Oraias
06-13-2007, 03:29 PM
He is coming! Hoofbeats are as thunder in my ears and the light glinting off his helm is almost enough to blind me. Almost. The flail whips high, links of chain vanishing into the nimbus about him, but I know where it will land. My sword comes up, in just the right place. He thinks I have made a critical mistake. The chain wraps itself three times around the blade, and he smiles as he brings his arm back to tear it from my hands.
But I am stronger than he, and more cunning. My grip stays firm.
As the horse races past me, I leap. Powered by the legs of an orc in his prime, it is sufficient to throw me through the beast’s legs and roll out the other side before I can be trampled. The knight, however … like me, he refuses to release his weapon, and it is me who gains control of this engagement. His flail follows my sword, his arm follows the flail, and his armoured body follows his arm. He is pulled from the saddle and begins to follow me under the horse. It bucks as the weight is removed from its back, leaping as high as its barding will allow. It avoids trampling its master. Smart beast. But the man no longer has the advantage of height, and now, he has no weapon. The shock of impact was enough to finally force him to release his grip.
I carefully unwind the chain from around my blade, and toss it back to him as he staggers to his feet. “I’m sure there is some fight in you yet,” I snarl, grinning broadly. The man’s face is stern, but he picks up the weapon and approaches me. My hands tighten on the hilt of my sword, and I turn it to point at my adversary, blade horizontal, hands back near my left hip. He is coming.
The flail darts out, but I am ready. My hands move as a blur of motion, left hand pulling up towards my ear, right pushing down, so the blade flips instantly through ninety degrees of arc, turning the point towards the ground, and the flat of the blade smacks into the head of the incoming flail, deflecting it harmlessly. I continue the motion, pulling back with my left hand so the sword slides smoothly up and over my head, drawing a circle back, down, behind me, up, past my knees, past my belt, scraping along my opponent’s breastplate … hammering into his unprotected chin from below.
The man collapses, flail falling from nerveless fingers, red fountaining from the slit in his helmet to spray across my chest. Another survivor who will not make it back to camp. I nod with satisfaction and bend to clean the blood from Lionheart’s blade …
What? Lionheart?
Oraias Steelsong opened his eyes. There was no knight. No mountains in Khaz Modan. No hunting of lost humans after a battle long ago, before he’d seen the Lion in his dreams, long before he’d bound the spirit in steel. He’d killed that human with the broad-bladed scimitar he’d wielded in his time as a standard bearer in the old horde. In the days he bore the standard of Doomhammer.
Terrokar. So beautiful it still was, the gentle light of the terocones washing over the dark, soft green of the leaves and grasses. Such a dim, dark place, so cool and lovely. Here had two great men met the people they would help destroy. Here had been places sacred to the draenei in times gone by. It was still Oraias’ favourite place, but there was sadness here far beyond anything he’d known as a boy. It was fitting. It matched the sadness in his heart. He rose from the place he’d slept and checked his gear. Everything was in order. It was a new day. A new day to do … what, exactly? Fight for the Horde in meaningless battles that would never be won? Fight for the Skyguard in a war that was not his concern? Travel again to the tower of the Last Guardian for nothing but the promise of treasure? Steelsong sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was full of leaves from the night in the forest, but he knew without looking it was still as dark and glossy as it had been before his skin turned green. It shouldn’t be. It should be white and thinning, the hair of an elder. By rights, he should be dead. Dead of age, dead of sadness. Dead in battle, so very long ago. Anything but this persistence … why would the spirits not let him die? “Orgrim … how long is it supposed to take a soldier to get over the death of his commander?” Then he grimaced wryly. It wasn’t about the death of his commander. It was about the death of his youth.
“All I need is my life, some gold, and Lionheart. All I need. But not all I want …” Hefting the massive sword, he rested it on his right shoulder and began walking through the forest. From his pack came the clinkings and rattlings of a vast accumulation of supplies and treasures. The collected baggage of a mighty adventurer. But not a hero. Not anymore. “First there was Orgrim, to give me orders, give me purpose. Then Gortuk, to give me hope. Zavvii, to give me rage … Citadel, to give me challenges. But what happens to a warrior who has lost his war? Tell me that, Lionheart. Tell me that, Orgrim.” Oraias’ foot slid off dark grass and into soft sand. He looked up.
The Bone Wastes. Once upon a time, there had been a holy place here. Then came the Shadow Council. They came, killed everyone, and did something stupid. Since Gul’dan … was there anything Orcs could touch without shattering it? ... Hellscream reaching for the cup … howling ... “I FEEL MAGNIFICENT!”… The warlock who came to turn young Oraias into a warrior … the terrible pain of feeling childhood burned away … the smile on Blackhand's face… Oraias banished the memories and found he stood within the Circle. Around him rose the walls of Auchindoun. Around him was rubble and ghosts and the weeping of broken spirits. Oraias Steelsong, the Lionheart, sank to his knees.
“Oh Orgrim … what has become of us?”
A very, very tired former hero wept into the dust.
But I am stronger than he, and more cunning. My grip stays firm.
As the horse races past me, I leap. Powered by the legs of an orc in his prime, it is sufficient to throw me through the beast’s legs and roll out the other side before I can be trampled. The knight, however … like me, he refuses to release his weapon, and it is me who gains control of this engagement. His flail follows my sword, his arm follows the flail, and his armoured body follows his arm. He is pulled from the saddle and begins to follow me under the horse. It bucks as the weight is removed from its back, leaping as high as its barding will allow. It avoids trampling its master. Smart beast. But the man no longer has the advantage of height, and now, he has no weapon. The shock of impact was enough to finally force him to release his grip.
I carefully unwind the chain from around my blade, and toss it back to him as he staggers to his feet. “I’m sure there is some fight in you yet,” I snarl, grinning broadly. The man’s face is stern, but he picks up the weapon and approaches me. My hands tighten on the hilt of my sword, and I turn it to point at my adversary, blade horizontal, hands back near my left hip. He is coming.
The flail darts out, but I am ready. My hands move as a blur of motion, left hand pulling up towards my ear, right pushing down, so the blade flips instantly through ninety degrees of arc, turning the point towards the ground, and the flat of the blade smacks into the head of the incoming flail, deflecting it harmlessly. I continue the motion, pulling back with my left hand so the sword slides smoothly up and over my head, drawing a circle back, down, behind me, up, past my knees, past my belt, scraping along my opponent’s breastplate … hammering into his unprotected chin from below.
The man collapses, flail falling from nerveless fingers, red fountaining from the slit in his helmet to spray across my chest. Another survivor who will not make it back to camp. I nod with satisfaction and bend to clean the blood from Lionheart’s blade …
What? Lionheart?
Oraias Steelsong opened his eyes. There was no knight. No mountains in Khaz Modan. No hunting of lost humans after a battle long ago, before he’d seen the Lion in his dreams, long before he’d bound the spirit in steel. He’d killed that human with the broad-bladed scimitar he’d wielded in his time as a standard bearer in the old horde. In the days he bore the standard of Doomhammer.
Terrokar. So beautiful it still was, the gentle light of the terocones washing over the dark, soft green of the leaves and grasses. Such a dim, dark place, so cool and lovely. Here had two great men met the people they would help destroy. Here had been places sacred to the draenei in times gone by. It was still Oraias’ favourite place, but there was sadness here far beyond anything he’d known as a boy. It was fitting. It matched the sadness in his heart. He rose from the place he’d slept and checked his gear. Everything was in order. It was a new day. A new day to do … what, exactly? Fight for the Horde in meaningless battles that would never be won? Fight for the Skyguard in a war that was not his concern? Travel again to the tower of the Last Guardian for nothing but the promise of treasure? Steelsong sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was full of leaves from the night in the forest, but he knew without looking it was still as dark and glossy as it had been before his skin turned green. It shouldn’t be. It should be white and thinning, the hair of an elder. By rights, he should be dead. Dead of age, dead of sadness. Dead in battle, so very long ago. Anything but this persistence … why would the spirits not let him die? “Orgrim … how long is it supposed to take a soldier to get over the death of his commander?” Then he grimaced wryly. It wasn’t about the death of his commander. It was about the death of his youth.
“All I need is my life, some gold, and Lionheart. All I need. But not all I want …” Hefting the massive sword, he rested it on his right shoulder and began walking through the forest. From his pack came the clinkings and rattlings of a vast accumulation of supplies and treasures. The collected baggage of a mighty adventurer. But not a hero. Not anymore. “First there was Orgrim, to give me orders, give me purpose. Then Gortuk, to give me hope. Zavvii, to give me rage … Citadel, to give me challenges. But what happens to a warrior who has lost his war? Tell me that, Lionheart. Tell me that, Orgrim.” Oraias’ foot slid off dark grass and into soft sand. He looked up.
The Bone Wastes. Once upon a time, there had been a holy place here. Then came the Shadow Council. They came, killed everyone, and did something stupid. Since Gul’dan … was there anything Orcs could touch without shattering it? ... Hellscream reaching for the cup … howling ... “I FEEL MAGNIFICENT!”… The warlock who came to turn young Oraias into a warrior … the terrible pain of feeling childhood burned away … the smile on Blackhand's face… Oraias banished the memories and found he stood within the Circle. Around him rose the walls of Auchindoun. Around him was rubble and ghosts and the weeping of broken spirits. Oraias Steelsong, the Lionheart, sank to his knees.
“Oh Orgrim … what has become of us?”
A very, very tired former hero wept into the dust.