To Rebuild. To Bridge the Fel. [[Closed]]

The stories and lives of the Grim. ((Roleplaying Stories and In Character Interactions))
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Re: To Rebuild. To Bridge the Fel. [[Closed]]

Unread post by Khorvis » Fri Feb 06, 2015 7:59 pm

Blackrock Spire. Somehow, all of the dreams continued to converge on this moment, like the spirits of orcish ancestors drawn to Oshu'gun. Every vision was another step on the path that led to that fateful battle on the slopes of a volcano.

Khorvis retied the knot on his mace and glared at the woven cords of leather. He had an urgent feeling of deja vu and a nagging, burning sensation at the back of his skull, as if eyes were boring their way into his head. Swiveling on his perch in the fortress, the warrior took in the familiar sights of final preparation, the acrid stench of nervous, sweaty bodies, and the reassuring prattling of his brother. It was going to happen again. They were riding to their doom.

The faint memory of Farraki-accented orcish tickled at the edge of Khorvis's mind.

"Yeh be needing de 'felmancer' atcha side from now on ah think."

There it was. The frustrating burl tugging him back to reality. "De warlocks coulda turned de tide." That must be the solution. Khorvis had a plan.


Wren led the Zeth'kurians out the gates of the Spire. They rode five abreast at the far right flank of the main Horde body. With them was not the elder brother.

Khorvis moved silently from column to pillar, creeping forward towards the caged Stormreaver warlocks. Two Burning Blade warriors had remained behind to guard the prisoners, but they appeared agitated at the shaking of the fortress and the occasional falling debris within. Clearly the least battle-proven of the lot, they were still blademasters and Khorvis would need to be quick.

He charged the first from behind and brought his warmace down in a colossal smash upon the head. Gore sprayed the arcanite bars like flesh from an overripe melon and the guard dropped in a heap. The second was quick to respond, unsheathing her two-handed sword and parrying the warrior's second blow.

The two orcs circled each other and made precise jabs, testing the other's skill. This female blademaster was no unseasoned maiden, but Khorvis moved with all the memory of the veteran. Three wars, not to mention the campaigns in Northrend and in Pandaria, had molded Bloodstar into something else altogether.

A fient and a lunge. The blade shattered on mace-head and would have caved the woman's chest were it not for an agonizingly sharp pain in Khorvis's toe, causing him to trip and merely break the blademaster's knees. She crumpled, whimpering, but was spared the life of a cripple by the urgency of the Blackrock's real mission. A quick knife through the throat silenced any witness.

Smashing the lock of the cage, Khorvis ordered the Stormreavers out and into formed ranks. "Ride with me, felmancers. This is your final chance to redeem the honor of your clan. Flee, and you will be hunted down by either the Alliance, or worse, by Doomhammer. Fight, and forge your place in this world!"

Given the choice, they rode with Khorvis out the front gates of Blackrock Spire.


Battalions of jeering humans encircling the storied duel of Orgrim Doomhammer and Anduin Lothar were turned to ash.

Waves of felflame rolled down the mountainside, searing from this world any pinkskin that stood in their path. Even as the Alliance rallied beyond the next steppe, Khorvis felt flush with the glut of victory. These were wielders of an honest flame. There were only the righteous, and the dead. Nothing would stop their march to the North. Lordaeron would burn and ...

Rounding the far flank came a battered worg detachment of Blackrock orcs. Wren was at the head but slumped in his saddle, supported only by the strong arm of his bannerman. Behind them flew a sight that sent the weakest of the Ogre-magi running for the mountain. Gryphon riders. Whole regiments of stormhammer throwing dwarven gryphon riders. The Alliance commander had held his strongest play in check for just this moment, when the whole of the Horde force had been drawn out to the open field.

Khorvis broke into a mad gallop towards his wounded brother, but the rallied forces under the banner of Lothar reached the Zeth'kurians first. Lance after lance impaled Wren Bloodstar, lifting him from the saddle and carrying him aloft in a mocking display of gore. The other Blackrock were similarly dismembered, their worgs butchered like hogs and screeching in terror over the din.

"Not again!" Khorvis howled as he dropped from his mount. The Alliance reinforcements encircled the remaining warlocks and warriors, cutting them off from any retreat. It was a slaughter. "What will it take of me?! I have given everything! My honor! My clan! What?!" Bloodstar fell to his knees and stared numbly at the approaching jailors with their arcane shackles and shining helms. A distant voice was echoing in his mind's eye.

"But the twinning ... why ..."

It all became icily transparent to the orc in that moment. He would sacrifice anything, everything, to safeguard the brothers he held dear. His honor, his morals, the felmancers, all of it. There was nothing off the table, no weapon he would not wield to break the enemy. His honor was nothing. It was an illusion. There was only the Horde and the dead. He could not save Wren, that much was clear. The dead were no longer his concern. Yes, even his own brother would he throw into the flame.

With that final revelation, a chill wind gusted onto the burning battlefield. Massive hail and torrents of ice deluged the frozen armies in an instant. The cold snap intensified in a crescendo that filled Khorvis's vision with a white purity obscuring all distractions. Whispering in the chill were the words of a distant ghoul:

"Did you see how the soul mist mirrored each of us? Ha! I wonder what the supplicants will make of..."


Khorvis stretched his legs and slid off the stone slab, landing upon the sanctum floor with a slight wobble. The gathered warlocks watched closely and monitored his every movement. Here was the real test. Would The Lasher remember? Would he have any memory?

He walked across the chamber towards a full length standing mirror, miraculously unbroken during the chaotic operation. Shattered beakers and their spilt innards littered the floor, which crunched underfoot and yet seemed not to bother the barefoot orc. He curiously looked down to notice a missing toenail, but paid it no heed.

Reaching the mirror, he inspected Greebo's handiwork. The eldritch device hummed softly with inner mechano-demonic workings to regulate the aperture controlling the soul-shard. Reflecting the surface of the mirror, the soul mist reacted in an unexpected manner. Infinite reflections stretched in a spectral feedback, as when two mirrors are held up to each other and viewed from aside. The repetitions marched backwards into the looking glass for an eternity, slowling growing dimmer until terminating in an impenetrable blackness. And yet, somewhere between the seventh or the eight iteration, there was a flicker of movement resembling an undefined tentillum connected to something much larger. Faster than it appeared, it was gone.

Khorvis turned his head and stared at an empty section of masonry ceiling. There was a mild presence, only slightly perceptible in his periphery, like a second shadow. Were he asked, the orc could point directly from where it emanated, but would be unable to describe it. Some madnesses have no words.

"The markings on this eyepiece belong to Bloodscream, but I do think the work is of the Twice-Made?" Khorvis questioned the assembled felmancers. They nodded in unison, the very picture of pleased kittens in the milk. The warrior continued to inspect his stitched and scarred torso, noting the discoloration and suspicious blackness in the veins. He made no comment, but filed the oddity away in the back of his mind.

"I should commend you, felmancers. This is solid work fitting the Mandate. We all must sacrifice what is dear to us, if it will bring the Peace we claim to champion." Khorvis stared intently at Malhavik with that.

"For this duty, you do have my thanks.

My brothers."

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Re: To Rebuild. To Bridge the Fel. [[Closed]]

Unread post by Khorvis » Fri Feb 06, 2015 10:46 pm

[[ ~fin~

Thank you everyone who participated. This was a great deal of writing over a week, and I think the results speak for themselves. I am grateful for the chance to collaborate. ]]

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Re: To Rebuild. To Bridge the Fel. [[Closed]]

Unread post by Akorharil » Fri Feb 06, 2015 11:59 pm

[[this is one hell of a trial of sacrifice for Mal, I must say...]]

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Re: To Rebuild. To Bridge the Fel. [[Closed]]

Unread post by Greebo » Sat Feb 07, 2015 1:15 am

*sniffle* *sniffle*. One by one the warlock-hating orcs fall to away, leaving a hollow in my heart
please note that any old-one taint is intended to be purely speculative, indeed it is safe to assume that the flickering shadow in the infinite worlds of your mind's eye is merely a glitch, yes just a simple technical glitch that will soon fade away like an unpleasant memory.
Grisbault, Twice-Made.
The p, s, l, and t are silent, the screams are not.

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Re: To Rebuild. To Bridge the Fel. [[Closed]]

Unread post by Cen » Tue Feb 17, 2015 8:09 am

(( Awesome collaboration all!

Away for a couple weeks and shit gets crazy!

*claps wholeheartedly* ))

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