Alterac 18
[X] Deny the warlocks' aid.
You dismissed the warlocks.
While their aid, and that of the humans they'd trained, might be useful, you also found that you just couldn't bring yourself to trust them.
So you dismissed them. With as much courtesy as you were able, you were reasonable, honourable, you acknowledged their skill, but refused to let them join you.
"I face a Blademaster, and this matter will be resolved by the blade, through the Old Ways, not through magic, Fel or otherwise."
Marez and Ritssyn were scowling, and the latter's hands clenched around sparks, but Nagaz quickly put his hands to the shoulders of them both, bowing and speaking through his own disappointment.
"Then we may only hope for your success." he said, Nagaz's servile attitude becoming ever thinner as he turned swiftly, fading back into the trees.
It was strange, you thought as you walked back. If they meant you ill they might have attacked, but perhaps they considered a longer play.
Not did it make you any closer to actually knowing who they were, but happily there was someone you could ask about that.
"Any comments, Sesk?" you asked the world at large, and immediately you felt the Fel Orc's magic disperse.
"There's a tricksy one." Sesk said, stroking his chin, his greenfire eyes glowing in the dark, his tattoos throbbing dully. "I'd beware of them if I were you."
That was hardly advice you needed but you took it anyway, "You don't know anything about them?"
Sesk shook his head, "They're Quickened, all of them, unless you missed that for the Fel in them?"
The Quickened were the Orcs Blackhand had ordered be artificially aged before the invasion of Azeroth. Their education and socialisation had been stunted by the demands of war, and those that survived were a dissolute bunch who generally kept to themselves.
"I doubt they're Burning Blade." you said, "But Ritssyn felt powerful. I'm not so sure about Nagaz, he seemed almost… mundane."
"Then why's he leading the other two?" Sesk asked rhetorically, then slapped his thigh with a laugh, "Oh, how I long for Gul'dan! None of this sneaking about, none of this knife-work! He was one to tell you straight."
Gul'dan was a strange one. He had perhaps the most strangely mixed reputation in Orcish history. None would degrade his power, none could criticise his influence upon history, or deny his mastery over evil. It was a seductive fame, the same seduction that had led power-hungry warlords to power all over the world.
Yet your father often spoke of the same aspect of Gul'dan, his honesty, or rather, his authenticity. Gul'dan had broken the wings of the Arakkoa and laughed as he cast them into the Pools of Sethekk. He had openly demanded living sacrifices, of children even, to open the Dark Portal. When the chieftains demanded the price for his death magic, he had answered honestly; 'Everything'.
Sesk had received the Fel directly for Gul'dan in exchange for some service, though you'd no memory of what. You supposed he'd know what he was talking about, and the same stories from him as you'd heard from your father confirmed it for you. Indeed, you supposed Gul'dan's reputation was strange too because it stood in contrast to Thrall's. The Warchief was known to lie on occasion, or rather to be overly fond of courtesy. He would use trickery or deceit to achieve his aims, as indeed he'd tried to with your own clan, before that great arena in Orgrimmar when only your lie of honour had saved you.
"What about Haomarush?" you asked.
"Skilled. A disciple of Jubei'thos, originally from the Blackrock as I recall, so one of their clansmen. I remember some scandal between them. Many of use paid no mind to it, but he had honour when I knew him. Whether that stands now in this 'madness' of his is anyone's guess." Sesk said.
You'd see soon enough you supposed.
The march was quick, for none had any desire for sloth. There was war to be fought, and battle to be done. Once again before the walls of Varnhold you stood, looking out at yet another army, their banners the mountain of the Blackrock Clan, but now with a horned demon skull at the peak.
They were three thousands, with cavalry and spellslingers.
You were five hundred orcs, and half that many ogres.
"A great army." Vark breathed. "One of the largest forces of our people in many years, I wager."
"It is, but there's only one who matters." you replied, your eyes fixed.
The Blademaster, Haomarush, was clear across the field. He stood proud, ungarbed as in the ancient custom, bare from the waist up, with only a loincloth and his ritual marks to clad him. He bore a great blade with a long handle and many tassels upon the rings through the sword, and the weapon itself was graven with burning runes. He was a Fel Orc, like Sesk, yet perhaps even more horrible, for even across a mile's distance you could see curving horns on his head and thick spikes erupting from his arms and shoulders.
There were many Fel Orcs among the band, many with red skin, but some with burning eyes or halos of fire. It was a mark of great distinction and strength among their breed, though they purchased it with a bloodlust that was terrible to behold.
You raised the Fireblade in a salute, and Haomarush returned the gesture, then swept his blade toward a large stone in the middle between your two forces.
You nodded, then called up your retinue.
The walk was quick, but unhurried, for you didn't wish to demonstrate weakness in your eagerness. If the Blademaster wanted to talk, you'd see to that, and see what came of it.
You came to the stone and took your station upon one side. The whole slab slanted down into the grass, then up toward about shoulder height, but it was mostly flat and a good place for parley. As the junior, it falls to you to begin the courtesies.
Haomarush remains silent through your speech, but you greet him in the Old Way, by rock and stone, by fire and wind. The Blademaster's own retinue is of black armoured killers, each fully girded for war and bearing well-made swords, one carrying his banner just as Sorek carries yours.
"By the Breaking of the World, by fall and tumult, I greet you, Grok'mash of the Burning Blade. I am Haomarush," the warrior says, "Chief of the Demonsword Clan."
That he names himself chief is somewhat notable, for you knew Jubei'thos' original posting had been among the Blackrock, not to establish his own Clan.
"What we are about is plain to us both, and I see no need for lengthy discussion." Haomarush says evenly, "But before we go further, I have a question, and perhaps a proposal."
"Name both, and I shall answer." you replied.
Haomarush nods, turning to Sesk and greeting him in turn, then gestured to you with a hand, "Has he the skill? That he was trained by Akinos Steelclaw I know, and rumours I have heard, but has he the skill?"
Sesk nods a reply, "He could match you. His victories are his own, as is his honour."
Haomarush grins, overgrown tusks distorting his speech further, "Good!" he shouts as he draws his arms wide, holding his blade in one hand and bellows aloud, jaw distorting as he screams into the sky.
"Mak'gora!" the scream goes out, thundering through your soul, the weight of history in the Blademaster's cry.
As you recover Haomarush continues swiftly, animated by his enthusiasm. "My proposal: I offer you Mak'gora, Grok'mash Fireblade!" He gestures behind him to his clan, "Let us fight, and if you defeat me I and my clan will serve you. Never have we forgotten our honour, like the fools who serve Blackhand's son to the south. Never have we wavered in our loyalty to our traditions. I swear before the Spirits and these witnesses, let there be battle between us in the Old Ways. Should you lose, you and yours shall serve me instead, for your skill should not be wasted."
The Wager of Battle has been issued, and a whisper breaks over the orcs all around. Through the lines it goes, carried by some dark wind, through the bands and commanderies, it crashes upon the walls of Varnhold as the scared townsfolk look on.
Mak'gora.
The honour duel was one of the cornerstones of your culture. It could be declared by anyone to another of equal of higher rank, and for many purposes. Your mind raced once more, you could think of twenty such duels just off the top of your head, not least of which had been two your father had fought to the death against other warlocks who sought to retain rule over your clan. Then there was the fight between Blackhand and Doomhammer, or that between many warriors of the New Horde who sought to advance themselves, so many in fact that Thrall had attempted to restrict the practice to prevent needless deaths.
It was honour, it was everything you dreamed of. To refuse would be a stain on your soul, on your clan, on your very people. But where honour bound your heart, prudence was the guard of your mind.
Your heart quickened, thundering in your ears, "And if I refuse?" you asked.
"Then there shall be battle of another sort." Haomarush replied simply, "Many shall die, and if my clan prove victorious, even if I lie dead, they shall flow over this land like fire upon oil. What say you?"
Choose 1:
[ ] Accept the Mak'gora
[ ] Refuse the Mak'gora
I have in fact written an infopost on the Mak'gora previously, so have a look at that if you want to know more. Basically just an honour duel though with some cultural specifics.
Haomarush is a skilled fighter, and was taught by one of the most skilled combatants on two worlds. However, as Sesk asserts, Grok is a match for him.
, so I will go for
