Post by Patty
((Part 2 can be found
here. Hope you enjoy, and leave feedback if you read please. It doesn't matter if it's positive or negative, as long as it's constructive if negative. Cheers for reading.))
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Shala‘s ears were ringing. She opened her eyes, facing the cold floor, and immediately placed her hand on her head. It was still bleeding where she had been hit by a large club. She tried leaning up, but immediately fell back down again. The Elf was far too weak to do anything, and just lay down, helpless.
Only then did she notice that she was in a small cage, in a dimly lit room. There were large figures all around her, hulking great men covered in dark armour.
“Warsong…” She thought, scowling. She spat at one of the guards’ feet, and he smirked at her slyly before kicking her with a metallic boot. Shala felt one of her ribs crack, and writhed over in pain.
“You should not have tried that.” Said the guard in broken Common.
“Let me go! I demand it, scum!” She spat.
The guard walked away, and said something in Orcish to the other guard which was by a door a few metres away. They cackled, and Shala lay there nursing her wounds as best she could. She did not have the strength to call for Nature to heal her.
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Drakthog and Tal’ruk dismounted, and let their wolves hunt for prey while they went to look for an officer in charge of the offensive attack against the Night Elves. They saw a small makeshift fort, and assumed this was the place. Before entering, Drakthog muttered to his son “Listen, boy. Let me do the talking here, the Warsong aren’t the friendliest of our kind.” He warned. Young Tal’ruk nodded.
“I understand…” He sighed. Drakthog asked a guard in heavy plate where his superior was. The guard merely pointed and grunted, clearly he was distasteful of the two shamans. Drakthog nodded before saying under his breath “A pleasure to meet you too.”
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Kyrael had leant against a tree and taken off his mail armour, wearing a white shirt and some leather breeches. He jumped when he saw Darkclaw running towards him, purring. Naia soon followed suit, and collapsed to the ground in exhaustion.
After regaining her breath, Kyrael asked “Wait a minute? Where is Shala?” Clearly worried.
She stammered “S - Sh - She fell to the Orcs, I barely escaped myself.” Still panting. Darkclaw nodded.
“I-I-Impossible!” He exclaimed, bringing his fist heavily onto the ground. He rested his head in his hands, trying to comprehend what he had just heard.
“Are you sure?” He asked sincerely. “Of course. Don’t worry, I’m traumatised too!” She said, leaning closer towards him.
“We should head back to the village. Shala would not want us to die too.” Said Naia, bowing her head. Kyrael nodded solemnly, and picked up his things before walking away from the camp.
Naia placed her hand on her head, the whispers were becoming more frequent, and more intense. Kyrael asked her “Naia, are you alright?” To which she replied “Yes, it’s nothing. Just…a headache.”
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Tiragon and Sproxie leaned over the ship, feeling the sea breeze rush through their hair. Sproxie wasn’t really leaning, she was more sitting on the edge. The sea seemed to be getting a little rougher, and Sproxie almost fell off the side.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” Smiled the Human, grabbing onto Sproxie’s petite arm.
“Thanks!” Exclaimed the excitable Gnome, before being pulled back onto the ship safely.
“No problems. Do you want me to get you a box?” He asked, giggling. She punched him in the arm. “Not funny! You’re being heightist!” She said, frowning.
“Is that a word?” Asked the Priest. “Um…I dunno but I could actually do with a chair or something. They obviously didn’t think about
me when they built this thing, did they?”
Tiragon sighed, and laughed heartily. Sproxie always knew how to make him laugh. The rest of the journey was smooth, and they felt the boat slowing. Tiragon grabbed both his and Sproxie’s belongings and thanked the captain before docking at Auberdine.
“Just a word of warning, they don’t like technology here.” He whispered, kneeling.
“Aw, c’mon! Give a Gnome a break!” She sighed, before placing her goggles back in her bag.
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Tajil sat in his small house, in the Valley of Spirits. In a candle-lit room, he began putting his quill onto a piece of parchment. “Ok, ‘den. I’d beta’ get dis right.” He muttered, his quill scratching frantically.
“If…you…tink…dat…da Warsong are goin’ too far…” He mumbled, still writing very hastily.
“I hope Drakthog can try and calm ‘dem down first, ‘mon.” He thought to himself. He knew that if he was caught by the Warsong he would face a terrible fate. He knew their brutality all too well. Spending hours re-reading and correcting his letter, he cast a spell which multiplied it in number. He ruffled through the papers, checking they had all fully translated.
He headed towards the Zeppelin tower with piles of letters and posters.
“Dese be for Thunder Bluff, mon.” He said to a Goblin engineer, who placed his open palm in front of the Troll. He handed the goblin several gold. “And dese are for Undercity. Make sure da Thalassian ones get to Silvermoon too.”
“Yes sir!” Said the female goblin, hobbling away with her pockets chinking with gold.