"Pitiful mortals." Gurok hissed like a rattlesnake. "Witness them; their paltry bodies crawling through this uncouth squat like worms in the soil. Unfit for even the basest of pleasures."
"Yes, yes!" Murok cackled lowly. "Slaughter, murder, brutalize, scorch, devour, boil and blister them! Don't take one, take them all! All of them! All!"
Vorghaz sighed inaudbily and pulled his mask up tighter. He thought it was good that they were so brilliantly disguised, for otherwise the civilians of the city would've discovered them long ago. They stepped carefully across the paved roads, a feat of architecture on its own - against it clapped the disciplined bootsteps of ironclad Soldiers, who would surely have the three of them drawn and quartered. Should they be discovered ofcourse - this was an impossibility, as Vorghaz was a master of guile. Indeed, on the Demon-World of Ykor'ghaal, he is known as "Clubfoot". The title might seem mocking, but the irony in its meaning is that despite the Orc's feet being horribly mutated by Fel, he is as careful as a cat. He can tread across a rooftop, with less noise made below than the claws of a jackdaw, or waterdrops on a rainy night.
There was risk, ofcourse. The two twins accompanying him had a tendency to bicker. Even after Vorghaz had forced them to silence, they continued this debate in hushed tones. However, thankfully, Vorghaz had conjured an illusion of noise to distract the highly educated populace from making any form of guess that something rotten might be in the air. Some would suggest he'd simply not bring the brothers, but alas, he loved them dearly, for they too were of the First Warlock's Clan, Stormreaver.
"Be quiet, brother, you must not disturb our purpose here! A mortal of a pure, virgin soul, which we shall sate a powerful Demon-lord with, to gain access to endless founts of power!"
"Power, POWER! Yes, YES ALL...all MINE, OURS, TO DES-..."
"Quiet you two!" Vorghaz growled at them through his tusks, almost breaking the illusion he had cast on himself and his two companions. "I hear someone coming..."
The light taps of feet approached the trio through the misty dusk shrouding the forest. The warm, orange light glowing from a soot-glassed lantern, held in the tight clasp of a steely-eyed watchman. He was tall as a giant, and holding at his waist a silver sword. Flanking him was a pack of Gilnean-bred mastiffs, all hungering for Demon-flesh. Vorghaz saw the threat immediatly: his spells were by no means weak, but they had one weakness: dogs. While mere mortals lack strong ability over their senses, such beasts can smell the fel conjurations right through. Scalding-hot fel sweat ran down his cracked mug.
"Aha!" Vorghaz declared to the army of so-called Heroes, draped in their legendary armors and wielding Light-blessed weapons pointed at him and his trio of companions. "You thought you had me caught because your Scholazian Housecats could sniff through my conjurations? That the trick is up? Dastardly! I have fooled you, all of you, into my trap, and now I will bring about your end!"
"Your demise shall come on swift wings, cretins!"
"CALL FORTH THE LEGIONS! YES, VICEROY OF KAR'THUL, CALL FORTH YOUR FEL ARMIES! AHAHAH!"
"Eyok-cha ce'tul...marik to-ma-esamo..." Vorghaz chanted in unison with his companions. From his satchel he slowly procured a glass ball, in which a smoky green mist curled uneasily, like the eggs of some alien creature. "Ka to ze r'zjin! I call ye forth...BAAL'DUIN!"
Against the ground of frozen ice, Vorghaz cast the ball in a flung of burning fel. The glass shattered, making a terrible noise, like that of a screeching bat. The smokes inside contorted into a pit of madness, crackling with mad energies and twisting with unnatural colors. From within, screams of pain, the lamentation of women and children, and soon a deep laughter was heard. But as time progressed, this once bone-chilling laughter sank into a skeleton of its former self, a parody, for it turned out light, perhaps even silly. Out of the hellgate stepped not a clove-footed Doomguard, or even Felguard, but a skittish little imp.
Baal'duin analyzed his surroundings carefully. "Are we there yet?!" The imp screeched. He stood in the middle of some ramshackle swamp-town, that smelled worse than a Felhounds mouth after a meal of rotten chow. His feet were slowly sinking into the mud, and he could feel worms writhing around his crooked toenails. The roads were made up of moulding planks, in even worse condition than the buildings, which were all decaying and collapsing in on themselves.
He looked to Vorghaz. The Fel Orc had dressed himself in a woman's dress, oversized, even for his deformed body. In his mangled hands he held those two swords of his, to which he whispered inconsistently. "Yes-yes, kill them, kill them!" Vorghaz screeched, manipulating his voice to sound like Murok. Baal'duin raised a brow.
"Are you talking to your stupid swords again, kook?!"
The two had indeed been surrounded. By the town's locals, a pack of greasy-haired inbreds, who seemed more curious at the arrival of the two rather than terrified. At the vanguard as the town's watchman, an old man with a broken lantern and a small pair of glasses.
"Uhh-..p-paper...papers p-please?" He shakingly asked the Fel-Orc. Vorghaz immedialty flung his mad gaze at him.
"MY ILLUSION?! How could you have broken it!" The crooked Orc roared furiously, fel saliva spitting straight into the mans face, and melting right through his skin. The feathered bonnet Vorghaz had put on slowly fell off. The old man moaned in pain as he slowly collapsed to the ground. "We have no OTHer CHoice to DEFend ourSELVES now, my FRIENDS! And you too, Baal'duin!" Vorghaz cried in half-song, before he lashed out Gurok and Murok(as his swords had been dubbed) towards the old man's neck, slicing it clean off. The locals panicked and ran for cover in their hovels, the Orc charging after them - throwing off his clever disguise so that he was butt naked, his shrunken member dangling between his legs as he did.
"Well, this ain't going on my resume." Baal'duin muttered as he conjured a scouring flame in his hands, cackling madly as he cast rains of brimstone over the frightened masses.
The two only stopped when the town of Wortlake was reduced from a ruined shithole to a burnt ruined shithole. Unextinguishable flames of felfire crackled across the murky boards reduced to cursed charcoal. Not even the damp soil could put out such a heat, and the smell was unbearable.
"So what's your big plan now, big guy?" Baal'duin hissed aggressively at Vorghaz, who was picking through the debris in search for his favorite Teddy Bear.
"The sacrifice...the sacrifice! Gurok says WE NEED IT!" Vorghaz roared out madly and threw a plank behind him. Baal'duin acrobatically dodged the missile coming his way. "You said we were going to Ironforge, not...I don't even know where this is, you kook!"
"Yess, the King! We will find him..." Vorghaz snarled like a bloodhound, viciously sniffing his way to a hatch in the ground. He latched a tight hold of its handle and tore it open, a cloud of dust washing out into the sulphurous air. "Treasure!" The Warlock exclaimed gleefully.
"What's in there? Gold? Rubies? So we can buy sacrifices?!" The Imp said excitedly and jumped his way like a bunny to the hatch. Vorghaz turned around and gave his minion a foul grin. Down in the basement, a lone inbred survivor sat in a puddle of his own piss, shaking like a leaf in the crisp autumn wind.