Aftermath

[Gnash]

That day in the Barrens my fate was sealed. The earth scorched, an orc scorned. I could have known she would trick me. Warlocks never play it by the rules. Morgeth’s words crawled up my veins; through my chest. A curse. Next I knew I could barely lift my weapon. That’s all the chief needed. Without the bloodlust I was a sitting duck for his keen eye. I got hit by three arrows, and collapsed without putting up much of a resistance. A futile gasp for air; the curse squeezed the life out of me like a constrictor snake smothering its prey. I was a goner. Then darkness â€" I can’t remember anything from here until the caravan came and I was rudely awoken from my dreamless slumber.

Tauren that were on their way to the Crossroads market, selling trinkets made of kodo bones and skins twelve feet average in diameter; hunters of the plains, every single one of them. A large bull by the name of Wotanpache looked after my wounds. He was a stern tauren to watch; never smiling, never speaking, and always gazing at the horizon. During the journey I wondered what he was on the look-out for, but didn’t ask. Mostly due to my wounds, but I assumed he didn’t understand orcish either: I thanked him the first times he removed the arrow tips from my chest, but he just stared at me blankly. It was a three days travel to Ratchet. I spend them all laying in a cart; reliving the moment that should have been my glory, but turned out to be my downfall. My hosts paid little attention to me, only offering me food and water and Wotanpache checking on my wounds occasionally.

Then we arrived in Ratchet. A bristling port that attracted all kinds of folk. I got dropped off at the outskirts of town â€" the old bull leading the caravan gave me a satchel containing some food and a skin of water. I thanked my rescuers, but got no response save a meaningless smile. In the mean time my wounds still hadn’t healed. I asked directions from the local bruisers, two goblins full of swagger. “Whatcha need t’ do, son, is visit the witchdoctor.” The other bruiser amplified that statement. “Yeah, the doc â€" goes by the name of Mumboocha, see. Strange feller, but he gets the job done… And it sure looks like you need the attention of the doc right now.” The bruiser was right. I felt weaker by the minute. The bleeding hadn’t stopped, just reduced. They goblins directed me to the doc’s office, which was a simple hut by the harbor; mere wooden poles with cloth wrapped around them. The witchdoctor himself was in front of his hut, fishing; a troll with bright purple hair tied in braids and a large belly betraying he lead the  good life. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world. I approached  him with caution as any orc knows witchdoctors aren’t the most trustworthy of folk. But he turned his head towards me with a large content smile from one ear to the other. “Yes? ‘Ow dat ‘appen to ya, orc? Ya look like ya got trampled by a pack o’ dem kodo â€"bruised like a ripe mango fell off a steep cliff. Come, sit by the doctah!” So I sat with him. He was a kind but weird troll, but nothing you wouldn’t expect from a witchdoctor. He was covered in strange markings; snakes and raptors and lines making no sense at all. Mumboocha gave me the most rancid of potions, which did what they were made to do. I was back on my feet and to considerable health in no time. He didn’t ask how I got my wounds. I guess he simply wasn’t interested that much. We shared a meal together; grilled rainbow fin albacore with bread. He told me how he loved the simple things in life. Basically he slept and fished and surfed all day and just occasionally helped a customer. He said the potions were on the house. “Dey experimental â€" Not anymore thanks to-ya! So on the ‘ouse. An’ to be ‘onest, ya look like ya needed a break! Seems ya ancestors watchin’ ovah ya, orc. Most woulda died from dem injuries aftah dat long.”

So I was on my way again, and I couldn’t help but think over the doc’s words. Was it sheer luck I escaped the desert sun, or was it something else? Destiny? I bought a drink at the local inn I’d be staying for the night. It was full of the meanest folk that the harbor had to offer; buccaneers and highwaymen and hobos. They all had a reason for hiding there. I got in a fight over one of the prostitutes with one of them. He left with a broken nose and bruised eye. I went up to my room with the hooker, a cute orc with perky breasts and big thighs. She had a scar running around her neck. I was too drunk to ask her name. I passed out on the bed before we could discuss the price. The next day I found out my last few gold coins were gone along with the satchel the tauren gave me, so I headed for the docks with a hangover, in search of work. Working on the docks was hard work and the pay was mediocre. I spend my time with a goblin (that buff he lacked a neck) during shifts. His name was Shreev and he was dying to get out of Ratchet and didn’t hide that fact. “I’m tellin’ ya Hammerfall is the place to go. Green meadows and all days working on the field. It’s the final frontier. Raptors everywhere, and don’t forget that you’re in between humans and dwarves. Nobody wants to go to Arathi. Yessiree, dangerous to go there â€" which makes it even more profitable” The fact that goblins are neutral is merely in theory. Goblins supported the Horde during the Second War and hadn’t forgotten the hate the Alliance had fought them with; the merchant ships they had sunk, the trade posts they burned down. No, in practice goblins were as neutral as the Horde. They simply tolerated the Alliance for the sake of mercantilism.

I didn’t understand what Shreev meant with it being profitable to go to the Arathi Highlands, but it struck me that I could hide there without ever being noticed. It’s true, the highlands are a dangerous and hostile territory. No orc wants to go there, it reminds them of a painful past. Of the war, the internment camps and Doomhammer â€" the reason Orgrimmar had decided to draft grunts to be stationed there. I told Shreev I’d accompany him to Arathi. “There you gow, there you gow!” he responded. We started to make the plans. Crossing the Great Sea would cost me all my savings, so I decided to sleep on the streets that month, to save me a couple of gold coins for the hike from Quel’thalas to the Arathi Highlands. The ship would set sail from Ratchet and tie up at Sunsail anchorage; the main harbor of Quel’thalas. It was a long trip, but at least we didn’t encounter any storms along the way. I had faith in the skills of the goblin sailors, rough-necked sea farers that start to cross the seas as soon as they learn how to walk. Shreev died of scurvy a week before reaching port. A sad thing to see him die that way, his dream within an arm’s reach. I looted his belongings before the sailors did. Shreev’s purse was fat, it would buy me enough rations to last another week on the main land. When Quel’thalas appeared on the horizon, it was surrounded in a soft glow of the setting sun. The forest had an enchanting appeal from afar. The sailors tied up in port. Slowly, I set foot on the dry land.

I would buy rations and transportation here, to continue my journey south, to the highlands. I had crossed half the world to escape my demons. But I didn’t know that the demons would come crossing over too.

[Gnash]

Reserved for part II

[Gnash]

Possibly a part III 

[Mazguul]

(( As I said to you before I think, Gnash, I've never been a big fan of stories written in the 'first person' context but this was good enough for me to thoroughly enjoy it!

It's nice to see what happened to the character after he left and I hope to to find out the rest too ))