Bound in blood

I. The consuming flame



Years ago, in Northrend...

The fire had been lit. From its wooden base, the red flame worked itself into an inferno; the heat of its red tongues reaching to be so close to his face that it caused a distinct burning sensation over his skin. His eyes defied the rising smoke, instead peering intently at the body hidden within the fire. Its wrappings blurred before his vision and then – finally – he lost sight of its contours entirely. Rakgrim's jaw slackened slightly.

She was gone. Of course he had known that long before, back when he had seen her get cut down by the blades of the walking dead. He had known the cut into her to be fatal, even as he had later taken her into his arms and tried to call her back to him. But now her body had gone entirely from this world, left nothing but ash, and her spirit would rise beyond this plane. The shamans had assured him, in their own cryptic ways, that her spirit would remain untouched by the necromantic energies of this place. It had been a comfort, because he would not have her tainted. That favor he could do her. It did not change the fact that she was gone, however. His strong, passionate and dedicated love. As he watched the pyre slowly collapsing into itself, her name grew upon his lips, but became a whisper lost in the winds.

”Kashar”.

Rakgrim closed his eyes, briefly loosing himself in the sound of the subtle crackling of flame over dry wood. He would remember and treasure the times they had shared. They had met shortly after the release from the camps. He had been miserable back then, a weak excuse for an orc. But she had not let the camps break her spirit, not entirely. When he had first gazed upon her, it had been her youth and the fire within her eyes that had assured him that she had been as orcs were supposed to be. Passionate, dedicated and dutiful, until the very end.

He felt, more than heard, how the other orcs were beginning to leave the pyre. For them the ceremony was over, their battle sister had gone to the ancestors, and they would resume their fighting tomorrow. A hand or two clapped his shoulder in signs of consolation, but no words were spoken. Finally, as the burning embers laid dying on the ground, did Rakgrim turn to face the undeniable chill of the northern winter. He felt no overwhelming grief, no need to scream and beg for her return. He wished no such shame upon a mate so beloved.

The war in the north would not cease because of her death, nor would his dedication to its cause lessen. He would not throw himself into an early death, just out of the notion to be with her again. Such weakness would, if anything, deny him any right to stand with such a formidable warrior once more.

Returning to camp, Rakgrim found most of the other orcs already asleep, save – of course – for the ones that had been assigned to the nightly patrols. With a grunt, he slumped himself down into a chair, and in doing so, had to maneuver the hilt to a massive weapon slightly to the side. Looking down upon said weapon – a massive, two-handed axe – he could not help but curl a crooked smile to his lips. The weapon had been Kashar's. He had taken it because of something she had said just weeks before. That perhaps, one day, she would make the axe worthy of such renown that it'd earn itself a name and that her own blood – her offspring – would pick it up to use it after her death.

Kashar had been apt at many things, but motherhood had never suited her fully. That was why they had left Kraya – their first- and only born daughter – in the care of Kashar's sister when they themselves had headed towards Northrend. But Kashar had undoubtedly been the best mother she could have been; fighting for a future for all orcs. With a quiet sigh, Rakgrim grabbed a small parchment and began to hastily scribble his first message back to Orgrimmar.

”Hail Nakhri

Kashar has fallen and her pyre burned tonight. I remain with Overlord Hellscream in Northrend until the end. Tell Kraya the truth and that I wish for her to be strong. Your sister died honourably.

Rakgrim”.

He had little way with words, but the message – Rakgrim believed – would be clear enough. Putting Kashar's axe aside, to rest with his own gear, he finally got up to make his way over to the place where they had put their bedrolls. He rolled her bedroll up, and tied it neatly together, until it could be placed in a corner. Slowly he slid himself into the relative warmth of his own bedding and turned over to the side, hoping to get some rest. He'd need his strength for the fights to come.

Aaah nice, you posted it here too

<3

I love the beginning picture and quotation; really sets the scene.

Once again, your ability to make the story uniquely orcish is excellent - Rakgrim's thoughts on death, love, and honour, give insight into his mentality and present a believable character with a particular understanding of the world.

Lookin' forward to the next installment!