(( The following happened several weeks ago, but I only recently got to actually writing it down and posting it somewhere. Cheers! ))
It had been too long since the days of vengeful Ocheliad forces tearing across Kalimdor to trade blows with Horde forces. Too much time had passed since the Pia Presidium had felt the pressure of his war. Even the various dread lords and undead among the Eastern Plaguelands' fetid villages had been able to rest in the absence of their previous tormentor.
Just to the north of Corin's Cross half-stood Light's Shield Tower, a battered and broken shell of what its name formerly lived up to. Beneath this tower was a high mound of dirt, a small hill. A long time had passed since the ground beneath the tower had been disturbed, that would change.
Today.
A hand, unarmored, burst through the dirt, fingers raking down into the soil to pull its owner free. The blue-skinned hand sank several more times into the breaking ground, dragging the top half of a Draenei to the surface. Soon, the other arm and hand were free, and as both hands latched down on the earth beneath them, Cyrus Sagewind drug himself entirely free of whatever had held him underground. His breath was ragged, coming out in coughs and sputters and making it impossible to get to his hooves. To support himself, he drug his elbows beneath him, leaning over them and letting his forehead rest on the cool soil. He remained there for a moment, his skin occasionally distorting and showing a very potent red-brown tone before being covered again by what had to be some sort of blue-skin illusion.
"There's little reason to hide yourself here, Commander," A voice sounded from just ahead of Cyrus.
Managing to lean back enough to sit against his hooves, Cyrus looked ahead to see a man entirely wrapped in white robes. With a matching hood, all that was visible was a neatly-trimmed white goatee. "You ... called for m-- ... me. Why?" Cyrus managed to growl, his ability to breathe still not fully recovered.
"You have been beneath this tower, training with Kane in the caverns for a year. The time has come to apply what you've learned," The robed man spoke quietly, remaining where he was. "Your skills may soon be needed by the Ocheliad, again. You still serve Lord Imperon, do you not?"
"Called me ... to ask ... a stupid question," Cyrus managed, getting to his feet, not hooves. As he rose, the Draenic guise that he used to move freely through Alliance lands gave out. Before the robed man now stood a large orc, his chest and arms riddled with scars and tattoos. "He affords me the chance to ... make my art. I serve in that function." Cyrus added, reaching down to pull something else from the ground. His hand wrapped around a metal hilt protruding from the ground, tearing free an ax as large as a human male. "But why call for me, now? What has happened?"
"The Alliance and Horde have turned on Hellscream. He is not long for the throne. He will be replaced, and the blanket of peace threatens to descend on us all." A pause. "What say you to that ... Cyrus of the Arfod?"
The thought of such a scenario struck much more of a chord with Cyrus than even the robed man could have predicted. Shifting a foot back, the orc leaned back his head to shout out a roar of protest that rolled off the nearby hills in echo. His manifested rage seemingly dissipated by the battle-like shout, he held out a closed in a fist to the robed one, revealing a faded tattoo wrapped around it.
Satisfied with the answer, the robed man stepped forward and gripped the orc's wrist, muttering something under his breath. A moment passed before the tattoo seemed to become much more solid, the guise of a Draenei returning to mask the orc's native form.
Cyrus looked down at his now-blue skin before looking to the robed man. "Take me to Stormwind."
It had been too long since the days of vengeful Ocheliad forces tearing across Kalimdor to trade blows with Horde forces. Too much time had passed since the Pia Presidium had felt the pressure of his war. Even the various dread lords and undead among the Eastern Plaguelands' fetid villages had been able to rest in the absence of their previous tormentor.
Just to the north of Corin's Cross half-stood Light's Shield Tower, a battered and broken shell of what its name formerly lived up to. Beneath this tower was a high mound of dirt, a small hill. A long time had passed since the ground beneath the tower had been disturbed, that would change.
Today.
A hand, unarmored, burst through the dirt, fingers raking down into the soil to pull its owner free. The blue-skinned hand sank several more times into the breaking ground, dragging the top half of a Draenei to the surface. Soon, the other arm and hand were free, and as both hands latched down on the earth beneath them, Cyrus Sagewind drug himself entirely free of whatever had held him underground. His breath was ragged, coming out in coughs and sputters and making it impossible to get to his hooves. To support himself, he drug his elbows beneath him, leaning over them and letting his forehead rest on the cool soil. He remained there for a moment, his skin occasionally distorting and showing a very potent red-brown tone before being covered again by what had to be some sort of blue-skin illusion.
"There's little reason to hide yourself here, Commander," A voice sounded from just ahead of Cyrus.
Managing to lean back enough to sit against his hooves, Cyrus looked ahead to see a man entirely wrapped in white robes. With a matching hood, all that was visible was a neatly-trimmed white goatee. "You ... called for m-- ... me. Why?" Cyrus managed to growl, his ability to breathe still not fully recovered.
"You have been beneath this tower, training with Kane in the caverns for a year. The time has come to apply what you've learned," The robed man spoke quietly, remaining where he was. "Your skills may soon be needed by the Ocheliad, again. You still serve Lord Imperon, do you not?"
"Called me ... to ask ... a stupid question," Cyrus managed, getting to his feet, not hooves. As he rose, the Draenic guise that he used to move freely through Alliance lands gave out. Before the robed man now stood a large orc, his chest and arms riddled with scars and tattoos. "He affords me the chance to ... make my art. I serve in that function." Cyrus added, reaching down to pull something else from the ground. His hand wrapped around a metal hilt protruding from the ground, tearing free an ax as large as a human male. "But why call for me, now? What has happened?"
"The Alliance and Horde have turned on Hellscream. He is not long for the throne. He will be replaced, and the blanket of peace threatens to descend on us all." A pause. "What say you to that ... Cyrus of the Arfod?"
The thought of such a scenario struck much more of a chord with Cyrus than even the robed man could have predicted. Shifting a foot back, the orc leaned back his head to shout out a roar of protest that rolled off the nearby hills in echo. His manifested rage seemingly dissipated by the battle-like shout, he held out a closed in a fist to the robed one, revealing a faded tattoo wrapped around it.
Satisfied with the answer, the robed man stepped forward and gripped the orc's wrist, muttering something under his breath. A moment passed before the tattoo seemed to become much more solid, the guise of a Draenei returning to mask the orc's native form.
Cyrus looked down at his now-blue skin before looking to the robed man. "Take me to Stormwind."
