WoW: Crossroads
No, not that Crossroads.
Fandom: World of Warcraft
Rating: PG13 for generalized unpleasantness of the sort associated with the living dead.
Disclaimer: All characters and concepts related to the World of Warcraft are the sole property of Activision/Blizzard Entertainment. I profiteth not. But, Activision? Unless you're ponying up some fucking royalties, my original characters belong to me. I don't care what your EULA says.
Author's Notes: Keldris Pellegrin enjoyed a traumatically near death experience after his touching reunion with Solivar during the siege of Orgrimmar; this is that story. AKA that ficbit where Krivulka Stonefist, badass orc granny great-aunt, decided she wanted to become a POV character. Features at least one completely non-canonical trollish loa whose entire existence I am choosing to blame on
incandescens for reasons that will eventually become obvious, at least to her. Also eventual angst and woe and storyline setup for things that are currently unfolding in Steadfast RP.
The siege of Orgrimmar was over.
Columns of smoke miles high rose from the red desert plain that girded the city, heavy with the ashes of the city's fallen defenders. The Earthen Ring, those who remained, had labored two full days and two full nights to give the dead the honor and peace they deserved, offering their flesh the gift of purifying flame on a dozen massive pyres and singing their souls home to their ancestors. The rhythmic chants still rose with the smoke, deep-voiced tauren and orc and troll joined with the Light-calling songs of the Sin'dorei priests.
Captain Krivulka Stonefist, wearier in body and soul than she had been in years, paused in her own work to listen for a moment, leaning heavily on the iron-tipped farming implement she was using to chop fire-blackened bone. The pit in which the clean-up crews were dismembering and immolating the abandoned remains of the invaders lay downwind of the higher plateau on which the pyres stood and the breeze called by the wind-talkers carried smoke and stray sparks and voices down to where they labored knee-deep in the no-longer-living dead. The death-song was not one she knew and over the long years of the wars she had learned many, from clans still living and clans long dust, but she strove to take comfort in its words nonetheless, its promise of cool wind and sweet water and a place by the ghost-fire of the ancestors for the souls of fallen heroes. Tried, and failed. Beneath the chants, the promises of peace and glory, she heard it too clearly: the wails of mate bereft of mate, of children shorn of parents, of battle-siblings and blood-kin torn and mourning without hope.
Oh, yes -- the siege was over, the battle hard-fought and bloody but, in the end, the Horde and the Argent Dawn had stood victorious...for all that victory was worth. The relentless undead tide of the Scourge had withdrawn. She could not say, even to herself, that they had been defeated for it seemed, even unto the last, that they were prepared to fight until every life in Orgrimmar had been extinguished, every drop of blood spilt, every soul enslaved, and they had seemed to possess the numbers needed to do it. She was not, standing ankle-deep in the ashes of unceremoniously burnt Scourge-corpses and flinders of their ground bones, even remotely certain that it was any act of the city's defenders that had finally driven them away.
Never, in all the long years of her life, had victory tasted more of ashes.
A low creaking rumble drowned out both chants and mourning-wails: tumbrels from the city bringing more Scourge corpses to be chopped and burnt, escorted by a detachment of the Warchief's Kor'kron. Krivulka found she lacked the physical and mental energy to offer more than an abbreviated form of the honors they deserved, though none seemed to take offense at the lack; they looked as weary as she, at the least, and a thousand times less accustomed to dealing with the unpleasantness of Scourge disposal. One of them, taller and more heavily built than the rest, split off and approached her, graying warrior-braids spilling from beneath his helm as he pulled it off.
"Hail, Krivulka Stonefist." The High Overlord of the Kor'kron greeted her with a smile and the gift of a mostly-full water skin.
"Hail, Varok Saurfang." She drank, the warm water doing much to wash the taste of Scourge-taint off her tongue, and handed the skin back to him.
He drank, as well. "You look to have seen better days, sister."
"We have all -- and it will be long before any of us see them again." She pushed herself to her full height despite the protests of aching muscles. "How many?"
"Too many." His smile, small to start, vanished entirely. "You?"
"More than 'too many.'" She closed her eyes, so she would not have to see his pity, the sympathy of one commander to another; she was not ready to accept such gifts. "But now you see. You know the truth with your own blade."
"I do -- but I also did not doubt to begin with. I remember what nipped at our heels the hour we took flight from Lordaeron."
Something in his carefully level tone sparked anger in her breast and she snarled, drawing every nearby eye. "Grom's pup."
"Yes." The look Saurfang gave her counseled silence, advice she chose to accept with so many young mag'har close to hand. "His attitude has been...adjusted. He now belabors the Warchief to send him to Northrend to avenge this unasked for assault."
"Good," Krivulka replied, baring her tusks in a gesture that held neither humor nor joy. "It would do him well to stand on a battlefield where the enemy does not know the name Hellscream -- nor would they fear it if they did."
Saurfang shook his head, and handed her back the water-skin; for a long moment they stood and simply drank it empty.
"Varok, I would ask a boon of you." Krivulka gazed out over the pit, and up at the pyres casting their smoke heavenward.
"You have more than earned one." Saurfang replied, heavily. "Ask it."
"We have lost...many. More than half of mine have mixed their smoke with yours." She caught his eye. "And not all of them warriors. I ask your leave to go among the folk of Orgrimmar and seek those who would take up the cause of the Dawn."
"I suspect that we are all about to take that cause." But he did not look away. "You have my leave -- and I will speak to the Warchief, as well."
"I thank you."
He reached out and took away her bone-splitter. "Thank me by sleeping before you fall where you stand."
"Softening in your age, Varok."
He grinned at her. "No softer than you, Krivulka. How fares your paladin?"
"He yet lives. For now."
Ashes. Even with the water, her mouth tasted of ashes.
For the record:
1004 / 2500 words. 40% done!
...More to come.
Fandom: World of Warcraft
Rating: PG13 for generalized unpleasantness of the sort associated with the living dead.
Disclaimer: All characters and concepts related to the World of Warcraft are the sole property of Activision/Blizzard Entertainment. I profiteth not. But, Activision? Unless you're ponying up some fucking royalties, my original characters belong to me. I don't care what your EULA says.
Author's Notes: Keldris Pellegrin enjoyed a traumatically near death experience after his touching reunion with Solivar during the siege of Orgrimmar; this is that story. AKA that ficbit where Krivulka Stonefist, badass orc granny great-aunt, decided she wanted to become a POV character. Features at least one completely non-canonical trollish loa whose entire existence I am choosing to blame on
incandescens for reasons that will eventually become obvious, at least to her. Also eventual angst and woe and storyline setup for things that are currently unfolding in Steadfast RP.
The siege of Orgrimmar was over.
Columns of smoke miles high rose from the red desert plain that girded the city, heavy with the ashes of the city's fallen defenders. The Earthen Ring, those who remained, had labored two full days and two full nights to give the dead the honor and peace they deserved, offering their flesh the gift of purifying flame on a dozen massive pyres and singing their souls home to their ancestors. The rhythmic chants still rose with the smoke, deep-voiced tauren and orc and troll joined with the Light-calling songs of the Sin'dorei priests.
Captain Krivulka Stonefist, wearier in body and soul than she had been in years, paused in her own work to listen for a moment, leaning heavily on the iron-tipped farming implement she was using to chop fire-blackened bone. The pit in which the clean-up crews were dismembering and immolating the abandoned remains of the invaders lay downwind of the higher plateau on which the pyres stood and the breeze called by the wind-talkers carried smoke and stray sparks and voices down to where they labored knee-deep in the no-longer-living dead. The death-song was not one she knew and over the long years of the wars she had learned many, from clans still living and clans long dust, but she strove to take comfort in its words nonetheless, its promise of cool wind and sweet water and a place by the ghost-fire of the ancestors for the souls of fallen heroes. Tried, and failed. Beneath the chants, the promises of peace and glory, she heard it too clearly: the wails of mate bereft of mate, of children shorn of parents, of battle-siblings and blood-kin torn and mourning without hope.
Oh, yes -- the siege was over, the battle hard-fought and bloody but, in the end, the Horde and the Argent Dawn had stood victorious...for all that victory was worth. The relentless undead tide of the Scourge had withdrawn. She could not say, even to herself, that they had been defeated for it seemed, even unto the last, that they were prepared to fight until every life in Orgrimmar had been extinguished, every drop of blood spilt, every soul enslaved, and they had seemed to possess the numbers needed to do it. She was not, standing ankle-deep in the ashes of unceremoniously burnt Scourge-corpses and flinders of their ground bones, even remotely certain that it was any act of the city's defenders that had finally driven them away.
Never, in all the long years of her life, had victory tasted more of ashes.
A low creaking rumble drowned out both chants and mourning-wails: tumbrels from the city bringing more Scourge corpses to be chopped and burnt, escorted by a detachment of the Warchief's Kor'kron. Krivulka found she lacked the physical and mental energy to offer more than an abbreviated form of the honors they deserved, though none seemed to take offense at the lack; they looked as weary as she, at the least, and a thousand times less accustomed to dealing with the unpleasantness of Scourge disposal. One of them, taller and more heavily built than the rest, split off and approached her, graying warrior-braids spilling from beneath his helm as he pulled it off.
"Hail, Krivulka Stonefist." The High Overlord of the Kor'kron greeted her with a smile and the gift of a mostly-full water skin.
"Hail, Varok Saurfang." She drank, the warm water doing much to wash the taste of Scourge-taint off her tongue, and handed the skin back to him.
He drank, as well. "You look to have seen better days, sister."
"We have all -- and it will be long before any of us see them again." She pushed herself to her full height despite the protests of aching muscles. "How many?"
"Too many." His smile, small to start, vanished entirely. "You?"
"More than 'too many.'" She closed her eyes, so she would not have to see his pity, the sympathy of one commander to another; she was not ready to accept such gifts. "But now you see. You know the truth with your own blade."
"I do -- but I also did not doubt to begin with. I remember what nipped at our heels the hour we took flight from Lordaeron."
Something in his carefully level tone sparked anger in her breast and she snarled, drawing every nearby eye. "Grom's pup."
"Yes." The look Saurfang gave her counseled silence, advice she chose to accept with so many young mag'har close to hand. "His attitude has been...adjusted. He now belabors the Warchief to send him to Northrend to avenge this unasked for assault."
"Good," Krivulka replied, baring her tusks in a gesture that held neither humor nor joy. "It would do him well to stand on a battlefield where the enemy does not know the name Hellscream -- nor would they fear it if they did."
Saurfang shook his head, and handed her back the water-skin; for a long moment they stood and simply drank it empty.
"Varok, I would ask a boon of you." Krivulka gazed out over the pit, and up at the pyres casting their smoke heavenward.
"You have more than earned one." Saurfang replied, heavily. "Ask it."
"We have lost...many. More than half of mine have mixed their smoke with yours." She caught his eye. "And not all of them warriors. I ask your leave to go among the folk of Orgrimmar and seek those who would take up the cause of the Dawn."
"I suspect that we are all about to take that cause." But he did not look away. "You have my leave -- and I will speak to the Warchief, as well."
"I thank you."
He reached out and took away her bone-splitter. "Thank me by sleeping before you fall where you stand."
"Softening in your age, Varok."
He grinned at her. "No softer than you, Krivulka. How fares your paladin?"
"He yet lives. For now."
Ashes. Even with the water, her mouth tasted of ashes.
For the record:
1004 / 2500 words. 40% done!
...More to come.