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Let It Flow
The sound of liquid rushing forth from an old watering pan filled the air of the chamber. Though the echoes of blades clashing with axes echoed outside, the orc watering his flowers paid no heed. Training, as they were supposed to be. Preparing for the day they'd eventually enter battle once more. That was their way. This, though, was his way of steadying the mind.

There was no rush to his effort, no need to hurry. The plants weren't going anywhere, and he certainly wasn't making an effort to speed through the ordeal. No, the old orc simply calmed himself as he watched the water fall. He saw each flower receive its fair share of the life-giving fluid, before he moved onto the next. It wasn't an obsessive act so much as it was a meditating one. As his hand moved to tend to one flower than the next, he was able to contemplate his station in life, let his mind wander, let it think freely about the way his road seemed to wind and turn.

His eyes narrowed gently in disappointment as the watering pan's steady flow of water turned into a trickle. A sigh escaped him, shoulder rising and falling, as he looked to his flowers one last time. There were only five, but still, each was important to him. He made an effort to think of each of his kin as he moved from one to the next, contemplating what they must be up to. The troubled warrior, the wanderer, the young far seer, the dragonsworn, the old flame. He doubted any of them truly suspected his age was catching up with him. After all, he made an effort to hide in when they saw him. But the time for retiring from the field was coming. Giving up his mantle and passing it on to a worthy successor. Retiring to the Valley of Trials, to see to the raising of the next generation before he finally passed on.

The old orc turned around, pan in hand, his eyes widening at an unfamiliar sight in the center of his chamber. Tall, clad in shining metal armor, a cloak of green leaves and daggers draped around her shoulders. Standing with a moon-shaped blade hanging in her hands. Watching. The narrow slits in her helm revealed angry silver eyes, glaring upon the warlord.

"... How long have y-"

"Blood for blood, greenskin.

"Warriors! To me!" the old orc hollered, falling back as the armored woman marched swiftly towards him. Without his own raiment, without his blazing claws, he knew well enough this was a hopeless battle. His back pressed against the wall, a growl passed through his snarling lips. Maybe so, he thought. But this wolf won't die without one last howl.

Roaring, pushing past his fear of death, the warlord threw his pan at what he knew to be an elf. It was easily dodged, banging against the stone walls of his room, but it mattered not. Merely to buy him time to find a weapon. Find -anything- that could be used. Nothing was in sight - she stood between him and his claws. His hands formed tight fists, shaking in fury. Have to get past her...

He snatched the nearby table, lifting it barely off the ground with one hand before throwing it with extreme force at the Kaldorei, easily dodged once again. Hoping the distraction would give him enough time, the old orc's feet beat against the cold stone floor as he sprinted around the perimeter of the room, making it only halfway to his gear before the elf slammed hard into his side with a shoulder bash, crushing him between the wall and her bladed cloak. He reached out with a hand to backhand her, to swat her away. But once again she nimbly ducked, rising up to sweep him off his feet with a short kick.

On his back, he pulled back both legs for a devastating mule kick, the attack right on target. "LOK'TAR OGAR!" was the sound of the roar right outside his door, and he could hear the fast-approaching warriors he had summoned to his aid. Lashing out, his kick connected... with air. His eyes widened at the vanished elf, darting around to try and spot her, onto to feel a strong boot placed atop his brow, pinning his head in position. Soon he saw the moon-shaped blade pressing against his throat.

"Blood for blood." Her blade cut deep before she vanished once more. His life flowed from him, a hand clutching his slit neck. He tried to breathe, but it was of no use. Vision grew hazy. Thoughts less clear. As he slipped away, he heard the warriors call out for a shaman, for medical aid. High Warlord Rendtear's eyes shut, final thoughts on those he was leaving behind, before he slipped into unconsciousness.
Quote:[8:53AM] Cassius: Xigo is the best guy ever. he doesn't afraid of anything.
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Kneeling upon the strong branches of an Ashenvale tree, an armored figure looked down at an orcish encampment nestled on the border of the encroaching Horde's 'territory'. Territory, the figured scoffed to herself in the safety of her mind. This is elven land, elven territory. Yet they would desecrate it and try to proclaim it as their own. The thoughts stirring inside her caused her grip to tighten upon her moon-sword, the pure steel shining in the faint light of Elune peeking through. As she looked upwards to gaze upon the symbol, some say manifestation, of the Kaldorei goddess, her heart began to race.

She did not kill for her people today. Nor did she kill for a goddess she did not believe in. She killed for herself, for revenge. Blood had been taken from her family. Was this unusual, the taking of life in Ashenvale? No. It was as common as the rising and setting of Elune. Something to be expected. 'Sisters' and 'brothers' gave their lives on a daily basis to protect their beloved homeland from so many threats. But this? This was special. It was a rare occasion that someone of her blood, someone of her family died. The thought of her aunt's final moments churned her blood, as she imagined what horrific fate the old warrior must have faced.

The image of her beloved aunt's festering corpse was still vivid in her imagination. There was no doubt in her mind when it was shown to her by a Sentinel patrol that had made the discovery, her recognition of her mother's sister's body was immediately recognized by the Warden. Her head ripped from her shoulders, what she discovered to be the cuts of an axe slashed across her body. She knew the creatures of that region well enough, and there was only one thing which would kill in such a manner. An orc. Briefly she imagined her aunt's head hanging from a ceiling as a trophy of some sort, a prize earned. It was the way of such savages. Shuddering, her eyes tightly shut, she tried to forget the image now burned into her mind. But the effort was to no effect.

Focusing her attention, she looked down to the orcish encampment she had been observing now for hours. Looking for the one greenskin to take her revenge against. She had to cut a scar deep within the Horde. Take away someone they would mourn. Of course, she didn't know any orcs personally, the sight of one disgusted her, so she couldn't figure out which one was who's friend. Orcs punched one another in the gut as greeting, friends wrestled each other. It made no sense. So she just figured out which one would have the greatest impact on them as a whole. And her target was clear.

The one they respected. Saluted. Clad in armor that looked like it was chiseled from molten rock, his fists as fiery as a phoenix's claws. If not their leader, this one was important to them. She watched him commit to his rounds for the day. See him reprimand disobedient soldiers. Praise those who performed well in their daily routines. Give out orders. Yes. This was the one. The one that had to die.

She had watched him the entire day. Waiting for the moment to strike. And as he returned to his chambers to retire for the night, she made her way down from her great tree. As she came closer to the camp, blending into the darkness of Ashenvale, she made true to her aunt's name with quiet words.

"Anuil Oathkeeper will be avenged."

The deed was done.

Sindri Evertide removed her helmet, once again resting in the branches of a great tree, the blood of Kil'shi Rendtear still fresh and dripping from her moon-sword. In her mind she continuously replayed the death of the High Warlord in her thoughts. Blade slicing cleanly through his throat, his blood staining the stone floor. It was a perfect execution. What was he thinking when he died, she wondered. What were his last thoughts?

Knowing orcs? He was probably just sad he wouldn't take a life again.

The enraged sounds of howling orcs meaning nothing to her, she sat upon the branches, pondering her kill. As satisfying as the slaying of such a beast was, it did nothing to fill the void left by her fallen aunt. Her own mother's death did not have as much an effect on her as Anuil's. Sindri's progenitor died honorably, in combat to save the entire world. The Warden herself wished she could die as her mother did. But Anuil's death was... dirty. Filthy. Her head was being used as a trophy somewhere. Other orcs were praising the one that killed her. Rewarding her.

... It won't be enough, she concluded. One orc's death means nothing in comparison to Anuil's. No. More must die.

As her eyes looked back to where she slew the High Warlord, she thought of what little she knew of orcish tradition. That is when the sinister idea struck her. How to truly bring despair to those that slew her aunt. The funeral pyre. She had observed the orcs put their dead to rest in the past. Friends and family came from far and wide to pay their final respects to the burning orc stacked upon a mound of wood. She also knew well enough that the orcs had their ancestors, which apparently watched over them. They asked their dead for guidance, which went to show how stupid the greenskins were. Asking the fallen for advice on what to do while alive.

Regardless. If dead orcs observed the living. If ancestors still kept watch over the offspring of their offspring. Then she could bring distress to hundreds, if not thousands of orcs, by forcing them to watch as their line was systematically slain. Cruel, perhaps, the Warden mused.

But such beasts deserve such cruelty.

Turning her back on the orcish encampment, where orcs still howled, obviously arguing over who should succeed their once-living leader, she made her decision. She would follow her victim's corpse. She would attend his funeral pyre. And she would kill his family, while he could do nothing but watch. The ultimate revenge.
Quote:[8:53AM] Cassius: Xigo is the best guy ever. he doesn't afraid of anything.
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This post is non-canonical. Orcs cannot die.
I Am the Sea

Need an easy way to host/link files and images? Check this thread!

Try to never just say, "My character isn't interested in that adventure." A lot of people mistake this for good roleplaying, because you are asserting your character's personality. Wrong. Good roleplaying should never bring the game to a screeching halt. One of your jobs as a player is to come up with a reason why your character would be interested in a plot. After all, your personality is entirely in your hands, not the DM's. Come up with a reason why the adventure (or the reward) might appeal to you, no matter how esoteric or roundabout the reasoning. -(Source)
Through the dark woods the small pack of worg ran together. Their heavy feet padded against earth and stone alike, and occasionally they would plow through puddles and shallow streams. They didn’t seem to mind the ever changing terrain. Brave and unfaltering, the worg would shake the droplets of water and mud from their coats and press forward. At the head of the pack was the Alpha. He was the largest, with a gleaming coat of reddish brown fur. He kept his nose close to the ground, sniffing out the way for the others that followed him, and here and there lifted his head to watch for approaching danger while his ears twitched. He was efficient in his movements, and never directly steered the others into harm’s way.

Upon catching the scent of a potential meal, the great Alpha moved in a wide arc to remove himself and his brood from the main path. They would observe their prey from the cover of the underbrush and wait for the moment to strike. The worg spread out, surrounding the grazing deer that their Alpha had sniffed out. The sweet creature chewed thoughtfully at the grass and flowers by its feet, flicking its white tail as it enjoyed the meal that the forest had provided.

But it wasn’t alone…

The deer lifted its head, ears twitching as it stared forward into the shady undergrowth of the forest. It couldn’t see what was in waiting, but instinct is sometimes more powerful than all the senses. It blinked those large doe eyes, and took a few wary steps back.
Upon seeing the deer move, the Alpha urged his pack into action. They sprang forward from all sides, out of the darkness and into the fair light of the moon where the deer could clearly see their bright white fangs and teeth. The deer had nowhere to run, but it tried to flee even as the worg family charged forward with their snarling maws. One of the smaller worg landed its paws on the deer’s back haunches, using its weight to drag the back end of the deer down. Another worg used this opportunity to go for the throat while the deer turned its head and tried to kick at her attacker. The pack of efficient hunters would eat well tonight. They were made for this, working together to bring down other creatures for their survival. Whether the creature be swift, or another predator, the noble worg were ready for the challenge.

Once the deer was down, they all began to rip and tear at the meat. Each worg was getting its fill, but they still gave the Alpha ample space to enjoy his share. The deer’s blood stained their teeth, fur, and noses as they ate heartily, and the grass turned dark when it too was covered in carnage from the kill. The Alpha was content with the pack’s work, and he trudged up to one of the smaller wolves, one of his own reddish brown hue, and licked at its nose affectionately. That small worg shared the gesture back, licking the nose of her alpha briefly before going back to her meal. This was their moment of glory and kinship. A culmination of all those things that worg were praised and revered for.

It was then, in their moment of revelry and celebration that the large bird came from the sky. Its shrill angry shriek echoed through the darkest reaches of the forest, and other birds picked up the cry. With eyes intent on the Alpha, the bird plunged down from nowhere and savagely tore at his throat with her pointed talons. Then, just as soon as she had come, the bird took off back to the sky and began to circle again.

The Alpha’s neck began to wet with blood, and he wobbled on those four legs, falling over on the ground. His pack began to howl fretfully, until their dissonant cries rivaled the bitter callings of the angered birds. The forest was full of sound and fury, for nature’s wrath had been stirred to new heights.

Mochla’s ears were ringing as she broke her trance. She rubbed at her eyes and looked away from the dancing flames of the fire, setting her pipe down on the bench beside her. She wasn’t alone, she remembered then. There had been company before she tuned them out, having been far more fascinated by the flames of the bonfire.

Lirshar was watching her with a furrowed brow. “…Mother? Are you alright? You stopped in the middle of your story.”

Mochla nodded slowly, rubbing at her chin. She took in a slow, steady breath. “I was seeing something.”

One of Lirshar’s soldiers, an enthusiastic Orc by the name of Terc scratched at his cheek. “Somethin’ interestin’?”

“The spirits are drawing my attention to a forest full of conflict,” Mochla replied quietly.

Terc would grunt and spit off to the side. “What, like Ashenvale? Hate that place. Never know when them sneaky Elves are going to ambush warriors and peons alike. Cowards, they are.”

Lirshar chuckled and nodded her agreement. “They never want to stand and face us. It isn’t like they can’t, they just don’t want to. I went toe to toe with a couple of Elves in Azshara once. Did I ever tell you about that, Terc?”

Mochla would immediately stand and make her way over to the worg kennel without a word.

Lirshar blinked. “Mother! Where are you going? Was it something I said?”

The old Farseer hoisted herself onto her white worg and guided him out of the kennel, taking time only to shake her head at Lirshar. “The worg is in danger, and I must save him. It is not his time. Tell Nag’han where I have gone, or he will worry. Now, I must make haste.” She turned, tugging gently at the worg’s fur and digging her heels into his sides to get him running.

Lirshar turned back to Terc. “What does that even mean “the worg is in danger?” I’ll never understand some of the things she does. Shaman, am I right?” She managed a bit of a smile to show that what she said was partly in good humor.

Mochla gritted her teeth as she and the worg set as fast a pace as they could handle. “Ashenvale…I should have known. Bring me to him spirits of air and wind, do not let me be too late.”
[Image: Lirshar_zpscaa814f0.png]
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With a groan, the old worg's eyes slowly began to open, their dull red color barely visible through his squinted gaze. It was painful to even see, the world a blur around him. A hand moved to rub at his throat, the flesh feeling soft and new. Am I dead? It was an odd question to ask himself in hindsight, but one that was needed. After all... he had never been a part of the ancestor's realm before. Perhaps it was a mirror of reality. Or perhaps he was hallucinating.

He moved to prop himself on an elbow, pushing himself up slightly with a grunt through tightly clenched teeth. Once more the old worg tried to take in his surroundings, only to collapse once more as his strength ebbed from his weary body. His back pushing down the bed of hay he rested on, he sighed. The pain was implacable. It was not his neck that hurt, or his arm, or his chest. Every fiber of his being ached. Even minor thoughts were a confused haze that drifted aimlessly in his mind.

The Kaldorei's assault upon his being was the only thing that rested vividly in his mind, pushing back all other images and thoughts. Replaying over and over. The rest of the world could burn to ash around him, and all he would be thinking about was his near experience with death. It was an imprint on his mind. He tried to think hard about this, why one nearly fatal experience stuck out among all the others. But thinking hard just caused more pain.

His breath steadied as he began to drift into unconsciousness once more. The old worg barely noticed the soft green hand coming to rest on his chest. He reached out slightly to touch it, partially in curiosity, mostly in familiarity, but his hand fell to rest along with him as he slipped away into a quiet, dreaming state. His torso rose and fell with a steady and slow pace, each breath calm and measured. No labored heaves, no fitful twitches.

Quote:[8:53AM] Cassius: Xigo is the best guy ever. he doesn't afraid of anything.
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