It had taken some convincing, but Gundnir managed to drag the Deaders along with him. Acherontia actually seemed excited to go, to get a change of pace and scenery. Melchisedech looked at the Orc like he was dragging them on a fool's errand the entire time.
"Tha lumber camp provides fer tha entire Horde, even us," Gundnir explained. "'Sides, tha Elfies've had tha forest fer long enough. We laid claim ta it, 'tis ours."
Gundnir was thrilled after talking to the Warcaller. Gorlach had informed him of a recent surge in activity around Silverwing, and that all able-bodies were needed the Warsong camp. Gundnir had fought alongside Warsong during the Wars, and knew them to be great soldiers, if a bit fanatic. Either way, his hammers sung for blood.
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The three of them landed just after dusk, when the day birds were beginning to retire to their nests. Jorm, the Owl that for some reason had followed Gundnir for years, perched on a lamp post to watch the trio land. How he always knew where Gundnir was going was beyond him. The bird fluttered off silently, probably to hunt for its nightly meal.
A lone Elf stood outside, writing on a piece of parchment. Elves. There was a time when Gundnir rained their blood from the sky, and now he fought alongside them. He wasn't sure if he would ever get used to it. This one was blonde, like so many of them, and he assumed from the way it walked it was male. They all looked alike to him. The Orc sneered and hoisted his bags over his shoulder. With a nod to the pair of Orcish sentries manning the watch, he headed for a tunnel, carved straight into the hillside.
"Come on Deaders, inside we go."
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"...but let'em stay dead,
wit' dirt over their heads,
'cuz that means there's more drink fer me!"
At the conclusion of his limerick, the common room erupted in laughter. For the most part, anyway. Gundnir, rather proud of that toast, decided to use it again for a different audience. Orc and Troll bearing the colors of the Warsong, many veterans of the First and Second Wars as he was, raised their flagons and drank to the cheer. The Elves, rather condescending creatures, did not find it as amusing, but drank out of politeness. All except the one that he saw on the outside. He quietly drank water. And how he kept his face and hair so clean was a mystery to Gundnir.
The Shaman did not dwell on it. He tore at a haunch of roasted elk and drank heavily from his stein, a finely carved and polished oxen horn. The night was filled with cacauphonous, gutteral laughter, fueled by ale. A pair of Trolls took the floor. The green-skinned crowd began clapping in a rhythmic beat as the Trolls began a ritualistic battle. It was almost a dance; agile, liquid, each darting in and out with a variety of acrobatic kicks and whirling fists, each dodging and backflipping out of the way at the last possible second. One would flip on his hands and continue the intricate movements upside down, the other perfectly mimicking and dodging rightside up.
One did not find such revelry like this anymore. It was good to be out of the city for a while.
Revelry by Gundnir
-
Keeper Of Lore
- Lost
- Posts: 1749
Re: Revelry by Gundnir
by Acherontia
This time, things would be different.
Acherontia sat against one of the walls of the common room, casually leaning back against it with one arm resting on her bent knee. Her other leg was extended out in front of her, and she bobbed her foot idly in time with the rhythmic clapping. Her Eye hovered near her shoulder, and through it she watched the trolls in the center of the room as they cavorted and spun, kicked and struck out with their hands - a dance of blood, of battle.
It would not be like Arathi. This time, things would be different.
The words of her new mentor still echoed in her mind. She remembered the jelly-like flesh he had scraped from the bottom of the cage and dribbled between her lips. The charred taste of it, the sour-sweetness of the corruption that had melted it from the bones of the screaming woman...Acherontia felt a shudder of desire and revulsion course through her.
"A Forsaken is more fortunate than any other who walks the path through the Nether," Kaal whispered to her as she licked hungrily at the gobbets of burned and rotted flesh that dangled from his fingers. "It is not enough to see what you do to them...it is not enough to hear their screams or feel their skin melting under your fingers. To take their corruption into you is to know. To feed on and draw strength from your creations is to know." He lifted his hand a fraction of an inch and Acherontia dove after it, lapping with her tongue, snarling deep in her throat. Kaal allowed himself a slow grin as he resumed feeding her the body of the dead woman. "You have been starving yourself for too long, my dear."
This time, things would be different.
Acherontia caught Gundnir's eye from across the room and the shaman lifted his mug to her with a grin. The young warlock nodded to the orc, raising her cup in a silent toast before taking a long pull, draining the last drop and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Gundnir laughed out loud, but the sound was lost in the raucous clapping of the crowd as they drove the dance on, faster and faster. Acherontia grinned back at him. Orcs. What reason did she have to be afraid? What reason did she ever have to be nervous? Kromag was one thing...her lips curled in a sneer. She would deal with him later. But Acherontia loved their spirit, their strength, their fire...she was proud to stand next to them in battle.
Through the Eye, Acherontia shifted her gaze to Melchisedech. The priest was watching the dance with folded arms, but with her doubled sight she could tell he was not truly paying attention. There was the familiar flicker of anxiety...as usual, he seemed to be lost within his own thoughts. As though he could feel her watching him, he shifted his gaze over to where she reclined back against the wall, not looking at her face which was pointed towards the dancers but rather directly into the glowing green orb that hovered nearby. A slow smile spread across her face as she watched the anxiety pulse brighter, swirling within him. Do not worry, my friend. She thought the words as though he could hear them over the clapping, the cheering, the tumult of his own mind.
This time, things will be different.
This time, things would be different.
Acherontia sat against one of the walls of the common room, casually leaning back against it with one arm resting on her bent knee. Her other leg was extended out in front of her, and she bobbed her foot idly in time with the rhythmic clapping. Her Eye hovered near her shoulder, and through it she watched the trolls in the center of the room as they cavorted and spun, kicked and struck out with their hands - a dance of blood, of battle.
It would not be like Arathi. This time, things would be different.
The words of her new mentor still echoed in her mind. She remembered the jelly-like flesh he had scraped from the bottom of the cage and dribbled between her lips. The charred taste of it, the sour-sweetness of the corruption that had melted it from the bones of the screaming woman...Acherontia felt a shudder of desire and revulsion course through her.
"A Forsaken is more fortunate than any other who walks the path through the Nether," Kaal whispered to her as she licked hungrily at the gobbets of burned and rotted flesh that dangled from his fingers. "It is not enough to see what you do to them...it is not enough to hear their screams or feel their skin melting under your fingers. To take their corruption into you is to know. To feed on and draw strength from your creations is to know." He lifted his hand a fraction of an inch and Acherontia dove after it, lapping with her tongue, snarling deep in her throat. Kaal allowed himself a slow grin as he resumed feeding her the body of the dead woman. "You have been starving yourself for too long, my dear."
This time, things would be different.
Acherontia caught Gundnir's eye from across the room and the shaman lifted his mug to her with a grin. The young warlock nodded to the orc, raising her cup in a silent toast before taking a long pull, draining the last drop and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Gundnir laughed out loud, but the sound was lost in the raucous clapping of the crowd as they drove the dance on, faster and faster. Acherontia grinned back at him. Orcs. What reason did she have to be afraid? What reason did she ever have to be nervous? Kromag was one thing...her lips curled in a sneer. She would deal with him later. But Acherontia loved their spirit, their strength, their fire...she was proud to stand next to them in battle.
Through the Eye, Acherontia shifted her gaze to Melchisedech. The priest was watching the dance with folded arms, but with her doubled sight she could tell he was not truly paying attention. There was the familiar flicker of anxiety...as usual, he seemed to be lost within his own thoughts. As though he could feel her watching him, he shifted his gaze over to where she reclined back against the wall, not looking at her face which was pointed towards the dancers but rather directly into the glowing green orb that hovered nearby. A slow smile spread across her face as she watched the anxiety pulse brighter, swirling within him. Do not worry, my friend. She thought the words as though he could hear them over the clapping, the cheering, the tumult of his own mind.
This time, things will be different.
-
Keeper Of Lore
- Lost
- Posts: 1749
Re: Revelry by Gundnir
"...You're certain this will help me? Improve my focus?" The pristine blonde-haired Blood Elf looked uncertainly at Gundnir. The Orc had already consumed two similar elixirs and seemed fine.
"Aye, Elf." Gundnir swiftly backhanded a female Warsong Troll, Razhiri, as she stifled a giggle. "Gundnir is a master of tha brew. I know what I'm doin'." The Shaman handed the fragile looking Elf, a Mage, he decided, a vial filled with a bluish-green liquid.
Gundnir cracked a wide, toothy grin. As innocent as he could possibly muster.
The Elf sat down his water and held the vial with perfectly cleaned fingers. He raised it to the light, inspecting it. The Elf eyed Gundnir, then back to the vial.
"If it will assist me in calling the Arcane...." The stopper was pulled and the Mage swallowed the liquid in a single gulp after sniffing it.
"It tastes....good, actually."
Gundnir narrowed a single eye on the Elf, waiting. Razhiri, along with her band of Rogue scouts, also watched intently. Silently.
The Elf blinked a few times.
"It feels...bubbly."
He let out a shriek of horror. Recoiling from the table, the Mage watched in terror as his delicate skin withered away to bone. Dried tendons and tattered muscles were left exposed, and he clutched frantically at his quickly decomposing face.
"What have you....what have you done?!"
Gundnir and the Trolls erupted in howling laughter. As he rolled to the floor in amusement, the previously-removed label from the vial fell from his pocket, reading simply, "Drink Me."
Their Warsong hosts brought another round of ales. Regaining his composure, Gundnir wiped his maw and took another flagon. The Orc sat with Razhiri and her scouts, raising his stein and downing it in a rather audible, unhealthy pull. As he placed his bone-pipe wedged securely in his tusken teeth, he waved over Acherontia and Melchisedech to join him. In his drunken eyes, they looked rather stuffy and bored in their dusty old robes, and he figured they needed a drink.
He stuffed a pouch of ground Swiftthistle in his pipe, and though he could conjure flame with ease, he lit it with a wooden match.
It tastes better that way.
Sweet, pungent smoke rose from the corner of his mouth, and he caught the eye of another Blood Elf, a female Rogue, he guessed by its demeanor. She smiled out of politeness at his boisterous antics, and Gundnir winked.
"Tho' Gundnir is a prime statue of a physical being, ya waste yer time. Gundnir likes his women wit' a little more meat on 'em!" The Orc and Trolls erupted again in inebriated laughter at the absurd comment. Scowling, the female quickly looked away.
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It was well into the night, and mostly into morning, when the scouts returned. A towering bull of a Tauren entered the common room, accompanied by a small band of Undead. A lithe falcon rested on the bull's shoulder, scouring the inhabitants with its sharp, yellow eyes. When they first met, Gundnir wondered how the massive Tauren could possibly make a good scout, but those questions were quickly stifled after witnessing the Hunter track with great skill.
The group joined Gundnir, along with the Warsong leaders. The Shaman drank his ale as he listened.
"They've got a handful, maybe a few more than we. Standard guards watching the walls, but Stormcry," his companion falcon seemed to become more aware at the mention of his name, "found us a trail around back."
Twin Forsaken, brother and sister in another life, chimed in with eagerness.
"Leads behind the walls," and his sister finished for him.
"Right up to the roof."
The Tauren tracker nodded. "They look tired, ragged." Gundnir nodded at this. This was no surprise, as Warsong had been pushing into Ashenvale for the better part of a year now. They were making ground, and Elven territory was dimishing.
A devilish chuckle drifted from the smaller Forsaken siblings.
"They've got this.....flag. Their banner."
"Looks like it was carved from one of their enchanted trees." The female nodded.
"They keep at least two guards on it at all times."
The Tauren once again piped up.
"It reeks of Elven magic." The Blood Elves listening in scowled at the comment. The Tauren continued without so much as a glance. "We saw at least six on the west wall, four on the south wall, and a single ballista-"
Gundnir, who had been listening intently and tugging absently at his beard in thought, finished his ale and slammed the flagon on the table. At the clattering of various silverware and steins, the group turned its attention to the Orc. Night Elves, in his dealings, were known to be fanatically protective of their trees, and if the guardians of Silverwing kept watch on this particular branch......
The Orc cast his Deader companions a wickedly amused grin, and a toothy grin spread across his maw.
"I've got me an idea....."
"Aye, Elf." Gundnir swiftly backhanded a female Warsong Troll, Razhiri, as she stifled a giggle. "Gundnir is a master of tha brew. I know what I'm doin'." The Shaman handed the fragile looking Elf, a Mage, he decided, a vial filled with a bluish-green liquid.
Gundnir cracked a wide, toothy grin. As innocent as he could possibly muster.
The Elf sat down his water and held the vial with perfectly cleaned fingers. He raised it to the light, inspecting it. The Elf eyed Gundnir, then back to the vial.
"If it will assist me in calling the Arcane...." The stopper was pulled and the Mage swallowed the liquid in a single gulp after sniffing it.
"It tastes....good, actually."
Gundnir narrowed a single eye on the Elf, waiting. Razhiri, along with her band of Rogue scouts, also watched intently. Silently.
The Elf blinked a few times.
"It feels...bubbly."
He let out a shriek of horror. Recoiling from the table, the Mage watched in terror as his delicate skin withered away to bone. Dried tendons and tattered muscles were left exposed, and he clutched frantically at his quickly decomposing face.
"What have you....what have you done?!"
Gundnir and the Trolls erupted in howling laughter. As he rolled to the floor in amusement, the previously-removed label from the vial fell from his pocket, reading simply, "Drink Me."
Their Warsong hosts brought another round of ales. Regaining his composure, Gundnir wiped his maw and took another flagon. The Orc sat with Razhiri and her scouts, raising his stein and downing it in a rather audible, unhealthy pull. As he placed his bone-pipe wedged securely in his tusken teeth, he waved over Acherontia and Melchisedech to join him. In his drunken eyes, they looked rather stuffy and bored in their dusty old robes, and he figured they needed a drink.
He stuffed a pouch of ground Swiftthistle in his pipe, and though he could conjure flame with ease, he lit it with a wooden match.
It tastes better that way.
Sweet, pungent smoke rose from the corner of his mouth, and he caught the eye of another Blood Elf, a female Rogue, he guessed by its demeanor. She smiled out of politeness at his boisterous antics, and Gundnir winked.
"Tho' Gundnir is a prime statue of a physical being, ya waste yer time. Gundnir likes his women wit' a little more meat on 'em!" The Orc and Trolls erupted again in inebriated laughter at the absurd comment. Scowling, the female quickly looked away.
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It was well into the night, and mostly into morning, when the scouts returned. A towering bull of a Tauren entered the common room, accompanied by a small band of Undead. A lithe falcon rested on the bull's shoulder, scouring the inhabitants with its sharp, yellow eyes. When they first met, Gundnir wondered how the massive Tauren could possibly make a good scout, but those questions were quickly stifled after witnessing the Hunter track with great skill.
The group joined Gundnir, along with the Warsong leaders. The Shaman drank his ale as he listened.
"They've got a handful, maybe a few more than we. Standard guards watching the walls, but Stormcry," his companion falcon seemed to become more aware at the mention of his name, "found us a trail around back."
Twin Forsaken, brother and sister in another life, chimed in with eagerness.
"Leads behind the walls," and his sister finished for him.
"Right up to the roof."
The Tauren tracker nodded. "They look tired, ragged." Gundnir nodded at this. This was no surprise, as Warsong had been pushing into Ashenvale for the better part of a year now. They were making ground, and Elven territory was dimishing.
A devilish chuckle drifted from the smaller Forsaken siblings.
"They've got this.....flag. Their banner."
"Looks like it was carved from one of their enchanted trees." The female nodded.
"They keep at least two guards on it at all times."
The Tauren once again piped up.
"It reeks of Elven magic." The Blood Elves listening in scowled at the comment. The Tauren continued without so much as a glance. "We saw at least six on the west wall, four on the south wall, and a single ballista-"
Gundnir, who had been listening intently and tugging absently at his beard in thought, finished his ale and slammed the flagon on the table. At the clattering of various silverware and steins, the group turned its attention to the Orc. Night Elves, in his dealings, were known to be fanatically protective of their trees, and if the guardians of Silverwing kept watch on this particular branch......
The Orc cast his Deader companions a wickedly amused grin, and a toothy grin spread across his maw.
"I've got me an idea....."
-
Keeper Of Lore
- Lost
- Posts: 1749
Re: Revelry by Gundnir
A dark-feathered Hawk Owl caught the attention of the Elf sentry manning the western wall. The violet-skinned Hunter nodded at the bird in respect to its primal beauty. He stretched, straining and creaking the leathers of his armor as he loosened tight muscles. It was nearly dawn, nearly time for him to be replaced. He looked over at the nearby tree once more. The Hawk Owl was gone. A sharp pain raged through his skull, starting at the base of his head.
And then all went black.
It was just as the scouts reported. A handful manning the walls, a single sentry watching the west, where the trees were thickest. Where the Elves presumed they ruled, and falsely counted on the wild to protect that flank. A single ballista pointed maliciously between a break in the wall to the open field. Just as they said, a pair of guards stood watch in silent ward along the wall in the inner-most chamber.
And there it was; a sturdy wooden branch, seemingly shaped from living wood, giving off a soft, blue glow. The colors of Silverwing were mounted at the top. Gundnir would not have believed it unless he saw it himself.
The attack was sudden, and without alarm. The twin Forsaken scouts had done their job well, incapacitating most of the wall guards without being seen. Fire engulfed the ancient chamber, blinding the pair of guards and bringing them to their knees. Gundnir lept from the roof, his most trusted pair of warhammers brandished. They flared to life, engulfed in elemental fire, and sparks of lightning surged from his feet as he landed.
And they were extinguished as he stumbled and collapsed to the side. He had misjudged the jump, an honest mistake as the floors were spinning. The Orc shook his head and rubbed his eyes. The walls were moving, growing taller and shorter with each breath.
Sorcery!
Or perhaps it was the inhuman amount of ale he had consumed. That was a more likely explanation. Gundnir recovered to see the pair of sentries had, too, recovered, and were fending off attacks from both Razhiri and the Deaders, Mel and Acherontia. Corrupted, corrosive words spilled from Acherontia's mouth, summoning a fel cloud of agony around one, while Melchisedech drew strength from the Elf's pain. A third guard rushed into the chamber, a Human, by the looks of it, unsheathing a two-handed broadsword.
Gundnir rose to his feet, swayed a moment, and then charged intercept the Human knight. The Orc swung with all his might, cracking through the air with an unforgiving blow from his hammer.....and caught nothing but more air. His strike was off by a full meter, and he twirled on his own feet, disorienting him more. The Human turned to retaliate, but paused. A sickening gurgle spilled forth, and he toppled over limp. Razhiri grinned rather seductively and withdrew her blood-soaked daggers from the knight's back.
By the time Gundnir's head had stopped spinning, the pair of guards had fallen.
"Quit messin' 'round, joo, " Razhiri shot Gundnir a scathing-yet-loving glare. The Orc liked it when she spat fire at him. This was accented by the fiery brew flowing through his veins.
The Tauren stumbled in then, followed by the twins and a few more Warsong soldiers. One Orc, a Warlock, slumped against the wall. A Troll held his head and wavered on his feet. The Deaders looked disapprovingly at the group.
The greenskin platoon burst into drunken laughter.
"Grab tha tree!" Gundnir commanded, though he ended up spouting inebriated nonsense in reality. He nodded for Razhiri and a few others to follow him.
"Before tha rest know we'ze here!" And if the defenders of Silverwing did not know yet, they surely did after Gundnir began yelling.
The Shaman ran down a hallway, chosen completely at random. Razhiri and two Orcs stumbled after him, doing their damnedest to stifle their guffaws. He lowered his head and smashed skull-first into the first door he saw. Blue eyes lit up as they adjusted to the lack of light.
"Dwarven spirits!" Gundnir roared once more. They hooted and hollered, letting stealth and clandestine movements give way to frenzy and intimidation. Alcohol and bloodlust coursed through their bodies. They were lost to the night.
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As daylight broke, and morning turned into afternoon, the forest-scape had quieted. Gundnir winced as sunlight broke the window-sill and burned into eyes. He grunted and moaned. Pure fire raged through his skull. Razhiri sprawled nearby, her garments disheveled and unkempt. The Shaman narrowed his gaze and rubbed his temples. His gaze slowly took in the room. He was in the Warsong fort, that much was obvious. A shapely tree stood proudly against the wall. It gave off a faint blue glow.
"Did we get 'em?" Gundnir grimaced, his voice raspier than usual. He looked around, surveyed the room. Crates of rations, bits of Alliance armor and weaponry, supplies like iron and nails, and several wooden barrels of ale marked Dun Modr's Finest filled the chamber. "And where'd all this brew come from?"
And then all went black.
It was just as the scouts reported. A handful manning the walls, a single sentry watching the west, where the trees were thickest. Where the Elves presumed they ruled, and falsely counted on the wild to protect that flank. A single ballista pointed maliciously between a break in the wall to the open field. Just as they said, a pair of guards stood watch in silent ward along the wall in the inner-most chamber.
And there it was; a sturdy wooden branch, seemingly shaped from living wood, giving off a soft, blue glow. The colors of Silverwing were mounted at the top. Gundnir would not have believed it unless he saw it himself.
The attack was sudden, and without alarm. The twin Forsaken scouts had done their job well, incapacitating most of the wall guards without being seen. Fire engulfed the ancient chamber, blinding the pair of guards and bringing them to their knees. Gundnir lept from the roof, his most trusted pair of warhammers brandished. They flared to life, engulfed in elemental fire, and sparks of lightning surged from his feet as he landed.
And they were extinguished as he stumbled and collapsed to the side. He had misjudged the jump, an honest mistake as the floors were spinning. The Orc shook his head and rubbed his eyes. The walls were moving, growing taller and shorter with each breath.
Sorcery!
Or perhaps it was the inhuman amount of ale he had consumed. That was a more likely explanation. Gundnir recovered to see the pair of sentries had, too, recovered, and were fending off attacks from both Razhiri and the Deaders, Mel and Acherontia. Corrupted, corrosive words spilled from Acherontia's mouth, summoning a fel cloud of agony around one, while Melchisedech drew strength from the Elf's pain. A third guard rushed into the chamber, a Human, by the looks of it, unsheathing a two-handed broadsword.
Gundnir rose to his feet, swayed a moment, and then charged intercept the Human knight. The Orc swung with all his might, cracking through the air with an unforgiving blow from his hammer.....and caught nothing but more air. His strike was off by a full meter, and he twirled on his own feet, disorienting him more. The Human turned to retaliate, but paused. A sickening gurgle spilled forth, and he toppled over limp. Razhiri grinned rather seductively and withdrew her blood-soaked daggers from the knight's back.
By the time Gundnir's head had stopped spinning, the pair of guards had fallen.
"Quit messin' 'round, joo, " Razhiri shot Gundnir a scathing-yet-loving glare. The Orc liked it when she spat fire at him. This was accented by the fiery brew flowing through his veins.
The Tauren stumbled in then, followed by the twins and a few more Warsong soldiers. One Orc, a Warlock, slumped against the wall. A Troll held his head and wavered on his feet. The Deaders looked disapprovingly at the group.
The greenskin platoon burst into drunken laughter.
"Grab tha tree!" Gundnir commanded, though he ended up spouting inebriated nonsense in reality. He nodded for Razhiri and a few others to follow him.
"Before tha rest know we'ze here!" And if the defenders of Silverwing did not know yet, they surely did after Gundnir began yelling.
The Shaman ran down a hallway, chosen completely at random. Razhiri and two Orcs stumbled after him, doing their damnedest to stifle their guffaws. He lowered his head and smashed skull-first into the first door he saw. Blue eyes lit up as they adjusted to the lack of light.
"Dwarven spirits!" Gundnir roared once more. They hooted and hollered, letting stealth and clandestine movements give way to frenzy and intimidation. Alcohol and bloodlust coursed through their bodies. They were lost to the night.
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As daylight broke, and morning turned into afternoon, the forest-scape had quieted. Gundnir winced as sunlight broke the window-sill and burned into eyes. He grunted and moaned. Pure fire raged through his skull. Razhiri sprawled nearby, her garments disheveled and unkempt. The Shaman narrowed his gaze and rubbed his temples. His gaze slowly took in the room. He was in the Warsong fort, that much was obvious. A shapely tree stood proudly against the wall. It gave off a faint blue glow.
"Did we get 'em?" Gundnir grimaced, his voice raspier than usual. He looked around, surveyed the room. Crates of rations, bits of Alliance armor and weaponry, supplies like iron and nails, and several wooden barrels of ale marked Dun Modr's Finest filled the chamber. "And where'd all this brew come from?"