10-03-2010, 02:11 PM
This was a story I wrote long ago, back when I was on retail. I posted it on my dA (AdChristos) and my FF.net account, but thought the server community might enjoy it.
None of my characters follow this storyline.
---
The Tower of Stormwind was an ominous figure in the black night sky.
Rising above the city and the citizens below, it was an imposing sign of the justice of the Alliance. It was home to many prisoners of many races who were considered too dangerous to be thrown in the stockades. At the highest story of the tower, we find one such prisoner…
Eliada Grinhand gazed out his to see the bustling world below. The night and the raging storms had forced most citizens, peasants and nobles alike, scurrying into their respected towers and huts. Only a few remained on the streets…but a ‘few' in Stormwind was nothing like a ‘few' back home.
Merchants pawned their goods to hurried townsfolk, who in turn shoveled out coins and escaped to shelter from the thundering rain. This was just an ordinary day for them. No different from others, not their first, one in a million more.
Eliada's large hands gripped the rails that held him back from the world below. It was his last.
He turned his back to the sight and collapsed, letting what little moonlight escaped the clouds seep through his window. He pulled his knees to his chest to warm himself—there was no one else to warm him. The rain falling on him did not help, but the humans were known for their hardiness. They lived in such climates where rain was common—the humans below did not shiver, and neither would he. He allowed his mind to drift to better times.
He remembered the days when his brothers would sit around the fire, exclaiming their hunts and singing long-lost war songs. He remembered the rush of drums and the strumming of instruments as the shamans led them in their dances. He remembered his wife, betrothed to him from birth, and the child that they never had.…
He choked up a little bit, but quickly regained his composure as the bell on the floor above rang, once, twice, three times as two armed guards walked in, accompanied by a priest in flowing robes. The priest's eyes showed no emotion as he chanted off last rites in Common to the orc before him. There were those words again…words he had heard many times before by Alliance, humans and dwarves. Eliada smiled sadly as the guards gripped him roughly and slapped chains on his wrists, and he took one last fleeting look to the window with which he had spent ten years' time. The world out there had not ended well for him.
As the guards, garbed in their white plate and blue tabards, led him through the twisting corridors of the Tower, Eliada receded into his memories.
Brothers and sisters, brown-skinned and pure, laughing around the fire, roasting boar and telling stories. Young men telling outlandish boasts, duels and dares all around, the women always listening, laughing, pushing their men on.
He had lived in between this memory and his window for ten years. The window was gone—he took one last dip into the wells of the past for comfort. He would have none from his captors.
Captors…yes. From the kind words of a wise being, then raucous laughter, and then the mindless slaughters of the draenei, then humans. The war they'd never wanted, the times they now turned from in shame, the screams that they both adored and fled from. Surely he deserved death.
But not like this. The least they could give him was a proper death—a proper death by his own hand. Orcish honor did not include being taken captive for ten years to wallow in shame.
He heard the bell toll again once ahead, and the guards' paces quickened slightly. They roughly pulled him to their sides.
He had tried to tell them of the circumstances—how he had never meant to invade, about the good times, and the lies the Cursed One told them. But they could not understand his tongue any more than he could understand theirs.
He let the light from the torches across the corridor cast an illusion of light across his face. So he was to die like this.
He watched his own feet as he walked down countless stairs. They would have to be reaching the bottom of the Tower by now. He retreated to his memory one last time, to words he had heard in between passing officers, of a Plague, of the death of the king, and how Stormwind could soon become the capital of the Human Empire; he heard of a small band of orcs like himself crossing over to Kalimdor; he heard, lastly, once—in a whisper—of a treaty, and an understanding. That was his last hope, but it was obviously not going to save him now.
Eliada's nostalgia turned to rage for the first time in ages. Why? Why, when he had come so close? When there was a treaty in place, when there was peace, why now was it time to die?
His anger flared from a hot, extreme anger to a cold but furious hatred. He knew the answer, as did his captors. Not even the priest would vouch for him now; he was a dead orc, but to them, that was all he would ever be, and all he had ever been.
The small party reached the bottom of the winding staircase. The guards drew their weapons—though Eliada was in chains, it was not unheard of for his kind to break such meager bonds. They led him forwards into the only deserted place in Stormwind, a small pasture behind the Tower. Lines of nooses lay before him, and Grandmaster Marshal Lighthammer stood poised in the center. Rain stained his glowing armor.
There were far more guards here—four of them any way he looked—and there was no chance of escape. Despair turned to quiet resolve.
The guards undid his chains; there was no danger. Even if he made it past the guards, he could feel the eyes of the archers on his neck. Why must you mock me? thought Eliada. You have killed me before killing me, without killing me!
The Grandmaster beckoned to him, uttering a few words in Common—those words again—final damnations to his prisoner. The guards who had led him thus far had left, and a new pair led him to his noose, fastening it around his neck. Marshal, in his golden paladin armor, turned his face to meet Eliada's. Those are killing eyes, thought he.
Lighthammer finished his speech with more Common. It seemed like a question, and his face fit the deduction so; it seemed that no more better time would approach. He belted out the only words he knew of the Common tongue, learned from the priests that constantly visited and the paladin before him:
“Glory to the Holy Light, and Victory to the Grand Alliance!â€Â
The lever was pulled, and Eliada Grinhand drew his last breath, doing his name justice with the smuggest smile an orc can be seen with, the grin of the final victory, the smirk of the last word.
The guards stood still, and the archers lowered their bows slowly in shock. A strange silence lay over Stormwind, and even the storm quieted, as if holding a moment of still for its lost son.
The silence was broken by Grandmaster Lighthammer as the rain began to gently fall, after a second's hesitation. “Bring out the next prisoner.†The guards came to life once more, with a quick chant of “Yes Grandmaster!†And two marched to the towers with the chains of their last charge.
Those who were watching might tell you that they could see a horrid shiver run through the spine of Grandmaster Marshal as the two soldiers, accompanied by the priest, climbed the stairs to perform their unholy duty.
Then again, maybe it was just the rain.
None of my characters follow this storyline.
---
The Tower of Stormwind was an ominous figure in the black night sky.
Rising above the city and the citizens below, it was an imposing sign of the justice of the Alliance. It was home to many prisoners of many races who were considered too dangerous to be thrown in the stockades. At the highest story of the tower, we find one such prisoner…
Eliada Grinhand gazed out his to see the bustling world below. The night and the raging storms had forced most citizens, peasants and nobles alike, scurrying into their respected towers and huts. Only a few remained on the streets…but a ‘few' in Stormwind was nothing like a ‘few' back home.
Merchants pawned their goods to hurried townsfolk, who in turn shoveled out coins and escaped to shelter from the thundering rain. This was just an ordinary day for them. No different from others, not their first, one in a million more.
Eliada's large hands gripped the rails that held him back from the world below. It was his last.
He turned his back to the sight and collapsed, letting what little moonlight escaped the clouds seep through his window. He pulled his knees to his chest to warm himself—there was no one else to warm him. The rain falling on him did not help, but the humans were known for their hardiness. They lived in such climates where rain was common—the humans below did not shiver, and neither would he. He allowed his mind to drift to better times.
He remembered the days when his brothers would sit around the fire, exclaiming their hunts and singing long-lost war songs. He remembered the rush of drums and the strumming of instruments as the shamans led them in their dances. He remembered his wife, betrothed to him from birth, and the child that they never had.…
He choked up a little bit, but quickly regained his composure as the bell on the floor above rang, once, twice, three times as two armed guards walked in, accompanied by a priest in flowing robes. The priest's eyes showed no emotion as he chanted off last rites in Common to the orc before him. There were those words again…words he had heard many times before by Alliance, humans and dwarves. Eliada smiled sadly as the guards gripped him roughly and slapped chains on his wrists, and he took one last fleeting look to the window with which he had spent ten years' time. The world out there had not ended well for him.
As the guards, garbed in their white plate and blue tabards, led him through the twisting corridors of the Tower, Eliada receded into his memories.
Brothers and sisters, brown-skinned and pure, laughing around the fire, roasting boar and telling stories. Young men telling outlandish boasts, duels and dares all around, the women always listening, laughing, pushing their men on.
He had lived in between this memory and his window for ten years. The window was gone—he took one last dip into the wells of the past for comfort. He would have none from his captors.
Captors…yes. From the kind words of a wise being, then raucous laughter, and then the mindless slaughters of the draenei, then humans. The war they'd never wanted, the times they now turned from in shame, the screams that they both adored and fled from. Surely he deserved death.
But not like this. The least they could give him was a proper death—a proper death by his own hand. Orcish honor did not include being taken captive for ten years to wallow in shame.
He heard the bell toll again once ahead, and the guards' paces quickened slightly. They roughly pulled him to their sides.
He had tried to tell them of the circumstances—how he had never meant to invade, about the good times, and the lies the Cursed One told them. But they could not understand his tongue any more than he could understand theirs.
He let the light from the torches across the corridor cast an illusion of light across his face. So he was to die like this.
He watched his own feet as he walked down countless stairs. They would have to be reaching the bottom of the Tower by now. He retreated to his memory one last time, to words he had heard in between passing officers, of a Plague, of the death of the king, and how Stormwind could soon become the capital of the Human Empire; he heard of a small band of orcs like himself crossing over to Kalimdor; he heard, lastly, once—in a whisper—of a treaty, and an understanding. That was his last hope, but it was obviously not going to save him now.
Eliada's nostalgia turned to rage for the first time in ages. Why? Why, when he had come so close? When there was a treaty in place, when there was peace, why now was it time to die?
His anger flared from a hot, extreme anger to a cold but furious hatred. He knew the answer, as did his captors. Not even the priest would vouch for him now; he was a dead orc, but to them, that was all he would ever be, and all he had ever been.
The small party reached the bottom of the winding staircase. The guards drew their weapons—though Eliada was in chains, it was not unheard of for his kind to break such meager bonds. They led him forwards into the only deserted place in Stormwind, a small pasture behind the Tower. Lines of nooses lay before him, and Grandmaster Marshal Lighthammer stood poised in the center. Rain stained his glowing armor.
There were far more guards here—four of them any way he looked—and there was no chance of escape. Despair turned to quiet resolve.
The guards undid his chains; there was no danger. Even if he made it past the guards, he could feel the eyes of the archers on his neck. Why must you mock me? thought Eliada. You have killed me before killing me, without killing me!
The Grandmaster beckoned to him, uttering a few words in Common—those words again—final damnations to his prisoner. The guards who had led him thus far had left, and a new pair led him to his noose, fastening it around his neck. Marshal, in his golden paladin armor, turned his face to meet Eliada's. Those are killing eyes, thought he.
Lighthammer finished his speech with more Common. It seemed like a question, and his face fit the deduction so; it seemed that no more better time would approach. He belted out the only words he knew of the Common tongue, learned from the priests that constantly visited and the paladin before him:
“Glory to the Holy Light, and Victory to the Grand Alliance!â€Â
The lever was pulled, and Eliada Grinhand drew his last breath, doing his name justice with the smuggest smile an orc can be seen with, the grin of the final victory, the smirk of the last word.
The guards stood still, and the archers lowered their bows slowly in shock. A strange silence lay over Stormwind, and even the storm quieted, as if holding a moment of still for its lost son.
The silence was broken by Grandmaster Lighthammer as the rain began to gently fall, after a second's hesitation. “Bring out the next prisoner.†The guards came to life once more, with a quick chant of “Yes Grandmaster!†And two marched to the towers with the chains of their last charge.
Those who were watching might tell you that they could see a horrid shiver run through the spine of Grandmaster Marshal as the two soldiers, accompanied by the priest, climbed the stairs to perform their unholy duty.
Then again, maybe it was just the rain.
Lumji Hammergrin [Gnome Warrior] - weapons-master, body-builder, tactical expert and avid boxer!
Tigris Coldeye [Orc Rogue] - Scourge-hunter and master of subterfuge!
Ja'kari'fon [Troll Shaman] - paranoid witch doctor, aspiring Shadow Hunter, and tavern-troll!
Tigris Coldeye [Orc Rogue] - Scourge-hunter and master of subterfuge!
Ja'kari'fon [Troll Shaman] - paranoid witch doctor, aspiring Shadow Hunter, and tavern-troll!