Chapter 1
Southern Nagrand, one day after the Autumn Kosh’harg
The sun was beginning to set on the green fields of a once lush land, now falling apart. It had been a long, arduous day of scouting but finally before the night fell Groshnok had found his price. Perched atop his half-garn on a hill, he spied it. A ferocious looking jet-black worg had burst from the forest below, chasing a wounded Talbuk. Its prey quickly seized around the throat by its terrible maws, brought crashing down to the soft ground. Now came the hard part.
Turning that predator into his prey.
Throatrender had given him the task days prior, and Groshnok was eager to proceed with it, to further his place down the Path of Cunning, and become closer to the spirit known as Sharguul the Unborn. Now, killing a worg, that wouldn’t be too much difficulty. His gun could easily blast a bullet between its eyes, and if that did not fell the beast, his axes certainly would. No, this needed to be a clean kill. The pelt could not be sullied, for this was to be his new ritual armour as a Gul’thauk.
Clambering down from his half-garn, he gave the beast a steely gaze, instructing it not to go for the talbuk now struggling to cling to life. The half-garn snorted, slinking back into the shadows off the other side of the hill. Looking down to the commotion below, the Talbuk was still bucking somewhat, Groshnok noted, its last gasps of fight. He noted the wolf below becoming cautious, careful with its movements so as not to be wounded itself. Good, this would give him some time, and a distraction.
Circling behind the wolf, he slipped into the undergrowth of the trees before the clearing. Between two sturdy, twisting trunks he found his opening. A direct line to the beast, its back turned as the bleets of its meal faded. Slowly, Groshnok removed the trap he had planned from a large pouch at his side, cupping the steely spikes in his palms. Caltrops.
He had become well acquainted with a wooden version of these in his days in Stranglethorn Vale. The trolls would plant these into the earth, covering them with leaves and grass. Any person, or animal, unfortunate to step on them would not only be immobilised, but the scream from the pain of the many nerves of the foot being pierced would alert nearby hunters to their exact location. Steel plates had been inserted to the bottom of their leather boots for a reason, and although a young Groshnok had once thought it preposterous, he was thankful the first time he had felt bamboo snap against the metal. This worg would not have that luxury.
He had seven in total, enough to spread evenly of the distance of the worg’s stride. If even one paw could be pierced, the wolf would be his for the taking. Cautiously he placed them into the dirt, sinking them into enough place that they would stay, but should be ripped out upon contact. Creeping around then, he tiptoed to the clearing, the sun’s light shining against his bare chest. Save for his thick leather legguards and boots, he was armourless. The worg needed to think of him as least a threat as possible. Besides, if anything went wrong, he still had his gun and axes, of which one was now clasped in his right hand.
He could not risk whistling or yelling at the beast, lest his half-garn come running and ruin the plan. Instead, his right arm arced across his chest, before slashing sideways, hitting the oak next to him with a loud thunk. The worg, happily beginning his snack, reared its neck, its eyes focused, its mouth in a blood-soaked snarl. He had its attention. Lifting his wolf-mask, Groshnok met the worg’s glare with his own. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Silence upon the clearing, with two foes ready to see who would blink first. And Groshnok did, descending back into the shadows of the clearing, over the trap he had laid, backed up against a trunk of a tree. From the light shining between the two trees in front of him, he saw the black mass bounding forth, jaws hungry to take down that which would interrupt his meal, eyes fixed on his target.
In a flash, the eyes turned from anger to agony, its jaw opening wider to let out a pained yelp. Its front two paws had landed directly into the second set of caltrops, causing its hind legs to buck, and the worg came crashing down, its speed somersaulting it across the grass, directly towards Groshnok’s path. The orc leapt up as the wolf slammed with a sickening crunch into the trunk he had been backed against, yelping weakly in pain. Cautiously, Groshnok readied his axe, analysing the damage. The wolf’s landing had been as unfortunate as its paw placement. The side of its neck had bore the brunt of the slam, and Groshnok could see the body was weakly spasming. It had broken its neck.
Slowly, he approached the downed beast, putting his foot on the other side of the neck. The wolf stared at him, helpless, its eyes almost bleeding. Groshnok grunted, putting his full weight down on his foot, and with a crack and a last yelp, it was done. He couldn’t help but smile, admiring his work. This would indeed make a fine pelt. It was as intact as could get! He leant down to pick his prize up, when a large, fierce howl froze him in place. The half-garn.
He had never given it a name, as that was another lesson he had taken from Stranglethorn. Worgs never tended to last long there, either running off or being killed in scouting missions, often bearing the brunt of slow-acting poison darts. This one though, had been different. It had been with Groshnok since the clan had tamed its pack in Frostfire Ridge, after the Iron Horde had re-opened the Dark Portal. The worg was fiere, well able to hold its own. If it howled like that, something was very, very wrong. He rose to his feet, sheething his right axe and unholstering his gun. Leaving the corpse, he ventured out to the clearing, unsheathing his left axe as he looked towards the hill, where a large wagon stood. “Raiders?” he thought. No, that wagon did not look orcish by design. More Goblin-like.
Oh fuck.
Scrambling to the top of the hill, commotion began to grow louder. Pressing up against the wagon, he peered around to see his half-garn, covered with nets and unable to move, trying to gnaw away at its bondage. Next to it was a bloodied human, lying unmoving in the grass. Suddenly, darts were flying, landing in the wolf’s neck, as it swayed before crashing to the ground. Groshnok peered around for the assailants, and saw two goblins and an orc with their rifles poised, inching towards it from either side. In front of him, strolling towards the captured half-garn with hands clasped behind his back, was a rather plump goblin, outfitted in a fine purple velvet suit and top hat. Their leader, Groshnok assumed. And with all attention now drawn to his unconcious worg, Groshnok saw his opportunity to strike. Slinking forward he pressed the cold steel of the gun against the back of the goblin’s head. On instinct, the goblin froze, raising his hands in the air. Groshnok snarled, glaring up towards the three still moving towards his worg. “Get away from t’wolf or t’goblin gets i’!” he roared.
The three turned on their heel, pointing their rifles at him. “Easy now,” the goblin below him started. “Let’s not be hasty here. Just take that gun down from my head.”
“Tha’s no’ ‘appenin’ ‘till ye’ ge’ yer boys ‘way from me wolf,” Groshnok retorted with a snort.
“Well my boy, that’s not happenin’ either,” the Goblin replied, surprisingly calm. “That’s quite a wolf you have. Don’t see many like that. See, somethin’ like that could go on the markets for a hefty price, wouldn’t ya say?”
“Would do,” said Groshnok. “Bu’ ‘e ain’ for sale.”
“Shame,” said the Goblin with a shrug. “I suppose we’ll have to just take him then. See right now you’ses got three fine shots aimin’ some VERY potent night-night juice at ya neck.”
Groshnok looked up, eyeing the three. “Aye, an’ if yer boys ‘ad sense, they’d realise if ‘em shoots tha’ nigh’-nigh’ juice, ‘em’s coin-purse’s brains end up on the floor.”
“Lower the gun from my head, and we’ll leave ya depart unharmed,” the Goblin pressed. “I’m offerin’ more than generous terms here my boy. Be thankful that I never forget a voice.” Groshnok’s eyebrow arched, peering down at the back of the goblin’s head. The more he thought, the more this goblin’s voice was sounding hauntingly familiar too. The goblin snickered. “Ah, finally ya’s relaxed ya grip I see,” he said. “Ya know, of all the places I thought I may see you’se again,” he continued as he turned to face Groshnok. “This was surely the last place I’d expect!” Groshnok’s gun lowered as he stared into the beady eyes of a goblin he had not seen since his last time in Booty Bay.
“F-Fax?” stammered Groshnok, recoiling in shock. The goblin flashed a gold-toothed smile back at him. His years away from the clan, soul-searching had often led him to that Goblin’s employment. And now, on some hilltop in the middle of South Nagrand, their paths crossed once more.
“Glad to see ya remember me, Rabid Wolf! I sure remember you…” Fax said, his smile growing wider. Fax’s smile had always been his greatest weapon. You could never tell if it meant he was happy with you, or was planning on stabbing you in the back. Groshnok found this question answered quickly this time, as something stung his neck. He looked up to see the orc of Fax’s party with his gun aimed, directly where he had been stung. Shit.
Groshnok threw his axe aside, lifting his arm to rip the dart out of his neck. As he did, his legs went from under him, landing hard on his tailbone, and slumping back against the wheel of the wagon. It had been too late, the drugged dart had set in. He tried to reach out to grab Fax, but found his arms would not work. HIs vision began to blur, as the figure of the goblin came closer to him.
“It’s so nice to run into old friends, isn’t it?” it said, before Groshnok’s world went black.
Quick A/N: The dream sequence in this chapter serves as a finale to the flashbacks in Rabid Wolf https://orcsoftheredblade.com/forum/index.php?topic=4258.msg37053#msg37053
Chapter 4
“I still think ye’ need to reconsider,” grumbled Gre’lak, digging a shovel into the earth.
“I still think ye’ need t’shut the fuck up,” snarled Groshnok, hauling dirt over his shoulder with his own shovel.
“Grosh, she thought ye’ was dead,” explained Gre’lak. “We hadn’ heard anythin’ f--”
“Two months, Gre’lak!” yelled Groshnok, piercing his shovel into the earth, standing to face the other orc. “Two months! Barely ‘nough time to grieve, an’ ‘er sleepin’ around!” Groshnok wobbled backwards, stumbling to grab a tree for support, the effects of the ale hitting him hard. This was supposed to be a night of some celebration, his return from the bloody fields of the Southern Barrens. He could take the news that they thought the crew that had shipped out had all been lost, sure. But Kra’lena said she’d wait. Promised him. And yet, two months from last contact, she slept in other orcs’ furs. There had been many a night he had stayed in the squads hut, many a night they had been out scouting, or raiding. Had she done the same then? His mind was already frayed from the jungle, frayed from the Battlescar of the Southern Barrens, but this? He felt it had broken it. His one rope to the outside world, the world outside the Rabid Wolves was a lie.
He had heard their words in the tent. Gre’lak and Reg’nosh had to restrain him from not marching into Grom’gol Base Camp and painting the wooden stakes red. Only when they promised to show him proof did he relent. And so they had taken him to a perch overlooking the camp, spyglass in hand, giving it to him. He had seen then with his own eyes, his mate laughing, dancing in the arms of some grunt. Groshnok could not watch any longer when he saw her lean in for the kiss, tongue outstretched.
And so, here he was. A dark, dingy clearing, digging a hole. Her hole. She had broken him. And he would break her in return, for if he could not have her, no one could. Gre’lak had offered assistance, but was proving more a nuisance as the night went on, trying to get him to not go through with the plan. Finally he relented to his blood-brother, leaning against the tree.
“‘Ow about this…” he started. “I’ll sleep on i’, wait till the mornin’.” Gre’lak nodded, shovelling the last piece of dirt over his shoulder.
“Do tha’, lad,” he said, planting the shovel into the mound of dirt. “Ye’ve had a lon’ day. Let’s get back to camp.”
It was morning. His head beat a light marching tune, but Groshnok’s thoughts had not shifted. He rose without a word, fixing his twin axes to their hooks on either side. The morning sun was low, still rising, casting an orange hue over the glimmering sea before him as he strode out of the tent. His eyes focused, he walked towards the beach, where he knew she would be. Despite not seeing her in four months, old habits were old habits. And there she was, washing her auburn hair in the sea. His heart caught in his throat, as he stumbled, a twig below him cracking, causing her to look up. For a few seconds, neither made a sound, before she darted towards him, her eyes brimming with tears, calling his name over and over again.
Like a cat, she leapt into his arms, clinging to him for dear life. Groshnok grunted, returning the hug, restraining himself from crushing her neck here and now. He looked down at her, trying his best to put on a genuine smile. “Hey, Kra,” he said. She stuttered in response, trying to find her words through the happy tears that slid down her cheeks.
“I thought… y-y-you…” she stuttered.
“Nay,” he said, giving her forehead a quick peck. “C’mon.” He placed her down, gesturing for her to follow him.
“Wh-wha’? Where are yo--”
“Just follow. I’ve go’ somethin’ for you,” he said, trying to reassure her with a smile.
“At… least let me get some gear on!” she exclaimed, gesturing to the tabard and light cloth she had been wearing.
“Don’t worry,” Groshnok replied. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere that you’ll need it.” He turned to walk forward, his smile curling down until his face was stone. Words of rage screamed from his throat, and he had to grit his teeth just to suppress them. They’d be out, soon enough.
“Just through here,” Groshnok gestured, his axe cutting away some brambles to show the clearing. Kra’lena stepped through first, looking around. The morning light shone through the canopy, as birds of all colours were awakening and cawing.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her eyes following the sights all around. Even the ground seemed greener here, with bushes, plants of every hue of green and yellow, and in the middle of it all, like an altar, was a hole with a shovel pitched next to it.
A hole with a shovel pitched next to it?
“I knew ye’d like it,” Groshnok’s voice quivered from behind her. Kra’lena turned, her eyes widening at the sight. Groshnok stood, axes clenched by his sides, his expression dark and tears lightly descending his cheeks.
“Grosh, wha--”
“Whore!” he bellowed, pointing an axe towards her. “I barely gone an’ ye’ can’t help yerself, was it?!”
“Groshnok it wasn’t like that!” Kra’lena exclaimed, tears brimming in her own eyes. “You were… I thought… I cried over ye’, I did but… there were some grunts, they were nice an’... an’ it was lonely Gr--”
“And were the nights lonely when I was still ‘ere, gone out on patrols, gone out on raids?!” Groshnok challenged.
“No!” Kra’lena screamed. “Never! I love you Groshnok, I wouldn’t ever do that! It’s just… I thought ye’ were dead, for… fuck Groshnok, can’t you understand?”
“Oh I understan’ a’righ’,” sneered Groshnok, stepping forward, dropping his left axe. “Gra’tagesh was righ’ about ye’. Two an’ a half years Kra’lena. All those times ye’ ‘ad me stay the nigh’, begged me to stay, was it jus’ for someone to warm your furs?”
“No!” she cried, tears streaming down her face as she walked to him. “They’re… what have they done to you Groshnok? They’re monsters! You’re not!” Groshnok roared, cracking the back of his left palm across Kra’lena’s cheek, causing her to crumple to the ground.
“Monsters?!” he screamed. “They’re my brothers, ye’ bitch!” He stormed over, grabbing her by the hair and craning her neck so her eyes would meet his. “When I came back, there was an empty seat an’ a mug o’ ale on tha’ table. Every nigh’, I bet there was! And ye’!” Kra’lena groaned in pain as he hoisted her neck further back, clutching his wrist. “Ye’ couldn’ even keep an empty place in t’furs!”
“Please, just listen!” she pleaded, looking up at him. Groshnok loosened his grip, staring at her, as he choked back sobs. “This jungle Grosh, it’s this jungle! I don’t wanna be here no more, you don’t wanna be here no more!” She climbed up slowly, cupping his face with her hands. “Remember what I said before ye’ left? The world’s greatest mating hunt? Let’s do it. Both of us.” She smiled through sobs as she stroked his cheek. “We’ll get away from here. We’ll heal. Get a farm in Durotar, start a family. Like we always talked about, remember?”
Groshnok choked out a sob. “You broke my heart, Kra’lena,” he whimpered.
“And I’ll mend it back, better than it ever was, better than before this land poisoned it,” she replied. “We should’ve left a long time ago. I’m so sorry, Groshnok…”
“I know,” he responded, cranking her neck back once more, as the axe in his right hand hurtled towards her throat.
Groshnok awoke with a jump, pain etching down the left side of his face. She had haunted him again. A memory he had once considered so just, now his greatest regret. He closed his eye, leaning back against the softness that enveloped him. If only he could turn back time. Spirits, she was right. It wasn’t her fault, he was dead as far as they were all concerned, after all. He would have likely done the same had she been declared fallen in battle. What could have been if he had listened? If he had just taken her offer?
Sure, they may have died in Durotar during the constant wars that had ended in that land, but at least they would have been happy. She was his saviour from the madness of Stranglethorn Vale, and he had cut her down. The next three years in the Vale had turned him into a husk of an orc, and it was only in the last year he had realised such. There would have been no Red Blades had he made the right choice, but there would have been her. And now, all he could remember of her was her distraught eyes, the life fading from them with the axe in her throat. He grunted, shuffling further into the soft mass that his head pressed against.
“You alright?” came a voice from above. Groshnok opened his eye, peering up into the face of Azuka. He could feel her right hand cupping his right cheek, and quickly realised that he was in her lap.
“Aye,” he grunted back.
“You’re sweating,” she replied.
“Jus’ a nightmare,” he said, peering into her eyes. “Did… did Fax--”
“Yes,” she responded, growling. “He… fel, what did he use?”
“A mage,” snarled Groshnok, sitting up in Azuka’s lap. She pressed a waterskin against his lips, his hands reaching out for it, gulping back the cool liquid greedily. “Is it bad?”
“Aye,” she answered, gesturing to pool of water in the corner of the cell, a stalactite above dripping into it. “You might want to see for yourself.” Groshnok grunted, handing the waterskin back to Azuka, crawling over to the pool, peering into his reflection. Well, Fax had certainly got what he wanted. The left side of his face, from his cheekbone up, was mottled, leathery-looking and black-and-brown in colour. He tilted his head downwards, to see it rise along the left side of his mohawk, its side singed a litte. His ear too, the entire tip had been scalded. But most horrific, was his eye.
Once milk white, from a shrapnel wound sustained at the Battle for the Dark Portal against the Iron Horde, now a yellow-brownish charred mess, with some blood seeping around from burst vessels. The pain lingered, though it was not as bad as he thought it would be. The healers must have worked on it, not to mention the amount of nerve endings that must have been scorched, never to feel again.
“Ya be finally wakin’, ah see,” a voice in Zandali came from the cell’s entrance. Groshnok growled, standing up to face Mun’do. The troll cringed in response. “‘e really did a numbah on ya.”
“Ghrn. Wha’ ya wan’?” asked Groshnok, walking towards the bars of the cell.
“Jus’ checkin’ ta make sure ya still livin’,” answered Mun’do. “‘Ere, ah brought ya sometin’.” Mun’do reached through the bars, a leg of boar meat in his hand. “It’s fresh off da fire.” Groshnok snatched it, taking a large bite from it, before handing it down to Azuka.
“Wha’s da real ting ya be wantin’, bug-eatah?” growled Groshnok with suspicion. “Boss no’ go’ ya nothin’ bettah ta do?” Mun’do chuckled, leaning up against the bars.
“Boss? No, no, no, friend. Ya got tings wrong,” sneered Mun’do. “Allow me ta fully introduce mahself,” he continued, stretching his back. “I be Mun’do, leadah o’ da Valespidah’s.” Groshnok cocked his head, his interest peaking.
“I’s worked wit’ ya bredren ‘fore,” Groshnok said, Mun’do giving a knowing nod in response. “Dey be good ‘ands. Still, back den ye was some sellswords, no?”
“We was,” answered Mun’do before shrugging. “Heh, we still is, s’pose. Bu’ tings ‘ave… changed. We don’ work for ol’ Faxxy no more. We work wit’ ‘im.” Groshnok grunted, nodding.
“Fifty-fifty?” asked Groshnok.
“Sixty-forty,” grunted Mun’do. “In ‘is favah. Bu’ ya know goblins… dey be a greedy type, don’ dey be?” Groshnok raised his eyebrow.
“Where are ya goin’ wit’ dis? Spit it ou’ a’ready,” growled Groshnok.
“Let’s jus’ say da terms ‘ave been strained as recen’... bu’ I don’ intend ta go separate ways. No, dis ting we doin’ now, be quite profitable…” Groshnok sat down, the boar leg thrust in front of him by Azuka. He took it with a nod, chomping a hunk of it off.
“Why are ya tellin’ me dis?” Groshnok asked. Mun’do chuckled, pushing off the cell bars and eyeing the orc.
“Like ah said ‘fore… ah like ya, greenskin. Bu’ ye’ will know, as will ‘er… when da time’s righ’.” With that, he turned on his heel, slinking off into the shadows. “Be seein’ ye’.” Groshnok sat there for a few moments, pondering the conversation, before a voice snapped him back to reality.
“You gonna tell me what you two were talkin’ about then?” snorted Azuka. Groshnok shook his head.
“I… I really don’ know,” said Groshnok. “Somethin’ ‘bout, ‘im an’ Fax no’ seein’ eye-to-eye. Ye’ ever ‘eard o’ the Valespiders?” Azuka shook her head in response. “Well, ‘em’s no’ a band t’be fucked wit’... an’ it seems ‘em’s grown stronger since las’ I ‘eard o’ ‘em.” Azuka took a sip from the waterskin.
“Think it could be a way out?” she asked.
“We’ll see,” he responded.
Two and a half months later
Winter’s Veil Eve
The crowd around the Thunderdome roared and hollered at the bloodshed commencing before them. The Winter Games had provided much entertainment to travellers and locals alike, and they were closing in glorious style. The finals of the individual gladiator tournament were to go on last, but before them was the team tournament final, always a crowd favourite. 5 teams of 2 enter, 1 team leaves, often, with only one member barely left standing.
Groshnok and Azuka had held their own quite well throughout the tournament. There had many many a close call, and a few bad injuries, yet here they stood, clad in their tabards against the northside bars of the Thunderdome. Both orcs had opted for light leather jerkins, with hardened boarhide pauldrons. Groshnok had Fax have a copy of his own legguards and boots ordered for Azuka to match his, and they had suited well to increase her mobility. In fact, the only difference between them was Azuka’s axe and wooden shield, while Groshnok opted for his twin axes.
The last remaining member of the yellow team approached them, a human clad in mail, brandishing a long, two-handed sword. Groshnok recognised his eyes as the ones from the cell next to them. Although his stance looked determined, those eyes betrayed the true fear he was feeling. And no wonder, the only reason he had gotten this far was due to the daggers of his high-elf partner, though she now lay dead in the sand between them. Azuka snarled, shouting something in Common to him. The human’s eyes bulged with rage as he roared, leaping over the corpse of his partner, sword raised over his head. Azuka dodged to the left, Raising her shield to bash it against the sword, sending the human crashing into the bars of the Thunderdome. His head whipped up as he tried to regain his senses, only for Groshnok’s boot to crush it against the steel bar. The crowd erupted in a cheer, as Groshnok turned to Azuka.
“YELLOW TEAM HAVE BEEN ELIMINATED!” cried a voice over the tannoy.
“Guess we won’ ‘ave no peepin’ Tom anymore!” he grinned. Azuka grinned back, before turning her attention to the rest of the field.
“Too right, now what we got left?” The two orcs watched the ensuing chaos in the center. The yellow team’s corpses lay strewn before them. The blue team’s last member, a she-orc, had just received a spear through the neck from the giant of a human from the green team. The pink team’s dwarf was in the fight of his life against the troll of the green team, both slashing back and forth with their swords. The last combatant, the night elf of the pink team, stood up from the dusty ground under the corpse of the blue team’s pandaren, her crossbow at the ready, aimed right for Groshnok and Azuka.
Groshnok grabbed the corpse of the human who’s brains now coloured the steel of the Thunderdrome, and threw it towards the high-elf’s corpse, diving after it. Azuka threw herself next to him, taking cover just in time as the crossbow bolt pierced their corpse shield. “Can’ yer shield take a bolt?” Groshnok growled out.
“Only arrows,” snarled Azuka as she leapt over the mound. Groshnok stumbled up, watching as she sprinted towards the night elf, throwing her shield aside. His heart leapt. The elf was nearly done reloading the crossbow. Azuka wasn’t going to make it in time. His eye widened in shock as the she-orc took the axe in both her hands. The crossbow bolt was reloaded. The night elf stood, ready to bring the deadly weapon upwards, only to find a hurtling axe embedded in her head. Groshnok whooped along with the crowd as the night-elf stumbled back, before crumpling in a heap. She had thrown the axe, and it had landed precisely when the elf stood to fire. Groshnok couldn’t be more proud.
His momentary lapse in concentration on the bigger picture, however, was almost his undoing. A piercing pain quickly filled his leg, as it buckled him. He cried out, looking down. A spear. Glancing up, he saw the smirk of the giant human of the green team. The hulking brute was the only one left in the center, and his spear had just disabled Groshnok. Though, just as Groshnok’s concentration was nearly his undoing, it was the final undoing for the unfortunate human. He had stood still admiring his handiwork for too long, and a crossbow bolt piercing through his skull quickly lopsided his smirk. Groshnok looked owner to see Azuka had taken the crossbow from the night-elf, firing the winning blow of the tournament. It was over.
The crowd erupted in cheers, as Azuka ran to Groshnok. “Are you okay?!” she yelled, concern filling her eyes.
“I’ll be a’righ’ m’wolf,” Groshnok grunted out painfully, though the look was soon replaced by a smirk. “Nice shot. Didn’ know ye’ was a long-ear.”
“Oh shut up you dolt,” laughed Azuka, leaning down to give him a long, passionate kiss, much to the oohs, awws and wolf-whistles of the crowd.
“‘Em really love this shi’, don’ they?” chuckled Groshnok, pulling away slightly.
“I told you to shut up,” she grinned, bringing his lips back to hers.
“YOUR WINNERS!” roared the voice from the tannoy. “THE SEARED SCOURGE OF STRANGLETHORN, AND THE WAR! SONG! WIDOWMAKER!!”
“One, two, three!” yelled the medic, ripping the spear out of Groshnok’s leg. Groshnok bit down on the rag in his mouth as hard as he could, letting out a muffled groan of agony. The human and his team quickly got to work with their salves, before letting a pandaren take over, the healing techniques of the monks washing over his leg. Groshnok let the rag drop from his mouth, leaning back.
“I need t’stop watchin’ yer arse when I’s out there,” he said with a grin to Azulka, who herself was getting some bruised ribs looked at. She flashed a grin back at him.
“You should, but you won’t,” she replied, sticking her tongue out at him. Groshnok chuckled, shrugging his shoulders in response, as Fax arrived in the door.
“Helluva show! Hell. Of. A. Show!” he beamed, looking between Groshnok and Azuka. “I couldn’t be more proud o’ you’se two! Champions!” He grinned, toddling over to Azuka, handing her a bottle, before doing the same to Groshnok. “Firewater, on the house!”
“Thanks Fax,” Groshnok said with a nod, removing the cork and taking a sip of the burning liquid. It was only the real good times when Fax would let them drink. And this was a really good time. He felt on cloud nine, almost forgetting that this goblin had captured him, and burned half his face off. Almost.
“What’s next?” asked Azuka, coughing after taking a gulp too large of the firewater.
“Ha, well I’m glad you asked!” cheered Fax. “We’re stayin’ put! There’s some weird goin’s on in Uldum, so I’m thinkin’ here’s gonna be good business! What with adventurers comin’ in and usin’ ol’ Gadgetzan as a pit-stop, the coin’s gonna flow. An’ what better than to have you’se two on show. Probably even get a few thinkin’ ‘em can take ya! Oh, it’s gonna be smooth sailin’ for us all now.” He raised his own, smaller bottle of firewater. “Cheers to you’se!” The orcs raised their bottles to the goblin, taking a gulp.
“Heh, anyway,” continued Fax. “I’d best tell Mun’do about the change to this old arrangement. We was meant to ship back to Booty Bay but… ah, he’ll get it!” Fax wafted his hand, walking out the door. From a room across the hall, talking in Goblin could be heard between the troll and Fax. The talking seemed to be getting louder, until descending into a full blown shouting match.
“Sounds like he didn’t get it,” snickered Azuka.
“Mmhm,” chuckled Groshnok. The pandaren finished wrapping the bandages around his leg.
“All done,” she smiled. “Just give self… week resting of, yes?” Her orcish may have been broken, but Groshnok nodded his thanks, as she left the room, leaving the two alone together.
“Well, we did it,” Azuka said with a happy sigh, taking a sip of firewater.
“Aye. Greatfather Winter’s been good t’us,” replied Groshnok, causing the two to descend into laughter.
“Heh. Happy Winter’s Veil, Grosh,” said Azuka, walking over to where he lay propped up, offering out her bottle in a toast.
“Happy Winter’s Veil, Az,” replied Groshnok with a smile, clinking his bottle against hers, as both slaves took a hearty gulp.