Awakening, Resurrection, Salvation

"Wake up.”

It’s not unusual to awaken after a good and worthwhile dream. The best ones are when you are not aware that you are dreaming at all. When your subconscious is swept away by the current of time and is taken back to a plane of trusted and familiar things. The sights, sounds and smells of those things once forgotten, again returned. They never last long enough, however.

“I said wake up, chieftain!”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

His voice was hoarse, courtesy of what could have been a lifetime of sleep. Eyes slowly opened, only to be met with the gaze of the young male orc standing above him.

“And I also recall instructing you to not awaken me in the middle of a joining.”

He slowly rose up, reaching for the backpack beside him to grasp at the canteen he left there.

“It’s been two days! At this rate, you’ll be lost to the Wilds.”

“I do not get lost so easily. And even if I did, you should not be so worried for it, young Torak.”

“Easier still to lose you when you care so little for your own life, ch-… master Feraleye. You grow thinner by the day if you keep this up.”

“And what of it?” he grunted in return, wiping his wet mouth with the back of his hand. “Do I have enemies left to battle? Those who have not beaten me to the planes of the afterlife have already forgotten about me. I will prepare for battle when it be due, as I shall prepare for a joining when it, too, be due.”

“A wise orc once told me we live in a world of enemies. Perhaps it’s time he took his own advice to heart.”

A light push shoved the young orc aside as he known as Feraleye rose to his feet. He lifted a hand to his neck as he cracked it left to right with a pained grunt. “Has the pup become matron to the wolf now? Spare me your sermons and explain reason as to why you have awoken me already.”

“Ah yes,” the young Torak responded. “Dwarves are nearby, and they don’t seem drunk enough to look past us without notice this time. I think it’s best we move on.”

“You awaken me for the sake of those inbred mongrels? We heard them long before you even spotted them.” Feraleye spoke dismissively as his gaze turned to Torak, who looked back disapprovingly at the latter statement. Feraleye gave a low sigh in response to it, caving in to the young orc’s concerns. “Very well. Let us split darkness with our movements.”

It did not take long for them to pack their equipment and be on the move. They had been used to such evasive manoeuvres for quite some time now. It had been a few months since he known as Feraleye ventured across the Great Sea to the old lands. It was there that he was fated to meet an old member of his tribe, Torak, who insisted on travelling with the orc on his ventures. He had never even asked the older orc for the purpose of his travels – simply that he would relish the thought of accompanying his former chieftain and to get to know him as the orc he actually was. Feraleye would not have thought the orc to be as persistent as he was, considering how he likely made a poor impression towards the young orc after revealing more of the orc that laid behind the mask. A mask that so long hid any emotions during his reign as chieftain. Still it sat upon his brow, that same, emotionless ragged fur of a wolf long passed, but it no longer hid the troubled and discontent frown it was so known to carry. It had instead made room for a narrowed gaze of suspicion and scorn towards his surroundings. His mood quite possibly did improve, but there were still too many scars, too many memories, to properly erase that permanent scowl for good. Wounds heal well enough when salve is applied to them. The subconscious wounds, however, those take a while longer to properly mend. And even when they do, they never truly vanish. He had attempted to suppress the memory of them by not being himself. By seeking out the Wilds instead, and leaving his vessel of flesh and blood behind, only to be continuously ripped back to it by his worried companion.

“Should you not perhaps consider returning to an orcish settlement? One of the Horde at the very least, considering for how long you’ve secluded yourself from it?”

The inquiry did not seem to stir the older orc one bit. He simply kept walking on with his gaze looking onward.

“I know you have little regard for anything close to civilization these days, master Feraleye, but don’t you think it would be wise for your own sanity to at least speak to actual orcs again? Without me to accompany you out here, I suspect you would have been little more but a beast out here.”

At last, Torak’s unending comments earned him a response at least in the form of the snort, soon to be followed by that all-too familiar scowling gaze from who he referred to as a ‘master’. “’Civilization’ be the tree I piss against when no bush be nearby. Better to leave the scraping, lying, conniving and warmongering to those better suited to it. No. I have little to seek there at present time. Nor be there any who would look warmly to my return. To walk within the confines of a wall be foreign of thought.”

The no doubt unsurprising response was met with a sigh. “I suppose I can’t convince you otherwise. I’m sure there are still orcs who remember your face, however. Or what little you showed of it anyway. Don’t forsake the thought yet.”

“Your offer be well received. Even in the turning of it,” Feraleye responded, even though not entirely without a fair share of scepticism to his voice.

The two figures in the night walked on for what seemed a good few hours, with the light of dawn breaking in the distance as they passed several landmarks that the old hunter still remembered from days gone. A lifetime of scouting made it difficult to forsake such old habits. The last they stumbled upon indicated their proximity to a pass leading to lower lands, and eventually out of dwarven territory. Even if he were to take Torak up on his offer, he reminisced, the closest settlement would be that of Dragonmaws; certainly no kind favourable to his liking. Too bold, deceitful and disloyal to any but their own. Still, they would be the most likely means to find a way across the canyon aside from the well-travelled Thandol Span, but he always managed to find a way somehow. That name alone raised many old memories, and for a moment, he wasn’t aware of the voice that spoke from afar to warn him of impending danger.

“At any rate, the next time we do find ourselves close to a settlement, I would like your leave to deposit a letter at the nearest courier. It’s been some time since I last sent any word to my sister. She must be starting to think I’ve found some enthralling beauty of a she-orc, to keep me from sending any word for so long. I daresay she-“

A wide smile had curled itself around Torak’s tusks, but as a thundering gunshot from afar broke his sentence, so too did it break his expression.

If old memories had a way to drag one back to the present, it is in the form of warm, oozing blood from orcish skin.

"Hang on tight!”

There was something all too familiar about this. Was it the smell of blood and gunpowder? The realization of being hunted by another? Or knowing you once again cheat death at the expense of another?

“We be soon in the clear!”

As soon as the dwarven hunters on their tail were certain their prey was orc rather than animal, Feraleye had taken it upon himself to forcefully carry Torak away from danger. He always despised running away from battle, and continued to do so even in this moment of flight. Nevertheless, he could not leave young Torak to his fate once he discovered the blood upon his throat.

“Keep pressure upon the wound! Dare not fall here, Torak Stoneskin! Live up to your name!”

He knew it was a vain request. Nevertheless, the fool he was, he hoped there was a chance that the shot merely scraped his flesh, or at least punctured a less vital area. The flow of blood proved otherwise, however. He had already carried the young orc far into the mountains, but still he could sense the impending danger following in his trail. To properly rid himself of it, he would need a different solution than to run into the opposite direction. A solution that was about to present itself as he barely managed to halt in his tracks in time before the steep ridge appeared in front of him. He gritted his teeth.

“Whatever you do, do not let go,” he warned Torak, who he placed down upon the earth. A brief look upon his wounds told him enough of the orc’s state. Despite the pressure the young orc had tried to place upon the wound, he was coated in his own blood.

“Leave me, chieftain. I can feel death’s embrace upon me. Just… give my sister a more worthy tale of my passing than -this-.”

“You may send tale of your own to warm the heart, in time. Now, keep hold!”

Pulling his arms around Torak’s frame, Feraleye began to slide himself down the slope, ensuring the young orc would remain unscathed by the brunt of earth’s punishments. Feraleye’s simple armour scarcely made for any decent protection, and only served to rip open the skin upon his back the more they slipped down the mountain even further. It was when the pain started to become obvious that their path was barred by a formation of rocks, however, sending both orcs for a brief spin through the air until they eventually tumbled freely down the remainder of the slope.

Several grunts and yells of agony later, both orcs eventually found themselves at the end of their confusion.

“Ghr. By the dead,” Feraleye growled quietly.  Looking back up the hill, there was no sign of their pursuers save for the rocks and dirt that quaked in their wake. His eyes then fell upon Torak, lying face down on the ground.

The motionless sight alone had been enough, only to be confirmed by the empty gaze in the orc’s eyes. Feraleye had taken his necklace to return to his sister after he had sent Torak Stoneskin on his way to his elders. It had taken him an entire day to build a suitable pyre alone, and another to finally get out of the mountains themselves. Nothing in his own body had been broken, at least nothing that prevented him from making his way into the Wetlands, but there were certainly enough bruises present to tell him that rest would be a most welcome change of pace. To take pause in a place like this would surely result in another unfriendly welcome by dwarves, however. A full night he continued to walk on, until he reached a solitary enough place to allow himself to fall flat onto the soggy grounds. His eyes closed in sheer exhaustion, his body depleted of its energy, and his spirit reached out to better dwellings instead, longing to leave this shell behind.

The silver lining brought him to familiar places. It rained, but the rain served only to wash past stink from his furry coat. The longing to be free soon overwhelmed him once more; to be free of burden and pain. Instead, his senses were filled with the smells and sounds of the wilderness around him. He raised his muzzle to inhale the air. The musk of sweet prey presented itself in nearly every direction. But there was more than just the smell of fellow animal too. To the north, there was the stench of old death and ruin. It captivated the senses, and soon brought him to a site all too known. He had campedt here once, in a different lifetime, in the mountain pass leading to Grim Batol itself. The halls themselves were never his to admire. Instead, their venture led them north back at the time. It was not his decision to make, and much conflict erupted in the wake of it.

“Hold your tongue, boy! Nobody here expects a valued opinion from a damned scout like you!” the specter of a voice lingered around the shrubs that once concealed a band of orcs.

“Your plan be malformed! We risk discovery, and instead of making unnecessary attack, we can trace our way around their camp! I ranged the path!”

“-Did- you? Or did that dog of yours perform in your stead?! Do not -dare- to look to him now! I can see in your eyes when you attempt your abject communion! I raised you since you were but pup – I can damn well tell when you do!”

“And yet you fail to understand the bond be an asset to be treasured, not a curse to be spurned!”

“No, boy. I understand full well what it be. It be unnatural for an orc to nourish, such a pact of beasts. And one day, when I be not there to rip head from ass and back to reality, you will suffer the consequences. You will be little more but rabid animal!”

“Then it will be an animal with more mettle than his elder could bring to bear.”

“You cursed mutt! That tongue of yours rattles too damned leniently! Come here and see it ripped from jaw!”

Weary eyes flew open, and the image of what once was a warding father found itself replaced by an inquisitive human leaning over him instead. Eyes darted from his face to the sword on the ground beside him, only to return to the pale face and to greet it with a clenched fist. A tempest of rage coursed through the orc as he threw himself onto the former visage of his elder with disregard of his wounds. The human reached out for his sword, sheathed still, but found it grabbed by the orc in turn. A wild struggle of strength ensued, soon to be concluded when Feraleye managed to lock both the sword and the human’s arms behind his back, and proceeded by repeatedly bashing his forehead against the human’s. The cracking of skull did not stop until the enraged orc, seeing little more but the sweet crimson of blood, at last ceased his bellowing and growling when the man’s body collapsed to the ground, jerking and trembling in the wake of the sudden assault still.

When realization dawned upon the orc, he was still breathing in exhilaration of his own frenzy. This is what it felt to be ripped back to the reality of man. No wolf wastes time on vengeance, and that is exactly what this was. Vengeance and hatred, pure and simple. When an orc looks most vicious, it is with the savagery that only such two-legged creatures can muster.

When an orc is seen as loyal to family, then you see the wolf.

So you are moving back to DB?

Not entirely likely, since I don't think a lot of people are really awaiting my return anyway. But in between my RP withdrawal and some spare time I managed to gather, I figured I'd at least throw out some short stories (emphasis on short, since attention spans can only handle so much rambling) to entertain the thought. Whether I will or not will probably depend on the circumstances and receptions (which remain dry anyway).

Cool.

Keep writing, good reading material.

Dry... dry?

Dry my green buttocks D:

We want you back shnozz.

"Oi, Grokkosh. Any idea who the animal by the table is?”

The two orcs were both staring at someone unfamiliar to their walls. They were used to such an occurrence now that the Dragonmaw had become a part of the Horde once more, but rarely did Dragonmaw Port get a visit from such a bewildered outsider before. The orc they were staring at had been sitting there for some time now, for as long as they can remember ever since they entered the inn well over an hour ago to seek shelter from the rain outside. He still had the same flagon sitting on the table in front of him, leaving it unstirred. The rags of leather and fur he carried upon him could scarcely be called armour at all, resembling but scraps of what they used to represent. The mantle of a wolf upon his head covered most of his features, but protruding tusks revealed that an orc still sheltered underneath its image.

Grokkosh sighed. “Dead if I know, Skur. Never seen him ‘round here before, which doesn’t spell anything good. Could just as well be one of those cult types or any other kind of those distasteful cutthroats from around here.”

“I’ll ask him myself,” Skur grunted resolutely as he pushed his chair back and stood up. As he made his way to the orc’s table, he raised a hand to him, only to land it down on the table in front of the orc as to herald his own presence. “Say, carcass. From what hole do you hail?”

Skur weighed a light grin upon his lips, briefly looking back to Grokkosh, who discarded the wanton orc with a tired wave. Looking back to the skulking orc, he received no answer – not even an acknowledgement of his presence. The orc seemed to but stare out into a dark corner of the inn. When the silence endured for several uncomfortable seconds, the orc inquired once more. “Didn’t lose your tongue kissing a dog, did you? Perhaps this unsightly mutt here,” Skur motioned to the wolfish fur upon the orc’s head, pulling it back from his features. There was scarce the time to admire the blood-caked half of his weathered face as it fell down, however. In a sudden reflex, the orc took to his feet and grabbed Skur’s arm, only to twist him around it and throw him into the wooden table the orc was resting on, which crippled underneath the weight.

“Your friend be a dog, untrained where not to shit,” the ragged orc spoke as he turned to face Grokkosh, who seemed contend to leave the foolhardy Skur to his embarrassment. “He should take care not to bruise ego more than flesh. It injures more than skin ever will,” the orc continued as he looked down to Skur, who was still aligning himself back together from his fall to the ground with a most frustrated murmur.

Instead of tending to Skur, Grokkosh turned to inspect the orc’s uncovered face. Half of his face was covered in dried blood, and the dirt and muck on the remainder of his skin spoke more than words would have needed to explain. Nonetheless, the sight made Grokkosh narrow his eyes as he measured the orc down. “You’re certainly not from around here. Where are you headed, orc?”

“Orgrimmar, regrettably. Be assured, I would rather have avoided this place. But it be the swiftest way across from whence I came.”

“Ah, I see,” Grokkosh responded, his brow lifting in realisation. “You’re that orc they brought in from dwarf territory. Said they found you spent and worn, worse for wear. Might as well have been a savage, from what they said.”

“Words not far from truth,” the orc replied. “But circumstances shall have to dictate otherwise. An animal adapts to his surroundings. It be foolish to think such a thing be any different behind steel walls such as these. Your reckless friend reminded me of this much.” As he turned around to the orc covered in the table’s wood and splinters, he reached out a hand to pull the orc back up. “In this case, my gratitude for the lesson. I expect mine to you suffices for services rendered.”

With a bleak stare, Skur looked back up to the orc, only to grudgingly accept the hand to get himself on his feet. “Right. Just tidy yourself up next time you find yourself in my favourite inn. And don’t stink like a dwarf’s arse as much as you do.”

“I shall remove myself from your trifling thoughts once you remove yourself from my damned path. Just do not tread upon it again,” the ragged orc grunted back as he motioned Skur out of his way. He pulled the hood of wolfish fur up to cover his features again, before stepping into the rain outside. He looked up to the skies that had burst open with lightning. The downpour washed some of the stains of the past away, but the orc back in the inn was right. If he was to show his face in civilized places again, he would have to at least try to act and look the part. Something he had been all too inclined to forget in his time of vagabonding. The sight of Torak alone was not enough to remind him of that then.

“It’ll be some time before you can catch a zeppelin back to the east with weather like this. Seek out Brot if you want some of that armour fixed. Tell him Grokkosh sent you, should let him see past the sight of you.” The orc looked back to the inn, where Grokkosh had followed to the doorway and nodded back to the orc. “Don’t worry about any debts. Not from me anyway. We’ve seen the kind from your tribe come and go in these parts. They’re decent orcs, in all.”

Looking down to the piece of forged ornament dangling along the side of his belt, the orc grumbled admittedly. “You speak true. Although they be naught but orcs in name only. It be a word masking truer nature of home.”

“For someone holding them in such high regard, it’s surprising not to find you among them.”

There was a moment of silence between the two, Grokkosh’ words causing the other orc to lower his gaze. “Fate often takes an orc far from heart.”

“But it can take him back again,” Grokkosh argued. “And you do find yourself in familiar territory to them, orc.”

The latter statement caused an eyebrow to be raised, as the orc eyed the figure in the doorway down with a slight hint of abruptness to his gaze. He eventually omitted a mellow grumble as he looked away to the port’s courtyard, however. “Perhaps, spirits willing. As much as I do not fit in, it be my home. My heart. Too long parted from chest.”

“You place much value in them,” Grokkosh concluded. “You must have some position of note among them to do so, aye? What’s your name then, orc?”

His gaze continued to look across the courtyard, raindrops trickling down the cold visage of the mantle’s wolfish head equal to how they streamed down the side of his own face, only to be coloured red by old blood being washed away like a purging salve. It revealed some of the face of the orc that once was.

“My name be Kozgugore Feraleye. And I hold no position of note. Yet my fire still burns. And my sole purpose be but to bring just cause to bear,” he uttered as he looked back up to nod to Grokkosh. “Wherever I may bring it.”