Call of the Wolf

His breath misted in the freezing air, spreading like steam. At the same time his blood soaked into the white snow beneath him as he limped towards his destination.

It had all gone wrong.

His Clan had rampaged through the Northlands, burning Alliance settlements and slaughtering Alliance soldiers. Their very success had been their downfall, and before long they had bitten off more than they could chew.
Their last attack had been a frenzied assault on an Alliance fortification, but they were repulsed with heavy casualties. The snow had turned into red mush beneath the weight of Blood Wolf corpses, like the reddening trail following Grim as he dragged himself through the snow.

They had fled into the forests, hoping to lose any Alliance troops sent out in pursuit. Instead they had fled straight into an ambush.
All Grim could remember of this was the flash of gunpowder and magic, the shattering of blades and the screams of the dying. The ambush had been a chaotic jumble in the darkest of nights in the thickest of forests.
His Wolves had stood no chance. Outnumbered, exhausted, wounded and taken by surprise the Clan had paid a heavy price.

He remembered his claws tearing the throat from a human soldier, then an arrow taking him in the gut. Even as he began to bleed his claws had torn through more enemies, but arrow after arrow had slammed into him.
The fight had taken him away from where it started and soon all the foes facing him were dead. But, he had been too weak to move. Bleeding from multiple arrow wounds and exhausted beyond belief he had fallen into unconsciousness.

That had been days ago. More days than he could remember. Days of pain and tiredness as he limped and crawled forwards.

There were lights ahead of him now. Lights meant life, friend or foe. Which of these the lights meant was irrelevant now; he continued moving towards them because they represented the nightmare ending, for better or for worse.

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Ta'Kay the Tuskarr ambled through the snow, spear held ready. It was always sensible to be on guard in case any of the local wolvar picked up his scent.
He was looking for firewood to cook his latest catch. Not any old firewood, but firewood of the Sea-Tree, which was rare but famed for the salty smoke it gave off when burning. Perfect for cooking!

As he wandered through the forest he saw a dark shape ahead, a humanoid figure on its knees. The scent of blood filled his nostrils and he hurried ahead to help the stranger.

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Grim threw more incense on the fire, wincing in pain as his stitched wounds pulled tight. The incense smoke filled the wooden hut, and Grim's lungs.

Taking a deep breath the wounded shaman began to speak...

"Blood Wolves. We will rise again. Those of you who survive, find me at Moa'ki Harbour in Dragonblight. We will rise again!"

(This makes me very happy and excited! Great read as usual, Grim!!!)

Fa'Leth Starmourn wept bitterly. The middle aged blood elf mage abandoned any pretence of manliness or pride, weeping uncontrollably.
He had come here to escape his past and to earn redemption in service to the Horde.

All his life he wad been weak, lacking in willpower and guts. He had trained to be a mage not through any desire to wield magic but because his parents had expected it of him.
He had married his wife not through love but because she had decided that marrying a mage would advance her social standing, and her gaze had settled on him.

All his life he had done as others had told him to, and lived to regret it.
With no avenue of escape Fa'Leth had resorted to drink and drugs to help him forget his miserable existence.

That was where his life had begun to get even worse, with an ever increasing addiction to these substances his work had suffered and his marriage had ended. His wife left him for a higher-ranked mage, taking more than half of his worldly wealth with her.
His social standing had collapsed with her leaving, even his parents disowned him.

Sunk to new depths Fa'Leth had sold everything to further fund his substance-based escapism.

His shoulders heaved as he continued weeping, remembering how he had even sold his pride and dignity.

It had all come to a head when he was attacked in Murder Row. A gang of low-lives had assaulted him, trying to rob him of what little he had left.
In desperation he had cast a spell, but his slurred speech caused it to miscast and all the robbers were slain, as well as the young son of an important noble family who had been passing by.

The resulting court case had been a kick in the teeth for Fa'Leth. Standing in the docks, being jeered at by those who he had once called friend, unable to see a single friendly face...
He had rallied himself and accepted his punishment with as much grace as he could muster.

Exile.

Exile to Northrend, the back end of nowhere, to serve the primitive races of the Horde there.

He had left on the next transport to that frozen continent, swearing to serve honourably, swearing that things would be different.
No more drink. No more drugs. Only service to a greater cause than himself.

The first few weeks had been terrible. Sweating, shaking and crying every night he had eventually overcome the addictions, aided by the very lack of such substances where he was posted.

The orcs of Agmar's Hammer in Dragonblight had mostly ignored him. Only talking to him when they required his spellcraft.
This had given him the space to recover at first, but had eventually worked against him.
There were few others of his kind here, and those that were around did nothing but sneer at him. Even here they had heard of his disgrace.
The orcs and trolls and other races stubbornly refused to befriend him, ignoring his friendly advances at best and at worst responding to them with threats of violence.

Clean of the physical effects of addiction but desperately lonely Fa'Leth began to dream of escape again...
It had taken every ounce of willpower to not drink, to not seek out whatever mind-altering substances were available.

Then the orc shaman had ridden to Agmar's Hammer.

He required a portal. A portal for his Clan to use to travel back to their home of Kalimdor.
The overlord of Agmar's Hammer had refused him this help, wanting nothing to do with the shaman and his band of criminals. Fa'Leth was bound by the Overlord's commands, and had watched in silence as the shaman snarled in frustration.

Later that evening Fa'Leth had been surprised to see the shaman waiting for him outside the tent he called home.
He had demanded aid, demanded that Fa'Leth provide the portal he required.
Fa'Leth had refused, remembering the overlord's orders.

And then it had all gone wrong again.

The orc shaman had reached out, holding Fa'Leth's chin and peering deeply into his eyes. The orc's single eye had glinted malevolently and he had grinned, his metal-capped tusks reflecting the moonlight.

"I have what you want, elf." he had said, his voice rumbling. The orc's hands had reached into a pouch at his belt and drawn forth a bag.

Fa'Leth remembered the smell. A smell he recognised, a smell that had instantly made his mouth water.

Bloodthistle.

The haste with which he had created a portal-stone for the shaman humiliated him, and now he sat here alone and half dressed in the snow, one day later.
He had consumed all the bloodthistle in one sitting, losing himself to feelings of power and joy.

Fa'Leth wept like a child. He had broken, he was weak, pathetic, a waste of space. He could not resist, had no willpower.
He held a knife in shaking hands; would he have the strength to end his own miserable life?

Poor Fa'Leth