[Story] [Ojore] Burn
(( I'm putting this here as well, 'cause not everybody checks the TBDF and I'm an attention whore SO. ))
Terror. Pain.
He couldn't see straight, couldn't think. There had been an explosion and he had been caught in the blast - but how he was still alive he did not know. The warrior was young, painfully so, barely even twenty; he had already seen so much that he should not have and this was the worst of it.
The heat was making his skin peel. The smoke, it made him choke, his lungs ached, any longer in this and he would die. He wheezed as he stumbled through the smokey blackness, tripped over rubble, cursed and cried as he came upon a wall and he followed it with his hands against it, his heart pounding in his chest the entire way. Fear choked him. Over and over he whimpered, "I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die," and when he came to the hole in the wall that the explosion had opened up he nearly cheered, then stumbled out into the hallway and down in the direction that he knew would lead to freedom and safety.
When the young Troll finally stopped, he doubled over in the street and retched, and retched, and retched; everything ached, when the attending priests and priestesses tried to get the young man to lie down he refused. He backed away, sobbing, and only found himself backing into a guard - an action that caused the young man to utter such a horrible scream that even those that were disgusted by the Trolls were forced to flinch.
In the end, it was magic that brought him down, calmed the beast, and allowed the priests to get close.
- - -
"What's your name?"
The young Troll blinked slowly. He had been conscious for half an hour and this was the first time he had heard the voice of the woman that was treating him. She smiled brightly as her hands hovered over him and he watched the white light dance between her fingers.
"O-Ojore," he rasped. "Tuskrender."
"I'm Lesha. You're a very lucky man, Ojore."
He grunted softly and raised one hand to stare at it, only to find it was tightly bandaged - just like most of his body. Lesha gently urged the fellow to sit up, which he did, and she crouched on the bed behind him to finish her task of healing what she could before she wrapped everything up again. By the time she was finished, Ojore felt like a mummy.
That thought made his blood turn to ice.
He continued to remain sitting even as the elven woman circled around, then she sat on the edge of the bed in front of him; she smiled gently as she said, "You're very lucky. You were very close to losing your life, but you're a very stubborn fellow and you're here now."
Ojore nodded slowly.
"We're going to keep you here and help you recover," Lesha said. "if you'll let us, we may be able to repair most of the burns."
"H-how much?" Ojore asked. He had a hard time raising his voice, his throat was too raw, so the woman had to tilt her head to hear him.
"Second-degree, not including areas where we had to remove debris, over much of the upper half of your body - that is, your arms, face, torso. It's going to take two or three months for you to heal, sir, and - I'll be honest, it's going to hurt," she replied, flashing an apologetic smile. The young Troll looked down at his bandaged hands.
"Will I ever be able to fight again?"
The elf brushed her fingers against his bandaged cheek, which caused the Troll to reflexively flinch, and said, "Yes, once the burns heal."
"And dere's gonna be scars," he added. His voice lacked any feeling - an observation that worried the nurse.
"Yes, there will be. Your regenerative ability will be hampered, too, but we'll do what we can."
When there was no response, Lesha smiled gently, once again, and slipped off the bed. "If you need me, call," she said, "but you need to rest."
Ojore nodded numbly; as the elf left, all he could do was stare at his hands.
- - -
The time crept by ever so slowly for the Troll. His days were spent in rest for the first month, with frequent changes of his bandages and treatment with various medicines. In the second month he had to begin the physical therapy portion of his recovery, training his body back into the shape it had been before the explosion and fire, which resulted in many a temper tantrum and much frustration on his part due to how slow-going the entire thing was. Ojore was not a patient man.
On the last day of his treatment he was allowed to look in the mirror.
It was difficult to discern where his tattoos had been; much of his flesh was still marred by burn scars, even if those around his face had been healed somewhat by the work of the elven healers, and most of his facial piercings had been removed. He lightly touched his face as he stared.
"Some of them had to be surgically removed," Lesha quietly informed him. She stood behind the massive Troll, to his right, and simply watched the young man as he tried to figure everything out.
There were holes in his tusks where iron rings once sat and his hair - By Hakkar, why the hair? - had not started to grow back yet. He vaguely remembered hearing that it might not for many more weeks, if he was lucky and was able to regrow at all.
With a low, disgusted grunt, the young man reached for the brand new helmet that had been procured for him and dropped it on his head; he was quick to pull on the rest of his armour, to cover up his scarred chest and arms as best he could before turning toward the nurse and offering her a half-hearted salute.
"T'anks," he said, gruffly, "but maybe ya shoulda left me behind."
So startled was Lesha at the Troll's words that she couldn't find any to retort with and she remained silent as the fellow snorted and swiftly exited the infirmary.
- - -
The massive, armoured figure that approached Zul'Gurub on raptorback didn't show any signs of slowing down as it approached the gates; when the guards started to shout at it, the figure simply removed its massive axe from its back and snarled in Trollish, "Bring it!"
As the guards lunged at the armoured rider, he swung his axe and found his aim to be quite excellent for his purposes - the first guard was caught across the chest, sliced clean open and dropped beneath the beast who simply rode over it as its master urged it into a quick turn. The rider made another pass to finish off the second guard, then slowed to a halt and turned to face the gates.
"Gurubashi!"
The warrior's deep voice echoed through the jungle. A few Trolls within the city raised their heads, though one priest in particular tilted his to listen.
"Hakkar!"
More trolls decided that it would be best to pay attention.
"You have forsaken me for the last time!" The warrior bellowed. "When next I return, Ojore Tuskrender will leave Zul'Gurub with your head! I'll take your head, Hakkar! You hear me!? You took my family, you took my father and then you had the balls to leave me to die!" He took a deep breath as he fought back tears. "FUCK YOU, HAKKAR!"
As he rode away, Ojore Tuskrender let out a blood-curdling cry, "For the Horde - Death to the Gurubashi!"
And silence once again fell over the jungle.
Terror. Pain.
He couldn't see straight, couldn't think. There had been an explosion and he had been caught in the blast - but how he was still alive he did not know. The warrior was young, painfully so, barely even twenty; he had already seen so much that he should not have and this was the worst of it.
The heat was making his skin peel. The smoke, it made him choke, his lungs ached, any longer in this and he would die. He wheezed as he stumbled through the smokey blackness, tripped over rubble, cursed and cried as he came upon a wall and he followed it with his hands against it, his heart pounding in his chest the entire way. Fear choked him. Over and over he whimpered, "I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die," and when he came to the hole in the wall that the explosion had opened up he nearly cheered, then stumbled out into the hallway and down in the direction that he knew would lead to freedom and safety.
When the young Troll finally stopped, he doubled over in the street and retched, and retched, and retched; everything ached, when the attending priests and priestesses tried to get the young man to lie down he refused. He backed away, sobbing, and only found himself backing into a guard - an action that caused the young man to utter such a horrible scream that even those that were disgusted by the Trolls were forced to flinch.
In the end, it was magic that brought him down, calmed the beast, and allowed the priests to get close.
- - -
"What's your name?"
The young Troll blinked slowly. He had been conscious for half an hour and this was the first time he had heard the voice of the woman that was treating him. She smiled brightly as her hands hovered over him and he watched the white light dance between her fingers.
"O-Ojore," he rasped. "Tuskrender."
"I'm Lesha. You're a very lucky man, Ojore."
He grunted softly and raised one hand to stare at it, only to find it was tightly bandaged - just like most of his body. Lesha gently urged the fellow to sit up, which he did, and she crouched on the bed behind him to finish her task of healing what she could before she wrapped everything up again. By the time she was finished, Ojore felt like a mummy.
That thought made his blood turn to ice.
He continued to remain sitting even as the elven woman circled around, then she sat on the edge of the bed in front of him; she smiled gently as she said, "You're very lucky. You were very close to losing your life, but you're a very stubborn fellow and you're here now."
Ojore nodded slowly.
"We're going to keep you here and help you recover," Lesha said. "if you'll let us, we may be able to repair most of the burns."
"H-how much?" Ojore asked. He had a hard time raising his voice, his throat was too raw, so the woman had to tilt her head to hear him.
"Second-degree, not including areas where we had to remove debris, over much of the upper half of your body - that is, your arms, face, torso. It's going to take two or three months for you to heal, sir, and - I'll be honest, it's going to hurt," she replied, flashing an apologetic smile. The young Troll looked down at his bandaged hands.
"Will I ever be able to fight again?"
The elf brushed her fingers against his bandaged cheek, which caused the Troll to reflexively flinch, and said, "Yes, once the burns heal."
"And dere's gonna be scars," he added. His voice lacked any feeling - an observation that worried the nurse.
"Yes, there will be. Your regenerative ability will be hampered, too, but we'll do what we can."
When there was no response, Lesha smiled gently, once again, and slipped off the bed. "If you need me, call," she said, "but you need to rest."
Ojore nodded numbly; as the elf left, all he could do was stare at his hands.
- - -
The time crept by ever so slowly for the Troll. His days were spent in rest for the first month, with frequent changes of his bandages and treatment with various medicines. In the second month he had to begin the physical therapy portion of his recovery, training his body back into the shape it had been before the explosion and fire, which resulted in many a temper tantrum and much frustration on his part due to how slow-going the entire thing was. Ojore was not a patient man.
On the last day of his treatment he was allowed to look in the mirror.
It was difficult to discern where his tattoos had been; much of his flesh was still marred by burn scars, even if those around his face had been healed somewhat by the work of the elven healers, and most of his facial piercings had been removed. He lightly touched his face as he stared.
"Some of them had to be surgically removed," Lesha quietly informed him. She stood behind the massive Troll, to his right, and simply watched the young man as he tried to figure everything out.
There were holes in his tusks where iron rings once sat and his hair - By Hakkar, why the hair? - had not started to grow back yet. He vaguely remembered hearing that it might not for many more weeks, if he was lucky and was able to regrow at all.
With a low, disgusted grunt, the young man reached for the brand new helmet that had been procured for him and dropped it on his head; he was quick to pull on the rest of his armour, to cover up his scarred chest and arms as best he could before turning toward the nurse and offering her a half-hearted salute.
"T'anks," he said, gruffly, "but maybe ya shoulda left me behind."
So startled was Lesha at the Troll's words that she couldn't find any to retort with and she remained silent as the fellow snorted and swiftly exited the infirmary.
- - -
The massive, armoured figure that approached Zul'Gurub on raptorback didn't show any signs of slowing down as it approached the gates; when the guards started to shout at it, the figure simply removed its massive axe from its back and snarled in Trollish, "Bring it!"
As the guards lunged at the armoured rider, he swung his axe and found his aim to be quite excellent for his purposes - the first guard was caught across the chest, sliced clean open and dropped beneath the beast who simply rode over it as its master urged it into a quick turn. The rider made another pass to finish off the second guard, then slowed to a halt and turned to face the gates.
"Gurubashi!"
The warrior's deep voice echoed through the jungle. A few Trolls within the city raised their heads, though one priest in particular tilted his to listen.
"Hakkar!"
More trolls decided that it would be best to pay attention.
"You have forsaken me for the last time!" The warrior bellowed. "When next I return, Ojore Tuskrender will leave Zul'Gurub with your head! I'll take your head, Hakkar! You hear me!? You took my family, you took my father and then you had the balls to leave me to die!" He took a deep breath as he fought back tears. "FUCK YOU, HAKKAR!"
As he rode away, Ojore Tuskrender let out a blood-curdling cry, "For the Horde - Death to the Gurubashi!"
And silence once again fell over the jungle.