Saturday, December 19. 2009The Ruins, Part 2
Part of our ongoing series of guild lore. A continuation of the last installment.
Part II: Down by the Riverside Magliol quickly became the best sailor among them. For a time, he was content. They ran trading routes all over their far corner of the world. Sometimes he thought of home, but often he did not let himself. He even let himself forget the war he had been training to fight in, and the one before that that had taken his brothers and sisters, even his parents. Those were his earliest memories. The Horde, that damnable thing. One night he vowed never to return to that life, to kill any sign of it whenever and wherever he found it. His people had succumbed to the demons, so let the demons have them. He had a better life now. Sometimes news from faraway lands drifted into the little tavern on the beach that he had bought. He would be tending bar for the Pandarens, or whoever happened to wander in, late into the evening, and a traveller would start to tell stories. Many were unbelievable, so he paid them no heed, until one night a strange-looking fellow began talking loudly of the wars in the far East. ‘—and they crushed the whole damn demon army, rounded them all up, and put their green asses in camps! I even heard that they sent an expedition back through the dark gate-thingy and blew the fucker up!’ Magliol refilled the stranger’s glass. The man looked startled by the hulking bartender, but Magliol bade him to continue. ‘Well,’ the man said, taking a sip, ‘the word is that they never heard back from the expedition. They say that the whole world’s been sent back into the Nether. All of it, destroyed.’ Magliol, suddenly very tired and very sad, retreated back to the bar, and then upstairs. As he disappeared he heard the man say, ‘all for the best, if you ask me…’
Magliol sold the tavern and moved to one of the outlying islands. He bought a fishing boat, and spend his days at sea and his nights listening to the wind. Sometimes he went into the village to sell his fish and trinkets he crafted. He made enough to get by. Sometimes, when he could not sleep, he would look up at the Great Dark and think of his old swamp home, the little house his father had built on stilts to get away from the world and farm fish instead of pig. His Sporeggar friends. How it was all gone. He did not weep those nights like he had in nights past. Perhaps that stranger had been right, perhaps it was all for the best… They were lost in the Nether. Time no longer meant anything, neither did place. He lost himself, too, and was afraid he would not find himself again. Then he felt the presence of the priest and calmed. ‘Do not fight the Nether, you will not win.’ Zalmoxis let go, as afraid as he was. The Nether took them downstream, as it were. They slipped and bounced on the currents. And then they were pushed onto a shoal. The ship fires burned, lighting up the black night. Above, on the hill, the torches of the masters lit up the great, ancient tomb. Zalmoxis and Thoradiel stood on the beach below. Thoradiel looked at the orc. ‘Stormreaver.’ It was not accusatory, merely a statement. ‘This was a long time ago.’ ‘That it was.’ Thoradiel had once told Zalmoxis about his service in the Second War, fighting the Horde. He had told it on a bitter cold night in front of a fire, when the two of them were still serving with the Fourth Tirisfal Dragoons. Zalmoxis had said nothing, there was nothing to say. He was not responsible for his people and besides, he had never fought in the war, not really. That was what he told himself, anyway. ‘There!’ Thordadiel pointed down the beach to where a party was boarding a transport. At the back, wrapped in thin robes that barely kept him warm, was a young, fresh-faced orc that Zalmoxis recognized. One night Magliol stayed late in the town, at the little inn. He’d gotten to know the innkeeper well, and she was kind to him. He stayed in the bar until late, talking to a rough-looking Pandaren from a neighboring island. When it got very late and the firewater had inflamed his nostalgia, Magliol couldn’t help but ask. ‘Any news from the East?’ ‘Ahh, you know, that’s interesting.’ The pandaren mercenary leaned forward. ‘There’s war there again, you know. Not just in the far East, but closer, too. They’re fighting in Kalimdor now. The orcs, the tauren, the humans. Even the elves and the demons.’ Magliol must have looked aghast. ‘Yes, the demons. They’re back, they say. Back something powerful.’ The pandaren leaned back and took a long swill of his syrupy liquor. ‘Always war.’ ‘Yes,’ said Magliol. ‘So the Horde has risen again. Clean another planet of all hope I suppose.’ ‘No, no. Not this time, my friend.’ He looked the fisherman over. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know, actually.’ ‘Know what? It’s been a long time since I bothered with the affairs of those madmen in the East.’ ‘The orcs are free of the humans. There’s a new leader, a sane and wise man if ever there was one. They’re rebuilding in Durotar.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Durotar, in eastern Kalimdor. Your people have a home again.’ ‘Don’t you dare call them my people!’ Magliol’s face flushed. ‘They stopped being my people long ago.’ The pandaren stared at the bottom of his cup for a while, then drained it and stood to retire. ‘Perhaps while you were away they became yours once again.’ They watched the young Zalmoxis board the fated transport, and saw it explode halfway to the ship. Then they were back in the Nether, being carried further downstream. ‘Why are we doing this, Thoradiel? What is it you need?’ ‘A name. From one of your former teachers. I was going through the old relics and books that the Kirin Tor keep, and found reference to a spell, a power that we must destroy — to do that, I need the name of the one who created it. His real name.’ Zalmoxis realized he knew who Thoradiel was talking about. His old instructor in the demonic arts, a sour, disgusting-looking orc with a penchant for cruelty. Gurir’tul, as he had been known then. Twisted Finger. When had Zalmoxis seen him last? So long ago, deep in the recesses of his forgotten life on Draenor. Why it must’ve been… Then they were in the old, dank cave. The one filled with torches and black smoke, young would-be orcish magicians staring hungrily at their master who held the bowl of demon’s blood. ‘Jar’gal gash! Nor zhul amag-gar! The blood of the Burning Leigon shall infuse us! Drink once for your masters!’ The students took their bowls and sipped the dark bile. Thoradiel looked like he would be ill. ‘You were among them?’ he asked. Zalmoxis bowed his head. ‘Yes. But it was—’ ‘Do not make excuses. To me least of all. You think I do not know? That I don’t understand?’ Zalmoxis was quiet. ‘… arog’garol! The blood of the Burning Leigon shall infuse us! Drink once for the power!’ Again, the students drank. ‘The binding ritual, as it was performed then,’ Zalmoxis explained. ‘Binding demons to us so that we could summon them.’ One by one the students began writing short messages on their paper in demonic runes and dipping them into the demon’s blood where they burned up. ‘We are … giving up our names to the demonic powers. So that they know us alone.’ ‘I see.’ Thoradiel said nothing more. The students said their names aloud and drank, one at a time. Towards the back of the stinking cavern a particularly young one arose. ‘Or’og Yar’rog! I drink for myself!’ He waited until spring to travel, even though the seasons were all warm where he lived. Magliol set sail with a crew of traders for a while, then switched to a goblin transport run for the last legs of the journey. And then he was in the south of Kalimdor, and had to set out for the city alone. He stopped in the Barrens and decided he would not go on. He camped there for six days, enjoyed the weather, and told himself it was all a mistake. He packed on the seventh day, mounted his pack animal, and turned back towards the goblin town. Taking the ridge to the west, for the scenery and the wind, he was at peace again. Yes, it would have been a mistake to rejoin those barbarians. But he was not prepared to hear the sound of his mother tongue, it had been so long. The wind carried it up to him, from where workers were building an outpost at the crossing of two paths that streched off to each horizon. And it was that sound he could not resist. He turned, and made for the camp. Hand on his dagger he approached warily. They noticed him when he was about a hundred paces out, and called to him. ‘You there! Traveller, stop!’ He did so, and let the dagger out of its scabbard an inch. He knew what was coming, the flash of an axe-blade, the baring of teeth, the— ‘By Thrall’s eyeteeth you startled us!’ One of the workmen had approached. ‘You thirsty? Bread, water? I think we have some cold roast pig somewhere.’ It was a good while before Magliol could bring himself to budge the animal forward. He sat there with his mouth half open, waiting for the punchline. It never came. ‘Come on! What are you, deaf?’ Finally he let the dagger drop back into its sheath and he approached. Dismounting, he took the provisions that the orcish officer handed him. ‘Where you from, anyway? You one of the traders we sent out to Thunder Bluff?’ Magliol shook his head, his mouth full of cold pigsteak. It was delicious. He wiped his eyes and muttered something about the dust in the air. TO BE CONCLUDED… Trackbacks
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The Luminous Path is a Horde raiding guild on Defias Brotherhood EU. Though our main focus is steady PvE progression, we also have an in-depth roleplaying backstory and justification. Feel free to read the story or visit our recruitment forums.
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