Archer's duty

[Nosh'marak]

Exciting stuff! More more more <3

[Wornag (Kronnor)]

RIP Tagrok. He will be missed o7
xD

[Tagrok]

PROLOGUE

- The next section is haphazardly scrawled on the page -

Ambush. Legion Nightborne bastards. Thrice damned fel magics. Zanghrak, the Troll and the Elf are dead. Kitumn and I barely escaped. Supplies are running low. I can hear them in the dark...

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We are safe, for now. Found a cave near the Stormheim border. Kitumn lost an ear but seems to endure. I am mostly uscathed but had to leave my bow - or rather, what was left of it - behind. We aim for Dreadwake. But first we must hunt...

---

For all the talk about being one with nature, Kitumn hunts with ferocity. His stoic facade crumbling when trying to survive. After a makeshift meal we made good a few more miles, avoiding the Towers at the mountain pass leading into Stormheim.

---

THE SKY TORE OPEN - GREEN, FIERY AND OMNIOUS - WHAT IS GOING ON?! Have the end times arrived at last? Did we lose the war? Kitumn had to gather himself, said the world was churning in agony and terror. I do not know how long it will take to reach Dreadwake. The isles are crawling with demons. I ask the spirits for protection - all the while shaking my head in disbelief.

---

We have arrived at the narrow mountain pass under Hrydshal. The Vrykul seem to have vanished. I see no Storm Dragons either. Something omnious hangs in the air... We are close now, a waterfall and several stretches of mountain trail between us and the relative safety of Dreadwake - If it even still exists.

If one of my Horde bretheren finds this - next to my broken body or not - bring it to Ironclaw of the Orcs of the Red Blade.

My name is Tagrok

Victory or Death

[Tagrok]

CHAPTER ONE: Loss and Defeat

A salty breeze blew over the deck of the Warborne, one of several troop transports bound to Orgrimmar from the Broken Isles. The orc stirred in one of the makeshift hammocks crowding the ship - which was unusually flat and as such had limited space available for storage. Orcs, Trolls, Goblins and Tauren were either resting or performing menial tasks as Tagrok rose and shook off the last vestiges of sleep.



It had been several months since he left for the Broken Isles - ten to be exact. Barely arriving he had been sent off by the Forsaken High Command to scout ahead deep into Legion territory. His unit had consisted of five scouts: Himself and another orc, a Troll in plate armor, Kitumn the Tauren shaman and an Elven spellcaster who was unusually chatty. Their foray into Suramar went on without problems, the Storm Drakes too busy with whatever prey they were devouring in their caves far above the clouds and the Vrykul squabbling all over Stormheim after the fall of their God-King. The village near the shore had its' hands full with the Naga and as such wasn't deemed an immediate threat.

The night of the ambush they had made camp on a narrow overlook, mapping troop movements of Felborne - Dangerously close to the Twilight Vinyards. The spellcaster seemed on edge, looking upon the ruins with their green haze mirrored in his green eyes. Hunger? Fear? Seeds of betrayal? Tagrok couldn't know. Didn't want to know what went on through the Elf's head. The Troll stood guard downhill, squatting under one of the purple-leafed trees so common in Suramar, looking for movement in the shadows. The other orc, Zanghrak, kneeled on the opposite side of the camp - It was his turn to observe the elves. Tagrok sat with Kitumn, preparing their rations. A fire would be detrimental, so they had the Elf heat up a few large rocks, set the small iron pot onto them and filled it with water, vegetables and strips of dried boar meat.

With a now familiar melancholy, Tagrok remembered similar gatherings with far more Orcs and other companions. The Inn in Razor Hill. Splintertree Post deep inside Ashenvale. The swamps of Dustwallow. The smoldering armor of a Death Knight in an unfamiliar place. Distant Tanaris and Silithus trembling under a united Horde. Nagrand with its broken sky. Zangarmarsh with its damp, oppresive climate. It was but a few months that he walked with the Red Blade, often doubting his place with them. The weeks at sea had tempered his childish outbursts somewhat, especially when he started yearning for a warm Bonfire and soft furs. Rembering the guidance of the more experienced and the patience of the grizzled few.

"You've grown quiet again, Archer. This is no place for remembrance, even if you aren't on duty." the Tauren said, nostrils flaring as he smiled. His heavy-lidded eyes were a clear blue, his shaggy mane black.

With a sigh, Tagrok looked up from the bubbling broth and nodded: "You are right Kitumn, but I can't help it. I thought that my assignment would help me deal with my issues. All it did was make it worse."

The Shaman stirred the contents of the pot with a wooden spoon and tilted his head. "It is not the assignment, nor the War's fault that you are troubled, friend. The serenety you seek comes with acceptance. Did you follow the advice I gave you back on our first rest on the way here?"

"Listening to the wind and feeling the earth? I'm no Shaman, neither do I feel connected to the Spirits like you are." grimmaced the Orc, scrippling in a ragged leather notebook as he answered the Tauren.

"And that is where you're wrong my friend. All of the Earthmother's creations can listen to her calls. The winds whisper, the rivers speak. Earth and fire have their own tongues. You just believe yourself to be deaf to them all out of habit. Or perhaps you're afraid of the truths they bear."

The Orc grinned. This had become something of a daily routine to the two of them. Kitumn urged him to listen to the elements and Tagrok shook his head, all the while wondering if the Tauren was right.

Just then, Zanghrak seemed to cough. Tagrok turned around, about to tell him off for laughing about a companion's dilemma - But the older Orc was lying flat on his face, an arrow piercing his throat. Tagrok and Kitumn stood at once, knocking the iron pot over and spilling its contents over the rocky surface. A green flash behind them made them turn once more - just in time to see their Troll comrade errupt into emerald flames.

"Ambush! Defensive formation!" yelled the Shaman as he grabbed hold of his totem-mallet and shield.

Tagrok dove for his bow, grabbing it just in time as a Felborne glaive-wielder appeared from the shadows next to him - Weapon rushing down to meet the Orc. He lifted his bow, deflecting the blow but shattering his weapon in the process. The glaive came from the left now, menacing and inevitable. Before it could find its mark, the assailant's hands turned blue with frostbite. The Felborn fell to its knees and screamed before he was fully enceased in a crystal tomb. The Orc turned to give his spellcaster squad-mate an appreciating nod - He caught a glimpse of the Elf just in time to see a dagger being run through him from behind, another Felborne sneering as he removed the weapon from the spellcaster's corpse.

"GET MOVING, WE NEED TO BREAK THROUGH. TAGROK!" The shout shook the Orc from his stupor and sent him scrambling after Kitumn, who was hurling lightning at anything that moved.

"We won't make it through! They have us surrounded!" yelled Tagrok as he caught up to the Tauren, breathing heavily.

"You should be more trusting of the Elements, Archer." - with that, the Tauren hefted one of the wooden Totems attached to his harness and planted it into the ground, lightning bursting from his palm and into the grinning idol's eyes. Clouds gathered and winds churned as bolts of rained down on the surrounding Felborne.

The smell of charred, demonic flesh mixed with faint aroma of the stew, strewn among the corpses as Orc and Tauren descended into the shadows of the woods.



What happened afterwards was a blur. There were other Felborne on their trail, some they cut down, others they avoided stealthily. They survived in the wilderness, the two of them. Makeshift spears and hunger as their only weapons. Exhaustion and disorientation played their part while they looked for allied forces on the trip back to Stormheim. They eventually found another unit, reported their failure and losses and were sent back on the next caravan to Dreadwake. From there they were reassigned to other units. Kitumn went to Val'sharah, helping a group of Druids with some agitated elementals. They bid their farewells in Dreadwake, the Tauren handing him a totemic talisman. As he stepped on the caravan he smiled, as he often did before the massacre and said: "And yet they speak. You only need listen." while the Orc looked away, roughly rubbing his forearm over his eyes.

And here he was now, a few hours away from Orgrimmar. Durotar came into view before long, seemingly unchanged. Orgrimmar, Razor Hill, Home.

Perhaps he should visit the Inn again.

[Kozgugore]

Whew, this one goes back quite a bit! Surprised I didn't catch this before, though it was during a time when I was inactive myself. Love the way you present the stories though! Nice, little snippets. Will definitely try to keep up with them.