[H-RP] Orcs of the Red Blade – Now Old Enough to Drive and Vote!

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 8 – Solace

”What is right, is very often never easy”.

Eight years ago…

”I won’t tell you twice, Move along.” He snarled, forcibly. He never liked this part of the job, but it was an inevitable and unavoidable problem. Everyone thinks they’re special, above rules and regulations, that just because their opinion differs to what is expected they can do as they please.

Not on my watch.

”Hrmph, It’s not like I was doing anything wrong—fine!” huffed the forsaken female, a half dangling jaw bobbing up and down as she spoke. Quick as that, she turned on her heels and indignantly marched herself along the ichor drenched canals of the Undercity. She was right of course, she wasn’t doing anything, nothing of note anyway. But the orders were clear.

No loitering, no sneaking around, no secrets. Keep an eye on all of them.

And they were right too. Though the banshee queen herself had not, as far as anyone could prove, been part of the ambush that had deceimated the Kor’kron and 7th Legion at the Wrath gate, many of her underlings had been. The subsequent insurrection had lost her the Undercity, forcing the Warchief to take matters in hand and recover it himself. And so he was here now, with much the rest of the Kor’kron, ‘overseeing’ the city.

”Ghrm…” He growled to himself below his helmet. It obscured his vision in a fashion he disliked, but gave the populace the impression of an anonymous watching presence all around them, the Warchief enforcing his will.

And yet…

He glanced up and down the ‘street’ that ringed the city’s lower levels. He guarded a bridge that led to the magic quarter, while many of his surviving comrades held similar posts all around the city. Constant patrols, watches, sentry’s, inspections, searches… the Forsaken were being made to feel the iron presence of the Kor’kron. Yet, they turned up nothing. There was no uprising, no resistance, no violence or surprise cache turned up in a lab search. Just frightened and vexed citizens glad to be back in their own home.

This would have driven Morsk mad—

He paused himself mid thought, taking a deep breath to compose his thoughts. Morsk was dead. As were, many hundreds of others. Norsk was still recovering in Orgrimmar, having pulled body guard duty at Grommash hold until he was fighting fit again. Okiba himself had not escaped unscathed, spitting up blood and green filth for a month until the druids finally got it out of his system. His chest still burned on cold nights.

Saved by Dragon fire.

He still couldn’t believe it. As the ‘Blight’ as it had become known had closed in from all sides, the sky had suddenly erupted into a golden blazing light. Red wings and jets of flame swept the poison from the ground with unstoppable heat, all the way back to the catapults it came from, incinerating the treacherous undead swine too.

It all sat grimly on his shoulders. All that death, and the anger that came with seeing so many of his brothers murdered. It burned in a tight knot in his gut that constantly struggled to get out, yet… it didn’t. It just sat there, hurting him and no other. The whole dam thing made him feel sick to think of, and worse yet made his mind itch furiously. He wanted growl, rage and yell at every forsaken he saw but kept it in check.

Think of your duty, Morsk would not want you acting like a thug. Neither would Norsk.

He straightened his back, eyeing left to right. Though the thought of his comrades settled him, the eerie surroundings did not. No matter the time of day this city always felt hollow, empty. Dead.

He sighed, he’d much rather be back in Northrend, or Grommash hold doing his true duty instead of acting as an armored pup-sitter. The War had taken a sideways turn, now not only did the Horde have to contend with the Scourge, but also the Alliance. The Wrath gate and the re-taking of the Undercity had created chaos animosity that had spilled into bloodshed. Both factions treaded perilously close to all-out war while the true threat shambled on in its citadel.

And you’re stuck here.

Gripping his axe tight in his right hand he squeezed until the muscles between his fingers ached. A little anger vented, a little frustration let out. He would make requests as soon as he could to be re-assigned, moved or put elsewhere. Frontlines, training or drudge work if he had to. There was no sense of duty in this, no consolation or finality in this idle watching.

He muttered in annoyance, growled, coughed then spat a glob of phlegm at his disgust, and loathing of the situation.

Unfortunately he forgot he was wearing a full face helmet.

”Oh for Groms sake…–!“

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 9 – Regime

”Change may be inevitable, but that doesn’t mean it’s for the better”.

Seven years ago…

”Thralls balls! Keep up!” He snarled. And they did, because that’s what they do. They follow orders when they’re given, at the time and every time. All of that, more, and because a Stone Guard had told them.

How are you a stone Guard?

It still, after all these months, felt odd to hear, let alone say to himself. They made him a Stone Guard. An Officer, a leader of warriors. Granted, in the Kor’kron it wasn’t that big of a deal, but it still rang strange in his head. He never did find out why, but he suspected it had something to do with Norsk being a Legionnaire now, and one that had the ear of important Orcs too, no less.

”Here they come!” Roared one of the warriors in his platoon. Two dozen strong they massed around him in on the slope. United, guided by belief, focused by experience. They were Kor’kron. Ahead was the enemy, behind was their charge. The Warchief himself was on the other side of the slope, on a road facing the main alliance force.

And what a Warchief…

Horn and trumpet calls bounced off every tree in Ashenvale forest, Alliance and Horde amassing their forces and lunging forward eagerly into battle. All part of Hellscreams plan, all part of his grand offensive. The whole of Kalimdor was aflame with conflict as the Horde cast off the shackles of oppression that had been placed on it by treaties with humans and truces with elves. Thrall was a great Warchief, but the Wrath gate had shown that a stronger hand was needed at the wheel of this ship.

He’s better off chasing the elements now anyway, after this ‘cataclysm’, it was his truer calling.

An arcing swing delivered his axe around, up and down upon a Worgen skull. The crunch of bone and spray of crimson sealing its dog eared fate. The dammed wolf men were swarming all over, in and around the night elf ranks before rushing out on all fours to pounce on any Horde soldier that had strayed or turned a back. The offensive had been going so well, spearheaded by Garrosh himself, up until these mutts had shown up and rallied the Alliance troops. It mattered not, they would fight fang and axe to the death for their new Warchief.

”Lok’tar Ogar! Defend this spot! Shield the Warchiefs flank!” He roared, the troops under his command echoed the call, axes swinging and cleaving in one united, deadly action.

The crimson storm was everywhere, Orc and Human, Tauren and Elf, Worgen and Troll. Battle was joined across the hillsides in all directions, chaos in the truest form. What he hadn’t expected, was the secret weapon the Horde had employed. All part of the great strategy of the warchief… unfortunately one component of that plan was heading this way.

Tha-thump! Tha-thump! Tha-thump! Tha-thump! Tha-thump!

Four huge hooved limbs propped up a massive muscled body. Swinging its massive arms, with great tusks thrashing to and fro. If the centaur were an angry swarming nuisance, these Magnataur of Northrend were an isolated thundering nightmare. Unfortunately this one was coming back towards the Hordes own lines, a pack of Worgen tearing and ripping at its back with fang and claw.

”Move aside! MOVE!” Okiba bellowed, his squad dispersing left and right just in time to hurtle through where they had moments ago been formed. Instinctively every soldier leapt to their feet to check the raging beast had not stormed in the direction of the Warchief, but instead with morbid dissatisfaction observed it trample the rear ranks where the Demolishers were kept.

”Refom! On me! Any of you hurt-“ He called, attempting to rally his warriors back into unity, only to be cut off by a head spinning sound.

Va-ooooooooom! Va-ooooooooom!

The horn was unmistakable, every Horde warrior had been instructed in its precise meaning and exactly what to do when they heard those notes. Despite their training, all stood stock still in shock.

We’re retreating?

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 10 – Descent

”All things fall.”

Seven years ago…

The Handle was stuck, half way between forward and back, and no amount of brute force was making it move. He’d tried the harsh way, now he’d try the foolish way. Taking his issued knife from his belt he jammer the tip into the semi-exposed insides of the device of death and jimmy’d it about.

What in fel do Goblins see in these things?

POP!—Fwop… ping!

A round leapt from the chamber smoking, bouncing on deck before coming to a stand-still. The dam thing had jammed, falling short of a misfire. He was lucky he hadn’t had his arm blown off. With a swift motion of his right hand he pulled back the loading handle, adjusted the magazine and aimed. Machine guns from Bilgewater were not accurate weapons, but how could he miss, even up here?

”Multi-directional lateral-arcs of covering suppressive fire-… JUST SHOOT! SHOOT ‘EM ALL!” Squealed the zeppelins distressed goblin captain. And it was no surprise he was so alarmed, they were surrounded, being swarmed in all directions by dragons. Great big, angry purple things.

”You heard the goblin! Fire everything, and if you don’t have a gun, throw a spear! Lok’tar!” Roared Norsk, running down deck and leading by example as a spear left his hand and struck a Twilight-drake in its back. The Drake barely noticed, it’s scaled absorbing the blow like a Kodo ignores a gnat, but the intent of the action was achieved as crossbow bolts and spears were let loose in all directions. And then there was the machine guns…

The Zeppelin had three, one on the bow, and one for the port and starboard sides. They roared into life like repeating thunder, spraying circles and whirls of raging hot, golden lead at anything and everything with wings.

Aim for the weak spots!

Which, on a dragon, is easier said than done. Squeezing the trigger, the gun spat out its ammunition in a series of frenzied, shuddering torrents. The rounds had impact, but the scales on these twilight drakes was like body armor—

”Wings! Nors—Legionnaire! We should aim for the wings!” Okiba roared over the noise. Norsk turned his head, peered back to the surrounding onslaught and swiftly saw the futility of their current strategy.

”You heard the Stone Guard! The wings! Shred them!”

Okiba turned his gaze back to his own station, pulling hard on the guns handles so that the tripod groaned with the strain. There were flying lizards everywhere, purple and… black. A black drake was coming straight at them on the starboard side. With the swift movements of an Orc trained but not practiced, another magazine was slotted into the machine gun, ready and loaded.

”Starboard side!” He called, pulling on the trigger, letting lose a relentless barrage of bullets. Left wing, right wing, head, left wing— the dragon dived and flew under the Zeppelin and out to the other side to avoid the onslaught and collision. This proved fatal, the port side gun team was given free reign to pepper its wings from above, shredding its left and putting a round through a joint. With a roar of sudden agony the great black webbed limb seized up and the Drake began to hurtle downward…

”For the Horde!” Roared the Kor’kron jubilant in this small victory, Norsk nodded in approval. It was a short lived joy.

”Dragon–!” called a Harpooner, as his body and the port deck was streaked with steel melting flames. Norsk leapt and rolled away, narrowly avoiding incineration. A twilight Drake had flown in from above and began pelting the deck from above with deadly jets of death, seeing it had subdued the threat of the port gun, it took for a new target, the balloon.

”Get that fire out! Suppress that drake with crossbows!” Came the defiant call of the Legionnaire. Orcs with free hands ran in all directions, throwing buckets of foam and sand over the flaming deck, while others grabbed any weapon they could to hold of the attacker.

Too late.

The Drake inhaled, time froze for a moment, Okiba grabbed the tripod bolted to the deck. Flames erupted, focused on the gas filled Balloon above, it exploded. All that flammable gas erupted skyward, sideways and all-ways. Then they fell. The forward motion the engine prop had given them had provided the barest second of remaining level before the Zeppelin entered a sea bound nose dive. Orcs, weapons, crates and crew all slid. Everything turned on its side.

”Hold on to something!” He felt himself scream, holding onto the tripod for dear life. Norsk flew past, thrashing his arms in all directions in a desperate need to grab something, anything. Okiba shot out his arm, grabbing the senior Orcs belt as he passed. Another lost their grip at the bow, flew by screaming and entered the propeller, leaving a trail of smoke, fire and red mist as they streaked downward.

Accelerating, accelerating, air rushed by them at ever greater rates. The zeppelin and the hurtling winds building up a drone that turned all things deaf. Norsk was shouting something, he couldn’t hear it. The screaming and sound of gunfire from the other airships had faded away too.

I can’t swim…

Norsk began scrambling to grab something, anything, but it was too late. The Ocean was rushing to meet them like a liquid wall. In the beat of the heart they had gone from a mile high to Okiba being able to see the vivid detail of each and every dancing wave rushing toward him like a barricade of death.

He shut his eyes.

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 11 – Drowning

”There is no true respite.”

Six years ago…

He wasn’t dead. But nor did he feel alive. Though, the uncomfortable feeling in his chest eventually reminded him he was, for now. Most aren’t right, saying it feels like burning. It’s more like a snake trying to escape your chest, pushing its way up to desperately get loose. But he couldn’t let it.

Boot knife.

He waved his arms around and through the pale blue water, desperately trying to reach down to his right boot and the combat knife strapped to it. It was painfully, tantalizingly out of reach, the clasp holding fast despite his straining efforts.

You’re going to drown.

He knew it, but he had to fight it and keep grasping. The noise above of crashing timbers and a collapsing hull was a firm reminder that staying here was no option, the chorus of explosions didn’t help either. Now the burning started, his lungs full of air growing sick to get out. With burning flotsam sinking all around, he thought desperately for an option.

Exhale!

He calmed himself. A chest full of air was impeding his movements, costing him a half inch of reach to his right. So he did, blowing out a thick stream of bubbles before lunging down, flipping the clasp and pulling the knife free. He was half way there, but now he had to fight a new urge. The urge to breathe in.

With renewed urgency he began sawing, hacking, slicing and tearing at the ropes that bound. His right arm had become tangled in the rigging as they sank, the hull turning on its side so the thick tangled knot had dragged him under.

Nearly there…

As the final coil of frayed line snapped, he pulled his arm free… but which way? Up was a no go, he could barely swim even without his mail. And he could hardly waste time walking along the bottom like some sort of inept-crab.

Along the rope…

He placed the knife between his fangs before grabbing the wavering length of line with both hands, and pulled. Heaving himself up and along it toward the fallen timbers and hull. One second, two seconds, three seconds… He could feel himself getting feint, his mind’s eye blurring.

He exploded from the water, hauling his body onto the shattered timber like a scrabbling beast, his mouth falling agape and dropping the knife as he sucked in precious air desperately. With every breath he felt his burning lungs relax, the ache in his limbs fade. But he couldn’t linger here, he was in the middle of a battle.

Rolling on his side, he gazed north and the landscape that sprawled before him. A vast beach lay before him, beyond that? A jungle, the cliffs, and verdant tree capped hills, great mountains with snowcapped peaks. A land full of life and vibrant, untouched by the outside world.

Until now.

A shell exploded in the water nearby, sending him reeling. He fell back into the water but managed to cling to the wreckage with both hands. A great shadow passed overhead, even blocking out the sun as engines thundered and roared to the chorus of cannons and gunfire erupting from a flying leviathan. An Alliance Gunship, the same one that had put a round into the deck of his ship now moved north then west as it peppered and harassed the Horde landing forces. They were sitting ducks.

Machine guns fired, but this time from the ground, sending exploding volleys up and toward the flying fortress. The message was received, the Gunship whirled slowly to port and moved further out to sea… but close enough to keep up the ground bombardment. The fire had come from a half built Horde hold atop a hill, Domination point stood defiant and armed well enough to at least keep a foe at bay even if only near complete.

Some luck then.

He crawled onto the timbers, and began dragging himself along it, then onto a half bound up crate, then the hull of a sunk Orcish Corsair, and on, and on. He’d get to the beach eventually, he just needed to be patient. He needed to find his squad, his regiment, his brothers and sisters.

War horns sounded to the north east, Wolf riders rode west and met with a formation of human infantry trying to dig trenches. Behind them, a demolisher was firing out to sea in an effort to strike Alliance battleships pelting the shore with cannon. Above streaked gnomish flying machines, exchanging fire with Wyvern riders. In all directions was the war that Hellscream had started in Ashenvale and Kalimdor.

And now it has come to Pandaria.

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 12 - Shame

”War cares nothing for the honor of the individual.”

Six years ago…

”This is not our way.” Norsk snorted in defiance, every muscle and sinew in his body straining to maintain self-control.

”The only way is that of the Warchief, if you don’t like it ‘Legionnaire’…” he began with a sneer. ”you’re in the wrong Army and the wrong Horde.” Spat the Centurion, pointedly, aimed at the feet of Norsk. The pair only an arm’s length apart now, all pretense of respect for hierarchy gone to the four winds.

How was this necessary?

He forced himself to look down the hill again. It was, among other things, a perfect starry night. The moon was full without a cloud in the sky to mar the atmosphere. The wind was startlingly flat too, odd for a region named after the four winds.The burning village however, ruined everything. It ruined the landscape, it ruined the scene, and it brought ruin to everything that Okiba had thought they were fighting this war for.

”Our Horde doesn’t massacre civilians! Our army doesn’t cut down the defenseless!” Norsk snarled, his chest heaving with rage, his finger snapped out to point at the now burning husks of what were five Pandaren homes circled around a small communal clearing. At its center stood an obelisk covered in ancient, indiscernible symbols. Strewn everywhere were the bodies.

”That, is not what Kor’kron do!”

Oh spirits.

Okiba frowned with disgust. They and their twenty wolf riders had spotted the red glow of fire on the night horizon but had arrived well after it was all over. Nobody had been spared, not the farmers, their wives, the elderly or the young. Even now, the Centurions’ men were stepping on and over bodies to take hammers to the stone obelisk, attempting to crack it open for whatever secrets lay within.

”It is when they ‘resist’, and none resist the command of the Warchief, you sniveling Warsong mutt. Now fall in line, or else.” The senior Orc answered, the centurions eyes narrowing as he spoke with a menacing calm. At this point he realized something he had not noticed before. He was a Blackrock. A lot of the new influx of recruits and especially officers were Blackrock Orcs.

The obelisk fell apart, crumbling under the combined hammer blows of three orcs. Within, was nothing? It was just an ornament, a part of the local culture. No Secrets, nothing. These Pandaren were dead for nothing.

”No more. I challenge you to Mak’gora—“ Norsk began, but did not finish. A knife emerging from his throat. Blood spurted as he fell to his knees, desperately grasping at the weapon, unable to take in air. Behind him stood an Orc clad much the same, a Blackrock from the Legionnaires own unit. Everyone pulled their axes, unsure of who was now standing with who.

”Ahh, good, an Orc with sense. You’re the legionnaire now.” Nodded the Centurion to the Kor’kron turned assassin. ”Does any other Orc have any foolish ideas about resisting the will of the Warchief? What about you-… Stone guard?”

Oh fel.

All eyes turned to Okiba, he was Norsk’s second, a voice of authority and reason. He panicked, blinking in confusion. It had all happened so fast, Norsk was face down now, unmoving, dead. The others were murmuring and re-hooking their weapons. Nobody cared, nobody would back him, Norsk would go un-avenged unless he himself acted. He had to act, the honor of the Kor’kron and his friend demanded it.

”He was–… I…”

”Speak up you oaf!

”No Centurion! For the Warchief, for the Horde!”

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 13 – Shadows

”Pride defeats us, and so through shame we know our wrongs.”

Six years ago…

It wasn’t heavy, but it sat on him everywhere, pulling him down in all thoughts and with every action. He couldn’t sleep, for the memory and he couldn’t eat for the knot inside. Seeing Norsk die without so much as a flicker of emotion or an act of reprisal had stunned him. He had wanted to act, so badly it burned inside, the need to put an axe in the centurions head…

You made an oath.

He had. But that oath, to Warchief, Kor’kron and the Horde was being warped out of recognition. Almost as soon as the fire in the first village had gone out, they had started others. The Centurion was eager to ensure the obedience of his officers, Okiba included, commanding them to lead the raids and take what relics they could.

And lead you did.

He tried, at first, to talk to the Pandaren. Telling them just to let them take the contents of the shrine and they’d be gone without any incident. But they refused, no matter how heavily outnumbered they were, or out-gunned, they resisted and fought. And how strangely they fought, with bare hands and feet, knocking riders off Worgs and taking many by surprise. But the first rifle shot soon put a stop to that, and the axes did the rest, so they killed them. All of them.

With your own two hands.

He took his left hand off the reigns to inspect it. The plated gauntlet was crusty with dirt now, and flecks of bloody red. Turning it over to gaze at the palm he noticed something odd, a twitch in his thumb that he could not control. It made his palm and other fingers jerk every few heartbeats so even his wrist would shift uncontrollably. He wasn’t hurt, or injured, yet it acted out all the same.

When did that start?

Nobody had told him about it, or noticed. He clenched his fist as he re-grasped the reigns, pushing it to the back of his mind. He could not dwell on it, he had to think of the here and now. The ‘battles’… if you could call them that, and his own squad, needed him to be in the present. Not stuck in his own head and doubts. He raised his head to the distant call of an eagle…

Such mountains…

And mountains they were. Numerous, snowcapped, jagged and tall. Ultimately they all led and fed into one supreme peak they had come to learn to be named ‘Neverest’, or so at least the strange mountaineer men called it once the centurion had stopped beating and robbing them of the contents of their caravan. Their column now snaked along a narrow snowy pass heading north, in search of some fabled monastery the locals only whispered of. The Centurion had become obsessed with it, apparently it held the knowledge to create great warriors, and spirits be damned if their leader wouldn’t be the one to gift such knowledge to the Warchief.

We’ve become nothing more than thieves and bandits.

He’d begun to dislike his superior intently. His name was Gorsok, and he was one of the many new members of the Kor’kron flooding in from Blackrock under the instruction of Hellscream’s lackey Malkorok. He should have noticed sooner, as soon as Theramore had fallen the Kor’kron and the legions had seen a steady banishment from their ranks, a purge of all but Orcs. On top of that, segregation was now not only common but enforced in Orgrimmar. This wasn’t the Horde he had been raised with.

He snorted, looking over his shoulder, his squad was in good order, riding close behind him while they kept a definable space between them and the two front groups. A small saving grace, at least he could keep his own warriors in order-… His ear twitched. An eagle screeched again, but this time in the rocky cliffs high to his right, too low to be normal.

Something isn’t right.

Gazing up and down the column, sudden awareness flooded him. They were trapped in a narrow pass, overlooked by high cliffs and bogged down in snow. Perfect ambush territory. Out of reflex he raises his arm, hand clenched into a fist, [/i]”Hold!”[/i]. That was his first mistake. Shadows moved along the rocky outcrops, ghosts in the snowy mists.

”What’s the holdup back there!?” Roared Gorsok from the head of the column, wheeling his worg around to peer back down the pass. He hit the ground first. An object, a shade, a thing hit him, and was gone. The Centurion was knocked clean off his mount and hit the ground out cold.

”Ambush! Face outwards, arms yourselves Kor’kron, For the Horde–!” Started the new legionnaire but promptly found an arrow in his neck, arm length long, it struck with perfect aim. Shadows ran everywhere, wolves roared, howled and yelped as chaos erupted in all directions. Okiba’s own squad lost all pretense of order and started charging to the center of the column without any instruction or care for their officer.

”Where are you all going!? Back in position!—“ He called, furious at the lack of discipline. He wheeled his own Worg ready to chase them down when he heard the pitter patter of feet lightly crushing snow to his left. He grabbed the reigns of his wolf, trying to jerk his axe out of its saddle holster with his left hand, only for his fingers to twitch and fumble.

Thralls balls–!

Setting his eyes on his assailant, tall his eyes could manage to recognize was a set of three furry, claw tipped toes and a sandal as they met his jaw. Feeling the crunch of bone, he fell from his saddle as all in the world went black.

[Kozgugore-argent-dawn (Kozgugore)]

Nath’lok

Honored brothers and sisters,

A full year has passed hence the day the clan has first come together from the ashes from whence it was born. A joyous occasion one might say, but an occasion that comes with a warning as well. In this ever-changing, rapidly evolving world, many clans have been known to wither and die with the passing of time. Be it hubris, sloth, weakness or otherwise, death is ever stalking its prey. And ever sure of it, sooner or later. Like how the old Red Blade tribe once met its - albeit temporary - end, we should be ever vigilant of all these things. With the month of the dead behind us, we should look to strive for life as the new year soon dawns upon us.

Many hardships yet lie ahead of us. So despite this anniversary, let us not forget what time we live in. A time of great peril and uncertainty. It is in times such as these that we orcs should look to one another more than anyone else, for if we cannot even afford to stand together and support one another, how can we hope to carry the rest of the Horde upon our backs? Walk forth into this long night with this burden upon your backs, knowing not only the fate of the clan rests upon your shoulders, but that of the Horde as well.

For the Blood of Redblade,
Kozgugore Feraleye

A fresh newsletter has arrived for the new month! Read all about it on our frontpage, on orcsoftheredblade.com!

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

A Bumpity bump!

Nice to see the calendar full of lovely events with plenty to come.

…And I really should finish that story

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 14 – Prisoner

”The only true prison, is that which we make for ourselves.”

Five years ago…

His skull felt like every blood vessel inside wanted to explode with every heartbeat. It was torture, every time he moved it sent a surge of agony up his neck and into his jaw. The strength not to pass out often eluded him, leaving him so weak on his feet the others had simply propped him up outside against a wall by the door and left him there.

Like a lame dog.

The ambush had come about because the ‘Shado-pan’ as he learnt they were called, were not accustomed to their monastery being intruded upon or attacked. As he had heard while listening to the other Orcs, these Pandaren were part a secretive order of warriors skilled in a wide array of arts, committed to the sole purpose of defending this continent. And defend it they did, at the point of a sword if need be, but more often with a foot to a head. The latter he personally had become a little too familiar with. The monk that struck him had fractured his jaw and split his right tusk in half… the swelling around his head was so horrendous he could only swallow a few rice grains at a time, slurping like an invalid from a spoon. He’d thrown up just trying to walk more times than not too.

Gorsok had no such problems. He’d been knocked off his wolf first but only bruised his head and ribs, he felt so well in fact he was already hard at work making a menace of himself. The court yard before the three lodges they were housed in was a pitch patch of small gangs of Orcs, stood, sat, glaring outward in huddles. It was hard not to sympathize with their plight, the camp was surrounded on three sides by a tall, smooth wall that curved around them in a great arc, and on the four side…

The Sea.

Or at least it sounded like it, the noise of crashing waves and salted air told him all he needed to know. A cliff with a sheer drop to rocks, a deadly tide and nowhere to swim too even if you survived the descent. All the while, even if you got over the wall or through the gate, the imposing visage of the Kun-lai mountains sat to the south, filled no doubt with more watching Shado-pan. Escape by force or rushed daring, was a foolish errand.

And yet they plot all the same.

A sharp pain ran up his jaw, blurring his vision. Turning his head, even the slightest bit too fast always had dangers. Fixing his uneven gaze he eventually spied the only entrance into the courtyard, a great spiked steel gate, narrow but tall, open a crack before shutting again. Then came that sound, the humming, the jolly tune of a Pandaren. Either unaware or uncaring of those that soon stood around him. Clad in basic linens, this male and his short white beard carried a great steaming pot under one arm while a stack of empty rice bowls sat in the other. The Chef’s three daily visits were the only thing that broke up the monotony.

Does he have any idea how much danger he’s in?

He’d grown a low opinion of his fellow Kor’kron this last few months, and it wasn’t for unfounded reasons. All the villages, the murdering, the pillaging and destruction. They belonged here, all of them.

We all do.

Gorsok shifted with a snort, wafting a hand like an instruction to one of his ‘lackeys’ to wait for his bowl of rice while he and the rest of his entourage skulked off to their own private lodge. No doubt feeling very much at odds, alien even, toward what was about to happen. Though that was typical among the small minded.

“Hey-o!” came the Old bears voice, planting the pot and bowls on a stone bench mid-courtyard. With the clap of two hands coming together, his legs spread into a wide stance while his back became rigid and straight. Every Orc still watching stood back, wide, in a circle. It was the routine of meal times, displayed to everyone, and the highlight of it all in one.

”Hey’o—Ha!”

The Pandaren called, his arms began moving like snakes, weaving and dancing in tune to the step and sweep of his feet. A dance, of some sorts, or an exercise to keep his old limbs mobile. He weaved one way, then back to another, slow and graceful like a whirlwind of furry body parts trapped in slow motion. It was mesmerizing, and confusing all at once. The first day he and the prisoners had witnessed it, many had laughed, but the old bear had continued to the end of his routine without shame. And after every dance, he’d serve rice and bread to every Orc equally no matter their ‘review’, and always with half a load food more leftover. His brain began to itch.

Why bring twice as much food as you need?

His jaw throbbed, but he ignored it, using what wavering strength he had to drag himself up to his feet. Every grasp of the door-frame sent a stabbing up his skull and down his neck but he needed to see, to think. His mind didn’t sit with an itch like this without reason.

At last atop his unsteady feet, he squinted until his vision un-blurred. Sure as anything, there was the rice, twice as much as needed, but only enough bowls for one per Orc. He always gave one scoop of rice from the ladle, enough to half fill a bowl-

Half fill a bowl? He could put twice as much in and fill it completely, but doesn’t. He has it but holds back-

His vision blurred a moment, struggling to concentrate on his shoddy theory and the slow whirling dance of the performer all at once. The bear even got a few cheers when he executed a well performed swap from one foot to the other, mid balancing. His routine took time, effort, practice and energy-

oh so that’s it…

Realization washed over him from a sea of relief, but didn’t stop him slumping onto his back side with a tired thud. Pain surged up his body, through his jaw and around his skull like a flaming bolt. Gritting his fangs, or what was left of them, was all he could do to resist a yelp.

”Heh…” He heard escape from his own mouth. It would take a few weeks before he would be well enough to explore his theory, spirits willing that would be all he needed to heal, but it may just be worth it. He turned his gaze to his captured brothers and sisters all around.

Hopefully they behave until then.

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 15 – Insurrection

”Desperation breeds folly, pride breeds idiocy.”

Five years ago…

The crash of metal on stone followed by shouts woke him with a jolt. The start sent a throbbing pain up his jaw, but it was tolerable. Pulling himself up from his bed roll with a pained groan, one step, two steps and a stagger got him to the door of the lodge.

It’s started.

It was dark, very dark. Mid-winter had cast its long frozen shadow over the mountains, snow whirled through the courtyard, but even now he could see the over turned pot of rice strewn across the slabs, boiling water steaming away on ice. No Orc was to be seen there, no doubt too busy preparing to make the most of biting the hand that had been feeding them.

”Thralls balls…” He felt himself curse, his jaw flexing, the swollen muscle aching under the movement. He was better, the bone was healing but far from done.

”Open this gate NOW or we slit this fat, dancing fools throat!” Came a yell to his right, from the gates. It was Gorsok, no doubt with a hostage in hand.

Move!

He urged himself into action, taking one step at a time, bare foot across the cold and icy stone. The wind whirled about the courtyard and path, searching for all and any place it could threaten any heat. The short path to the gate was lined with several far-spaced lantern posts, casting a dim glow on a gaggle of hulking shadows staring up to the looming visage of the prison gate. Most the prisoners were here, and far to the front was indeed Gorsok.

”Don’t you hear me you stupid bears!? I’ll rip out his throat if you don’t open this gate! Bring forth your warden!” The former centurion roared, his hand holding a make-shift shiv up to the chefs throat. The old Bear meanwhile was being held by no less than three Orcs to ensure he could not run. Atop the gate stood two of the shadowy sentry’s they’d become familiar with.

Shadows.

They stared down, silent and immovable, taking no action and exchanging no words. Each was clad in the purple and blue raiment Okiba had come to expect of them, as well as that uniform hat and crimson face scarf. Their inaction was baffling, passive to the point of potentially condemning the chef to death. Gorsok began to growl with impatience…

”Enough Gorsok-…” He felt himself say, the compulsion to act overcoming him. All faces turned and glowered, jaws set and some snarled in his direction in warning, but he pressed on.

”Have we not shamed ourselves enough…-“

”Silence Halftusk you yowling traitor!”

The rebuke was final, even the crowd of eager Orcs, all anxious to become escapees, turned their backs on him and faced the gate. The sentry’s remained unmoved however, simply watching them from above, safe atop their wall.

”Master Orc-… this will not avail you-“ Spoke the chef, only for his captors to tighten their grip, trying to shake him into silence, all while that crude piece of sharpened metal hovered eagerly close to his throat. Okiba stood helpless, dread filling him as he considered what would happen if the warden did not act.

Would he leave this one to die?

”Shut up you, I have no time for helpers, only for words with your cowardly warden.” Growled Gorsok, whipping a hand around to slap the elder Pandaren across the cheek. Okiba felt it too, though it was not his own hide, as his eyes watched knuckle meet the bears face his own jaw panged. And then it happened.

One word escaped that Pandaren mouth as a change came over the speaker, like a storm being conjured from thin air ”…-Enough.”

With the tensing of furry arms, the Orc holding each was projected toward each other so that skulls collided with a wincing crack. Then the third, arm around neck felt an elbow to his gut that expelled every breath that watched before being followed by a set of back-handed knuckles that sent the winded attacker sprawling.

What just happened…

Three Orcs were flat on their backs, gripping heads and belly’s while the spectators took a step back in surprise.

”You- you FAT dozing bear! I’ll gut you from belly to neck! Lok’tar!!” Screamed Gorsok, lunging forward with the knife, only for it to be slapped from his hand with force while the Pandaren stepped aside swiftly and with no effort. The scrap metal blade flew and struck the gate, impaling itself in the metallic surface like a dart.

”I will not continue warning you, stop, or I will be compelled to use true force… inmate.” proclaimed the Bear, his golden eyed gaze stern and filled with rueful warning. The shamed Centurion paid no heed though, his blood was up and his rage worse. Rounding on him, Gorsok lunged as he threw a wide swung punch at the swift moving ‘chef’.

With a duck and a jab, a fist struck the Orc flow in the ribs first, then lunged past him to plant a knee upon gut to knock all and any air his lungs held out. Then the flurry came, a whirling dance at such speed that hands and feet were like lightning, hammering and spearing Gorsok this way and that. Stunned and dazed, blood oozing from a crushed nose and ripped lip, the centurion was grabbed and thrown, slamming into the ground with a crunch.

I don’t even know which bone that was…

The audience was losing its courage, backing away and away down the path, back behind Okiba. Transfixed he watched as the chef pulled his assailant off the ground as if he weighed nothing and began twisting his arms in directions no limb should go, and then back where sensibly they should no longer be able to. All this finished with an array of jabs and pokes to the neck.

”Consider this your ticket to isolation, Inmate.” snorted the Chef, turning to face down the path. Gorsok lay on the ground face down, drooling spittle and blood at the mouth, his face twitching. Okiba had no way to tell if he was dead, dying, paralyzed or just plain out cold.

”And the rest of you, pay close heed to my words!” Roared the bear, standing tall as he dusted down his plain linen garments, followed by the click of his fingers on both hands. In the blink of an eye a dozen archers stepped up from behind the ramparts atop the wall, the sound of bows being flexed all at once, trained and aimed at fish in a barrel.

”I… am the Warden here, and I will not suffer such behavior. There will be no repeat of this! Now, return to your beds, rest, think, and consider the example this one has set you, filled with so much folly!”

[Kalious-argent-dawn (Kalious)]

Amazing guild and people. Had a good run-in with em a few times. Hope you’re all doing well.

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Soldier: Chapter 16 – Dance

”Nothing ventured is nothing gained.”

Five years ago…

It didn’t hurt anymore. Well, not really. He only felt pain around the teeth when he chewed too hard, and at least the pain wasn’t overwhelming him anymore. Though a definite benefit was the swelling had gone, he looked more like an Orc and less like an unripe, misshapen tomato.

Never a bad thing.

His left hand convulsed, then twitched, all of its own choosing. His arm from shoulder to finger tips had been unscathed when he was captured, but he knew it was a lie to himself to think it started there. This had been happening since the twilight highlands, and to his knowledge, he had no clue why. Though it was most often when nervous. Not nervous as when he tried to challenge Gorsok at the gate, or fearful of charging an Alliance infantry line. No, it was a different kind of anxious fear he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

It’s probably nothing.

Atop the winding, cobble stoned path the gate creaked and opened for a lone figure holding a great bronze pot and a basket full of bowls. The ‘Warden’ was coming down for their mid-day feeding, like clockwork. Though there was a difference now, namely that every Orc in the courtyard kept their distance and gave him a mile of respect instead of an inch. The air of composed certainty around the grey bearded bear also became much more understandable.

They’re going to shun you for this…

He grunted, glancing left and right as he adjusted his own basic linens. Everyone else stood around the edge of the courtyard, gingerly awaiting the beckoning to come eat, once the Pandaren had finished his ‘dance’. But that isn’t what Okiba had in mind, as he watched the Warden set down the steaming pot and bowls, setting them ready for the meal.

Now or never.

He stepped forward, and begin walking around the edge of the courtyard toward the Warden who had positioned himself near the cliff side end. A strange chorus of curious and dismissive grunts and huffs were created by the Orcs he passed, no doubt still unamused with his efforts to calm the spectacle at the gate. As he finally came within yards of the Warden, the bear afforded him no attention or any sign of interest, instead he dropped himself into a low stance, placing his hands together in front of himself. Paused and ready.

Here we go.

With a quick shuffle and a few steps, Okiba stood three arm lengths to the left of the Shado-pan, mimicking the position of both arms and legs, though unlike the Shadowy prison warden, he kept his eyes open at this point. All those lining the courtyard perimeter started to grumble in confusion and disproval. And then he started.

Sliding his clawed right foot forward, the Warden began a series of circular arm motions that flowed like water, through loops that pushed and pulled at unseen objects. His legs would move too, sliding, shifting, stepping back and forth, often even sideways as body weight shifted here and there. It was slow, graceful, poised and controlled. And Okiba was none of these things.

Keep up!

He struggled to keep pace despite the slow progress, having to keep his eyes half on the Dancer and half on his own feet. Just a pity he needed another half measure of attention for the rest of him. His actions were jolty, imperfect, too fast, too slow or out of step. But he tried. All the while the faces of his fellow Kor’kron grew stern with frowns and glares. Gorsok had even managed to drag himself from his bed roll, both arms in slings and bruised head to foot as he was to see the spectacle.

This was a bad idea.

Five minutes, then ten minutes passed, his hand growing more uncontrollable as it shook. The actions began to speed up and became more complex as a result. Using his elbows, knees and feet in clumsy unison with the Bear. And then he stopped, bringing Okiba to a near fumbled halt a second after. Ending from much the same position as he had started, the Warden quickly composed himself, turned and headed toward the pot of still steaming rice as if nothing happened. And that was their queue, the others began stalking in, one by one for their meal until they formed a long line to get a bowl, with ‘Halftusk’ in the middle.

Was it a wasted effort?

He questioned the choice, as the Line took a step at a time like a mechanical belt, each Orc taking turns to be ladled their meal at the front. He could hear whispers too, behind and ahead. The word ‘Traitor’ among them hit him hardest. By the time he reached the front, he could feel a dozen eyes boring into the back of his skull filled with ill intent. All he could do was curse his own foolishness as he grasped a bowl, the Warden using his ladle to grant a half bowl portion of rice, as usual.

What have you done?

He began to turn to stalk back to his designated lodge when the ladle planted itself on his shoulder and spun him around effortlessly, and quick as a flash he received another half portion more.

”Well practiced, though at evening meal, think less.” The warden nodded, nudging Okiba aside with the serving ladle so the next Orc could be served. He stood dumbstruck, staring at his double serving of food. Every Orc was staring, confusion on every face, including that of the Grunt at the front of the line who quickly turned to face the bear.

”Can we join in too?”

[Kozgugore-argent-dawn (Kozgugore)]

It’s been a little quiet as of late due to all kinds of Christmas shenanigans (yours truly included), but with the new year fast approaching, we will soon have a new newsletter up with a whole lot of new upcoming events to boot! Expect to see us more around the premises of Razor Hill again soon!

[Kyrazha-argent-dawn (Kyrazha)]

A new year, new chances, more RP, more people to meet and everything! <3 From all of us orcses, happy new year. ^^

[Kozgugore-argent-dawn (Kozgugore)]

Honored brothers and sisters,

A new year awaits us. With the celebrations of the end of previous year behind us, it is time we look to what lies ahead once more. I know I need not mince words with the rest of you. The Horde has had a troublesome year behind it, and it will not look up anytime soon with the war in full swing just yet. As we gird ourselves for threats from both in and out, we must take this chance to steel ourselves for the hardships that are to come. This means that we should be ever vigilant for the threats that loom upon the horizon of the new year.

Even in the safety and solitude of Durotar, we must prepare for war and be vigilant of what happens in neighboring lands. Continue to harden yourselves and to honour the spirits. For one day soon, we shall be in need of their guidance and assistance.

For the Blood of Redblade,
Kozgugore Feraleye

And a new newsletter for the new year! Find out everything that awaits us in 2019 on our frontpage here!
http://orcsoftheredblade.com/forum/index.php

[Kaitylinn-argent-dawn (Kaitylinn)]

Local hired goon angrily shakes fist, more at 11!

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

@Kaitylinn-argent-dawn

Local hired goon angrily shakes fist, more at 11!

Tiger balm! Wonderful stuff, let’s me shake my fist at unruly youths for days while keeping my elbow going. Be sure to rub it in every other hour.

…–why are we shaking our fists again?

[Lukas-argent-dawn-8166 (Lukas)]

Spotted your rather large convoy of Orcs marching through Orgrimmar yesterday evening while I was levelling my Mag’har. Very impressive looking I must say.

For a brief moment I thought you were all Mag’har npcs!

[Okiba-argent-dawn (Okiba)]

Well, we’ve been having fun so far at the Crimson Compass campaign! Even kicked things off with a rather lovely guild snap!

http://orcsoftheredblade.com/forum/gallery/292_14_01_19_11_56_02.jpeg

We have a pretty packed calendar for the next month, so come on down and hang out with us! Lok’tar Ogar!

[Noshmarak-argent-dawn (Noshmarak)]

Since it’s been a bit quiet in this here thread lately, I thought I’d snatch the #500th post spot to tell you all that we’re still going hard on the Crimson Compass, really showing some muscle!