Luk Strikes Again

*Durotar, Twentieth Day of the Twelfth Cycle*

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The letters had stopped coming. It had been months since the last letter. Months since his reply had gone unanswered.

"Oof, work da poop," the peon groaned as he shifted the heavy sack of goods. There was a constant movement of supplies from Razor Hill and the Valley of Trials - boar-meat, cactus-apples, weapons for novices and important missives. The hot sun beat down on the orc's head as he trudged the long dirt-road, his feet baked by the searing ground.

What had happened? Had he simply lost the will to write - or lost the means to write, perhaps. Had they been intercepted, perhaps by the Kor'kron or other inscrutable agents? Their contents weren't so inflammatory that it'd arouse Garrosh's goons' furore, but then again, Hellscream's skin had grown thinner by the day, seeing conspiracies and threats to his power wherever he looked. Or perhaps the letters were delayed, perhaps they might arrive whenever Luk least expected.

He looked around slowly, his beady eyes searching for scorpids - one of the region's most ferocious predators. Peon laborers often found themselves a frequent target of their hunts - traveling alone, defenceless, with plenty of sweet-meat on their bones and in their sacks. Easy prey.

The letters had stopped coming, and this was of considerably more duress than Luk might have imagined. They were nothing in earnest - merely infrequent communication between two colleagues. Two former colleagues, before he had been forced to adopt his cover.

Some hours later, the heat-wracked orc slowly trudged his way towards the Razor Hill gates. The Kor'kron had recently stepped up their vigilance in past weeks, and this dusty outpost was no exception. Luk was stopped at the gates by a large orc in heavy-set armor that gleamed under the sun - he wore a modified Warsong emblem, the unmistakable symbol of the Kor'kron under Hellscream.

Or had he been forced to? It was true that he had to give up his former lifestyle, his former responsibilities within the Cleft or risk being put to death by the Kor'kron - back when the Kor'kron were not so brutal, but still did not tolerate dissidents. But why couldn't he have faced his fate with dignity and honor, and died a martyr to the cause? Why couldn't he have handed himself in, or go out fighting against an insurmountable foe in one last blaze of glory?

"Halt, state yer name an' business, whelp," the Kor'kron spat towards Luk. "Luk name Luk. Luk not busy-ness. Wut dat?" the peon enquired. The armored orc brought down a gauntleted fist, smacking the peon across the brow and causing the sack's supplies to scatter across the floor. The startled peon inadvertently squashed a cactus-apple beneath a foot, slipping and dropping to the ground. The Kor'kron let out a harsh laugh.

Why had he chosen to hide and disguise himself? Why did he chop his long hair and coal-black beard off in a bid to make him nearly unrecognisable, even to his nearest colleagues? Why had he shed the flowing robes for dirt-sodden rags, and traded his research in abjuration for manual labor beneath a taskmaster's whip? Why had he affected the words and mannerisms of the buffoon? Was it atonement, was it punishment, was it finding another purpose in this life?

It was a choice, after all. He could have lived the hermit's life; retreated to a dark moldy cave, only venturing outside to hunt and fill his water-skin. He could have bartered passage across the sea, frittering the rest of his life away in taverns and singing shanties - hoping to find the answers to life at the bottom of the next bottle. He could have done many things, but instead chose to live a slave's life under the very eye of those that sought him dead.

"Waaaaargh, not hurt! Urk, me bring tings from da Valley - fo da trade. Told by boss," the peon grovelled. The Kor'kron slowly eyed the peon up and down, snarling. "Peon, eh? That makes some sense. Let's see yer mark o'servitude," he growled. Luk scrambled clumsily back to his feet, rolling up his britches to expose one beefy thigh. The Kor'kron briefly recoiled in horror. "I don't want t'see yer--", he protested, before noticing the unmistakable mark of a branding-iron on the side of the peon's thigh. "Ah, so be it. Gather yer shit up an' get it inside.

Was there a certain perverse pleasure in that? Undoubtedly. To walk past one's captors without being suspected for but a second - for nobody suspects the fool, nobody thinks it possible that he could hatch plans and plots of his own. There was a certain genius in playing the idiot, in having more than you show and speaking less than you know. No-one would suspect him, for who would willingly become a drudge laborer?

"Quick, or you'll get a boot up yer arse," the Kor'kron warned. The peon nodded frantically, brushing sweat from his forehead. "Okdoki, gud orc! Luk work-work." The orc slowly began placing the scattered goods back within the sack, wiping the dirt from the cactus-apples as he went. Trying to clear his dry throat, he nearly choked - it had been hours since he last drank, and the thirst was nothing short of maddening.

Placing the goods within the innhouse, the peon collected another bulky sack of goods to be sent back to the Valley of Trials in return. Before leaving, the peon went to collect whatever letters were waiting for his master. series of work-orders and contracts awaited him, but amongst the pile was one letter with a strange seal - a kind of spiked triskelion with a hollow center, set upon a shield. It was the mark of the Red Blade tribe. Licking his cracked lips, Luk opened the letter without further thought.

"Luk, my old friend. I regret not writing sooner, but a long series of unfortunate occurances befell me. I have been captive of Alliance, yaungol (a strange beast) and trolls in just a matter of weeks. Whatever the case, I must get to our briefing. The project progresses promisingly, and the focusing mechanism has been properly calibrated for--"