Flames of old

[Morgeth]

The large hall of the orphanage was empty, bar two individuals who sat opposite of each other. An aged shaman with wrinkled, green skin and a white beard and mane, regarded his company â€" an orc child - in silence. He watched her, and she watched him. What a curious child, he thought to himself. Her body seemed brittle; emaciated and marked by old wounds. Her eyes, however, pale blue and soulful, peered back at him with not only fear, but a sense of defiance as well. He smiled at her, perhaps in an attempt to sway her from her suspicion of him, and gave her a quick nod.

“Do not be alarmed, young one. I am not here to harm you.”
The smile remained upon his lips, even as he turned his face from her, to glance at an open crate sat in the corner of the room. The crate was filled with numerous things, but mostly wooden swords and axes, small totem-like things and idols of wolves and kudos.

“Ah”, the shaman spoke as he gave a soft laugh. “You have a box full of dreams, there. I come here now and then, you see, to speak to younglings such as yourself about what they aspire to become once they have grown out of this place. I wonder what they see, and dream of, when they close their eyes.”
Turning back towards her, he could not help but notice that the young female had froze entirely. She stared at him, like a beast caught in between its urges to fight or flee. The shaman let out a low grunt in surprise, before he leaned towards her in an attempt of diplomacy.

“So tell me, young one. What do you dream of?”

Once the question fell from his lips, the aged orc could not help but notice how the orphan began to clench her fingers into her thighs. It wasn’t the motion itself that disturbed him, but the fact that her hands â€" sloppily garbed in dirty cloth that had been partially wrapped around them â€" seemed to carry black markings of some sort. As he watched these, her voice cut through the void between them; its words hissed and just as distorted and disfigured as her skin.

“W’en I dream, I dream o’ fire.”

And such was the look upon her face, this young orc, that when the shaman returned his gaze to her features, he recoiled with a sense of shock. Those pale blue eyes held no more childish innocence to them, but instead seemed to convey that which she spoke of. Old fear gripped at the shaman’s heart, and she could see that â€" he could tell â€" as she curled a smirk to her lips and leaned in towards him.

“So burn.”




The Redridge air nipped at Morgeth’s naked skin as she stood next to the carcass of yesterday’s fire. Above her head, the nightly sky remained dark, and around here stood the stone keep that had once belonged to the Blackrock orcs of the area; it felt like a tomb to her. The walls seemed to always close in on her, both in Orgrimmar and here. Thus she slept outside, regardless of weather. But for now, there was no sleep to be had, despite the promise of soft furs and the warmth of a chieftain’s flesh.

All around her, orcs had found their spots to rest. Some were still on watch, of course, guarding those that slept. In between the sounds of steady breaths, and snores, emitted from all around, Morgeth could almost hear them; those disgruntled whispers. They had always been there, the shamans, ever since her time in the orphanage. Judgemental, stuck-up and fearful of her. Why they feared her, she could never understand. After all, she was the fruit of their own doing, and a testament of their past weakness. If anything, they should treasure her for being such a warning to others: don’t drink demon blood, it tends to backfire slightly. You’d think those of infinite wisdom, with their spiritual connections and elemental buttkissing, would know that. Alas, shamans could not be said to be all that savvy.

Regardless, their word still held weight, and Morgeth still bathed in their utter dismay. She found herself wondering, on those few occasions that she didn’t occupy herself with utterly ignoring the notion, if this could possibly come to haunt her in a serious manner one of these days. The chieftain, she knew, had a reputation to uphold and a personal honour that was at stake every time she did something out in the open. She feared, most of all, that one day he would grow tired of her doings, and cast her out. Not an eyebrow would be raised at that, she figured. After all, she was just a warlock, with neither clan nor ancestry to grant her even a sliver of former glory.

Screw the ancestors, she had told herself. She’d claim her own glory, in her own way, and leave a mark upon this world somehow. She wondered, though, if the only thing left in the end would be nothing but rotting flesh and withering bone. Prone to such thoughts Morgeth muttered to herself, and tightened the fold of her arms. These lands were at fault; to walk upon human soil always made her mind darken.

But in the edges of her own mind, those flames of old seemed to flicker still.

[Lars]

Lovely piece of writing, as always!

[Gnash]

Nice read, it reminded me of this.

[Morgeth]

Thank you! I always wanted to remind someone of south park :3

[Claws]

Nice one again Morg

I know you like to tell your stories etc.
But have you ever done one on your entry into the Blades and how Morgeth changed her colours so to speak?
I can't say you ever have so get your fingers going Girl.

[Gnash]

Thank you! I always wanted to remind someone of south park :3

Some say that if you remind Gnash of South Park, there's à big chance to make bestseller list of 2012. Who says that, you wonder? Gnash.