Conquest of the Horde

Mak'ti Bloodtusk

The elder Orc Warlock hobbled quickly through The Drag in Orgrimmar, back hunched more than usual as her cane tap-tapped on the stone floor. The doors were closed, only a few, forlorn lights guiding the way of her hurried walk. The Guards on patrol either blatantly ignored her, or stared after her lazily until they got bored with this and continued their walk.

She descended westwards into an alcove with only two entrances. The light descent was always hell to her knees, yet she'd learned to ignore the pain. Well, partially. Every step sent a shock of pain throughout her knee, and if she put too much weight on a foot, she would know. Her walking, where once easy, had become a labor worse than summoning a Demon.

The Warlock went to a door, straightening her back. A few spasms of pain caused her to close her eyes. With a shaking hand, she rose her cane and tapped upon the door twice. Another Orc, younger than herself, opened the door and beckoned her in with a hand, bowing to the side. She replaced her cane to the ground, leaning more on it than her own feet as she was hustled inside the dimly lit room.

Everything was ready. The runes on the ground were the only source of light, causing a pulsing, deep purple to fill the room. She let her eyes adjust to the dim light, before tossing her cane aside and erecting her back. She took her position, raising her hands as a low, demonic drawl in the Demonic Language filled her ears.


Sha'dash Featherstrike

Sha'dash finished preening an underside feather from his left wing, folding it back to his side and reassuring himself that his feet were still firmly wrapped around the branch. He had little more to do lately, but it was enough. After all, a giant Owl to swoop at you in the dead of night was enough to scare off most Orcish war parties, and such his job was easy.

His large eyes swooped over the road stretching far behind and before. Many other roads were like this in Ashenvale, but this one was his. Nothing was particularly special about it, no. Perhaps it was too regular. But, the more regular, the better. It allowed him to think undoubtedly and still be able to help his cause.

Why so many of his people were blind to his cause constantly escaped him, though. Perhaps the smell of other races acted like a drug to the younger people, a mutation from the immortality, perhaps. He'd heard of the Kaldorei being banned from their own lands over something like this. He would have it no either way. Either you're with us, or you're against us.

He narrowed his dish-like eyes, attempting to remember where the quote had previously been heard. However, no memories were to be called up, and he left it for a later time. His thoughts changed to his newly formed organization, Tor Ilisar'thera'nal.

I think Tarania's got more people. If not, hopefully we can pick some up at Maestra's Post. The Keeper of the Grove needed me, so hopefully I can deliver. He shook his head, watching a small rat scurry from the road to a nearby hill, where he disappeared into the shrubbery. He shook his feathers, Hopefully, we won't have to hide to survive. Hopefully, I can trust my own. A few powerful flaps and he swooped off of his branch, banking to the west. Maestra's Post, and hopefully his new team, was waiting.

Mak'ti Bloodtusk

The Felguard corpse laid only a few feet away, the Demon drained of all it's blood. The Warlock that had let her in handed her a few vials of felblood. Immediately upon leaving the house, she took one of the vials and poured it down her mouth.

The power was intoxicating -- Something she had not felt in years. The fires that lit her way home were brighter, the sounds of insects scurrying louder, the smell of the Drags more aromic than ever before. Immediately, her instinct yelled at her to run back to the group, overpower them and steal their felblood for her own. No, that would never work. She knew that they would drink the Felblood just as quickly, and that she was no match for the amount of Orcs they had within their compound.

Her eyes drifted to one of the Grunts on patrol. A malicious grin lighting up her fingers, she hid her cane behind her back. The shadows hid her wrinkles as she approached, and, with touches pain in the back of the Orcess' mouth, called up a younger voice. Deeming her voice fit for her task, she half-jogged to the Grunt, Grunt! I just saw a few Orcs talking with a Felguard! None else was needed to say, as the Orcs, even today, were on high alert for the Burning Blade Clan, and it's sister clans. The Orc nodded his thanks, then called a few of his partners to himself. They hurried down to the Cleft of Shadow. She waited until the sound of their feet had subsided, before creeping outwards.

The apprehended Orcs had gone without a fight, hoping to be able to weasel out of the situation. The Guards left with the Warlocks and, in their shadow, Mak'ti entered the house. The Felblood was not hard to find -- A newly dug pile of Earth, easy to see with her fel-enfused eyesight. She dug it all out, carrying it back to her hovel with a quickened step.

However, as she hobbled into her hovel, she thought over her actions. She hadn't changed clothes -- The Guards would know it was her.

But would they know? They had no clue the Warlocks had any Felblood, and the Warlocks wouldn't blabber that... But the Warlocks would know who was behind it. They would come for her. But they wouldn't get out! Working with Demons was a serious crime in Orgrimmar. By the time they got out, Mak'ti would be dead, probably.

Content with her answer, she began to look for a hiding place.


Sha'dash Featherstrike

The forest of Ashenvale was far below. Sha'dash, effectively, was on the outside world. This was a place he did not want to be, did not care about, even. Yet, below him was his forest. Below him was where he belonged, and where he had sworn to protect. This was where his life would be. It had given him life and thus, his life was forfeit to protect it.

He swooped down, the familiar feel of a strong wind whipping his face continuously. If Owls could grin, he would be. He spread out his wings, talons outstretched as he landed gracefully on a large branch. He closed his large eyes, thinking about how close Maestra's Post was. It was still quite a ways away, considering how much he'd been lolligagging as he flew.

Flying was such fun. How people could not like it, he had no clue. Yet, as much as Ashenvale was, it was entwined within his life and never to leave. Since he had learned to fly, all that while ago, he had been bent on mastering it. Yet, he knew this was an impossible goal. The Shaman could try with their Magic, the Druids with their own, and the others with their technology, but none would ever be able to fly as well as one of those born in the sky.

Birds. How he envied them. They flew the skies and needed nothing else in life to survive. He would kill one thousand Orcs to become one of them. Sure, he could go a Sava-- No. He could not go there. Savagekin were dangerous and could rarely be reasoned with. Often, they were more hurt than harm, unless unleashed correctly. But that meant using another Kaldorei for your own means.

But they were not Sha'dash's means, no. They were Malorne's means, Elune's means, the Kaldorei's means. They were in defense of the home that had raised them all. They were in defense of the home that would raise their children, had granted them immortality, and had saved them when the world had been torn apart. They owed Ashenvale for so much, and now, as they had been dependent on Ashenvale as the first Kaldorei had opened their eyes, they would be until the last Kaldorei had closed them. And, for her protection and nourishment, the Kaldorei owed her their lives. Death or Victory was the only answer when their home came under attack.

Lok'tar Ogar, Sha'dash thought bitterly. He opened his wings, and dived down into his homes interior.

Mak'ti Bloodtusk

The Plague was in the air. Mak'ti could see it float around -- Perhaps that was her imagination, although. Her Parano -- No, she wasn't paranoid. The Demon Hunter had looked at her. He knew about the Felblood, he knew about her drinking it, and she had no doubt in her mind that he'd be coming for her, hunting h -- No, he wouldn't. He'd think that she had scrammed. She had outsmarted him.

She had more expertise fighting. She'd fought the Draenei, she'd fought the Humans, she'd fought the Elves. What had the Elf fought? Nothing. He'd sat around hugging trees until a Demon had come and messed up a friend, or something. Than he'd overreacted and alienated himself from his people.

The Orc Warlock had thrown back her hood long ago, and now rubbed her eyesockets with the heels of her hands. At the latest thought, she grinned, Easier to take their forest, then. The bag of Felblood sat across from her and, as her bloodshot eyes drifted over, the spark of lust returned, burning within the dull red pupil.

Slowly, she began to push herself up, disregarding the multiple shoots of pain that rocketed through her body. The blood will rid me of this pain. She narrowed her eyes, The blood will make me a beacon for that damned Hunter! She shoved herself upwards, wobbling towards the upper door of the residence she had found. What she'd found inside had told her it was a Blacksmith place, which was all the better. She'd stacked the Weapons found in the lower doorway, making the only way accessible was through her own demonic circle, which lit up the lower half in it's own sickly green glow.

The doors swung open easily, and she hobbled outside. Her stomach rumbled, and she frowned. She'd need a bit of fel to get into the inn... And the Demon Hunter couldn't attack her there. She'd be safe there. But people there would get suspicious of her blood. The goodie-two-shoes that, for some odd reason beyond her comprehension felt the need to hang out with whores, slavers and pirates, would get suspicious of her behavior and attack, or force her out.

But how much would the food cost? She'd not brought money, for some odd reason, and all the coin had been cleared out of the place. Perhaps, she'd have to go primal.

The door swung back inside, and she strode, straight backed, to the bag of felblood-filled vials. She ripped the cork out of a small vial, the blood falling into her mouth. She ingested it quickly, then began her walk out of Booty Bay. Anyone that ran at her got a Shadowbolt in their face. She continued walking, quick paced, until she looked around and found a Gorilla, staring at her curiously from above, in a tree.

A spell of Immolate met it, and, in it's confusion, pain and horror, it fell out of it's tree perch and onto the ground. The Gorilla kept writhing on the ground, hooting in horror for more than a few moments, until it went still. Mak'ti smiled, grabbing the charred corpse's hand. Both disappeared in a pile of ash.


Sha'dash Featherstrike


Sha'dash landed in a graceful swoop of feathers, quickly demorphing into his Humanoid form. He hopped off the root he had landed on, crossing his arms over his chest and letting a small smile join his facial expressions. He loved this place. The statues formed a half circle, all on their own podium, all staring at a spot of dirt. Sha'dash strode forward, uncrossing his arms and staring directly at the center and largest Patron. Elune.

First was Elune, arms spread out and head bowed. Her hands rested on the head of Aviana and Malorne, Messenger and Mate respectively. The Stag had his body pointed away from the Woman, yet his head was directed at Elune, watching the spot of dirt out of the corner of his eye. The bird, on the other hand, was facing directly to Elune, eyes focused on Sha'dash. At Elune's feet was a two headed dog, one head chewing at it's haunch as the other studied you. Sha'dash knew this as Omen.

On the far side of Aviana was a Keeper of the Grove, but not just any. Cenarius had his stone legs bent oddly in somewhat of a sitting position, hands folded within eachother. His head was cocked to the side. Next was a giant boar, covered in spikes. His legs were placed outwards, head swerved to stare at whoever had decided to call on his wisdom. Beside him were two bears, one glaring at Sha'dash whilst the other stood on his hind legs, regarding him with curiosity.

Besides him was a small Wolverine, legs crooked and hand using to balance himself. The second arm was raised high in the air, and this one just stared. Contrast to his partner, the Fox beside him had laid down, ears perked and head resting on a paw. He looked bored at Sha'dash. A Panther, wings folded around itself, sat calmly, a yawn reflecting the same story as the Fox's attitude. Next were multiple, small people, no larger than a Gnome, with butterfly wings. Only a few watched you, each with curiosity, as the others floated around, being held in the air by a spell.

Afterwards was a stone ball, held aloft by an enchantment. If one were to look closely enough, they would see a face. A newcomer might have trouble noticing this, but Sha'dash automatically realized, partially from study and partially from being here so many times, that it was Aessina. Next was a giant ball, two eyes peering at you from just outside the rocky shell. Tortolla, one of the few Ancients that survived the War, so far back. Besides the Turtle was the Turtle's opposite, Goldrinn. The Wolf seemed ready to pounce at you should you make a wrong move, forward legs folded back and rear in the air. His teeth glared at you in the moonlight that shone in Ashenvale.

As Sha'dash's eyes continued surveying the list, they fell onto a Snakish warrior, head bowed. One could not even tell if he was watching you, or only listening. Next were multiple figures, all robed and hooded, as to hide their identity for no known reason. A few overly thin bugs stared at Sha'dash from the next podium, which caused Sha'dash to be reminded of the Qiraji. Next was a Dwarf, or something similar to it. Two wolves sat on one side of the figure, and a sickle was held high on the other side.

O powerful ones, let me begin this by thanking you all for your constant vigil over our lands, and your help countless times throughout my races plight. Although all may not realize it, or care, we are your caretakers just as you were ours. With this, he strode to the statues, each separately, and meticulously cleaned them of all moss, waste or anything that ruined their glory. It had been a while since he'd last visited. Once finished, he returned to the sandy spot. I have but one question for you today. I wish to ask why so little people care about you, our nurturers.

The Elf shook his head in frustration, One does not leave their mother to die once she has fed them. Especially after their mother has protected them from the evils of the world for years. Perhaps sacrifices are needed, yet they are needed for everything. He pinched the bridge of his nose, than looked upwards, eyes sweeping over the statues, I suppose that you would not be able to answer why your children do not love you. He stepped off the sand, bowing, I apologize for my kin.

He turned around, taking a few steps than rising into the sky.

Mak'ti Bloodtusk

Mak'ti shivered once more, eyes drifting over the bag of Felblood. Out of reflex, she reached for it, yet pulled her hand back. She only had a few vials left. She had to save them for when it was needed. But, if this Plague kept up, than it would be needed for longer... She'd need to go somewhere else, away from here, where she'd be safe. Safety was her number 1 concern, right? Right. So she'd need to go to a safer place.

Orgrimmar, perhaps? No one could attack her there. The Grunts would protect her. She'd be safer, with no over-emotional Night Elf watching her from afar. Perhaps a few Warlocks, but she could take them. She had the experience, the Felblood. But they had numbers. She shook her head, speaking aloud. I can still take them. They're no more than Neophytes, where I am the Master. They know this, and they'll keep their distance. She pushed herself up, groaning and squeezing her eyes shut as her back protested her actions.

She snatched up the bag, which was considerably lighter, and hobbled down the stairs. A wave of the hand dispelled the Demonic Circle that had saved her life countless times over the last few days. Another wave set afire the barricade and, with a grim satisfaction, the female Warlock watched it dissolve into ash.

She pulled a vial from her bag and took a sip, just enough to summon a Dreadsteed and mount it. She did both, then slumped forward on the saddle, ignoring the cold metal as the Dreadsteed careened out of Booty Bay and to the North.


Owen Fanggun

The Human eyed his gun up and down, shoving the security lock into place. His eyes sweeped to the hilt, noting the time on the small clock. Next, he rolled his shoulder, head swinging to look around for any enemies. Be it Undead, Worgen or Defias, he had fought them. Even though this land -- Duskwood -- was not his own, it was within Alliance lands, even if the army didn't always act like it.

In truth, he was not even from Alliance lands. He was from Terokkar, raised within Allerian Stronghold amongst High Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes and Humans. Anything that was not one of those, or an Orc, was frankly quite new and scary to him. Purple, blue, green, what the fel had made these things? What had given them fur and horns, hooves and tails? Humans were better, simpler. Nothing more to take care of than their head and limbs. Their skin was easily washable and would make a horrible carpet. What humanoid form better to be?

He pulled his mask outwards, lifting the hat open and rubbing his scarred face. There was a reason he nearly always wore his hat and mask. It was so everyone didn't puke. Scar tissue went from above his left eye, curling with his jawbone to end just below his right eye. Of course, his left eye no longer worked, and his speech was often slurred to the degree of being completely ununderstandable.

He winced as the memory of the Worgen's claw tearing across his face raced to mind, a hand rubbing his jaw. He nodded at the Guard guarding the entrance to Darkshire, who squinted, winced and nodded, "And you can put the hat back on!" He did so.

He strode to the mailbox, grabbing the sole letter in his box. There was an interesting seal on it, something eerily similar to the Alliance Vanguard, yet with it's own changes. He tore the seal off, eying the letter.


He read the rest of the letter, than calculated his thoughts. He'd have enough to get to the encampment, but just barely. Perhaps he could catch the next boat to Howling Fjord.

And, perhaps, he could hunt some more Worgen.

The prospect brought a grin to his tattered face.

Maggie Carilaston

Oh dear...

The Forsaken paced within Silverpine Forest. She was somewhere south of Shadowfang Keep, the castle looming ominously ahead. She did not care for it, though. The place had been cleared out long ago. Well, relatively. There were still Worgen haunting the place. Or so she had heard. Regardless, if so, there were too many for her, and she, literally, lacked the guts to venture forth into the Keep. So, she'd let it stay. Not that it would move anyways.

Anyways, back to the matter at hand. The Forsaken paced around a small campfire. Or, the remains of one. A tattered Kirin Tor banner fluttered gently in the breeze, and the stink of rotted food was overwhelmingly evident. However, no corpses were to be found. This could only mean one thing.

Oh dear...

She immediately turned to the nearest tent and walked in. The armor they wore was not hard to find -- In fact, it wasn't even armor. It was a robe. As it was the only article of clothing that was held off of the ground, Maggie found it easy to identify as clean and safe to wear, not that it being safe would change anything. She threw the purple robe on under her own clothes, made sure her pistol and knife were secure underneath and hugged her sword to her chest.

A glade was not hard to find, either. She cleared a small spot in the undergrowth, to make it seem as she'd been there for a while, and lay down. She concealed the sword under her to hide it from eyes. The rotting of her corpse would also help to the testimony that she'd been there for a while. Her plan, as always, was flawless.

It would go like this; a Worgen would find the "corpse" and come take a look at it. As the Worgen neared, the corpse would spring up and severe their jugular. Flawless! It worked every time.

Eventually, a Worgen did come along. However, he was not alone. Another was with him. Both were dressed shoddily in rags and, upon seeing Maggie, seemed more interested in the clothes then in the corpse. The first one went down easily, but the second one threw a bundle of leaves at Maggie and ran. He got away.

Maggie cursed at herself for her insolence, before taking off in the opposite direction. But, she never let a job go unfinished. This pack of Worgen would be yet another trophy for her.

Ekrag Spineshatter

Ekrag held his hammer on a shoulder, one hand on the hilt and the other resting atop his head. Two Quilboars sat near him, skulls caved in. A third's corpse was somewhere far off. He maneuvered his wrist so the hammer was pulled off his shoulder and held it, face on the ground. His face was contorted as thoughts raged inside.

What was it, again?

He turned around and hung the leather strap connected to the hammer around his chest, trudging toward the faint outline of the Crossroads. The wildlife minded their own business, as the brown-dressed Orc nearly blended in with the ground, despite the numerous green parts of his body. He glanced at them thoughtfully as he trudged past them, sliding down the rocks and running back up them when he got to a ditch.

I hate when this happens.

He spotted two Centaurs on the horizon, but they were well gone by the time he'd gotten to where they were. By now, he had intercepted the road and followed it north as red light splattered across the west. As a precaution, he pulled out his hammer to fend off any nocturnal beasts that may be coming out to play on this particular stretch of road.

Why does it always happen to me, even? Every time I have some smidget of inspiration, my mental dictionary disappears.

He hummed a small tone to himself as he entered the Crossroads. A small payment allowed him a taxi to Orgrimmar from the Barrens outpost. He bent himself down to the Wyvern's back as the beast took off. The flight was uneventful, and Orgrimmar empty. Bonfires kept the capital lit, and Ekrag made his way to his home, located within the Drag.

Spend three days in the middle of nowhere, and can't get shit for inspiration. Ancestors damn it, undoubtedly.

He dropped his hammer, walking across the small hovel to sit down in the Human-fashioned chair and bury his head in his hands, Stupid writer's block. He took a piece of parchment and pen and began scribbling non-related words on the parchment. Bar, far, war, par, bar... Already said that... Nothing came to mind and, in a rage, he smashed his hand into the table, Fel damnit!

He sat, fuming, before inspiration finally struck. In a hurry, he took up the pen and began to write, saying the words in a slow tone to himself as they were scribbled out across paper.

Where's our patriotism, our pride?
Has it all gone to run and hide?
The Horde is the best, the strongest of all.
And yet half of us won't follow a Warbringer's call.
We should not be constantly on the defense.
Instead we need to break down our restricting fence.
The Alliance should not be able to hold us down!
We have been, and always will be, the strongest in town.
So meet me, and help me, in raising the bar.
Saturday at noon, the Arena of Honor, in our Orgrimmar.

He leaned back and surveyed his work, before leaning forward and copying this multiple times. He picked up the shuffle of papers and hurried out of his house, pinning them up overnight. The Horde would have it's former glory back, no doubt.