World of Warcraft: Tanks for Nuthin'
This is a part-blog, part-fanfic. Wlad is a character of mine (I wrote him and his sister in a story for the Blizz writing contest which I, alas, did not win) and a few things have happened in his life that make him inordinate amounts of fun to write the poor man. He'll be updated every so often whenever I decide to dungeon on him.
So, without further ado, I introduce him to you:
Fandom: World of Warcraft
Pairing/Characters: Wlad Jorgensen (male OC)
Title: Tanks for Nuthin'
Author:
dragon_fanworks . Obviously.
Rating: PG-13 for alcohol abuse
Disclaime: If I owned WoW, would I be writing fanfiction?
Wlad hiccupped, the acidic taste of vomit briefly gracing his tongue and burning his nostrils, which made him cough, his eyes watering from the sting. He already had a pool of vomit to his left, and he knew how sorry of a sight he had to appear, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He had worked so hard-so hard-and for what? The salvation of the world was of little importance when compared to the salvation of his people. Stromgarde had suffered through so much, had fallen so far from its former power, and Lordaeron-and then Stormwind-somehow found it fit to merely stand by and watch it crumble.
The progenitor of all human kingdoms was allowed-allowed-to fall into ruin.
Wlad had held out hope while its prince still lived. Wlad had pledged his very being to Galen Trollbane, to his homeland above all other concerns of the Alliance, and only performed under orders from Stormwind to advance the cause of Stromgarde.
But, it seemed as if everything had been forgotten, everything that Strom had once been, once had, once done, was thrown away, relegated to old songs and stories. He had hoped that rumor of Galen’s death was a rumor only-but when it was compounded with speculation that he was now Forsaken…Wlad had to discover the fate of his kingdom for himself.
He had flown to Arathi Point-a very pointed reminder of how little of Strom there was left-and then rode towards where a Forsaken outpost named “Galen’s Fall.”
It was very hard to be sneaky in full plate armor, and Wlad had felt that every movement was visible to the Forsaken, that he would be discovered before he could discover the fate of his prince. But when he saw…and he knew because he had been under Galen’s command…he couldn’t let the prince remain such an abomination. After everything that they had fought for, to now be turned against his own people, his own kingdom! Wlad wouldn’t have it.
He took no pleasure in being the assassin of the former prince of his people, but it was a thousand times better to be truly dead than to be undead and serving beneath the “Banshee Queen,” who had been blind enough to not notice the revolution brewing within her own ranks, who had been spared when her underlings had slaughtered hundreds of proud, courageous men and women from both Horde and Alliance.
Wlad only barely escaped with his life, but that didn’t matter. Nothing much did anymore. Not with his nation shattered, her people broken, and Danath Trollbane-the only other man who would be considered the heir to Strom-entrenched in Outland doing Light-knew-what. His duty was to those in the Eastern Kingdoms, not some Light-forsaken, demon-infested elsewhere.
That was bad enough to push the steadfastedly sober man into cups, but should have been something that he would have been able to pull himself out of and dedicate himself with renewed vigor to the restoration of his nation and a hatred of the Forsaken.
However, when his lover had been forbidden by his family to ever see Wlad again, the warrior had been pushed farther into depression. He had truly loved Nareas, so being physically and magically threatened by the night elf’s family in warning of what would happen if he tried to see the druid again…well, it hadn’t helped his already broken spirit.
But what had him passed out on a table in an obscure corner of the Pig and Whistle tavern was those two pieces of bad news compounded with another, even more terrible word that turned his world upside down, shook it a few times, threw it against a wall and let what remained slither down the grimy coating of Gnomeregan-his sister, his twin, the woman he both loved more than life itself and who frustrated him beyond reason, was dead.
He couldn’t remember when he had last been able to see straight, and didn’t really care. He paid his tab and for the effort it took to clean his inevitable mess up from the large store of money that he had deposited in the bank during his travels. He had enough to afford him years without doing a single damn thing.
He knew that both Nareas and Davinia would disapprove of his ‘moping’, but what was left in his life?
Not his country.
Not his family.
Not the one person he had truly entrusted his heart to.
Wlad coughed, his lungs feebly trying to keep his airways clear-not that he had much other than alcohol in his stomach these days. He did enough to keep himself alive-because he knew Davi would be really pissed at him if he committed slow suicide from self-abuse and neglect-and mildly respectable to passers-by.
Wlad turned his head enough to have room to breathe and his heavily-armored fingers brushed against the sword strapped to his side, his shield propped up against the wall. He stared at the shield blankly, his breathing harsh and irregular as thoughts fought to form in his head.
What else is left to me but battle? What else is left to me but the fight so survive, the struggle against death itself?
It wouldn’t justify his existence, it wouldn’t give him any pleasure, but he could stock up on Nethergarde Bitters-his favorite, as it took only three mugs to get beyond his substantial metabolism-and venture forth into the world again to throw himself against the most potent of obstacles in the distant hope of maybe forgetting how pathetic he and his existence were.
Wlad pushed himself to sitting, finished whatever he had been drinking, picked up and secured his shield on his back and trudged down the stairs, giving the innkeeper a tired, defeated nod before exiting into Stormwind’s streets-a city that he had learned to hate, and hoped to never set foot in again.
I’m sure there are places that won’t turn away a desperate, defeated man, and even fewer people who will care about my fondness for drink whenever given a moment to rest.
He staggered towards the Call Board, fellow adventurers and Stormwind residents simply walking around him when he fell into walls or buildings. He was sure he’d learn how to walk while completely intoxicated, just as he knew it would be easy enough to learn to fight that way.
He hiccuped and smiled dazedly.
All I have to do is survive. Everything else has proven meaningless. All I need to do is survive and keep myself distracted from the meaninglessness. I’m sure that will prove difficult enough to keep me going.
He slammed into the Call Board and began to dig through the various papers pinned on it, trying to discern what would be best for him while the letters and numbers swam before his eyes.
So, without further ado, I introduce him to you:
Fandom: World of Warcraft
Pairing/Characters: Wlad Jorgensen (male OC)
Title: Tanks for Nuthin'
Author:
dragon_fanworks . Obviously.
Rating: PG-13 for alcohol abuse
Disclaime: If I owned WoW, would I be writing fanfiction?
Wlad hiccupped, the acidic taste of vomit briefly gracing his tongue and burning his nostrils, which made him cough, his eyes watering from the sting. He already had a pool of vomit to his left, and he knew how sorry of a sight he had to appear, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He had worked so hard-so hard-and for what? The salvation of the world was of little importance when compared to the salvation of his people. Stromgarde had suffered through so much, had fallen so far from its former power, and Lordaeron-and then Stormwind-somehow found it fit to merely stand by and watch it crumble.
The progenitor of all human kingdoms was allowed-allowed-to fall into ruin.
Wlad had held out hope while its prince still lived. Wlad had pledged his very being to Galen Trollbane, to his homeland above all other concerns of the Alliance, and only performed under orders from Stormwind to advance the cause of Stromgarde.
But, it seemed as if everything had been forgotten, everything that Strom had once been, once had, once done, was thrown away, relegated to old songs and stories. He had hoped that rumor of Galen’s death was a rumor only-but when it was compounded with speculation that he was now Forsaken…Wlad had to discover the fate of his kingdom for himself.
He had flown to Arathi Point-a very pointed reminder of how little of Strom there was left-and then rode towards where a Forsaken outpost named “Galen’s Fall.”
It was very hard to be sneaky in full plate armor, and Wlad had felt that every movement was visible to the Forsaken, that he would be discovered before he could discover the fate of his prince. But when he saw…and he knew because he had been under Galen’s command…he couldn’t let the prince remain such an abomination. After everything that they had fought for, to now be turned against his own people, his own kingdom! Wlad wouldn’t have it.
He took no pleasure in being the assassin of the former prince of his people, but it was a thousand times better to be truly dead than to be undead and serving beneath the “Banshee Queen,” who had been blind enough to not notice the revolution brewing within her own ranks, who had been spared when her underlings had slaughtered hundreds of proud, courageous men and women from both Horde and Alliance.
Wlad only barely escaped with his life, but that didn’t matter. Nothing much did anymore. Not with his nation shattered, her people broken, and Danath Trollbane-the only other man who would be considered the heir to Strom-entrenched in Outland doing Light-knew-what. His duty was to those in the Eastern Kingdoms, not some Light-forsaken, demon-infested elsewhere.
That was bad enough to push the steadfastedly sober man into cups, but should have been something that he would have been able to pull himself out of and dedicate himself with renewed vigor to the restoration of his nation and a hatred of the Forsaken.
However, when his lover had been forbidden by his family to ever see Wlad again, the warrior had been pushed farther into depression. He had truly loved Nareas, so being physically and magically threatened by the night elf’s family in warning of what would happen if he tried to see the druid again…well, it hadn’t helped his already broken spirit.
But what had him passed out on a table in an obscure corner of the Pig and Whistle tavern was those two pieces of bad news compounded with another, even more terrible word that turned his world upside down, shook it a few times, threw it against a wall and let what remained slither down the grimy coating of Gnomeregan-his sister, his twin, the woman he both loved more than life itself and who frustrated him beyond reason, was dead.
He couldn’t remember when he had last been able to see straight, and didn’t really care. He paid his tab and for the effort it took to clean his inevitable mess up from the large store of money that he had deposited in the bank during his travels. He had enough to afford him years without doing a single damn thing.
He knew that both Nareas and Davinia would disapprove of his ‘moping’, but what was left in his life?
Not his country.
Not his family.
Not the one person he had truly entrusted his heart to.
Wlad coughed, his lungs feebly trying to keep his airways clear-not that he had much other than alcohol in his stomach these days. He did enough to keep himself alive-because he knew Davi would be really pissed at him if he committed slow suicide from self-abuse and neglect-and mildly respectable to passers-by.
Wlad turned his head enough to have room to breathe and his heavily-armored fingers brushed against the sword strapped to his side, his shield propped up against the wall. He stared at the shield blankly, his breathing harsh and irregular as thoughts fought to form in his head.
What else is left to me but battle? What else is left to me but the fight so survive, the struggle against death itself?
It wouldn’t justify his existence, it wouldn’t give him any pleasure, but he could stock up on Nethergarde Bitters-his favorite, as it took only three mugs to get beyond his substantial metabolism-and venture forth into the world again to throw himself against the most potent of obstacles in the distant hope of maybe forgetting how pathetic he and his existence were.
Wlad pushed himself to sitting, finished whatever he had been drinking, picked up and secured his shield on his back and trudged down the stairs, giving the innkeeper a tired, defeated nod before exiting into Stormwind’s streets-a city that he had learned to hate, and hoped to never set foot in again.
I’m sure there are places that won’t turn away a desperate, defeated man, and even fewer people who will care about my fondness for drink whenever given a moment to rest.
He staggered towards the Call Board, fellow adventurers and Stormwind residents simply walking around him when he fell into walls or buildings. He was sure he’d learn how to walk while completely intoxicated, just as he knew it would be easy enough to learn to fight that way.
He hiccuped and smiled dazedly.
All I have to do is survive. Everything else has proven meaningless. All I need to do is survive and keep myself distracted from the meaninglessness. I’m sure that will prove difficult enough to keep me going.
He slammed into the Call Board and began to dig through the various papers pinned on it, trying to discern what would be best for him while the letters and numbers swam before his eyes.