#lordaeron

It was a simple fact - war never changes. Rashka still carried with her the fact that her entire childhood had been stolen by humans - a whole generation of Orcs had lost that time. Her parents had managed to keep her safe from the warlocks, and get through the portal... only to face war on one side, and soldiers on their own furious that children had been brought through the portal -refusing to allow them to stay.

Out of the fire, and into the frying pan.

She'd been forced to watch as a young girl, as her grandmother faded away under the cruel boot of human oppression; she'd had to watch, as her parents couldn't bring themselves to mourn, even, when the elderly woman had simply stopped moving one day. The life had gone out of all of the Orcs, as they drifted listlessly about their enclosures. Even now, at her advanced age, it made the war scout's blood boil – no child should have to see those things... the desecration of her culture, of her elders - of their fierce, and proud spirits. She had been young, in the beginning - understanding... without understanding.

But she had become a woman under the watchful eye of Lordaeron – a woman denied a life, a proper family, knowledge of her culture... no Om'gora – the list of what they had stolen from the Orcs went on. The humans hadn't just won, they had spent years grinding their former enemies into pale, pathetic imitations of “Orcs.”

So it was, when Thrall came, that she had been ready – even if it might have taken a bit longer for those more senior than her to be stirred... she was a young woman in her prime, then. A young woman hungry to take back from those soft, pink hands of her captors what they had stolen from her: life.

In the here and now, Rashka set aside the arrow shaft she'd been working on, satisfied that she could move on to fletching, next, and sighed to herself – she'd been stalking the wilds of Azeroth since she was a child, and the old Orc had learned that more than half the hunt was simply... lying in wait. So she would do what she had always done: prepare. There was plenty of work to be done in Dornogal and its hidden depths, as it stood – and those Arathi rats they'd found scrabbling underground? The ones that made her fingers twitch, and creep for her bow, or her axe... they would be a problem, one day, as well – their “sincerity” lost on her, though she could see how the fanatics had begun to endear themselves to many others.

He tried to thrash his diaphragm to open his lungs, but nothing happened. He tried again and again to no avail. Just as he began to whimper in fear of suffocating — how could he whimper without breathing, he wondered in the back of his mind — he realized he wasn’t suffocating. He hadn’t breathed in minutes and yet there was no burning in his chest, no ache in his head. Aches elsewhere, certainly. But not from lack of air.

“Wha’s’at?” Ephras heard an echoing voice ask nearby. There was a shuffling of feet and cloth that grew closer and closer. Ephras opened his eyes just as the man bent over him. By dim candlelight, he saw the grave stare of glowing yellow eyes embedded in cracked, pale flesh. 

Ephras screamed, trying to crawl away from where he lay only to back into a stony corner. But the scream sounded far away, as if it wasn’t coming from his own throat. He closed his mouth shut soon after, though — his jaw was already sore and aching. 

“You’re awake,” said the monster. “And one of those. Stop moving, you’ll pull a limb. Haven’t even oiled your joints yet.”

“What are you!” shouted Ephras.

The yellow orbs in the monster’s eyes rolled. “Well, my name is Mordo, thank you for asking. And I’m the caretaker. And you are…?”

Ephras hesitated. He was still groggy, but for some reason he felt that had this Mordo creature been unreasonably cheery, he would have trusted him less. The cynical honesty in his voice disarmed Ephras. “I’m Ephras,” he said. “Ephras Harkwell. Where…am I?”

“Crypt in Deathknell. In Tirisfal, Lordaeron. You remember Lordaeron?” 

“Lordaeron…yes. That’s where I’m from. Tirisfal, too. I’ve never heard of ‘Deathknell.’”

Mordo bent down and fetched a bottle with a piped tip. “Let me oil your damn jaw. You’re grinding the nubs to dust. I’ll tell you more while I do.”

Ephras understood nothing, but acquiesced. Mordo commenced some wet operation on his jaw joints as he spoke. “I don’t know what Deathknell used to be called, I’m not from here. Had some other name before the Scourge, I imagine. You remember the Scourge, and the plague? Shut up, just nod. There you go, you’ve got sense in your noggin. Remember getting sick at some point?”

Ephras’ brain felt nearly out-of-body; it was hard to remember anything through the fog. He had been a priest at a farming village near Lordaeron City, tending to the sick and faithful. There had been some kind of outbreak, a pandemic. He tried his best, but he could only hide the pustules under his robes, not the coughing that had rattled his chest. One day…he fell down… He nodded at Mordo.

“Well, you died.”

Ephras jerked his head towards Mordo. “Dammit, boy. Keep your head straight for me.” Mordo grabbed his head with hard, bony — very bony — fingers and put him back in position. “You died, but not for long. Lich King had a hold of you, boy. You were his slave for several years, until somebody put you down, or sommat like that. But by our Dark Lady, you’re free from his grasp now. Say, ‘Thank you, Dark Lady.’”

Ephras had no idea what he was talking about, but he felt completely at Mordo’s mercy right now. “‘Thank you, Dark Lady,’” he said. His jaw felt better, somehow. He rolled his mouth a bit, and it felt even better. 

Mordo nodded and moved down to Ephras’ elbows with the bottle. “And now you’re here. A walking corpse. How about that for a wake-up surprise.” He bent one of Ephras’ arms up towards his face as he worked, and Ephras saw that his hand was just bloodless tendons and bones.

“By the Light,” Ephras said. “I’m an abomination.”

“Nay,” said Mordo. “Those fellas’re quite a bit bigger than you. Made of several fellas stitched together. Don’t look at me like that, Lich King made ‘em that way. They’re alright. Why, I know a fella named Gordo — no relation —”

“What do I do now?” Ephras asked, flexing his fingers.

Mordo sighed. “Well, whatever, really. New lease on life — or really, unlife — and all that. But you are in the Dark Lady’s debt. So I’d serve her as best you can, like she was your Queen of Lordaeron. Which is gone, by the way. We’ve got the Undercity under the ruins, now.” Mordo tilted his head. “I suppose you’d serve the Horde, too. Those strange fellas in Kalimdor the Dark Lady has thrown our lot in with. Orcs, and trolls, and Tauren…alright folks. We got a few in Undercity.”

“Orcs? The green men invading from the other world?”

“Yes, that’s right. They’re alright now, quite a bit less bloodthirsty. Trolls, I’m sure you’ve heard of them, but the Horde’s got a special tribe of them, or sommat. Tauren are big bull people from Kalimdor, you’ve probably never heard of them. Spiritual lot, those folk, all three. But they fight for what’s right, I reckon.”

How could anything be right anymore? The world Ephras had known, the beautiful kingdom of Lordaeron, was apparently gone. He didn’t recognize his own body, and his mind felt weak and distant. He closed his eyes and reached for the Light. 

“Praying, boy?”

Ephras said nothing, focusing on trying to kindle whatever flickering flame he could grasp, his hands wrapped around it for warmth, blowing on embers without the breath of life. But it was so faint he could barely feel it. He wearily opened his eyes again.