The Sanctuary

The cast of the fishing line and the resultant quiet ‘splosh’ as the weight dropped into the dark water was about the only sound Ravalik could hear in the Barrens.

The wind gently moved the fronds of grass at the waters edge, bringing the clean fresh scent of dawn to her nose.

She gazed into the sky as she waited for a fish to bite, and found herself staring at the stars. The sky still seemed so alien to her; devoid of the whispers of the Nether and floating rock of her home in Nagrand.

Home. She thought of the remnants of the Steeleye clan living at Garadar, once a proud clan but now so few the bloodlines have become intermingled with that of others. Orcs, strong and brown skinned, experts with hammer and anvil bearing the marking of the clan on their armour; an open eye with a blade passing through it, from top to bottom.

She found her mind drawn back to that ill fated scouting mission to the Dark Portal to investigate if the rumours were true, that it was open again. Few returned to tell of the news. The mechanical roars of the machine now known as the Fel Reaver echoed down corridors in her mind that she couldn’t close. The death screams of her clan, her family, her loved ones, seemed so fresh and real it could have been but minutes ago.

Home. Would they recognise her when she should finally return to Nagrand? She looked at her skin, green now, tainted with the blade of a warlock she had never seen again but only heard of in the past tense. Would they think this some cruel trick? Surely the Elders in Garadar would think she was dead.

A small sound brought her out of her melancholy; breathing and hoofsteps somewhere in the darkness behind her. She quickly got up and spun around in one swift motion. Her sword may need replacing soon, but it was working well enough to cleave the head of the centaur from his shoulders. The horseman dropped in a heap at her feet.

She looked back at her rod; the fish weren’t biting tonight. She packed up her equipment and looted the corpse of the horseman for anything interesting.

Daylight; coming in the East. She left the corpse where it fell, picked up her backpack and walked into the Sun.

***

The drunken party on the beach, the cliff and at the Bay was highly amusing – a night to remember, except half had passed in a fug of ale.

In the cold light of day though, Ravalik remembered another feeling that wasn’t amusing in the slightest; jealousy.

She fished in the peace and quiet of ‘Steem-weedel Paught’ and pondered on this feeling. At various points she was the centre of attention – literally – so there was no reason to feel jealous, to feel that she was missing out. Or was there?

She remembered seeing the Elves partnering up as the evening progressed; being close with one another. Even the undead showed compassion. She remembered the soft touch from Eloo as part of some dare; a moment of tenderness she had not felt for so long. Not since..

An image appeared in her head; a brown Orc male, Korthag, as strong as a bull, his hands rough from wielding axes and his hair dusty from some long wolf ride – yet his heart was full of love. She remembered being close with him, of being a couple, of talking about the future, of..

Another image. The Fel Reaver stomping her clan into the red dust of Hellfire, the scene floodlit by the bright green lights of the mechanical monster leaving Ravalik alone in the dark.

The next image arose unbidden; of the corpse of Korgath, a broken heap, his blood staining the ground.

She blinked the images away with tears.

One day she shall return to Nagrand, to Garadar by the lake, she will return victorious. Victory from what? She wondered. They probably thnk she is dead. She looked at her green skin, tainted with the fel blade of the warlock. Tradition says she can only take another mate from the uncorrupted Orcs. How can she do that when she is now tainted herself? No Mag’har Orc would want her as a mate.

She silently contemplated a life alone, surrounded by friends yet without love. Is this it?

***

She blinked in the eternal green of Feralas; she had been staring at the same scene for so long it had caused her eyes to dry and become too bright. Through the slight drizzle she studied the movements and patterns of the Ogres.

Zogging Ogres. She had slain many an Ogre in Nagrand – there they are fierce fighters of a great size, and to down one is considered a glorious moment of battle and is recognised by the Elders in Garadar. Here though, in the wilds of Azeroth, Ogre slaughter seemed merely a day to day job, a necessary evil.

She watched them stroll around. Clustered amongst the moss covered old ruins were numerous campfires, leading towards a cave set in the hills to the south. The Ogres nearby were wielding weapons but did not wear any armour of note whereas those towards the cave wore full plate. All would pose a challenge and not be an easy kill.

Is any kill easy? Whether your foe beats you half to death before you cleave his skull or you end his time of consciousness with a single strike, it amounts to the same thing – death. It is rarely some evil mastermind that is terminated by the sword, it is usually their foot soldiers and followers. They die without understanding why. She mulled on this thought. Is it right for her, a stranger from some far distant land, to be playing God here? The plight of the Tauren forces at Camp Mojache is surely not worth a Mag’har fighting for.

She looked at her hand, wrapped around the fittings of her shield, her green fingers in contrast with the stiff brown leather straps. Mag’har – no longer. Now she looked no different from the Orcs of the Horde, even wearing similar armour and speaking the same way. Inside she still felt different, but to the outside..

So be it. If I look like one, then I shall be as one she thought.

She launched herself out of the bush straight at the Ogre she had been stalking and screamed at him – For the Mag’har! – shield in front and sword aloft. The Ogre momentarily stopped still as if registering the situation, then uttered his own battlecry and charged forward.

‘I’ll crush you!’ – the words fell out of his mouth like a child but the intent was clear in his eyes. He lifted his huge axe above his head, ready to swing down but Ravalik had already met him toe to toe and swung her blade at his belly.

The Ogre groaned in pain and stepped backward, then quickly brought the axe down on the Orc, the edge whistling through the air. Ravalik dodged as best she could, but the stock slammed into her shoulder armour. The pain was very real and numbed her entire right side. Her shield arm dipped, but she swung at the Ogre again with her sword and cut him across his chest.

The axe came from the right this time, and she blocked it with her shield as best she could – the force knocked her off her feet and to the ground. She got up quickly, knowing that more than a few moments in such a helpless position would be her doom.

The Ogre muttered and started drawing energies to himself – she knew the signs. If he was trying to heal himself with magic or cause her some damage she wasn’t sure; so she slammed her shield into his groin.

He groaned a low guttural noise and stepped back a moment. It wasn’t the most precise of moves she thought, but it got the job done. The axe came down quickly again and this time she parried it with her sword. She continued to push with the sword against the Ogre’s weapon, then thrust forwards with the edge of her blade running up the length of the shaft of the axe to the unprotected fingers of the Ogre.

He screamed in pain – where are the female Ogres? she thought, like a bolt out the blue – as his axe and a few fingers fell to the forest floor. She swung her sword again, this time at the knee of the giant.

The blade met a certain amount of resistance then the bone gave way – the Ogre screamed and fell to the ground, a bloody stump waving at the sky, spraying her armour in thick red.

She stood over him, overcome with bloodlust. He lay on the ground, squealing, surely enough noise to attract the others. She brought her blade down quick and with force – the killing blow. The blade didn’t stop until it was buried in the dirt.

She kicked the head of the Ogre into the branches of a nearby tree. Covered in gore she lifted her arms in the air and held her sword aloft.

‘For the Horde! For the Mag’har!’

Written by Ravalik

Illustrated by Archaia and Ravalik