Orc Quest; or, A Critical Examination of Agency Through in Interactive Fiction (Warcraft)

There appear to be a number of new people reading the quest. There's a few info posts which may answer usual questions, but also feel free to just ask me.

Alterac 7

[X] Call on the Light

It was all so stupid!

That was the thought that filled your head as you darted about.

Why did it have to be this way? Had Drek'thar gone mad? Had he been ordered to kill you by Thrall? To what extent were they aligned in order and response?

The Farseer bore on and you struggled to match him, for though your weapon was longer and deadlier, Drek'thar's axe and dagger would still be deadly if he could get a hit on you.

You needed to get out. You couldn't kill Drek'thar, not yet, not now, you just couldn't. You needed to focus to utilise your Art, yet your mind was in turmoil. Were Thrall's Kor'kron now falling on the Cleft of Shadow and butchering your clan? Was your father snarling with his back against a wall, hands full of fel-fire?

Light, help me!

You didn't consciously think it at first, but you felt the pure flame rise within you, the candle grow.

Shield me, I do not want to kill him, but I must save my people!

You felt nothing at first, but calm filled you. Down to your bones you fed your rage into the flame, the purity burning away fear and uncertainty, turning bloodrage to righteous fury.

"No matter with what death magic you use," Drek'thar was saying as he look at you, "No matter what new dishonour you bring to the traditions of our people, no matter what, I must destroy you. Only then will we survive."

You don't even try to block his next strike, and as the Farseer puts all his weight into the stroke, dropping his dagger to bear his axe in both hands, you feel serenity.

The axe stoops like a vulture on a kill, and for a moment you admire the fine metalwork on the rim of the blade.

Then gold overtakes you. Golden fire blasts across the room, and you find yourself wreathed in fire, golden fire, glorious and bright.

You don't look to see whether Drek'thar yet lives, you're already away, through the tunnel-like corridors of the keep, out into the light.

Sorek and the aspirants stand alone, thronged by dozens of Frostwolves.

But battle is met.

"A Blade!" you cry, and as your shout reaches them, so does your blade, cleaving through two of them, flesh and bone both as the others quail.

"A Blade!" exclaims Sorek, his face joyful, "A Burning Blade!"

Of the dozen who mean to be Blademasters, each one's sword now burns bold as your own, and you turn to the Frostwolves who stand nearby. "End this dishonour! Your chieftain lies defeated, pursue us or aid him, make your choice."

Your voice is cold, but you must get to the others, and away you go, cutting down any who stand before you.

Few do though, and at the head of the phalanx you stride with burning sword, Sorek beside you, his banner abandoned.

You are their banner now.

Down in the village your warband are boxed in on all sides. Huts are already burning as the fighting spills out between the two forces. It's chaotic, a whirling melee of axes and fists, quite different from the close fighting you might expect between competing warbands, this was a brawl.

Was Drek'thar acting alone? No, you denied it, it couldn't be, you'd felt the battle break outside as you fought with the Farseer.

But again, why now?

You ran toward the Ogres, thumping about them with their fists, Vark in their midst with his greatbow, an arrow knocked by not drawn.

Fire broke as you ran, the flames of the burning buildings fled their turf nests, flying around you in a nimbus. From you it leapt out, igniting the blades of your warriors, causing some no small degree of surprise as they found their weapons magically on fire.

Scorn met your gaze in the crowd. The warrior was bloodied and bruised, but he raised a bellow, "Rally to the chief! Rally, Burning Blade!"

The cry of your clan went up, and with it came the battle chant of the Warsong among them, and the clash of steel on steel as the Blackrock gave their salute.

You skidded to a half next to Scorn, "It's treachery!" you cry, looking about you. The wounded are here, dragged here, by the look of the trails of blood, and more than one is mortally hurt.

You will not accept this, your very being rebels, and from your hand leaps the pure flame again, striking each, searing their wounds closed as they scream, then bold upright, grasping for weapons, realising they may yet live.

"They hit us just after you went it. I don't think they were all in on it, but we'd have been lost if not for your warning." Scorn relates quickly, wiping blood away from his eyes, then dropping his equipment to tie a cloth about his head and stop the bleeding. "They aren't keen on it, our lot have killed more of them than they have of us so far, and the buildings give us the advantage, they can't make anything stick."

Vark comes loping up, "I can lead the Boulderfist and clear a path out of the valley, if we can-"

"No!" Scorn shouts back, "We can't get caught in the open, they have many shaman, they'd bring the snow down on us as soon as we're out of the village."

You look up, indeed the mountains were heavy with snowfall, and you wouldn't be surprised if the Frostwolf shaman possessed such skills.

"What happened?" Vark asks, "Did Drek'thar go mad? Has Thrall betrayed us?"

"I don't know." you reply swiftly, still looking around.

It is as Scorn has said, the hundreds of your warband are making their way back quickly, forming two rough lines on either side of the village's main road, multiple small shield walls between buildings, tightly packed, while others fight their way through houses and grapple with the enemy's beasts.

The fighting is still chaotic, but what is there to do? Retreat and suffer attack, remain and just slaughter the Frostwolves? You're confident in the skills of your warriors, but even if you could defeat the Frostwolves you've no wish to.

A wail of grief winds across the battlefield, a long cry which turns your head and you see Drek'thar cradling a body, rocking back and forth. The Farseer is not dead then, which is well enough, but from his grief he'd rather be.

"Anyone who knows the Frostwolves, tell me who that is!" Scorn calls to the warriors around you, and as they look one turns.

"It is Kal'thar, son of Drek'thar!" says the warrior, then returning to his own shield wall.

This, 'Kal'thar' was one of those you cut down as you fled the keep you thought, but you felt no regret, not for traitors.

Vark looks at you, seeming to gague your reaction to the news, then in a single sudden movement looses an arrow at Drek'thar.

A fearsome gust whips it away, but it barely looks like the Farseer has even noticed it, still cradling his child.

You look in amazement at Vark but he just shrugs, drawing another arrow. "If his son is dead perhaps he and the other shaman will be occupied." Vark growls, loosing another arrow at the Farseer, this one seeming to miss and splinter against a stone pillar. "We might still make it out."

"And we might still be trapped between Iceblood and the Frostwolves here." Scorn says, shaking his head. "There is risk in either pass. Either we must flee at leave enemies behind and before us, let alone the risk of their shaman, or we must make our stand here. The Frostwolves are disunited, kill Drek'thar and they'll lose the will to fight, they have no wish of it even now I guess."

Drek'thar is the key, that much is certain, but the question is perilous all the same…


Choose 1:

[ ] Retreat, risking your enemy surrounding you
[ ] Remain in the village in the hope of improving your situation