All Hands Off Deck - Zul'garr Firefist

[Tideraider]

The Horde vessel, The Suffering, travelled through the open ocean at a brisk pace. She’d just left port, a day or two after news of the burning of Teldrassil reached the general Horde population. Her destination was unknown to all save those who had given the orders and to the ship’s captain, a particularly pompous and skeletal Forsaken by the name of Jack Barrington. The crew too, was largely made up for Forsaken, their grim desiccated number only broken up by a smattering of living crew members. Zul’garr Firefist was once such living crewman. 

The burning of the tree had not sat well with Zul’garr and by a week into the journey the entire crew had become familiar with his displeasure. He’d spoken of it both loudly and often, both on and off duty, whenever he could fit in a complaint between his usual schedule of roaring and bellowing. Most, if not all, of the living crew were behind him though few enough of them would be willing to say it. The dead however? They did not much care for his tone.

Two days into the voyage a twitchy corpse by the name of Skinny Pete had asked the Orc to tone it down. When Zul’garr ignored him, Pete insisted. When Zul’garr persisted in not toning it down, Pete tried to get physical. Pete got his jaw punched off.

On the seventh day a slithery voiced priestling demanded that Zul’garr take back his slander of the Dark Lady, on pain of pain. The priestling’s smug certainty of the efficacy of both his wordplay and his threat was shattered when Zul’garr shattered the priestling’s staff and tossed it overboard, making it clear that if the priestling pressed the issue the next thing to be shattered would be his spine. That too, he said, would be thrown overboard.

On the ninth day the first mate, an irritable fellow with an iron lower face who insisted everyone call him Clockjaw, decided to make an example of Zul’garr. The Orc stood, off duty but still on deck, leaning over the side. He stared into the empty ocean, smiling slightly and humming to himself, quite content as his bright red sidewhiskers blew in the sea-wind. Clockjaw stomped towards him, cutlass by his left side and flintlock by his right. The dead man spoke, voice rattling in his throat and iron-jaw chattering.

“Hey, Firefist! I’ve heard the bull you’ve been spouting about the Dark Lady, and the threats you’ve made to the other Forsaken. That stops now, you hear me greenskin? A pig-faced grunt like you has no right to speak to Forsaken like that, and no right to even speak Our Lady’s name!”

As Clockjaw finished speaking his hand drifted to the hilt of his cutlass, a wordless threat intended to force compliance. The other crewmen on the deck, living and dead, dropped all pretence of working to watch. For a few moments Firefist didn’t react, the only sign he’d even heard being that the humming had stopped. He slowly pushed himself away from the side of the deck, stood to his full height, and turned to face the Forsaken.

Though Zul’garr was somewhat short for an Orc and his build was more lean and wiry than it was muscular, as he stepped towards Clockjaw the size difference between them seemed to make the idea of a physical confrontation between the two almost farcical. Firefist slowly and deliberately looked over Clockjaw with his good eye, his other hidden behind an eyepatch. After an almost painful silence, the Orc spoke, with a wry smile on his lips.

“Well, thas’ all very well an’ good ta’ say, boss. Not sure you’ve got  tha’ spine ta’ back tha' up though, ‘specially if tha’ little meat ‘ook of yours sittin’ on your sword is any sign.”

Clockjaw flinched at the mention of his sword. Zul’garr himself had an axe on his belt. He drew it carefully…then tossed it to one side.

“You don’ like wha’ I’ve been sayin’ ‘bout tha ‘Banshee Queen’ o’ yours? Don’ like that I called her what she is. A cold bitch, a child killer, an’ a damned coward? You want ta’ shut me up, boss? Then shut me up. C’mon, I’ll even give ya the first shot.”

Firefist stepped forwards, grinning, arms outstretched to either side. As the Orc stepped forward Clockjaw stepped back, teeth grinding against his iron jaw. Before long, the pair were stood in the centre of the deck and a circle had formed around them. The crew surrounded them, forming a ring. All eyes were on Zul’garr and First Mate Clockjaw. The Forsaken couldn’t afford to seem a coward. He took the swing. As did Zul’garr. True to his word he let the Forsaken strike him, his fist landing square on Firefist’s jaw. The Orc’s head snapped back and he stumbled slightly, almost losing his balance. Those of the crew that still drew breath held theirs. Zul’garr recovered slowly, bringing his head back forward, still grinning. A small trickle of blood left the corner of his mouth.

“Now it’s a fight!”

Zul’garr swung forward suddenly, taking Clockjaw by surprise. The Forsaken almost lost his footing, his sudden fall being the only thing that kept him from Zul’garr’s quick right hook. Once he’d regained his balance the forsaken struck back but hit only empty air as the Orc had stepped out of the way. Firefist came at the corpse with an elbow to the gut, which connected solidly. On a living man that would have knocked the wind out of him, but Forsaken are rather immune to such things. Clockjaw retaliated with a bony elbow of his own, striking Firefist in the chest to little effect. By this time, the crowd had begun to chant and whoop and holler.

The pair continued like this for a good few minutes, trading blows back and forth, no victor in sight, until Clockjaw made a single fatal error. He swung a fist directly at Zul’garr’s face. If it had connected, that might have taken the Orc down. It did not. Instead, the Orc caught the punch, grabbing Clockjaw’s left arm with both hands. One on the hand, the other at the elbow. The Orc twisted. On a normal man, that should have caused pain, and possibly dislocated the arm, but the Forsaken are rather vulnerable to such things.

Clockjaw’s left arm snapped clean off at the elbow. He yelled in surprise. Zul’garr laughed for much the same reason. Before the Forsaken could mount a response, Firefist lifted his leg and booted the dead man square in the chest, sending him careening across the deck, sliding on his back. Zul’garr followed after him quickly. Clockjaw drew his pistol and tried to point it at Firefist, but the Orc bashed the gun out of his hand using Clockjaw’s own disembodied left arm. As the gun skittered across the deck Zul’garr placed his foot on Clockjaw’s chest, pinning him down. The Orc spoke, wagging Clockjaw’s own finger at him.

“Not another word outta you, boss. You say one more word to me, an’ I’ll jam your own arm as far down what’s left of your mouldy old throat as I can. You go’ that?”

Clockjaw nodded quickly and silently, terrified into compliance. The living crew cheered while the dead crew glowered. It was a victory, though insignificant and short lived. The sound of a pistol shot rang out across the deck, turning all heads towards the helm. At it, stood Captain Jack Barrington, in his rotten old coat and his tattered old hat, looking for all the world like a ruined painting of himself, pistol held in the air.

“Right! That is QUITE enough of that! Mister Firefist, I have tolerated your seditious opinions thus far out of good will. I have even looked aside for your last few…scuffles seeing as they ‘started it’. This now, however, makes three times you have beaten and threatened members of my crew! Therefore, henceforth you are no longer part of that crew! Men! Take him!”

Before Zul’garr could react, the Forsaken crew swarmed him. He swung all three of his arms, the two with which he was born and that which he’d taken from Clockjaw, in defence of himself but to no avail.

A few moments later, he found himself trussed up with a captured animal, lying awkwardly in a rowing boat as it was slowly lowered to the water. Firefist yelled all the obscenities he could think of as he was lowered into the water and invented a few more as his axe was thrown into the boat from the deck. Even as he yelled the large black raven that had perched on The Suffering’s Crow’s nest as they set sail abandoned the ship, flying down and landing in the boat with him.

After a good deal of wiggling, and a great deal more cursing, Zul’garr was able to cut the ties that bound him. By that time, The Suffering was long gone. Firefist got to his feet and looked around. He sat in open ocean…in a dinghy…with a raven. He cursed again, and spat, before reaching up and gently closing his hand around the small bone amulet he wore around his neck. He closed his eyes and whispered into the empty air…and a gentle breeze picked up. He stopped whispering, opened his eyes, and sat down, getting ready to row.
“Well, I don’ know where the ‘el we are birdy, bu’ I guess we’ll find out eventually, righ’?” The old raven cawed in response. Zul’garr laughed and began to row in the direction the wind gave him.