Remember

[Sadok]

Remember, Part Three



The forlorn orc sat utterly alone amongst the desolate crags of the Hellfire Peninsula.

His cracked soulblade gleamed with a sickly glow. The tattered shadoweave robes he wore, once considered highly-valuable, were now wholly threadbare, hanging off an anemic, mutilated and decomposing carcass that had seen far better days. With no pinky-fingers, cuts and wounds littering his body, and a particularly nasty burn wound on his right shoulder, Sharptongue’s reanimated cadaver seemed to embody the fel-tainted devastation around him.

He tried to think back as he squinted into the nigh-impenetrable potpourri of smoke, fire and Nether energies that muddied the horizon -- these shattered remnants of Draenor had not always been so. His memories were as hazy and obfuscated as the distant reaches of the Hellfire Peninsula, but he found himself subconsciously mouthing words as he slipped into some long-forgotten memory of his days when the pursuit of knowledge was his driving ambition.

“Listen keenly, friends: for am I about to impart a small measure of my infinite wisdom,” Slitherblade announced, projecting loudly from the diaphragm in an attempt to draw all attention in the tavern towards him. Perched upon a rickety stool next to the bar-counter, the arrogant magus seemed to tower above the other patrons of the Wyvern’s Tail, though most bore him no more notice than any of the staggering drunkards that would bellow or howl out above the raucous din.

Gesticulating widely with his arms, Slitherblade continued his monologue with or without the attention of his inebriated audience. “Yes, you truly are fortunate to find yourselves in the company of an orc of such towering intellect,” he remarked, further elevating himself by balancing on the bar-stool with tip-toes. A hairy orc clad in inappropriately-tight leather chaps staggered backwards into the stool, causing Slitherblade to nearly plummet onto the sticky glass-ridden floor -- he regained balance with his hands upon the bar-counter, looking around anxiously to see if anyone had noticed his near-pratfall. Nobody cared.

Without further ado, Sadok articulated his argument. “I wish to impress upon your simple minds a single point -- the weakness of shamanism. It stands as a very bastion of feebleness within our otherwise strong Horde. Yes, no true orc kneels to the elements and hopes for their consent, for what good is dependency upon fickle spirits with their own agenda? Impermanent power is scarcely power at all -- and we must have power whatever the cost! It is through self-reliance and the eldritch arts that our Horde will rise to new heights!”

Grinning maniacally, the magus awaited the inevitable round of applause that he had undoubtedly earned -- perhaps he would carried out of the Wyvern’s Tail on the shoulders of its patrons as they whooped and hollered excitedly; perhaps he would be recommended directly to Hellscream and initiated within his elite Kor’kron! But looking around frantically, Slitherblade’s brow furrowed as he saw nobody paying attention to his brilliance -- except for a single withered old orc clad in wolfskin vestments, his arms crossed and his eyes fixed upon the magus with an expression of curiosity and contempt mingled.

Their eyes met. Slitherblade stared hard at the wizened elder, attempting to intimidate the older orc; his gaze held firm, however. He began to speak slowly and quietly, and Sadok had to lean forward on his barstool to hear the elder above the thunder of riotous drinking songs and crudely-sworn oaths. “I have seen... many winters, my child,” the elder began, his face wrinkling up in thought as he carefully chose his next words. “Dark arts did not cause our people to... rise to new heights, as you put it; it brought them into the murkiest depths of hubris, corruption and madness.”

Slitherblade rolled his eyes wearily. “You say hubris, corruption and madness like they’re bad things, old timer,” he smirked smugly, a faint twinkle in his piercing eyes, “and I’m not your child unless old Iswer was porking half the populace of Draenor.” A dark expression of despair seemed to pass over the elder’s features as Sadok spoke the last word, and he repeated it weakly.

“Draenor. Draenor’s beauty was sacrificed to this ‘power whatever the cost’ you speak so assuredly of. It was when we abandoned the spirits that we lost everything -- our traditions,  our families, our homes, our entire world. The Hellfire Peninsula... have you experienced its warped depravities?” The elder looked solemnly towards Slitherblade, who had been occupying himself by drumming his fingers rhythmically to the tune of MC Snorkwhizzle’s latest ditty, the Bilgewater Breakdown.

Bitches, fo’ rizzle, dis the MC Snorkwhizzle
Now come on baby, do dat Bilgewater Breakdown
Shake it girl, do dat Steamwheedle Shakedown
Hon, I’m all like Trade Prince Jastor
But faster, I’m past ‘er, a master of disaster
Spittin’ rhymes, takin’ names, playin’ no games
Like Landro, that ain’t no Longshot, ain’t no shit
An’ if you don’t like me you can fuckin’ swivel on it

Bona fide-a like Boss Mida, more dough than Gazlowe
Shots of Noggenfogger Elixir, need no fuckin’ mixer
Swish like Krix Wiklish, oh girl, you wish
You could, hell, I would if I could, dat understood?
Girl, dis the real deal, it’s surreal, tougher than Titansteel
Dat Mogul Razdunk wishes he was half the hunk
You got dat funk, dat spunk, dat junk in the trunk

Snork’s Bunch pack a punch, gonna steal your fuckin’ lunch
And your girl, gonna eat out after we go all out, no doubt
I’m like Warsong Clan, the front-man, got a game-plan
Gonna take dis fuckin’ party all over Kezan
Gadgetzan, Dalaran, Gnomeregan, Karazhan

Wherever the fuck I want it, I flaunt it, you know you want it
Dis Snork Dog’s house -- bitches comin’ night and day
Girl got the kind of ass dat put the Booty in Booty Bay

Truly sublime, Slitherblade thought. He turned his attention back to the expectant elder, who was now staring a hole in him. “What were you driveling on about again, you puckered wolf rectum?” the magus enquired politely. The elder looked back, disappointment evident in his eyes, and said sadly and simply, “If you cannot learn the error of your ways before it is too late, my young friend, your Tanaan will become a Hellfire and your Draenor will become an Outland.”

As the wolfskin-clad elder turned and disappeared amongst the tavern’s intoxicated crowd, the world around Slitherblade seemed to distort and fade about him, slowly transforming back into the inhospitable wasteland of the Hellfire Peninsula. Sharptongue slowly peered about, his unnaturally-glowing eyes unable to see in the thick smoke that had rolled in about the craggy peaks and craters. He then turned to his own shattered body, a numb feeling of regret slowly surging through his rotting veins.

“You know, he was right, you fool,” a shadowy figure said as it slowly strode out of the thick smoke. Sharptongue looked up from his reverie to see himself -- or not quite, for it was Wrokk Grimgash, whose body he had inhabited these past months. Sadok had began to think of the body as his very own, and had to remind himself that he was not looking into his own eyes, but those of the Red Blade turned Kor’kron assassin that had murdered him back in Revantusk.

As the pair stared intently at one another, Sharptongue could swear he heard words carried faintly on the wind: “You fancy yourself a wolf, Red Blade? Well, you know what happens to lone wolves. They get... hunted down.” Grimgash stood motionless, his piercing eyes still fixed like a scope on his victim. Outland’s Nether-infused wind still whispered: “If the dagger don’t do it, the poison will. Hellscream’s eyes are upon you, you bastard.”

The silent stalemate may have lasted forever, but Sharptongue’s attention was broken by a nasally voice somewhere behind him -- he turned to see a rag-clad simpleton stumbling out of the mists. “Oof, Sharpthong know dat dis all him fault, zug-zug. If Sad-duck nut turn in Luk, Luk nut need him -payback-,” the peon spat bitterly with a malicious smirk upon his lips. “Yoo iz bad orc, Sharkdung -- ‘cause o’yoo, Luk iz dead, an’ Tickles iz dead, an’ Wrokk iz dead, an’ Brutal iz dead, an’ Luk iz dead, an’... you iz dead! Wahahaha!” Luk erupted into a bellowing cackle that seemed to echo through Sharptongue’s very body, causing the undead orc to start trembling.

Shaking from head to toe, Sadok leapt up in fright as a chainmail-clad orc sauntered cooly from the thick smoke to join Wrokk and Luk. Pulling down his coif and giving his well-conditioned russet hair a shake, Karak sighed. “Don’t know why yeh’re doing this to yehself, cutter. This is all wot, metaphysical balderdash, innit? By ‘eck, it’s all in yeh head, bruv.” Sharptongue stared in terror at the bard, fixed to the spot. The bard sighed dramatically, muttering. “Alright then, I’m not in yeh head,” the bard sighed dramatically, waving his fingers menacingly, “I’m... uh, the Ghost of Winter Veil Past! WoooOOOOOooo!”

As the three figures began to circle around Sharptongue, he let out a deep howl and pushed desperately through the hallucinations. As he stumbled deeper and deeper into the thick black smoke, he could see nothing around him -- he kept moving until he smacked right into something. Drawing slightly back, he narrowed his eyes and perceived a pale female with a mohican hairstyle and teal chainmail armor, with an ogrehorn pendant around her neck. “Keishara,” Sadok gasped breathlessly. The female stared deep into his eyes. “I died and yer weren’t there. It was yer fault. Yer let yer Sister die,” she drawled tonelessly.

Sharptongue’s eyes widened in fear. Keishara walked slowly towards him, the same disconnected expression haunting her features. In panic, Sadok stumbled backwards into seemingly nothing and fell head over heels. He hoped that he might fall forever into some abyss and never return -- that perhaps he had gone over the edge into the Twisting Nether. Yet he soon hit the hard rocky ground. Still surrounded by smoke, he slowly rose to a seated position, trembling hands on his thighs. Sharptongue froze as he saw something head towards him.

Crawling slowly from the murky haze, a small orcish infant burbled and gurgled happily as it navigated the harsh nooks and crannies of the craggy ground. Unlike its desolate surroundings, the child looked bright and healthy, clad in little fur vestments that bore no mark of dirt or wear. Its beady little blue eyes looked about with all the innocent curiosity of infancy. It squiggled cheerfully back and forth around Sadok without seeming to recognise him -- perhaps looking lost.

“...Igurg,” Sadok called out to the child hesitantly. Immediately, the infant’s head snapped towards Sharptongue, its small eyes staring directly into those of its father. Sadok began to stutter, then shake violently as the small child’s wide eyes bored into his very soul. Igurg’s tiny fingers twitched happily and she began crawling towards her father, who seemed rooted to the very spot. He tried to weep, but no tears came forth from his necrotically-infused eyeballs. Her plump little lips softly parted and a deafening screech filled the air. The infant looked delighted but the ear-piercing shrill shriek was bitter, vengeful and full of pain. Unable to bear any more, Sharptongue tried to cover his ears with both hands and rolled into the foetal position, rocking back and forth in horror. His eyes closed but he could still feel Igurg’s presence deep within his soul.

...

His eyes slowly eased themselves open, cautiously peering about. There was no infant, no Keishara, none of the others -- the thick fog had lifted and he could see far into the distance. Beyond Hellfire’s barren landscape lay the thick foliage of the Zangarmarsh, and beyond that he could almost see Oshu’gun, he thought. His eyes peered back to his immediate surroundings, and he was surprised to see a small scrap of folded parchment by his feet. Picking it up with still-shaking hands, he opened it. Upon the parchment there was a single word:

Remember.

[Okiba]

So good!

[Claws]

Pure dynamite

One point make the font bit bigger for us old ones

[Sadok]

Pure dynamite

One point make the font bit bigger for us old ones

There you go, Claws.