[Storyline] The Riven

Wyrmrest Accord
((This is something I wanted to start as a collection of RP stories, log entries and sundry for the characters who lost something or someone dear to them in the fall of Theramore, as a chronicle of their reactions. Do you lash out? Do you retreat from the world? Do you stay committed to your prior ideals, or does the massacre forge new ones?

Let the writing commence!))
How many days had it been since the bomb dropped?

He wasn't sure anymore. His head pounded, and the world would dip and swing around him occasionally. He wasn't sure how much was the lack of sleep, and what was the effect of the strange energies released by the bomb which he had walked through in his search of the ruins.

He really didn't care. Not anymore.

He carefully drizzled some pitch he'd liberated from the small orcish post left abandoned at the edge of the Barrens over the torches he'd fashioned from grass and some sticks. He was crouched in the cover afforded by a little dip in the rolling plains in the Northern Barrens. A small orc settlement, just a trio of thatched buildings, sat some distance from him, it's denizens asleep for the night.

A rustle stilled his hands, and his eyes scanned for the source of the noise. Suddenly, a figure rolled down into the hollow, and Ark's hands darted for his knife before he recognized the shape as a dwarf. The dwarf, similarly recognizing an ally in unfriendly territory, held his hands before him.

Ark nodded, putting his knife away. The dwarf lowered his hands, and whistled. Soon enough, a mixed group a dozen strong. Their armour was dented, smeared with soot and ash, their hands bloody from tearing at wreckage, and their bearing was haunted and weary.

And filled with rage.

Ark gathered his torches, fumbling momentarily with a flint. The dwarf tossed a metal cylinder to him. A flick of the latch brought forth a tongue of flame, and Ark nodded in thanks to the dwarf. Then they crept out of the hollow, slinking through the grasses towards the settlement.

On the outskirts, they paused, letting their meager numbers spread out. Then, with a flick of his finger, Ark lit the torches, and let fly. Two flew to the roofs of each building, the tinder dry straw catching quickly, billowing into flame with a hungry roar. It was only heartbeats before the bellows of livestock rose from one structure, echoed a moment alter by the fearful cries of orcs from the second.

An orc stumbled out of the one building, clearly blinded by the smoke, to be brought down by arrows. Ark raced in after the arrows, slamming a fist into a second orc's face, driving him back into the building, and setting a shoulder to the door, slamming it shut. The dwarf ran up with a splitting wedge, no doubt looted from the tools here, and slammed it beneath the door, holding it shut.

There were no windows to speak of on the building, and with their egress secure, the group scattered back into the night. One of the men was shaking, and dropped to his knees to vomit into the grass as horrible screams rose on the air behind them, animals and orcs alike burning alive.

Ark made sure he was drawn to his feet and lead off to safety. The remaining soldiers formed up on him as he trotted further into Horde territory.

The scales weren't balanced yet.
Good. Good. I like this story, this is how in my mind Draenei are: Zealous, vengeful and vindictive.
Keep up the good writing, Arkturas.

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