Prelude - Voyage

[Tagrok]

He felt his legs losing strength. The wet rope slipped out of his fingers as the world spun. He caught glimpses of the struggling Suzy, of Nakobu lying unconsciously on the deck, rattled by the waves. There, far away near the entrance to the lower deck was…



It began the moment they stepped through the Dark Portal. Clutching Smoke to his chest, Tagrok looked away from the rest of the orcs, one hand moving to cover his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut, grunting quietly in pain as the familiar sensation returned. It was as if somebody raked the inside of his head with a dull knife.

Once everybody was accounted for, Vraxxar gave the signal to continue down the portal's stairs.
"I'll never get used to this'' said Okiba. Tagrok could merely grunt in reply as he tried to stay in the saddle. Hopefully they would assume simple teleportation sickness. Smoke looked up at his face, squished as she was against his chest. The pup whimpered, clearly feeling that something was amiss with the orc.

Wardrums sounded in the distance, slow and steady like the heartbeat of a mountain-sized predator. There was something wrong about the sound, something he couldn't quite pin down. He looked at the other orcs, yet none of them seemed fazed. Nodding to himself, he soon let go of the pup to have her sit on the boar's head. Smoke, lying prone, was looking at Tagrok with… Concern? The orc realized that the pup couldn't possibly understand what was happening but the sinking feeling in his stomach only increased as he watched his young companion.

Thankfully they had decided on letting Tahara ride alongside Kyrazha on Uurekh's spacious back. She had suffered enough in the past weeks and needn't see what happened at this moment. Tagrok recalled how he had felt the moment she was taken way, the rage at seeing her tormentors… The arrow she aimed at him without hesitation. No, she wouldn't be made to watch if he turned back into whatever he had been in Nazmir - at least if he had a say in it.

He had been naive. After everything that happened in Northend, he had scrambled to Bloodmoon for help, taking up the sorcerer's time in order to find a cure. Sitting around idly in Garadar during Kosh'harg and afterwards, he had put off the hunt for ingredients after the voices had stopped. With their return to Azeroth time might be running out at long last.

The drumming was pulsing through him once again, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Whispers flooded his ears, the language unknown, harsh and silky at once - but above all nauseating. They were joined by guttural growls and enticing promises, fear and pride welling up inside of him, fighting for superiority.

Shutting his eyes, the orc grabbed the dagger on his belt. The clan heirloom which had been bestowed on him by the ancestors, his sliver of hope before he was drowned. Everything went quiet as his fingers wrapped around the gronn-bone hilt, safe for a few familiar murmurs. He sighed in relief, opening his eyes just as they stepped over the border into the Swamp of Sorrows.



Until now. All at once the noise, the drumming and the whispers returned in force, coalescing impossibly into words that flooded his senses before he blacked out on the deck of the ship alongside the other orcs.

"There you are."