On the Cliffs of the Scar

[Groshnok]

  On the cliffs overlooking the Battlescar he stood, peering down at the chaos. Swaying slightly, the effect of the alcohol had still not worn off. Groshnok had drunk a bit too much tonight, two and a half bottles of the Bolts’ whiskey. The cool night breeze of the Barrens seemed to be helping though, at least. He looked up, as the warmth of a flaming boulder passed by, over to the other side, where it landed with an explosion. The orc squinted, just able to make out the light of flailing humans before they fell to the ground, the flames taking them. He grinned a little, letting out an amused snort. He wasn’t going to see battles like this for a while, so he was enjoying the time while he was here.

  His attention turned down towards the fighting on the ground, illuminated by the torches surrounding the area, and the odd fireball and explosion. His thoughts went back to the days when he himself was dressed in raider gear, down in that very scar. A bloody few months before he was sent back to Grom’gol. He’d loved fighting down there, a stalemate battle he hadn’t seen the likes of much place else. And to Stranglethorn I return, from this place again he suddenly thought, quirking a brow. Funny how life repeats itself.

  Groshnok grunted, as goblins bumped into him on either side, rushing down into the chaos below with bombs strapped to their backs. Idiots he thought, watching after them. If somehow they made it through that scar alive, they’d try to blow up the human fort on the other end. That was always the goblin’s plan down here. Rare it would be, that one would make it through. It was rare enough for anyone to go through the heart of the scar and make it out the other end, really. But that’s what Groshnok was waiting for tonight. The first human to make it to this end. And he did not have to wait long, as a plated figure pulled itself up the cliff before him. Sneering, he kicked it back down with a grin, hearing the scream as the heavy metal dragged the body down onto the hard ground below. He’d finish the human later, but for now his mind was at him.

His thoughts, that night, were plaguing him. He’d told Kradak to curl up and die, and Kradak had tried to obey back in the Wyvern’s Tail, cutting his own throat. Groshnok had thrown his body outside to leave him rot, but the Bolts had saved the brain-damaged orc. He was wracking his mind, thinking as to why he didn’t finish Kradak while he was down. The kill was for the taking, but there were too many Bolts around if he succeeded who would probably pin him down. He grunted, still wishing he’d tried. Should’ve would’ve could’ve, as they say.

  Snorting, his hand went to his flask on his belt. Twisting the cap open, the smell of whiskey wafted up to his nose, and he pressed the top to his lips, tilting his head back, letting the warm liquid flow down his throat. Putting it back on his clip, he stared back to the Hold for a moment. If they could see me now, wouldn’t they just be delighted? Groshnok let out another snort of contempt, his brow furrowed as he turned back to the battlefield. The drunk. That’s all I’ll ever be to them. He had tried. For a few months, he had tried hard, drinking only the occasional ale. But no, no matter what he did, whether it be a jest, or an insult, his drinking was always brought up. He hated it. Playing along with the joke only made him feel worse, being sober constantly. Always sober, yet they never saw. The lazy Nag’Ogar, that’s all they see. But now, now after Rashka losing the cub he was back, hitting the bottle again. Just some more jokes for them, isn't it? Gritting his teeth, his fists clenched together. Acting it didn’t stop it. Playing along didn’t stop it. Joking about it didn’t stop it. Fighting back was only going to make things worse for him. Nograx was right, it was time to start ignoring. Ignoring, before this problem ended up with him hurting someone. And wouldn’t they only love that more? he thought, angrily.

  He unclenched his fists, a little bit of blood trickling down from each palm. Peering over the cliff edge, his eyes scanned downwards, as he felt another whoosh of heat fly quickly over his head. The human was there, writhing and moaning. A fall like that in full plate, bones were definitely broken. Groshnok looked down to his own coverings. Just a belt, pants and boots made of leather. It was easier, freer movement this way, while still being able to hit the axe just as hard, if not harder. He was still having to get the hang of dodging though, used to his old plate taking the beating for him. He sighed, unclipping the flask again and taking a long, last gulp from it, before clipping it back for the final time that night. He turned his attention up to the battlefield in time to see the fireball that had flew over his head strike the other cliff, erupting a machine there in flames. He could make out the outlines of its engineers desperately trying to quench the flames, but it was too late for that. Patting his flask, he stood right over the edge of the cliff. It was time to leave the intoxication of alcohol behind, tonight, for his favourite buzz. The adrenaline of bloodlust.

  Jumping down, Groshnok landed next to the armoured human, grinning at him. He withdrew his dagger from his boot, and slammed it hard into the human’s eye. A short scream, and then silence. It was done. Putting the bloodied dagger back into its sheathe, he turned his body towards the Battlescar. He put his hand to the hilt of his axe, watching as a wyvern plucked a dwarf from the ground, to drop him back down from high in the air. Groshnok grinned, fully unsheathing the axe, and moving forward. Spotting a human cutting an orc down near him, he roared, charging forward at it, his sadistic grin only growing wider. It was his last night here. And he was going to enjoy it.