Prepared ((Preservation from Umbral GuildPortal))

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Vivimord
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Prepared ((Preservation from Umbral GuildPortal))

Post by Vivimord » Mon Nov 30, 2015 6:20 am

((Originally posted by Ont.))

The worg padded softly through the forest, paused near the treeline with a touch of hesitance, then began forward again when it’s master’s heels issued the command to do enter the torn landscape ahead. Infernals roamed but none troubles the solitary rider, perhaps too limited in intellect to discern his presence or perhaps reading, from the solemnity of his countenance, that interference would likely mean whatever form of death it was their type found waiting at the end of their existances.

Deeper they rode, the bridle manipulated with an expert's ability tempered by a wandering mind's carelessness. The walls of Demon Howl Canyon slid past to either side of their path. In time Ont pulled back to stop and peer up at Mannoroth’s glaive, to study the splintered wood where it was sundered. Absently he measured the two to determine if they were equal halves and then realized he was stalling. He whispered a simple, hoarse, “On” and the beast began moving again.

He sat, mounted, for several moments near the monument before gathering himself together and swinging easily from the saddle, dismounting in a manner that showed surprising agility for a creature of his bulk. A few steps forward and he was able to read the words clearly. First, though, he drew the magma-forged greatsword from his back. With an unnecessary amount of precision he placed the blade’s point into the ground about a foot in front of him, then folded his hands atop the leather-wrapped pommel, taking a moment to let the heat emanating from the blade warm his hands.

Here lies Grommash Hellscream, Chieftan of the Warsong Clan.
In many ways, the curse of our people began and ended with Grom. His name meant "Giant's Heart" in our ancient tongue. He earned that name a hundred fold as he stood alone before the demon Mannoroth - and won our freedom with his blood.
Lok'Tar Ogar, Big Brother. May the Warsong never fade.
- Thrall, Warchief of the Horde


Ont remained still for several moments, then lowered his head and eyelids. His forehead pressed against the back of his gloves as he gave his own tribute to the fallen hero, letting his memories of the times he fought by Hellscream’s side run through his mind, memories that had remained especially vivid when few others of his past did. Memories of worthy combat, memories of blood-soaked slaughter, relished memories of righteous murder.

The silence was broken by a soft, “Trk'hsk”, when the gap in his memory started, a scene of his final battle with his Clan Chief remaining etched in his mind forever. There were, of course, many, many more more gaps after that but it started, as always, with Cenarius cornered, backed by elves. Ont lifted his head, opened his eyes and peered up at the monument for a few more moments, face turning hard as stone and locked in concentration.

His chin raised, proud, defiant and his shoulders lifted. It almost seemed a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. “Swobu,” he whispered, voice tight with emotion.

After mounting he turned the worg in a full circle, surveying the battlefield he’d never visited previously, picturing the conflict in his mind. Some had been passed down from the Warchief, with others filled in from his memories of Grom’s fighting prowess, an active imagination and a mind that had experienced much, much more combat in his years than would have been possible had he hailed from any other background than that of a Warsong.

“Le's go, Gorehowl…” he said in a free, light voice- and then tore out of the area as if a legion of demons were on his tail.



An hour later, dawn approaching, Ont’s boots thudded up the stairs, then into the larger of the house’s three bedrooms. He slid a hand under the covers, grasping the troll’s shoulder firmly. A moment was spent enjoying the warm, softness of her skin and the sound of her quiet murmuring response… but then his business demanded more of him and he gave her a surprisingly gentle shake until it appeared she approached lucidity.

“Waken, Priestess. I am in need of your aid.”

Groggy trollish was the initial response, though she also cursed him in orcish when he began pulling clothes from her closet and tossing them to the bed behind him. “Prepare yourself. We ride for the Portal. I am going home.”

She was either polite enough or too distracted to point out his feet had never touched Draenor's soil.
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