Writing Prompt: Death becomes you.

Wyrmrest Accord
You are alone against the enemy. It is you, or them. Only one of you walks away. It might be an Alli dog, or if you happen to be an Alli dog, it could be a Horde. Or a dragon. Or an Abomination. Or a mugger. Or Ol' Emma. All you have at your disposal is your mastery over steel, or perhaps the arcane, or whatever tools earned by those who walk your particular path.

I know many of you out there are very talented writers, or at the very least, your creativity only needs an excuse to flare up and shine. I thought it would be interesting to see what you come up with using the following premise:

In single combat against any enemy of your choice, in any setting and using any method available to you, write a scene showing off how you would vanquish your foe, in whatever manner you prefer- provided you do it alone.

Not often in RP do we get the chance to indulge ourself so blatantly; take this opportunity to let WrA see how bad@$$ (or not) your character can be when the only thing that matters is to kill or be killed. Or not kill, if such is your way. Be as descriptive of action or thought as you like. This could be a good chance to really let people know something about what kind of person your toon is, and how their power is expressed.

The choice is yours, as is the spotlight. Good hunting.
Jacob stared up into the sky, counting the stars as he sat idly in the water-bound vessel. Beyond the small holes in his helmet, he could make out the constellations. He had his own names for his imagined shapes; the lone lion, the sword's hilt, Westfall. He raised his finger to trace them out, making imaginary lines between the bright bulbs.

"Jacob, what are you doing now?"

He lowered his hand and looked down. The small rowboat was in the water now; their oarsman, Private Marcus, was taking the boat to the opposite shore. Beyond Marcus was his Sergeant, and beyond his Sergeant, the towering fortress of Highbank.

"Just looking at the stars, Sir."

The Sergeant snorted.

"Keep your head out of the clouds, Private. Just because you're on the backwater front doesn't mean we have time for games."

Jacob sighed. Highbank was hardly a field anymore. The beach had an occasional skirmish, but the King had pulled the majority of his troops out long ago. So had Hellscream, it seemed. He had heard stories of Pandaria, Jacob had, but the Highlands were always more interesting to him. He wished he'd see some action.

"I don't think we're on a backwater front, Sir. Flynn was telling me just the other day that they fought off a pack of wolves."

"Wolves are hardly an enemy." Marcus said.

"Hardly. Compared to the Horde, wolves are urchins beneath our feet."

They were almost upon the shore. Jacob could see the remnants of the beach's battle, even if it was quite a while ago when the Alliance and Horde first engaged in their bloodshed. Giant pits in the sand, black as tar, littered the area. Broken fortifications, massive logs with spikes sticking out, the occasional bone protruding from the earth. Something fierce had taken place here, Jacob knew.

The rowboat's nose dug into the sand.

"Alright, Jacob, you know the drill. Get that message to Victor's Point. The Captain will want to know that we're taking away even more of his troops."

Jacob nodded and climbed out of the boat, turning to give a salute. The Sergeant nodded.

"We'll wait here for your return."

As Jacob walked into the woods, he couldn't help but let his mind wander. Endless trees, flowers, rocks; nothing interesting. Victor's Point was some ways in, yet the Alliance hadn't made a path to it. Why? He wondered about what it must have been like, trudging through these woods every day, not knowing when the Horde might ambush a man. Ambush a squad, or perhaps, even an army. The Captain had told stories of what it was like to lay waste to the Twilight's Fortress. Even SI:7 had been here. The majority of the King's army had been here. Yet, for some reason, they didn't make a path? He would have made a path, Jacob thought. A path made sense. His Sergeant hadn't thought of a path, either. Neither had Marcus. No one he knew thought it would be a good idea to-

A rustle to his right. Jacob turned quickly, his hand reaching for his blade. He pulled it from its leather sheath. He looked down at the bushes. Nothing.

The bushes were green. Well, mostly green. They had flowers on them too, a dark purple. He thought he might pick one. He could take it back to Cynthia, the Confessor. She had confided in him that the purple flowers of the region were always the most beu-


Jacob looked up into the tree where the noise had came from. Odd, he had never seen a Goblin before. Was that a rifle? A weird pla-

The corpse fell to the ground with a loud thud. Lance Topsail rolled his eyes. Who were the Alliance training these days, anyways?
Really well done! You are certainly talented. This wasn't what I was expecting what with the Alli pov but it was a neat twist. I liked how you mentioned inventing constellations; my guy does that too since there doesnt seem to be any established astrology/astronomy/etc. I also like how he let himself be known at the end so the target saw him before he shot. A little thing but it showed what kind of goblin you are and that was the whole point of this. I hope more people follow your lead and share their scenes. Again, good job and thanks!

Edit- this is Borgg, accidently posted on my Alli anger instigator.
Thank you! I enjoyed writing this, so I'm happy you enjoyed it. I also look forward to seeing what other people can come up with.
((I love how the story ended, it was just so matter of fact. Bang, you're dead.

Trying to think of what I can come up with that is forum-friendly xD ))
((I love how the story ended, it was just so matter of fact. Bang, you're dead.

Trying to think of what I can come up with that is forum-friendly xD ))

I could be wrong, but if by forum friendly you are referring to violence, I think you have a pretty broad range before they get upset about it. RL threats of course are banned, but WoW is a violent game. There are tons of horrible things that happen in lore; I don't think writing about your own experiences (rp) would violate CoC, as long as it isn't just reveling in torture !@#$. Violence for violence's sake is stupid; violence that serves a purpose in the story can be done really well and even add to the impact of the message, depending on how/what happens. If it is a part of the story and you just happen to describe it in your style, I don't believe you should be penalized for it by Blizzard. And if a user doesn't like how you choose to portray your creativity, I am of the mindset that, well, they don't HAVE to. So melt some faces!
05/06/2013 11:05 PMPosted by Borgg
I know many of you out there are very talented writers,

I am not one of those people, but I'll give it a go.

Ellesara spurred her hawkstrider into a trot as she and her charge left the ruins of Ogudei. The large bird squawked in response and accelerated toward the road. The pair, blood knight and mage, seemed out of place in the untamed reaches of Krasarang. Prim and polished alongside resplendent and arrogant.

Elle hoped to get this particular errand over with quickly so she could get back to acting as security for the dig. Being out in the open in a place as densely forested as the wilds made her nervous. The Alliance had captured positions near the ruins and the last thing that she wanted was to be caught out in the open.

If they were ambushed she would be relying heavily on the mage next to her to provide some cover as she closed the distance with any attackers. Sadly, she didn't have much faith in the combat abilities of the mage she travelled with. The woman was new to the dig site and had not done anything to endear herself to the blood knights that helped secure it.

What did she say her name was? Did she even say her name? Probably not. A good many of the magisters were like that. Overly mysterious for the sake of being mysterious.

No matter. She wouldn't have to tolerate the mage's presence alone for long. Once they were safely at Thunder Cleft they would be rid of the package they carried and then travel back with a supply caravan and have less of a risk of being overrun.

As the pair approached the road that would lead them to Thunder cleft, Elle's assessment of her travelling partner's abilities proved to be all too true.

An orange blur of motion filled Elle's peripheral vision. A tiger leapt from the undergrowth plowing into the mage's hawkstrider, hurling its rider from the saddle.

In an instant Elle released her reins and drew her weapon and shield. Using her knees to steer, she wheeled her mount around and charged at the large cat. Her curved blade sunk deeply into the great beast's shoulder as she charged past it. With incredible control she again wheeled the hawkstrider into position to make another charge. The beast had other ideas.

The tiger sprang, leaping at Elle rather than her mount. She was dismounted and her weapon and shield were pinned to the ground. A quick glance at where her travelling companion had fallen showed nothing but empty ground.
"Cowardly wretch", Elle hissed.

"Arrogant fool", came a calm voice nearby.

A split second later the tiger pinning Elle howled in pain as a blast of fire impacted its flank. Followed by another, and another in rapid succession. Elle tumbled to the side to avoid the beast collapsing on her.

A surge of relief flooded into Elle, but it was quickly dashed. Standing before her was not a Sin'dorei. It was a human. The clothes she wore looked remarkably like those of her travelling companion. She was wreathed in a faint aura of flames.

"The package elf, now" the woman said in heavily accented thalassian.

Elle rose to her feet quickly.
"I will protect it with my life", she spat back. Her own injuries aside, Elle knew she could close the distance on this mage and make her rue her deception.

"Suit yourself", the 'mage' responded calmly. She looked behind the blood knight and nodded. Elle didn't have an opportunity to turn around before massive shadowy hands closed around her neck.


Teryani shook her head at the carnage on the ground. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

"Korrin!" she shouted at the shadowy demon, a touch of frustration carrying in her voice. "You are dismissed."

"Yesssssss missstress," It hissed in response and faded into nothingness.

Tery stood looking at the broken body on the road for several minutes before retrieving the package from the woman's pack. The night elven camp was a good two hour walk from her location.

She moved the body off of the road and with a simple,
"Shorel'aran", she started to walk.


Apologies to Topsail for cribbing the POV bit. I loved your story.
I don't think you gave yourself enough credit! Besides, the first step of writing is putting yourself out there and you did wonderfully. And while Topsail used the enemy POV aspect, you had different enemies and therefore different POVs. Both are unique. I also like how, with very little dialogue, you managed to convey a real sense of coldness in your lock, or at least a feeling of detached superiority. A little went a long way in giving a good feel of who this human might be. Anyway, good work!
An interesting twist! Deception is a powerful ally. And no apologies necessary; its just a way I like to write sometimes. I don't own the style ;D
Tatiana hit the floor with a loud thud, and as she hit the ground she both heard and felt several glass vials stored in bags around her waist shatter. As the shards dug through their cloth containers and into her lower stomach, she gritted her teeth and attempted to push herself up.

As she shifted her hands and began to push, a booted foot came down onto her wrist hard enough to break it, effectively stopping her from moving and pinning her down in agony.

"Did you think I would not notice you sneaking off with that human?" The voice was filled with anger and disgust, and she thought she could hear just a little twinge of grief buried in it as well. "That I would be blind to my wife having an affair behind my back?"

Between heavy breaths and a painful moan following an attempt to get his foot off of her wrist with her free hand, she glares up at him, jade eyes narrowing.

"Wife?" She laughs, a bitter sound, and winces again. "I was never your wife! Just some prize you won in battle.." She hisses up at him, and crying out when his foot digs down harder, smashing her wrist into the floor, his face twisting deeper into anger.

She is silent for a few minutes, and all that is heard between the two is the sound of their breathing, her 'husband' too caught up in his own anger to be able to form a comprehensible sentence. She notices him reaching for his waist, where his pistol is sheathed, and attempts once again to shove his foot off of her with her free hand, to roll away, to get away, somehow.

He's eerily silent as his fingers close around the grip, and his lips set into a determined and grim line as he aims the weapon towards her head.

"You were more than that."

Following the sound of the gunshot and the bullet casing hitting the floor and clattering away were the noises of a man falling to his knees, drawing in a wet breath and exhaling heavily.


Not exactly my character winning a fight, but..

I think I goofed on some grammar and spelling, I caught an "or" instead of "of" earlier when I was looking it back over.
There was something too mystical and reverent in the way that the human soldier peered up at where the moon should have been, something in his eyes that was between terror and rapture. As if he were lost without it. There was something there that made her pause and watch him. The way his head was tipped up, his hood threatening to slip off of the top of his head. His cloak was tattered, his boots seeming well worn, even from a distance. His clothes were loose, though not so much as to hamper his movement.

When he shifted his weight, he gave an expectant look down at his sheathed sword as if he were surprised to find it there. Not familiar with the weapon, then. A scout of some sort or a younger, more inexperienced soldier.

It had been a long time, hadn't it? A long time of staring out towards...anything, really. Just staring. Seeing ghosts move across the landscape. The wildlife seemed subdued, afraid. Everything did. The gentle swaying of the trees was subtle, too subtle.

The huntress couldn't help but wonder what could frighten the horrors that Pandaria had to offer into staying hidden.

Krasarang was always eerily quiet. It made the men taking turns at watch go ballistic. On a night like this, you could easily see things that weren't actually there and in a forest like this, your heart started to pound against your temples and you prayed you didn't step on something that would make noise. You prayed that some errant branch didn't give away your position.

You prayed that you wouldn't die because of something as stupid as stepping on a branch in the middle of the wilds.

This was where you started to think irrational thoughts – maybe you would get mauled by bears. Maybe a whole contingent of SI:7 Agents would fall on you like a ton of bricks and make you dead. No reasoning, no excuses. Just death: swift, cold, impersonal.

She wasn't so delusional that she pretended to deserve last words.

She must have been there for a long time, after all – muscle strain was as good of a way to regulate the passage of time whilst training or holding an awkward position as a pocket-watch was. Keeping to her subtleties, the huntress shifted, letting the brush of the trees and the bushes scrape along her cheeks. Eventually, however, she was forced to draw away and reposition herself into a more comfortable position.

Something snapped.

On a night like this and in a forest as deep as this, it seemed so much louder than it really was.

A deep, slow breath was taken in and shuddered out, accompanied with the finest trembling of her shoulders, a sudden chill overcoming her. Her eyes were shut, if only for a handful of interminable seconds.

A howl went up an instant later. Long, plaintive, mourning the lack of stars, longing for the all too familiar silver glow the moon should have graced the world with in her presence. A night like this needed a moon. A night like this needed something to fill all of the spaces where things should have been.

A long moment passed and with it, a sickening realization.

There were no wolves in Krasarang.
Instantly, the beastmaster was on her feet, those chartreuse scanning the landscape. Panic gripped her sharply, made her fingers twitch with anticipation, set her teeth on edge, her heart slamming against her rib-cage as if it were a hummingbird trying to escape a prison of flesh, sinew and bone.

The claws of those full-finger rings scraped across the inside of her palm. A strange weapon, perhaps, but the one she preferred. More natural than a fist-weapon and allowed a complete and utter freedom of movement. Maybe they were hard to get used to at first but they were well worth it, in the end. Solidly secured to her fingers with metal bindings on the flat parts of their fingers, they weren't going anywhere.

When the claws so much as scraped across the bare skin of the inside of her palms, they threatened to draw blood.

The howling silenced itself. It was like a warning shot. Arielen knew this like she knew many things. She also knew she wasn't going to die here. It wasn't quite arrogance and it wasn't quite hope.

She was dead the day she enlisted. They all were. Their lives were forfeit. Their lives were not their own; they sold their souls to the War Machine for a mere shot at a lok'vadnod. They drilled and they died.

No wallowing self-pity, no ceremony, no trace of doubt.

You accept the situation you're in when you've been in it for long enough to realize you're going to die in it in every sense of the term.

One second passed and then two. The urge to look around was strong but those fel-green eyes were like fireflies in the darkness.

Or, in the beast master’s case, they were reminiscent of the thing lurking in the dark that made no sound and all you could see were those eyes. Too eerily bright and if she blinked, there was no longer an indication that something was there waiting to attack.

The sound was barely perceptible but for the woman that had been a Farstrider, this was nothing. This was one more hunt. This was one more beast to kill: she twisted before she knew what she was doing.

The Worgen in all of his inhuman glory was twenty feet away and the roar was so loud it made those sensitive ears ring but she didn't relent when her expression skewered in pain, she remained crouched low against the ground. This moment was primordial – this was the moment where one of them backed away or one of them would never leave this place again.

Arielen knew this like she knew many things.

He crouched as well, almost bowing respectfully, plying himself to this game to which they both knew the rules of. There was a gleam of interest and profound curiosity in those hateful amber eyes. The Worgen unfurled an instant later, jerking forward towards her, his claws reflecting the light of her too-bright eyes as he roared a deafening roar.

Off in the distance, the loud flapping of dozens – hundreds of wings was heard.

The urge to run and turn tail was strong but it was all tempered into rage. Controlled. Directed. That's what wrath was – that's what sicking an animal on someone was; folding all of that giddy anxiety and crushing it until the animals heart threatened to burst from the sheer excitement that unmistakably accompanied a difficult kill or executing your master's will to the letter.

There was a certain measure of pride to take in that.

Wasn't there?

Whilst the huntress' roar was of a much higher pitch, it wasn't for the less impressive because of it. Whilst the Worgen howled for the moon to howl back at him, desperate for that connection on a purely primal level, her roar was a wordless battlecry filled with anguish, hatred and the burning need for vengeance. She mourned her people. She mourned herself. She screamed her rage and yelled until her voice gave out, her eyes narrowed at the Gilnean and filled with tears that she wouldn't shed.

And then he was gone. Now, she knew of his presence here. Perhaps later would they face each-other off; his claws against the metal ones she had curled protectively around her fingers.

For now, she just trembled, her breath hitching and coming in short, desperate inhales and exhales, her heart threatening to escape the confines of her ribcage.

After all, did Heaven have no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned?
"Not today."
"Not today."

A+ sir

very enjoyable

Tatiana hit the floor with a loud thud, and as she hit the ground she both heard and felt several glass vials stored in bags around her waist shatter. As the shards dug through their cloth containers and into her lower stomach, she gritted her teeth and attempted to push herself up.

As she shifted her hands and began to push, a booted foot came down onto her wrist hard enough to break it, effectively stopping her from moving and pinning her down in agony.

"Did you think I would not notice you sneaking off with that human?" The voice was filled with anger and disgust, and she thought she could hear just a little twinge of grief buried in it as well. "That I would be blind to my wife having an affair behind my back?"

Between heavy breaths and a painful moan following an attempt to get his foot off of her wrist with her free hand, she glares up at him, jade eyes narrowing.

"Wife?" She laughs, a bitter sound, and winces again. "I was never your wife! Just some prize you won in battle.." She hisses up at him, and crying out when his foot digs down harder, smashing her wrist into the floor, his face twisting deeper into anger.

She is silent for a few minutes, and all that is heard between the two is the sound of their breathing, her 'husband' too caught up in his own anger to be able to form a comprehensible sentence. She notices him reaching for his waist, where his pistol is sheathed, and attempts once again to shove his foot off of her with her free hand, to roll away, to get away, somehow.

He's eerily silent as his fingers close around the grip, and his lips set into a determined and grim line as he aims the weapon towards her head.

"You were more than that."

Following the sound of the gunshot and the bullet casing hitting the floor and clattering away were the noises of a man falling to his knees, drawing in a wet breath and exhaling heavily.


Not exactly my character winning a fight, but..

I think I goofed on some grammar and spelling, I caught an "or" instead of "of" earlier when I was looking it back over.

The shaman barred my path on the road and allowed me no further. I looked past him and behind, seeing no one else. Awareness of surroundings had been the first of our lessons.

He crossed his arms, thick and bulky. A draenei I think they are called. He looked at us with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. I did not think he knew entirely what we were, at least not yet, but he had caught wind of something. Clearly we would need to work on camouflaging ourselves better after this encounter.

"You have the look of a mage," said the draenei slowly. "Yet I sense you are more in tune with the elements than the arcane."

"I am a little more versed in such ways than my brethren," I said in Common. "Learning has always been a favorite of mine."

The draenei said nothing, fingering a small totem hanging from his belt. I read the inscription of flame written in Kalimag, language of the elements. He spoke again. "Indeed? Strange how so very few pursue a path closer to shamanism. Last I recalled, your "elements" were merely converted mana. Even your water elementals are mindless constructs. Strange then that you would choose to follow a path that involves borrowing the power of others."

"My reasons are my own," I said, adopting a more aggressive stance as I'd seen other humans do successfully.

"As are my suspicions," said the draenei. "I've heard the stories you know. Of a mage whose magic is less arcane and more of nature. Someone no one recognizes, with no name, no history, nothing. It's as if you sprang from existence fully formed."

"What of it old goat?" I said. I had also seen aggressive words fail, but luckily I knew the answer to that. I began to wake the others.

He fingered the fire totem again. "I think you are dangerous. I think you are a liar. And I think you are an aberration to be destroyed." He yanked the totem off his belt and hurled it towards the ground.

I flicked my fingers and the totem flew straight into my hand, borne upon the wind. I clenched my fingers tightly around it and flame incinerated the wood to ash in an instant. Pure elemental fire, not converted mana. The draenei stared in disbelief at the display.

"If we are dangerous," I said in a voice that began to resonate as if three were speaking, "Then it is only because we are forced to be. You seek to destroy us though we have done nothing wrong and so we now defend ourselves."

The shaman reached for the rest of his totems, too late comprehending what he faced. We reached our hands out and froze the water in the air, chaining his legs in ice. The wind around him began to whirl in a frenzy and ice crept up towards his torso.

He reached for fire and we denied him. For the water and he was rebuffed. For the wind and it refused his call. A shaman requested the aid of the elements, he did not take them, and that would be his undoing.

"Monster!" He yelled out, his words stolen by the localized storm. "Aberration!" His arms stopped moving as the ice locked them into place, leaving only his head exposed. That we spared. The wind died and the air was still, allowing him to hear our final three words, spoken in Kalimag. Air, water, fire.

"You. Have. Erred," we said simply.

The shaman began to scream and I loosed a solid bolt of the hottest flame I could manage. Heat met cold and the draenei's exploded into infinitesimal shards. Except for the head, left to roll on the ground. We saw the draenei's eyes moving wildly, his mouth forming words he could not speak in his final moments, and he died.

I incinerated it and the rest of him before continuing on my way. Apparently we needed to work on concealing ourselves better, or at least destroy the evidence afterwards.
It was raining in Ashenvale, the sort of serious downpour that only really came in the cold days of early spring. Leaves dripped. The undergrowth squished when it was stepped on. Everything alive with an ounce of sense was somewhere hiding. Of course, Mandalas Anyaka had never been praised for her sense.

The old elf huddled against a huge tree, neatly hidden by the foliage around its base. She endured the seeping cold stoically, letting it melt into her and wash over her. She was permeated with miserable dampness, but she had a purpose, so the woman waited. As she waited, she thought about the tree at her back. She remembered when there was nothing here. A tree as big as this was maybe a thousand years old. A child, compared to the scarred old kaldorei with soaked socks.

During those years, those swiftly whirling centuries, she'd grown into her life. She'd found her place young, as a sentinel, flowing into her mother's path with a gentleness she found easily. The life suited her, guarding her people, bound by duty and enduring a constant vigil in service of Elune. She touched the silvered half-glaive fitted on her arm. The moon's arch to it, as always, brought her comfort.

The forest was filled with the drumming of steady water on leaves, and little else. The elf's shadows blended into the tree's. She waited until the apothecaries moved out into the opening, from the wounded barrow. The foresaken found it easier to bear the drenching rain than live creatures would. Perhaps they felt safer moving their poison now, in the silent, empty, moonlit forest. The old elf's single functioning eye narrowed. Her other eye, a orb of silver glass set in wrinkled, battered flesh, stared impassively. The tensing of her muscles was almost imperceptible. Her lips moved in a silent prayer, repeated a thousand thousand times over her life. And then the bushes sprang to life as an arch of Elune's fire spat down, impaling one of the foresaken.

The elf exploded out, bowling over the second man before he could speak a word. Hulking and huge, she towered over the undead humans. Her glaive flashed, cutting into the third man. She screamed, rage and pain mingled, as a spell ripped into her, chewing at her flesh. The elf's face twisted, showing fangs as long as a man's pinky, yellowed with age and use. They sank into dried, rotting flesh as her short blade lashed forward. She whirled on the other two, mouth stained and blades bloody, growling a challenge.

And then, in a few movements and a few noises, it was silent in the forest again, save for the rain drubbing on stiffening meat. The old elf was gone as though she'd never been, and the sky tumbled down on perfect stillness. The moon's light was hidden behind the clouds, but the forest still glowed with her.
"Stay in the camp at night."

That was the only warning that Torgal Legbreaker received from his veteran peers.

One of the many fresh-faced recruits brought over to the forests of Silverpine by Orgrimmar, the young orc was eager to prove himself as a suitable candidate for the front lines of Pandaria.

And much like other young orcs, Torgal was also eager to seek bloodshed wherever he found the opportunity to cause it. Beyond the Greymane Wall, the Horde still found itself battling the largely weakened but resolute Gilneas Liberation Front.

Well, to be more accurate, it was the Forsaken and a token force of what Torgal considered to be the -true- Horde, but he cared very little for that. In the end, what choice did the harpy of the Undercity have but to serve Hellscream or be crushed by him?

It did become very boring though, all the way up here in Silverpine, seemingly unable to get a chance at any glory or honor that could be had in Pandaria.

So, if everyone was so adamant and stalwart, why was it always so quiet as they slept in the camp? Nobody ever vanished or anything to that effect, and as far as Torgal was concerned, the humans of Gilneas, cursed or not, were just that; humans. Humans were weak. Humans were worthless. That they looked and occasionally acted as wolves made no difference; Hellscream's Horde would cut them down all the same.

He'd never really seen one before though, these so-called worgen. Where were they...? The Forsaken had mentioned attacks, but as soon as their unit set foot on the shore, they vanished.

One night, Torgal decided to find out just why the sergeant was so adamant about staying in camp. Long after everyone had gone to sleep, the young recruit quietly gathered his weapons and armor and slinked past the night watchman sitting at his post. It was fairly dark tonight, with the moon only barely peaking out between the timbers and clouds.

Feeling quite satisfied with himself, Torgal made his way carefully down a shadowy hillside and sat upon a stump.

And he waited.




If it was the sergeant's boot or the ground hitting his face first, but Torgal soon found he had apparently fallen asleep. He simply met baleful red eyes, looking up into the eyes of his Sergeant, Korgan Rageblood.

"Just what do you think you're doing, Grunt...?" Korgan was a much older orc, a grizzled veteran of wars past. His hair was long and tied in traditional braids, indicating his was a storied past; well, this, and the numerous scars across his face.

"Uh." Torgal was finding himself only able to utter that single dumb word to Korgan, kicking himself as the baleful gaze above only heightened in intensity.

"I was watching the moon, sir."

The sergeant cracked a tree-trunk arm against the young grunt's face in a backhand, and again when Torgal tried to enunciate in pain. "Keep your voice down, idiot kid...! Do you have any idea why I told you not to go into the woods at night? Huh? DO YOU?"

"I-" Torgal would have tried another lie, but the glowering red hues told him that was a very, -very- bad idea. "... I wanted to see why myself, sir."

Korgan shook his head, grumbling under his breath. "Always the recruits like you, doing stupid things like this... Get up, Grunt, and go join the rest of your squad over a-"

The nearby light of the campfire suddenly gasped out with a shudder.

What soon followed afterward set both the sergeant and the grunt to a razor's edge as they heard a blood-curdling scream from the up over the hill. A man's voice, but high pitched, and low bass. An elf or a goblin.

Even for orcs, the sound of somebody shouting in agony wasn't any less the opposite of soothing.

"That was from the camp...! Sergeant, we should go-"

"Quiet." Korgan's voice was hoarse as he whispered the order, looking around the dark timbers. Of course, the moon had to be almost completely obscured, rendering any effort to search the woods with sight alone useless.

"Sir...?" Torgal repeated again, this time far more quietly. The sergeant's order had been like a tense snapping of fiber, forceful and fleet.

Korgan rumbled with a grunt, bringing his great-axe to bare. "Remember what I told you when you stepped on shore, Grunt? 'Stay in the camp at night.' This is why:

We're being hunted, Grunt. Stay sharp, and do -not- go off on your own."
Torgal gave an exhale of unease as he raised his own weapons, positioning himself to cover the sergeant's back as the two orcs slowly ambled over the hill. Every step, every bend around a tree became wrought with the unknown and potential of danger. He had never been so hesitant to step through a bunch of trees in his life.

Eventually, they reach the darkened campsite, the smoke of the recently extinguished flames rendering the small clearing pitch dark. Korgan bent down on one knee and pinched some of the nearby soil between his fingers; though some of it was intermingled with the ash of other campfires, the texture of the earth was still there.

And what he found all but confirmed his suspicions as the rest of the platoon stirred from their tents, battle-ready and just as wary.

All excluding one, of course; the goblin who had been on watch, Kuzzix Fizzlespud. The sergeant immediately halted his regimental head-count when he realized he was one short head too short.

"Where's Fizzlespud...?" He rumbled, the eyes of the entire unit meeting his.

"I-" The only token elf of the entire platoon began to splutter. A mage of Silvermoon, if his primped hair and robes were any indicator. "I can't say exactly, Sergeant, but I saw -something- grab him before everything went dark. I had been refreshing myself on my spells in the tent, when I heard a noise-" The elf decided to cut the story short when Korgan began to tap his foot. "- to be condensed, I heard something grab him, but didn't see what before the flames went out."

That's when the entire group heard the sound of something sizable and fleshy soaring through the air, along with an unearthly and high-pitched gurgling.

And then, a thump, right at Torgal's feet.

The moon was allowed to peak through the smoke and cloud cover long enough to give everyone the view of a battered and bloody Kuzzix Fizzlespud. His leather garments had been pierced and ripped to shred and - and well, so was his neck, if there was anything left of it.

With every blood-splattering cough and breath, the goblin's life-force begin to surge out of him as he looked up to the towering figures of his platoon. Sure, he couldn't take his gold with him, but... he had to... had to somehow...

Kuzzix struggled with this immense, repressive cold sensation as he struggled to lift a hand, Torgal kneeling down to examine the goblin's wounds, trying to read his lips. He was trying to lift his arm to do something, but what?

"Grunt Fizzlespud, speak if you can. Somebody get the shaman over here...!" Korgan rumbled, looking around still. The wind blew gently to the north, once again obscuring the moon almost completely save for a few precious rays of white light.

With a sudden surge of movement, Kuzzix sat up, flailing his arm upward for no apparent reason, his final words gurgled in a stream of blood before he fell over, pale and lifeless.

"Damn... bled out." Korgan growled as he eyed the treetops as much as he could. It felt pointless in this darkness, but what other choice did he have, wait for whatever was stalking them in these woods to come out and get another as well?

The crickets had stopped chirping. Korgan nervously looked around before a disturbingly loud snarl and growl caught everyone's attention from above.
(( The next part is NOT for the faint of heart.))

The elf was the first to go down as an enormous shadow darted out of the treetops and onto the unaware victim. What little moonlight there was gave Torgal a front-row seat as he sat up from being knocked away, the mage struggling until a clawed extremity found its way around it's neck. There was a bark, and then the most hair-raising scream that Torgal had ever heard filled the night. Though it was faint, he could see well enough to know what brutal death had befallen the elf; the sickening sound of ripping flesh was all he needed to hear to know the creature had bit him in the throat and ripped it out with his jaws.

Spitting a chunk of flesh to the side as in disgust, the creature loomed up to its full height, using it's right hand to seemingly wipe it's jaws as the other hand reached for what was unmistakably a great-sword upon it's back. Taking a moment to breathe in deeply and lift it's blade to bare with both hands, the beast - no, it was no beast, that much he could see. Beasts didn't use swords, and they most certainly didn't wear what appeared to be full battleplate gear.

Indeed, one could have been fooled into thinking it was a beast at first, given the way the creature then turned to look at the rest of the platoon and snarl with bared teeth, its deep growls causing all matter of creature and fowl to flee deeper into the woodland.

No, one look into those raging blue eyes was all that Torgal needed to see that this creature as a man, not an animal. He was simply a man that borrowed the tools of beasts and was... "blessed" with the form of one. A human from beyond the walled kingdom of Gilneas to the south.

Torgal formed the word in a low whisper as he watched in a mix of curiosity and horror at what had occurred: worgen.

Indeed, this worgen was fierce to see; midnight black fur, sharp canines and cerulean eyes that bore both the intellect of a man and the clashing primal rage of ancient bestial force. His onyx armor was polished almost to a sheen, and the ebonsteel blade he held was clearly well-cared for and sharpened.

He wasn't here to admire his enemy though, Torgal remembered. And circumstances being such, he charged the man, not even waiting for an order from his sergeant.

Korgan knew better, however; having survived an extensive token deployment out in the forests of Silverpine, he had learned quickly that although he was more or less here as window service from the Warchief, the cursed nation of Gilneas were not a bunch of beasts to be trifled with. Indeed, though they had first been overwhelmed by the primal rage and instinct, some had mastered the powers of Lo'gosh, learning to control their new forms just as well as their original, weaker human states.

This had to be such a man, and that was why worgen could be so dangerous; the strength and cunning of beasts, but the intellect and skill of a man. And humans were not known to be slouches as far as observation and ingenuity went.

Which was why, as Torgal recklessly charged forward, the Sergeant knew that the recruit had made a terrible mistake.

"HOLD! HOLD GRUNT! HOLD!" He barked the orders out, hoping the fool boy would hear them before the two were within reach of each other.

Too late; with a skill befitting of his original shape, the worgen swordsman parried the oncoming blow and countered with a heavy-handed arc of his own blade, bypassing Torgal's shield and shredding through the sinew and bone of his arm like a loaf of bread. The young orc fell in agony as he felt the cool metal somehow burn through him, impaling straight through his arm from one end out the other. Torgal had not lost his arm, but he had certainly lost use of it for this battle, assuming he survived; he winced as the worgen removed the blade with merciless haste, doing more damage as it came out; the sinew had been punctured and severed, and the bone of his entire forearm had been shattered to pieces from the impact.

He could do little more now then clutch his own arm and try not to bleed out as he watched the rest of the Horde troops attack the worgen man.
At first, his hopes were raised, watching as a forsaken ranger slipped behind the creature in the fray. The cadaverous man raised his dagger, slowly... slowly now, just a moment more.

It wasn't to be however. Whiffing in the air, the worgen's snarl filled the air again and he caught the Forsaken by the wrist. Though time and rot had diminished his flesh, Torgal could realize enough that the wide-eyed, flat expression on the man's face was one of terror as the worgen hoisted him in the air, and then began to flail him repeatedly against a tree. Again, and again, and once more to force back two more orcs charging in. The worgen passively kicked one down the hillside as sprung with his quarry toward another tree, flailing him once more until the sound of bone snapping cracked into the night air.

Though in relative pain, the forsaken was likely glad to be dead, as it probably would have hurt much worse to have an armed ripped off from the socket down.

Oh, but the worgen wasn't done. The snout of the man contorted, almost as if he were conflicted between bitter disgust and burning hatred, and using the forsaken's own body as a fulcrum, he ripped off a rotted leg this time. Then the other in short order. Not a moment later had the forsaken managed to gather a clump of dirt in his only remaining limb before he threw it into the worgen's face, for what little good it would seem to do him.

The man growled loudly with a bestial roar, enraged by the dust in his eyes. Unfortunately, the form of the worgen did not protect one from all petty annoyances associated with life; dust was one of these.

Using the time that he had bought, the Forsaken tried as he could to amble away, the other Horde troopers surrounding the worgen as he wiped the dust from his eyes.

It wouldn't save him, Torgal realized. When he recovered his senses, the worgen leaped over the ring about him with uncanny agility for somebody wearing plate and landed on the decaying back of the Forsaken assassin. Furious, the worgen snarled as he lifted his greatsword by the hilt with both hands.

Complete fear had taken hold of a dead man by this point, as hard as it was to believe; his rotted glowing eyes meeting those of his fierce executioner.

"No.. no, no, no-no-no-no-no-no nonononononono NO NO N-"

There was a crunching of bone as the worgen plunged his greatblade through the undead man's head, an unholy amount of dust rising into the air where the man's brains had quite likely been at one time while alive. Oh and the -smell-...

The worgen was getting winded, though, that much he could see; Torgal could tell that this man wasn't expecting to face this many combatants. Deep, throaty panting could be heard through the clearing as the Worgen found himself surrounded.

"It's over, Alliance dog." Korgan rumbled over the worgen, huffing into the night air. "Any last words before we destroy you...?"

How long it was before the reply came, Torgal wasn't quite sure himself; his slow loss of blood was likely starting to hamper his ability to place events into time.

"Three." The worgen finally gave a gravelly, rumbled response. "FOR GILNEAS! AWOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

The loud howl chilled everyone to the bone who heard it, though none would dare say so aloud for fear of being seen as cowardly; cowardice was anathema in Hellscream's Horde; everyone knew this.

Korgan's eyes of worry did little to ease platoon tensions, however. Soon, the woods filled with sounds of responding howls and growls as at least a dozen more worgen emerged from the all-encompassing darkness of the timbers.

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