Orc Quest; or, A Critical Examination of Agency Through in Interactive Fiction (Warcraft)
- Thread starter FractiousDay
- Start date
- Fantasy
- Location
- barking
I mean arthas was never gonna give up and hey whatever is a thorn in the scarlets side works for us (cause well dreadlord)
- Location
- barking
yes it is possible but extremely hard to or else it would of shattered a long time ago (also atm should be the strongest rune blade since kingsmourne hasn't been made yet and might never be) it toke light ashbringer (not the courrpted version morgraine had but a purifed one) with tiron fordring to break it
Last edited:
MrRobot
In doubt there's always the Sun!
Being fair the Fire blade that Gork wiels kinda became the ashbringer, or at least will become once we put the ashbringer core on it, also why Gork not did it already?
Well that's shit. We need the army built under us. Not some decentralised milita
The dice sure love to do good and bad.
Is this redoable?
I imagine it would be, if they're still in our territory. Or maybe they'll do something dastardly next turn because we failed to find them in time. Looking forward to reading specifics regarding the army and warlocks.
Constable Turn 1 Results
- Location
- United Kingdom
Constable Turn 1 Results
The room stood within the once-grand gatehouse of the castle, the mighty fortress now fallen into ruin. The room's vastness swallowed you, but it was here you'd decided to make your residence as Constable of Alterac. It was not overwhelmingly empty, but it was indeed clear it had not been the personal apartments of an individual but rather the living space of the gate's knights.
You would have to get someone to see to the repairs. The Ogres who'd once dwelt in the city had permitted humans to live among them, but only as servants and sometimes food, and it was hardly as if the Alteraci would have cared about the maintenance of the castle during that time.
The plaster on the walls was crumbling in places, the paint of flowers and animals faded. That was the witness of years of neglect, and in some places, it was crumbled away entirely to reveal the grey stone beneath. That crumbled surety was your duty to repair, and here was where you would do it.
Beyond your little island of organisation, you'd cared little for the rest of the chamber. The servants would see to it, and you'd left the various accoutrements of military life where they lay as soon as you discarded them. Here was your long dagger, it's pommel heavy of bronze, here was your jacket of leather and mail left in a heap waiting for Darion to set it to rights. There were little bottles of oil and rags for cleaning, as well as a large whetstone and a water stain beneath it on the wooden cabinet.
Against the wall though sat the items you actually cared about. Beside the chaotic disarray, certain items commanded positions of distinction. The Fireblade, your ancient blade shorn of Grond's spine and taking on the appearance of obsidian, gleamed with an ethereal aura, and next to it stood your bannerpole, fiery standard of your clan and the harness that held it.
Next a stout chest held your more delicate instruments. You didn't wear the Mightstone at all times for example, nor the Bloodstone amulet you'd taken from Yarrog Baneshadow almost three years ago now. There too were the shamanistic accoutraments which you used in your rituals. Oils there were, herbs too, small stones and powders, the mixed ashes taken from many burnings. They whispered of long tradition, of intoned incantation by firelight.
You could see a distinct divide in your room though, one side was your personal life, your weapons, your equipment as a shaman and flameseer, your bed, a pile of furs in one corner of the room. The other though was the place of your new office, both the physical space in which you could conduct buisness, but also where you were represented in your new rank.
Here was a space of high military authority. Here was your desk, and upon it your seal of office, your Constable's mace, your papers of appointments and logistics, your quills and books and inkwell.
Here was the dichotomy of your life, the remnants of a warrior, the new occupation of admnistration and leadership.
You leant back in your chair, looking through the narrow window you could see the little town of wooden barracks you'd ordered the Alteraci Army into. They had complained of course, but they were weak folk, too weak to take the destiny of their people into their own hands, and instead had been subjugated by the strong, first by the Syndicate, then by yourself.
You look over toward the weapon stand in your room, the Fireblade was still there, blade glinting in the firelight.
You had been weak once. No more.
"I find it fascinating how our worlds diverge in structures of command." you mused, breaking the silence. "In my clan there is more organisation perhaps, and in the Blackrock, but in the south there was no such thing. The families were stronger there, the clans more fluid in organisation. The strength of an individual and the wisdom of the elders determine leadership on Draenor, or at least they did once, before Blackhand."
Darion sat on a stool beside your desk nodding thoughtfully.
The boy had grown. While Orcs reached adulthood faster than the humans, now Darion had grown enough to be called a man among his own people. Darion now stood taller, his limbs with the strength of a swordsman, his weapons well used, blooding them recently against the Syndicate's remnants.
"Much is said about the Warchief Blackhand." Darion replied, "I think, perhaps, he had more respect among the leadership of the Crusade than Doomhammer or Thrall."
"His achievements are greater than either. Doomhammer lost the Second War and broke the Horde. Thrall… Well… There is much to be said about Thrall, by me and others."
"Will it come to war? The business with the Frostwolves?"
Darion hadn't been part of several of your councils in the past few months. In human matters he was indispensable, but the battle against Drek'thar and his ilk had been a much more personal thing.
"We shall see." was your only reply, and instead you groped for the disappearing thread of conversation.
"It seems to me," you continued, "That the Orcish manner of war has a flatter structure, there is the Warchief, the Chiefs, and the warriors. Some warriors are more senior than others perhaps, but there are far fewer points of interconnection, or of differing responsibility, save perhaps peons, shaman, or most of the womenfolk and children."
"I think that may be true," acknowledged your equery, "In our kingdoms, the social order is stronger… No, say rather that is it more rigid. We wouldn't have lost half the Alliance in a single decade if it was a strong thing. The social order plays a significant role in determining the military hierarchy; the noble knights, born into their stations, represent the pinnacle of our military structure. Their training, lineage, and chivalry symbolize the noble values we hold dear… held dear."
You knew the deeds of his brother, and the destruction of his father weighed heavily on Darion, and you chose to move on from his words. Little could be gained from fixating on past misdeeds, and you'd told him that briefly, advising him against falling into possibilities. You were rather curious about the matter yourself, about to what extent the Crusade's leadership knew that their Highlord's son had slain his father, but it was no matter now you supposed, both were dead after all.
Instead, you nodded, making a show of absorbing the information. "Yet the position of the knight is much changed, especially in Stormwind and Lordaeron."
Darion immediately brightened. "That was the Dwarves' doing! My father would often speak of it, he was friends with King Mangi! Cheap armour elevated the footman, while gunpowder brought knights down. Those kingdoms which made alliance with Khaz Modan earliest benefited first, but it was Lordaeron which preserved the knightly traditions for the longest. Stormwind, the Brotherhood of the Horde, that same chivalry which saw off the Blackrock at the gates of the city, they were the last such band of errantry. Now I suppose knighthood is a rank perhaps, but the pre-eminence of heavy cavalry is lessened significantly, and I guess, due to be more so, given the devastation of many of Lordaeron's pastures."
"That is true." you remarked. "It carries weight though. Respect, tradition, the need to lead by example. These are worthy things. It is worthy too… that birthright…"
"Such worth is sorely lacking here." Darion grumbled. "You've seen the reports, what will you do next?"
Forged from the disreputable bandit groups of the Syndicate, the Royal Army, the supposed beacon of the New Alterac, had become a twisted mockery of a proper army. You had started strongly, appointed those officers who seemed to have honour, as well as several of the knights Bishop Karlus' retinue to captaincies. However, swiftly the journey towards transformation had veered far off course, descending into a wretched spectacle of incompetence and moral decay.
The winds, carrying the scent of treachery and despair, whispered through the dilapidated barrack-city beyond your window. The officers tasked with leading the army had been subverted, frustrated, disobeyed, or simply murdered in one case. It was a dark omen, but you felt this matter must be accomplished at least partly by humans, the Alteraci, not by your own warband with fist and baton.
Morale was low, and training poor. Pay was miserable, perhaps not so much as the thieves of the Syndicate might expect, but it was better than nothing, for you gave the Syndicate only the edge of your blade.
Whether there was some force directing the problems you didn't know, but the Army itself was little better off than when it'd be gathered in the first place. Perhaps blooding them would do good?
"The problem is money." Darion said, "They're paid, but they're not paid well. The Crusaders didn't fight for coin either, at least at first, but when trade started to open back up some of the men started asking for money."
"Did you?" you enquired.
"I took holy orders." Darion replied, "I'm sworn to poverty. Most knights in the Crusade are, we've dedicated our family wealth, our position and the production of our estates to the Crusade. Some have had to retract the vows with the blessing of the Bishops, it's legally complicated as I understand, Taelan though, Tirion Fordring's son? He's the Lord of Mardenhold, but the paladin Taelan Fordring acts in the role of administrator for the estate of Lord Taelan of Mardenhold, it's a legal separation, I suppose to make things easier with the other kingdoms."
In the Horde, every Orc was either a warrior or supported the warriors. Since Blackhand had turned your people from hunters to warriors, the profession of your nation had changed. Orcs would walk about in armour, carrying war-weapons like axes and spears, and indeed it was seen as somewhat dishonourable to be seen in public, or outside the domestic space without such instruments. Yours were a martial people, and it showed. Even those outside the profession of arms were expected to contribute to the machine of war.
You had known it was not so among the humans, you'd know of their propensity for the use of currency, for unnecessarily complicated methods of recompense, but the idea of a professional army had still unnerved you.
"I find the idea that warriors would fight for worldly, for physical recompense… that they were paid soldiers, rather than bound by duty, alarming." you remarked.
"So you've said, but for all you claim it's not, I suspect its not so different. Just because the Orcs of Draenor didn't have currency or the trappings of our human civilisation, it doesn't mean an Orcish warrior can't still fight for position, that has worth after all. How much value would you put on a clan chief?"
You frowned, "What do you mean?"
Darion grinned, sitting up, "Indulge me, my lord," he began, "In the Alliance it's considered somewhat dishonourable, but sometimes kings will sell lordships, usually not openly, but perhaps a man might contribute a certain sum and receive a knighthood or an estate. Therefore he has become higher than other men, he has the power of justice, he can kill a man legally, imprison one, levy and command troops. The cost of such 'contributions' varies, but what value would you put your own rank as Blademaster and the chivalry of your order? What price to be a chief of the Orcs?"
You spluttered for a moment in confusion, then settled into thought, your mind churning over the remarks. It was interesting, very interesting. The idea was ridiculous of course, for what orc would respect another who simply 'paid' for their rank?
The conversation went on for another hour before you were due in the practice yard, but soon enough you did descend. These days you fought multiple opponents, training in the fitness of your handstrokes, the precision of each cut, even when assailed by multiple opponents. You knew you had a tendency to get sloppy in technique as you tired in duels.
You fought Sorek and his Aspirants, some of them reaching an impressive degree of skill with a blade. You fought Darion's commandery, the squire ordering the actions of a dozen warriors as training in command for him. You sparred with Kalaran, sent by his mistress to oversee her interests in Alterac, and you fought with Sesk to face an opponent that actually had a chance to endanger you.
There was much to accomplish here in Alterac, but you couldn't slack on your own training. It was the sword which had brought you your position, and unlike honour, which had also contributed, you could actually train with the sword.
The Demonsword were also about, and several of their warriors watched you now in your duels, calling out praise at particular cuts. They knew swordsmanship well and respected it. Only a hundred had come, dispatched by Haomarush to strengthen your position and no doubt to gather intelligence regarding your activities. You had agreed to visit that clan, and soon you would indeed.
While you busied yourself in the affairs of Alterac, the wide world moved on. Lady Prestor was coronated and wed in a combined ceremony in Stormwind, Varian Wrynn celebrating his nuptials, though you'd heard there were murmurs of whether the marriage vows had put the Kingdom of Alterac into a subordinate position or not. News from the North claimed that the Scourge were resurgent in the Plaguelands, of secret caches of horrors unleashed, of disappearances and ambushes.
Within Alterac the news was better. You had the kingdom under control, the roads had been swept clear by your warband easily, the gangs of bandits withering away in the face of an orcish shieldwall. Your warriors had pursued them into the mountains, but in many cases the bandits disappeared. You suspected they were hidden in the last holdfasts of the Syndicate, those same fortresses in the mountains which seemed to have gone quiet in the months since you took Alterac.
It was in other ways that you were less secure. The Winteraxe trolls had reduced their attacks after seeing bands of your warriors, but you had no doubt they would renew them soon, using their magics to freeze the rivers and slipping across by moonlight. Similarly, despite the efforts of Gol'dir and Kartha, working with the wolf riders, you still had no idea where the warlocks who'd visited you had gone. There had been reports of empty villages and the foul stench of dark magics, but there was little to speak of there, whether warlocks or otherwise.
In a week your duties were stable enough that you'd decied to head up into the mountains to visit Haomarush.
The valley of the Demonsword was remarkably warm, you thought as you approached the summit of the road. The settlement was hidden high in the mountains, past jagged defiles and blind bends where any number of enemies could be held back with smaller numbers. Demonsword guides attended your journey, and hastened it to a single week, rather than the months it would take an army to attack the seat of Haomarush.
When you reached the valley though you found a verdant vale, indeed, it was much alike to the valley of the Frostwolves, now you came to think of it. You saw many buildings set out all through the valley, a square, a training ground with pells and targets, and a larger building where you felt the spirits of beasts. There were mostly orcs there, but you could still see a few trolls and ogres.
Haomarush had sent an attendant, clearly thinking it somewhat inelegant to meet you himself.
You handed your wargs to another attendant, following the first, Mazath, an orc who bore a long blade, but not the banner of an actual Blademaster, and who looked with interest at your own banner and that of Sesk's besides you.
"Now this reminds me of the old days!" Sesk remarked happily.
And indeed, you saw that the Demonsword were a far more militant clan than those you'd previously seen. Though your people were warlike, Orgrimmar, save perhaps the quarters of the Blackrock, was a peaceful city. Here though you felt an almost palpable scent of repressed violence, the feeling of a spring or concealed sinew ready to leap.
"I understand that you studied under Akinos Steelclaw?" Mazath said as you walked up the side of the valley on a wide track toward a study series of dwellings.
"I did, he taught me much, both of the sword, and how to use it." you replied. You had long ago dealt with the spectre of your master. It was a wound perhaps, but one scarred over, and that you knew Akinos would be proud of what you'd achieved was a balm indeed.
"I too have studied such matters, under Master Haomarush. It was my great desire to join your war against the Scourge, for they slew my father."
You looked at Mazri'ath, "Your father was the Blademaster, Mazrigos?" you asked. You had heard of such a warrior, but assumed he'd died some time ago. Apparently in Alterac rather than in the Second War itself. "Well," you continued, "we are kin then, for your father was of the Burning Blade, rather than of Blackrock stock."
Mazath nodded eagerly, "I was grieved that my master didn't allow me to join you, but here you are now in any case!"
You talked of small things as you climbed, but it wasn't a long trip, and soon you and your companions found yourself at Haomarush's compound. A sense of anticipation hung in the air, but you calmed your heart, surveying the area. The dwelling stood nestled in a crook of the mountain's arm, the blocky stonework of the buildings a stark contrast to the jagged landscape that surrounded it. Its design reflected a conservative yet elegant style, one favoured by the southern cultures of Draenor. It showed strength, a certain brutality perhaps, and almost completely forsook the naturalisms of other styles like those of the Frostwolves, who favoured curves or stone made to appear as bones. Some orcish clans build their houses to resemble great skulls, or the ribs of beasts, and a few clans even lived in the ancient remains of collosals, but that was far away on Draenor, and clearly Haomarush did not hold with such styles.
The Blademaster's compound was small enough. There was a courtyard, several dwellings where you saw women and children looking through shutters at you, and what was clearly the personal training ground of the Blademaster, with many standing stones etched with the marks of swordblows. Haomarush's house itself though was the largest building, a large square one with a low roof, weathered by time and the trials it had witnessed. You couldn't help but appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into its construction, recognizing the attention to detail and the pride Haomarush took in his home, indeed, you could feel the Blademaster's hand in it's working, through the history passed to you by the earth.
It was strange, it seemed the place was a place of consequence and import, despite the structures not being more than a generation old, or so you thought. You shrugged though, meeting a fine looking matron at the door who ushered you in.
Haomarush was sitting on a pile of furs in a central chamber, his sword, runes glowing fel-green, sat on a rack behind him, and you could see fresh bandages around his torso and shoulder where you'd wounded him. He rose, somewhat stiffly if you were any judge, and bowed formally. It was deeply respectful, and you returned it with the proper courtesies, falling into the Old Tongue to do so, even as you shared hospitality from perhaps the most fel-tainted orc you'd ever seen.
While some of the Warsong who'd drunk Mannoroth's blood in Ashenvale still possessed horns or large tusks, their features were somewhat faded over time. For Haomarush however, you saw that clearly he had drunk deeply and often of the Fel. His condition was unchanged since your duel, his horns grew prodigiously, curving like a beasts, and his tusks were sharp, the scales covering parts of his form hard and flinty in the light.
"May the Spirits of my home welcome you." the Blademaster said, gesturing for you and your party to sit.
"May our visit honour the Spirits of your home." you replied, completing the formula.
You grinned as you saw that Haomarush had prepared racks for yours and Sesk's blades, and you took advantage of them, the other Blademaster smiling also, happily abandoning his weapon and throwing himself down on the furs that surrounded a low table in the middle of the room.
Your party lounged around, Vark here with one leg up, leaning on his arm, Kartha there with a hand down as she removed her weapons to lay them beside her. Gol'dir the Frostwolf and a few others were also there, Sorek had attended you as your own apprentice, and he sat slightly behind you, afforded less honour than you, Vark and Sesk, who had the greatest rank.
It was clear that Haomarush wished to leave a lasting impression on you, his esteemed guest, showcasing the strength and unity of the Demonsword Clan, yet also his own courtesy. It was working, but you couldn't help but feel a sense of curiosity about both the Blademaster and his clan.
As the formalities of introduction passed, the gathering of orcs engaged in a series of polite remarks and pleasantries. The atmosphere was charged with a blend of respect and curiosity, each participant carefully choosing their words to maintain a harmonious and welcoming environment. Indeed, you'd instructed them all on that before the journey. Topics ranged from minor news and stories to Vark's attempts at Warsong jokes, which only seem to confuse Haomarush. You spoke of your battles against the Scourge and the Demonsword orcs made all the right noises of approval.
Haomarush ensured that everyone felt included in the conversation, in what you regarded as a skilful display of diplomacy, indeed it inspired you to do the same, enquiring further regarding Mazath's father, or the particular others who sat with you. Both you and Haomarush were at pains to display your mutual understanding of tradition and history, and following your example he declaimed poetry of the ancient odes of Draenor. You recognised each one, your father had taught you well.
"Your speech is worthy indeed, Haomarush." you said at length following one particularly melancholy verse. "If only such culture was still present in our race. In the nights of Orgrimmar the lok'vadnod are still sung, but few remembered the older stories and tellings."
"Much was the thoughts of my master, Jubei'thos, before his fall." Haomarush said heavily. "He secured our clan here, but he would often fall into black depression, or wander in the mountains to meditate."
"It is a malady that affects many Blademasters." you agreed, "Master Saruk spoke of it to me, and Akinos too. It is my hope that my father might continue to bring them together in war, and in doing so preserve our traditions."
"Your father may," Sesk said, "but his works are a holding action at best. No, if it is any which revive the Burning Blade it will be you."
You were silent at that. Your people were not ones for false modesty, and indeed it was probably true, and was a task you had set yourself previously in any case. You were the youngest Blademaster in a generation, just as Thrall had been the youngest shaman in many years.
It was a heavy duty, but one you accepted. For now though, you turned the conversation to different matters, and as the conversation flowed, Haomarush took a moment to provide a brief account of the history of the Demonsword Clan. He spoke of their origins within the ranks of the Blackrock Orcs, their settlement in Alterac, and their rise to prominence under the leadership of Jubei'thos. There was old alliance between Burning Blade and Blackrock, that you knew, and further you knew many Blademasters had been lent as generals to the more numerous Blackrock. Jubei'thos was perhaps the foremost of them, and it seemed had gained great authority and a strong hegemony over the orcs of northern Lordaeron in the years after the Second War. There had been talks between him and Grommash Hellscream, one of the only other chiefs to remain free and in command of a large force following Doomhammer's capture at the gates of Lordaeron's capital. Haomarush emphasized the challenges the Demonsword had faced, and the subsequent trials that had tested their mettle.
You listened intently. You listened as Haomarush narrated his tale. The Blackrock orcs under Jubei'thos had settled in this valley relatively late, they'd wandered for several years after the Second War, apparently their leader unable to decide whether to make across Khaz Modan to Blackrock Mountain or to try and stay in Alterac, allied in some fashion with the humans who would go onto form the Syndicate. Eventually, Jubei'thos had discovered a hidden mountain valley blessed with natural hot springs, a place of both beauty and danger.
Settling in this secluded valley, the Demonsword found themselves surrounded by unique geological formations influenced by the hot springs. The orcs encountered native yetis that used the springs as a source of warmth and sustenance, but apparently had slaughtered them all, ultimately claiming the hot springs as their own and building their settlement around the spring and its warmth, allowing them to cultivate crops stolen from human granaries.
While Jubei'thos' command was a military unit, his orcs preserved some of the traditions of the Blackrock, and with their connection to the spirits they compelled the earth to bring forth metals, and harnessed the energies of the earth for other things. While not as skilled as their brethren in the main Blackrock clan, the orcs of Alterac managed to uncover valuable resources, though with less proficiency and finesse.
"It is easy to bargain and compel the Elementals of this place." Haomarush said, drawing his finger in a circle, "You see, the Earthblood flows up from deep underground, and carries elementals and minerals both. They are often curious and unused to life beyond the Elemental Planes, we often harness them for a time, and while they break free, they flee for safety, so unused to existence on this Plane. I know you hold a powerful Spirit in your thrall, Grok'mash. Would that we had such a servant, for with it each of my warriors would have warplate, where only my guards do now."
The peaceful days in Alterac were abruptly disrupted during the Scourging of Lordaeron. The Demonsword Clan faced a devastating assault, resulting in the fall of their leader, Jubei'thos. Haomarush had been wounded and awoken to a changes world, his clan barely more than a hundred individuals in the aftermath. After their grief had come determination though, and a determination to rebuild their strength.
With only a few hundred orcs left, Haomarush devised a controversial strategy to replenish their numbers. Utilizing the Fel magic of his warlocks, as well as his own experience, he accelerated the ageing process of orcish children, effectively increasing the population in a short span of time. Five years later, the Demonsword Clan had grown to thousands of orcs, with the original veterans now leading cohorts of artificially aged young orcs.
Discipline became the hallmark of the clan, blending the regimentation of the Blackrock tradition with the unwavering focus of the Burning Blade. The older orc officers, having succumbed to the corruption of Fel magic, became Fel Orcs, while the younger generation remained untainted. Only those who displayed control over their bloodlust and violent impulses were granted the coveted Fel infusion, given elaborate collars and gorgets of steel, set with dark runes and inlaid with fire opals, ripped from the Earth's bosom.
Your people had gone through much adversity in recent years, that you knew well, but to hear of the Demonsword's struggles amazed you. Yes, Blackhand had ordered that every Orc child be aged artificially in such a manner before the invasion of Azeroth, but to grow a population so quickly was astounding.
You listened intently as Haomarush spoke, and for the first time you noticed that each of the attendant women around the room were pregnant. How many children had each of them borne? How old were they? You weren't entirely sure how the process actually worked, for that was a use of the Fel your father had never spoken of. If a hundred Orcs bred five children each, who in turn grew and bore five children themselves, that would get up to the numbers the Demonsword now enjoyed.
There was immense strength here. That much was plain, but you felt once again that bent sinew. The Demonsword was a terrible beast indeed, one so close to springing upon it's prey that you feared it might shatter itself in it's attack. It would be so easy to shatter them, for like a sword with a critical fault, they might only bear a single blow against them, whether the death of Haomarush, or an overindulgence of the Fel, and they would break.
Presently a female approached, her metal marking her as Haomarush's principal wife. She was Ralga, a worthy woman who poured tea gracefully while her comrades, no doubt the Blademaster's other wives, set bone cups at your party's sides. The scent of tea swiftly filled the room, it was pure and pleasant, a mix of mountain flowers and herbs, you judged, and you sipped after Haomarush had brought this own cup to his mouth. While polygamy wasn't unknown, especially among the southern clans in Tanaan Jungle, it was at least unusual in Thrall's New Horde, in which the norms of gender and position had been much changed. You supposed in Haomarush's community, it might be even more common, and you suspected infanticide might also be more prevalent.
The first pot of tea was swiftly expended with yet more polite conversation, Ralga brought another bot. This one steamed, and from his robes Haomarush took a slim vial, removing the stopper, then carefully letting a single drop of green liquid fall into the cup before him. He turned to you, extending the vial.
It was clearly demonblood, or something very like it you suspected. You took the vial, half considering refusing, but then let a drop slip into your cup too, then passed the vial onto Vark and the others.
Haomarush's keen eyes scanned the faces of his guests, noting their reactions while ensuring his own expression remained composed.
The Blademaster had made his addition without subterfuge, and from what you'd seen and what you could feel through the Earth, it was unlikely Mannoroth was hiding in the tea pot, and so you put the cup to your mouth and sipped.
The once delicate and soothing fragrance of the herbs now carried a hint of sinister undertones, a subtle reminder of the fel magic it was infused with. You didn't think it was felblood, but perhaps some derived substance. You had seen such commodities growing up, for your father was Elder Warlock of the Horde after all, but it was still unusual to you, and your taste buds were immediately assailed by a potent mixture of flavours. The herbaceous notes of the tea battled against the metallic tang of the demonblood, creating a peculiar and disconcerting contrast. The result was a concoction that possessed a bitter and slightly acrid quality, leaving a lingering aftertaste that hinted at forbidden power. It was seductive, bringing an unexpected richness to the tea, yet it also carried an undeniable darkness. The stuff left a slight warmth in your mouth and throat as you drank, a sensation that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the chaotic forces from which it originated.
It was an experience that lingered, leaving an indelible impression on the palate, a mingling of herbs and the essence of fel that you would not soon forget.
Haomarush did not mention the vial, you supposed it may seem usual to him, or perhaps knowing your father's occupation perhaps he assumed you were used to such additions, but in any case, during the lull in conversation, the Blademaster casually mentioned his large family, proudly noting that he was expecting his twentieth child. You were somewhat caught off guard by the revelation and felt a momentary lapse in his composure, struggling to do much more than awkwardly congratulate as you raised your eyebrows in a quick look to Vark.
It seemed to go down well though, for several of the wives laughed quietly at your recovery. The awkwardness of the moment dissipated as they recognized the unfamiliarity of orcish customs within different clans. You supposed that if you were to travel more you would have to get used to such things. If you dined with the Chief of the Bonechewers, would you sup upon orcish flesh, as was their custom? Perhaps, but there were limits to courtesy…
Throughout the tea ceremony, you subtly surveyed the interactions within the room. Your gaze occasionally shifted towards Vark, the Mok'Nathal chieftain surveying the Demonsword clan with a piercing gaze, eyes occasionally growing unfocused as your brother considered some deep matter. Vark, you supposed due to his unique situation, sometimes had unorthodox thoughts, and you discreetly observed his demeanour, monitoring his actions and ensuring that he remained respectful towards Haomarush's wives, especially as his eyes moved over them. With a hint of relief, you noted that Vark's gaze remained fixed on his cup, his attention seemingly captivated by the intricate patterns adorning it.
Content that Vark was not causing any unintended offence, you shifted your focus back to the ongoing conversation, allowing himself to become fully engaged in the exchange between Haomarush and the others. It was time to broad one issue more closely perhaps.
"Haomarush," you addressed the chief directly, "How did Jubei'thos come from being dead in Alterac to fighting me in Kalimdor?"
"Grok'mash," Haomarush began, his voice carrying a weight of sombreness, "Jubei'thos, our esteemed former chief, met his end during the Scourging of Lordaeron. The cataclysmic events took their toll, and he fell valiantly in battle, defending our people with unwavering courage."
Haomarush's gaze intensified, his eyes narrowing as he recounted the tale. "Yet, there is a shadow that lingers over his demise. One fateful night, as I stood to watch over Jubei'thos' grave, I witnessed shadowy figures lurking, their intentions unknown. Fuelled by my loyalty and duty, I charged at them, seeking to protect the sanctity of our fallen chief." Haomarush continued, his voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and concern. "Alas, the shadowy figures proved to be formidable adversaries, preventing me from reaching the grave. By the time I managed to overcome their resistance, I discovered that Jubei'thos' body had vanished, leaving behind only questions and a lingering sense of treachery."
You frowned. There was little to go on, but you leant forward, "Shadowy figures, you say? Do you have any insights into their identity?"
Haomarush's expression tightened, his eyes gleaming with a glimmer of determination. "Regrettably, my efforts to uncover their true nature have thus far been fruitless. The truth behind Jubei'thos' fate must be unveiled, for the honour of our clan and the memory of our fallen chief."
You nodded, "This is surely so." you replied, courtesy ruling you once more.
A tour of the settlement followed, you viewed the Oreseekers and the smiths, the warriors at their training, the neat rows of the orchards up in the valley sides, and you sat with Haomarush many a time as he set about the ruling of his clan.
It was, overall, a somewhat awkward experience, but a worthy one. The Blademaster was able enough to steer conversations away from any problematic topic, such as the precise nature of your authority over the Demonsword Clan, and it was clear enough to each of you whenever you found some snag and were forced to fall back on your courtesy.
It was at a unique ceremony where this came to a head, and it was after when you were climbing back down the mountain trails into the human lands when you considered it more.
"A grim spectacle." Gol'dir remarked as you rode, and you nodded.
"A grim folk." Vark replied.
It had indeed been grim, but that was the way of the world you supposed.
In a ceremony of adulthood, the om'riggor ritual common among your people, several adolescents had competed in a show battle for your and Haomarush's viewing. Following this, the victor of the battle, and last one standing, had been offered the Fel. Haomarush's attendant warlock had stepped forward, sending a torrent of green energy into the girl.
Immediately something seemed to go wrong, for when the warlock had finished the child was grossly mutated, and you saw Haomarush curse immediately.
"Control it, girl!" the Blademaster had roared, readying his blade. He sat, ready to spring, but as the smoke cleared the mutant roared, struggling with themselves, clawing at their own flesh and ripping gouges of muscle away.
"Too weak." One of Haomarush's wives had remarked, stroking her belly with one hand, "End it, my chief."
With a snarl the Chief of the Demonsword leapt from his seat, his sword flashing down on the girl in the arena, severing her neck with one precise blow.
You'd drawn your own sword, but as Haomarush ordered the child's body be thrown into the furnaces to give strength to the clan's swords, you'd set your own weapon down, staring at the patch of cracked earth where the young orc had died.
Your people were ruled by custom. You were too. More than that, your people were ruled by honour, but you'd often thought honour was a yoke as well. You were bound by it, just as Haomarush was bound to slay children, perhaps his own even, by the dictates of his community.
The Demonsword were a terrible clan. Harsher, crueller perhaps, than any other you could think of.
But you knew now why they had become so.
Demonsword surveyed
Roads cleared very successfully, scaring any Syndicate bands into hiding
Army supervision poor, situation degrading
Can't locate warlocks
A consequence of a slower update schedule means updates are likely to be larger. I could have split this one into two, but decided against it. I also enjoyed writing the discussion between Darion and Grok, so may do more of that.
I'm still planning to do a turn for this roughly every month. I'm also updating a couple of other fics, but I think I'll increase the speed of writing those. I'm still interested in building up the capacity to do writing full time, so I'm thinking a monthly turn for this, and 4 stories updating each week. Will need to consider further. I do still need to actually write something people read.
[X] Clear the Roads
[X] Survey the Demonsword
[X] Supervise the Army of Alterac
[X] Warlocks
[X] Survey the Demonsword
[X] Supervise the Army of Alterac
[X] Warlocks
The room stood within the once-grand gatehouse of the castle, the mighty fortress now fallen into ruin. The room's vastness swallowed you, but it was here you'd decided to make your residence as Constable of Alterac. It was not overwhelmingly empty, but it was indeed clear it had not been the personal apartments of an individual but rather the living space of the gate's knights.
You would have to get someone to see to the repairs. The Ogres who'd once dwelt in the city had permitted humans to live among them, but only as servants and sometimes food, and it was hardly as if the Alteraci would have cared about the maintenance of the castle during that time.
The plaster on the walls was crumbling in places, the paint of flowers and animals faded. That was the witness of years of neglect, and in some places, it was crumbled away entirely to reveal the grey stone beneath. That crumbled surety was your duty to repair, and here was where you would do it.
Beyond your little island of organisation, you'd cared little for the rest of the chamber. The servants would see to it, and you'd left the various accoutrements of military life where they lay as soon as you discarded them. Here was your long dagger, it's pommel heavy of bronze, here was your jacket of leather and mail left in a heap waiting for Darion to set it to rights. There were little bottles of oil and rags for cleaning, as well as a large whetstone and a water stain beneath it on the wooden cabinet.
Against the wall though sat the items you actually cared about. Beside the chaotic disarray, certain items commanded positions of distinction. The Fireblade, your ancient blade shorn of Grond's spine and taking on the appearance of obsidian, gleamed with an ethereal aura, and next to it stood your bannerpole, fiery standard of your clan and the harness that held it.
Next a stout chest held your more delicate instruments. You didn't wear the Mightstone at all times for example, nor the Bloodstone amulet you'd taken from Yarrog Baneshadow almost three years ago now. There too were the shamanistic accoutraments which you used in your rituals. Oils there were, herbs too, small stones and powders, the mixed ashes taken from many burnings. They whispered of long tradition, of intoned incantation by firelight.
You could see a distinct divide in your room though, one side was your personal life, your weapons, your equipment as a shaman and flameseer, your bed, a pile of furs in one corner of the room. The other though was the place of your new office, both the physical space in which you could conduct buisness, but also where you were represented in your new rank.
Here was a space of high military authority. Here was your desk, and upon it your seal of office, your Constable's mace, your papers of appointments and logistics, your quills and books and inkwell.
Here was the dichotomy of your life, the remnants of a warrior, the new occupation of admnistration and leadership.
You leant back in your chair, looking through the narrow window you could see the little town of wooden barracks you'd ordered the Alteraci Army into. They had complained of course, but they were weak folk, too weak to take the destiny of their people into their own hands, and instead had been subjugated by the strong, first by the Syndicate, then by yourself.
You look over toward the weapon stand in your room, the Fireblade was still there, blade glinting in the firelight.
You had been weak once. No more.
"I find it fascinating how our worlds diverge in structures of command." you mused, breaking the silence. "In my clan there is more organisation perhaps, and in the Blackrock, but in the south there was no such thing. The families were stronger there, the clans more fluid in organisation. The strength of an individual and the wisdom of the elders determine leadership on Draenor, or at least they did once, before Blackhand."
Darion sat on a stool beside your desk nodding thoughtfully.
The boy had grown. While Orcs reached adulthood faster than the humans, now Darion had grown enough to be called a man among his own people. Darion now stood taller, his limbs with the strength of a swordsman, his weapons well used, blooding them recently against the Syndicate's remnants.
"Much is said about the Warchief Blackhand." Darion replied, "I think, perhaps, he had more respect among the leadership of the Crusade than Doomhammer or Thrall."
"His achievements are greater than either. Doomhammer lost the Second War and broke the Horde. Thrall… Well… There is much to be said about Thrall, by me and others."
"Will it come to war? The business with the Frostwolves?"
Darion hadn't been part of several of your councils in the past few months. In human matters he was indispensable, but the battle against Drek'thar and his ilk had been a much more personal thing.
"We shall see." was your only reply, and instead you groped for the disappearing thread of conversation.
"It seems to me," you continued, "That the Orcish manner of war has a flatter structure, there is the Warchief, the Chiefs, and the warriors. Some warriors are more senior than others perhaps, but there are far fewer points of interconnection, or of differing responsibility, save perhaps peons, shaman, or most of the womenfolk and children."
"I think that may be true," acknowledged your equery, "In our kingdoms, the social order is stronger… No, say rather that is it more rigid. We wouldn't have lost half the Alliance in a single decade if it was a strong thing. The social order plays a significant role in determining the military hierarchy; the noble knights, born into their stations, represent the pinnacle of our military structure. Their training, lineage, and chivalry symbolize the noble values we hold dear… held dear."
You knew the deeds of his brother, and the destruction of his father weighed heavily on Darion, and you chose to move on from his words. Little could be gained from fixating on past misdeeds, and you'd told him that briefly, advising him against falling into possibilities. You were rather curious about the matter yourself, about to what extent the Crusade's leadership knew that their Highlord's son had slain his father, but it was no matter now you supposed, both were dead after all.
Instead, you nodded, making a show of absorbing the information. "Yet the position of the knight is much changed, especially in Stormwind and Lordaeron."
Darion immediately brightened. "That was the Dwarves' doing! My father would often speak of it, he was friends with King Mangi! Cheap armour elevated the footman, while gunpowder brought knights down. Those kingdoms which made alliance with Khaz Modan earliest benefited first, but it was Lordaeron which preserved the knightly traditions for the longest. Stormwind, the Brotherhood of the Horde, that same chivalry which saw off the Blackrock at the gates of the city, they were the last such band of errantry. Now I suppose knighthood is a rank perhaps, but the pre-eminence of heavy cavalry is lessened significantly, and I guess, due to be more so, given the devastation of many of Lordaeron's pastures."
"That is true." you remarked. "It carries weight though. Respect, tradition, the need to lead by example. These are worthy things. It is worthy too… that birthright…"
"Such worth is sorely lacking here." Darion grumbled. "You've seen the reports, what will you do next?"
Forged from the disreputable bandit groups of the Syndicate, the Royal Army, the supposed beacon of the New Alterac, had become a twisted mockery of a proper army. You had started strongly, appointed those officers who seemed to have honour, as well as several of the knights Bishop Karlus' retinue to captaincies. However, swiftly the journey towards transformation had veered far off course, descending into a wretched spectacle of incompetence and moral decay.
The winds, carrying the scent of treachery and despair, whispered through the dilapidated barrack-city beyond your window. The officers tasked with leading the army had been subverted, frustrated, disobeyed, or simply murdered in one case. It was a dark omen, but you felt this matter must be accomplished at least partly by humans, the Alteraci, not by your own warband with fist and baton.
Morale was low, and training poor. Pay was miserable, perhaps not so much as the thieves of the Syndicate might expect, but it was better than nothing, for you gave the Syndicate only the edge of your blade.
Whether there was some force directing the problems you didn't know, but the Army itself was little better off than when it'd be gathered in the first place. Perhaps blooding them would do good?
"The problem is money." Darion said, "They're paid, but they're not paid well. The Crusaders didn't fight for coin either, at least at first, but when trade started to open back up some of the men started asking for money."
"Did you?" you enquired.
"I took holy orders." Darion replied, "I'm sworn to poverty. Most knights in the Crusade are, we've dedicated our family wealth, our position and the production of our estates to the Crusade. Some have had to retract the vows with the blessing of the Bishops, it's legally complicated as I understand, Taelan though, Tirion Fordring's son? He's the Lord of Mardenhold, but the paladin Taelan Fordring acts in the role of administrator for the estate of Lord Taelan of Mardenhold, it's a legal separation, I suppose to make things easier with the other kingdoms."
In the Horde, every Orc was either a warrior or supported the warriors. Since Blackhand had turned your people from hunters to warriors, the profession of your nation had changed. Orcs would walk about in armour, carrying war-weapons like axes and spears, and indeed it was seen as somewhat dishonourable to be seen in public, or outside the domestic space without such instruments. Yours were a martial people, and it showed. Even those outside the profession of arms were expected to contribute to the machine of war.
You had known it was not so among the humans, you'd know of their propensity for the use of currency, for unnecessarily complicated methods of recompense, but the idea of a professional army had still unnerved you.
"I find the idea that warriors would fight for worldly, for physical recompense… that they were paid soldiers, rather than bound by duty, alarming." you remarked.
"So you've said, but for all you claim it's not, I suspect its not so different. Just because the Orcs of Draenor didn't have currency or the trappings of our human civilisation, it doesn't mean an Orcish warrior can't still fight for position, that has worth after all. How much value would you put on a clan chief?"
You frowned, "What do you mean?"
Darion grinned, sitting up, "Indulge me, my lord," he began, "In the Alliance it's considered somewhat dishonourable, but sometimes kings will sell lordships, usually not openly, but perhaps a man might contribute a certain sum and receive a knighthood or an estate. Therefore he has become higher than other men, he has the power of justice, he can kill a man legally, imprison one, levy and command troops. The cost of such 'contributions' varies, but what value would you put your own rank as Blademaster and the chivalry of your order? What price to be a chief of the Orcs?"
You spluttered for a moment in confusion, then settled into thought, your mind churning over the remarks. It was interesting, very interesting. The idea was ridiculous of course, for what orc would respect another who simply 'paid' for their rank?
The conversation went on for another hour before you were due in the practice yard, but soon enough you did descend. These days you fought multiple opponents, training in the fitness of your handstrokes, the precision of each cut, even when assailed by multiple opponents. You knew you had a tendency to get sloppy in technique as you tired in duels.
You fought Sorek and his Aspirants, some of them reaching an impressive degree of skill with a blade. You fought Darion's commandery, the squire ordering the actions of a dozen warriors as training in command for him. You sparred with Kalaran, sent by his mistress to oversee her interests in Alterac, and you fought with Sesk to face an opponent that actually had a chance to endanger you.
There was much to accomplish here in Alterac, but you couldn't slack on your own training. It was the sword which had brought you your position, and unlike honour, which had also contributed, you could actually train with the sword.
The Demonsword were also about, and several of their warriors watched you now in your duels, calling out praise at particular cuts. They knew swordsmanship well and respected it. Only a hundred had come, dispatched by Haomarush to strengthen your position and no doubt to gather intelligence regarding your activities. You had agreed to visit that clan, and soon you would indeed.
While you busied yourself in the affairs of Alterac, the wide world moved on. Lady Prestor was coronated and wed in a combined ceremony in Stormwind, Varian Wrynn celebrating his nuptials, though you'd heard there were murmurs of whether the marriage vows had put the Kingdom of Alterac into a subordinate position or not. News from the North claimed that the Scourge were resurgent in the Plaguelands, of secret caches of horrors unleashed, of disappearances and ambushes.
Within Alterac the news was better. You had the kingdom under control, the roads had been swept clear by your warband easily, the gangs of bandits withering away in the face of an orcish shieldwall. Your warriors had pursued them into the mountains, but in many cases the bandits disappeared. You suspected they were hidden in the last holdfasts of the Syndicate, those same fortresses in the mountains which seemed to have gone quiet in the months since you took Alterac.
It was in other ways that you were less secure. The Winteraxe trolls had reduced their attacks after seeing bands of your warriors, but you had no doubt they would renew them soon, using their magics to freeze the rivers and slipping across by moonlight. Similarly, despite the efforts of Gol'dir and Kartha, working with the wolf riders, you still had no idea where the warlocks who'd visited you had gone. There had been reports of empty villages and the foul stench of dark magics, but there was little to speak of there, whether warlocks or otherwise.
In a week your duties were stable enough that you'd decied to head up into the mountains to visit Haomarush.
The valley of the Demonsword was remarkably warm, you thought as you approached the summit of the road. The settlement was hidden high in the mountains, past jagged defiles and blind bends where any number of enemies could be held back with smaller numbers. Demonsword guides attended your journey, and hastened it to a single week, rather than the months it would take an army to attack the seat of Haomarush.
When you reached the valley though you found a verdant vale, indeed, it was much alike to the valley of the Frostwolves, now you came to think of it. You saw many buildings set out all through the valley, a square, a training ground with pells and targets, and a larger building where you felt the spirits of beasts. There were mostly orcs there, but you could still see a few trolls and ogres.
Haomarush had sent an attendant, clearly thinking it somewhat inelegant to meet you himself.
You handed your wargs to another attendant, following the first, Mazath, an orc who bore a long blade, but not the banner of an actual Blademaster, and who looked with interest at your own banner and that of Sesk's besides you.
"Now this reminds me of the old days!" Sesk remarked happily.
And indeed, you saw that the Demonsword were a far more militant clan than those you'd previously seen. Though your people were warlike, Orgrimmar, save perhaps the quarters of the Blackrock, was a peaceful city. Here though you felt an almost palpable scent of repressed violence, the feeling of a spring or concealed sinew ready to leap.
"I understand that you studied under Akinos Steelclaw?" Mazath said as you walked up the side of the valley on a wide track toward a study series of dwellings.
"I did, he taught me much, both of the sword, and how to use it." you replied. You had long ago dealt with the spectre of your master. It was a wound perhaps, but one scarred over, and that you knew Akinos would be proud of what you'd achieved was a balm indeed.
"I too have studied such matters, under Master Haomarush. It was my great desire to join your war against the Scourge, for they slew my father."
You looked at Mazri'ath, "Your father was the Blademaster, Mazrigos?" you asked. You had heard of such a warrior, but assumed he'd died some time ago. Apparently in Alterac rather than in the Second War itself. "Well," you continued, "we are kin then, for your father was of the Burning Blade, rather than of Blackrock stock."
Mazath nodded eagerly, "I was grieved that my master didn't allow me to join you, but here you are now in any case!"
You talked of small things as you climbed, but it wasn't a long trip, and soon you and your companions found yourself at Haomarush's compound. A sense of anticipation hung in the air, but you calmed your heart, surveying the area. The dwelling stood nestled in a crook of the mountain's arm, the blocky stonework of the buildings a stark contrast to the jagged landscape that surrounded it. Its design reflected a conservative yet elegant style, one favoured by the southern cultures of Draenor. It showed strength, a certain brutality perhaps, and almost completely forsook the naturalisms of other styles like those of the Frostwolves, who favoured curves or stone made to appear as bones. Some orcish clans build their houses to resemble great skulls, or the ribs of beasts, and a few clans even lived in the ancient remains of collosals, but that was far away on Draenor, and clearly Haomarush did not hold with such styles.
The Blademaster's compound was small enough. There was a courtyard, several dwellings where you saw women and children looking through shutters at you, and what was clearly the personal training ground of the Blademaster, with many standing stones etched with the marks of swordblows. Haomarush's house itself though was the largest building, a large square one with a low roof, weathered by time and the trials it had witnessed. You couldn't help but appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into its construction, recognizing the attention to detail and the pride Haomarush took in his home, indeed, you could feel the Blademaster's hand in it's working, through the history passed to you by the earth.
It was strange, it seemed the place was a place of consequence and import, despite the structures not being more than a generation old, or so you thought. You shrugged though, meeting a fine looking matron at the door who ushered you in.
Haomarush was sitting on a pile of furs in a central chamber, his sword, runes glowing fel-green, sat on a rack behind him, and you could see fresh bandages around his torso and shoulder where you'd wounded him. He rose, somewhat stiffly if you were any judge, and bowed formally. It was deeply respectful, and you returned it with the proper courtesies, falling into the Old Tongue to do so, even as you shared hospitality from perhaps the most fel-tainted orc you'd ever seen.
While some of the Warsong who'd drunk Mannoroth's blood in Ashenvale still possessed horns or large tusks, their features were somewhat faded over time. For Haomarush however, you saw that clearly he had drunk deeply and often of the Fel. His condition was unchanged since your duel, his horns grew prodigiously, curving like a beasts, and his tusks were sharp, the scales covering parts of his form hard and flinty in the light.
"May the Spirits of my home welcome you." the Blademaster said, gesturing for you and your party to sit.
"May our visit honour the Spirits of your home." you replied, completing the formula.
You grinned as you saw that Haomarush had prepared racks for yours and Sesk's blades, and you took advantage of them, the other Blademaster smiling also, happily abandoning his weapon and throwing himself down on the furs that surrounded a low table in the middle of the room.
Your party lounged around, Vark here with one leg up, leaning on his arm, Kartha there with a hand down as she removed her weapons to lay them beside her. Gol'dir the Frostwolf and a few others were also there, Sorek had attended you as your own apprentice, and he sat slightly behind you, afforded less honour than you, Vark and Sesk, who had the greatest rank.
It was clear that Haomarush wished to leave a lasting impression on you, his esteemed guest, showcasing the strength and unity of the Demonsword Clan, yet also his own courtesy. It was working, but you couldn't help but feel a sense of curiosity about both the Blademaster and his clan.
As the formalities of introduction passed, the gathering of orcs engaged in a series of polite remarks and pleasantries. The atmosphere was charged with a blend of respect and curiosity, each participant carefully choosing their words to maintain a harmonious and welcoming environment. Indeed, you'd instructed them all on that before the journey. Topics ranged from minor news and stories to Vark's attempts at Warsong jokes, which only seem to confuse Haomarush. You spoke of your battles against the Scourge and the Demonsword orcs made all the right noises of approval.
Haomarush ensured that everyone felt included in the conversation, in what you regarded as a skilful display of diplomacy, indeed it inspired you to do the same, enquiring further regarding Mazath's father, or the particular others who sat with you. Both you and Haomarush were at pains to display your mutual understanding of tradition and history, and following your example he declaimed poetry of the ancient odes of Draenor. You recognised each one, your father had taught you well.
"Your speech is worthy indeed, Haomarush." you said at length following one particularly melancholy verse. "If only such culture was still present in our race. In the nights of Orgrimmar the lok'vadnod are still sung, but few remembered the older stories and tellings."
"Much was the thoughts of my master, Jubei'thos, before his fall." Haomarush said heavily. "He secured our clan here, but he would often fall into black depression, or wander in the mountains to meditate."
"It is a malady that affects many Blademasters." you agreed, "Master Saruk spoke of it to me, and Akinos too. It is my hope that my father might continue to bring them together in war, and in doing so preserve our traditions."
"Your father may," Sesk said, "but his works are a holding action at best. No, if it is any which revive the Burning Blade it will be you."
You were silent at that. Your people were not ones for false modesty, and indeed it was probably true, and was a task you had set yourself previously in any case. You were the youngest Blademaster in a generation, just as Thrall had been the youngest shaman in many years.
It was a heavy duty, but one you accepted. For now though, you turned the conversation to different matters, and as the conversation flowed, Haomarush took a moment to provide a brief account of the history of the Demonsword Clan. He spoke of their origins within the ranks of the Blackrock Orcs, their settlement in Alterac, and their rise to prominence under the leadership of Jubei'thos. There was old alliance between Burning Blade and Blackrock, that you knew, and further you knew many Blademasters had been lent as generals to the more numerous Blackrock. Jubei'thos was perhaps the foremost of them, and it seemed had gained great authority and a strong hegemony over the orcs of northern Lordaeron in the years after the Second War. There had been talks between him and Grommash Hellscream, one of the only other chiefs to remain free and in command of a large force following Doomhammer's capture at the gates of Lordaeron's capital. Haomarush emphasized the challenges the Demonsword had faced, and the subsequent trials that had tested their mettle.
You listened intently. You listened as Haomarush narrated his tale. The Blackrock orcs under Jubei'thos had settled in this valley relatively late, they'd wandered for several years after the Second War, apparently their leader unable to decide whether to make across Khaz Modan to Blackrock Mountain or to try and stay in Alterac, allied in some fashion with the humans who would go onto form the Syndicate. Eventually, Jubei'thos had discovered a hidden mountain valley blessed with natural hot springs, a place of both beauty and danger.
Settling in this secluded valley, the Demonsword found themselves surrounded by unique geological formations influenced by the hot springs. The orcs encountered native yetis that used the springs as a source of warmth and sustenance, but apparently had slaughtered them all, ultimately claiming the hot springs as their own and building their settlement around the spring and its warmth, allowing them to cultivate crops stolen from human granaries.
While Jubei'thos' command was a military unit, his orcs preserved some of the traditions of the Blackrock, and with their connection to the spirits they compelled the earth to bring forth metals, and harnessed the energies of the earth for other things. While not as skilled as their brethren in the main Blackrock clan, the orcs of Alterac managed to uncover valuable resources, though with less proficiency and finesse.
"It is easy to bargain and compel the Elementals of this place." Haomarush said, drawing his finger in a circle, "You see, the Earthblood flows up from deep underground, and carries elementals and minerals both. They are often curious and unused to life beyond the Elemental Planes, we often harness them for a time, and while they break free, they flee for safety, so unused to existence on this Plane. I know you hold a powerful Spirit in your thrall, Grok'mash. Would that we had such a servant, for with it each of my warriors would have warplate, where only my guards do now."
The peaceful days in Alterac were abruptly disrupted during the Scourging of Lordaeron. The Demonsword Clan faced a devastating assault, resulting in the fall of their leader, Jubei'thos. Haomarush had been wounded and awoken to a changes world, his clan barely more than a hundred individuals in the aftermath. After their grief had come determination though, and a determination to rebuild their strength.
With only a few hundred orcs left, Haomarush devised a controversial strategy to replenish their numbers. Utilizing the Fel magic of his warlocks, as well as his own experience, he accelerated the ageing process of orcish children, effectively increasing the population in a short span of time. Five years later, the Demonsword Clan had grown to thousands of orcs, with the original veterans now leading cohorts of artificially aged young orcs.
Discipline became the hallmark of the clan, blending the regimentation of the Blackrock tradition with the unwavering focus of the Burning Blade. The older orc officers, having succumbed to the corruption of Fel magic, became Fel Orcs, while the younger generation remained untainted. Only those who displayed control over their bloodlust and violent impulses were granted the coveted Fel infusion, given elaborate collars and gorgets of steel, set with dark runes and inlaid with fire opals, ripped from the Earth's bosom.
Your people had gone through much adversity in recent years, that you knew well, but to hear of the Demonsword's struggles amazed you. Yes, Blackhand had ordered that every Orc child be aged artificially in such a manner before the invasion of Azeroth, but to grow a population so quickly was astounding.
You listened intently as Haomarush spoke, and for the first time you noticed that each of the attendant women around the room were pregnant. How many children had each of them borne? How old were they? You weren't entirely sure how the process actually worked, for that was a use of the Fel your father had never spoken of. If a hundred Orcs bred five children each, who in turn grew and bore five children themselves, that would get up to the numbers the Demonsword now enjoyed.
There was immense strength here. That much was plain, but you felt once again that bent sinew. The Demonsword was a terrible beast indeed, one so close to springing upon it's prey that you feared it might shatter itself in it's attack. It would be so easy to shatter them, for like a sword with a critical fault, they might only bear a single blow against them, whether the death of Haomarush, or an overindulgence of the Fel, and they would break.
Presently a female approached, her metal marking her as Haomarush's principal wife. She was Ralga, a worthy woman who poured tea gracefully while her comrades, no doubt the Blademaster's other wives, set bone cups at your party's sides. The scent of tea swiftly filled the room, it was pure and pleasant, a mix of mountain flowers and herbs, you judged, and you sipped after Haomarush had brought this own cup to his mouth. While polygamy wasn't unknown, especially among the southern clans in Tanaan Jungle, it was at least unusual in Thrall's New Horde, in which the norms of gender and position had been much changed. You supposed in Haomarush's community, it might be even more common, and you suspected infanticide might also be more prevalent.
The first pot of tea was swiftly expended with yet more polite conversation, Ralga brought another bot. This one steamed, and from his robes Haomarush took a slim vial, removing the stopper, then carefully letting a single drop of green liquid fall into the cup before him. He turned to you, extending the vial.
It was clearly demonblood, or something very like it you suspected. You took the vial, half considering refusing, but then let a drop slip into your cup too, then passed the vial onto Vark and the others.
Haomarush's keen eyes scanned the faces of his guests, noting their reactions while ensuring his own expression remained composed.
The Blademaster had made his addition without subterfuge, and from what you'd seen and what you could feel through the Earth, it was unlikely Mannoroth was hiding in the tea pot, and so you put the cup to your mouth and sipped.
The once delicate and soothing fragrance of the herbs now carried a hint of sinister undertones, a subtle reminder of the fel magic it was infused with. You didn't think it was felblood, but perhaps some derived substance. You had seen such commodities growing up, for your father was Elder Warlock of the Horde after all, but it was still unusual to you, and your taste buds were immediately assailed by a potent mixture of flavours. The herbaceous notes of the tea battled against the metallic tang of the demonblood, creating a peculiar and disconcerting contrast. The result was a concoction that possessed a bitter and slightly acrid quality, leaving a lingering aftertaste that hinted at forbidden power. It was seductive, bringing an unexpected richness to the tea, yet it also carried an undeniable darkness. The stuff left a slight warmth in your mouth and throat as you drank, a sensation that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the chaotic forces from which it originated.
It was an experience that lingered, leaving an indelible impression on the palate, a mingling of herbs and the essence of fel that you would not soon forget.
Haomarush did not mention the vial, you supposed it may seem usual to him, or perhaps knowing your father's occupation perhaps he assumed you were used to such additions, but in any case, during the lull in conversation, the Blademaster casually mentioned his large family, proudly noting that he was expecting his twentieth child. You were somewhat caught off guard by the revelation and felt a momentary lapse in his composure, struggling to do much more than awkwardly congratulate as you raised your eyebrows in a quick look to Vark.
It seemed to go down well though, for several of the wives laughed quietly at your recovery. The awkwardness of the moment dissipated as they recognized the unfamiliarity of orcish customs within different clans. You supposed that if you were to travel more you would have to get used to such things. If you dined with the Chief of the Bonechewers, would you sup upon orcish flesh, as was their custom? Perhaps, but there were limits to courtesy…
Throughout the tea ceremony, you subtly surveyed the interactions within the room. Your gaze occasionally shifted towards Vark, the Mok'Nathal chieftain surveying the Demonsword clan with a piercing gaze, eyes occasionally growing unfocused as your brother considered some deep matter. Vark, you supposed due to his unique situation, sometimes had unorthodox thoughts, and you discreetly observed his demeanour, monitoring his actions and ensuring that he remained respectful towards Haomarush's wives, especially as his eyes moved over them. With a hint of relief, you noted that Vark's gaze remained fixed on his cup, his attention seemingly captivated by the intricate patterns adorning it.
Content that Vark was not causing any unintended offence, you shifted your focus back to the ongoing conversation, allowing himself to become fully engaged in the exchange between Haomarush and the others. It was time to broad one issue more closely perhaps.
"Haomarush," you addressed the chief directly, "How did Jubei'thos come from being dead in Alterac to fighting me in Kalimdor?"
"Grok'mash," Haomarush began, his voice carrying a weight of sombreness, "Jubei'thos, our esteemed former chief, met his end during the Scourging of Lordaeron. The cataclysmic events took their toll, and he fell valiantly in battle, defending our people with unwavering courage."
Haomarush's gaze intensified, his eyes narrowing as he recounted the tale. "Yet, there is a shadow that lingers over his demise. One fateful night, as I stood to watch over Jubei'thos' grave, I witnessed shadowy figures lurking, their intentions unknown. Fuelled by my loyalty and duty, I charged at them, seeking to protect the sanctity of our fallen chief." Haomarush continued, his voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and concern. "Alas, the shadowy figures proved to be formidable adversaries, preventing me from reaching the grave. By the time I managed to overcome their resistance, I discovered that Jubei'thos' body had vanished, leaving behind only questions and a lingering sense of treachery."
You frowned. There was little to go on, but you leant forward, "Shadowy figures, you say? Do you have any insights into their identity?"
Haomarush's expression tightened, his eyes gleaming with a glimmer of determination. "Regrettably, my efforts to uncover their true nature have thus far been fruitless. The truth behind Jubei'thos' fate must be unveiled, for the honour of our clan and the memory of our fallen chief."
You nodded, "This is surely so." you replied, courtesy ruling you once more.
A tour of the settlement followed, you viewed the Oreseekers and the smiths, the warriors at their training, the neat rows of the orchards up in the valley sides, and you sat with Haomarush many a time as he set about the ruling of his clan.
It was, overall, a somewhat awkward experience, but a worthy one. The Blademaster was able enough to steer conversations away from any problematic topic, such as the precise nature of your authority over the Demonsword Clan, and it was clear enough to each of you whenever you found some snag and were forced to fall back on your courtesy.
It was at a unique ceremony where this came to a head, and it was after when you were climbing back down the mountain trails into the human lands when you considered it more.
"A grim spectacle." Gol'dir remarked as you rode, and you nodded.
"A grim folk." Vark replied.
It had indeed been grim, but that was the way of the world you supposed.
In a ceremony of adulthood, the om'riggor ritual common among your people, several adolescents had competed in a show battle for your and Haomarush's viewing. Following this, the victor of the battle, and last one standing, had been offered the Fel. Haomarush's attendant warlock had stepped forward, sending a torrent of green energy into the girl.
Immediately something seemed to go wrong, for when the warlock had finished the child was grossly mutated, and you saw Haomarush curse immediately.
"Control it, girl!" the Blademaster had roared, readying his blade. He sat, ready to spring, but as the smoke cleared the mutant roared, struggling with themselves, clawing at their own flesh and ripping gouges of muscle away.
"Too weak." One of Haomarush's wives had remarked, stroking her belly with one hand, "End it, my chief."
With a snarl the Chief of the Demonsword leapt from his seat, his sword flashing down on the girl in the arena, severing her neck with one precise blow.
You'd drawn your own sword, but as Haomarush ordered the child's body be thrown into the furnaces to give strength to the clan's swords, you'd set your own weapon down, staring at the patch of cracked earth where the young orc had died.
Your people were ruled by custom. You were too. More than that, your people were ruled by honour, but you'd often thought honour was a yoke as well. You were bound by it, just as Haomarush was bound to slay children, perhaps his own even, by the dictates of his community.
The Demonsword were a terrible clan. Harsher, crueller perhaps, than any other you could think of.
But you knew now why they had become so.
Demonsword surveyed
Roads cleared very successfully, scaring any Syndicate bands into hiding
Army supervision poor, situation degrading
Can't locate warlocks
A consequence of a slower update schedule means updates are likely to be larger. I could have split this one into two, but decided against it. I also enjoyed writing the discussion between Darion and Grok, so may do more of that.
I'm still planning to do a turn for this roughly every month. I'm also updating a couple of other fics, but I think I'll increase the speed of writing those. I'm still interested in building up the capacity to do writing full time, so I'm thinking a monthly turn for this, and 4 stories updating each week. Will need to consider further. I do still need to actually write something people read.
- Location
- barking
pay for it they might not (just cause they haven't really got a currency or put value on money which if orcs start interacting with other races more often they will get very quickly) but well look at how rend entire claim for warcheif is pretty much my father was first and garrosh became warsong leader cause his father was
Doomed Wombat
Let's go Darling!
- Location
- Dancing on wires!
mmm...concerning.
More concerning.
The demon sword are also going to be a problem, but for now they are loyal and lets see if we can use that to try and reshape them. Worst case scenario when the time comes we can expend them against the scourge in Northrend.
That said now we have to start building up, the Syndicate is scattered now we take the momentum gained and reestablish control.
The same can also be said of Grok, however there is seemingly noblesse oblige in those situations. Setting aside Blizzards writing, in this universe if Garrosh wasn't actually good at leading the clan and had their approval I'm pretty sure he'd get challenged to Mak Gora and deposed, and if Grok had fallen short of his father's expectations entirely then we wouldn't be made clan heir. Hell he wasn't made clan heir officially until after the mess at the mountain.
Also, what Darion is talking about is buying influence/bribing, your way to power. You're talking about inheritance, which is a whole nother kettle of fish.
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MrRobot
In doubt there's always the Sun!
Ok, now reading it turoughly I think we probably need to take future actions to help the demonsword, maybe getting a teaching our way of control over our inner nature?
The get a paladin action may be of benefit to the army but so does looking into the payment system.
Overall thing are manageable.
Being a military leader is complicated but the experience is good for gork taking the mantle of leadership.
The get a paladin action may be of benefit to the army but so does looking into the payment system.
Overall thing are manageable.
Being a military leader is complicated but the experience is good for gork taking the mantle of leadership.
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Having played six ages and King of Dragon Pass, I'd say the bribery is what orcs would value for goods. They still function as a society so it could be nice weapons or armor to something magical as a bribe instead of just coinage.
What Guldan did is somewhat similar using the Fel as the bribe in exchange for power.
What Guldan did is somewhat similar using the Fel as the bribe in exchange for power.
You tried using chatgpt to help with writing? I found it makes the omake I did sound more smoother with more flavor text I didn't consider.
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I think the big thing for the demonsword is that they accept that they are fairly secure for the immediate future and get out of the headspace that they have to keep cutting out their childhoods. Which is going to be delicate and not something they'll stop if asked.
MrRobot
In doubt there's always the Sun!
Well this is not something that an ork would readly accept, we may actually teach some of the demonsword how it comes lf gork way lf being a blademaster, of transcend their rage, war joy is an hell of a boost, maybe get some of the talented in magic but oterwise unfit for the fell as gork's students.
This new discipline would likely have some cultural effects. I think their chief actually do not like the state of the demon sword by don't have better options, thus his bet on Gork, gork can provide options to his children.
This new discipline would likely have some cultural effects. I think their chief actually do not like the state of the demon sword by don't have better options, thus his bet on Gork, gork can provide options to his children.
Being a blademaster is tied up in the burning blade, but being a shaman, a flamecaller, and a light user is less so. We could simply teach them the light and warn them of how it interacts with the mind. Despite the fel running around they might actually have the proper headspace for it.
The Vision
The ethereal smoke swirled and morphed, taking on a haunting visage that drew you into a nightmarish realm. Moebius, the bronze dragon with mastery over time, broke the silence with his resonating voice.
"To understand the conflicts that plague our world, you must witness its origins," he began. "Before the Burning Legion and its servants, there were ancient beings that once ruled Azeroth—the Old Gods. Behold the Black Empire, the dark pinnacle of their dominion before the arrival of the titanic beings who shaped the world as you know it."
The smoke transformed, revealing a terrifying vision of insectoid creatures erecting towering obsidian monuments, chanting otherworldly praises to a distant god. A writhing mass of tentacles and eyes lurked in the background, fixing its gaze upon you and sending shivers down your spine.
Moebius continued, "Those beings you witnessed were defeated and imprisoned by the progenitors of our existence, the Titans. Recall the dwarves of Draenor who sought the 'Makers'? They are the Titans, creators of many realms. Look closer."
The smoke shifted, revealing a colossal war that dwarfed any conflict you had ever witnessed. Metal and stone giants clashed with raging elementals and the misshapen races you had seen earlier. Amidst the chaos, statuesque figures resembling humans, but larger and more resolute, stood their ground. Confusion swirled within you as you turned to Moebius for answers.
"They are the ancestors from whom many of Azeroth's civilizations descended," Moebius explained. "When the enemies of these ancestors were defeated and imprisoned, they left a parting curse—a curse that twisted metal and stone into flesh, creating beings they could manipulate as part of their plans for the Hour of Twilight, a time to revive the long-lost Black Empire."
The smoke shifted once more, revealing a vast realm of machinery and celestial craftsmanship. The once-gleaming bodies of the titan-forged, those giants from the earlier war, were now marred by the Curse of Flesh. Eldritch energies rippled through their forms, transforming them into vulnerable beings with mortal emotions.
"The elements, too, were once powerful and unruly on their own. But when the Old Gods formed the Black Empire, they enslaved the elements under their dominion. Now, separate from the world, the elements are confined to their own realms, with some still serving their old master, including the Firelord Ragnaros," Moebius added.
With an unknown incantation, the image of the writhing giants changed again into four otherworldly domains, the four elemental realms stand before you, each radiating an unparalleled essence of raw magic and primal power. It was awe-inspiring seeing realms where the forces of fire, water, air, and earth reign supreme.
The Plane of Fire, a realm ablaze with unyielding flames, greets you with an infernal inferno that stretches endlessly into the horizon. Molten rivers cascade through fiery chasms, while pillars of searing heat rise to the heavens. Here, the essence of flames dances with an insatiable hunger, shaping a terrain of smoldering deserts, towering volcanoes, and scorching caverns. The air crackles with intense heat, and the sky roils with billowing smoke and fiery storms.
In stark contrast, the Plane of Water unveils a mesmerizing vista of fluid tranquility and enigmatic depths. As the veil parts, an expanse of crystalline oceans stretches as far as the eye can see, reflecting the iridescent hues of magical light. Boundless waves cascade gracefully, revealing the secrets of fathomless abysses and vibrant coral reefs. Enigmatic creatures, born of water's embrace, glide effortlessly through the currents, while hidden realms of ancient ruins and ethereal cities lie submerged in the depths. Amidst the serenity, you sensed danger within the waters, for the Plane of Water hides tempestuous currents and ravenous depths, unpredictable in their watery whims.
Turning your gaze to the Plane of Air, where the invisible winds come alive. The plane is a symphony of swirling gusts and swirling mists, where clouds form floating islands and radiant auras illuminate the skies. Towering spires of solidified wind reach for the heavens, and colossal avian creatures soar through the eternal drafts. The air crackles with the untamed energy of storms, and gentle breezes whisper forgotten tales. And yet you were weary of this plane, as sudden tempests and whirlwinds can upend the unwary, casting them adrift into the endless expanse of the Plane of Air.
Finally, the Plane of Earth, a testament to unyielding strength and grounded stability. You beheld an unending vista of towering mountains, sprawling canyons, and labyrinthine caves. Mighty behemoths of stone, animated by the pulse of elemental energies, traverse the craggy terrain with ancient purpose. Crystal formations sparkle in the subterranean darkness, while titanic roots anchor the plane to its very core. Earthquakes rumble in the distance, and the steady heartbeat of the land resonates beneath one's feet. You beheld the true bounties the Demonsword Clan could have if they had drawn more Earthblood into their lands but still you knew the risks seeing the cavernous depths and the crushing weight of solid ground, for the Plane of Earth is both a foundation and a prison, where unwary travelers can become forever entombed.
Interrupting your awe, Moebius explained that you would soon visit Blackrock Mountain, a battleground where the Firelord Ragnaros and his enslaved Dark Iron dwarves clashed with Deathwing's children and your rival, the son of Blackhand. It would be a test of your blade infused with the fire spirit from Draenor against the raging fires of this world and your formidable adversary.
As you absorbed this information, Moebius hinted at the complexities of your allies and foes. He advised you to keep an eye on Kalaran and Zaruk, using them as they seek to use you. He emphasized that friend and foe could be the same and that nothing was set in stone.
The smoke transformed again, revealing glimpses of possible futures. You saw yourself reconciling with the Horde, dueling the son of Blackhand, and even leading an immense army to Northrend. However, the image that struck you the most was the final one.
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sP_gXu3s8E0
Countless warriors from various races, clad in armor and ready for war, marched toward strange vessels aimed at the stars. Among them, you stood on a podium, delivering impassioned speeches, rallying them for a war against the Burning Legion. Your future self, scarred and battle-hardened, locked eyes with you, nodding in acknowledgment before brandishing his own Fireblade, proclaiming the Breaking of the Burning Legion with their own Legion.
The imagery left you in awe and contemplation, as the weight of history and the impending conflict pressed upon you. Moebius assured you that more would be revealed about the Hour of Twilight, but for now, he left you with a parting gift—a glimpse into the potential future that awaited you.
"Time Grok'mash. Next time."
You turned toward the oracle and he was gone. Mildly annoyed you left the cavern where it seems at his dissappearance so did all the baubles you glimpsed on your way in and met Haomarush back at the entrance. He had slain a wild boar and had set up a camp fire before tossing a roasted leg at you.
"So Blademaster did you learn something as well from your encounter?"
You briefly ripped into the leg and swallowed before giving your answer. "That and more. You were right about this oracle but he told me much I would never know. I suspect I'll be meeting him again."
Not really happy with this one but all that manic energy just isn't there anymore. You could make fun of me and I wouldn't even care about it.
@FractiousDay Onyxia's plans look to be winning. Is there going to be a dragon human hybrid from her matrimony with the half of the King who's still alive?
"To understand the conflicts that plague our world, you must witness its origins," he began. "Before the Burning Legion and its servants, there were ancient beings that once ruled Azeroth—the Old Gods. Behold the Black Empire, the dark pinnacle of their dominion before the arrival of the titanic beings who shaped the world as you know it."
The smoke transformed, revealing a terrifying vision of insectoid creatures erecting towering obsidian monuments, chanting otherworldly praises to a distant god. A writhing mass of tentacles and eyes lurked in the background, fixing its gaze upon you and sending shivers down your spine.
Moebius continued, "Those beings you witnessed were defeated and imprisoned by the progenitors of our existence, the Titans. Recall the dwarves of Draenor who sought the 'Makers'? They are the Titans, creators of many realms. Look closer."
The smoke shifted, revealing a colossal war that dwarfed any conflict you had ever witnessed. Metal and stone giants clashed with raging elementals and the misshapen races you had seen earlier. Amidst the chaos, statuesque figures resembling humans, but larger and more resolute, stood their ground. Confusion swirled within you as you turned to Moebius for answers.
"They are the ancestors from whom many of Azeroth's civilizations descended," Moebius explained. "When the enemies of these ancestors were defeated and imprisoned, they left a parting curse—a curse that twisted metal and stone into flesh, creating beings they could manipulate as part of their plans for the Hour of Twilight, a time to revive the long-lost Black Empire."
The smoke shifted once more, revealing a vast realm of machinery and celestial craftsmanship. The once-gleaming bodies of the titan-forged, those giants from the earlier war, were now marred by the Curse of Flesh. Eldritch energies rippled through their forms, transforming them into vulnerable beings with mortal emotions.
"The elements, too, were once powerful and unruly on their own. But when the Old Gods formed the Black Empire, they enslaved the elements under their dominion. Now, separate from the world, the elements are confined to their own realms, with some still serving their old master, including the Firelord Ragnaros," Moebius added.
With an unknown incantation, the image of the writhing giants changed again into four otherworldly domains, the four elemental realms stand before you, each radiating an unparalleled essence of raw magic and primal power. It was awe-inspiring seeing realms where the forces of fire, water, air, and earth reign supreme.
The Plane of Fire, a realm ablaze with unyielding flames, greets you with an infernal inferno that stretches endlessly into the horizon. Molten rivers cascade through fiery chasms, while pillars of searing heat rise to the heavens. Here, the essence of flames dances with an insatiable hunger, shaping a terrain of smoldering deserts, towering volcanoes, and scorching caverns. The air crackles with intense heat, and the sky roils with billowing smoke and fiery storms.
In stark contrast, the Plane of Water unveils a mesmerizing vista of fluid tranquility and enigmatic depths. As the veil parts, an expanse of crystalline oceans stretches as far as the eye can see, reflecting the iridescent hues of magical light. Boundless waves cascade gracefully, revealing the secrets of fathomless abysses and vibrant coral reefs. Enigmatic creatures, born of water's embrace, glide effortlessly through the currents, while hidden realms of ancient ruins and ethereal cities lie submerged in the depths. Amidst the serenity, you sensed danger within the waters, for the Plane of Water hides tempestuous currents and ravenous depths, unpredictable in their watery whims.
Turning your gaze to the Plane of Air, where the invisible winds come alive. The plane is a symphony of swirling gusts and swirling mists, where clouds form floating islands and radiant auras illuminate the skies. Towering spires of solidified wind reach for the heavens, and colossal avian creatures soar through the eternal drafts. The air crackles with the untamed energy of storms, and gentle breezes whisper forgotten tales. And yet you were weary of this plane, as sudden tempests and whirlwinds can upend the unwary, casting them adrift into the endless expanse of the Plane of Air.
Finally, the Plane of Earth, a testament to unyielding strength and grounded stability. You beheld an unending vista of towering mountains, sprawling canyons, and labyrinthine caves. Mighty behemoths of stone, animated by the pulse of elemental energies, traverse the craggy terrain with ancient purpose. Crystal formations sparkle in the subterranean darkness, while titanic roots anchor the plane to its very core. Earthquakes rumble in the distance, and the steady heartbeat of the land resonates beneath one's feet. You beheld the true bounties the Demonsword Clan could have if they had drawn more Earthblood into their lands but still you knew the risks seeing the cavernous depths and the crushing weight of solid ground, for the Plane of Earth is both a foundation and a prison, where unwary travelers can become forever entombed.
Interrupting your awe, Moebius explained that you would soon visit Blackrock Mountain, a battleground where the Firelord Ragnaros and his enslaved Dark Iron dwarves clashed with Deathwing's children and your rival, the son of Blackhand. It would be a test of your blade infused with the fire spirit from Draenor against the raging fires of this world and your formidable adversary.
As you absorbed this information, Moebius hinted at the complexities of your allies and foes. He advised you to keep an eye on Kalaran and Zaruk, using them as they seek to use you. He emphasized that friend and foe could be the same and that nothing was set in stone.
The smoke transformed again, revealing glimpses of possible futures. You saw yourself reconciling with the Horde, dueling the son of Blackhand, and even leading an immense army to Northrend. However, the image that struck you the most was the final one.
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sP_gXu3s8E0
Countless warriors from various races, clad in armor and ready for war, marched toward strange vessels aimed at the stars. Among them, you stood on a podium, delivering impassioned speeches, rallying them for a war against the Burning Legion. Your future self, scarred and battle-hardened, locked eyes with you, nodding in acknowledgment before brandishing his own Fireblade, proclaiming the Breaking of the Burning Legion with their own Legion.
The imagery left you in awe and contemplation, as the weight of history and the impending conflict pressed upon you. Moebius assured you that more would be revealed about the Hour of Twilight, but for now, he left you with a parting gift—a glimpse into the potential future that awaited you.
"Time Grok'mash. Next time."
You turned toward the oracle and he was gone. Mildly annoyed you left the cavern where it seems at his dissappearance so did all the baubles you glimpsed on your way in and met Haomarush back at the entrance. He had slain a wild boar and had set up a camp fire before tossing a roasted leg at you.
"So Blademaster did you learn something as well from your encounter?"
You briefly ripped into the leg and swallowed before giving your answer. "That and more. You were right about this oracle but he told me much I would never know. I suspect I'll be meeting him again."
Not really happy with this one but all that manic energy just isn't there anymore. You could make fun of me and I wouldn't even care about it.
@FractiousDay Onyxia's plans look to be winning. Is there going to be a dragon human hybrid from her matrimony with the half of the King who's still alive?
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- Location
- United Kingdom
To an extent yes, but it's still a barter system, which is partly how you'd interact between different communities. There's no commonly agreed currency for example that everyone can barter with, the items themselves are still considered to have specific value.
I haven't really, I've found it quite unreliable. I asked it to do some more translations for me and it just put english words next to other ones, so kind of annoying
So this will indeed be something that a lot of orcs will be thinking about. First Blackhand and Gul'dan would have been considering it, then Thrall (notably not Doomhammer because he's an idiot). Then later Thrall, Garrosh and in this quest, Grok. The problem is that Orcish culture has a lot of memes, a lot of thematic or memetic threads that go through it and complicate things. Cultural questions of 'how do we treat the natural environment' are fluid and debated between the different clans, which basically represent the larger cultural groupings.
The Burning Blade are closest to the Blackrock and Frostwolves in their ideals of discipline, and closest to the Shadowmoon in their scholarly pursuits. However, their culture in totality is closer the Blackrock and extremely different from the Frostwolves and Shadowmoon. So it's pretty complicated.
I also would remark that things like being able to resist the Fel and preserve your rationality while also being a Fel Orc are extremely rare. Grok is unusual because of his upbringing, among other things, that makes him unusually resistant to external influence. Similarly, people like Vark are unusually open to new ideas, but again that's partly because Vark has had to make his own clothes a lot, and relied on his ingenuity as well as his physical power to accomplish stuff.
This is cool. Prose is very good but one point I might make around time travel etc is that it's often ambiguous. I do wonder to what extent the Bronzes would do this sort of thing. I'll have to do something with them at some point, but we'll have to see when that might be.
The Blacks' plans currently seem to basically be to build up in strength. They're hiding atm and trying to sort stuff out for the Hour of Twilight. Of teh different factions you've got Onyxia and Neferian basically, and each are planning to build up ablative armour of the Dark Horde and Stormwind respectively. As for children, Onyxia is perfectly capable of magicking people into thinking she's pregnant, or just transforming a whelp into a child, which might be an amusing plot point actually. As for actual hybrids, they're not really a thing in Warcraft.
What I found was I make the structure and then ask it if it can be done better or explain the kind of story I want.
Like this one since I was waiting for a reply so I don't have to double post.
You stood at a safe distance, gazing upon the foreboding fortification known as the Wrathgate. Heavy blizzards whipped through the air, carried by biting winds that chilled you to the bone. The imposing fortress loomed before you, a constant reminder of the formidable challenge that awaited your punitive expedition. The memories of your encounters in Naxxramas paled in comparison to the magnitude of what lay ahead in your quest to end the Lich King's reign.
As you surveyed the scene, contemplating the inevitable loss of life, you couldn't help but reflect on how your life and warband had led you to this moment. Alterac, once a ramshackle hovel of banditry and cutthroats, had transformed under your leadership. The untilled land now teemed with hope, former bandits with titles had found better use for their talents or faced your wrath, and minor warbands and clans had flocked to you, seeking security and armed with Alterac's finest metals.
The strangeness of your journey became even more apparent when Tirion revealed Danrothan's true nature as a dreadlord. Your participation in the plot to remove him and your subsequent ascension to the former Grandmaster's position had brought about significant changes within the Scarlet Crusade. Now, you found yourself being used as much as you used the position to transform your warband into something unimaginable. The inclusion of the Scarlets had provided you with greater resources, both in terms of land and people.
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-YYZiJvwpc
Returning to your formation lines, you were met with ranks of orcs, and humans, all readying themselves for the battle ahead. As they looked up to you, their leader, their voices rang out in unison.
"Breaker!" shouted an orc, his voice filled with admiration.
"Warchief!" called out another, the respect evident in his tone.
"Lord!" exclaimed a human, acknowledging your authority.
"Sir!" chimed in another, recognizing your valor and command.
"General!" boomed a voice from the ranks, signifying your strategic brilliance.
You nodded at their recognition, a sense of pride swelling within you. Occasionally, you would pat them on the shoulder with a grin, acknowledging their dedication and trust, before making your way to join your inner circle.
Among them was Targorr, who shouted orders met with machine-like precision by your army. You observed a human setting up a cannon emplacement while an orc prepared a brutish wheeled contraption called the demolisher—a gift from your father upon hearing of your intentions.
After Targorr's final order, you addressed him, meeting his gaze with a nod and returning his salute.
"Is everything ready?" you asked.
"As best as we are able. The Scourge does like to keep us waiting," he answered, grimacing. "Despite the losses, I'm surprised we made it this far."
"So am I, Targorr, but I suspect their master wants us to come, and we arrived with surprises to spare," you said with mirth. In your preparations for this expedition, you had spared no expense, seeking both magical and technological means to augment your arrival. This invasion would confound even the Scourge's response to your presence.
Ever since your ascension to the former Grandmaster's position, you had realized the need for new ways to fight and protect the world from all threats. Through your warlocks' pilfering of the Scourge's libraries and their knowledge of the Fel, you had gained the means to strike from where the enemy least expected it. Your light-attuned allies expressed concerns, but you reassured them with your own knowledge, assuring them that the cost would fall upon the warlocks rather than the Scarlets as a whole.
The gate began to move.
With a nod, you moved to your position in the rear, preparing one of your surprises. Unlike previous assaults, the Wrathgate was impregnable, with only one entry. Having experienced the Scourge's countermeasures during your blademasters' assaults on previous strongholds, you opted for a different approach proposed by the Kirin Tor. A manabomb would clear the way, while your increasing number of spellcasters would allow for another successful maneuver, similar to what you had accomplished in Stromgarde.
Zaruk led the group of spellcasters, composed of shamans, warlocks, and mages. Each contributed their portion of magic and spellcasting, channeling their energy into the elemental you kept as a jailer. This elemental would direct its fury toward the immeasurable numbers of undead, allowing your forces to sustain fewer casualties.
Entering the ritual summoning circle just as the gate unleashed a tide of undead and frost vrykul, you shouted a name that would turn the tide in your favor.
"By the ancient stones and the fury of the earth,
I call upon Myzrael, reborn in her rocky birth.
From the depths she rises, a force unyielding,
To vanquish our foes with power untamed, revealing.
Oh, Myzrael, elemental queen of might,
Answer my call, emerge from the eternal night.
With your strength and wrath, scatter our enemies,
Unleash your fury, bring them to their knees.
From rock and gem, form your noble frame,
With each stomp and strike, let the earth tremble in your name.
Crush the undead hordes with relentless might,
And pave the way for victory in this endless fight.
Myzrael, arise, and let your presence be known,
As we march forth to claim the Wrathgate as our own.
Together we stand, Scarlets strong and true,
With your aid, we'll conquer and see this battle through.
Now, let the summoning circle ignite with power divine,
As Myzrael, the earth's champion, emerges, radiant and sublime.
Grant us your strength, your resolute might,
As we face the Scourge, united in this fight."
The fortress trembled for the first time as the garrison of undead and frost vrykul sprinted toward your forces. Myzrael rose amidst them, scattering their lines. Snow-covered rocks rose with a cry, forming a human-like figure, as gems shaped themselves into eyes and a face adorned with a dress of jewels.
Unbeknownst to you, as you focused on the summoning, the human Scarlets occasionally whistled and expressed admiration for Myzrael's beauty.
Projecting your will, you directed Myzrael's fury toward the undead. With the support of your spellcasters, you unleashed her powers upon them.
With each stomp and kick, Myzrael stomped and kicked abominations away.
With every swing of her hand and fist, Myzrael smashed and batted away the masses of chaff, rendering their attempts to harm her futile.
The once immeasurable army fled before her might. She made sure to grab two of their leaders—a frost vrykul and a necromancer—before hurling them onto the gate, leaving a messy imprint.
It felt somewhat anticlimactic for the battle to end this way, but you knew the importance of preserving your forces. Myzrael's presence had paved the way. As her bindings slipped and she faded away, Darion, your equerry, awaited you with a flask. You eagerly took a drink, revitalizing yourself before discarding the flask, ready to lead the vanguard, cheered on by your surprise maneuver.
The Wrathgate awaited, and with Myzrael's fury and your Scarlets' strength, victory would be within reach.
Well it's an omake made out of a harebrained idea of a timestreaming manipulator from another series. It's just with Chat GPT I can make more prose after I have it proofread first and then choose what I like.
I'll need to go back to omake writing again soon while I have a couple of weeks break before the next semester.
Constable Turn 2
- Location
- United Kingdom
Constable Turn 2
The surprise in this chapter at the end was rolled for ages ago in one of the Lordaeron turns. You just never bothered to visit Alterac to look for it.
"You speak with Lord Gregor regularly?" Bishop Karlus asked.
You were riding, travelling back from visiting the Bishop in Varnhold and surveying the northern uplands, and the Bishop had decided to accompany you part of the way on some errand about his diocese.
"I do, we collaborate on many things." You agreed.
"Well, that is good I suppose." Karlus replied, "But I would warn you, we face foes."
"Of that I'm well aware." you replied. You sat easy on your warg, one of the few your warband had. "But they decrease with each swing of my sword."
"And if you strike off the heads of Dathrohan's agents, we shall have more enemies." Karlus replies, sighing. "We've spoken of it before, you know of it, but there are many matters you could help me with. First, my influence in the kingdom is waning. That may well be, I am no grasping courtier, but Lord Gregor is inviting Syndicate nobles to assume their stations again in the towns around Varnhold."
You were aware of this. You had conquered several towns on your way across the Uplands, drawing the Syndicate army out of position before you'd defeated them at the gates of Karlus' city.
"You, Gregor and I hold the power of the kingdom at the moment. You hold the most, and for that I've no reason to be concerned, you have honour, and besides that, the Light is with you. That is enough for me… But I would hope that you see the value of an ally beside you."
Indeed, you could begin to see it. You had been aware Gregor was making compromises, to his mind it was to assure the nobles of the Syndicate a place in the Kingdom. You supposed it was better than just killing them after all, which had been your inclination.
Karlus continued, "I will remain Bishop of Varnhold, neither Gregor nor Dathrohan can take that from me, and with no Archbishop to administer the clergy of the kingdom they can't interfere much. The problem is Dathrohan's Red Priests too. Voss, Voss is that terrible mix of ambition, greed and righteousness. If he and Dathrohan are able to wrangle a pick of theirs into the Archbishopric then I fear for the kingdom."
In truth, while the Crusaders were indeed a strident bunch, you had a high opinion of them. Indeed you'd met Voss yourself, if briefly, and found him to be fairly reasonable, approving your use of orcish magic to purify the spirits of the slain after the assault on Naxxramas.
Nevertheless, Karlus had a point. In many human kingdoms there were many classes of folk, from foreigners, merchants, soldiers, craftspeople and townsmen, to peasant and tenant farmers, or the priests and nobility. Alterac was a much-reduced kingdom, there were very few merchants for example, but if Gregor continued in his plans then many of the offices and power of the kingdom would go to either him, or to Dathrohan's supporters. This was not necessarily against your own policies, for you'd sworn to accompany the Scarlet Crusade to Northrend if Dathrohan called, but you didn't act only for yourself now.
But, an idea occurred to you. To seek the assistance of Queen Prestor, to gain Karlus the position of Archbishop, and to safeguard his holdings at the same time. It might mean revealing your connection to the Light to the clergy of Stormwind, but that city was the counterpoint in the Church of the Light, balancing against Dathrohan's faction of harsher clerics and militant paladins.
Karlus was enthusiastic about the idea when you proposed it, but you'd have to consider it further before committing. The Bishop left you at Strahnbrad and you continued further south toward Alterac's capital. There was a disconcerting tendency among the humans to simply not name things properly, and you found it unusual, and had decreed that no one should go about calling the place 'Alterac City' to you, but rather 'Ravrok'gor'. It was a name Vark had come up with, 'Exile's Rest', and you'd found it fitting.
As you rode you saw several bands of orcish warriors patrolling. That was well, and you would commend whichever officer had ordered it. You had not, for you felt there was a risk of orcs wandering to and fro and causing a nuisance, as you had to admit your people tended to do. The people of Alterac were used to Orcish raids, and there was no reason to aggravate their fear.
It was well that the roads were guarded. The Syndicate were bandits and cowards. You were half tempted to leave them in their hideaways as a threat to their comrades now being rehabilitated by Lord Gregor's policies, but perhaps that would be foolish. You would see, you supposed.
That brought your mind to thoughts of the Army. It was poor, and while you'd hoped the humans would sort themselves out given enough motivation, but it was clear you needed to take a more active part.
If only they had been Orcs! If only they had honour!
The Demonsword had halted their raids as soon as you'd commanded them through Haomarush, and the Blademaster himself had been the image of courtesy on your visit to the Fel Orc clan's mountain home.
Not so with the Royal Army. Even the officers Karlus' had sent you from Varnhold seem to have little effect. You would have to take a harsher stance toward them. That, or perhaps simply dismiss them and command your orcs to fill their places, you had enough orcs after all, and your people would understand the task. Indeed, it might even be better, the Alteraci, traitors to the Alliance that they were, might even feel more confident under Orcish commanders. Who could know? Drek'thar perhaps, but the mad old seer was dead, or at least gone.
Your days in Ravrok'gor continued. Your position was a relatively easy one, your duties clear, though at times your subordinates less imaginative than you might have preferred. One day though Kalaran came to you, newly returned from the south.
"Well met, Constable! I bear news, but pray, let us take repast in the hunt and hound-chase, I've been riding for a month and I saw boars up the road, will you take them with me?" the Black Dragon said suspiciously.
Clearly he meant to speak with you in private, for you couldn't imagine that a creature such as the disguised knight would find joy in hunting boars. Perhaps some great beast to test himself against, but boars?
You rode with Kalaran and your retinue to the foothills of a tributary peak away from the main spine of Alterac's mountains. Then Kalaran pointed to a blank patch of the scree slope, claiming he'd seen the tracks of animals there, and in turn you followed him up the mountain. While a more feeble person might have feared treachery or assassination, your were a chief and warleader, and besides that, you had your sword with you. That might have been considered unusual if you were truly going hunting, for it was hardly suited to that, but you were a blademaster after all.
After you'd gotten a reasonable distance away from your guards, the dragon dropped his act. "It's very frustrating, I really take no joy in this. I would much rather be hunting Dwarves."
You raised an eyebrow. You hadn't heard of war between the Dwarves of Khaz Modan and the Black Dragons, "Is that something you pursue often?"
"Aye." replied the Windblade, "My flight has many positions, and mine is that of soldier and commander. My master, Neferian, has commanded me to safeguard certain sites, many of which the Dwarves excavate in their pursuit of their own history. My people, the Black Dragonflight, were created by the Titans, just as yours were, and the Dwarves too. We were created for different purposes though, and my Flight's care has been the deep places of the world."
That made a sort of sense, you supposed. Your people had been made for war, or rather, the great Collosal, Grond, had been made to fight the Evergrowth to stop it consuming Draenor, and thus from his bones various grades of Gronn, Ogre and Orc had emerged. It made sense for a great people, the Titans, or as you called them the Forgers, to have many servants for different purposes.
"And the Dwarves and their excavations endanger these places?" you asked Kalaran. You had heard similar complaints from the Tauren, who would often remark on the dangers of the Dwarves at Bael Modan, back in Kalimdor. Such excavations, blasting and mining, would often disturb the Spirits, and the Tauren were particularly attuned to such things.
The dragon just nodded, "There are deep things in the Earth. Hidden things, imprisoned, dangerous… mad. My lord, Neferian, does not wish these things to escape, and thus I hunt Dwarves, especially those of the Dark Iron Clan."
You had little and less information regarding that particular polity. Supposedly the Ogre, Cho'gall had bartered for many of Blackhand's loyalists to seek shelter in the mountain of the same name, but while you knew there had once been some form of alliance between Blackhand's sons and the Dark Iron dwarves, you also knew that there was now war between them.
"What is the news from the south? You have many of your kin in the administration of Stormwind, I guess, and perhaps in other kingdoms…" you asked.
"This is so." agreed Kalaran, "I stayed in Stormwind for some time, I spoke much with the Queen regarding affairs here. She wanted to take your measure. As Lord Bolvar did, she has a good opinion of your honour, and indeed you were much remarked upon, for I understand your master, Akinos, travelled there as an envoy several times."
"I have considered visiting that city." you acknowledged, "But there's much to be done here."
"Well, I have something more for you." Kalaran said, "I spent most of my time around Queen Katrana, but after I left Stormwind I received messages from my lord. Neferian bids you greetings, and offers alliance, as he has with the Horde of Blackrock Mountain, in return he would have you safeguard a portion of the Black Dragonflight, some of our eggs, broodmothers and whelps. They can be established deep in the mountains and will trouble none of the Atleraci, nor of your own people. As part of the pact, we will come to your aid when you call."
So this was what Kalaran wanted to discuss, far away from any others. It was a fine promise, the dragons of the Second War had been a decisive force after all, and the dragon Deathwing, the father of Neferian, had been a powerful ally to the Horde in Azeroth and Draenor. You knew there had been old alliance between the Orcs and the Black Dragons, but you could also see that there was a deeper meaning.
Just like Scorn, just like Vark, just like Thrall or your father, just like Dathrohan, or a dozen others, Kalaran and his master considered you a claimant to the leadership of your race. You could already see it. The Black Dragons would back both parties, yourself and Dal'rend, son of Blackhand. If there came a time when one or the other might best benefit them, they might throw their support behind that candidate.
It was clear Stormwind had already been infiltrated by Kalaran's folk, but that infiltration seemed to have protected the Orcs of Blackrock Mountain, rather than the dragons using your people for their own wars. Furthermore, Kalaran had approached you honourably, as an ally and comrade, and that itself made the Windblade grow in your esteem. Similarly, it seemed clear to you that there was some sort of kinship between your peoples, for both had emerged from the Earth…
You walked more, talking for this and that, up into the mountain. Kalaran's commentary on the situation in Stormwind was helpful, his insight keen. There were clearly many problems in that land, but it seemed Queen Katrana's influence had been of great assistance to those councillor's of King Varian who advocated a more active policy toward the various bandit groups which had emerged in the hinterlands. There was an opportunity there, if you sought to take it, but that may or may not come in time, and there was no point in thinking about it now.
You were struck from your ruminations by a strange cry, a high roar that the wind carried clearly to you.
"I did not think you had brought any of your people here already." you remarked, easing your sword from it's sheath.
"I didn't- I haven't." Kalaran replied.
It was clearly a dragon's roar. But it was also clear that Kalaran was surprised by it. Was there a dragon loose in Alterac that he didn't know about?
You made your way swiftly up the mountain paths after that, scrambling over scree slopes and boulders till you reached a short platform of stone, about halfway up the mountain.
There you saw a thing of shimmering scales, of ominous blends of onyx and crimson hues. The creature's eyes glinted, glowing with a base intellect like shining jewels, staring at you.
Out near the edge you saw a dragon. The second you had seen in your life, but you didn't need a bestiary to recognise the creature, a leathering black shape, squatting over a sheep's carcass. Bones and viscera, fur and blood from the dragon's meal were strewn about the platform. The air carried an acrid scent of smoke and smouldering embers.
Kalaran snarled at it, no, he was speaking, no doubt in his own tongue to the beast, but then the false knight turned to you in confusion, "It's like it doesn't recognise me."
At first you had been fixated on the great shape, stark against the sky, but you now examined it more closely. It was a Black Dragon, or rather, a younger form, a drake, as you knew they were called. The creature was slighter than Kalaran in his transformed aspect, lesser of shoulder and wing, and the spines along the thing's back were less developed, the head a stubby set of jaws and blunted spikes.
You approach carefully. Still regarding the creature, and again Kalaran tried his draconic speech, only to get the same response, the drake snapping at him instead.
It was strange indeed, you agreed as you approached. The creature was small enough not to be remarked on when it took livestock, yet large enough that nothing save a bull Yeti could threaten it. The dragon held a sense of danger in it's stare but also betrayed a nervousness in each flick of it's barbed tail.
"There was a dragon in these lands, some years ago, a loner." mused Kalaran, leaving aside his own tongue, "Searinox, who was slain by Dwarves I believe. This may be a whelp that's managed to survive without it's brood. It's rare, this one must be tough."
You approached, your sword still, a strange feeling of familiarity in your heart. Your hand was out before you, and while the dragon bore it's teeth, your resolve was firm.
The Elementium bracer on your wrist glinted in the sunlight, and you finally laid your hand on the creature's snout.
"Come." you heard yourself say, "Come, Child of the Earth."
And when you travelled back down the mountain you had a black drake with you.
Choices:
I think this time we'll go for plan voting. Please include some reasoning in your plans. As previously, write ins are permitted. Voting to open tomorrow evening.
Do you accept the Black Dragonflight's proposal?
[ ] Accept the proposal
[ ] Decline the proposal
Actions
Choose 4:
[ ] A Harsh Hand
It seems the Royal Army will require a more direct hand from you. Set Orcish overseers over the Army. Set the Army to drill and march, and try to build them up. Those who fall behind are to be denied wages and publicly shamed. Without this intervention the Royal Army will continue to degrade, but then again, perhaps you don't need it after all, and should look to your own people's strength instead to protect Alterac.
[ ] Warlocks Continued
The Warlocks have disappeared. You don't know where they might be, and if they've left the country they might still cause problems for the neighbouring powers. Send out the riders again to investigate these missing villages.
[ ] Orc Wrangling
You had partly taken the Constable's commission in order to better safeguard the orcs of Lordaeron. The Frostwolves are wounded, the Orcs of Hammerfall under threat by the Amani and the Stromic King, while the Warsong remnants were under their own pressures. It is time to gather them. Travel to Hammerfall and command the clans to follow you back to Alterac where you can properly protect them. Without your intervention, eventually, you believe the situation of the Orcs will dramatically worsen.
[ ] Diplomatic Mission
While you could send emissaries, it may prove a sensible option to visit one of the Alliance capitals yourself on a number of purposes, including the negotiation of aid, or simply to make positive diplomatic contact. For example, your master, Akinos, had visited Stormwind several times on diplomatic missions. Indicate briefly where you want to go, and with what intentions.
[ ] Mission to Stormwind
Technically you report to Lady, now Queen, Katrana Prestor. However, you've never met her in her official capacity, and perhaps a trip to Stormwind would do you good. Additionally, Bishop Karlus has requested your intercession in the matter of the Alteraci clergy. You might even visit the Bronzebeard Dwarves on your way, as you understand there's some sort of underground tunnel between Stormwind and Ironforge.
[ ] Sons of the Earth
The Stormpikes remarked that there are certain artefacts in their keeping which may be of interest to you and that the Orcs may hold some kinship with the Dwarves. While the former is interesting, it's the latter that might be of more immediate utility to you as Constable of Alterac.
[ ] Mercenaries
One thing Alterac has in abundance are Orcs, and Orcs are good at fighting. There is a need for warriors in several areas, notably Gilneas, and in return you might gain much for Alterac. Indicate briefly where you want to go, with what intentions. You also know that the Crusade may find use for warriors against the Scourge.
[ ] Seek Magical Aid
One thing you're quite clear about is the lack of magical support in your warband, and the wider Alteraci military. Seek aid from the Kirin Tor, as well as attempting to form a cohort of Shaman within your Orcish warband.
[ ] Trolls
The Winteraxe Trolls have harassed Alliance convoys for years, and will no doubt continue to do so. Lead a punitive expedition to discourage them.
[ ] Lead the Oreseekers
You are still in need of resources. Not immediately, but you have ambitions to give every orc in your warband proper armour. Lord Gregor has given many of the mines and foundries of Alterac to nobles he wishes to befriend, meaning you'll have to seek your supplies elsewhere.
[ ] Remnants
Though there are few of them, there remain a few fortified strongholds of the Syndicate which might prove a nuisance. Destroy them.
[ ] New Blademasters
Like yourself, Haomarush and the Demonsword have been training Blademaster. While Sorek and his aspirants have never expressed it, you know they yearn for advancement, and perhaps with Haomarush and Sesk you can increase the numbers of your profession.
[ ] Training
While you've grown considerably in the last few months, there is always more to do, and you should now seek out Sesk, or perhaps Haomarush for advice and training, either in the blade or in interactions with the Spirits.
[ ] Spiritual Advice
Tirion had bade you not speak to anyone about the Light, but clearly, the situation had become more pressing following your duel with Haomarush. The paladin is often abroad on secret missions, but you might seek our Fairbanks instead.
The surprise in this chapter at the end was rolled for ages ago in one of the Lordaeron turns. You just never bothered to visit Alterac to look for it.
"You speak with Lord Gregor regularly?" Bishop Karlus asked.
You were riding, travelling back from visiting the Bishop in Varnhold and surveying the northern uplands, and the Bishop had decided to accompany you part of the way on some errand about his diocese.
"I do, we collaborate on many things." You agreed.
"Well, that is good I suppose." Karlus replied, "But I would warn you, we face foes."
"Of that I'm well aware." you replied. You sat easy on your warg, one of the few your warband had. "But they decrease with each swing of my sword."
"And if you strike off the heads of Dathrohan's agents, we shall have more enemies." Karlus replies, sighing. "We've spoken of it before, you know of it, but there are many matters you could help me with. First, my influence in the kingdom is waning. That may well be, I am no grasping courtier, but Lord Gregor is inviting Syndicate nobles to assume their stations again in the towns around Varnhold."
You were aware of this. You had conquered several towns on your way across the Uplands, drawing the Syndicate army out of position before you'd defeated them at the gates of Karlus' city.
"You, Gregor and I hold the power of the kingdom at the moment. You hold the most, and for that I've no reason to be concerned, you have honour, and besides that, the Light is with you. That is enough for me… But I would hope that you see the value of an ally beside you."
Indeed, you could begin to see it. You had been aware Gregor was making compromises, to his mind it was to assure the nobles of the Syndicate a place in the Kingdom. You supposed it was better than just killing them after all, which had been your inclination.
Karlus continued, "I will remain Bishop of Varnhold, neither Gregor nor Dathrohan can take that from me, and with no Archbishop to administer the clergy of the kingdom they can't interfere much. The problem is Dathrohan's Red Priests too. Voss, Voss is that terrible mix of ambition, greed and righteousness. If he and Dathrohan are able to wrangle a pick of theirs into the Archbishopric then I fear for the kingdom."
In truth, while the Crusaders were indeed a strident bunch, you had a high opinion of them. Indeed you'd met Voss yourself, if briefly, and found him to be fairly reasonable, approving your use of orcish magic to purify the spirits of the slain after the assault on Naxxramas.
Nevertheless, Karlus had a point. In many human kingdoms there were many classes of folk, from foreigners, merchants, soldiers, craftspeople and townsmen, to peasant and tenant farmers, or the priests and nobility. Alterac was a much-reduced kingdom, there were very few merchants for example, but if Gregor continued in his plans then many of the offices and power of the kingdom would go to either him, or to Dathrohan's supporters. This was not necessarily against your own policies, for you'd sworn to accompany the Scarlet Crusade to Northrend if Dathrohan called, but you didn't act only for yourself now.
But, an idea occurred to you. To seek the assistance of Queen Prestor, to gain Karlus the position of Archbishop, and to safeguard his holdings at the same time. It might mean revealing your connection to the Light to the clergy of Stormwind, but that city was the counterpoint in the Church of the Light, balancing against Dathrohan's faction of harsher clerics and militant paladins.
Karlus was enthusiastic about the idea when you proposed it, but you'd have to consider it further before committing. The Bishop left you at Strahnbrad and you continued further south toward Alterac's capital. There was a disconcerting tendency among the humans to simply not name things properly, and you found it unusual, and had decreed that no one should go about calling the place 'Alterac City' to you, but rather 'Ravrok'gor'. It was a name Vark had come up with, 'Exile's Rest', and you'd found it fitting.
As you rode you saw several bands of orcish warriors patrolling. That was well, and you would commend whichever officer had ordered it. You had not, for you felt there was a risk of orcs wandering to and fro and causing a nuisance, as you had to admit your people tended to do. The people of Alterac were used to Orcish raids, and there was no reason to aggravate their fear.
It was well that the roads were guarded. The Syndicate were bandits and cowards. You were half tempted to leave them in their hideaways as a threat to their comrades now being rehabilitated by Lord Gregor's policies, but perhaps that would be foolish. You would see, you supposed.
That brought your mind to thoughts of the Army. It was poor, and while you'd hoped the humans would sort themselves out given enough motivation, but it was clear you needed to take a more active part.
If only they had been Orcs! If only they had honour!
The Demonsword had halted their raids as soon as you'd commanded them through Haomarush, and the Blademaster himself had been the image of courtesy on your visit to the Fel Orc clan's mountain home.
Not so with the Royal Army. Even the officers Karlus' had sent you from Varnhold seem to have little effect. You would have to take a harsher stance toward them. That, or perhaps simply dismiss them and command your orcs to fill their places, you had enough orcs after all, and your people would understand the task. Indeed, it might even be better, the Alteraci, traitors to the Alliance that they were, might even feel more confident under Orcish commanders. Who could know? Drek'thar perhaps, but the mad old seer was dead, or at least gone.
Your days in Ravrok'gor continued. Your position was a relatively easy one, your duties clear, though at times your subordinates less imaginative than you might have preferred. One day though Kalaran came to you, newly returned from the south.
"Well met, Constable! I bear news, but pray, let us take repast in the hunt and hound-chase, I've been riding for a month and I saw boars up the road, will you take them with me?" the Black Dragon said suspiciously.
Clearly he meant to speak with you in private, for you couldn't imagine that a creature such as the disguised knight would find joy in hunting boars. Perhaps some great beast to test himself against, but boars?
You rode with Kalaran and your retinue to the foothills of a tributary peak away from the main spine of Alterac's mountains. Then Kalaran pointed to a blank patch of the scree slope, claiming he'd seen the tracks of animals there, and in turn you followed him up the mountain. While a more feeble person might have feared treachery or assassination, your were a chief and warleader, and besides that, you had your sword with you. That might have been considered unusual if you were truly going hunting, for it was hardly suited to that, but you were a blademaster after all.
After you'd gotten a reasonable distance away from your guards, the dragon dropped his act. "It's very frustrating, I really take no joy in this. I would much rather be hunting Dwarves."
You raised an eyebrow. You hadn't heard of war between the Dwarves of Khaz Modan and the Black Dragons, "Is that something you pursue often?"
"Aye." replied the Windblade, "My flight has many positions, and mine is that of soldier and commander. My master, Neferian, has commanded me to safeguard certain sites, many of which the Dwarves excavate in their pursuit of their own history. My people, the Black Dragonflight, were created by the Titans, just as yours were, and the Dwarves too. We were created for different purposes though, and my Flight's care has been the deep places of the world."
That made a sort of sense, you supposed. Your people had been made for war, or rather, the great Collosal, Grond, had been made to fight the Evergrowth to stop it consuming Draenor, and thus from his bones various grades of Gronn, Ogre and Orc had emerged. It made sense for a great people, the Titans, or as you called them the Forgers, to have many servants for different purposes.
"And the Dwarves and their excavations endanger these places?" you asked Kalaran. You had heard similar complaints from the Tauren, who would often remark on the dangers of the Dwarves at Bael Modan, back in Kalimdor. Such excavations, blasting and mining, would often disturb the Spirits, and the Tauren were particularly attuned to such things.
The dragon just nodded, "There are deep things in the Earth. Hidden things, imprisoned, dangerous… mad. My lord, Neferian, does not wish these things to escape, and thus I hunt Dwarves, especially those of the Dark Iron Clan."
You had little and less information regarding that particular polity. Supposedly the Ogre, Cho'gall had bartered for many of Blackhand's loyalists to seek shelter in the mountain of the same name, but while you knew there had once been some form of alliance between Blackhand's sons and the Dark Iron dwarves, you also knew that there was now war between them.
"What is the news from the south? You have many of your kin in the administration of Stormwind, I guess, and perhaps in other kingdoms…" you asked.
"This is so." agreed Kalaran, "I stayed in Stormwind for some time, I spoke much with the Queen regarding affairs here. She wanted to take your measure. As Lord Bolvar did, she has a good opinion of your honour, and indeed you were much remarked upon, for I understand your master, Akinos, travelled there as an envoy several times."
"I have considered visiting that city." you acknowledged, "But there's much to be done here."
"Well, I have something more for you." Kalaran said, "I spent most of my time around Queen Katrana, but after I left Stormwind I received messages from my lord. Neferian bids you greetings, and offers alliance, as he has with the Horde of Blackrock Mountain, in return he would have you safeguard a portion of the Black Dragonflight, some of our eggs, broodmothers and whelps. They can be established deep in the mountains and will trouble none of the Atleraci, nor of your own people. As part of the pact, we will come to your aid when you call."
So this was what Kalaran wanted to discuss, far away from any others. It was a fine promise, the dragons of the Second War had been a decisive force after all, and the dragon Deathwing, the father of Neferian, had been a powerful ally to the Horde in Azeroth and Draenor. You knew there had been old alliance between the Orcs and the Black Dragons, but you could also see that there was a deeper meaning.
Just like Scorn, just like Vark, just like Thrall or your father, just like Dathrohan, or a dozen others, Kalaran and his master considered you a claimant to the leadership of your race. You could already see it. The Black Dragons would back both parties, yourself and Dal'rend, son of Blackhand. If there came a time when one or the other might best benefit them, they might throw their support behind that candidate.
It was clear Stormwind had already been infiltrated by Kalaran's folk, but that infiltration seemed to have protected the Orcs of Blackrock Mountain, rather than the dragons using your people for their own wars. Furthermore, Kalaran had approached you honourably, as an ally and comrade, and that itself made the Windblade grow in your esteem. Similarly, it seemed clear to you that there was some sort of kinship between your peoples, for both had emerged from the Earth…
You walked more, talking for this and that, up into the mountain. Kalaran's commentary on the situation in Stormwind was helpful, his insight keen. There were clearly many problems in that land, but it seemed Queen Katrana's influence had been of great assistance to those councillor's of King Varian who advocated a more active policy toward the various bandit groups which had emerged in the hinterlands. There was an opportunity there, if you sought to take it, but that may or may not come in time, and there was no point in thinking about it now.
You were struck from your ruminations by a strange cry, a high roar that the wind carried clearly to you.
"I did not think you had brought any of your people here already." you remarked, easing your sword from it's sheath.
"I didn't- I haven't." Kalaran replied.
It was clearly a dragon's roar. But it was also clear that Kalaran was surprised by it. Was there a dragon loose in Alterac that he didn't know about?
You made your way swiftly up the mountain paths after that, scrambling over scree slopes and boulders till you reached a short platform of stone, about halfway up the mountain.
There you saw a thing of shimmering scales, of ominous blends of onyx and crimson hues. The creature's eyes glinted, glowing with a base intellect like shining jewels, staring at you.
Out near the edge you saw a dragon. The second you had seen in your life, but you didn't need a bestiary to recognise the creature, a leathering black shape, squatting over a sheep's carcass. Bones and viscera, fur and blood from the dragon's meal were strewn about the platform. The air carried an acrid scent of smoke and smouldering embers.
Kalaran snarled at it, no, he was speaking, no doubt in his own tongue to the beast, but then the false knight turned to you in confusion, "It's like it doesn't recognise me."
At first you had been fixated on the great shape, stark against the sky, but you now examined it more closely. It was a Black Dragon, or rather, a younger form, a drake, as you knew they were called. The creature was slighter than Kalaran in his transformed aspect, lesser of shoulder and wing, and the spines along the thing's back were less developed, the head a stubby set of jaws and blunted spikes.
You approach carefully. Still regarding the creature, and again Kalaran tried his draconic speech, only to get the same response, the drake snapping at him instead.
It was strange indeed, you agreed as you approached. The creature was small enough not to be remarked on when it took livestock, yet large enough that nothing save a bull Yeti could threaten it. The dragon held a sense of danger in it's stare but also betrayed a nervousness in each flick of it's barbed tail.
"There was a dragon in these lands, some years ago, a loner." mused Kalaran, leaving aside his own tongue, "Searinox, who was slain by Dwarves I believe. This may be a whelp that's managed to survive without it's brood. It's rare, this one must be tough."
You approached, your sword still, a strange feeling of familiarity in your heart. Your hand was out before you, and while the dragon bore it's teeth, your resolve was firm.
The Elementium bracer on your wrist glinted in the sunlight, and you finally laid your hand on the creature's snout.
"Come." you heard yourself say, "Come, Child of the Earth."
And when you travelled back down the mountain you had a black drake with you.
Choices:
I think this time we'll go for plan voting. Please include some reasoning in your plans. As previously, write ins are permitted. Voting to open tomorrow evening.
Do you accept the Black Dragonflight's proposal?
[ ] Accept the proposal
[ ] Decline the proposal
Actions
Choose 4:
[ ] A Harsh Hand
It seems the Royal Army will require a more direct hand from you. Set Orcish overseers over the Army. Set the Army to drill and march, and try to build them up. Those who fall behind are to be denied wages and publicly shamed. Without this intervention the Royal Army will continue to degrade, but then again, perhaps you don't need it after all, and should look to your own people's strength instead to protect Alterac.
[ ] Warlocks Continued
The Warlocks have disappeared. You don't know where they might be, and if they've left the country they might still cause problems for the neighbouring powers. Send out the riders again to investigate these missing villages.
[ ] Orc Wrangling
You had partly taken the Constable's commission in order to better safeguard the orcs of Lordaeron. The Frostwolves are wounded, the Orcs of Hammerfall under threat by the Amani and the Stromic King, while the Warsong remnants were under their own pressures. It is time to gather them. Travel to Hammerfall and command the clans to follow you back to Alterac where you can properly protect them. Without your intervention, eventually, you believe the situation of the Orcs will dramatically worsen.
[ ] Diplomatic Mission
While you could send emissaries, it may prove a sensible option to visit one of the Alliance capitals yourself on a number of purposes, including the negotiation of aid, or simply to make positive diplomatic contact. For example, your master, Akinos, had visited Stormwind several times on diplomatic missions. Indicate briefly where you want to go, and with what intentions.
[ ] Mission to Stormwind
Technically you report to Lady, now Queen, Katrana Prestor. However, you've never met her in her official capacity, and perhaps a trip to Stormwind would do you good. Additionally, Bishop Karlus has requested your intercession in the matter of the Alteraci clergy. You might even visit the Bronzebeard Dwarves on your way, as you understand there's some sort of underground tunnel between Stormwind and Ironforge.
[ ] Sons of the Earth
The Stormpikes remarked that there are certain artefacts in their keeping which may be of interest to you and that the Orcs may hold some kinship with the Dwarves. While the former is interesting, it's the latter that might be of more immediate utility to you as Constable of Alterac.
[ ] Mercenaries
One thing Alterac has in abundance are Orcs, and Orcs are good at fighting. There is a need for warriors in several areas, notably Gilneas, and in return you might gain much for Alterac. Indicate briefly where you want to go, with what intentions. You also know that the Crusade may find use for warriors against the Scourge.
[ ] Seek Magical Aid
One thing you're quite clear about is the lack of magical support in your warband, and the wider Alteraci military. Seek aid from the Kirin Tor, as well as attempting to form a cohort of Shaman within your Orcish warband.
[ ] Trolls
The Winteraxe Trolls have harassed Alliance convoys for years, and will no doubt continue to do so. Lead a punitive expedition to discourage them.
[ ] Lead the Oreseekers
You are still in need of resources. Not immediately, but you have ambitions to give every orc in your warband proper armour. Lord Gregor has given many of the mines and foundries of Alterac to nobles he wishes to befriend, meaning you'll have to seek your supplies elsewhere.
[ ] Remnants
Though there are few of them, there remain a few fortified strongholds of the Syndicate which might prove a nuisance. Destroy them.
[ ] New Blademasters
Like yourself, Haomarush and the Demonsword have been training Blademaster. While Sorek and his aspirants have never expressed it, you know they yearn for advancement, and perhaps with Haomarush and Sesk you can increase the numbers of your profession.
[ ] Training
While you've grown considerably in the last few months, there is always more to do, and you should now seek out Sesk, or perhaps Haomarush for advice and training, either in the blade or in interactions with the Spirits.
[ ] Spiritual Advice
Tirion had bade you not speak to anyone about the Light, but clearly, the situation had become more pressing following your duel with Haomarush. The paladin is often abroad on secret missions, but you might seek our Fairbanks instead.