((Here's story of my orc rogz. It's pretty long and unfinished, I'll post a new chapter every 2-3 days.))

The Swordsman


Prologue


A shady figure is walking slowly through the fields of Arathi Highlands. It is a cloudless night, the full moon makes it nearly as bright as the day. If you dared to come closer, you’d see that is a young orc, with yellow skin making him look ill and small, blue-grey eyes. They are constantly moving, as if he was looking for something… or maybe because he is constantly afraid? His face is handsome in a way. It has not yet been touched by old age, his beard and hair are bright red, features of his face are sharp. A solid iron chain hangs around his neck, making a loud rustling noise with his every step. There are small cuts on the chain, as if he was marking something… He carries two swords, both nearly of his size, one of which one emits a burning heat, and other one an unpleasant chill.

Suddenly he stops, drawing his blades violently.

“Stop staring at me!” – he shouts, glaring at the stars above him “You know I made the right choice! The only choice! Stop staring down on me!”. He falls to his knees, breathing heavily. But then, he touches his swords and twists his lips in a way resembling a grotesque smile, showing his pointy teeth.

“It is good… I have you… I will do what I must... I will kill… I will hunt… I will take back what is mine…” – muttering these words he stands up, gripping handles of his swords.

“See me, father!”- staring at the stars he starts shouting again, but now it sounds like a scared scream - “I will prove that I am worthy of being your son! Son of Balzak, leader of the Band of the Desert Worg!”

Staggering and talking to himself, he starts walking again, and soon disappears in the shadows of the silent night.

Chapter 1

Stories of the Past


Mardok is breathing silently, staring at an orc’s corpse lying at his feet. The heavy rain washes all the blood off him, as he slowly bends down and picks up the victim’s sword. Looking at it blankly, he thrusts it deeply into the lifeless body. Smiling, Mardok walks away, leaving the grotesque statue behind, never looking back.

Looking for a shelter from the rain, he finds a small cave, carved by the harsh winds of Arathi Highlands. Mardok carefully puts his blades on the ground and starts a small bonfire. After seating down comfortably, he takes a roll of parchment and a quill from his bag. Glancing at the flickering flame from time to time, he starts to unskilfully write, as if he was trying to sculpture in solid rock.


"Band of the Desert Worg was the best known mercenary band in the desert land of Barrens, respected for it’s strength and pride. Their leader was no one else, but the famous hero of the Horde, Balzak, wielder of the Flameheir, sword nearly famous as the hero himself. It was a blade blazing with fire, as Balzak bathed in dragon’s blood. He was in countless battles, never to fail, always first to fight. The Band he leaded was the grim reaper of the battlefields, winning every single one. Some said they were immortal, half-demons half-orcs, other that they drank the blood of slayed enemies. These things were said because of fear the weak ones felt, the truth is no other faction had so powerful warriors. From day to day, month to month, they travelled across the Barrens offering their services, being rightfully greeted as heroes wherever they appeared. One day a woman gave birth to the son of Balzak. It was a day of great joy, and he was given the name “Mardok”. He was to be the strongest warrior, worthy of being Balzak’s son. Before he could even walk, he was given a sword. Listening to stories of the old fighters by the bonfire, he grew up, showing great promise and lust for battle. When seven years passed, he killed his first enemy. At the age of twelve he was in every battle the band fought, standing by Balzak’s side.

Those were the days of the glory of the Band of the Desert Worg."


Mardok eyes the parchment, clearly impressed. He puts it away, yawning widely. As he gets ready for sleep, he notices a wound from that day’s fight. Sighing with relief, as if he just remembered something very important, Mardok reaches for a dagger he’s hiding in his boots and makes a small cut on the chain hanging around his neck. “Fifty-eight” - he mutters as he lies down, moving closer to the bonfire. He grasps his swords moving them closer to himself. His rest is calm, free of restless dreams, first for a long time.

Chapter 2

Worg of the Plains


As the sun starts to rise, first rays of sunlight lighten the cave. A smudge of shadow, last reminder of the night, crosses Mardok’s sleeping body. Slowly he opens his eyes and looks around his shelter. Nothing has changed, his rest was not disturbed, bag, swords, and most importantly the parchment were on their place. He picks it up and quickly glances over the text, nodding, then carefully rolls the paper and places it in his bag. After eating a meal consisting of tough bread, dried kodo meat and some stream water, he gathers his belongings and leaves the cave.

Resting his arms on the handles of his swords, he examines the horizon. Clouds are slowly strolling through the morning sky, and a pleasant breeze blows through the Highlands. The green fields seem welcoming, resembling a great green sea, with waves of high grass gently moved by the wind. Still, Mardok’s eyes are locked onto the distant horizon, as if the beauty of the Highlands didn’t touch him at all. Without a smallest sigh, he starts moving forward, and the iron chain rustles loudly with his every step.

Walking through the fields and trampling the grass, Mardok suddenly stops and listens. Sound of heavy footsteps can be clearly heard. “Someone is approaching” – he thinks and looks around. As he finds the source of the noise, a wide grin appears on his face. A Sin’dorei paladin is strolling through the main road of Arathi. “A blade…” – Mardok mutters to himself and starts moving towards the Blood Elf. In a moment he starts to run, and soon jumps out of the grass straight onto the road, in front of the Elf. The paladin stares and him in disbelief, as he sweeps the grass off his battle-worn leather armor. Mardok examines the traveller with some disappointment, seeing his shining new armour and a large sword, that has obviously not been used in battle many times. “One of those… obviously not worthy… not at all” – angrily mutters Mardok, drawing his blades and moving to battle stance, like a wolf preparing to jump at it’s prey’s throat. “I will be killing you now” – he states. “What insolence is this?!” – the paladin says, putting one of his hands on the sword’s handle. Mardok stands silent, looking at the elf with disgust. “Ah you must be one of those bandits… seems that all orcs are the same after all. Blood drunk halfwits” – regaining his confidence, the paladin draws his weapon. “I already pity you. You’re all like animals anyway, so I will slaughter you like the animal you are!” - shouts the paladin and charges at Mardok, lifting his sword and swinging with all his might, aiming at his head. The orc sighs quietly, dodging the unwieldy blade and within a blink of an eye pierces the elf’s chest with one of his swords. A grimace of pain appears on the paladin’s face, as he drops his weapon. “Dusk of the sun, dawn of the stars” says Mardok calmly, looking straight into his eyes. Then he rises the second sword and with no remorse drives it through his victim’s open mouth. Then, the orc pulls out both blades violently and watches the elf’s body fall to the ground. With a faint smile, Mardok picks up the blood knight’s sword and thrusts it into his body, leaving it like a guidepost. Finishing his “work” he walks away, cleaning his blades in the grass.

As the empty hours pass, the night starts to fall. Mardok finds a lone oak, standing on a grassy hill. Yawning widely, he seats down, resting his back against the tree. He starts to prepares for the night, makes a bonfire and starts roasting some raptor meat on an improvised grate, consisting of one of his swords piercing the meat itself and two Y-shaped branches. Mardok reaches into his bag and takes out the parchment and the quill. Breathing in deeply, as if before a tough battle, his hand starts to move, filling the paper with words slowly.

Chapter 3

Dusk of a Wolf Moon


"When the moon towers above the lands like a shield, round and full, The Band Of Desert Worg would call it a “Wolf Moon”, for then howling of the wolves could be heard. One of those nights, when the band gathered around the bonfire, Balzak’s face was unusually grim. So it has been because times have grown dark for the band, and no matter how the fires burned in their hearts, no light could take darkness away. Many died, even more left. And the reason for it was not enemy, as The Band of Desert Worg could not lose in any battle. It have been the lack of foes, lack of fights, lack of blood that was driving the band to their end. Finding work was growing harder and harder, and the band was welcomed as heroes no more.

Balzak stood up, and walked towards the fire, eyeing the band. His son, Mardok, was faithfully sitting among the warriors, ready to cast himself into the abyss if his father ordered him so. Balzak put his hands to his mouth and howled loudly, and his voice was more fearsome than of any worg. Countless wolves answered his call, piercing the air with their song. All the eyes turned onto him, as he began to speak. “Hear me, Band of The Desert Worg! In the times of the greatest dusk, we must prevail! They years of our past deeds, and the years of the glory that are to come, do you want to give that away? No night is everlasting, the sun always scatters the dark! Have you forgotten about the Flameheir? About my son, Mardok, heir to the flame? About the oaths, the brotherhood of blood? Those who are with me, show me that you still have the heart of a desert worg!”. With these words, Balzak howls again. Mardok was the first to answer his call, and soon every warrior heeded the call of the leader of their pack. Their voices united, and that moment they were all as one, true Worgs of the Desert. Still, son of Balzak, as the only one noticed that not all warriors were sitting by the bonfire. Four of them were far beyond reach of the bonfire’s light, engulfed in the thickest shadows. Mardok stood up, and quietly moved towards the stray pack, hiding cleverly in the dark. As he was approaching, the words the fours spoke started reaching his ears. And words those were more like barking than speech, full of hate and despair. Words that the Four cast are not even worthy of mentioning, as well as their names, as they will be forever cursed, and their place in the sky will never be lit by a smallest star. What they were planning, was to take the lives of Balzak and Mardok this very night and take control of the band, change it into something hideous and not worthy of existing at all; a mere bandit group, doing whatever was needed to make their bloated stomachs full. A thing Balzak would never allow, and what Mardok was destined to prevent. Still, face of the young orc was clear and calm, for he was a wise one, and knew what had to be done. Following the trail of unfading black, he went to the tent he and his father shared. Flameheir was lying next to his father’s bedding. Mardok reached for it, and grasped the handle of the legendary sword for the first time. With a faint smile, he left the tent and walked away from the camp. As he was moving further and further away from the warmth of the bonfire, the wind carried noises of a distant fight."

Mardok stops, unable to write further. His hands are shaking, but not because of his sadness, but because of an anger that clouds everything. Putting the parchment aside, he reaches for the meat now resembling a lump of coal and eats it quietly. His stare is blank, as in his thoughts he is back to the night of a true wolf moon.