Author's Note: For my readers of Golden Sun: Aftermath, I apologize and beg for your forgiveness. School has been taxing my body and mind so much, that I forgot I even had a Fanfiction account. I'm taking a 'temporary' hiatus from GS, but I hope you will enjoy this Warcraft fanfic.
One thing I want to let people know right off the bat: I am not a very savvy Warcraft player. With limited Internet access, I am not very good with the Lore. I know most of the basics, so I hope to be able to produce a workable fanfic. Again, I emphasize, no flames!
I wish all of you the best.
-Dauros16
Chapter 1-Teledin
When Rag'hol Darjen was younger, he was a fearsome orc warrior. Shield and sword strapped to his back, covered in plate mail from head to toe, Rag'hol had been unstoppable. He had stood up against four to one odds, and had walked away without a scratch. He had taken five arrows in the chest, and had still managed to fell thirty enemies before having to rest. He had been smacked around by demons and ogres alike, and had felt nothing.
Now he felt like a breath of wind could knock him over
Rag'hol groaned huskily as he hoisted himself out of his fur bed. At the age of 69, and with a bad hip, Rag'hol found it more and more difficult to get up each day. Only the thought of getting to the tavern in Razor Hill kept him going.
Rag'hol shouldered his traveling cloak, which was heavily built of kodo hide, and stumped out the door.
Razor Hill was just waking up as Rag'hol shouldered into the tavern, and took his place behind the oaken counter. Many people had tried to talk the old orc out of continuing to mind the bar, but Rag'hol had refused. He felt that if he went into retirement, he would finally be resigning to his age.
The tavern was a fine piece of work, and it was Rag'hol's pride and joy. The oaken walls sparkled, and the tables were in good condition. Rag'hol had scrubbed the tavern spotless as soon as he had bought it, and cleaned it every other day. Again, many people had tried to dissuade the orc from exerting himself, but his stubbornness eventually wore them down.
The prize lay behind the counter, something from Rag'hol's old war days. It was the tooth of a grown dragon, shined and polished like everything else, but sparkling with its own life. Rag'hol had actually found the tooth embedded in a tree, and hadn't even needed to face a dragon to get it. But it was still quite an attraction.
Rag'hol stepped behind the counter, and started washing out the wooden mugs. The types of ale tasted basically the same, but Rag'hol cleaned the mugs more as a matter of principle. He didn't feel right unless he cleaned the mugs every day.
The front door opened. Rag'hol didn't look up, but he knew immediately that the person standing right inside the doorway was not a regular customer. Regulars never stopped in the early morning, because they knew that Rag'hol never admitted anybody this early.
"We're closed." Rag'hol grunted, still not looking up. "Opening time's in an hour."
Whoever was in the doorway didn't hear or didn't care. Rag'hol waited for a moment, then sighed and looked up.
A Blood Elf stood in the doorway, looking around at the tavern, an expression of curiosity on his face. He wore a long traveling cloak, but his hood was thrown down, and Rag'hol could see his head. Thin cheekbones highlighted the man's face, and a small beard adorned his chin. His green eyes flitted about the room, and his black hair was rough and tangled.
Rag'hol made a noise in his throat. The Blood Elf started, and swiveled his head to face the orc.
"This tavern…" The Blood Elf said, "…is really clean."
Rag'hol grunted again. "It isn't opening hour yet."
The Blood Elf walked over to the counter. Rag'hol felt his impatience rising. It would soon become anger, and if this Blood Elf wanted trouble…
"Sorry, but I'm hungry. I need food, and this is the only place where I can get that served to me apparently…"
Rag'hol sighed, realizing that the elf was right. "Sit down then. Our meal today is roasted strider." He squinted at the Blood Elf. "That won't be a problem for you will it?" He wasn't sure if the elf was vegetarian or not. He knew that Night Elves usually tried to abstain from eating meat, but with Blood Elves, who knew?
The elf looked puzzled at the orc's question. "That sounds good. I haven't had much to eat for days. Whatever you have is good."
Rag'hol snorted, and moved towards the kitchen. He didn't like to be social, and wasn't very good at it anyway. As he headed to the back, the man called out.
"Tell the cook that I'll give him a tip if he can roast it to well-done!"
"I'm the cook." Rag'hol called back. "And I don't know what 'well done' means."
He heard the Blood Elf chuckle, and then stepped through the kitchen door, and began to cook.
The elf ate the strider with gusto, digging into the meat with his teeth, and peeling great bites away from the haunch that was set down in front of him. Rag'hol went back to cleaning the counter, and refilled the man's mug of ale whenever it was empty. As the man ate, Rag'hol inspected him.
Rag'hol didn't care much for the Blood Elves and their thirst for magic. This elf however, seemed to contrast from his kin. He was of good build, with muscled arms and strong hands. He looked a great deal more capable for combat than many orcs Rag'hol knew.
Soon, Rag'hol's curiosity was burning in his skull. He didn't like to ask questions, but the elf's presence was a mystery. Not many people came to this tavern unless they lived in Durotar. From what Rag'hol recollected, most of the Blood Elves were traveling to Outlands to gain access to more potent magic. He had seen some in Orgrimmar, but never had one actually walked into his bar.
Finally, when the questions threatened to burn the roof of his mouth off, Rag'hol decided to ask at least one of them.
"Going on a long journey?" He asked, mentally smacking himself as he asked it. The elf had no provisions! Where was he going to go?
"Actually yes." The elf replied, jabbing his finger at the ceiling. "Trouble is, I was a bit lost, and it took some time to navigate." He pointed at the dragon tooth on the wall. "That's quite a find."
Rag'hol chuckled. "A little memento." He shot the elf a look. "Not to pry into your business…but where exactly are you headed?" He refilled the elf's mug. "Are you headed to Orgrimmar?"
The elf laughed, as if Rag'hol had made a funny joke. "For a bit. I plan to travel across to the other continent."
"Headin to Silvermoon?" Rag'hol asked, polishing the dragon tooth.
A silence followed this question. It stretched on for over 20 seconds. Rag'hol turned back to face the bar, to find the elf staring into space, a hardness set in his face. It made his face look older, more lined.
"Yeah." The elf said finally. "I am."
Silence filled the bar, as the elf wordlessly went back to eating. Rag'hol returned to his polishing, perturbed by the sudden change in the elf's demeanor. For about five minutes, the two wordlessly went about their duties. Then…
"Thanks for the meal." The elf stood, putting some coins on the counter. "That was some good meat." His voice had returned to its normal flippant tone, and he gave the orc a small smile.
Rag'hol grunted. "Safe journey." It was the closest thing to a fond farewell he'd ever gotten.
The elf left the bar, his cloak billowing in the dry air that blew through Razor Hill. Rag'hol started to clear up after him, scooping up the coins into a small pouch at his side. The orc heard the sound of hooves beating the ground a moment later, slowly fading as the elf rode out into Durotar. The orc poked his head out the door for a second, watching the elf leave. Then he chuckled.
"Damn fool." He said. "He's heading for the Barrens."