Kazimierz awoke to the crack of thunder and the dull roar of torrential rain. He rose muzzily up to a seated position, dimly aware that he wasn’t being soaked-someone must have moved him to shelter. Given the sounds of the tempest, they’d saved him a great deal of trouble.
The storms in Durotar are always so furious, he thought, rubbing the grit from his eyes. The spirits are stronger here than in Arathi…
Unbidden, Kazimierz’s thoughts turned to the land of his birth. The internment camps, shoddily and quickly built, their borders closely guarded by hard-eyed soldiers; the perpetually overcast skies above, with barely a wisp of muggy wind in the summers to carry the pungent scent of kingsblood into the camps; even in memory, the highlands of Arathi had little to endear them to Kazimierz. The people, though-they had been the grimmest part of childhood.
Lethargic, all of them-too defeated even to fight amongst themselves. Haunted with guilt and shame, only clinging to life to avoid the final dishonor of suicide…what did they do to bring such despair to themselves?
Kazimierz had heard the histories, of course-the tale of the demonic pact on Draenor, of the rise of the warlocks and the assault through the Dark Portal. But they never explicitly spelled out the atrocities of the demon-cursed Horde, only hinted and intimated with hollow eyes.
If they mentioned anything at all, that is. Most of the old warriors won’t talk about anything that happened before the Warchief liberated us. They must have done terrible things…
His musings were interrupted by a loud bang, quite unrelated to the thunder. This was followed by a litany of high-pitched curses in a number of languages, only a few familiar to the shaman. With a pained grunt, Kazimierz stood and slipped towards the source of the noise, where a familiar, tiny figure poked out of a battered metal cylinder, larger than a human’s coffin. Inside, a wild mishmash of gears and chains smoked furiously as Vicks worked.
“Did the rocket fuel volatilize again, Vicks?” Kazimiez asked, coughing painfully on the stench of burning oil. “I thought you had that problem worked out.”
The goblin paused in his rummaging and withdrew from the innards of the machine. “Kazi! You’re finally awake, yeah? I found you outside when I was on my way back here. You looked kinda beat up.”
Kazimierz bowed as deeply as he was able. “I thank you for your care, Vicks. I had a frank exchange of opinions with the Farseer. Her argument had more impact than mine, I fear,” he said wryly, finding a patch of ground a reasonably safe distance away from the goblin’s turbine to rest on.
Vicks laughed, the screechy sound cutting sharply above the dull sound of the storm outside. “Good one! I tell ya, Kazi, you orc types sure seem to like beating on each other,” he said. Vicks looked at the smoking mechanism and shook his head sorrowfully. “This, though, this is bad. I was trying to modify it to fix a little sand-intake problem-it kept exploding every time they tried to start the engine in the salt flats-and then I decided the acceleration curves were too flat and I might as well fix them while I had it open, which of course meant I had to install the Shinespark Mk. IV injectors instead of the Gazzlebolt Extra Stables, and that…”
Kazimierz let the goblin keep up his breathless rant until it ran its course-no doubt Vicks had been unable to resist adding more power to the machine while adding the dust screens. The engine, being of goblin make, had already been well beyond the safe limits of its construction.
They test the limits of every device until it fails completely, only to start anew. They are more punishing to their creations than our teachers are to us. By the nether, I hope never to be a goblin’s test case! There’d be nothing left to go to the healers with.
While the vast majority of orcs (and truth to tell of sapients of the world in general) found goblins to be irritating, finicky creatures with voices that shaved sheets of patience away with every syllable, Kazimierz had always enjoyed learning the tricks of engineering with Vicks. The goblin’s home didn’t hurt; safely tucked away in a naturally ventilated cave, the workshop was always dry and cool regardless of the weather outside. Still, it was hardly the only reason. Vicks and his brethren were inexhaustibly optimistic, looking firmly to the future and all the glorious possibilities it held, though mostly they saw potential for profits. His almost maniacal obsession with tinkering and experimentation seemed firmly at odds with the reverence for the past the orcs possessed, but the materials he worked with resonated with the spirits in a way that few other professions could claim.
Even this…turbine, I think he called it, some piece in their great competition with the gnomes, channels the powers of flame and wind to propel it. They’ve a way to extract the echoes of the firelords from the stone of the deep mines, condensing it into blasting powder. Then they've found ways to use its power, however reduced from its elemental form, in a thousand different ways. What other secrets might they keep?
Vicks continued to rattle out the details of the problem, oblivious to his guest’s pondering. The air had cleared from the fire now, leaving only the sharp odor of engine grease and the omnipresent tang of blasting powder evident. They were familiar smells, comforting in the same way the scent of kingsblood was agitating. Sitting at ease, Kazimierz could feel the earth stretch out below him-almost as if he had taken the sapta again, though certainly not so blatantly. The earth totem in his pack called to his senses, and like a child investigating a spider’s web he drew a thread of power from it, twisting it in his mind’s hands.
Kazimierz’s trance was interrupted by another explosion from the engine, and a surprised yelp from Vicks-surprised, but not pained. He opened his eyes to see the goblin inspecting his arms with intense interest
“What the nether…did you do this, Kazi? I should be bleedin’ from that one!” Vicks exclaimed, then started suddenly. “Is that what’s doing it?”
Kazimierz followed the goblin’s gaze to the source of a dull green luminance in the gloom of the workshop-a chunk of unworked stone, standing upright as though thrust from the ground. On it were symbols Kazimierz knew very well-the ancient scripts used in honor to the earth spirits. He stared at the manifestation with growing realization, a wide grin splitting his face as his hurts were, for the moment, forgotten.
“It is a binding of earth, little friend. I have called an earth spirit, and it has replied!” he said, his voice building in a crescendo. “We must celebrate. This…this is a milestone. This marks the end of my Trial, Vicks! I will be allowed into the world to make my mark!”
Vicks clapped him on the back-a gesture he used as frequently as he was able, given the relative rarity the orc’s back was anywhere near his arms-and nodded excitedly. “That…is…incredible! Hey, how long d’ya think you can keep that up?” He paused a moment, breaking into a thoughtful smile as he reached for a bottle he kept on a high shelf. “Toughens up the skin..think you can do that to dead skin? Or maybe metal, even?”
Vicks poured two glasses of some amber spirit, supposedly from the far lands of Kharanos, and they drank together. “I tell you Kazi, this…what is that thing, anyway?” Vicks asked, gesturing pointedly with his now half-empty glass.
“A totem,” Kazimierz supplied. Vicks nodded energetically.
“This 'totem' is going to be really useful. And profitable, too-you know what people would pay for protective gear they don’t need to put on? Tell me what else you think it can do…”
The storm had abated and it was very late indeed before the orc and the goblin ceased their discussion and surrendered to sleep.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
His Name is Karyus (OOC)
Kazimierz has liberated the Netherwing Flight at long last!
I first started the Netherwing chain during the end of Burning Crusade-I was mostly just trying to raise some money. I wiped repeatedly on the Zuluhed the Whacked quest (and really, what kind of surname is The Whacked? That always bothered me...) and so I left it alone for a while...until I got invited to a group for it, and found that if you stand inside the building, the archers can't shoot you! Novel concept, to be sure. After that, I decided to shoot for the drake. I got a fair ways in..Honored, I believe, and then the twin forces of an upcoming expansion and total boredom with the terribly grindy quests (40 ore? 30 crystals from kills? Ugh!) conspired to stop my progress dead.
It was after I had hit 80 and began looking for things to do (since this was still sometime before I had figured out how awesome the people at Bloodriver were) that I decided to try again-there were no mounts in Northrend that both looked as good as the netherwing drake and I thought I had the remotest shot at (Twilight Drake, I'm looking at you). This time I hit revered before stopping, as I started doing heroics and beginning to raid semi-regularly. RL also got a little more hectic, so I stopped having quite as much time alone while I was logged in. The last nail in the coffin was my acquisition of the Engineering profession, whose flying mount I thought would be the last one I desired.
Finally, I decided that enough was enough with the procrastinating, in no small part because of Niqora's excellent post on the acquisition of her own drake (and later paladin alt, but that's not my story to tell). So the last week, I've been doing the dailies, hunting the eggs, and failing again and again at the flying races. I never did end up beating Mulveric, but I finally got to finish the job I started so long ago.
So say hi to Karyus, Kazi's constant companion throughout the wilds of Outlands, Northrend, and whenever I get to fly in Azeroth proper. :)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A healer's hands
“Training accidents” were not uncommon in the Valley of Trials. Though the curse of bloodlust had been lifted by Hellscream’s valor, the orcs were never what could be described as a peaceful people. Training often inflamed already volatile tempers, and small-scale fights were considered a good chance to show the young how much they had to learn. Injuries inflicted as disciplinary measures were treated differently from those suffered in the normal course of duty-they were healed only enough to cause no lasting damage, then left to heal naturally. Typically, the afflicted learned a measure of patience during their convalescence…or learned to dodge better the next time they picked a fight. This fact was not unknown to Kazimierz as he staggered his way to the healer’s pavilion and the glowering medic within. Deciding not to draw things out, he presented his injuries and their cause forthrightly:
“Medic! My arm’s broken, my ribs too. Took a fall chasing a scorpion,” he said as brusquely as he could manage.
“You’ve gone and made Stormeye mad, haven’t ya?” the blueskinned troll asked, chuckling all but malevolently as he pointed at a line of darkening text in the flesh of Kazimierz’s forearm. “She’s stamped her mark in your arm, boyo. Don’t think I can’t tell what a fall looks like, neither. You aren’t the first to think Kadir’s easy to fool.”
The troll grabbed Kazimierz’s arm with his strange three-fingered hands and pulled hard, setting the break as Kazimierz fought back an undignified scream. The explosion of pain, however, forced the compromise of an angry yell, which Kadir promptly ignored in favor of roughly binding his arm.
“Oh, quit your cryn’, orc. You’ll get worse in your time, ‘less ya scrub out so hard ya land in with the peons,” Kadir said, weaving the wrappings around the orc’s shoulder to fashion a sling. “There. Don’t be trying to use that arm for a week or two, or you’ll have to come see me again.”
Reeling, Kazimierz checked what range of motion was left in his damaged right arm-not too much, but better than he had hoped, and after the agony of setting the pain had diminished substantially.
“What about the ribs?” he asked, hoping for something similarly helpful. “It’s hard to breathe.”
Kadir only chuckled and shook his head. “Cracked rib-bones gotta heal themselves, boyo. Nothing me or anyone else can do about it. ‘Less you get some help from a shaman or druid, ha? But that’s not happening for ya, now is it?”
Kazimierz’s look of despair must have been enough to stir pity in the troll’s heart, because he sighed and gestured the orc over.
“All right, come ‘ere. Have a drink of this. It won’t cure ya, but you won’t care so much,” Kadir said, offering a small clay bottle. Fumbling with his off hand, Kazimierz took a swig. The fire of the Darkspear’s favorite ginger liquor spread instantly into his stomach, but the over-potent drink did seem to numb the pain somewhat.
“Th-thanks,” Kazimierz coughed, trying to hand the bottle back without spilling the rest of the contents. His head was already swimming-what did they put in their drink?
Kadir chuckled and nodded, then motioned for the orc to go. “Don’t mention it. I mean that, boyo. I could be in trouble for helping a troublemaker through his learning, ha?”
“Dabu,” Kazimierz mumbled, complying with a little difficulty. He staggered away from the pavilion a little way before losing his footing on the suddenly very unstable ground. Ignoring the raucous laughter behind him and all but oblivious to the pain of landing, Kazimierz decided to rest his eyes, just for a little while…
“Medic! My arm’s broken, my ribs too. Took a fall chasing a scorpion,” he said as brusquely as he could manage.
“You’ve gone and made Stormeye mad, haven’t ya?” the blueskinned troll asked, chuckling all but malevolently as he pointed at a line of darkening text in the flesh of Kazimierz’s forearm. “She’s stamped her mark in your arm, boyo. Don’t think I can’t tell what a fall looks like, neither. You aren’t the first to think Kadir’s easy to fool.”
The troll grabbed Kazimierz’s arm with his strange three-fingered hands and pulled hard, setting the break as Kazimierz fought back an undignified scream. The explosion of pain, however, forced the compromise of an angry yell, which Kadir promptly ignored in favor of roughly binding his arm.
“Oh, quit your cryn’, orc. You’ll get worse in your time, ‘less ya scrub out so hard ya land in with the peons,” Kadir said, weaving the wrappings around the orc’s shoulder to fashion a sling. “There. Don’t be trying to use that arm for a week or two, or you’ll have to come see me again.”
Reeling, Kazimierz checked what range of motion was left in his damaged right arm-not too much, but better than he had hoped, and after the agony of setting the pain had diminished substantially.
“What about the ribs?” he asked, hoping for something similarly helpful. “It’s hard to breathe.”
Kadir only chuckled and shook his head. “Cracked rib-bones gotta heal themselves, boyo. Nothing me or anyone else can do about it. ‘Less you get some help from a shaman or druid, ha? But that’s not happening for ya, now is it?”
Kazimierz’s look of despair must have been enough to stir pity in the troll’s heart, because he sighed and gestured the orc over.
“All right, come ‘ere. Have a drink of this. It won’t cure ya, but you won’t care so much,” Kadir said, offering a small clay bottle. Fumbling with his off hand, Kazimierz took a swig. The fire of the Darkspear’s favorite ginger liquor spread instantly into his stomach, but the over-potent drink did seem to numb the pain somewhat.
“Th-thanks,” Kazimierz coughed, trying to hand the bottle back without spilling the rest of the contents. His head was already swimming-what did they put in their drink?
Kadir chuckled and nodded, then motioned for the orc to go. “Don’t mention it. I mean that, boyo. I could be in trouble for helping a troublemaker through his learning, ha?”
“Dabu,” Kazimierz mumbled, complying with a little difficulty. He staggered away from the pavilion a little way before losing his footing on the suddenly very unstable ground. Ignoring the raucous laughter behind him and all but oblivious to the pain of landing, Kazimierz decided to rest his eyes, just for a little while…
Saturday, October 24, 2009
A Lesson
Kazimierz found the Farseer sitting serenely in front of a small fire, set at the last switchback before the path let out into the valley. Wordlessly, he held the spirit’s stone aloft, fighting to keep a triumphant grin from disturbing his appropriately restrained visage.
“So. Perhaps I have misjudged you, son of Ro’al,” said the elder shaman, inclining her head ever so slightly in apology and waving a hand towards a small setting of food and water. “Sit, refresh yourself. I will show you how to use the stone to call on the great spirit’s power when you are done.”
Famished, Kazimierz dug into the food-boar meat with cactus apples and the sharp, pungent spices native to Durotar. As he ate, Shrikha began to explain the basics of using a totem as a focus.
“The totem you have received is a physical manifestation of your bond with the great spirit,” she said, watching her student eat with the ghost of a smile. “You must maintain the totem’s power with periodic rituals, but in return it will allow you to quickly and easily call upon the earthen one’s powers…power the spirit will share with anyone nearby you deem worthy.”
Shrikha’s teachings went on well past the first light of dawn. The first fiery rays that broke the eastern ridge of the valley found teacher and student in intense concentration…and no small quantity of irritation.
“You are not focused! The spirit world will not listen to an indistinct call,” Shrikha admonished her charge, the now-worn phrase tinged with impatience.
Growling under his breath, Kazimierz stood with building fury, hefting his staff .
“Enough! I do the best I am able!” he snarled, calling the spirit into his weapons.
The elder Farseer curled her lips into an amused smile. “You will never have the skill to challenge me, whelp,” she said condescendingly, then turned to walk away as the rage boiled inside him.
She didn’t look behind her as he closed the few steps between them, nor when he raised the staff to strike down the source of his aggravation. She did, however, catch the staff on the downstroke, twist like a mongoose, and deliver a breath-destroying kick to his chest. As Kazimierz scrambled to his feet, she shook her head disapprovingly.
“Foolish child. That cannot go unanswered,” Shrikha hissed, kicking her walking-staff from the ground into her hand. Bloodlust singing in his veins, Kazimierz swung fast-high, low, then whirling into a thrust that Shrikha slapped out of the way. She raised a hand to the air, and Kazimierz could feel a surge of spiritual presence a mere moment before the pain began. The wind howled furiously as the Farseer spun impossibly fast, her staff blurring as it struck. With an agonizing crack, Kazimierz felt bones break-first in his forearm as he attempted to ward off the blow, followed by a number of ribs as the staff came around again. A last sweep brought him to the ground, where he lay trying to avoid screaming in pain. The Farseer turned wordlessly away, leaving him defeated on the valley floor.
Shrikha walked calmly back to her dwelling, showing no sign of agitation or inner turmoil. Two important lessons today, she thought. One of patience…and one of discretion. Best to pick your battles with care, after all…
“So. Perhaps I have misjudged you, son of Ro’al,” said the elder shaman, inclining her head ever so slightly in apology and waving a hand towards a small setting of food and water. “Sit, refresh yourself. I will show you how to use the stone to call on the great spirit’s power when you are done.”
Famished, Kazimierz dug into the food-boar meat with cactus apples and the sharp, pungent spices native to Durotar. As he ate, Shrikha began to explain the basics of using a totem as a focus.
“The totem you have received is a physical manifestation of your bond with the great spirit,” she said, watching her student eat with the ghost of a smile. “You must maintain the totem’s power with periodic rituals, but in return it will allow you to quickly and easily call upon the earthen one’s powers…power the spirit will share with anyone nearby you deem worthy.”
Shrikha’s teachings went on well past the first light of dawn. The first fiery rays that broke the eastern ridge of the valley found teacher and student in intense concentration…and no small quantity of irritation.
“You are not focused! The spirit world will not listen to an indistinct call,” Shrikha admonished her charge, the now-worn phrase tinged with impatience.
Growling under his breath, Kazimierz stood with building fury, hefting his staff .
“Enough! I do the best I am able!” he snarled, calling the spirit into his weapons.
The elder Farseer curled her lips into an amused smile. “You will never have the skill to challenge me, whelp,” she said condescendingly, then turned to walk away as the rage boiled inside him.
She didn’t look behind her as he closed the few steps between them, nor when he raised the staff to strike down the source of his aggravation. She did, however, catch the staff on the downstroke, twist like a mongoose, and deliver a breath-destroying kick to his chest. As Kazimierz scrambled to his feet, she shook her head disapprovingly.
“Foolish child. That cannot go unanswered,” Shrikha hissed, kicking her walking-staff from the ground into her hand. Bloodlust singing in his veins, Kazimierz swung fast-high, low, then whirling into a thrust that Shrikha slapped out of the way. She raised a hand to the air, and Kazimierz could feel a surge of spiritual presence a mere moment before the pain began. The wind howled furiously as the Farseer spun impossibly fast, her staff blurring as it struck. With an agonizing crack, Kazimierz felt bones break-first in his forearm as he attempted to ward off the blow, followed by a number of ribs as the staff came around again. A last sweep brought him to the ground, where he lay trying to avoid screaming in pain. The Farseer turned wordlessly away, leaving him defeated on the valley floor.
Shrikha walked calmly back to her dwelling, showing no sign of agitation or inner turmoil. Two important lessons today, she thought. One of patience…and one of discretion. Best to pick your battles with care, after all…
Thursday, October 22, 2009
A goal achieved! (OOC)
Just a brief note, since it's pushing 4:30 here: finally finished up Seeker!
Get my 1000th daily quest tomorrow, and I've pretty much put the quest achievements to bed. *grin*
To Kill an Old God... (OOC)
Another day, another old-world raid, and this one is one of the ones I love most lore-wise: The Temple of Ahn-Qiraj. The history of the entire zone, scattered around Silithus, is one of a bleak, near-hopeless war against the alien silithid. Between the bones of the great dragons and the droning hum of a million insects, it was perhaps one of the most forbidding areas of Old-World Azeroth.
It was reading about the Gates of Ahn-Qiraj and the 10-Hour War that really caught my interest-I've only been playing since the New Year's before Wrath, and none of the world events had anywhere NEAR the raw magnitude and desperation of the Ahn-Qiraj event. Both factions raised NPC armies and joined together with their longtime foes, while even the most lowly of adventurers were exhorted to send cloth or food or other supplies to help the war effort. It was the command Might of Kalimdor-the greatest army that Azeroth could raise-that cemented the legendary status of High Overlord Varok Saurfang (plus, of course, his ability to be similar to/more powerful than Chuck Norris in the course of jokes, but let's ignore that for now). And the War-once the chosen one (supported by the best of the raiding guilds at the time) rang the gong, a massive, 10-hour battle between a true swarm of Silithid, the Might of Kalimdor, and the aforementioned raiders took place, until the dark tide was pushed back into its subterranean lair.
The sheer epic quality of the 10-Hour War continued with the raid, where you delved into the forgotten depths of Azeroth to bring down an Old God, corrupter of the Titan's creations, older than life itself on Azeroth. And the creamy custard center of this rich lore doughnut is the rather impressive difficulty leve; for example, I had been in a full 40-man raid of people 10 levels over the raid's content who wiped on it until we could stand no more and disbanded.
So it was with this mix of fascination and dread that I headed into the raid with Niqora, Towateke, and the rest of the fine folks of Bloodriver. The first part of the raid is a breeze-we rip through the trash, pulling two to three pats at once and rolling over bosses with ease. Then, as feared, the Twin Emperors hit us. Hard. For those of you who haven't heard of the fight, there are two giant humanoid-bug-thing silithid, one who uses spells, and the other who uses a large and uncomfortably painful sword. They stand on either side of a large, squarish room. Mr. Caster can only be hurt with spells, while Mr. Sword can only be hurt with physical. Periodically, the pair swap places and wipe threat. Most painfully, if the two ever get within a ludicrously long distance of each other, they heal. For 30k Hp a /second/. Even for 80s, this is insurmountable (as we only had 10 people at this point).
Conventional wisdom dictated 4 tanks: two physical tanks and two magic tanks (usually warlocks). Each dissimilar tank pair took up station on a platform, and when the bosses teleport, the tank capable of pulling threat did so. We tried this...it didn't go too well, as our tanks kept losing threat on the switches, followed by the bosses full-healing. We wiped a number of times, and our PUG members (we had a few) got bored or lazy and left. Well, that's their loss, as we brought in paladin tanks (who can dish out the physical AND the magical smackdown) and proceeded to methodically demolish the two.
Finally, we marched our way to C'thun's lair. After a false start to learn what the fight description actually *meant*, we dropped the ugly bastard, leading to the screenie you see on this post. ^_^
I know it's not so much of an accomplishment now that 80 is the level cap, but there's still something incredible about the experience. The story and atmosphere are still quite compelling even with all the shiny wonders of Outlands and Northrend to compare them to.
I kind of wish they had another event like the Gates of AQ...the server events since have been interesting, but they don't seem to have the same epic, urgent scale as repelling the invasion of an army that's been building for 10,000 years. Who knows, though-perhaps the AQ event wasn't as interesting at it seems, looking through the windows of someone else's past. In any event, I can say now that Kazi has helped kill an Old God. Expect a post on it...eventually. I am going to try to keep a rough chronological order to my story posts.
Monday, October 19, 2009
A piece of history (OOC)
So the wonderful folks at Bloodriver have set up a series of raids during Hallow's End honoring the old, forgotten raids of Burning Crusade and Old Azeroth. I'm positively thrilled by this-I had always wanted to see the content, but finding groups competent and patient enough to finish some of the raids was like finding hen's teeth. Now, however, with an excellent group of friends, Kazi can experience the terrible wonders that he went flying past while he leveled.
Last night, we did Karazhan, which taught us two related lessons: one, if the bosses have to summon adds to the fight in order to complete the event, DON'T BURN THEM DOWN INSTANTLY. Just because you CAN drop a raid boss in five seconds doesn't mean it's always a good idea. Two, if you happen to ignore the first part, clear the raid and wait about an hour and it'll probably reset the boss. (We went and stomped OS while waiting, which is an excellent way to pass the time with a 10-man raid)
So I was quite impressed with Kara (I had never done any raids before Wrath), and to fit the theme of "honoring the dead", Kazi did it all in his old Argent gear from the end of Burning Crusade. We tore through the bosses, wiped once on trash when we forgot half our heals and DPS had left, then finished off Prince at the end.
And guess what drops?
Gorehowl.
That's right, the axe that freakin' Grom Hellscream used to kill Mannoroth. I won the RP roll (which IIRC was unopposed...thanks guys!) and snagged it.
I remember, a long time ago, browsing the loot from Kara (which I was convinced I would never, ever see in the game) and seeing this axe. Unlike a great deal of the 'epic' items, it had actually appeared in the lore, doing great things for a great figure. Rest assured, I'm going to write about Kazi's acquisition of it sometime down the line! For the moment, though, it has replaced my old PVP axes in my Argent Dawn RP set, and I'm taking a great deal of pleasure in wandering around looking heroic.
Visions
Sapta, as the Farseer had told him earlier in his studies, was a potent mixture of ritually significant ingredients that infused its drinker with the ability to see and contact greater spirits. The small boons Kazimierz had been thus far able to secure were acquired from minor beings of only animalistic intelligence-still useful, to be sure, but far beneath what a greater spirit might be able to offer. However, it was not without risk to use a sapta-if the spirits rejected the drinker, they would do so with violence.
Kazimierz, however, did not fear the possibility of death-if the spirits wished him dead, then he would join the ancestors that much sooner, albeit in a somewhat less exalted way. Still, the changes wrought by the sapta’s influence were unsettling. The shockingly clear sky of Durotar shimmered away, fading into dull greyness. The guards and other novices scattered around the den also lost color, becoming silver-black silhouettes, but it was the ground that changed the most. No longer solid and burnt-orange, it glowed and twisted, yielding to his sight. Far beneath its surface, it seemed alive, with twisting tendrils that pulsed to an unknown rhythm and deep, thrumming centers of energy.
A flash of light in his peripheral vision jerked Kazimierz’s sight back to the drab aboveground-drab save for a being of dazzling brightness, twined with focused threads of the power that twisted purposeless below.
“Do you see the patterns of the earth, Kazimierz?” asked Farseer Stormeye, her voice sonorous and distorted. She slowly raised a hand, rotating her arm as a tendril pulsed brightly. “Watch it twist and flow at my request.”
Kazimierz stood in awestruck silence as a great flare erupted from the depths of the earth and spun into a concentrated, luminous line that wove like a skein around the elder shaman.
“Go now. Follow the paths to the focal point,” Stormeye said, the threads of spirit-power wrapping around her like a second skin. “Speak the Litany of Earth to the one you find there. Waste no time-the sapta will not last forever.”
“Dabu,” Kazimierz replied, bowing his head in submission. As his gaze swept his feet, he saw the same tendrils flowing up into him, barely visible against the luminous subterranean ebb and flow that seemed to come to a center in the rugged hills to the south. He took his staff in hand-itself vibrant with the elemental it played host to-and began to scramble up the wind-sculpted sandstone.
The path, such as it was, would be all but invisible to a casual wanderer. Indeed, the barren hilltop it led to held nothing but a crudely shaped stone block, the dark granite of its blocky form a stark contrast to the orange stone of Durotar but otherwise unremarkable. To Kazimierz’s altered sight, it was a pillar of scintillating light, almost blinding in its intensity. Nearly as bright was the jumbled figure of roiling stones which stood lordly above a mass of smaller, dimmer shapes. Though it had no eyes, it seemed to perceive Kazimierz as he approached-it turned towards him, raising its amorphous arms in a gesture of challenge. Eyes wide, Kazimierz began chanting, the alien words he had spoken every morning and night for the last year coming smoothly to his lips.
Earth, giver of our sustenance, take my offering.
The spirit loomed closer, jagged shards clustering around its hands, as Kazimerz dropped a small handful of cactus apples at his feet.
Earth, guardian of our homes, take my offering.
Kazimierz gently placed a baked clay brick at his feet, and the spirit before him drew itself up, hesitating. Heartened, Kazimierz drew the steel knife from his belt and placed it point-down in the dirt.
Earth, strength of our warriors, take my offering.
The spirit seemed inquisitive now, twisting and craning its head to inspect its strange, fleshy supplicant. Hands shaking with anticipation, Kazimierz took the final object, one he had spent many days seeking-a plain, black stone, taken from an elemental summoned to this world and left half-crazed when it could not return to its own.
Earth, to which we all return, take my offering.
For an eternity, all was still-a perfect tableau of kneeling orc and looming spirit, as worry began to gnaw away at Kazimierz’s focused calmness. Finally, the spirit raised its arm, swinging its hand over the shaman’s head.
“You speak an ancient tongue with reverence, and bring gifts that show respect,” Kazimierz heard, or understood; he would never later be able to remember hearing language from the spirit, only the sensation of great and terrible authority. “You give me honor, fleshling, and so I shall grant the boon your kind has asked for so many times before.”
The spirit’s connection to the flashing cores of power deep within the earth surged with twisted ropes of light, folding and coiling into a dazzling point of light no larger than a human’s thumb. With an effortless motion, the spirit drove the radiant shard through the hand Kazimierz bore against the ground and through it to the stone below, wrenching it back out a moment after. Suppressing a hiss of pain, Kazimierz watched the wound steadily knit itself closed until he heard a single irresistible command:
“GO.”
Kazimierz shook his head muzzily, vision blurring, and the sounds of the spirit world faded, replaced with an ever-louder rush of toneless noise. Grunting, he swayed on his knees until his vision ran together into a formless mass of rapidly darkening grey.
He woke up sprawled on the ground, his muscles aching and his mind spinning. The gleaming stars above gave an imprecise but welcome estimate of ten hours spent on the rocks. Staggering to his feet, Kazimierz realized he held something in his hand-a stone, fist-sized kin to the black granite monolith beside him. A surge of euphoria welled inside him, and he flung his head back to scream a wordless cry of victory to the wilds.
An earth totem…woven from the threads of the spirits and bound in my own blood!
The thoughts of his accomplishment-and those that must surely now follow-burned in his mind as he climbed back down the wind-worn hills towards his home...
Kazimierz, however, did not fear the possibility of death-if the spirits wished him dead, then he would join the ancestors that much sooner, albeit in a somewhat less exalted way. Still, the changes wrought by the sapta’s influence were unsettling. The shockingly clear sky of Durotar shimmered away, fading into dull greyness. The guards and other novices scattered around the den also lost color, becoming silver-black silhouettes, but it was the ground that changed the most. No longer solid and burnt-orange, it glowed and twisted, yielding to his sight. Far beneath its surface, it seemed alive, with twisting tendrils that pulsed to an unknown rhythm and deep, thrumming centers of energy.
A flash of light in his peripheral vision jerked Kazimierz’s sight back to the drab aboveground-drab save for a being of dazzling brightness, twined with focused threads of the power that twisted purposeless below.
“Do you see the patterns of the earth, Kazimierz?” asked Farseer Stormeye, her voice sonorous and distorted. She slowly raised a hand, rotating her arm as a tendril pulsed brightly. “Watch it twist and flow at my request.”
Kazimierz stood in awestruck silence as a great flare erupted from the depths of the earth and spun into a concentrated, luminous line that wove like a skein around the elder shaman.
“Go now. Follow the paths to the focal point,” Stormeye said, the threads of spirit-power wrapping around her like a second skin. “Speak the Litany of Earth to the one you find there. Waste no time-the sapta will not last forever.”
“Dabu,” Kazimierz replied, bowing his head in submission. As his gaze swept his feet, he saw the same tendrils flowing up into him, barely visible against the luminous subterranean ebb and flow that seemed to come to a center in the rugged hills to the south. He took his staff in hand-itself vibrant with the elemental it played host to-and began to scramble up the wind-sculpted sandstone.
The path, such as it was, would be all but invisible to a casual wanderer. Indeed, the barren hilltop it led to held nothing but a crudely shaped stone block, the dark granite of its blocky form a stark contrast to the orange stone of Durotar but otherwise unremarkable. To Kazimierz’s altered sight, it was a pillar of scintillating light, almost blinding in its intensity. Nearly as bright was the jumbled figure of roiling stones which stood lordly above a mass of smaller, dimmer shapes. Though it had no eyes, it seemed to perceive Kazimierz as he approached-it turned towards him, raising its amorphous arms in a gesture of challenge. Eyes wide, Kazimierz began chanting, the alien words he had spoken every morning and night for the last year coming smoothly to his lips.
Earth, giver of our sustenance, take my offering.
The spirit loomed closer, jagged shards clustering around its hands, as Kazimerz dropped a small handful of cactus apples at his feet.
Earth, guardian of our homes, take my offering.
Kazimierz gently placed a baked clay brick at his feet, and the spirit before him drew itself up, hesitating. Heartened, Kazimierz drew the steel knife from his belt and placed it point-down in the dirt.
Earth, strength of our warriors, take my offering.
The spirit seemed inquisitive now, twisting and craning its head to inspect its strange, fleshy supplicant. Hands shaking with anticipation, Kazimierz took the final object, one he had spent many days seeking-a plain, black stone, taken from an elemental summoned to this world and left half-crazed when it could not return to its own.
Earth, to which we all return, take my offering.
For an eternity, all was still-a perfect tableau of kneeling orc and looming spirit, as worry began to gnaw away at Kazimierz’s focused calmness. Finally, the spirit raised its arm, swinging its hand over the shaman’s head.
“You speak an ancient tongue with reverence, and bring gifts that show respect,” Kazimierz heard, or understood; he would never later be able to remember hearing language from the spirit, only the sensation of great and terrible authority. “You give me honor, fleshling, and so I shall grant the boon your kind has asked for so many times before.”
The spirit’s connection to the flashing cores of power deep within the earth surged with twisted ropes of light, folding and coiling into a dazzling point of light no larger than a human’s thumb. With an effortless motion, the spirit drove the radiant shard through the hand Kazimierz bore against the ground and through it to the stone below, wrenching it back out a moment after. Suppressing a hiss of pain, Kazimierz watched the wound steadily knit itself closed until he heard a single irresistible command:
“GO.”
Kazimierz shook his head muzzily, vision blurring, and the sounds of the spirit world faded, replaced with an ever-louder rush of toneless noise. Grunting, he swayed on his knees until his vision ran together into a formless mass of rapidly darkening grey.
He woke up sprawled on the ground, his muscles aching and his mind spinning. The gleaming stars above gave an imprecise but welcome estimate of ten hours spent on the rocks. Staggering to his feet, Kazimierz realized he held something in his hand-a stone, fist-sized kin to the black granite monolith beside him. A surge of euphoria welled inside him, and he flung his head back to scream a wordless cry of victory to the wilds.
An earth totem…woven from the threads of the spirits and bound in my own blood!
The thoughts of his accomplishment-and those that must surely now follow-burned in his mind as he climbed back down the wind-worn hills towards his home...
Saturday, October 17, 2009
In the Valley of Trials
A resounding crash of thunder mixed with the sharp sound of wood meeting flesh, and the demon screeched its last, thick blood leeching from its crushed skull into the dusty orange soil. A rough greenish hand reached down and yanked a small golden medallion from the creature’s ruined neck, discharging a spark into the gore-stained metal. Kazimierz wiped it clean, gazing upon the symbol imprinted on it with a satisfied grunt. Heedless of the punishing sun on his back, the orc slipped the insignia into the rough boarhide bag he wore on his belt and began a loping run back to his taskmistress with his prize.
The eight years since his first real taste of battle on the slopes of Hyjal had been transforming; once gangly and on the scrawny side, the harsh demands of carving a nation from a savage wilderness had combined with the natural effects of growth to make Kazimierz swift, agile, and strong. After much deliberation, he had chosen to devote himself to the spirits-partially out of respect for the newfound traditions of his kind, and partially out of somewhat more selfish reasons.
Perhaps with this task done Shrikha will teach me...if she doesn’t know who I want to contact, maybe…
Kazimierz’s thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice, high-pitched and scratchy as only a goblin could manage.
“Kazi! Buddy! Tell me you’re hurrying to deliver those barrels you said you’d finish for me!” the goblin said, gesticulating wildly as he stepped in the young orc’s path. Sweat gleamed on his face, mirroring the shine on his perpetual toothy grin.
Kazimierz snorted, cheered a little as always by his sometime mentor’s enthusiasm.
“No, Vicks. I have had more pressing responsibilities today,” he replied, waving his bloodstained quarterstaff as evidence. “But I have reamed them, and I will finish cutting the rifling when I have finished Farseer Stormeye’s tasks.”
Vicks eyed the gory trophy with clear distaste, heaving a theatrical sigh. “You’re breaking my heart, Kazi! You know who wants those rifles, yeah?”
With an sudden scoop, Kazimierz lifted the squawking goblin onto his shoulder and set off for the Farseer’s hut once more.
“Who’s that, Vicks? Another tauren chief trying to outfit his braves? They’ve enough guns that a few more or less won’t make a difference.”
After a few sputtered and perfunctory complaints about the indignity of the situation, Vicks settled down. “Sian’dur, that’s who!” he said, and continued in disbelief at Kazimierz’s blank stare. “You know, that svelte little troll who teaches archery in Orgrimmar? Come on, Kazi, get with it. My future’s at stake here!”
Laughing out loud now, Kazimierz waved off the goblin’s pleas. “I am sorry, but the Farseer’s tasks come first. She has a free hand with her staff if I’m tardy, you know” Suppressing his mirth for a moment, he continued. “ I don’t think the good hunter’s tastes run to goblins, in any case. Rest assured I’ll have the barrels to you as soon as I am able, though…assuming you have more blasting powder for me?”
Vicks seemed to wilt dejectedly. “ Yeah, I have the powder…you really thi-“
A sudden thunderclap cut Vicks off, and the sharp scent of ozone overwhelmed the dusty smell of sandstone. Immediately, Kazimierz dropped to a knee, all but flinging the goblin from his shoulder as an imperious voice boomed over him.
“Neophyte. You disappoint me again,” intoned Shrikha Stormeye, lightning crackling like tearing silk in her outstretched hand. “Leave us, goblin. This orc has important things to be attending to.”
Vicks scuttled off, for once speechless, leaving Kazimierz to grope for words.
“Farseer Stormeye, I-“ he began.
“-have obtained the medallion I required, yes,” she said, and her imposing countenance softened for a fraction of a second. “My title is, indeed, more than a mere formality.” She eyed him up and down, the gusty winds of Durotar whipping her bone-white hair out of its tie. “You spend too much time with that goblin and others of his ilk, Kazimierz. I sometimes doubt your commitment to the path you say you have chosen.”
Kazimierz remained mostly still, but a close observer might have noticed the suddenly crushing grip he had on the rocky soil. “The spirits do not reject me, Farseer, and I remain as loyal and focused as any of your other students,” he said, managing to avoid any overt aggression in his voice.
Stormeye circled slowly around the kneeling orc, her weathered face unreadable. “Why, then, do you waste your time with tinkering? Do you doubt the power of the elements?”
Kazimierz shook his head vehemently. “No, Farseer. I need no further demonstrations,” he said, focusing on the solid, calming earth beneath him. “I find the arts of engineering intriguing. For all it seems to be mere ‘tinkering’, the goblins derive great advantages from their knowledge. I seek to serve the Horde in as many capabilities as possible, Farseer-would you deny me this chance to learn?”
“There are things that are unwise to learn, young one,” she muttered, but shook her head anyway. “So be it. I will allow you to learn the goblin’s teachings, so long as your training here does not suffer for it. Rise,” she said, and gestured to a small table with a clay bottle on it. “If the spirits accept you, you will learn a great deal about the mighty earth today…”
Kazimierz took the bottle and smelled the contents-alcohol, the tang of copper, and the cool scent of deep earth. He took a drink, and the world changed...
The eight years since his first real taste of battle on the slopes of Hyjal had been transforming; once gangly and on the scrawny side, the harsh demands of carving a nation from a savage wilderness had combined with the natural effects of growth to make Kazimierz swift, agile, and strong. After much deliberation, he had chosen to devote himself to the spirits-partially out of respect for the newfound traditions of his kind, and partially out of somewhat more selfish reasons.
Perhaps with this task done Shrikha will teach me...if she doesn’t know who I want to contact, maybe…
Kazimierz’s thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice, high-pitched and scratchy as only a goblin could manage.
“Kazi! Buddy! Tell me you’re hurrying to deliver those barrels you said you’d finish for me!” the goblin said, gesticulating wildly as he stepped in the young orc’s path. Sweat gleamed on his face, mirroring the shine on his perpetual toothy grin.
Kazimierz snorted, cheered a little as always by his sometime mentor’s enthusiasm.
“No, Vicks. I have had more pressing responsibilities today,” he replied, waving his bloodstained quarterstaff as evidence. “But I have reamed them, and I will finish cutting the rifling when I have finished Farseer Stormeye’s tasks.”
Vicks eyed the gory trophy with clear distaste, heaving a theatrical sigh. “You’re breaking my heart, Kazi! You know who wants those rifles, yeah?”
With an sudden scoop, Kazimierz lifted the squawking goblin onto his shoulder and set off for the Farseer’s hut once more.
“Who’s that, Vicks? Another tauren chief trying to outfit his braves? They’ve enough guns that a few more or less won’t make a difference.”
After a few sputtered and perfunctory complaints about the indignity of the situation, Vicks settled down. “Sian’dur, that’s who!” he said, and continued in disbelief at Kazimierz’s blank stare. “You know, that svelte little troll who teaches archery in Orgrimmar? Come on, Kazi, get with it. My future’s at stake here!”
Laughing out loud now, Kazimierz waved off the goblin’s pleas. “I am sorry, but the Farseer’s tasks come first. She has a free hand with her staff if I’m tardy, you know” Suppressing his mirth for a moment, he continued. “ I don’t think the good hunter’s tastes run to goblins, in any case. Rest assured I’ll have the barrels to you as soon as I am able, though…assuming you have more blasting powder for me?”
Vicks seemed to wilt dejectedly. “ Yeah, I have the powder…you really thi-“
A sudden thunderclap cut Vicks off, and the sharp scent of ozone overwhelmed the dusty smell of sandstone. Immediately, Kazimierz dropped to a knee, all but flinging the goblin from his shoulder as an imperious voice boomed over him.
“Neophyte. You disappoint me again,” intoned Shrikha Stormeye, lightning crackling like tearing silk in her outstretched hand. “Leave us, goblin. This orc has important things to be attending to.”
Vicks scuttled off, for once speechless, leaving Kazimierz to grope for words.
“Farseer Stormeye, I-“ he began.
“-have obtained the medallion I required, yes,” she said, and her imposing countenance softened for a fraction of a second. “My title is, indeed, more than a mere formality.” She eyed him up and down, the gusty winds of Durotar whipping her bone-white hair out of its tie. “You spend too much time with that goblin and others of his ilk, Kazimierz. I sometimes doubt your commitment to the path you say you have chosen.”
Kazimierz remained mostly still, but a close observer might have noticed the suddenly crushing grip he had on the rocky soil. “The spirits do not reject me, Farseer, and I remain as loyal and focused as any of your other students,” he said, managing to avoid any overt aggression in his voice.
Stormeye circled slowly around the kneeling orc, her weathered face unreadable. “Why, then, do you waste your time with tinkering? Do you doubt the power of the elements?”
Kazimierz shook his head vehemently. “No, Farseer. I need no further demonstrations,” he said, focusing on the solid, calming earth beneath him. “I find the arts of engineering intriguing. For all it seems to be mere ‘tinkering’, the goblins derive great advantages from their knowledge. I seek to serve the Horde in as many capabilities as possible, Farseer-would you deny me this chance to learn?”
“There are things that are unwise to learn, young one,” she muttered, but shook her head anyway. “So be it. I will allow you to learn the goblin’s teachings, so long as your training here does not suffer for it. Rise,” she said, and gestured to a small table with a clay bottle on it. “If the spirits accept you, you will learn a great deal about the mighty earth today…”
Kazimierz took the bottle and smelled the contents-alcohol, the tang of copper, and the cool scent of deep earth. He took a drink, and the world changed...
Friday, October 16, 2009
Prelude
The sounds, as he would later reflect on, were the worst part of waiting. The humans and their fortified encampment to the south were well out of sight, but the hue and cry of battle echoed in the lonely silence of the Hyjal wilderness. Screams-some of rage, and some of terror-rose above the general thunder of arms and armor, and the first wisps of smoke had finally wound their way to the entrenched Horde.
Kazimierz was young, very young-he was of the first generation who had not known the plains of Garadar, being born in the internment camps. But his youth was no impediment to the thrill of the drums of war, and though his role was to be minor, he reveled in the thought of a real battle. No more scattered horse-men and pig-men and bird-women! he thought, shifting his heavy bag impatiently on his shoulder. A battle worthy of remembrance at last.
Beside him, others hefted similar bags-the very young, the very old, and those wounded that could still walk, orc and troll and tauren. Inside each satchel, the very finest of the goblin’s lethal toys waited, ready to shear flesh and shatter bone: landmines. The ragged line of mine-bearers stood perilously undefended a hundred yards ahead of the line, awaiting whatever survivors of Archimonde’s assault on the Alliance remained. Kazimierz’s team was headed by Marzena Brightaxe, another Arathi-born, and she gave him an uncertain grin as they stood ready. “Stand by! Set your mines at my command!”
A horn sounded in the distance, thin and desperate against the roar of death. The stench of burning wood and flesh was thick now, cloying as it mixed with the delicate scent of pine and moss. The sounds of fighting lightened, then ceased-only the distant rumble of hooves on grass broke the unnatural stillness of the mountains. Then, the call: a horn, rough and exultant, heralding a wolf-borne raider and the ragged remnants of the Alliance fortress. Their faces were dull with fear and shock, and most dripped blood from gouges, but the warriors of the Horde did not notice, for the outrider’s war-horn was answered with the drums of the Warchief’s own guard. Battle would soon be at hand! As last of the fleeing humans rode by, Marzena raised a fist. “Set mines!”
Goblin land mines were finicky things to place and ready, or at least, they were if you wished to retain use of all your limbs and digits, and with battlerage burning in their veins no few of the mine-bearers succumbed to misfires. Kazimierz was beyond caring-the drums pounded, the Warchief roared, and the lifeless tramp of corpse-boots filled his mind and heart with flame. Three, four, five mines down, and Marzana yelled wordlessly, waving them back to the line. As they scrambled for the burrows, Kazimierz had a glimpse of the unholy vanguard behind him, and the faintest touch of something unfamiliar and troubling inside. Even Marzana-nearly grown enough to have taken up arms-seemed a touch uncertain, but as she noticed his gaze she rapidly composed her features into something resembling a commanding presence. “Refill your bags! Prepare to sally at my order!” she said, pitching her voice over the chaos of preparations around them.
The sharp pops of landmines sounded, and the gnarled, rotting press of bodies faltered, the frontrunners blown apart. Even now, within spearthrow of the line, the Scourge made no sound but the thud of boots and the clack of armor. The silence seemed to pull the cries of the defenders into it, and soon the undead legion was quick-marching through the dwindling mines as the Horde line wavered. Kazimierz huddled back behind the first line with the rest of his team, and felt the contagion of fear now, the icy tendrils of doubt that wove their way through the fortifications. The warriors of the line began to inch back, their battlecries caught in their throats as the dark legion closed the final yards, until a fearsome voice behind them roared “LOK’TAR OGAR!”
The Warchief and his guard thundered into the vanguard of the corpse army, and it seemed to Kazimierz that molten steel had flooded his spine, burning away the impurity of fear. A moment later, the battlecry was echoed by a thousand voices, filled with an eagerness and hunger that resonated all too well with the youngling orc. The clash of axe and shield mingled with the screams of those killing and dying, and through the chaos of battle Kazimierz could see the Warchief’s honor-guard driving deep into the mass of skeletons and ghouls. A flash of light dazzled him, and a thunderclap pealed, bringing with it the sharp, clean smell of lightning-the shamans had called down spirits of the storm to repel the vile invaders. The fighting ceased after a few seemingly eternal minutes, and a chorus of shouts along the line signaled a return to preparations.
Following Marzena, Kazimierz picked his way across the battlefield. The once-green earth was littered with bodies on grisly display-here a troll with his head smashed apart by a great abomination, there a tauren, pierced by dozens of spears, lying on the broken bodies of a dozen Scourge. Eyes wide, Marzena waved her squad onward. “Push the bodies aside! We need more mines down!” she said, and her voice barely faltered. “Leave the wounded to the shamans…”
The thrill of battle gone, Kazimierz gritted his teeth and rolled the body of a grunt aside to plant his next explosive. The shamans were rushing in behind them, seizing the wounded and calling on the gentle spirits of life to restore them, bringing a cool, soothing mist to gently dust the ground and mend rent flesh. A few scouts went for the dead, taking badges or weapons, something to identify the fallen. All too soon, the next wave of Scourge swarmed up the path, and they withdrew to the fortifications once more.
The Scourge seemed endless, and even the legendary morale of the Horde began to suffer. Each wave pushed a little deeper in than the last, and a treacherous voice in Kazimierz’s head noted that each wave seemed a little stronger as the defenders weakened. The minefield was awash in gore now, piled with shredded remains both new and old. The blood of the fallen stained Kazimierz’s boots to the calf, and he had no thoughts to spare anymore as Marzena ordered his squad-merely ran, laid mines, ran again. It had been hours since the first assault, and the soldiers on the line no longer shouted defiance as their foes closed; they fought like Scourge themselves, with grim, efficient silence. Even the Warchief seemed to tire, resting his great hammer on the ground, his commands growing less frequent.
The end came. The final push, bristling with the burning fiends of the Legion, plowed through the paltry remains of the minefield without slowing. The Warchief’s drums sounded a retreat, and the last soldiers torched their towers-a futile attempt to deny their use to the Scourge. Kazimierz was with them now-himself and Marzena the only two of their squad not slain from misplaced mines or flung corpses. The main force itself had suffered terrible losses-a mere quarter remained to suffer the smug glances of the kal’dorei garrison as they were led to a safe zone some ways from the path to the World Tree. The simple clearing was half-occupied by the remnants of the Theramore contingent, lying listlessly on the ground or sitting huddled next to campfires. Kazimierz noted the presence of kal’dorei watchers with dull surprise-even with the knowledge of a battle at hand, they spared a score of archers to watch their ‘allies’ as they rested.
“Hah. Maybe the elflings want to finish us off, now that we’ve broken up the blight-damned Legion for them?” said Marzena sardonically, glaring at their watchers. She fingered the axe she had recovered from a fallen grunt, testing the notched edge with a practiced thumb. Kazimierz grunted vaguely by way of reply, too wearied to be concerned. Even now, the shamans had begun the funeral rites, collecting the recovered tokens of the dead and chanting the rituals to ease their path through the Twisting Nether.
With a start, Kazimierz recognized a name in their litany, and dropped to a knee in shock. So. You walk the last road now, father. His breath caught in his throat, and an unseemly wave of grief bubbled up inside him. Those nearby were looking at him now, and someone clapped a scarred hand on his shoulder sympathetically.
“Mourn lightly, little one. To die in such a battle is as honorable a death as can be wished…no doubt Wolfseye and the rest of our comrades will dine with the great ancestors tonight,” said the towering grunt softly. From the corner of his blurred eyes, Kazimierz saw Marzena bow respectfully to his comforter, who continued to speak in even tones. “If you desire, you may stay with my household…I have lost a son this day, as you have a father.”
Kazimierz grasped the proffered hand, and rose from his knees, nodding silently. Beside him, Marzena stood still, eyes downcast. The warrior patted her shoulder with the same compassion he had shown Kazimierz, and gazed into the shining spirit-pyres that danced and flickered over bloodsoaked weapons and armor. “I am Radzimierz Ironfang, young one, and this is my daughter Marzena Brightaxe. I know of you, Kazimierz…I’ve no doubt you will do my household proud.”
Kazimierz bowed deeply, composed again. “Throm-ka, Stone Guard. I accept.” He forced the sorrow to ebb, to be distant; laying maudlin was not something a proper orc should be caught doing. Radzimierz nodded, and turned to walk towards a small patch of ground marked with stakes. Kazimierz turned his back on the rituals of the dead, and stepped towards the future...
Kazimierz was young, very young-he was of the first generation who had not known the plains of Garadar, being born in the internment camps. But his youth was no impediment to the thrill of the drums of war, and though his role was to be minor, he reveled in the thought of a real battle. No more scattered horse-men and pig-men and bird-women! he thought, shifting his heavy bag impatiently on his shoulder. A battle worthy of remembrance at last.
Beside him, others hefted similar bags-the very young, the very old, and those wounded that could still walk, orc and troll and tauren. Inside each satchel, the very finest of the goblin’s lethal toys waited, ready to shear flesh and shatter bone: landmines. The ragged line of mine-bearers stood perilously undefended a hundred yards ahead of the line, awaiting whatever survivors of Archimonde’s assault on the Alliance remained. Kazimierz’s team was headed by Marzena Brightaxe, another Arathi-born, and she gave him an uncertain grin as they stood ready. “Stand by! Set your mines at my command!”
A horn sounded in the distance, thin and desperate against the roar of death. The stench of burning wood and flesh was thick now, cloying as it mixed with the delicate scent of pine and moss. The sounds of fighting lightened, then ceased-only the distant rumble of hooves on grass broke the unnatural stillness of the mountains. Then, the call: a horn, rough and exultant, heralding a wolf-borne raider and the ragged remnants of the Alliance fortress. Their faces were dull with fear and shock, and most dripped blood from gouges, but the warriors of the Horde did not notice, for the outrider’s war-horn was answered with the drums of the Warchief’s own guard. Battle would soon be at hand! As last of the fleeing humans rode by, Marzena raised a fist. “Set mines!”
Goblin land mines were finicky things to place and ready, or at least, they were if you wished to retain use of all your limbs and digits, and with battlerage burning in their veins no few of the mine-bearers succumbed to misfires. Kazimierz was beyond caring-the drums pounded, the Warchief roared, and the lifeless tramp of corpse-boots filled his mind and heart with flame. Three, four, five mines down, and Marzana yelled wordlessly, waving them back to the line. As they scrambled for the burrows, Kazimierz had a glimpse of the unholy vanguard behind him, and the faintest touch of something unfamiliar and troubling inside. Even Marzana-nearly grown enough to have taken up arms-seemed a touch uncertain, but as she noticed his gaze she rapidly composed her features into something resembling a commanding presence. “Refill your bags! Prepare to sally at my order!” she said, pitching her voice over the chaos of preparations around them.
The sharp pops of landmines sounded, and the gnarled, rotting press of bodies faltered, the frontrunners blown apart. Even now, within spearthrow of the line, the Scourge made no sound but the thud of boots and the clack of armor. The silence seemed to pull the cries of the defenders into it, and soon the undead legion was quick-marching through the dwindling mines as the Horde line wavered. Kazimierz huddled back behind the first line with the rest of his team, and felt the contagion of fear now, the icy tendrils of doubt that wove their way through the fortifications. The warriors of the line began to inch back, their battlecries caught in their throats as the dark legion closed the final yards, until a fearsome voice behind them roared “LOK’TAR OGAR!”
The Warchief and his guard thundered into the vanguard of the corpse army, and it seemed to Kazimierz that molten steel had flooded his spine, burning away the impurity of fear. A moment later, the battlecry was echoed by a thousand voices, filled with an eagerness and hunger that resonated all too well with the youngling orc. The clash of axe and shield mingled with the screams of those killing and dying, and through the chaos of battle Kazimierz could see the Warchief’s honor-guard driving deep into the mass of skeletons and ghouls. A flash of light dazzled him, and a thunderclap pealed, bringing with it the sharp, clean smell of lightning-the shamans had called down spirits of the storm to repel the vile invaders. The fighting ceased after a few seemingly eternal minutes, and a chorus of shouts along the line signaled a return to preparations.
Following Marzena, Kazimierz picked his way across the battlefield. The once-green earth was littered with bodies on grisly display-here a troll with his head smashed apart by a great abomination, there a tauren, pierced by dozens of spears, lying on the broken bodies of a dozen Scourge. Eyes wide, Marzena waved her squad onward. “Push the bodies aside! We need more mines down!” she said, and her voice barely faltered. “Leave the wounded to the shamans…”
The thrill of battle gone, Kazimierz gritted his teeth and rolled the body of a grunt aside to plant his next explosive. The shamans were rushing in behind them, seizing the wounded and calling on the gentle spirits of life to restore them, bringing a cool, soothing mist to gently dust the ground and mend rent flesh. A few scouts went for the dead, taking badges or weapons, something to identify the fallen. All too soon, the next wave of Scourge swarmed up the path, and they withdrew to the fortifications once more.
The Scourge seemed endless, and even the legendary morale of the Horde began to suffer. Each wave pushed a little deeper in than the last, and a treacherous voice in Kazimierz’s head noted that each wave seemed a little stronger as the defenders weakened. The minefield was awash in gore now, piled with shredded remains both new and old. The blood of the fallen stained Kazimierz’s boots to the calf, and he had no thoughts to spare anymore as Marzena ordered his squad-merely ran, laid mines, ran again. It had been hours since the first assault, and the soldiers on the line no longer shouted defiance as their foes closed; they fought like Scourge themselves, with grim, efficient silence. Even the Warchief seemed to tire, resting his great hammer on the ground, his commands growing less frequent.
The end came. The final push, bristling with the burning fiends of the Legion, plowed through the paltry remains of the minefield without slowing. The Warchief’s drums sounded a retreat, and the last soldiers torched their towers-a futile attempt to deny their use to the Scourge. Kazimierz was with them now-himself and Marzena the only two of their squad not slain from misplaced mines or flung corpses. The main force itself had suffered terrible losses-a mere quarter remained to suffer the smug glances of the kal’dorei garrison as they were led to a safe zone some ways from the path to the World Tree. The simple clearing was half-occupied by the remnants of the Theramore contingent, lying listlessly on the ground or sitting huddled next to campfires. Kazimierz noted the presence of kal’dorei watchers with dull surprise-even with the knowledge of a battle at hand, they spared a score of archers to watch their ‘allies’ as they rested.
“Hah. Maybe the elflings want to finish us off, now that we’ve broken up the blight-damned Legion for them?” said Marzena sardonically, glaring at their watchers. She fingered the axe she had recovered from a fallen grunt, testing the notched edge with a practiced thumb. Kazimierz grunted vaguely by way of reply, too wearied to be concerned. Even now, the shamans had begun the funeral rites, collecting the recovered tokens of the dead and chanting the rituals to ease their path through the Twisting Nether.
With a start, Kazimierz recognized a name in their litany, and dropped to a knee in shock. So. You walk the last road now, father. His breath caught in his throat, and an unseemly wave of grief bubbled up inside him. Those nearby were looking at him now, and someone clapped a scarred hand on his shoulder sympathetically.
“Mourn lightly, little one. To die in such a battle is as honorable a death as can be wished…no doubt Wolfseye and the rest of our comrades will dine with the great ancestors tonight,” said the towering grunt softly. From the corner of his blurred eyes, Kazimierz saw Marzena bow respectfully to his comforter, who continued to speak in even tones. “If you desire, you may stay with my household…I have lost a son this day, as you have a father.”
Kazimierz grasped the proffered hand, and rose from his knees, nodding silently. Beside him, Marzena stood still, eyes downcast. The warrior patted her shoulder with the same compassion he had shown Kazimierz, and gazed into the shining spirit-pyres that danced and flickered over bloodsoaked weapons and armor. “I am Radzimierz Ironfang, young one, and this is my daughter Marzena Brightaxe. I know of you, Kazimierz…I’ve no doubt you will do my household proud.”
Kazimierz bowed deeply, composed again. “Throm-ka, Stone Guard. I accept.” He forced the sorrow to ebb, to be distant; laying maudlin was not something a proper orc should be caught doing. Radzimierz nodded, and turned to walk towards a small patch of ground marked with stakes. Kazimierz turned his back on the rituals of the dead, and stepped towards the future...
A Beginning
So a friend has been bugging me to start a blog of late. I'm not entirely sure the content I'll be running, but I suppose an excuse to exercise some creativity is a good one. Particularly given the dearth of things to do at the moment...
In any event, I'm going to be posting random stories relating to my World of Warcraft characters, perhaps some short fiction on other subjects, and some completely random rants as the mood strikes me. Don't bother expecting any continuous threads or anything, and posting is likely to be infrequent.
With that said, thanks for reading! I'll try not to disappoint.
-Kazi
In any event, I'm going to be posting random stories relating to my World of Warcraft characters, perhaps some short fiction on other subjects, and some completely random rants as the mood strikes me. Don't bother expecting any continuous threads or anything, and posting is likely to be infrequent.
With that said, thanks for reading! I'll try not to disappoint.
-Kazi
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