Lean On Me
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18 months later...
In the dark forests of Darkshore, a massive tauren stalked through its trees and vales, his hooves crushing the early spring grass as he walked.
Muroco Rockhoof sat on a fallen tree trunk, eating strips of jerky from his belt. No campfire illuminated his surroundings, save for the enchantments that glittered on the surface of his tower shield; the effects of the mystical essences he had worked for while in the service of his former elven compatriots in the Dawnspire. It had been months since the Phoenix Wars had ended and the invading Alliance forces fled from Quel’thalas’ shores. A tinge of sorrow went through the tauren’s heart; many of his former comrades were gone from this world, and he sometimes wondered if he’d ever see the rest of them ever again.
He stood up and began to walk, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a bundle of medallions strung together on a thick cord. It felt like a lifetime ago since he was back in this dying land, and many of the younger, inexperienced soldiers he had been assigned to help had never gotten the chance to see family and home again. Now honorably discharged from his oath, and with much less responsibility, Muroco had opted to come back, believing he owed it to them to make sure they weren’t totally gone and forgotten.
It had been an odious task. Muroco had left his kodo, Rahu, in Zoram’gar, believing the beast would attract too much attention and have far too much trouble navigating through the forests. He had traveled for three days, using experience to stay concealed. If it came to a fight, Muroco knew he could defend himself, but he also knew firsthand how blood-crazed and psychotic the night elves had become, the dark pits that replaced their eyes a visual aphorism of how lost they truly were. Muroco bent down, his hand clearing aside wild grass as he rescued an object from the brush. From it, he rescued an object from the brush. He pulled up another Horde medallion, its surface marred with dirt, dried blood and the early signs of rust. That finally made nine; he had remembered where his recruits had fallen when the wretched druids attempted to ambush their caravan, but it had been a pain to find their medallions of service. Hidden though the path was, he supposed it was some small miracle that they had not been pawed over by looters. The warrior let the trinket dangle from his closed fist in contemplation before adding it to the rest. They had won that fight, true, and won the first few major battles in Darkshore, but was it worth it? It had only spurred their enemies into a suicidal rage over the loss of their precious tree, and the Horde had been forced to withdraw in the end. Muroco glanced at his surroundings before crossing the road into a nearby meadow. He rounded the corner of a massive tree and saw a human and a worgen dawdling into the meadow’s clearing. He didn’t know if they spotted him, since human eyes clearly have weaker vision due to them being deeply set into their ape-like skulls. He uncoiled the flail from his belt and readjusted his weight on Mammoth, his massive height straightening into a pillar of steel and black fur as his intense blue eyes gazed at them. He was unsure if they could be easily scared off, as they didn’t appear to be the tin-man rank-and-file weaklings the Alliance loved to send into the meat grinders so very often. The human, a woman, looked familiar. The worgen, a man, looked like one of the primitive animal-worshiping Gilneans he fought on an island near their kingdom alongside the Crom’gar Warband - likely her lover, as humans were wont to rut like the monkeys they were. Still, if they were so eager to die in a land of a dying people, he would have no qualms to oblige them. The woman, who had the trappings of a druid, glanced in his direction and scuttled back, almost tripping over herself. Her head jerked to look at the worgen, who was preoccupied with a map. As she panicked to get his full attention, Muroco pulled down the visor of his helmet and marched forward. He felt the power of his flail thrum through his arm as he began to swing it vertically. As he got closer, the woman became more frantic. Muroco shook his head in disbelief as the worgen dropped the map and pulled out a spyglass to observe his advance. His momentum now in full swing, Muroco brought his weapon above his head, swinging it in place horizontally before bringing it down in full force upon the earth, striking it with all his might. The ground trembled as a shockwave erupted from the impact and hurtled itself towards the two Gilneans. The worgen was at least intelligent enough to know to dive and roll to the side, and he was lithe enough to turn and flee towards the coast. Unlike him, the druid hesitated for too long, and the shockwave flung her backwards. She angled herself well enough to not crack her skull against a tree, but the air exploded from her lungs as she dropped to the mossy forest floor. With a flick of Muroco’s wrist, the flail coiled back into itself and he set it into his belt. It was a practiced move, but since the weapon was also crafted by former compatriots, the magics of the blood elves allowed it to perform such a move. Muroco spared a glance at the worgen, then back at the druid. Before he could unsheathe his axe, the druid produced a crude-looking weapon that looked like a cross between a hammer and an axe, swung it over her head and struck it against the ground with a cry. The tauren anticipated its effects from years of experience and braced himself. He grabbed Mammoth’s handles with both hands and pressed the base of the tower shield into the earth. A thunderclap raged out in an expanding circle, a mighty blast of energy shoving Muroco back a dozen paces, his hooves and shield creating tears and grooves through the soil. His back struck an unfortunate sapling tree which bent in protest at the collision. Muroco fell to one knee, his vision blurring momentarily. Wisps of smoke rose from his armor and from Mammoth, the latter’s magical infusions protecting him from the bulk of the blast. Still, two of his ribs felt bruised, possibly broken. His whole body ached, and his shield arm felt like it was on the brink of being dislocated, but Mammoth’s enchantments were slowly wiping the pain away. The empty eye sockets of the skull grafted onto the shield flickered with blue light; it had protected him from one blast, he doubted it would do so again until the shield’s enchantments could fully recharge. He glanced up to see the druid again and noticed the odd tree-stump of a leg she had, as well as the more feral features she had around her face and ears. He felt the bundle of medallions he rescued jangling against his knee. Then, as it all clicked together in realization, anger washed over the warrior as he felt the blood pump through his heart and rush through his veins and temples. The druid called out to her companion, but he was nowhere to be seen, save for his distant voice calling back to her. Muroco stood himself on both of his hooves, hot air blowing from his bullish nostrils as his eyes became bloodshot. His body ached from the blast, but he was too enraged to care. Some who once worked with Muroco became nervous around him when he was calm, simply due to his frightening size and appearance, but in the few instances where he lost his cool they became downright terrified. Muroco let out a bellowing warcry, the basso of his voice causing small birds to flee from the grove’s tree-tops in a mass of small, black silhouettes. He charged forward, his long legs allowing him to cover ground. His mind sharpened into focus as he unsheathed his axe and pursued the druid, raising it back to strike as he closed the distance. When he caught up with her, maybe he’d tear in her half in front of her idiot friend. Or maybe he’d beat her to death with her own accursed weapon and then keep it as a trophy. The druid gasped for her air as she turned and fled, her small frame weaving through the trees. The brush and low hanging branches raked across her as she pushed through, adrenaline urging her onward as she fled for her life from the steel juggernaut prepared to rip her to shreds. She tried to shift into a bird and fly away, but her nerves prevented the transformation from completing, the shadows of feathers fluttering on her arms before disappearing. Eventually, a mists swirled around her, and in her panic she called upon the form a doe. She bounded over an overturned tree, and Muroco pursued after her. “Come back and fight, human ape,” Muroco roared in Taurahe as he bounded over logs and roots. He recalled their previous fight in Darkshore, and another time he defeated her in the Ghostlands, months later, and the memories only fueled his rage. “Do you run from all your problems when your pathetic tricks don’t work?” She was ahead of him, but Muroco was able to keep apace. It reminded him of all the times he had to fight dryads in the Stonetalon Mountains. He scanned his surroundings as he ran, keeping an eye out for her dimwitted-companion. He knew that the druid couldn’t run forever with her wounds. If her friend showed up, he might get the distinct honor of watching her die before he got to meet his weak gods as well. The druid’s movements eventually came to a trot. As he prepared to strike, a statement made in broken, hideous-sounding Taurahe caught his attention. Muroco turned his head, and something collided into his visor. He thought it was a blinding spell of some sort, but after a moment’s pause he realized it was pungent and sticky. The worgen had thrown cheese, of all things, to distract him and gum up his vision. Muroco growled in irritation and slammed the blade of his axe into a nearby stump. He grabbed his helmet by the visor with one of his massive hands and pulled the helmet clean off his head. The worgen stood there agape, perhaps in amazement, that his ‘plan’ had actually worked, which gave Muroco the opportunity to fling his helmet at him like a rock. He was too slow to react and the helmet smashed into his chest, knocking him into a nearby tree. Muroco snorted in bemusement as the worgen crumpled to the ground. He gripped his axe by its haft, ripped it from the stump with a powerful yank and stalked towards him. The druid brayed in fear and bounded back towards him, urging her friend to climb on to her back. Muroco had hoped to finish him off with a clean beheading, but the wretched druid managed to rescue him. He pursued after the two as they fled. He noticed the druid-turned-stag’s legs were beginning to tremble and shake from exhaustion, pain and fear. This was not a hunt, but a coward chase. Only a little longer and the deaths of his recruits would be avenged. Branches and leaves smacked the druid as she retreated with her friend through the undergrowth. As they entered another clearing, her form rippled again as she leapt into the air. Hooves were replaced by talons, and feathers replaced fur as she transformed into a large owl. Muroco skidded to a halt, rage still bubbling in his heart. They were managing to get away. With another bellow, he reared back and launched his axe into the air as the two began to fly away. The axe wasn’t of throwing design, but it was weighted just enough that he could throw it over worthy distances. Muroco repeatedly flexed and closed his hand as the weapon soared head-over-haft. He visualized the ‘thump’ in his mind as it struck true and slammed into the worgen now clutching to the druid’s back. He sagged with a slump as the weapon cut him from the middle of his back up to his right shoulder, a shrill cry coming from the druid as she felt the weight shift on her back. The druid screeched once more as she flew over the canopy, casting a baleful glare down upon Muroco. He knew that she wanted to swoop down upon him, to try and claw his face off, grab him by his horns and drop him onto an embankment of sharp rocks. He wanted her to swoop down as well so he could crush her feathery neck with his bare hands, but her senses urged her to retreat. She turned, wings flapping, and their silhouettes became black spots in the horizon as they retreated. Muroco turned and retrieved his axe, which had managed to dislodge itself from the worgen during their flight. He had hoped the weapon’s impact would knock the druid off-balance, hoped that her little friend’s deadweight would drag her to the earth so he could finish them both off, but clearly it was wishful thinking. Maybe the fool would die, or maybe he would live at the cost of being painfully disfigured, adding himself to a long list of pissed-off combatants that wished vengeance upon Muroco. Well, at least they would have something else to remember him by. “Get in line,” he thought to himself. He walked back to where his helmet lay in the grass. Luckily, the worgen had left behind a cloak with his belongings, and Muroco utilized it to clean the gunk off his helmet and the blood from his axe. He kicked his backpack, confections and baubles spraying in all directions as it flew over several yards. It was agitating that the Horde had essentially lost the war, especially if the Alliance was saturated with buffoons like those two, but if the Horde didn’t have a conniving witch like Sylvanas running the show, then they would not have lost. He wanted to tear that banshee limb from treacherous limb for all the damage she had wrought, but he knew the attempt would likely lead to his own death. Maybe that’s where the Horde failed. Those two were weak and clumsy, too stupid for their own good, too inexperienced. He surmised they were only a few years past the advent of their adulthood. They didn’t know the horrors of war like he did, didn’t have a taste for battle like he did. They were like children who reveled at the thoughts of glory and valor in battle but have never truly experienced its carnage. But even with all that, with all their weaknesses, they leaned on each other for support. It seemed like much of the Alliance did that; with all their weaknesses, they always rebounded, leaning on each other, dependent on each other. For as strong as the Horde was, it was always too divided, with too many people standing alone and by themselves, and it cost them time and time again. What was the point? Muroco sighed, the rage draining away from him. He was tired. His body still ached all over. He could feel Mammoth’s power slowly mending his ribs, but the healing process would take hours. Best not to think about it too much. The tauren rolled his shoulders and began the long trek back to Ashenvale. His recruits were avenged, in some small way, and now he simply felt tired
@incomingtrouble
