Author's note: I will continue to edit and work on this.
What you're seeing now is most likely just a small part of the massive story to come.
Only in silence the word,
only in dark the light,
only in dying life:
bright the hawk's flight
on the empty sky.
Many once proud warriors had fallen. Stained by the rage of Fel, muddled by magics beyond their comprehension. Now nothing more than a feast for the crows, both the devils blood and the ignorance of blue men drove them to an early death. Bodies and weapons littered a once tranquil grass clearing. The smell of an entire battlefields feces along with pools upon pools of blood was almost unbearable. Though one of the remaining survivors, amidst the settling smoke and cawing of the overhead crows, stood perched atop a rock, his body beaten and bruised as he looked out over the piles of both Horde and Alliance corpses. This had not been the paradise he imagined. This had not been the world he fantasized when the others spoke of the first Horde, and for a second... he missed the rolling hills of Nagrand and the company of those in Garadar. Though Draenor was doomed, his ancestral lands gone and lost to the edge of reality. This was his families life now. Blood was oozing from several wounds across his torso, albeit these cuts were mostly drowned out by a coat of others bodily fluids. He was Orcish, a hulking broad figure dressed in brown furs and leathers, his skin equal in color to the pelts he adorned. A long braided beard hung from his face, well-kept dreadlocks hanging down to his back. The battle-worn Orc was on the older side, possibly around his early thirties, and he looked horribly fatigued. He seemed to be smoking a pipe, most likely looted from one of the many deceased Humans in blue and gold plate surrounding the formation he sat upon. A way to calm himself after the battle. He barely even had enough strength to move his arms. The cold sound of crackling scorched wood and squawking birds was eventually pierced by the clanking sound of somebody stepping over various corpses and weapons from behind.
And then, a young, fragile voice came not long after. "Father..." Muttered a rather thin Orc lad between exhausted breaths, no more than fifteen or sixteen. He too was dressed in blood soaked pelts, his skin pale and sickly, from what they did not know. A battlefield was no place for a boy of his age, yet there he was. "The warband marches north... they'll leave without us if we don't go soon." Exhaled the child, his eyes widened from both fatigue and stress. His father merely grunted in reply. "Go find your mother by the trees, boy. Gather what supplies you can. I will not have my son, and my mate, be forced to fight another battle. We make for the hills." And with that, the old Orc glared over his shoulder, nodding towards the boy, before sliding off his stone seat.
Tyrarn, Son of the Hunt
Capture.PNG 236.54KB 0 downloads
The Orc, aged 23
Birthplace: Nardrod, Draenor
Residence: Stonetalon Mountains
Faction: Horde Aligned
Alignment: Neutral good
Languages: Common (broken), Orcish (fluent), Taurahe (fluent)
Weight: 220 lbs