Grim Views

The Date is covered in splatters of dried tar and the beginning entry as well is ruined only the actual body of the entry is readable.

Why I have suddenly decided to pick up quill and parchment is much of an enigma to myself as it should be to any that would read these written words. Perhaps in reflection it is because of the contract I have just completed. I had ventured into the lost bowls of Un'Goro Crater, I should say lost to time but not to myself. For I once called this land of swamp and misguided superstitions home.

Off tangent, the contract itself was a minor and almost pointless endeavor, given by some would be merchant goblin king. Who hired me to retrieve tar from the roaming tar lords of the north. So, removed from my past was I that the connection did not make itself known until I stood amongst those shambling,
mindless, beasts. And the memories of a lost life stabbed at me like a well placed thrust.

So much is remembered and yet so much has been lost. The faces, even the names of those that I once called family, loved ones. Are gone and faded into the dust of time, but the events themselves remain vivid, burning like a scorching scar.

Seeing now with the eyes of the Forsaken, I was born unto a pathetic ramshackle society. Jungle people more wrapped up in the spirits of our dead ancestors, countless Gods, and the jungle itself. Than, advancing our society or growing in power. Some would have called the unity of flesh and earth a hard found utopia, perhaps I did think that myself at one time. But, now I see it as the pathetic weakness that caused our obliteration.

Again, I drift off into ranting tangent. I spent the earliest seasons in this impoverished existence. Scratching from the black earth a meager stock as the adult males of my small tribe hunted the many exotic beasts that called the Crater home. We knew nothing of metal working or of the things called armor or plate.
We took from our prey the means to hunt them, claws and beaks and stretched weathered leather. Such a collection of backwater fools and moronic ignorance of the land outside. As we plodded along wearing our feathers and beads the nakedness of flesh and the scraps of leather and bark as feeble protection.

As I had written before the names and face were fuzzy of my family and I as of yet have had little or no desire to probe this reanimated mind for those detail. But, I do remember vividly the day they were utterly destroyed. Even in youth I was one that moved to the darker paths of life. I was at the tar pits, hiding from both the lumbering monsters and my parents as I performed my sacrificial rite to the dark entities that we were taught lived deep in the tar pits. I had caught a parrot and had bound the living things wings to a collection of sticks and was groveling, babbling to the Gods of the Tar - Entities of Darkness and Decay for their favor. It was when I tossed the parrot out into the bubbling black crude that I saw the first of them. Perhaps the Gods of the Tar did answer my prayer, for it was when I finished the rite, that I saw the long parade of them.

I did not know what they were at first, monsters or demons called forth from the evil of the Tar Pits. I know now they were wearing a collection of armor and plate riding upon armored horses. But, in my ignorance of youth they were the demons we had always feared. I waited till they had pasted and then followed in their wake as he slowly roamed the land getting closer and closer to my squat village.

I shall skip ahead for the details of them catching and collecting some of the beasts is a mute point. What is more important is the utter skill and perfection they had at slaughter. Now in my present form I would call it beautiful, masters of the craft of fear and death. For all their armor and animals they could just before the onslaught seem to grow as silent as the mist. Creeping forward the unhorsed men surrounded the village dispatching the few lackluster sentries with a quick slash and spout of blood.

I will say I was beyond the point of frightened and lost in the world of astonishment. Hidden amongst a overgrow of plant life I watched them move as one without a word of command. Just the sudden roar of conquest. Those on horses, the once covered in metal and wore the faces of demons and horns slashed with great sweeping swords and axes into the pathetic armored warriors. Not one of the invaders was taken, not one of them even showed a once of pain or fear. They rained down death on the heads of all that I knew and loved.

At this point the memory becomes less of a memory and more a primal emotion. I think, perhaps it was when I saw, my memory is so jumbled here. When I witnessed my mother being ravaged by the invading warriors and the uncaring slaughter of her when they were done that sent my own voice of fear and sadness
into the air. Again, I cringe at how pathetic I was as a youth to give away my position of safety for the stupidity of emotion.

Alas, the weakness of mortality. Which, at this point I shall end my scribbling for I smell mortality with a hint of holy stench drawing near. Ah, yes a human mage has ventured near the tar pits. Perhaps I shall give my Gods of the Tar a more fitting sacrifice.

I find myself in the midst of the frozen wastes of Winterspring. I had nearly forgotten that I had taken up this collection of by gone memories to pen. Rereading what I had written before it should be noted the human mage was given unto the Tar Gods, at a heavy price.

But, I am no stranger to the customs of pain. Long before my blessed arrival into the ranks of the mighty Forsaken, I knew the linger kisses of agony. This spirit of mine has long been scarred with an existence of suffering. A tale unto itself....

I never knew the name of the people that took me as a youth. I was never taught their language nor given a chance to become one of them. I was kept alive, I assume, for I proved I was useful enough to keep around.

Needless to say they kept many types of slaves. It was easy enough even to me to see that they saw themselves as superior to all that they encountered. Their pets were treated with more dignity and humanity than any of us begotten wretches. The unlucky that did not die beneath their blades and hooves, it was us who lived that knew true torment.

The beatings began the moment I was bound and taken away. It did not require a sane reason or simply a whim to be struck. And they lasted in variable lengths and cruelty depending on the person inflicting them.

I had come to consider my captures simply as the Armored Ones, for them seemed fixated with their horrid assortment of beast like armor. Theirs was a society that revolved around the way of combat and slaughter. Their art was in the inflection of pain or terror. Their music was the sound of their battle cries and the wails of their fallen. Their mercy was death.

Life was simple with them. It consisted of one thing, which allowed for full focus and attention. And that was to survive the day. One learned to rise earlier than them for if not the beatings would be your means of awakening. Daily tasks were given by brutally strikes and gestures or being shoved towards something and struck till you figured out what they required. Needless to say death was as familiar as my own skin in those days.

Slaves themselves did not seem to last very long. Beaten to death, starved to death, or taking one's life was the normal futures one had as a slave. Except for the very rare few. It was with the Armored Ones that I learned that there was always a rank and file to life. The stronger over the weaker even amongst the lowest of classes. As it was with us you could hope to survive long enough to be a Worg-goon. I was lucky enough to turn into one of these traitorous bastards.

What is a Worg-goon one might ask? The Armored Ones kept Worg's as pets and when speaking to the animals they called them "goon." And if a slave was lucky enough to impress one of the Armored Ones he would drag you to a cage and make you his Worg-goon.

Worg-goons were mostly the most dominate slaves. Those that would steal the scraps from other slaves, beat other slaves, and some would simply do whatever it took to gain the favor from the Armored Ones be it the most depraved sexual acts or mutilations.

I could claim that I was a brutal monster and was picked because of my size and power. In truth I was not the strongest nor the weakest, perhaps I was simply the luckiest. If anything my primitive culture taught me was the power of the earth. A basic understanding of the healing effects of some plants. One of the Armored Ones was wounded in a raid and his leg was infected. A fever had taken him and his people simply were going to leave him to die. By luck I had seen a bundle of roots I had known to lessen the effects of infections. Though it would more than likely end with a beating if not my death I saw a chance to perhaps better my position amongst them before I ended up d....

The rest of the passage is smeared and unreadable. A dark crimson fluid seems to have crystalized upon the lower part of the pages. A linger stench of death and rot rises slowly from the page.

The top of the next page lay burnt and only half way down does the passage reveal what lay written.

I had been the Pet of "Three Horns" as I called him due to the three collected metallic spikes that rose from his helmet, for five summers. I had lost track of how long I had been with the Armored Ones. As a Worg-goon, I was in some ways more cursed than saved at times. "Three Horns" was a brutal task master and on more than one occasions I cursed myself for saving his life. But, I think it was that fact that I did save his life that was the cause of him beating me without mercy.

My skin was a ruin of scar tissue and bruises. My bones were thick from countless breakage and settings. I must have been a beast to look upon, akin to the Worg's I shared a moniker with. The beatings became life, it was how I knew to correct myself. Perhaps like a horse being dug into the flank the sharp pains from my masters were mere direction that I responded too without much thought or feeling.

But, I should speak upon the single day that turned my path from beaten slave to the first footfalls to what I am now. It started the same, with menial tasks at their nomadic camp. The raiders, including "Three Horns" had went out to gather more slaves from a scouted small village a half days ride from camp.

As luck would have it I was given the task of gathering wood at the edge of camp when the raiders crested a ridge and began the trek down towards the camp. "Three Horns" was out front leading the columns of Raiders and a long line of newly gathered slaves. Even then I still marveled at their aura of power as they rode in their dark armor. It was in this moment of thoughtless observation that I took notice of something odd off to the side.

Hidden amongst the trees was a solitary figure. He looked to be the same age as I. His chest was heaving in ragged breaths beneath his leather armor. He was clean shaven and his gaze was intently locked upon the approaching Raiders.

It was at this time that he must have felt the intensity of my gaze for he turned to lock eyes with me. I must have worn the expression of shock or awe for he did not turn his long throwing spear at me and let loose. For a moment it seemed the world stopped. It was as him I was standing in another world. A world where I had the chance and perhaps the skills to turn the chains of events for the better. To kill "Three Horns," perhaps rescue my fellow slaves, or simply a chance for freedom.

I realized I still had a hold of a stout piece of wood. I broke the gaze with the stranger and looked down at my hands. The wood and flesh seemed to meld together with the jagged lines that crossed both. Slowly I remember looking up at the man and he gestured to me with his free hand then pointed at "Three Horns."

Silently, I nodded not knowing why I did so. Perhaps, because any gesture I received I always nodded to and responded or the beatings would begin. The stranger gave me a single sure nod and looked at the approaching raiders. He rose his spear and aimed just as I broke into my silent charge.

I was not afraid, but I seemed more alive than ever. I could feel the blades of grass and soft dark soil beneath my feet. The slap of each small branch as I charged silently forward. The grooves of that stout piece of wood in the palm of my broken hand. The roar that I suddenly let loose and the matching roar of the stranger as he stepped from his hiding spot and aimed that spear at "Three Horns." I remember how my muscles seemed to jump with renewed life as I rose that wooden stick and ...

a small smudge of dirt seems to cover the next few lines in the passage.

The smudge of dirt slips from the page and is caught by the wind. Beneath the remains words could be made out.

and....the world seemed to slow. I could see "Three Horn" motioning towards us and screaming words of command. The stranger was close now, I could see rage in his features as he yelled along side of me. His arm slid back in perfect form as he prepared to launch his deadly weapon. The sound of my breathing seemed to almost deafen me as I brought the wooden stick crashing down.

I knew how a bone could be shattered in a single blow. It had been done to me countless times. I remember the stick connecting just as the stranger's fingers were to release his spear. I saw how my stick caused the throwing arm of the stranger's to bend back useless and broken and his spear. The spear that carried with it the hopes and anger of his people. The vengeance for the loss of all he knew and loved fly uselessly into the brush.

My momentum carried me into him and we crashed to the ground. So close to him, so entangled I could smell is shock and pain. His eyes darted like that of a stricken bird. They locked onto mine and in that single moment a million questions were asked in between tear stained blinks.

I heard the approach of the Raider, the familiar bark of "Three Horns" voice. They would kill the stranger and me perhaps in mere moments. More than likely if they control themselves they would take him alive and torture him to death.

The stranger was attempting to struggle with me atop him. But his arm was useless and I was motivated, focused in what I must do. I lunged forward towards his face. Closer to him at this moment than a lover would dare venture. I did not see his expression as my eyes locked shut just as my jaws did. I felt the softness of his flesh capture in between my teeth and the pulse of his veins as well.

I jerked back once tearing the man's throat from his body. Feeling the warm wetness of his life blood pump from his veins. To this day I cannot tell if the wetness that streamed from the corner of my eyes was blood or tears.

I can only assume the man died a quick death after that. For "Three Horns' " mail boot connected with my jaw and darkness took me at this point.

I awoke wrapped in the fur of a Worg and it's skull tied to my face. I had become "Three Horns' " favorite pet. Later that night with my jaw wrapped and broken I was forced by clinched fists on my ruined jaw to drink to my glory. Or that is what I told myself, perhaps it was simply more torment for their entertainment. But, at least that night when I finally blacked out from the mead or the pain. I slept a night without the screams of nightmares or slaves.

I never slept a peaceful night again. The tale ends for now.