Perdition

[Morgeth]

OOC: In the light of the shattering, I will write a short series of stories to depict Morgeth's fate in all this. I hope it'll provide with an interesting read to those who have a look at it.



Part one

The freshness had gone from the wind, as it swept over the dry, barren lands down to camp Taurajo. Perhaps even the air understood, perhaps it knew, that something ill was to come. To those stationed in the camp, however, it was just another gust of air. Daily life here had become an arduous toil, as the relentless attacks of furious fire elementals never really ceased. There were brief moments of respite, of course, during which supplies were gathered, and some grunts were allowed to rest, whilst others were forced awake from their slumber.

In the relative safety of the inn, sat a young orc, leaned against the wall. She had a child in her lap, a male toddler, whom eagerly tugged at his mother's hair. He had his father's eyes. It was peaceful, in a way, for the two to sit there. A few feet away a number of tauren and orcs had gathered to share their evening meal together. They spoke in soft voices, these last days of yelling granting everyone a sore throat, and each bore in their own way a grim visage. There was still laughter to be had, however, as the young toddler proved his mother. She smiled back at him, amazed perhaps that such a simple thing as pulling your mother's hair could please anyone.

As she watched him, however, the child's expression began to change. His smile vanished, the light in his eyes seemed to darken, and even his grip on his mother faltered. The initial whine upon his lips proved but a start as to what was coming. Tears began to roll down the orc's cheeks, and in his grief, he wailed out loud. His mother, now frowning, leaned down towards him, her lips parting to ask what could possibly be wrong. Before she managed to, a different voice bellowed from the outside.

"A rift has opened! They are coming! To arms!"

The mother pushed herself from the wall, and rose to her feet. Still crying, the toddler sat on the floor, reaching for the one he knew was about to leave him. In his place, a sword was taken, clenched into the grip of her right hand. She ran, together with those that had shared their meal, to the outside of the inn. With weapons drawn, they all joined in the fray. The rift acted like a tear in reality, and from the other side poured what seemed to be hatred, shaped into a body of fire and flame, that no water would ever be able to douse.

The roaring of the collective blaze was almost deafening, blocking out what few orders that were shouted, but for some reason failing in concealing the pitched screams of those caught in the deadly flames. The shape of the foe seemed tangible, and so to such a degree that blades were able to be brought into these bodies of fire, forcing the chaotic creatures to combust and consume themselves. To drive a sword into fire, however, clearly has its price. The mother orc looked past her blistered arms, staring back towards the inn, where - at the entrance - she saw her child.

He stood leaned against the wooden pillar, his features contorted into an agonized cry, as one of his hands lifted to feebly reach out for her once more. Seemingly in response to this gesture, the earth itself shook in turmoil, shuddering under the feet of the one who was no longer standing in the fray, but now ran towards her son. The quaking earth did not cease in announcing its pain, even as the mother ran over it, and after so many weeks of having to withstand nature's judgemental course, one of the buildings finally succumbed to the onslaught. One of the large beams, holding the roof to a nearby tent, snapped loose to the ominous sound of wood breaking apart. The sharpened edge of it slid down an almost natural path down the side of the building, rushing towards the earth which had called for it for so long.

Between eyelids grown swollen with tears, the child could but watch the course of events. The mother turning towards him, fires dying behind her back, and her beginning to run, to meet with his outstretched hand. He could but watch as she turned around in sheer surprise as the structure next to her collapsed, sending its spear-like beam down to her meet with her soft frame.

There was a brief, intense flash of pain. An enveloping darkness followed.

[Morgeth]

Part two

For as long as she could remember, her dreams had always been about fire. They had consumed her nights, speaking to her about forbidden ways. Words had been burned into her mind; branded deep into the very core of her race.

As such, it was no peaceful slumber the mother orc was stirred from, as the large, but gentle hand of a tauren brushed by her upper arm. She inhaled sharply, dragging into her lungs the scent of burnt lumber and flesh, as well as the more peaceful herbs that surrounded the upper floor of the Taurajo inn. The tauren, a female with deep, brown eyes, sat at the orc's side. She smiled; a gentle sight in a world that favours the grim. The hand dropped from the mother's arm, resting next to her instead, as the tauren leaned in to speak in a hushed voice.

"Earthmother smile upon you, Morgeth. Try not to move too much. I am afraid your leg is still badly wounded."

Initially, only a dried hiss erupted from the orc's throat, but the tauren - gifted with the rare insight to a mother's thought - nodded as she reached for a small bowl of water. As she pushed the water towards the orc, letting her have her fill, a large hand gestured to the side of the room. There, resting atop a bundle of furs, laid an orc child. It was sleeping soundly.

"Your son is well, but the worries of the world are his as well. It will no doubt ease his young mind to see that you are well."

Ignoring the spluttering coughs of the mother orc, having too eagerly ingested the water she was handed, the tauren returned her gaze to the wounded with a smile. She nodded, waiting for the coughs to pass, before speaking again.

"My name is Ituaneh, I am a healer of my people, and of the Horde of course."

As the female orc began twisting and turning her limbs, attempting to assess the extent of the damage done to her, Ituaneh leaned back with a soft sigh. Her serene visage faltered somewhat, and as the weeks of worry began to creep upon the tauren's features, a low, growling voice was finally heard.

"Y'ain't lookin' too cheerful, Ituaneh. I be th'one wit' th'busted leg 'ere. Krr. Y'ave m't'anks tho'.."

The mother orc spoke her guttural words, as she prodded herself up onto her elbows. The state of her legs, at least the left one, was - as Ituaneh had commented - not speaking in favour of her moving anytime soon. The left leg had obviously taken the most brutal force of the impact from the dislodged piece of wood, leaving it with a deep flesh wound lacerated in an almost vertical line across its shape. Someone had taken the time to sew the wound shut, using thick thread, and also to tend to the many smaller wounds upon the orc's frame. The mother noticed, now, that it was not the inn itself that smelled of herbs. It was her. She wrinkled her nose, as she peered to the tauren, who had curled a soft smile around her lips.

"Your eyes are keen, Morgeth. But I suppose the weight on my mind has become obvious. The hunters of Taurajo have been gone for days, and our scouts have reported movement. Alliance movement. I fear for the hunting party. They may have been mistaken as a military regiment."

The meek smile turned sad within a moment, and Ituaneh shook her head. The mother orc, however, seemed to heed another mindset. Snorting in annoyance, she stared towards the entrance of the inn, before peering back towards the seemingly softhearted tauren.

"Jus' 'ow big o' a 'move' was t'is..?"

The response was not what she had expected; it came from outside. The thundering roar of a war horn sounded, followed by the distant echo of several ballistae unleashing their own promise of death. It seemed, at last, that the fires that had consumed her dreams for so long, had now finally crept into the orc's waking moments, and would swallow them all in its destructive embrace.

[Okiba]

more, now, mush!  *whip!*

naw really morgy, wonderful as ever, you have a great nack for subtlty's and a good story! i look forward to the next bit!

[Razaron]

Loving it! Part 3 please =)

[Morgeth]

Part three

The pretentious will say that war weeds out the weak from the strong, that in the face of severity only a chosen few will survive. But war plays by no such rules. The orc knew this, and would be taught such a lesson again, as the machine of alliance military drew closer. Voices echoed from outside; aggressive orders shouted to what few guards that were stationed at the camp. Ituaneh gasped, and hastily got to her hooves. For someone as large as her, she moved with surprising ease to her steps, as she dashed down the wooden slope to the ground floor of the inn.

Left behind was the mother orc, and her sleeping child. A loud snarl erupted from the greenskin, as she tried to motion her mangled body to the side. Moments later, still struggling to get up, she heard the first scream of terror from outside. The shrilling sound could have touched even the darkest of spirits, but to the mother orc it only spoke the clear message of what would come to be if she did not force herself to master her weak flesh. Gritting her teeth, she stumbled up on her feet - only giving a loud gasp to announce the sharp pain it brought her - and reached for the child. The furs on which it had rested were now made useful, as the orc tied her offspring to her chest, shushing his awakening whine with a finger laid to his lips.

Battle was upon Camp Taurajo. Axe clashing with sword, grunt facing footsoldier. Those not baring arms ran, but some did not get far. Beyond the veil of the mortal realm, the spirit of the wilds mused; life and death was its arena. As the mother picked up her blade, motioning to herself walk down and join in the fray, she was met with the frame of a female tauren, rushing straight towards her. Itanueh's hands had lost their soft, healing touched as they grasped the much smaller orc, and the tauren's voice was filled with despair.

"N-no! Not out there. A-all is lost, they are.. they are burning the camp down."

Trying to bat the arms of the sturdy tauren away from her, the female orc hesitated, and sniffed the air. A foul stench came to her notice. She had smelled it before, during the elemental attacks. These flames, however, would not be put out by the simple means of a blade. An annoyed snarl departed from the orc, as she lifted a hand to clutch the child more firmly to her chest.

"'ow outnumbered be we?"

She was considering it, in all honest; to charge down there and join the honourable dead. No doubt this well organised attack would in no doubt be lessened by the efforts of one grievously wounded warlock. It was frustrating to say the least, having harnessed so much power over the years, only to find herself at such a grave disadvantage. But if she tried, if she really gave herself to it, then perhaps she could take some of the humans with her. Someone's father, someone's brother,someone's son. She would repay but a fraction of the pain they had brought, but it would be a sweet gift indeed. Deep in her thoughts, the young orc motioned again to move down to the outside, when a small whimper at her chest piqued her interest. There, clutched to her chest, was the promise of new life. There would be no mercy for him, if he remained tied to her chest. 

Blue eyes travelled to the female tauren, and in silence the mother orc regarded the weeping creature. If she gave her firstborn to the tauren, then his chances of survival would increase, but perhaps not greatly so. Where would he die then, in the arms of a stranger? Or he might well be doomed to walk the earth alone, never knowing his birthgivers, or his heritage; following in the footsteps of his mother. The female closed her eyes with a snarl, before suddenly - with all the speed her limping self could muster - throwing out a hand to grasp onto Ituaneh's arm.

"C'mon, lets get out o' 'ere. Y'can grieve later"

The guttural words, angered at best, preceded the next movement of the injured orc, as she motioned towards the back of the inn. A small, wooden balcony was fashioned there, facing the dry wilds that enveloped these lands. The nights here were dark and cold, neither of which seemed to be entirely correct on one such as this. The burning buildings within the camp illuminated the sky, and the billowing smoke spiralled up towards the moon in sad whirls. The relative warmth from this makeshift funeral pyre was, however, not that noticeable to neither orc nor tauren as they began to try and climb down from the crudely shaped balcony. 

Itanueh was the first one to touch the grass with her hooves, and reached up to grasp the orc as she came down, making sure to set her more gently to the ground. The two made for a strange sight, as they tried to swiftly depart from the increasingly more dangerous area. One tauren, shoulders slumped in grief, and an orc with one useless leg, clutching to something at her chest. Voices speaking in common rose from behind their backs, but their words must have been about different orders, because no arrows came flying to seal the fate of these two. At the time, they remained survivors of the slaughter at camp Taurajo.

It would not take long, however, before their pace had to decrease. Turning back, to view what they had left behind, their eyes met only with the solemn promise of utter destruction. A sob shuddered the great tauren, whilst from the orc came only the softest, but honest of groans. She knew that now they were pinned between the alliance's advancing forces to the north, a dwarven fortress and quilboar strongholds to the south. A set of well chosen words expressed the frustration she felt about this.

"By Gul'dan's third nipple, we be damned screwed unless y'got some fancy plan on w'ere t'go, tauren."

The female orc sneered angrily, and proceeded with growling quietly to herself. Ituaneh, though stricken with grief, remained somewhat calm however, as she glanced between the destructive fire and the star-lit sky. Eventually, she nodded both to herself and the orc as well.

"We could move to camp Narache. They must know about this, and they would greet us with open arms. But we will have to.. climb the mountains."

Both of their gazes turned towards the mighty cliffside that rose before them, its jagged edges granting it a most unwelcome look. To think that above and beyond those peaks laid the hopes of a sanctuary, and to be reunited with those close to the heart. Fuelled by such faint chances, the two set out to begin their dangerous climb. Together they sported an ill supply of both water and food, but their dirty faces shared the grim conviction they had to arm themselves with to survive. They would make it to camp Narache, and they would tell their story. The Horde would know.

[Okiba]

GNhhh! more! more!

*gasm*

[Mazguul]

Oh my! I can't believed I missed this one. Please, don't keep us hanging on the edges of our seats too long Morgeth, it's uncomfortable and I need to know the ending!

Wonderful as always! Yes, more, more, more!!!

[Morgeth]

Part four

It would take them almost three days to reach the upper ledge of the mountain. Three days of many trials. First came the scarce supplies, limiting their intake on water and food alike. The female orc seemed mostly eager to supply her son with sufficient drink and dried meat, to which the tauren could only agree. Between themselves they divided the meagre supplies. It was enough to keep them going, and with any luck, their journey would not take that long. Behind them they left the naked, smouldering carcass of Taurajo, and their goal was set at camp Narache. They moved during the early morning, and in the afternoon. During the hottest hours, when the sun's glare would be too unforgiving, they would rest. Progress was slow, mostly due to the orc's injuries, but they pushed forward at a decisive pace.

An unspoken rule had formed, to which they all seemed to obey. The days would remain quiet, but at night - perhaps in an effort to keep sane - they would talk. Even the child seemed to heed to this, as he rarely whined in the hours of the sun, but giggled frequently as the cold dark enveloped them all. Then they would share stories of past glories, of family and their past lives. The tauren spoke of her life as a shaman, of her family and sister, and her love to these savage lands. The orc would speak of her children, who were actually three in number. She would describe her tribe, of the orcs that were left out there somewhere, and the one thing that had given her life meaning: her mate. In any other setting, these two would most likely never have gotten along, nor trusted the other with any information. But now, in the light of their mutual survival, they felt connected somehow.

Thus it came that two strangers became very quick friends, as some do when faced when peril and death. As they walked the slopes of the mountain's higher level, making their way into territory that technically could be called into Mulgore, they watched nightfall come together. As the stars lit up, now seemingly with more hope than before, they made their nightly camp. They kept their fire small, for the sake of any skulking alliance or possible quilboar; going undetected was important. As they shared their last ration of the day, being half a strip of dried meat each, the orc mother and the tauren leaned their backs against the rock they had taken refuge at. The young child, enjoying the calm and lack of movement, had snuggled up against the chest of his mother and was now sleeping soundly. Ituaneh folded her arms behind her head, and breathed a soft sigh.

"Morgeth, we have talked about me being a shaman. I know that you are warlock, but - I mean - is there not more to it? What is it that you believe in?"

The orc turned her head, lazily perking an eyebrow at the inquisitive tauren, albeit letting her finish her line of questions. She had found, after all, that most shamans - once they have started talking - tend to do so for quite a long while.

"Your kin believe in the strength of the spirits and their ancestors, and surely you do not put any faith into the demons that your uh.. 'kind' can manipulate?"

A loud snort departed from the warlock in question, as she lifted a fel-stained hand to rest upon the head of her sleeping son. Her answer, however, was delayed. Finding herself pondering the question more intently, the orc only looked back to her companion when she could do so with a decisive nod.

"I believe in m'self. W'en I was young an' t'ings were out t'get m', ain't like th'spirits 'elped or any such mumbo-jumbo. In th'end, y'can rely on y'self an' tha' be pretty much 't."

The tauren nodded, strangely agreeably to the orc, but soon enough she leaned in a little closer and curled what could be an almost smug smirk to her lips.

"But did you not say that spirits blessed you to be able to carry forth not one, but three children, and that your blood sister once cleansed you of so much fel that you basically got a second chance on life?"

The shaman leaned back, now folding her arms, as her eyes travelled up to the sky.

"Sounds like some of this 'mumbo-jumbo' is quite useful."

An amused grunt was again heard from the female orc, but as silence fell and grew between the two, her mind delved deeper into Itanueh's words. After all, the shaman was correct in both statements. In the depths of herself she knew that it was fear that had led her to openly forsake the spirits and elements so many time, fear of failing them. Being unwanted is, after all, not one of the nicest feelings in the world. Pondering her own destiny, the orc flinched only slightly as a warm hand closed around her shoulder, another tugging a furred cloak onto her frame.

"Rest now. I'll take first watch."

An unintelligible response in gratitude followed, as the orc could do little but notice just how heavy her eyelids had become. To the comfort of having someone watching over both her and her son, she let herself drift into the welcoming promise of sleep. Perhaps, she told herself, it was not so bad to put trust into another person, after all. Her dreams were, as usually, filled with fire and chaos. These latest events had stirred that part of her subconscious even more, but despite her struggle there being almost as difficult as the one in the realm of the living, she was at least free of her tormented flesh. Here she was strong, fast, independent and not ruled by her own weaknesses.

The sound of cloven hooves swiftly moving over dried grass stirred the orc's sleep, and she opened her eyes, adjusting them to the faint light from the slowly dying fire. She did this just in time to see Ituaneh carefully turning around; her subtle ways met with a spear thrown at her chest. The shriek that followed was enough to chase away any remaining spirits of slumber, and the young orc lunged forward - defying her crippled state - as to drag the mighty tauren down into cover. But the hooves were moving again, and from the darkness emerged three quilboar. Their axes were raised, and at least two of them were already frothing profoundly. The smell of fresh blood had no doubt urged them on.

Ituaneh pulled the spear from her chest, only briefly whimpering to the pain it brought her, before turning her narrowed gaze to these unwanted intruders. Death and strife, it seemed, had come to nip them at their heels. As the orc drew her blade, the tauren seemed to only have a small wooden staff to wield, which - in the light of the now charging quilboar - seemed liked a somewhat meagre choice. It did, however, not fail to deliver a crushing blow to the first warrior that reached the tauren, sending his pig-like frame flying until it hit the cliffside with a disgustingly moist sound. But one quilboar is, after all, only one. In battle with them, one can count on more following, as was the case this time as well.

The second of them took a surprisingly agile leap into the air, perhaps predicting that his kinsman would be beaten aside. But where the first warrior failed, the other did not. His blade was thrust forward, digging itself in deep into the tauren's throat, rewarding him with a splash of warm blood that reached up to his very shoulder. The satisfaction he felt was immense, and was still painted over his features when he felt the orc's blade enter his side, splitting into his guts and - with a decisive move - spilling them onto the ground. The gurgling sounds of his death were accompanied by the equally hampered breaths of the tauren, as well as the unmatched strength of the roar echoing from the female orc as she - after having dispatched the second quilboar - was rewarded with a wide slash across her back, from the remaining boar man. He had now replaced his spear with a fully functional axe, and was indeed ready for battle. Moving forward, he raised his axe high, readying it to cut the stumbling greenskin down.

To hinder his efforts, came a large hand, strong enough to unbalance the quilboar. An aggravated snort followed, and with his free hand, the sturdy creature produced a small dagger, and dug its sharp blade into the furred hide of the tauren's outstretched arm. The hand grew limp within moments, drained of its last speck of strength. This brief respite did, however, allow the female orc to regain her composure. In her stumbling, she had dropped her blade, but instead of wasting time finding it, she now lunged directly at the quilboar, and let her hands snake around his throat. Life, defiance, hatred; his eyes were full of it. The female orc stared into those eyes, as she began to feel the boar's windpipe caving in underneath the heavy pressure of her strong hands. As life began to leave the sturdy body, a vicious smile crept upon the orc's lips. When those eyes, that had seemed to defiant to begin with, popped red with protruding veins and the inevitable panic began to settle in, she could not keep herself from laughing. His life ended there, to the mocking sound of her enjoyment. 

But such glee is doomed to be temporary, as the orc herself was soon to discover, as a gurgling sound behind her drew her attention from the corpse she was still grabbing onto. Releasing her grip on the dead foe, the young orc turned her bleeding self around, only to be met with a sad sight. There was Itanueh, body twisted in a puddle of her own blood, clutching her hands around her throat in a vain attempt at keeping the blood inside of her. The orc mother dropped to her knees next to her latest friend, and swiftly tried to drag what few materials that could be used as bandages from the tauren's own bag. Not a word was spoken, the only sound remaining that from the tauren's own strained breath. Gritting her teeth, the young orc steadied her hands, trying to wrap a piece of matted cloth around the tauren's wound, which was most likely an attempt as vain as those clutching hands.

"T'em call 't a scarf, I 'ear. Y'll look a lil' like a Silvermoon w'ore wit' 't, bu' I promise y'will'nae 'ave t'wear it f'long.."

A tentative, little smile crept upon the warlock's lips, but as the fingers of a large hand brushed over the back of hers, she bit her tongue. Ituaneh's brown eyes peered up towards the orc, the light in them slowly dimming, but her smiled seemed not as tentative as the greenskin's. It was almost, strangely enough, comforting.

"L-let me r-rest here, Morgeth. I w-want to lie in the embrace of the E-earthmother, and behold Mu'sha's beauty as I die. D-do not weep over a mortal shell. I will w-walk.. with my ancestor-s."

As the young orc began to lean down, cradling the still warm fur of the tauren, brown eyes turned to peer up towards the full moon. And whilst the sky might seem cold and distant to the eyes of an orc, they held enough warmth and welcome for Ituaneh to keep the smile to her lips. And so, the tauren's mighty, large heart gave its last beats. And as the Earthmother greeted one of her children into her midst, a young orc cried out at the loss of a friend held dear.

[Okiba]

!!!
!!!
!!


*gasm*

[Kozgugore]

I damn well hate you, Morgeth. I was just about to like that tauren, and it's a damned rare thing to like a bovine that isn't meant for eating! Damn you! Very touching indeed, and very well-written. But oh damn you.

[Mazguul]

And so, the she-orc and the pup are on their own... *howls*

Epic as always, Morgeth!

[Morgeth]

Part five

The night still lingered as Ituaneh's dead body was lifted onto a bed of twigs and tried grass, placed out as a makeshift bed for her on an elevated piece of rock. Several hours had passed since her death; hours filled with suppressed grief, and the tenacious gathering of materials to give the tauren a worthy farewell. In the past, the female orc would not have had it in herself to make note of such a thing as a funeral pyre, nor would she have mustered the care necessary to hold anyone like Itanueh dear. Now, as she wrapped the tauren's body in strips of cloth made out of the shaman's own clothes, she found herself feeling differently.

Crippling grief, however, she would still consider but a luxury. Perhaps she would allow it once her son was in safety, but for now this act of respect would have to suffice. Igniting the dried grass, the young warlock stepped back, lifting the child tied to her chest further up, so that he could behold the sight played out before his eyes. The flames quickly spread, engulfing the tauren in an eager display of destructive power that had become familiar over these last few weeks. But for once, the orc chose to see the fire as a good thing. As it ate away at Ituaneh's fur and flesh, spreading a stench that would no doubt lure additional scouts from both alliance and quilboar, she couldn't help but think of it as one of those beloved elements, granting the shaman a safe journey home.

"Y'walked wit' th'Eart'mot'er, Ituaneh. Now rest wit' 'er too."

The words, quietly muttered, departed from the female orc as she breathed a low, shuddering sigh. Her features briefly contorted into a display of utter, and intense grief, but were soon reforged into a grim visage. Her hands remained bloodied, both from past deeds, but also more recent ones. Next to Itanueh's pyre stood three makeshift spears, each holding a quilboar head. They would stand as a warning, and a last testament to the tauren's strength. When the morning sun dared peek up from beyond the horizon, the orc gave the smouldering pyre a last look, gathered the remaining supplies, and left. She took with her the spear that had hit Itanueh in the chest, perhaps as a tool with future use, or perhaps simply as a sentimental reminder.

In an attempt at escaping the attention undoubtedly drawn by the recent fighting, as well as the pyre that followed, the orc hastened her hampered steps. Despite her profound limping, she denied herself any rest, even during the hottest hours of the day. Pushing herself had its price, but gritting her teeth through the pain, and deafening her ears to the protesting whines of her offspring, she continued to venture over the dried peaks that would eventually bring her down into Mulgore.

At the end of a full days wander, the young mother came face to face not with salvation, but dangerously steep slopes leading down from her chosen path. Even the mountainside seemed to change, heeding to some ancient calling, as protruding from its rocky bosom were several large vine-like growths that sported thorns larger than the fangs of any ravenous creature. Mulling her options, the female orc defied her somewhat troublesome fear of heights, and peered down into the deeps that laid just underneath the slope she had ventured to. In doing so, the young orc stumbled slightly, and - in one of those terrifying moments you want as few of in your life as possible - felt the ground loosen up underneath her feet.

She turned, attempting a heroic leap back onto safe ground, but it was all too little, too late. As she mercilessly began to descend down the cliffside, the female orc gave up any hopes of her own safety. Tumbling down the jagged mountain, getting lacerated against the rocks, she curled together, protecting the small creature clutched to her chest. Crashing down to the bottom of the ravine, the young warlock felt the stitches over her legs opening up. In fact, she felt as if her entire body was a wound that had now opened up, and as she cried out, she did so knowing that the wet surrounding her was nothing but the feel of her own blood seeping from countless of wounds.

For several moments, she could do naught but try and live through the intense pain. The corners of her eyes briefly darkened, threatening to pull the veil of unconsciousness over her mind. But be it through the sheer force of her willpower, or perhaps the blessing of a lingering spirit, the female remained awake. In doing so, she was eventually able to examine the state of her son. His cries told her that at least he was not dead, which was a relief, to say the least. As she, still on her back, began to roughly prod and pinch the poor toddler, she was able to quickly come to the conclusion that he did not only live, but was relatively well too. Her own state, however, was rapidly growing poorer.

It would take several hours, almost an entire night, before she could even move. And when she did, she did so crawling, dragging her legs behind her in an almost disgraceful manner. There were new losses to grieve as well, as the mountainside had claimed not only half of the supplies of meat she had carried with her, but also the largest skin of water. What had seemed to be meagre rations a few days ago, was now a feast instead.

As she dragged herself over the seemingly barren soil, the young orc spotted structures in the distance, but her celebration was cut short. This because upon further investigation, the structures were definitely not tauren. Instead they carried the distinctive look she had seen present in both the Barrens and Durotar before, in quilboar settlements. Despite the lack of any obvious movement, the orc hastily decided that it was not a direction she wanted to move into. And thus it came to the conclusion that her mangled body was dragged in the opposite direction, until she came across a small cave. There she would seek refuge for herself and her firstborn. Little did she know that those initial hours she spent there would quickly turn to days, and that those meagre supplies of food would be spent on her son to such a degree that she began to have delusional thoughts of cutting him fresh meat from her own limbs to feed upon. The smell of herbs was no more, instead the wound at her leg carried a more putrid scent, and it was soon impossible for her to move but a few yards at a time in every hour.

The silent resolve she had once held, had become a silent despair. As death drew closer, it became obvious that there would be no silver lining to a fate such as this. No additional wisdom seemed to daunt on her, nor would she meet with her destiny charging in like her brethren. She would perish, gazing upon her son, knowing only despair in light of what surely awaited him.

[Mazguul]

*wimpers* .... make it all well again? Pweeease?!

However, simply wonderful chapter, awesome writing. Fabulous once more

[Okiba]

D:

how dare you leave it there!





...loved it though!