#matowa

Benny Clark lead a group of four Deathstalkers up the broken cobblestone path to the cemetery in which the crypt stood. Forsaken were going into that tomb and never coming back out - local authorities wanted to know why.

The old caretaker’s solution of “stop sendin’ the youngin’s down there” was heartily ignored.

He sucked a wandering worm back into his mouth through the hole it had worn in his rotted flesh and he chewed thoughtfully as he slowed to a halt. The Deathstalkers communicated with hand-signs that Benny could barely hope to imitate with his hands missing several fingers - but at least he could still salute in a mildly-rude manner.

“So, I’s jes gonna stay ‘ere til ye come back, I en’t so strong as ye youngin’s,” Benny’s words whistled through his teeth. He leaned against his shovel and simply watched while those professionals tromped down into the crypt.

Likely to never be seen again, he idly thought.

Benny reached into his shirt pocket to take out his pipe, only to wiggle his fingers through the bottom of said pocket. Ah, the stitching didn’t hold. So much for that. He didn’t notice the inky black beast that slipped from behind some ancient tombstones, but he did hear the ‘plunk’ of his pipe being dropped at his feet. As he stooped to pick it up he felt a slight breeze.

“We’s gotsa storm comin’,” Benny softly mused. Finding that his pipe was already stuffed with gravemoss, he lit it with a match and quietly waited for the Deathstalkers to come back.

They didn’t.

---

The inky black thing that prowled the crypt came upon the entire group of Deathstalkers at once. It approached from behind, and the only hint that the lot of them had that something wasn’t right was the sudden wind and the ‘thump’ of one of their men being taken down. The big, black beast that dropped him moved faster than they could, disappearing around a corner and seemingly into thin air just as they followed.

Moments later, another Deathstalker fell from the other side - just as his comrades found their lost fellow’s mutilated remains spread across another chamber. This back-and-forth ended as the last Deathstalker tore out of the crypt, only to find himself being tugged back in as something caught on his armour and effortlessly pulled him backward.

Benny watched the Deathstalker disappear back into the crypt and he puffed idly at his pipe. Ah, there it was. He ambled over to the doorway and peered in just in time to see the man disappear around the corner at the bottom of the stairs.

“Gotchaself a fine feast don’cha beastie,” he called down. The only response was a gurgling noise.

The old caretaker seemed nonplussed by the whole affair. After fifteen minutes had passed he slowly made his way downstairs, the only sound being the creaking of his bones with every step. Perched where a gargoyle statue had once stood was that big, inky beast, hunched forward, staring him down with glowing red eyes.

“Well, whatcha got?”

The disgusting noises that followed would have likely turned the stomach of anyone living, but to Benny this was just part of his job. The creature vomited what looked like an old pocket watch, some gold coins, and a couple pieces of miscellaneous jewellery onto the ground in front of him, and Benny stooped to fetch them. He tossed the pieces into a bag at his hip and offered the beast a two-fingered salute.

“Thanksye, druid. Carry on.”

With that, old Benny left, and the black cat-beast melted into the shadows of the crypt.

---

“The idea’s usually to pass the mantle on to the next generation so’s they can continue from where the old folks left off,” the elder Troll said to the massive Highmountain bull. The bull snorted softly.

“Not pass the mantle to another old-timer in the hopes of the same,” the bull continued. He planted his hand on the Troll’s shoulder and added, “but some things cannot be helped.”

“I put almost ten years a’ me life into the Horde. I don’t care how old the next fucker is so long as he agrees with my kodoshit and does his job.”

Both men burst into laughter, though the Troll grew solemn once more as he handed over a tattered, deep brown tabard that bore the Horde emblem in gold. It had once been worn proudly on the battlefield. In recent years, it had been forgotten and allowed to fall apart.

“You been good at gettin’ the young to listen, you’ll be good at gettin’ the young to understand that things ain’t as they’s seemin’ an’ this Warchief, she ain’t no good. She gonna get us all killed off,” the Troll said, his voice low. “I ain’t got the strength to fight no more. You do, Matowa.”

The bull grinned broadly. He gingerly took the battered tabard and rumbled, “So get out there and fight, huh?”

Matojo Furiey, former Warcaller of the Harbingers of War, nodded once. The old, scarred Troll looked worn out. For Troll-kind he was considered venerable - a man in his early fifties, his black-blue hair streaked with pale blue and gray, one tusk shorter than the other. Matowa still looked fresh. A massive man with scars of his own, his antlers added considerably to his girth and were decorated with war paint and feathers. He wore vestments of an elder Druid of the Claw, and his black fur was still shiny.

He did not look his age. Then again, Tauren rarely did.

“I don’t care if y’do it as a Harbinger or not. I just want somebody to be able to do what I couldn’t. We can’t trust the fuckin’ rotters and we never could.”