Earning It
Or; The Backbreaker Gets Broken
Or; The Backbreaker Gets Broken
((Alright! Just a few hours ago, I partook in one of the most honestly enjoyable RP sessions of my reasonably long career. Taking all the relevant bits and pieces out of emotes, /say, Party and Guild, and throwing in some stuff myself (the italicised things), I figured I'd hammer it together into a narrative of sorts for your reading pleasure, similar to what my pal Zarquon did when his mage Craer killed my mage Mamun. If that thread was a eulogy for a wise old sage from Tanaris, then this is a eulogy for Voragh's bloated pride, heh.
Divided into spoilered 'chapters' of sorts partially because of the explicit content (some swearing and implied mutilation with the results, physical and emotional, discussed in detail) and partially because it's damn long. But if you choose to read it, have fun. I know I did.))
One: Punishments Deserved
Spoiler:
He watched them through two sets of bar as they twitched and shuddered and screamed under the net. He felt neither guilt nor sympathy for them as they fried, and found himself pining for more as the onslaught relaxed. After the trouble they'd given him, they all deserved it.
Right?
Faceless steps away again. Her six goons exit the cell, and one of them pulls the lever that opens the inner gates once more.
"Boss."
"Yes?"
"We've settled on givin' 'em one feedin' a day. Two drinks o' water that ain't the murloc's bath. That good by you?"
"Yes."
"Figure if we keep 'em a little hungry, they'll be tired an' less likely ta stir shit--"
"And, Orc?" Pause. The elf's face flashed behind his eyes. The elf he'd killed against her orders. "Come with me."
"Boss."
"Bu--"
"The rest of you? Dismissed."
Voragh blinks, nodding slowly. He follows her as she leaves, frowning solemnly. In Orcish, he whispers " . . . ancestors be praised." Because by their blood, he'd need their aid, now.
And so the Faceless human in heavy plate leads him away, off down the hall, away from the cell, from the guards, from one of his only real friends in this damn hellhole, and out to whatever punishment awaited him.
Caravan watches him go and mutters, "Aw, man."
Right?
Faceless steps away again. Her six goons exit the cell, and one of them pulls the lever that opens the inner gates once more.
"Boss."
"Yes?"
"We've settled on givin' 'em one feedin' a day. Two drinks o' water that ain't the murloc's bath. That good by you?"
"Yes."
"Figure if we keep 'em a little hungry, they'll be tired an' less likely ta stir shit--"
"And, Orc?" Pause. The elf's face flashed behind his eyes. The elf he'd killed against her orders. "Come with me."
"Boss."
"Bu--"
"The rest of you? Dismissed."
Voragh blinks, nodding slowly. He follows her as she leaves, frowning solemnly. In Orcish, he whispers " . . . ancestors be praised." Because by their blood, he'd need their aid, now.
And so the Faceless human in heavy plate leads him away, off down the hall, away from the cell, from the guards, from one of his only real friends in this damn hellhole, and out to whatever punishment awaited him.
Caravan watches him go and mutters, "Aw, man."
Two: To the Pain
Spoiler:
A torture chamber. That's where she takes him. It hasn't seen much use. Hell, he's been taking some meals in here.
Voragh exhales slowly through his nose.
"Boss."
"I will give you a choice." The woman leans back against the blooded table.
He pulls up his mask and tightens the strap. Peering.
She tilts her head over to the side. "I will either remove two pairs of matching fingers from your hands, one of your choice and one of mine, or I will remove a pair of matching limbs from an individual, guard or otherwise... Of my own choice.""
He nods once, blinking a few times. "'Of your own choice', huh? So I either lose four fingers or lose two limbs."
"Not quite. You lose four fingers, or someone else loses both their arms or legs. On you, of course, as you're making the choice to save your own fingers."
He stares at her measuredly, the dried-blood maroon of his eyes looking tired and blank. And he remembers in that moment the first night in the camps. The older orc beside him, whimpering and muttering, staring at the missing, cauterising stumps of his legs that terminated where his knees should have been.
"An' I don't get no say who loses 'em if I pick elsewise." He thinks of the ones he hates. He thinks of the ones who deserve it.
"No."
And then he thinks of the bloody, cruel, indiscriminate, random pain and suffering that seems to have followed him his whole life. " . . . Right." He thinks of bad things happening to good people. And slowly but surely, he makes his mind up.
Wordlessly, and without any sort of expression, Voragh begins removing his gauntlets. But then he pauses, one bare hand moving to his brow. He rubs the creases of wrinkles and scars across his forehead, wiping away the salty sweat that's collecting in them. "Damn," he eventaully mutters, after the longest pause; and then a little louder, with a laugh. "Spirits damn."
Faceless nods, patting the table next to her as she rummages for a tool. She's picked her pair. Now he picks his. She starts chopping. And he starts screaming.
Caravan pats her knees as she flinches with each howl.
Voragh exhales slowly through his nose.
"Boss."
"I will give you a choice." The woman leans back against the blooded table.
He pulls up his mask and tightens the strap. Peering.
She tilts her head over to the side. "I will either remove two pairs of matching fingers from your hands, one of your choice and one of mine, or I will remove a pair of matching limbs from an individual, guard or otherwise... Of my own choice.""
He nods once, blinking a few times. "'Of your own choice', huh? So I either lose four fingers or lose two limbs."
"Not quite. You lose four fingers, or someone else loses both their arms or legs. On you, of course, as you're making the choice to save your own fingers."
He stares at her measuredly, the dried-blood maroon of his eyes looking tired and blank. And he remembers in that moment the first night in the camps. The older orc beside him, whimpering and muttering, staring at the missing, cauterising stumps of his legs that terminated where his knees should have been.
"An' I don't get no say who loses 'em if I pick elsewise." He thinks of the ones he hates. He thinks of the ones who deserve it.
"No."
And then he thinks of the bloody, cruel, indiscriminate, random pain and suffering that seems to have followed him his whole life. " . . . Right." He thinks of bad things happening to good people. And slowly but surely, he makes his mind up.
Wordlessly, and without any sort of expression, Voragh begins removing his gauntlets. But then he pauses, one bare hand moving to his brow. He rubs the creases of wrinkles and scars across his forehead, wiping away the salty sweat that's collecting in them. "Damn," he eventaully mutters, after the longest pause; and then a little louder, with a laugh. "Spirits damn."
Faceless nods, patting the table next to her as she rummages for a tool. She's picked her pair. Now he picks his. She starts chopping. And he starts screaming.
Caravan pats her knees as she flinches with each howl.
Three: Dismissed
Spoiler:
Faceless gives Voragh a gentle pat on the shoulder as all is done and over with. "Good choice."
Voragh stares down at his hands. And then, a muted whisper; ". . . thanks."
"Dismissed."
. . . he nods slowly and begins walking away. Not back towards the cell, back the way he came, but in the other direction to some unknown place. Voragh slowly pulls his gauntlets back on. He flexes his fingers.
And then he howls like a mad animal, louder than ever.
Voragh stares down at his hands. And then, a muted whisper; ". . . thanks."
"Dismissed."
. . . he nods slowly and begins walking away. Not back towards the cell, back the way he came, but in the other direction to some unknown place. Voragh slowly pulls his gauntlets back on. He flexes his fingers.
And then he howls like a mad animal, louder than ever.
Four: Aftermath
Spoiler:
He thinks of the first time he ever held a sword properly. He thinks of the security, the strength that floods through him when he takes one into his hands.
And then, he thinks of the last time he ever held a sword properly, and he knows he'll never feel that power again.
It fuels his onslaught.
Voragh is punching the living fel out of an iron maiden, intermittently letting out screams of pain as his gauntleted fists connect with the metal, again and again. "Fffuuuuck! Aaggh-aacckk-aaagh! Fff--sshh---"
Cara grumbles, her little body shaking in irritation. She stops suddenly at seeing Voragh brutalize the iron maiden. Her voice breaks slightly, assuming a more natural Gnomish pitch, as she says, "You okay...?"
Voragh -continues- punching, however, although his punches seem to be thrown primarily with the knuckles of his index and middle fingers.
"Hey-ey-ey..."
The face of the iron maiden is actually dented, slightly warped out of shape. He's been at it for a while.
Cara removes her hat and holds it in front of her as she looks between Voragh and the metal. She reaches out with a hand to pat his knee.
Voragh abruptly stumbles backwards, panting heavily, and holds up his hands to look at them. Within his gauntlets, the little and ring fingers of his hands are hanging limp, bent backwards at odd angles.
Cara drops her hat and holds out her hands. She assumes her usual voice but the tone's softer, "Give them here."
Wait. No. As Voragh's hands shake slowly, it's plainly clear that those fingers hanging limp are moving far, far too limply.
Cara 's jaw tightens but she continues to hold out her hands, lifting them up a bit. She repeats, gently, "Give 'em here."
Voragh slowly lowers his hands down to Caravan. "W-well, you definitely showed that there me'al box who's boss..."
She realises something. She can feel through his gloves that his ring and little fingers just aren't -there-.
" . . . I can't even punch good no more . . ." Voragh slowly sinks to one knee in front of Cara. He holds up his fingers - all six of them. "She gave me talon hands, 'Van. Like a raptor."
Cara 's inhale is more of a hiss as she notices his hands, and she bats an eye before making sure her face is a rigid mask of care-freeness. She coos softly, "No, no, baby... you still got it. Look at that there box."
Voragh looks at Cara, wide-eyed, and for a moment he seems on the verge of tears. And then he looks up at his handiwork on the dented iron maiden and howls with rage once more. "I -can't-, though, damn it! I f**kin' cant! It -hurts-!"
Cara shifts his hands to one of hers and uses her free hand to gently cup his masked face. "I know... I know it hurts."
Voragh jabs an elbow clumsily at Cara abruptly, not trying to strike her but rather trying to urge her away from him. "Get off me! Get off!"
Cara lets go of his face but continues to hold onto his hands lightly. She mutters no apology nor even looks remorseful; instead, she nods understandingly.
Voragh struggles to his feet and goes immediately for his sword, yanking it free of the leather loop holding it to his belt and readying it for a swing.
Cara presses her hands against her hips and looks him in the eye, one eyebrow cocked.
Voragh fumbles uselessly with his thumbs and remaining few fingers on the massive grip of his giant's sword. He tries to get a good hold of it but it's clear that he just can't.
Tears are soon streaking down the orc's face. He's shaking uncontrollably. ". . . I f**kin' can't . . . I f**kin' can't, 'Van . . ."
Cara says softly, "You know..." She eyes his hands trying to hold the sword and she licks her lips before continuing, "You know, this ain't so bad... I knew a goblin who lost both 'is 'ands in an explosion.. an' then got new metal ones. We could... we could try t' fin' somethin' like that?
Voragh ignores her. He steadies his grip and abruptly jerks to the side, swinging his massive sword in a violent, scything arc through the air . . .
Cara coos softly, "Easy, easy."
. . . and the sword's massive grip flies free of Voragh's freshly maimed hands, clattering into a nearby wall and falling. And with it flies away his future.
Thragash watches. He lifts an eyebrow.
Cara doesn't take her eyes off of Voragh but holds out her hand to Thragash.
Voragh slowly sinks back down and wraps his arms around his head tightly, sobbing into them, shaking back and forth on his knees as his remaining fingers twitch and tremble. ". . . I can't hold it, 'Van," he mutters weakly, and then again and again. "I can't hold it . . ."
Cara takes a few hesitant steps closer to Voragh, watching him carefully.
Voragh looks up, his voice rising sharp to a blood-curdling howl. "What f**kin' use am I if I can't hold my damn sword?!"
Cara flinches.
Voragh wheels to the side and pounds his fist - such as it is - into the stone floor, then yowls in pain.
Thragash watches in silence, his expression unchanged.
Cara takes his hands in hers -- as well as her little gnome hands can, that is -- and frowns at him, murmuring lowly, "Now you bes' leave off of that foolishness before you done mess up yer 'ands more, sugar. You look at me, Backbreaker."
Voragh still trembles quite considerably, a few tears streaking down his cheeks and snot bubbling at his nose. His breathing is shaky, shuddering, and he slowly meets Cara's eyes.
Cara says softly, "Good. Now you listen t' me and you listen good. S'gon' be hard but you're still you. You're still the meanes' orc there is, remember? Ain't nobody got the right t' tell you y'ain't otherwise.
Sugar, I ain't taller'n a flea an' I ain't let tha' stop me. So you los' a few fingers, s'okay. Ain't the end o' no world. You get yerself a lighter sword.
Ya done punched out that there box like it was nothin'. If'n that were me, I'd be plum dead. So I ain't wanna hear 'nother word 'bout how you can't hit the witcherways outta nothin'."
Her speech concluded, a long silence rolls over them. And with it, some semblance of hope. ". . . but I been trainin' all my life wit' swords that big . . . I'm forty, 'Van, -forty- . . . An' the rest o' the time I been trainin' . . . wit' my -fists- . . . " And his voice raises into a shout again. And it seems the hope is gone. "AN' I AIN'T GOT NO DAMN FISTS!"
"Y'ain't dead!"
Voragh waves his maimed hands wildly at Cara's face, balled - in spite of what he's just said - into the closest things to fists he can now muster without little or ring fingers.
Caravan's mouth turns down into a frown but she looks past his hands and maintains eye-contact with an empathetic nod.
And then, he thinks of the last time he ever held a sword properly, and he knows he'll never feel that power again.
It fuels his onslaught.
Voragh is punching the living fel out of an iron maiden, intermittently letting out screams of pain as his gauntleted fists connect with the metal, again and again. "Fffuuuuck! Aaggh-aacckk-aaagh! Fff--sshh---"
Cara grumbles, her little body shaking in irritation. She stops suddenly at seeing Voragh brutalize the iron maiden. Her voice breaks slightly, assuming a more natural Gnomish pitch, as she says, "You okay...?"
Voragh -continues- punching, however, although his punches seem to be thrown primarily with the knuckles of his index and middle fingers.
"Hey-ey-ey..."
The face of the iron maiden is actually dented, slightly warped out of shape. He's been at it for a while.
Cara removes her hat and holds it in front of her as she looks between Voragh and the metal. She reaches out with a hand to pat his knee.
Voragh abruptly stumbles backwards, panting heavily, and holds up his hands to look at them. Within his gauntlets, the little and ring fingers of his hands are hanging limp, bent backwards at odd angles.
Cara drops her hat and holds out her hands. She assumes her usual voice but the tone's softer, "Give them here."
Wait. No. As Voragh's hands shake slowly, it's plainly clear that those fingers hanging limp are moving far, far too limply.
Cara 's jaw tightens but she continues to hold out her hands, lifting them up a bit. She repeats, gently, "Give 'em here."
Voragh slowly lowers his hands down to Caravan. "W-well, you definitely showed that there me'al box who's boss..."
She realises something. She can feel through his gloves that his ring and little fingers just aren't -there-.
" . . . I can't even punch good no more . . ." Voragh slowly sinks to one knee in front of Cara. He holds up his fingers - all six of them. "She gave me talon hands, 'Van. Like a raptor."
Cara 's inhale is more of a hiss as she notices his hands, and she bats an eye before making sure her face is a rigid mask of care-freeness. She coos softly, "No, no, baby... you still got it. Look at that there box."
Voragh looks at Cara, wide-eyed, and for a moment he seems on the verge of tears. And then he looks up at his handiwork on the dented iron maiden and howls with rage once more. "I -can't-, though, damn it! I f**kin' cant! It -hurts-!"
Cara shifts his hands to one of hers and uses her free hand to gently cup his masked face. "I know... I know it hurts."
Voragh jabs an elbow clumsily at Cara abruptly, not trying to strike her but rather trying to urge her away from him. "Get off me! Get off!"
Cara lets go of his face but continues to hold onto his hands lightly. She mutters no apology nor even looks remorseful; instead, she nods understandingly.
Voragh struggles to his feet and goes immediately for his sword, yanking it free of the leather loop holding it to his belt and readying it for a swing.
Cara presses her hands against her hips and looks him in the eye, one eyebrow cocked.
Voragh fumbles uselessly with his thumbs and remaining few fingers on the massive grip of his giant's sword. He tries to get a good hold of it but it's clear that he just can't.
Tears are soon streaking down the orc's face. He's shaking uncontrollably. ". . . I f**kin' can't . . . I f**kin' can't, 'Van . . ."
Cara says softly, "You know..." She eyes his hands trying to hold the sword and she licks her lips before continuing, "You know, this ain't so bad... I knew a goblin who lost both 'is 'ands in an explosion.. an' then got new metal ones. We could... we could try t' fin' somethin' like that?
Voragh ignores her. He steadies his grip and abruptly jerks to the side, swinging his massive sword in a violent, scything arc through the air . . .
Cara coos softly, "Easy, easy."
. . . and the sword's massive grip flies free of Voragh's freshly maimed hands, clattering into a nearby wall and falling. And with it flies away his future.
Thragash watches. He lifts an eyebrow.
Cara doesn't take her eyes off of Voragh but holds out her hand to Thragash.
Voragh slowly sinks back down and wraps his arms around his head tightly, sobbing into them, shaking back and forth on his knees as his remaining fingers twitch and tremble. ". . . I can't hold it, 'Van," he mutters weakly, and then again and again. "I can't hold it . . ."
Cara takes a few hesitant steps closer to Voragh, watching him carefully.
Voragh looks up, his voice rising sharp to a blood-curdling howl. "What f**kin' use am I if I can't hold my damn sword?!"
Cara flinches.
Voragh wheels to the side and pounds his fist - such as it is - into the stone floor, then yowls in pain.
Thragash watches in silence, his expression unchanged.
Cara takes his hands in hers -- as well as her little gnome hands can, that is -- and frowns at him, murmuring lowly, "Now you bes' leave off of that foolishness before you done mess up yer 'ands more, sugar. You look at me, Backbreaker."
Voragh still trembles quite considerably, a few tears streaking down his cheeks and snot bubbling at his nose. His breathing is shaky, shuddering, and he slowly meets Cara's eyes.
Cara says softly, "Good. Now you listen t' me and you listen good. S'gon' be hard but you're still you. You're still the meanes' orc there is, remember? Ain't nobody got the right t' tell you y'ain't otherwise.
Sugar, I ain't taller'n a flea an' I ain't let tha' stop me. So you los' a few fingers, s'okay. Ain't the end o' no world. You get yerself a lighter sword.
Ya done punched out that there box like it was nothin'. If'n that were me, I'd be plum dead. So I ain't wanna hear 'nother word 'bout how you can't hit the witcherways outta nothin'."
Her speech concluded, a long silence rolls over them. And with it, some semblance of hope. ". . . but I been trainin' all my life wit' swords that big . . . I'm forty, 'Van, -forty- . . . An' the rest o' the time I been trainin' . . . wit' my -fists- . . . " And his voice raises into a shout again. And it seems the hope is gone. "AN' I AIN'T GOT NO DAMN FISTS!"
"Y'ain't dead!"
Voragh waves his maimed hands wildly at Cara's face, balled - in spite of what he's just said - into the closest things to fists he can now muster without little or ring fingers.
Caravan's mouth turns down into a frown but she looks past his hands and maintains eye-contact with an empathetic nod.
Five: Interruption
Spoiler:
For a moment, the longest kind of moment, his whole world is him, the gnome and a watching pair of eyes. And then there's someone else in the room that he barely notices. The elf. The mother. The corpse.
Cerice turns to look over Voragh. "Is the human in charge still here?"
"Does she -look- like she still here?"
Thragash looks over at Cerice. "I wouldn't interrupt."
"Obviously not in this vicinity, but the building?"
"Use yer damn eyes!"
Cerice speaks plainly. "I was speaking to the orc, not, you gnome."
Pause. "Orc."
Cara lets go of Voragh's hands and steps up to Cerice.
Voragh is too busy hugging his head on the ground, shaking. He becomes suddenly still, however, at the sound of the elf's voice.
"Can you speak for yourself?"
Cara would go to shove Cerice back rather roughly. "Back off. He ain't ready to speak ta nobody."
Thragash steps forward, now, into Voragh's line of vision. "Elf, leave him be. Collar or not, I'll hit yer 'ead 'gainst the wall repeatedly."
Voragh rises shakily to his feet, letting his arms fall to his sides.
Cerice looks over the gnome. "...A simple answer would suffice, your dramatic friend is only making this worse."
"-You- wanna find her, you go find her."
"I'd just like to know where she is. I'm not even being rude." Cerice stares stoically to the orc.
"Yer bein' rude."
Voragh stares stoically back down at Cerice, as though whichever orc who was just bawling and trashing his surroundings in grief has just stepped out on a coffee break. " . . . Try the cathedral," he grunts after a moment. "Chapel. Whatever it is. I don't know the Common word." He lets out a hacking cough.
She watches him for a moment, considering. And then Cerice nods. "Thank you."
Walking away, she shakes her head. "Stupid gnome."
" ...hmph."
Cara releases the tension in her balled-up fists.
Voragh stares daggers at the back of the elf's head. He shakes again, but it's a different sort of shaking, now. He shakes out of rage rather than grief. "SHE AIN'T f**kIN' STUPID, YOU UNNATURAL, ROTTEN SLUT!"
"Hey now, hey now."
Voragh turns, beelines for the iron maiden and just plain jump-kicks it, shouting incoherently again in anger.
Cara lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. Ah, well, see... you done got them legs.
"... gonna kill 'imself doin' that."
Cara looks at Thragash and shrugs, almost in a defeated gesture, "I'm only one gnome."
Voragh blinks a few times. Then he slowly starts to laugh. Because it's funny, or because the only other thing he can do is get up and stab someone? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. He just keeps laughing.
Six: Punishment Deserved
Spoiler:
But somebody else steps into the room and soon she also steps into his field of vision. Another elf. The priestess. She peers down at him from afar, sceptical, curious.
"What has happened...?"
"Things."
Something hits Thragash. "...'ow'd it 'appen?"
"Why is the Orc laying upon the ground?"
"Buckethead or Metal Suit or whatever." Cara pats Voragh's head.
Voragh continues his giddy, shrill laughter on the floor. His eyes are streaming again, however. " . . . I got what I deserved." He croaks as he speaks.
"Is...something wrong with him?"
"Oh, no, he jus' usually got himself the case of the chuckles." Cara frowns sharply at Kynara.
"...no, 'e normally acts this way. O' course somethin's wrong with 'im!"
Endling peers. "What... happened?"
Kynara peers at Voragh. "What do you mean?"
". . . I . . . I killed that elf, didn't I?"
"No, y'ain't deserved this."
". . . I got what I deserved . . ."
Thragash doesn't argue.
Endling wouldn't either. She just peers from the distance.
"Negligence killed him, no-"
Voragh holds up his gloved, gauntleted hands for Kynara to see. Within the gloves, his ring and little fingers are plainly missing.
Kynara frowns, moving to kneel next to the Orc. "May I remove the gauntlets to heal your hands?"
Cara glares angrily at Kynara.
Voragh shakes his head. "She done burnt 'em. Cauterised 'em. Ain't no point."
"I wish to heal the pain, not regrow. That is out of my ability anyway."
Cara gently smooths Voragh's hair. He slowly pushes himself to his feet, grabbing hold of the iron maiden he's been savaging for support.
"Do you wish for the pain to be healed?
". . . No. Take yer healin' shit elsewhere. I ain't need it." Voragh exhales sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. A string of wet snot from his crying flies free at that, ruining any drama in the moment.
"Very well. Please at least submurge the hand in cold water."
"No. I earnt this."
"Did you mean to cause his death?"
Thragash crosses his arms.
Voragh sinks back against the iron maiden. " . . . No. Ancestor's balls, no. I -liked- the guy. He . . . he always came ta my tournaments." He blinks repeatedly.
Cara presses her hands against her hips.
Endling peers silently at Kynara.
"Then you did not earn it, you were the unfortunate scapegoat for the punishment needed to make an example."
"...debatable."
Endling nods in agreement with Thraga- Wait, Thragash? She blinks.
"I would not blame yourself, for the fault lies as well for my failure to fully check on those who fought."
"Ain't no one else to blame. I killed 'im." Voragh aims a venomous glance at Thragash out of nowhere. "I don't need more'n six fingers ta rip your f**kin' head off, runt. Get back ta work."
Thragash rolls his shoulders back. "Shoot ya bile elsewhere, I ain't interested in 'earin' it."
"-Hey-." Cara kicks his metal boot and hisses, rubbing her toe.
Kynara tips her head to Voragh. "One does not always need to hide what they feel. Do try to numb the wound if you won't let me heal it."
And with that snippet of wisdom shared, Voragh watched her walk away down the corridor. ". . . yeah, f**k you too. Wise-ass dumb f**kin' treehuggin' b***h."
Cara snorts. "Wear less metal shoes. So'n I can kick ya easier."
"I like my damn metal shoes." He listens to them thud against the stone underfoot as he starts making his way out of the dungeon.
"Yer takin' it out on me...but this is where yer path took ya. Learn somethin' from it."
Voragh turns, fire in his eyes once again. "You a shaman, runt? You speak ta the spirits?" He ducks down, picking up the massive sword he flung and securing it clumsily to his belt once more.
Cara balances on one foot and stares at her other one, "Mayhaps broke a li'l somethin."
"No. I don't need t' be a shaman to know that, though."
" . . . sure ya don't. Sure ya don't." With that, he prowls off and out of the dungeon slowly.
Thragash snorts, rolling his shoulders back. "Might feel a measure of sympathy fer 'im if 'e weren't rude t' everyone 'e meets."
Cara winks slyly at Thragash. "S'okay, sugar, you can feel it." She picks up her hat and dusts it off bruskly before setting it atop her head.
Thragash watches Cara silently for a moment. "...ya watch 'im? Might do somethin' stupid."
Cara shrugs simply, "Yeah, yeah, I'm on it...the big lug."
((TL;DR? The most character development that's ever occurred to one of my characters in two hours, beating Voragh's already hefty record of Rigley's event with the troll spirits in Tanaris (Wuvvums, Ural and Mimloopen know what I'm talking about).
Special thanks to Loxmardin, for throwing the Kidnapped events and instigating the punishment; Lancelet, for so graciously killing off his character and starting the whole thing off; and Caravan, Grakor, Reigen, ThePharaoh, Rigley and everyone else who had a role in the RP. <3 you guys.
Hope it was a good read.))
![[Image: 0f084241-4e8f-4ebc-9f46-e942e4c544a8_zps7e42bd8f.jpg]](http://i663.photobucket.com/albums/uu360/Brisalis/0f084241-4e8f-4ebc-9f46-e942e4c544a8_zps7e42bd8f.jpg)
)![[Image: large.png?1309884332]](http://assets.mmoguildsites.com/s3/gallery_images/312564/large.png?1309884332)
