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Song of Sons & Daughters/Hymn of the Lady

(Based on We All Lift Together - Keith Power)

Cold, the air and water flowing
On, the tide we make our home
Push, to keep the dark from coming
Feel the weight of what we owe

This, the song of sons and daughters
Hide, the heart of who we are
Piece by piece, we build our future
Strong, divided, fighting 'til we fall

Cold, the air and water flowing
On, the tide we make our home
Push, to keep the dark from coming
Feel the weight of what we owe

This, the song of sons and daughters
Hide, the heart of who we are
Piece by piece, we build our future
Strong, divided, fighting 'til we fall

As we all live, then we're all adrift
Together, together
Through the cold mist, 'til we're lifeless
Together, together

I'd say that runs the risk of being too complicated and favouing certain classes over others. The HP isn't a literal health meter like it is in-game, but an arbitrary number of hits you can take. Arguably anything can be done in your attack and defense to add class flavour. If extra damage was on the table for pet-classes, basically only hunters would ever win the fights.

I would argue you could spend your turn trying to heal up, however, exchanging an attack roll for a heal roll. I'd also add an allowance for people to roll for their attack first if they choose, so they can save a flashy finisher for...the actual last blow.

Proper Zul'garr artwork by Benchflip

[A Drop of Daelin's Blood]

A Drop of Daelin's Blood



Oh, a drop of Daelin’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm

A drop of Daelin’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm

A drop of Daelin’s blood wouldn’t do us any harm

And we’ll all hang on behind.

So we’ll roll the old chariot along

we’ll roll the old chariot along.

So we’ll roll the old chariot along

And we’ll all hang on behind!



Oh, a bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm

A bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm

A bottle of rum wouldn’t do us any harm

And we’ll all hang on behind.

So we’ll roll the old chariot along

An» we’ll roll the golden chariot along.

So we’ll roll the old chariot along

And we’ll all hang on behind!



Oh, a pretty elvish girl wouldn’t do us any harm

A pretty elvish girl wouldn’t do us any harm

A pretty elvish girl wouldn’t do us any harm

And we’ll all hang on behind.

So we’ll roll the old chariot along

We’ll roll the old chariot along.

We’ll roll the old chariot along

And we’ll all hang on behind!



Oh, a strong orcish girl wouldn’t do us any harm

A big orcish girl wouldn’t do us any harm

A big orcish girl wouldn’t do us any harm

And we’ll all hang on behind.

So we’ll roll the old chariot along

An» we’ll roll the old chariot along.

So we’ll roll the old chariot along

And we’ll all hang on behind!



Oh, some rum, beer, and baccy wouldn’t do us any harm

Some rum, beer, and baccy wouldn’t do us any harm

Some rum, beer, and baccy wouldn’t do us any harm

And we’ll all hang on behind.

So we’ll roll the old chariot along

We’ll roll the old chariot along.

We’ll roll the old chariot along

And we’ll all hang on behind!

[Fire in the Hole]

Fire in the Hole

Drums on the wind
Sails on the Water
Guns on the deck
Fire in the Hole
Songs of the long nines
They never falter
Away, look away, and the bells how they toll

Set my sights upon the sea
Bid my friends don't follow me
Outward bound for liberty
Freedom and prosperity
I took my leave of homeland soil
Bid farewell to sweat and toil
Danced just like a soul set free
Evermore the sea

Drums on the wind
Sails on the Water
Guns on the deck
Fire in the Hole
Songs of the long nines
They never falter
Away, look away, and the bells how they toll

Bid farewell to Orcish cheer
Found my home in wine and beer
Sailed upon the oceans grand
Sailing for a better land
I sold my soul and burned the ash
Told her I'll defy the lash
Turned my face towards the breeze
Evermore the seas

Drums on the wind
Sails on the Water
Guns on the deck
Fire in the Hole
Songs of the long nines
They never falter
Away, look away, and the bells how they toll

Set my feet on pirate sand
Sold by fate a winning hand
Stole a life of luxury
Villainy and piracy
I cut a path to sin and shame
Brothers & Sisters did the same
Cast away morality
Far across the sea

Drums on the wind
Sails on the Water
Guns on the deck
Fire in the Hole
Songs of the long nines
They never falter
Away, look away, and the bells how they toll

Follow quick into the fight
Cannons blaze in evil night
Found my match and sailed no more
Cursed human manowar
I climbed the stairs with all contempt
Bound by callous human hand
Danced just like a soul set free
Never more the sea

Drums on the wind
Sails on the Water
Guns on the deck
Fire in the Hole
Songs of the long nines
They never falter
Away, look away, and the bells how they toll

Drums on the wind
Sails on the Water
Guns on the deck
Fire in the Hole
Songs of the long nines
They never falter
Away, look away, and the bells how they toll

[Zul of the Sea]

Songs picked up, or written, or altered, by Zul'garr over the years.

Zul of the Sea

I seized a galleon with a raft and four men!
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!
Wild as a Kraken and stronger than ten!
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!
They tell of my legend wherever I’ve been
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!

The greatest pirate there ever has been!
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!


He wore him two pistols, and he wore him two more
An axe of such measure, it dragged on the floor!
Two brace and a blade and one unearthly roar!
That be Zul of the Sea!


All sailors can vouch me, we drunk ourselves blind!
There's a knife in me tongue and one in me mind
And a manner that’s grand, oh so regal and fine
Aye that’s be Zul of the Sea!


When the Warchief told us, Men, stow your guns
And give up pirating life and be done
Well Zul’garr said, Boys we've only begun
Let's drink to Zul of the Sea!


I seized a galleon with a raft and four men!
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!
Wild as a Kraken and stronger than ten!
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!
I leave vessels burning wherever I’ve been
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!

The greatest pirate there ever has been!
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!

The greatest pirate there ever has been!
Oh I am Zul of the Sea!

It has been some time. Mal'garr is unsure as to exactly how long. Time doesn't seem to move in this place. Rather it seems to simply drag on and on. The chains that pulled him into this place remain, wrapped around his spectral form, winding through his robes and into his exposed skeleton. At times they weigh him down. At others, they pull at him and force his movements against his will like a puppet on strings. The colourlessness of the Shadowlands is gone in this place, replaced with a deep and murky blue. It's impossible to see more than ten feet in any direction. It is cold down here. Very cold.

All around him, Mal'garr can hear the cries and groans of other souls held beneath the waves. Occasionally he catches glimpses of them as bolts of lightning tear through the water around him born from an impossible storm that brews constantly overhead. Souls from almost every species on Azeroth wander and toil in the dark, each bound in chains just like him. Some chains are heavier than others, those slaves of seemingly greater importance are granted greater freedom, but ultimately they are all shackled and kept, owned by their Lady.

Some of the souls sift through and sort piles of gold and jewels, a vast trove of wealth taken from countless piratical raids and sunken ships. Others work tirelessly at forges made from the rotting hulks of ruined vessels, burning with unnatural blue flames, to craft ugly objects from crude iron working some foul magic into them, and sending them back to the surface.

Separate from it all, but above everything, sits the Lady, on a throne made from the ruins of Vrykul longships. She smiles, cruel satisfaction on her lips as she looks over her world of slaves and ships. Somewhere far above, a bell tolls. She makes eye contact with Mal'garr, and he feels himself pulled back into the sand once again.

He appears on the shoreline, clutching a staff topped with a rusting, water-logged bell. An Orc he does not know stands before him, speaking in a thick Human accent. The orc is foreign to him, but the face is terribly familiar. It seems that Mal'garr was not the last of his family after all. Behind the younger Firefist stand others. The Blackrock who broke crippled him so many years ago. The irritating Soothsayer, the shadowy assassin, and the one-eyed Monk. One of those at least is his friend. He is not able to control his own actions, not properly. He tries to speak but only a rattling laugh leaves his throat. He goes through the motions that his new Lady requires of him for whatever rite is being performed though he understands nothing. Before he leaves, he draws the Monk's attention. He is able to do something, he hopes it will perhaps inform him that something is wrong. In Mal'garr's hand is a prayer bead, burned and charred. The Monk had left it with him as he passed on. He hands the bead back to the Monk. The monk does not understand, and Mal'garr is pulled by the chains back into the ocean. Back to his servitude.

It's yah boi, Owl Man.

Mal’garr walked. He had been walking for quite some time, but he wasn’t sure precisely how much time had passed. Trapped as he was at the bottom of the ocean, in a colourless void bereft of life and light, it seemed as if no time at all had passed. The only sign that he was getting anywhere was the occasional ‘landmark’ he would pass. An oddly shaped boulder, a sunken wreck, some long-abandoned bones. He felt as if he had been wandering for an eternity.

He worried he was in a kind of hell, but a hell of the dreadfully mundane. To his mind this was in many ways worse than the torment and suffering he had imagined himself damned to. At least in that there was some drama, some theatricality to being torn apart by the demons he had enslaved. Some justice in being tormented by the specters of the innocent lives he had taken. That would have been…something. Instead, he simply walked alone. His entire body ached, his age pressing on him like it never had in life. The silence around him was deafening, even his own heavy footfalls made no sound. His robes and hair moved as if he was under water, floating eerily around him as he marched forward, but he couldn't feel the water’s pull or resistance.

He began to understand just how it was that the souls left abandoned to the Shadowlands became as twisted and violent as he had been led to believe. It was the silence, and the loneliness. The utter isolation and the despair of knowing it would never end, the powerlessness of knowing they could not save themselves.

He was left alone with his thoughts as he marched endlessly across the sea floor. Despite knowing what he was, and the things he had done, the elderly warlock couldn't help but feel a sense of betrayal as he walked. According to the Red Blade Clan, orcs sworn to the clan could be granted a place with the ancestors when they passed. He had sworn himself to the Clan, after serving them for no inconsiderable amount of time. More even than that, his death had come as a sacrifice. He had subjected himself to the Blight in an effort to burn it away, making the escape of the others that much more likely. He had traded his life so that they would have a greater hope of escape. Was his sacrifice rewarded? No. He had been abandoned, to an eternity of wandering to be twisted by time and go mad, and if he ever should escape from this empty hell he would be branded an abomination and driven back!

The old warlock felt hurt, abandoned, and betrayed, but more than anything he simply felt hollow. It seemed the colourless void had robbed him even of the passion that could drive him to a rage. Not that there was even anyone at which to rage. He was quite alone now, or so he believed.

More time passed in the timeless ocean, and Mal’garr felt…something. He felt eyes on him, a presence watching him. It would have made his blood run cold, if he still had flesh. He turned to glance behind him but saw nothing. He knew turning was a mistake, and that he had almost certainly now lost his way, but he did not believe he would ever see land again regardless. He stared out at the open ocean, scanning the horizon for movement. He saw nothing, but strangely…he heard.

From behind him he could hear the rattling of chains, then first sound he had heard in what seemed like an eternity. He turned once more, to face the sound, and was faced with a sight he had not expected. Before him, stands what seems to be a fog bank, but he knows he is under the water, such a sight should not be possible. Within the fog bank is the figure of a woman. It looks to be a human woman but…the size of her! She stands far larger than any human Mal’garr has ever seen, and she holds herself with the pride of some primal warrior of old. The chains rattle once more, and the Warlock sees the source of the sound. Seven sets of ethereal chains snake out from the fog bank, moving gradually towards him, seeming to manifest out of the very mist itself!

A voice speaks wordlessly in his mind, making promises and threats in his thoughts. He is adrift, it says, abandoned and unprotected. He has been given up by those he knew in life, cast away and disregarded. He has no home, no place to go to. All that waits him is misery, and madness. The voice speaks to him of another way as the chains draw closer. It claims that she was drawn to him, drawn to his blood by her child and his. She offers him a place on her crew, a place of honour, a purpose. He could never have the rest he craved, the voice whispered, but in her service there would at least be purpose, and the madness could be held at bay. The voice begged him to kneel to the Lady of the Abyss, and to do so willingly. If he knelt, he would be honoured among her crew of the lost and damned. If he refused, it spoke, she would claim him regardless and he would suffer for it.

The chains were almost upon him now. The Old Warlock had sworn many years ago that he would not be another creature’s slave, but it seemed he now had no choice. With a shivering form he knelt in the pale sand, kneeling before the Lady of the Abyss. A deep laughter resounded around him, as the chains coiled around his ethereal form. He, and his new Lady, both sunk slowly into the sand of the ocean floor.

[Reading the recaps of the current guild campaign, specifically it's focus on a Wolf Spirit whose role is to direct the spirits of dead members of the clan to their rest, made me realize something. Other than briefly showing in a small event that Mal'garr's spirit was now serving Zul'garr's peculiar "Lady of the Abyss", I'd made no effort to actually explain how or why that happened. So, I've decided to write a few short scenes covering...well, what happened to Mal'garr's spirit after his death, how it came to serve Zul'garr's peculiar patron, and give some insight into the actual nature of the Lady of the Abyss that Zul'garr worships!]

Reading the recaps of the current guild campaign, specifically it's focus on a Wolf Spirit whose role is to direct the spirits of dead members of the clan to their rest, made me realize something. Other than briefly showing in a small event that Mal'garr's spirit was now serving Zul'garr's peculiar "Lady of the Abyss", I'd made no effort to actually explain how or why that happened. So, I've decided to write a few short scenes covering...well, what happened to Mal'garr's spirit after his death, how it came to serve Zul'garr's peculiar patron, and give some insight into the actual nature of the Lady of the Abyss that Zul'garr worships!

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The deck rocked gently beneath the elderly warlock. All around him the Orcs were moving, tending the wounded, sailing the ship, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Mal’garr paid them very little mind. He was laid flat on the deck. He knew he should be weighed down by his armour, but he could barely feel it. He knew his legs should have been paining him, as they had been for decades, but he simply couldn’t feel them at all. His chest felt heavy, it burned. He could feel that his breathing was watery and difficult, and with each exhalation he brought up fluid. It was blackish. He assumed it was his blood. He assumed he was dying. Nar’thak had tried to heal him, but it had come to nothing. Okiba was by his side speaking to him, but the elderly warlock barely heard. He could feel the life leaving his body, strength leaving him, the red demonic light dimming in his eyes.

He used what little strength he still had to turn his head to face Okiba, forcing out words in spite of the blood and bile that accompanied them, befouling his long grey beard.

“Okiba, look after my staff for me. I don’t want it going overboard, and I don’t think I can carry it anymore.” He released his grip on the black iron staff, given to him in his youth as a gift when he had first completed his training and become a Shaman. He opened his hand, and let his staff fall to the ground. He trusted that Okiba would do as he had asked.
Mal’garr was broken, tired, and old. So very old, he had lived far longer than any Orc had any right to, extending his crippled half-life at the cost of the lives of others, many more deserving of their lives than he had ever been of his. Despite his fervent efforts to avoid death at all costs, the old fiend was surprised to find he felt no fear of it when its certainty faced him.  After a life as twisted as that which he had lived, Mal’garr felt as if he would appreciate a rest. He closed his eyes, his breathing slowed, and the fel light in his eyes died completely. Darkness took his mind, and he fell out of the world.

Mal’garr awoke. He did not know how much time had passed, only that it had. His entire body burned and ached. He had hoped that in the afterlife he would be free of the physical afflictions he suffered from, but he felt worse now than he ever had. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling his legs struggle under his weight as they had always done, but feeling his body sting and burn as he shifted.

He stood now on what looked almost like a desert, and expanse of sand stretching out for quite some distance in all directions, broken up only by the occasional rock dotting the surface. He did not recognize this place. It was alien, and utterly devoid of life, and most notably, entirely colourless. Everything around him was dull and grey.

When looking around him gained him nothing, the warlock craned his eyes upwards…and saw the underside of a boat, floating alone in sky. He reached out for it almost instinctively with his left hand…but was forced to stop when he caught sight of his hand. It was…fleshless, entirely. Nothing more than a clawed skeletal hand sitting on the end of an exposed skeletal wrist. His eyes followed down his arm, up to his shoulder, and across his torso. His flesh had been burned away, leaving bare his warped bones, lined with glowing veins which he knew would have been green had the colour not been sucked out of the world.

He turned his head, to look at the other side of him, and found it much as he remembered it, fleshy, decrepit, and clad in his armoured robes. In the centre of his form, where bone and flesh met, he found the only colour he could see any more. Crystalline shards of deep purple embedded messily into his flesh. He recognized them as the remnants of soulstones.

Movement caught the Warlock’s eye. He turned his head to the sky again, and saw a body slowly falling towards the earth, surrounded by the remnants of what appeared to be a raft. He moved towards it quickly, ignoring the pain wracking his form. As he drew closer, he could make out who the body had belonged to. He saw himself falling slowly, charred and burned, a half-skeletal nightmare, buffeted by a current he couldn’t see.

He knew why he had never seen this place before. He was stood on the floor of the ocean, far below the boat on which his clan was escaping. They had attempted to burn his body, as was right, but had neglected to take from his corpse the bag of reagents and crystals he needed to perform his fel arts. As his body burned, it must have exploded, and the ruination of his body by mystical means had reflected upon his spirit in death. He searched for a while, as the ship moved away, trying to find his staff. It seemed it had not gone overboard with his body. He was thankful that Okiba had obeyed his final request.

He was dead and he presumed he was standing in the Shadowlands, the place to which souls which have not or have yet to be claimed by a greater power are damned. He had hoped that by swearing himself to the clan, and by dying in its service, he would perhaps have managed to redeem himself somewhat. To have earned some rest, some peace. The deafening silence told him otherwise. His spirit was abandoned, lost to the deep ocean, left to wander for eternity until either some foul entity ripped him from the Shadowlands for some foul purpose or until he went mad.

He could no longer see the ship which carried the Red Blades home, but he could make out its wake in the surface of the water he had originally mistaken for the sky. Having nowhere else to go, Mal’garr began walking after it, hoping that the wake would lead him to Kalimdor. If he was to be damned to walk the world unseen and unheard, he would rather walk the lands his people called home.

Forgot to post this anywhere. It's yah boi, Zul'garr.

Name: Nag'ral

Clan: Shadowmoon

Age: Elderly

Profession: Voidseer (Shadow Priest)

Warband Role: Seer/Prophet

Bio:

While exact details of Nag'ral's background are somewhat hard to pin down by his own design, a few things are certain. First, he was a shaman of the Shadowmoon Clan who turned away from the elements and towards the powers of the Dark Star along with Ner'zhul. Second, Nag'ral isn't the name he was born with but rather one he adopted later in life. And third, despite his success in bending Shadow Magic to his will in combat, he is bloody awful at using at to predict the future.

He has spent much of his time prior to coming to Azeroth fighting against the forces of the light. Indeed before even the Draenei began their attempt at forcibly converting the Orcish population Nag'ral had been something of a doomsayer, claiming that the Light would be the death of them all and attempting to convince his fellow Orcs to mistrust and even hate the Draenei as it's agents. He was, suffice it to say, rather smug when the Draenei DID eventually turn on the Orcs and thus proved his 'prophecy' correct.

Despite that one success however, these days he's more likely than not to blurt out some sight or prophecy that is inaccurate, misunderstood, or entirely incorrect. While most of the time there is some nugget of truth to what he says, it almost never turns out the way he expects or predicts. He will tell you that an ambush awaits somewhere ahead and likely be correct, he'll just tell you to poke the wrong bush and you'll end up getting ambushed anyway.

As for why anyone would keep him around? He is still a potent practitioner of shadow magics in combat and, well, even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

[A Dream of What May Pass]

A Dream of What May Pass

On a grey cold day, on a grey cold cliff, overlooking a grey cold sea, there stood a grey cold orc. His stance is rigid as he stares out to the sea, his expression grim. His skin is a deep green, his hair the dull grey of beaten metal. It hangs long about his back and shoulders, though thinning on top, a sign of his age as sure as the lines on his face. Upon his cheeks, two long braids erupt from bushy sideburns, waving gently like chains in the wind. His right eye is a ruin covered with leather, a white milky useless thing surrounded by scars which tell why. He has hidden it with an eyepatch for much of his life, though he felt no shame of it.

His right hand is lost to him, removed at the wrist, though by blast or blade or beast is uncertain. It’s absence is felt all the same. In it’s place sits an iron hook, rusted but still sharp. His left foot too has been misplaced, in it’s stead an iron peg-leg both heavy and ugly in equal measure. It does it’s job, and that is enough for him.

About his shoulder sits a black Kul’tiran great coat, tattered and stained by age and use. On it’s lapel sits what would look like a medal to some. A closer look reveals a sign of loyalty, the symbol of the Red Blade Clan. In his left hand he holds a staff forged of black iron, an M carved into it’s handle and cold blue flame dancing at it’s head.

The Orc turns away from the sea for a moment, glancing from whence he came. In the distance behind him he can see a camp. Few Orcs are awake as it is still the early hours of the morning, but he can see and hear those that do move among the tents. His absence has yet to be noticed. He turns back to the sea.

He stares at the rolling waves beneath him unmoving, until startled by a raven’s cry. The black bird darts past him in a flurry of wind and feathers having appeared as if from nowhere. It flies to a spot in front of the Orc before perching on empty air.

Beneath the raven’s claws, a shadowy form begins to take shape in the empty air above the sea. It is hunched, it’s features hidden by a hood and it leans on a staff similar to that which the Orc holds. Glowing green eyes stare from beneath the figure’s hood as the raven sits on the figure’s shoulder. The raven watches the Orc silently.

A moment passes, and another figure appears to the left of the first. This one stands tall and straight, holding a long-blade in it’s hand, it’s hide guarded by plate and mail. It’s head is shaved and unhelmed, but it’s features are just as hidden as the first. It’s eyes are a dull red and it regards the Orc with indifference.

Another moment, and a third and final figure emerges to the right of the hooded one. This one is clad in a simple robe, it’s hair gathered into a braid behind it’s head, a neatly trimmed beard on it’s chin. It looks at the Orc with sea-blue eyes crinkled by a hidden smile.

The hooded figure extends a hand to the Orc, speaking no words. It’s intent is understood. The Orc takes a deep breath, sadness heavy on his face. He reaches for the clan symbol on his lapel and plucks it from it’s place, gently putting it on the ground between his feet. A sign to mark his passing.

He takes a step forward, standing now on the very edge of the cliff. A fear grips him, an uncertainty, but a voice calls to him from the deep. A voice he has known all his life, and a voice that he has always trusted. He will trust Her today. He reaches out, and takes the hooded figure’s hand, taking a final step.

She had taken him once, and She had given him back. From that day he had been a Son of the Sea.

He now returns to his mother, and his fathers, to rest. A raven cries somewhere as a body falls into the ocean.

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Zul’garr wakes with a start, shaking. He pulls on his waistcoat and takes up his axe, rushing outside. He sees that he is where he thought he was, the pirate port of Freehold. His dream has unnerved him. A raven cries behind him and he almost leaps out of his skin, spinning around with his axe drawn. Birdy is perched on a nearby building, staring down at him quizzically. Zul’garr calms, a grin coming to his face. Birdy hops down, onto his shoulder. Together the two rush down to the coastline, to consult Her.

The Horde vessel, The Suffering, travelled through the open ocean at a brisk pace. She’d just left port, a day or two after news of the burning of Teldrassil reached the general Horde population. Her destination was unknown to all save those who had given the orders and to the ship’s captain, a particularly pompous and skeletal Forsaken by the name of Jack Barrington. The crew too, was largely made up for Forsaken, their grim desiccated number only broken up by a smattering of living crew members. Zul’garr Firefist was once such living crewman. 

The burning of the tree had not sat well with Zul’garr and by a week into the journey the entire crew had become familiar with his displeasure. He’d spoken of it both loudly and often, both on and off duty, whenever he could fit in a complaint between his usual schedule of roaring and bellowing. Most, if not all, of the living crew were behind him though few enough of them would be willing to say it. The dead however? They did not much care for his tone.

Two days into the voyage a twitchy corpse by the name of Skinny Pete had asked the Orc to tone it down. When Zul’garr ignored him, Pete insisted. When Zul’garr persisted in not toning it down, Pete tried to get physical. Pete got his jaw punched off.

On the seventh day a slithery voiced priestling demanded that Zul’garr take back his slander of the Dark Lady, on pain of pain. The priestling’s smug certainty of the efficacy of both his wordplay and his threat was shattered when Zul’garr shattered the priestling’s staff and tossed it overboard, making it clear that if the priestling pressed the issue the next thing to be shattered would be his spine. That too, he said, would be thrown overboard.

On the ninth day the first mate, an irritable fellow with an iron lower face who insisted everyone call him Clockjaw, decided to make an example of Zul’garr. The Orc stood, off duty but still on deck, leaning over the side. He stared into the empty ocean, smiling slightly and humming to himself, quite content as his bright red sidewhiskers blew in the sea-wind. Clockjaw stomped towards him, cutlass by his left side and flintlock by his right. The dead man spoke, voice rattling in his throat and iron-jaw chattering.

“Hey, Firefist! I’ve heard the bull you’ve been spouting about the Dark Lady, and the threats you’ve made to the other Forsaken. That stops now, you hear me greenskin? A pig-faced grunt like you has no right to speak to Forsaken like that, and no right to even speak Our Lady’s name!”

As Clockjaw finished speaking his hand drifted to the hilt of his cutlass, a wordless threat intended to force compliance. The other crewmen on the deck, living and dead, dropped all pretence of working to watch. For a few moments Firefist didn’t react, the only sign he’d even heard being that the humming had stopped. He slowly pushed himself away from the side of the deck, stood to his full height, and turned to face the Forsaken.

Though Zul’garr was somewhat short for an Orc and his build was more lean and wiry than it was muscular, as he stepped towards Clockjaw the size difference between them seemed to make the idea of a physical confrontation between the two almost farcical. Firefist slowly and deliberately looked over Clockjaw with his good eye, his other hidden behind an eyepatch. After an almost painful silence, the Orc spoke, with a wry smile on his lips.

“Well, thas’ all very well an’ good ta’ say, boss. Not sure you’ve got  tha’ spine ta’ back tha' up though, ‘specially if tha’ little meat ‘ook of yours sittin’ on your sword is any sign.”

Clockjaw flinched at the mention of his sword. Zul’garr himself had an axe on his belt. He drew it carefully…then tossed it to one side.

“You don’ like wha’ I’ve been sayin’ ‘bout tha ‘Banshee Queen’ o’ yours? Don’ like that I called her what she is. A cold bitch, a child killer, an’ a damned coward? You want ta’ shut me up, boss? Then shut me up. C’mon, I’ll even give ya the first shot.”

Firefist stepped forwards, grinning, arms outstretched to either side. As the Orc stepped forward Clockjaw stepped back, teeth grinding against his iron jaw. Before long, the pair were stood in the centre of the deck and a circle had formed around them. The crew surrounded them, forming a ring. All eyes were on Zul’garr and First Mate Clockjaw. The Forsaken couldn’t afford to seem a coward. He took the swing. As did Zul’garr. True to his word he let the Forsaken strike him, his fist landing square on Firefist’s jaw. The Orc’s head snapped back and he stumbled slightly, almost losing his balance. Those of the crew that still drew breath held theirs. Zul’garr recovered slowly, bringing his head back forward, still grinning. A small trickle of blood left the corner of his mouth.

“Now it’s a fight!”

Zul’garr swung forward suddenly, taking Clockjaw by surprise. The Forsaken almost lost his footing, his sudden fall being the only thing that kept him from Zul’garr’s quick right hook. Once he’d regained his balance the forsaken struck back but hit only empty air as the Orc had stepped out of the way. Firefist came at the corpse with an elbow to the gut, which connected solidly. On a living man that would have knocked the wind out of him, but Forsaken are rather immune to such things. Clockjaw retaliated with a bony elbow of his own, striking Firefist in the chest to little effect. By this time, the crowd had begun to chant and whoop and holler.

The pair continued like this for a good few minutes, trading blows back and forth, no victor in sight, until Clockjaw made a single fatal error. He swung a fist directly at Zul’garr’s face. If it had connected, that might have taken the Orc down. It did not. Instead, the Orc caught the punch, grabbing Clockjaw’s left arm with both hands. One on the hand, the other at the elbow. The Orc twisted. On a normal man, that should have caused pain, and possibly dislocated the arm, but the Forsaken are rather vulnerable to such things.

Clockjaw’s left arm snapped clean off at the elbow. He yelled in surprise. Zul’garr laughed for much the same reason. Before the Forsaken could mount a response, Firefist lifted his leg and booted the dead man square in the chest, sending him careening across the deck, sliding on his back. Zul’garr followed after him quickly. Clockjaw drew his pistol and tried to point it at Firefist, but the Orc bashed the gun out of his hand using Clockjaw’s own disembodied left arm. As the gun skittered across the deck Zul’garr placed his foot on Clockjaw’s chest, pinning him down. The Orc spoke, wagging Clockjaw’s own finger at him.

“Not another word outta you, boss. You say one more word to me, an’ I’ll jam your own arm as far down what’s left of your mouldy old throat as I can. You go’ that?”

Clockjaw nodded quickly and silently, terrified into compliance. The living crew cheered while the dead crew glowered. It was a victory, though insignificant and short lived. The sound of a pistol shot rang out across the deck, turning all heads towards the helm. At it, stood Captain Jack Barrington, in his rotten old coat and his tattered old hat, looking for all the world like a ruined painting of himself, pistol held in the air.

“Right! That is QUITE enough of that! Mister Firefist, I have tolerated your seditious opinions thus far out of good will. I have even looked aside for your last few…scuffles seeing as they ‘started it’. This now, however, makes three times you have beaten and threatened members of my crew! Therefore, henceforth you are no longer part of that crew! Men! Take him!”

Before Zul’garr could react, the Forsaken crew swarmed him. He swung all three of his arms, the two with which he was born and that which he’d taken from Clockjaw, in defence of himself but to no avail.

A few moments later, he found himself trussed up with a captured animal, lying awkwardly in a rowing boat as it was slowly lowered to the water. Firefist yelled all the obscenities he could think of as he was lowered into the water and invented a few more as his axe was thrown into the boat from the deck. Even as he yelled the large black raven that had perched on The Suffering’s Crow’s nest as they set sail abandoned the ship, flying down and landing in the boat with him.

After a good deal of wiggling, and a great deal more cursing, Zul’garr was able to cut the ties that bound him. By that time, The Suffering was long gone. Firefist got to his feet and looked around. He sat in open ocean…in a dinghy…with a raven. He cursed again, and spat, before reaching up and gently closing his hand around the small bone amulet he wore around his neck. He closed his eyes and whispered into the empty air…and a gentle breeze picked up. He stopped whispering, opened his eyes, and sat down, getting ready to row.
“Well, I don’ know where the ‘el we are birdy, bu’ I guess we’ll find out eventually, righ’?” The old raven cawed in response. Zul’garr laughed and began to row in the direction the wind gave him. 

Mal'garr Firefist crossed the threshold of his home for the first time in many months. As he stepped out of the stale air of Lordaeron and into the musty cottage he called his home, he reflected upon the curiosity that was the fact that somehow the air within was cleaner, less foul, than that outside. As he stepped inside, the darkness within was illuminated by the sickly green glow of the fel-flames that danced at all times at the head of his old, black-iron staff. He glanced around the single large room within. Though rendered somewhat disturbing by the flickering emerald hues in which it was bathed, the house seemed to be empty. Not merely empty, it seemed as if it had been abandoned for some time. The elderly Orc spoke aloud, breaking the awkward silence. A few words in Eredun left his lips, and the building reacted. The air shimmered briefly before the truth of the home was revealed. Though still desolate and dusty, the words revealed that this building was far from empty. The walls, once vacant, now bore many bookshelves which themselves bore many books. Most bound in leather, some bound in something less pleasant. Where bookshelves did not dominate the walls there were great cabinets and chests, marked with dimly glowing green runes, wards of protection and sealing. A great cauldron sat in the centre of the home, a desk or altar to it's right, and to it's far left a simple bed. Mal'garr smiled at his home revealed, and then grew grim as he recalled the necessity that brought him back.

The demon, Erak'vazul, stood at the door, guarding it and watching for any unfriendly eyes. The creature was impatient. It always was, though what it was waiting for Mal'garr was never certain. The Warlock hobbled through the house, running a gnarled old hand over his many treasured possessions. The books, he knew, contained untold lore and knowledge. Reflections and observations and words of power on the Fel and demonic, and in that knowledge there could be found great power. Much of it was the result of his own labour, tomes written by his hand, containing all the things he knew. Why he wrote it all down, he could not say. He had dreamed of having an apprentice, someone he could give his work to as both a legacy and a duty. That dream had faded years ago, though this did not stop him from continuing his work. The books not penned by his hand were prizes, taken from old foes and rivals that had opposed him or who had simply stumbled upon something he wanted. Their work had long since been absorbed and added to his own, but the tomes themselves held great power. The Fel had bled into the pages as it bled into those who commanded it.

He turned then to the cauldron. Both a focus of his mystical power, the heart of many a ritual and summoning over his years of service to the Horde and to the Banshee Queen, as well as somewhat absurdly the means by which he made many of his simple meals in those days. He had never questioned if eating food prepared in the same vessel in which fel energies had dwelled would effect him.

He turned to the cabinets and chests, tugging at his beard in the dim green light as he observed their own dully glowing runes. The bonds on them had weakened without him present to maintain them but still they held. He did not need to open them to know their contents. Some contained artefacts and items, torn from the grasps of foul demons and Warlocks, legion servants and ignorant fools who sought to use the Fel simply to enrich themselves. Others contained the bodies of those servants and fools, or at least parts of them. Fel-drenched bones and demon hearts. A few vials of demon blood. Some simply contained crystals filled with the raging energies of the Fel. All for use as power sources or focuses of experimentation.

All these things represented to the old Orc the latter days of his life. Much was gathered while he served Thrall's Horde, some had been collected, hidden, and found again in his exile fleeing from Doomhammer's dogs. Yet other pieces were things taken from Outland, hidden away before the Horde marched into Azeroth to be collected when the world had been conquered. Regardless of their origins, this collection had taken the elderly Orc many years and much effort to collect, create, or steal. It saddened him to know he must lose almost all of it.

He grabbed a few select volumes from the tens of tomes penned by his own hand, and stuffed them into his bag. He moved to one of the sealed chests, spoke the words to remove the warding, collected many of the fel-green crystals within, and hid those in his bag and robes too. He then turned, and hobbled from the building, pushing his demonic servant from the doorway as best he could, given his condition.

Mal'garr moved until he had put some distance between him, and his home. He turned to face it. For a few moments, he merely stared, solemnly. He knew that, regardless of his personal conflicts, this land was lost. The Alliance forces too many, too united. The Horde simply too few and fractured, turning against itself. He did not know precisely when, but he knew that the land of Lordaeron would fall. It may be the next day, he believed, or the day after that. Perhaps a week or two. It did not matter. Lordaeron's fall was inevitable. Though he did not know where he stood on his adopted clan's...direction, he did know this. The knowledge he had collected over his lifetime, the items of power he claimed ownership of, could never be allowed to fall into enemy hands. He would not see his life's work be used against the Horde and it's people.

He raised his right hand to the sky, his burnt left still clutching his staff, and began to chant. Eredun words left his lips and became words of power as they spread into the world. The fel-flame upon the head of his staff flared and rattled in time with his chanting. In his raised hand, embers of emerald glowed, quickly growing into sparks, and then into flame. After just a few moments, a ball of emerald fire sat in the palm of the old Orc's hand. He fell silent, and looked at it. The raw stuff of chaos dancing around his fingers. Entropy made manifest, which did not harm him. He smiled sadly, and then almost casually tossed this flame towards his home. It quickly caught, directed by both Mal'garr's will and the flame's own malevolence. As it burned it drew upon the latent fel-energies that saturated the home, pulling it from the tomes and the artefacts within. The fireball quickly became an inferno, and just as quickly, an explosion. With a sudden roar and a blast of that sickly green light, the home was consumed entirely, Mal'garr being forced to raise his arm to guard his glowing-red eyes from the flare.

A few moments later, he lowered arm. Where once his home stood, there was now only dust, and a spot of land scoured of all life, even the corrupted life that thrived in Lordaeron. The old Orc stared at the dead empty space feeling hollow, and strangely numb. He turned slightly, glancing at Erak'vazul out of the corner of his eye. The demon's expression was hard and unreadable, as ever, but the Warlock felt the creature was pleased. Pleased to have witnessed his master destroy something he cared about. Mal'garr considered punishing the creature, but decided against it. Erak'vazul was a slave, and would be until his soul completely burned out. He could be allowed one moment of smug satisfaction.

Mal'garr turned away from where once his home had resided and began to hobble away, his servant marching close behind. The Warlock wasn't sure where he was going. He simply wished to be elsewhere.