[Story] Soldier

[Okiba]

Soldier: Chapter 25 – Friend

”Friends are the family you get to choose.”

Two years ago.

His right arm dragged alongside him, sharp juts of pain shooting upward through the broken limb to his neck from as low as his forearm. It was shattered, probably at numerous points, but what mattered was that his left arm worked. He extended it once more, desperately hooking his fingers between the crags and gaps in the thick stone cobbles of the road, even now the hum and vibration of the battle for the temple could be felt through the earth. Finding purchase he gripped as well as he could before pulling himself slowly forward by another half an arms length.

Move. Faster.

But he couldn’t, the snails pace was all he could keep up when hampered by the dizzying spin in his head and the debilitating pain in his body. The Demons hammer had dealt a crushing, disabling blow. But he was close now, close enough to hear the ragged, desperate breaths of his mortally wounded friend.

hauling his body over one last set of blood and ash slick cobbles he finally managed to reach Fhu. With eyes that struggled to focus on the world around him, he sat half up on his elbow next to his friend.

By the ancestors…

His wound was brutal. The demons spear had passed clean through from back to front, a clean puncture that produced little blood but held all the hallmarks of fel taint that spelled certain death. The split flesh was marked by a protruding rib, riddled with swirls of ash black stains and green among the crimson of blood. The body shuddered, dragging in a pained breath.

”Haauu--… Oki-“
”No, no, don’t speak, Shh, please stay still--… Help is on the way.”

It wasn’t though. Everyone was too busy fighting for the temple, to survive, or running for hills. Okiba forced himself into a sitting position, placing the head of the dying Pandaren on his thigh for support. There was little he could do, or knew how to do. But he could slow the bleeding, keeping him alive long enough for the healers perhaps—

Shirt.

He ripped the tattered right sleeve of his shirt away at the shoulder, his wounded arm protesting at the rash and hasty motion. The fine silk embroidery didn’t matter now, even if it was a gift from Jihaan. But despite his desperate attempts to block or stem the bleeding, or cover the wound, the sleeve was soon slick with blood and green corruption to the point it was useless.

”M-my friend… the G-gate’a...” Fhu pleaded, his voice cracked with barely contained pain. A sliver of blood began pouring from his snout and the corner of his mouth.

”We held, Fhu, we held, Jihaan brought help. He replied as calmly as he could, trying to keep Fhu and himself calm. His good hand, the left, shook and twitched with increasing fury. He thought he’d grown past it, but now he feared he never could. Lifting his gaze he tried to focus, to see what was coming of the battle. The people fought, bravely, as one. Demons fell, brought down by a common cause, led by the Shado-pan and brave adventurers alike. All the while the temple burned, great swirling fires of red and jade rose here and there, sending black plumes high enough to mask the now night sky. All of this, to the slowing, ragged breaths of one who fell at the gate.

”Okiba—Fr-friend. Hau—hm…tel-tell me…” pressed the wounded Pandaren, weakly raising his right hand to settle it on the Orcs left, trying to reassure him even in his own perilous state.

”Ask, though don’t over exert yourself.”

”What—hm…” Fhu started then paused, wincing in terrible pain, his gleaming jade eyes rolling in agony as he struggled to draw a breath, though this did not long slow him.

”What-… makes you’a so af-raid?”

Even now, he thinks of others…

He didn’t know how to answer. He’d long suspected his time in the army and Kor’kron had left some deeper, unseen scar that had brought about his shaking hand. But it was not a fear of battle, he never shirked that. No, his hand trembled, and dreams turned to terrors because…

”…Failing my brothers in arms. Failing the cause, living only to see it fail too.” The Orc answered, bowing his head in shame. He could feel his heart begin to race, sinking downward, knowing the cycle of loss and failure would claim another life. Fhu coughed weakly in response, a look of pained thought on his features, fur dripping with blood and sweat.

”Failure-… is’a the greatest teacher. Find’a cause… Hauh—aghh!” The Pandaren writhed, struggling with the pain, his clawed hand squeezing Okiba’s tight. ”…find a cause, worth living t-to learn for.”

Learn for?

”Fhu- I don’t understand, just rest, Help will come…--“ Began Okiba, believing the pain had finally pushed the bears words away from wisdom to addled confusion.

”Live… my friend. You m-ust want to li…“

[Okiba]

Soldier: Chapter 26 – Farewell

”Change is inevitable, and nothing to be feared.”

Two years ago.

The sweet smell of incense on the wind did little to mask the bitter scent of ash and fire. The others gave no heed to it, their focus was elsewhere, on the emotion and pain of the moment. Okiba however perceived the un-important, the trivial, and the finer details of what didn’t matter.

Whatever it takes so I don’t have to think about it.

Unscrewing his eyes, he looked upon the small family shrine without willing it. The neatly built wall of stones shaped in a half circle that came to knee height was crowned in the centre by a small edifice of cut stone, marked with dozens of names of generations long passed. In-front of it sat offerings of food, incense, family keepsakes and urns. At its side was propped the Redstaff, resting by a new urn, its ashes fresh from a pyre some hours earlier.

The sobbing of Shin-wei Redstaff broke the tranquillity of the place. Fhu’s mother had insisted he be honoured the same way as his ancestors, all his ancestors, at the family shrine. Fhen-li, her Husband, held her tight as he tried to console her as she grieved his son. Fhen-li was calm, but his expression was filled with remorse for words not said and time cut short.

With the funeral rites done, the urn set and offerings given, Father and Mother began to slowly lead the procession down the cobbled path between outcrops of bamboo to return to the family home. Okiba made no attempt to follow; he didn’t have the heart or courage to face them in a home that was not his, an Orcish outsider, a stranger. Durotar had been home once, long ago. Now he felt as if he belonged to no place or people.

What now?

Jihaan was suddenly beside him, silent and ominous for a half the beat of a heart. But he wasn’t angry, the Pandaren warrior had been solemn and patient these last days. Dressed in dark robes, his green eyes remain fixed on the family shrine where, according to the rites given, the spirit of his nephew had now departed this world from. Stepping forward two places, Okiba watched him mutely as he knelt and placed a small toy, a cloud serpent carved of wood and painted green by hand, next to the urn. The significance was unknown to the Orc, but he fathomed it represented some childhood bond between uncle and nephew.

”I…--” Began the Orc, wanting to say something that burned on the edge of his mind, an admissions of guilt, but Jihaan raised a hand as he stepped back, motioning in placation.

”You have’a nothing to apologize for, friend, be at’a ease. Nobody in’a my family, least of all ‘ame, blames you.” Jihaan spoke gently, the edge of his voice crackling with emotion barely kept in check. His eyes remained on the shrine, torn with quiet sadness.

Okiba could not muster words in response, despite the appeasing words his heart simply sank further. He lowered his head further yet still, gazing at his cloth wrapped feet.

”My Nephew fought’a with courage, and’a honour, defending his’a people. And you--?”

Okiba looked up, staring at the Pandaren as a lone tear ran down his furry cheek.

”you stood’a by him, you risked’ayour life for his cause and’a our people. For that, we are’a thankful and’a glad for your friendship…”

”jihaan—“

”But as we mourn, we must’a ask for’a favour. A request me and’a my Nephew cannot meet, but must’a be honoured all’a the same.”

Okiba furrowed his brow; this had taken a turn he had not expected. Leaping from the absolving of guilt to requests founded on honour. The change in topic was suddenly mirrored by the bears face, it became hard, firm. Suppressing emotion, acting matter of fact.

”Speak it, and I shall help you any way I can, Jiha—“

”We havea received a letter, a request for’a Fhu to aid some Orcish friends of’a his back in Durotar. I would’a ask that you go in his, and’a my, place.”

”Back to Durotar, and the Horde? I’m not sure I’d be welcome now.” Okiba frowned further, imagining a mob of Horde peoples, chasing down the dastardly returning Kor’kron.

”You’a will be fine, especially under the protection of’a these friends. They are strong, but in’a dire need of aid. You will’a have to sail soon.”

”Who are these friends?” questioned the Orc, curious as to whom the Redstaff family held in such regard as to honour so far flung of a request.

”They, my’a friend, are the Red Blade.”

[Okiba]

Soldier: Chapter 27 – Return

”Only when you return to the start, can you truly comprehend just how far you have come.

Two years ago.

Dry dust burnt at his nostrils. The heat didn’t come from above, no; it burned the earth so that the air rose, searching upwards for anything unfortunate to grasp at. That was the heat of Durotar in summer; he’d forgotten how it felt, how it made him sweat. He’d oddly missed it.

By the spirits how you’ve missed it.

The stink of riding Worgs, the scent of half burnt bacon, the sweetly bitter tang of the taverns ales on the wind. Razor hill had been a temporary home when he first joined the army, but by the spirits it was home. Though it felt the same, parts had changed. The mark of the rebellion in particular had scarred the place with a larger graveyard, and filled the barracks with Darkspear Head hunters and Tauren braves. Razor hill, indeed Durotar, was no longer just for the Orcs alone. Vol’Jin had changed the Horde, and now Sylvanas Windrunner changed it too. A throng of Forsaken footman began to march by with a supply cart in tow, all heading toward the barrens as he entered through the western gate.

Time will tell on that change too.

Frankly, after the horrors of the wrath-gate he couldn’t stand or trust the forsaken, but after his time in the Undercity he felt a strange pity for them too. It was a confused feeling, he knew he should tolerate or try to embrace them, but some instinct, a reflex learned from bitter experience forced him to be cautiously suspicious. The Pandaren had taught him much, but the ability to apply true forgiveness still eluded him. Perhaps that was the Orc inside him speaking, or the former Kor’kron.

He adjusted his head-wrap as he walked, the strange hood and mask he’d been gifted by Jihaan had been a superb guard against the cold when scaling the peaks of Kun’lai, and it shielded him well from the dust storms and sun now. He considered how odd he must look, an Orc carrying a Pandaren spear, with sparring gloves, a silk shirt and bandaged foot-wraps. Indeed, many a grunt gave him curious glances as if he was some foreign stranger of a far off land. Jihaan had geared him superbly, even making a Dao-sabre for him, hanging from a woven martial style belt, weaved carefully by the hands of Shin-wei Redstaff using red fabric, complete with a buckle of bronze etched with the Redstaff family crest, a bronzed red leaf.

I may as well be anything but an Orc.

The Huojin tabard though, especialy when adorned with his military insignia all on a green hided Orc, marked him as one of them. He was of the Horde, pardoned for his part in an unjust war, but part of the Horde all the same. That’s all they need see, to take note of. He slowed his pace, adjusting the large backpack over his shoulder as he arrived in the centre of town, looking around and inhaling the sight and scent of home. It would have been so easy to stand here and forget why he had come, lost in nostalgia…

But you won’t forget, you came to Honour Fhu, to Honour Jihaan

The letter of summons that Jihaan had given him spoke of the Red Blade Orcs, a powerful tribe he’d heard mention of before. A pack of wolf riding nomads loyal to the horde… but declined of late, some said near wiped out by the ongoing war against the Legion. The letter had been from their Chieftain, Kozgugore Feraleye, speaking of a danger in the shadows. Orcs of this pack were to gather here, before setting off to Stonetalon… so here he had come to chance a meeting with them, so this threat could be faced, and for his part the memory of Fhu would be honoured. He would help in his stead.

The memory of a friend should always be honoured.

And then he spotted him. An Orc he’d not seen in some ten years. A visage that had cut such an impression in his mind that he viewed him, even now, as the epitome of Orcish soldiering.

Broldok…?

The Sergeant that had recruited him as a Grunt stood tall by the mailbox outside the tavern, still watching over his charge and duty with a fierce eye. Though he was diminished, his left arm was missing from the elbow down, while new scars littered his body and the once jet black beard sported thick, weaving lengths of grey. The eyes remained the same though, watching, judging, vigilant as a hawk. Okiba could not help but smile, wondering if he’d recognize him-…

He’ll remember me surely?

He turned and began heading toward the tavern slowly, removing the head-wrap like cowl that covered his features, immediately drawing the sergeant’s attention and withering stare. Those burning red eyes and that furrowed brow looked him up and down, taking in every little feature as Okiba approached, and when at last he was under the towering taverns shadow and only a few paces away, Broldok curiously brought his left foot next to his right and stood proudly at attention.

”Seagent! It has been a long ti—“

”Sir! Welcome to Razor hill, is this an inspection?” Replied Broldok immediately and firmly, not even allowing Okiba the opportunity to complete his sentence. He raised his brow at the way he was addressed.

Sir?

He hadn’t been called that in a long time, not since before internment by the Shado-pan, and only then by the company Sergeants-…

You’re Insignia…

He glanced down at his tabard, pinned proudly by his shoulder was the symbol of a Legionnaire, polished and gleaming for all to see. With that came understanding, Broldok didn’t recognise him.

”Ah-… hm, no, Sergeant, there is no inspection. At ease.”
”Very good Sir, though if you don’t mind me asking, what’s brass as yourself doing down here? Especially one that looks as travelled as, well, yourself, sir.” Broldok looked the younger Orc up and down again, squinting with curiousity. Though no longer did he look down at him, Okiba had grown to match the older Orc in height, no longer the 17 winters old runt that could have been blown away by a sharp razor wind.

Does he really not recognise me? Does he at least suspect?

”Just a Soldier returned from his time away, it is good however to see you’re still here, Broldok. It seems time has chipped away at us both. He smiled, tapping his broken tusk and scarred face before shooting a hinting glance at the spot where the sergeants arm used to be.

Broldok half bristled, half laughed, the gleam of comprehension shining in his eyes. He strode up proudly with heavy footstep. He sniffed, looking Okiba up and down, nearly snout to snout with the younger Orc, taking in all the changed features. A grizzled red beard, scars from foot to scalp, foreign weapons and exotic clothing…

”Thralls balls! Little Okiba, returned from the wars! Hra! And an officer too…”
”Officer no more, Kor’kron remember, discharged and disbanded. So no need to call me sir.”
”Bah, none of that, half of war is surviving. And if you survived this long, you deserve that badge, Hra…”

Broldok looked him up and down once more, mesmerized znd fascinated by the perceived change he saw, his elbow long stump waving about with emphasis.

”Well, its goo to see you. A lot has changed around here since the old days… hm. What brings you back?”
”Ah, errand. Honouring a request from a fallen friend, ghrm.”
”Ghm, Spirits guide them. Good Orc, doing stuff like that, glad to see your time under old Broldok taught you good values! What is the errand?

The change in tone from Broldok was bewildering. Gone was the scrutiny, the withering stares and barking tone. He was welcoming, friendly, and respectful.

Is this approval?

”Seeking out the Red Blade Orcs, they need a hand with something by all accounts.”
”Those Wolf riding lot? Ghrm, they’ve been very quiet of late, took a hard hit when the Legion showed up. But they frequent the tavern most nights, or huddle around a fire up by the big tree… I’ll point them out later.”

Well that’s them found… but first…

”That would be greatly appreciated, however, there’s something I need to do that I wish I could of done sooner.” Added Okiba, nodding his head as Broldok quirked a brow of intrigue.

”And what would that be…?”
”I need to buy you a drink.”
”No.”

What-?

He was taken back, even after al this time, all the battles, struggles, scars and death. He still wasn’t worthy of buying Seargeant Broldok a simple ale? The senior Orc stepped forward again, looking Okiba up and down sternly before clapping him on the shoulder firmly with his only hand and guiding him toward the tavern door.

”No, the drinks are on me.”

The End, and, the Beginning.