Ashagga Wolfskin, Beginnings
Ashagga, August 11, 2006
An orc and a troll walked into a bar. The bar was called the
Smithy’s Armpit, a decidedly unpleasant place in Orgrimmar’s
Drag. The Smithy, as it was colloquially known, was a shady sort
of cantina known for its frequent bar fights. The orc and troll
stepped up to the bar and ordered, a skin of dwarven stout for
the orc and a bottle of port for the troll.
“Oi, Rathek, you ‘eard the news?”
“What news be dat, mon?”
“The Grim done butchered themselves another score o’ elves
yesterday.”
“Dat be good, I t’ink.” The troll took a long pull from his port.
“I hate dem elves, an’ a score o’ dem dead be a good t’ing.”
“Well, I ain’t so ‘appy.” The orc nursed his stout sullenly.
“Makes it bloody ‘ard fer an honest man ter keep up wif’ ‘em. A
body’s got to work twice as ‘ard ta make a name fer hisself!”
The pair continued their discussion, ignoring the hooded figure
lurking in the shadows. The figure watched them a while longer
before dropping a few copper coins on its table and slinking out
of the bar. Swiftly and silently, the figure moved toward the
Cleft of Shadow.
It passed the poison dealers, the rogue trainers, the warlocks,
and the fences, steadfastly ignoring the suspicious stares that
followed. In a small corner of the Cleft, spitting distance from
Ragefire Chasm, the figure stepped into a tiny tent, little more
than a ragged wolfskin held up on four rickety poles.
Ashagga pulled back her hood, shaking out her dirty, red hair.
The Grim. Everywhere she went, she heard their name. Everyone she
met sang their praises. Whether they wanted to admit it or not,
everyone seemed to agree that the Grim was the finest, most
effective, and most supportive guild in Orgrimmar, maybe in all
of Kalimdor. In short, they were the best.
That meant she had to be one of them.
Ashagga would not accept less than the best, not anymore. All her
life, she’d been a third class citizen, poor as dirt and a woman
to boot. Her mother had raised her on stories of the half-orc
heroine Garona, even said they were distantly related, but her
mother was gone. When the pox had taken her, Ashagga had sold her
corpse to the warlocks for the price of a knife.
That was a week ago. Since then, Ashagga had become an
adventurer.
She pulled off her backpack, reaching in and plucking out the
Searing Blade lieutenant’s insignia she’d stolen. Thrall himself
had sent her to infiltrate their number, and so she had. He’d
personally tasked her with the death of two of their other
leaders, nestled in Ragefire Chasm, and so they’d died. Surely,
she thought, surely that would be enough to attract the Grim.
She heard a footfall from the entrance to her tiny tent, and she
stood, her knives coming to hand with a flick of her wrist.
“Greetingss, orc bitch.”
Ashagga snarled. “Piss off, Blythe.”
Sirius Blythe laughed. “Ssuch a cold welcome. Iss that any way to
greet your landlord?”
“Slumlord, Blythe. Slumlord wi’ delusions standing.”
Sirius Blythe was a Forsaken, which meant he was a withered,
rotting scarecrow of a corpse, clad in ragged black robes and
leaning heavily on a gnarled stick. His gray-green hair stuck out
in all directions, and his jaw didn’t seem to fit quite right on
his face, hanging slightly loose. Though his eyes were long gone,
the yellow fires that burned in his gaping sockets followed her
every move.
“What d’you want?”
“I’m here to collect your rent.”
“Sod you! I jus’ paid yesterday!”
“And now you’ll have to pay again. Unlesss, of coursse, you wish
to ssleep in the Chassm.”
“Well, I ain’t got no more shine. You took it all.”
Blythe chuckled, lasciviously eyeing her firm, toned frame.
“There are other wayss to pay.”
Ashagga took a step back, leveling her dagger at him. “Bugger
you.”
“Hardly. I’m a bit too far gone for that. However, there are many
who would pay handssomely for that which I can no longer enjoy.”
“I’ll not be your doxy, Blythe, yours or anyone else’s!”
“How dissappointing for Brog.”
The orc woman felt the presence behind her just too late. A
massive form melted from the shadows, appearing as if from thin
air. Ashagga spun, trying to plant her dagger in his chest, but
he easily grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her. She
struggled until he twisted sharply, and she felt her wrist break.
Her vision blurred. The massive orc released her. Ashagga fell to
her knees, her dagger clattering uselessly to the floor.
“Now, now, Ashagga,” laughed Blythe. “Play nice.”
Brog loomed over the kneeling orc woman, grinning through his
tusks. Like Ashagga, he was an orc, green of skin and violent of
disposition. He was dressed in black leathers, with his hair
pulled into a topknot. Tattoos covered his arms. He began slowly
circling her, lovingly caressing his paired knives.
“Now, if you don’t have coin, and you won’t conssider alternative
meanss of payment… why, I’m afraid we’ll jusst have to hurt you,
won’t we, Brog?” On cue, Brog snapped a kick at her face that
lifted her off the floor and spun her, leaving her sprawling face
down on the rock floor of the Cleft. Ashagga weakly tried to
stand, but Brog’s boot came down hard on the back of her neck,
forcing her bloody face against the ground.
She grimaced. “Belt… pouch…”
Blythe nodded to Brog. The orcish enforcer bent and plucked the
pouch from her belt, giving her a long and gratuitous grope while
he was about it. The pouch jingled. Brog grinned and tossed it to
Blythe, who peered inside and saw silver.
With a smile, Blythe moved forward and knelt beside Ashagga,
leaning close to her face. Ashagga struggled to move away, but
Brog increased the pressure on her neck until she whimpered and
stopped.
“You’re a good bitch, orc. We alwayss have fun with you. I’ll be
back ssoon for more, and I do hope you can pay. It would be a
sshame if we had to make an example of you.”
He licked a thread of blood from her face, forcing Ashagga to
repress the urge to vomit, and stood. Brog slapped her ass and
laughed as he followed Blythe from her tent, leaving her face
down in the dirt.
For a long time, Ashagga just lay on the floor. When she finally
rose to her knees, she scooted back to lean against the cool wall
of the Cleft, cradling her broken wrist. She closed her eyes and
clenched her teeth, but the hot tears came anyway.
The Grim. One day, she’d be one of them, and Blythe would be
afraid of her.