Stumbling for Azeroth

[Mokhtar]

Stumbling for Azeroth



Mokh’tar had a long way to the portal, and while he rode, Lo’gush’s recklessness lingered in his head. It baffled him how the defiance his friend had shown him felt as if it was riding along with him on his wolf, clinging to his back and wrapping arms around him, like to weigh him down and eventually throttle him. It whispered arrogance into Mokh’tar’s ear and it echoed through the head of the smith, spurring him on while he relived some of the happenings of late.

He was going to go look for Shrika, who in turn had went and looked for the runaway Lo’gush when she learned he had sewn his hand back on after losing it, aligned with fel magic from some shady character far away. The smith had been very much against her leaving and right before the Kosh’harg even, but she had convinced him to stay in case Lo’gush returned, and trumped his objections by knowing where the fel user resided; the only clue Mokh’tar really had on his friend after he disappeared. He had pressed her for her route, and he now thanked the spirits he had.

Coming up the ridge into Hellfire Peninsula, he knew he had to pass the citadel and come through Thrallmar, before he could set on the last stretch for the portal itself. He rode ahead for the first hill with these landmarks in mind. Still not able to use his left hand for riding, he spent much energy on staying in the saddle, and Thrallmar seemed like the place to stop and rest. He would have left his wolf there for a new fresh one if the tribe wasn’t leaving Draenor in a few days’ time.

Mokh’tar, while a plain smith in most respects, harbored a sadness to the many times the orcs were corrupted and he felt sick just thinking of it. He met it as a cub in Draenor, then in Ashenvale following his clan into rage. He saw it in the fel orcs of Outland and in those who were slaves of the Scourge. The late rebellion had orcs fighting orcs and he had fled Orgrimmar when even his warchief no longer protected him.

So when Mokh’tar learned of the horrible thing his friend had done, he urged him to find a mender and sever the fel hand from his body there and then, for he was disgusted and terrified by all his friend had to tell. Lo’gush disagreed fearing for his place in the tribe and after a struggle he had left. Mokh’tar didn’t know if Lo’gush in fact would be exiled as his friend thought, but the fear in his eyes had been real enough to influence the smith into thinking the same.
    Thur’ruk Steelheart had appeared and she was not pleased with the struggle between the orcs. Fearing for Lo’gush, he didn’t tell her of his friend’s malady, hoping he had gone to sleep on it and come around himself. Though he sensed Lo’gush might not be fickle in his belief; He had come to Mokh’tar for aid, one the smith could not give.

At the top of the hill with a view of the red wastes that lay before him, wind struck at him as it blew dust and sand to his eyes. Grumbling he regained sight only to have his spirits lowered at what he saw ahead. A vast red storm of dust and dirt engulfed the land and it seemed like a wall to his eyes as had the cloudy heavens of Azeroth and the hells of Outland come together on the wastes in chaotic unison. Soft puffy clouds as tall as the mountains, with the menacing red glow of looming embers, ready to spark into flame. It all headed towards him.
    Mokh’tar halted and frowned at the weather ahead. If he had not already come this far he might turn around and wait it out, but then again the wall might just be a thin veil and he raced forward toward the otherworldly phenomenon, where are a sheer rock shot above the surface of the wasteland. It was no real shelter, and lying low there proved a bad decision, for as the dust clouds rapidly swept over him and the night light dimmed out almost entirely, the sand and dirt piled up on wolf and rider. Staying was not an option.

Plunging into the storm he learned it wasn’t as dense as he had imagined, and he could see some way ahead in the red hue, though it was thick to the touch from dust and sand. It bit at him, scraped him and it stuck to the hair in his face. It itched on his skin and fell in every fold and crevice in his clothes. He soon wished he had prepared himself better for this kind of travel, and from the whimpering sounds of his wolf under him it seemed his companion wished that too.


O Spirits! Why send you this wind against me?

Am I not in your hands?

Like the leafs in Garadar’s water flowing,

turning at every curve as you bend the stream,

I say lead me not aground in my trust!

Have I not embraced your fullest, is this your boon for the brave?


Lo’gush had returned this night without her. And it seemed as if he was even more hell-bent on following what he had claimed was visions of his father. He had been vague and credited it all to his decaying fel hand. Mokh’tar wondered how long it would take before the corruption would seep into his healthy body, and going to Shrika with her strange arm seemed the best way to learn more.
    He had promised to come and find her should Lo’gush return, and though he intended to keep his word, it was no secret the smith grew protective toward some orcs, and he knew it himself. Without a family on his own yet, he found he exerted his care onto some of the younger orcs in the tribe and this orc was no exception.
    When she set Grotarg the Warsong veteran on fire, she received much scorn and he had felt pity on her. It was around the same time the goblin “F.P.” showed up looking for her, a night where Mokh’tar had been the alpha all of a sudden and he grimaced just thinking of the disarray he had experienced. Since then, looking after Shrika once in a while had become standard to him.

He hated F.P. and nearly went to clench the handle on his smithing hammer if not for his bad hand, but when the tribe set up an ambush for him in Garadar, he was ready. He had asked Steelheart if she thought it was irresponsible to attend, given his left hand was still in bandages, but she told him to use his right one. The young thur’ruk had called him stupid for struggling with Lo’gush on the first night, and he frowned while he slunk against the weather. She would not approve of it, but hopefully she would look on this journey with the same understanding as then.

The rider and his wolf had walked for hours; trying to find any shelter, straying here and there. It was impossible to see the landmarks he had thought of, and even the floating isles could not be seen, for looking up was a distorted blur. He had dismounted to walk beside his troubled wolf, helping her along as they just kept on going â€" somewhere.
    Wondering if his bandages would hold, with Steelheart’s disapproval still in mind, he found it was a curious fate that both his and Lo’gush’s left hand was hurt. Why had he not noticed this before? He had nearly lost it to Windwatchers’s wolf Snowstalker, if she had not woken up and saved him. His nights asleep were often disturbed by dreams of fangs or actual pain from his wound, and it didn’t help he couldn’t ply his trade. He felt he had too much time where he was stuck thinking. Gah, why would they let her fight in the tournament with that head injury? Reckless! Grhm.

Mokh’tar grew more tired and clung desperately to his wolf, straining his right shoulder from only holding on with one arm, when steadily a question formed in his head, and the phantasmal arms around him suddenly let go and he lost balance as if the arms had kept him safe from a fall; a stinging shock of awareness ran through him as he looked at his hand; Would he do the same? To smith, to fight, to find family. Would he go his own way? He felt a strong “No” resound in his head, and yet he sensed that to some small part of his conscious it was denial.
    Discouraged by the question, he tried to shrug it aside and ride on. But he remembered too well the terror of staring the wolf in the eye, thinking he’d lost his hand in the maw of the beast. And so, the arms pulled tight on him again and he shrunk against the wolf.


Where is the road! Thrallmar! Can orc even tread this much and live?

Wolf stay with me, though I dread your teeth, I fear more this storm alone.

Just give me one good port in this sea of cinder sand.


The smith grumbled and dust lay in the furrows of his face. He would have preferred company. It was all Lo’gush fault. He had waited for Mokh’tar outside the arena and then angered him. He wanted to come along, but Mokh’tar had told him he didn’t want his hand in this, and so left alone and rushed away. He hoped his friend didn’t follow.

Lo’gush lost both his fights in the tournament of the blades tonight, even to Windwatcher’s gentle New Blood. Mokh’tar had not seen the arcanist fight before, but he didn’t think much of whatever his name was again; Lo’gush lost because of the fel hand.
    Practically his brother in arms, Mokhtar was still older and expected Lo’gush to listen when he said something and he couldn’t see why the grown friend couldn’t simply understand that what he was doing was wrong. It was not like he was a young New Blood strange to orc society. Curse the fool.

The smith found himself wishing for rain; with the dust everywhere, his mouth dry and eyes bothered with grains of sand on every eyebrow, it occurred to him he might resemble a fel orc to anyone looking at him, grumbling something fierce.
    Looking back just a few hours he thought the crossing of the marshes had been easy. Aided by a strange massive orc, he soon found the Cenarion Refuge which marked the passage to the peninsula he had sought, although he made sure to ride in a wide arc around the outpost, lest the elves there would take interest in him. He still cursed the days his kin was sent to gather wood in the northern forests when Kalimdor was new land, and they had their first run in with the elves there. These druidic elves were a foul reminder of those trying times.

The journey continued. Hollow hands grasped at his ankles, pulling him backwards with every step he took, slowing him down immensely. If only they would let go! With his strength depleting he became angry, cursing the spirits under his breath, trudging through the sand and bones next to his wolf, shielding himself at its side. Even the ground seemed to shift under their unsure footing.
    It would all be easier on the other side, Mokh’tar thought stubbornly, trying not to breathe in too much dust while he imagined when he would reach the portal, he would stagger up the steps, crawling with his hands on every stone, covered in a layer of red dust, stumbling for Azeroth.


Earth envelops me and I am in the thick of it!

Like the swarms of clustering bees dust surrounds me in full,

I see only red and soon I am all but that!

This tremble, this strange rumbling.

What fire licks at us from below, my wolf, to stir the ground so?

Ach, I cower!