the trek to Bloodgulch. He gathered some information about the local geography and wildlife before he stepped out from the west gate with his companion and continued on as ordered.
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