07-05-2018, 10:56 PM
(This takes place the night before the Horde party arrived back at Hellfire Citadel)
The canyon path was treacherous, complicated with crevices, loose stone, and other perils. Smoke filled the air, carrying the scent of searing flesh and bubbling fat to his senses. Arthak couldn’t see clearly through it, relying only on the path created by the burning corpses, impaled upon iron pikes. The bodies were difficult to identify, none of them bearing faces he recognized, none of them being orcs. The path ahead was marked by the bodies of the creatures that Spinyl had described to him, the creatures painted onto her cards. Elves, humans, dwarves. Azerothans.
You are strong. Stronger than the others. You have will.
You have something that my other children lack.
You have vision.
He turned, the rumbling voice catching him off guard. His eyes searched, trying to peer through the smoke to catch sight of whatever spoke. His blade was already in his hands. A moment passed, as he attempted to see or hear something, anything through the smog and roar of the pyres.
Why do you resist? Bloodlust alone is not enough to convince you.
But what of power? Power you need.
Arthak whipped around, Vard already raised to strike down. But there was nothing for him to attack, no foe. Just the deep laughter that seemed to be all around him, and the smoke coiling itself into mocking, gargantuan shapes. Keeping his blade at the ready, the orc began moving further down the path, warily.
My blood, my power is yours to claim. It is your birthright. If you would only seize it, stop resisting, you could have all that you want. You just have to embrace the power, embrace me.
There. A shift in the smoke, a mountainous thing moving far too quickly and far too quietly. Just to his left. Arthak veered to the right, and broke out into a run. The sound of his boots slamming into the earth was quickly followed by that of immense hooves giving chase. The smell of it cut through everything else, a thick, pungent musk that tried to cloud his thoughts with memories. Ashtongue bodies rent apart beneath his blade. Socrethar cut almost in half, awaiting Kaylann’s final blow. The recollections so intense they almost overcame his vision.
Imagine what you could become, what your clan, what the Horde could become. Your vision imbued with my strength. An army that could stand proudly as my vanguard, world-breakers and burners under the banner of the Legion, under my banner. You could become the savior of your people. You could become my most respected general!
He continued running, ignoring the smell and the Destructor’s words as best as he could. The earth shook as the demon lord maintained its pursuit. Felfire wreathed it, a sickly, green star that Arthak saw only from the corner of his vision. He didn’t dare look back. Just ahead, only a few yards ahead, the trail of flaming carcasses ended. Hopefully, once he was able to see clearly he could come up with a plan, either of escape or of a glorious death.
With a roar, Arthak passed the last pyre and threw himself clear of the smoke. He landed in a roll and came to his feet, sword at the ready.
Mannoroth, the pit lord whose blood was at the heart of the fel corruption afflicting the orcish people, strode out into the open air. It's great wings flared out, and it raised its double-bladed glaive in the air, a mocking salute.
They faced each other, standing on a rocky outcropping, a jagged spear of stone only barely able to contain the Destructor’s bulk. The demon laughed, and shook its head, its booming voice heavy with disappointment
So much potential. So much capacity for war, for conquest, for destruction. A tragedy to snuff it out before it could grow into itself. Especially when all that I offer is all that you desire.
Mannoroth rushed forward, swinging the glaive to bisect Arthak. Ducking below the strike just in time, Arthak thrust forward with his sword and struck home. The Destructor froze, its piggish face twisted in rage and confusion. Arthak smiled, ignoring the fiery, green blood spurting out from where Vard had pierced the Pit Lord’s chest.
“No. Not all that I desire,” Arthak said, and with a grunt he wrenched his blade upward, splitting open the demon’s torso. Climbing up its massive frame, moving quickly as Mannoroth was already beginning to crack and smoke, the orc jammed his hands into the wound and tore out the demon’s heart.
Screaming in triumph, Arthak raised the still beating mass of felfire and muscle to his face and began consuming it. The pit lord’s corpse exploded, washing its killer in destructive power. Arthak ignored the pain, the burning. The entirety of his attention was on his meal, his trophy.
When at last the light of the Destructor’s death throes died, and the last leathery shred of heart meat slid down his throat, Arthak turned to look towards what lay beyond the outcropping.
A sea of red, an ocean of fel orcs, weapons raised in the air, yelling oaths and battle-cries, pledging their loyalty to him. He recognized some. Go’el, and Sorak, Drannosh, Spinyl and his uncle, all glowing with demonic power. He saw Remnii, Azgadaan, Yrel, and Kaylaan, their flesh as red as that of the orcs around them, all smiling, coldly, cruelly.All looking up to him, awaiting orders. Banners depicting a sword piercing a world stood out prominently amidst the mob, the only clan symbol in sight. In the sky above, he could see thousands of worlds burning like the bodies that had led him here.
He raised his sword, which suddenly felt as light as air. Green fire, and red lightning danced across the blade’s surface, flaring into a novalike intensity at his command. The Horde, his Horde fell silent. Looking up into the blade, Arthak saw his reflection. Skin the color of fresh blood, his eyes twin torches of felfire. His feet twisted into burning hooves, his hands twisted into claws that dripped smoking ichor. His flesh and armor twisted into one another, fused. Arthak looked at himself, and smiled.
And then he looked out to his Horde, bound by his will, armed with the products of his invention, directed by his strategies. Disciplined, unstoppable, unending. The equal to whatever armies the Eredar had to offer Sargeras.
He spoke.
“Let the cosmos burn. Just so long as we light the fire.”
Arthak awoke. Sweat covered his skin, and his breath came in and out in heavy, unsteady waves. The orc looked around, half expecting to see smoke. There was none, just the open sea and the ship, his ship.
Shakily, he rose to his feet and strode to the side of the ship. Taking a moment to calm himself, to steady his breathing and his limbs, Arthak then looked down into water.
A green reflection stared back at him. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief.
He was still himself.
Perhaps though...perhaps that is the real danger.
The canyon path was treacherous, complicated with crevices, loose stone, and other perils. Smoke filled the air, carrying the scent of searing flesh and bubbling fat to his senses. Arthak couldn’t see clearly through it, relying only on the path created by the burning corpses, impaled upon iron pikes. The bodies were difficult to identify, none of them bearing faces he recognized, none of them being orcs. The path ahead was marked by the bodies of the creatures that Spinyl had described to him, the creatures painted onto her cards. Elves, humans, dwarves. Azerothans.
You are strong. Stronger than the others. You have will.
You have something that my other children lack.
You have vision.
He turned, the rumbling voice catching him off guard. His eyes searched, trying to peer through the smoke to catch sight of whatever spoke. His blade was already in his hands. A moment passed, as he attempted to see or hear something, anything through the smog and roar of the pyres.
Why do you resist? Bloodlust alone is not enough to convince you.
But what of power? Power you need.
Arthak whipped around, Vard already raised to strike down. But there was nothing for him to attack, no foe. Just the deep laughter that seemed to be all around him, and the smoke coiling itself into mocking, gargantuan shapes. Keeping his blade at the ready, the orc began moving further down the path, warily.
My blood, my power is yours to claim. It is your birthright. If you would only seize it, stop resisting, you could have all that you want. You just have to embrace the power, embrace me.
There. A shift in the smoke, a mountainous thing moving far too quickly and far too quietly. Just to his left. Arthak veered to the right, and broke out into a run. The sound of his boots slamming into the earth was quickly followed by that of immense hooves giving chase. The smell of it cut through everything else, a thick, pungent musk that tried to cloud his thoughts with memories. Ashtongue bodies rent apart beneath his blade. Socrethar cut almost in half, awaiting Kaylann’s final blow. The recollections so intense they almost overcame his vision.
Imagine what you could become, what your clan, what the Horde could become. Your vision imbued with my strength. An army that could stand proudly as my vanguard, world-breakers and burners under the banner of the Legion, under my banner. You could become the savior of your people. You could become my most respected general!
He continued running, ignoring the smell and the Destructor’s words as best as he could. The earth shook as the demon lord maintained its pursuit. Felfire wreathed it, a sickly, green star that Arthak saw only from the corner of his vision. He didn’t dare look back. Just ahead, only a few yards ahead, the trail of flaming carcasses ended. Hopefully, once he was able to see clearly he could come up with a plan, either of escape or of a glorious death.
With a roar, Arthak passed the last pyre and threw himself clear of the smoke. He landed in a roll and came to his feet, sword at the ready.
Mannoroth, the pit lord whose blood was at the heart of the fel corruption afflicting the orcish people, strode out into the open air. It's great wings flared out, and it raised its double-bladed glaive in the air, a mocking salute.
They faced each other, standing on a rocky outcropping, a jagged spear of stone only barely able to contain the Destructor’s bulk. The demon laughed, and shook its head, its booming voice heavy with disappointment
So much potential. So much capacity for war, for conquest, for destruction. A tragedy to snuff it out before it could grow into itself. Especially when all that I offer is all that you desire.
Mannoroth rushed forward, swinging the glaive to bisect Arthak. Ducking below the strike just in time, Arthak thrust forward with his sword and struck home. The Destructor froze, its piggish face twisted in rage and confusion. Arthak smiled, ignoring the fiery, green blood spurting out from where Vard had pierced the Pit Lord’s chest.
“No. Not all that I desire,” Arthak said, and with a grunt he wrenched his blade upward, splitting open the demon’s torso. Climbing up its massive frame, moving quickly as Mannoroth was already beginning to crack and smoke, the orc jammed his hands into the wound and tore out the demon’s heart.
Screaming in triumph, Arthak raised the still beating mass of felfire and muscle to his face and began consuming it. The pit lord’s corpse exploded, washing its killer in destructive power. Arthak ignored the pain, the burning. The entirety of his attention was on his meal, his trophy.
When at last the light of the Destructor’s death throes died, and the last leathery shred of heart meat slid down his throat, Arthak turned to look towards what lay beyond the outcropping.
A sea of red, an ocean of fel orcs, weapons raised in the air, yelling oaths and battle-cries, pledging their loyalty to him. He recognized some. Go’el, and Sorak, Drannosh, Spinyl and his uncle, all glowing with demonic power. He saw Remnii, Azgadaan, Yrel, and Kaylaan, their flesh as red as that of the orcs around them, all smiling, coldly, cruelly.All looking up to him, awaiting orders. Banners depicting a sword piercing a world stood out prominently amidst the mob, the only clan symbol in sight. In the sky above, he could see thousands of worlds burning like the bodies that had led him here.
He raised his sword, which suddenly felt as light as air. Green fire, and red lightning danced across the blade’s surface, flaring into a novalike intensity at his command. The Horde, his Horde fell silent. Looking up into the blade, Arthak saw his reflection. Skin the color of fresh blood, his eyes twin torches of felfire. His feet twisted into burning hooves, his hands twisted into claws that dripped smoking ichor. His flesh and armor twisted into one another, fused. Arthak looked at himself, and smiled.
And then he looked out to his Horde, bound by his will, armed with the products of his invention, directed by his strategies. Disciplined, unstoppable, unending. The equal to whatever armies the Eredar had to offer Sargeras.
He spoke.
“Let the cosmos burn. Just so long as we light the fire.”
Arthak awoke. Sweat covered his skin, and his breath came in and out in heavy, unsteady waves. The orc looked around, half expecting to see smoke. There was none, just the open sea and the ship, his ship.
Shakily, he rose to his feet and strode to the side of the ship. Taking a moment to calm himself, to steady his breathing and his limbs, Arthak then looked down into water.
A green reflection stared back at him. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief.
He was still himself.
Perhaps though...perhaps that is the real danger.