Third Time Luk-y

Third Time Luk-y

It was evening. The peon trudged slowly into the forest, huffing and puffing as he went. The days were long, the labour was intensive and the forests full of danger — maddened furbolgs, hungry beasts, sinister satyr and the night elves, of course, still fervently defending their ancestral lands. And now the Kor'kron of Hellscream were to be watched with especially-wary eyes, for they still held a presence at the Mor'shan Rampart and Kargathia Keep.

Their vengeance would be particularly harsh against the 'traitors' of Vol'jin's Rebellion, and Luk knew his best chance if caught was to feign igorance — as ever — and hope to be pressed into Kor'kron servitude rather than be executed or held for questioning. But what questions might they honestly ask of a regular, unassuming peon; and what statement would the execution of a peon send?

For all of his kind were condemned to a kind of death, working ceaselessly until death or infirmity takes them. The rebels of Zoram'gar were more liberal, doubtlessly, but the main consequence of this was not necessarily lighter work — so few had bondservants or peons of their own, and many preferred to chatter idly around the campfire as if chopping wood or hauling burlap sacks was beneath them.

As such, Luk felt that he had done a disproportionate amount of work for one in his lowly position — lumbering around with lumber from dawn to dusk. Yet nonetheless, his position was secure. He had endeared himself to many of the Resistance members through amusing malapropisms — they had amused him more than any, as they took insults delivered 'unwittingly' by a peon far easier than they would if he were any other orc.

And his constant curiosity and reverent prostrations before oh-so mighty 'Heroes of the Resistance' had won him their trust, and even gifts. Such 'heroes', Luk mused, had more honorifics and titles than common-sense, and they will take tribute from a common idiot so long as it assuages their insecurities and strokes their Barrens-sized egos. Reinforce their conceptions of superiority through playing the inferior drudge, and they'll forgive nearly any slight against them.

But he had learnt all that long before he shed his thick black beard; long before he had shaved his head and donned the filthy rags that left so very little to the imagination. Even before Hellscream provoked open resistance, Orgrimmar was a place where life could be easy indeed should the right thing be said, the 'honorable' thing be seen to be done, and the right guards and gangs paid off to look the other way. The role of peon was merely a more primitive reenactment of his past life, and in return he would be protected as one of their own — no doubt some of the more sentimental orcs amongst them would come to harm or give their life should he come into danger. You can't buy protection like that with any amount of gold, Luk mused snidely.

Emerging out from his thoughts, the peon regained an awareness for his surroundings. Yes, he was around a quarter of a horn's walk from Zoram'gar, and his arms were laden with heavy logs, taken from a particularly thick tree that had proven difficult for his tarnished lumber-axe to conquer. But time and resolve win all battles, and he would return to camp in the knowledge that his job well-done would earn him further trust and (perhaps) respect. But he was slowly tiring, and his eye-lids were growing heavier.

Just a short break, he reminded himself, as he slumped by the side of the dirt-path he had followed through the forest. The ground was marshy and damp, covered in various leaves and vines. Capillaries running through the forest-body. Squelching around in search of a comfortable position on the wet ground, Luk felt a sudden and overwhelming compulsion to check within his burlap sack — a need to remind himself of his ultimate purpose, lest he not forget himself and slave the rest of his days away as a drudge.

He removed the shattered light-bulb first. Goblin in origin, Luk reminded himself — he could discern the mark of 'Bilgewater Bright Ideas, Ltd.' etched on the side. It was remarkable how the small details had been realised, and yet the simulacrum's glass had been far more brittle than the original bulb. There was something fitting about making a first attempt of his 'Bright Idea' with the bulb, but it nonetheless signified an initial setback.

The cactus-apple was next — long since rotten, but its significance would never wither in Luk's mind. He had always enjoyed the taste of the fruit of the Durotar cactus — strong and mercilessly bitter, it made for great cider. It also made for a fine first-attempt on a living object... if cactus-apples could be said to live, that is. Luk stopped, considering his words. No, the cactus itself lived — the apple was merely the container of its seeds. But it would also be the fruit of his labours, as the duplicate proved nigh-indistinguishable from the original. He had made two from one by his intellect and cunning alone — he had split the apple, and the seed of that knowledge would one day blossom into a terrible yet mighty tree.

The peon stowed the shattered bulb and decayed cactus-apple back within his sack. To anyone else, they were broken, dysfunctional — objects whose use had long since expired. But they were beautiful to Luk, more beautiful than a stirring golden sunset, a clear blue sky, a mutilated boar choking to death on its rich red blood. He would sculpt the wretched and the shattered and the putrid into a mighty monument of broken glass and rotten flesh that would cast its sinister shadow over all of the world. His creation. His destiny. One day. Soon.

The peon scratched his rear-end. "Oof, work da poop!"

Cunning peon o_o

Luk is now one of my favorite Orcs.