Those Of Us Left Behind

[Felscar]

Thought I'd open my forums account with an old piece of flash fiction, set between the end of Mists and the WoD pre-patch. Enjoy!

***

Lokarn wandered aimlessly amongst the dead and dying. The Valley of Strength burned around him, thick clouds of dust and smoke masking the shame of his nation's capital. Everywhere he went the living price of Garrosh's actions could be heard weeping over loved ones or snivelling their final moments into the dirt. Kor'kron grunts groggily pulled arrows from their armour as they bled out from chest wounds or severed limbs. Dire wolves soiled their muzzles in the corpses of their former masters. It pushed at his control, threatening to drag him back into the hatred and fury that had started everything and left only this. A stinking, wailing monument to the barbarity of the orcish race.

Ahead of him something squirmed along the ground. A thing of blackened metal and broken flesh, painting a red smear on the earth behind it as it moved. Lokarn looked down as he passed it and was greeted by a ripped leather mask, exposing nothing but pain and teeth.

“I know you.” he growled, crouching beside the stricken gaoler.

The dying orc spat blood and strained for the wicked knife strapped to his remaining leg. Lokarn drew the blade and rammed it down through the Kor'kron's reaching hand in one smooth movement, pinning it to the floor and drawing a howl of pain and rage from his victim. His own face remained impassive, displaying more of disappointment and fatigue than of any vengeful inclination.

“You should be here with us, Felscar, bleeding for the True Horde.” The Kor'kron spluttered his final jibes, his fading awareness only maintained by Lokarn's careful pressure on the knife in his hand. “How did you escape their noose, traitor? How did you save yourself from this?”

Lokarn stared down at the orc that he had once called friend. The warrior who had fought by his side in the halls of the Nerubian spider-kings, who had hunted demons with him, who had watched and cheered as he nailed a Silver Hand recruit to the howling banner of the Warsong.

“You made your choice, Basu. The Warchief slaughtered children at Theramore and you stood by him. He sent us to reave and slaughter in Pandaria for no purpose higher than his own bloodlust and you said nothing. He betrayed our people and yet here you lie, dying in the muck for him. I live because I am not the fool I once was. We followed one Hellscream into damnation together, but I will not follow a second.”

“Pious cur. The Alliance has a good, strong grip on your puppet strings, Lokarn. See how fine a weapon you make for King Varian to wield.” Foamed blood bubbled behind his ruined faceguard as the effort of taunting his old comrade began to take its toll. “Go on then, finish it. One more loyal son of the Horde left to murder before you leave what remains of your people here to rot.”

Lokarn stood and pulled the skinning knife from Basu's hand. Leaning down, he slid the broken mask free and took the Kor'kron's hair in his fist, drawing his head back and placing the blade against his throat.

“May the ancestors forgive us both, old friend.”

***