Spiritwalking

[Gashuk]

Spiritwalking- Part 1 - The Elder's Elder.

Sholazar's stars shimmered bursting into life as Gashuk peered up into the night sky, his eyes now deep pools of black. Constellations he barely recognised formed and danced around reflecting their swirls of yellow and black in the Elder's dreamy gaze. For all of Northrend's misgivings, the sky at night was almost equal to the piercing beauty of the star-studded sky that was home to the shadowmoons of the Gashuk's ancestral homeland. Tonight was unlike most, spent under nature's watch with nothing but spare robes to rest your head on, it all played havoc with Gashuk's still mending wounds and whilst comfort was often a rare commodity, sleep was scarce enough for the budding spiritualist.

Gashuk had picked a spot a little out of the way from the rest of the Tribe, he snuggled against the trunk of a tropical tree. It was mid way through the night, as it always was, when the troubled Orc felt the supernatural tug of sleep at his spirit. For nights now Garrak Felhand had entered the Elder's mind and almost as soon as Gashuk's eyelids shut and his mind grew lucid, out of shadows, walked the image of the great Stormreaver. “Aka'magosh, son”, greeted the Spirit, his wispy robes still portraying stains of human blood. “Throm'ka, father”, replied the slightly more solid image of the spirit walker.

“I feel a shift, m'son, yer not yerself, not as I made ye.” grunted the inquisitive spirit, peering deep in and through Gashuk's presence, as if he wasn't truly there. “I undertook Om'riggor again, they call m'Soulfury now” came the answer, tenacious and meek for Gashuk's usual aura of confidence. “Ye're kiddin'? Ha!” barked Felhand, “Ye some kind o' Pup, Gashuk? Did I bear t'worlds first Orc t'age in reverse? Ye always looked like a wrinkled bag o' bones as a sucklin' babe.” The words stung at first, Garrak's often did, he was a harsh father but a good one but this wasn't the Garrak Gashuk knew. He was bitter, twisted by his final actions, unable to truly roam the eternal plains like all Orc's deserved.

“Fer all m'studies, Father, I still don't kno' how t'help ye. Why lash at m'with words? One o' t'reasons I took t'this change so well was because o' yer blood in m'veins.” returned the younger Orc, “Wha' happened?” The pity in his voice was almost physical, smacking Garrack firmly across his ethereal cheek. “Gul'dan...” started the spirit, his tongue trying to find the words as Gashuk interrupted “Gul'dan!? When are ye goin' t'take responsibility fer yer own actions? Ye'd rather stick in purgatory watchin' yer only son grow old an' die than admit ye was a fool an' move on.” The shadows around the pair seemed to react to the anger, the mists turned darker and grew around Gashuk's feet, his tongue ablaze with sheer audacity, all tenaciousness forgotten. “All Orcs kno' what ye Stormreavers did, Father, by t'Spirits we even 'ave a survivor amongst us an' even 'e isn't shunned as much as ye shun yerself! We all were led in directions we didn't want t'go, it was t'Second War, we 'adn't even settled on this planet! Our eyes were as red as our anger an' no Orc should blame themselves fer t'actions of our Chieftains.” Gashuk's temper started to run low, the growing shadows begun to shrink and pale away once more, his eyes previously wide and piercing grew placid and peaceful once more. “It would've been worse t'disobey...”, finished Soulfury, turning his gaze from Garrak's vunerable spirit to the translucent floor that supported their images.

“Have ye forgotten, son, t'horrors we unleashed?” lowly grunted Garrak, his hands gesticulating, his eyes firmly fixed on Gashuk. “Allow m't'remind ye.”, and as the questioning gaze of his son slowly rose to meet Garrak's gaze, the shadows dispersed revealing the blood stained grass of the Hillsbrad Foothills.



More to come of that night, enjoy.

[Groshnok]

Suddenly flashbacks!

A really interesting chapter, looking forward to more.

[Gashuk]

Spiritwalking - Part Two - The Hillsbrad Grunt

“See what ye think o' this, ye dark Spirit Walker”, muttered the now fading spirit of Garrak, father to Gashuk now trapped in the mind's eye of a orc grunt, his consciousness flickering until Gashuk finally managed to concentrate on the situation. The grass was unmistakable, a fresh green, the scent of it penetrated the grunt's nostrils and attacked Gashuk's own senses overwhelming the wet scent of Sholazar's jungle that flowed through his softly snoring shell. The air whipped around the orc, jogging now to catch up with the gathered war band, his knotted black hair stood to attention, the static electricity just the aftermath of the previous battle's Magi calling down thunder bolts of arcane on the encroaching Horde. Now however, cheers of victory could be heard before a harsh tongue pierced through.

“Ye weak rats, ye think tha' we won!? T'Pink scum just fled t'regroup, we didn't even slay a single one o' their spellweavers!”, spat out a familiar voice, “Aye, m'Son is right, it was a shallow victory pushin' t'Alliance back. We all need t'get back into position an' keep our guard up!” The grunt was breathing heavily now, Gashuk felt his weakness as his sickly green hand clenched a festering wound on his side, he peered up at towards the voices and a sickening sense of deja vu shot into Soulfury's mind. There stood amongst the crowd, elevated by mere confidence, was two dark green orcs in blood stained robes, a necklace of bones and skulls adorning both their necks. “Felhands, yer needed in the back with the rest of t'Warlocks, we can't have ye in the front line.” ordered another superiorly armoured orc both hands clutching onto crude rusty axes. “Aye, Doomhammer wouldn't appreciate seeing his weapons actually fight, it might bring about another slaughter.” spat Garrak, the elder of the two. “Hold yer tongue, be glad Gul'dan is provin' himself useful, back, now!”. Tenaciously Soulfury watched through blood hazed eyes as his own younger self barged through the mass of the gathered Horde as he remembered his first taste of prejudice against his magick. He could remember the words he could now only see being whispered into his younger ears by Garrak. “Don't worry m'Son, they'll all die face first in t'mud before we falter.”, and remember with a hint of regret, his own cruel cackle of agreement.

Suddenly Gashuk's attention was torn away from his own past, the grunt he possessed had turned away, eager to escape the two distrusted warlocks. He sniffed, the air was foul with the smell of orc shit mixed with pink-skin, and as he sniffed the grunt exhaled a small trickle of blood extending his tongue to meet it as it travelled down towards his lips. The blood tasted bitter and a piercing shot of pain hit both the grunt and Gashuk, internal bleeding. It took only a few moments for Gashuk to realise that his host was dying.

Suffocated amongst the Horde, it was almost impossible to know that the Alliance had attacked. Gashuk groaned, his vision tied to the squinting hazy eyes of the dying grunt, and from his position you could barely see over the heads of the other orcs. Only when the horns sounded did you know, only when you all started running, tripping and beating each other down fighting to get to the humans first did you realise that your enemy was all around you and your blood haze knew no friend. “Such was the Horde”, thought Gashuk feeling every bash and bruise as if it was his own skin. The excitement of battle started to rise, the grass once lush crumbled under the stampede, the Alliance had gathered a counter attack and the plains of Hillsbrad were not yet under Horde control.  â€œLok'tar Ogar!”, screamed the orcs, the first line in front of Gashuk's grunt meeting the alliance head first, hacking and slashing wildly. He could no longer feel the pain from the festering wound, the adrenaline had taken over now and Gashuk was amazed to observe the grunt fight. He parried, blocked and dodged blows countering with deathly strikes clearly using his muscle as an advantage over the weak in comparison humans, even under such duress from the previous battle. Thunder started to rain down again, but this time the Horde was prepared. Warlocks led by the two Felhands counter attacked the Alliance Magi, Felhounds running alongside them with eager tentacles hungry for the magic they wielded.


Gashuk could just about make out his former self cause unspeakable pain to a young soldier, merely twenty by the looks of it, as he attempted to protect one of the Mages from the reaches of Luushon, the demon-wolf. The malefic magic wielded by the Warlocks was raw, it had no boundaries and sheerly crushed the mind and body of the foe, it was unlike any sword blow or arrow bite, it lingered and burnt at the Human until his body decayed like time itself was sped up, the flesh melted from his face and his skull disintegrated into dust so nothing remained to even bury. Soulfury watched in shock, his host managing to keep himself alive despite coughing on the corpse dust now flitting through the air. The grunt was facing the Felhands now, they attacked the same foe, ganging up on them as the Horde only could, before out of nowhere a arrow flung itself into Gashuk Felhand's side, “Grah!”, growled the Warlock as he pulled it out with haste weaving the blood split into a bolt fired back towards the elven archers. The grunt looked at Gashuk with awe, watching as the warlock weaved his blood like a bandage, leaving only a scar that looked to have been there his entire life. Soulfury could feel a deep hope not his own build up inside him, as more blood seeped out of his host's nose falling freely onto the grass beneath him.

“Retreat!”, cried voices clearly orcish and confusion filled the air. They had won, no? The Magi had been countered, it was perfect. “Cavalry!”, then with no more words, the fight began anew, the Horde turning on it's feet to run away towards the shores and their stolen naval ships. The struggle as orcs pounced on each other to get away, grabbing and shoving with their own lives at stake. The Felhands had begun to weave spells not only on the mounted knights but their steeds too, weak but effective curses casted with a mere utterance of an incantation as the two ran with equal haste. Gashuk felt his host grow weaker, his run started with a sprint but was now no more than a jog for his life. He had kept up thus far with the attacking warlocks, but now even the distracted robe wearers outran the breathless orc. They knew what was coming, both of them was ready for it, a deep slash through the grunt's side knocked him plummeting towards the ground and Soulfury roared in anguish unheard by anyone but himself. The knight roared at his steed as the horse kicked back, surrounded now by fleeing orcs. Felhand himself turned and set alight to the horse's barding, it spread to the knight's tabard and the horse finally managed to kick him off before being beaten to death, the knight found no footing and with a sickening crack fell head first his neck snapping before the weight of his heavy plate helm.

Then for the first time, Soulfury heard the voice of his host. “Felhand...”, it croaked, profusely bleeding from both his side and his nostrils now, the external bleeding matching his internal wounds. “Help...”, the hope still lit up the grunt's heart as his eyes pleaded with both his own desire to live, but Soulfury's desire to see his old self do good. Yet with a derisive snort, he saw himself turn away and felt the sting of tears trickle down both the grunt's face and also his own back in the Basin.

Gashuk Soulfury, Spirit Walker, Speaker of the Dead, felt the lingering death as if it was his own and as the battlefield turned dark, there born from the darkness stood the shadow of his father's spirit passive as if nothing had occurred.

“Now speak t'me about forgiveness, -Soulfury-”...

[Rashka]

Oh wow Gashuk, lovely reading!