I Am Become Death

Yet more stuff not written by me! Written by my good friend Drek / Nazgor, another person infintely more talented than myself :

The lone figure grinned as he surveyed the dying landscape. With every additional pace it was clearer that he moved further into the Blasted Lands, and further from the Swamp of Sorrows. Clad mostly in dark cloths and furs the figure strode towards his unseen goal, as though he had visited the place countless times before.

The Sun had fallen by the time the figure stopped moving.

“Halt. Identify yourself.”

The voice was strong and commanding, the figure could not help but grin beneath his cowl.

“Nazgor Swordshatter,” Nazgor saluted crisply, parting his cloak slightly and allowing the Orcish guards a glimpse of the tabard beneath it.
“I come in search of the Shatterskull Marauders, I was told they were stationed here.”

He stood unmoving, like an inanimate golem, as the guards moved closer towards him. Their weapons were drawn, pointed directly at him. The lead Orc stopped four paces from the unmoving, lone Orc.

“They were here, until last night.”

“And where is it that they’ve gone to?” Nazgor asked.

The lead Orc looked Nazgor up and down, assessing him – judging him. Nazgor was a large Orc, tall and broad around the shoulders. He was wearing two thin plate pauldrons, a dark cloth cowl and a black fur cloak. His tabard, a rich red, was barely visible beneath the cloak he had wrapped around himself.

“Last we heard they were headed towards the Portal,” the lead Orc turned lazily, lowering his weapon. “Death Knight.” He growled.

Nazgor smirked as he watched the guards lower their weapons, following their commander’s example.

“Aka’Magosh, brothers.” He turned on his heels as he strode away from Dreadmaul Hold, his cowl hiding the grin he wore. His mind could not help but go back to the day the hold was founded. Rockard, as it was known then. It seemed much more formidable now, intimidating – impenetrable compared to what it once was.

He pulled the cowl from his head, seeing little use for the thing now. His hand dropped to his hip, curling around the hilt of his rune blade. With a sharp tug the ice that had formed between the blade and the sheath cracked, freeing the blade. A sharp, bright blue light dulled as Nazgor pulled the blade free – he had always felt the act was similar to freeing a caged beast. He tilted his head as he examined the weapon, wrapping the cowl systematically around the hilt of the weapon with his free hand.

The wind picked up suddenly, whipping his hair and cloak to the left. His blue skin almost shimmered in the moonlight. His bone white teeth, now a blue-ish hue because of the blade, were set in an almost predatory grin.

The local wildlife made itself known as he rammed the blade back into its sheath, the howls of the coyote and wolves stirring something within him.

“It won’t be long now, little brother.”

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The guards of Dreadmaul Hold stared at where the lone figure had been, the extinguished light of his blade left them staring into the unwelcoming maw of the night. None of them said a word when the laughter started, the faint sound dying as quickly as it had started.

“Thrall’s balls...” The commander muttered, he suddenly felt uneasy for having entrusted the Death Knight with the whereabouts of the warband.
“Back to your posts.”

Brotherly Love: Part 1

It was beautiful. The stone floor was weathered and worn, worn by the hundreds of thousands of feet that had tread upon its surface in the countless years since its birth. The stone serpent stared menacingly outward, it paled in comparison to the massive beast on the other side of the arch. Twin Guardians stood unmoving on either side, each one robed and hooded – masking the horrors that lie beneath.

Nazgor reached out with his hand, brushing at the volatile surface of the portal. The sides of the portal pulsed and shimmered, the colour of fel fire. The large Orc pulled his hand back, staring into the centre of the portal. The portal seethed with barely bound power, a power that had left a world in tatters. Somewhere, within the never ending abyss, among the countless stars, was Draenor.

He inhaled deeply, a smile flickering upon his face, quickly banished and replaced with the emotionless mask he almost always wore. He felt the portal tug at him as he stepped through, the Nether biting and clawing at him. As soon as it had started it stopped, he allowed himself a moment to breathe.

He walked forward, not looking back – knowing that there would be time to admire the Horde’s craftsmanship upon his return. Making his way down the Stairs of Destiny he saw the remnants of the countless battles fought here, discarded munitions and armour, broken siege weaponry and long forgotten bones.

Pausing a moment as he reached the Path of Glory, he knelt. Nazgor ran a hand across the smooth path, recalling the part he played in its crafting. Recalling the screams of the Draenei as he and the others had butchered them. The cries of those that they had left alive, what he had assumed to be pleas of mercy, as they were dragged behind the Orcish mounts. The weeping and begging as they were flayed alive, their bones taken and used to pave the path. More than all of this he remembered the pleasure he had taken in it all, the failed attempts to sate the primal lusts he had felt. Still felt.

It was impossible for him to judge how long it had taken to reach Thrallmar in this shattered world, even more broken than he had recalled. There was no real sun, so to speak, so he was unable to judge the passage of time.
Nazgor stopped at the entrance to Thrallmar, nodding to both sentries posted at the maw of the outpost.

“Where is the inn?” Nazgor’s voice was softer than usual.

The guard he was addressing clearly took this as Nazgor being polite and pointed toward the smaller of two buildings on the lower level. Nazgor nodded his thanks and made his way there.

Those in Dreadmaul hold had not been mistaken, the Marauders were indeed here. He counted two, a female Orc sat in the centre of the inn and a female Elf not far from her, both wore the colours and emblem of the Shatterskull Marauders.

“Are you with the Shatterskull Marauders?” Nazgor asked, more sternly than he had asked the guard, already knowing the answer.

The female nodded as she looked up to regard the Orc before her. Nazgor looked upon her again, noting that she seemed somewhat sickly though he said nothing.

“I am looking for one of your Clan – Grimgutz Swordshatter.” Nazgor added, waiting for the female’s response.

“Yes, I know Grimgutz, who are you?” She asked.

“I am Nazgor Swordshatter, brother of Grimgutz.”

“Grim never mentioned a brother” The Elf interjected, moving towards the two Orcs. Nazgor stood unmoving, he had seen this question coming of course. He had played through this moment in his mind countless times, answers already prepared for questions yet to be asked.

Nazgor nodded toward the Elf. “He was but a babe when I left, I doubt he would remember me.” His words were spoken with practised confidence, though the Elf remained unconvinced. “I come searching for him now, do you know where he is?”

“I do not believe you.” The Elf sneered. “How do we know you are not lying?”

“Quiet Peri,” The female Orc commanded. “Grim has left to the North.”

Northrend, that was something Nazgor was not expecting. What business did his little brother have there? Before the question could pass his lips another Orc appeared. She was clad in plate, standing straighter than most. There was an air of authority about her, one that Nazgor was not oblivious to. She looked him up and down before speaking.

“Who are you?” Her voice was sharp and commanding.

The four spoke for some time, Nazgor introduced himself to the newcomer, Thrakha Ironsong – Chieftain of the Shatterskull Marauders. The Elf, Peri, maintained her less than welcoming demeanour – seeking to goad him into a fight. He kept up the charade of innocence, as sickening as it was to him to not kill those who would dishonour him. He learnt that Igra, the other Orc, was indeed sickly – poisoned by some recent enemy. She owed his brother some debt of honour, she planned to seek him out in the Frozen North. Initially the Elf had planned on following him, but some words from her Cheiftain had her back down. Igra decided she would make her own way, unwilling to slow Nazgor. Or perhaps distrustful of him.

In the passing days and weeks he thought only of what would happen when he and his brother met. The mutual and immediate recognition of kinship, the test of strength that would follow – it drove him ever onward. Every day he grew closer to it, directions from Warsong Hold led him to Agmar’s Hammer in Dragonblight from there he picked up the trail of his brother, the skills he had picked up from the wilds all those years ago served him well to this day.

Smoke on the horizon caused his pace to quicken. Either it was his brother or something that would pass the time, he licked his lips in anticipation. Growing ever closer he saw a flag fluttering in the winds, a wolf upon a mountain, the figure was too difficult to make out at this distance. Again his pace quickened, he broke into a slow run. As he drew closer he saw that the figure was indeed an Orc, he slowed to a walk for the last few hundred feet – he did not want to seem too eager, did not wish to give himself away.

His grip around his warblade tightened as he made himself known to the Orc. As the Orc looked up Nazgor saw his mother’s face in him but it was the eyes that removed any doubt from him, they were his father’s eyes. Everything else about him was hideously normal; he seemed barely above average height – though it was hard to judge as he was sitting, he was definitely slimmer than most Orcs. Nazgor himself stood taller than most, broader than most, why was his brother so regular? Of all the things he had considered, this was not one of them.

His spirit would clearly have to be exceptional.

Brotherly Love - Part 2

He shuddered as he woke, an involuntary groan slipped past his lips as his body evaluated his situation. As the world flickered back into view between blinks he realised his arms were both broken, as well as one of his legs. The thigh bone and the shin bones both broken, he could see his shin bone protruding from his leg as he looked down.

Since he had been raised so many things had been different; warmth did not matter to him, he never grew hungry, even the bite of a blade felt different, dulled. Dulled or irrelevant. The constant pain that he had felt since he was raised had not ceased or lessened, even after the death of the Lich King. It was now as it was then - only killing dulled the pain. He felt the pain from his limbs but he ignored it, an easy task after all these years. His left arm was shattered and his right broken at the forearm, both his legs shattered to some extent. His pauldrons were crushed, biting deep into the muscles of his arms and back – the blood already flaked.
He growled, more to mask the groan that sought to dishonour him further. His brother had beaten him he thought as he reached out with his left arm and pulled himself forward. He was caked in blood, it pooled around him – an odd oozing substance, a puncture from his gut. He felt his ribs crackle as he crawled forward.

“Grimgutz you little runt, “ Nazgor snorted, smirking to himself as he reached out with his mind. “ I knew you had it in you.” He felt two confused minds some distance from him, two travellers he had killed and raised before his fight with his brother. He willed them to him and felt them acknowledge.

It took them two minutes to find their way to him and in that time he recalled the bout with his brother. It was in the morning, the sun was just rising – it was well past dusk now, he had spent the better part of a day unconscious. He had sat on the edge of the rip in the Barrens looking over the ring he had taken from the bar, left by the Marauder Igra.

“Dura-han senhal. Until the world ends, Sera Igra.”

A small smile was on his face as he studied the ring, likely from the torment it would bring her to learn he had it in his possession – or was it something more?
He heard the ground behind him crunch under a heavy step, then again and again – louder now. His brother was here. He stood, pocketing the ring as the unknown-being behind him halted.

“Brother.” He said, a calculated certainty in his voice.

“Brother.” Grimgutz responded.

They turned, Nazgor commented on his brothers horrible choice of weapons to face him – a set of claws crafted from his blade shattered in Northrend. Nazgor had reach, strength, size, experience and power on his side. They fought, Nazgor kept his brother just out of reach of his warblade though the little runt had slipped past him a few times, he did no damage worth mentioning but the wounds stung Nazgor’s pride.

“Guuuurarugh?”

The two husks pulled him from his thoughts, he regarded them a moment then willed them to remove his pauldrons. They were clumsy and stupid but they were his fallback. Nazgor was not stupid, or arrogant, enough to believe with certainty he would have beaten his brother – he had truly wished for the opposite. His brothers strength brought nothing but honour to their name.

The two husks dropped the ruined metal that was Nazgor’s pauldrons to the side, then they got to work setting his bones in place. He was ready for the pain this time, growling instead of moaning – sickened and angered by this situation but also proud of what his brother had accomplished. The husks stood beside each other now, at Nazgor’s feet, as he reached out one final time with his mind. He reclaimed the magic stored within then, the magic that fuelled them.

The lifeless bodies of the two travellers fell to the ground with a whimper, a bright and short purple flash all that marked their second death of the day. The effect was almost immediate, Nazgor felt his body knit the worst of his injuries together – his bones set and some of the more minor wounds stitched themselves together. There was not enough magic in the husks to restore him completely, he knew he would need to return to the Hold...the very idea sickened him, to return in such a weakened state.

His head fell to the ground with a thump, he lay there for a moment regarding the night sky – it was empty.

“Oof” Grimgutz gasped as Nazgor’s boot caught him in the chest. As soon as his head had hit the ground Nazgor was upon him, his warblade at his throat – drawing blood. He had felt so in-control of the fight, catching his brother off guard as he gripped him towards himself, striking him in the stomach with the base of his warblade and then kicking him to the ground.

It would have been so easy to cut his brothers throat, watch as the blood seeped from him – feel the pain in his own body be relieved by the simple act. He would not kill his brother though – he had already decided that since before the bout, he was the family’s only chance at reclaiming their honour, for what was left? Their sister was nowhere to be seen and he was a Death Knight, he could not salvage their family’s honour.

But Grimgutz, he smirked down at his brother – all fire and rage, writhing even now as a blade threatened to end his life. Grimgutz was a Shaman.

“I am a Death Knight,” Nazgor began. “I –“

“And I am a Shaman!” Grimgutz roared, suddenly batting the blade from his throat – an unseen power shielding him from the blade that would surely have torn out his throat. The sky itself growled threateningly as Nazgor’s sight left him, something unbelievably bright leaving him seeing nothing but light. He felt as though fire was crawling along his skin as the ground lurched beneath him. Pain and darkness met him almost an instant later.

He jerked his head towards the small crater at the top of the cliff, knowing that is where he had struck the wall. He reached towards a pouch in his cloak, removing a small green rune.

He struggled to raise himself onto one knee, then the second. He rose slowly to his feet as he crushed the rune in his fist, discarding its remains onto the floor. He extended his left arm, reaching out with his will, his magic clawed at the remnants of the rune. A spark of purple lit up the walls surrounding Nazgor as the portal tore itself open. He wasted no time stepping through it, knowing he was too weak to maintain it any longer than necessary. His thoughts were on the ridicule he would receive from the others but he would endure. Ancestors willing, he would endure.