Confrontation
Abric - January 10, 2006
The Searing Gorge was a dismal place. Located in the northern
range of the Redridge Mountain, the once fertile valley became a
wasteland in the wake of the Fire Lords return to Azeroth. The
earth had been ripped asunder, making gentle hillsides into
cragged rock formations and cliffs. The soil had turned to a red
ash that seemed to stick to everything that it touched. Fissures
had opened to active volcanoes, belching out noxious gases which
blotted out the sky with a red haze. From these same fissures
came rivers and lakes of magma, emitting an oppressive heat that
burned all but the hardiest of plant life. The fauna was consumed
and replaced by carnivorous spiders, which hid in the crevices
and hollows of the landscape, preying on the unsuspected.
Only three groups tried to make this place habitable, the first
being the Dark Iron dwarves. From Blackrock Mountain, their
singular obsession was to rape the land of its wealth. The
Cauldron and its surrounding outposts were where they ruled with
an iron fist, working their slave army relentlessly to find the
flame resistant metal that carried their clan’s name. Deeper and
deeper they went, protected by stone and metal golems that held
no remorse for runaways and the occasional adventurer.
Another was a splinter of the Dark Irons that called themselves
the Thorium Brotherhood. From Thorium Point they controlled the
only refuge for the Alliance and the Horde. Yet, they remained
neutral to all but the most favored… and the favor was bought in
hard currency and treasure. The last group was a sect of the
Twilight Hammer. These religious fanatics flocked to a cave
network in the northwest of the Gorge. There, they continued to
plot and worship the Old Gods, trying to find a way to somehow
harness powers beyond their control to bring about the
destruction of what they considered was a mockery to their cause.
Yet… there was another in the Gorge this day; neither a group or
a sect or even a clan. It was a single being, an undead who
claimed the title of Forsaken. He sat upon one of many craggy
formations that dotted the landscape. His sickened and taunt face
betrayed little. The glow of undeath that once were eyes
flickered in rhythm to the ebb and flow of a nearby stream of
lava. His thin, skeletal frame was covered in ash, masking the
leather armor that marked him some sort of warrior. Fingers
tapped a silent tune against his thigh, as a battle was watched.
In search of food, one of the lava spiders left its lair to
search the surface for prey. Yet, this spider soon became what it
did not expect, as it was attacked by an adventurer. A short
stature human female, she had come from behind it with the
element of surprise. With two light maces in hand, the adventurer
awkwardly pummeled the creature’s legs. A horrid shriek came from
the spider as it turned to defend itself, though the chances were
little against the speed of its attacker. The spider could only
ward the blows with its legs, fangs unable to find a place to
bite down. Moments after it started, it ended with a sickening
crunch of an introduction with mace and head. The spider slumped
to the ground, its death call mere gurgles and bubbles of ichor.
A smile of satisfaction came to the woman’s face, but quickly
marked by some sort of scowl of personal ability. Leaning into
the mace that made the death blow, she seemed to resting. It was
at this time that the undead from above had stood and made his
way silently down the hillside, almost as if floating through the
haze of smoke and heat. A similarly matched scowl came to its
face, as he moved behind the woman and brought the pommel of a
dagger into the side of her neck. A surprised gasp of air was the
only return, as the woman lost her grip on her weapons and fell
into the body of the dead spider.
“Another peasant playing solider… how unendingly amusing and
revolting it is,” said the undead. Sheathing his dagger, the
being leaned down and placed hands roughly on the woman’s
shoulders. Dragging her away from her kill, he turned her on her
back, standing above her with feet between her sides. He looked
down to her, more with disdain than interest or curiosity.
“Always is as it is, is it not? How easy it would be to destroy
you now, without you knowing its purpose… its cause. Meeting
death, without knowing its hand. How easy it would be for you,
peasant. How grossly unsatisfying it would be for me.”
Bending at the knees, the undead leaned forward with one hand
placed on the ground next to the woman’s head, supporting his
weight. A curl to his lips, his eyes began to wander over her
frame. Where another in his place may be allured to what was
hidden behind so much leather and cloth… his was more. Where the
heat of the Gorge was unbearable, the heat coming from her was
agonizing. His hands wanted to wonder over her body, yet not for
satisfaction of bodily pleasures. It was to get close to the
heat, the breath of life that made her a beacon. The undead’s
other hand hovered over her cheek, fingertips shaking in
anticipation of a touch… a feel… a chance to be one with the heat
of life.
“Mmm…”
A low growl held in his throat, fingertips wandering down her
face; to her neck. From her neck, to her breast... her breast to
her side. They followed the contours of the armor, yet contact
was never made. The undead leaned in further, bringing his face
close to the sweat and ash covered hair on top of the woman’s
head. A deep breath was taken, even though sulfur and spider was
the only smell that could be taken from it. The undead imagined
spring flowers and scented oils as the stray strands of blonde
hair lightly touched his lips.
Eyes fluttered closed as he raised his face to the sky, savoring
a memory the woman unintentionally enacted. His hand moved from
her side, as well as from the ground as he stood up. The dagger
was drawn, held at his side. The moment was ecstasy, yet that
moment was short. Soon, reality came back to the memory of the
undead, and eyes opened to look down on the unconscious form
below him.
Yet... where a thrust of the blade would be made, something new
came into perspective. Bending down once again, the undead took
his free hand and brushed at the grime covered emblem that was
stitched into the tabard on the woman.
The low growl returned to the undead’s throat… yet where it had
once held a sadistic passion, now it was hate.
“Lordaeron.”
Stepping away from the body of the woman, a second dagger was
drawn from the undead’s side.
“So, it seems you are one who holds to traitors and cowards. For
that, peasant, the hand will be known.”
The haze seemed to thicken as the undead faded from view. Steps
were taken back as he positioned himself in a low stance, and
watched. Watched as she started to stir and come back to the
waking world. Come back to the realization of where she was… and
the battle that would soon come.
[Liadain]
Cold. Ice leeching the warmth from her; leaving white hot trails
on her flesh. A presence looming above her hungrily. Tension.
Liadain blinked; her eyes adjusting to the hazy sunlight. There
was a dull throbbing at the base of her neck and she winced as
she slowly sat up. She remembered killing the lava spider that
lay dead before her and then… She shivered. She reached up and
touched her cheek; her fingers tracing a memory.
Lia rose into a crouch and scanned the immediate area. Staying
low to the ground, she crept over to the pair of maces that lay
discarded near the spider’s corpse. She picked them up and
grimaced at their still unfamiliar weight in her hands. She could
not see her enemy but instinct told her he was still here
somewhere; watching her.
“Bloody hell.” Lia growled, cursing herself for not having her
swords. She checked her gear absently, as she continued to peer
into the swirling ash and smoke for any sign of movement. There
was none. She set her jaw and began to move slowly and carefully
away from the spider’s carcass.
Liadain circled the area, weighing the merits of fight or flight.
A hint of a smirk appeared at the corner of her mouth.
Did she ever run when she should?