Looming shadows

[Morgeth]

As part of an IC plot, I plan to take the opportunity to write out some (hopefully) inspiring stories to bring the events somewhat to life. The orcs who have been with us for a longer while will recognise the theme of this as with a plot I ran a while back as well. I like to revisit old villains. Hopefully I'll fill this topic with some more in due time.

_____________________

”Do not speak to me of foul deeds. To submit to weakness, to cast away our destiny and ascendence over all other races is to betray the orcish race as a whole. You coddle the ancestors and seek never to better yourself or your kin. You will decay along with the sickly teat from which you draw your supposed strength. Begone!” - Arughnak, warlock of the fifth circle.

_____

The endless halls of this place felt eerie. Not so much because of the darkness, but rather the absence of anything else. Every place has its own spirit, its own meaning, but this fortress – one of the last of its kind – no longer harboured any. Its memories of better days had been carved out of its very being and instead it now laid spread as a hollowed out carcass for these orcs to walk upon.

In one of the more spacious halls one orc knelt before another. The one on his knee was red in skin and eyes, his bulky frame lowered in a sign of respect; a quality evident in his voice as well.
”No disturbances to report, mistress. Everything is proceeding according to plan. The coming of the Kosh'harg has not interfered with our plans thus far.” As he spoke, the male dared to raise his eyes, briefly gazing upon the figure which he was currently addressing.

In doing so he was met with the sight of Her. She was older than the wars, as one could tell by the state of her. The aged skin had dried up and wrinkled itself around her bones, which seemed to protrude quite extensively, giving her an emaciated look. Overall there was a sickly feel with the undoubtedly once female creature. Her brittle physique bore obvious resemblance to that of a forsaken, but in her eyes shone not the determination given by a banshee or a lich, but instead they radiated the power of countless millenniums of demonic knowledge. What sweet whispers that had reached her ears throughout her cursed lifetime had slowly, but surely, chipped away at the orc she had once was. Now she was something else; cursed or elevated, it all depended on who one would ask.

Her lips parted, and he immediately bowed his head to lock his gaze upon the floor once more. Her voice seemed as if full of dust, but even the briefest of sounds from it nested deep into your soul. The fel orc had heard her speak before, and on many nights he would dream of those words. They stayed with him, as if a sick fragment of her had driven itself deep into him.
”Red blade”. The words rolled over her colourless lips and tongue, causing the scraping orc to briefly dig his fingers against the coldness of the stone floor. He swallowed to fight back the terror which had gripped at his heart at the though of her displeasure. Briefly biting his lip he lowered his head further; a submissive display for her pleasure alone.
”Yes, mistress. They gather for the celebrations. We know you lost a.. a..”
He could hear her move as her bony figure leaned from its seat. Even if it was only a minor motion the stench of her breath seemed all that much closer now, enough to make him inhale sharply as she spoke to finish his sentence: ”A daughter.”

”Yes”, the fel orc replied, now quicker on his words. ”A daughter beloved, mistress. Cherished for her power. But this time we are prepared. We have carried out your commands at great speed, and should it be necessary, then surely the blood you've acquired from their shaman come in handy?”. He could feel his own attempts at reassuring her becoming more and more of a plea to lessen any eventual anger. It was not that he was a weak orc born into a life of servitude, but he – just like anyone else – valued his own life and knew better than to needlessly upset those above him. He found himself holding his breath as he awaited her reply. During those quiet, seemingly endless seconds he could not help but feel his senses elevate and overwhelm with the various impressions of his surroundings. The trickle of a single bead of sweat down his spine marred his skin like a battle scar of old, and the sounds of his own heartbeat - pulsating through his ears – were like that from a war drum. He could see her naked, skeletal feet protruding from underneath her robes, and his gaze become caught, enthralled perhaps, by how they subtly and idly swayed from side to side.
”Leave”

Her final command came to him as if spoken in a dream, and in a certain kind of stupor the fel orc got to his feet, and began to stumble out of the room. He left only to be swallowed up by the endless halls, aimlessly wandering until the rotted womb of the council would push onto him a new order to follow. Left behind, now alone in the room, sat the crone. Her brittle shoulders subtly shook as she began to laugh.

[Kozgugore]

Very atmospheric and moodsetting! You always know how to give an eerie description to these stories. Such an experienced old crone RPer! Makes one wonder where you get such inspiration from.

[Grogok]

I cant wait for this event or what it is that is building up from this story. very nicely written

[Okiba]

what can an orc say?

Awesome! loved the description, giving so much detail and insight yet leaving us still oblivious and hankering for more!

MORE! MORE!

[Grekthar]

ooh, me wants to see what happens!
*prays to luck* thank you very much for making Tesco give me a holiday the same day as the Kosh'harg celebration XD

[Grekthar]

Hey Morgy, hope you dont mind but in my wiki I'm calling these little demon events the Eredun War....unless you've got a name already for these events?

War simply cus that's where I'm thinking its heading, and Eredun since me and Sadok can understand the stuff fluently

If you've already got a name for this event then cool, ill change it to that

[Morgeth]

"Perhaps we truly are lost.." - Dalur, Thunderlord shaman.

_____

The sole of a heavy boot was set into cold, dead flesh as the warlock's dead body was toppled to the side. A fel orc, who was the owner of aforementioned boot, loomed over him.
”Well this is a fucking mess”, he grunted.
Considering the state of the place surrounding him, that might have been a bit of an understatement. Several bodies, of orcs, ogres and demons, littered the ground. Several ritualistic objects had been smashed and in the grand middle of it laid a dead eredar. Needless to say, the stench was becoming overpowering, something voiced by the fel orc's loud snort.
”Pieces of shit. Half ran once big guy over there dropped.”

He turned towards the orc which he was addressing; a young female garbed in sleeveless cloak with a hood pulled up to shroud her in needless mystery. What little visible of her features revealed the faint smirk upon her lips as she nodded her head over towards the red skinned orc.
”Stating the obvious will not get us very far, Zargok”.

Her response rewarded her with a snort from the orc called Zargok, whom, in a fit of frustration, sent a kick towards the dead warlock's head, causing it to emit an ominous crack. With a huff, he turned his gaze towards the large, gate-like structure on the far end of the ledge. Its magic had definitely faded; dead along with the cultists that had been channelling their combined power into its now dulled rock. ”She'll be pissed, won't she?”

He nodded over towards the gate, as to underline the fact that it â€" as opposed to what had been intended â€" was not working. His companion turned as well, but to Zargok's surprise, she gave a mere shrug. ”Perhaps, but I do not doubt that she can put even this to some use. Perhaps she already has.”

The female orc glanced from the gate towards Zargok, only to roll her eyes at the sight of his surprised expression.
”Surely you don't expect her to throw tantrums with axes like you and your ilk.”
Despite the obvious insult the red skinned male let out a boisterous ”Hah!” as he, along with the female, began to wander over towards the edge of the camp.

”Call it what you will, but when I get pissed things tend to die.”
His hooded companion smirked to herself, before adding, all to sweetly:
”That, my friend, is true in this case as well”.

[Morgeth]

OOC:

In regards to the story: Zargok's an old character of mine used in an older plot, where he kidnapped Mazguul. If you wish for a flashback, one can be found here: http://orcsoftheredblade.com/forum/index.php/topic,2306.0.html

Furthermore, I am fine with you calling it whatever you wish, Grekthar I have no thought out name for the plotline as such.

[Mazguul]

Oh I do so love these wonderful stories you write for the 'behind the scenes' sections! =D They add such depth to the world in which we RP and your ability to make it all so atmospheric is always astounding =)

And yes, evil nasty foul Zargok! I remember him well!!! D=<

[Vashnarz]

As always Morgeth amazing, Great atmosphere. Loving it so far.

[Mazguul]

"Even a broken thing can be beautiful, is a downed talbuk still not as such?" - Maktoka, Mag'har hunter

________

I n the early hours of the morning a thick mist clung to Garadar. The village lay silent save for the light snore of an orc on the wind, the snort of a sleepy worg and the occasional grunting chatter of the poor sods on guard duty up on the towers. Or this would have been as such if it were not for the scratching of a quill on parchment from a hut lit by a single candle.

Shaking hands hold the quill, the ink strokes shivering on the paper as rushed words are written. The hand pauses as those same words are briefly considered, added to and the parchment finally signed. A dagger, seen in many a ritual, and normally living within a certain she-orc's boot, holds the parchment in place - until the green hand carefully removes the blade to pick up the parchment. The blade itself is reluctantly placed back on the table.

Mazguul takes a deep breath and looks down at the letter. Licking dry lips as she reads and only stopping with a gasp of fright as a snort behind her disturbs her.

Snapping her head round, ready to scream, a hand already grabbing for the dagger from the table she looks not upon the grinning face of a monster but... the sleeping form of a male that has just started to miss the creature keeping him warm. Mazguul glares at her slumbering mate as the dagger is placed, along with the parchment, back on the table. A sigh of exasperated relief escapes her lips.

A handful of dirt from the floor of the hut scattered across the page dries the ink sufficiently that she rolls up the parchment and ties it closed with a bit of twine. Carefully stepping round the furs, so not to wake the orc, Mazguul crouches down outside the door to the hut and waits patiently.

The she-orc doesn't wait long for soon, padding out of the mist, a spirit comes. The spirit's huge paws leaving not a print upon the ground, her non-existent breath not hanging in the cool air. Long sabre fangs, matching those on the necklace Mazguul wears around her neck, hang from the jaws of the ghostly visage of the long dead cat. A brief greeting is exchanged - a spectral nose placed onto a she-orc's neck, a she-orc's hand caresses a spectral cheek.

A whisper tumbles from the she-orc's lips, 'Morgeth', and taking the parchment in her jaws the spirit bounds off back into the mist.

Left to return to her furs Mazguul curls up next to her mate pondering the contents of the letter she had written. Then pondering if it were cruel to wake the male up as strong arms encircle her. The wicked little smile on her lips indicate that she does not think it cruel at all.

"Sister,

I am writing to you, not because I am avoiding you, but because I cannot trust any method other than Ravage. The reasons will become clear as you read this I hope.

Years ago, here in Garadar, I was taken by force by fel orcs against my will, separated from the spirits, abused, and forced to fight our beloved Kozgugore. Orcs died freeing me and the Tribe killed a powerful warlock in the process. All this I think you recall as well as I do - I will hate Garadar forever, my loved sister, it is not safe.

At the Kosh'harg I was given an answer from the spirits that for once was not intended for individuals within the Tribe, but for the Tribe as a whole. A warning I believe. I watched as the pools within Oshu'gun cast light on our orc's troubles. I saw pictures, images, feelings within the depths and I have interpreted them as such:

What we are dealing with is old fel magic. Powerful, twisted, cruel. A she-orc commands this. Her skin as thin as parchment on her bones, her lips crabbed with age and I am unsure if she should even still be alive, but alive she is, and evil she is too. A Crone. However, I do not think she is aware that we know who we are up against - or so I am assuming. I could be wrong but if I am not then perhaps we can turn this to our advantage? I admit, matters of espionage and war come more easily to others than myself.

I fear what will become of the Tribe should she continue to meddle with us and I for one intend to fight back. Purge by fire and cleanse with water - our orcs shall be under fel influence no more. But the curse cannot be destroyed as far as I be aware. Later today, myself and a few orcs shall head to Oshu'gun to create a container for the curse to reside in. This container I will be entrusting to you should the ritual be successful. Not only are you one of the few who understands what this curse is, but you are also one of the few orcs I can ever truly trust.

I am afraid, sister. But worry not, I shall not let the rest of the Tribe see it. Appearances must be maintained after all.

Fire in the Blood

M.

Share the parts of this letter you deem necessary with our Chieftain"

[Grekthar]

Dun dun dun!

This is really getting interesting Wonder if the crone herself will put in an appear- wait a minute....
Container...curse....

You are NOT sticking me in some kind of pickle jar! XD

[Morgeth]

"You existence is fleeting. Mine will be branded into the memory of our race for an eternity!" - Varshi, warlock of the fourth circle.

________

One week had passed since the Red blade tribe had killed two individuals under the command of the shadow council, and subsequently dealt a blow to the Legion's remaining forces in Outland. The tribe's personal path of conquest had left behind it a pitlord, an orc warlock and numerous demons. Led by Grek'thar's and Sadok's visions the orcs had triumphed and now, it seemed, harmony had been brought back to the grassy plains of Nagrand.

Meanwhile, in a place far away â€" hidden from sight and mind â€" sat a crone. However she did not sit alone. The halls which held her makeshift throne were filled with different individuals, some of which were orcs, whilst others hailed from an even darker heritage. One orc, at the very front of them all, grovelled before the sitting creature, and reached out with his hands to present her with two obsidian looking shards. His voice, once heard, trembled slightly.

”Both dead, mistress. Slain by the Red blade orcs...”

The creature in front of the kneeling orc, this supposed crone, leaned slightly forward in an aloof display of piqued interest. Still on his knees, the male orc let out an almost excited gasp as he held the two shards up higher.

”Just as you predicted, mistress. Just as you planned. The pit lord and the lost one will no longer stand in your way; their voices will no longer be heard, drawing others from your fold. Your dominion is.. secured.”

As the male orc spoke, his eyes shone with zealotry, an infected passion that originated from the sheer fact that he believed himself to be in the presence of a creature vastly more powerful than the supposed ancestors and elements that he had been taught to revere in his youth. When he looked upon her, his undeniable leader in this life, he did not shy away from her shrivelled form. In his eyes she was beautiful; a creature perfected by her own might and ability.

The crone's withered lips were pulled back into something resembling a smile as she quietly regarded the two shards that were presented to her. Just as the orc in front of her stated, this had all gone according to plan. She had seen the Red blades when they had scouted the area of the ledge which they had later assaulted. Instead of devising defensive strategies, she had taken another approach to things. The eredar had been sacrificed, but such was the way of things. Sacrifices had to be made in order to achieve a greater purpose, and once he had died the cursed documents she had given him had come into possession of two Red blade orcs. The documents had contained the true names of two particular individuals, both of which had broken free of the crone's grasp and assumed their own positions of might within the council and the legion itself.

They had to die, the crone mused to herself, as she finally picked the two shards from the hands of her obedient servant. Her skeletal fingers caressed the jagged shapes of what remained of her once rebel adversaries and over the dark pits of her mind washed a deep sense of satisfaction. She had reached out, and touched the minds of these seemingly ”uncorrupted” orcs and dragged them into her own devices.

Their victory had turned out to be her triumph...

[Grekthar]

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?!?!?!
*fumes and grumbles and roars a bit, before grabbing a nearby axe and stomping off around Outland hunting muttering about crones and being used*


Figures. Nice one Morgy

[Sadok]

"Let this scar signify the first blow against the mortal world. From this seal shall arise the doom of men, who, in their arrogance, sought to wield our fire as their own. Blindly they build their kingdoms upon stolen knowledge and conceit. Now they shall be consumed by the very flame they sought to control.” - Archimonde
________

The wind was fierce. Its sickening howl pierced my eardrums sharper than any knife could, drowning out all other sound with its spine-chilling wail - like a horribly wounded worg whining in excruciating pain. That same worg bit and snapped hungrily at my bare skin, stinging the raw green flesh with lash after lash of sharp pain. The torment was unrelenting; with chilblain wracked hands I continued to scale the precarious ridge, ridden with sharp needled crags that cruelly perforated and lacerated with each desperate handhold. It was agony unending; I could take no more. Seeking respite upon an overhanging precipice, I finally submitted to its jagged barbs; the edges cutting slowly into my back, I desperately attempted to catch my breath. The air was thin.

Far above me gaudily shone that most terrifying kaleidoscope of ley energies, the Twisting Nether - even in the midst of nightfall its haunting eldritch undulations chaotically entwined as if in an obscene mockery of lovers’ embrace. Where once I looked with awe to its boundless anarchic expanses, seeing pure potential and power, I now saw only a vast, uncaring and cruel cosmos, where the wicked rule and horrific atrocities were afflicted upon the innocent and valorous. Below the brightly scintillating, wholly unnerving radiance of the Nether loomed a thick, sinister fog - effaced within, a mist-shrouded pit of rocky daggers should I fall. Closing my heavy eyes, I attempted to draw upon faint recollections of tattered maps depicting Draenor before the destruction wrought by Ner’zhul’s folly - had the Blade’s Edge Mountains always been this inhospitable? Its infamous blades had likely been made literal by the demonic corruption that continued to bathe what was now Outland, twisting the land into a horrifying perversion of what it once was.

Perhaps that too was my fate - to be twisted like this accursed world. For all my flaws, it was ultimately curiosity that had doomed me. I felt compelled to read the dark affichage dropped by a man’ari eredar lord as the tribe assaulted the Twilight Ridge, and was rewarded (justly, perhaps) with the ability to understand the dark tongue of Eredun. This forbidden knowledge had its price - not intended for mortals, it would be only a matter of time before the corruption withered my soul and drained my lifeforce. Even now, I could feel the latent wrong pumping through my tortured veins, stinging my blood with a dull burning sensation. How long until I found myself remade into an unholy mockery that would inherit my name and body yet be an affront to everything I purport to stand for? How long until I could no longer trust myself? Already I suspected that my curse was damaging those around me; my poor mate, already saddled with the heavy burden of carrying my unborn child, had began to suffer sleep deprivation and experience horrific nightmares in the days since my affliction. It hurt me profoundly to see her slump around Garadar, her energy drained and her spirit broken - cruelly punished for merely sharing her furs with me each night. That was why I left Nagrand hurriedly, wracked with guilt and shame - to grant her reprieve from my curse.

Yet that was not the sole reason for this foolish foray to the Blade's Edge Mountains - I wished to resume my stalled training along the path of Gosh’kar, long since stripped off all momentum. I had initially believed it was High Blade Sharpeye’s fault - she had been nigh impossible to track down and discuss the issue of my training, proving decidedly elusive in the days since Bloodmark’s return. But could I blame her? Her beloved, long since considered at rest, had returned from the grave and had made the journey to Nagrand ostensibly to spend the Kosh’harg with her. Perhaps then it was my fault - Gosh’kar was a rank traditionally reserved for shamans and yet rather than aim for Nag’Ogar or Varog’Gor, I was determined to force myself into the Brotherhood of the Totem. I possess none of the blind faith or sombre reverence that I see in the tribe’s other shamans, and as such have seen my own path grind to a halt as other Gosh’kar aspirants flourish. I had hoped that this perilous pilgrimage would change my fortunes, but it would be a significant challenge to reach the tribe’s burial grounds high in the north, let alone to speak with the spirit of Grenth Stonebrow, the last Chieftain of the Red Blade Clan before its dissolution into the Old Horde. Would such communion with the spirits be the key to finding a cure for this curse, or would my endeavors towards Gosh’kar be undone by my later inevitable corruption?

Enough. It was dark and this was hardly time to be consumed by such idle doubts and worries. To linger here much longer would be folly. I took a sharp intake of breath; my throat was instantly coated with a thin layer of dry dust. My chest was painfully tight and my torn robes were soaked with cold sweat. The light was failing and darkness flooded the rocky daggers and razor barbs, ensconcing them in thick twilight. I had no love to keep me warm and no company to keep me sane. Below me lay death; above me salvation. I was somewhere between, upon a blade’s edge.

I continued my climb ever upwards.

((Set before Morgeth's resolution. Sadok is the narrator. Went for claustrophobic heavy prose in an attempt to set a suffocating, unpleasant tone.))