Show Posts
16
The Campfire / [Story] Devilstep
« on: August 28, 2015, 07:03:39 PM »
Quote
"This is not the end, my son, Nor is it the beginning. Just another turn in the wheel, a change from this life, to the next. Do not mourn for me, for we will be reunited again." - Unkown
Devilstep: prologue
He took a slow breath. Deep, but calm. It had to be done right. Perfection was the goal, and anything else would simply not do. A standard was expected, and even now on this twilight day, perfection would be attained.
Just don't cut your thumb off.
He dragged the hardy Whetstone across the edge of the long, curved blade one last time. The cold blue alloy sang as sparks flew. Each side of the swords edge had been a torturous chore to sharpen to the perfect standard he wanted, and needed. Setting the tool and blade down at his side he allowed himself a ragged breath, he was done. Though what he would use the blade upon? who knew, all the prophecies, riddles and warnings were unclear. But, he would be ready for it come what may, as he always had been.
Now you are ready, with nought but time on your hands.
Krogon nodded to himself, his gaze drifting around the camp. Frostwolf overlook was quiet, the first rays of the dawn sun had only just begun to rise over the eastern mountains. Morning was upon the outpost, the rest of the tribe would soon be stirring... His favourite part of the day. Seeing them each arise from furs, either cranky from the previous nights ale, or bright eyed and ready for the challenges of what lay in the day ahead. Each Orc among that mass of sleeping rolls, furs and makeshift bed piles was so different from the last and the next, yet he called them family. His family.
Such a hard thing to give up and leave behind, after so long seeking it and with so little time to appreciate it.
He rose to his sandaled feet, sheathing his blade to the singing of steel and the click of the scabbard. A sigh of exhaustion escaped his lips. His body hurt, from foot to shoulder and bone through to muscle and sinew. Sixty five years he had walked the two worlds, and now each step was a chore, getting harder as the decades flew by. He concealed it well, or at the least thought he did.
Spirits have mercy, I will be glad to shed off all this pained weight on my bones.
Light, careful steps took him to the edge of the outpost. Its perimeter was lined by the ruined walls of some ogre settlement now long gone. From atop this small rise he could comfortably lean his left shoulder against the imposing great stones of a half fallen pillar, the cold surface relaxing his lifelong aches. Each had a story, usually ending in spilt blood or broken bones.
Many well deserved too.
He smiled at the thought. He had after all, not always been a 'good' Orc. Nay, it could be said in a past life he was much the opposite at times. From his first years to here, his last day, his life had been a flowing river of ups and downs that he could scarce believe.
So many memories...
With the folding of his arms, he inhaled deep the morning scents, dew damp grass, the smoke of fresh fires burning dry wood for the dawn meal. The sound of clattering metal, of woken bodies and stifled yawns permeated in his old ears. Sights, sounds and sensations he had grown used to, grown to love since he came out of his seclusion and joined the tribe. Things only someone part of a pack, of a greater family could appreciate, seeing and feeling the rhythms of each day among others.
His heart skipped a beat, struck with a pain. Flustered he placed a hand over his chest, was his aged heart betraying him? or perhaps...
No. But a wave of sadness, for that which I won't see again, not in this life anyway.
He forced a grim smile, standing along by his pillar as he watched all those green and brown faces of Orcs he knew begin to gather about the camp fire. He would miss every one of them...
...the songs and games in the shadow of Oshu'gun at Kosh'harg.
...the chants and cheers for the combatants at the tournament of the blades.
...the knowing grins and frustrated groan at a Wyvern challenge.
...the jokes and laughter around the campfire tree of Razor hill.
...the proud, welcoming yells for those who had newly taken the oath.
...and the howling of the wolves in anticipation of the hunt, blood, battle and victory.
Everything. I'll miss every dam thing.
He shuddered with a grunt, letting his heart beat freely at a pace now... nervous, worried, fearful and happy all at once. It was a torrent of emotion he had not let run over him in all his six years in the tribe. Six years he would not trade for all the gold in Ironforge.
A wistful sigh escaped his lips. It had been a long road to get to this day, and as much as he wanted to keep on going, he knew his body would not last... world weary as he was. He had near fully ruined what was left of his strength, securing victory at the last two tournaments of the blade. He had to spend every ounce of effort claiming the title of champion. If he did not, then he knew when the time came for the prophecy's and visions to be fulfilled then someone else would fall in his place. And today was the last effort, last task, last push on Draenor before they returned home...
It has to be today, it will be today.
He inhaled sharply, composing his breathing and thoughts. He had his memories, and would hold them close. He could not continue limping on as he had, from one scrape and caper to the next. What honour was there in surviving for no purpose? none, it would be an agony and a shame. But what really hurt...
...So many future adventures, so many new stories I will miss out on.
He forced a smile. The future and its glories belonged to them beyond this day, the past was his, and there he would soon stay. There was no times for doubts, or regrets, even if he could be allowed it, full well knowing what he had coming. His mind span, reeling back in time while the sun continued to rise...
How did I get to this point? How did I come to need so badly to be part of this pack? How did this road lead me here...
He quizzed himself, furrowing his brow forcing himself to recall. Shifting through the depths of time made into moving images upon his mind. The answer was obvious though, and he ought to of realized sooner...
That maimed old Goat--
At that thought he paused, and laughed. His own thoughts had become littered with an Irony. There was little else to it.
Stretching his arms high, with the crack and pop of extended limbs and joints he smiled. Beginning his stroll down into camp, today he would eat a hearty breakfast, spend time with his pack and look back on his life in his own mind. for dying was a taxing business, and he would make 'death' work hard to claim him... but not before he was content with running among wolves for one more day.
With the nods and greetings of the others welcoming him to the fire, he thought to himself and looked back through the memory of his days...
...it all began, long, long ago. With a One-armed Orc, named Ashlan.
