Guile of the Wolf - Part 1

[Okiba]

Zachang despised the bird men, the constant squawking and fussing with their clawed feathery hands could drive an Orc insane. Thank the dark masters the irritating beast had finished pouring the tea and shuffled away from the table, back to his make shift bar without a single chirp or aggravated squeak. This place had its uses; Shattrath was indeed neutral, but only to those who followed the light. Out here, in the back woods of Terrokar, the shanty tavern proved handy for dealings that the Sha’tar would frown upon.

Lifting the cup and its steaming contents with his right hand, Zachang regarded his task for a moment. Often enough he would sit in the same seat, eyeing over potential new recruits for the conclave. It was a thankless job, but one of the few ways to earn favour with his superiors and elevate himself to a higher circle. Oh the agony of being in the second circle.

The warlock sipped from his cup once, resisting the urge to spit out the miserable excuse for tea that the Arrakoa had brought them. With a furrowed brow he moved his eyes from the cup, to the hopeful recruit opposite him. His youth was far gone, marked by the lengthy grey beard descending from his jaw line;all the young ones were either on the other side of the dark portal or already in service to his masters. Aside from that a dirty brown robe and hood hid most of his features save the green skin of his lower face and hands. It was all a stark contrast to the rich jet black robes Zachang brushed fondly with his dark green hand. Appearance was everything; he had to look the part of some powerful fel user, even if he was only just above the novice acolytes the stronghold he worked from trained.

“So what use are you then old one?” the warlock spouted, almost aloof, hoping to impose and impress upon the newcomer his authority and importance.

The elderly Orc licked his lips and broken tusk, rubbing his hands together slowly. After an irritating pause he spoke.

“I am good at finding things, yes. Looking and finding, then reporting! Yes, reporting what I find. You won’t regret taking me in, I can do many helpful things! You will take us to the others so I may learn yes?” babbled the seemingly part senile elder. His voice was coarse from age, worn even.

Zachang narrowed an eye. He didn’t like useless ones, especially those gone mad from living in the wastes. At best this one could have a use as he said, at worst he would last a week in the slave pits. It really didn’t matter as long as it improved ‘productivity’.

“I imagine that may be of some use, somewhere” spoke the warlock, looking into his half empty cup with an expression of boredom. His eyes drifted to the elders fidgeting hands. Scarred curiously enough, and worn. Perhaps he’s known hard work years back; perhaps he’d last longer than a week in the pits.The Stronghold in Shadowmoon had become like a factory, taking in raw recruits and warping them with demon blood into red skinned juggernauts or teaching them the dark arts of the warlock.

“You won’t regret it! Oh no. how do we get to the others master? They are in hidden place yes? Could never find them when I look!” babbled the elder once again, his hunched back shifting and tightening as if under a hidden stress.

Zachang sighed, placing the cup on the table with a clang. Simpletons were so easy to control, show them some promise of reward but maintain your visage of superiority. No more than large imps, that’s all they are.

“Oh they are easy to find, I’m surprised you couldn’t. But that is not the trick at all. Its getting into the strongholds that’s hard” retorted the warlock as he slouched back into his chair.

“And how, how do you get in?” asked the elder hesitating, both his hands coming to rest beneath the table and onto what would likely be his knee’s.
The warlock grinned with amusement. Perhaps he would divulge the answer as a sign of his own intelligence rather than that of the mistress crone. It was only right he exalted in some praise after putting up with fools as this, the Mistress or her lieutenants would never know.

Zachang slipped a hand into the folds of his black robe, extracting a dark green gem, its middle a storm of swirling black mist.

“The felsteel Gates will not open unless you tap this upon them twice, such is my ingenuity” laughed the warlock, it was a lie but he did so love basking in the awe of others.

The elder tilted his hooded head to one side, not a hint of adoration on his stone still face.

“That orb?” the grey haired elder spoke, his tone changed from jabbering insanity to a firm earthy rasp.

Zachang nodded his assurance, a broad grin reaching from one side of dark green face to the other.

“Yes, it keeps us safe from the unworthy and foolish! Now about your skillsâ€"“ the warlock was cut short mid sentence as what seemed to be several things happening at once, the elders right arm making one split second movement.

First a glint of shining metal flashed past the warlocks face in a blaze of speed he had barely the chance to comprehend or acknowledge.
Second, a massive chunk from the table’s wooden corner flew from the main body, cut clean in two by the passage of some unseen edge.

Lastly, Zachang’s neck burned furiously. A red vapor appeared before his eyes, a spraying mist covering the table while his viewpoint changed without him willing it. First he was looking down at the crimson stained table, and then was looking up at it from below with his headless body crumpled over, spewing blood like a fountain. He watched as if an outsider, the Elder Orc leaning over the table to pick up the key-gem, a Curved sword in his right hand.

Then there was only the descending veil of darkness.