[RP] The Longest Night
Jaguaro Isle July 8 Night
Taz stared into his small fire, exhausted but unable to sleep. The battle had left him battered, burned and bleeding…but losing Kael hurt worse, far worse, than any wound the warlock could possibly have inflicted. Taz had always idly wondered how the ancient Zandalari sacrifices of old felt, as the high priest ripped their still-beating heart from their chest; now he knew. There was no pain in the world, none, worse than being forced to watch a friend—a brother—in distress and be unable to help. He had seen it all from the ground, lying helplessly on his back where the warlock’s Fel-fire explosion had thrown him, as Kael was dragged into the portal. Taz had stumbled to his feet, trying to throw himself in after his friend…but by the time his rattled brain had put his muscles to work, it was already been far, far too late. His brother was gone.
Gone like Umcha was gone. Gone like his brothers as sisters at the Wrathgate were gone—and so many others, in so many other battles over the years. Gone, gone, gone--
A choking sob wracked his body, and he struggled mightily to inhale through the spasms in his chest. But the thought of Kael, the image of him being torn away, the thought of what might be happening to him, even now, was stronger even than his body’s need for air. He fell to a knee, caught halfway between abject despair and desperation. His hands dug into the earth, digging into the rich jungle soil, without his conscious control as he simultaneously tried to sob, and scream.
What felt like hours could, in reality, have been no more than a minute, if that. The spasm was broken, quite abruptly, when his naked palm clawed mindlessly into the edge of the fire, and a true scream—more full of grief than pain—tore from his throat. He tried to jerk his arm back …but found, suddenly, that the limb seemed to be under his control no longer—or at least unresponsive to his instinct. He writhed on the ground as the flesh of his hand smoked, but the pain—and the unmistakable odor—seemed almost outside of himself in the oddest way. “FIGH’ IT!” he roared, almost mindlessly and at the top of his lungs, into the jungle night. “YA BETTAH FIGHT DIS KAEL! YA FAMILY WAITIN’ FOR YA! DON’ LET DIS RED MUDDAH FUCKAH SEE YA SQUIRMIN’!” And then, just like that, it was over. He was curled up against the side of his favorite boulder, clutching his burnt hand and screaming again—but it was the pure, primal, defiant cry of trollish bloodlust that tore from his throat now. “WE COMIN’ YA FUCKAH! DE WHOLE FAMILY BE COMIN’! AN WEN WE FIND YA, NOT EVEN DE LOA-FORSAKEN TWISTIN’ NEATHAH GONNA SAVE YA!”