(A/N: ) I had an interesting idea while eating lunch this morning. I sat down and wrote, and didn't stop. This story is my brainchild, please enjoy it. And leave a review, even if you only read one chapter-- criticism is greatly appreciated.
-Netherscream
The Orcish boy woke with a start, coughing and wheezing. He rolled over on all fours and continued coughing up the mixture of seawater and crimson blood out of his lungs. He wheezed harder, his body convulsing, until his lungs were empty of the stuff, and then he lay in the sand, closing his eyes and taking in precious oxygen.
Sand.
His eyes opened again.
He rolled over and sat up, looking around himself for the first time. He was lying on a beach, the waves brushing gently across the mile-long shore; seagulls squawked harmlessly in the blue sky.
The sky itself was a brilliant blue, with clouds looking as if an artist had slashed them on with a paintbrush. And, no more than forty yards away from the young Orc, was a scar; a black and unnatural scar that spread into the jungle further up the shore. Smoke twisted into the sky from somewhere in that jungle.
The Orc stood with great effort, brushing himself off. His thoughts were thick and ruddy, as if his brain was coated in maple syrup; he didn't know where or who he was. The tattered remains of his clothes were a nuisance, and so he tore at them until nothing was left but his undergarments: knee length leggings made of gnarled leather. He ran his fingers over his smooth skin and the ripple of his muscle, checking for any wound or deformity. He was, apparently, unwounded by the crash, with the exception of banging his head. He noticed the sharp and severe pains of a headache; he grit his teeth and pushed his head together with his hands, for he feared that if he didn't it would fall apart. He brushed his hair back, shutting out the pain as well as he could, and began trekking towards the smoke.
He found only three notable things in the gnarled steel that passed for the wreckage of a zeppelin.
One was the body of the goblin pilot; twisted and bent at odd angles, blood staining the cockpit. His bone, cracked and splintered, protruded from parts of his skin. His eyes, behind his cracked visor, were still open in a death snarl, determined to bring the zeppelin up from its nose dive. He was the only adult on the zeppelin, and now he was dead.
The second was an old, chipped war horn. The insignia etched on the side of the horn was so damaged that he couldn't tell if it was Alliance or Horde. He thought to fix it, but realized that it didn't matter here, on this island. It had a thin string wrapped around it, and the Orc used this to hang it loosely from his thin waist.
The third and last he found was an axe. Old, bronze, and chipped, it had no practical military use now. It would break before most other blades, but was still sharper than most natural elements on the island.
He turned the old axe over in his hands, running his fingers along the chipped edge and along the wooden handle. It reminded him of the first axe he had, when he was a child. Stubborn memories began to stir to the surface of his conscience, memories he didn't want to revisit.
A hand rested on his shoulder.
The Orc boy wheeled around, and the axe was out and flashing in his hand in an instant. He grabbed the thing by the throat, before realizing what it was.
It was an undead child. A boy two years younger than him, perhaps, with yellow eyes open wide in fear. He choked, for the large hand was gripping his neck. He unclenched him, realizing that he wasn't a threat, as the undead boy fell on the ground clutching his throat.
The Orc boy spoke first. "You shouldn't have snuck up on me." A pang of regret could be heard in his deep voice. The undead boy kept coughing.
"Ouch…" he squeaked. His voice was high pitched, and feminine. He had a slender frame, much like the Orc, but less muscular. The Orc extended a large hand to help the undead boy up. He hesitated for a moment, and then took it and was pulled to his feet. The undead boy stood there, his feet facing inwards, biting his fingernails. It was nearly impossible to tell that he was undead, with the exception of his yellow eyes and patches of hair; other than that, his skin was smooth and human-like. He didn't smell undead, either.
"Were...were there any other kids? Survivors, I mean?"
The Orc shook his mighty head. "I don't know. I just woke up and searched the wreckage." His eyes, a dark hazel, turned to the wreckage. I don't remember much of anything, but I do remember that if we don't get a fire going before night it's going to be hard to find tinder." The Orc sized up the Undead boy once more, then set off for the line of trees at the top of the shore.
"…Wait!"
The Orc Boy turned.
"What's your name?"
He stopped for a moment, thinking. He couldn't even remember his own name.
He looked down at his palm, flexing his hand slowly, deep in thought.
"…Bear. Call me Bear."
The undead began walking after him. "Okay, Bear. Call me Rembrandt, I guess. My mum used to call me all the time."
They trekked through the jungle together, looking for flint, tinder, and a place to sleep. The thick unforgiving brush of the jungle reminded him of the trip to Stranglethorn he'd taken as a child; the tree branches snatched at them as they passed, tearing at what little clothes they wore. The canopy was so thick that he almost couldn't see the sun, and the twisted brush intertwined to form a matted wall of leaf.
The jungle floor was likewise matted, a thick cushioned carpet that they walked on with bare feet. Bear led, his axe a blur cutting through the impassable brush, with Rembrandt close behind swatting flies and complaining that he hadn't washed his hair in days. They continued in this fashion for hours, until the sun set in the West. Although they could no longer see the ocean, the sky was bathed bright orange.
They cut their way into a clearing, and it was quite the sight for sore eyes.
It was a massive plateau, flat and mostly untouched by the surrounding jungle. A river ran through the middle and ended in a waterfall off the side of the plateau, a thirty foot drop to the rushing waters below. There were a couple of trees dotting the plateau, but nothing compared to the jungle itself.
But that wasn't what drew their eyes.
There was a human, a human boy, squatted on a rock jutting from the earth in the middle of this plateau. He had an absurdly large, dented, iron helmet on his head that dangled whenever he looked in a different direction. He was scrawny, and younger than both of them, but Bear knew from the way his chest heaved that he'd scream loudly as soon as he saw them. He was a sentry, watching for something. He was paranoid, as well, as his head twitched around looking for possible danger. He hadn't seen Bear and Rembrandt yet.
Bear pushed Rembrandt back from where they hid in the brush, whispering "Let me talk to him."
Rembrandt nodded, but at the same time Bear didn't know what to do. They could easily kill the boy together, but he hadn't done anything wrong to them; Bear didn't believe in Horde racism, and wouldn't kill the boy unless it was necessary. He fingered the hilt of his axe as he frowned, deep in thought.
Suddenly, a plan filled his head.
Bear whispered in a hushed voice. "I got this."
His hands grasped around in the dirt, until he found what he was looking for. He stood and hurled the pebble at the unsuspecting boy with all of his strength.
It whistled through the air and landed at his feet, completely missing.
The human looked down at the pebble, and up at the two wide eyed figures squatting in the brush. His blue eyes opened in sudden fear, his helmet dangling on his head. His chest heaved, and then he let loose a shrill scream that echoed throughout the forest. He kept wailing, his voice getting higher and higher pitched.
Bear got to his feet, rushing at the boy. His foot snared on a root protruding from the ground, causing him to land on his face as the boy continued screaming. He scrambled to his feet, fighting through the mind shattering pitch of the scream.
Bear covered the terrified human's mouth completely with one hand, catching his breath as the boy struggled to get free.
"Shh!", hissed Bear. The human kept squirming underneath his grip regardless, his eyes rolling back into his head from sheer terror. Bear unhooked the chipped war horn from his belt, all the while holding the human, and tapped him on the head with it. He went limp instantly, sagging into a heap on the ground.
Rembrandt ducked under a branch, coming to stand next to Bear. They both looked down on the unconscious form of the human boy. He had a short blonde shock of hair, and pale white skin. Thin and fragile, the only thing threatening about him were his hands, which were abnormally large for his age. His gigantic iron helmet, dented and unbuckled, was slumped down on his face.
Bear broke the silence. "His scream is bound to attract someone. And we don't know if they will be friendly or not, or if they're armed."
Rembrandt sat on the smooth, low grass of the plateau, biting his fingernails, as Bear laid the human boy down flat on his back. "And, we're going to need rope for him. He'll wake up soon." He stood to his full height, crossing his arms. The wind picked up, causing his thick black locks to sway in the wind. He looked up at the sky, filling his lungs with the air of the jungle. It was pure, and untainted. The sky was clouded over, and thick with rain clouds.
He looked down at the human, and then to a trembling Rembrandt. "What's wrong?"
"Things are going to come. If a human is here, there may be other Alliance…And, other things on the island are bound to have heard the scream…" He rocked back and forth, his knees drawn up to his chest, as he imagined ogres and wargs storming the plateau.
"We will make peace with them. Or war. We need to work together if we're going to survive, but I'll be honest with you. I've never dealt with Alliance. " His hand rested on the hilt of the rusty axe hanging from his belt. "I can fight, but I'd rather not."
Rembrandt looked up at him. His posture was evenly balanced, like that of a warrior. He was taller than he, and far more muscular, but his hazel eyes were fair and calm. He was a natural leader.
Some of his fear left him.
Bear unhooked the axe and sat next to Rembrandt, placing it evenly across his own lap. They waited, silently.
And they waited.
The rain began to fall suddenly, lightly at first, and then in thick stinging sheets. Minutes turned into an hour as they sat there, waiting for any signs of movement.
Suddenly, it was there.
A snarling troll pushed his way out of the brush into the clearing. He was lanky and muscular, with red war paint decorating his face. He had tattoos that crossed his arms and chest, and he held a makeshift spear in his right hand. His hair was a deep violet and ran down his back in thick braided waves; his skin was likewise a deep blue, and he wore nothing but a tattered loincloth. His tusks were long and yellowed, and chipped from battle. He nodded at Bear, and scowled at Rembrandt, as he ripped away the remaining stubborn branches between him and the plateau with his bare hands. He seemed to wrestle with the jungle; he finally got through, standing on the edge of the stone plateau.
Another troll followed him out, this one a lighter purple. He had no war paint, and his expression was calm and docile. His tusks were shorter and pearl white, his hair a short flair of deep blue. He was unarmed, and wore knee length trunks.
More rustling, on the opposite side of the plateau. A human pushed his way through the layer of jungle, with soaking wet red hair and freckles. He was tall and skinny, with blue eyes. A dwarf and another human, this one blonde, came through as well.
The Horde and Alliance boys locked eyes from across the half-mile wide plateau, Bear and Rembrandt in the middle.
Bear pulled his axe from his belt.