Post by bagatru on Aug 20, 2015 17:50:00 GMT -5
It was a dark day as Bagatru Wolfbrother ascended the mountain. The sun occasionally peaked out from behind swollen clouds to glint of the plate armor he wore. “Soon,” he thought, “I’ll reach the summit.” Sweat formed on his green brow as he climbed. Rain began to fall from the dark clouds overhead, pattering on the large heater shield he wore strapped to his back. Soon the rain became a torrent, wind whipping across the peaks. Bagatru looked up the slope, the outline of a cave appearing a dozen feet in front of him. Bagatru silently thanked his ancestors, all but one, and stumbled into the cave.
An hour later, Bagatru coaxed flames from the small amount of wood he could find in the cave. He sat near the fire, a whetstone gliding across the edge of his axe. He looked out of the cave, his red eyes unfocused, lost in the memories of his past.
Dull red eyes stared into his. Baalagor Hateblade looked at his son, his red eyes dull and listless. The child’s mother sat nearby, concern marring her orcish features. Baalagor’s eyes went from his child to the orcs in the internment camps. They shuffled around the camp, wasted and weak. How he despised them. How he hated them but he was just like them. Months ago he mustered the will, or was it boredom, to lay with the female. Months later, he held the result of his actions. A mewing child. Baalagor handed the child back to the female, a look of relief washing over her face. “He will die here. We will all dies here.”
Lightning struck outside the cave, drawing Bagatru from his reverie. The day had worn into night, the rain continuing to pour outside. Bagatru wondered how he had remembered the first words his father had spoken. The fire had burned low, red and orange embers barely lighting the cave. He decided that sleep was for the best, hoping the rain would break. Bagatru unbuckled his armor and laid out a cured kodo hide. He laid down, the embers illuminating his green, his cursed skin.
He felt the wind whipping across his face, the salt air stinging his eyes. The Horde sail across the ocean on ships taken from humans. Bagatru stood by his mother, her hand on his shoulder. Bagatru tuned to the main deck, watching the orcs drill with weapons. His eyes lingered on the form of his father, swinging and thrusting with a massive blade at the air in front of him. Baalagor Hateblade had earned his name in the battle of Quel’Thalas, or so Bagatru was told. I was said his father cut through elves with such fervor that it seems his blade hate life itself. “One day,” thought Bagatru, “I will gain my name and swing that blade for glory.”
Bagatru awoke, the day yet upon him, the rain had stopped. The cave was cool yet sweat covered his massive form. He grunted, sitting up, and rummaged through his pack. He retrieved some dried boar meat and an oiled cloth. He gnawed on the meat, removing the moisture from his axe and armor with the cloth. As he rubbed his armor, memories once again took hold.
Bagatru stood surrounded by the red rocks of the Valley of Trials. He had grown into a well-muscled orc, his green flesh still young and tight. His mother stood before him, her ebon hair streaked with iron grey. “Where is father?” Bagatru asked, “Where is Baalagor Hateblade?” His mother, Volga, frowned, “He is not coming boy. Now go, become a man.” Her words were harsh but the tears in her eyes betrayed her emotions. Bagatru nodded and turned away. Volga watched as Bagatru walked away, her thought returning to their home in the Barrens.
The dawn broke across the Northern Barrens, as they are no called after the Cataclysm. Bagatru left the cave behind and continued on his journey up the mountain. A few more hours and he would reach the summit, and then he would set everything right. He continued his climb, moving at a measured pace. The mountain air was cool and refreshing. Bagatru became lost in his memories for the last time.
Bagatru, now a member of the Horde, trotted along as an easy pace through the Barrens, his eyes alert for quillboars. His new friend and ally, Kasokt, trotted behind him, his robes swishing against the dust. Bagatru smile as he ran, his thoughts turning to his mother. As the two young orc crested a hill, Bagatru saw smoke curl lazily into the sky. His heart fell into his stomach and he ran, his legs pumping like a goblins piston. After what seemed an eternity, he clamored over the last hill. His home, the home of his mother, smoldered. Bagatru stood mute for a moment, gazing at the wreckage. Suddenly movement inside the ruined hut caught his attention. “Stay her, Kas, and watch my back,” Bagatru said to the smaller orc. Kasokt nodded his agreement and Bagatru descended into the hut.
Smoke choked his lungs and stung his eyes. He heard rustling to his left, where the main room would have been located. Bagatru slunk into the room, his eyes alert. A dark shape knelt on the floor over a corpse. A corpse with iron streaked black hair. Rage welled up in Bagartu as he stepped noisily into the room. The figure stood, a great blade covered with ash and blood, in its hand. Baalagor Hateblade regarded his son, his eyes ablaze with demon fire.
“Son,” he said, looking down at Volga. “She was weak. She refused to return to me. She choose her fate.” Bagatru looked at this father, rage and sadness erupting in a savage cry. Baalagor stepped toward his son, his hand held out. “Come with me, son. Come to the Burning Blade.” Bagatru fell to his knees, tears running down his face. Baalagor’s face hardened. He spit on the ground. “You are weak, like her, “he said, gesturing to Volga’s corpse. “You are no son of mine.” Baalagor stepped forward, his great blade raised to strike his son down. Suddenly, Baalagor clutched his chest, dark energy spreading across his form. Kasokt recited the incantations for another shadowbolt but in a flash, Baalagor had disappeared. Kasokt put a hand on Bagatru’s shoulder. Bagatru knelt amoung the pain and death of his home.
As Bagartu neared the summit, a lazy curl of smoke wafted across the sky. Bagatru knew who was up there and what he must do. Bagatru crested the peak and his eyes rest on a wither man of an orc. His skin had paled from a deep green to a molted grey. His once broad muscles, withered and useless. Time had not been kind to Baalagor Hateblade. Bagatru stepped toward his wayward father. Baalagor looked at him, his eyes muddy brown. “It has come to this as last, my son. You have finally come for me.” Baalagor stared into the pitiful fire his eyes moving rapidly. Bagatru had practiced this moment and prepared a speech about his father’s sins, Bagatru’s own glories, to rage, to kill. Looking at his father, Bagatru merely said, “Yes father, it is time to die. It’s time to pay for her death.” Baalagor stood up with some difficulty and walked to his son. Baalgor knelt on the ground in front of Bagatru. “Kill me, my son. Bring honor to the clan.” Bagatru sighed deeply, “It’s not the Burning Blade, nor my Clan, the Rageskulls, that condemn you to death. It is her.” Baalagor breathed deep, “Let it be done. Send me to her. I know now she was my life, my mate. Please sone, send me to her.” Bagatru put one green hand on his father’s grey shoulder, squeezing it gently. Bagtru picked up the mighty warblade that belonged to his father, the warblade that had sent hundred to their death, the warblade that had killed Volga. Bagatru raised the blade and watched as it cut through bone and flesh, Baalagor’s head rolling on the dusty ground. Bagatru looked at the sky, “It is done, Mother. It is done, Father.” Bagatru turned and descended the mountain, his warblade in his hands.
An hour later, Bagatru coaxed flames from the small amount of wood he could find in the cave. He sat near the fire, a whetstone gliding across the edge of his axe. He looked out of the cave, his red eyes unfocused, lost in the memories of his past.
Dull red eyes stared into his. Baalagor Hateblade looked at his son, his red eyes dull and listless. The child’s mother sat nearby, concern marring her orcish features. Baalagor’s eyes went from his child to the orcs in the internment camps. They shuffled around the camp, wasted and weak. How he despised them. How he hated them but he was just like them. Months ago he mustered the will, or was it boredom, to lay with the female. Months later, he held the result of his actions. A mewing child. Baalagor handed the child back to the female, a look of relief washing over her face. “He will die here. We will all dies here.”
Lightning struck outside the cave, drawing Bagatru from his reverie. The day had worn into night, the rain continuing to pour outside. Bagatru wondered how he had remembered the first words his father had spoken. The fire had burned low, red and orange embers barely lighting the cave. He decided that sleep was for the best, hoping the rain would break. Bagatru unbuckled his armor and laid out a cured kodo hide. He laid down, the embers illuminating his green, his cursed skin.
He felt the wind whipping across his face, the salt air stinging his eyes. The Horde sail across the ocean on ships taken from humans. Bagatru stood by his mother, her hand on his shoulder. Bagatru tuned to the main deck, watching the orcs drill with weapons. His eyes lingered on the form of his father, swinging and thrusting with a massive blade at the air in front of him. Baalagor Hateblade had earned his name in the battle of Quel’Thalas, or so Bagatru was told. I was said his father cut through elves with such fervor that it seems his blade hate life itself. “One day,” thought Bagatru, “I will gain my name and swing that blade for glory.”
Bagatru awoke, the day yet upon him, the rain had stopped. The cave was cool yet sweat covered his massive form. He grunted, sitting up, and rummaged through his pack. He retrieved some dried boar meat and an oiled cloth. He gnawed on the meat, removing the moisture from his axe and armor with the cloth. As he rubbed his armor, memories once again took hold.
Bagatru stood surrounded by the red rocks of the Valley of Trials. He had grown into a well-muscled orc, his green flesh still young and tight. His mother stood before him, her ebon hair streaked with iron grey. “Where is father?” Bagatru asked, “Where is Baalagor Hateblade?” His mother, Volga, frowned, “He is not coming boy. Now go, become a man.” Her words were harsh but the tears in her eyes betrayed her emotions. Bagatru nodded and turned away. Volga watched as Bagatru walked away, her thought returning to their home in the Barrens.
The dawn broke across the Northern Barrens, as they are no called after the Cataclysm. Bagatru left the cave behind and continued on his journey up the mountain. A few more hours and he would reach the summit, and then he would set everything right. He continued his climb, moving at a measured pace. The mountain air was cool and refreshing. Bagatru became lost in his memories for the last time.
Bagatru, now a member of the Horde, trotted along as an easy pace through the Barrens, his eyes alert for quillboars. His new friend and ally, Kasokt, trotted behind him, his robes swishing against the dust. Bagatru smile as he ran, his thoughts turning to his mother. As the two young orc crested a hill, Bagatru saw smoke curl lazily into the sky. His heart fell into his stomach and he ran, his legs pumping like a goblins piston. After what seemed an eternity, he clamored over the last hill. His home, the home of his mother, smoldered. Bagatru stood mute for a moment, gazing at the wreckage. Suddenly movement inside the ruined hut caught his attention. “Stay her, Kas, and watch my back,” Bagatru said to the smaller orc. Kasokt nodded his agreement and Bagatru descended into the hut.
Smoke choked his lungs and stung his eyes. He heard rustling to his left, where the main room would have been located. Bagatru slunk into the room, his eyes alert. A dark shape knelt on the floor over a corpse. A corpse with iron streaked black hair. Rage welled up in Bagartu as he stepped noisily into the room. The figure stood, a great blade covered with ash and blood, in its hand. Baalagor Hateblade regarded his son, his eyes ablaze with demon fire.
“Son,” he said, looking down at Volga. “She was weak. She refused to return to me. She choose her fate.” Bagatru looked at this father, rage and sadness erupting in a savage cry. Baalagor stepped toward his son, his hand held out. “Come with me, son. Come to the Burning Blade.” Bagatru fell to his knees, tears running down his face. Baalagor’s face hardened. He spit on the ground. “You are weak, like her, “he said, gesturing to Volga’s corpse. “You are no son of mine.” Baalagor stepped forward, his great blade raised to strike his son down. Suddenly, Baalagor clutched his chest, dark energy spreading across his form. Kasokt recited the incantations for another shadowbolt but in a flash, Baalagor had disappeared. Kasokt put a hand on Bagatru’s shoulder. Bagatru knelt amoung the pain and death of his home.
As Bagartu neared the summit, a lazy curl of smoke wafted across the sky. Bagatru knew who was up there and what he must do. Bagatru crested the peak and his eyes rest on a wither man of an orc. His skin had paled from a deep green to a molted grey. His once broad muscles, withered and useless. Time had not been kind to Baalagor Hateblade. Bagatru stepped toward his wayward father. Baalagor looked at him, his eyes muddy brown. “It has come to this as last, my son. You have finally come for me.” Baalagor stared into the pitiful fire his eyes moving rapidly. Bagatru had practiced this moment and prepared a speech about his father’s sins, Bagatru’s own glories, to rage, to kill. Looking at his father, Bagatru merely said, “Yes father, it is time to die. It’s time to pay for her death.” Baalagor stood up with some difficulty and walked to his son. Baalgor knelt on the ground in front of Bagatru. “Kill me, my son. Bring honor to the clan.” Bagatru sighed deeply, “It’s not the Burning Blade, nor my Clan, the Rageskulls, that condemn you to death. It is her.” Baalagor breathed deep, “Let it be done. Send me to her. I know now she was my life, my mate. Please sone, send me to her.” Bagatru put one green hand on his father’s grey shoulder, squeezing it gently. Bagtru picked up the mighty warblade that belonged to his father, the warblade that had sent hundred to their death, the warblade that had killed Volga. Bagatru raised the blade and watched as it cut through bone and flesh, Baalagor’s head rolling on the dusty ground. Bagatru looked at the sky, “It is done, Mother. It is done, Father.” Bagatru turned and descended the mountain, his warblade in his hands.
