Cen: the Wanderer
Re: Grim Trials of Cen
The crunch of boots on winter's last snow echoed throughout the grove. Smoke from Khorvis's pipeweed wandered lazily through the freezing night air, weaving between the trees. Fresh shoots of fern that poked their fronds up through the sublimating blanket found only a frigid welcome before a quick death. This was the orc's private retreat - a short hike from the Grim Halls, but distant enough for solitude. Leaning back against a birch, Khorvis watched a Sprite Darter do a barrel roll through his pipe's offal and sputter a fitful gag before zipping away in distrust.
"And the Cen does return to our ranks, Supplicants in tow and her head held high," he mused while finishing his recapitulation of a letter's contents. The gold filagree of Story Time shone with an amber warmth in the moonlight and the glowing embers of Khorvis's steady inhalations. "It is my fervent wish that this Bjarnemon troll be of some decent use to the Mandate. Of the Brast, I have no doubts. But Gretch'na? ..."
The High Inquisitor recalled his brief encounter with the aged orcess in the wine cellar of the saloon. Withered and bent, she flittered back and forth between prostrating herself before her better and raging at indecencies that one would be hard-pressed to decipher. Khorvis did his best to make quick his escape with a flask of fortified Silvermoon port, but not before the crone grabbed his arm and hissed a dark warning.
"I am not your mommy, little orc. Drink up to your heart's content!"
With that, Gretch'na lurched away, cackling to herself, and disappeared into some darker level of the Halls. Khorvis attempted to put the best face upon it and marched his way out into the forest, where he now considered the flask with a troubled eye.
"My mother... No, best not to consider these things. This new Draenor is a bloody nettle in my boot. Piss and fire on the Iron Horde!" With that, he stomped his foot down on a shivering frond, uncorked the flask, and downed its entire contents with a purposeful relish. Mauve rivulets soaked runnels of pungent streams on their course from his cracked lips to his knotty beard. They dripped and dropped a crimson splattering onto the snow under foot and the crumbled letter that Khorvis had balled unconsciously during his recollections.
Tapping out the last of his pipe's embers against the side of his boot, the orc turned and marched back towards the Grim Hall. A dusting of hot pipeweed caught the new Reaper's missive and a miniature blaze lit the grove briefly in its lonesomeness. The smoke and memories of Cen's motherly lap followed Khorvis back to his quarters.
"And the Cen does return to our ranks, Supplicants in tow and her head held high," he mused while finishing his recapitulation of a letter's contents. The gold filagree of Story Time shone with an amber warmth in the moonlight and the glowing embers of Khorvis's steady inhalations. "It is my fervent wish that this Bjarnemon troll be of some decent use to the Mandate. Of the Brast, I have no doubts. But Gretch'na? ..."
The High Inquisitor recalled his brief encounter with the aged orcess in the wine cellar of the saloon. Withered and bent, she flittered back and forth between prostrating herself before her better and raging at indecencies that one would be hard-pressed to decipher. Khorvis did his best to make quick his escape with a flask of fortified Silvermoon port, but not before the crone grabbed his arm and hissed a dark warning.
"I am not your mommy, little orc. Drink up to your heart's content!"
With that, Gretch'na lurched away, cackling to herself, and disappeared into some darker level of the Halls. Khorvis attempted to put the best face upon it and marched his way out into the forest, where he now considered the flask with a troubled eye.
"My mother... No, best not to consider these things. This new Draenor is a bloody nettle in my boot. Piss and fire on the Iron Horde!" With that, he stomped his foot down on a shivering frond, uncorked the flask, and downed its entire contents with a purposeful relish. Mauve rivulets soaked runnels of pungent streams on their course from his cracked lips to his knotty beard. They dripped and dropped a crimson splattering onto the snow under foot and the crumbled letter that Khorvis had balled unconsciously during his recollections.
Tapping out the last of his pipe's embers against the side of his boot, the orc turned and marched back towards the Grim Hall. A dusting of hot pipeweed caught the new Reaper's missive and a miniature blaze lit the grove briefly in its lonesomeness. The smoke and memories of Cen's motherly lap followed Khorvis back to his quarters.
