Nightly visions

[Morgeth]

((This story is best summed up in this word: Brainfart. I was up late one night, feeling a bit bored and weird, so I just started typing. it's most likely rich in fauls, in both logic and language, but I thought I'd share it anyway, since it has been quite  awhile since I wrote anything anyway.))

Whatever freshness the nightly breeze had once held, it is long since gone, as the wind sweeps into Orgrimmar's dirty bowels, where the cleft of Shadows lie. The huts making out the living space in this particular area are somewhat tattered, and the ominous looking, no doubt "ornamental" bone decorations are sure to ward off any unwanted visitors. The few grunts actually stationed here stand idly, simply staring in front of them, hoping that the time for their shift to end will soon be upon them. It is however there, atop those tattered hut roofs, a particular warlock resides. Having shed her battlegear in favour of a more humble attire, despite her surroundings, Morgeth seems to hold it within herself to blend in even at a place like this. Be it a secret or not, but just a few years ago, she could be found roaming these streets as a mere street rat; lower than the low. She had lived of theft and the occasional, very rare, gift of charity. Her time spent amongst thieves, whores and warlocks had taught her many things, but above all, it had taught her that nothing in this life comes for free. She can now consider herself lucky, having claimed not only a family for herself, but a position of power. In truth, she wields more respect than should be considered healthy for any warlock, and enjoys it in an equally dangerous manner. But with such power, such gifts, comes the curse of knowing that she might just as quickly lose it all. After all, a lifetime spent as a mere sliver of what an orc can be, will not be erased by two years of "honourable" duty.

At such a thought, one of honour, the young warlock can't help but smirk to herself, and shift weight in her seat. The suspended pelt makes a somewhat protesting sound underneath the richness of her rear, to which the orc snorts in amusement. Some things definitely changed over time. She hope now, however, that things would stay the same for many years to come. She could no longer feel the need to advance further in the tribe, simply due to the fact that she now outranked all of those she would need to outrank. The only possible threat was Mazguul, and to even consider her own blood sister as such seemed like nothing short of idiocy. Regardless, she could sometimes not keep herself from dwindling into such dark, spiraling thoughts. Sometimes, it all became too clear to her. How they would all gang up on her sooner or later, and strip her of rank and family alike. Cast her out, back into a place like this, where she would be forever known as the tainted one who tried to reach high, only to come crashing back. In an attempt to sway herself from such ideas, Morgeth glances down to the grimoire that lays open next to her, turning from one page to the other. This was dangerous as well, she told herself, to learn even more about the supposed magic she had promised to seek to abandon. But to give away every notion of power she held about herself, that would be like to ask the warrior to give up her axe, or the shaman to put her totems aside. As her finger traveled down the dark, scribbled words, the young orc could not help but left out a soft snort. Shamans, bah. They had always been there, throughout her life, looking down their noses at her. Speaking of the past, as if she had a personal hand in Gul'dan's uprising, and how the present held no place for the practices that had nestled into her spirit. So eager to judge, those shaman assholes, but yet so reluctant to see the dark sides of their own persona. For what are warlocks, if not the ugly mirrored image, staring right back at those spirit-whispering idiots. Oh, in such high regards they must have held themselves in the past, and how mighty their fall had been! Morgeth could not help but muse slightly at this thought, even knowing how it will displease her chieftain, were he ever to know she harbour such images in her mind.

One can really only wonder what Kozgugore would do, were he to know everything that she has kept secret from him. Throats slit in the darkness, secrets buried in the deepest pits, and urges that made this grimoir seem like something Karak would have sung together. Perhaps then, she would have died long ago, leaving little behind but offspring cursed to continue her shame. Pitiful shame; it courses through her veins. It was there, and has been there, perhaps since the day she decided to give part of herself to the fel. The grimoire closes with a loud "thump"-ing sound, and the warlock lets out a soft snort, as she lets her naked legs slip out from underneath the robe to allow her feet to dangle of the edge of the fur. Nobody will come to see her here anyway, so there is little need to keep up any appearances. Next to her, the grimoire lies still, but she can still "hear" it, calling out to her. It is the fel reaching out, as with most things down here, because every single page of that cursed book wants to be read. And once read, few will ever dare forget the words it says; you need not even know the language itself. Morgeth's hand hovers briefly above the rich outside of the book, but she eventually simply pushes it aside, to let herself slip down and rest on her back instead. Her dark eyes turn towards the stars, which are seen through the small openings over this hidden area, and as the stench of the city nestles back into her nose, she can't help but notice something. It almost feels like home.

[Kozgugore]

All dark and tasty! As much as Koz would disapprove, I like it very much - even if it's just a brainfart!

[Okiba]

more =D

[Claws]

Wondering when you was going to write again Morgeth.
The wait was woth it.
Nice.