"Put your weapon away," she snarled, hand on the dagger lying at her hip. She blinked, and her eyes adjusted further; she could see a Forsaken man, an old warrior perhaps, standing before her. Fiery yellow orbs, fierce and yet somehow sickly, glowed from his eye sockets; he carefully took a step backward as he lowered his sword.
"What business have you here, orc?" the man rasped; his cool breath brushed over her face, reeking of rot.
"I was sent to help with a vermin problem. I didn't expect an ambush," she added wryly, looking down at his weapon. He nodded, all business, and his ragged features wrinkled in what appeared to be a frown.
"My apologies," he replied, sweeping himself into a low bow. "I have seen many faces these last days, but none friendly. I wasn't expecting any help." He sheathed his sword and went to the window. He moved surprisingly quickly--and silently--for a corpse, Gazkra thought to herself.
"Welcome to Maiden's Orchard, orc," the undead said quietly. He'd brushed the shredded curtain very slightly to one side and was peering out of the window, his frown deepening. "I am Deathstalker Erland." With this, he let the curtain fall and turned back to Gazkra.
"Gazkra, orc," she replied with a crooked grin. "Orc" was the only introduction she needed--it meant she was fierce, strong and unrelenting. The Forsaken knew it, and his reply was laced with dry humor.
"A noble title. We have a problem here," he added, nodding toward the door. "The vermin--the worgs. They've come down from the mountains in droves. Masses of them. Whoever lives here... This was once called Maiden's Orchard, but any maidens are long gone. As is anyone else. I came to scout, but I've been boxed in here by the beasts. Every time I step outside they eye me... They must be incredibly hungry to think I'm worth eating," he added, throwing a knowing glance at the orc before him. She smirked, and he nodded, expression growing serious again.
"I need you to... thin them out. I'd requested help in eradicating them, but there's no chance of that now--there's far too many. Just kill enough to clear us a path. I want you to be careful, though. There's one out there that's been a particular thorn in my side. Twice when I've tried to leave, I've found him waiting just beside the house, ready to get between me and the door as soon as I take a step. He's a big brute, that one, and a practiced killer, I can tell you that for sure. Smart, too--clever as six of these other foul things," he added, waving a bony hand toward the window.
"So the 'vermin' I was sent to kill--are worgs?" Gazkra replied with a scowl. Her disbelief had deepened with the Forsaken's every word--she'd been sent to clean up pests, not fight for her life at every kill. But she was an orc, and duty would come first--cowardice would not slow her step.
"In a word, yes," Erland answered with a nod. He paused, and with a raised eyebrow, added "Are you up to such opponents? I don't know if you were promised easy prey by the... overenthusiastic... higher-ups in Undercity, but these beasts are not easy kills."
Gazkra shrugged. "If I can't handle them, you can bury me later. If there's anything left to bury. Otherwise, I'll be back in a few hours. They afraid of fire?" she added, deep in thought. If she could build a campfire somewhere, or bring a burning brand with her...
"Some of them are, I think, but not all. For a rush it might be good, but for a hunt you're just going to blind yourself against the darkness. Don't bother waiting for daylight, either; it doesn't get much brighter."
The orc nodded again and favored the Deathstalker with something akin to a loose salute. Then she turned and, without a word more, slipped from the door into the shadows of the orchard.
She waited in utter silence, her back to the door, for a good three minutes. The fire hadn't done her eyes any favors, and the blackness before her was complete. She could hear the faint dripping of the dew falling from the trees; beyond that, there seemed to be no sound. When she could finally see again, the first thing she did was ready her dagger and slip around the side of the house, trying to ensure that the "big brute" Erland had mentioned wasn't lying in wait. The side of the building was clear, however, and she turned and slipped into the trees, sheathing her dagger in silence. She nocked an arrow into her bow instead, leaving the string loose for now.
The entire orchard stank of wet dog. She'd attributed the smell to the peat before, but now she knew it was the dozen or so prowling worgs nearby. She moved slowly toward the road, careful to remain utterly silent; she knew, however, the worgs could likely smell her already. Perhaps they were already circling, moving toward her...
Arrow ready now, Gazkra carefully moved through a break in the wooden fence and crouched down. She was essentially using herself as bait; as the worgs came toward her, she would have a clear shot over the small clearing between the road and the orchard.
Hopefully.
The first one came quickly enough, snuffling loudly in the darkness, his movements somehow clumsy. Perhaps it was a young worg, or a particularly old one, but he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He made his way toward the road with bleary eyes, his claws and dark, wet coat shimmering in the faint light of the shrouded moon. Gazkra took careful aim, ignoring her racing heart, and let fly her first shot. There was a brief whistle and a muffled thud, and the worg collapsed on the wet earth.
The orc hunter said a quiet prayer to herself, thanking the spirits (as her tribe's shaman had taught her) for this bounty. Then, she waited.
Two more worgs came soon after, and with well-placed arrows she quickly ended both of them. For a full hour more she lay in wait, crouched at the roadside, every nerve humming with tense fear, but no more worgs appeared.
Gazkra crept along the road, blinking away the slight drizzle that had begun, silently cursing this damp, dark hellhole. She made her way around to the south of the orchard, looking through the trees at the farmhouse; the door was cracked open and she could see the fire blazing warmly within. There was a faint, distant thunk; she saw the silhouette of the Deathstalker fade into the building, and the door close. He'd thrown something outside; garbage, perhaps, or an old log. But in the brief glow of firelight, Gazkra had seen something that made her skin crawl--there were four or five worgs, at least, prowling in the trees between her and the safety of the farmhouse.
She swore quietly to herself under her breath; the creatures hadn't seen her, weren't even actively hunting by looks. But if even two came for her at once...
Gazkra turned, slipping directly away from the farm while she tried to work out a plan. Perhaps if she laid a snare, or placed a trap of some kind? She hadn't the time to build a pitfall; they'd find her long before she finished. Unless she could lure them a good distance away...
Something flashed white in the shadows ahead. Gazkra dropped into a crouch, peering through the thick trees. There was a clearing, and rocks--the moonlight cleared for an instant, and her breath caught in her throat.
A great gray-white worg, coat glowing in the mist, was slipping over the rock toward the southern forests. Without a second thought, Gazkra nocked an arrow and took quick, careful aim. The worg slipped into the shadows then, and behind a tree, and her shot was lost. She swore again, and followed, nearly crawling along the ground.
Before her, she could just make out the silver worg padding away. She made a sudden decision--it would be risky, but it should work. She hoped.
She whistled--a long, light, quiet sound. The worg's head snapped up, and he froze, staring directly toward her motionless form. She was ready. The moment he paused, giving her a clear shot, she took it.
The silver worg leapt back as if stung, and turned to run; he took three long, bounding strides and then stumbled, falling to the rock a moment later. She followed fast, moving as quietly as she could, and found him already dead on the stone. This one, she felt bad for; she said another prayer over the corpse and ran a hand through his beautiful, thick coat. This must have been the "brute" the Deathstalker had mentioned, then. Sad to have to kill such a beautiful beast; his fur shimmered so brightly that he'd seemed like some wicked ghost in the night.
Moving carefully, she lifted the bloodied worg's limp, hot body over her shoulders. It was impossibly heavy, but somehow she managed; she made her way back to the road and then around toward the farmhouse, panting with the exertion.
After what seemed like hours she found herself at the Deathstalker's door, and she managed to slide the worg's body from her shoulders without dropping it. She rapped sharply on the wood, and a moment later firelight blazed before her once more.
Deathstalker Erland stood in the doorway, looking out at her; the darkness, and the blinding light behind him, obscured his features. Her own eyes blazed with triumph, however, and she spoke.
I welcome the comments, no worries 
It's more out of boredom that I'm doing this than anything, although it's also one of those times where I have a story in my head and feel compelled to put it down.
And thank you for reading 
This was the best wow-related story I've read in a very long time. Really loved the way you added pictures. 
