11-14-2019, 01:18 AM
Tuesday, November 27th Early morning, Gate of Summer, Silvermoon.
Un-fucking-believable.
Garrosh Hellscream fumed as he ran a whetstone across the blade of Bonesplitter, his axe. Wrought from the bones of a clefthoof and tempered in the blood of a gronn, it was a formidable weapon. It was no Gorehowl, but few blades could hope to compare to the weapon of his ancestors, now wielded by Grommash.
This journey had gone from bad to worse. What had first begun as an expedition to reunite with the Kor'kron that were trapped outside the elves' shield had turned into something more... complex. While he had still every intention of reuniting with Zaela, Malkorok, and the rest, a new objective had smashed itself into his plans with disorienting speed.
Frostmourne.
The black blade that the Legion had granted Arthak. The same blade that claimed Dranosh and Ner'zhul both. It was powerful... hungry, even.
And somehow he and Jorin were supposed to find it and destroy or contain it while contending with...
He glanced over at his would-be travelling companions as they prepared. Jorin was confirming that his belongings were accounted for nearby. Jorin, perhaps his only lifeline on this particular journey, looked exhausted already. Though the orc was only a couple of years his senior, he already looked at least a decade older. As his eye glanced to the patch covering the necrolyte's eye, his jaw clenched. Perhaps knowing your own death does that to you.
He nodded at the orc as they made eye contact, and he silently hoped that the death he had seen was not here.
"Garrosh," Jorin said. "I will bring her with me. My magics will shield her identity from most, but the dreadlords will see through the illusion as easy as you see me now, should she be too close. We will need to be cautious."
Garrosh grunted. "What about her?" He nodded with his head towards their other... travelling companion. The pale-skinned eredar was out of place amidst the orc-scattered wreckage of the Elfgate which held them at bay. She was dressed like a painted doll, a short dress unsuited for travel and a long, silken cloak draped around her shoulders. She stood alone, glancing from one person to the next like a clanless child at a feast for the warchief.
Jorin shook his head. "Princess Aracyra is powerful, yes... but not powerful enough to pierce my illusions without magic. And the chain should prevent that from being possible. Her mother, however, is a different case."
"Very well," Garrosh said, tossing the chain to the necrolyte.
Jorin held it gently, looking over to the false krokul, kneeling on the ground not far from them. Garona, he thought. What a miserable life you have led. He sighed. "Will you help me with this?" he asked the half-blood. "I trust you know how to keep out of their sight more than any of us."
Garona grunted. "I have lived this long. Allowing them to see me would be a death-wish," she shot a glance at Garrosh. "Which I do not have... despite what some among our merry band might think."
Garrosh snorted. Had he not heard the chittering of wings, he would have perhaps allowed himself to be drawn into the blackheart's discourse.
The four of them, plus the other orcs that had gathered, some to journey with them and others simply to witness the spectacle that was to come, cast their eyes to the sky. A cloud of otherworldly bats had begun to descend upon the main concourse. The byway, once a highroad for all, was now a battlefield littered with ruined weapons and wreckage. As the cloud of demonic beasts fluttered together, they swiftly transformed together in a grotesque flash of fel magic. Soon, four towering, winged fiends stood where once there was naught.
Jorin had described them to Garrosh for his own benefit previously. Detheroc, the leader of the trio from the Ministry of Nathrezim, was the most distinguished. He was nearly twice the size of the others in a corpulent fashion. His gut was bloated and scarred, his jowls pressed against the leather and steel that made up the armor that did not even pretend to cover his form. His small wings looked like they would be incapable of carrying his large form, but Garrosh knew better than to assume that was the case. Balnazaar appeared to be the mightiest. His chest was broad, his presence imposing, and his countenance stern. But Garrosh knew better than to trust appearances alone - any one of these creatures was dangerous, and together they were rightly to be feared. Varimathras, the last of the Ministry representatives, looked to be the most average of the lot. His wings, his presence, nor his musculature was the largest nor the smallest. The demon sported thick black muttonchops that covered the side of his face. His eyes, however, seemed to take in everything at once. There was a dangerous glint of cunning within them that Garrosh despised immediately.
And lastly, Mal'ganis. This dreadlord was to be their companion on this journey. While not a member of the Ministry, Mal'ganis was covered in fearsome armor from head to tow. His face was gaunt and aggressive, his wings covered in more spikes than any of his kindred. He stepped forward, in front of his companions. "Have you finished your preparations?"
Garrosh nodded, glancing back at Jorin, who had retreated to a safe distance, away from the demons' sight. "We await your command, Dreadlords."
Mal'ganis glanced briefly over at Aracyra, who had moved to join the others. The orcs who were to come with them readied their gear as they stepped closer to the shimmering barrier. The physical gate had not been closed since the invasion, though it had no need to be. The magicked barrier was more effective than any gate, be it wood, stone, or steel.
Mal'ganis glanced back at the dreadlords in the Ministry, who returned the nod at them. Detheroc flicked his wrist. A cloud of shadow appeared above his hand, which coalesced into the form of a skull.
Clearly demonic in nature, the gilded skull glowed with a supernatural power. Two blackened horns protruded from the skull's forehead as it levitated from his hand. Steadily, a stream of shadows eked up from his rotund fingers, dancing into the skull, the black mist pouring out of its glowing eyes and mouth. With speed unnatural to such a large creature, Detheroc moved his hand forward, pointing his long claw-like nails towards the gate. Varimathras and Balnazaar stepped to his left and right and mimicked his gesture, speaking in their demonic tongues as they did. Their own cursed magic mingled with that of their brother.
"Prepare yourselves," Mal'ganis said, his wings flexing as he glanced back and forth between the gate and the dreadlord's ritual.
Orcish hands grip weapons as anticipation whet the air across the darkened skies.
The skull began to chitter and crackle under the shadowy pressure. Then it's mouth began to flap, filling the air with a tortured laughter. Full of equal parts mirth and suffering, the laughter grew louder and louder and louder. The orcs in the crowd covered their ears and shouted in pain, but their shouts were drowned out by the demonic laughter. Some of the orcs around Garrosh - warriors hand-picked by Hellscream himself - went to cover their ears as well, some of them backpedaling away from the demons. Garrosh grabbed the orc before him as his resolve faltered. "Steel yourself," he said, hardly audibly, "And get ready to move." The sound was unbearable, but they had to be ready. Even the eredar witch was struggling, her fangs gritted together in pain as she fought to resist.
Jorin pointed at the barrier. As Garrosh followed his companion's gesture, he saw the mystical cracks beginning to form.
Just then, Mal'ganis shot forward, his wings propelling him forward. His long fingers burned with fel magic as he collided with the ban'dinoriel, digging deep into the magic. He roared and struggled as his muscles strained themselves harder and harder to break through the barrier. Fel energy arced off of the demon, the magicked lightning pulsing through his form as he pulled and pulled, trying to rend a hole through the barricade.
And it began to work.
Garrosh's jaw dropped as the weakened barrier faltered ever so slightly, allowing Mal'ganis to literally tear into it. But even with his lack of magical knowledge, he knew they did not have long. Raising his hand, he gestured forward. "MOVE!" he shouted.
The orcs under Garrosh sprinted towards the torn hole, leaping through it under the dreadlord's arms. Garrosh, Jorin, Garona, Aracyra, and every other orc in their entourage leapt through the tear until all of them had passed. Mal'ganis's hands, shaking from the effort of holding the portal agape, burst into a cloud of demonic bats, swiftly slipping through the crack, which slammed closed behind him, incinerating a few of the bats that made up Mal'ganis in a guillotine of arcane magic. The dreadlord reformed into his true form shortly after, falling to his knee and coughing. His hands were badly burned, blackened blood leaking from his fanged mouth.
"My... lord?" Jorin said, taking a step closer.
"Must... feed," Mal'ganis said, his voice raspy. "I shall... return shortly. Keep moving." Mal'ganis collapsed to the ground, his body bursting into his swarm-like form on impact. The monsters took to the sky and to the hunt, so as to restore his strength on whatever - or whoever - he could find. Jorin had heard stories of the nathrezim's legendary thirst. Judging from Aracyra's face, somehow even paler than usual, she did too. But Jorin could not help but feel comforted by the fact that even the dreadlords could feel pain, feel exhaustion. It meant they were far from invincible.
That this might actually work.
"Well," Garrosh said, his ears still ringing, "You heard the dae'mon. Let's find Zaela and the others first, then-"
"Hellscream! Look!"
Garrosh glanced back at the Gatekeeper where his warrior had pointed. The barrier, which had mostly repaired itself, had begun to shimmer once again. A single orcish hand had punched through. It struggled and pulled itself through the barrier against all odds. Garrosh and the other warriors readied their weapons, Jorinn his staff, and Garona her dagger. Aracyra, standing away from the others, conjured shadow magic of her own in preparation for the unexpected flare of magic.
Despite everything he had come to know, the orcish hand was joined by a second. In a smaller fashion than Mal'ganis, the hands tore a hole of their own through the barrier.
"That's... not possible," Jorin said, his eye wide with disbelief.
And yet, the form of a single gray-skinned orc pulled itself through the Gatekeeper.
As the blackened form of Maim Blackhand pulled himself through the Gatekeeper.
His raised body was charred, his flesh burned and blackened, his steps staggering and weak.
"Maim," Garrosh shouted to his former 'friend.' "You look like shit."
"Kill..." he said, staggering closer and closer. His hands, limp, reached up and gripped the blades across his back and drew them. Every step caused his eyes to burn brighter with crimson vengeance, his mangled flesh repairing itself piece by piece.
"Maim," Garrosh said, bracing his weapon and furrowing his brow.
"KILL! I'LL KILL YOU!" He sprinted forward with speed that shouldn't be possible for a being so close, so beyond death.
Jorinn's eye went black as he held a hand out. A line of red energy blasted out from it as he gestured forward. Maim's advance was interrupted by the powerful spell, sending him back against the barrier. Jorin held the energy there for a brief moment, rending flesh from Maim's body as he was torn asunder by the magic. He pulled the magic back and Maim's lifeless body dropped to the ground, his flesh cooked and unmoving, his weapons clattered to the ground.
Garrosh scowled back at Garona. "You." A thousand furious responses cooked in his mind as he approached her, fist balled in rage. He opened his mouth, his fist raised in the air. Garona half flinched, half dropped into a defensive position.
"Garrosh," Jorin said, stepping between them, a hand held up to the much larger orc. "It's finished. Let's go."
Garrosh held Jorin's gaze for a moment. He turned back to the rest of the warriors. "Come! We don't have time to waste on this."
He stormed away from the two, the rest of the orcs following suit, Aracyra following not far behind.
---
Garona stepped closer to Jorin as they held back behind the rest. "I do not need your protection, Jorin."
Jorin sighed. "I know that," he said. "But if I do not give it regardless, either you or he will be dead before this trip is over... and I am growing short on friends."
Garona scoffed, her tail flicking both in and out of the illusion. "Friend. Do not presume that your protection," she said, pulling at the magicked chain around her neck, "makes me consider you a friend, Deadeye."
Jorin simply smiled. "I did not say that I was your friend, Garona."
Garona gawped at the mag'har who believed himself far too clever for his own good and growled. "Let's just go," she said, moving ahead of the necrolyte in a huff. Jorin followed silently behind.
Un-fucking-believable.
Garrosh Hellscream fumed as he ran a whetstone across the blade of Bonesplitter, his axe. Wrought from the bones of a clefthoof and tempered in the blood of a gronn, it was a formidable weapon. It was no Gorehowl, but few blades could hope to compare to the weapon of his ancestors, now wielded by Grommash.
This journey had gone from bad to worse. What had first begun as an expedition to reunite with the Kor'kron that were trapped outside the elves' shield had turned into something more... complex. While he had still every intention of reuniting with Zaela, Malkorok, and the rest, a new objective had smashed itself into his plans with disorienting speed.
Frostmourne.
The black blade that the Legion had granted Arthak. The same blade that claimed Dranosh and Ner'zhul both. It was powerful... hungry, even.
And somehow he and Jorin were supposed to find it and destroy or contain it while contending with...
He glanced over at his would-be travelling companions as they prepared. Jorin was confirming that his belongings were accounted for nearby. Jorin, perhaps his only lifeline on this particular journey, looked exhausted already. Though the orc was only a couple of years his senior, he already looked at least a decade older. As his eye glanced to the patch covering the necrolyte's eye, his jaw clenched. Perhaps knowing your own death does that to you.
He nodded at the orc as they made eye contact, and he silently hoped that the death he had seen was not here.
"Garrosh," Jorin said. "I will bring her with me. My magics will shield her identity from most, but the dreadlords will see through the illusion as easy as you see me now, should she be too close. We will need to be cautious."
Garrosh grunted. "What about her?" He nodded with his head towards their other... travelling companion. The pale-skinned eredar was out of place amidst the orc-scattered wreckage of the Elfgate which held them at bay. She was dressed like a painted doll, a short dress unsuited for travel and a long, silken cloak draped around her shoulders. She stood alone, glancing from one person to the next like a clanless child at a feast for the warchief.
Jorin shook his head. "Princess Aracyra is powerful, yes... but not powerful enough to pierce my illusions without magic. And the chain should prevent that from being possible. Her mother, however, is a different case."
"Very well," Garrosh said, tossing the chain to the necrolyte.
Jorin held it gently, looking over to the false krokul, kneeling on the ground not far from them. Garona, he thought. What a miserable life you have led. He sighed. "Will you help me with this?" he asked the half-blood. "I trust you know how to keep out of their sight more than any of us."
Garona grunted. "I have lived this long. Allowing them to see me would be a death-wish," she shot a glance at Garrosh. "Which I do not have... despite what some among our merry band might think."
Garrosh snorted. Had he not heard the chittering of wings, he would have perhaps allowed himself to be drawn into the blackheart's discourse.
The four of them, plus the other orcs that had gathered, some to journey with them and others simply to witness the spectacle that was to come, cast their eyes to the sky. A cloud of otherworldly bats had begun to descend upon the main concourse. The byway, once a highroad for all, was now a battlefield littered with ruined weapons and wreckage. As the cloud of demonic beasts fluttered together, they swiftly transformed together in a grotesque flash of fel magic. Soon, four towering, winged fiends stood where once there was naught.
Jorin had described them to Garrosh for his own benefit previously. Detheroc, the leader of the trio from the Ministry of Nathrezim, was the most distinguished. He was nearly twice the size of the others in a corpulent fashion. His gut was bloated and scarred, his jowls pressed against the leather and steel that made up the armor that did not even pretend to cover his form. His small wings looked like they would be incapable of carrying his large form, but Garrosh knew better than to assume that was the case. Balnazaar appeared to be the mightiest. His chest was broad, his presence imposing, and his countenance stern. But Garrosh knew better than to trust appearances alone - any one of these creatures was dangerous, and together they were rightly to be feared. Varimathras, the last of the Ministry representatives, looked to be the most average of the lot. His wings, his presence, nor his musculature was the largest nor the smallest. The demon sported thick black muttonchops that covered the side of his face. His eyes, however, seemed to take in everything at once. There was a dangerous glint of cunning within them that Garrosh despised immediately.
And lastly, Mal'ganis. This dreadlord was to be their companion on this journey. While not a member of the Ministry, Mal'ganis was covered in fearsome armor from head to tow. His face was gaunt and aggressive, his wings covered in more spikes than any of his kindred. He stepped forward, in front of his companions. "Have you finished your preparations?"
Garrosh nodded, glancing back at Jorin, who had retreated to a safe distance, away from the demons' sight. "We await your command, Dreadlords."
Mal'ganis glanced briefly over at Aracyra, who had moved to join the others. The orcs who were to come with them readied their gear as they stepped closer to the shimmering barrier. The physical gate had not been closed since the invasion, though it had no need to be. The magicked barrier was more effective than any gate, be it wood, stone, or steel.
Mal'ganis glanced back at the dreadlords in the Ministry, who returned the nod at them. Detheroc flicked his wrist. A cloud of shadow appeared above his hand, which coalesced into the form of a skull.
Clearly demonic in nature, the gilded skull glowed with a supernatural power. Two blackened horns protruded from the skull's forehead as it levitated from his hand. Steadily, a stream of shadows eked up from his rotund fingers, dancing into the skull, the black mist pouring out of its glowing eyes and mouth. With speed unnatural to such a large creature, Detheroc moved his hand forward, pointing his long claw-like nails towards the gate. Varimathras and Balnazaar stepped to his left and right and mimicked his gesture, speaking in their demonic tongues as they did. Their own cursed magic mingled with that of their brother.
"Prepare yourselves," Mal'ganis said, his wings flexing as he glanced back and forth between the gate and the dreadlord's ritual.
Orcish hands grip weapons as anticipation whet the air across the darkened skies.
The skull began to chitter and crackle under the shadowy pressure. Then it's mouth began to flap, filling the air with a tortured laughter. Full of equal parts mirth and suffering, the laughter grew louder and louder and louder. The orcs in the crowd covered their ears and shouted in pain, but their shouts were drowned out by the demonic laughter. Some of the orcs around Garrosh - warriors hand-picked by Hellscream himself - went to cover their ears as well, some of them backpedaling away from the demons. Garrosh grabbed the orc before him as his resolve faltered. "Steel yourself," he said, hardly audibly, "And get ready to move." The sound was unbearable, but they had to be ready. Even the eredar witch was struggling, her fangs gritted together in pain as she fought to resist.
Jorin pointed at the barrier. As Garrosh followed his companion's gesture, he saw the mystical cracks beginning to form.
Just then, Mal'ganis shot forward, his wings propelling him forward. His long fingers burned with fel magic as he collided with the ban'dinoriel, digging deep into the magic. He roared and struggled as his muscles strained themselves harder and harder to break through the barrier. Fel energy arced off of the demon, the magicked lightning pulsing through his form as he pulled and pulled, trying to rend a hole through the barricade.
And it began to work.
Garrosh's jaw dropped as the weakened barrier faltered ever so slightly, allowing Mal'ganis to literally tear into it. But even with his lack of magical knowledge, he knew they did not have long. Raising his hand, he gestured forward. "MOVE!" he shouted.
The orcs under Garrosh sprinted towards the torn hole, leaping through it under the dreadlord's arms. Garrosh, Jorin, Garona, Aracyra, and every other orc in their entourage leapt through the tear until all of them had passed. Mal'ganis's hands, shaking from the effort of holding the portal agape, burst into a cloud of demonic bats, swiftly slipping through the crack, which slammed closed behind him, incinerating a few of the bats that made up Mal'ganis in a guillotine of arcane magic. The dreadlord reformed into his true form shortly after, falling to his knee and coughing. His hands were badly burned, blackened blood leaking from his fanged mouth.
"My... lord?" Jorin said, taking a step closer.
"Must... feed," Mal'ganis said, his voice raspy. "I shall... return shortly. Keep moving." Mal'ganis collapsed to the ground, his body bursting into his swarm-like form on impact. The monsters took to the sky and to the hunt, so as to restore his strength on whatever - or whoever - he could find. Jorin had heard stories of the nathrezim's legendary thirst. Judging from Aracyra's face, somehow even paler than usual, she did too. But Jorin could not help but feel comforted by the fact that even the dreadlords could feel pain, feel exhaustion. It meant they were far from invincible.
That this might actually work.
"Well," Garrosh said, his ears still ringing, "You heard the dae'mon. Let's find Zaela and the others first, then-"
"Hellscream! Look!"
Garrosh glanced back at the Gatekeeper where his warrior had pointed. The barrier, which had mostly repaired itself, had begun to shimmer once again. A single orcish hand had punched through. It struggled and pulled itself through the barrier against all odds. Garrosh and the other warriors readied their weapons, Jorinn his staff, and Garona her dagger. Aracyra, standing away from the others, conjured shadow magic of her own in preparation for the unexpected flare of magic.
Despite everything he had come to know, the orcish hand was joined by a second. In a smaller fashion than Mal'ganis, the hands tore a hole of their own through the barrier.
"That's... not possible," Jorin said, his eye wide with disbelief.
And yet, the form of a single gray-skinned orc pulled itself through the Gatekeeper.
As the blackened form of Maim Blackhand pulled himself through the Gatekeeper.
His raised body was charred, his flesh burned and blackened, his steps staggering and weak.
"Maim," Garrosh shouted to his former 'friend.' "You look like shit."
"Kill..." he said, staggering closer and closer. His hands, limp, reached up and gripped the blades across his back and drew them. Every step caused his eyes to burn brighter with crimson vengeance, his mangled flesh repairing itself piece by piece.
"Maim," Garrosh said, bracing his weapon and furrowing his brow.
"KILL! I'LL KILL YOU!" He sprinted forward with speed that shouldn't be possible for a being so close, so beyond death.
Jorinn's eye went black as he held a hand out. A line of red energy blasted out from it as he gestured forward. Maim's advance was interrupted by the powerful spell, sending him back against the barrier. Jorin held the energy there for a brief moment, rending flesh from Maim's body as he was torn asunder by the magic. He pulled the magic back and Maim's lifeless body dropped to the ground, his flesh cooked and unmoving, his weapons clattered to the ground.
Garrosh scowled back at Garona. "You." A thousand furious responses cooked in his mind as he approached her, fist balled in rage. He opened his mouth, his fist raised in the air. Garona half flinched, half dropped into a defensive position.
"Garrosh," Jorin said, stepping between them, a hand held up to the much larger orc. "It's finished. Let's go."
Garrosh held Jorin's gaze for a moment. He turned back to the rest of the warriors. "Come! We don't have time to waste on this."
He stormed away from the two, the rest of the orcs following suit, Aracyra following not far behind.
---
Garona stepped closer to Jorin as they held back behind the rest. "I do not need your protection, Jorin."
Jorin sighed. "I know that," he said. "But if I do not give it regardless, either you or he will be dead before this trip is over... and I am growing short on friends."
Garona scoffed, her tail flicking both in and out of the illusion. "Friend. Do not presume that your protection," she said, pulling at the magicked chain around her neck, "makes me consider you a friend, Deadeye."
Jorin simply smiled. "I did not say that I was your friend, Garona."
Garona gawped at the mag'har who believed himself far too clever for his own good and growled. "Let's just go," she said, moving ahead of the necrolyte in a huff. Jorin followed silently behind.