Shakha
15-06-2009, 04:48 PM
I wrote this sometime ago. It was inspired by the long waits we had prior to raids. I imagined the waiting as a sort of gathering time, with the raid slowly coming together. This was the result.
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The Orc emerged from the water in long, slow strides. White water frothed around his legs as he dragged his armoured bulk onto the strange metal floor that spread out before him. Pipes and machinery arced high overhead and a deep rumbling noise rolled right through his bones. A fine mist of water drifted down from overhead, punctuated by fat drops that spattered in the broad puddles that dotted the floor. Grunting in annoyance at the warm water that trickled through his armour and down his neck, he shook himself and went to meet the others.
Krugerkor was the first he saw, the Blood Elf standing near the thundering waterfall that marked the entrance to the cavern. His cold blank stare met Shakha’s eyes and he nodded once, turning back to the archaic arcane machinery that would, once activated correctly, allow them into the cavern below. Dozens of others waited, sharpening weapons, or nervously fidgeting, laughing and talking. Shakha ran a careful eye over them. The big Tauren shaman, Arkadian smiled broadly and slapped a massive hand on Jodaniki’s shoulder, the Tauren druid sharing the shaman’s laughter. The old priest, Nulk, loped past, in a hurry somewhere. A nod from Shakha earned a scowl in return, made doubly worse by the old Troll’s tusks.
“Friendly as always.” Noted the Blood Knight standing next to him. The impish face of Leciel peered out from her oversized helmet. The youngest of the Quel’dorei that had chosen to side with them, her talents as a healer, and the crest of the Protectors she wore, had earned her a place within the guild many times over.
“Born grumpy.” Growled Shakha.
“You’re one to talk.” She snapped back. The troll hunter standing at her shoulder laughed wickedly. Shakha glared at Shasla who stuck her tongue out in return. His forehead creased in a frown and he stepped sideways. Alexiea and Qlon danced past, blades ringing off each other as the Blood Elf twins fought yet another duel to determine who was the greatest, their taunts and fierce looks of concentration vanishing as they wove between the gathered army.
The arcane powerhouses of the army, the mages and warlocks stood together, their sadly twisted Forsaken bodies holding a terrifying amount of power. Zenoss dipped his head in greeting at the orc warrior and Shakha smiled back. He genuinely liked the grouchy old bastard. He had been one of the driving forces behind the forays in Karazahn, seeking the artefacts and treasures hidden therein, to equip them for this assault.
“I was almost hoping you wouldn’t make it.” The warlock sneered. Shakha smiled.
“Afraid a simple warrior and his axes will outshine you, mighty magician?”
“No, your stench bothers my imp.” The warlock’s pet demon chattered to itself, and then broke out in a string of stunning invective. Shakha laughed.
“And I’m not a magician you ignorant lump.”
“Yes, magicians are useful I hear.” Zenoss glared at him. Phoenyxx, the youngest, or was it newest, Shakha was never sure, of the Forsaken mages laughed, but stopped instantly when Zenoss’ head snapped around to glare at her. Behind them, the dark figure of Hephasto stood silently. Widely known for his prowess in the Arena’s of Outland, Shakha idly wondered what had drawn the Orc warlock here. Finally, the mage, Jeeves and the warlock, Banko were talking quietly, their strangely glowing eyes flitting here and there as they watched the gathering.
Shakha made his leave and walked through the gathered heroes. The quiet druid, Meesa shyly whispered a greeting back as he passed her. Fierce as any Orc when she took bear or cat form, she was rarely heard to speak. The grand old man of the army, the ancient Tauren Shaman known as Wildsoul, was exchanging jibes with Clambo, the most unfortunately named Orc Shakha had ever met. Despite that, he had yet to meet another warrior as tough or determined. Shakha slapped Clam on the shoulders as he drew level with him. Clambo looked up at him.
“It’s been a while, brother.” Clam said grimly.
“Since that raid you led into Zul’Aman.”
“One those Amani scum won’t forget anytime soon.” Shakha grinned fiercely. They had stormed the walls that night, smashing aside the forest trolls and plundering deep into their forest stronghold before falling back beneath the hordes they had roused. That had been a worthy battle, much honour had been earned that night.
Towering over those around him, Tigtag rumbled a greeting. Silently watching those around him, he met Shakha's gaze and slowly inclined his head in greeting. A strange mystique surrounded him, and only the Paladin he called Piggy was truly close to him. The silent mistress that went everywhere he did stood even now at his side, coolly surveying those around her.
A Forsaken mage shambled past, heading for Krugerkor, angry mumbling trailing in his wake.
“I see Ross made it.” Clambo nodded.
“Did you really imagine he would miss this?”
“One can only hope.” Clambo laughed.
Someone clipped Shakha across the back of the head.
“Enough.” Shakha bit back the retort and simply glared at the back of Azroar’s head as he strode past.
If Krugerkor and Ross were the brains, then Az was simply the force of will that had welded them together into a force that had struck at the Legion and their allies all across outland; first learning of the Naga plot to drain Outland’s water, then Kael’thas’ plan to infuse that water with the magical energies of Netherstorm and form a new Well of Eternity. Now, here they were, in the sodden, stinking depths of Zangamarsh, at Azroar’s behest to confront Lady Vashj and stop her once and for all. None had refused the summons.
Shakha shrugged, shifting the armour that he had earned in service to the Aldor. It was heavily imbued with power and enchants, it had seen near constant use in their strikes at the forest trolls and many battles since. A far cry from his early days of adventuring when his armour had consisted of poorly fitting pieces looted from the ruins of Dire Maul or the burning city of Stratholme.
Krugerkor looked up, meeting Azroar’s steady gaze and nodded once. Azroar turned to face them all. Krug reached down and touched something on the panel. The effect was startling, almost instantly the thundering waterfall that sealed the entrance to the cavern, ceased. Only a few drops of water spattered down from above.
Azroar simply turned and walked in. Shakha’s skin bristled as he felt the mood change. A fierce elation started building within him. His hands went to the twin axes on his belt, feeling the well worn grips. He wasn’t the only one reaching for weapons. Everyone followed, shouldering weapons or shields, marching into the yawning maw that had lain behind the waterfall. An enormous elevator, similar to the ones found in the Forsaken capital of Undercity lay before them. Unhesitatingly they walked into it. Grim faced, focused, the time for jibes and laughter was past. Soon it would be war.
“Do you think her guards are going to be ready for us?” asked Nyps, the last of their trio of Blood Knights, and a Guardian by her crest. Tiny though she was, he knew she was a formidable warrior.
Shakha whisked the sharpening stone along his axe’s blade. Pried from the dead hands of the Eredar warlord Prince Malchezzar, atop the otherwordly tower of Karazahn, The Decapitator gleamed.
“I hope so.” Growled Shakha.
The elevator plunged downwards, into darkness.
____________________________________
The Orc emerged from the water in long, slow strides. White water frothed around his legs as he dragged his armoured bulk onto the strange metal floor that spread out before him. Pipes and machinery arced high overhead and a deep rumbling noise rolled right through his bones. A fine mist of water drifted down from overhead, punctuated by fat drops that spattered in the broad puddles that dotted the floor. Grunting in annoyance at the warm water that trickled through his armour and down his neck, he shook himself and went to meet the others.
Krugerkor was the first he saw, the Blood Elf standing near the thundering waterfall that marked the entrance to the cavern. His cold blank stare met Shakha’s eyes and he nodded once, turning back to the archaic arcane machinery that would, once activated correctly, allow them into the cavern below. Dozens of others waited, sharpening weapons, or nervously fidgeting, laughing and talking. Shakha ran a careful eye over them. The big Tauren shaman, Arkadian smiled broadly and slapped a massive hand on Jodaniki’s shoulder, the Tauren druid sharing the shaman’s laughter. The old priest, Nulk, loped past, in a hurry somewhere. A nod from Shakha earned a scowl in return, made doubly worse by the old Troll’s tusks.
“Friendly as always.” Noted the Blood Knight standing next to him. The impish face of Leciel peered out from her oversized helmet. The youngest of the Quel’dorei that had chosen to side with them, her talents as a healer, and the crest of the Protectors she wore, had earned her a place within the guild many times over.
“Born grumpy.” Growled Shakha.
“You’re one to talk.” She snapped back. The troll hunter standing at her shoulder laughed wickedly. Shakha glared at Shasla who stuck her tongue out in return. His forehead creased in a frown and he stepped sideways. Alexiea and Qlon danced past, blades ringing off each other as the Blood Elf twins fought yet another duel to determine who was the greatest, their taunts and fierce looks of concentration vanishing as they wove between the gathered army.
The arcane powerhouses of the army, the mages and warlocks stood together, their sadly twisted Forsaken bodies holding a terrifying amount of power. Zenoss dipped his head in greeting at the orc warrior and Shakha smiled back. He genuinely liked the grouchy old bastard. He had been one of the driving forces behind the forays in Karazahn, seeking the artefacts and treasures hidden therein, to equip them for this assault.
“I was almost hoping you wouldn’t make it.” The warlock sneered. Shakha smiled.
“Afraid a simple warrior and his axes will outshine you, mighty magician?”
“No, your stench bothers my imp.” The warlock’s pet demon chattered to itself, and then broke out in a string of stunning invective. Shakha laughed.
“And I’m not a magician you ignorant lump.”
“Yes, magicians are useful I hear.” Zenoss glared at him. Phoenyxx, the youngest, or was it newest, Shakha was never sure, of the Forsaken mages laughed, but stopped instantly when Zenoss’ head snapped around to glare at her. Behind them, the dark figure of Hephasto stood silently. Widely known for his prowess in the Arena’s of Outland, Shakha idly wondered what had drawn the Orc warlock here. Finally, the mage, Jeeves and the warlock, Banko were talking quietly, their strangely glowing eyes flitting here and there as they watched the gathering.
Shakha made his leave and walked through the gathered heroes. The quiet druid, Meesa shyly whispered a greeting back as he passed her. Fierce as any Orc when she took bear or cat form, she was rarely heard to speak. The grand old man of the army, the ancient Tauren Shaman known as Wildsoul, was exchanging jibes with Clambo, the most unfortunately named Orc Shakha had ever met. Despite that, he had yet to meet another warrior as tough or determined. Shakha slapped Clam on the shoulders as he drew level with him. Clambo looked up at him.
“It’s been a while, brother.” Clam said grimly.
“Since that raid you led into Zul’Aman.”
“One those Amani scum won’t forget anytime soon.” Shakha grinned fiercely. They had stormed the walls that night, smashing aside the forest trolls and plundering deep into their forest stronghold before falling back beneath the hordes they had roused. That had been a worthy battle, much honour had been earned that night.
Towering over those around him, Tigtag rumbled a greeting. Silently watching those around him, he met Shakha's gaze and slowly inclined his head in greeting. A strange mystique surrounded him, and only the Paladin he called Piggy was truly close to him. The silent mistress that went everywhere he did stood even now at his side, coolly surveying those around her.
A Forsaken mage shambled past, heading for Krugerkor, angry mumbling trailing in his wake.
“I see Ross made it.” Clambo nodded.
“Did you really imagine he would miss this?”
“One can only hope.” Clambo laughed.
Someone clipped Shakha across the back of the head.
“Enough.” Shakha bit back the retort and simply glared at the back of Azroar’s head as he strode past.
If Krugerkor and Ross were the brains, then Az was simply the force of will that had welded them together into a force that had struck at the Legion and their allies all across outland; first learning of the Naga plot to drain Outland’s water, then Kael’thas’ plan to infuse that water with the magical energies of Netherstorm and form a new Well of Eternity. Now, here they were, in the sodden, stinking depths of Zangamarsh, at Azroar’s behest to confront Lady Vashj and stop her once and for all. None had refused the summons.
Shakha shrugged, shifting the armour that he had earned in service to the Aldor. It was heavily imbued with power and enchants, it had seen near constant use in their strikes at the forest trolls and many battles since. A far cry from his early days of adventuring when his armour had consisted of poorly fitting pieces looted from the ruins of Dire Maul or the burning city of Stratholme.
Krugerkor looked up, meeting Azroar’s steady gaze and nodded once. Azroar turned to face them all. Krug reached down and touched something on the panel. The effect was startling, almost instantly the thundering waterfall that sealed the entrance to the cavern, ceased. Only a few drops of water spattered down from above.
Azroar simply turned and walked in. Shakha’s skin bristled as he felt the mood change. A fierce elation started building within him. His hands went to the twin axes on his belt, feeling the well worn grips. He wasn’t the only one reaching for weapons. Everyone followed, shouldering weapons or shields, marching into the yawning maw that had lain behind the waterfall. An enormous elevator, similar to the ones found in the Forsaken capital of Undercity lay before them. Unhesitatingly they walked into it. Grim faced, focused, the time for jibes and laughter was past. Soon it would be war.
“Do you think her guards are going to be ready for us?” asked Nyps, the last of their trio of Blood Knights, and a Guardian by her crest. Tiny though she was, he knew she was a formidable warrior.
Shakha whisked the sharpening stone along his axe’s blade. Pried from the dead hands of the Eredar warlord Prince Malchezzar, atop the otherwordly tower of Karazahn, The Decapitator gleamed.
“I hope so.” Growled Shakha.
The elevator plunged downwards, into darkness.