Of Honour and Strength

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Immion

Of Honour and Strength

Beitrag Do 8. Mär 2012, 08:17

Kerag was drowning in the city. How he had ever been able to live like this was beyond him. Orgrimmar, his home for many years, had become alien to him in more than just its recent, unnerving change in appearance, although that was part of it. He did not recognize it anymore, not by its looks, but more importantly, not by what he felt as he moved through the streets. It no longer felt like he belonged here. Instead, he had felt oppressed as soon as he had entered the city. Moving with the crowd had once been natural to him, but now it felt like the merciless tides of the city's inhabitants had seized him without warning and imprisoned him within an overwhelming, moving cage of bodies, dictating his every move. The same held true for all the noise. Much of it he would not have noticed in the past, but now the vivid conversations of the surrounding people, the shouting of the merchants peddling their goods, the sounds of the workshops, and the unnatural rattling from one of the goblin engines high above him fused into a sonic monstrosity that gnawed at his spirit and set him on edge.

The tremendous heat was only adding to it. Sweat was covering every inch of his haggard, yet muscular green body that was not covered by his ancient armour of fur-trimmed leather. The sweat ran over his skin in thick drops, slowly soaking his smoky-grey beard and dripping into his eyes faster than he could wipe it away. The black metal of the new buildings and walls smouldered in the sun, shrouding the city in a heat haze as if Orgrimmar was nothing more than a fiery dream. The reek of sweat, excrement, and fermenting fruits constantly lingered in his nostrils and caused his stomach to rebel.

Kerag sighed. He would have never deemed it possible for him to miss the smothering emptiness of the Barrens, but now he found that he did. There, the soul could at least breathe. He smirked joylessly. A lot had indeed changed over the years. All of a sudden he felt old.

You are old, you fool, he corrected himself.

He was jolted from his thoughts when somebody bumped into his shoulder. Anger flared up in him, but before he had the chance to react, the crowd flowed on and forced Kerag forward, separating him from the unheeding citizen and swallowing him quickly. Kerag cursed under his breath. Grudgingly, he walked on. Out of habit, he reached for his purse, then for the battleaxe resting in an oiled sheath on his back, making sure his old comrade was still where it belonged. He would not take any chances with the riffraff that dwelled in the city. He had not forgotten how things worked here.

For what seemed like an eternity, he crawled through the bursting streets, moving out of the Valley of Strength into the narrow, eastern canyon known as the Drag and finally into the Valley of Honour. The streets were less crowded here than they had been around the great market, but still full enough to cause him unease. Even from the entrance of the valley, the Circle of Valour, Orgrimmar's massive arena, dominated the scene alongside the main barracks known as the Hall of the Brave, together forming the very centre of the orcish warrior culture. Completely ignoring the barracks, Kerag headed for the arena.

The Ring of Valour had been erected on a small rise. As the name suggested, it was a circular structure, nestled into a curve at the valley's northern edge. Formally, it had been a construction of stone and wood, but like with so many buildings, the new Warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream, had decided that this had to change. Already, a solid scaffold surrounded the arena. On it, Kerag could see a few goblin workers hiding from the heat in whatever shadows they could find. They could apparently afford it: work seemed to be progressing well. Before long, the arena would be turned into another monstrosity of dark steel. Kerag hated the sight. To see how natural building materials were being replaced by glooming, black metal reminded him of darker days; days he rather would rather forget about.

Due to the crowded streets, he arrived later than he had initially intended. Already groups of youngsters were pouring out of the Ring of Valour, all battered and bruised and yet with happy and proud expressions, telling him that this day's training session had just ended. His eyes scanned the aspiring warriors' faces, but did not find what he had come looking for. He threw a glance back the way he had come. Could he already have missed him?

With growing impatience, he sat down on an old bench in front of a nearby sweat lodge, tapping away with his foot on the dry ground as he suspiciously monitored the entrance of the arena. The constant stream of young orcs eventually subsided, but still there was no sight of the one Kerag sought.

He was already considering to head back when he saw what had to be the young warriors' trainer appearing in the entrance of the arena. Kerag disliked him instantly. The muscular orc looked like a fighter all right, but one of the worst kind. It was written all over his face and was apparent in every single boasting move he made. Small, violent orbs with a feverish glimmer spoke of a talent for cruelty that would prove fatal for anyone who ever found himself at this brute's mercy. Disgusted by the thought, Kerag spat on the ground.

The arena trainer discussed something with the two guards standing watch at the Ring's entrance. They shared a laugh, but then something strange happened. The trainer slipped one of the guards a few coins. He did it covertly. Kerag would have missed it if it had not been for the coin's reflection in the sun. He had no idea what this was about, but bribery from a warrior like this could only mean one thing: Something was wrong here.

Immediately, all thoughts about simply picking up a boy vanished from Kerag's thoughts, replaced by a strong sense of justice and honour that had always slumbered inside of him. The suspiciously charitable warrior departed with the composure of one not worried about being caught. This is not your lucky day, Kerag swore silently. He waited until the warrior was gone before he rose and slowly moved towards the guards. The fashion in which the two grunts exchanged an uneasy glance told him that they were not happy to see him. Yet, they did their best to hide their feelings quickly, and instead projected an aura of strength and determination. Kerag smiled to himself, a growing part of him already looking forward to the confrontation.

That was when he heard it. At first he was not sure whether he had actually heard anything or if his mind was just playing tricks on him, but it was enough to clear the violent haze that had begun to engulf his thoughts. Kerag paused, then closed his eyes and listened more closely. Sure enough, he heard it again, clearer this time. It came from the depths of the arena, barely perceivable, muffled and twisted. Still, Kerag knew the sound only to well. Deep down there, someone was screaming.

Startled, the axe-bearer rushed forward, only to find his path blocked by the two guards.

''No one is allowed in there, after the training has ended,'' said the bigger guard, the one who had received the bribe.

''Are you deaf!?'' Kerag raged. ''Somebody is still in there. Did you not hear the scream?''

The guards exchanged a puzzled look. It was obviously fake. The bigger one even gave Kerag a crooked grin.

''I have not heard anything.'' He turned to his companion. ''Have you?''

The other guard just shook its head, although with a certain reluctance.

''If you are not going to do something about this, I will,'' Kerag said with a cold voice. His patience was exhausted. ''Stand aside!''

The big grunt just chuckled. ''And what if I don't, Grandfather?''

''This.''

Kerag's fist exploded in the guard's face. The warrior fell as if struck by lightning, a dazzled expression on his face the moment before he lost consciousness. With a speed that belied his age, Kerag turned to the second guardsman. Startled at first, the orc roared and threw himself at Kerag, but the move was clumsy and easily anticipated. Kerag swept the snatching arms aside, grabbed the grunt in mid-air, and whirled around to hammer the soldier's head against the wall of the arena. The orc slumped to the ground, small pieces of rubble crumbling down with him as he fell. He did not move to rise again.

''That is the problem with you youngsters these days,'' Kerag remarked as he rubbed his painfully throbbing fist. ''No constitution.''

Kerag felt good at first, alive. But as soon as the adrenalin left his body the brief satisfaction quickly turned into remorse. Kerag scowled at himself for being so impulsive, for not thinking things through before he took action. One might have thought that the years would have cooled his hot blood, that he would have grown more careful and patient, but if anything, age had managed to make him more morose and irritable. What few insights he had gained were just the source of new sorrows burdening his thoughts. There was no wisdom or inner strength maturing inside his body; only decay and an ever-growing weariness.

And now he had two unconscious grunts to get rid of somehow. The ancestors truly had sent a cruel fate his way. He would give them a piece of his mind about that once he had joined them, he decided, then chuckled. A brawl without the limitations of the flesh was certainly something he would enjoy immensely.

Unfortunately, that would have to wait. First, he needed to solve the problems at hand. He looked around, trying to see if anyone had noticed his little argument with the guards, but everything was quiet and peaceful. Nobody seemed to pay him any attention. Relieved, Kareg looked up to send his gratitude to his ancestors. While doing that, he accidentally stared into the faces of half a dozen goblin workers that were ogling him with gleeful excitement.

Kerag gulped, and slowly reached for his axe.

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Kadosma akwbi
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Re: Of Honour and Strength

Beitrag Fr 9. Mär 2012, 18:22

Can't wait to read the sequel!
Abenteuer. Hah. Große Erlebnisse. Pah. Nach solchen Dingen verlangt es einen Hobbit nicht.

Immion

Re: Of Honour and Strength

Beitrag Sa 24. Mär 2012, 12:05

* * *

The floors of the arena's underground consisted only of cold stones and sand. The walls were lined with torches every fifteen yards, but other than that completely bare of ornamentation. The air was stale and stagnant but pleasantly cool. A mouldy smell crawled up Kerag's nose. He carefully followed the cries deeper into the tunnels, always expecting to run into more guards. The outcries had lost in intensity, but in return, other noises had become perceivable: flesh smacking against flesh, punches hitting home, and youthful voices mumbling about their disgraceful enjoyment of the act. Kerag pressed on, his mind filled with terrifying visions of what he was about to discover. He passed through rooms filled with cages for various sized beasts. They were all empty. Other rooms contained training dummies, archery targets, or various other sorts of training equipment; until he reached the doors to the armoury. They were locked, but the volume of the voices and sounds told him that he was very close. By now, he could differentiate between three different voices, one consisting only of the weak, dull screams of the tormented victim.

When he reached the final corner, the noises of sweating fists hammering into an unprotected body were now unmistakeable. The cries had stopped, and a dark thought forced its way into Kerag's mind. He clenched his hands into fists. If he was already too late, he would make sure that somebody would pay for this deed. He swore grimly and lunged around the corner.

The cave was only scarcely illuminated. A single wrought-iron brazier stood at the eastern wall, its fiery light throwing dancing shadows on the rough rocks. Gathered around their unfortunate victim stood three young warriors, too enthralled by their gruesome work to pay any attention to their surroundings. None of them seemed to have noticed Kerag's arrival, and neither had their victim - a chubby, short boy of similar age. The youth's face was swollen beyond recognition, his left eye almost shut. His whole body was covered with bruises and blotched with his own blood where the skin had split open under the mistreatment.

Seeing the boy's unsoldierly posture, Kerag could instantly imagine what was going on. Training under Orgrimmar's battle masters could be hard, especially for those less gifted in the arts of war. While it was only natural that there were recruits excelling in their given tasks and those who had to struggle to keep up, it was common practise to pit the young warriors against one another in teams. It was supposed to teach them about comradeship, about being aware that an army was only as strong as its weakest link and that a good fighter would know and include this in his tactical decisions; but it often also lead to other, less welcome reactions. Part of the nature of these exercises was that there were winners and losers, and the pride of many young warriors could only take so many defeats before starting to search for someone other than themselves to blame. In their frustration and anger, these warriors often looked inside their teams for a culprit and more often than not found one in its weakest member. The strong preyed on the weak. It was the inevitable nature of the pack.

Sadly, Kerag was forced to admit that he had seldom seen a youth better suited for playing this role. It was not uncommon for orcish shopkeepers or lazy city folk to become overweight, but inside the Ring of Valour, such a build was almost unheard of. Kerag could vividly imagine what difficulties the boy had to face when training with the others. That he had lasted to this point was a credit to his determination, but seeing where it brought him, Kerag could not help but wonder if it would not have been better if the boy had quit.

The tormented boy did not remain the centre of Kerag's attention for long. The initial moment of surprise passed, and Kerag's eyes turned away from the gruesome sight and began to focus more on the surrounding figures. Yet another, even more startling surprise waited for him as he beheld the youth who held their breathing sandbag upright and in place for his friends. Kerag had not for one second expected to find him here, but now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense. It was the boy he had come looking for: Narn, his brother's son.

Seeing his nephew like this filled Kerag with a sadness and disappointment beyond words. He felt the searing sting of guilt in his conscience. He had promised his younger brother to watch out for the boy, before the battle that took him. Yet Kerag had not. Instead, he had fled to bury his own grief, far away in the Barrens. Well, he was back now, he thought grimly as his soul turned on the heat of his blood to fight the pathetic notion of self pity. He had hidden long enough. It was time to make good on his promise.

Kerag called out for his nephew and moved from the darkness into the brazier's light. This strong, deep voice echoed through the small cavern. Startled, the youngsters darted around with alarmed eyes. The shock caused Narn do release the chubby boy, who slumped to the ground with a delirious moan.

“Uncle Kerag?” Narn cried with a panicked voice. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?!” Kerag boomed. “By Mannoroth's blood, boy! What in the name of the ancestors are you doing here!?”

Narn and one of his friends shirked away, driven back by the sheer intensity of Kerag's guttural voice. Not so the third boy. He held is ground, clearly more tense and stiffened since the grizzled axe bearer's arrival, but not nearly as shaken as his companions. All he needed was a brief moment to gather his courage, then he stepped forward. The youngster was a little older than the rest of the boys, Kerag guessed. His clothes were richly adorned for orcish standards, and a aside from nervousness there was something else in his eyes: an incongruous, arrogant annoyance towards the older warrior's presence, as if he had been unjustly disturbed in what he considered to be his right. His voice only confirmed Kerag's suspicions It was smooth and controlled, underlined with a skulking edge.

“Throm-ka, honoured one. I am Tersk,” the boy began in a diplomatic manner. “We were just helping our friend Urtel here with his training. You see, we lost today's battle because of him, and he has told us that he wants to improve his pain tolerance and constitution, so that he will be able to carry out my orders better next time.”

There was so much wrong with what the boy said that Kerag did not bother to reply. It was all he could do to keep himself from slapping him. The echo of the boy's words sent repulsive shivers down his spine, and Kerag felt like shoving the lies back down the younger orc's throat, hoping he would choke on their wickedness.

“This is over,” he stated instead, switching his gaze to the unconscious form of the poor boy named Urtel. He pointed at Narn and the boy whose name he did not know. “You two, get him out of here and to healer.”

The two boys hurried to comply. They bent down to lift the body when Tersk almost jumped them, both infuriated and surprised.

“Stop! What are you doing?” he protested as he tore at the arms of the other boys, causing Urtel to hit the ground once more. “We are not finished with this weakling!”

He jostled them away. They did not try anything to stop him and simply stumbled backwards, numb expressions on their faces. Kerag had seen enough. He stepped forward, just as Tersk swung around to shout at him.

“I command you to stop this! That lazy cur needs to learn that - “

Kerag's flat hand whipped across the boys face, sending him tumbling to the side.

“I am done talking to pigs!” Kerag thundered, glaring at the surprised boy with unhidden contempt. He repeated his order once more, his body still trembling with rage. The boys complied even more eagerly now. This time, no one stopped them.

“Your head will role for this!” Tersk snarled, holding his cheek. The boy smiled maliciously. “You have no idea who my father is, you pathetic fool. He will rip you apart! He will - “

Another resounding slap finally silenced the boy. Kerag tugged into his harness, lifted him off the ground, and pulled him close.

“He will better have taught his worthless offspring to hold its rotting tongue when he is told to! And while he is at it, he might want to put you on the leash as well, because if I hear about something like this ever again, I will have your head!”

He hurled the insolent boy into the corner of the cave. He landed with a numb grunt. Narn and his friend carried Urtel past him and disappeared around the corner. Kerag halfway turned to leave as well, but then he eyed Tersk one last time, his eyes burning in the brazier's fire like demonic orbs.

“If you know what is good for you, you will not follow us,” he said.

Then he was gone.

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