(no subject)
I didn't place in the 2009 Blizzard Creative Writing Contest. D'oh!
Oh well. GG, whoever won. Sarah I think her name was. I had fun. I can move on with life now!
The Unforsaken
“One minute to show-time, boys. Be sure to give the crowd their gold’s worth, yeah? Boss hates it when ‘contestants’ don’t give our patrons a good reason to come back for the next-”
“Don’t think for a moment you’re in a position to give me any kind of advice, Goblin.” Ar’rat’s voice is loud, low, and gruff; it’s no wonder that his addressee gives up trying to lecture him before the first syllable fully escapes his rugged lips. “This isn’t like those outfits you people run in Outland. We’re not prisoners or mercenaries. This is the Ring of Valor, and even though your employer has provided me with a convenient opportunity, you people won’t get away with casting your money-grubbing taint on that name. Remind your ‘boss’ of that.”
“You’re right, I’m very sorry!” The goblin squeals and his ears slump, and he looks very much like a worg does when anticipating being struck by its master. “Good luck, and may your quarrel be settled honorably.”
The goblin’s parting words are out of character, and the way he scurries out of the hallway makes it clear that it’s his fear talking. I feel a sympathetic kind of amusement as I consider his position; I know my orcish comrades well enough to tell that Ar’rat wasn’t angry, but this goblin was understandably convinced that he was seconds away from getting an axe to the skull.
The lighthearted mood only lasts for a moment; the task before me is not one I’m looking forward to, necessary as it might be. With a reluctant sigh, I look towards our destination at the opposite end of the large hallway we’re standing in.
“I must admit, I don’t see much about this place that differs from the Circle of Blood or the Ring of Trials.” I imagine that the ground around the square of light at the end of this tunnel is still littered with the bones of gladiators that weren’t lucky enough to survive their bouts. “It all seems equally barbaric to me.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less of you, my friend, and I am sorry to put you through this,” Ar’rat speaks as gently as an orc can manage to. “You see all the arenas as the same because you hate conflict in general; that little rat sees all the arenas as the same because violence is always profitable.” He spits this last word out like he would bad meat. “Unlike his, yours is an honorable view. I’m sorry to even bring you here.”
“Think nothing of it.” It took a long time for me to become accustomed to the hoarse rattling sounds that come from my decayed vocal chords, and longer before I finally accepted the voice they compose as my own. “It is not my place to pass judgment on this practice. Just because I lack understanding for the honor and glory you find on the battlefield does not mean I believe it an invalid aspiration to seek such things. Take my being here as approval for your reasons.”
“The very nature of my challenge makes you the only choice I have, Seiwan.” Ar’rat always speaks more eloquently than is expected of his race. The size of the canines on his prominent mandible dictate that his mouth always hang just slightly open, and there has been many a human that has mistaken this as a sign of stupidity. Often, it becomes a fatal mistake. “Please forgive me.”
“You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness, and compared to the debt I owe you, this favor is insignificant.”
A low, resonating beat sounds in the distance and rumbles its way towards us. Orgrimmar’s timekeeper is simultaneously marking the new hour and signaling the start of our battle.
As we begin closing the distance that separates us from the arena floor, the dormant fear and dread I have for the battlefield begins to stir. It is true that I am determined to go through with this, but I find that the path I walk rarely brings me to the places I want to be. I suppose it is to be expected of even a Forsaken clergyman.
I don’t try to hide my quickening breath or trembling extremities as we walk. It would be un-pious of me to discredit the fear I feel, for it’s the very quality that necessitates discipline, which I’ll need to fulfill my duty to Ar’rat.
Besides, he’s the only one who might notice these symptoms, and will probably interpret these as much a common occurrence for the walking dead as blinking is for the living. He wouldn’t be far from the truth, if so.
I glance at him to confirm that he is fully ready for this. Indeed, he is bearing all of his favorite arms and armor. It’s rare, even in the times that we should supposedly be relaxing in the safety of a Horde bastion, to see him without the dull luster of his armor.
In my countless days of walking the streets of Lordaeron, I became accustomed to the idea that armor was to be worn by a soldier only when he was on-duty. I quickly learned that, for the Horde warrior, things are very different. Even when you’re not out on patrol or guard detail, you are still not off-duty. For Ar’rat, duty does not end. Therefore, the armor does not come off very often.
I often find myself contemplating the differences between human and orcish practices. I have seen plenty of soldiers from both the Alliance and the Horde, and I don’t think there’s anyone in this world who can understand the nature of their strife without that perspective.
Even something as seemingly trivial as how the opposing factions value ‘beauty’ plays an important role in uncovering the nature of our constant war. There’s plenty of talk among the people of the Alliance about the filthiness of the Horde’s people. Having fought alongside them, I now understand what the humans only thought they understood.
Ar’rat’s jet-black hair is greasy, and matted to everything from the prominent widow’s peak at the top of his skull on down to the nape of his neck. His green skin is calloused all over his body, and covered in scars. His teeth are sharp and stained yellow, but none of this is a product of his lack of appreciation for hygiene.
Hair can fall in front of your eyes when it’s healthy and clean. It also becomes a liability if someone can grab and pull it, so it makes sense to keep it cemented to your skin, and therefore out of enemy hands.
Regular bathing would keep his skin soft and smooth, but these are not commodities a fighter seeks in his natural armor. After all, it’s easier to avoid being distracted by minor wounds when you don’t feel any pain from them.
Everything about this orc is toned for battle. His odor and appearance are not a symptom of his negligence, but exist as proof of his loyalty to the Horde. Ar’rat is not negligent by any means; he simply believes that victory is his one and only priority.
That dedication may easily be the only thing that’s allowed him to survive his countless battles with the Alliance.
Besides, no amount of hygiene helps you when you’re dead. I’m un-living proof of that. Bathing is the last thing you want to do if you wish to keep decayed flesh from stinking.
We are nearing the exit of our dark passage, and the excited murmur of the spectators begins to reach us. A glance at my companion reveals that he is shaking uncontrollably, much like I had been before getting lost in my thoughts, though I know his condition is brought on by a very different cause.
“Please go.” My request is sincere. “It will make things much easier for me.”
He does not hesitate. Ar’rat springs from our ambling pace into a full-on sprint, completely ignorant of the prospect that his heavy plate armor should hinder such movement.
Just before he clears the threshold that divides the arena floor and the hallway, I slowly and deliberately lift my arm and straighten my wrist to point my scrawny index finger at him.
“Fortitude.”
By speaking this Word of power, I have completed the rite that will bestow this blessing on him. I could have waited until battle was upon us to beseech the Light’s protection for him, but it seemed prudent to let the effect bolster my friend’s imminent performance.
As the Power Word implies, the light’s blessing has further fortified Ar’rat’s already-durable physique. The resulting surge of vigor is subtle, but still noticeable.
He bursts into the light of the Orgrimmar afternoon that saturates the Ring of Valor. Stopping just outside the tunnel’s mouth, he raises his arms into a V, pumping the enormous axe in his right through the air as he bellows an incoherent and fearsome greeting to his audience.
His voice is still audible over the collective roar of the spectators’ response; an extraordinary feat, considering the fact that his audience consists of the fiercest, hardiest, and loudest of Azeroth’s many races.
“Ar’rat! Ar’rat! Ar’rat!” They chant his name in unison and with zeal; being a veteran of many battles, both in service to the Horde’s campaigns abroad and in the interest of domestic glory at this very arena, his name is well-known and well-respected throughout Durotar.
I know better than anyone that he deserves the reverence they shower upon him; I’ve been there to witness most of his countless exploits.
As I waddle my way into the blinding sunlight, I raise my right arm to shield my eyes. A devotion to the Light that transcended death hasn’t helped ease the pain it inflicts on my eyes, nor has the ample glaze that’s settled over them.
I can’t complain, though. I’m profoundly lucky that they’ve stayed with me after everything we’ve seen.
With the sleeve of my robe providing me some temporary protection, I sidle my way into Ar’rat’s ample shadow. I won’t be able to avoid exposing my leathery skin to the harsh sun once the match begins, but it’s always in my best interest to take even the most fleeting of opportunities to shelter myself.
I hear a light thwacking sound, and feel a slight impact against my left cheek. Puzzled, I bring my idle hand to my face and press my fingertips against the point of contact. Pulling them away, I see a clear, viscous fluid saturating my left index and middle fingers. After considering its consistency for a moment, I realize that I’ve been spit upon.
With a curious glance in the direction of the saliva’s assumed trajectory, I spot a solitary orc standing on the edge of the spectator’s platform above and behind us. He stares down at me with quivering eyes, pressing his hand against the portion of tunnel that rises above the bottom row of the amphitheater.
While being born an orc guarantees an individual a certain degree of imposition to their appearance, this one is notably feeble when compared to his brethren that are seated throughout the arena.
Those close enough to witness the incident react in various ways; some cheer for the little orc’s gesture, some shout their protest, but most of them simply laugh.
As my eyes meet his, the instigator recoils in some combination of fear and disgust, and I’m reminded that undeath has permanently melted my face into an intimidating grimace.
Bewildered but largely unconcerned, I start to turn away.
“Stinky undead not worthy. Not be here.” If the rags that drape over his relatively diminutive frame aren’t proof that he wasn’t born into the warrior caste, his grammar is.
“What’s this?” Ar’rat somehow catches the statement over the continuing murmur of the crowd, and turns to look at the heckler. I silently thank the light that he’s oblivious to the fact that this stranger had spit on me.
“Dead belong in ground, not in Horde. Hope you die again, now. Get smashed in arena.”
“Someone isn’t keeping a short-enough leash on their livestock,” Ar’rat growls as he reaches for the pouch on his belt.
Not even Ar’rat can scale the wall that separates the people on the arena floor from the ledge that my aggressor stands on, but I’ve seen him hit much smaller targets from much further away with the variety of throwing weapons he keeps in his pouch.
Before I can talk him out of demonstrating this skill, though, I hear the familiar voice of a newcomer to this conversation.
“The man you’re talking to has a name, maggot.” A female blood elf, the neutral expression on her beautiful face completely uncharacteristic of the belligerence in her voice, storms angrily towards my startled aggressor. “I’ll teach it to you, so that you can properly apologize to him.”
I recognize her immediately, not needing to notice that the colors and crest that she wears over her clothes are identical to the setup that adorns both the tabard covering Ar’rat’s armor and the one sewn into my robe.
This woman holds the rank of Paladin, trained by the renowned Blood Knights of Silvermoon. I wish that my friends would let this minor offense slide, but if they won’t be satisfied until this spectator has been punished, I trust this follower of the light to show more restraint in disciplining him than Ar’rat would.
Her target turns to face her as she comes within arm’s reach of him. Before he can react to her intervention, she snatches the collar of his crude shirt with her right hand and twists it to tighten her grip on it.
“Now,” she says, as she roughly shoves his back against the outer wall of the oversized tunnel. “This is how you say it: the first part is See, like what you do with your eyes, and the second part is One, like the number of seconds you have to apologize to Seiwan before I break your spine.”
I was once friends with one of Lordaeron’s leading linguists, and assuming he still occupies it, I know that this elf’s pronunciation of my name would make him roll in his grave. However, I don’t care to fight the colloquialism.
“Ugly elf not master! I no have…”
She doesn’t allow him to finish his protest. While firmly grasping his collar with her right hand, the left traverses the distance between its idle position at her side and the orc’s sternum with blinding speed.
Her bare knuckles connect with a sickening crunch. The orc’s ribcage caves to the blow, its constituent pieces bending and cracking to accommodate the penetrating fist.
The orc is slightly taller and much bulkier than his attacker, but such features do nothing to help him survive the wrath of someone infused with the power of the light.
The members of the audience that are close enough to witness the event can barely vocalize their surprise before her second strike draws blood. Using the force of her first hit to keep her victim pinned against the wall, she releases her grip on his ragged clothing and drives the back of her right forearm across his jaw.
Skin and teeth break as though they had been struck by steel. I’ve seen her slay full-grown ogres with less effort, albeit while wielding a warhammer and shield when she does.
Finished with her task, my ally casually rotates her left shoulder to toss the limp creature over the edge and onto the dusty arena floor.
“Look around, and know your place, peon.” She coldly looks down at her work. “It’s there at Seiwan’s feet. Work at it, and maybe you’ll be worthy to kiss them one day.”
She turns away and takes a step back towards her seat.
“Come now, you aren’t going to leave him like that are you?” I’d held my tongue for as long as I could endure, but I feel it’s time I said something. “Doesn’t walking the path of the Light involve showing mercy to the fallen?”
“I could pray to the Light all day, but in the end, there’s no cure for stupidity.” She looks into my eyes and tilts her head a little, letting her beautiful face and calm but confident stare melt my resolve. Reprimanding her feels as futile and insolent a task as reprimanding an angel would be.
I shoot Ar’rat an exasperated glance, hoping he might come to my aide. I can’t help but roll my eyes when I find him staring at the maimed spectator with a raised brow and a goofy grin. He’s profoundly amused by the little orc’s plight, and therefore an impediment to any possibility of saving it. I’m on my own.
“I’m grateful for your support, but I feel a little uneasy knowing he was reduced to this on my behalf.” I turn back to face her and motion at the small mound of dying orc.
“Fine, here.” She brings the massive tome hanging at her side up to her chest and opens it. After flipping a couple of pages, she holds the book steady with one hand and positions the other over its open face. With all the grace and beauty you’d expect of a female blood elf, she completes the familiar ritual. While it’s not a prayer I’m versed in, I recognize that she has bestowed the Blessing of Wisdom on the unconscious peon. “There. Now you can’t say that I didn’t try.”
A raspy groan reverberates through my throat and chest. She knows that I was asking her to heal his body, but still intentionally twists my request to further humiliate her prey. Why must she find such joy in spiting me?
Before I can say anything more, she turns and walks back to her seat. The crowd’s fanfare of laughter, whooping, and jeering prevents any further attempt I could make to call her back.
Ar’rat’s chest bounces with hearty laughter. I shake my head in quiet disapproval, but say nothing more. I’m aware that I could be flattered by how these two sword-and-board-types are continually protecting me, yet I still feel like I’m the one everyone’s laughing at.
I sigh and resolve to let it all go. I don’t agree with her methods, but I’m also not in any position to lecture her.
“I’m not sure how you find such morbid things funny.” I glance at my companion as I comment on his peculiarities.
With a subtle wave of my hand, I perform a simple rite for the peon. A quick look confirms that the light has obliged me; the edges of his wounds pulse with bright energy, and the gashes on his face shrink in time with each rhythmic flaring.
I catch a blur of movement from the corner of my eye, and after the thud and clamor of his landing fades, I pan my gaze to find a heavily-armored goblin standing in a cloud of disturbed dust a short distance to my right.
As I start to interpret the reason behind his arrival, a second, similarly-armed goblin plops onto the ground next to him. Apparently their errand is urgent enough to warrant risking potential injury by jumping from the high stadium floor that surrounds us.
“I was gonna complain about losing a paying customer, but it looks like you’ve made sure that we don’t.” The first jumper wears the goblin’s trademark grin, one that suggests mischievous intent. “That’s very big of you, all things considered.”
Ar’rat snorts a repressed laugh. I’m sure he’s found humor in this relatively short creature commenting on how ‘big’ I am.
“Hey, and don’t let what he said get to you.” His partner walks over to the injured orc and grabs a handful of its ragged clothing near the right shoulder. “If it’s of any consolation, I don’t think you smell nearly as bad as most of the other Forsaken do.”
“Why don’t you two gnomes stop your squawking and get that trash outta here?” Ar’rat seems annoyed by the goblin’s pseudo-compliment. “I’m sure you’d like to get back to tinkering with your mechano-strider, or whatever it is you people do with your free time.”
The first goblin snarls and reaches for the hilt of his spiked mace, which hangs from his belt. He takes a step towards Ar’rat, his eyes wide and his mouth contorted in rage.
“Yo, let it go Mac,” his partner suggests in a sympathetic tone. “Even if by some miracle you did beat this guy, all the goblins in Undermine wouldn’t be enough to save you from this crowd after you did.”
Begrudgingly, the more belligerent of the pair releases his weapon and walks over to join his partner. He roughly grabs the unconscious peon’s shirt by the left sleeve, and together the duo begins dragging him towards the tunnel we entered from.
“You’re really keen on starting fights today, aren’t you?” I glance inquisitively at Ar’rat. “’Cause that’s the only reason I can think of for you calling a Steamwheedle bruiser gnomish.”
“The only difference between goblins and gnomes that I know of is that I’ve never had a goblin steal my underpants.”
“Are we even sure that was a gnome?”
“Y’know, maybe it wasn’t a gnome. Maybe it was a goblin. I mean, look at what they’ve done to this place.” Ar’rat angrily thrusts his arm out to point towards the center of the arena. “I can’t tell what the difference is anymore.”
I can see what he means; most of the arena floor is a mess. The most obvious alterations that Ar’rat is referring to are two gigantic square holes in the earth.
If you were to divide the area into two halves, then the two pits that are dug deep into the Orgrimmar soil would straddle that line. Each is partially covered by large, crude wooden panels, which seem inadequate for their apparent purpose of keeping someone from falling into the void below them.
The rest of the ground is littered with various junk. A plethora of tools, half-finished contractions, and components are scattered everywhere. I’m not certain, but the fact that I can’t interpret a single one of their purposes makes me believe that this project is still in a very early stage.
“You can’t really mean that.” For some reason, I feel compelled to call Ar’rat’s bluff. “If you really thought of them as gnomes, then you would already have punted them into the audience, and the children that managed to catch them would be waiting for you to sign their new gnomes at the arena exit.”
Ar’rat seems surprised by something I’ve said. “Were you here for last year’s Brewfest?”
“No, why?” I ask.
“Because you just gave an exact description of how I celebrated it.”
I consider his statement for a moment, and realize that he’s given me the perfect opportunity to unleash my famous wit.
“Well then, it sounds like Brewfest is a real mis-gnome-er!”
I burst into laughter, but Ar’rat just looks at me like I’m crazy.
“What, nothing?” I manage through my persisting chuckle. “You know, misnomer, mis-gnome-er? Come on, that’s inspired.”
“You guys are just havin’ all sorts of fun over here, aren’t ya?”
I twitch, startled by the hoarse, menacing whisper coming from behind me. I grit my teeth and clench my fists; I was fully aware of the fact that this match had technically begun the moment that we had stepped into the arena, but that doesn’t make the coming task any easier.
My assailant doesn’t give me time to use his comment as a warning. I catch a glimpse of the thin metal wire he slings over my head before it’s thrust into my throat. He pulls me back roughly, so far that I begin to bend backward. It seems he’s shorter than me.
I scratch at the wire in my throat, but it’s far too late to try and prevent it from digging into my skin.
As a surprised gag escapes me, I think I hear the whoosh of air igniting nearby.
In a technique I haven’t seen used before, he jumps up and slams his knees into the small of my back. Using his garrote as support, like how a rider holds the reigns of his mount as it rears upward, he holds himself here, forcing my legs to bear both our bodies’ weight.
I let my knees give way and fall upon them. My attacker wrestles me further down, so that he’s pinning my chest to the ground from his perch on my upper back. All the while, his wire is still pinching my airway closed.
“Well, this is only a matter of time now.” His voice is thick with condescending arrogance, an effect that’s enhanced by the rattle of his Forsaken vocal chords. “Let’s see how our friends are doing, shall we?”
I was already keeping my eyes on Ar’rat’s situation before this suggestion. He had turned to assist me upon first hearing the assassin’s taunt, but my ears had not deceived me earlier; a fireball glances off the back of his right shoulder, taking a good piece of molten armor with it.
Ar’rat stumbles a couple steps forward from the force of the blow, reflexively cradling his shoulder as he does.
The source of the magical projectile is a troll, knees bent into a crouch and back arched into a long crescent. He’s concealing his hands behind his waist on the right, but I can easily see the tongues of flame licking from them as he prepares his next spell.
Ar’rat whirls back around, brandishing his axe as he stands up to full height. After a deep intake of breath, he steps forward and throws his body weight into a deafening, prolonged roar at his opponent. Even from my position on the ground behind him, I can see strands of saliva being expelled from his mouth by the force of his shout.
His bellowing fades as he springs into a mad charge. Each step takes him further than I could go with my best leap, and the thud of one of his footsteps can barely dissipate before the next one sounds.
The way that he lets the remnant of his right shoulder-plate repeatedly bounce and scratch against his seared flesh proves that his furious drive won’t be slowed by anything so marginal as pain.
The mage faces the barreling mass of angry orc and continues his conjuration with admirable conviction. He rotates his shoulders to bring his arms forward and straightens his elbows to face his flaming palms towards Ar’rat. As though his arms had guided it in the same way a blunderbuss’s barrel guides a cluster of shot, a large orb of flame streaks swiftly towards its target.
The trajectory is perfect. As Ar’rat and the miniature meteor approach collision, I begin to wonder if he is so lost to his rage that he’ll take a dangerous hit to his chest. While it certainly wouldn’t be enough to kill or even stop my brutish friend, it could create an opening for a spell that might be capable of such an end.
My concern quickly proves unfounded. Ar’rat tilts his body and thrusts his left shoulder forward. He confronts the coming flame with a dramatic lunge, recklessly plowing his shoulder into the blaze.
The collision is deafening. Ar’rat’s body shivers from the impact, but that’s about the extent of the damage he takes from it. The mass of fire splashes against this bulbous section of his armor and breaks, rings of smoke and flame rippling over the crumpled metal’s surface as it disperses.
The maneuver puts Ar’rat’s upper body too far ahead of his feet for them to prevent his fall, so he uses his left arm to take the next step in his charge. He lets the entirety of his weight pivot on that limb, a feat that would break even most orcs’ bones in several places, and swivels his body to ensure that his right foot is in place for its next step.
Ar’rat continues to rush his opponent without any noticeable momentum lost to the crash. The crowd’s collective voice grows significantly louder in reaction to the display.
I watch the mage’s face intently for a moment, and when I see no change in his expression, I know that my turn has arrived. I don’t know the arcane arts well enough to predict what he’ll do next, but I do know the face of someone that hasn’t exhausted all his contingencies.
I stop clutching futilely at my throat and move my arms to prepare my intervention. With my right arm outstretched to point my fist at Ar’rat, I bring my left hand behind the portion of wire between the garrote’s left handle and the section that’s digging deeply into my neck.
Whether or not the individual that’s crouched on my back is aware of how overrated I believe the act of breathing is, I doubt his tactic would have changed. The only way to make sure I can’t interfere with his friend’s attack on Ar’rat is to prevent me from speaking, and closing the connection between my mouth and lungs is a good way to do it.
With one quick motion, I rotate my left arm at the elbow, bringing my open fingers to travel along the wire and to my neck. With all the force I can muster, I wedge the digits between the instrument and the skin on my neck until the knuckles rest against my trachea.
With my windpipe open, I use the air that had remained trapped in my lungs to utter a single word of power.
“Shield!”
Ar’rat’s figure is instantly outlined by a radiant light, and in the fleeting moment that transpires between the invocation and the spell’s completion, the edges of this orcish apparition expand from his body.
In an instant, the light forms into an egg-shaped shell around him and hardens. The spell is a clear success; the power of Ar’rat’s soul will buffer the damage he might incur from the mage’s next move.
Too quickly to be a reaction to this phenomenon, the mage seems to explode with arcane energy so potent that it arcs visibly from his body. A spurt of fire escapes from the still-connected palms that this troll has leveled at Ar’rat.
The tiny flame grows exponentially, becoming a sphere that easily dwarfs the last projectile in size. Ar’rat has brought himself so close to his target that he has no time to prepare a defense.
I thank the Light when Ar’rat is swallowed up by this massive orb. The way it wraps around his charging figure tells me that the solidified light of his soul will protect him from the bulk of the blast.
A raspy grunt of surprised frustration from my captor can barely be heard above the tumult from the startled crowd. The wire at my throat loosens and falls away as I hear the sound of sharpened steel being ripped from its leather sheathe. The blade is quickly and repeatedly plunged into various parts of my back.
No matter how many times he stabs me or how much he tries to consider what he should have done differently, any opportunity that this savage had to properly silence me has passed.
The inferno that impedes my view of Ar’rat and his prey swirls and dissipates to reveal what has happened since its birth. My ally has finished closing the distance that had separated them, but before he can take a swing, a blast of frigid air emanates in an expanding circle from the troll’s feet.
Upon reaching them, the misty energy gathers around Ar’rat’s boots and solidifies, binding him to the ground.
I blink for a moment, and suddenly the mage has disappeared from his previous position and reappeared several yards behind his assailant. I never have fully understood how his kind can move such distances without taking a single step.
Ar’rat remains locked in place, desperately trying to yank his frozen feet from their icy bonds.
Summoning ice in this desert heat shows that our opponent has good control over his magic, but that doesn’t stop it from being a transparent spell. Even a novice priest could unravel it in an instant, and I waste no time in doing just that.
As mysteriously as it had appeared, the ice melts and splashes to the floor. Ar’rat doesn’t pause to contemplate his freedom, immediately whipping around to finalize his capture of this elusive troll.
I can’t see his face, but the mage’s body language tells me that he’s out of options. His whole body trembles as Ar’rat finally comes within axe’s reach of him.
As always, his form is magnificent. Turning his last step into a small leap, Ar’rat coils his body and rotates his arms to bring the axe back as far as he can. Augmented by the elastic recoil of his pose, Ar’rat’s blade causes the air it cleaves to sing as it bears down upon its target.
From my position behind the troll, it almost looks like the axe passes right through him. Ar’rat follows through with the swing, and his blade embeds itself deep into the hardened Orgrimmar clay.
As the sound of broken rock reverberates through the arena, a fountain of blood erupts from the troll’s torso. “Blood and Thunder” is one of many phrases that orcish soldiers use as both a greeting and a battle cry, and I can’t help but wonder if that particular saying was born from a scenario similar to the one I’m witnessing now.
The crowd erupts into a thunderous chorus of masculine cheers. The ground literally trembles from the low pitch and sheer force of their collective shouting.
The mage looks down at his injury, as if to confirm that he’s truly sustained it. Upon seeing it, he wraps his arms around his chest and rears up to full height. His head tilts backward and a feeble croak escapes his lips before he falls to the floor.
Slowly, he coils into a fetal position.
I notice that Ar’rat has not paused to celebrate his victory. Leaving his weapon embedded into the earth, he begins to close the distance he’s created between us and him.
Looking at his cold, furious expression, I feel compelled to try and subdue his target with somewhat more merciful methods than he would.
I close my eyes and let my jaw drop. I’m not fond of unleashing this ability, but you’d think otherwise when considering how often I use it.
The sound that escapes my mouth is little more than a hoarse breath, but I know that the sound assaulting my target’s mind is maddeningly loud. I instantly feel his weight, albeit not his knife, lifted from my back, and I hear his feet scrabbling backward as he tries to retreat from the noise.
I climb to my feet as quickly as I can and turn to face him. Knowing that both of us having looked death in the eye, I’m aware that my trick will not last long on him.
He had been clutching his bald, pallid head with his hands, a common reaction for those who are subjected to a foreign voice that screams inside their head, but now he lowers them back towards the weapons at his waist.
His expression is filled with enmity, and I get the feeling that he believes I’m trying to humiliate him somehow. These Ravenholdt types always have such a self-centered disposition, and I fear he’ll misinterpret my defense mechanism as a personal insult. Our kind tends to enact a very juvenile retribution to such affronts, and I have no desire to be subjected to such ‘justice.’
As he takes his first step towards me, I bring my left arm upward to face its open palm at him. With the utterance of a single syllable, I unleash an unpleasant Word upon him.
“Pain.”
Immediately after finishing this first, simpler spell, I focus on the invocation necessary for imploring the light to momentarily vacate his mind. This will undoubtedly have explosive ramifications on his nervous system.
It would be hard for an outsider to tell, but my spell is obviously a success. His eyes widen and he tips forward mid-stride, as if he’s lost consciousness.
He quickly recovers from this cognitive assault, however, and finishes stumbling his way into arm’s reach of me.
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask a member of your hypocrite priesthood.” The hatred in his voice is warranted; after all, he is still afflicted by the wrath of that particularly cruel Shadow Word: Pain. “How can you claim to live a virtuous life when you’re so quick to use these disgusting spells against people?”
It’s a question I’ve been asked before, and I’ve resolved to always answer it with the same statement.
“It is only natural for one who wields the light to control the shadows.”
He angrily scoffs at my response. With serpentine speed, he whips his left hand down to his belt and pulls another dagger from its sheath. With impressive skill, he twirls it several times over his palm before tightly gripping the hilt, reversing the blade to rest adjacent his thumb.
He brings his arm across his chest until his hand rests near the opposite shoulder, and an image of the coming strike plays in my head. He’s going to slash at my throat.
My body’s not quick enough to avoid the attack, but my mind is quick enough to concoct a means to mitigate the damage.
I tilt my neck and hunch forward, effectively lowering my head several inches. In the same moment, my enemy slashes at the spot that my throat had just occupied.
The guard that separates the blade and hilt slams into my cheek, and the force of his blow knocks me off balance. My head and upper body rotate right from the force of the impact. As I take a step to avoid falling, the tip of his knife carves a trench into my cheek, marking its path before his swing brings it clear of my skin.
His weapon barely departs my face before an oversized green fist latches onto his forearm, completely halting its movement. Ar’rat slams violently into his opponent’s brittle body with his semi-armored shoulder, his momentum instantly lifting the little undead off his feet.
Ar’rat takes a couple more steps before thrusting his right side upward and stopping abruptly, sending his unwitting passenger flying through the air. Before he can hit the ground, I notice that a portion of his victim’s arm, from the elbow down, has been severed and is still tightly locked in Ar’rat’s hand.
The limp figure hits the ground and bounces, the angle of impact sending his unconscious body into a lateral spin. He lands again and rolls for several yards, his body unnaturally still and his joints all bent in the wrong direction when he finally stops.
The crowd collectively bellows its satisfaction.
Ar’rat takes a few hastened, agitated breaths before he can calm himself down. His expression quickly relaxes to neutral and his eyes lose some intensity before he finally turns to look at me.
I struggle to get my hand around the hilt of the dagger that’s still embedded in my back as he approaches me. He looks as though he wants to say something, but I doubt I could hear him over the intense roar of the audience.
Upon reaching me, his eyes quickly dart between my injuries, and after casually pulling on my arm to forcefully rotate my body so he can glance at my back, he seems satisfied. It’s both amusing and irritating, how he treats me like a commodity.
Ar’rat raises his arms and slowly pumps them downward several times. The crowd quickly and obediently quiets down.
“Little more than an hour ago…” Ar’rat begins shouting a combination victory speech and story. He’s eloquent for an orc, but some imperfection in his grammar will serve him well with this crowd. “Me and these wretches that lie on the arena floor got into an argument at Gryshka’s place. That troll and this forsaken told me that honor on the battlefield is a thing of the past, and will only serve to get a warrior killed. They claim that only fools do battle without stabbing their enemies in the back or throwing balls of fire at them from a safe distance.”
The crowd breaks their silence with various cries of outrage and protest over the statement, and it takes Ar’rat several seconds to calm them down.
“As a warrior of the Horde, I couldn’t just sit there and let them say something so cowardly. I believe that true victory can only be won when it’s achieved with honor. I challenged them to prove their words by defeating me and an ally in combat, and they accepted. This is what brought all of you here today!”
The crowd reacts with an incoherent murmur of jumbled opinion, but Ar’rat continues before their attention can wander. As he speaks, I start shambling my way over to the fallen mage.
“The terms were simple. If, when this duel was over, either or both of them still stood when me and my ally could not, that would mean that I was wrong to challenge their words. Also, should we defeat them by using any dishonorable tactic, I would admit defeat. Now, Orgrimmar, Gorlach only invited you all here to be entertained, but I ask you to decide the outcome of my argument with these men.”
Ar’rat can probably already be heard all over the city, but he miraculously raises the volume of his voice to issue his request, “Tell me, Orgrimmar! Tell me the name of the victor! Who won this contest?!”
“Ar’rat! Ar’rat! Ar’rat!” The crowd cheers with deafening enthusiasm.
He relishes in their proclamation for a few moments. With his arms angled towards the sky and hands flattened, he looks as if he’s accepting some gift from the heavens.
“Do not hate or ridicule the defeated.” It seems that however rowdy this audience gets, Ar’rat will always manage to make his words loud enough to reach them. “Loss is the only way for the weak to become strong, and should they survive this day, they will be fully worthy of their status as members of the Horde.”
Ar’rat concludes by straightening to full height and knocking twice on the remains of his breastplate in a traditional orcish salute. “Strength and honor, Orgrimmar!”
Many of his addressees return the gesture, and the remainder continues their enthusiastic chanting.
I’ve reached the wounded mage and begun inspecting his injuries. Ar’rat’s attack was shallower than usual, and only cleaved through the sternum and a couple of adjacent ribs. The amount of blood is tremendous, but enough of his bones and muscle remain to prevent his ribcage from opening.
It’s obvious that, if he were left alone any longer, this would be fatal. Luckily, this is still nothing that the Light can’t reverse.
It’s hard to concentrate over the noise that the crowd is making, but I let myself slip into the mumbling trance that accompanies the most difficult and lengthy heal in my arsenal. He may have been my enemy a few moments ago, but it is as Ar’rat said. These enemies are worthy soldiers of the Horde, and therefore deserving of my aide.
After a few seconds, a column of light descends from the air above him and onto his body. There is a sound like singing crystal as it pours over his wounds, which rapidly close. As I watch, the color returns to his face, and his newly-rebuilt chest begins to rise and fall with breath.
Lost in my concentration, I hadn’t noticed Ar’rat approaching me until now. I turn my head when he claps his massive hand on my shoulder.
“What’s the diagnosis, did I kill him dead dead or only kill him kinda dead?”
“He’ll recover. Is he lucky that he isn’t in two pieces, or does he owe you thanks for holding back?”
“Oh, come on. I wouldn’t butcher these rookies like I would a real enemy.”
“That’s pretty forgiving of you. I don’t think that pyromaniac was going to show you the same courtesy.”
“I’m glad you helped me with that last spell and all, but I think we all knew that even that thing wouldn’t have stopped me.”
“That’s not what worries me.” I frown, wondering if I should vocalize my thoughts. “It’s the willingness to use such a destructive weapon against an ally that bothers me.”
“Yeah, we’ve been over that.” Ar’rat grins patiently. “I know it doesn’t really help coming from the guy that asked you to participate in a tradition you don’t approve of, but that’s what it means to step into the arena. You’ve got to come willing to pull out all the stops.”
“Yeah, I know. I should just shut up and go with it.” I sigh and shake my head in an attempt to clear it. “Let’s go have a look at the other guy.”
“I bet he would have been fine before they got to him.” Ar’rat motions over his shoulder with his right thumb.
I turn to see what he’s talking about, and find that a large group of goblins are huddled around our undead opponent. Many of them are wearing pieces of clothing with the emblem of a red cross transposed over a white circle, signifying their position in the arena’s medical staff.
I groan loudly. This is going to be bad.
I start walking towards them with as much speed as my injuries will allow me, and consider calling out to them, but I doubt they could hear me over their panicked chattering. I hear Ar’rat’s footsteps following close behind me.
One goblin finishes attaching a couple of strange wires to symmetrical points on the unconscious Forsaken agent’s chest. Following the wires to their source, I find a few goblins clustered around a large metal cube, its surface a convoluted array of switches and buttons.
One of the goblins takes a deep breath and nearly pushes one of the buttons, but stops just before he does. He brings his hands to the goggles propped up on his forehead and maneuvers them into position over his eyes.
Satisfied, his hand drifts back to the contraption at his feet.
The box explodes violently, knocking the nearest goblins off their feet. The rest of them scurry away, screeching incoherently.
The instigating goblin is hidden behind the resulting smokescreen for several seconds, but as the thickest parts begin ascending into the atmosphere, I’m able to spot him. He’s running in blind, agitated circles a few yards away from his malfunctioned instrument.
He screams in frustration and pain, clutching at the oozing wounds in his chest.
These creatures always baffle me. Not only do they think that they can fix a living thing with the same outrageous contraptions that they use to repair machines, but they only manage to create more casualties whenever they try to administer treatment.
Like the crowd all around us, Ar’rat bursts into hysterical laughter. I glance over my shoulder at him, and roll my eyes when I see him clutching his sides and struggling to breathe.
“Oh, man, that’s good stuff,” he finally manages. “This is the only reason I can see for anyone liking these guys more than gnomes. Not only do they save me the effort of having to slaughter them, but they manage to kill themselves in the most entertaining ways.”
“They just made my job much more difficult,” I grumble.
“That’s goblins for you. They gave Morgual some device that was supposed to teleport him to Everlook, but I tell ya, he isn’t the same Tauren that he was before he tried usin’ it.”
“Lots of their stuff seems like it would be really convenient if it worked.”
“Even if all the stuff they sell worked every time, I still don’t like how they think our war efforts are nothing more than opportunities to swindle the Horde with their dangerous gimmicks.”
“Hey, maybe that’s the inspiration behind the name they’ve given their capitol.” I start cackling in amusement even before I unleash my pun. “As long as someone on this world lives to make some kind of effort, the goblins are sure to be here to Undermine it!”
I laugh uncontrollably, and the unintentionally ominous sound of that laughter only catalyzes its severity. It rarely comes to bear, but this pun would surely be remembered as testament that Seiwan actually does have a sense of humor.
Ar’rat cocks a skeptical eyebrow at me. “I don’t know how you think that such stupid things are funny.”
“So before you roped me into this thing,” I change the subject after I manage to suppress my laughter. “I was preparing to oblige a request from the Argent Dawn to give them a hand with some investigation up at Light’s Hope. I don’t know what they think is about to happen, but I’m under the impression that they’re feeling threatened. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you coming along, if you want a chance for some gold and some action.”
“Are you kidding? After today, traveling by goblin zeppelin is the last thing I want to do.”
I smile and shake my head in bemusement. Typically, goblins are considered to be full members of the horde, but Ar’rat isn’t the only soldier I know that has a hard time tolerating their presence. A growing number of us seem to be adopting that disposition, which is thematic to a conundrum that I’ve been stewing over for a long while now.
We of the Forsaken were all citizens of Lordaeron at one point, myself included. All citizens of Lordaeron were, by association, members of the Alliance, and the Alliance was created for one purpose: to fight the Horde.
I woke up one day to be told that I had died as a direct consequence of Arthas’s treachery, served as a mindless slave of the Lich King, and had become a member of the Horde upon my emancipation. Without a single conscious choice on my part, I had switched sides.
Less than a decade ago, I don’t think there was a single human in Tirisfal who would ever dream of associating with the orcs or their allies in any way. Now, the entire area is a thriving bastion of the Horde.
It was a hard reality for me to cope with, at first. How was it that I couldn’t even visit my beloved Northshire Abbey, the place that taught me the beauty of the Light and how to serve it, without being arrested or killed? How could an orc that was subjected to the horrors of the internment camps place the people responsible for their creation under his protection?
My questions only compounded in their quantity and complexity when I discovered that the High Elves had been ejected from their position as members of the Alliance. Subsequently, the Horde offered its shelter to the broken nation, and with their membership, Thrall’s armies found themselves fighting alongside the people they’d hated and battled against for generations.
If the unpaid debts that bound us to the Alliance could be forgotten, and if the atrocities committed by both the Horde and our people could be forgiven, what reason do we have for war? Why is it that we fight at all? How can there be a purpose behind conflict when the line between the conflicting sides has become so blurry?
I’ve now come within range of the injured and panicking goblin that had been operating the faulty device. I inspect him briefly, then quickly cast a quick heal to relieve him of the many wounds that cover his chest.
The pieces of shrapnel that caused all of his injuries are slowly expelled from the same gashes that they entered from. The goblin watches with amazement and relief in his eyes, patting various parts of his torso several times to make sure that he’s truly recovered from the blast.
“Thanks!” He glances at me, his grin and his word of gratitude strangely nonchalant. Quickly, he turns towards one of his random colleagues and lets his face melt into a look of rage. “Which one of you idiots put this thing together?! Do you know how stupid you’d have to be to mess that up?! There’s nothing that the blueprints call for that could explode, even if you tried to force them to, so how did this blow up when I turned it on?!”
As the goblins begin squabbling amongst themselves, I come to the conclusion that none of them need any immediate attention from me. I focus my gaze on the fallen mage’s ally, and begin to repeat the same ritual I had used to save that troll.
Despite how counterintuitive it feels to me, I’ve come to the conclusion that war is a necessary part of our world. Just as we need fishermen and farmers to obtain the food we eat, just as we need carpenters and blacksmiths to make the buildings that shelter us from the elements, and just as we need craftsmen and tailors to make the equipment we need to perform our duties, we need soldiers to make our nation strong.
War is a kind of craft for our world, a tool we use to further civilization’s survivability. After all, without war to toughen and teach our warriors, the Alliance and Horde would never have been able to survive the malevolent inhabitants of Blackrock Mountain, the flood of horrors that emerged from the gates of Ahn’Qiraj, or any of the various invasions by the Burning Legion.
I can’t pretend to know why Azeroth must suffer as much as it does; sometimes it seems like there’s some being out there, higher even than the Titans, that somehow profits from our endless struggle, and that it works to make sure that we never stop fighting.
But as long as this trend continues, as long as the Alliance and Horde must sharpen themselves by killing each other so that they can cleave through the continuous threats that appear before them, I’ll be here to do my part. As long as the evils we keep miraculously defeating are busy trying to destroy us, I’m happy to work as an artisan in this world of the war-craft.
Perhaps there are other worlds out there with peaceful, happy inhabitants that can go about their lives because we’re here to keep the Legion from advancing upon them. Even that possibility is enough to motivate me to carry on.
Even if I must resolve to accept war as a necessary evil, I still wish I could find a way to unite my comrades a little more securely. As cohesive as the Forsaken seems to be, there’s still a frustrating amount of contention amongst us.
I finish casting my most powerful heal on the Forsaken at my feet, and after looking at him for a moment, I wonder if he’ll hate me after he wakes up.
A surprisingly-prominent faction of Undercity citizens is opposed to our membership in the Horde, and a few of the more radical ones pester Sylvanas daily in hopes that she’ll change her mind and turn on our allies. There’s even this rumor going around that Apothecary Putress has been performing horrific experiments on some of our troll, tauren, and orcish allies, hoping that he can create a plague that could kill any and all life on Azeroth.
I don’t want to believe that stuff about the Putress fellow; he seems like such a nice guy! Still, when members of the Horde are constantly talking about someone betraying another or how we should go kill each other in the arena, it’s hard to look at the bright side of our lives.
I think that’s Undercity’s biggest detriment right now; we’re so caught up in getting revenge for the wrongs that have been done to us that we don’t take the time to be thankful for all the good things we’ve received.
We died once, but the method by which we were slain gave us a second life; we are undead. We were shackled to the Lich King’s will, but thanks to some lucky circumstances and the Dark Lady’s efforts, we were freed; we are unchained.
Once our wills were our own, we found that our kinsmen had shunned us, and before long we began calling ourselves Forsaken. However, our former enemies in the Horde gave us their hand in friendship when they had every reason to mistrust us. We now have a place where we belong.
Considering this, wouldn’t it be more appropriate to call ourselves the Unforsaken?
Oh well. GG, whoever won. Sarah I think her name was. I had fun. I can move on with life now!
The Unforsaken
“One minute to show-time, boys. Be sure to give the crowd their gold’s worth, yeah? Boss hates it when ‘contestants’ don’t give our patrons a good reason to come back for the next-”
“Don’t think for a moment you’re in a position to give me any kind of advice, Goblin.” Ar’rat’s voice is loud, low, and gruff; it’s no wonder that his addressee gives up trying to lecture him before the first syllable fully escapes his rugged lips. “This isn’t like those outfits you people run in Outland. We’re not prisoners or mercenaries. This is the Ring of Valor, and even though your employer has provided me with a convenient opportunity, you people won’t get away with casting your money-grubbing taint on that name. Remind your ‘boss’ of that.”
“You’re right, I’m very sorry!” The goblin squeals and his ears slump, and he looks very much like a worg does when anticipating being struck by its master. “Good luck, and may your quarrel be settled honorably.”
The goblin’s parting words are out of character, and the way he scurries out of the hallway makes it clear that it’s his fear talking. I feel a sympathetic kind of amusement as I consider his position; I know my orcish comrades well enough to tell that Ar’rat wasn’t angry, but this goblin was understandably convinced that he was seconds away from getting an axe to the skull.
The lighthearted mood only lasts for a moment; the task before me is not one I’m looking forward to, necessary as it might be. With a reluctant sigh, I look towards our destination at the opposite end of the large hallway we’re standing in.
“I must admit, I don’t see much about this place that differs from the Circle of Blood or the Ring of Trials.” I imagine that the ground around the square of light at the end of this tunnel is still littered with the bones of gladiators that weren’t lucky enough to survive their bouts. “It all seems equally barbaric to me.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less of you, my friend, and I am sorry to put you through this,” Ar’rat speaks as gently as an orc can manage to. “You see all the arenas as the same because you hate conflict in general; that little rat sees all the arenas as the same because violence is always profitable.” He spits this last word out like he would bad meat. “Unlike his, yours is an honorable view. I’m sorry to even bring you here.”
“Think nothing of it.” It took a long time for me to become accustomed to the hoarse rattling sounds that come from my decayed vocal chords, and longer before I finally accepted the voice they compose as my own. “It is not my place to pass judgment on this practice. Just because I lack understanding for the honor and glory you find on the battlefield does not mean I believe it an invalid aspiration to seek such things. Take my being here as approval for your reasons.”
“The very nature of my challenge makes you the only choice I have, Seiwan.” Ar’rat always speaks more eloquently than is expected of his race. The size of the canines on his prominent mandible dictate that his mouth always hang just slightly open, and there has been many a human that has mistaken this as a sign of stupidity. Often, it becomes a fatal mistake. “Please forgive me.”
“You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness, and compared to the debt I owe you, this favor is insignificant.”
A low, resonating beat sounds in the distance and rumbles its way towards us. Orgrimmar’s timekeeper is simultaneously marking the new hour and signaling the start of our battle.
As we begin closing the distance that separates us from the arena floor, the dormant fear and dread I have for the battlefield begins to stir. It is true that I am determined to go through with this, but I find that the path I walk rarely brings me to the places I want to be. I suppose it is to be expected of even a Forsaken clergyman.
I don’t try to hide my quickening breath or trembling extremities as we walk. It would be un-pious of me to discredit the fear I feel, for it’s the very quality that necessitates discipline, which I’ll need to fulfill my duty to Ar’rat.
Besides, he’s the only one who might notice these symptoms, and will probably interpret these as much a common occurrence for the walking dead as blinking is for the living. He wouldn’t be far from the truth, if so.
I glance at him to confirm that he is fully ready for this. Indeed, he is bearing all of his favorite arms and armor. It’s rare, even in the times that we should supposedly be relaxing in the safety of a Horde bastion, to see him without the dull luster of his armor.
In my countless days of walking the streets of Lordaeron, I became accustomed to the idea that armor was to be worn by a soldier only when he was on-duty. I quickly learned that, for the Horde warrior, things are very different. Even when you’re not out on patrol or guard detail, you are still not off-duty. For Ar’rat, duty does not end. Therefore, the armor does not come off very often.
I often find myself contemplating the differences between human and orcish practices. I have seen plenty of soldiers from both the Alliance and the Horde, and I don’t think there’s anyone in this world who can understand the nature of their strife without that perspective.
Even something as seemingly trivial as how the opposing factions value ‘beauty’ plays an important role in uncovering the nature of our constant war. There’s plenty of talk among the people of the Alliance about the filthiness of the Horde’s people. Having fought alongside them, I now understand what the humans only thought they understood.
Ar’rat’s jet-black hair is greasy, and matted to everything from the prominent widow’s peak at the top of his skull on down to the nape of his neck. His green skin is calloused all over his body, and covered in scars. His teeth are sharp and stained yellow, but none of this is a product of his lack of appreciation for hygiene.
Hair can fall in front of your eyes when it’s healthy and clean. It also becomes a liability if someone can grab and pull it, so it makes sense to keep it cemented to your skin, and therefore out of enemy hands.
Regular bathing would keep his skin soft and smooth, but these are not commodities a fighter seeks in his natural armor. After all, it’s easier to avoid being distracted by minor wounds when you don’t feel any pain from them.
Everything about this orc is toned for battle. His odor and appearance are not a symptom of his negligence, but exist as proof of his loyalty to the Horde. Ar’rat is not negligent by any means; he simply believes that victory is his one and only priority.
That dedication may easily be the only thing that’s allowed him to survive his countless battles with the Alliance.
Besides, no amount of hygiene helps you when you’re dead. I’m un-living proof of that. Bathing is the last thing you want to do if you wish to keep decayed flesh from stinking.
We are nearing the exit of our dark passage, and the excited murmur of the spectators begins to reach us. A glance at my companion reveals that he is shaking uncontrollably, much like I had been before getting lost in my thoughts, though I know his condition is brought on by a very different cause.
“Please go.” My request is sincere. “It will make things much easier for me.”
He does not hesitate. Ar’rat springs from our ambling pace into a full-on sprint, completely ignorant of the prospect that his heavy plate armor should hinder such movement.
Just before he clears the threshold that divides the arena floor and the hallway, I slowly and deliberately lift my arm and straighten my wrist to point my scrawny index finger at him.
“Fortitude.”
By speaking this Word of power, I have completed the rite that will bestow this blessing on him. I could have waited until battle was upon us to beseech the Light’s protection for him, but it seemed prudent to let the effect bolster my friend’s imminent performance.
As the Power Word implies, the light’s blessing has further fortified Ar’rat’s already-durable physique. The resulting surge of vigor is subtle, but still noticeable.
He bursts into the light of the Orgrimmar afternoon that saturates the Ring of Valor. Stopping just outside the tunnel’s mouth, he raises his arms into a V, pumping the enormous axe in his right through the air as he bellows an incoherent and fearsome greeting to his audience.
His voice is still audible over the collective roar of the spectators’ response; an extraordinary feat, considering the fact that his audience consists of the fiercest, hardiest, and loudest of Azeroth’s many races.
“Ar’rat! Ar’rat! Ar’rat!” They chant his name in unison and with zeal; being a veteran of many battles, both in service to the Horde’s campaigns abroad and in the interest of domestic glory at this very arena, his name is well-known and well-respected throughout Durotar.
I know better than anyone that he deserves the reverence they shower upon him; I’ve been there to witness most of his countless exploits.
As I waddle my way into the blinding sunlight, I raise my right arm to shield my eyes. A devotion to the Light that transcended death hasn’t helped ease the pain it inflicts on my eyes, nor has the ample glaze that’s settled over them.
I can’t complain, though. I’m profoundly lucky that they’ve stayed with me after everything we’ve seen.
With the sleeve of my robe providing me some temporary protection, I sidle my way into Ar’rat’s ample shadow. I won’t be able to avoid exposing my leathery skin to the harsh sun once the match begins, but it’s always in my best interest to take even the most fleeting of opportunities to shelter myself.
I hear a light thwacking sound, and feel a slight impact against my left cheek. Puzzled, I bring my idle hand to my face and press my fingertips against the point of contact. Pulling them away, I see a clear, viscous fluid saturating my left index and middle fingers. After considering its consistency for a moment, I realize that I’ve been spit upon.
With a curious glance in the direction of the saliva’s assumed trajectory, I spot a solitary orc standing on the edge of the spectator’s platform above and behind us. He stares down at me with quivering eyes, pressing his hand against the portion of tunnel that rises above the bottom row of the amphitheater.
While being born an orc guarantees an individual a certain degree of imposition to their appearance, this one is notably feeble when compared to his brethren that are seated throughout the arena.
Those close enough to witness the incident react in various ways; some cheer for the little orc’s gesture, some shout their protest, but most of them simply laugh.
As my eyes meet his, the instigator recoils in some combination of fear and disgust, and I’m reminded that undeath has permanently melted my face into an intimidating grimace.
Bewildered but largely unconcerned, I start to turn away.
“Stinky undead not worthy. Not be here.” If the rags that drape over his relatively diminutive frame aren’t proof that he wasn’t born into the warrior caste, his grammar is.
“What’s this?” Ar’rat somehow catches the statement over the continuing murmur of the crowd, and turns to look at the heckler. I silently thank the light that he’s oblivious to the fact that this stranger had spit on me.
“Dead belong in ground, not in Horde. Hope you die again, now. Get smashed in arena.”
“Someone isn’t keeping a short-enough leash on their livestock,” Ar’rat growls as he reaches for the pouch on his belt.
Not even Ar’rat can scale the wall that separates the people on the arena floor from the ledge that my aggressor stands on, but I’ve seen him hit much smaller targets from much further away with the variety of throwing weapons he keeps in his pouch.
Before I can talk him out of demonstrating this skill, though, I hear the familiar voice of a newcomer to this conversation.
“The man you’re talking to has a name, maggot.” A female blood elf, the neutral expression on her beautiful face completely uncharacteristic of the belligerence in her voice, storms angrily towards my startled aggressor. “I’ll teach it to you, so that you can properly apologize to him.”
I recognize her immediately, not needing to notice that the colors and crest that she wears over her clothes are identical to the setup that adorns both the tabard covering Ar’rat’s armor and the one sewn into my robe.
This woman holds the rank of Paladin, trained by the renowned Blood Knights of Silvermoon. I wish that my friends would let this minor offense slide, but if they won’t be satisfied until this spectator has been punished, I trust this follower of the light to show more restraint in disciplining him than Ar’rat would.
Her target turns to face her as she comes within arm’s reach of him. Before he can react to her intervention, she snatches the collar of his crude shirt with her right hand and twists it to tighten her grip on it.
“Now,” she says, as she roughly shoves his back against the outer wall of the oversized tunnel. “This is how you say it: the first part is See, like what you do with your eyes, and the second part is One, like the number of seconds you have to apologize to Seiwan before I break your spine.”
I was once friends with one of Lordaeron’s leading linguists, and assuming he still occupies it, I know that this elf’s pronunciation of my name would make him roll in his grave. However, I don’t care to fight the colloquialism.
“Ugly elf not master! I no have…”
She doesn’t allow him to finish his protest. While firmly grasping his collar with her right hand, the left traverses the distance between its idle position at her side and the orc’s sternum with blinding speed.
Her bare knuckles connect with a sickening crunch. The orc’s ribcage caves to the blow, its constituent pieces bending and cracking to accommodate the penetrating fist.
The orc is slightly taller and much bulkier than his attacker, but such features do nothing to help him survive the wrath of someone infused with the power of the light.
The members of the audience that are close enough to witness the event can barely vocalize their surprise before her second strike draws blood. Using the force of her first hit to keep her victim pinned against the wall, she releases her grip on his ragged clothing and drives the back of her right forearm across his jaw.
Skin and teeth break as though they had been struck by steel. I’ve seen her slay full-grown ogres with less effort, albeit while wielding a warhammer and shield when she does.
Finished with her task, my ally casually rotates her left shoulder to toss the limp creature over the edge and onto the dusty arena floor.
“Look around, and know your place, peon.” She coldly looks down at her work. “It’s there at Seiwan’s feet. Work at it, and maybe you’ll be worthy to kiss them one day.”
She turns away and takes a step back towards her seat.
“Come now, you aren’t going to leave him like that are you?” I’d held my tongue for as long as I could endure, but I feel it’s time I said something. “Doesn’t walking the path of the Light involve showing mercy to the fallen?”
“I could pray to the Light all day, but in the end, there’s no cure for stupidity.” She looks into my eyes and tilts her head a little, letting her beautiful face and calm but confident stare melt my resolve. Reprimanding her feels as futile and insolent a task as reprimanding an angel would be.
I shoot Ar’rat an exasperated glance, hoping he might come to my aide. I can’t help but roll my eyes when I find him staring at the maimed spectator with a raised brow and a goofy grin. He’s profoundly amused by the little orc’s plight, and therefore an impediment to any possibility of saving it. I’m on my own.
“I’m grateful for your support, but I feel a little uneasy knowing he was reduced to this on my behalf.” I turn back to face her and motion at the small mound of dying orc.
“Fine, here.” She brings the massive tome hanging at her side up to her chest and opens it. After flipping a couple of pages, she holds the book steady with one hand and positions the other over its open face. With all the grace and beauty you’d expect of a female blood elf, she completes the familiar ritual. While it’s not a prayer I’m versed in, I recognize that she has bestowed the Blessing of Wisdom on the unconscious peon. “There. Now you can’t say that I didn’t try.”
A raspy groan reverberates through my throat and chest. She knows that I was asking her to heal his body, but still intentionally twists my request to further humiliate her prey. Why must she find such joy in spiting me?
Before I can say anything more, she turns and walks back to her seat. The crowd’s fanfare of laughter, whooping, and jeering prevents any further attempt I could make to call her back.
Ar’rat’s chest bounces with hearty laughter. I shake my head in quiet disapproval, but say nothing more. I’m aware that I could be flattered by how these two sword-and-board-types are continually protecting me, yet I still feel like I’m the one everyone’s laughing at.
I sigh and resolve to let it all go. I don’t agree with her methods, but I’m also not in any position to lecture her.
“I’m not sure how you find such morbid things funny.” I glance at my companion as I comment on his peculiarities.
With a subtle wave of my hand, I perform a simple rite for the peon. A quick look confirms that the light has obliged me; the edges of his wounds pulse with bright energy, and the gashes on his face shrink in time with each rhythmic flaring.
I catch a blur of movement from the corner of my eye, and after the thud and clamor of his landing fades, I pan my gaze to find a heavily-armored goblin standing in a cloud of disturbed dust a short distance to my right.
As I start to interpret the reason behind his arrival, a second, similarly-armed goblin plops onto the ground next to him. Apparently their errand is urgent enough to warrant risking potential injury by jumping from the high stadium floor that surrounds us.
“I was gonna complain about losing a paying customer, but it looks like you’ve made sure that we don’t.” The first jumper wears the goblin’s trademark grin, one that suggests mischievous intent. “That’s very big of you, all things considered.”
Ar’rat snorts a repressed laugh. I’m sure he’s found humor in this relatively short creature commenting on how ‘big’ I am.
“Hey, and don’t let what he said get to you.” His partner walks over to the injured orc and grabs a handful of its ragged clothing near the right shoulder. “If it’s of any consolation, I don’t think you smell nearly as bad as most of the other Forsaken do.”
“Why don’t you two gnomes stop your squawking and get that trash outta here?” Ar’rat seems annoyed by the goblin’s pseudo-compliment. “I’m sure you’d like to get back to tinkering with your mechano-strider, or whatever it is you people do with your free time.”
The first goblin snarls and reaches for the hilt of his spiked mace, which hangs from his belt. He takes a step towards Ar’rat, his eyes wide and his mouth contorted in rage.
“Yo, let it go Mac,” his partner suggests in a sympathetic tone. “Even if by some miracle you did beat this guy, all the goblins in Undermine wouldn’t be enough to save you from this crowd after you did.”
Begrudgingly, the more belligerent of the pair releases his weapon and walks over to join his partner. He roughly grabs the unconscious peon’s shirt by the left sleeve, and together the duo begins dragging him towards the tunnel we entered from.
“You’re really keen on starting fights today, aren’t you?” I glance inquisitively at Ar’rat. “’Cause that’s the only reason I can think of for you calling a Steamwheedle bruiser gnomish.”
“The only difference between goblins and gnomes that I know of is that I’ve never had a goblin steal my underpants.”
“Are we even sure that was a gnome?”
“Y’know, maybe it wasn’t a gnome. Maybe it was a goblin. I mean, look at what they’ve done to this place.” Ar’rat angrily thrusts his arm out to point towards the center of the arena. “I can’t tell what the difference is anymore.”
I can see what he means; most of the arena floor is a mess. The most obvious alterations that Ar’rat is referring to are two gigantic square holes in the earth.
If you were to divide the area into two halves, then the two pits that are dug deep into the Orgrimmar soil would straddle that line. Each is partially covered by large, crude wooden panels, which seem inadequate for their apparent purpose of keeping someone from falling into the void below them.
The rest of the ground is littered with various junk. A plethora of tools, half-finished contractions, and components are scattered everywhere. I’m not certain, but the fact that I can’t interpret a single one of their purposes makes me believe that this project is still in a very early stage.
“You can’t really mean that.” For some reason, I feel compelled to call Ar’rat’s bluff. “If you really thought of them as gnomes, then you would already have punted them into the audience, and the children that managed to catch them would be waiting for you to sign their new gnomes at the arena exit.”
Ar’rat seems surprised by something I’ve said. “Were you here for last year’s Brewfest?”
“No, why?” I ask.
“Because you just gave an exact description of how I celebrated it.”
I consider his statement for a moment, and realize that he’s given me the perfect opportunity to unleash my famous wit.
“Well then, it sounds like Brewfest is a real mis-gnome-er!”
I burst into laughter, but Ar’rat just looks at me like I’m crazy.
“What, nothing?” I manage through my persisting chuckle. “You know, misnomer, mis-gnome-er? Come on, that’s inspired.”
“You guys are just havin’ all sorts of fun over here, aren’t ya?”
I twitch, startled by the hoarse, menacing whisper coming from behind me. I grit my teeth and clench my fists; I was fully aware of the fact that this match had technically begun the moment that we had stepped into the arena, but that doesn’t make the coming task any easier.
My assailant doesn’t give me time to use his comment as a warning. I catch a glimpse of the thin metal wire he slings over my head before it’s thrust into my throat. He pulls me back roughly, so far that I begin to bend backward. It seems he’s shorter than me.
I scratch at the wire in my throat, but it’s far too late to try and prevent it from digging into my skin.
As a surprised gag escapes me, I think I hear the whoosh of air igniting nearby.
In a technique I haven’t seen used before, he jumps up and slams his knees into the small of my back. Using his garrote as support, like how a rider holds the reigns of his mount as it rears upward, he holds himself here, forcing my legs to bear both our bodies’ weight.
I let my knees give way and fall upon them. My attacker wrestles me further down, so that he’s pinning my chest to the ground from his perch on my upper back. All the while, his wire is still pinching my airway closed.
“Well, this is only a matter of time now.” His voice is thick with condescending arrogance, an effect that’s enhanced by the rattle of his Forsaken vocal chords. “Let’s see how our friends are doing, shall we?”
I was already keeping my eyes on Ar’rat’s situation before this suggestion. He had turned to assist me upon first hearing the assassin’s taunt, but my ears had not deceived me earlier; a fireball glances off the back of his right shoulder, taking a good piece of molten armor with it.
Ar’rat stumbles a couple steps forward from the force of the blow, reflexively cradling his shoulder as he does.
The source of the magical projectile is a troll, knees bent into a crouch and back arched into a long crescent. He’s concealing his hands behind his waist on the right, but I can easily see the tongues of flame licking from them as he prepares his next spell.
Ar’rat whirls back around, brandishing his axe as he stands up to full height. After a deep intake of breath, he steps forward and throws his body weight into a deafening, prolonged roar at his opponent. Even from my position on the ground behind him, I can see strands of saliva being expelled from his mouth by the force of his shout.
His bellowing fades as he springs into a mad charge. Each step takes him further than I could go with my best leap, and the thud of one of his footsteps can barely dissipate before the next one sounds.
The way that he lets the remnant of his right shoulder-plate repeatedly bounce and scratch against his seared flesh proves that his furious drive won’t be slowed by anything so marginal as pain.
The mage faces the barreling mass of angry orc and continues his conjuration with admirable conviction. He rotates his shoulders to bring his arms forward and straightens his elbows to face his flaming palms towards Ar’rat. As though his arms had guided it in the same way a blunderbuss’s barrel guides a cluster of shot, a large orb of flame streaks swiftly towards its target.
The trajectory is perfect. As Ar’rat and the miniature meteor approach collision, I begin to wonder if he is so lost to his rage that he’ll take a dangerous hit to his chest. While it certainly wouldn’t be enough to kill or even stop my brutish friend, it could create an opening for a spell that might be capable of such an end.
My concern quickly proves unfounded. Ar’rat tilts his body and thrusts his left shoulder forward. He confronts the coming flame with a dramatic lunge, recklessly plowing his shoulder into the blaze.
The collision is deafening. Ar’rat’s body shivers from the impact, but that’s about the extent of the damage he takes from it. The mass of fire splashes against this bulbous section of his armor and breaks, rings of smoke and flame rippling over the crumpled metal’s surface as it disperses.
The maneuver puts Ar’rat’s upper body too far ahead of his feet for them to prevent his fall, so he uses his left arm to take the next step in his charge. He lets the entirety of his weight pivot on that limb, a feat that would break even most orcs’ bones in several places, and swivels his body to ensure that his right foot is in place for its next step.
Ar’rat continues to rush his opponent without any noticeable momentum lost to the crash. The crowd’s collective voice grows significantly louder in reaction to the display.
I watch the mage’s face intently for a moment, and when I see no change in his expression, I know that my turn has arrived. I don’t know the arcane arts well enough to predict what he’ll do next, but I do know the face of someone that hasn’t exhausted all his contingencies.
I stop clutching futilely at my throat and move my arms to prepare my intervention. With my right arm outstretched to point my fist at Ar’rat, I bring my left hand behind the portion of wire between the garrote’s left handle and the section that’s digging deeply into my neck.
Whether or not the individual that’s crouched on my back is aware of how overrated I believe the act of breathing is, I doubt his tactic would have changed. The only way to make sure I can’t interfere with his friend’s attack on Ar’rat is to prevent me from speaking, and closing the connection between my mouth and lungs is a good way to do it.
With one quick motion, I rotate my left arm at the elbow, bringing my open fingers to travel along the wire and to my neck. With all the force I can muster, I wedge the digits between the instrument and the skin on my neck until the knuckles rest against my trachea.
With my windpipe open, I use the air that had remained trapped in my lungs to utter a single word of power.
“Shield!”
Ar’rat’s figure is instantly outlined by a radiant light, and in the fleeting moment that transpires between the invocation and the spell’s completion, the edges of this orcish apparition expand from his body.
In an instant, the light forms into an egg-shaped shell around him and hardens. The spell is a clear success; the power of Ar’rat’s soul will buffer the damage he might incur from the mage’s next move.
Too quickly to be a reaction to this phenomenon, the mage seems to explode with arcane energy so potent that it arcs visibly from his body. A spurt of fire escapes from the still-connected palms that this troll has leveled at Ar’rat.
The tiny flame grows exponentially, becoming a sphere that easily dwarfs the last projectile in size. Ar’rat has brought himself so close to his target that he has no time to prepare a defense.
I thank the Light when Ar’rat is swallowed up by this massive orb. The way it wraps around his charging figure tells me that the solidified light of his soul will protect him from the bulk of the blast.
A raspy grunt of surprised frustration from my captor can barely be heard above the tumult from the startled crowd. The wire at my throat loosens and falls away as I hear the sound of sharpened steel being ripped from its leather sheathe. The blade is quickly and repeatedly plunged into various parts of my back.
No matter how many times he stabs me or how much he tries to consider what he should have done differently, any opportunity that this savage had to properly silence me has passed.
The inferno that impedes my view of Ar’rat and his prey swirls and dissipates to reveal what has happened since its birth. My ally has finished closing the distance that had separated them, but before he can take a swing, a blast of frigid air emanates in an expanding circle from the troll’s feet.
Upon reaching them, the misty energy gathers around Ar’rat’s boots and solidifies, binding him to the ground.
I blink for a moment, and suddenly the mage has disappeared from his previous position and reappeared several yards behind his assailant. I never have fully understood how his kind can move such distances without taking a single step.
Ar’rat remains locked in place, desperately trying to yank his frozen feet from their icy bonds.
Summoning ice in this desert heat shows that our opponent has good control over his magic, but that doesn’t stop it from being a transparent spell. Even a novice priest could unravel it in an instant, and I waste no time in doing just that.
As mysteriously as it had appeared, the ice melts and splashes to the floor. Ar’rat doesn’t pause to contemplate his freedom, immediately whipping around to finalize his capture of this elusive troll.
I can’t see his face, but the mage’s body language tells me that he’s out of options. His whole body trembles as Ar’rat finally comes within axe’s reach of him.
As always, his form is magnificent. Turning his last step into a small leap, Ar’rat coils his body and rotates his arms to bring the axe back as far as he can. Augmented by the elastic recoil of his pose, Ar’rat’s blade causes the air it cleaves to sing as it bears down upon its target.
From my position behind the troll, it almost looks like the axe passes right through him. Ar’rat follows through with the swing, and his blade embeds itself deep into the hardened Orgrimmar clay.
As the sound of broken rock reverberates through the arena, a fountain of blood erupts from the troll’s torso. “Blood and Thunder” is one of many phrases that orcish soldiers use as both a greeting and a battle cry, and I can’t help but wonder if that particular saying was born from a scenario similar to the one I’m witnessing now.
The crowd erupts into a thunderous chorus of masculine cheers. The ground literally trembles from the low pitch and sheer force of their collective shouting.
The mage looks down at his injury, as if to confirm that he’s truly sustained it. Upon seeing it, he wraps his arms around his chest and rears up to full height. His head tilts backward and a feeble croak escapes his lips before he falls to the floor.
Slowly, he coils into a fetal position.
I notice that Ar’rat has not paused to celebrate his victory. Leaving his weapon embedded into the earth, he begins to close the distance he’s created between us and him.
Looking at his cold, furious expression, I feel compelled to try and subdue his target with somewhat more merciful methods than he would.
I close my eyes and let my jaw drop. I’m not fond of unleashing this ability, but you’d think otherwise when considering how often I use it.
The sound that escapes my mouth is little more than a hoarse breath, but I know that the sound assaulting my target’s mind is maddeningly loud. I instantly feel his weight, albeit not his knife, lifted from my back, and I hear his feet scrabbling backward as he tries to retreat from the noise.
I climb to my feet as quickly as I can and turn to face him. Knowing that both of us having looked death in the eye, I’m aware that my trick will not last long on him.
He had been clutching his bald, pallid head with his hands, a common reaction for those who are subjected to a foreign voice that screams inside their head, but now he lowers them back towards the weapons at his waist.
His expression is filled with enmity, and I get the feeling that he believes I’m trying to humiliate him somehow. These Ravenholdt types always have such a self-centered disposition, and I fear he’ll misinterpret my defense mechanism as a personal insult. Our kind tends to enact a very juvenile retribution to such affronts, and I have no desire to be subjected to such ‘justice.’
As he takes his first step towards me, I bring my left arm upward to face its open palm at him. With the utterance of a single syllable, I unleash an unpleasant Word upon him.
“Pain.”
Immediately after finishing this first, simpler spell, I focus on the invocation necessary for imploring the light to momentarily vacate his mind. This will undoubtedly have explosive ramifications on his nervous system.
It would be hard for an outsider to tell, but my spell is obviously a success. His eyes widen and he tips forward mid-stride, as if he’s lost consciousness.
He quickly recovers from this cognitive assault, however, and finishes stumbling his way into arm’s reach of me.
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask a member of your hypocrite priesthood.” The hatred in his voice is warranted; after all, he is still afflicted by the wrath of that particularly cruel Shadow Word: Pain. “How can you claim to live a virtuous life when you’re so quick to use these disgusting spells against people?”
It’s a question I’ve been asked before, and I’ve resolved to always answer it with the same statement.
“It is only natural for one who wields the light to control the shadows.”
He angrily scoffs at my response. With serpentine speed, he whips his left hand down to his belt and pulls another dagger from its sheath. With impressive skill, he twirls it several times over his palm before tightly gripping the hilt, reversing the blade to rest adjacent his thumb.
He brings his arm across his chest until his hand rests near the opposite shoulder, and an image of the coming strike plays in my head. He’s going to slash at my throat.
My body’s not quick enough to avoid the attack, but my mind is quick enough to concoct a means to mitigate the damage.
I tilt my neck and hunch forward, effectively lowering my head several inches. In the same moment, my enemy slashes at the spot that my throat had just occupied.
The guard that separates the blade and hilt slams into my cheek, and the force of his blow knocks me off balance. My head and upper body rotate right from the force of the impact. As I take a step to avoid falling, the tip of his knife carves a trench into my cheek, marking its path before his swing brings it clear of my skin.
His weapon barely departs my face before an oversized green fist latches onto his forearm, completely halting its movement. Ar’rat slams violently into his opponent’s brittle body with his semi-armored shoulder, his momentum instantly lifting the little undead off his feet.
Ar’rat takes a couple more steps before thrusting his right side upward and stopping abruptly, sending his unwitting passenger flying through the air. Before he can hit the ground, I notice that a portion of his victim’s arm, from the elbow down, has been severed and is still tightly locked in Ar’rat’s hand.
The limp figure hits the ground and bounces, the angle of impact sending his unconscious body into a lateral spin. He lands again and rolls for several yards, his body unnaturally still and his joints all bent in the wrong direction when he finally stops.
The crowd collectively bellows its satisfaction.
Ar’rat takes a few hastened, agitated breaths before he can calm himself down. His expression quickly relaxes to neutral and his eyes lose some intensity before he finally turns to look at me.
I struggle to get my hand around the hilt of the dagger that’s still embedded in my back as he approaches me. He looks as though he wants to say something, but I doubt I could hear him over the intense roar of the audience.
Upon reaching me, his eyes quickly dart between my injuries, and after casually pulling on my arm to forcefully rotate my body so he can glance at my back, he seems satisfied. It’s both amusing and irritating, how he treats me like a commodity.
Ar’rat raises his arms and slowly pumps them downward several times. The crowd quickly and obediently quiets down.
“Little more than an hour ago…” Ar’rat begins shouting a combination victory speech and story. He’s eloquent for an orc, but some imperfection in his grammar will serve him well with this crowd. “Me and these wretches that lie on the arena floor got into an argument at Gryshka’s place. That troll and this forsaken told me that honor on the battlefield is a thing of the past, and will only serve to get a warrior killed. They claim that only fools do battle without stabbing their enemies in the back or throwing balls of fire at them from a safe distance.”
The crowd breaks their silence with various cries of outrage and protest over the statement, and it takes Ar’rat several seconds to calm them down.
“As a warrior of the Horde, I couldn’t just sit there and let them say something so cowardly. I believe that true victory can only be won when it’s achieved with honor. I challenged them to prove their words by defeating me and an ally in combat, and they accepted. This is what brought all of you here today!”
The crowd reacts with an incoherent murmur of jumbled opinion, but Ar’rat continues before their attention can wander. As he speaks, I start shambling my way over to the fallen mage.
“The terms were simple. If, when this duel was over, either or both of them still stood when me and my ally could not, that would mean that I was wrong to challenge their words. Also, should we defeat them by using any dishonorable tactic, I would admit defeat. Now, Orgrimmar, Gorlach only invited you all here to be entertained, but I ask you to decide the outcome of my argument with these men.”
Ar’rat can probably already be heard all over the city, but he miraculously raises the volume of his voice to issue his request, “Tell me, Orgrimmar! Tell me the name of the victor! Who won this contest?!”
“Ar’rat! Ar’rat! Ar’rat!” The crowd cheers with deafening enthusiasm.
He relishes in their proclamation for a few moments. With his arms angled towards the sky and hands flattened, he looks as if he’s accepting some gift from the heavens.
“Do not hate or ridicule the defeated.” It seems that however rowdy this audience gets, Ar’rat will always manage to make his words loud enough to reach them. “Loss is the only way for the weak to become strong, and should they survive this day, they will be fully worthy of their status as members of the Horde.”
Ar’rat concludes by straightening to full height and knocking twice on the remains of his breastplate in a traditional orcish salute. “Strength and honor, Orgrimmar!”
Many of his addressees return the gesture, and the remainder continues their enthusiastic chanting.
I’ve reached the wounded mage and begun inspecting his injuries. Ar’rat’s attack was shallower than usual, and only cleaved through the sternum and a couple of adjacent ribs. The amount of blood is tremendous, but enough of his bones and muscle remain to prevent his ribcage from opening.
It’s obvious that, if he were left alone any longer, this would be fatal. Luckily, this is still nothing that the Light can’t reverse.
It’s hard to concentrate over the noise that the crowd is making, but I let myself slip into the mumbling trance that accompanies the most difficult and lengthy heal in my arsenal. He may have been my enemy a few moments ago, but it is as Ar’rat said. These enemies are worthy soldiers of the Horde, and therefore deserving of my aide.
After a few seconds, a column of light descends from the air above him and onto his body. There is a sound like singing crystal as it pours over his wounds, which rapidly close. As I watch, the color returns to his face, and his newly-rebuilt chest begins to rise and fall with breath.
Lost in my concentration, I hadn’t noticed Ar’rat approaching me until now. I turn my head when he claps his massive hand on my shoulder.
“What’s the diagnosis, did I kill him dead dead or only kill him kinda dead?”
“He’ll recover. Is he lucky that he isn’t in two pieces, or does he owe you thanks for holding back?”
“Oh, come on. I wouldn’t butcher these rookies like I would a real enemy.”
“That’s pretty forgiving of you. I don’t think that pyromaniac was going to show you the same courtesy.”
“I’m glad you helped me with that last spell and all, but I think we all knew that even that thing wouldn’t have stopped me.”
“That’s not what worries me.” I frown, wondering if I should vocalize my thoughts. “It’s the willingness to use such a destructive weapon against an ally that bothers me.”
“Yeah, we’ve been over that.” Ar’rat grins patiently. “I know it doesn’t really help coming from the guy that asked you to participate in a tradition you don’t approve of, but that’s what it means to step into the arena. You’ve got to come willing to pull out all the stops.”
“Yeah, I know. I should just shut up and go with it.” I sigh and shake my head in an attempt to clear it. “Let’s go have a look at the other guy.”
“I bet he would have been fine before they got to him.” Ar’rat motions over his shoulder with his right thumb.
I turn to see what he’s talking about, and find that a large group of goblins are huddled around our undead opponent. Many of them are wearing pieces of clothing with the emblem of a red cross transposed over a white circle, signifying their position in the arena’s medical staff.
I groan loudly. This is going to be bad.
I start walking towards them with as much speed as my injuries will allow me, and consider calling out to them, but I doubt they could hear me over their panicked chattering. I hear Ar’rat’s footsteps following close behind me.
One goblin finishes attaching a couple of strange wires to symmetrical points on the unconscious Forsaken agent’s chest. Following the wires to their source, I find a few goblins clustered around a large metal cube, its surface a convoluted array of switches and buttons.
One of the goblins takes a deep breath and nearly pushes one of the buttons, but stops just before he does. He brings his hands to the goggles propped up on his forehead and maneuvers them into position over his eyes.
Satisfied, his hand drifts back to the contraption at his feet.
The box explodes violently, knocking the nearest goblins off their feet. The rest of them scurry away, screeching incoherently.
The instigating goblin is hidden behind the resulting smokescreen for several seconds, but as the thickest parts begin ascending into the atmosphere, I’m able to spot him. He’s running in blind, agitated circles a few yards away from his malfunctioned instrument.
He screams in frustration and pain, clutching at the oozing wounds in his chest.
These creatures always baffle me. Not only do they think that they can fix a living thing with the same outrageous contraptions that they use to repair machines, but they only manage to create more casualties whenever they try to administer treatment.
Like the crowd all around us, Ar’rat bursts into hysterical laughter. I glance over my shoulder at him, and roll my eyes when I see him clutching his sides and struggling to breathe.
“Oh, man, that’s good stuff,” he finally manages. “This is the only reason I can see for anyone liking these guys more than gnomes. Not only do they save me the effort of having to slaughter them, but they manage to kill themselves in the most entertaining ways.”
“They just made my job much more difficult,” I grumble.
“That’s goblins for you. They gave Morgual some device that was supposed to teleport him to Everlook, but I tell ya, he isn’t the same Tauren that he was before he tried usin’ it.”
“Lots of their stuff seems like it would be really convenient if it worked.”
“Even if all the stuff they sell worked every time, I still don’t like how they think our war efforts are nothing more than opportunities to swindle the Horde with their dangerous gimmicks.”
“Hey, maybe that’s the inspiration behind the name they’ve given their capitol.” I start cackling in amusement even before I unleash my pun. “As long as someone on this world lives to make some kind of effort, the goblins are sure to be here to Undermine it!”
I laugh uncontrollably, and the unintentionally ominous sound of that laughter only catalyzes its severity. It rarely comes to bear, but this pun would surely be remembered as testament that Seiwan actually does have a sense of humor.
Ar’rat cocks a skeptical eyebrow at me. “I don’t know how you think that such stupid things are funny.”
“So before you roped me into this thing,” I change the subject after I manage to suppress my laughter. “I was preparing to oblige a request from the Argent Dawn to give them a hand with some investigation up at Light’s Hope. I don’t know what they think is about to happen, but I’m under the impression that they’re feeling threatened. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you coming along, if you want a chance for some gold and some action.”
“Are you kidding? After today, traveling by goblin zeppelin is the last thing I want to do.”
I smile and shake my head in bemusement. Typically, goblins are considered to be full members of the horde, but Ar’rat isn’t the only soldier I know that has a hard time tolerating their presence. A growing number of us seem to be adopting that disposition, which is thematic to a conundrum that I’ve been stewing over for a long while now.
We of the Forsaken were all citizens of Lordaeron at one point, myself included. All citizens of Lordaeron were, by association, members of the Alliance, and the Alliance was created for one purpose: to fight the Horde.
I woke up one day to be told that I had died as a direct consequence of Arthas’s treachery, served as a mindless slave of the Lich King, and had become a member of the Horde upon my emancipation. Without a single conscious choice on my part, I had switched sides.
Less than a decade ago, I don’t think there was a single human in Tirisfal who would ever dream of associating with the orcs or their allies in any way. Now, the entire area is a thriving bastion of the Horde.
It was a hard reality for me to cope with, at first. How was it that I couldn’t even visit my beloved Northshire Abbey, the place that taught me the beauty of the Light and how to serve it, without being arrested or killed? How could an orc that was subjected to the horrors of the internment camps place the people responsible for their creation under his protection?
My questions only compounded in their quantity and complexity when I discovered that the High Elves had been ejected from their position as members of the Alliance. Subsequently, the Horde offered its shelter to the broken nation, and with their membership, Thrall’s armies found themselves fighting alongside the people they’d hated and battled against for generations.
If the unpaid debts that bound us to the Alliance could be forgotten, and if the atrocities committed by both the Horde and our people could be forgiven, what reason do we have for war? Why is it that we fight at all? How can there be a purpose behind conflict when the line between the conflicting sides has become so blurry?
I’ve now come within range of the injured and panicking goblin that had been operating the faulty device. I inspect him briefly, then quickly cast a quick heal to relieve him of the many wounds that cover his chest.
The pieces of shrapnel that caused all of his injuries are slowly expelled from the same gashes that they entered from. The goblin watches with amazement and relief in his eyes, patting various parts of his torso several times to make sure that he’s truly recovered from the blast.
“Thanks!” He glances at me, his grin and his word of gratitude strangely nonchalant. Quickly, he turns towards one of his random colleagues and lets his face melt into a look of rage. “Which one of you idiots put this thing together?! Do you know how stupid you’d have to be to mess that up?! There’s nothing that the blueprints call for that could explode, even if you tried to force them to, so how did this blow up when I turned it on?!”
As the goblins begin squabbling amongst themselves, I come to the conclusion that none of them need any immediate attention from me. I focus my gaze on the fallen mage’s ally, and begin to repeat the same ritual I had used to save that troll.
Despite how counterintuitive it feels to me, I’ve come to the conclusion that war is a necessary part of our world. Just as we need fishermen and farmers to obtain the food we eat, just as we need carpenters and blacksmiths to make the buildings that shelter us from the elements, and just as we need craftsmen and tailors to make the equipment we need to perform our duties, we need soldiers to make our nation strong.
War is a kind of craft for our world, a tool we use to further civilization’s survivability. After all, without war to toughen and teach our warriors, the Alliance and Horde would never have been able to survive the malevolent inhabitants of Blackrock Mountain, the flood of horrors that emerged from the gates of Ahn’Qiraj, or any of the various invasions by the Burning Legion.
I can’t pretend to know why Azeroth must suffer as much as it does; sometimes it seems like there’s some being out there, higher even than the Titans, that somehow profits from our endless struggle, and that it works to make sure that we never stop fighting.
But as long as this trend continues, as long as the Alliance and Horde must sharpen themselves by killing each other so that they can cleave through the continuous threats that appear before them, I’ll be here to do my part. As long as the evils we keep miraculously defeating are busy trying to destroy us, I’m happy to work as an artisan in this world of the war-craft.
Perhaps there are other worlds out there with peaceful, happy inhabitants that can go about their lives because we’re here to keep the Legion from advancing upon them. Even that possibility is enough to motivate me to carry on.
Even if I must resolve to accept war as a necessary evil, I still wish I could find a way to unite my comrades a little more securely. As cohesive as the Forsaken seems to be, there’s still a frustrating amount of contention amongst us.
I finish casting my most powerful heal on the Forsaken at my feet, and after looking at him for a moment, I wonder if he’ll hate me after he wakes up.
A surprisingly-prominent faction of Undercity citizens is opposed to our membership in the Horde, and a few of the more radical ones pester Sylvanas daily in hopes that she’ll change her mind and turn on our allies. There’s even this rumor going around that Apothecary Putress has been performing horrific experiments on some of our troll, tauren, and orcish allies, hoping that he can create a plague that could kill any and all life on Azeroth.
I don’t want to believe that stuff about the Putress fellow; he seems like such a nice guy! Still, when members of the Horde are constantly talking about someone betraying another or how we should go kill each other in the arena, it’s hard to look at the bright side of our lives.
I think that’s Undercity’s biggest detriment right now; we’re so caught up in getting revenge for the wrongs that have been done to us that we don’t take the time to be thankful for all the good things we’ve received.
We died once, but the method by which we were slain gave us a second life; we are undead. We were shackled to the Lich King’s will, but thanks to some lucky circumstances and the Dark Lady’s efforts, we were freed; we are unchained.
Once our wills were our own, we found that our kinsmen had shunned us, and before long we began calling ourselves Forsaken. However, our former enemies in the Horde gave us their hand in friendship when they had every reason to mistrust us. We now have a place where we belong.
Considering this, wouldn’t it be more appropriate to call ourselves the Unforsaken?