Mal’garr stood tall upon the grasslands of the Shadowmoon Valley, staring out into the distance, feeling the wind rush through his long, reddish-brown hair. He strode proudly across the landscape as he surveyed his surroundings, clear-blue eyes twinkling in early morning sun. His son, Zul’garr, was ahead of him, garbed in furs and clutching a simple axe. The pair were on a hunt. Not a hunt for food, or for any particular goal, simply hunting for the joy of it. The meat from whatever they brought down would be cooked and eaten, but failure would not mean starvation. The animal’s pelt would be used to make clothing, but failure did not mean that any would go without. This time was good, for the Shadowmoon Clan. They were in harmony with the elements of the World, and their reward was abundance.
Zul’garr called out for Mal’garr. He had spied something. Mal’garr rushed towards his son, drawing a hand axe from his belt. He held the weapon in his right hand, leaving his left free. His left was covered in tattoos and markings, symbols of devotion to the element of fire. Though Mal’garr was no warrior, his affinity with fire was great enough to have earned him the name Firefist. A name he would pass down to his children to be worn with honour. A name to show that he and his line were favoured by the elements.
As he reached his son, Mal’garr found there was no game. His grandson, Zuk’garr, pointed into the distance, at a hunched figure. Mal’garr could not recall when his grandson had appeared, but he gave it little thought. The figure in the distance was crooked-backed and robed. It held a staff of bone which glowed with an unhealthy light, and it’s body and face were hidden by robes.
The trio approached the figure, Mal’garr leading, as was his duty as a father. He called out to the figure, announcing his presence. The figure turned, and fear suddenly knotted in the Shaman’s stomach. This creature was a danger. It should not be here. Mal’garr roared a challenge and raised his axe, a fire forming in his left hand ready to strike the robed creature down. The fire sputtered out and the axe fell from his hand, weakness striking him suddenly. Mal’garr collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.
Now facing them, Mal’garr could see that the robed figure was an Orc, but unlike any he had ever seen. It’s skin was bright green, and it’s eyes a burning red. Vile green fire and smoke spewed from the staff it supported itself with. His son and grandson charged the creature, prepared to defend Mal’garr, and avenge the hurt done to him. Mal’garr tried to call out to them, but was unable.
A gout of green flame rushed forth to meet them and they were consumed by the fire. Having barely been able to put up a fight, their bodies collapsed to the ground, burnt-out husks. Mal’garr tried to pick himself up, tried to run, but he could not. His legs would not respond to him.
The robed orc approached him, and stood over him, staring. It’s eyes burning red. He realized he recognized the figure. The recognition disturbed him. It spoke.
“Weak. Pathetic. Betrayed.â€
It then held it’s left hand out to Mal’garr, a twisted burning ruin of a hand. Green flame erupted from the charred flesh, and came towards him.
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Mal’garr Firefist woke with a sudden start. It was the middle of the night. The cave in which he slept was pitch black, only lit occasionally by the green flare of the fel-comets that still battered what remained of the Valley. A hulking dark figure stood at the mouth of the cave, guarding it. Upon hearing it’s master awake, it turned, and spoke in Eredun. Mal’garr responded.
“I am perfectly fine, Kizgorod. Just a bad dream. You’re not rid of me just yet, Demon.â€
The creature turned away, and returned to it’s guard duty. Mal’garr lay back down again.
“I’ll only be here for one more day, then back home. I hate this blasted World.â€
Ooh. Intrigue! :o I like! Great, little snippet with some fascinating insights. ^^