Friday, November 13, 2009

A failure of spark (OOC)

So you may have noticed I'm several days behind here. <.<

I still plan to make the attempt, but I'm going to try marshaling inspiration instead of the daily grind. *crosses fingers*

Anyway, even if I don't make the Nanowrimo completely, I still intend to post a great deal of Kazimierz's adventures and the like.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

A shaman's duty

Blinking back his surprise, Kazimierz clambered to his feet and bowed to his mentor in acceptance. To earn a surname was a mark of distinction, though the precise status gained depended heavily on what you did to get it. Marzena Brightaxe had earned hers through her flashy weapons style and nearly compulsive attention to her equipment-if she wasn’t intending to creep about, there was no piece of metal on her person that you couldn’t use for a mirror, and when combined with the oddly graceful spinning cuts that were a staple of her repertoire she was dazzling in the Durotar sun. Limbsunder’s namesake show of force has already been mentioned, and rumor had it Kazimierz’s adoptive father had become known as Ironfang after a particularly close-quarter and savage battle.


The Farseer beckoned him to walk with her, and they left the still coolness of the healer’s pavilion. Some distance outside, three bodies were laid out neatly: the remains of Marzena’s squad. Shrikha watched Kazimierz’s reaction carefully, but there was little to gauge-the shaman merely gazed wordlessly upon the corpses.


“I have taught you what you must do, Bloodhand. You were there when these warriors died…their souls still cling to you. There is none better suited,” Shrikha said, more softly than her usual rough-edged tone. “Give them the final honors.”


Kazimierz knelt beside the nearest of the fallen, picking up the strange charm of bone and feathers that the troll had carried with him. It still glowed lambently in his mind’s eye, a whisper and an echo of the warrior whose soul it had been entwined with. He called on the words he had been taught, speaking slowly and carefully in a tongue that had been ancient long before the demons came to Draenor.


The earth reclaims your body; let your spirit rise beyond it.

The fire of your heart is quenched; let your soul burn anew and unbound.

The water of life has left your veins; let your spirit flow unhindered.

The air of your breath is stilled; let the winds carry you to the Nether.

The ties of duty are broken; by your honor dwell amongst the Ancestors forevermore.


As he whispered, a ghostly glow rose in thin tearing sheets from the body, glittering at the edges of his sight. The weary presence of the warrior’s spirit brightened, then lifted entirely as the luminance faded away, but it did not fade from the shaman’s memory. The span of the troll’s life flickered and danced at the edges of memory, and Kazimierz knew the very essence of the one called Viljami. Once more, then a third time he repeated the ritual, and the deep echoes of two orcs joined the troll. Finally done with his task, he stood gazing into the dying glitter of spiritflame, overcome by the intensity of the remnants within him.


Shrikha gently patted his shoulder, her features approving and sympathetic. “You have done well, young one. They will find their way to the Twisting Nether, and the Ancestors will welcome them.”


Kazimierz responded with only a shallow nod, which the Farseer seemed to accept as sufficient. “They will fade from your soul, with time,” she continued, looking blankly into the distance. “It will not be so…overwhelming, eventually. But they will be with you forever, a shadow of their spirits.”


The farseer seemed almost hollow now, no more bluster or authority in her tone or stance. “It is the burden we bear, Kazimierz, to remember the dead in a way no one else is able. It is why we must be of stronger will than any other in the Horde, to remain able and ready to serve even with the weight of the fallen upon our shoulders.”


She left without further words, leaving Kazimierz to stare into the empty desert.


It was hours later when Kazimierz returned, still subdued. The others had awoken as well, and they were celebrating their victory with drink and food. The scent of spice-laden boar was tempting, but he had no desire for the rough companionship of the warriors. The young shaman walked instead towards the sheer valley wall where Shrikha’s hut stood, seeking answers.


The Farseer was sitting alone, meditating in the tiny stone room that she called home. She rose calmly at Kazimierz’s approach, turning to face him.


“You seem more at ease now. The spirits rest more lightly upon you?” she asked, beckoning for him to sit.


Kazimierz complied, nodding uncertainly. “It…was too much, at first. I could not separate myself from them. Will it always be so hard?” he asked haltingly.


Shrikha shook her head. “You will learn to stay aloof, at least well enough to function afterwards. It is similar in many ways to the hard-headedness required to deal with the greater spirits-a learned skill, not something you must be born with.”


Kazimierz sighed with relief, visibly relaxing. “It is good…I feared for my future, if this is what I must deal with,” he said, then paused for a moment, considering his next words. The Farseer raised an eyebrow.


“Speak, Bloodhand. You have grown into your role; you understand what I have tried to prepare you for. I have no further need of harshness.”


“The last fight, which you lauded my deeds? I cannot remember it, not coherently-only flashes of images, and the glorious rage…” Kazimierz trailed off.


“It fits with my own visions, then. I believe you caught the attention of a fury spirit, called it to you unconsciously. It is a gift, or great fortune, that you were able to do so while so inexperienced-I doubt you would have survived without its strength behind your own. Do not fear corruption, child. They are natural enough, though they take a dear toll on the body.”


“But…I have called spirits before, and always I have recalled my actions. Are you certain?” he pressed, the dark suspicion building in his mind. “I have talked with the old veterans...this bloodlust sounds too similar to their tales of the blood of Mannoroth.”


The Farseer’s eyes narrowed, but she responded in an even tone. “That one is dead and burned, Kazimierz. We are free from his influence forever. Do not forget this!” she admonished, then sighed. “If you had been possessed, you would have four more ghosts to deal with. Demonic bloodlust is…indiscriminate.”


“But then why-“ Kazimierz began, and the grey-haired Farseer interrupted him.


“You were almost lost to the mere echoes of three mortals sharing space in your soul, boy! Fury spirits are very rare, and very strong. It is no real surprise that you couldn’t hold on to your senses,” she snapped. “Enough of this. If you feel guilt, let it go; you fought fiercely and honorably.”


Sighing deeply, Kazimierz nodded. “I have another question, Farseer, if I am permitted to ask,” he said, and Shrikha nodded her assent. “The humans channeled some strange power against us; searing bolts of light, mostly. It felt…strange, neither the smooth rightness of the spirits nor the bloody pain of demons. Do you know what it might be?”


Shrikha pursed her lips irritably. “Yes. The humans called it the ‘Holy Light”, and their champions draw upon its power to heal and harm, much as we do the spirits. As to their source…I am not sure. It is not from this world, nor from Draenor-the Draenai brought the tradition of Light-worship with them when they arrived so long ago,” she said, eyes distant in recollection. “I do not trust the Light, nor the ones who wield it-it demands worship, not respect, so much like the Legion’s cults. Like shamanism, the Light can be used to heal or harm, but it is typically more focused-I have seen their paladins shield themselves or another all but totally against harm, yet to the others in need around them goes nothing. It is a power which should be respected, but held at arm’s length-I have seen many such alien powers and their followers, and they seem ever unstable.” She snorted scornfully, twirling a stick between her fingers in an unconscious gesture Kazimierz had not witnessed before. “I have heard word that the Lich-King, vile perversion that he is, was found and resurrected by one of these ‘paladins’. Do not become tangled in their affairs!”


Kazimierz bowed his head. “I thank you for your wisdom, Farseer. It is good to know what I face. If it is not impertinent, may I ask your opinion on our new allies?”


“They are…difficult to read,” Shrikha responded after a brief contemplation. “I have watched over them for some time now, and they do seem to be distinct from the scourge-they clashed bitterly over the ruins of Lordaeron’s capitol until the Forsaken drove them further east. But their intentions…I am unsure. There are rumors and whispers of terrible things in their ‘Undercity’, foul perversions of life stitched from dozens of corpses, concoctions of poison and disease. Yet these are only rumor-I have heard nothing substantial, and the rumormongers may simply be afraid of them.


“We need them, I think. We are still weak from the battles before Hyjal, and after the betrayals of the Second War, we have never regained sufficient numbers to challenge our foes directly. Even if the unsavory rumors are true, we must accept them as allies,” she pontificated, then laughed with a tinge of bitterness. “Besides, if our cries of redemption are to be believed, who are we to deny the opportunity to them? Our situations were not so different…we merely have the advantage of still living and breathing after our escape.”

Kazimierz took this in slowly, watching the smoke from the small cooking fire escape up the chimney.


That…is true, he thought, mulling over the Farseer’s words. Maybe they sought us out for that reason, knowing our history…


His mind worked over all the information Shrikha had shared, and Kazimierz was too deep in thought to realize the imprint of the dead warriors no longer troubled him.

The Raid, Part II

Immediately, it became apparent that these were a different grade of warrior altogether, for they reacted almost instantly to the appearance of foes. There were nine of them all together, grim-looking, bearing heavy armor and two-handed swords, the blue anchor of the Proodmoore fleet emblazoned on their tabards. One of them, older by Kazimierz’s unfamiliar eye, raised a hand to the air. A rush of alien power tingled and shivered in the air, and Marzena yelped in pain and surprise as searing light bathed her armor. The young warrior leaped across the table, swinging her blood-drenched glaive.


Kazimierz couldn’t tell exactly what happened next, as another of the armor-clad humans had picked him out as a threat and began swinging his oversized sword with arm-jarring vigor. It was a little unnerving to feel such a powerful hit from a foe so small and weak-looking, and Kazimierz struck back with all the speed and strength he was able to muster. The human parried it forcefully, and the shaman began to have a sinking feeling that he might have found his match. The human shouted something in his incomprehensible language, and with a single stroke broke Kazimierz’s axehaft into kindling. The sheer outrage of being disarmed in such a way was like a blow, infuriating beyond measure, and the shaman roared deafeningly as he batted away another strike with the remnant of his blade. Reaching savagely for the power of the spirits, Kazimierz’s vision flooded red, the screams and percussion of battle drowned out by a howling wind in his ears.


The spirits twisted and sang, and the shaman knew only glory for a moment of eternity.


The rush of air receded, his sight cleared. A sudden intense wave of pain and fatigue washed over him, and Kazimierz stumbled to his kness, dully noting the wash of blood over the flagstones. Around the room lay bodies, crumpled and unmoving-one of the trolls whose name Kazimierz had never caught, his body seared and scorched by the unnatural radiance; the humans, some nearly hacked apart, some pierced with arrows, and a number that appeared have had their throats torn out; slumped down on top of the human commander was Marzna, leaning on the glaive embedded in his heart. In a corner Meshak was wrapping bandages around another of the orc’s leg, sporting his own bloody rags over his stomach. The last few of the squad were nowhere to be seen.


Steadying himself with a hand, Kazimierz almost slipped and fell, his sight registering at last his own hands: fingers broken, and covered in gore nearly to the elbow. He started a catalogue of his hurts, and abandoned it quickly-‘battered’ was too mild a word to describe the shaman’s condition, but he was alive. Stumbling, he made it to Marzena’s still form. She, too, had suffered many wounds-a deep stab to the chest, perhaps half a dozen cuts through her bracers on her forearms, and a terrible burn on her cheek-but still she breathed, if shallowly and irregularly. Blood flowed weakly even as Kazimierz watched, and he rummaged with shaking hands for a skin, a bucket, any sort of water.


Finally, his hands closed painfully on the remnants of a pitcher, broken but still holding a half-cup or so of the precious fluid. Holding it gently over Marzena’s paling form, he slid his mind through the slippery calling of the water spirits, and the pale soothing mists flowed gently from the vessel. The stench of blood and bile in the room cleared, and the warrior inhaled deeply, jerking upright again as Kazimierz’s world slowly went black.

He awoke swathed in bandages-clean bandages, smelling of soothing peacebloom and silverleaf. The blood was gone from him, and what was left of his clothing had been replaced. Turning his head, Kazimierz could see other wounded on similar rough beds to either side of him, still sleeping soundly. He rolled upright, feeling unexpectedly hale, and a troll’s voice broke the silence.


“Easy there, boyo. You were more’n half dead when they brought you in here, hey?” Kadir admonished. “That shaman woman came in here and called some spirits up to help, but you can’t go expecting the spirits to do all the work themselves.”


Nodding, Kazimierz merely shifted to lean his back against the wall rather than try his luck with his feet.


“Who came back?” he asked bluntly, and the troll waved his hand to the other filled beds in the infirmary as he recited the names.


“Sergeant Marzena. Meshak. Rakul. Sha’val. No one else,” Kadir said, frowning slightly. “Way they were talking, you’ve been seein’ some nasty fights, boyo. Was it worth it?”


In his mind’s eye, Kazimierz saw once again the human captain, staring glassily at the ceiling. He chuckled darkly. “I have done my part for the Horde, and earned the scars to prove it. What more can I ask of life?”


Kadir’s laughter was interrupted by the sound of a staff thudding against the wooden floorboards, and he bowed respectfully as Farseer Shrikha came into the room. She cocked her head, looking approvingly upon Kazimierz’s bandages.


"You lived. Very good,” she said, moving in close to inspect the closing scars on his chest and face. “Your squad has spoken glowingly of your deeds, Kazimierz, foolhardy as your venture was.”


He nodded, and she seemed to hesitate for a moment.


“They said they could almost feel your fury as you fought. That you fought three paladins of Lordaeron and tore open their necks with your bare hands. Is this true?” Shrikha asked, peering into his eyes.


Kazimierz shrugged, hissing a little at the pain the movement caused him. “There is much of the fight I cannot recall, Farseer. I do not know the truth.”


Shrikha nodded absently, stepping back to the foot of the bed. “There is little doubt you did, Kazimierz, and I agree with those I have discussed the matter with that it is a deed worthy of remembrance.” The shaman held an arm out in front of her, slowly tapping her chest in salute. “Rise up, Bloodhand. Your deeds have brought victory and honor to the Horde. Let all who speak your name recall them.”

Monday, November 9, 2009

Short Post (OOC)

So I'm too tired to go on tonight, and I've got a job opportunity to go after in the morning, so...looks like tonight I come up short. Gotta make that up tomorrow or Tuesday, I suppose.

Also, you can blame Naxx and leveling Basia's tradeskills for most of this. But we cleared all of Naxx tonight and Basia is now 300 tailoring/300 enchanting, so it's not a total wash.

Extra story posts tomorrow to make up for this. :P

The Raid

The first moments of the fight were completely one-sided, and nearly the entire group of humans were cut down by axe and glaive and arrow before they could reach for the weapons that lay at their sides. One managed to bring a sword to bear against Marzena long enough to parry, and Kazimierz swung savagely at his undefended flank. The spirit-infused waraxe bit deeply into the human’s flesh, and Kazimierz wrenched it loose from the gaping wound, splattering blood across his face and arms as the man twisted to the ground. Meshak’s bowstring hissed, and the last human collapsed from her sprint, an arrow protruding from her back.


The noise had alerted the sentries, and now there were shouts around them. Hurriedly, they worked, throwing bottles of volatile oil on stacks of wood and setting them alight before fleeing back into the darkness, arrows from the half-completed tower whispering past them in the gloom. Thirty yards, another fire with a cluster of workers and soldiers around it stood, its defenders scrambling into armor. They would not be so easily dispatched, and the fear in their eyes stirred a mixture of contempt and glee in hearts of their attackers. Very few orcs feared death, particularly death in combat-to be in battle was almost euphoric, a blaze of glory in the soul that was difficult to quench while its owner still lived. The demonic curse of Mannoroth had inflamed it to unreasonable levels, but even without its influence there was a perverse joy that lurked in their hearts.


They charged forward again, Kazimierz weaving the form of a protective totem as they made the last yards. Five of the humans at this camp were clearly soldiers, bearing shields and whatever piecemeal armor they had managed to secure before their foes were upon them, and they made a rough shield-line in front of the lightly-armed workers behind them.


Marzena short-hafted her glaive, using it to deflect the soldier’s swing upward as she bore him back and downward, rolling over his shield behind him as they hit the ground. She untangled the glaive and finished the soldier with a practiced thrust, then sprang lightly to her feet to meet the incoming workers.

Kazimierz was entangled with another of the guards, whose now-dented shield had held before his first swing. Momentum on his side, he grabbed the human’s swordarm with his left hand and spun around him, feeling tendons popping as he moved. The human yelled in anguish, and one of the trolls behind Kazimierz brought his own axe down on the guardsman’s head. The wild backstroke of one of the other swordsmen caught Kazimierz in the back of the head, and stumbled briefly from the impact. The wound bled profusely, but it was superficial, and Kazimierz righted himself to continue the fray.


A few more bloody moments and the rest of the humans went down, gasping their last as the raiders torched the nearby supplies. The sounds of alarm were great now-bells rang, men yelled, horns sounded; a great cacophony of warning that was accompanied by an ever-increasing number of torches being lit against the concealing night.

“Time to go?” asked Kazimierz as the raiders slipped once again into the deep shadows thrown by the burning buildings.

No! There is more to do,” Marzena hissed. She led them through a winding route, ducking against walls and stacks of building materials until at last they were at the rear of the partially-completed keep.


“The dogs will falter without their captain. He will be here, in his fortress, and we can strike a deathblow to this incursion here and now!” she continued in a hushed tone, waiting for a small group of soldiers to pass them.


Held in the twin grips of bloodlust and discipline, no one questioned her-Marzena was their leader here and now, and they would go wherever she commanded. They followed her up the cramped stairwell, hacking down a startled watchman as they reached the top. The keep was nearly empty-most of its soldiers were outside fighting fires or searching for the intruders, and what guards remained within were unprepared for the savage bursts of violence visited upon them. Smashing aside a pair of heavy double doors, Marzena and her raiders beheld the great table of the governor, laden with maps and surrounded by astonished soldiers. Fearless, Marzena charged, and the fight began in earnest.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

A taste of blood

First Sergeant Sian’dur was not pleased, and unlike the dark hissing moods of the Farseer, she chose to express her discontent very loudly. Kazimierz found her on a clear, flat region of the valley, overseeing a gaggle of young orcs and trolls as they tried their various hands at archery.


“No! Wrong! The bow is to be held straight!” she barked, without a whisper of the heavy accent typical of the Darkspear. She wore heavy leathers despite the heat, and seemed not to suffer for it; the toweringly tall troll still slipped between the lines of archers like an angry, corrective tornado. At a burly orc who seemed better suited to the front line than the skirmishers, she violently readjusted his fingering on the arrow; at one of her darker-skinned kin, she all but kicked his legs to adjust his stance.


“Feet in a line to the target! Are you all deaf?” she bellowed, performing the same correction to another nearly-trembling orc. “Next one of you vulture-snacks that doesn’t maintain proper stance is my sparring partner for a week, understand me?”


A rough chorus of “Yes, First Sergeant!” erupted nervously from the assembled archers. As Kazimierz approached, Sian’dur whirled around, fury etched in every line of her harsh-drawn face.


“YOU! You are late,” she shouted, and her eyes took a maniacal glee as she looked the orc over. “No equipment! Spirits around us, you are a stupid one, aren’t you? Well, I-“



Kazimierz gritted his teeth and interrupted her. “First Sergeant, I am not your ward!” he yelled, and a part of him that he didn’t like to admit existed reveled in the troll’s shock. “First Sergeant, I am recruiting any students you may spare for a tracking run around Razor Hill,” he hastily continued, displaying Shrikha’s badge and wary of the bubbling rage in the hunter’s eyes.


“Very well!” Sian’dur snapped, and eyed the silent row of aspiring marksmen evilly. “You!” she barked, and pointed at the hulking orc she had corrected before. “Get over here, worthless. This shaman owns you until you get back, understand?”


The big orc nodded, and Sian’dur shoved him towards Kazimierz. “Bring him back with all of his limbs, and you can tell Shrikha we’re square. Now get out of my sight!”


Kazimierz and the aspiring hunter saluted and fled, not stopping until they were an order of magnitude past the normal ‘out of earshot’ range.


“Your instructor seems…volatile,” Kazimierz ventured, motioning his new comrade to follow as he set out towards the valley gates. The big orc snorted.


“’Volatile’? She’s gone fiendish on us for the last few days, all hot temper and shouting. Hits a lot harder now, too-last ‘sparring partner’ she had is still lying in the medic’s tent,” he replied in a dark voice. “Word is she got rejected for promotion over some personal issue, and she’s been taking it out on us. ‘Course, no one here has been stupid enough to say that anywhere she could hear.” The hunter crossed his arm over his chest in salute. “Meschak, of the Bladewind clan. Suppose I’m at your service.”


Kazimierz returned the gesture. “Kazimierz, son of Ro’al. My blood is of the Lightning's Blade.”

Meschak nodded. “So what do you command, shaman? My bow is yours, it appears.”


“I spotted a spy, a human, near Razor Hill. Stoneguard Har’kel bid me to handle it-his soldiers are spread too thin, he says,” Kazimierz replied, kicking their pace up to a loping run. Meschak followed with no hint of complaint. “Do you know where the First Sergeant came from, Meschak? She does not sound or act like a Darkspear.”


Meschak shrugged, heavy feet thudding dully against the orange dust of the road. “I think she was a Frostwolf fosterling-she said something about it a while ago. Before she went crazy, ‘course. Seems they picked up a few refugees from the Second War and brought them along with them when Doomhammer and the Warchief reunited the clans.”


Kazimierz nodded, his idle curiosity sated for the moment. They made their way to Razor Hill quickly, and it was not yet noon when they could pick out its looming silhouette on the horizon. They swung wide to the east of the town, and Meschak began scanning the sands for signs that would indicate an intruder. It was slow work, and Kazimierz felt a little useless as the hunter stepped forward and scanned across a patch of ground, repeating endlessly.


“There! Someone’s been laying here,” Meschak finally said, his voice breaking the rush of the desert winds. “They’ve been careless…yes, there’s a trail, heading east of here.”


Kazimierz grinned unpleasantly, pulling his axe from his back. “Let’s follow it.”

The hunter nodded, and they followed the trail. The spy, or scout, or whatever it was had not been entirely clumsy-the trail wound its way across a number of bare rocks and other obstacles. Each such measure took a little time to overcome, but Meschak’s skills at tracking were well-honed, and by sunset they had followed the trail all the way to the coast. In the distance, smooth stone gleamed, quite out of place amongst the sandstone of Durotar-granite imported from Stormwind or Lordaeron, no doubt.


“They’re crazy,” breathed Meshak. “Building a fortress in our land? They know we will not let them go unchallenged.”


Kazimierz nodded, growling under his breath. The humans were hard at work even now, hoisting blocks and mixing mortar. It would not take them long to complete the walls, and then they would have a formidable beachhead. As his trainers had taught him, Kazimierz began to get a rough count and categorization of the enemy. It was a grim sum-the humans had scores of workers, hundreds of infantry, and they would be extraordinarily difficult to dislodge once they settled.


“Can you lead us back to this location, Meshak? We cannot allow these rats to dig in on our soil!” Kazimierz asked, and the hunter nodded confidently.


“I can do that. Ready to go?”


The two orcs hustled back to Razor Hill, blood in their thoughts.

Stoneguard Har’kel had problems now. The sighting of human spies, once so comfortably unlikely, was now confirmed-confirmed and with the added bonus of a main force digging in at the coast. The situation of his soldiers had not, however, changed substantially-there were still quillboar pushing at the western borders, still centaur running rampant throughout the lands westward. However, there was an option now: a small patrol, come back from Sen’jin…a night raid would, if not outright solve the problem, at least delay the humans until a proper counteroffensive could be launched. Six against several hundred was poor odds, of course, but sneaking around and causing trouble was an orcish tradition, albeit one that many would like buried.


They’ll have the two scouts besides, Har’kel considered. It should be enough for some sabotage and perhaps a special message…

Kazimierz and Meshak stood in the darkness, waiting for their reinforcements to show up. They had exchanged small talk, and minor family histories: the Bladewind and Lightning’s Blade clan had been fairly close before the demonic influence arrived on Draenor, and they had discovered a few common relatives.

Their chatting was interrupted by the heavy tread of armored boots and jingling mail, and a familiar face appeared out of the darkness.


“Kazimierz. Good to see you again, friend,” said Marzena Brightaxe, and she saluted crisply, banging a fist on her soot-blackened armor. “My squad is ready to move. Are you?”


Kazimierz nodded, unsurprised to see Marzena in a leadership role. As the daughter of a Kor’kron, she had been taught more and faster than most of her peers, and the notched polearm she carried so lightly was rightly feared by the enemies of the Horde.


“Throm-ka, Brightaxe. We are ready.”


Marzena’s face twisted into a savage grin. “Show us the way." They set out on a quick march, covering the ground much more rapidly now without the burden of tracking.


“I’ve never fought a human before,” Marzena mentioned casually, killing time as they walked. “Think they’ll be better than centaur?”


Kazimierz made an indistinct noise, a sort of verbal shrug. “Maybe. They’re quite a lot smaller, but that would make them harder to hit. Must be something to them, though-they did fight back the Old Horde in the Second War.


“Petty, stupid rivalries defeated the Horde then, Kazimierz. Warlock scheming and backstabbing, all of it. We will not lose in such a manner again,” she declared, garnering murmurs of assent from her companions, who were fanned out behind them: orcs and Darkspear all, armor-clad and toting a variety of well-used weapons.


Kazimierz was in no mood to argue history, so he grunted his assent and concentrated on running. Soon, the lights of the human’s fires appeared, dim and distant at first but soon showing as beacons in the night. Marzena raised a fist, calling silently for a halt.


“They sit and watch the fires dance,” she said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. “They’ll not see us until we’re upon them. Walk softly until we are near. Understand?”


The soldiers softly muttered affirmatives, unsheathing and otherwise readying their arms. Marzena waited a moment…another…and then motioned forward with her free arm. They crept towards the nearest fire, where a dozen humans talked and ate and drank, until there were a mere ten yards from them, with adrenaline burning in their veins. Marzena suddenly straightened from her crouch and charged, braid flying behind her. Kazimierz rushed in behind her, axe thrumming with the might of the earth, and they came upon the humans as a blood-mad reaper, the ancient battlecry of the orcs echoing from their lips:

“Lok’tar ogar!”

Victory or death…