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Hell Bindings
Thunder crashed overhead as the figure drapped the twisted, whirling visage over his head. With a muffled grunt of laughter, he fastened it quickly as another bolt struck across the sky. His grubby green and calloused fingers whitened with his bonecrushing grip. Excitement coursed through his veins as he stood before the large rune etched on the dusty ground before the keep. The figure stood just within the walls of the keep known as Thunder Axe Fortress, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary in a wasteland such as Desolace.

Ever since the Destroyer visited the mortal planes of existence, life had radically changed on Azeroth. The rise of cults, fanatics, demons, elementals, what have you. The lands changed, deserts to jungles, jungles to waste. One of those areas was indeed Desolace, and while it benefitted from the fruits of the Destroyer, it would soon be besmirched by evil unrelenting.

With new lands came new weather. Thunderstorms and floods became an uncommon appearance, rather than a rare or legend. In the coming months where most of Azeroth (and Kalimdor specifically) prepared for winter, Desolace too had a change in temperature. The sky screeched loudly in anger and hatred, bolts of electricity striking across the billowing pillars of rain. The storm had blown in from across the northeastern coast, and it intended to wreck havoc for some time.

As the figure stood there in the pouring rain, he picked at the mask as it settled around his face. With a green finger he prodded it's flaps out of his tusks and set to work. His garb was twisted, colored various shades of black, purple, and teal. The top of his mask was adorned with a pair of demonic horns that he had harvested in the Society. He peered at the ground before him, watching the intricate lines lit ablaze in the fel flame that he subconsciously chanted. Within the swirling pit of demonic rune lied a channeling position and a small dirt pit. This little pit was no more than a hole you'd dig at a beach, but it was astonishing how it didn't swamp instantly with sand or filth. He squared his shoulders and stood over the small pit.

His head slowly tilted upwards to face the storm that mercilessly beat the landscape. With another cackle, he extended the digits on both of his hands as far as he could, and began chanting the disgusting words of the damned and cursed.

"Flammis. Inimicitiae. Dolorem!" snarled the orc, shadowflame burning at his palms, charring them in matters of seconds. His eyes burned a bright red, tapping into the fel of old. A large book that hung limply around his belt suddenly levitated and floated off of his waist, fluttering before the old orc warlock as he continued.

"Adduc ad dominum agri animarum!" he roared, pausing. "Master, I call for you now, the time is ripe! Come, come my master! Your presence is needed to suppress these mortals.." he wheezed, slowly placing his palms together as he screamed in utter agony. The flame on his hands caught fire to his gloves, and the rest of his arms followed. As his limbs blackened in the flames of his own creations, the rune's fel-flamed colors turned black and dark. This part was complete, and after a short while of channeling, the orc stopped. With a sickening grin, absent souls that perished on the fields he performed the ritual were absorbed as sacrifices.

"Master, I shall make your passing into mortal lands easier.." huffed the old orc, his arm quaking as he reached towards his belt. A sacrificial dagger clung to the loose cloth. "I offer you a sacrifice of by your servant, to show my loyalty and my affixation.. To show you shall succeed, to show you shall conquer, to show you have soldiers who will DIE for you, and WORSE!" he growled loudly, intoxicated with rising power and the screaming chorus of souls and whispers. He ripped the dagger from his belt and held it eye-level. "I am Grimsight, I have been damned since a ripe age, and I seal my fate with destiny today! Master, I shall be your sight!" the orc raved, before suddenly plunging the dagger forwards towards his mask. With a scream of rage, he angled the dagger so it easily had leverage against his stem. With a brutal slice, his bad eye emerged and left a crater in the old orc's face. He plunged the dagger into the pit he stood over, allowing his blood to pool over his 'sacrifice'.

His screams soared across the mountains of Desolace for the remainder of the night. The orc was hell bound.
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