Howdy everyone and welcome to the first chapter of...*drumroll*.. Sensational Soulstones... Don't be afraid to leave a review, I'd love any feedback, positive or especially constructive criticism.
Rexigon is my character, Zeregard is my friend's. :)
A lone orc walked through Val'sharah. He looked around at the shoddily crafted houses, barely clinging onto the dark, brown rocks of the cliffside. Harpy corpses were strewn about, their lifeless bodies sizzling still from the fel flame that had snatched their pitiful lives away within seconds, just a few minutes ago.
The sun had just begun to lower behind the towering green trees of Val'sharah, the rocks around the orc darkening every moment and minute with the upcoming nightfall ahead. His old and weary face was blanketed in shadow under the dark black hat that rested upon his head, with only his glowing red eyes of an orc exposed to the fel piercing that veil of black. The orc stood tall even in his age, and wore long crimson robes, covered in orcish and even demonic runes of power. Between his shoulder and gloves, his arms were exposed, showing powerful muscles, that while not as large and powerful as a younger orcish warrior, were still a force to be reckoned with.
The warlock sighed, trying to find what he was looking for among the wreckage. Stepping over the most recently slain harpy, its body hollow and weak as its life had been drained, he walked toward one of the harpy abodes. Its crafting slightly resembled Kaldorei culture, but the haphazardness of it and the smell, which was now pierced by the scent of burning feathers, gave away who had made it.
Walking into the small home, the wood creaked underneath the orc's boots, and a quiet tapping could be heard as his staff hit the floor when he walked. It was an intricately carved thing, covered in runes and shaped in a specific pattern. It was made of a cold, black silvery metal, and the headpiece of it was a dark crimson color.
The warlock grunted and raised his hand, a fel flame flickering just above it. There were no windows inside the room, and with the sun setting, not much light filtered in through the door. Green light danced across the walls, the flame in the orc's hand flickering and moving almost as if it had a life of its own. A small, chest crafted out of a dark wood sat in the corner. Approaching it, the warlock commanded the flame to hover in the air so that he could focus his attentions on opening the box. Attempting to simply open it, it did not budge. Muttering a spell under his breath, the lock clicked and the chest easily opened. Being an orc, it would've been easy to simply smash the box open, but this warlock would prefer not to resort to such savagery.
Inside, there was something wrapped in cloth that glowed a faint purple. Reaching a large, slightly clawed green hand into the box, the warlock unraveled the tattered beige cloth, revealing a finely cut gem that glowed a beautiful violet. The warlock was about to grin at having found what he needed, but he felt something tapping at the wards in the back of his mind. Cursing under his breath, he quickly wrapped the gem in the musty cloth again and dropped it into a pouch at his belt.
Moving so that there was no way to see him unless you walked into the house, the warlock casted a spell so that he would be able to look through the demonic eye he had placed so that he would not be caught by surprise. Living for a long time tended to give you a sense of caution. As he gazed through the fel green orb at the rocky surroundings he had passed through just a few minutes ago, he spotted someone crouching down, inspecting one of the harpy corpses that had been burnt in demonic flame.
Commanding the burning eye to move forward so that he could see this figure more closely, the orcish warlock cursed once again under his breath, realizing that he had seen this man before. It was a young worgen warlock, probably about twenty years old. His eyes glowed a burning fel green, and he was just beginning to grow a beard. One of his ears had been cut off, and his fur was a dark gray, almost black.
Crouched over the corpse, the worgen was dressed in his armor, which consisted of golden pauldrons with matching chains with inscribed fel runes and glowing flames, and a robe that mostly left his upper body exposed, showing his dark fur that grew lighter near the stomach, and strong muscles that had been developed through fighting rippled under his fur. For a regular man, he wasn't short, standing at almost six feet tall, but for Worgen, was below average.
Narrowing his eyes, realising that danger was probably near, he stood up and grabbed his staff that was resting upon the rough rocks that were beginning to grow dark as the sun's disappearance inched closer. The staff was a scythe, the smooth, silvery, pointed blade glinting. Scythes were popular among Gilnean culture, having been wielded by the mystical Harvest Witches partly responsible for being able to feed the cold, dreary city.
The young warlock walked along the path barefoot as many Worgen had become accustomed to, his dark paws stepped across the rocks and brushing aside any flora. As he approached closer and closer to the house, the orc realised that hiding forever wasn't going to be possible. He wasn't truly afraid of the warlock at all, having faced him before, but was only hoping to avoid the annoyance.
Cancelling the spell to look through his wards, the orc stood up and brushed his robes quickly. Stepping outside, the orc looked at the worgen with his own eyes, standing only about fifteen feet from each other. Talking calmly with a hint of contempt, the orc simply said, "You again?" He spoke in a rough common, his orcish accent laying over the words.
The worgen instantly got into a combat stance, his sharp and deadly claws pointing wickedly out. He snarled, some saliva flying out from his mouth which had many deadly sharp teeth pointing out. He would get out, "Of course it had to be you, you stupid Horde scum can't leave me alone, can you!?"
The old orc glared at the horde-hating warlock, tired of his young arrogance. "Worgen, step aside. These are matters that don't concern you, and we don't need to waste time for your foolishness."
"Never! Who knows what your filth was doing in there! You think I'm supposed to just let you go?"
The orc replied with a tint of amusement in his voice, "That's precisely what you're supposed to do. And -going- to do."
"Well I won't! If you green-skinned brute want to get past me, you're going to have to kill me first!" The worgen spoke with such anger, such contempt… the Orc wondered what caused someone to hate so much.
Sighing, the orc asks, "What causes you to hate my kind so much? As far as I knew, us orcs never fought your cowardly Gilneans."
"Cowardly? Do you think it was my decision to be born in the closed walls of Gilneas? You have probably never known what it's felt like to be trapped! And besides… Your scum allied with the Forsaken that brought down my homeland."
The words struck something within the orc's heart, and he replied, rage bubbling within him. "Idiot! My people were imprisoned for years by human scum, forced to wither away and work menial labor. As for allying with the Forsaken, do you think that is MY decision? Garrosh hunted warlocks in the Horde for years, even now that he's dead, if I spoke up I'd probably get myself killed."
"Garrosh has been dead for years now! If you really didn't want to ally with those abominations, you would've said something!"
"Pft, even now that Garrosh is dead, Sylvanas is Warchief of the Horde. Do you truly think it would be a good idea to speak against her people? Truly your foolishness knows no bounds."
"Shut up! I'm tired of you bitching about having no place in the Horde, because you don't deserve one!" With this, the Worgen raised his arms that were covered in shadow energy and cast it towards the orc, sending lobs of darkness that would cause endless torment should they make contact. Almost caught by surprise, the Orc dodged to the side, one of the shadow orbs just missing past him.
The Worgen cast another spell of darkness towards the Orc, a dark red coil of pain and suffering rushing towards him. Tiring of this foolish battle, the orc waved his hand, glowing slightly with fel energy, and silenced the Worgen, rendering him unable to cast his spells. With a demonic chant, fel flames burst into being around the Orc, and pulsed in waves. Going in long, slender strikes, the fel flames rushed forward, seeking to incinerate the Worgen.
Realising he was silenced, the Worgen decided to resort to feral strength. Dodging the fel flames, he weaved between the hungering fires and rushed towards the orc. Extending his claws, the Worgen leaped towards him, prepared to rip out the greenskin's throat. The orc saw this obvious attack however, and extending a large, muscled arm forward, easily caught the Worgen by his throat.
The Worgen choked, struggling to free himself from the orc's grasp. His fel green eyes were paniced, and his smaller claws were desperately clawing at the orc's large arm, leaving dark red scratches behind. The Worgen continued to struggle, before a feeling of acceptance came over him. Realising he was going to die then and there, his life flashed before his eyes, thinking of all the things he had never said or done. Seeing this moment of vulnerability in the Worgen, and it reminding him of something in his past, the Orc took pity.
"Foolish worgen, you leave yourself so open to attack. I'm tempted to end your pitiful life right now, but I'm feeling merciful today." With the release of the orc's powerful grip, the Worgen fell to his knees, crying. Something had snapped in him being so close to death, and he simply sniveled at the orc's feet, not quite understanding why he was still alive.
"You're so nice for a warlock… it disgusts me… I don't know why you spared me."
"Nice.. is not a word I would use to describe me. Rather, I'd just prefer not to have wasted talent and a mess to clean up." The Worgen looked up at the orc as he continued. "Now, stop crying, whelp. There may still be use for you yet." He considered his next words for a few moments, before continuing. "If you are willing to stoop so low as to ally with "Horde filth"… I am offering for you to be my apprentice." The Worgen looked shocked up at the Orc, wondering surely that this might be some sort of joke, barely beginning to mutter back a response before the Orc continued, "You may be a foolish and arrogant pup, but you have potential… and could be yet sharpened into an instrument of battle. Consider your next words wisely, Worgen, for they affect your future."
The Worgen took a minute to think, his head swimming in thoughts and emotions, wondering what would happen with whatever response he deemed worthy to reply. Brushing his dried tears off his fur, he'd reply, "F-fine.. I'll be you're apprentice." As much as he hated to admit it, he knew this Orc was a very powerful warlock and much stronger than he currently was, and would be in his best interests to ally with him.
"Good. If we're going to do this, we better become better acquainted, eh? What is your name, Worgen?"
He looked up at the orc, and began to stand up. His ears were still drooped low as he answered, "...Zeregard. Zeregard Roseberg..The one and only.." in a dreary voice.
The orc's red eyes sized him up, looking upon him now not as an enemy, but of an ally. "Very well, Zeregard. I am Rexigon Stormfang, son of Nalz'fir of the Shadowmoon Clan, Warlock of the Black Harvest. And that's Master Stormfang to you."
Zeregard's burning fel green eyes suddenly looked up at the orc, narrowing in anger. "Master!? I'm not going to call you master, you stupid old man!" Zeregard knew he was treading on thin ice, but couldn't help himself. How dare that annoying old orc tell him to call him "Master".
"It is a show of disicipline, something which you clearly lack, fool." The orc snarled out, beginning to grow weary of Zeregard's arrogance and clear lack of self-preservation instinct.
The young Worgen's ears were now raised high, his brokenness a few minutes ago all but forgotten as he engaged in another argument with the Orc. "Pft, I am full of discipline, you just haven't seen it yet."
Rexigon actually broke out into a laugh at this. Clearly this Worgen was crazy. "You!? Discipline!? Hahaha! In what way exactly are you disciplined, Worgen?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Zeregard's eyes narrow, wondering just what exactly Rexigon was hinting at.
"Only that you have only shown yourself to be an arrogant fool with absolutely no regard for your own safety or discipline."
"Whatever, but there's no way in hell I'm going to call you Master!"
Rexigon was truly getting tired of this now. His eyes burning a fel red a bit brighter than a moment before, he snarled out in a loud, rough orcish voice. "Enough! Fine, call me what you want, idiot! But when we are in the battlefield or a moment of peril, I expect you to obey my orders one hundred percent, for one mistake will cost BOTH our lives!"
Zeregard's ears and face lowered, struck down by the loud orcish voice. "I...I understand.."
Rexigon's tense features softened a bit. "Good. Then I expect to see you in the Dreadscar Rift in a month from now. I trust you can find your way there, yes?"
Zeregard just nodded and grunted his affirmation, watching as the orc, began walking closer. Clapping an orcish hand down on Zeregard's shoulder, he would finish the encounter by saying, "Good. You will make a strong warrior of the fel, in time. Farewell, Zeregard. Lok'tar, Ogar. " With this, Rexigon began walking across the dirt path, stepping over the now long dead corpses of burnt harpies, and musty gravel crunching under his boots. Before Zeregard could say anything in response, as Rexigon reached the end of the path, he dissapeared in a flash of fel green, teleporting to god knows where.
Taking a moment to think about what had just happened and why he had been spared by the Orc, Zeregard gathered up his things and began to walk away, forgetting why he had been there in the first place and just looking for a place to spend the now fully dark night.