No no no, the humans and dwarfs just loove being poisoned! Honest.
Considering they happily eat whatever undead people are handing them… I’d say you’re right XD
What’s with the quoted bits from the story at the bottom of your last post?
Yes, I’m way too weak.
Although I’m having really fun writing some of my characters now. ;D
Taunting the blood elf is probably among the best things they’re doing so far. 
There can never be too much taunting of the elves 
An Azerothian Department of Health stands to make good money, unless it’s ransacked in the first few days.
Btw, a local paper with the best cultural pages had a full WoW article in the first page of them. It wasn’t too good, but when you get a game with almost as many subscribers as the population of your country, it turns heads.
What’s with the quoted bits from the story at the bottom of your last post?
I liked them*. My “comment” on them was the second "Heh. , but as there wasn’t a closing quotation mark in the original, it probably wasn’t obvious. Suits me for not quoting the usual way.
*-We know you’re a merciless killing machine.
- (Hey, he humors me!).
Superglue made this chapter readable. It’s been in puzzle pieces forever.
You’ll probably be able to guess which line is my favorite in this one. Hint: Sarah says it, and I hope you’ll laugh as opposed to wanting to choke me with a shoestring. :runaway:
Le dork = me.
Uh-oh… meet the fam’!
“Ey, be careful with ‘im now, missy Nebula!” a hoarse voice called from the crowd, followed by mostly undead snickers.
“Rrr,” was her only reply.
Thomas preferred to look anywhere but the person in front of him and the creature they were both sitting on. He caught Vo’don’s eye, and the troll offered a blank half-smirk in support. Then a voice called his name, and he turned around.
Two female trolls approached, very similar in looks and with the same blue, rich hair – but that was the end of the similarities. One wore black and had a thin, dark bandana tied just above her eyes, as if she intended to use it as a blindfold. The two nasty-looking daggers in her belt only made it more obvious than needed what profession she held.
Her maybe-sister on the other hand dressed in easy, brown leather armor, but seemed to have left her weapon at home for the moment. Each one of them lead a raptor mount across the open area. As they got closer, Vo’don walked over to meet them. The three spoke – or rather, Vo’don and the maybe-sister spoke, while the rogue lady stood in silence and just watched. She only nodded when her companion smiled her final approval. Grinning, Vo’don looked around and waved at Rohdjinn and Dosha to come over. They approached, and accepted the raptors’ reins when offered.
The younger trolls looked upon their borrowed use of transportation with no little sense of wonder. Dosha, especially, looked intently at the rogue to be certain of her approval. She, in turn, merely shrugged and gave her raptor a pat on the neck. Rohdjinn was already letting “his” raptor sniff at his hands while murmuring to it, making sure it knew he was friendly.
Vo’don had already moved on to a third troll stranger, this one male, leading yet another raptor. They spoke for a little while, then the other troll handed over the reins. After letting the raptor sniff at him, and softly hissing to the beast while rubbing its neck, Vo’don climbed into the saddle as easily as he took a step.
Thomas wondered at why the trolls apparently had not brought their own mounts, but refrained from asking.
As soon as Dor’ash moved up beside Sarah’s horse, on a monstrously large wolf, they only had to wait for the two young trolls to sit up properly. Thomas grasped the shoulder he held even tighter as Sarah got the undead mount to start moving. It felt like riding a living horse, but at the same time not. The movements were familiar, yet mechanical. This horse would never sidestep or get other ideas of its own, because it had none.
But it was a means to get out of the camp, and flanked by Dor’ash and Vo’don, Sarah steered her mount towards and out the gate. The wolf, the raptor and the dead horse all moved in wildly different ways, but they set an even pace and continued briskly up the road. Focusing on trying to deal with his situation, Thomas stared straight ahead and only heard the heavy patter of the other two raptors following.
It did not take long until they reached the main road, and as soon as they did Vo’don called for a halt. The horse obediently slowed and trotted for a few steps to follow the other mounts, but Thomas suspected it could have stopped still anytime Sarah wanted it. If she had believed she could stay in the saddle.
Sliding to the ground, Vo’don drew the dagger Dor’ash had given him before going to fetch Sarah from the inn. At the troll’s nod Thomas offered his hands, and the knife sliced the ropes binding him without cutting his skin. He massaged his sore wrists while Vo’don sheathed the weapon and returned to the saddle. As soon as Thomas placed his hands on Sarah’s shoulders – still not too happily – the journey began anew.
They were silent at first, glad to be out of Grom’gol but wary of the environment. Yesterday remained fresh in mind. Vo’don and Dor’ash took turns riding in the front, one of them always flanking the horse. Thoughtful of the wounded, but they did not want this to look like a prisoner convoy.
Sarah especially was silent. That was another thing. She didn’t even move or make a sound for drawing breath, no more than her horse did. Like a statue, and the hard shoulders Thomas held did not help that image. At least yesterday, she had been talking, although she had not said much that had not curled his skin.
It should have been a relief. Yet, knowing why she did not speak, and why she crouched in the saddle, touched a vein.
“Does it still hurt?” Thomas finally asked, unable to contain his grudging concern any longer.
She did not answer immediately, like she needed to collect some strength for it first. Then:
“Nah.” Sarah paused for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, maybe. I think pain is different from how it used to be when I lived. But I don’t know. I don’t remember how it was to be alive.”
Thomas wondered if that was to be counted as a curse or a blessing. As if she had heard his thoughts, Sarah spoke again.
“Ain’t too bad,” she said. “No memory’s fine. Those who remember too much just wallow in self-pity all day.”
“You really don’t remember anything?” Thomas carefully said.
He couldn’t help it. A morbid curiosity tugged at his mind.
The hood rustled as Sarah shook her head. From his vantage point he could only vaguely see the motion itself.
“Nuthin’,” Sarah said. Then she added, more gruffly, “an’ I like it that way. All I know is my name.”
Her tone said that the discussion definitely was over, and Thomas decided not to try his luck. Just as he had settled for a silent journey, however, she suddenly let out a hoarse cackle.
“Oh, but this is so cute,” she rasped, smirk audible in her voice. “A paladin sharing a horse with an undead and asking her personal questions. Is it the new troll man and night elf woman trend, I wonder?”
Riding beside them, Vo’don looked at Sarah with a frown. It probably did not help that Thomas made a strange noise – trying desperately not to laugh. He’d had no idea that that rumor existed within the Horde, too. The laughter uncertainly stuck in his throat at the sight of Vo’don’s suspicious expression, however.
“Whatcha sayin’?” Vo’don demanded in Orcish. Difficult to tell how much he had understood of Sarah’s words, but from the look on his face he must at least have caught “troll” and “night elf”.
“Sarah…!” Dor’ash growled, throwing a glare over his shoulder.
She ignored his warning completely, and cackled out in translation what she had told Thomas in Common. For a moment Vo’don just stared at her. Then he leant forwards, chortling so hard it looked as if he would fall off his sprinting raptor. The beast itself threw its neck to the side and gave him an odd look. A call from behind let them know that Rohdjinn wanted to know what was so funny, but Vo’don just waved at him to wait.
Over Sarah’s shoulder, Thomas saw Dor’ash shake his head while looking up the road.
“We don’t speak with trolls about those rumors,” Sarah grunted, smirking. It sounded as if she had meant to say that in a sing-song voice, but it came out like a series of wheezes and squeaks that made it difficult to tell what she was saying.
“And we don’t speak with night elves about it,” Thomas offered, the cheerfulness letting him forget that he did not feel like talking to night elves or humans for quite some time after yesterday.
“Oh mister ‘Sodstone’,” Sarah said, “there’s only one single, Orcish word that can encompass my feelings right now. Kek.”
One of her hands rose up over her shoulder, polished bone fingertip pointing at him.
“But,” she said, smirk changing, “before you get too fond of me, don’t forget that you owe me your life.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll have to kill me before collecting that,” Dor’ash called over his shoulder, snorting out a chuckle.
“Thank the Light,” Thomas grunted, caught between a wince and an uncertain smile.
He settled on the wince when he heard Sarah murmur in her gritty, hoarse voice.
“It’s on my to-do list…”
‘-‘
They made good time, stopping only to let the living mounts rest at the guarded camps set up by goblins along the way, to offer safety for travelers. As the day wore on and they got closer to Booty Bay, more and more people moved along the road. None caused them any trouble, although the sight of a human riding an undead horse with a Forsaken did draw glances from Horde, Alliance and goblins alike.
At one point Thomas took note of how Vo’don pulled Dor’ash aside and they muttered amongst themselves. Shortly thereafter Dor’ash sat cross-legged some ways away, leaning something against one knee and writing on whatever it was with a small, thin dagger more reminiscent of a scalpel. Sarah padded over to him and they spoke, until he swatted her aside. She retreated, snorting with laughter.
Later, when Thomas got his parting gift, he would understand. Right then, he left it unquestioned.
It was still between midday and evening when the jungle opened up before them and they saw the cliff separating Booty Bay from the mainland. Dismounting by the mouth of the mouth of the guarded cave, they headed inside under the curious gazes of the bored bouncers. There were always a lot of people moving here, leaving and arriving, and the group stayed tightly together not to lose each other, or any valuables. It would be easier to count those who were [i]not[/i] pickpockets, here.
Several stables for mounts had been carved into side tunnels of the main road through the mountainside, to make use of the cool underground and save precious building space for housing in the town. Booty Bay’s core construction, made up of stairs and bridges as it were, did not suit any beast large enough to be ridden.
Goblins who took their job very seriously guarded these hollows – air came in through barred holes in the walls, and only a very noticeable explosion would remove those iron bars.
While Vo’don and the others haggled with the stable guards as per goblin tradition, Thomas made a few inquiries with a couple of the small, green men.
The goblins were used to odd questions, and would answer them as long as a coin was involved. Thomas made sure that Edward and the others had not been seen in Booty Bay. It made sense, if they had wounded and feared poison they should have headed for either the rebel camp or Duskwood, any human settlement closer by than the distant port town. Still, no harm in making sure there wouldn’t be any sudden arrows or daggers coming at Thomas or his Horde friends.
Of course, no telling if the goblins had been paid to lie – but then, not like they had reason to lie to somebody who could offer them yet another piece of silver, if they had already been bribed once. One did not make good business without being able to switch sides when it felt right.
Also, considering that the Horde-hunting humans had reason to raise a ruckus about a poisonous Forsaken and a traitorous paladin, they could not have entered any town silently. The elves might have wanted to remain mute about their failure, but their companions probably wouldn’t bear the slight stoically.
What he found out, he reported to the others as they headed towards the exit. No such stories seemed to circulate, to general relief.
Not that the caverns were perfectly cool, but the sunlight outside momentarily blinded Thomas and stung his skin. Booty Bay was always loud, with voices and feet clattering against wood. After the long ride, it seemed a little overwhelming.
They broke free of the main stream of people heading in and out of the cave, and Dor’ash turned to the others.
“The two of us should go and find a healer,” he said in Orcish, one big, green finger tapping Sarah’s shoulder. She seemed to hunch even more after the shadows inside the cliff, as if the sunlight blasted her even harder now. “You go and see if that goblin ship is in port.”
“Let’s meet in an hour by da big stair, then,” Vo’don agreed, nodding.
The group split, but Thomas threw a thoughtful glance over his shoulder, seeing Dor’ash and Sarah walk off. Her hunch made her smaller than before. He towered over her, walking slowly so she could keep up with him.
Why not carry her? Apart from that she might claw his eyes out. That didn’t sound as likely to Thomas as it should have, though.
Then people got in the way, and the strange pair disappeared out of view. Shrugging, Thomas returned his focus to the wooden steps before him. He and the trolls headed towards the pier where the Maiden’s Fancy could be found when docking in Booty Bay. Luck stayed with Thomas this time – the ship was in the harbor, bound for Ratchet in a couple of hours. The coins he had left covered the fare, and after haggling he had enough money left to leave him hope of finding a cheap sword once he got to the Barrens – where the prices were not set by the “hey pal, you’ve got an entire jungle between us and the next friendly settlement”. In the Barrens at least, one had the time to see the monsters coming in a distance.
Well there, it should not be difficult to find somebody who needed a few beast claws or such, that they did not feel like collecting themselves. Simple, not quite honorable jobs, perhaps, but he needed to get some funds back before he could make it to Theramore.
With these vague plans in mind he stuffed his ticket into a really deep pocket – resting his hand over said pocket while following wherever Vo’don led next, to make sure the small but precious piece of paper would not be stolen.
The docks were always busy, but they managed to find a pier that was not completely overrun by people running back and forth to load or unload the ships. There they sat down to wait for a while before going to meet up with Dor’ash and Sarah. Although the midday heat had passed, the cooling breeze from the ocean felt sweet against Thomas’ hot skin. He couldn’t tell whether the trolls were at all concerned with the sun now, or even had been when it was at its worst.
Dosha slung her long legs over the side of the pier, dangling her four toes just above the waves. The only reason that at least Rohdjinn didn’t do the same had to be the fact that his feet probably [i]would[/i] reach the water if he did. Considering that the goblins and pretty much every other inhabitant of the town used the shore as a garbage dump, that did not seem like a pleasant idea.
It did not escape Thomas, the look on the young troll’s face when Dosha rolled her shoulders and leant backwards in a cat-like – a [i]large[/i] cat – stretch. Neither the way she glanced and winked at Rohdjinn. The paladin caught Vo’don’s eye, and he just threw his gaze upwards with a fond snort.
Few human teachers would look kindly upon their young apprentices having such interests for each other, but the raptor charmer just shrugged it off. Perhaps it really was simply natural in their culture. Thomas first feeling was one of disbelief, but he pushed it aside – it was not his business, and if the two youngsters fancied each other they had certainly not let it cloud their ability to survive so far. It was one of those differences one had to face and accept when meeting other cultures. Moments like this told him that he still had to work on that, annoyingly enough.
The sun beat down on the town and the waves, carving deep shadows into the cliff sides and, in the distance, the huge statue of Baron Revilgaz with its arms stretched out and insincere grin aimed towards the open sea. Lazy sea birds floated through the humid winds, screeching only rarely. In that peaceful setting, Thomas listened with fascination and occasional interjections to aid in the struggle with the languages, as Vo’don told him about the distant Sen’jin village and how the trolls had made their lives in Durotar. Every now and then Dosha and Rohdjinn tried to help.
Without Dor’ash and Sarah as translators, the human and the trolls had to work their way through the language barrier on their own again. In a way, Thomas actually enjoyed that. It tested his own knowledge of Orcish as well as Vo’don’s skill in Common, and no morbid jokes – well, at least not Sarah’s level of morbid, trolls too had a taste for gallows humor – threatened the peace.
When they went to meet Dor’ash, they found him waiting by the stair to the town.
Alone, and with a troubled look on his face.
When questioned, he grunted and pointed up the stairs, addressing the trolls first. Thomas understood enough. She was gone, without goodbye. Even so, Dor’ash turned to the human and translated.
“I had to find a mage to make Sarah a portal to the Undercity. The healers we found here said they couldn’t do much more for her.” Dor’ash rolled his shoulders. “Serves me right for wanting to avoid that in the first place.”
They started to slowly move down the docks while talking.
“Will she be alright?” Thomas asked. He did not realize until he had spoken, that he actually cared about what would happen to Sarah. The shaman’s distracted scowl made him wonder if there was something more to this, too.
Dor’ash’s lips stretched the tiniest bit. But when he spoke, the crease on his forehead remained.
“Probably, since she’s still able to move and talk. The apothecaries don’t seem to need much more to work with.” He paused, then scratched his head. “The priests did say something about the process being ‘centaur on the agony scale’.”
“The what?” Thomas asked.
Dor’ash snorted.
“Sarah once claimed it was an in-joke,” he said. “They judge how much something will hurt depending on what they wish to inflict on certain people. As far as I understand ‘Arthas’ is the highest.”
“Not too surprising.” Thomas could not decide whether to be amused or uneasy. “Centaurs are…?”
“They don’t care much about centaurs.”
“Ah.”
Thomas remained silent for a brief time while Dor’ash and the trolls exchanged a few phrases. By the sound of it, the agony scale was not universally known. Rohdjinn did chortle, but Vo’don only grinned slightly with a frown, and Dosha looked like she was stuck between humor and suspicion.
Finally, the question that needed answer could no longer be held back.
“And humans are where on that scale?” Thomas asked.
“Just below the Scarlet Crusade. Which is just below the Scourge.”
“Ah.”
Letting out another grunt, Dor’ash shook his head.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like dumping her with the Apothecary Society, but her wounds are too severe for normal healing.”
It sounded odd, like a confession straight from the shaman’s gut. He had certainly not needed to say it, but it was almost painfully honest.
Vo’don’s low growl said that he had both understood and agreed. Whether that meant that he did not like the Society, or worried about Sarah, remained unclear. Thomas felt that that may be one of the other things he should not dig deeper into.
While talking, they reached the dock where the Maiden’s Fancy waited for the loading of the cargo hold to finish. Judging by the shrinking heaps of crates and barrels on the dock, it would not be long until she could set sail. Thomas looked up at the tightly bound sails, grateful that nobody asked why he simply did not seek out a mage willing to make him a portal to Darnassus. It might have saved him a lot of time, but he did not feel like trusting his luck – the elves in the jungle just may have gone home. There was no way to know that.
Aside from that, he currently did not feel friendly enough towards the elves to willingly drop right into an entire capital of them. Shaking off those thoughts, he turned to his companions.
“What will you do from here out?” he asked.
“Raptors,” Vo’don said with a shrug and motion inland. “Not done here.”
“You’ll have to find a new place to hunt for them, no?” Thomas said, frowning.
But Vo’don just shook his head dismissively.
“No problem. Lots here.”
Nodding, Thomas looked up at Dor’ash, who shrugged as well.
“I’ll follow Vo’don and the kids back to Grom’gol and then take the zeppelin to Orgrimmar. Sarah will seek me out once she’s restored.” He gave Thomas a half-amused, half-sincere look. “Don’t worry about us, paladin. You just make it to Dustwallow and onwards alive.”
And don’t let all this trouble we’ve had be for nothing.
Dor’ash probably did not mean it that way, but as a genuine wish for a safe trip. Still, Thomas took it to heart seriously.
“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me,” Thomas said – or at least, that was what he meant to say in Orcish. He knew that he did not quite get it right, but though Rohdjinn slightly smirked, the others nodded understanding.
“And ‘bout dat,” Vo’don said, cracking a grin as he reached for one of the bags on his belt and nodded at his apprentices. “Dem kids make in night. Here.”
He produced a flat item adorned with feathers and familiar colors. Smiling widely in gratitude, Thomas held out his hand and accepted the gift.
This totem was a little larger than his old one, and turning it over he saw that it had text on the backside than the one he lost in the jungle. Thomas squinted at it for a moment before looking up.
“I can’t read orcish runes very well yet,” he admitted.
“Da same as old,” Vo’don said, then pointed at Dosha and Rohdjinn. “Dem names too. And…” his big blue hand waggled in Dor’ash’s direction.
“I wrote ‘This human knows more honor than many of them’, and my name as well,” the orc said. Then he added, with a roll of his eyes, “Sarah wanted to sign it too, but I didn’t let her since she admitted that she wanted to write ‘dibs!’ in Gutterspeak.”
Thomas had to chuckle, remembering the brief exchange he had witnessed at one of the watch posts along the way.
“Well,” he admitted, “she’s sadly right, isn’t she?”
“I’ll do my best to keep her away from you,” Dor’ash said, grinning.
“I am most grateful.”
Carefully, Thomas stuck the totem into a pocket in his shirt, trying not to let the feathers get ruffled. Then he straightened up, looking between the four of them.
“Thank you. I don’t have enough rings with the Silver Hand sigil for you all,” he said. His smile faded momentarily. “To be honest I doubt Edward will rest until I’m excommunicated from the order.”
Dor’ash absentmindedly translated that to the trolls, watching Thomas the entire time. Finishing, the orc slowly spoke Common again.
“And what arguments would he bring to Eitrigg’s honor brother?”
It took a moment before that one clicked, because Thomas was not used to hearing that particular human called by such a name.
“Sir Fordring?” he said, then shook his head when Dor’ash nodded. “It is merely whispers, of him succeeding Uther Lightbringer. In either case, Edward can lie with more witnesses than I have.” He wryly smiled. “Think nothing of it. If they no longer want me, I will still offer my services to Theramore.”
Only later would he wonder if Dor’ash’s not mentioning the near-legendary orc warrior by title, meant that they were friends.
Vo’don listened to the orcs new translation, opening his mouth to speak. But a cry from the Fancy, first in Orcish and then in Common, summoned all passengers to the ship with a warning about being left behind. Pushing aside whatever he had thought to say, the troll grabbed both of Thomas’ hands and gave them a squeeze.
“Live. We meet again.”
“I certainly hope so,” Thomas said, smiling from his heart.
The paladin grasped each of the others’ hands in turn, then stepped backwards towards the impatiently waiting ship.
“Aka’Magosh,” he said, raising his hand in a final goodbye.
“Spirits go with you,” Dor’ash replied.
They watched him board the ship. The sails fell free of their bonds, filling up with wind and the Fancy made its familiar, slow crescent move in the port before turning towards the open sea. More than one passenger had people standing on the dock to see them off, and nobody particularly cared about who a human paladin may have been in company with – or who he waved goodbye to, and who waved back. Not in this mixed town.
The ship’s slow twist brought Thomas out of their sight, and the crowd began to dissipate. The three trolls and the orc still stood for a little while, watching the vessel move further and further away with their strange little human friend.
“It’s a long trip back ta Grom’gol,” Vo’don finally said. “We bettah find an inn here for tonight.”
Dor’ash just nodded, his gaze thoughtful. Figuring the orc would speak his mind when he felt like it, Vo’don turned. His hands rose and brushed Dosha’s right shoulder and Rohdjinn’s left as he passed between them.
“An’ when we get home, you’re getting a raptor mount each.”
He walked on without looking back, leaving them staring after him with open-mouthed disbelief which soon turned to wide grins. Had they had any less pride, they would have literally bounded after him. As it were, they walked – although he could hear their feet against the wooden stairs with more pep than usual. Vo’don smiled to himself.
Good kids, and they had deserved their reward for putting up with all of this.
Dor’ash smirked, following the three of them up the dock.
It took a while to find an inn where the price was somewhat reasonable and they could put faith in getting a wink of sleep despite the livid town life outside the walls. Once in their rooms, Dor’ash signaled at Vo’don that they should talk. Rohdjinn and Dosha cheerfully promised to stay in the inn and completely ignore the fascinating town all around them when Vo’don told them so. This was one jungle the teacher was not prepared to drop a couple of youngsters in just like that. Lucky that they still were high on his promise of their own mounts – they would have obeyed anyway, he knew, but probably not smiling.
He followed Dor’ash back out in the sunlight, and they moved to a shaded corner where they could have a talk in peace. Although they did not speak at all first. Neither of them needed to say anything, or gaze towards the ocean and the ship that could no longer be seen, to make themselves clear to each other.
Once they got back to Grom’gol, Vo’don would write a message to Vol’jin, for Dor’ash to bring along when he went to leave a report to the Warchief.
“Well,” Dor’ash said after a moment, cracking a grin. “Shall we toss a coin about who gets to inform the goblin Baron about the angry Skullsplitters up north?”
Vo’don let out a frustrated grunt and shook his head.
“You ain’t able ta grow new hands, mon.”
“Eh. I’d like to see them try.” Dor’ash jabbed his thumb towards the spiraling wooden bridges leading upwards between buildings. Revilgaz could seldom be found elsewhere than at some point up there. “Let’s get it over with. He doesn’t need to know the gritty details, like who caused it.”
Although just to be sure, the orc lowered his voice considerably at the last part.
Vo’don rolled his shoulders and stretched his back with a sigh, peering at Dor’ash the entire time. Coming back down to eyelevel, he spoke.
“Dis be da kinda thing you keep dat skinny girl for, ain’t it?”
“For tossing at angry goblins? Oh yeah.” Dor’ash laughed as they started their climb. “She’s easy to throw and she scratches like a wildcat.”
Vo’don just shook his head, although he smirked at the idea of using a Forsaken like that. Yet in his mind, nobody set themselves on fire just to be nice – if Dor’ash chose to trust an undead, that was his business, but Vo’don would rather see the Horde free of them. His gratitude remained muddled with suspicion of any ulterior motive that woman might have.
[strike]And if you needed to throw anyone at something, a blood elf worked just as well.[/strike]
‘-‘
While Thomas set off towards Kalimdor and whatever awaited him in Theramore, somebody else had already reached her destination.
In the depths of the Undercity, the light from a green torch flickered over Sarah’s thin, blackened form. She laid on a metal table, one with leather restraints flopping down its sides at key places. She didn’t move, even as an apothecary and a priest busied themselves with removing the last shreds of burnt cloth stuck in her skin. Philip Grayburrow stood beside her with notes in hand and speaking to another apothecary, who leaned his skeletal self on a staff.
It was a small room, one of many belonging to the Royal Apothecary Society. Tables cluttered with various tools and strange items stood in one corner, thanks to the torch casting very unpleasant shadows over the walls. The only thing more unpleasant than that were the strange odors fleeting in the air. It was impossible to tell whether they came from within the room or found their way inside from other places.
“… but it’s better you ask her about the details,” Philip concluded. “That orc of hers remained too close for me to ask her properly even when she was well enough to speak.”
The listener looked down at Sarah’s face.
“Unfortunate that you lost the bottle, I must say,” he said.
Sarah lolled her head to the side, turning her hollow eye sockets at him.
“Forgive me, I feared that the elves would notice me doing something if I hadn’t acted quickly,” she said. “It would have spoiled my chances.”
He nodded.
“Not too big a loss, considering the amusing results,” he said.
“Thank you, master Faranell.”
“Now, do tell about the details. You are sure that it was toxin 86b and not 86d?” The master apothecary held up a small, black bottle labeled with the latter name.
Sarah heaved herself up enough to nod, then flopped back.
“Absolutely certain,” she said. “I failed to do much damage, but the scratches caused a brown discoloration of the specimens’ blood. Also, it hurt like hell after I swallowed it. The following inability to move may have been only due to the fire, but I felt better after Philip gave me an antitoxin.”
“Very good.”
While the others spoke, the two men involved with cleaning up Sarah’s body finished and stepped back. The apothecary went to fetch one of the smaller tables. Spindly metal tools rattled at his every step and when he set the small table beside the big one where Sarah laid. Then he and his companion stood by, waiting for a signal to continue.
Faranell sighed as he put away the bottle.
“I fear your guinea pigs probably survived, although they must have been in a fair amount of pain,” he said. “And how did you explain to your orc and the trolls about having this poison at hand?” He obviously didn’t care much about the human prisoner.
With a snort, Sarah’s mouth twisted into a sneer.
“Dor’ash is a fool, and the trolls would believe him. He trusts that I keep a thing or two… for safety’s sake,” she said.
“Hmm…” Faranell pursed what little remained of his lips. “I don’t really like that there’s a shaman always following you around, Nebula. He will see too much one day.”
Sarah wriggled her fingers dismissively. It took some effort, however – the burnt muscles had almost stiffened completely in the dry air.
“I assure you I will have no difficulties backstabbing him if need be, master Faranell,” she said. “I joke so much about killing him that he can’t believe I ever would do it.”
“Listening in on them talking, I’d vouch for that we won’t have to worry about that,” Philip offered. “The orc expressed annoyance about her carrying around toxins, but let it slide almost immediately.”
Sarah nodded approval, weakly scoffing. After a moment, Faranell shrugged.
“Fair enough,” he said. “But you will answer to me if anything goes wrong.”
“Certainly,” Sarah agreed. “I take full responsibility for my pet orc.”
The head apothecary was far beyond blinking, but after a moment he snickered at the pick of words. So did the other three men.
“Pet orc. I like the sound of that,” the priest said. “Sounds useful.”
“Expendable,” Sarah corrected.
Faranell started to speak again, but a knock on the door cut him off. He turned around with an arguably surprised look. The others followed the motion, Sarah straining her head upwards just a little bit.
“Enter,” Faranell called.
When the door opened, one could hear distant screams from other rooms in the area. An undead man draped in dark robes walked in, closely followed by a succubus with a curious look on her face. The warlock waved over his shoulder, and his tame demon kicked the door shut. What little, grey wisps remained of the man’s hair fluttered around his sunken face in the draft.
At the sight of these two, Sarah fell back with a loud, annoyed grunt. This was ignored.
The warlock nodded at the head apothecary, while the succubus just hovered in the background. She looked at everything with increasing interest.
“Master Faranell,” the warlock said in greeting.
“Ah, Nebula.” Faranell motioned at Sarah without turning back to her. “Visiting the sick?”
“I just happened to hear about it and came down immediately, of course,” the warlock said, nodding again.
“Didn’t want to miss the screaming, eh?” Sarah dryly said.
The warlock stepped closer and bent over her.
“Arthas, you look horrible,” he said.
“You’re not exactly the picture of beauty yourself, Patrick.”
He chortled and turned back to Faranell.
“Do you mind if I stay?” Patrick asked, although it didn’t really sound like a question. “I would feel just awful leaving her like this in your care.”
“If you wish to,” Faranell said. He turned towards his assistants. “I am satisfied with the answers I’ve gotten. Let us begin.”
Philip bowed and left the room, while the other apothecary went to fetch a few vials and boxes which he set down on the tool table. The priest, meanwhile, bent over Sarah and began clasping the many straps fastened to the table she laid upon. Patrick moved aside to let the priest do his work, then stepped back and grasped Sarah’s stiff hand in his bony one once her arm had been secured. She turned away at first, but then lolled her head at him again.
After a moment, she tapped a fingertip against his hand.
“Be silent,” she said. “I still don’t want to know anything and I never will.”
He smiled coldly and stroke her cheek.
“I know,” he said.
She pulled her hand back from his, but the restraints trapping her made it impossible to move away. He grasped her fingers once more.
“Don’t worry,” Patrick said, “I said I wouldn’t tell you anything and I won’t. I kept my promises even when we were alive, little sister.”
Growling deep in her throat, she turned her face away from him. Faranell moved into her vision, twirling a scalpel between his fingers. He had set the staff aside, supporting himself on the table instead. Weak in body, perhaps, but determined to do the jobs that interested him.
“I’m a big girl,” Sarah said. “Be honest, it’s not centaur on the agony scale, is it?”
“Mmh… no,” Faranell agreed. His assistants moved in the background, picking up the tools they anticipated he would soon ask for. One of them opened a metal box, and a sickeningly sweet whiff of raw, ripening meat added to the scents in the room. “I estimate that it’s somewhere between gnoll and worgen.”
“Feh. Well, getting here was Arugal, so it’s looking better at least.”
Nodding approval, Faranell bent over her and raised the scalpel.
In all honesty, even as Sarah was writhing under the knife, she felt grateful – it did distract her from the hand grasping hers, from that both known and unknown brother. Her fingers twisted mindlessly, clenching around Patrick’s grip and she could have ripped her own hand off for it. He just stood there, unmoving, listening, watching.
In her own silent mind, she wished that her fingers could have curled around a big, green finger so thick she could hardly reach around it with one hand. Then maybe it would not have hurt so much.
But, for more reasons than one, it would have been too dangerous for Dor’ash to be there and see any of this.
I’m such a hypocrite. I can’t stand reading and watching horror, but I adore writing eeky things like the above I say it again. Forsaken antics are hilarious :mwahaha: pets Patrick 'ooosagoodlittlecreep? Yes you are, yeees you are… now there’s somebody who’ll clash with Dor’ash later on if I ever get to it. Whee!
Okay, I admit. Those two troll ladies who let Dosha and Rohdjinn borrow their mounts were cameos by sis and her best friend’s alts. Although that same alt of sis’ was the shaman troll showing up at the end of Wail, Baby, Wail, but we’ll ignore that. Since I’m confessing things, Rohdjinn is my best friend’s char. They threathen me with pointy stuuuff! (broken off bits of chocolate :D)
Urgh. I should be writing job applications… and be nervous of hearing from those I’ve sent some off to.
This is so cute.
Anyway, no time really for commenting. Some nice descriptions there (the brisk, heh, pace of the wolf-undead horse-raptor, Sarah’s stiff shoulders etc.) and a couple of nits:
Dor’ash probably did not mean it that way, but as a genuine wish for a safe trip. Still, Thomas took it to heart seriously.
Could he take it to heart not seriously?
This totem was a little larger than his old one, and turning it over he saw that it had b[/b] text on the backside than the one he lost in the jungle
Pain ain’t what is used to be.
What horror? All I see is a possible spinoff about Sarah’s relationship with her brother, their absent father and their alcoholic mom. Oh, and the people killing all of them.
Rogue lady sounds like a classic rock song.
Cute is good 
Fixed the errors ([STRIKE]seriously[/STRIKE] and “it had more text on the backside”), thanks for that, and… whaat, danky dungeons where secret and hideous experiments are carried out isn’t scary? I ought to try harder.
XD Absent father and alcoholic mother! Kek, Mr. Rig. Kek. Just wait until I throw in her boyfriend and the LIVING brother. THEN we’ll have a nice ol’ soap opera And I haven’t even gotten to Dor’ash’s long distance relationship with a widowed mother of an almost adult son, yet.
We can call it “Little pig farm on the Barrens” and mean to make thirteen episodes, but it’ll end up lasting for ten years out of which one season will turn out to be a drug-induced dream.
I almost read that as “drug-induced team”. At least I can hold out for the royalties. XD
and… whaat, danky dungeons where secret and hideous experiments are carried out isn’t scary? I ought to try harder.
Aside from the proliferation of secret and hideous experiments in dungeons of all kinds, which has desensitised the audience, it’s how you describe it, not what you describe (but you know that). I liked the part where Sarah began talking poisons with Faranell, I almost expected her to branch into biology or anatomy and that would have been a nice piece of characterisation (perhaps ask Sin?). If the undead have to study biology after their resurrection, that’s the end of their appeal
Btw by “cute”, i was referring to Sarah’s quote. You could randomly describe Rabites frolicking, if you want to raise the cuteness rating by an order of magnitude.
I’ll tune in tomorrow, same time, for my favorite soap opera. No, hold on, I didn’t mean that. Are there mosquitoes in Sweden btw?
“Team” might work just as well, considering XD Sis and I always make jokes about “well there’s another gang of people who’s been sharing the pipe with the peeps at Blizz!” when we see something really whacked out in games, movies etc.
Cool idea about talking biology. I’ll consider it
Yeah, I know, I know I love writing unpleasant stuff, but pure horror is usually out of my level of skill. I’m a sucker for happy endings, so…
Rabites? Only in this world if it’s THE BLACK ONE
Mosqitoes in Sweden? Oh yes. Yes. They’re going to spray insecticide over the forests in some areas because there’s a complete invasion of the little bloodsuckers. Normally using chemicals to counter insects is never approved of, but it’s so bad in places that people and animals can’t go outside. Luckily, that’s in areas with still water nearby, and I live in a coastal town.
Oh, and yesterday I found this.
He in turn could only look at her. Her fiery hair was tied back by a bandana, giving him a clear view of her perfect face. Her gently slopping forehead, golden eyes, gently upturned nose and full lips all framed in a heart-shaped face, held him spellbound.
Oh cripes, another Mary Sue in the world. Dum de dum… wait. THIS is supposed to be an orc woman, according to the author? AHAHAHAHAAA!
The woman lowered her weapon, a metal glove with three long blades to stare back at him. His mind was going numb.
I’m sure Kevin, or Yang, will want their claws back, girl.
Aaand the typical reaction to Sues, even one who doesn’t even look like she belongs to the race she claims. Now who’s the poor sod getting hypnotized-
Never had Thrall been speechless in his life.
…
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
To arms! Defend the Warchief with your lives!
Rabites? Only in this world if it’s THE BLACK ONE
You can’t resist the cuteness. Do you have the heart to snuff the life out of that cuddly thing? (I do. Free XP, you see).
I’m kinda bummed there are even mosquitoes that north. Their southern cousins are busy drinking blood off my fingers. Ah, Rigmarole, the Lord of Darkness. Back in time we wiped a lake off the face of Greece, only to “reinstate” it later on when the local ecosystem run haywire. It’s in the history books now.
Don’t overreact, Weiila, about the fic, she’s just transcribing into text the old ditty “Wolverine, with a heart-shaped face on”.
Thing is, almost everything in Secret of Mana and Seiken Densetsu 3 is adorably cute… so why worry about killing ANY of it? :mwahaha:
The silliest thing is that the northern parts of Sweden are known for having mosquito invasions every summer. And it’s generally so cold up there, too. (And they get no night at all during this time of the year!)
But overreacting to badfics is what makes my life worth living! Well, not only, but I think it’s teh funneh. Even when they make me want to curl up in a corner and weep my eyes out.
I think you should add that “Overreacting” part to your job applications. Success guaranteed.
I read through all of this in one go (by necessity) and was late for my dental appointment
Weiila when you’re a rich and famous author invite me over for tea some time as compensation >:(
Rig: XD Although I think they notice that when I lose control of my nervousity and my voice rises ten points of volume >_>
Aww :3 I’ll throw in some caik, too. I’m good at making caik.
Mosquitoes? Bah. I’m never bothered by them, even when there’s so many of them that a guy’s white jacket looked black from all the mosquitoes clinging on it.
At that time, while everyone else was bathing in pesticide to get even a moments respite, I had approximately 3 mosquitoes within one meter from me. All of which were just taking shotcuts to get to someone else instead of actually going around me.
I’m probably poisonous or something.
And as for the badfic:
I would have to agree that the orc woman definitely doesn’t look like an ORC woman. I mean, red hair on an orc would be similar to seeing naturally green hair on a human. I don’t think that it would be something that would IMPROVE her looks. It would be exotic, sure, but in this case “exotic” would only mean unusual, not beautiful.
I don’t find the claws that special though. Sounds like a pretty standard mid-level fist weapon. (Low level are all just brass knuckles, while high level items can look like whatever the fuck they want. Nobody cares anymore by then. :P)
Wohoo! We can see the end of this thing now! Although there’s still an appendix where Sarah gets to speak for herself in a very rare moment. Whee!
And this bit unspoils the spoiler for Thomas’ fate in that Thrall/Jaina thingy, too.
The sail from Booty Bay to Ratchet may have been boring, but Thomas felt grateful for the lack of adventure on the high seas. When “uneventful” pretty much meant that he didn’t have to fend off naga or murlocs climbing onto the deck in the middle of the night, he wasn’t one to complain. No one in their right mind would.
It did also give him good time to plan what he would do once he got to Theramore.
From helping out on the ship with various little things that needed done – a lot of heavy lifting, as it were – he earned himself a place on the payroll. That money was to be paid out once they reached Ratchet. However, Thomas spoke with the captain about that, knowing that the ship’s cargo included clothes manufactured in Booty Bay.
Back in the day, the goblins in Stranglethorn quickly picked up on the native trolls’ use of the abundant wool flowers – a peculiar bloom much like cotton, which grew high up in the trees and could easily be spun to thread. The clothes made from it were tough and cheap – Thomas’ own, one, remaining set of shirt and pants had definitely seen better days. The new clothes he managed to haggle with the captain cost a whole lot more than they should have, but it was money that he never saw, anyway. He was merely taken off the payroll again.
On the ship a truce existed between Horde and Alliance, being a neutral zone for anyone paying for the trip. Knowing what it meant to break that peace, the passengers kept to themselves and at most threw annoyed glances at anyone whose existence they found offensive. By the end of the long sail, however, people had gotten so used to each other that even the blood elf in the dark robe could walk past the night elf swordswoman without either of them trying to murder the other with their glare.
Thomas took note of these things, but he and everyone else knew that it would be back to the old ways the moment they stepped ashore.
Not so much with the crew. At one point Thomas watched with great fascination as the first mate Mesker put both feet onto a tauren’s hands and was hoisted upwards – with one of the goblins standing on the human’s shoulders. All of this to reach a throwing dart stuck out of reach in the mast. Judging by their discussion leading up to this, they felt the circus act preferable to tossing a coin over who got to play monkey and climb.
There were more members of the Horde on the ship apart from that blood elf – the crew could not be called true to either faction, working for the goblins as they were. Yet, Thomas did not attempt to strike up conversation with any of the orcs or trolls at any time. A sense of paranoia stole over him the first day and refused to let him go. Just what if news of his “treason” reached Ratchet or Theramore before he did? Though he deeply loathed himself for his weakness, he let this fear control him and make him cautious.
For the entire trip he kept a low profile, pretending not to understand when the orcs stood within earshot and spoke with each other in Orcish. They ignored him too, as he left the most noticeable pieces of his armor in his room and appeared not as a paladin but just a traveler among others.
Still, he couldn’t help wondering if there were people on the ship who knew Vo’don or any of the others.
Once they reached Ratchet, the passengers all split in all directions – most of them surely eager to forget sharing a vessel with their enemies. Thomas stayed and helped unload the cargo, however. For the pay he got from that he got a room at an inn that was cheap, but not cheap enough to leave him in worry that he would be robbed. The money was enough to get him a new – cheap – sword, and still left him a few coins to get food for a few days.
In an unruly area such as this, with constant attacks from the beasts of the land, that made a decent start.
True that Thomas had earned himself a “Sir” title, but that was through the blessings of the Light. He too started out as a recruit once upon a time, and he was not too bothered by the following, rough days. They could have been much, much more unforgiving, considering.
Through odd jobs and some monster hunting in the sweltering landscape he managed to build up a small amount of money again. A mix of hope and cynicism – enough money to bring him to Theramore, but also enough to bring him away from there again, if things did not work out.
It was with a great sense of anxiety that he finally put on his carefully cleaned and polished armor, and went to the harbor to assure himself a fare on the ship he knew would shortly sail to the city state on the edge of Dustwallow Marsh.
Travelling from Ratchet to Theramore by ship only took a few hours. Odd, then, that those hours seemed so much longer than the weeks spent on The Maiden’s Fancy.
A thick, brownish mist blew in over the mountain tops towering between the sea and swamp as the ship sailed on, enshrouding the vessel. The sun reached down through it only with great effort, creating an odd, thick light to match the murky smell in the air. Thomas stood on the deck, gazing into the fog and as alert as anybody else onboard. Anything could hide out there under these conditions. Conversations ceased, everyone listening for any suspicious sound.
But there was only the waves and the creaking of the ship.
As they got closer to Theramore Isle, the wind bit by bit chased the mist away and they emerged unscathed into a more welcoming air. Yet the sky here was heavy with clouds, very unlike the unforgiving blue in the Barrens.
After the hot days in Ratchet Thomas should have welcomed the cooler weather, but the smell of rain and grey heavens didn’t manage to lift his spirits. Theramore looked downcast and sodden as he stepped off the ship and walked across the harbor to reach the city. It was no better within the walls. People walked carefully not to slip on the mud of the smaller roads and the slippery stones of the paved streets. It didn’t rain now, but it obviously had during the night and more was coming.
Unease gripped Thomas’ heart even harder, and he hurried towards the citadel. He wanted this over with.
It took several introductions to bring him where he wanted, first to a guard, then the clerk the guard sent him to, then another clerk who showed him the way deeper inside. It went in a blur, but finally Thomas found himself left in a comfortable waiting room with three other petitioners. All three of them looked a whole lot formal than he did, wearing formal robes and sitting with rolled up documents in their laps.
Thomas didn’t speak beyond the initial greeting. Past that he sat in one of the sofas, lost in thought while the other men occasionally exchanged a few phrases. Fruit and drink stood on a table in the center of the room, but Thomas had no appetite at all despite the hours that had passed since his breakfast.
One by one, the petitioners were called in. Two new ones had time to arrive before yet another clerk opened the door and announced that Lady Proudmoore would see Thomas. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed by then, and it didn’t matter. Taking in a deep breath he stood up and followed the clerk back into the corridor and through the looming doors leading to the throne room. Guards stood on both sides of the door, glancing at him only briefly as he entered.
The throne room was built in the same pale stone as the rest of the city, and tall windows let in the soapy, rain heavy light from outside. Although there was a throne, however, the leader of Theramore did not sit in it. She stood in front of it, hands easily folded against her back and a friendly smile on her lips. Her white dress looked rather stark against the green and gold flags adorning the walls, but that was not the first thing that struck a spectator.
Willpower alone kept Thomas from raising his eyebrows when he saw Lady Jaina in person for the first time. He had heard that she was a tall woman, but he had not quite believed those who claimed that she might be able to look a night elf man straight in the eye.
“Welcome to Theramore,” she said as he stopped on the carpet.
Military training supported him as he automatically moved into a strict, straight pose as he saluted. It actually made him feel a little better, more familiar with the situation – although he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he should carry a helmet in his free hand.
“Thomas Southstone of the Silver Hand, my Lady.” He bowed his head slightly, still saluting. “I’m deeply honored by you taking the time to see me.”
Though honestly, he had no idea if he was still a member of the Silver Hand. Certainly not if Edward had made it back home by now, with witnesses. But since he wasn’t sure, he clung to it as a precious way to distinguish himself.
“At ease, Sir Southstone,” Lady Jaina said, in a warm voice. “Any member of the Alliance is always welcome here. What is it that you wish to tell me, paladin?”
Lowering his hand, Thomas took in a brief, steadying breath. He would only have this chance – if they would not have him here, he knew not where to go.
“I hail from Stormwind and has served the Silver Hand from there,” he said. “However, I stand here today to ask you to accept my pledge of fealty to you and Theramore, my Lady.”
A strange little smile grazed the Lady’s lips. He took note of it even though she quickly hid her mouth behind her hand in a thoughtful gesture. Later, he would understand it, strange as it was. Right then, her words gave him no rest to be curious.
“Tell me, why do you wish to serve Theramore?” she said.
Thomas bowed his head briefly again.
“It pains me to say it, but I have come to question the sense of righteousness prevailing in the Eastern Kingdoms,” he said. “It is quite a story, however, and I don’t intend to intrude too much on your precious time.”
She watched him with the same calm expression through this short speech, despite the fact that his words could be considered those of a turncoat.
“I have decided to take the time to hear your request,” Lady Jaina said as he finished. “Speak freely and do not feel pressured.”
“I thank you graciously.”
The many long, calm hours on the ship had given Thomas ample time to plan how to put his story, and the intense few days in Ratchet had not dulled it. He left out nothing crucial, but spoke economically not to take up too much time and bore Lady Proudmoore. Odd, really, how the events in Un’goro that changed his life could be summed up in so few sentences. Stranglethorn felt so much more palpable, but that too seemed strangely brief when he spoke of it now.
“I understand if this is all hard to believe, my Lady,” he finished. “I swear that it is all true, however.”
“A strange tale, indeed,” the Lady said, and he could have sworn that there was a hint of amusement in her voice. “Not many people would readily admit to a story like that,” she continued, the corner of her lips rising slightly. “Except when they talked about somebody else being a traitor.”
Thomas’ heart sank. Had there already been reports from those men and elves, in his disfavor? He had given them his name, and even if Thomas had not done so himself, Edward – with Martin in tow – would surely provide any information about the traitorous paladin.
But he squared his jaw.
“I stand by it, my Lady,” he said, looking Jaina in the face. “Those trolls saved my life and the orc healed me. To just let them be killed would have violated everything I know about ethics and compassion. Although I shudder to think of it, I owe gratitude even to the Forsaken woman.”
“I am glad to hear that. Although, perhaps I should rather offer pity when it comes to your debt to the Forsaken.”
“Thank you, my Lady,” Thomas said with a straight face.
“If you would serve Theramore, I gratefully accept your fealty,” Lady Jaina said. “But I would ask you not to serve as a guardian of the city, Sir Southstone.”
Thomas blinked.
“My Lady?”
Something that almost looked like a sense of amused mischief flew past on Lady Jaina’s features. It was the look of somebody who knew something more than the person she spoke with did.
“I have heard that you can speak a little Orcish,” she said. “Is this true?”
“Yes, my Lady, a little…”
Surprised as he was at this turn of the conversation, he did not at once remember that he had not mentioned his language skills to anybody ever since leaving Booty Bay. When he did recall this crucial detail a second later, he straightened up sharply.
“Pardon me, my Lady, who told you that?” he asked.
Her eyes twinkled.
“A reliable source,” she said. “How well would you say that you can speak Orcish?”
Even though surprised, and unsure where this was heading, Thomas still managed to pull himself together.
“I understand far more than I can speak,” he said. “What I can speak is pretty basic, but I got by with the mixed company in Stranglethorn. I would learn more if given the chance.”
“That is far more than many would care to do, even here in Theramore,” Lady Jaina said.
She paused for a moment, looking him over.
“I will be frank with you, Sir Southstone,” she said. “I had already heard the tale you told me from two different sources. I fear that the Silver Hand wishes to question you about accusations brought forwards by a Sir Edward Twain and a handful of witnesses…”
Thomas pinched his eyes shut, feeling the muscles in his neck tense in knots.
“… however, I am satisfied with the blanks you have filled in, and I believe what you did was right. If you truly wish to serve Theramore, I will sort things out with the Hand for you.” Her smile was not very pleasant, but it was not aimed at him.
The knotted nerves relaxed in an instant as he looked up, watching her with surprise and gratitude.
“That is far more than I could have hoped for, my Lady,” he said, touching a fist to his chest. “I am more grateful than I can say, that you believe me.”
“Think nothing of it,” Lady Jaina said. She glanced at the high windows, shaking her head. “I thought that it sounded odd when I was given the report. They accuse you of aiding a group of trolls, orcs and Forsaken who attacked them in Stranglethorn and poisoned two of their number, both which survived but suffered terribly.”
Thomas had to take in a deep breath to stay calm, but he felt sure that Lady Jaina must hear his teeth gritting. Her voice changed from thoughtful and regained that odd, amused edge as she continued.
“That would be their version of the story. Since I have heard another version from you and someone else, I feel inclined to believe those instead.”
As she spoke of this second, unnamed source of information again, an image took shape in Thomas’ mind. When it did, his clenched jaw relaxed in pure disbelief. Perhaps Jaina read the wonder on his face, because her eyes twinkled again.
“You have nothing to fear in Theramore, Sir Southstone,” she said. “The Alliance are not the only ones who can provide witnesses, and Warchief Thrall is not amused at his people nearly getting murdered in an ambush.” She showed off that unpleasant smile at empty space again, then turned back to him. “As I understood, neither does Vol’jin of the Darkspear tribe. I have yet to hear anything of what Lady Sylvanas has to say on the matter, but I believe we can disregard that.”
[i]“I’ll follow Vo’don and the kids back to Grom’gol and then take the zeppelin to Orgrimmar.”
Those two…[/i]
Realizing how far up Vo’don and Dor’ash had gone with their reports made Thomas feel faint. They had known he was going to Theramore, hell… Dor’ash had even suggested it. Had they actually…?
“Sir Southstone?”
Jaina’s voice shook him out of his thoughts and he almost jumped. Pressing his fingertips against his forehead to compose himself, he faced her properly again.
“I beg pardon, my Lady,” he said. “This is just a little bit overwhelming.”
“I understand.”
And he understood now, why she had that look of near-mischief hidden just beneath her calm expression – astounding though it was.
“You are welcome to serve Theramore, Sir Southstone,” Lady Jaina continued. “However, there are already many soldiers in this city. What we do not have is an official diplomat for relations with Orgrimmar. Considering your history, I feel that this position would be very suitable for you.”
Thomas’ had not removed his fingers from his forehead, and now he pressed them down again before forcing himself to lower the hand and at least appear to be composed. It probably didn’t work, but there was no judgment in the Lady’s eyes as she watched him.
“You hardly know anything about me, my Lady…” he managed.
“When I received the message from the Silver Hand,” she said, and she half smiled, half grinned, “it included a lament about how you possibly could have fallen so far after such a long, faithful service. Also, you do have impressive references.”
For a brief moment Thomas thought that he would laugh hysterically at how bizarre all of this was. Luckily, the only thing that escaped him was a breathless chuckle – probably thanks to the words of the Hand being so bitter, even in the way that Lady Jaina played them against themselves.
She seemed to read something of the chaotic emotions in his face, because her smile softened and she returned to a business-like tone.
“I would give you a chance to speak for Theramore with the orcs, if you accept this task,” she said. “From what I have heard so far, I have faith in that you could do it.”
Taking in a deep breath, Thomas took a firm mental grasp of his mind and forced it to stop spinning. He clenched his fist and pressed it against his chest, bowing.
“I humbly and gratefully accept your offer, my Lady. I swear to do my outmost not to fail you.”
Lady Jaina smiled, regally nodding her head.
“Then, you are hereby a citizen of Theramore and our official diplomat, Sir Southstone,” she said. “The Warchief informed me that he would welcome a first meeting with his representative as soon as possible. I will suggest to him that it take place in Ratchet in a week, to give you time to prepare.”
Straightening up, Thomas saluted again, although he had to hide the puzzlement at this talk of her meeting with the Warchief so often. True that it was said that they were friends still, but…
He shook it off. It was not his business, not even in his new position. He would deal with the official matters, not the unofficial ones. Although he dearly needed a while to sort all this out inside his mind, there was only one thing to say.
“As you wish, my Lady.”
Epilogue
Thomas gazed out one of the window in the room he had been given, hardly seeing the sprawling streets below, the soldiers and people illuminated by the reddening evening glow. He was busy still feeling quite amazed at how things had developed. The sudden shift in his life still seemed dizzying, although he had now gotten several hours to sort out his thoughts – but he felt no fear of the responsibilities thrown into his lap. Only a hint of nervousness when he wondered how the first meetings with the orcish representative would go. As soon as that went well, everyone should know where they stood – including him.
It should not be too difficult to get a hold of Vo’don and the others and thank them properly for all they had done. Far more than he had known when saying goodbye in Booty Bay, and more than he ever could have asked.
He had to get a hold of Collins somehow, too. The rogue would have a ball with the story of what happened in Stranglethorn, and he too had spoken about what happened way back in Un’goro last time he met with Thomas. The thought made the paladin turned emissary chuckle to himself.
A knock on the door broke Thomas’ line of thought, and he turned around.
“Enter.”
The door opened, and a soldier wearing the typical silver and gold Theramore uniform entered. At first Thomas could not quite tell the age of the man, but finally realized that the soldier could not be much older than he himself was – perhaps even a couple of years younger. Yet, something about the look in this man’s eyes made him seem beyond his days, and there were hints of grey in the hair growing just above his ears. In his hand was a heap of papers, and he saluted with his other hand.
“Simon Nebula, reporting for duty, Sir,” he introduced himself. “I will be accompanying you to Ratchet for the first meeting with the orc representative next week.”
“At ease.” Thomas smiled in greeting, but could hardly keep from frowning. Something pecked at his mind.
Simon took the papers in both hands and politely offered them.
“As per your request, Sir, here are reports of the current peaceful activities between Theramore and the Horde. I thought I would bring them to you myself since we will be working together.”
“Thank you. I assume that there are a whole lot more on the negative aspects,” Thomas said with a sigh and took the bundle of reports. Still, that was quite an amount to read. More than he would have thought.
Simon’s lips twitched.
“Very true, Sir, and an awful lot of that in there too.” He pointed at the papers.
“I see I have quite some homework then.” The joke was distracted, however. Thomas put his thumb at the edge of the heap and bent the papers so that they flipped past, kept somewhat apart by his finger. A few words flew by under his gaze several times, such as fish, crops, Ratchet and Brackenwall. The texts appeared to mainly be about what little trade was still kept up.
Even as he did this, there was still something else on Thomas’ mind. Something bothered him, and he couldn’t quite-
“Lady Proudmoore also asked me to inform you this,” Simon helpfully added, looking at Thomas with some curiosity, “we just received word that the orc representative for the first meeting would be a shaman named Dor’ash Coldbane, Sir. If you don’t mind me asking, the Lady gave me the idea that he would attend the meeting because you had met him before?”
Thomas could not help chuckling a little, furthering Simon’s curious look. Although the paladin’s first thought was one of wonder at how this news could have made it so quickly, he next thought of Lady Proudmoore’s easy talk of speaking with the Warchief.
What a strange city state this was, when it got down to it. Or rather, it’s leader was something else.
“I see,” Thomas said, more to himself than to Simon. He looked up at the soldier. “Yes, we have met, although I did not have time to learn to know him very well.”
Turning towards the desk, he was about to add “Neither him nor his bony friend, luckily”, but the puzzle piece slammed in place into his brain and his eyes widened.
Light, no. Couldn’t be…
He clenched his teeth to keep from looking up sharply at Simon. Instead, he dropped the papers on the desk in the corner of the room and turned around, forcing a relaxed look.
“It’s quite a story,” he said. “Perhaps I can tell you on the trip to Ratchet.”
Simon nodded.
“I’ll look forwards to it, Sir,” he said. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“Nothing else for now, I believe,” Thomas said.
He hesitated, pressing his thumb and pointing finger to his chin in a thoughtful look to win another moment to think. No, it was too cruel to be so. Too much of a coincidence.
But he had to know for sure.
“Although, excuse me…” he said, slowly, dreading the answer he sought. “You have a rather unusual last name, I must say.”
“An ancestor of mine was an astronomer. We were only farmers, though.” Simon frowned a little. “Pardon me, Sir, it is a strange question…?”
Thomas quickly shook his head and thought very fast.
“Yes, of course. It only struck me because I once knew a woman named Samantha Nebula.”
“I see.” Simon’s lips scrunched up in a bitter smile. “Not a relative, as far as I know. Though I did have an older sister named Sarah.” He suddenly looked very old, eyes haggard.
A cold hand grasped Thomas’ heart and squeezed.
“I see…” he heard himself say.
“Yes.” Simon looked away, rubbing his chin intensively. “The Plague took her and everyone else, though.” There was a certain look in his eye however, one Thomas had seen many times before – when soldiers heard of dead comrades and dully murmured I hope it was quick. But Simon’s eyes rather said At least I hope it was the Plague and not the Scourge. One reached that point, when the guilt of being left alive could only be quelled by the hope that they died a less gruesome death. Either way, he had to live with the knowledge that they may very well have been dragged out of their graves – if they even ever got a funeral – as abominations under the Lich King.
“I’m… very sorry to hear that.” Thomas swallowed hard. “I apologize for bringing up such painful memories.”
Simon tried to smile a little.
“You could not know that, Sir. Thank you for your concern.” The smile failed, but his tone made it clear that he honestly appreciated the condolences.
They exchanged some distracted goodbyes, and then Simon left.
Once alone Thomas leaned against his desk, pressing a hand to his forehead. That the world could be so cruel, it seemed too much. Had Simon been spared the Plague because he joined the military before it hit, then fled with Lady Proudmoore to Kalimdor? Most probably, for such was the general story. Then he must have survived the battle on mount Hyjal, fighting for his own, his friends and all the people of the world’s lives against the undead abominations led by the demon Archimonde. And lived with the knowledge that the Scourge may have slaughtered his family, if they did not die in the Plague. Either way, his own family could have been among those monsters on Hyjal, for all he knew.
Learning to smile again must have taken years, the pain in his eyes upon speaking of the dead relatives-
Try as he might, Thomas could not tell if there were any similarities in Simon and Sarah’s appearances – her face was too sunken and gone, and he had tried not to look too closely at her. It still seemed too much of a coincidence… but the family name could not be so common.
Whether true or not, he had no intention to tell Simon that his sister might be a servant of Lady Sylvanas. No matter how at ease Sarah seemed about herself.
A second realization hit, and he almost fell onto the chair by the desk, fumbling for a pencil and paper.
It seemed reasonable that Dor’ash would not take the risk of muddling a friendly conference by bringing an undead along, but this was not something Thomas could leave to chance.
His occupation as a diplomat certainly took on a grim start. The future might hold brighter things, among all the hard work he already expected, but right then he could not think of anything positive.
Poor sod. He can never catch a break.
So Terry Pratchett these first two sentences 
Can I smell a whiff of LOTR “we are not taking you back to the city, rofle you go to your favorite occupation surprise!” in Jaina’s not accepting him as a meat shield?
My only comment is that the transition from the first part, which is mostly narration, to the second where dialogue comes back into place (I mean, where he begins talking to Jaina) could be marked as a different part, by a simple line break and asterisks or w/e, as the writing style changes noticeably.
“All three of them looked a whole lot formal than he did, wearing formal robes and sitting with rolled up documents in their laps.”
Double formal. How about “official” in the second one?
fighting for his own, his friends and all the people of the world’s lives against the undead abominations led by the demon Archimonde.
In some cultures, calling one’s sister an abomination could be considered offensive. Words from the wise. XD
“Poor sod…” is the official ending, right? Good job.
The masters haunt me, apparently XD I didn’t consider the likeness or anything, but now that you mention it…
In some cultures, calling one’s sister an abomination could be considered offensive. Words from the wise. XD
But this IS Sarah we’re talking about! :hahaha;
“Poor sod…” is the official ending, right? Good job.
That wasn’t the plan (it’s just a final comment from me), but hey, maybe… and thanks
Oh what the hey. I superglued the rambly pieces of this appendix together into one big… series of scenes.
[STRIKE]It’s my unlife and I’ll angst if I want to…[/STRIKE]
The sun was just nearing its highest peak above the Barrens. It was a lazy time, when most of the inhabitants from raptors to orcs preferred not to get involved in anything too violent, because the heat could take the edge off of any fighting spirit.
Many small farms littered the land, but always with a watch tower within sight. The countryside was vast, if not perfect for growing crops, but good for the orc families who raised pigs and hunted. A considerable part of Durotar’s main source of food came from here.
Dust rose up around the horse’s hooves as it came down the road from the east. Neither it nor its rider cared one bit of the heat. All they might feel if being out in the sun for too long, was a stiffness of muscles and, in the case of the rider, an inability to speak properly due to her mouth drying up. That would be a problem if she had to fight of course, but for the time being she didn’t care much.
Forsaken never rest. They never sleep. Sarah’s thoughts were as alert as any other time, unconcerned with the stifling heat that made living creatures lazy and slow. Her mind had to be sharp, like all other Forsaken. Having thoughts constantly running through her head was the only way to drown out the dark whisper dark down. It never fell silent, calling insistently. One had to just learn to ignore it, and its promise of power and glory for the Scourge.
Although she didn’t remember “life” as a mindless slave, she certainly had no desire to try it again. But neither did she want that unknown life she had once lived.
Blast Patrick to hell. Yet, he served a purpose for the moment. Thoughts of him and everything he might know about her past worked excellently to drown out the Lich King’s murmur.
Where others saw amnesia as a curse and seek cure, Sarah counted it as a blessing. The power of having no memory gave her the strength to sneer at all those Forsaken who bitterly dwelled on their memories, who could do nothing but eternally seek revenge on those that had cast them aside after death. No thirst for dark justice bound her every action, she did not crouch in the shadows planning the painful death of somebody who had slighted her, or swore for hours when her prey managed to get away.
The one person from the past whom she did hate with a passion was the Lich King, but there was no way she could raise her hands towards him until that time when all of the Forsaken could make their move. In fact, the hate felt more arbitrary than anything else. She certainly did want him dead no less than any of her brethren, but for now and nobody knew how long he remained as untouchable as a god. It was like hating a raincloud. His incessant whisper deep inside her mind remained a small annoyance, but easily forgotten if she only kept herself busy.
As far as Sarah was concerned, her life began when she crawled out of her grave, weak as a kitten and utterly lost. With no experiences to draw from she had only felt uneasy confusion, but not fear, when several skeletal, rotting creatures surrounded her and brought her down into Deathknell. She could not remember that things had ever been different, and thus the other Forsaken simply appeared to be the way of the world to her. Only later and with some assistance did the truth “come back”.
But she was born a Forsaken, and there was nothing else inside her head except a thirst for freedom and the road – that wish for freedom had to be what allowed her to break free of the Lich King in the first place, and remain herself ever since. Probably. She could not tell if that was true, and it didn’t matter. It kept her safe from him now, and hopefully for many more years to come.
Curiosity made her press on and leap into battle, not bitterness.
That was why she despised Patrick, so much that it was the closest to fear she could experience. He knew the past that had let her go, and a nagging feeling told Sarah that whatever he could tell her, he would gladly share one day just to see what it did to her.
She didn’t want to know. She didn’t like the way he smiled.
“Who would have thought little Sarah could be a mage?”
That much he had let drop the first time they met, before she shouted at him to shut up. It had told her enough, far more than she wanted to know.
She had been weak.
How weak? Weak enough to, if she remembered, crash in her merry arsonist skip through the world, to suddenly look at all the things she had done in the last few years and scream and scream and scream in horror?
Patrick knew, and smiled at her.
The road led up a slight slope, and she shook herself out of those thoughts as the horse plodded up on the top. A small hamlet – more like a few sporadically placed farms – laid before her. The houses were of clay with red rooftops, built mostly in octagonal shapes in typical orc fashion. Sturdy fences surrounded the homesteads and several watch towers loomed nearby, but the houses themselves were not adorned with as many spikes as those in Orgrimmar or Razor Hill. This was a peaceful community – as peaceful as it got. Anybody starting trouble with these farmers would have to deal with the same kind of orcs as anywhere else. The kind that hit hard and brutal.
The inhabitants proudly called it Drakamash Village in honor of the Warchief’s mother, despite the fact that their home was so small that it didn’t appear on most maps. The name was mostly due to several members of the Frostwolf clan being in the original group of defenders, when the farms were first founded.
Perhaps it was a little pretentious to choose a name like that, but they had it and nobody seemed to mind.
Sarah didn’t care, apart from the Frostwolf clan bit. She rode down the road, passed the first watch tower after a brief discussion with the grunts stationed there. But they knew her by now, and where she was headed. Continuing was no problem.
Her goal laid near the “heart” of the village, as it were. Just another farm among the others – fenced in, with only a house, a barn and a shed, all matching each other. Tough vegetables struggled under the sun in a large patch beside the house, and pigs sleepily grunted.
She hopped off her horse and opened the wooden gate. The fence held the pigs in, and most scavengers out, unless they could climb. Without a word or sign from her, the skeletal horse trotted inside and she closed the gate behind it. When she waved at it, her mount continued on along the fence, as far away from the main building as possible.
A few fat, brown pigs lazily gazed at her from the shadow of their barn, but made no move to get up and look closer. Same with the huge, familiar wolf mount slouching in the shadow by the door of the house. He just swept his tail against the ground in greeting when he noticed her.
None of the inhabitants of the farm seemed to be outside, or at least not within first sight. A pleasant smell of meat stew hung in the air, although Sarah could feel it only very faintly.
The widow was cooking in her kitchen and all was well on her farm. Heh.
A thwack and clattering sound came from behind the main building, and Sarah’s lips curled into a smirk. She left her horse to its own devices and ducked around the rounded, spiky house.
Standing in the shadow of the wall of the woodshed, sweat matting his bare back, Dor’ash picked up another piece of wood and placed it on the chopping block before him. One swing of the axe sent two halves clattering to the ground and he bent down to collect them. Uncut slabs of wood laid piled in a heap to his right, more easily handled, hacked up pieces on his left.
She had seen this before, many times, but that man had not had green skin or looked like a mountain of muscles. It ran off her, because she mentally doused the feeling with molten lava.
“I die a little bit inside every time I see you like this.” Letting out an annoyed groan, Sarah stepped forwards.
“Grema says she likes it better if I work without my shirt on,” Dor’ash said without looking up.
“Oh please, don’t make me puke. You’d regret it.”
Dor’ash hacked the axe stuck in the chopping block and turned to Sarah. One fist at his side, he looked her over.
“Now, how are you?” he asked.
Chortling softly, Sarah pushed the hood back and moved closer to let him have a better look. After a lot of – uncomfortable – work, the combined forces of the apothecaries and the priest had patched her back up. Literally replacing the burnt sinew and skin. Although, she knew she was a fair bit lighter, since they had only cared about the most vital parts. The rest had simply been cut off and discarded.
“I can move and talk properly again,” she said, pulling up her sleeve to show him the new flesh that had replaced the destroyed. “That’s enough.”
And that was all she meant to tell him about the process. Luckily, he nodded in satisfaction.
“Good,” he said, “having you stiff as a board was pretty annoying.”
“Bah!” Sarah threw out her arms. “Speak for yourself. You didn’t have to live it!”
“Aw, but wouldn’t you have looked even scarier if they kept some charred parts?” came another female voice, causing both of them to look up.
An orc woman grinned at them, big hands at her hips as she studied Sarah. A few black strands had come free of her braid and fluttered around her face and shoulders.
“I thought about that, actually, but they said it’s enough that I already frighten small children,” Sarah said, sneering right back at her.
“Just children?” The woman, Grema, walked closer while tilting her head. She stopped before Sarah, bending forwards to get to the same eye level. “And I heard you scared the crap outta some big bad humans and elves.”
When Dor’ash stood beside another orc, his heritage became more apparent. Grema’s skin was a rich green, while his had a bluish tint. They were not of the same clan, but that didn’t matter.
“Shh!” Sarah pressed a finger to her thin lips. “Don’t tell my superiors that I’ve been taking lessons from a bogeyman.” She made a not too subtle motion in Dor’ash’s direction, earning an amused grunt of protest against this new title.
For a second Sarah sneered at him, but when she turned back to Grema, the orc woman’s grin had softened.
“Thank you,” Grema said, touching the undead’s shoulder.
“Stop that, you’re going to cook with that thing.” Sarah shrugged the big, green hand away, but her smirk was not only scornful.
“Naw, the stew’s boiling along on its own right now. I have time to clean up.”
Despite saying so, she absentmindedly brushed her hand clean – against Dor’ash’s pant leg. He didn’t seem to mind.
Sarah would have rolled her eyes if she’d had any.
“Speaking of which,” Dor’ash said, grinning around one tusk. “I reported what happened in Stranglethorn to the Warchief. It seems he told Lady Proudmoore in Theramore about it, and when Thomas made it there she set him up as a diplomat of sorts.”
“Aww, our baby is all grown up!” Sarah cooed, clasping her hands over the part of her chest where her heart might or might not be.
“About that…” Dor’ash said, and a strange look flashed past in his eyes, “the Warchief asked me to represent the orcs on the first meeting between us and Theramore’s new emissary, since I already knew him.”
“Oh, really…”
Sarah tapped her chin, peering up at Dor’ash’s green face.
“And you don’t think that bringing your smelly pet along is a good idea, in case she makes a mess on the red carpet, do you?”
“Exactly.”
“Pff. You don’t have to look so guilty, I ain’t crying my eyes out. For obvious reasons, of course. You meeting in Ratchet or what?”
Strangely, Dor’ash looked a little bit more relieved than seemed necessary. She discarded it. Probably just worried about letting his beloved Warchief down. Grema said nothing, only watched the two of them.
“Yes, in a couple of days,” Dor’ash said. “I was thinking of leaving tomorrow.”
“Just my luck, can’t catch a break.” Sarah threw up her hands, sighing dramatically. “Fine, I’ll camp in the Crossroads until you’ve stopped playing with the paladin. Ah yes…”
She pulled her backpack down her arm and pulled it open.
“I’ve got something for you.” Saying so, Sarah plunged her arm into the bag and dug around in it for a while, under the curious gaze of the two orcs.
Finally she drew out a small item carefully wrapped in a grey cloth. With her tweezers-like fingertips she unwrapped the packing, revealing a small, clear vial filled with an oddly colored liquid. It looked green one moment, but when the light shifted it rather seemed to be bluish.
Grinning, she offered it to Dor’ash.
“Here,” she said.
“What is this?” he asked, holding out his hand so that she could place the cloth and vial in his palm.
“You said that you didn’t want to worry about my bottles breaking and leaking all over,” Sarah said. She carefully tapped a fingertip against the glass, creating a soft tink-tink-tink. “This won’t counter everything we’ve currently got, but it’s strong enough to at least slow down almost anything.”
He looked at her for a moment. So did Grema, raising her fleshy eyebrows.
“That,” Dor’ash eventually said, “somehow sounds less reassuring than it should.”
“I know. And it cost me my right leg, so be grateful.”
It was all he got, coupled with a sweet smile. Slowly nodding, he wrapped the vial in the cloth again.
“Also, don’t drink it concentrated,” Sarah added as an afterthought. “Mix two drops in a cup of water and dab it on a wound. That’s a me-sized cup, not a you-sized.”
“And if that, spirits forbid, isn’t enough?” Dor’ash asked.
“Then you drink it.” She flashed most of her teeth. “And it tastes so bad it makes us undead throw up.”
In the thoughtful pause, Dor’ash studied the small package he held. Grema didn’t comment, but her expression wavered between amused and disturbed.
“No,” Sarah said in earnest. “You do not want to know what’s in it.”
“Why do I have a feeling that this is one of those things that are going to come back and bite both of us someplace where the sun doesn’t shine?” Dor’ash commented.
“Do you want it or not?” she asked in a huff, hands on her thin hips.
“Yes, yes.” He gave her a slanted smile, rapping the back of two fingers against her arm. “Thank you.”
“Much better.” She turned around and started to walk away, while hoisting the backpack onto her back again. “Now… suppose I ought to scare the kid, since I’m here.”
“Tell my pup that the food will be ready in half an hour, if you’re going to go tease him,” Grema said.
The only reply was a bony hand waving above Sarah’s shoulder. She disappeared around the corner.
Silence settled between the two orcs.
“I want to tell her, sort of,” Dor’ash finally muttered.
Grema watched him for a moment.
“But then, we might have to clean up after a killing spree,” she said. “And it would be very, very messy.”
“Indeed… they tend to not take living family lightly. But she… wouldn’t. Probably.”
He stared blankly in the direction where Sarah had gone, until Grema slapped his shoulder.
“Be a shaman,” she said, nearly stabbing his nose with her finger. “Tell her when the spirits say so.”
“I don’t think the spirits dare trying to understand her,” he said, shaking his head.
Slowly, Grema nodded. What a pet they had.
Dor’ash looked down at the small package in his hand.
It had been one of those extremely rare moments – apart from when she did something drastic to save his life or protect him – that Sarah showed something else than smug disinterest and morbid amusement, and actually seemed to care. Of course, he always believed she did care, just chose not to let anyone see it. Otherwise he wouldn’t trust her like he did.
A shared sense of humor alone does not a successful team make.
Although sometimes he did wonder if he knew her at all. The wish to tell her about this Simon Nebula, whom Thomas had met, returned in full force. Still Dor’ash kept his peace.
He honestly didn’t know how Sarah would react.
‘-‘
Sarah shook her head at the world at large as soon as she was out of sight.
Bah.
She wasn’t jealous of Grema, that wasn’t it. She had her own “lover” of sorts in another Forsaken mage, Jonathan Schiller. She could never love Dor’ash like that, either. Her being dead was only one of the reasons.
Dor’ash meant something wildly different to her. Yet, he probably wasn’t ready to hear the truth about that, yet. And he wouldn’t like it when she eventually had to tell him.
Just… bah.
The one thing she never made a joke about was that she ought to kill Grema for taking Dor’ash away from his pet owner. He wouldn’t laugh at that.
Even if he knew Sarah didn’t mean that threat honestly, either.
She pushed the thoughts aside as she laid eyes upon the barn, and a smirk tugged at her lips as she walked closer.
The sunlight just barely reached the figure inside, revealing his green skin, the simple tunic, and the thick, black braid dangling down between his mighty shoulder blades. He was just leaning over the fence to one of the smaller animal boxes of the large pigsty.
“The pet zombie of the man taking your mother away from you has returned,” Sarah said as she entered.
Karg turned and gave her a dark look. He was still young, going on his sixteenth year. Two more years until he could serve the Horde.
Two more years until Dor’ash would give up travelling for Grema’s sake. At most.
How old can Forsaken become? Impossible to tell, and when they “aged”, it wasn’t like the living. The living had the blessing of simply dying.
“She shouldn’t have to be alone out here,” Karg said through his fangs, and splattered water on the nearest pigs rather than filled their trough. They hoarsely squealed and fled, snorting in anger.
“Very mature stance, that,” Sarah said. She leaned her arms on the fence and looked at the pigs inside of the closed off room. The smarter ones chose to recoil. “I take it he talked about your training again.”
Snarling, Karg flung the bucket at a corner and stomped towards the barn door.
“That’s not mature,” Sarah muttered. She turned to follow him, snatching up the discarded pail as she went.
And she tried hard to ignore the fuzzy sense of déjà vu when she walked out into the blast of sunlight, heavy bucket in hand. The farm was full of those senses of familiarity. Not a difficult riddle to solve, the reason for that. Farmer girl. Luckily, any and all solid memories stayed away.
Hearing her approach, Karg turned and accepted the bucket back without a word. Together they headed for the well. Glancing around to make sure that neither his mother nor Dor’ash were nearby, the young orc muttered to the small woman walking beside him.
“He wants to make me something I’m not, that’s all.”
I’m fairly sure his exact words were “Your father was an honorable grunt. There’s nothing wrong with following in his footsteps and I won’t hinder you if that is what you wish. Still, I know that you have a potential that should not be wasted.”
Sarah just shrugged, watching Karg fasten the bucket on the rope and lower it into the well. After a few moments there was a soft splash, and he easily hauled the large container upwards again. It looked like light work for his already thick arms, with their corded veins. To him, it probably was.
She shook off another whisper of a memory she could not grasp, didn’t want to grasp.
By Arthas, she hated this place. In a way. It was difficult though, sometimes.
“Well, you know,” she said, folding her arms and tilting her head. “I’m the one who will have to carry you around. I’d like you to be able to cast a healing spell or two.”
His eyes darkened again.
“I won’t need your help,” he said.
Snorting, Sarah looked at the upper side of her hands and polished the bits that would have been nails against her robe.
“Did Dor’ash admit what happened in Stranglethorn, yet?” she asked.
He just grunted, proving that he had been told the story. And the fact that he did not say that they should never have run away like cowards, but fought the hopeless combat to the death by arrows – that said that he thought not like a single-minded grunt, but as the warrior who wanted to survive, not necessarily go down fighting a battle that held neither hope nor glory. As such, he was a product of the young Warchief’s hope for his people – and, perhaps, truly what Dor’ash hoped of the boy.
Yet Karg honored the memory of his father, and Dor’ash had not gone on a courtship hunt with Grema. They were not family, yet. The boy was not ready to dare see himself as something else than a warrior, and training a shaman required commitment and time that Dor’ash just could not settle on right now. He still had things to finish for the Horde, for his clan.
But he looked at me, just like that, even before Stranglethorn, and said “I ought to stop going into dangerous areas. I want to come back alive.” And I called him a wimp, didn’t I? And he almost got killed by goddamn humans and nelves.
Sarah looked down at her arms. The memory of the pain and the maddening inability to move remained fresh in mind. Setting herself on fire had to be the most insane thing she had ever done. More than one person in the Undercity had asked her why. She could have gotten away otherwise if she had just tried.
To scare the crap out of a bunch of Alliance assholes, of course. That was an explanation that worked. Insane, but amusing.
For Sylvanas, for the Horde?
But what did they care about one or five lives lost, in the greater scheme of things?
No. For herself, and… yes, for Dor’ash.
She grimly smiled to herself.
‘-‘
Nighttime swept a pleasant coolness over the Barrens, and the village. Not that Sarah could enjoy that anymore than she suffered from the heat. Midnight found her lying on the floor inside the house, curled by the fireplace and staring into the sleepily glowing embers. All was dark apart from that, just a little bit of moonlight creeping inside through the smoke hole in the wall.
Now and again a nocturnal bird cawed outside, or some other creature howled in a distance.
And all three of the orcs snored. She rolled over on her back and gazed upwards at the second floor where they slept – a thing of the living.
I don’t need these people. They don’t mean anything to me. I can walk away from Dor’ash whenever I want and never look back even if he’s hanging on the edge of a cliff.
Often, probably too often, Sarah told herself that she only followed Dor’ash around because she just had to see what he would do and say next. Someday he would bore her.
She kept mentally insisting that, pointedly not allowing herself to think about how she lied to both him and the Royal Apothecary Society to protect Dor’ash from their suspicion.
I can quit whenever I want.
Except deep down she knew that “whenever I want” would only be by Dor’ash’s last breath, and depending on how it happened she [i]would[/i] have bitter wishes of revenge driving her from that moment on.
She was not as free as she wanted to believe. Claiming anything else was a lie.
No… she could never quit. She pressed a thin hand to her face, pursing her mouth.
[i]And he looked at me, just like that, and said “I’m getting too old-”
“Ripe.”
“… Right. Anyway.” Eyes, eyes, eyes, voice. “When I stop travelling, will you watch over Karg instead?”
And I snorted but he knew I would, knew, knew. [/i]
Forsaken don’t know how long their “lives” are, and old age means feebleness of mind. Losing themselves, not being able to think loud enough to drown the Lich King’s whisper, until his will becomes the stronger again. There’s only one thing to do with those who start faltering beyond hope. When that time came, she didn’t want Karg to be the one who put her out of her misery.
But, if she travelled with Karg when it began, he could at least bring her back to Dor’ash. She could live with that knowledge.
Claiming that she didn’t need Dor’ash was the biggest lie of them all.
It wasn’t love – she did have Jonathan, but she wouldn’t have him save her when she no longer could fend off the Lich King’s mental control. She wouldn’t allow anybody but her pet orc to do that.
Because, well…
She was his pet zombie, now wasn’t she?
Methinks the lady doth protest too much, nay?
Jonathan Schiller was that other mage in Wail, Baby, Wail, by the way.
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