Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
3 posters
Page 1 of 1
Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
by Vesica Fri Oct 24, 2014 11:51 pm
Greetings Defias Brotherhood.
OOC, I'm a nobody. Few if anyone will have known any of my characters in the past. Having returned to WoW for WoD, I've decided to return to Roleplaying, though not in the traditional sense. I'm in a social guild who don't affiliate themselves with Roleplayers and personally have no desire to join an organised RP guild (on this character at least), though I still want to Roleplay out my gameplay, because I like doing it.
I'm never online enough to commit to one guild, so the very little in game Roleplaying I do will be with those I find out in the wild who are willing to let me play with them - perhaps with other guilds/coalitions if they allow my character to tag along to events/campaigns, etc - for example this whole Iron Horde thing in the Blasted Lands. There are two armies (Banners and Ironbreakers(?)), so if I'm online I may pick one (or both) and ask to tag along as a simple sellsword. Otherwise, I consider myself completely independent and have no ties with anyone.
In this thread, I'll be writing up short stories based on my character's experiences in game: quests, dungeons, WPvP, Battlegrounds and any RP scenarios that my unnamed character may find himself in - the forum name is just my in game character name and is in no way IC.
Since I'll be RPing out quests, dungeons, raids, etc, none of this will be considered canon (unless I'm RPing with other players) or a part of server lore, so no butthurt posts telling me that I can't do this or that, because in your world, these things wouldn't have happened. Okay? Okay!
That means that if I document my IC take on a quest I did in Frostfire Ridge with Thrall (for example) you can completely disregard it. This thread will be my own little world within a world. My own personal Roleplaying melting pot.
OOC, I'm a nobody. Few if anyone will have known any of my characters in the past. Having returned to WoW for WoD, I've decided to return to Roleplaying, though not in the traditional sense. I'm in a social guild who don't affiliate themselves with Roleplayers and personally have no desire to join an organised RP guild (on this character at least), though I still want to Roleplay out my gameplay, because I like doing it.
I'm never online enough to commit to one guild, so the very little in game Roleplaying I do will be with those I find out in the wild who are willing to let me play with them - perhaps with other guilds/coalitions if they allow my character to tag along to events/campaigns, etc - for example this whole Iron Horde thing in the Blasted Lands. There are two armies (Banners and Ironbreakers(?)), so if I'm online I may pick one (or both) and ask to tag along as a simple sellsword. Otherwise, I consider myself completely independent and have no ties with anyone.
In this thread, I'll be writing up short stories based on my character's experiences in game: quests, dungeons, WPvP, Battlegrounds and any RP scenarios that my unnamed character may find himself in - the forum name is just my in game character name and is in no way IC.
Since I'll be RPing out quests, dungeons, raids, etc, none of this will be considered canon (unless I'm RPing with other players) or a part of server lore, so no butthurt posts telling me that I can't do this or that, because in your world, these things wouldn't have happened. Okay? Okay!
That means that if I document my IC take on a quest I did in Frostfire Ridge with Thrall (for example) you can completely disregard it. This thread will be my own little world within a world. My own personal Roleplaying melting pot.
Vesica- Posts : 10
Join date : 2012-07-15
Re: Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
by Vesica Sat Oct 25, 2014 12:58 am
It is the twenty-fifth day of the tenth month of the year. Hallows End celebrations are in full swing all throughout the world. They say it's to celebrate our breaking free from the Lich King - a celebration of the day our shackles were removed and we became truly free!
'O, what a great day that was!' they'll sing! 'We were rescued from our bonds by our high and mighty Banshee Queen, who conquered the grave and set her captives free!'
Dear, dear, lovely Sylvannas. Treated us like brothers and sisters, she did. Then she rallied us, like only she could, and built an army out of us, sending us up to Northrend to extract our (definitely not her) revenge!
Poor, poor, lovely Sylvannas. She got her revenge, yes she did - with her at the helm of it all, we toppled the Lich King and put an end to the horrors of Undeath forever! (Though for some reason the scourge still remain and still pose a threat to us to this very day, but Sylvannas and her lot get very agitated and defensive when questioned about it, so we just pretend they aren't there).
It's a shame, though. After that she...well, I suppose the best way to put it would be she went a little insane. "From this day forth no one will be a slave to death ever again!" she declared as she raised the freshly imported corpses of the Hillsbrad Humans against their will.
And ever since then, things have...well, things have gone downhill a tad. At first it was great; we were all brothers and sisters in undeath, victims of the same great tragedy, who bonded together to try and find our place in the world. Now we seem to be almost as (if not more) fanatical than the Lich King was in his heyday, throwing plague left, right and centre to anyone stupid enough to catch it while declaring our supremacy over anyone who still has functioning lungs...
HOWEVER, that's all in the past now, and I'm moving on! Onwards and upwards, as they say.
I'm no hero of course - I'm no Warlord, no Kingslayer, I haven't slain dragons, no one's ever called me the "Light of Dawn" (whatever that means), I didn't -really- help liberate Orgrimmar, Deathwing's dense, blindingly transparent "I'm-Not-A-Bad-Guy-Honest" brat of a son hasn't bestowed upon me one of his overrated 'look how important I am' cloaks, and I don't even know what the word "Warforged" means.
Fair enough, those Shado-Pan fellows liked me enough to lend me one of their masks ("lend", hah!) and I did manage to 'acquire' one of those lovely armoured Gryphons from Garrosh's lot down on the coast of Pandaria, but that's about it.
Yet somehow, I find myself here, in the centre of it all, in the Blasted Lands, which I'm told was once a lovely swamp, though I really can't see it.
Orcs are pouring out of the Dark Portal in their droves (again) and all of the world's leaders are worried (again) and have taken up arms to stop this new threat from taking over the world (again). It's a suspiciously familiar scenario - if there was a group of Gods that somehow controlled everything behind the scenes, you'd think that they were starting to run out of ideas. Or maybe they somehow got it into their heads that we all really, really, really like fighting Orcs. Which we don't.
I for one, will try not to complain too much, though. I heard so many wonderful, colourful and completely not in any way fabricated stories about those early wars from the old dogs back in Lordaeron, with their battle scars, eye patches, gruff voices and body odour. I used to love the books they wrote about them - fighting hand to hand and tooth to tooth with Orcs in the streets, in the forests, in the mountains, suffering defeat after defeat after defeat before heroically overthrowing them and throwing them all into work camps. I've always loved that thought - the proud, honour bound, strong, brutal Orcs, left to rot in camps, worked to death. Little baby Orcs born into camp life, raised to believe their people were nothing but slaves - Hah!
Aye, as a lad I often dreamed about being one of those early heroes, but never got the chance. By the time I was old enough to hold a blade the most fearsome enemies we had to fight were sacks of grain. Sacks of grain that made your flesh rot and your insides collapse out your arse as soon as you sneezed...Not exactly fair.
But now it seems I have the chance! They'll call it "The Fourth War" (or the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth or ninth, whatever; I forget) and I'll be a part of it. In fact, I already am - I'm currently perched above Okrila Fortress, where I'm led to believe the Orcs have just been forced out by a battalion of Horde soldiers. From where I'm standing you can still see the craters from those enormous bombs the brown Orcs dropped. It's quite a sight. From the looks of it, the Horde forces are trying to set up barricades to keep any would be visitors out, though by the looks of it, they're doing it all wrong.
Maybe I'll go down and introduce myself - I'm wearing the Undercity's colours, so to them I'll just look like someone they sent from up North - one of those arrogant, oppressive husks who think they're Sylvannas's gift to Azeroth. Or maybe because I'm not one of their own they'll send me away. Or ignore my very existence. Or maybe they'll fire upon me on the spot, thinking me to be a spy of some kind - I'd hope not, though, as in this current theatre of conflict, anyone who isn't a brown skinned Orc is a potential ally.
I won't get my hopes up, but we'll see. For now at least, I must rest. Or should I say, I -will- rest. My body doesn't require sleep, but it's nice to pretend sometimes. One of the many overlooked disadvantages of undeath is the sheer -boredom- one faces. We weren't designed to stay awake every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year for a reason - There simply aren't enough things to do!
I'll write again when I've made contact with someone. Or when I get bored and decide to write again. It's a nice spot I have up here - safe from all of the shelling and fighting. I could just camp myself up here for the remainder of the war and survive everyone else to death. The sheer irony of that would be nothing short of magnificent...
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
'O, what a great day that was!' they'll sing! 'We were rescued from our bonds by our high and mighty Banshee Queen, who conquered the grave and set her captives free!'
Dear, dear, lovely Sylvannas. Treated us like brothers and sisters, she did. Then she rallied us, like only she could, and built an army out of us, sending us up to Northrend to extract our (definitely not her) revenge!
Poor, poor, lovely Sylvannas. She got her revenge, yes she did - with her at the helm of it all, we toppled the Lich King and put an end to the horrors of Undeath forever! (Though for some reason the scourge still remain and still pose a threat to us to this very day, but Sylvannas and her lot get very agitated and defensive when questioned about it, so we just pretend they aren't there).
It's a shame, though. After that she...well, I suppose the best way to put it would be she went a little insane. "From this day forth no one will be a slave to death ever again!" she declared as she raised the freshly imported corpses of the Hillsbrad Humans against their will.
And ever since then, things have...well, things have gone downhill a tad. At first it was great; we were all brothers and sisters in undeath, victims of the same great tragedy, who bonded together to try and find our place in the world. Now we seem to be almost as (if not more) fanatical than the Lich King was in his heyday, throwing plague left, right and centre to anyone stupid enough to catch it while declaring our supremacy over anyone who still has functioning lungs...
HOWEVER, that's all in the past now, and I'm moving on! Onwards and upwards, as they say.
I'm no hero of course - I'm no Warlord, no Kingslayer, I haven't slain dragons, no one's ever called me the "Light of Dawn" (whatever that means), I didn't -really- help liberate Orgrimmar, Deathwing's dense, blindingly transparent "I'm-Not-A-Bad-Guy-Honest" brat of a son hasn't bestowed upon me one of his overrated 'look how important I am' cloaks, and I don't even know what the word "Warforged" means.
Fair enough, those Shado-Pan fellows liked me enough to lend me one of their masks ("lend", hah!) and I did manage to 'acquire' one of those lovely armoured Gryphons from Garrosh's lot down on the coast of Pandaria, but that's about it.
Yet somehow, I find myself here, in the centre of it all, in the Blasted Lands, which I'm told was once a lovely swamp, though I really can't see it.
Orcs are pouring out of the Dark Portal in their droves (again) and all of the world's leaders are worried (again) and have taken up arms to stop this new threat from taking over the world (again). It's a suspiciously familiar scenario - if there was a group of Gods that somehow controlled everything behind the scenes, you'd think that they were starting to run out of ideas. Or maybe they somehow got it into their heads that we all really, really, really like fighting Orcs. Which we don't.
I for one, will try not to complain too much, though. I heard so many wonderful, colourful and completely not in any way fabricated stories about those early wars from the old dogs back in Lordaeron, with their battle scars, eye patches, gruff voices and body odour. I used to love the books they wrote about them - fighting hand to hand and tooth to tooth with Orcs in the streets, in the forests, in the mountains, suffering defeat after defeat after defeat before heroically overthrowing them and throwing them all into work camps. I've always loved that thought - the proud, honour bound, strong, brutal Orcs, left to rot in camps, worked to death. Little baby Orcs born into camp life, raised to believe their people were nothing but slaves - Hah!
Aye, as a lad I often dreamed about being one of those early heroes, but never got the chance. By the time I was old enough to hold a blade the most fearsome enemies we had to fight were sacks of grain. Sacks of grain that made your flesh rot and your insides collapse out your arse as soon as you sneezed...Not exactly fair.
But now it seems I have the chance! They'll call it "The Fourth War" (or the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth or ninth, whatever; I forget) and I'll be a part of it. In fact, I already am - I'm currently perched above Okrila Fortress, where I'm led to believe the Orcs have just been forced out by a battalion of Horde soldiers. From where I'm standing you can still see the craters from those enormous bombs the brown Orcs dropped. It's quite a sight. From the looks of it, the Horde forces are trying to set up barricades to keep any would be visitors out, though by the looks of it, they're doing it all wrong.
Maybe I'll go down and introduce myself - I'm wearing the Undercity's colours, so to them I'll just look like someone they sent from up North - one of those arrogant, oppressive husks who think they're Sylvannas's gift to Azeroth. Or maybe because I'm not one of their own they'll send me away. Or ignore my very existence. Or maybe they'll fire upon me on the spot, thinking me to be a spy of some kind - I'd hope not, though, as in this current theatre of conflict, anyone who isn't a brown skinned Orc is a potential ally.
I won't get my hopes up, but we'll see. For now at least, I must rest. Or should I say, I -will- rest. My body doesn't require sleep, but it's nice to pretend sometimes. One of the many overlooked disadvantages of undeath is the sheer -boredom- one faces. We weren't designed to stay awake every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year for a reason - There simply aren't enough things to do!
I'll write again when I've made contact with someone. Or when I get bored and decide to write again. It's a nice spot I have up here - safe from all of the shelling and fighting. I could just camp myself up here for the remainder of the war and survive everyone else to death. The sheer irony of that would be nothing short of magnificent...
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Vesica- Posts : 10
Join date : 2012-07-15
Re: Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
by Vesica Tue Nov 18, 2014 10:43 pm
Today is a good day. Today is an important day. Today is a MILESTONE.
Today, instead of the wilderness or a cesspit excuse for a bar, I write from an outpost. Not an Orcish outpost. Not one of Sylvannas‘ brick monstrosities. Not even a Horde led base.
Today I write from MY outpost. A budding fortress built in a land not yet fully explored by anyone from our world. A land in which I, among others, am a pioneer. THAT is why today is a good day - no longer am I sat in Silvermoon, Booty bay, or Brill, dissolving my insides with as much port as my stomach (and the chair I’m sat on) can handle while others become heroes far on the other side of the world - today begins the start of a new life. An -exciting- life.
Some of the soldiers here are here because they believe in our world, or because they seek glory, or they feel obliged to help. Idiotic reasons. If and when they fail they’ll be let down. I’m here simply because sitting back home, surrounded by nobodies, knowing everyone else is over fighting, killing and being killed - generally having the time of their LIVES - makes me sick. I’m here because I’m sick of the sheer drudgery of life and the neverending boredom that comes with undeath - I’m here because I need something worthwhile to -do-!
So how did I get here, in my own little outpost currently being built by Orcish peons as I write? Let me tell you. As you know, I was camped in the Blasted Lands. I’d been watching the various factions - The Red Blades and their Banners, the Outcast Wolves with the Gurubashis and their Ironbreaker council, even various Alliance Brigades, make their futile moves against these Iron Orcs.
Yes, I occasionally dove into the fray to see just how easy these Orcs were to kill (for the record the ones I fought were nothing worth mentioning) but I mostly stayed out of the larger battles. I did capture one of the Orcs so that I had someone to talk to while perched up on my little hill, but his Azerothian Orcish and Common were below sub-par, and it eventually became quite like looking after an overgrown child who won’t leave home, so I had to drown him (drowning is my new favorite way of disposing of nuisances, it’s so clean!)
A few nights back however, small groups of Alliance and Horde forces started fighting their way -into- the portal. It was like looking back through time. Masses upon masses of them were slaughtered fighting up those stairs to the portal entrance. Tanks, Orcs, massive armored two headed beasts - they had a lot to cut through. It was quite the sight to behold!
It began to get amusing after a while - I started making bets with myself over who would make it and who would lose. I won every time. There was one group where not one member of the party made it to the portal alive. Imagine how embarrassed the last member of that group must have felt when he realized how badly he and his friends had failed as fifty Iron Orcs sank their axes into his spine mere meters from the portal!
Then two nights ago (I think) the Horde Vanguard, headed up by none other than Thrall himself, fought their way to the base of the portal and prepared to march in.
It reminded me of years ago, when the combined armies of the Horde and Alliance gathered in front of the gate waiting for the legions of demons on the other side to pour out. This was more exciting, though. Thrall seems to have grown a pair of full blown testicles now - he put on quite the display, vaporizing Iron Orcs left right and centre with lava streaming from one hand while caving heads in with the other.
When I realized that they were going to charge through, I decided that I simply had to go with them. I flew down from my perch and landed about a mile behind the main group. The road was quiet - most of the soldiers were at the front. As I began to make my way towards the preparing army, an old comrade of mines rode past me, also heading into the fray - Vance Travolta, otherwise known as ‘Vance the Victor’.
Vance was one of those detestable Forsaken soldiers who took to joining the Horde like a horse takes to the prairie (or however that awful saying goes). A hero of every major conflict since the new Horde’s formation. He led and won battles in Arathi, in Silthus, led parts of the war effort during the lead up to Ahn’Quiraj and fought valiantly in Outland. He was also one of the few who was able enough to lead a team right into the heart of the Citadel to fight Arthas, when the rest of us were stuck fighting his forces outside on the frozen plains of Icecrown - some say he was there when the Lich King was defeated, though many heroes dispute that.
He led campaigns during the Cataclysm, and in doing so won the favour of countless Orcs and Tauren for his heroism and honourable conduct (and reluctance to serve under any Forsaken regiment which utilized any kind of plague, though that I can respect, I suppose...) and was one of the first heroes on Pandaria. On Pandaria he fought alongside the Shado’Pan, earning their respect when he saved an entire Pandaren village from a Yangoul attack, then during the siege of Orgrimmar he was showered in medals AGAIN for single handedly fighting off countless Orcs from Garrosh’s machine while several groups of prisoners he freed made it to safety. Some say Thrall himself honored him with half of the medals he owns.
Basically, he was that one perfect employee at a workplace who everyone else hated. Probably because they were jealous (not I, of course).
I caught his eye because we were both wearing Shado-Pan masks (his was apparantely obtained a little more legitimately than mines was), and once he realized who I was (we served together briefly many years ago) he lost all interest and trotted on. The arrogant bastard. Who cares if he helped defeat Deathwing? At that time I was one of the highest ranking Enforcers in the Sixty Thieves, and then the Bloodsail Privateers! He may have had honour, glory and countless tales to tell round the fire, but I was wealthier than he ever could have been (until said wealth got stolen, but you know that story already).
Anyways, he mostly kept his back to me as he trotted on. While he was probably in a hurry to get into the fray to help save the world, I prefer to think he was simply showing arrogance towards me - It makes what happened after easier to justify.
As it turns out, he was answering a call made by Vol’jin himself for all of the world’s greatest heroes to make their way to the portal in order to assault the Iron Orcs homeworld. I discovered at this point that they weren’t accepting simple footmen or un-conscripted mercenaries - only dedicated heroes who had proven their ilk were permitted to join the attacking Vanguard.
This stopped me in my tracks. This meant I wouldn’t be able to go. I wouldn’t be able to explore new lands, wouldn’t get to fight for my own glory, wouldn’t get to ransack new and exotic loot and wouldn’t get any inspiration for the bestselling novel that I am yet to write. I’d be stuck back here, rotting away while droves of mindless morons who would declare themselves better than me were off vacationing in some exotic, war plagued world. I was having none of it! In hindsight there was probably a better and more tactful way to get what I wanted, but at the time I just panicked and acted without (much) thought. I also hated the tone “Vance the Victor” used when he spoke to (or at) me.
Anyways, the thought crossed my head that I’d never be able to get into the vanguard on my own merits. But “Vance the Victor” could. So I looked around briefly to check no one was around, removed my flintlock pistol, pointed it at the back of his head (where his helmet didn’t cover), and pulled the trigger. In an instant, decades of heroism (he was a distinguished soldier of the Alliance before his undeath) and glory were snuffed out. I couldn’t help but laugh a little as he slumped forward and toppled off of his horse headfirst. Not a very ‘victorious’ end!
His horse didn’t take to kindly to that though; something I should have thought of. I spent the next fifteen minutes wrestling with the damn thing as it tried to snap my neck with its legs. The damn thing just wouldn’t go down. I was terrified that any passers by would notice me and the body of the recently slain hero with a hole the size of an orange in the back of his head, brawling with what was obviously his horse.
Eventually I managed to get a good grasp of one of the beast’s thigh bones and ripped it from its socket. The horse, being mostly bone and dark magic, collapsed like a tower made of matches once the bone was firmly in my hand.
I hastily threw their remains in a ditch at the side of the road and took all of Vance’s documents, medals, badges and insignias and strapped them to my own tabard. If anyone passed by, they’d have just thought he was another poor soul ambushed by an Iron Orc group.
I thought I had a problem, though - Vance was wearing an Undercity tabard - I was wearing a ‘procured’ Shado-pan tabard. Had Vance been one of Sylvannas’ top soldiers, I’d have to have taken his tabard, but since he was a decorated hero of the Horde in general, he could often be seen wearing any given faction’s tabard at any given time. Which was good for me, because the very thought of wearing a tabard bearing the Undercity’s colours for something other than an ironic reason is repulsive. I mulled it over and stuck to my Shado-pan tabard. It would make me look even more distinguished.
After that, I headed towards the vanguard. With my own Shado-pan mask on and pulled down, along with Vances medals and insignias on my armour, no one had any incline at all that I wasn’t Vance the Victorious, five time saviour of Azeroth! The Orcish Commander at the Vanguard looked over my papers, gave me a nodded, saluted me, then told me where to go.
I was directed to a large encampment at the base of the portal. I’d arrived just in time, because as soon as I put my belongings down, the portal opened up once more and a legion of Iron Orcs poured through.
The story of how we got through the portal is one that will be told for centuries, though the peons are telling me that my barracks are almost finished. I HAVE MY OWN BARRACKS - HOW EXCITING! I must go investigate.
The only thing I don’t like about this outpost is that there are too many Orcs. They expect this to be a military base. It will be, but not the kind they expect! I’ll need to send a messenger through a portal to Orgrimmar. I know SO many people who will benefit from having a place like this to stay...
In the mean time, I’ll make do with the swivel I’m given. I’ll write again tonight once things in order!
-V
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Today, instead of the wilderness or a cesspit excuse for a bar, I write from an outpost. Not an Orcish outpost. Not one of Sylvannas‘ brick monstrosities. Not even a Horde led base.
Today I write from MY outpost. A budding fortress built in a land not yet fully explored by anyone from our world. A land in which I, among others, am a pioneer. THAT is why today is a good day - no longer am I sat in Silvermoon, Booty bay, or Brill, dissolving my insides with as much port as my stomach (and the chair I’m sat on) can handle while others become heroes far on the other side of the world - today begins the start of a new life. An -exciting- life.
Some of the soldiers here are here because they believe in our world, or because they seek glory, or they feel obliged to help. Idiotic reasons. If and when they fail they’ll be let down. I’m here simply because sitting back home, surrounded by nobodies, knowing everyone else is over fighting, killing and being killed - generally having the time of their LIVES - makes me sick. I’m here because I’m sick of the sheer drudgery of life and the neverending boredom that comes with undeath - I’m here because I need something worthwhile to -do-!
So how did I get here, in my own little outpost currently being built by Orcish peons as I write? Let me tell you. As you know, I was camped in the Blasted Lands. I’d been watching the various factions - The Red Blades and their Banners, the Outcast Wolves with the Gurubashis and their Ironbreaker council, even various Alliance Brigades, make their futile moves against these Iron Orcs.
Yes, I occasionally dove into the fray to see just how easy these Orcs were to kill (for the record the ones I fought were nothing worth mentioning) but I mostly stayed out of the larger battles. I did capture one of the Orcs so that I had someone to talk to while perched up on my little hill, but his Azerothian Orcish and Common were below sub-par, and it eventually became quite like looking after an overgrown child who won’t leave home, so I had to drown him (drowning is my new favorite way of disposing of nuisances, it’s so clean!)
A few nights back however, small groups of Alliance and Horde forces started fighting their way -into- the portal. It was like looking back through time. Masses upon masses of them were slaughtered fighting up those stairs to the portal entrance. Tanks, Orcs, massive armored two headed beasts - they had a lot to cut through. It was quite the sight to behold!
It began to get amusing after a while - I started making bets with myself over who would make it and who would lose. I won every time. There was one group where not one member of the party made it to the portal alive. Imagine how embarrassed the last member of that group must have felt when he realized how badly he and his friends had failed as fifty Iron Orcs sank their axes into his spine mere meters from the portal!
Then two nights ago (I think) the Horde Vanguard, headed up by none other than Thrall himself, fought their way to the base of the portal and prepared to march in.
It reminded me of years ago, when the combined armies of the Horde and Alliance gathered in front of the gate waiting for the legions of demons on the other side to pour out. This was more exciting, though. Thrall seems to have grown a pair of full blown testicles now - he put on quite the display, vaporizing Iron Orcs left right and centre with lava streaming from one hand while caving heads in with the other.
When I realized that they were going to charge through, I decided that I simply had to go with them. I flew down from my perch and landed about a mile behind the main group. The road was quiet - most of the soldiers were at the front. As I began to make my way towards the preparing army, an old comrade of mines rode past me, also heading into the fray - Vance Travolta, otherwise known as ‘Vance the Victor’.
Vance was one of those detestable Forsaken soldiers who took to joining the Horde like a horse takes to the prairie (or however that awful saying goes). A hero of every major conflict since the new Horde’s formation. He led and won battles in Arathi, in Silthus, led parts of the war effort during the lead up to Ahn’Quiraj and fought valiantly in Outland. He was also one of the few who was able enough to lead a team right into the heart of the Citadel to fight Arthas, when the rest of us were stuck fighting his forces outside on the frozen plains of Icecrown - some say he was there when the Lich King was defeated, though many heroes dispute that.
He led campaigns during the Cataclysm, and in doing so won the favour of countless Orcs and Tauren for his heroism and honourable conduct (and reluctance to serve under any Forsaken regiment which utilized any kind of plague, though that I can respect, I suppose...) and was one of the first heroes on Pandaria. On Pandaria he fought alongside the Shado’Pan, earning their respect when he saved an entire Pandaren village from a Yangoul attack, then during the siege of Orgrimmar he was showered in medals AGAIN for single handedly fighting off countless Orcs from Garrosh’s machine while several groups of prisoners he freed made it to safety. Some say Thrall himself honored him with half of the medals he owns.
Basically, he was that one perfect employee at a workplace who everyone else hated. Probably because they were jealous (not I, of course).
I caught his eye because we were both wearing Shado-Pan masks (his was apparantely obtained a little more legitimately than mines was), and once he realized who I was (we served together briefly many years ago) he lost all interest and trotted on. The arrogant bastard. Who cares if he helped defeat Deathwing? At that time I was one of the highest ranking Enforcers in the Sixty Thieves, and then the Bloodsail Privateers! He may have had honour, glory and countless tales to tell round the fire, but I was wealthier than he ever could have been (until said wealth got stolen, but you know that story already).
Anyways, he mostly kept his back to me as he trotted on. While he was probably in a hurry to get into the fray to help save the world, I prefer to think he was simply showing arrogance towards me - It makes what happened after easier to justify.
As it turns out, he was answering a call made by Vol’jin himself for all of the world’s greatest heroes to make their way to the portal in order to assault the Iron Orcs homeworld. I discovered at this point that they weren’t accepting simple footmen or un-conscripted mercenaries - only dedicated heroes who had proven their ilk were permitted to join the attacking Vanguard.
This stopped me in my tracks. This meant I wouldn’t be able to go. I wouldn’t be able to explore new lands, wouldn’t get to fight for my own glory, wouldn’t get to ransack new and exotic loot and wouldn’t get any inspiration for the bestselling novel that I am yet to write. I’d be stuck back here, rotting away while droves of mindless morons who would declare themselves better than me were off vacationing in some exotic, war plagued world. I was having none of it! In hindsight there was probably a better and more tactful way to get what I wanted, but at the time I just panicked and acted without (much) thought. I also hated the tone “Vance the Victor” used when he spoke to (or at) me.
Anyways, the thought crossed my head that I’d never be able to get into the vanguard on my own merits. But “Vance the Victor” could. So I looked around briefly to check no one was around, removed my flintlock pistol, pointed it at the back of his head (where his helmet didn’t cover), and pulled the trigger. In an instant, decades of heroism (he was a distinguished soldier of the Alliance before his undeath) and glory were snuffed out. I couldn’t help but laugh a little as he slumped forward and toppled off of his horse headfirst. Not a very ‘victorious’ end!
His horse didn’t take to kindly to that though; something I should have thought of. I spent the next fifteen minutes wrestling with the damn thing as it tried to snap my neck with its legs. The damn thing just wouldn’t go down. I was terrified that any passers by would notice me and the body of the recently slain hero with a hole the size of an orange in the back of his head, brawling with what was obviously his horse.
Eventually I managed to get a good grasp of one of the beast’s thigh bones and ripped it from its socket. The horse, being mostly bone and dark magic, collapsed like a tower made of matches once the bone was firmly in my hand.
I hastily threw their remains in a ditch at the side of the road and took all of Vance’s documents, medals, badges and insignias and strapped them to my own tabard. If anyone passed by, they’d have just thought he was another poor soul ambushed by an Iron Orc group.
I thought I had a problem, though - Vance was wearing an Undercity tabard - I was wearing a ‘procured’ Shado-pan tabard. Had Vance been one of Sylvannas’ top soldiers, I’d have to have taken his tabard, but since he was a decorated hero of the Horde in general, he could often be seen wearing any given faction’s tabard at any given time. Which was good for me, because the very thought of wearing a tabard bearing the Undercity’s colours for something other than an ironic reason is repulsive. I mulled it over and stuck to my Shado-pan tabard. It would make me look even more distinguished.
After that, I headed towards the vanguard. With my own Shado-pan mask on and pulled down, along with Vances medals and insignias on my armour, no one had any incline at all that I wasn’t Vance the Victorious, five time saviour of Azeroth! The Orcish Commander at the Vanguard looked over my papers, gave me a nodded, saluted me, then told me where to go.
I was directed to a large encampment at the base of the portal. I’d arrived just in time, because as soon as I put my belongings down, the portal opened up once more and a legion of Iron Orcs poured through.
The story of how we got through the portal is one that will be told for centuries, though the peons are telling me that my barracks are almost finished. I HAVE MY OWN BARRACKS - HOW EXCITING! I must go investigate.
The only thing I don’t like about this outpost is that there are too many Orcs. They expect this to be a military base. It will be, but not the kind they expect! I’ll need to send a messenger through a portal to Orgrimmar. I know SO many people who will benefit from having a place like this to stay...
In the mean time, I’ll make do with the swivel I’m given. I’ll write again tonight once things in order!
-V
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Vesica- Posts : 10
Join date : 2012-07-15
Re: Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
by Vesica Wed Nov 19, 2014 12:23 am
Through the Portal
Things are shaping up! The peons did an excellent job of building my barracks. They’re definitely usable and will provide a place for most of the muscle that’s been thrown at me to sleep. I say thrown at me because the War Machine still thinks I’m Commander Victor - I’ve been assigned soldiers left right and centre, from Orcish Grunts to a handful of Vol’jin’s Shadow Hunters to an entire legion of peons. All of them under my command! I’ve even been sent one of Vol’jin’s closest Orcish advisors, Warmaster Zog, to give me advice on what to and not to do in this new theatre of conflict.
Zog has already proven his usefulness; while I was happy with the barracks the peons gave me (I was so pleased I gave them all the day off and a crate of grog to help them on their way), it wasn’t quite as up to scratch as I hoped. Made of reinforced steel and solid wood, yes, but it was...well...small. When I hear ‘barracks’ I envision a building the size of a small city, built to withstand any kind of attack any foe may fruitlessly decide to throw at us!
The measly effort the designer gave me, however, was nothing but a glorified outhouse. I could not and will not blame the peons, as they simply followed their orders, but I should expect more from the so called ‘qualified’ professionals who have been assigned to me - .
With this in mind I suggested to Zog that we have the architect who designed my barracks publicly drowned to show my disappointment to the rest of the big wigs around the place. He politely advised me against it, and again when I cleverly suggested a compromise where we burn him - a happy medium, or so I thought. Again though, he advised me against it, saying that from his experience, leaders who have their officers drowned, burned, murdered, mutilated, crucified, hung or maimed mere hours after assuming command rarely lasted longer than a day. He also informed me that the barracks were sub-par due to a lack of resources. They’d likely be upgraded and improved as the war developed and as I, as a leader, began to arrange for more supplies to be imported into the base.
It was then I realized just how difficult this ‘leading’ thing may be. I assumed I’d get to sit around and bark out orders, but it seems I have to do a hell of a lot of work on top of that. Not to worry though, that’s why I came here! The adventure!
Anyways, during my last entry I began to write about how we came through into this wonderful new land in the first place. When I left off, a legion of Iron Orcs had just began to pour through the portal into the ranks of the awaiting heroes of Azeroth - myself included.
They charged forward with such fury and confidence it was as if they’d known our positions well before they came through the portal. There was a deafening noise as their sea of bodies merged into ours. Clangs of steel and cries of pain rang out throughout the entire valley as more blood seeped into the most war torn patch of soil Azeroth has seen. I’d just set my belongings down when the crowd began to move. Iron Orcs began filtering through the ranks, taking pot shots at anyone unlucky enough to be within range, though most of them were obliterated within seconds, falling prey to a mix of steel, arcane, earth and fire.
Within seconds I was separated from my belongings - a host of blankets and quilts, mementos from Lordaeron and a crate of Southshore Port. I was livid.
The crowd surged forwards, with Thrall and the Old Man at the head of it. I didn’t even get a chance to take a swing at an Orc - our counterattack was swift and within minutes the legion of frenzied Orcs were nothing but bloodied chunks on the ground.
Before another wave could follow through, Thrall signaled for the charge. Again, I was surprised and impressed by his ferocity - balls of lava the size of a horse were sent flying up towards the portal, melting the faces of any stragglers left dripping through. Combined with the Old Man’s magic, the army was at the face of the portal in seconds.
Thrall signaled for us to charge through, and we did. Well, most of us. I tried to stop to take in the moment - to turn around and get one last glimpse of the world I was leaving, to try and truly appreciate that within seconds I’d be thousands upon thousands of miles away on another world entirely. I say tried because the crowd wouldn’t let me. I stopped and began reflecting on the situation though was promptly screamed at by those behind me and was sent flying through the portal with a boot up the arse. I didn’t catch who it was, which is probably for the best, because had I seen him, I’d have drowned his face off.
This portal was strange. Years ago when we went to Outland, we swirled through the portal for what felt like hours (though it was only seconds) and arrived on the other side covered in our own vomit and occasionally feces. This time, the transition was instant. No swirly swoorling. No flying through the nether wondering if you’d shot past your destination and were being hurled into eternity. I fell forward right into a blanket of redness, felt a brief surge of energy then arrived almost instantly on the other side, rolling over and over after the boot that sent me through.
As soon as I was on my feet, I was given my first orders. “Commander!” one Orc barked, “Our forces are engaged with the Iron Orcs at the foot of the stair, but we need to get that portal closed. I need you to join the other Heroes and get down there to thin them out. There should be two chambers powering the portal directly underneath us - once the numbers on the stairs are thinned, get down there and destroy those chambers!”
Within half an hour I’d went from vagabond to champion - I felt like one of those Knights you often read about in war novels - a dream I’d ALWAYS had. I was thrilled.
I found the team I’d been assigned to and ran down the stairs into the fray. There must have been hundreds of Horde and Alliance soldiers fighting tooth and claw with Orc after Orc after Orc. We certainly seemed to have the upper hand in terms of strength, but they had the numbers - every time one of their Orcs fell, another was up and in its place almost instantaneously. To be honest, I couldn’t really be bothered with the hassle of fighting and fighting and fighting - my - or our- objective was the chambers behind us, not the endless supply of Orc meat in front of us. I dodged between people as they fought, tip-toeing around when I could, shoving people out of the way when I couldn’t. I got rather impatient - people are unbelievably rude when fighting for their lives!
As I pushed my way through the bloodletting crowds, I was sat upon by a single Orc. He charged up the stairs and tackled me just as I dodged under an Elf’s swinging sword. We rolled around on the ground until he was on top of me, then began his attempts to nest his axe neatly inside my ribcage. I was having none of it, of course, and promptly disarmed the sod, stopping his arm mid-swing followed swiftly by a quick jerk, snapping his wrist in two - my own personal embellishment on a technique taught to me by my Pandaren mentor back in Towlong. As he cried out in pain I used his outstretched arm to throw him over the top of me, curling myself around onto his back with his arm still in my grasp. I bent it around his neck, released it as his body contorted into the position I needed it in, wrapped my arms around his head and twisted his head on the spot. His neck was a little bulkier than I was used to - my first attempt to sever his spine failed and simply made his neck creak a little (according to his howls it hurt, though) and it took a second, more forceful jerk to get the sound I was after - the unique, instantly noticeable crunching sound a neck makes as it’s broken in two. Or three. Or four. However strong your arms are.
The whole debacle lasted mere seconds. I was rather pleased with myself - my first kill in this brave new frontier! And it was so effortless. I stood up in an effort to dust myself down though was quickly set upon by two new Orcs. It immediately occurred to me why everyone was stuck at the base of the stairs fighting - the Orcs had near unlimited numbers and were relentless in their assault. As soon as one Orc fell, two more rose up from the valley below and took its place.
Upon noticing that everyone around me was already pre-occupied, I remove my two swords - two large saronite beasts that I’d had since the campaign in Northrend. My weapons of choice for every major conflict I decide to throw myself into. They were hefty things, but as far as I remembered, I was rather handy with them.
The Orcs lunged at me and I fought back. I took a few blows to the head straight away, but they did nothing for me - having no working nerve endings certainly has its benefits. Some of my fellow Forsaken brethren opted to have shadow magic replace their pain sensors to help them in battle, but I always found that ridiculous. Why give yourself the ability to feel pain if you don’t have to have it in the first place? Anyways, the first Orc fell after a struggle, but the second one took a little more effort. I’d spent so many months relearning unarmed fighting techniques with the monks in Pandaria that I’d forgotten how to properly fight with large blades for a prolonged period of time. I found them to be overly cumbersome and impractical, so I used them simply to parry the beast’s attacks while my legs and feet did the hard work. My armour kept me mostly protected, and within minutes his bones were nothing but dust, crushed under the sheer force of my Rising Sun Kicking techniques.
The body of the second Orc hadn’t even hit the ground before three more Orcs attacked me.
I won’t go into detail, but this fight took me well over ten minutes to finish. I was confident that I’d defeat them, though I was definitely beginning to struggle. In novels and plays the hero always fights groups of enemies one at a time - these Orcs gave me no such courtesy and hounded all over me simultaneously.
In years gone by I’d have danced around them and struck at their arteries and eyes with the sharp ends of my blades. Now I was dancing around them with a flurry of fist, blade and foot. The Pandaren Masters had taught me how to use my whole body as a weapon as opposed to just the things in my hands.
I bested two of them and sent the last one hurtling down the stairs. When I saw another group charging towards me I decided that I didn’t want to be the first member of the Horde Vanguard to die beyond the portal, so I turned and high-tailed it towards my objective.
Many other brave (or idiotic) heroes were valorous enough to take care of the Orcs for me as I made my way to the chamber entrance. The group were waiting for me, with piles of Orcish corpses at their feet. The heroes Thrall and the Old Man had at their disposal truly were worth talking about. We hadn’t even been behind the portal for half an hour and already I began to doubt my ability to keep up with the identity I’d stolen.
We (or they - I mostly stood at the back and bellowed and yelled to make it sound like I was fighting) fought our way through to the chamber. There we saw the images of various humiliated (or at least I’m assuming they would be) Orcs being projected over a pedestal as their souls were absorbed to keep the portals powered. Quite an unflattering position to be in - most of them weren’t even dressed! Several of those with me were wary and flabbergasted when they found out who’s souls were being devoured - “Mool’Gan” or someone - I didn’t have a clue who and simply laughed at the hilarity of the situation.
I’m rambling now, so to cut an unnecessarily long story short: we (or they) released the prisoners (who escaped into demonic portals, which tells me that that’s something I’m sure we’ll come to regret later) disabled the portal, fled into the jungle, fought through various camps of Iron Orcs, lost a handful of ‘good’ (and again, no doubt embarrassed) soldiers on the way, rescued a handful of Iron-Orc-World Frostwolf prisoners (which seemed to upset Thrall for some reason) and made it to the docks. By this point Thrall was visibly moved by the presence of his would-be-if-they-weren’t-from-another-dimension-and-timeline clan-mates and began to make a big fuss about how important it was to stop the Iron Orcs, how important it was that we’d met and rescued a carbon copy of Drek’Thar, how important it was that we get to the home of the Frostwolves, and generally how HIS plight was MUCH more important than the plight of any one else in the group.
I personally found his attitude to be both selfish and ignorant. He thought only for himself and his clan and not for anyone else. I voiced my opinions several times to the group, though they mostly ignored me and lapped up every word Thrall said like thirsty sheep. I decided there and then that I was no doubt the only one on Draenor with common sense and a head that was screwed on properly. I’ve also decided upon reading over this last paragraph that I’m not very good with similes. Anyways...
We regrouped to gather our strength and, for those with lungs, catch their breath. Everyone was complimenting each other on their fighting skills - even I received compliments. I did a fantastic job of making it -look- like I’d been killing Orcs in their droves, though the reality of it was that I’d killed maybe a quarter of the number the rest had been killing. As far as anyone was aware, I was still Victor the Victorious.
One Orc knew, though. I was sure of it. She kept eyeing me after every little skirmish and would always comment on my odd fighting style and choice of targets. At first I thought she was simply flirting with me and felt sad to have to inform her that none of my genitals would be able to give her the physical satisfaction she probably craved from me, but I was soon put in my place with a kick to the groin. Which then gave me the indication that she probably wasn’t a very good listener.
The rest of the story is rather boring. We attacked the docks, fought back the Orcs, overpowered an Iron Orc tank, used it against the portal and destroyed it, faced down legions of Iron Orcs and made it away safely on a boat bound for the Frostwolf lands, yadda yadda. I’m yawning now, but you can’t see it (obviously). I’ll leave it to someone else who was there to go over the story in full, but while it was a joy to be a part of, I lack the motivation and energy to cover the story in detail. We killed Orcs, Orcs killed many of ours, blah blah - the same thing that’s been happening for the past four decades or however long it’s been.
I decided though that the she-Orc who likely knew my real identity would have to go. I didn’t know how I was going to get rid of her surrounded by all these try-hard heroes, though. However, like always, a beautiful opportunity presented itself later on.
We’d just blown up the portal and the tank we’d used to do it with, and were fleeing for our lives from the legions upon legions of Iron Orcs rampaging after us. Shells were landing left, right and centre, bullets were flying, bolts of fel energy were dotting the ground all around us and bloodthirsty, sword wielding, rage-fueled Orcs were mere meters behind us - it was unlike anything I’ve ever been a part of before, and it was EXHILARATING. Horde Soldiers, ones who I’d noticed from the fighting on the other side of the portal, were dropping around me like flies. It was warfare unlike anything I’d ever seen before. There were Blood Elves lying on the ground with their innards hanging out (HAH!), Tauren running around on fire, Trolls falling over their stupid big legs only to be promptly executed by the chasing Orcs behind them, and people diving off of the docks into the sea in an effort to get to safety, where they were either eaten alive by the water beasts they didn’t know were there or shredded to pieces like fish in a barrel by the Iron Orc’s turrets. There’s a reason my Uncle Ardron always used to tell me back in Lordaeron “Always check a body of water before your jump into it.” If only he’d told -them-!
As I myself was fleeing, I noticed a certain Orc hanging off of the pier screaming for help. No one seemed to notice her in the chaos apart from a single male Orc in front of me - a male I gathered to be her friend, or mate, or something. I don’t know if Orcs have the mental capacity to have emotional relationships though, so I may be mistaken. He noticed her and went to help her, anyways - maybe he thought she was some kind of food or something, I don’t know. I only noticed her hanging there because the Orc that ran to help her was directly in front of me when he went to help her.
My gaze followed where he was going and noticed that he was heading towards the she-Orc who seemed to know my identity. Thinking quickly, as I always do, I charged off after him to ‘help’. Various Elves looked by as they saw me run to help those in need, no doubt swooning over my sheer bravery.
Just as the Orc reached the edge of the pier where she was hanging off, I withdrew my flintlock, hid it under my tabard and fired it at his back. No one heard the shot due to the sound of the carnage around us, and to anyone who saw it would just have looked like he was struck by a stray bullet. The impact sent him flying over the she-Orc into the death-ridden waters below. She let out a horrible scream as he did so and was obviously very emotional about it - that’s why I assume she knew him.
She was struggling to pull herself up over the pier due to the weight of her armor and the hefty shrapnel wound that covered the entire right side of her body. As I knelt down beside her, her screams stopped and her face dropped.
“YOU!” she said “Y...Y...you must help me! I know you aren’t who you say you are but I don’t care, I won’t say a thing if you just get me up!”
I nodded enthusiastically at her, not saying a word. She was leant up against the pier using only her elbow. I grasped her arm and raised it up just enough so that her weight was on me and not the pier. She let out a brief sigh of relief, though it instantly turned into a confused and terrified scream as I threw her from the pier into the waters below. The look of terror in her eyes as she hit the death-infested waters will never, ever leave me. It was quite simply the most rewarding thing I’ve ever seen. I let out a brief chuckle to myself as she hit the water and sank slowly to the bottom. I laughed even louder when I saw the silhouettes of various sharks dart towards her beneath the surface. The water below the pier was already a deep red colour due to the blood of every other poor sod stupid enough to fall in, so I didn’t get to see her own blood rise to the surface, which would have been the icing on the cake.
The next part is boring again in comparison - I made it to the boat, we fought off the Orcs long enough until someone who knew what they were doing was able to commandeer it, and we set sail for The Frostfire Ridge, where the Frostwolves lived. People treated their wounds, others slept, some sharpened their blades, Thrall cried some more, etc...
I’ll detail our arrival in Frostfire more next entry. I’ve more people coming to the outpost every hour, so I don’t have much time to write. I should also mention that I hired an artist from the Undercity to accompany me on my adventures. He uses some sort of engineering device combined with a keen painting hand to create pictures. He’s a quiet chap - was very young when he died. He’s good at what he does, though is keen to learn - he also follows my instructions to the word, but isn’t a sheep - he’s a critical thinker and will often give me advice when he feels it’s appropriate, which I do not mind in the slightest. It is also clear he was well educated before he died - he reminds me a lot of myself, as a result. We get on very well. I have much respect for him, and him for me.
He’ll be following me around and capturing the key moments of my “campaign” in picture form for all to see and swoon over. I’ll likely add them to the corresponding entries as time goes by. Or maybe I’ll use them to take inspiration years from now when I come to write my best selling novel... Anyways, until next time!
~V
Admiring the corpse of one of the fallen Iron Orcs after fighting to take a temple deep within the jungle.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
What's the point of going on holiday if you aren't going to take in the scenery? Urgent battle or not!
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Resting on the boat after a long, fun and bloody night!
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Things are shaping up! The peons did an excellent job of building my barracks. They’re definitely usable and will provide a place for most of the muscle that’s been thrown at me to sleep. I say thrown at me because the War Machine still thinks I’m Commander Victor - I’ve been assigned soldiers left right and centre, from Orcish Grunts to a handful of Vol’jin’s Shadow Hunters to an entire legion of peons. All of them under my command! I’ve even been sent one of Vol’jin’s closest Orcish advisors, Warmaster Zog, to give me advice on what to and not to do in this new theatre of conflict.
Zog has already proven his usefulness; while I was happy with the barracks the peons gave me (I was so pleased I gave them all the day off and a crate of grog to help them on their way), it wasn’t quite as up to scratch as I hoped. Made of reinforced steel and solid wood, yes, but it was...well...small. When I hear ‘barracks’ I envision a building the size of a small city, built to withstand any kind of attack any foe may fruitlessly decide to throw at us!
The measly effort the designer gave me, however, was nothing but a glorified outhouse. I could not and will not blame the peons, as they simply followed their orders, but I should expect more from the so called ‘qualified’ professionals who have been assigned to me - .
With this in mind I suggested to Zog that we have the architect who designed my barracks publicly drowned to show my disappointment to the rest of the big wigs around the place. He politely advised me against it, and again when I cleverly suggested a compromise where we burn him - a happy medium, or so I thought. Again though, he advised me against it, saying that from his experience, leaders who have their officers drowned, burned, murdered, mutilated, crucified, hung or maimed mere hours after assuming command rarely lasted longer than a day. He also informed me that the barracks were sub-par due to a lack of resources. They’d likely be upgraded and improved as the war developed and as I, as a leader, began to arrange for more supplies to be imported into the base.
It was then I realized just how difficult this ‘leading’ thing may be. I assumed I’d get to sit around and bark out orders, but it seems I have to do a hell of a lot of work on top of that. Not to worry though, that’s why I came here! The adventure!
Anyways, during my last entry I began to write about how we came through into this wonderful new land in the first place. When I left off, a legion of Iron Orcs had just began to pour through the portal into the ranks of the awaiting heroes of Azeroth - myself included.
They charged forward with such fury and confidence it was as if they’d known our positions well before they came through the portal. There was a deafening noise as their sea of bodies merged into ours. Clangs of steel and cries of pain rang out throughout the entire valley as more blood seeped into the most war torn patch of soil Azeroth has seen. I’d just set my belongings down when the crowd began to move. Iron Orcs began filtering through the ranks, taking pot shots at anyone unlucky enough to be within range, though most of them were obliterated within seconds, falling prey to a mix of steel, arcane, earth and fire.
Within seconds I was separated from my belongings - a host of blankets and quilts, mementos from Lordaeron and a crate of Southshore Port. I was livid.
The crowd surged forwards, with Thrall and the Old Man at the head of it. I didn’t even get a chance to take a swing at an Orc - our counterattack was swift and within minutes the legion of frenzied Orcs were nothing but bloodied chunks on the ground.
Before another wave could follow through, Thrall signaled for the charge. Again, I was surprised and impressed by his ferocity - balls of lava the size of a horse were sent flying up towards the portal, melting the faces of any stragglers left dripping through. Combined with the Old Man’s magic, the army was at the face of the portal in seconds.
Thrall signaled for us to charge through, and we did. Well, most of us. I tried to stop to take in the moment - to turn around and get one last glimpse of the world I was leaving, to try and truly appreciate that within seconds I’d be thousands upon thousands of miles away on another world entirely. I say tried because the crowd wouldn’t let me. I stopped and began reflecting on the situation though was promptly screamed at by those behind me and was sent flying through the portal with a boot up the arse. I didn’t catch who it was, which is probably for the best, because had I seen him, I’d have drowned his face off.
This portal was strange. Years ago when we went to Outland, we swirled through the portal for what felt like hours (though it was only seconds) and arrived on the other side covered in our own vomit and occasionally feces. This time, the transition was instant. No swirly swoorling. No flying through the nether wondering if you’d shot past your destination and were being hurled into eternity. I fell forward right into a blanket of redness, felt a brief surge of energy then arrived almost instantly on the other side, rolling over and over after the boot that sent me through.
As soon as I was on my feet, I was given my first orders. “Commander!” one Orc barked, “Our forces are engaged with the Iron Orcs at the foot of the stair, but we need to get that portal closed. I need you to join the other Heroes and get down there to thin them out. There should be two chambers powering the portal directly underneath us - once the numbers on the stairs are thinned, get down there and destroy those chambers!”
Within half an hour I’d went from vagabond to champion - I felt like one of those Knights you often read about in war novels - a dream I’d ALWAYS had. I was thrilled.
I found the team I’d been assigned to and ran down the stairs into the fray. There must have been hundreds of Horde and Alliance soldiers fighting tooth and claw with Orc after Orc after Orc. We certainly seemed to have the upper hand in terms of strength, but they had the numbers - every time one of their Orcs fell, another was up and in its place almost instantaneously. To be honest, I couldn’t really be bothered with the hassle of fighting and fighting and fighting - my - or our- objective was the chambers behind us, not the endless supply of Orc meat in front of us. I dodged between people as they fought, tip-toeing around when I could, shoving people out of the way when I couldn’t. I got rather impatient - people are unbelievably rude when fighting for their lives!
As I pushed my way through the bloodletting crowds, I was sat upon by a single Orc. He charged up the stairs and tackled me just as I dodged under an Elf’s swinging sword. We rolled around on the ground until he was on top of me, then began his attempts to nest his axe neatly inside my ribcage. I was having none of it, of course, and promptly disarmed the sod, stopping his arm mid-swing followed swiftly by a quick jerk, snapping his wrist in two - my own personal embellishment on a technique taught to me by my Pandaren mentor back in Towlong. As he cried out in pain I used his outstretched arm to throw him over the top of me, curling myself around onto his back with his arm still in my grasp. I bent it around his neck, released it as his body contorted into the position I needed it in, wrapped my arms around his head and twisted his head on the spot. His neck was a little bulkier than I was used to - my first attempt to sever his spine failed and simply made his neck creak a little (according to his howls it hurt, though) and it took a second, more forceful jerk to get the sound I was after - the unique, instantly noticeable crunching sound a neck makes as it’s broken in two. Or three. Or four. However strong your arms are.
The whole debacle lasted mere seconds. I was rather pleased with myself - my first kill in this brave new frontier! And it was so effortless. I stood up in an effort to dust myself down though was quickly set upon by two new Orcs. It immediately occurred to me why everyone was stuck at the base of the stairs fighting - the Orcs had near unlimited numbers and were relentless in their assault. As soon as one Orc fell, two more rose up from the valley below and took its place.
Upon noticing that everyone around me was already pre-occupied, I remove my two swords - two large saronite beasts that I’d had since the campaign in Northrend. My weapons of choice for every major conflict I decide to throw myself into. They were hefty things, but as far as I remembered, I was rather handy with them.
The Orcs lunged at me and I fought back. I took a few blows to the head straight away, but they did nothing for me - having no working nerve endings certainly has its benefits. Some of my fellow Forsaken brethren opted to have shadow magic replace their pain sensors to help them in battle, but I always found that ridiculous. Why give yourself the ability to feel pain if you don’t have to have it in the first place? Anyways, the first Orc fell after a struggle, but the second one took a little more effort. I’d spent so many months relearning unarmed fighting techniques with the monks in Pandaria that I’d forgotten how to properly fight with large blades for a prolonged period of time. I found them to be overly cumbersome and impractical, so I used them simply to parry the beast’s attacks while my legs and feet did the hard work. My armour kept me mostly protected, and within minutes his bones were nothing but dust, crushed under the sheer force of my Rising Sun Kicking techniques.
The body of the second Orc hadn’t even hit the ground before three more Orcs attacked me.
I won’t go into detail, but this fight took me well over ten minutes to finish. I was confident that I’d defeat them, though I was definitely beginning to struggle. In novels and plays the hero always fights groups of enemies one at a time - these Orcs gave me no such courtesy and hounded all over me simultaneously.
In years gone by I’d have danced around them and struck at their arteries and eyes with the sharp ends of my blades. Now I was dancing around them with a flurry of fist, blade and foot. The Pandaren Masters had taught me how to use my whole body as a weapon as opposed to just the things in my hands.
I bested two of them and sent the last one hurtling down the stairs. When I saw another group charging towards me I decided that I didn’t want to be the first member of the Horde Vanguard to die beyond the portal, so I turned and high-tailed it towards my objective.
Many other brave (or idiotic) heroes were valorous enough to take care of the Orcs for me as I made my way to the chamber entrance. The group were waiting for me, with piles of Orcish corpses at their feet. The heroes Thrall and the Old Man had at their disposal truly were worth talking about. We hadn’t even been behind the portal for half an hour and already I began to doubt my ability to keep up with the identity I’d stolen.
We (or they - I mostly stood at the back and bellowed and yelled to make it sound like I was fighting) fought our way through to the chamber. There we saw the images of various humiliated (or at least I’m assuming they would be) Orcs being projected over a pedestal as their souls were absorbed to keep the portals powered. Quite an unflattering position to be in - most of them weren’t even dressed! Several of those with me were wary and flabbergasted when they found out who’s souls were being devoured - “Mool’Gan” or someone - I didn’t have a clue who and simply laughed at the hilarity of the situation.
I’m rambling now, so to cut an unnecessarily long story short: we (or they) released the prisoners (who escaped into demonic portals, which tells me that that’s something I’m sure we’ll come to regret later) disabled the portal, fled into the jungle, fought through various camps of Iron Orcs, lost a handful of ‘good’ (and again, no doubt embarrassed) soldiers on the way, rescued a handful of Iron-Orc-World Frostwolf prisoners (which seemed to upset Thrall for some reason) and made it to the docks. By this point Thrall was visibly moved by the presence of his would-be-if-they-weren’t-from-another-dimension-and-timeline clan-mates and began to make a big fuss about how important it was to stop the Iron Orcs, how important it was that we’d met and rescued a carbon copy of Drek’Thar, how important it was that we get to the home of the Frostwolves, and generally how HIS plight was MUCH more important than the plight of any one else in the group.
I personally found his attitude to be both selfish and ignorant. He thought only for himself and his clan and not for anyone else. I voiced my opinions several times to the group, though they mostly ignored me and lapped up every word Thrall said like thirsty sheep. I decided there and then that I was no doubt the only one on Draenor with common sense and a head that was screwed on properly. I’ve also decided upon reading over this last paragraph that I’m not very good with similes. Anyways...
We regrouped to gather our strength and, for those with lungs, catch their breath. Everyone was complimenting each other on their fighting skills - even I received compliments. I did a fantastic job of making it -look- like I’d been killing Orcs in their droves, though the reality of it was that I’d killed maybe a quarter of the number the rest had been killing. As far as anyone was aware, I was still Victor the Victorious.
One Orc knew, though. I was sure of it. She kept eyeing me after every little skirmish and would always comment on my odd fighting style and choice of targets. At first I thought she was simply flirting with me and felt sad to have to inform her that none of my genitals would be able to give her the physical satisfaction she probably craved from me, but I was soon put in my place with a kick to the groin. Which then gave me the indication that she probably wasn’t a very good listener.
The rest of the story is rather boring. We attacked the docks, fought back the Orcs, overpowered an Iron Orc tank, used it against the portal and destroyed it, faced down legions of Iron Orcs and made it away safely on a boat bound for the Frostwolf lands, yadda yadda. I’m yawning now, but you can’t see it (obviously). I’ll leave it to someone else who was there to go over the story in full, but while it was a joy to be a part of, I lack the motivation and energy to cover the story in detail. We killed Orcs, Orcs killed many of ours, blah blah - the same thing that’s been happening for the past four decades or however long it’s been.
I decided though that the she-Orc who likely knew my real identity would have to go. I didn’t know how I was going to get rid of her surrounded by all these try-hard heroes, though. However, like always, a beautiful opportunity presented itself later on.
We’d just blown up the portal and the tank we’d used to do it with, and were fleeing for our lives from the legions upon legions of Iron Orcs rampaging after us. Shells were landing left, right and centre, bullets were flying, bolts of fel energy were dotting the ground all around us and bloodthirsty, sword wielding, rage-fueled Orcs were mere meters behind us - it was unlike anything I’ve ever been a part of before, and it was EXHILARATING. Horde Soldiers, ones who I’d noticed from the fighting on the other side of the portal, were dropping around me like flies. It was warfare unlike anything I’d ever seen before. There were Blood Elves lying on the ground with their innards hanging out (HAH!), Tauren running around on fire, Trolls falling over their stupid big legs only to be promptly executed by the chasing Orcs behind them, and people diving off of the docks into the sea in an effort to get to safety, where they were either eaten alive by the water beasts they didn’t know were there or shredded to pieces like fish in a barrel by the Iron Orc’s turrets. There’s a reason my Uncle Ardron always used to tell me back in Lordaeron “Always check a body of water before your jump into it.” If only he’d told -them-!
As I myself was fleeing, I noticed a certain Orc hanging off of the pier screaming for help. No one seemed to notice her in the chaos apart from a single male Orc in front of me - a male I gathered to be her friend, or mate, or something. I don’t know if Orcs have the mental capacity to have emotional relationships though, so I may be mistaken. He noticed her and went to help her, anyways - maybe he thought she was some kind of food or something, I don’t know. I only noticed her hanging there because the Orc that ran to help her was directly in front of me when he went to help her.
My gaze followed where he was going and noticed that he was heading towards the she-Orc who seemed to know my identity. Thinking quickly, as I always do, I charged off after him to ‘help’. Various Elves looked by as they saw me run to help those in need, no doubt swooning over my sheer bravery.
Just as the Orc reached the edge of the pier where she was hanging off, I withdrew my flintlock, hid it under my tabard and fired it at his back. No one heard the shot due to the sound of the carnage around us, and to anyone who saw it would just have looked like he was struck by a stray bullet. The impact sent him flying over the she-Orc into the death-ridden waters below. She let out a horrible scream as he did so and was obviously very emotional about it - that’s why I assume she knew him.
She was struggling to pull herself up over the pier due to the weight of her armor and the hefty shrapnel wound that covered the entire right side of her body. As I knelt down beside her, her screams stopped and her face dropped.
“YOU!” she said “Y...Y...you must help me! I know you aren’t who you say you are but I don’t care, I won’t say a thing if you just get me up!”
I nodded enthusiastically at her, not saying a word. She was leant up against the pier using only her elbow. I grasped her arm and raised it up just enough so that her weight was on me and not the pier. She let out a brief sigh of relief, though it instantly turned into a confused and terrified scream as I threw her from the pier into the waters below. The look of terror in her eyes as she hit the death-infested waters will never, ever leave me. It was quite simply the most rewarding thing I’ve ever seen. I let out a brief chuckle to myself as she hit the water and sank slowly to the bottom. I laughed even louder when I saw the silhouettes of various sharks dart towards her beneath the surface. The water below the pier was already a deep red colour due to the blood of every other poor sod stupid enough to fall in, so I didn’t get to see her own blood rise to the surface, which would have been the icing on the cake.
The next part is boring again in comparison - I made it to the boat, we fought off the Orcs long enough until someone who knew what they were doing was able to commandeer it, and we set sail for The Frostfire Ridge, where the Frostwolves lived. People treated their wounds, others slept, some sharpened their blades, Thrall cried some more, etc...
I’ll detail our arrival in Frostfire more next entry. I’ve more people coming to the outpost every hour, so I don’t have much time to write. I should also mention that I hired an artist from the Undercity to accompany me on my adventures. He uses some sort of engineering device combined with a keen painting hand to create pictures. He’s a quiet chap - was very young when he died. He’s good at what he does, though is keen to learn - he also follows my instructions to the word, but isn’t a sheep - he’s a critical thinker and will often give me advice when he feels it’s appropriate, which I do not mind in the slightest. It is also clear he was well educated before he died - he reminds me a lot of myself, as a result. We get on very well. I have much respect for him, and him for me.
He’ll be following me around and capturing the key moments of my “campaign” in picture form for all to see and swoon over. I’ll likely add them to the corresponding entries as time goes by. Or maybe I’ll use them to take inspiration years from now when I come to write my best selling novel... Anyways, until next time!
~V
Admiring the corpse of one of the fallen Iron Orcs after fighting to take a temple deep within the jungle.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
What's the point of going on holiday if you aren't going to take in the scenery? Urgent battle or not!
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Resting on the boat after a long, fun and bloody night!
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Vesica- Posts : 10
Join date : 2012-07-15
Re: Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
by Grim Wed Nov 19, 2014 10:51 am
These are really cool. I like a lot.
And for reference, there are, or were, two Horde player forces - the Banners and the Ironbreakers. You are correct!
If you ever see any Blood Wolves lurking around then feel free to say hello IC!
And for reference, there are, or were, two Horde player forces - the Banners and the Ironbreakers. You are correct!
If you ever see any Blood Wolves lurking around then feel free to say hello IC!
Grim- Posts : 867
Join date : 2012-03-15
Age : 39
Character sheet
Name: Grim Stonepaw
Title: Warcaller
Re: Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
by Vesica Sat Dec 27, 2014 1:40 am
Alright, so some people are starting to realise I’m not who I say I am. And I can’t throw ALL of them off a pier.
The second some of Vol’jin’s officials came to verify the outpost alarm bells could be heard. I could not for the (un)life of me be bothered with dealing with them so I sent one of the peons to act as my liaison. He belched out some mangled garbage about the density of the lumber of the area and how I was, and I quote ‘best boss ever, not hurt at all, very real not fake dead man.’ If anything I think his mind numbing verbal vomit bored them until they lost interest and decided not to inspect the outpost. I rewarded him by promoting him to Senior Peon III. He celebrated by getting so drunk he fell down the quarry and broke his neck, Light bless his soul. He was mourned for about a minute then quickly replaced.
Suspicions were furthered when I sent a group of peons out into the wilderness to gather lumber. My senior peon (Senior Peon I) suggested that I let them take furs and resources with them to protect them from the environment, but I refused on the grounds that 1) we need the resources here to make my outpost a -FORTRESS-, and 2) They’re Orcs - Orcs in their HOMELAND at that. They should be rugged enough to adapt to any environment!
They didn’t return after two days so I sent an armed rescue party out after them, who later returned to inform me that the peons had been found, each one of them frozen solid in the snow - some even had their axes in their hands and seemed to be frozen mid-swing whilst cutting wood; you can’t help but applaud their determination.
After that failed we were in dire need of lumber, so I sent a team of my Goblin workers JUST down the hill from the outpost to collect wood from some of the trees at the bottom of the valley. The trees were literally in view of the outpost gate, so safety shouldn’t have been an issue, but idiots will always find ways to be idiots. The problem was that the trees had somehow grown around a river of lava, with many of their thicker branches stretching out across the burning riverbed. The Goblins asked for safety harnesses and some help from the Orcs and myself to make sure it went smoothly, but again, I denied them this as I needed the rope to keep my spare hammock upright. No one ever said I was good at balancing my priorities (or at least no one who went on to keep their lungs free of water).
Since the trees were mere yards from the outpost, many of the guards gathered to watch the Goblins collect the wood. I let them - morale was low after the loss of the peons, so they needed some form of entertainment.
It was quite a spectacle - most of the trees were rather brittle, having spent their whole lives perched next to a natural furnace, so most of their branches broke away at the slightest touch.
So it was almost inevitable that almost everyone in the outpost was there to watch as Goblin after Goblin plunged into the lava pools, their gargled screams drowned out only by my fits of laughter. It wasn’t that I disliked the Goblins - quite the opposite, in fact. But seeing the determination in their little faces as they made their futile attempts to harvest the wood, as if somehow THEY’D be to succeed where everyone before them had failed, only for them to realise all too late that they’d cocked it up was nothing short of first class comedy. They put on quite the show - I should patent “Fiery Goblin Wood Harvesting” and get it sent to the Lordaeron Circus Company straight away, provided they survived the plague.
Of the twelve Goblins I sent only two made it back alive - the two who were posted to watch and gather the wood as it was sent down from the trees. Having seen that attempting to scale/cut down the trees over the lava-bed resulted in a 100% mortality rate, they decided that they’d rather go without lumber for a while than burn to death, which I grudgingly found to be understandable, if not a little selfish.
Normally such a spectacle wouldn’t matter in the long run, but many of my guards have reported hearing the Goblin’s gurgled, pained screams in their dreams as they sleep. With that, the loss of our peons and the creeping realisation that our outpost may not be as ‘official’ as I’m making it out to be, morale is rather low among the men just now…
~V
The outpost a couple of nights after writing. See how it's growing! It took the camera man the whole night to get down from there.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
The second some of Vol’jin’s officials came to verify the outpost alarm bells could be heard. I could not for the (un)life of me be bothered with dealing with them so I sent one of the peons to act as my liaison. He belched out some mangled garbage about the density of the lumber of the area and how I was, and I quote ‘best boss ever, not hurt at all, very real not fake dead man.’ If anything I think his mind numbing verbal vomit bored them until they lost interest and decided not to inspect the outpost. I rewarded him by promoting him to Senior Peon III. He celebrated by getting so drunk he fell down the quarry and broke his neck, Light bless his soul. He was mourned for about a minute then quickly replaced.
Suspicions were furthered when I sent a group of peons out into the wilderness to gather lumber. My senior peon (Senior Peon I) suggested that I let them take furs and resources with them to protect them from the environment, but I refused on the grounds that 1) we need the resources here to make my outpost a -FORTRESS-, and 2) They’re Orcs - Orcs in their HOMELAND at that. They should be rugged enough to adapt to any environment!
They didn’t return after two days so I sent an armed rescue party out after them, who later returned to inform me that the peons had been found, each one of them frozen solid in the snow - some even had their axes in their hands and seemed to be frozen mid-swing whilst cutting wood; you can’t help but applaud their determination.
After that failed we were in dire need of lumber, so I sent a team of my Goblin workers JUST down the hill from the outpost to collect wood from some of the trees at the bottom of the valley. The trees were literally in view of the outpost gate, so safety shouldn’t have been an issue, but idiots will always find ways to be idiots. The problem was that the trees had somehow grown around a river of lava, with many of their thicker branches stretching out across the burning riverbed. The Goblins asked for safety harnesses and some help from the Orcs and myself to make sure it went smoothly, but again, I denied them this as I needed the rope to keep my spare hammock upright. No one ever said I was good at balancing my priorities (or at least no one who went on to keep their lungs free of water).
Since the trees were mere yards from the outpost, many of the guards gathered to watch the Goblins collect the wood. I let them - morale was low after the loss of the peons, so they needed some form of entertainment.
It was quite a spectacle - most of the trees were rather brittle, having spent their whole lives perched next to a natural furnace, so most of their branches broke away at the slightest touch.
So it was almost inevitable that almost everyone in the outpost was there to watch as Goblin after Goblin plunged into the lava pools, their gargled screams drowned out only by my fits of laughter. It wasn’t that I disliked the Goblins - quite the opposite, in fact. But seeing the determination in their little faces as they made their futile attempts to harvest the wood, as if somehow THEY’D be to succeed where everyone before them had failed, only for them to realise all too late that they’d cocked it up was nothing short of first class comedy. They put on quite the show - I should patent “Fiery Goblin Wood Harvesting” and get it sent to the Lordaeron Circus Company straight away, provided they survived the plague.
Of the twelve Goblins I sent only two made it back alive - the two who were posted to watch and gather the wood as it was sent down from the trees. Having seen that attempting to scale/cut down the trees over the lava-bed resulted in a 100% mortality rate, they decided that they’d rather go without lumber for a while than burn to death, which I grudgingly found to be understandable, if not a little selfish.
Normally such a spectacle wouldn’t matter in the long run, but many of my guards have reported hearing the Goblin’s gurgled, pained screams in their dreams as they sleep. With that, the loss of our peons and the creeping realisation that our outpost may not be as ‘official’ as I’m making it out to be, morale is rather low among the men just now…
~V
The outpost a couple of nights after writing. See how it's growing! It took the camera man the whole night to get down from there.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Vesica- Posts : 10
Join date : 2012-07-15
Re: Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
by Vesica Sat Dec 27, 2014 1:55 am
Tonight's entry shall be a short one. I’ve already introduced Warmaster Zog, so I may as well introduce some of the notable others who have been sent to serve beside me.
There’s Gazlowe II, the architect. He’s not the “real” Gazlowe, though he names himself after the original. He’s a bum from Ratchet who made his name constructing buildings and hideaways for anyone able to pay him enough - cultist, criminal, soldier - it doesn't matter to him. He did some work with the Thieves and was recruited by the Horde after Garrosh fell due to the sudden demand for Goblin workers.
His methods are a little unorthodox and he drinks a little more than he probably should, but he’s “good people”, as they say. Though many of his blueprints are cheap rip offs or imitations of the original Gazlowe’s blueprints, his rates aren’t too bad, he seems to know what he’s talking about and he likes me well enough that he’s decided to stay.
After Gazlowe II there’s Orin, a Tauren warrior who came along with us on the boat. I befriended many Tauren during the assault on the jungle, though Orin was the only one who made it out alive. His strength is unmatched, and his leadership skills are admirable. He’s compassionate towards the workers and soldiers but fierce in battle. He too seems to know that I’m not who I say I am, though he doesn’t mention it - in fact he seems to appreciate how ‘casual’ my attitude is towards the whole “Commander” thing. A couple of days ago he pledged his allegiance to me - something no one has ever done before.
I’ve always liked the Tauren as a people, and this one is no different, so I’ve decided to make him the head of my armed forces. Anyone I recruit, or any Grunts sent to me are under Orin’s authority. He’s happy enough to take that task off of my hands (there's a reason I was always one rank short from becoming an officer in the Military) and I’m happy to give him it.
Then there’s Rok’han, one of Vol’jin’s elite Shadow Hunters. I heard Vol’jin has been sending small Shadow Hunter teams to every Horde outpost along the shore, and Rok’han’s the commander of the detachment sent to help me.
Now as you’ll know, I hate Trolls. I hate them. If I could, I’d gather every Troll in existence together in a big line, tie them up, then slowly strangle each and every one of them individually, allowing the next Troll in line to watch, knowing that he’s next. Sadly however, I have neither the manpower, the resources nor the energy to pull off such a grand act, so I make do with the fact that I may be forced to co-exist with them for the next several hundred years.
Anyways, Rok’han isn’t like other Trolls. He was raised to be an “honourable” Headhunter though preferred thievery, looting, and butchering enemy soldiers for his own fun as he grew up. He trained as a Shadow Hunter from a young age and became one of Vol’jin’s senior “Siame-Quasi” (or whatever the hell they call them) shortly before the rebellion. Like me, Rok’han gets a bitter taste in his mouth whenever someone mentions the name of any of our higher ups - he’s no fan of authority and seems to like the relaxed atmosphere around the outpost. We get on surprisingly well. The other troops seem to respect (or fear) him too. His sense of humour is unparalleled among Troll-kin, and he seems to like my ideas of mass drowning Gnome prisoners of war. I’m on the verge of making him my second in command, though we’ll soon see.
Lastly, there’s Vivian. The lovely, lovely Vivian. We rescued her from an Ogre attack shortly after arriving in Frostfire. She, like me, is Forsaken, though you wouldn’t be able to tell - she has no noticeable rot markings in her flesh and seems to mostly be in one piece. She is just as beautiful as she would have been in her days as a living being. Her crystal clear, perfectly preserved ghostly pale flesh makes my dead heart swoon every time I cast my eyes upon her. What’s better still is that she’s a little insane - she’s a mage, which means I should hate her, but not -that- kind of mage - she doesn’t dabble in the arcane or any of the pretensions that makes most other mages detestable - all she does is burn things. Day and night, all she talks about is fire and all the amazing things that can be done with it. Her solution to every problem, every argument, is to burn it. She’s a beautiful, kind hearted, mildly insane and probably mentally unstable, but I think I may be in love with her. It’s like something from a novel.
Anyways, despite the lack of morale, resources have slowly began to pour in, and now that we’re settled I’m to start moving out into the wilderness to begin assisting the Frostwolves in their war against the various Ogre clans that have established themselves here. I’ll update once more when we’ve started moving onwards.
Until then though, I--
I see Vivian coming out of the barracks - I must go; the sooner I begin convincing her that I am he who she has been waiting for her entire (un)life the better. The joys of love and war!
~V
Bonding with the men. Here I can be seen perched alongside Rok'han. We like to drink port and put the world to rights into the wee hours. The only Troll I'd be sad to see drown.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
There’s Gazlowe II, the architect. He’s not the “real” Gazlowe, though he names himself after the original. He’s a bum from Ratchet who made his name constructing buildings and hideaways for anyone able to pay him enough - cultist, criminal, soldier - it doesn't matter to him. He did some work with the Thieves and was recruited by the Horde after Garrosh fell due to the sudden demand for Goblin workers.
His methods are a little unorthodox and he drinks a little more than he probably should, but he’s “good people”, as they say. Though many of his blueprints are cheap rip offs or imitations of the original Gazlowe’s blueprints, his rates aren’t too bad, he seems to know what he’s talking about and he likes me well enough that he’s decided to stay.
After Gazlowe II there’s Orin, a Tauren warrior who came along with us on the boat. I befriended many Tauren during the assault on the jungle, though Orin was the only one who made it out alive. His strength is unmatched, and his leadership skills are admirable. He’s compassionate towards the workers and soldiers but fierce in battle. He too seems to know that I’m not who I say I am, though he doesn’t mention it - in fact he seems to appreciate how ‘casual’ my attitude is towards the whole “Commander” thing. A couple of days ago he pledged his allegiance to me - something no one has ever done before.
I’ve always liked the Tauren as a people, and this one is no different, so I’ve decided to make him the head of my armed forces. Anyone I recruit, or any Grunts sent to me are under Orin’s authority. He’s happy enough to take that task off of my hands (there's a reason I was always one rank short from becoming an officer in the Military) and I’m happy to give him it.
Then there’s Rok’han, one of Vol’jin’s elite Shadow Hunters. I heard Vol’jin has been sending small Shadow Hunter teams to every Horde outpost along the shore, and Rok’han’s the commander of the detachment sent to help me.
Now as you’ll know, I hate Trolls. I hate them. If I could, I’d gather every Troll in existence together in a big line, tie them up, then slowly strangle each and every one of them individually, allowing the next Troll in line to watch, knowing that he’s next. Sadly however, I have neither the manpower, the resources nor the energy to pull off such a grand act, so I make do with the fact that I may be forced to co-exist with them for the next several hundred years.
Anyways, Rok’han isn’t like other Trolls. He was raised to be an “honourable” Headhunter though preferred thievery, looting, and butchering enemy soldiers for his own fun as he grew up. He trained as a Shadow Hunter from a young age and became one of Vol’jin’s senior “Siame-Quasi” (or whatever the hell they call them) shortly before the rebellion. Like me, Rok’han gets a bitter taste in his mouth whenever someone mentions the name of any of our higher ups - he’s no fan of authority and seems to like the relaxed atmosphere around the outpost. We get on surprisingly well. The other troops seem to respect (or fear) him too. His sense of humour is unparalleled among Troll-kin, and he seems to like my ideas of mass drowning Gnome prisoners of war. I’m on the verge of making him my second in command, though we’ll soon see.
Lastly, there’s Vivian. The lovely, lovely Vivian. We rescued her from an Ogre attack shortly after arriving in Frostfire. She, like me, is Forsaken, though you wouldn’t be able to tell - she has no noticeable rot markings in her flesh and seems to mostly be in one piece. She is just as beautiful as she would have been in her days as a living being. Her crystal clear, perfectly preserved ghostly pale flesh makes my dead heart swoon every time I cast my eyes upon her. What’s better still is that she’s a little insane - she’s a mage, which means I should hate her, but not -that- kind of mage - she doesn’t dabble in the arcane or any of the pretensions that makes most other mages detestable - all she does is burn things. Day and night, all she talks about is fire and all the amazing things that can be done with it. Her solution to every problem, every argument, is to burn it. She’s a beautiful, kind hearted, mildly insane and probably mentally unstable, but I think I may be in love with her. It’s like something from a novel.
Anyways, despite the lack of morale, resources have slowly began to pour in, and now that we’re settled I’m to start moving out into the wilderness to begin assisting the Frostwolves in their war against the various Ogre clans that have established themselves here. I’ll update once more when we’ve started moving onwards.
Until then though, I--
I see Vivian coming out of the barracks - I must go; the sooner I begin convincing her that I am he who she has been waiting for her entire (un)life the better. The joys of love and war!
~V
Bonding with the men. Here I can be seen perched alongside Rok'han. We like to drink port and put the world to rights into the wee hours. The only Troll I'd be sad to see drown.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
Vesica- Posts : 10
Join date : 2012-07-15
Re: Memoirs of a Forgotten Nobody
by Jormus Mon Mar 07, 2016 2:12 am
Your name rings a bell... Are you by any chance Haen from the Mistrunner Tribe?
I'm Muraq, if you remember! Guess it's a year and a bit too late ^^
I'm Muraq, if you remember! Guess it's a year and a bit too late ^^
Jormus- Posts : 35
Join date : 2012-06-25
Location : Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Character sheet
Name: Jormus Darrowfell
Title:
Similar topics» A forgotten tome, a forgotten empire
» A Chapter From My Memoirs
» General story [The forgotten soliders]
» 5. Nilda Meyrick: Lost and Forgotten.
» WTB Forgotten Peacekeeper Shoulders and hands.
» A Chapter From My Memoirs
» General story [The forgotten soliders]
» 5. Nilda Meyrick: Lost and Forgotten.
» WTB Forgotten Peacekeeper Shoulders and hands.
Page 1 of 1
Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum|
|
|