World of Warcraft®

The shield almost dropped when Drakehide's shoulder was hit. As it was, he could not grip it firmly - it was dangling from his forearm, not nearly as effective now as it had been a moment previous.

Then the fire struck again. The lightning, the pain, that familiar agonizing sensation...it was stronger than anything he'd felt up to this point. He dropped to the ground, raising his right hand and clutching his forehead. When she'd goaded him, he'd charged, with all the rage and tenacity of a wounded boar.

Then...nothing.

Drakehide heard the arrow fire, and realized the nature of that familiar sound, a drawstring being released, just a split-second before the head of the arrow collided with the back of his skull. It passed, effortlessly, through the back of his scalp, then pierced his skull, then passed through his brain. He captured the instant through his eyes that the arrowhead went all the way through, hanging in place right over his nose.

He dropped to the ground, limp, motionless, dead. What air had collected in his body was released starkly as he hit the ground. Blood poured freely from the wound at both its entry and exit point.

And then...darkness and silence. Darkness and silence...

* * *

Darkness. Everything was darkness, and silence. He could not see, or hear, save for the echo of his own breathing. He was bound. He was...elsewhere. This did not smell like the stockade, the air was not as arid, or as stale.

He was a prisoner. But...whose prisoner? And where?

"I am Drakehide," he called out, angrily, "Son of Rukh! You...you cannot hold me here forever! Release me!"

And it was only then that Drakehide realized that he had seen this all somewhere before.

"Broken yet?"

Tyr seemingly sat on thin air behind him, her grin more sadistic than before.

"I almost tricked you there. Any more convincing, and trust me, you would've been dead for real too." She chuckled darkly. "Any time now, lest I need to kill you one thousand times!"

She sounded conflicted, yet still her words rang true.

"So," She sang, "What would you like to try next, Brontes? I have ALL DAY."

Once again, the spike of pain hit... once again, Drakehide fell to unconsciousness.

The orc did indeed awake at the thumping of cake. "Bralox like cake!" A huge handful was scooped out of the side, shoveled into the Mok'nathol's mouth, before he bunched up his face. "Bralox need outside tree..." He stood, his frame grazing the doorway as he rushed outside, hiding behind a tree, or so he though, before looking around and relieving himself. Needless to say, he should have looked behind him. The centaur was luckily, too in shock to do much of anything.

((EDIT: LAWL, Bralox...didn't see your response until after I posted. xD))

Drakehide awoke. The blood elf had no concept of time, or how long had passed since he'd fallen into darkness and slumber. Everything hurt right now - his forearm, where he had been pierced by the arrow, stung viciously, but the pain...that undescribable, inexplicable pain, coursing through him...it was worse. Much, much worse.

Something was different, this time. A familiarity...a sense that he had lived this out, felt this somewhere before.

Drakehide could feel the images...the memories of the last time he'd experienced this darkness, this capture, flooding back. Tyrynna would bombard him with spikes and lances of pain, running through his mind and body...she would make him suffer, make him watch the death of those he loved...she would kill him...she would kill him over, and over, and over again.

But...that was all she could do. There was nothing else at her disposal, nothing else in her arsenal.

No..."arsenal" was not the word. "Toy-box" would be more fitting. This was nothing but a game to her - his suffering was no more than the object of her amusement and delight. He would not play into her hands - he could not - for if he could make the game stop being fun, perhaps she'd stop playing.

At which point...she'd either kill him, release him, or she'd just get clumsy and he'd take care of the rest. He could already hear conflict in her, doubt in her. If he could press on just a little further...endure just a little more...and deprive her of her sick delight, the game would finally end.

"You DO have all day," he goaded, "I do not know where I am, or how I came to be in this place. I have way of reaching my friends. I have no means of escape. And yet...we are still having this conversation. I have not broken yet. You, Tyrynna, are going to have to start getting inventive, if you truly take joy in my suffering. Because...because, so far, this son of Rukh is thoroughly unimpressed. I expected much worse from you."

((I'm just waiting for something to come after Rukh.. *snerk*))

((I dunno if anything actually WILL happen to Mok'Rukh. He's kind of a side story in this one...most of the conflict revolves around Tyr vs. Drake. I'm just waiting to see what happens next now. ^^))

((Eh. maybe a side thing to torture Drake with the images of his father being beaten..))

The Night Elf's face twisted into one of anger for the shortest moment, then, yet again, one of amusement. "Do you, now?" she sang.

The assault continued as it did before. But something was different. The pain coursed not through his mind, but his entire body, again at it's worst. Tyr stood behind him, a sick grin plastered onto her face.

The visions were different this time.

Drakehide knew he had seen these before, but not during his captivity. These were... familiar in a different way.

The first was of a bloody Warsong Gulch battle, when Drakehide was still counted among Hellscream's forces. He saw the Alliance army before him. The priestess who he'd attempted to spare, believing her to be Keedriel's lover. Then, the pink-haired, pigtailed wonder of a Death Knight, who has inflicted punishment for his mistake.

The vision shifted to Azshara, where he and Akira had been trying to question Velidraestel regarding the investigation they had been working on. Drakehide made the mistake of provoking Vel, one which ended with the two of them off the cliff they'd stood on, and many of his friends alienated.

Again, the illusion shifted, to the Stockades of Stormwind City. The very event in which he'd been captured in the first place.

"Poor Brontes," Tyrynna cooed. "Poor, poor, mistake-prone Brontes." She started giggling. "If it weren't for so many mistakes, who knows, maybe you wouldn't have been raised by orcs. Or perhaps, you wouldn't have the PLEASURE of saying that you've been kept alive purely by the dark Troll magics. Hell, maybe you wouldn't be here in the first place! Then again..."

The telepath let out a cackle, the pain flaring more as pure insanity took her yet again. "WHAT FUN WOULD THAT BE!?"

Drakehide scowled at the sight of each of the visions. The thought of his past's failures, his blunders, his most dishonorable moments...they were almost as grave a blow to him as the unending mental assault, the pain that Tyrynna was inflicting on him once again. He howled, in anger and suffering, as another flare of agony struck at him again.

If only he were loose...if only he were unbound...if only he could reach his sword, and his shield...

But he could. He remembered now. The visions were new, but...this sequence of events was the same. She had tortured him, she had shown him images...and she would kill him next. He had to act first. He had to act quickly. He had to break this mad cycle before it consumed him.

"I have made mistakes," he agreed, scowling, as he forced himself to stand, free of whatever conjured bonds were locked around his wrists and legs. He took a step towards Tyrynna, aggressively. Then another. Wave, after wave of mental bombardment he was experiencing, lightning and thunder coursing through his body, but...he could see clearer now, if only a little. Step, after step, he advanced...almost in time with the visions, and with the waves of suffering, anguish, and turmoil that accompanied them.

"I have made mistakes," he spat, "But you have made mistakes, too. Your greatest mistake...was bringing me here...and thinking that you, night elf, could destroy me. Your...arrogance...is astonishing. It...will be...your undoing."

For whatever reason, the huntress hardly seemed shocked. She simply drew her bow once again.

"So, this is the game you want to play, Bronny?" Which was said in a quite Fearow-like fashion.

Then, she grinned, oh that grin! "Very well," she hissed, and aimed. "I'll just have you kill you again!"

She pulled the bowstring taut and prepared to fire.

Then, the scarlet glow faded from her eyes, if only for a moment. Once again, she wavered.

What am I doing?

But madness soon took hold again. The pain returned, full force. She screamed in rage, and fired.

"Do not...call me...BRONNY!" the blood elf growled, as he stormed forward. Despite the pain, despite the fire running through his mind and limbs, he was full of conviction, full of strength.

Oh, yes. This was it. This was the moment. He had victory. She had wavered. The game was losing its appeal to her, clearly...his refusal to grant her any further delight was clearly taking hold. The conflict was seizing her. Taking control over her. He now had the advantage.

Within seconds, he would be in striking range. He would take up his sword, cleave her in two, and end this nightmare once and for all. He would leave this place, and return to his friends and loved ones. He would be free.

With a thought, his sword was in his hand. He was standing before her. She was frozen, her bow shaking as she held it up towards him, uncertainly. The moment to strike was now - !

A new wave of pain, furious and renewed, struck out against him. He dropped his sword. He dropped to his knees, clutching his aching skull. He groaned, and ached and shuddered, and there was...something pointed, something sharp, something cold up against his forehead. It wasn't the current of mental flashes, visions, assaults, but...

...the tip of an arrow.

Tyrynna screamed, and fired.

Darkness and silence...

* * *

Darkness. Everything was darkness, and silence. He could not see, or hear, save for the echo of his own breathing. He was bound. He was...elsewhere. This did not smell like the stockade, the air was not as arid, or as stale.

He was a prisoner. But...whose prisoner? And where?

"I am Drakehide," he called out, angrily, "Son of Rukh! You...you cannot hold me here forever - !"

And then it all came back. The defiance, the courage, the spirit, the will to endure...it was all starting to seep away. Drakehide realized, now, that his words were wrong. He had tried. He had been close - impossibly, impossibly close! - but he had failed. Not once, but twice. It was all starting to make sense to him...all of it.

This was her arena. This was her game. She would torture him, she would make him suffer visions, she would kill him. Torture, visions, kill. Torture, visions, kill. Torture, visions, kill.

He knew that his words were false. Flawed. Mistaken. And no matter how many times he said them, in how many of these...these visions, these episodes...they would never be true. They could never be.

The fact was, she could hold him forever.

And...sooner or later...he would break. All of this...was futile.

The son of Rukh became very, very quiet.

((Now I want to change this thread's name to Groundhog Day. xD))

Bralox returned to the house several hours later. What had initially started out as him going for a pee had turned into an elaborate chasing of a thunderlizard across the plans of the Barrens, culminating in it's demise at the hand of a particularly well placed tree and a lucky lightning bolt. The corpse had been quartered and set for packing behind a particularly battered looking Goblin model Trike. Bralox knocked at the door of the house, poking his head in. "Meat cake?" Was all he inquired.

By this point in the day, the second cake - the one left by Wife - had been effectively destroyed. All that remained of it were crumbs on the face of the table, and a couple of smears of frosting. Mok'Rukh was fatigued - it was late in the afternoon, close to evening, and soon it would be time for bed. This made it all the more strange when he heard someone approach his hut.

He pulled back the front flap of the hut and blinked in surprise at Bralox, a goblin Trike, and the corpse of a thunderlizard. He laughed, despite himself, walked over to Bralox, and embraced his friend in a firm, warm hug.

"Throm'ka, throm'ka! You have outdone yourself, my friend!" Mok'Rukh chuckled, "Come! It's too big to drag the beast inside, so let's make a fire outside! Tonight...we're having a barbeque! Splendid, splendid!"

The orc grinned, taking several large thick logs and jamming them into the best vertically, he lit the ends on fire. "Lizard cake!"

Behind him, the Son of Rukh heard a snicker, then, to his right, a giggle, to his left, a laugh, echoing all around him as the chuckling turned into a furious cackle.

"HE'S GOT IT!" Tyrynna screamed in... delight? Rage? Who could know for sure? "HE'S FINALLY GOT IT!"

The Night Elf appeared behind him, that sick, insane, eternal grin plastered to her face.

"So now you understand," she cooed. "I CAN hold you here forever, if I so desired! I could bind you for the rest of eternity, making you relive your darkest of moments, over, and over, and over..."

She let out another dark chuckle.

"Until you break, dear Brontes, then, maybe I'll grant you a... quick death."

The mental assault once again resumed. Tyr giggled, playfully, and tugged one of Drakehide's long ears. "After all, with all your hope lost... it wont be much longer. Soon, Brontes, very, very soon."

The pain...was unbelievable. It was something he could not explain, could not reason with, could not fight. He knew he was beaten. He knew that she had him at her mercy. The game was over, and Drakehide had lost. She was right - soon, he would be dead. Soon, he would be gone.

The pain, the visions, the images of his failures and of his friends' deaths...they were all he could see, all he could feel. His defenses, his walls, they were all breaking down, with every second of the torment. All he had to do was let go...let go, give in, and it would all be over...Tyrynna would finally just let him die...

...and what then...?

So long as she was here...Drakehide had the comfort of knowing that her attention was on him. So long as she was here, the horrible visions he had seen...of Keedriel, Akira, Mok'Rukh, Fehl, and Aeshi...those visions would not come to pass. So long as he held her focus...so long as he held on...even if he broke, one day, or died, one day, then until that day they would be safe.

The lightning in his mind and blood continued to arc, and jump, and consume him, but...Drakehide, son of Mok'Rukh of the Northern Barrens, laughed. It was a soft, musing laughter at first, and slowly built, a crescendo of dark, victorious cackling that rivalled even Tyr's.

"Do you know...why my father...called me Drakehide...?" he sneered, "You seem to...know me so well, Tyrynna, huntress, th-that this will come as no surprise, I think."

He reached up, and pulled down his faceplate. He turned, despite the pain that wracked him, so that he could stare his enemy in the eye.

"I...could never hold a blade...as w-well as an orc could. I - ah, DAMN you - ! I could not...strike as hard, could not pierce armor, could hardly...c-carry my own weight, in training. But...I had...thick skin. Very, very th-thick skin. S-so...I will endure. My skin...is like...a dragon's, Tyrynna. It is who I am. It is what I do. I...I am Drakehide. I am DRAKEHIDE!"

With a scowl, he delivered one last "mental attack" of his own. He spat right in her face.

"Y-you...will...not break me. You cannot. But...someday, Tyrynna, when you finally kill me, and...and I am certain you will...I will accept it as your surrender," Drakehide grinned, "I will accept it as your defeat, at the hand of this son of Rukh. And I look forward most eagerly to it. For when I meet my ancestors...they will be singing songs of me, and my final victory. You...will not break me."

The elf blinked in surprise and scowled. "Well, dear Brontes... it seem's I've...underestimated you."

Her lips curled into a smirk. The assaults, the pain, the visions, they all blasted him, like a kick in the head.

"So, let's see if you can back those claims!"

It was obvious she wasn't going to let on just how much pain she herself was in. She didn't care. This wasn't a game anymore, it was a battle.

And, true to herself, what little sanity she clung to, she would kill herself if she allowed a stuck-up, stubborn, orc wannabe of a Blood Elf to defeat her.

"Let's see how long you can REALLY last, Brontes Emberwing!"

((Sorry for the delay...I know I said I'd reply right when I logged off, but it turned out we missed work on a whole bunch of props, and we had to get them done for filming in the morning. And PS, I think I figured out a solution to our RP's "back-up" problem. Anyway, back to the story!))

A kick to the head, Tyrynna's assault was, and like taking a kick to the head, Drakehide flew across the doorless room, shrouded in darkness, crashing firmly against a wall before dropping to the ground. A battle, this was, and...he knew it was not a battle where he would win, or lose. Eventually, he would lose - there was no possible other outcome - the question was how long it would take for him to lose, and what Tyrynna would do to his friends and loved ones when he finally lost.

He groaned and rose to his feet, brushing himself off. The warrior surveyed the room, and his options. His shield was on the ground, several feet away, to his left. His sword was at a similar distance, to his right. Tyrynna was directly in front of him. The sword would be useless, since his forearm had been punctured by an arrow earlier, and since he couldn't use it to catch arrows...and, as for the shield, as useful as it might be, he'd tried the shield earlier, and failed.

This would require a more direct approach:

Tyrynna's bow.

It had been a constant of the last two "episodes", and Drakehide found himself eying the object with interest. Each time she had killed him, it had been with this weapon. If he took the bow, did that mean that in this dark, shadowy realm the predator, the huntress, would have no teeth? Or...would it simply mean that she'd come up with a cleverer, crueler way to dispatch him?

There was only one way to find out.

Drakehide ignored the shield, and ignored the sword. He made a mad dash right for Tyrynna.

The sick smile slowly returned to Tyr's face. The game was becoming fun again.

Quickley, she sidestepped the charging elf and spun behind him. Taunting Drakehide, she held her bow above her head, almost as if she knew his plan.

"Looking for this?" she cooed.

The Blood Elf charged again. Again, Tyr sidestepped out of the way.

"Go get it!" she called, and tossed her bow across the room. The look of amusement she wore, it was infuriating!

What was more infuriating, Drakehide discovered as he retrieved the bow, was the huntress's new method.

Tyrynna held Drakehide's sword.

The Night Elf once again let out a dark chuckle. "Have you ever wondered," she taunted, "what it feels like to be killed with your own weapon?"

The pain blasted again as Tyrynna made her charge.

Drakehide was crippled by the mental assault, crippled by the visions, and crippled by the sight of the night elf closing in, with his own saronite blade in hand. He tried to cry out, howl in anger, spit a curse at her, but he could not budge. He dropped to his knees, her bow clattering helplessly from his hand to the ground, as she made contact with his blade, and plunged it deeply through his throat -

* * *

Darkness. Everything was darkness, and silence. He could not see, or hear, save for the echo of his own breathing. He was bound. He was...elsewhere. This did not smell like the stockade, the air was not as arid, or as stale.

He remembered. He remembered everything. He had tried, three times already, each try different, each to no avail. He would not relent - after all, he could not. He had to keep her busy, keep her occupied. His purpose was not to wear her down, but rather to keep her attention on him, away from those he cared about.

In doing that, if he could deal a blow or two to her...and, some small glimmer of hope in him imagined, break her hold over him...well, that would be above and beyond his purpose. That...that would be glorious.

Drakehide lumbered forward, aiming to tackle her and wrap his arms around Tyrynna's midsection, intending to hurl her into a wall.

* * *

Darkness and silence. Drakehide tore off his facemask, and dashed forward, determined to use its spikes and jagged edge as a maul to beat her to death.

* * *

Darkness and silence. Drakehide calmly approached, invoking the power of the legendary figure Chaknor'ris, attempting to punch a hole through Tyrynna's midsection with a roundhouse kick.

* * *

Darkness and silence. Drakehide decided that when all else failed, punching her squarely in the bust would suffice. After all, it would make her angry, and clumsy, and it would surely stun her sufficiently to prevent - !

* * *

Darkness and silence. Drakehide would throw a saronite boot at her. Why? Because he'd tried everything else, and this possibly couldn't go as bad as - !

* * *

Darkness and silence. Drakehide calmly explained to her that the only outcome would be him winning. Why? Because he was different. He had a different constitution, different brain, different heart. He had blood like a tiger. Sons of Rukh are not bi-polar, only gloriously bi-winning - !

Darkness and silence.

Darkness and silence.

Darkness and silence.

Darkness and silence.

Dark...dark...dark...down, and down, and down, into the dark...

* * *

Darkness. Everything was darkness, and silence. He could not see, or hear, save for the echo of his own breathing. He was bound. He was...elsewhere. This did not smell like the stockade, the air was not as arid, or as stale.

He was a prisoner. He was Tyrynna's prisoner. He was here longer than he could remember, had died more deaths than he could recall, had watched visions of his friends and loved ones suffering to the point where they no longer surprised him. He knew each and every way they could die, each agonizing, painful blow that they would feel, and no matter how many times he watched the images, the pain would never dull. It would never go away.

He was a prisoner...but why? Why was she doing this?

The rage was gone. The drive was gone. He knew that he had to survive, to keep the visions from coming true, but he could no longer fathom why Tyrynna was doing this, or what good could come of this. Drakehide had been driven off, beaten down, pummeled effectively into submission. Only a very lost, confused, and broken Bron Emberwing remained. A Bron Emberwing who was only staying alive because he knew, in his heart that he had to stay alive.

It was just Bron and Tyrynna now. Drakehide was gone. Drakehide was gone.

Brontes cried, when this new episode began. He dropped to his knees, cast away his facemask, curled up, and wept bitterly. The tears were hot, burning against his cheeks, and they fell freely as his sobs became harsher, and harsher. He could hardly take breath in fast enough for all the wordless cries that he expelled, for all of the sobs he muffled in his hands.

He could not look up. He could not look at Tyrynna, he could not face her. He knew the pain and the visions would start again, soon, and he knew they would be just as awful as the ones that had come before, and all the ones that would come after.

"Wh-why...?" he continued to sob, the words half-muffled by his fingers, wet and slick from his tears, "Why d-do you keep...doing...this to me...? Wh-why...can't...you just...stop...? Y-you have...nothing to gain from this. I have n-nothing to give you...damn it, I...I don't...understand...at all..."

He continued to cry, wordlessly, thoughtlessly. All he could do was lie in the dark, and let the silence be pierced by his lament.