Show posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.

Show posts Menu

Topics - Tideraider

Odds & Ends / Zul'garr's Shanties
December 23, 2019, 07:50:59 PM
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!
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!


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.
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.


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 Campfire / All Hands Off Deck - Zul'garr Firefist
August 12, 2018, 05:09:45 AM
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. 
The Campfire / A Warlock Goes Home
August 02, 2018, 09:39:09 PM
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. 
Mal’garr sat by his fire, at his isolated camp some distance away from the Crossroads. Though he was no longer an exile of the clan, he felt it best to keep himself isolated from them while he worked. He could very well be following their code and commands to the letter, but he did not trust the clan to tell the difference between that and the more frowned upon aspects of his work. His position was tenuous, and he would not risk ignorance on the part of a member of the clan seeing him exiled…again.

Tonight, he did not work, however. Instead he sat, his black book in his lap. Tonight, was another night for remembering, not for work. Some time ago he had been faced with a figure from his past, a female Orc Warlock by the name of Ishgara Blacktalon. In one of the Clan’s…for lack of a better term ‘vision quests’, Karnna Blackfeather had been made to don Blacktalon’s name and face. Mal’garr and Blacktalon knew each other, this much was clear from the re-enactment, but the precise nature of their relationship was unclear.

The details of this were hidden in the fog that clouded Mal’garr’s memory of many of his years serving the Shadow Council. Often, he was glad of this fog. The Council did many terrible things for simple greed, and he was party to several of them. It was easier for him to forget most of it. Sometimes, however, he needed to remember and when he needed to remember, he turned to his book.

The elderly warlock flicked through the pages of his dense, hand-written, tome. He finally reached the page he was concerned with. He ran a finger over the letters, slowly and carefully translating the Eredun script back into Orcish, and then out of the code he had written it in. As he worked, his memory returned.


Mal’garr was running. His crimson hair flapped madly behind him as he did. He rushed through a forest whose name he did not know, fleeing across country he did not recognize, to an unknown destination. He didn't much care for where he would end up. His concern was entirely on simply being elsewhere.

Everything had gone wrong all at once. The Horde had been taking victory after victory against the feeble inhabitants of this new world. Many of these “Humans” had been slain or taken as slaves or as fuel for the spells of the Council. Much food and loot had been gained. The Horde had bathed itself in glory against these new foes. Then it all fell apart.

Doomhammer, Blackhand’s upstart second-in-command, challenged his rightful leader to single combat, in an effort to become the new Warchief. None had expected him to succeed. He did. After a lengthy confrontation, Blackhand lay dead and Doomhammer was proclaimed Warchief.

Some time earlier, Gul’dan had entered into a deep coma. Some of the Council had fled with his body elsewhere in an effort to save him, but the rest remained. A terrible mistake.

With Gul’dan in a coma, and Blackhand slain, Doomhammer turned his fury upon the Warlocks, and upon those who served the Council most of all. Many Warlocks were given a choice, abandon their fel-magics and they would be spared. The servants of the Council were not granted such clemency. For them there was only one choice offered. Death.

Many of his collegues were cut down before they even knew what was happening. Some attempted to fight back, taking a good number of Orcs with them but still ultimately falling before the numbers of their fellows. Yet others, the wiser of them, fled. Mal’garr was among this number.
Mal’garr fled for some hours, occasionally twisting and turning in his path in an effort to throw off his persuers, every now and again felling a tree with his fel-flames in such a way as to imply he fled east when in fact he fled west. It was only as night began to fall, that Mal’garr finally allowed himself to slow.

He paused in a clearing, listening. He could hear nothing, save the whisper of wind through the trees, and the frantic beating of his own heart. Though the Fel had kept him relatively young and strong, he was still physically an older Orc, and one who had grown used to a somewhat easy life. Such exertion did not come easily to him.

He did not feel safe, but he knew he had to sleep. Mal’garr rested his back against a tree, and gently slid down it, landing on the ground with a thud. He did not have his sleeping things with him, and so would have to make do. He decided that he would sleep lightly, and then continue his flight come the morning. Uncertain of his future, Mal’garr allowed himself to drift off.


The Warlock awoke with a start. A hand was over his mouth, and a blade to his throat. His eyes darted around, seeking his foe, while his left hand reached for his staff, only to find it had been kicked some distance away. He tried to struggle, but the blade pressed against his throat, drawing a small trickle of unnaturally dark blood. A voice whispered to him. “Calm down, Old Man, it’s only me.” His eyes narrowed, and he stopped struggling. He recognized the voice. It did not belong to one of Doomhammer’s dogs.

“If I let go of your mouth, and take my blade from your throat, do you promise to be good, and not call out or attack me?” The voice asked. Mal’garr nodded slightly, and felt the blade leave his neck, and the hand move from his mouth. His right hand came up to the wound the blade left, rubbing it idly.

Before him, a female Orc moved into view, an orc with long jet-black hair and a cruel face twisted into a mocking smile. Mal’garr considered she may have been beautiful once, had she not allowed her mind and soul to appear so freely in her expressions. “Blacktalon.” Mal’garr spoke, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Firefist.” She responded, her lips curling around her tusks as her smile widened, a grin reminiscent of apes whose smiles are threats. “I do hope you don’t mind me surprising you like that but…I couldn’t be sure how you’d react to my presence.” She idly walked over to Mal’garr’s staff and kicked it over to him. Mal’garr picked it up, but did not stand, instead he laid it across his lap as he stared at Ishgara.

“What do you want from me, Blacktalon?” Mal’garr spoke bluntly and directly. He and Ishgara had known each other for many years. For reasons unknown to him, whenever he had been dispatched on a mission for the Council, more often than not he was paired with her. The two were competitive, and not in a friendly way. They were bitter rivals, often forced to fight over the approval and rewards granted by those of higher standing in the Council. The pair, over the years, had proven themselves to largely be each other’s equals. This fact angered both of them.

“Want from you? Nothing, old man. Unless you consider us traveling together to be a great favor?” Mal’garr’s eyes narrowed, reducing to thin, red, lines of light in the darkness as Blakctalon spoke.

“Why should I want to travel with you?” He asked, Blacktalon merely maintained her smile.

“It’s simple. The servants of Doomhammer are still hunting you, still hunting me, in fact. I don’t doubt you could kill a great number of them before they would bring you down, old man, but they WOULD still bring you down. There is safety to be found in numbers, old man. They may be able to face one of us and succeed, but they could not take us both.”

The pair argued for a short while, until Mal’garr eventually relented, allowing Blacktalon to stay with him and travel with him in his flight. There was logic to her argument, they would be safer together than apart. There was nothing to compete over here, only survival. Blacktalon offered to take the first watch, citing Mal’garr’s advanced age, and him needing the sleep more than her. The old warlock bristled at this, but agreed, returning to sleep.


Mal’garr awoke the next morning, and panic seized him. He stared at the surroundings. Sunlight streamed into the clearing, a clearing that was empty save for a campfire in it’s center he did not recall building. His staff lay propped up by a tree some distance from him, despite him knowing he fell asleep with it in his lap. He attempted to stand, but found it difficult, as rope now bound him to the tree against which he had slept. He was able to stand, pushing himself and the rope up the trunk of the tree, but was unable to free himself. He tried to call out in anger but found his mouth had been gagged and he could not form the words. He tried to conjure up his flames, to burn away the rope…but found he could not. His eyes turned downwards, and he saw a curious glowing crystal around his neck. He did not recognize its design, but he assumed it’s function. It served to cut him off from his fel-magics, to ensure he could not call upon them to escape.

Blacktalon, it seemed, had betrayed him, but to what end he did not know. Surely Doomhammer’s dogs were far behind them, and such treachery served only to spite him? He would find his way free, in time, if given chance.

He would not be granted that chance however. He heard voices, low, harsh, and guttural, approaching from beyond the clearing. Along with the voices he heard the stamping of booted feet and the grinding of armor plates scratching against each other, and the slither of mail. Into the clearing stepped three Orcs, their blackened hides and orange eyes showing them to be Blackrocks. Each was armored, each carried a large weapon, two axes, and one hammer.

The hammer bearer, whose more ornate armour marked him out as the leader, glanced around the clearing, until his eyes locked on Mal’garr. His face split into a grin, and he casually strolled towards Mal’garr, his hammer swinging through empty air. “Well, well, well! Look what we have here boys! A warlock, all trussed up and waiting for us!” He laughed a deep, throaty, and cruel laugh. His fellows joined in.

One of the axe wielders spoke up. “Hey…that ain’t just a Warlock. Ain’t that Firefist? He’s one of the Council boys!” The leader looked Mal’garr over more carefully, taking particular note of his left hand, a blackened thing with the texture of coal.

“So it is! So it is! Good eye Dru’gash, I’d almost missed that. I was about to just smash this one’s head with my hammer and move on, but this one is a Council lad, and as such he deserves special treatment, don’t you think boys?”

The axe wielders laughed and cheered on their leader. Mal’garr simply stared at him. The leader pulled back his hammer and swung it with all the strength he could muster.

Mal’garr had been expecting the Orc to still crush his skull, or to perhaps attempt to cave in his chest. He had been expecting a painful, but quick, death. Instead, he felt intense pain…and a sudden sense of dread. The hammer swing had not been aimed at any vital part of him. Instead, the hammer had met with his left leg, shattering and destroying many of the bones within, leaving the leg a twisted ruin. He tried to cry out in pain, but could not due to the gag. Instead, a muffled howl came out, leaving him sounding almost as if he was gibbering.
Mal’garr began to fall, the pain of what had happened sapping all of the strength from him. The two axe-wielders wouldn't let that happen. They went to his side and held him up by his arms. Mal’garr was forced to again look into the eyes of their leader, who simply smiled, and pulled back his hammer again.

The other leg was shattered, much as the first was. Now, they let Mal’garr fall. He fell to the ground howling as the weight of his torso pressed on his ruined legs The Blackrock leader nodded to one of the axe-wielders, who then used his axe to cut away the ropes that bound Mal’garr to the tree. The elderly warlock collapsed forward onto the ground, landing face first into the dirt, and chest first onto a rock.

The collision with the rock caused the crystal around his neck to shatter, and the restraint placed on him to be removed. He could feel his powers again, though he remained in the dirt for a short while. The orc leader stood over him, hammer in hand. “This is the price you pay for what you did to our race, traitor!” He raised his hammer over his head…but would not get the chance to swing it.

Mal’garr pushed himself up with his right hand and extended his left towards the hammer-wielder. A flare of emerald fire erupted from the blackened ruin that was his hand and consumed the body of the Blackrock leader. After just a few moments, he collapsed to the ground as a charred skeleton held within blackened armor, his hammer falling harmlessly onto the ground behind him. One of the axe-weilders rushed Mal’garr, attempting to avenge his fallen comrade, only to suffer the same fate, being reduced to blackened bones within moments. Mal’garr searched for the third but found that the one named Dru’gash had fled. His cowardice saved his life.

Mal’garr tore the gag from his mouth, and attempted to stand, but could not. His legs quite simply could not carry him any longer. He dragged himself pathetically towards his staff, eventually reaching it and attempting to pick himself up with it, but even with it’s support the pain was too great. He simply could not walk any longer.

Some Orcs would have simply lain there, giving up, and allowing themselves to die. Mal’garr was not an orc of that kind. He crawled through the dirt, like a worm. He crawled through that forest for many days, consuming the life-force of any animal, human, or even orc he came across for some time, trying to recover his strength.

By the end of his ordeal, he would be able to stand again, though his legs would forever be twisted, ruins of their former selves. He swore vengeance on Doomhammer, vengeance he would never be able to take, for what had been done to him. He swore vengeance upon the Blackrock who escaped him, the one named Dru’gash. Most of all, however, he swore vengeance on Ishgara Blacktalon, for sacrificing him to the Blackrocks, assuming she had done so merely to slow them down. Give them him to play with so they would slow their pursuit of her, or forgo it entirely.

Mal’garr swore that, should he ever find Blacktalon…he would do far worse to her than was done to him.


Mal’garr Firefist closed his book in his lap, and looked to his fire, his expression grim and thoughtful. There was a reason he allowed much of his past to remain lost to him, in the fog of his mind.
The Campfire / Remembering Shadows
April 03, 2018, 10:32:09 AM
Mal’garr Firefist reclined on a bed in the Razor Hill Tavern. His recent injury at the hands of the centaur raiders had forced him to cease actively serving with the Clan for a while as he healed. This pleased him, looking on his wounding as an opportunity to rest and to reflect. His robes had been ruined by the injury, befouled by blood and torn by the centaur’s spear. As such he now sat draped in simpler attire. For once, a passing glance may not have revealed him as being a Warlock, were it not for the fel-fire erupting from his staff and the red glow of his eyes.

From his belt hung two books, clasped and carefully carried. One held information on the spirits revered by the Red Blade clan. He had studied the book well prior to his injury and had already re-read it since his wounding. It was not to this book he would turn today. Instead he turned to the other. A black tome with crisp, parchment pages. The language inside was Orcish, though written in a form of code, as many of the private works of Warlocks are. Today, Mal’garr had a taste for reminding himself of his own history. He took the black book from his belt and opened it in front of him. He turned it back, far back, to many years past. Though the book was more of an instruction manual on how to perform the work his profession demanded, simply reading the script he had penned when he was a relative novice was enough to take him back to those times…


Mal’garr stood proudly, doing his best to communicate pride, control, and command, as he watched the Horde forces pour into Azeroth through the Dark Portal for the first time. His hood was down, his red and silver hair and beard waving gently in the wind. This world was truly beautiful to him. Though they had emerged into little better than a swamp, the sight of such life filled the Warlock with hope. His world was dying, but this world fair-teemed with life still. A new life could be built here for his people, once they overcame whatever creatures called this world home. Though, that was simply a matter of time. They were Orcs, what could possibly stand against them?

Mal’garr’s attention was grabbed as another group of Orcs emerged from the portal. The old Orc grinned. Among the fresh batch of warriors who had emerged from the portal, came some of his own blood. His son, and his son, Zul’garr and Zuk’garr, marched alongside the Orc soliders who had emerged to claim this world for them. Zuk’garr, just barely an adult, did his best to stand tall among the more grizzled veterans surrounding him. He had seen little to no combat in the war with the hated Draenei. The young one hoped to prove himself to his father and grandfather in the taking of this new world. The young warrior turned as he marched, saw his grandfather, and grinned, offering a brief salute. Mal’garr returned the gesture with a smile and a slight nod of the head.

Zuk’garr cared for his grandfather and wished to win his approval. His father, Zul’garr, did not. For some time now, Zul’garr had been transparently baring a grudge against his father. Likely due to the fact that age only seemed willing to touch one of them. While Mal’garr’s hair was still red, with occasional silver lines the only obvious sign of his age, his son’s hair had long since turned to a dirty grey. Often had Zul’garr questioned why it is that age did not lie so heavily upon Mal’garr, an orc near twice his age. Mal’garr answered him honestly, that such was the price paid by those who refused to fully embrace the gifts granted them by the new forces at their command.

The taking up of Fel-Magic had never sat well with Zul’garr, though he had been wise enough to not openly question it’s use. He was not a Shaman, he had no mind for such things. When the time came to embrace the demon blood, he did like almost all others, though he did so with reluctance. Zul’garr caught his father’s eye. He gave him a curt nod and received one in response.

Mal’garr returned his gaze to this new world for a moment, thinking. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his mate standing behind him, dressed in the same dark robes that he wore, the robes that marked the two of them as agents of the Shadow Council to those who had the knowledge to spot such things. She said something to him. He couldn’t recall what she said. Her skin was as green as his, her eyes glowing as red. He recalled thinking that the Fel had done great things. It had made his people strong, him powerful, and his mate more beautiful. The pair then turned to continue watching the armies of the Horde marching to this new world, hopeful about what the future would bring to their people.


Mal’garr closed the book in his lap, tugging at his long white beard, and smiling softly. Even then, after the horror of the war with the Draenei, he was still naïve. He envied the naivety of his past. Mal’garr returned the book to his belt, curled up, and slept.
The Campfire / A Bad Dream
March 21, 2018, 01:49:28 AM
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.”

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.


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.”

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.”
Applications / Application: Mal'garr Firefist
February 17, 2018, 03:59:48 PM
Mal'garr Firefist (Malgarr)


Tell us something about your (role)playing experience:
I've been roleplaying in both WoW and Star Wars: The Old Republic for a good while. I started Roleplaying in WoW around the release of Cataclysm on US servers in essentially a "RP Storyline Villains for Hire" guild as a Mana-Obssessed Blood Elf called Jallen Orianth, who was predominantly a coward and a show-off. My then longest running RP character was Edmuuzen Kingsman, a Sith Lord in SWTOR. I portrayed him as another cowardly figure who used trickery and Sith Sorcery to succeed while being physically inept. I also served as an officer in that particular guild for about seven months before leaving the guild as it drew to a close as guilds often do. Many of those guild members went on to run an RP guild on Alliance side Argent Dawn, but being a Hordie type I had to abandon them, sadly. Upon returning to WoW I've played Mal'garr with a few different concepts and personalities, though this was hampered by me spending a good while involved in raiding instead of RP. I also roleplay extensively outside of MMOs in tabletop RPGs and the suchlike. I generally play eitheir violently against type, or seemingly violently to type but with aspects of the character's personality that clash with the image they attempt to present of themselves.

And finally, please write a short story and/or (IC) introduction about your character:  (Sorry if it's a bit much)
Life is ofttimes hard for an Orc Warlock. They are, understandably, treat with a level of barely hidden contempt, if not open contempt. They are considered a necessary evil by their own people. This worsens, the older one is. The older the Orc speaking with the warlock is, the more they remember the great betrayal that could very well have meant doom for their people. The older the warlock is, the closer they were to the source of that betrayal. Mal'garr is a warlock, and he is very old.

He was once a Shaman of his people, one who specifically communed with that most fickle of elements; fire. He was also of the Shadowmoon Clan, and as such was one of the first of his people to embrace the arts of the Warlock. He was already getting on in years by that time, to the degree at which the fact that he still lives in this day and age is both impressive and somewhat worrying. He fought alongside his kin in the wars against the Draenei, serving Ner'zhul and Gul'dan loyally, as many of his people did in the early days of the original Horde. He seemed even to remain loyal to the Old Horde regime even as times grew leaner following the defeat of the Draenei, as their home slowly burned and died under their feet. As the time came to invade Azeroth even, he stood proudly with his clan brothers, ready to surge into this new world, and claim it for his people. It came as quite a shock then that, shortly after arriving in Azeroth, Mal'garr vanished entirely.

He only returned many years later, long after the first, second, and even third wars. Orgrimmar had finally been established fully, and the Dark Portal was set to open again. Prior to it's re-opening, Mal'garr emerged from wilderness of Kalimdor, and threw himself on the mercy of Thrall's Horde, asking to return to his people. This return was granted. In the years since, Mal'garr Firefist has served as a sanctioned military Warlock of the Horde, fighting in the Outlands, in Northrend, and most recently against the invading Burning Legion. Alongside this, he has developed some mysterious ties to the Forsaken, apparently performing some kind of "research" for them that he refuses to speak about in any detail.

With the recent fall of the Legion, and the imprisonment of the Dark Titan Sargeras, Mal'garr has grown concerned. In the years since his return he was insisted on claiming allegiance still to the Shadowmoon Clan, despite them being largely dead, or still considered traitors to the Orcish people. Now, with the uncertain future of the Warlocks, he finds that he needs less theoretical allies.