"Hell is not fire and brimstone, not a place where you are punished for lying or cheating or stealing. Hell is wanting to be something and somewhere different from where you are." - Shadowmoon Farseer.
In all of Gashuk's rituals, he had never thought much of the stench Fel magic carried; but now, on the Broken Shore, he finally noticed it. “Sarguk, duck!”, he yelled, drawing on the Nether to summon Luushon – his loyal Felhound – to leap from his summoning portal to tackle a rushing Felguard. Biting his tongue to curse the Demon, as the Felhound and Blackrock fought together, resulting in a mighty cleaving blow of decapitation. Gashuk had found kinship with this Blackrock, Sarguk he called himself, a fair bit younger than himself but with a similar head on his shoulders. The Orc had fought for the Horde for a long time, and whilst his Clan's reputation had been tainted in recent years, you could tell that he had followed the right path instead of the wrong. “Felhand, you fool! Did you have to launch that beast at me!” - chuckling, as his voice boomed over the sounds of the battlefield, “I nearly cleaved it in two!”. Sarguk had no real qualms with Warlocks, Gashuk had learnt that his Mother had been one of the first taught on old Draenor, but he did tend to lose his focus in bloodlust and these days, you never did know what Demon was friendly, and what Demon wasn't. “I told you to duck, Blackrock.”, smirked the aged Shadowmoon. “It's not my fault if you didn't listen.”.
It had been many moons since Gashuk had heard from the Red Blades. The Tribe had dwindled as the Legion threat grew and over time the spirit-link they all shared started to fade. Rhonya, as far as Gashuk knew, was safe. Safe in the Barrens, aiding them rebuild after the Legion's initial invasion there. As for the others, well, as fond as Gashuk was of them, he only ever cared for Steelheart. It had taken a lot for the Warlock to not return to her, to let the young fight the War and be with his blood-sister. He had thought a lot about that recently, longed for it even, but the Legion was a threat that he couldn't walk away from. All of his years of study, all of the nasty looks, the poisonous insults and the not-so-empty threats were meaningless, now that he could finally prove his worth and use what he knew of the enemy against them. Demons, Gashuk knew Demons. He knew how to summon them, bind them, and more importantly, he knew how to kill them. He couldn't walk away now.
“Gashuk, eyes up! More come, and we're nowhere near the ritual ground!”. - The two of them had been tasked with interrupting a ritual to summon a Nathrezim into the frontlines. Together with other Acolytes of the Black Harvest, with Sarguk as the hired muscle. “If we linger for too long, we're fucked!” - Grunting in agreement, the group prepared for the next big push. Felfire and Shadow magic, flung from side to side like some kind of sport. If anything, at least the Armies of Legionfall had brought some form of unity to the races of Azeroth. Gashuk fought alongside Humans, Worgen and even a Gnome. All of which had their own Grimoires with teachings both agreeable and not. The Council of the Black Harvest had grew substantially and it had never been a better time to learn from others. Warlocks, often renowned for their secrecy, all spilled their guts for a chance to please the Council. Gashuk had taken advantage of that. “Luushon!”, the Orc shouted, pointing at an Eredar in the midst of the battle. She stood, wildly cackling and channelling her Magic, erratic fel-fire spouted at the group and had already made ash of the Gnome. Spotting the charging Felhound however, turned her cackles to screams. More fel-fire tried to gather around her hands but with a sickening crack the casting stopped. Devouring magic was just one of the many things a trusty Felhunter could do.
“We're nearly there; Intel said the summoning ground is just over that hill!” - leading the group, sweat pouring off his bald skull was Sarguk, his blade drenched in green blood. He pointed his bastard-sword in the direction of the charge and screamed at the top of his lungs - “FOR THE HORDE!”, and Gashuk couldn't help but join him. “FOR THE BLOOD!”, he screamed so loud his throat felt red raw. It felt good. It felt right.
It wasn't long before the group was surrounded by the corpses of slain Demons and the ritual-site was in view, two Eredar in dark red robes paced restlessly between their runes and reagents incanting repeatedly. If it took this much of an effort to bring this Nathrezim into play, it was paramount that they stopped them. The Legion had brought entire regiments of Demons to the fray with instantaneous spells before now, why did this Demon deserve such a welcoming party? Wordlessly gesturing to the Warlocks, Sarguk drew them close together and knelt out of view. “Felhand, any ideas how we can stop them?” - Snarling, the Worgen amongst them barked “We could-..”, “Shut your mouth mutt, I wasn't speaking to you...”. As the two stared each other out, Gashuk broke the silence with a click of his fingers. “Now now, play nicely. We need to disrupt the runes, but we must be careful. If we shatter the wrong one at the wrong time, the entire ritual ground will explode. These Eredar are -not- messing around.”. - Nodding in agreement, the Blackrock grunted. “So how do we know which one to fuck up first?”. Smirking, Gashuk softly said “Leave that, to me.”. Sarguk chuckled and nodded - “Gladly.”.
The next fight was a blur. All of the Warlocks bar Gashuk had died. Sarguk was wounded, bleeding heavily from his chest, his left hand held the skull of an Eredar by the hair and his bastard-sword lay to the side, well worn. Various corpses of various Demons lay freshly strewn around the ritual-site, either summoned by the Black Harvest or the Eredar themselves in the heat of battle. They had succeeded, Gashuk had managed to recognise the runes and destroyed them in the correct order, but the rest of the group had barely managed to hold their ground. He spat on the corpse of the up-start Worgen as he paced towards the bleeding Blackrock, weaving the Orc's blood in a painful, but effective manner of healing. The blood bubbled, seared and cauterized, leaving a grotesque scab and an even more impressive scar underneath. “There, you'll live...”. - “Thank you, Felhand.”, he replied, grasping his chest with curiosity. “My Mother always said there was power in Blood. Now I know what she meant.” - Smiling, Gashuk nodded. It was rare that Sarguk spoke of his past. All he knew is the Orc had half his childhood in the midst of the Second War and the other half in an Internment Camp and that his first real taste of battle was during the Third War, and later, serving under Saurfang's Might of Kalimdor in Silithus. He had spent the rest of his years serving the Horde in any capacity he could, and even though his Clan had served Hellscream religiously, Sarguk claimed to have kept his distance and doubts over the young Warchief's regime, eagerly joining the Rebellion when the time came to besiege Orgimmar.
He had shared some of his past with the Warrior as well. Stories of the Wars the younger Orc barely remembered and stories of the famous Red Blade. He had even shared his love for his blood-sister, a love that went further than friendship in Gashuk's eyes. He had convinced Sarguk to help him find them, the Tribe that is, find them when this was all over. If they should both survive, it would be fitting. After all, Sarguk had little friends outside of War and the Red Blades took anyone who could earn their keep and maintain their honour.
“Look at this fucking mess, Gashuk.”, Sarguk spat slowly rising to his feet, peering over the result of their skirmish. “I hope this Dreadlord was worth losing those.”, gesturing to the corpses of the Acolytes, “I hope your council won't be too pissed”. He was speaking to himself, and he knew it. Gashuk stood over the ritual ground fixated on the remains of the ritual, gleaming what he could from the magic they had ruined, as he always did. What happened next, happened in the blink of an eye. As he leaned down to grasp his bastard-sword, the Blackrock had barely time to register the movement and out of the corner of his eye a flash of steel appeared as one of the fallen Eredar rose. There was no time. Gashuk's back was turned, and Sarguk's scream of warning came too late. Gashuk's face went pale as his throat was slit and he slumped silently to the floor. As he did Sarguk's blade sung past him like a spear, and impaled the Eredar who had mustered the energy to seek revenge. A cruel smirk pursed across the Demon's lips and he drew his last breath as he fell back, pinned by the sword. There was victory in it.
“Sarguk...” - The voice cracked. Barely audible. As gargled blood drowned the speech.
“Tell Rhony-...”
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