Before Honor

[Nnorg]

((OOC: This will be my one and only thread for stories related directly to Nnorg.  They'll either be short flashbacks, third person stories, or tales told to an imaginary person over a mug of ale from Nnorg's perspective, etc...He's a new character, and I'm sure a lot of you know how difficult it is to keep a character the same way when he's undeveloped, so I'll use these to develop him when I'm not playing in game.))

Story; Farewell, Hellscream.  The Challenge.


The Challenge

You know nothing of what I have done.

Steel met steel.  Nnorg staggered back, the force of the behemoth’s axe too much for him to bear. 

“No one leaves Hellscream’s Legion.  No one turns their back on Commander Garr.  Now die, you insolent WHELP!”

“Whelp”.  Years of physical and mental exhaustion, unforgivable spiritual wounds, countless personal sacrifices, and he was no more than a ‘whelp’.  Where others had fallen, he had risen, when others said no, he complied without thought. When no one could, he always did, and this was it; Hellscream’s reward.  A brutal death at the hands of one of The Warchief’s most brutal dogs. 

No. I will not.

Garr flew back in for another attack, his axe, if you could call it that, swooping down to meet him, man-sized titanium; death from above.  He dived to his side, rolling out of the way.  Almost reflex like he grabbed a handaxe from his belt, throwing it towards the stumbling Commander in one swift, fluid motion.  It struck his exposed torso, digging in as blood slowly began to treacle down.  Garr simply laughed, rising to his feet for another strike, as if nothing had touched him.  His bones may have been made of steel themselves.

Your cowardly strikes may tear puny pinkskins apart, but I am more; I am Hellscream’s Fury itself!

Maniac. Nnorg thought, as he prepared to roll out of the way once more.  Garr anticipated this, his axe coming down a little more to the right this time.  It struck his hip as he rolled, causing white hot pain to shoot all around his upper thigh.  He let out a cry as he fell, rolling over to avoid any would be finishing strikes.  As he did so, Garr’s titan like foot stomped down onto his gut, forcing out all breath from his lungs.  He felt as if his entire body was cracking.  Everything went black for a split second.  ‘NO.’  Forcing his mind to stay conscious, he assessed his situation.  Garr was standing over him, boot digging further and further into his ribs.   He was laughing, as were the Orcs around him.  Puppets.  Pawns.

You took an Oath, Bloodflayer Whelp.  You leave Hellscream’s 27th Legion only through GLORIOUS death.  There is no resignation.  Only continued conquest.  Blood.  HONOUR!

The bastard.  Hellscream and his Dogs knew nothing of honour.  Him and his Commanders, breeding weaponised soldiers, trained to strike and obey without question.  Entire villages razed, civilians slaughtered without a thought.  His own people who Hellscream deemed a minor threat to his reign, butchered by Nnorg’s own hand.  He had been Hellscream’s knife in the dark for too long.

“You are a weapon.  A functioning cog in the Horde’s Vast War Machine.  One of many.  You are our blades.  Our axe.  You are our enemy’s reckoning.” they'd say.

Blood poured from his mouth.  A weapon.  No longer.  An Orc. That’s what he would be. 

His axes still lay by his side, tethered to his belt to avoid the risk of being disarmed.  Garr slowly raised his axe high above his head for the finishing blow.

“You know nothing of honor, yet you are being given the death of a warrior.  You should be grateful to me.”

The axe swung down once more, with no way for Nnorg to avoid it.  When it was but feet from his head, he brought his own two axes up, using all the strength his weakened body could muster, forcing them upwards to meet the blow.  Garr’s axe stopped outright, as he let out a surprised gasp, stumbling.  As the pressure on his ribs lessened, he swung his leg upwards, hitting the underside of the Commander’s groin.  At the same time, he twisted his axes in a maneuver he’d spent years mastering.  The behemoth sized axe twirled out of the giant Orc’s hand, as Nnorg swung his own upwards into Garr’s least protected area just above his waist.  Blade met flesh, not steel. Garr fell back as Nnorg himself rolled back, ready to pounce in what would no doubt be his final effort.

The monster in front of him was prepared, though, unsheathing his own dual axes.  Nnorg didn’t think.  He didn’t prepare.  He felt it.  He was no longer an Orc, struggling in what should have been his final battle, stuck in ‘honorable’ mortal combat; no longer the lesser of two evils -  he was part of the flow of life.  As sure as the sky goes dark at night, and as waves in the ocean sway, he simply was. 

Garr charged.  The four axes met.  Clanging of steel, pained grunts.  The pair spun and twirled, blocking and striking as if it were merely a dance.  Nnorg gave no thought to his movements.  His body acted on instinct.  On experience.  On the only thing it new.  For a few seconds, his mind went blank.  There was a flurry of axes and hands, a thump as the world spun around him, and a muffled cry as the two orcs fell back, deflecting off one another.  Nnorg stood there, positioning himself ready once more.  Garr stumbled.  Almost about to ready himself in his own stance, he stopped.  One of his axes fell to the ground, the dull thud somehow resonating over the clearing in the forest.  Everything went still.  Silent.  The Commander’s eyes widened.

It took a few seconds, but the mark appeared - a tiny little slit on the Commander’s throat.  Bang in the centre, over his wind pipe.  A tiny incision.  Having missed the main vein and arteries, there was no blood splatter.  Just very light spraying.  Garr tried to raise his axe again, but fell back, most of the air meant for his lungs now escaping out of this small, almost impossible incision.  He clutched his throat, trying to keep the air in, but to no avail; as he did so, the wound began to widen. He dropped his second axe as he fell to his knees, eyes wide in shock and dismay.  Defeat. 

Nnorg lowered his axes, walking over to the Commander.  By now the cut had grown and was spreading across his neck, the pressure too much for his body to contain.  Blood began seeping out the side of his hands as the light spray turned to heavy spurts.  One hand covered his neck while the other flew out in front of him for support as he fell.  The hand didn’t meet the ground.  It met Nnorg.  It clutched at his armour, pulling at his straps as Garr’s body struggled against the vastly increasing pain.   Having one’s throat cut was supposed to be a quick process.  But no major artery was severed.  He was still concious.  Still alive to acknowledge his demise.

“Commander Garr, of Hellscream’s Legion XXVII; you have been defeated in honorable combat.  I hereby resign my services from the Legion, as agreed would be the outcome were I victorious, prior to our battle.  Opposed to tradition, I will not be taking your place as Legion Commander.  That duty now lies with Blood Guard Mok-Nath.

Nnorg looked up at the circled crowd; fellow soldiers.  New bloods.  Veterans.  ‘Brothers’.  They stared at him; some had looks of utter shock.  Others of respect, of acceptance. 

“It is my wish that Commander Mok-Nath brings back honor to this once great Regiment.  That these soldiers will find the Glory they have been searching for, but unable to find due to your bloodlust fueled, monstrous actions.  You can take heart in knowing that the death you are about to be given will be the only honorable thing your spirit will ever know.  The Worgs will feast upon your grizzled remains at nightfall.”

As he finished, he crossed his axes over one another, lying one on each of the fallen Commander’s shoulders. Garr spluttered and wheezed, as his body trembled viciously.  While it was most likely the Orc’s central nervous system struggling in vain to keep him alive, Nnorg hoped and partly believed that it was fear.  The fear of dying a death Garr himself had inflicted upon countless others, many of whom were innocent.  Without another thought, Nnorg let out a bloodcurdling roar, as he brought the axes together and in two furious movements, sent the former Commander’s head rolling off his neck.

He looked up and stood to the side as the limp corpse fell beside him.  Glancing from the body to his skinning knife, he wondered whether or not to carry out the age old tradition that gave his Clan it’s name.

No.  I will not taint my armour with this dog’s filthy hide.

As he walked forward, the circle gave way, as the Soldiers before him cleared a path for him to leave.  A free Orc, on his own for the first time since his people first laid waste to Azeroth.

He walked to the outer perimeter of the circle before turning, eyeing the soldiers over.  He bowed his head at his former comrades before saluting;

“Lok’tar Ogar.”

And with that, he turned and limped on, a free Orc.  His body may have been shattered and broken, but he was left with the feeling that for the first time in his life, his ancestors were smiling upon him. 

[Vilirok]

(( I loved it. Write more. Now. ))

[Thrash'Nak]

:> Good job, Nnorg. Can't wait too see more.