The Calling

[Morgeth]

Draenor, our Home.
I have a thousand memories of this place. Memories about birth, and life, and about death. About torture, and the loss of something precious. Most memories are not my own, but I still hear the voices of those they belong to. They call out to me, for favours, and for bitter revenge.


The stench of death, old and new. Putrid fire, and hurt winds, wretched soil in which nothing will ever grow. These lands hold little love for anyone, but Shazula can't help but be flooded by the memories it still carries for some. Their voices beckon, urging her to dance to their tunes, and carry out what must be done. Reclaim it all, even if it has indeed fallen and been twisted into a shadow of its previous self.
Hellfire peninsula holds no more promise for life, instead it harbours a portion of the demonic horde; a cancer in a womb once pure. The shaman stands atop the peak of a small cliff, glancing down at small camp below. It's hard not to get lost in it, the wave of instinct and emotion. Sadness, hatred and peril; the spirits are teeming with it.
And they are not alone. The distant whispers of the elements, once so elusive and hard to grasp, now roar over the insolence of those who now walk their earth, abuse and twist their fires, and pollute their air and waters. They all join in together, however, granting Shazula the benefit of knowing something in particular. We are with you.

Her hand stretch out, an axe held in each, as if embracing the thought of retribution. From green lips a roar erupts, alerting the demons that dwell down below.
"Blood for blood, wretches! We are slaves no more!"
The fiends looking up to her, some almost doing so in disbelief, respond with various sounds. Some cackle, whilst others sneer in a condescending manner, and some simply stare. Passivity, however, soon becomes a thing of the past. The two axes of the orc soon meet with their intended targets, and when they cut into demonic flesh, sending a warm spray of defiled blood up to cover her face, Shazula imagines herself tasting the approval of those who have fallen to these beasts. Retribution does however come with a price. The skittering imps are easily dealt with, but when a felguard finally makes its way up to the fighting orc - pushing its supposed kin aside - Shazula's own blood joins the splatter on the cursed dirt. Pain, she tells herself, is something we are born in, and it has become only a natural part of the lifetime of any orc. Despite such a brave notion, the orc grits her teeth to keep from letting out a bitter whimper, as her right arm is bent in towards her chest, which carries the scarlet laceration that gives proof of the felguard's partial success. Partial because of the obvious; she's not dead yet. Crying out in defiance, the young shaman is met not only by the demon's smirk, but also the shrilling howl of two companions. The two wolves seem to emerge from a veil beyond this reality, their ethereal fur carrying a strange glow. Their fangs and jaws, however, prove to be real enough. A hoarse, little laugh escapes the female orc's throat as she views the demon's features a little bit closer, whilst the wolves dig in to rip its flesh apart. For whatever reason, the creature almost looks surprised. Rising to her feet, the shaman lifts her head to properly view the battlefield. Twisted corpses adorn the earth they corrupted themselves, and there will be no more lives claimed by this wretched bunch.

Despite the sense of fulfillment rising within her upon knowing that her cause was just, there's still little satisfaction left to be had. This was but a fraction of an army, and the elements, and the spirits, fight on even more fronts than the Horde. It is a strain to try and be a warrior of them all, so she has chosen - as she did a long time ago - to be a champion of those who can no longer make themselves heard, and to be a vessel for the elements. But it hits Shazula, now more than ever - as the two wolves dissolve into thin air - that despite the constant presence of the spirits tied to these lands, she is inevitably alone. The blood adorning her hands and chest seems only to be the colour of her past and present, and when the shaman turns from the field of battle, she does so with a frown to her face. The humming of those who has passed assure her of one thing alone; the fight is far from over.



((Eheheh. So this is me trying to write a story for my shaman Shazula. I'm not very great at battle sequences, and I think I ended up with some kind of Rambo vibe in it, but heck. At least I gave it a shot!))

[Kozgugore]

(( So modest! So tasty! *Slaps around*

No need to think your battle sequences any bad. They're quite frankly awesum! Think it makes for a very thorough yet concise introduction for Shazula. So yes, very nice yarn! ))