It was nearly nightfall as she wearily rode into the fortress. She sighed and knew this was the place they'd described in the Taunka village: dark spiked walls, occasionally brightened -albeit slightly- by the blood red banners of the orcs. The village, if you could call it that, was mostly still. Guards roamed the area, but the tradesmen looked to be packing up for the day. The air smelled acrid with metal and sweat, of course, that was common wherever war was on everyone's minds. She set her gaze on the largest building, most likely belonging to the resident warlord.
"I guess I can't delay it anymore, Beauty," she whispered to her horse, who promptly flicked her half-eaten tail. "I don't like it any more than you do, but we -I- made an oath to that Warchief that I intend to keep. It may not be Acherus, but for now ... this is home."
The woman led her horse around to the stables, and wordlessly secured a holding pen for the mare. A few nearby horses stamped in protest; a worg growled in disapproval. But the woman paid no heed to them. Natural animals never reacted well the first time they met a deathcharger; even if they'd seen others, each new charger was always met with resistance. Once Beauty was secure, the woman shouldered her pack and headed to face this village-fortress' warlord.
She walked slowly, weighed down with her own thoughts. Snow crunched loudly under her boots; she wondered if she could recall being cold. Sure, the biting wind hit her across her exposed sections of face and arms, chilled her armor and made her breath puff into light clouds, but that was no indication. Before she could really stop and examine it, however, she found herself face-to-face with a rather large orc flanked on either side with smaller, yet equally intimidating, guardsmen. The large one sat in a metal throne, spiked much like the fortress built around it.
He growled, then briskly laughed at the woman. "Little elf get lost in the snow, eh? Looking for someone to hold your hand and lead you back to Dalaran?"
She stood quietly, waiting for his meaningless banter to end. The orc frowned at her at last, obviously upset by her silence. "Answer me then, woman. What brings you to Agmar's Hammer? What makes you think I'll let you stay?"
The woman shrugged, and reached up to slowly remove her helm. The guards tensed, but did not move. Once she'd pulled off the cumbersome piece of metal, the elf instinctively tossed her head, shaking her hair loose from her skin. The long white-blond strands shone faintly, a stark contrast to her dark armor and surroundings.
With a calm, weary, graveled voice, she finally responded. "I pledged my skill to your -our- Warchief. I have traveled from Warsong Hold to offer you my services."
The warlord laughed:a full, throaty and spiteful sound. He rose from his chair and approached her. The orc grabbed her chin, jerking her head upward to force their gazes to meet. Her shining ice-blue eyes met his dark orbs and didn't blink, as if used to such treatment.
"Listen here, little girl. I'm full up to my nostrils in rotted flesh like you ... but Garrosh has the word out that we need all the soldiers we can get - no matter how ... unskilled. You'll work off your room-and-board, starting at sun-up. For now," he let her face go, snorting. "You can sleep in the basement. It's the only place that seems to cover up the smell of death."
She blinked once, twice, then bowed slightly. " I shall not disappoint you, Warlord. My worth should be apparent soon."
He grunted and waved the elven woman away, vaguely pointing toward the basement stairs.