WoW Petopia Community

Chapter 1

Gazkra scowled, peering doubtfully into the gloom.

The forest lay thick and dark before her; an eerie mist twisted through the trees. Surely this couldn't be the place...?

Someone jostled her shoulder, and she stepped aside with an annoyed grunt. The other passengers, tired and soaked through with dew, shuffled listlessly onto the zeppelin ramp. The trip had been long, the ocean below unforgiving, but the company had been good--for the most part. A few sullen individuals had remained apart from the cheery light of the candles, brooding whilst the other travelers exchanged toasts and tales.

Gazkra had been one of those who stayed apart. She enjoyed a rough ale and a rougher joke as much as the next orc, but she needed to be ready for what lay ahead. So she'd spent the journey resting, lying in the cargo hold and ignoring the incurious, dark stare of the Forsaken stranger sitting in the shadows across from her.

Now she picked her way carefully down the rotting wooden planks the undead called stairs, grimacing as her feet sank into the wet, spongy earth at the bottom. This was a world away from Durotar, her homeland; she'd traded hot, arid air for dark mist, and hard-packed dusty rock for sodden peat.

Sergra had warned her that her journey would be long, of course; she'd warned her fellow orc about a number of things. The ferocity of the wild beasts here--tainted with the plague, mindless with bloodlust. The darkness. The unfriendliness of the locals. What she hadn't mentioned was the depressing feel of the place--like the land itself had only just finished mourning, and was waiting quietly, warily, for the next tragedy to hit.

The orc shouldered her bow, sighed, and made her way to the road. It was narrow and damp, the stone worn and weed-tangled, but it was a path, and it would do. She would be leaving it soon enough anyway; best to enjoy it while she could. She faced herself south and began her march, watchful and annoyed.

"You want someplace to make a name for yourself as a hunter?" Sergra had said. "They're having trouble with wolves over in Silverpine. It isn't much, but nobody else will help, and I told them I'd keep an eye out for a worthy orc..."

She wished the strange shaman had never mentioned any of this. She was already dripping wet from the clinging mist, cold droplets from her nose slicking their way into her leather tunic, quickly soaking her hot-weather clothing. Her thick boots, at least, kept her warm, and that would have to do.

Gazkra traveled through the trees for perhaps twenty minutes; a lake off to her left shimmered in the light of the rising moon. This would be Lordaeron, then. It was actually rather beautiful, if somewhat forlorn, and she paused for a moment to look.

The land around the lake's edge was dotted thickly with stands of pine; the great stone walls of the ancient human city held silent testament to the impermanence of life. This whole place, she mused, felt like an ending--like death. And not a good afterlife, either.

Wet boots slapped stone as she went on. She made her way up a slight hill; off to her right, eventually, she spotted firelight deep in the trees. This should be the place, then.

She slipped into the trees without a sound, suddenly seeming almost invisible in the darkness. Her clothing was dark, her skin nearly the green of the trees, and so she was hard to pick out by even the keenest eyes.

There was a farm here; the Deathstalker who was supposedly waiting inside was the one she was to report to. As she twined her way carefully through the orchard in front of the dilapidated farmhouse, she spotted several dark forms wandering among the trees. She froze, moving nothing but her eyes. After a few seconds she realized what she was looking at: great dark worgs, their massive bulk moving with a surprisingly silent grace. Massive fangs, more tusk than tooth, jutted from their lower jaws; their cold gray-blue eyes glinted with an unearthly, frighteningly intelligent malevolence.

Gazkra carefully slid forward, taking each step with extreme caution; one slip-up could draw their attention straight to her. She pulled alongside the building and slipped around the side, and a moment later she had the door open.

For a moment, the bright light of a blazing fire blinded her; when she could see again, the first thing her eyes focused upon was a long, thick silver blade hovering inches from her throat.

"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 got the big one," she told him, nudging the silver-coated worg with one boot. The Deathstalker's voice broke her tired euphoria quickly.

"That isn't him," the Forsaken hissed. He glanced around, and suddenly urgent, snarled at her. "GET INSIDE, AND FAST."

Gazkra started to protest--and then something massive and black plowed into her side with terrifying silence, claws and fangs slashing her flesh. She cried out, and an instant later--without thinking--had her dagger plunged into the beast's side. It broke away with a snarl, and vanished as quickly as it had come. The speed, the ferocity--Gazkra could merely stare blankly into the shadows after the worg, her pain and fear freezing her mind.

Then the Deathstalker was at her side, pulling at her arm and moving her. A bony hand lashed her face suddenly, and she turned, blinking--and all sound came back, colors flooding into her world again. She stared at him.

"ORC!" he cried at her. "Get ahold of yourself! Get inside, now! They're coming!" She nodded dumbly and followed the Forsaken, stumbling inside as he slammed the door.

Erland slammed a deadbolt and turned back to Gazkra, staring at her in horror. "He was waiting for you," he said softly, voice awed. "He knew you wouldn't come out if you saw him... By the Shadow, he's smart as a man..."

Gazkra coughed, and blood spattered onto the floor. She blinked, looking down at it and not comprehending; instead, she answered the undead. "The worgs are very smart," she agreed. "They've worked with my people, in our lands, for years--but I've never seen wild ones so vicious. Perhaps there's nothing left to eat, or they're tainted..." She coughed again, and then the Deathstalker was at her side.

"I apologize for slapping you outside, Orc, but I had to snap you out of it. You're bleeding, by the way, and rather badly." She looked down blankly; her arm had been lashed by the worg. The Forsaken was already moving, grabbing an old shirt from a cupboard in the corner and dragging a cooking pot to the fire.

"The bucket, if you please," he growled, nodding to the darkest corner of the room. Struggling, her wounded arm aching, she pulled a filled bucket from the corner and dragged it to the undead. He splashed some water into the cooking pot and held it over the fire; it was soon bubbling. He shredded the shirt between his hand and teeth, tearing off a long strip, dipping it into the boiling water. He pulled this out and wrung it quickly, then--without warning--was standing beside Gazkra, wrapping her arm. She gasped in pain but then gritted her teeth, blinking back tears. It hurt, badly, but it was shallow enough. She'd been lucky, and she knew it.

"How many of them did you get?" The Forsaken asked, tying off the makeshift bandage.

"Four, I think," she replied, grimacing in pain as she tried to move the arm.

"It's not deep," Erland said, nodding toward her wound. "You won't even notice it in a couple hours."

She nodded her agreement. "Thank you for bandaging it--and for pulling me inside. I didn't even see him coming... What was that white one, then? The pale worg?"

"That," Erland replied with a smug grin, "was Gorefang. One of the pack leaders, he is. You did good getting him--we very rarely even spot him, let alone get close enough for a shot. He's not one of these," he added, waving a hand vaguely toward the door. "He isn't foolish enough--or brave enough--to directly attack us. Still, without him, they're weakened."

He eyed her. "Let's go," he said suddenly. "That big bastard won't be expecting us to make a run for it now. If we go to the road fast, and quiet, we should make it okay. This place is a lost cause, anyway; nobody's left here."

Gazkra nodded and unsheathed her dagger, eyeing it in the firelight. The Forsaken disappeared into a corner, and a moment later had a large plank of wood. This he dipped into the water bucket, leaving about eight inches dry; the dry end he poked into the fire, stoking it and letting it burn.

Then, wielding this burning stick before him and leaving the fire burning bright, he made his way to the door and flung it wide. He vanished, and Gazkra found herself running to keep up. She moved around the side of the farmhouse and found him walking quickly and silently toward the road, torch held before him.

They were there within seconds, but the Forsaken didn't stop. With a purpose in his stride that was almost frightening, he led the way along the stone path to the south.

"We need to get to safety," he said quietly. But Gazkra had noticed something on the ground, and stopped; Erland paused and came back, holding the firelight over the ground. She was kneeling, scattering bits of twig and leaf away from the rock with one hand.

"There's blood here," she breathed. "I hit him good, then." She glanced up at the Deathstalker, then bit her lip, looking down the road. "How far is it to safety, for you?" she asked softly.

"A hundred yards, if that," he replied, expressionless.

"Go, then. I hit the worg, and I'm going to find him. And finish him," she added with a grin. Her expression must have been unpleasant, because the Deathstalker's own was suddenly rather uncertain. "I have an obligation as a hunter," she added, and gave the undead a respectful nod.

He nodded back, and turned to the path, making his way to whatever rendezvous he'd set up with his colleagues.

For her own part, Gazkra watched him go, eyeing the orchard to be sure he wasn't being followed by the black worgs. Once he had vanished into the distant shadows, she turned and made her way into the trees near the lake, following the trail of disturbed leaf litter and occasional splashes of blood on the ground. She'd hit the big worg for sure, and she wanted to follow his trail while it was still fresh--before the light rain washed it away. She wanted to finish it. Part of it was the hunter's obligation to finish wounded prey; part was simply pride at bringing in such a worthy adversary. And part was somewhat vengeful, she admitted; the creature had tried to kill her once, and she wanted to ensure it did not get a second chance. Or a chance on another, less wary traveler...

She crept quickly through the underbrush, peering ahead into the murky gloom. The fog stank of cold decay, the smell of the lake perhaps; in any case, it was strong enough that the worg wouldn't smell her coming. There was still no sign of him, but the trail was not getting older. He wasn't going any faster, then--or slower, for that matter; he was keeping a steady pace, probably a slow trot to the south. Gazkra quickened her step, noting every broken twig, every freshly-exposed patch of earth, every claw mark and every single drop of blood or twist of old fur caught on a branch... She was an expert tracker, and with such a large wounded beast, he had little chance of escape.

Perhaps he knew it, too; the trail wound deep into Silverpine Forest. Soon she found herself slipping past the Sepulcher; for an instant, her tired body and wounded arm made her consider going up to the inn for a few hours' sleep. But that would give the worg a good advantage... She weighed the pros of gaining ground against the cons of traveling and fighting tired, and decided she still had enough in her for a day of solid movement.

The worg's own steps did not falter; not once did his tracks indicate that he stumbled or backtracked. Instead, he led a quick, straight line, parallel to the road and near the lake, moving quickly directly to the south.

The mist thickened toward morning; Gazkra found herself moving into the foothills of Hillsbrad. The worg's steps--and her own, echoing his--slipped over the road and to the west, toward the sea. In this way he managed to skirt most of the farmland near the borders of Silverpine. These places were still full of active humans, though they would be deeply asleep at this time of night. They were her enemies as well as the worg's, however, so she was glad to keep a good distance from their few alert night watchmen.

The worg's trail was easy to follow through the grass of the meadows in the foothills. The long blades were laden with dew, and heavy; the worg's passage flattened great swaths as he went. The blood trail, however, was nearly gone; the creature wasn't bleeding hardly at all, now, and Gazkra was greatful that he was leaving an alternate track.

She followed this for an hour or more; the sun began creeping over the hills. As dawn broke, the pale light diffused eerily by the heavy fog, Gazkra realized where she was now. The worg had gone all the way past the old, rotted village of Tarren Mill--now deserted by humans, with only Forsaken inhabitants. She ignored the village and its promise of sleep--although there would doubtless be wind whistling through the floorboards and rats scampering over her legs, sleep was still extremely tempting. She was exhausted, really, and hungry...

But she pushed on, orc tenacity demanding she pursue her quarry.

As the trail wound around to the north--and steeply uphill--the air grew colder. The worg had simply taken to the road, here, and made use of the man-paved path into the mountains. Soon, flakes of snow were settling upon Gazkra's face--and this was new to her; she had never seen snow, nor ice. It was nothing like anything she'd known before, and perhaps this was what caused her brash decision to press on.

She moved ahead, clothes still damp and far too light for this weather, and climbed carefully into the mountains of Alterac. She'd been tracking the worg for nigh on eight hours now; her muscles ached and the wound she'd suffered throbbed painfully. Her stomach growled. But still she moved on, and here, she found that the worg's path was easy.

On the lightly snow-covered ground, his pawprints--where they weren't brushed over by snow--were easy to see, and any blood that he still spilled showed bright and clear, pink spots sunk into the white.

She made her way carefully forward, squinting into the bright dawn-lit snow, ignoring the cold and her complaining body and forcing her way deeper into what was quickly becoming a blizzard.

It was no use, though. The worg had a thick fur coat; she wore a light leather jerkin. He had the ability to last days without food, whereas she was already weak from hunger. With a snarled oath, she turned, at last, to go back--to find her way back to Tarren Mill, perhaps, or find a sheltered place somewhere to camp. She drew an arrow and drove it into the cold, hard earth; she could try and pick up the trail again after the snow had died down. Gazkra then turned to go.

And realized that she was lost.

The snow around her was being driven in sheets, coming so thick and fast that she couldn't see ten yards ahead. Her own trail behind her had been obliterated, and the snow shrouded any landmarks and diffused the sunlight so thoroughly that she could not tell north from south, nor east from west. She swore again and bowed her head against the wind, struggling through it now, shivering violently.

Just how luck would have her die, she thought grimly--not honorably, in battle, nor bravely--fighting a massive, brutal beast of prey--but rather, lost in the cold, a thousand miles from the hot desert canyons she called home.

She blinked, and suddenly the driven snow cleared just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of darkness in the blinding white ahead of her. She dropped into a crouch, and stared--and the black worg turned, and their eyes met through the snow.

He snarled, and she reached for her bow--and then he was gone, vanished into the storm.

The last thing she heard before he hit her was the roaring wind carrying his own eerie howl to her--the sounds mixing and fading into one another. And she knew then--this beast was death itself, and it had come for her.

To be continued...


*****

Any comments/questions etc welcome, as are criticisms and suggestions. Been bored awhile and also bored with the writing I'm -meant- to be doing, so hopefully this will prompt my creative streak a bit ;D And hopefully, will be enjoyable to read. I promise it has a plot, upcoming...

Amazing. I love the pictures you added as well. I'm waiting impatiently for the next part!

Chapter 2

A roaring snarl deafened her. A great weight—heavy, irresistible—shoved into her, knocking her to the hard, cold earth. Fangs stabbed into her forearm, ripping the flesh. Claws viciously scraped her legs as the monster tried to down her—aiming to kill her at last, to stop her pursuit for good.

With a strangled battle-cry, Gazkra tore her dagger from its sheath and lashed out, stabbing at the wolf as best she could with her limited mobility, shoving him away. He leapt clear with a furious growl, frustrated and injured.

Dripping from these fresh wounds, the worg hesitated and then leapt back, limping away into the blinding snow. He was hurt, no doubt about that. Her blade had stuck deep and hard, repeatedly, and the blows could be fatal. Grunting, Gazkra struggled to her feet; her own wounds were also pretty bad. She glanced down, taking quick stock of the worg's damage: he'd torn her arm and her leg with his claws and massive fangs, and the muscle of her forearm was badly torn.

"Two arms damaged," she growled to herself. Clasping her arm to her chest, she staggered after the black worg through the blizzard. But the snow had already swept his tracks clean, covering the blood he'd lost upon the ground. Gazkra bared her teeth, shivering hard in the cold. She wouldn't last out here, not another hour, and she knew it. She forced herself on, praying to an unnamed god that she would make it to some kind of safety. But all she could see was white—storm, clouds, flakes coating her eyelids. All she could feel was the icy wind biting into her skin, her wounds, her bones...

And then something dark appeared through the driving sheets of snow. It was distant, but large—a building, perhaps? Bowing her head against the wind, the orc pushed onward. The darkness grew closer, and soon she realized what she was looking at: the gaping mouth of a cave. It was pitch-black, but it was probably at least dry inside. She'd probably die anyway, she reflected, but this was her best shot.

She made her way to the cave, pushing against the vicious wind. Finally she was pressed up against the cold stone, and she peered into the entrance. It was dark—completely and utterly dark. She reached for an arrow, ready to make her way in with great caution—and found that her quiver was gone.

Gazkra swore under her breath; the violence of the worg's attack must have knocked the arrows from her back. She glanced behind her, back into the blank whiteness of the snowstorm; but there was no way she could find her gear and then make her way back to the cave. She would simply get lost, vanishing into the white, and never be seen again.

The orc swore again and stepped into the cave. It was strangely warmer in here, although not "warm" by any stretch of the word. She could see her breath coming before her in icy plumes. Carefully, feeling her way for every step, Gazkra made her way deeper into the cave. The cold howling of the wind behind her slowly faded, and the vague warmth of underground places soon embraced her. At least here she would be sheltered, she thought.

A slight shuffling sound froze her in her tracks. She waited for a full minute, listening with every fiber of her being, but all she could hear was a faint dripping deep in the recesses somewhere. So it was above freezing temperature in here, at least...

Her eyes adjusted slowly, and she crept slowly deeper. Soon she could see that the cave ended just ahead—there was a sheltered cove, filled with large stones and cave mushrooms. Perhaps she could burn them for fire, or--
Then one of the larger stones shifted, and two tiny shining discs glinted in the very faint light. She gasped and took a step back; a rumbling growl echoed quietly in the small space. But the form didn't move, and the shimmering gray-blue eyes slipped shut.

The worg!

Gazkra drew her dagger and lunged, but in an instant the black beast had pulled himself upright and bared his fangs in warning. He was badly hurt, by looks; he couldn't run or perhaps even walk, but there was no way she could get close to him. Then again, she had no arrows either...

She waited and thought about it, motionless; the worg slowly closed his eyes and settled again.

She swore yet again.

He was bleeding out, in all likelihood. She could wait. She would rest here, perhaps make a fire, and collect his corpse once he was dead—or finish him when he was too weak to attack. For the time being, however, she kept a careful distance.

The orc herself felt quite weak from blood loss, but the wound was no longer dripping freely. She ignored the pain and moved instead to the back of the cave, always keeping a careful eye on the resting black worg in the corner. The mushrooms were mostly spongy things, dry and dense; some kind of strange spore dusted the tops. She tore one from its perch in the rock and shredded it into small pieces, and piled the remains carefully in the center of the little alcove. She repeated this with a third and fourth of the massive fungi, and then pulled the flint and tinder from her pack.

With her weak, cold hands and the strange substance she was using as kindling, it would take more than a little luck to actually start a fire. To one side, the worg watched with one bleary eye, his breathing coming labored and slow.

She forced a few sparks from her small stones, but nothing caught. She tried again, fingers stiff and clumsy, and somehow a few sparks showered onto the mushroom twigs. They caught quickly, to her surprise, and with careful gentle breaths of encouragement, she soon had a small blaze going.

She huddled close to the flames, rubbing her arms as feeling slowly returned. With this new light source she could see the cave a bit more clearly; it was low-ceilinged and narrow, with blue-gray stone and stalactites jutting sharply into the clear air.

It took maybe three more minutes for Gazkra to realize just how good the fire smelled. Her stomach rumbled violently, and she sniffed the smoke—the mushrooms smelled distinctly edible. Frowning, she reached forward and pulled a piece from the outer edges of the fire; the thing sizzled at the tip, smelling somehow like broth and toast, earthy and rich.

She carefully took a nibble—and nearly vomited right there. It smelled amazing, but it tasted like pure decay and rot. It was inedible, and all she could do was sadly watch the fungus burn away, her stomach roiling with hunger.

She slept. She wasn't sure for how long, but when she woke, the sound of howling wind had died down somewhat, and the fire was just smoldering embers. Her glance flicked quickly to the worg lying in the corner, but he hadn't moved, and one cracked-open eye was following her every move.

The hunter checked her wounds. They were not swollen, perhaps thanks to the cold; the bound injury from the day before had lost a great deal of pain. She still felt weak, though, and the cold bit at her flesh; but she was alive.

Gazkra staggered to her feet and crept toward the back of the cave, watching the black worg carefully. She was hoping he would be weak enough now to kill—and perhaps she would find that wolf meat was more edible than these hideous mushrooms. But the moment she drew close he bristled, his deep growl rumbling through the cave, and she backed off. She just did not have the strength to try and fight a worg right now—even a downed one. Her wounds had her at death's door already; one more bite could mean her end.

She made her way instead to the bright whiteness of the cave entrance, peering out into the snow.

The storm had subsided somewhat, but it was still snowing heavily; she drew her dagger and carefully made her way along the rocky ledges running west of the cave. Soon she could see something ahead—other caves, perhaps? She hesitated; having a shelter away from the great worg would be nice, but on the other hand, what if he recovered? Perhaps he would find her, and kill her in her sleep...

The thought didn't last long, though. A great white shape moved suddenly in the white, the massive bulk shuffling upright through the snow.

Gazkra dropped to a crouch, watching the beast before her. It was simply huge—hulking. Long white fur and pale gray-blue skin, thickly-nailed hands, twisting ivory horns jutting from the head...

"Yeti," the hunter hissed to herself. She moved reflexively for her bow, and then remembered her missing arrows. She spat in the snow, frustrated, and muttered a furious oath.

The creatures, she knew, weren't intelligent enough to reason with; she couldn't walk up and ask them for food. But they might have stores, something nearby... If only she could find a way to get them away from their caves, she might have a chance of searching for food.

She made her way back to her own cave quickly; the black worg in the back still lay silent, watching her, alert despite his exhaustion. Gazkra peered at him for a moment, and a strange pang of admiration hit her; this was the sort of creature from which legends sprang.

The orc turned and pulled a large mushroom from the rear of the cave; she stuck the large cap into the fire, holding it by the stem, and stoked the dying embers. It flared up quickly, and soon the big fungus was brightly aflame; she went quickly from the cave, the wounded worg watching her go.

Gazkra went back to the yetis' caves, and carefully—using snowbanks and fallen trees to shield her from sight—moved until she was in a slight valley beyond the caves. She laid the mushroom, still blazing brightly, in plain sight of the yetis; then she ran around to the rocky ledges overlooking the whole place.

Soon enough, the first yeti noticed the fire—and with alarmed grunts, he made his way down into the valley. The other yetis heard his call, and followed; Gazkra (hoping fervently that none had been left behind) dropped down and slipped into the caverns behind them.

The smell of rotting meat pricked her nostrils at once, acrid and foul. There were carcasses laid in the back of the caves, all in varying degrees of decomposition. The worst were merely bones and some skin, but she managed to find what looked like a stag's haunch that wasn't too badly off.

She lifted this, grunting in pain, and ran flat-out back in the direction she'd come, back to her cave. Panting, muscles aching, she stumbled to the back of the cave and dropped the meat before the dying fire.

The black worg still lay in the rear of the cave; he still lived, and still snarled as she drew close to pull a fresh mushroom from the stone. She ignored him but for a wary glance, and pulled the fungus into pieces, using them to bring the fire back to a healthy blaze. The meat she stripped, wrinkling up her nose as she pulled long pieces off and hung them over the fire. Some she ate nearly raw; some were burnt black by the time she pulled them out of the fire. Cooking without tools wasn't a very exact science, she noted, but she was soon well-fed and warm, and that would do. Next thing she knew, she'd fallen asleep again, her exhausted body desperate for rest.

When Gazkra woke again, the snowstorm had started up again; she could hear the whistling of the icy wind outside. There were no mushrooms left for the fire, but at least the fire was still warm, if not flaming. She rubbed her hands over the warmth, and glanced toward the back of the cave.

The worg was lying in the darkness, shivering; he wasn't even watching her anymore. Now he was staring instead at the meat; he was too weak to stand, but he could still smell it and hunger for the taste between his fangs.

The orc shivered, and drew her dagger again; the moment she made to stand, eyes on the worg, he bared his teeth in silent warning.

Gazkra sighed through her nose. What to do? She couldn't kill him; he simply wouldn't let her get close. If he hadn't already bled out, he wasn't going to; he would merely starve to death in here, or die from exhaustion a few days from now. A thought bloomed in her mind, and she thought it over; if she could get the meat into his reach, and then leave, both of them would be spared further pain. She was not the type to let an enemy go, or prey, especially one so dangerous and long-trailed—but she had few options.

First, though, she had to make sure the coast was clear outside, so she didn't wind up stuck in a cave with a strengthening worg. And it was; the snow was still falling, heavily in fact, but she could at least see some distance ahead; she could just pick out the treeline to the south, and knew she'd be able to make her way back to Hillsbrad.

She came back to the fire and the worg, and pulled the haunch of meat to the back of the cave. Carefully, she nudged it with her foot; the softly-growling worg watched her but did not move. When the meat was finally in range of his bite, he lunged and snapped at it, dragging it toward him and ripping ravenously into it.

When Gazkra went to leave, however, she ran into quite an obstacle. The yetis, moving with frantic purpose, swarmed around just outside. Perhaps they'd scented her and followed her trail back here, but so far it looked like they hadn't found her cave. She shrank back silently and slipped back into the darkness, back toward the massive black worg crunching through thick bone in the shadows.

She decided to simply rest some more; the fire had a few hours' of warmth in it yet, and hopefully the white monsters outside would be gone soon enough. She shot a glance toward the worg in the corner, though, and knew she'd better not wait too long; he was licking his jaws, already having wolfed most of the meat, and was eyeing her with an expression she wasn't sure she liked.

Gazkra slept awhile longer, a few hours perhaps, and when she woke again the fire was cold and dark. The worg in the corner lay quiet but awake, and the wind outside whistled softly. The orc stood, and gave a sort of half-saluting nod to the worg. Then she crept carefully to the entrance; the yetis were nowhere to be seen. The sky was gray; day was slowly slipping into dusk, and Gazkra could barely see her destination through the snow. She set off at once, keeping an eye out for her missing quiver as she made her way through knee-deep powder.

The distant trees loomed nearer with every step; she grit her teeth, ignored the cold and kept on. Eventually she did spot her quiver—a small dark stain on the snow, held partially upright by its strap and so not utterly buried in white. As she went for it, however, a shattering roar broke the quiet evening. She spun clumsily, slashed leg rendering her unsteady. Behind her stood a yeti—massive, thick-furred and fierce. It threw its arms outward, baring its long thick teeth, and growled... and began to run toward Gazkra, massive bulk moving with frightening speed.

She turned and lunged for her quiver, moving as quickly as she could, but her step was hampered by the cold and pain. She could hear the creature closing on her, thundering closer, throwing showers of snow to either side as he came.

Just before Gazkra reached her quiver, a massive grip slammed tight around her ankle—and jerked her backwards, dragging her along the ground, filling her tunic with icy snow. She tried to cry out but her face was planted in the snow; the creature then held her, dangling her before it, and roared again.

A low, ferocious growl sounded behind the yeti, and she knew this was the end—if there were more than one, there was simply no way she could fight them off with just a dagger.

But then she was falling, hitting the snow with a cold, wet thud, and the yeti was turning away. She scrambled for her quiver and turned it, emptying the snow, her heart racing. The creature was snarling, flexing at what was likely another yeti behind it; Gazkra nocked an arrow with shaking hands and took careful aim, holding her breath and hoping beyond hope that she would hit her mark.

The arrow sang, whistling through the air and flying through the yeti's chest as if it were clay; the arrow cut right through and beyond. The yeti groaned, loudly, and began to turn back to Gazkra... and then collapsed.

Behind it stood the black worg.

Gazkra blinked, and started to ready another arrow—and then stopped. The worg simply stared, watching her, and the orc, panting, turned away. Deliberately, slowly, she began to walk toward the treeline.

Had the worg been trying to help? Or was it simply threatening another large predator? Would it try and kill her, now?

She spared a breathless glance over her shoulder, wondering if sparing the beast was smart. Well, she thought, of course it wasn't smart. But perhaps it was right; the worg was following, but he was not pursuing. He was simply hanging at the edge of her vision, barely showing through the blinding white, and kept a good distance. But he didn't disappear, and by the time she reached the foothills, he was even a bit closer. Every time she made direct eye contact with him he simply looked at her and then ignored her, watching his own path; he was uninterested in killing her.

Maybe he saw her now as a source of food? After she'd given him the venison... She pushed the thought away and concentrated on surviving the journey through the valley below. It was a good hour's trek steeply downhill now, and one wrong step could put her over a cliff. Every muscle ached, and her legs quivered with every step, threatening to pitch her to the ground.

She swore now and then, but she thought she could make it. The snow faded as she moved south, replaced instead by the clinging, gloomy mist and strange, sickly-smelling flowers.

Behind her, the black worg followed.

Soon the dilapidated Tarren Mill was visible in the distance, gray rotted shingles fading into the fog. The old wooden buildings, sagging with the weight of decades, seemed somehow both sinister and sad—like a dying fairy tale villain.

Gazkra made her way into the small, weed-covered town, limping heavily; to her surprise, the black worg followed fearlessly. He utterly ignored the guards and travelers they passed, instead keeping a strangely intense eye on the orc who had offered him life.

She looked back at him, thought about it and shrugged; bar killing him or running him off, she would have to tolerate him and hope he didn't decide to maul one of the townsfolk. She considered warning the guards and decided against it; they could defend against him easily enough, and they might just decide to attack first if she spoke up.

The inn was ahead. Inside she'd find food, and drink; she could ask around and look for lodging for the wolf later. For now, she stumbled in and quickly made her way to the innkeeper, a Forsaken man with a bleary gaze.

"Food, please, and drink, anything, I don't care," she croaked. He looked at her with some surprise but nodded; as he handed her an old bread bun with strong-smelling cheese, a voice behind her spoke.

"Glad you're here, orc; Erland said you might turn up." Gazkra turned with some surprise, blinking; an old woman—undead like the rest—stood watching her with a strange glint in her eyes.

"I have a worg I need cared for," the orc told the woman.

"I understand," the woman interrupted before Gazkra could explain. "And what is a hunter without her pet? But first, orc, there is some... trouble... here that could use your help."

Yay, another update! Thank you for sharing this, it's a wonderful read.

Er, I'm not interuppting the story flow with my comments, are I? >.> I don't want it to appear as though it's like storyKAMALIAstoryKAMALIA

It's only weird because you're the ONLY reader 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.

Granted, it's not the best writing in the world--and there's a lot of semicolons and over-repeated words, but it does its job in getting the tale told I s'pose. But yes! Comment away And thank you for reading

Wow..just discovered this..and..wow...Honestly..(because I'm a self-proclaimed altoholic) it makes me want to make an orc hunter with a black worg pet This was the best wow-related story I've read in a very long time. Really loved the way you added pictures. I'll be looking forward to many more updates!

I really like reading this. It's a shame hardly anyone is looking at it. It deserves much more attention than it's getting.

Aw, thanks I have a whole plot planned out, and just took some of the base screenshots for the next part--hopefully I'll get the time to 'shop and write it soon

I was up late tonight and read over this. Gorgeous. I'm looking forward to reading more.

Acherontia wrote:Aw, thanks I have a whole plot planned out, and just took some of the base screenshots for the next part--hopefully I'll get the time to 'shop and write it soon

Looking forward to the next part

Just read it and liked it very much.

The simple spot-and-tame mechanic of the game has always been a thorn in my skin as I prefer stories how hunters came by their companions.

Keep writing, please.
I'll continue Boktors and Shoya'Jins adventures as soon as I can muster enough time and creativity to do so. And the comic is waiting as well.. *sigh*

Chapter 3


Gazkra looked uncertainly at the strange, leering Forsaken woman before her. Cracked, yellow teeth and sickly glowing eyes looked right back.
"I need rest, before anything," Gazkra replied, frowning.
The gaunt woman watched her for a moment longer, something resembling irritation flickering across her hollow features.
"Very well," she sighed at last. "When you are done lazing about, however, there is one of your kind stampeding his way through our chapel. Perhaps you could speak with him before you rest, and put his mind at ease..."
Gazkra grunted in annoyance but turned anyway, making her way into the chill air outside. She squinted and glanced around, tears springing to her eyes at the cold; the inn had been surprisingly warm. Still cool, but not like this--the winds sweeping down from Alterac were biting.
A great shadow shifted in the darkness across the path from her; she could see the big worg watching her in silence.
"Come on then, wolf," she said softly, holding one hand out. The big beast looked at her for a moment, then padded to her, massive bulk and thick coat shoving through the icy breeze like a barge. The worg walked past her, moving up the path, and she held one hand out and let her fingers run through the fur for the first time.
It was thick, dark and warm; the musky scent of wet dog drifted back to her nostrils. "AND you smell," she snorted; the wolf looked back at her, expressionless.
She had a good look around; the town was all dilapidated buildings, gray-shingled and rotting. The chapel was no different; spiders' webs clung to every surface, and nature struggled to tear the building back to earth. Her lip curled in distaste; her peoples' housing could be primitive, but this spoke of a culture that was not only dying but already dead, simply refusing to fade. This and the vague smell of death about the place fought with her bright inner flame, and when she stepped into the chapel, her expression showed it.
"You look like I look," came a grunt to her left. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright lantern light. A big orc, battlescarred and sullen, glared at her. "Krusk," he added with a nod.

"Gazkra," she replied. His eyes drifted, widened; she glanced behind her and saw that the black worg had followed her inside.
"That's the Grom-damned worg from Silverpine," he breathed, hand going to his axe.
Gazkra growled a mild warning, shaking her head. "He's with me. We have an... understanding."
"But..." The orc's brow furrowed with a frown. "He musta killed four of them..." Krusk then fell silent, simply not elaborating.

"Of who?" Gazkra prompted at length.
"The humans. We were camped near the lake, clearing out the murlocs--" and here Krusk spat on the floor unceremoniously, to the wincing disgust of a Forsaken reading quietly to his left--"when a party of men went by. We were going to leave them be--Thrall doesn't like unnecessary war, and our mission here woulda been jeopardized had humans been alerted to our presence."
He frowned, scratching one hand with the other while staring at the wolf, who simply looked back with a placid, confident gaze.
"They started screaming, let me tell you. The worgs came, this bastard at the fore, and they ran--I think they knew him. They kept callin' him by name. 'UDEN!' they yelled. 'UDEN!' And they ran, and the wolves, they got a fair few of 'em. We stayed back; the pinkskins were up in arms, no good showing ourselves then. They see worgs, they see orcs, they put two and two together and get eight, you know?"
Gazkra just nodded; worgs were associated with orcs, involved in all facets of their lives. The humans would not believe in such coincidence.
"One thing, though," she said, smirking. "Uden isn't a name. It's what they yell when they're in trouble--think it means 'help.'" Krusk broke into a wide grin.
"Well damn. A wolf named Help. Ha! Anyway... he's listenin' to you now, is he?"
"For the time being," Gazkra replied mildly. Krusk nodded.
"Well, keep an eye on the brute, anyway. Now to business. We got work here for the Warchief, and I can't do that 'till I get my men back. They musta seen our trail, or just been damn lucky, because when we were looking for... what we were sent for, we got jumped. Oh, we fought--killed a few, I think," and here Krusk broke into hearty laughter, at which the Forsaken behind him cringed and scowled.
"Anyway, they got Drull, they got Gol'dir and they got Tog'thar. Gol'dir, he's our leader--shoulda known better than to march into a human area in broad daylight, but orc is orc, as they say. I trailed 'em long as I could but they went to Durnholde... You know what that is?" Krusk eyed her, and there was a glint in his gaze she didn't like.
"No." Simple answer, most effective; damn but she needed some sleep.
"They had the Warchief there, an age ago, I think. Orc internment camp," he added with a grimace of distaste. "You young ones born in Durotar, or on the march, you'll have no idea, but the place is swarming with humans. Guards, rogues, and the like. I'd like to send a rogue, optimally, as a scout--but you'll have to do."
"Me?" Gazkra replied, eyes widening.
"Aye, you!" Krusk answered with a scowl. "You're gonna go in there, and you're gonna find our men and free them. In the name of the Warchief. You're an orc, you--"
"Okay, fine," she snarled. "But I've been on the march for about two days, I'm wounded and I'm damn tired. I'm going to sleep first, and don't you try and stop me," she added with an eyebrow raised in warning. Krusk's protestations died in his throat, and he nodded grudgingly.
"Well go sleep then, and hurry up about it," he grunted.
Gazkra growled and turned, shoving the decrepit chapel door open and letting it fall shut behind her in the wind. The wolf stood beside her, eyeing her in silence; she looked back and sighed.

"We'll see how long you last fighting pinkskins, then," she sighed. "So Uden, eh? As good a name as any other, I guess. It'll do."

She made her way to one of the buildings on the outskirts, where she paid for a stable spot for the night. She bought a haunch of some kind of unidentifiable meat--boar or stag, probably--and tossed it down into a bed of hay. The worg--Uden--made his way in and flopped down, tearing into the meat with a satisfied, snarling sigh.
Gazkra herself slept that night in the inn, after an hour spent eating and rebandaging her wounds. Come morning they would head out; she'd check her weapons and they'd make for Durnholde. For now, though.... sleep.


* * * * *

This is a short chapter, because the next one--Durnholde--will take a lot of space and time.

Yayz another chapter Brilliant as always.

Wow, this is amazing! Please, please write more!

Kyonarai wrote:Wow, this is amazing! Please, please write more!

Aye, I'm with this plea. This story takes up my time to read, and I'd love something to so other than altgrind while I repeatedly tab out of WoW during flights.