A Cold Wind [Spirit Champion] [Variant]

[Micheru]

[Not sure if this is still the right place. Working on Gratua's character progression. 1/15]
[Feedback appreciated here!]
[Edit: I know prestige is closed, but (having been given okay), I'm having Gratua go through the standard path, rather than just declaring her Spirit Champion.]

Dust shifted, twisted and banked its way into a sweeping devil, winding it's way towards the wind-battered boards of the shelter she'd taken in the broken village of Caer Darrow, eliciting an unsettling creak from the ruined building. The structure strained against the dust devil that had risen against it, but stood the tide. Her bonfire flickered in the face of the wind, and tinder rose and sent up sparks; still, the canid form before it did not flinch.

Gratua looked up towards the falling sun as it's remaining rays blurred into purple and orange over the crest of the mountains. The spectral form she sat in ebbed and shifted, spreading apart and folding open, like a flower to the sun. Her azure eyes remained on the setting sun, but her form had changed significantly. A green and muscled hand held to the grip of her ritual dagger, carved from the horn of the talbuk she had tracked and slain in her Om'riggor. She shifted slightly on a leg, "I know you are there."

Magma boiled in the corner of her eyes, and she turned to move the image behind her from her peripheral vision. The rolling flames and bubbling magma slowly took shape before her, but fluctuated, threatening to explode outwards and destroy the shell of a hut she had taken up hermitage in. Her grip tightened on her dagger, threatening to shatter it in her hand. Energy rolled outwards from the flowing magma and heat rose within her to sweltering levels, dimming the edges of her vision and threatening to pitch her into the black void of unconsciousness. She fought herself, centering and calling the elements to aide her; flames danced in her vision, as the boiling of the pool of magma before her rose. The flames parted to expose a slowly rising idol of the blackest igneous stone, glittering in the light about it.

The flames became a ring, wrapping about the center of the hut, rolling and rising so all that Gratua could see was fire; fire and the idol. Steeling herself, the Orcess stepped forth towards the idol. It's form became clear to her as she approached it, a totem of the style popular in her childhood on Draenor. She called her nerves into control and strode breathlessly through the magma and the flames and the rising black smoke to seize it. As she walked, the elements peeled away like a sea being parted to allow her passage. Her hand came to rest firmly atop the glittering black totem, and she lifted it from the pillar of magma that it had risen from.

"It is happening again." The voice echoed from behind her. Her vision cleared, and the flames, the magma, the smoke, even the idol were gone. She turned to stare her father in the face. His form was spectral, like her own when traveling in feral shape, but he stood as if carved of iron. Igorosh, son of Dakhan stared imperiously at his daughter, arms folded. "You are being called, Gratua."

She opened her mouth, but words would not come, until finally she managed a broken, "W..what.. is happening?" The spirit that was her father turned to stare at the now risen bone-white sickle of a crescent moon, he did not respond to her question. "When young, you fought the call of the spirits. You were impertinent, dangerous... You threatened my legacy. Yet I still managed to bring you to heel. You have grown.. You now heed the call of the spirits, and serve the elements. You will do.. You will be needed." Turning to stride out the door, his words echoed as he faded into the night, "Terrokkar.. The village you were born in."

A cold wind blew that night, as Gratua prepared herself for the quest laid before her.

[Micheru]

[2/15]

Gratua sat in her father's chair. Olive green arms, rippling with muscle and sinew rested along the lengthy rests at each side, contouring down to claws at the end, where her fingers curved down to rest. Her eyes were closed, but her meditation was not fruitful. The cloying smoke of the incense did little to cover up the stink of the corpse at the edge of room.

Her father's chair had seemed to be more of a throne in her childhood, and she often spent what felt like ages staring up at it. A monolith of dark stone, much like the other furniture in the wreck that had been her family's hut; but unlike the rest of the furniture, it was covered in Orcish runes and carvings telling the story of Igorosh's rise to respected shaman. Gratua opened a single azure eye to peer at the corpse lain twisted in the doorway, it's neck turned at an unnatural angle. "Scavengers." She chafed at the idea that the Arakkoa invader had sat in her father's chair, a thing she was terrified to even touch as a child.

Her meditation was fitful, and she found it hard to keep her own emotions in control here, but she would control herself or nothing at all. Closing the opened eye, and relaxed her fingers and allowed herself to fall back into the place of emptiness. The torn clefthoof leather pad that made up the cushioning in her chair would not feel right beneath her, and so she rose. A growl as feral as any wolf's left her throat, and she launched herself forwards. The chipped slab of a stone table was nothing before her, and it lifted from it's carved legs beneath her hands, and went soaring through the ancient tanned leather of the wall closest to her. Gratua sunk back into the chair, and lifted the wolven mask from her face, only to find her former master staring before her.

His skin was old and knotted with age, and crimson as it was the day he passed in battle, but she felt a peace before her. The Orc had laughed the day she earned her surname, Daggermouth, by tearing out a rival's jugular with her teeth; the Orc had terrified her into drinking of the Felblood that had turned the Horde into Azeroth's living nightmare. His spectral form shuffled towards her, resting on a walking stick as intangible as he. "You have surpassed expectation, Gratua Daggermouth. You do me proud, as you do your father."

Her jaw clenched tight, before releasing it and responding, "I have learned.. But what I learned from you was an abberation of our ways. Why have you come to taunt me, spirit? Why can I not be left alone?" The old Orc twisted his jaw into a ghoulish smile, "A cold wind stirs, Gratua. You have surely felt it. An enemy of our clan rises from the frozen depths in which we thought it banished. You are the only one left to see to it's disposal.. You are the only candidate left to become champion of your bloodline.. A line you see fit not to restore."

Moving to rise from the chair, Gratua lifted herself, only to fall back as the old Orc extended a hand to her forehead. Her eyes went pale, and Gratua saw no more. Images played through her mind, memories belonging to those of the long dead. She howled out within the writhing tumult of her own mind, and then sunk back into herself, into a calm blackness.

Later, she rose from her father's chair to the sun's rays cresting from the east bursting through the cracks in the hut's walls. Striding out of the hut, she bid her homeland of Terokkar goodbye and pulled her fur cloak tighter about her, for a cold wind blew indeed.

[Micheru]

[Sorry, been away, re-opening this!]

The wind slashed at her cheeks like icy daggers, and she pulled the fur cloak tighter around her, the hood down further over her face. Gratua let out a shuttered breath and closed her eyes once more. The frozen the coast of Northrend was where she needed to be, where her childhood mentor had sent her, but she could not focus, could not feel at one with the spirits.

Letting out a feral roar, Gratua rose and threw the cloak away from her, hood flailing back to hang at her shoulders, she lashed out at the sky and snarled at the wind. Talons whistling through the air like daggers, feet stomping into the frozen dirt beneath her. She lashed out and dug her claws into the bark of a long-dying tree. Laughter.

She heard laughter, and turned. Behind her was the spectral form of Igorosh, her father. Imperiously, he stood with his massive arms crossed and his head back in laughter, "This is going to do the work of our ancestors? Why not throw off your service to the elements and go join the Ogres? I could see you waving about a club mindlessly."

Her hackles rose, but she wasn't baited. Walking the length of the clearing, she picked up her cloak and pulled it back over her muscled form, raising the mask back in place. Returning to the ground, she focused herself once more, legs folding in beneath her. She called upon the spirits of her bloodline to aide her, running a hand along the black totem that her father had given her weeks earlier.

They came, twisting like the nether into her mind, a torrent of thought, will and emotion. She fought against the tide, and rode through it like a ship cutting through stormy waters. The voices calmed, and she found herself supported, her mind eased by the elders of her clan, her spirit relaxed by the emotional coolness that came with it. She fell easily into meditation.

Seeing as through her ancestor's eyes, she saw their world of Draenor, before they had passed through the portal. Dakhan, son of Tre'morr , her grandfather, stood in a small stone chamber, before a demon that had been called to him by a Warlock of the clan. The demon was a massive creature of twisting green flame and seething rage, and it was being tortured. She watched as the creature was struck with implements that made it's body ripple like a flame in the wind, as her clan interrogated it, and broke it's will.

In the vision, she could see scribes writing tomes around the words that the trapped demon spoke, as it told them not just dark secrets of it's masters', but also incantations and invocations, rituals that would be used by the clan's shamans-turned-warlocks for decades to come. She remembered several that she herself had used during the wars against Azeroth's natives.

When her clan were finished with the wretched creature, she saw it released, the summoning circle broken and the demon fleeing back to where it came. She saw the tusked grins of her kinsmen, and felt their lust for power. Dakhan's booming laughter echoed until she opened her eyes again. Buckling over, she vomited a torrent of bile onto the frozen tundra before her, disgusted at her family.

"You're asking I fight an enemy that you willingly made? What is this!?" But no response was given, only the savage cry of the wind upon the mountains to the north.

[Micheru]

Gratua's cry rung empty in the frozen air of the Northrend shore, answered only with the sound of the wind clashing against the mountains. She kicked at the frozen tundra and turned to stomp away, only to smack directly into the tree she had clawed moments before, flailing back. Anger pulsed within her heart and she picked herself back up and straightened her frost-coated cloak.

Her mind brushed the well of rage that was buried deep within her, memories flickered of summoning demons, reciting incantations to harness the Fel magic that made her people the terror of Azeroth, and it felt good. It felt really good, visceral and.. "NO!"

She dropped to a knee, clutching at her chest, spittle at the edge of her mouth, growling like a feral wolf. "I will not glorify the memories of my people's enslavement. I am a Shaman.." Her heartbeat slowed and she shook herself out, lowering herself once more to the ground, back leaning against the tree. Centering herself, Gratua let herself fall into a passive meditation, expanding her mind out to the lingering spirits of her ancestors, she slipped into a trance.

The black totem was warm in her hand, and she realized that, once more, she was seeing through another's eyes, feeling through their senses. She was in her mother's body, in the staging chamber of the arena where she had been challenged by a rival warrior, the one who killed her. The large crimson skinned Orc that stood on the other side of the ring had glowing Fel eyes, his body covered in flickering green flames, similar to that of the Demon in the previous vision.

"Gratuuuuaaaa..." The Orc hissed, in a voice that was not his own, speaking to her mother, her namesake, "We made you offers.. You refused.. Now you die, and then your family will die." She felt her mother's rage, as her mother turned and walked into the ready circle. When the Orc stood in the ready circle before her, he was not rippling with flames, but lifted his hammer and let out an unsettling roar. She saw her mother turn momentarily to look at her in the stands for a moment, before turning back and responding with her own.

The warriors met in battle, hammers clashing, she felt the harsh vibrations of stone meeting stone and then the sharp pain of the demon-posessed-Orc's hammer smashing into her mother's shoulder, breaking it and disarming her. She felt her mother attempting to kick her opponent off of her, and then the sudden crushing of bones as the Orc's hammer followed up by destroying one of her legs. Her mother turned to look at her again, and then nothing, as the hammer met her head. Gratua let out a cry of pain and felt tears stinging her eyes, not her mother's, falling out of the trance gasping. The cold wind blew against her cheek like a caress, and she looked up to see Igorosh's spectral body standing above her, his hand moving as if to wipe her tears.

"Now you see. Your mother died for my father's crimes, I was never a good Orc, but your mother defended our kin, and this was a tragedy. You were called because the demon has returned, the work of a novice warlock that did not know what he was getting into. The creature has already slain several Shaman initiates and is searching for our bloodline." Igorosh, son of Dakhan looked up at the mountains, "This will only get bloodier."

Gratua rose up to her feet and lifted her cowl to peer her father in the eyes, "What must I do?" The wizened spirit rubbed his chin, "You must recover the power that our clan founder once walked with, you must become a champion of the spirits. Your path will be a long one, and your clan will be here to guide you.. First, you must seek out the warlock and find the demon's true name. Go to Iron Blood Keep, a spire of stone in the border land of Stranglethorn Vale."

Gratua nodded, letting out a sharp breath, and turned to walk away without another word.

[Micheru]

The ship left her on the bustling docks of Booty Bay, amidst the clamor of Goblins doing business, exotic animals being loaded on ships due for far off locales, and the occasional human stumbling drunkenly away from the tavern. Gratua let out a small grunt of disdain and began making her way towards the old port authority.

The door swung shut behind her, and she approached a spectacled Goblin that looked up at her with casual disinterest, looking back down into his book. She set a heavy fist on the desk and leaned over it, "I require a map." The Goblin let out the heavy sigh of an inconvenienced person and set down his book, "Got dozens of maps. You don't look like a tourist or a sea farer, so I'm guessing you're heading north?" Gratua pushed her mask back and shrugged, "I'm looking for a stone structure called Iron Blood Keep, it may be a ruin, I do not know."

The Goblin rose from his chair and pushed it aside, as he turned to the case of scroll-wrapped maps to his left, sorting through them, "Iron Blood.. Never heard of it.. Neither have these maps. You sure you're in the right place? If you're looking for blood you can always make the hike up to Gurubashi."

Gratua's throat tensed as she resisted the urge to crush the Goblin's throat, calming herself, "It was described as a spire of stone. Do you see anything?" The Goblin again busied himself with the maps, turned and shrugged, "I'd check with old Saul, he's a gnome living north of town, supposed ta' be some sort of geographer.. Might know." Gratua nodded absently and skulked out, heading outside of town.

The walk was long, but after looping back twice around where she was supposed to go, she found the hut. It was old, decrepit, and the fireplace had a small skeleton amidst it's ashes. Gratua let out a groan and turned to leave, only to find a trio of armored Goblins outside of the hut. Rifles were raised to her and she felt the wolven spirit locked within her raise it's hackles. "You were asking questions that shouldn't be, the Orc you're looking for pays well for his privacy."

The first of the rifles fired with a sudden clack, and she felt the bullet embed itself within her shoulder with a sudden blossoming of pain. She didn't feel the rest, she only felt the rage. Thundering forwards with a terrible war cry, she managed to smack the rifle out of the first's hands and beat him over the head with it, swinging around to block the second's swing with the rifle, and then slammed a fist into the second Goblin's jaw, breaking it and sending teeth flying. The third Goblin threw his rifle and turned to sprint away from the enraged Orc, only to find the earth give away beneath him, as Gratua called upon the spirit of earth to trap him within a pit.

Stalking towards the Goblin with his jaw hanging to the side, she smacked him over the head with the rifle she'd picked up, and then flung it over her shoulder. The Goblin in the pit was scrambling to escape, clawing like an animal, Gratua responded with a heady feral laughter, and then hauled him up by his throat. "Tell me what you know."

The Goblin did.

[Micheru]

Gratua's steps were heavy, and her mind rang with the blood lust that burned within her. She left the final Goblin mostly unharmed, allowing him to lug his friends back with their broken jaw and cracked skull. The metal slugs from their rifles had been ripped from her chest and tossed away without much care, she wrapped her torso with the remnants of the dead gnome's window blinds and had continued on her way.

Iron Blood Keep was several hour's walk from Gurubashi, where she stopped to buy lunch from a tented merchant who peddled to the arena's watchers. It was decrepit, a slightly bent looking cave with holes higher up to let in rays of light. It couldn't have been too big, and even in it's heyday as a Troll temple-space, it must not have been that impressive either. The surface was carved with the usual type of hieroglyphs one sees in Troll ruins, but they were softened and blurred by a hundred years of the elements striking at them.

Gratua felt a swelling of energy and quickly took a step back, only for the cave's plywood door to fly off of it's hinges and sail to her right, followed by a spray of sorcerous bolts of burning flame that almost took her by surprise. Lunging in once the bolts had come to a stop, she ripped the ritual dagger from the leather loop it sat in at her side and pushed through into the shaded structure.

Light beams from the ceiling barely lit the room, but she saw movement from the other side of the room, and another bolt of hellfire flew towards her. Rolling to the side, the bolt struck the cloth bandage, but was extinguished as she pushed herself to the ground. A figure cloaked in shadow fled out through the door she had just entered, and she heard the sudden burst of of flame followed with a bestial snort, and the scent of sulfur.

Rising and leaping out after him, she made her way out only in time to see a black cloak whipping in the wind atop a Felsteed that was booking it north. Her cry of rage thundered out from deep within her, and she unleashed her anger upon the land itself. The spirit of the earth whipped around her to her call, and crumbled the structure behind her like it was a child's castle of damp clay on the bank of a violent river.