The Felhands

“Grhm, how far we've come”, thought Gashuk as a hardy bash to his shoulder knocking him back to sense ordering him to join the ranks of the Horde. All Clans now stood side by side, fresh from the onslaught of their homeworld, victors seeking a new challenge. Garrak stood tall, proud adorned in the finest shamanic robes stained by blue draenic blood with skulls hanging by his belt where his totems would've hung, “Bloodfire, m'Son! Behold this new world, it's ours fer t'taking pup!”, his eyes glowed a fierce proud red and as Gashuk joined the forces, more chants of glory and thumps of encouragement fell upon him; his own eyes mirroring the red of his kin as his lips opened to join the chants.



In the coming days, scouts had been sent ahead and reported more swampland lay ahead of where the Orcs had landed, yet some areas were fit for building upon, this was the first priority according to the Warchief and every Orc from the humble Peon to the mighty Warlock had to build. Summoning a mass of shadow energy and binding it, Gashuk ordered the muscular Voidwalker to lift for him, travelling bags of stone across the wet swamp, “Juk'gorg, with haste, t'Chief wants a dry place t'rest t'night!”, the mindless void mass groaned driven ahead alongside many more enslaved to the ex-Shaman. It took a few more days but by the fifth sunset the outpost of Rockard towered above the swamp overlooking the undiscovered north, “Bloodfire, with me.” came a summon from the revered Garrak mounted ontop of a jet black wolf, “Grab yer wolf, pup, we're joinin' a scoutin' party seems they've found somethin'.” The words formed a cruel smirk around the Elder's tusks as Gashuk hurried off to find his wolf, the demonic blood they all devoured had well and truly taken hold by now and to be frank every Orc, Blackrock to Shadowmoon was itching to fight and feel the release of sense to bloodlust. “Take me, Warlock, I will defend your old bones!” barked a Orc with one eyesocket empty, “Yer more than welcome, Orc, bu' I require no defence, defend yerself.”, the Orc mocked a salute and mounted his own riding Wolf as Gashuk hurried alongside the two, a twisted dagger strapped to his side.

“My name is Orrok, son of Orrack”, grunted the companion, his sword hand curled around the hilt of his blade as they rode, “From t'Dragonmaw Clan”, as indicated by his colours. The three Orcs were accompanied by three more Blackrock Orcs who were led by the one in the middle, the lean scout who returned with others whispering suspicious findings. “Garrak, of t'Shadowmoon and this is m'son, Gashuk Bloodfire”, grunts were exchanged as respectful greetings and the six rode onwards out of Rockard towards the northern swamp, before long Gashuk started to ponder “I wonder how far t'Blackrock went...” whispered the Orc - “Halt!” growled the scout, as his finger rose to his lips to silence Bloodfire, “Our Scouts 'ave found several encampments along the north of this swamp, maybe something actually poses a threat, heh.” His hand pointed at the smoke rising above the coming trees. “I don't know what they are, others said they're like us, but pink an' weak”, whispered the Scout in a hushed tone, “Regardless we don't know how well they fight, but know they're no mere beast” The Orcs peered between themselves before Garrak spoke up, “Grhm, then we take surprise as our gift an' slaughter whatever it is, we only return with corpses as evidence o' we don't return at all”, his red-eyes deadly serious as his gaze penetrated the Orcs before lingering over his Son as if waiting for his approval. It came, as Gashuk nodded slipping off his Wolf beginning to mutter cruel words that grinded his teeth against his tongue spitting blood to finish the incantation drawing forth a Felhound from the nether, Luushon leaped into existence whipping his tail side by side as he lapped up the blood like water. “Ha”, grunted Garrak as he brought forth his own Fel-Wolf in a similar fashion, Orrok drew his blade and asked the Warlock's to bless it, Garrak stood forth and cut himself on the blade wiping his blackening blood down the length of the steel as it shimmered touched by the foul enchantment and the three Blackrock grunted making their own battle preparations. The Orcs looked at eachother, their readiness given away by their itching sword and spell hands, “On t'count of three”, whispered the Elder, “One...Two...Three!”
                                                 
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A group of ten or so pink-skinned beings sat on logs, spit-roasting a pig on the fire with a spear as they settled for rest, whatever armour they owned lay to the side useless and their weapons, if not used as cutlery, too lay tossed aside in the safety of the Morass. The fire cackled, and the Humans laughed and joked at the work ahead. “Old Farmer Johnstone wants us to just find that soil fer his crops, he reckons it's the best south o' Grand Hamlet, silly coot, in this Swamp I bet it's just our shit”, the oldest Human snapped back twisting the pig on the spear before turning, “Old Farmer Johnstone has been good to us, boy, fed us when noone else would! We wouldn't even have this Pig if it wasn't fer him, so shut up, he said it glimmered and shined, it won't be hard to find.” The fire started to growl, cackling around the pig's flesh blackening it somewhat, “Oi, less moaning at me and more cooking, your burning the pork!”, the fire grew even higher, unnaturally so, “I'm bloody well not...”, growled the old graying Human as he spinned to turn to the spit-roast again, “By t'Light, I made t'best fires in Azer-...”, grins turned to gaping mouths as the fire flashed green disintegrating the Pig as it whipped itself into an inferno lashing at the old man's face leaving burns forcing him backwards tripping over a log as the other human's begun to yell clambering for their weaponry.

In a heartbeat, two twin Felhounds leapt through the chaotic camp-fire with tendrils aimed for the human's neck blasting his head from his shoulders with their magic. The scene turned to hell as the charging Orcs leapt forward leaving the two Warlocks in the background manipulating the Fire like an extension of their own beings burning the encampment to the ground as the pink-skins were cut down to size. Orrok was quickly locked in fierce battle with two who had both held weapons, one wielded a poor excuse for a sword and the other, a mace more suited to beating meat than skulls, yet they held their own and countered the Orc's sweeping blows well, parrying the single sword taking the advantage with their number. Orrok was blinded by battle and thrusted inward, opening himself up to land a killing blow on one of the humans, his cursed blade boiling the pink-skin's blood as he screamed falling to the floor and as the other jolted his sword backwards the Orc blinked seeing the thrust just about to pierce his undefended heart. Mere seconds before the heart was pierced the sword dropped to the floor scrapping just flesh, Orrok blinked once more and looked up as the human grasped at his sword hand that burnt with a glorious entropic flame melting through flesh and bone leaving nothing but a stump allowing the Dragomaw Orc the chance to land the killing blow. “Which one of you do I owe my life too!”, roared the Orc turning to the Warlock's with a apparent anger, but as he approached the two, the fires they controlled whipped around them in defense before they dismissed the hungry flame. Father and Son stood side by side, their casting as one and both remained not in the slightest fatigued. “Grhm, damn felhands...”, the Orc grunted impressed yet begrudged his honourable death. “Oh shut it an' gather what ye can, Blackhand can't use yer dead, we've only been 'ere five minutes.” grinning at each other, the pair turned to return. “What in t'name of hellfire are these 'pink-skins...'”, “Fel kno's, Father but I wish ye 'adn't ruined the pig...”

It is an amazing story, full of details and easy to read through! As a regular book reader I recomend reading it and I hope you continue your lovely story.