I'm not writing as much anymore, and I'm definitely not updating other stories like I was, but I get little bursts of motivation to do other stuff. This is some of it. Reposted here to show, yeah, I'm kind of doing stuff, and not all of it is OC crap. (Edited 6/15 because I uploaded an old version with typos -_- Derp derp, 'important' vs 'impotent', kind of a big difference in meaning.)
The Horde's assault on Ashenvale was floundering now, too upset by the sudden arrival of the worgen and the human king that led their reeking pack. Everywhere were the bodies of elves and orcs, trolls and humans and tauren— they littered the ground and turned the earth and the nearby river red with their spilled blood. Lingering smoke laid low in the air, the haziness filled by the screams of the wounded and the moans of the dying. Below the shrieks and the clashes of steel and the occasional twang of a bow, there were also the groans of the dying magnataur, as deep and rumbling as the noises that the greatest trees in Ashenvale made when they were felled.
Garrosh Hellscream did not have much opportunity to mourn the loss of the powerful, brutish creatures that he had based his grand strategy upon. Even as the last behemoth fell, finally succumbing to the furious attacks of worgen and elves, he found himself struggling to hold his own in his duel with the human king.
Varian Wrynn. It would be better if he had been an orc, the warchief thought bitterly.
The human took no pause, gave him no rest— he lunged forward at every opportunity now, pressing the attack with a relentless fury that forced the orc to continually give up ground until they were at the very fringes of the battle, forgotten by the warring armies.
His sword seemed to arc and sweep further than its length should have allowed, cut through the air faster than any mortal hand should have propelled it. All that Varian did seemed impossible for a human, so small and frail by comparison. The orc could not imagine where his strength came from, except from the wolf Ancient itself, and the thought made him snarl.
There was no sound now but their heavy, irregular breaths and the noise of their weapons meeting and slicing the air and clashing again. A few deft swipes with Gorehowl did nothing to deter the king, who returned the orc's intended blows with sharp jabs of his own. More and more, the warchief found himself forced to use the heft of the great axe to block the human's strikes rather than deal any of his own.
Garrosh felt himself pushed back by the sheer intensity of the king's blows, the focus with which they were delivered; he dug the soles of his boots into the ground and tried to hold his stance, gritting his teeth as the swordstrikes rattled up Gorehowl. The orc had once stood atop the great gates of Orgrimmar to observe the spectacle of wild kodos being tamed in a ring far below— enormous wooden approximations of tauren and orcs were bound with rough cloth and padded with dry grasses, then painted in garish colors so as to draw the attention of the furious, roiling beasts. He had paid more attention to the quick-footed orcs and tauren confronting the wild kodos than the creatures themselves, but that did not mean their relentless ferocity against the dummies went unnoticed.
And Garrosh felt as though he was now the recipient of such an assault— so brutal and unforgiving that he could no more counter his attacker than the dummies in the kodo ring could. And as their duel dragged on, he felt the strains of battle taking their toll. His arms were numbed by the ringing vibrations of his axe as the king's sword struck it like lightning made solid, his grip on the weapon loosening despite his struggle to hold on. Even his steps grew uncertain under the shadowed boughs of the trees above; the undergrowth seemed to twist about his ankles like a living thing.
A bead of sweat— tinged a dark, clear crimson from the blood splattered across the orc's face— rolled down his forehead and into his eye, and he cursed inwardly.
With particular viciousness, the king ducked low and brought his blade up in a powerful, twisting slice that Garrosh scrambled to deflect. Gorehowl caught the brunt of the attack, but only barely; the heavy axe was sent spinning from his hands by the impact, and he could do little more than watch it go.
The tip of Shalamayne found its way into the crook of his arm, and the weaponless orc bellowed in rage and pain. He wrenched himself back as quickly as he could and rolled as he hit the ground, knowing that he moved quickly despite his size. Garrosh clawed blindly around him for Gorehowl, uncertain of even how to orient himself in this strangely dark alcove they had stumbled upon. At last a glimmer among the carpet of vines caught his eye, and he let loose an oath when he realized that his axe was simply too far out of his reach. Too close to Varian Wrynn.
The warchief had managed to distance himself a few yards from the king by the time he pulled himself up into a defensive crouch, though he wondered why the human had not closed the gap and finished his with his onslaught, had not rushed forward to end the threat of the Horde.
His left leg shook and buckled, and then the orc knew why. It made him want to retch, to crush stone with his bare hands, to tear the clawed necklace from his throat and beat his chest until he bruised. Warm blood trickled down his calf from the slash that the human had left just above the back of his knee. The cut was deep, severing muscle and possibly scraping along the bone. Whatever his wounds, they were clearly enough that King Wrynn saw him as weak, crippled— an enemy rendered so impotent he was not even worth killing. Garrosh did not care to consider it much further than that.
"I need no weapon to kill you," he threatened as he stared up at the human, his lips curling around his tusks.
He questioned himself, though. Perhaps if he could rise, if he could get up and use his size to his advantage— but his leg refused to bear his weight any time he tested it, and nothing mortified him more than the possibility of falling and floundering weakly in front of such a worthy, well-hated foe. He would sooner die like this— on his knees, yes, unfortunately, but unbowed— than to expose the extent of his injuries and failures.
"The lies we tell ourselves," the human muttered darkly as he nudged the hefty axe further away with his foot, grinning slightly as he noticed the orc bristle. "You could no more kill me than your people could take Ashenvale. I use the term loosely, of course."
Garrosh watched the human gloat. Watched the way he licked his bloodied lips and let his gaze flit to their right, where the battlefield lay, where their armies continued on without them. The warchief was surprised to see just how far they were from the rest of their forces— almost completely hidden from sight in this relatively unscathed copse, heavily shaded by the thick, leafy branches of its trees. Their battered, bloodied bodies and stained armor— which seemed so fitting out on the battlefield— felt almost out of place here.
"Your great push has faltered," the king said to the orc, blatantly taking satisfaction in the brief surge of impetuous fury this roused in the wounded warchief.
Garrosh had never felt so low, so encumbered by mixed feelings of hate and shame and wounded pride. His limbs responded to him feebly now, even as Varian seemed to radiate a zeal and vigor that should not have been possible after all of the exertion of the battle.
"I would have succeeded," the orc said bitterly, "had it not been for you." He met the king's gaze and refused to look away. Varian Wrynn was a warrior, favored by Lo'Gosh, and had all the fury and strength of well-bred orc; as much as Garrosh longed to see his head mounted on a pike, he could not help but admire the human… a little, at least. None of the Alliance leaders were as worthy of his axe; none of them would serve him a death half as good as the human king would, if he could be convinced to grant it. A sudden lunge for his sword, a threat to his son, a reminder of what orckind had already taken from the king— he had a temper that ran as short as Garrosh's, and any number of insults could prompt him to end the orc's humiliation.
Still… he would have hoped for something more glorious, something in the heat of battle.
"You are clever, for a beast. But you would never have had victory," Varian sneered as he glanced down to consider the dark orcish blood that lined his blade.
The warchief spat, tasting blood even as he did so. "They beg a moon for aid even as they are slaughtered," he snorted. "It was not the magic of some elven god that turned this battle," he added with a disdainful look in the direction of the battlefield. "But rest assured, human. Killing me will only give them more fire— the Horde will return with a greater army, and Ashenvale will only be the first land claimed for this new Azeroth. Our Azeroth."
"You and your abhorrent brethren," the king breathed, swiftly bringing the tip of Shalamayne to rest just below the orc's chin, "are a blight upon this world. One that I intend to purge us of."
He brought the blade up to caress Garrosh's cheek, running it lightly over the scars already in place. What little light filtered down throught the branches glinted off of the sword and played over the high cheekbones and the strong planes of his bruised, blood-spattered face.
"You are beasts that have been allowed to run amok." He dragged the tip of Shalamayne across the warchief's lips, and with deft maneuvering, parted them just so. "You are an open wound allowed to fester."
And Garrosh was still, so still, as much held in place by the massive weapon suspended before his face as by the commanding tone and gaze of Ashenvale's victor. Until a shudder rippled through him.
"And if it is to be either your Horde or the Alliance," he murmured, pulling the blade up so that is sliced through the orc's upper lip, "then I will crush you and it beneath my heel like the slithering vermin you are."
Garrosh tasted blood anew, stronger than before— smelled it, as heady as any wine could ever be and certainly as intoxicating. How much he wished their positions were switched, with him slowly teasing and tormenting the human king like this… He had desired a quick and public victory, a glorious moment in which he held Varian Wrynn's head up for all to see, the thumping of fists across the chests of his proud soldiers like a song sung in his honor. But this… this had an appeal, this strange and exciting anguish. Even being on the receiving end, he noted with not a little disdain for himself.
The orc let his eyes slip shut, briefly. For a moment he waited, wondering if the human would finish him now, if it would be over so quickly that he would not even sense his death. What would he say to his father if they met?
After several long seconds of only blood, metal, and the sound of their breathing, dark, amber eyes creaked open and peered up at Varian.
"Does your hand falter, human? Or is that sword incapable of cutting more than my lip?" he asked carefully around the blade against his teeth.
"Perhaps I was contemplating whether to remove your tongue first," the king said sourly. A thick, dark eyebrow arched, almost amused. "And perhaps you just aided me in my decision."
Garrosh growled in irritation. "Humans… why raise your blade at all if you do not intend to use it?" he asked scornfully. "Your hesitancy speaks of your weakness. Either finish it or hand your weapon to me. I would put it to good use," he said with a savage grin.
"I take no orders from an orcish dog," Varian hissed, quickly bringing Shalamayne's edge to press against a dark bruise on the side of the Warchief's neck. "And I would be more concerned about what your eagerness for death says about you," he said through clenched teeth, eyeing the orc up and down.
The Mag'har flushed with embarrassment; he felt his skin prickle with heat and knew that the darkening of his cheeks and ears would be unmistakable.
"If you truly wish to die, then you could go about it in subtler, less… destructive ways," the king advised quietly. "You need not throw a whole war just to end yourself."
"I do not long for death," the orc insisted with a snarl. "I want… it matters not. A human would not understand." And he wouldn't, because Garrosh was an orc and even he didn't understand, not fully. He knew what to desire— honor, respect, a mark upon the world that he could look upon with pride as an ancestor— but achieving it… if he ever had the opportunity to have his father's counsel, the path would be clearer to him. As it was, he had to follow the very faded trail of Grom's footsteps and hope he arrived at the same end.
The king's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. "Well, if you wish to fall upon a sword, then it will have to be your own," Varian said lowly. "I will do you no favors just yet."
"You stay your hand?" Garrosh asked as he gave the blood-lined blade a sidelong glance.
"For now," the king said, reluctantly lowering his blade half an inch. "What would slaughtering you here accomplish?" he asked, his green-blue eyes hardening. "The Horde is a beast with more heads than is good for it. I slay you now and on the morrow two more thorns will spring up to prick my sides," he complained. "Light, and Sylvanas… No, better the beaten dog that I know than the prowling one that I don't."
The kneeling orc felt heat flare in his blood, his chest and throat hot as it flooded him. His anger must have shown in his eyes.
"You're insulted that I'm not going to kill you," Varian said after a moment. Then he laughed— a hollow, mocking laugh, one that only meant disbelief.
"You will regret this," Garrosh spat. He pushed himself up off the ground, all of his weight on one leg as he forced himself to unflinchingly endure the piercing throb coming from the other.
"Somehow… I very much doubt that," the human said with a smug smile that made the orc's nostrils flare. "Unless you plan to come after me as I walk away? You're more than welcome to," he said, his gaze dropping to the leg he had sliced earlier.
Perhaps it was his boiling blood that propelled him forward, or maybe sheer will in the face of the human king's self-satisfied assurance that he could not be touched, but within the span of two heartbeats Garrosh found himself staring down Varian Wrynn, the warm, blooded steel of his sword digging into his skin.
His fists were buried in the fur that trimmed the neck of the king's cape and the loose cloth of his undone shirt tail, twisting the fabric as he jerked the human close.
He would die, but he might manage to kill Wrynn beforehand. All it would take was one blow sharp enough to crack his thin, pale neck. One skull-crunching punch to his scarred face. One sudden twist of his hips and torso to pop his spine and the prowling forest beasts could do the rest…
"I could kill you, too," he breathed, the barest hint of a smile touching the corner of his bloodied mouth. It stung, the fresh slice through the soft flesh of his upper lip pulling open at the movement. "But I have so much more to give you, King Wrynn," he said with a raspy almost-laugh. "And you, me," he added, briefly glancing down at the thin, dark line that stretched diagonally over his torso, from shoulder to hip, where Shalamayne bit into him.
"Shalamayne does love your blood," the king admitted, a brief expression of reluctance and confusion crossing his face. His gaze fell to where red-black welled up along the silvery pale edge of his sword.
"As Gorehowl longs for yours," the warchief rumbled in reply as he looked down upon the king, with his long lashes and jagged scars.
The human lifted his chin and snorted as he was reminded of the axe. "If your performance today was any indication, that foul axe of yours is going to be parched for quite some time," he taunted.
Garrosh sneered. He tightened his grip on the human king and pulled him even closer, ignoring the sting of steel slicing deeper into him. Varian didn't so much as flinch, even with their faces so close that the orc might just slam his head against his hard enough to crack bone, or tear out his tender throat with teeth and tusks, or force his mouth hungrily against those lips that looked so soft and rough.
They were. Soft and rough. Humans were soft, and underneath the scars and the dried mud and the blood, Varian was as soft and pink as the rest. But it was the juxtaposition that made him so…
The human's free hand found his jaw, leather-clad fingertips digging into black inked skin hard enough to bruise. He wrenched back at last, his tongue sliding over his lips as if to cleanse them of the taste of the orc.
"You… you're more depraved than I thought," the man said roughly, his hand sliding down to grip the warchief's thick neck.
Garrosh growled low in the back of his throat as the human's thumb brushed up and down his windpipe. "Yet you still haven't killed me," he said flatly, once again eyeing the sword between them, dark and slick with his blood.
Varian's face hardened at that, and the orc was pleased to have hit a nerve.
"Your queen is long dead, isn't she?" Garrosh asked, his lip curling at the thought of Varian's soft human mate. "Could it be the king keeps his bed empty because he craves an orc's—"
The first punch to his throat caught him off-guard, cutting his breath mid-word. The second made his eyes water, the metal studs on the knuckles of the king's leather gloves digging into the weak flesh below his jaw.
He couldn't stifle the scream that escaped as Varian bore him back down to the ground, pain lancing through him as he crumpled atop his leg. It was agony, every inch of him crying out at once— bruises and cuts, the gash in his arm, the long slice across his torso, and his thigh most of all.
The orc's frustrated bellow came out as a strangled grunt as the king's hands closed around his throat, his thumbs pushing hard against the underside of his jaw. He was too weak to push the human off of him, too dazed to do anything but loll his head as the edges of his vision dimmed and he saw stars behind his eyes. He'd rather have died by the sword.
Garrosh gasped as air suddenly flooded his lungs, his teeth almost aching as he greedily sucked it down— before it was taken from him again, this time by a mouth pressed against his.
Varian's scar-crossed lips were forced against his, his demanding tongue dragging along his teeth and sliding up to taste the cut that split them open. The king's teeth knocked against his tusks as he pushed his tongue into his mouth, curling the slick muscle up behind his row of pointed teeth.
The orc could faintly taste the human's blood. He sluggishly reciprocated, still wanting for air but wanting this more. Varian sat across his chest, pinning him down with thighs thick with muscle as he had his fill of him. His leather-clad hands were never still, always running up and down his throat or snaking up to slide over his cheeks or thumb the sore gash on his lip.
Garrosh shut his eyes as the king leaned back, his weight shifting and settling closer to his middle. Every inch of his mouth tingled as though the human was still savagely exploring it. He pushed his tongue against the tear in his swollen upper lip, forcing it open and tasting the salty tang of it, as Varian had.
Metallic. Almost as though Shalamayne was still pressed against his teeth. Shalamayne, and then Varian himself.
The human king did not miss the way he shuddered.
"I spoke wrongly earlier," the king said, still a little breathless. He paused to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth. "A beast causes destruction, but it doesn't wage war. Those magnataur were beasts. You are a monster," he said plainly, already wiping his glove off on his shirttail and straightening his armor.
"Then what does that make you?" the warchief asked of the human straddling him, his lips still reddened and spotted with orcish blood.
Varian sighed as he wiped the thickening blood from Shalamayne on his cape and then slid the sword into the sheath on his back. "I ask myself that," he said lowly as he rose.
Garrosh felt almost apart from his body as the human circled him, the toes of his heavy boots coming to nudge him in the side. "I said I wouldn't kill you, but I'm not tending your wounds, mongrel. You'd best find your simpering dogs before you bleed out."
"Varian," he growled as the nudging grew more insistent. The Mag'har curled his upper lip and glared at the human for all he was worth, though it was tiring. Then he shut his eyes again, growing agitated just from the sight of the pink-skinned human looking down on him.
A weighty thump next to him made his golden eyes open wide. Beside him was Gorehowl, lying just within arm's reach.
And there was Varian Wrynn's back, marked by his long sheath and bloodstained cloak, steadily retreating. He stopped and turned, his matted, tangled tie of hair swaying as he cocked his head. "If you don't die, we should… resume this in a moon's time."
Garrosh listened to the rustle of foliage as the human retreated back to the battlefield, victorious, and then to the distant calls of insects and birds. He reached out and took Gorehowl, pulling the greataxe on top of him and letting its weight rest uncomfortably on his chest. It hurt, but perhaps that was simply a part of carrying a legacy.
He ran his fingers down the aged leather that wrapped the shaft, kept dark and supple over the years by the spilled blood of enemies, as he gathered the strength to pull himself back on his feet and limp toward the Warsong camp, though his undoubtedly frantic Kor'kron guards would likely find him before he had to travel far. He briefly considered remaining here, sunken down into this mire of a forest until he, too, was buried on Ashenvale's soil. But it was only briefly, for there were many reasons to live— the young warchief was determined to improve the Horde's lot, desperate to convince the Alliance of his people's might, eager to affirm his worth to the naysayers… and there was Varian Wrynn's proposition.
There was also one good reason to not die— he was even less certain of how Grom would receive him now, and knew not a word of what he would say to his father's spirit in his own defense.
I have snippets set after this written, and I might try stringing them together into a chapter at some point. Maybe while crying and waiting in a Siege of Org queue.