The night was coming on soon, Draenor's peaceful twilight was upon the land, bathing the scenery in a beautiful orange glow. Songbirds and insects chirped and buzzed about in the last chance before the day's rest took them. Only far distant booms, and the occasional crack of sound ruined the tranquility. The day was done, but not for everyone.
The Iron Horde raiding party was setting up camp. Their recent expedition into Talador had borne fruit. Slaves, both Frostwolf and Draenic were led to the tree by the shackles around their necks. A chain of fourteen bound and captured souls who gazed upon their captors with a mixture of fear and despair. They were led like cattle, the younger children and more timid openly weeping, tears sliding down their faces, leaving runnels in the soot and dirt upon their faces. For them, this war was over, captured and soon to be broken at the hands of their new Blackrock masters. As the wrought iron shackles were wrapped around the tree, their fates were sealed, and they huddled as close as possible if only for the illusion of safety.
The raiders, clad in the now infamous black iron furnace armor, moved about the field setting up tents and mats. Two hefted axes and headed off towards the woodline to procure firewood for the night's fire. Each had a purpose, and all chatted vigorously as they worked. Most conversations solely about their reward when they returned to Gorgrond with their captures. One of the raiders dug around in the backpacks they had left in a pile as she looked for a waterskin. Finding one, and tossing it haphazardly towards the slaves, she laughed and continued her rummaging. As the skin landed, one of the Frostwolves, a captured warrior stretched her arm out to barely grasp it enough to drag it into her reach. Fumbling anxiously, the pulled the stopper and took a small gulp before looking over at the Draenei. They were not warriors, and the children among them looked to be in a worse state. Grunting to her fellow captured colleagues, each of whom nodded back tiredly, she tossed it to the draenei, miming a 'drink up' motion. They may have lost the fight, but they haven't lost their honor.
As night was setting in, the Iron Horde orcs began to unroll their bedding and after drawing twigs, began stationing the night's watch. A gentle breeze from the sea of Zangar rolled in, rustling the grass and leaves, causing many a tired eye to grow heavier, and let sleep wash over them. The three Orcs on guard sat around the campfire, idly talking and boasting to each other, often with a metal punch or a poke here and there. One boredly prodded the flames with his axeblade to release a dazzling display of sparks drifting upwards on the gentle wind. With a stretch, one stood and lumbered off into the night, "Be right back, gotta wizz." Disappearing outside the light of the fire, the other two snickered and began to plot how to trick their friend upon his return.
Except he didn't.
Minutes passed, still they waited for their friend's return. As more time passed, they began to grow worried. "Maybe he fell? Or he's dropping a gronnling?" one offered, but the other, more seasoned stood, grabbing his axe and peering in the direction where the missing had gone. "Wake up Torga. He's in charge, he needs to know. I'm going to go find him." On his guard, he followed out into the darkness, axe at the ready. The last watchman was unsure what to do, Torga was the raid leader, but he was also extremely volatile, and prone to violent 'encouragements' of his men.
Still, Ragnak said to do it, so he might as well. As he stood to go wake the burly orc, he made it three steps before something sharp jabbed him right in the back of the knee. In the instant he thought it odd that the bee had been smart enough to hit him right where he had no armor, he felt something snake around his neck, under his helmet. Before he could react, a vicelike grip was around his neck, and he couldn't breathe. Panic set in and he flexed, trying to reach up and pry the choking force from around his neck. As his fingers found purchase on the hard grip, he realized something was jabbing him in the armpit, another place I'm unarmored?! he realized with a jolt.
I'm being attacked!? But it was too late, no matter how he tried, how he thrashed, he couldn't budge this chokehold a single inch, and worse, couldn't get out a sound. Things were going black, he was passing out and he didn't even know who or what was doing this! As he felt his muscles grow weak, and his vision grew darker and darker, he felt his helmet fall off, and with a thud, he hit the dirt too weak to move. The assailant pinning him down. The pain in his knee and his armpit sharpened, and he realized he'd been poisoned, those two strikes meant to cripple him. The choke released, and the grunt found himself being turned over, and what he saw chilled him to the bone.
It was a sight that he could never be rid of.
The Iron Horde raiding party was setting up camp. Their recent expedition into Talador had borne fruit. Slaves, both Frostwolf and Draenic were led to the tree by the shackles around their necks. A chain of fourteen bound and captured souls who gazed upon their captors with a mixture of fear and despair. They were led like cattle, the younger children and more timid openly weeping, tears sliding down their faces, leaving runnels in the soot and dirt upon their faces. For them, this war was over, captured and soon to be broken at the hands of their new Blackrock masters. As the wrought iron shackles were wrapped around the tree, their fates were sealed, and they huddled as close as possible if only for the illusion of safety.
The raiders, clad in the now infamous black iron furnace armor, moved about the field setting up tents and mats. Two hefted axes and headed off towards the woodline to procure firewood for the night's fire. Each had a purpose, and all chatted vigorously as they worked. Most conversations solely about their reward when they returned to Gorgrond with their captures. One of the raiders dug around in the backpacks they had left in a pile as she looked for a waterskin. Finding one, and tossing it haphazardly towards the slaves, she laughed and continued her rummaging. As the skin landed, one of the Frostwolves, a captured warrior stretched her arm out to barely grasp it enough to drag it into her reach. Fumbling anxiously, the pulled the stopper and took a small gulp before looking over at the Draenei. They were not warriors, and the children among them looked to be in a worse state. Grunting to her fellow captured colleagues, each of whom nodded back tiredly, she tossed it to the draenei, miming a 'drink up' motion. They may have lost the fight, but they haven't lost their honor.
As night was setting in, the Iron Horde orcs began to unroll their bedding and after drawing twigs, began stationing the night's watch. A gentle breeze from the sea of Zangar rolled in, rustling the grass and leaves, causing many a tired eye to grow heavier, and let sleep wash over them. The three Orcs on guard sat around the campfire, idly talking and boasting to each other, often with a metal punch or a poke here and there. One boredly prodded the flames with his axeblade to release a dazzling display of sparks drifting upwards on the gentle wind. With a stretch, one stood and lumbered off into the night, "Be right back, gotta wizz." Disappearing outside the light of the fire, the other two snickered and began to plot how to trick their friend upon his return.
Except he didn't.
Minutes passed, still they waited for their friend's return. As more time passed, they began to grow worried. "Maybe he fell? Or he's dropping a gronnling?" one offered, but the other, more seasoned stood, grabbing his axe and peering in the direction where the missing had gone. "Wake up Torga. He's in charge, he needs to know. I'm going to go find him." On his guard, he followed out into the darkness, axe at the ready. The last watchman was unsure what to do, Torga was the raid leader, but he was also extremely volatile, and prone to violent 'encouragements' of his men.
Still, Ragnak said to do it, so he might as well. As he stood to go wake the burly orc, he made it three steps before something sharp jabbed him right in the back of the knee. In the instant he thought it odd that the bee had been smart enough to hit him right where he had no armor, he felt something snake around his neck, under his helmet. Before he could react, a vicelike grip was around his neck, and he couldn't breathe. Panic set in and he flexed, trying to reach up and pry the choking force from around his neck. As his fingers found purchase on the hard grip, he realized something was jabbing him in the armpit, another place I'm unarmored?! he realized with a jolt.
I'm being attacked!? But it was too late, no matter how he tried, how he thrashed, he couldn't budge this chokehold a single inch, and worse, couldn't get out a sound. Things were going black, he was passing out and he didn't even know who or what was doing this! As he felt his muscles grow weak, and his vision grew darker and darker, he felt his helmet fall off, and with a thud, he hit the dirt too weak to move. The assailant pinning him down. The pain in his knee and his armpit sharpened, and he realized he'd been poisoned, those two strikes meant to cripple him. The choke released, and the grunt found himself being turned over, and what he saw chilled him to the bone.
It was a sight that he could never be rid of.
