Mal’garr sat by his fire, at his isolated camp some distance away from the Crossroads. Though he was no longer an exile of the clan, he felt it best to keep himself isolated from them while he worked. He could very well be following their code and commands to the letter, but he did not trust the clan to tell the difference between that and the more frowned upon aspects of his work. His position was tenuous, and he would not risk ignorance on the part of a member of the clan seeing him exiled…again.
Tonight, he did not work, however. Instead he sat, his black book in his lap. Tonight, was another night for remembering, not for work. Some time ago he had been faced with a figure from his past, a female Orc Warlock by the name of Ishgara Blacktalon. In one of the Clan’s…for lack of a better term ‘vision quests’, Karnna Blackfeather had been made to don Blacktalon’s name and face. Mal’garr and Blacktalon knew each other, this much was clear from the re-enactment, but the precise nature of their relationship was unclear.
The details of this were hidden in the fog that clouded Mal’garr’s memory of many of his years serving the Shadow Council. Often, he was glad of this fog. The Council did many terrible things for simple greed, and he was party to several of them. It was easier for him to forget most of it. Sometimes, however, he needed to remember and when he needed to remember, he turned to his book.
The elderly warlock flicked through the pages of his dense, hand-written, tome. He finally reached the page he was concerned with. He ran a finger over the letters, slowly and carefully translating the Eredun script back into Orcish, and then out of the code he had written it in. As he worked, his memory returned.
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Mal’garr was running. His crimson hair flapped madly behind him as he did. He rushed through a forest whose name he did not know, fleeing across country he did not recognize, to an unknown destination. He didn't much care for where he would end up. His concern was entirely on simply being elsewhere.
Everything had gone wrong all at once. The Horde had been taking victory after victory against the feeble inhabitants of this new world. Many of these “Humans” had been slain or taken as slaves or as fuel for the spells of the Council. Much food and loot had been gained. The Horde had bathed itself in glory against these new foes. Then it all fell apart.
Doomhammer, Blackhand’s upstart second-in-command, challenged his rightful leader to single combat, in an effort to become the new Warchief. None had expected him to succeed. He did. After a lengthy confrontation, Blackhand lay dead and Doomhammer was proclaimed Warchief.
Some time earlier, Gul’dan had entered into a deep coma. Some of the Council had fled with his body elsewhere in an effort to save him, but the rest remained. A terrible mistake.
With Gul’dan in a coma, and Blackhand slain, Doomhammer turned his fury upon the Warlocks, and upon those who served the Council most of all. Many Warlocks were given a choice, abandon their fel-magics and they would be spared. The servants of the Council were not granted such clemency. For them there was only one choice offered. Death.
Many of his collegues were cut down before they even knew what was happening. Some attempted to fight back, taking a good number of Orcs with them but still ultimately falling before the numbers of their fellows. Yet others, the wiser of them, fled. Mal’garr was among this number.
Mal’garr fled for some hours, occasionally twisting and turning in his path in an effort to throw off his persuers, every now and again felling a tree with his fel-flames in such a way as to imply he fled east when in fact he fled west. It was only as night began to fall, that Mal’garr finally allowed himself to slow.
He paused in a clearing, listening. He could hear nothing, save the whisper of wind through the trees, and the frantic beating of his own heart. Though the Fel had kept him relatively young and strong, he was still physically an older Orc, and one who had grown used to a somewhat easy life. Such exertion did not come easily to him.
He did not feel safe, but he knew he had to sleep. Mal’garr rested his back against a tree, and gently slid down it, landing on the ground with a thud. He did not have his sleeping things with him, and so would have to make do. He decided that he would sleep lightly, and then continue his flight come the morning. Uncertain of his future, Mal’garr allowed himself to drift off.
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The Warlock awoke with a start. A hand was over his mouth, and a blade to his throat. His eyes darted around, seeking his foe, while his left hand reached for his staff, only to find it had been kicked some distance away. He tried to struggle, but the blade pressed against his throat, drawing a small trickle of unnaturally dark blood. A voice whispered to him. “Calm down, Old Man, it’s only me.” His eyes narrowed, and he stopped struggling. He recognized the voice. It did not belong to one of Doomhammer’s dogs.
“If I let go of your mouth, and take my blade from your throat, do you promise to be good, and not call out or attack me?” The voice asked. Mal’garr nodded slightly, and felt the blade leave his neck, and the hand move from his mouth. His right hand came up to the wound the blade left, rubbing it idly.
Before him, a female Orc moved into view, an orc with long jet-black hair and a cruel face twisted into a mocking smile. Mal’garr considered she may have been beautiful once, had she not allowed her mind and soul to appear so freely in her expressions. “Blacktalon.” Mal’garr spoke, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Firefist.” She responded, her lips curling around her tusks as her smile widened, a grin reminiscent of apes whose smiles are threats. “I do hope you don’t mind me surprising you like that but…I couldn’t be sure how you’d react to my presence.” She idly walked over to Mal’garr’s staff and kicked it over to him. Mal’garr picked it up, but did not stand, instead he laid it across his lap as he stared at Ishgara.
“What do you want from me, Blacktalon?” Mal’garr spoke bluntly and directly. He and Ishgara had known each other for many years. For reasons unknown to him, whenever he had been dispatched on a mission for the Council, more often than not he was paired with her. The two were competitive, and not in a friendly way. They were bitter rivals, often forced to fight over the approval and rewards granted by those of higher standing in the Council. The pair, over the years, had proven themselves to largely be each other’s equals. This fact angered both of them.
“Want from you? Nothing, old man. Unless you consider us traveling together to be a great favor?” Mal’garr’s eyes narrowed, reducing to thin, red, lines of light in the darkness as Blakctalon spoke.
“Why should I want to travel with you?” He asked, Blacktalon merely maintained her smile.
“It’s simple. The servants of Doomhammer are still hunting you, still hunting me, in fact. I don’t doubt you could kill a great number of them before they would bring you down, old man, but they WOULD still bring you down. There is safety to be found in numbers, old man. They may be able to face one of us and succeed, but they could not take us both.”
The pair argued for a short while, until Mal’garr eventually relented, allowing Blacktalon to stay with him and travel with him in his flight. There was logic to her argument, they would be safer together than apart. There was nothing to compete over here, only survival. Blacktalon offered to take the first watch, citing Mal’garr’s advanced age, and him needing the sleep more than her. The old warlock bristled at this, but agreed, returning to sleep.
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Mal’garr awoke the next morning, and panic seized him. He stared at the surroundings. Sunlight streamed into the clearing, a clearing that was empty save for a campfire in it’s center he did not recall building. His staff lay propped up by a tree some distance from him, despite him knowing he fell asleep with it in his lap. He attempted to stand, but found it difficult, as rope now bound him to the tree against which he had slept. He was able to stand, pushing himself and the rope up the trunk of the tree, but was unable to free himself. He tried to call out in anger but found his mouth had been gagged and he could not form the words. He tried to conjure up his flames, to burn away the rope…but found he could not. His eyes turned downwards, and he saw a curious glowing crystal around his neck. He did not recognize its design, but he assumed it’s function. It served to cut him off from his fel-magics, to ensure he could not call upon them to escape.
Blacktalon, it seemed, had betrayed him, but to what end he did not know. Surely Doomhammer’s dogs were far behind them, and such treachery served only to spite him? He would find his way free, in time, if given chance.
He would not be granted that chance however. He heard voices, low, harsh, and guttural, approaching from beyond the clearing. Along with the voices he heard the stamping of booted feet and the grinding of armor plates scratching against each other, and the slither of mail. Into the clearing stepped three Orcs, their blackened hides and orange eyes showing them to be Blackrocks. Each was armored, each carried a large weapon, two axes, and one hammer.
The hammer bearer, whose more ornate armour marked him out as the leader, glanced around the clearing, until his eyes locked on Mal’garr. His face split into a grin, and he casually strolled towards Mal’garr, his hammer swinging through empty air. “Well, well, well! Look what we have here boys! A warlock, all trussed up and waiting for us!” He laughed a deep, throaty, and cruel laugh. His fellows joined in.
One of the axe wielders spoke up. “Hey…that ain’t just a Warlock. Ain’t that Firefist? He’s one of the Council boys!” The leader looked Mal’garr over more carefully, taking particular note of his left hand, a blackened thing with the texture of coal.
“So it is! So it is! Good eye Dru’gash, I’d almost missed that. I was about to just smash this one’s head with my hammer and move on, but this one is a Council lad, and as such he deserves special treatment, don’t you think boys?”
The axe wielders laughed and cheered on their leader. Mal’garr simply stared at him. The leader pulled back his hammer and swung it with all the strength he could muster.
Mal’garr had been expecting the Orc to still crush his skull, or to perhaps attempt to cave in his chest. He had been expecting a painful, but quick, death. Instead, he felt intense pain…and a sudden sense of dread. The hammer swing had not been aimed at any vital part of him. Instead, the hammer had met with his left leg, shattering and destroying many of the bones within, leaving the leg a twisted ruin. He tried to cry out in pain, but could not due to the gag. Instead, a muffled howl came out, leaving him sounding almost as if he was gibbering.
Mal’garr began to fall, the pain of what had happened sapping all of the strength from him. The two axe-wielders wouldn't let that happen. They went to his side and held him up by his arms. Mal’garr was forced to again look into the eyes of their leader, who simply smiled, and pulled back his hammer again.
The other leg was shattered, much as the first was. Now, they let Mal’garr fall. He fell to the ground howling as the weight of his torso pressed on his ruined legs The Blackrock leader nodded to one of the axe-wielders, who then used his axe to cut away the ropes that bound Mal’garr to the tree. The elderly warlock collapsed forward onto the ground, landing face first into the dirt, and chest first onto a rock.
The collision with the rock caused the crystal around his neck to shatter, and the restraint placed on him to be removed. He could feel his powers again, though he remained in the dirt for a short while. The orc leader stood over him, hammer in hand. “This is the price you pay for what you did to our race, traitor!” He raised his hammer over his head…but would not get the chance to swing it.
Mal’garr pushed himself up with his right hand and extended his left towards the hammer-wielder. A flare of emerald fire erupted from the blackened ruin that was his hand and consumed the body of the Blackrock leader. After just a few moments, he collapsed to the ground as a charred skeleton held within blackened armor, his hammer falling harmlessly onto the ground behind him. One of the axe-weilders rushed Mal’garr, attempting to avenge his fallen comrade, only to suffer the same fate, being reduced to blackened bones within moments. Mal’garr searched for the third but found that the one named Dru’gash had fled. His cowardice saved his life.
Mal’garr tore the gag from his mouth, and attempted to stand, but could not. His legs quite simply could not carry him any longer. He dragged himself pathetically towards his staff, eventually reaching it and attempting to pick himself up with it, but even with it’s support the pain was too great. He simply could not walk any longer.
Some Orcs would have simply lain there, giving up, and allowing themselves to die. Mal’garr was not an orc of that kind. He crawled through the dirt, like a worm. He crawled through that forest for many days, consuming the life-force of any animal, human, or even orc he came across for some time, trying to recover his strength.
By the end of his ordeal, he would be able to stand again, though his legs would forever be twisted, ruins of their former selves. He swore vengeance on Doomhammer, vengeance he would never be able to take, for what had been done to him. He swore vengeance upon the Blackrock who escaped him, the one named Dru’gash. Most of all, however, he swore vengeance on Ishgara Blacktalon, for sacrificing him to the Blackrocks, assuming she had done so merely to slow them down. Give them him to play with so they would slow their pursuit of her, or forgo it entirely.
Mal’garr swore that, should he ever find Blacktalon…he would do far worse to her than was done to him.
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Mal’garr Firefist closed his book in his lap, and looked to his fire, his expression grim and thoughtful. There was a reason he allowed much of his past to remain lost to him, in the fog of his mind.
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