Horde Games
By
Ian Reid
Author's Commentary: This work started out in a rather serious setting, simply to establish a story point between two characters I play (RPing server Sisters of Elune), Almaren (Human Mage. Fire spec FTW!) and Mirina (Undead Death Knight, formerly a Shadow Priest). Instead, I couldn't maintain the seriousness of the story and plot. So I decided to take it in another direction that kind of worked to my advantage. The result was rather pleasant and fun to write because I managed to play to lore and the potential romance of two such characters.
Night fell upon Orgrimmar like a cool refreshing blanket. The welcoming breeze soothed many a sweaty brow that wandered the streets of the capital of the Horde. All the wandering, however, wasn't aimless or without reason. There was, of course, method to madness, even among the Orcs. It was a carefully studied pattern of movement, one taking weeks—if not months—to understand meticulously. And it was one the Mage had to study thoroughly in just a few scant hours.
While he was a mage of the Alliance, he didn't run around wearing bright flashy robes. He was dressed to blend in to shadows. In place of the standard robe most Mages were known for wearing, he wore a tight tunic and pants, with a short cape clasped at his shoulders. His face—all but for his eyes—was concealed with a cowl to mask any sign of his breath. He had to train a good few weeks before the mission, but his employer ensured him it was worth the hundred gold. The Orcs weren't mindless, but they weren't brilliant either. They were easy to move past. The mage perched on top of a roof, watching as two Orcs convened and chatted.
"Easy night, like all of them," one said in Orcish.
"Something I kind of like being on guard duty for," replied the second in kind. "The serenity of nighttime is relaxing."
"You're losing your grip, Ortga," said the first again. "My father was of the first to come through the Dark Portal, a proud Bleeding Hollow. We were among the mightiest—"
"Of the Clan and would not yield to a human, you've told me countless times Fudrek," Ortga interrupted. "Just be glad you were chosen as a guard and not stationed in the Warsong Lumber Camp." Fudrek spat at a scorpion scuttling along the ground and stamped on it, grinding it beneath his heel.
"So how's the wife and kids?" Fudrek asked to change the subject.
The mage studied Orcish only enough to understand the basic of what the two guards were saying. But this conversation was going on long enough and the night was beginning to slip by. He needed his mission completed tonight. He crouched down, eyeing the orc referred to as Fudrek and concentrated. In another moment, the orc was a sheep. A confused Ortga looked around for where the spell could have originated, and was soon frozen in place. The mage hurried on his way before the spell's temporary effects wore off, toward his intended target.
Again, the mage slunk into shadows, increasing their effect with an invisibility spell. Guards would no doubt be on high alert with an Alliance mage loose in the city. But the mission was important. He needed every spell he had to make it to his intended target. A platoon of guards rushed past him, to report no doubt to Warchief Thrall.
"Dammit," the mage cursed under his breath. He took a moment to gather his wits. He was going to need to rethink this approach, now. "Think Almaren. Think! OK, this can definitely be rectified. You might need a bigger fireball, but right now, it's best to keep to the shadows." A Blood Elf helping with the patrol wandered by, and raised his fingers, a dome of sparkling violet energy surging form his origin and outlining Almaren. The human mage, realizing his position was compromised, quickly acted and turned the blood elf into a sheep before he could utter another spell. The effects wouldn't last long, and Almaren made a break for it.
A large group of Orcs gathered before Almaren and charged. Almaren only needed to teleport himself twenty feet, giving him a ten foot gap between himself and the Orcs charging in the wrong direction. The Orcs skid to a halt, tumbling over one another and cursing in Orcish trying to pull themselves up and from one another. Almaren made good the moment to take a drink of conjured water to catch his breath and was off before the Orcs had fully regained composure. He was off once more, and teleported ahead another twenty feet to give him an advantage.
The hall of the Warchief was ahead of him, and to the right, a large tree bearing the armor of the slain Mannoroth. Almaren breathed. So close, now. Almaren focused, feeling he was splitting apart, a second, a third, and then a fourth copy of himself appeared. Almaren looked at them, and nodded. They knew what to do. Almaren cast the same invisibility spell, and sent the first copy out. The diversion was perfect, the two guards out front and even a third and fourth guard charged after the illusion. Almaren made a break, the second and third charging with him. The guards within the hall were forced back by their force of limited magic, giving the real and still invisible Almaren an opening to enter the finally chamber. The guards that dispatched the second and third copies were made short work by the fourth mage.
At last, Almaren stood face to face with the seated Warchief Thrall, gleaming black armor donned proudly and dangerous and legendary Doomhammer lying at his side. Almaren boldly dispelled his invisibility. Guards around him swarmed.
The swing of axes cut air, just barely inches from Almaren's face and body. One such axe swing got close enough to cut away the cowl from his face. Molten red hair that would make Archmage Rhonin proud of spilled around Almaren's face. Having had enough of the suffocating crowd of guard, Almaren unleashed a wave of fire, the ring knocking back the guards leaving them dazed.
Thrall was on his feet now, Doomhammer held ready.
"Warchief Thrall," said Almaren. "I have evaded your guards. I have infiltrated your inner sanctum. And I bear a message from Lady Jaina Proudmoore." Thrall raised an eyebrow. Almaren pulled a small parchment letter from inside his tunic and held it outward. He flicked his wrist and the letter flew, almost by magical means, into Thrall's open palm. The leader of the Horde looked at it for a moment with regard, and then up to the Mage, already in the midst of casting a spell. In a flash, the Mage was gone. Thrall undid the wax seal of Proudmoore, setting Doomhammer down and opened it to read the three words on it.
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