Thoughts in a Burrow.

[Lomrak Steelskull]

Lom'rak Steelskull, Nag'Ogar to Clan Red Blade, sat with his back against a timber post. His deep, blue eyes stared out over the inky blackness of the Gilnean landscape. He was watching for movement in no-orc's land. Beside him, Uron Lonetusk slept, wrapped in furs, his head resting against the saddle of his Wolf. New Bloods Little Wolf and Adorm were sleeping in the corners of the hole they all shared. Lom'rak enjoyed these quiet moments on the front.

"Calm before the storm" is what his father would have said. His father had been a shaman before Gul'dan's rise to power. If anyone knew storms, it was him.

The Orcs were in an Orcish Burrow, situated to the far left of the Horde flank upon a small rise near the main highway. The Burrow, built in the standard fashion, had been finished in the early hours of the morning. It resembled a circular bunker, constructed of earth, timber and stone. Sharpened stakes surrounded the perimeter. Lom'rak was proud of the work that had been done by the two New Bloods, Little Wolf and Adorm, and Nag'Ogar Lonetusk. It was a solidly constructed position and would likely stand for a good, long while. Unless the Alliance forces arrayed against them had siege engines. Or powerful magic.

"Thrall's Balls, but I'm getting tired" Lom'rak uttered quietly to himself. He rubbed his eyes with his balled left fist and then massaged the stump of his right arm. In his advanced years, the grizzled veteran was beginning to feel the wear and tear of battles long-passed more acutely than before. After an entire evening and night of marching, fighting and building his bones ached and fatigue was setting in. But he'd taken the first watch and was inclined to let the others sleep, at least until second horn. The young needed their sleep for the battles ahead.

He was used to this sort of life.

Lom'rak thought on that. Since coming to this world he had fought for The Horde and then Clan Red Blade in every major conflict. Through a winding path of skirmishes and battles he traced his own, violent history. The First and Second Wars had been brutal campaigns of conquest and slaughter. The Third a fight for survival against not only the Alliance of Lordaeron but also the Legion itself and its Scourge puppets. Then had come relative peace and the building of the Orcish Capital, Orgrimmar. Lom'rak fondly remembered his help in the construction of that bastion. Then war had come again, through the lands of Azeroth and then the Dark Portal. Then Northrend and the sundering of the very world. Lom'rak had been there for all of it. The discovery of a new land and then an unspoiled Draenor. The invasion of The Legion once more.

"And now?"

The quiet voice in his head was soft and lilting, compared to his own harsh and baritone growl. It was the voice of his mate, Sakinra Rageheart. He often did this, in moments of undisturbed quiet. Talked to her in his head. Not that her voice was really hers. Simply a creation to stave off the loneliness.

"And now I'm sitting on my own in a Burrow on the arse-end of the frontline, again, waiting for the Alliance to attempt an attack on our positions. Again."

It wasn't that he missed peace, or that he was actually alone at all. It was that he missed her. Whenever he was awake and all was quiet, he felt a loneliness that was different to any other. It wasn't that he shunned or disliked the other orcs around him. It was simply that they weren't her.

He'd left her and the Clan to pursue his own vendetta against the Legion, the rage and pain of the torment inflicted upon his people too great to bear. But now? Sat here without his mate's warmth, or their child? It weighed so very heavily on him.

"I wish you were here, to talk to me properly. I can't make up what you say every time I get lonely. I miss your laugh. The way you always made sense of things when I couldn't."

"I didn't leave -you- to go off on some mad adventure, remember? I awoke on a lighthouse and you were gone. No word. No note. Not even a kiss goodbye. This is your penance."

Lom'rak bowed his head in shame and blinked away the hot, liquid warmth seeping into the corners of his eyes. His hand went to a small figurine hanging from a thong of leather about his neck. She had given it to him, a long time ago. He brushed the voice from his mind and stared out across no-orc's land once again, deep blue eyes peering out into the inky blackness of the Gilnean landscape.

He stiffened, suddenly. Had his eyes deceived him, or had he detected movement about 100 yards to his front. He released the talisman and went to shake Lonetusk, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Lok'narash, Lonetusk. It may be nothing, but I could have sworn I saw something. Get up and get your blade ready.....