Dark arts

[Morgeth]

The room felt dark, despite the scattered lights of torches illuminating the grim interior. Argnok stood on his knee, bowing deeply before the creature sitting in the chair in front of him. It felt oddly familiar, reminding him of the days in service of the King of the dead. He had been Argnok's king, but even such things changed. This day he found himself in front of a different kind of authority. No king, nor queen, but a creature of power still. It was only natural, in the end. No longer did he feel the needs of any mortal creature, nor did he crave anything resembling a "normal" life. His mind had been consumed by dark thoughts of destruction, eventually ridding him of most similarities between him and his breathing kin. When his will had become his own again, they had come for him. The council had use for his kind.

Bowing his head even deeper, peering down to the rocky floor underneath his feet, the dark-skinned orc heaved a low grunt.
- The centaur remain united, as promised. Their hatred for the orcs and the Horde has been whipped beyond sanity, and they will continue to put their own petty squabbles aside for their cause.

In front of him, the creature mused. She was old, too old in fact. Her orcish shape had been lost throughout the passing of time, leaving a shriveled shell that seemed closer to death than the fallen "knight" in front of her. Patches of white hair, clinging to her scalp in an act of last hope, hung around the wrinkled features. None of this mattered, however, would one only meet her gaze. Decades of delving deeper into the arts of a warlock may have emptied the use of the female's flesh, but her eyes shone brightly with the destructive, undeniable force of a creature having smudged the boundaries of the mortal realm. Her way of speech was dry, like listening to sand being poured over paper, but when she spoke, it was as if even the shadows would lend an ear.

- Our cause.

Argnok's head was forced deeper down, his forehead nearing the floor, as he muttered something vague in agreement. The warlock in front of him lifted an emaciated arm, subtly weighed down by the sleeve of her over-sized robe. Her fingers tapped gently to her own chin, and as they did so, a sickly grin began to creep up to her thin lips.

- Continue to urge them on. Use the Burning blade of the area. They are disposable.

She licked her lips, sliding that moist, piece of grey flesh over the dried cracks, before lowering her hand once more, contently looking down to the male in front of her.

- As for the Red blade ones. They thwarted our plans in Hellfire Peninsula, and killed a noteworthy member of the fourth circle. I will want the blood of their shamans. Do not let them listen to the earth, or the wind. Let them fight, bleed and worry. Make them go to war for that pathetic patch of land they try to call their own. Make them blind for what is to come, so that the world itself will become their funeral pyre.


((Written in a bit of a hurry, to mark a story arch or plotline, made from the centaur happening in-games. Kudos goes to Rax for the inspiration.))

[Claws]

Quick?

Nice again Morg