-Present day-

Rutgar strode into the Warleader's chambers, only to find the Spurned sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, five small stone tree models set out in front of him, tiny fey lights spinning around and about the bare branches of four of the figurines, while the last was dark.
The Chorusman stopped and stared at the gnarled warlock who had not deigned to acknowledge him.
'Where is he Raleek?' he finally asked, keeping his frustration of a tight leash.
If the warlock looked up, Rut could not see it from underneath his all-encompassing hood. A twisted finger tapped the one stone tree that was not alive with lights.
'Where is my fifth totem Rutgar?' Raleek returned, his voice calm.
Rut scowled, one hand automatically dropping to the head of a hatchet.
'I do not report to you Spurned. Where is he?'
'It is his will in this that you tell me. His plans must not be delayed by your…dislikes.'
There were only two people who could speak to Rutgar in such a tone without feeling a measure of his wrath, and it stung him that Raleek was one of them. Not because of his magic, Rut was not afraid of his demoncant, but because the Warleader had extended his protection over the man.
A couple of deep breaths to rein in the burgeoning anger and Rut dropped the mask of indifference before speaking.
'One of the teams your requested has not returned to the Camp. I sent out a couple of grunts to their assigned location, but there was no sign of either their bodies or the totem.'
Raleek hissed, 'I asked you to find me good men Rutgar!'
The masked slipped for a moment, rut frowning, silver capped tusks showing in the traditional face of challenge.
'They are all good men warlock.' Raleek snorted at that, but Rut bulled on, 'I believe that Cort and Sawdust were killed by those unaligned night elves we have been getting reports about.'
A hand rubbing his grey-beared chin under his cowl.
'Dead of Winter…'
'Warlock?' Rut asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
Raleek turned to face the warrior finally, his now bright green eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the Warleader's chambers.
'These Kaldorei, the ones who have been murdering so many of our brothers and sisters, though they do not march under the Silverwing banner. Saemonvragas has given us a name.'
'The Dead of Winter?'
Raleek nodded, 'They do not answer to him, beyond the respect for the position he has stolen, and they have avowed vengeance against us. From what he has communicated to me, they count some great names in their number.' The gleam of yellow-stained teeth. 'These elves will not fall your ranks Rutgar.'
The Chorusman swirled saliva around his mouth, fighting the urge to spit, stubby fingers tapping against the heads of his hatchets. 'Then they are the ones who have been killing our grunts and peons? If all I have heard is true warlock, then we have failed to slay even one of them in all their attacks. They might become a problem…' Rut allowed his voice to trail off, eyes locked the warlock's own.
A shallow nod, 'The must needs be dealt with, the Warleader is in agreement with this assessment. I have already begun a ritual binding to send against them-'
Rut cut in, stepping toward the robed and hooded figure on the floor, 'No!'
The wide-shoulder orc, built like a siege engine, his skin mottled with deep brownish-green marks shook his head, his intricately braided hair clicking with the many fetishes tied into it. 'I have had enough of your foul magic warlock. It offends my every breath. We shall meet these elves with sword and axe.
The Chorus of Iron will take them – we can afford them that honour at least.'
Raleek let out a racking cough, his body heaving as he laughed. Rut knew that under his robes, the warlock's body was twisted and broken with tightly clenched muscles and oddly growing bone – the price of the vast powers he now commanded.
'So be it Chorusman, but allow me a small gift to aid your hunt.'
The warrior narrowed his eyes, 'What is this gift?'
'Allow me to find them for you, tell you where this Dead of Winter hides.'
Rut sneered, '…how?'
The Warlock turned back to the stone trees, fingers of one hand cracking as he spread them wide, 'The totems that your men placed, they were traps, lures for foolish spirits.' One of the small lights that had been circling the branches broke away, growing brighter, increasing in size, though to Rut it looked less like it was getting bigger and more like it was approaching from a great distance. 'And so I trap the night elf spirits that are part of the very earth we walk on, making this place suitable for us, for orcs.' A face appeared in the white-blue glow, a kaldorei face twisted into rage, mouth open in an unending roar that no one could hear, but dripped vehemence. 'And what is trapped…can be tamed.' The warlock straightened out his arm with a jerk and the wisp recoiled as if lashed by an invisible whip.
'And so I shall turn their very eyes against them.'

Iyokus desperately parried another furious assault, his huge stone blade toning sonorously as twin felsteel blades swept against it.
The orc was pressing him back, her long daggers giving him no time to think, to be proactive. Each step back took him closer to the bank of the river and the footing was getting treacherous. He didn't dare to look back for even a moment to place his next step, didn't dare take his eyes off the flashing green blades of his opponent.
His eyes were wide and his breathing was ragged and wheezing as she attacked again, high with one blade, low with the other. One sword he deflected with his weapon, but he was forced to turn aside the other with his forearm. With a yell of pain, and cradling his arm, he stumbled, trying to open some space, a bit of room to think. He could see his opponent smirking at her partner, the grin of a predator who has found an unexpectedly easy prey, the cat that has caught the mouse and is considering what games to play.
Iyokus was disgusted with himself, it was not so long ago that he would have taken both of these orcs without shedding a drop of his own blood, but now– No! Don't think like that, don't think of anything but right now you damned fool!
This was the problem, he couldn't think. The roar of the river was loud in his ears, the creatures of the forest seemed to be screaming at him and he couldn't stop trying to look at everything – and still her swords seemed to come out of nowhere.
A thrust blade and a breathless twisting and white hot pain skittered along his ribs. He stepped back again and grimaced as the cool water of the river sucked at his foot.
His sword was heavy in his hands, clumsy, and he hadn't been able to make a single attacking move against the orc since their engagement had begun. He couldn't help but despair that unless something changed…well…
He was going to die.

'The water's great you know, you don't have to stay there on the bank.'
Iyokus laughed at his own joke and cupped more of the clear, cool water up to his chest, rubbing clean the scarred, muscled skin. The wisp, of course, simply stared back at him.
It was an odd one indeed. Iyokus had never really got on with the nature spirits, or ancestors, depending who you asked, probably because he was as irreverent as they come and had no Kaldorei ancestors who would speak up for him. But even so, this one was unusual.
It had been following him since he had arrived in Darkshore, staying an almost uniform distance behind him. The warrior had tried communicating, thinking that maybe the spirit was trying to pass on a message to him, and he thought he could see the face in all the light trying to mouth something, but it was too distorted to decipher.
Well, if an ancestor wanted to watch him bathing half-naked, then that was none of his concern, he had been leered over by worse in his years, that gorilla for example… Anyway, he had more important things on his mind and had come home to Ashenvale for a chance to think over them in peace.

The trail had dried up. The mage had been an enormous waste of his gold, telling him only that they had teleported somewhere into Stormwind, the sheer amount of ambient magics in the human capital disguising their trail. The guardsman he had paid enough to get into early retirement had been marginally more useful. One of the multitudes of dark-cloaked figures that go in and out of the gates that night had stuck in his mind, a man with a noble cast and an oddly ageless face. Something about that description rung some bells in Iyokus's memory… if only he could identify what.
He sighed and sluiced water over his head, feeling the sweat of the day sliding off him. It was sweltering in full plate these days, even for him who had trekked across desert and fel-blasted wasteland.
He would have to talk to Cail, she was the one with the kind of head suited to this kind of thing. He smiled and flicked the surface of the river. He would have to see her anyway… he missed her.

Perhaps it was because he was wrapped up in his imagination, or perhaps the Shorning, as he now called it, had been more disabling then he thought, but the normally observant Iyokus did not notice that the wisp had disappeared until the two orcs greeted him.
'Lok'tar,' the male said, tusks bared.
Iyokus spun in the river, hands first up in a defensive position and then slowly lowering to his sides. His gaze danced over them, a male and a female. She had a shaven head except for a high ponytail, and two blades sheathed under each arm, while he appeared unarmed except for wearing a wicked pair of metal gauntlets, studded with spikes and shearing edges. Neither wore a uniform, which meant they were not Warsong grunts. So they were either independents in Ashenvale, drawn here for the plunder and a chance to kill elves, or… Iyokus swore under his breath… the Warsong Chorus of Iron.
He turned to look at his sword, stabbed into the bank with the rest of his equipment, his bags and armour. His mace had fallen under his breastplate. He could feel the orcs following the movement of his gaze and swung back to face them, neither had made a move.
He edged closer to the bank.
The male spoke again, in Orcish, which Iyokus had picked up a rudimentary understanding of over the course of the Third War, 'You are Iyokus, of the Dead of Winter.'
The white-maned elf cocked his head, it didn't really sound like a question.
'You heard of me then?' he grinned up at them, angling for time as he inched closer and closer to his weapons.
The female whispered something that he could not quite make out and the two sniggered. Iyokus continued grinning, displaying a confidence belying the pounding in his head.
…fucktheChorustwoofthemfuck…
The male, whose arms were oversized with muscle, put a hand flat against his chest.
'I am Gant, called the Breaker,' he pointed at the woman beside him, 'and this, Lament. Of the Warleader's Chorus of Iron.'
Iyokus was desperately hoping his hands would dry before he had to pick anything up and asked distractedly, 'Why I care?'
Gant continued, 'When we send you to stand before your ancestors, you will have names to honour us.'
Everything froze then as the warriors matched gazes. The river gurgled quietly and even the birds in the trees seemed to sense the brewing confrontation.
Iyokus broke the moment, leaping from the water, diving towards his sword. His hands wrapped around the handle and in one movement, coming to a stand, sword pulled free from the ground, a clod of earth flying into the air.
Lament draws her swords in silence, and attacks.

'Stop playing with him Lament, the others have been found.'
He feels beat.
It hurts to breathe, his arm is slick with his own blood and the pain makes it hard to concentrate. Her blade is pricking into his breastbone, holding him in place as she turns to face Gant, saying something with a chuckle that rips away the last shreds of his dignity, some sly joke about if all the elves are like this, then Ashenvale will be theirs within the month.
His sword hangs loosely in one hand, tip tugged by the current of the river and slowly, dropping for the last time, his eyes close.
It is not in his nature to give up. Oh, in the thousands of years of bloodshed he has dropped his weapon many a time, but never has his soul been cowed.
The orcs continue talking. There is still time.
He knows he has given no reason to be thought worthy, but he has to try to take that gambit that always felt so sure in the years behind him, the reaching inside himself, to that core of red hot rage within him. That hand that would take a hold of him, pull him up from whatever pit of pain and weariness and despair that battle would toss him into. Pull him out and empower him, give him the strength and skill to carry on no matter what the cost, drag him on his knees to blood drenched survival.
He reaches, straining, expecting nothing, expecting to fall, and never again rise.

And is caught.
It is loose at first; the merest whisper of salvation, and then tighter, firmer, more sure.
It is different; it is not the burning, almost painful fury that has been his master for so long. No, it is old and gray, pitted and rusted with age, but somehow also familiar, a flavour that is not so removed from him, like the scent of a father.
He looks inward, deeper, the pain receding, the mists of doubt fading, and finds himself looking, not at the red mask he expects, but… his reflection.
'It is you,' he whispers
'It is I,' he thunders
His vision sharpens, no more do the sights and sounds of the forest distract, everything is razor sharp clear. The hand holding him up morphs, transforms into the solid, oh so comforting weight of the grip of a sword.
A weapon
It feels right in his callused hand
He grins

A scant moment has passed since his eyelids drooped.
They snap open, flashing with blazing amber fire. A sword blade pricks his into his breastbone, a thin trickle of blood winding its way down the maze of scars on his chest.
A mistake that.
There is a spray of water as the monolithic stone sword slices towards Lament. The orc is very very good and leans on her sword while bringing her other up to block the attack, but even one-handed the claymore cannons into her thin blade and sends her spinning away with the impact.
No matter how strong she thought herself, there was no way she could hope to pierce his sternum like that.
A mistake that.
Iyokus's other hand is on the grip of his sword in a moment and he hammers her back, using his weapon's greater reach to keep her on the retreat, the ring of steel on stone and her grunts the accompanying harmony to the numbing of her arms.
Hah
He can see the other orc Gant closing in his periphery, he will need to end this quickly. A low thrust gives him the opening he needs and slams his sword down on the thin blade. The green sword slides between the two stone flanges that make up his great claymore, shot through with the purple crystals the draenai value so highly.
Hah
A wrench of his wrist and the handle is torn from her hand. Her eyes widen as she locks onto the furnaces of his own. She is an experienced swordswoman, she knows exactly what is coming.
Hah
The sword cuts under her left arm, shattering through her ribs and biting as deep as her spine. Iyokus pulls the blade free in a rainbow of blood and ducks under Gant's fist as it whistles through the air where his head had just been.
Lament is dead as leaps back, raising his sword above his head in a ready stance. Gant is growling, the low rumble of a plains predator.
'Come.'

Iyokus sluiced water down his side, cheek twitching as he cleaned his side. That Lament had opened up quite a nasty gash along his ribs, one that would need seeing to before too long.
Something to worry about later, he thought. If he had the orcs right, the Chorus would be after the others and since they had managed to find him, he had no doubt they would be on the trail of the others in no time.
He began putting on his armour. Green, Celia… he had no concerns that the others would be able to take care of themselves, but he was damned if people he cared about were going to have to fight for their lives alone.
He stepped casually over the body of Gant as he retrieved his mace, strapping it to his back beside his sword. The Chorusman had put up quite the fight, and Iyokus had the wounds to prove it. But in the end, the reach and weight of his sword had told, as the armless corpse could attest to.
Another moment and he was gone, his horned helmet masking a grim smile.
Shorn he may be, but Iyokus had finally found himself again.