I gave this short an "M" rating for the sake of safety. There are sexual references but they're not extremely graphic. Also, language. Fyve puts fucking pirates to shame.

Wintergrasp Fortress. With its majestic towers and ornate stone and metal constructions to rival even the most glowing and flamboyant architectural nightmares of Silvermoon, it seems a shame to be wasted on such a harsh climate as the ever-frozen region of Wintergrasp. Even the massive gun turrets that adorn the many towers are inlaid with decoration. Some might consider it ostentatious, over-the-top with so much gold that it nearly resembles something that belongs on a princess's wedding cake. It is.

As stunning as it is, the shining fortress is nearly (some would say "clearly") repugnant in the way it dominates the massive, frozen lake; the lake broken into smaller ponds by equally garish bridges and islands of snowy land with the only the hardiest species of trees, though surprisingly plentiful, to offer any cover. The regular inhabitants are as temperamental as the intemperate weather. While the land sees many visitors, the only that are inclined to remain permanently are the creatures commonly known as Elementals. There are several types of Elemental, the most common being those formed of and named for shadow, air and water. Rarer are the fire Elementals, which are notorious for claiming the lives of far more explorers than all of their bizarre cousins combined, though an official count would be impossible as rarely anything but blackened soot remains. Vaguely humanoid in that they have arms and upright bodies and sometimes even wield weapons, incredibly alien in that they hover and bob over the empty space where their middle torso tapers away, the legless, faceless, arguably mindless elementals wander aimlessly throughout the outskirts of Wintergrasp.

Located near the center of the continent Northrend, Wintergrasp serves as a stronghold for whichever faction possesses it, though it changes hands from time to time, always by force. The Alliance and Horde are constantly warring over this particular spot, if not for the tactical advantage, then for the fact that the land there is dotted with precious ore, uncovered from the depths when the great lake that once covered the vast area receded.

The blood of nearly every race imaginable has soaked the ground of this land.

The main fortress is immense, towering over the walled-in courtyards, its peaked roof rising so far into the sky that even on all but the clearest days it disappears into the clouds. It is a clear day. The sun shines from directly overhead, the main fortress dazzling as the light is reflected by thousands upon thousands of metallic inlays and ornament, the structure eye-achingly bright. From the courtyard below, the roof is inaccessible to the eyes, the sun far too bright and unforgiving to the gaze. Something is perched on the roof.

Fyve watches.

The troll with the over-sized tusks and markedly ugly face shades his deep-set, beady eyes to scan the land below. Every few minutes, he turns his head away, covering his eyes, ears seeking out the slightest sound as he waits for the negative images to leave his vision. He is naturally paranoid, though in this case his caution is warranted. The keep is much coveted for its valuable assets, both by the Horde, who currently control it, and by the Alliance who doubtlessly plot to seize it for their own.

Fyve rubs his eyes and listens carefully. He hates having his eyes closed unless he is in the dark, and sometimes even then. He hates blinking for too long. Sometimes he hates blinking even then. But it's necessary that he give his eyes a rest, lest he be completely blinded, snow-dazzled, if and when someone decides to attack him. Even the skies are not safe. Opening his dark red eyes, previously dilated pupils shrinking instantly at the brightness, he shields his brutish, hairless brow to scan the space around him. No gryphons. No air-mounted invaders hell-bent on the seizure of the keep and the destruction of its inhabitants. The sky is clear. He resumes his watch over the ground below.

Shiny things and power are possibly the most seductive interests for the troll. He collects things that sparkle, building and rearranging primitive shrines in the darkest places, burying coins and all matter of jewelry, broken weapon blades and shards of glass. He likes to own things, NEEDS to own things. His massive collection might fill the fortress itself, a demented menagerie that even includes rocks, dried out animal tails and feet, skulls – some painted. He has severed thumbs and ears acquired in battle. He even has a collection of dwarven shoes, buried near one of the caves that dot the shoreline around the far eastern coast of Dragonblight, though he can't remember precisely which cave. But his favorite of all the things he takes are the shiny things. The shinier the better, he believes. Wintergrasp Fortress is so appealing in its shininess and power (power being another of his obsessive fascinations) that he scarcely notices that it isn't little enough to fit in his hands. Fyve's favorite shiny things are often small ones.

He is balanced on the balls of his bare, two-toed feet. His calloused fingers grip the edge of the roof. His long knees are splayed out to the sides, back arched and elbows jutting outward as well as he stares at the land below, resembling a horribly deformed and wingless gargoyle. The majority of his person is protected by heavy leather armor. The armor is battered, faintly blood-stained in some places, the dark bracers about his forearms and calves cracked and weathered. Fyve loves shiny things, but he doesn't like to wear them.

Behind him, perched precariously at the apex of the roof, straddling the point so that each of its feet are at a wobbly angle, sits a flying machine. It's a relatively small vehicle, built for Fyve and Fyve alone. The sides are equipped with leather saddle bags, also cracked and well-used. The blades at its top, which somehow manage to hold it aloft (most of the time, though accidents do happen), are still now. The string of dried thumbs that dangles from one side of the machine does not sway about; the morbid trophies dangling in an appropriately lifeless fashion. There is no wind.

Standing and covering his eyes again, Fyve turns and crosses the roof from front to back, shoving past the machine with his eyes still covered, causing it to rock and creak slightly. "Shhh-shhhh!" he shushes it, out of pure reflex. His feet stop just short of the back edge, legs braced on either side of the roof's point. His hands leave his eyes and go for his pants, unfastening them and drawing out his limp penis. He urinates off of the roof, groaning appreciatively as he watches his piss arc through the air and feeling grateful that there isn't any wind. He shakes himself off and refastens his pants, before returning to his self-imposed post.

He is a Warsong Outrider. Despite his psychotic episodes and mad drunken rantings, not to mention his vicious and sometimes violent disdain for everyone and everything, including his guild-mates, they allow the feral troll to stay in the ranks. As difficult as he is to handle, his skills in combat are beyond impressive… His grace is astonishing for his overgrown size and he has no qualms with killing. He needs no reason as to why he must kill. The warlord could point at something and say, "Go," and it will be dead before he lowers his hand. Fyve has his uses.

Torn between vehemently possessive paranoia and disappointment that there is no enemy in sight, the troll settles into a sitting position, somewhat more of a squat, his heels lifted from the roof on which he is perched. He messes with the gigantic tusks that jut out of his lower jaw, grabbing both of them and tugging downward, enjoying the strangely pleasurable pressure it causes in his face. He pulls off the creaking leather gloves and messes with his ears, attempting fruitlessly and for the thousandth time to jam a thick finger inside. His ear itches and his leg bounces up and down, flexing at the knee. When the itch is gone, he crosses his long arms and draws forth the two daggers he keeps at his lean hips. He digs one into a crack in the stone roof, digging a chink there and knowing fully well that he will have to re-sharpen the blade later. It's boring and he quickly grows tired of it. There's nothing very interesting to pull apart, kill, break or burn. The large blue troll's voice is fairly deep but has a nasal quality. He speaks from the back of his throat, though he doesn't know it. He sometimes hates speaking; the sound of his own voice annoys him. The fact that he knows that it amuses others annoys him even more, though he never would admit it. He sighs and even that has a slightly nasal tone.

He shrugs the leather strap of a small bag from his hunched shoulder and swings the pack around in front of him, after re-sheathing his weapons. With alternating glances between the bag and the ground far below, he rummages around with one hand, seeking nothing in particular. The bag is full of vials which contain various poisons. The glass tubes do not clink, as he has wrapped each in a piece of cloth and bound it with bits of twine or leather.

There are a couple rolls of bandages, soaked in a burning antiseptic medicinal concoction that is dried but is easily reactivated by water, blood or even spit. He shoves those aside; the two fingers of his hand find a rigid object, the thumb clamping down to grasp it. He draws forth his communicator, a very necessary tool that all members of his guild are required to carry. He grunts his appreciation at the small gadget as he draws it from the bag. Fyve is fascinated with all technologies. A small, tube-shaped object gets caught on his sleeve and escapes the bag, rolling off the side of the roof. The smoke bomb bounces once and flies through the air, catching the troll's indifferent glance before he returns his attention to his com.

In his left hand, he holds the com tightly. His right goes to his long, hooked and pointy nose, pinching the bridge and tugging over the large nostrils several times. He sniffs. Were his fingers small enough, he would jam one in his nostril. Wiping his fingers on his pants, though they are disappointingly clean, he sniffs again loudly before spitting off of the roof and into the courtyard far, far below.

He settles onto his belly, straddling the roof and resting his weight on his knees. His bare feet kick at the air as he adjusts his crotch so that nothing there is crushed by the roof peak. The roof still pokes into the left side of his groin but the pain is a mild annoyance and he ignores it. His head hangs over the side of the roof, propped up by the underside of both great tusks. Fyve lifts the com to his mouth and clears his throat. His mouth is dry and he wishes he had brought some water. The tin flask of whiskey in his back pocket, and the several back-up flasks in his bag would do, if not for the fact that he wishes to remain very sober for whatever battle may ensue. He hopes the Alliance will come soon. He is really thirsty.

"Ourriders," he says, before continuing in his mangled version of orcish, his speech surprisingly slow, so much that most of the sentences don't even sound like a continuous word. He pauses at certain points, but doesn't expect any of his fellow guild-mates to respond. He's merely gathering his thoughts.

"Winnergrass. I ownit…. I ganna keeped it. But is nah enough fer feel righ', full. I nee' to own more tings," to the unpracticed ear it almost sounds like he has a trollish accent. He doesn't. "I wish fer own ebrytin' but I dunna know wha ting to owned nex. If I fin' ebrying enden ownit what I shou do affer dat? Wha next?" Some of the words he pronounces differently each time he says them, his mind perhaps too lazy to struggle at forming anything but a mutilated parody of his first language.

"I dunna tink I gah hearr… Sahmtime tink I hab hearr er something if I take, own, hide stuffs… Hnnnh… Hearr is fer lub, righ? … I dunna feeled lub. Em nofer lub, buh I tink I lub ownintins. Habbin stuff fer Fybe. I tink I lub treasures." He wiggles on the roof, shifting so that the pressure is on the opposite side of his groin. His tongue sticks out as he does this. He clears his dry throat, settles down and continues speaking.

"Why nah ebryone wishfer own ebry sinnle tin? I dunna wishfer dey takeit… I dunna wishfer dey take myshit buh why dey happy? Why dey nah anry alltime, hnn?" He presses his eyes tightly shut, falling silent while he relieves his eyes, ears listening carefully.

He licks his lips, his right hand releasing the edge of the roof to grab his left tusk and squeeze rhythmically. "Wha makeya so fuckin' happy alltime? I own ebrytin," he corrects himself, "mosly ebrytin. Why I em da anry one, hnn? Why I em alway pissoffed?" He runs his tongue in a circle, pressing against the inside of his top lift, sliding over, down, beneath the bottom lip. Tusks point upward and tilt sideways as he quickly scans the sky with one crimson eye before settling to stare again at the ground. A quick burp escapes him and he looks briefly surprised before his face settles back into its angry-looking resting state.

Eyes constantly in motion, sweeping from the east to the west, farther toward the distant south and then back to the area just outside of the keep walls, pausing every so often to squint at faraway movement that always turns out to be a wandering elemental, he lifts the com closer to his mouth, draping his right forearm awkwardly over his own tusk.

"Ebryone bedder den me. I knowit," his voice has gone lower, conspiratory, "I ganna own ebrytin'… wou' make me bedder'n all ob ya. I hate ya. Ya laugh at me. Alway wid, 'Ya stupid, ya aneemal, ya fuckin' mushmout'… I own ebrytin' enden ya gib me respecks… honerrs. No more makefun, ya fucks." He sniffs, not from emotion but because he still has a booger or a loose hair tickling the inside of one nostril. His legs straighten out, both toes of each foot thumping the roof, but he lifts them again because it makes the roof poke him harder.

"Woman wou' wanted me, I tink," he nods, his head bobbing up and down before he inadvertently whacks the bottom of his tusks on the roof and winces. "Shitfuck… bitchdog," he swears, his eyes threatening to water from the resonating discomfort in his face, his teeth bared angrily. He waits for the ringing in his ears to recede and it does. He keeps his voice low, tinged with self-conscious discomfort. "I canna stan' fuckin' huss." The word, -huss- sounding like a hiss. He hears that and is satisfied that he sounds like a snake. 'I a snake', he things.

"Fuckin' huss alway wishfer touch… take gol'. Smell like perfumes. Is nassy. Smell like sahmtiness I dunna know whaddis… filty, nassy. I dunna wish to knowit dat smell. Huss lie… alway dey lie. Dey say ya handsun… secky," he shudders at the word, "Em nofer fuckin' seck! Dey say ya so smarr, so bigtall wid nice big tuss on face. Den ya say, 'ya canna hab my fuckin' gol', en dey tell troot. Tellya ugly, tuss toobig en look stupid, mushmout, nah smarr, canna talk good. Canna pronoun dyer own fuckin' name. Dey say ya wishfer do seck on men." He growls deep in his chest.

"I wishfer woman is nah huss. Small one, priddy. I gibber gols, brin' foods… necklits en shit fer wear… I tink. I dunna knowif I wished fer womahn… Ony wishfer nnnh… chancefer hab. I dunna tink I wou takeit. Woman is too… Emnofer womans." He quickly adds, "Emnofer men." He sniffs unproductively, swallows his spit. When he opens his dry mouth there is a quiet smacking sound as his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

"I wish ebryone to stop laughat me. Pissmeoff. I dunna wish it ebryone gib me disrespecks. Fybe a mushmout, I knowit. Ya gib me harr time… I wish to stick my tuss in yer troat. Drin' yer bloods. Cutoff head, maybe." He sighs quietly, "I dunna wan' woman. Is stupid. Emnofer frien'. Fybe is nah yer fuckin' frien…"

His eyes pause in their back-and-forth motion and return to a spot far south. They narrow. A buzzing growl sounds in his throat and he feels his hackles literally rising, his toes flexing. The muscles in his neck stand out as he lifts himself on his elbows to get a better look. The movement he sees is not that of the Elementals. The figures are approaching at a steady pace.

Without looking down, he flicks the side of the com with his thumb. It turns on. "Ourrider. Allians attackin' Winnergrass!" Having made his announcement, he slides his thumb back down, turning it back off before anyone can respond and piss him off.

Dropping the com into his bag, he shoulders it quickly and struggles to his feet, climbs astride the rickety flying machine. It is time for battle.

Fyve resides on the Moon Guard rp server of World of Warcraft. The username "Fyve" was taken when I transferred, and so he goes by "Fybe", since that is how he pronounces it anyway. "Is Fybe... like da nummer."

Hit me up for random rp sometime, but no children and please no "lolwutters" in-character. Don't ask Fybe about Chuck Norris, because he definitely hasn't heard of him (though he's definitely earned Chuck's ire, I'm sure. He fucks with everyone, after all). I don't own Warcraft. I DO own Fyve/Fybe so please don't use him in your stories unless it's based on an in-game roleplay and I get to read it before you post it. Fyve is important to me. I never use others' characters without prior notice and permission.

Hope you enjoyed the short. The idea popped into my head late last night/this morning and I have ideas for several others. I'm not sure if I'll be posting them as chapters, since they aren't in any particular order of chronology.

PLEASE READ THIS before you comment on my use of "coms" in this story. The goblins and dwarves have made many advances in technology, some of them utilizing the magic inherent to Azeroth, others being more akin to Earth-technology. Brann Bronzebeard uses a communicator that not only transmits his voice, but also his IMAGE. There's a quest chain in Northrend where you use this contraption to contact him several times.

The guild I am a member of, The Warsong Outriders, happens to use radio communicators for rp purposes. It's better than talking into "enchanted hearthstones," in my opinion. I've had someone argue that there are no radio towers in Azeroth. Fair enough, let us just assume the Outriders' coms are fueled by hate and powered by gnome toes, that they steal the magic of "the light" and were obtained through goblins who made a pact with the Burning Legion. Roffle roffle!

Keep gaming!

~ Wil