Steel and Rage 2 fast 2 furious

[Jeff]

WARNING FUTURE POSTS MAY BE MORE LEWD OR VIOLENT, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK


Blackness poisoned the air that night in Stranglethorn Vale. An unsettling silence fall over, and even the most stealthy panther would have been driven mad by the unnerving calm. Then from the north came a rustle which pierced the night like god-sent thunder.



An Orc of medium height and a powerful build leads the ruckus. His bloodshot hazel eyes had no time to drift from what was head of him, and his gorilla-like hands clutched onto a long tabar, which had a dull iron chain dangling off of its butt-end. His yellow teeth bit down onto his upper lip, and in doing so he drew red blood. The yellow-skinned man's broad shoulders tossed aside brush and leaves alike in his path. He had no time to hesitate; rather he had to act on the instant. With eyes long adjusted to the blackness of the jungle's night, he bound over bushes, and around trees.

He left a trail any child could follow. Blood seeped through his leg, where an arrow had embedded its self. It was only through that raw animalistic berserk in which this barbaric beast of a man was able to press on. Through shear endurance he continued, for behind him were half a dozen savages, who wanted nothing more than to roast him over a tribal flame.

In red kodo-straps, this man was Mowg Kodohide, ignorant son of Gak'Zom. Hanging from his sash had been a human's head, shrunken, black, and mummified. He cared not the religious importance of such an item; it was only the money he cared for. Blood-wet feet patted heavily onto the ground. He could hear the howling of wolves behind him, but the wilderness spoke to him like none other, and he knew well that the howling had been from a shaman rather than a beast's vocals, as inhuman as the howl had sounded. The hunt for fresh meat troll-plunder had been on, and Mowg had not once strayed or lagged in his path to freedom.



Tigers and panthers, normally prone to chasing such prey scattered when this howl pierced the night. Each moment allowed the hellish barbarians to gain on the Orc, and their savage axes prepared to kiss naked flesh, and their filed teeth gnawed at the gusting wind. What nightmare had Mowg put himself through?

Hill over vine-coated hill the Orcish barbarian charged. It seemed as through half of the hunting party splintered off to intercept his path, and three remained. He looked not behind, and guessed this through sound alone. Then he came upon a deep canyon and a horrid smell. Mowg stopped short, and rocks plummeted to the earthy ground below. He drew in a deep breath, and wheezed it out, before charging to a fallen log across the way.



As the Orc began to cross the make-shift bridge, he suddenly kicked a powerful foot down onto the
moss, and wheeled about. His tabard followed suit, and one troll, clad in leather with red locks crumbled under the weight of the heavy weapon, and fell to his death, head first. Two more trolls stood there, preparing to lunge upon the man. One was naked save for a loincloth, and held a bone dagger tightly in his callused hand. He was blue and hairless across his body, and a tall braided knot of nappy blue hair stuck atop his skull. The other was a green-fleshed shaman, bald on his head and his eyes had been pampered with red shadow, and he wore a ceremonial brown robe with beads clattering with each step he took.



Mowg pressed his back away from the two, and prepared his axe for the incoming savages. The naked one's bloodlust sent him first, and he leapt upon the Orc, and thrust his dagger deep into a muscled tree-trunk arm. Mowg cast his tabar wide in retaliation, and it sunk into the skull of this troll, digging as deep as the primitive's teeth. He withdrew his axe and stared down the Shaman.

“Grom!” Mowg exclaimed, “You is a persistent lot!” The Orc kicked the naked troll off of his weapon and turned his heels to continue his march away. He fought burden and tiring stamina as he did this.

The shaman lifted his cobra-shaped mace and his round shield, and charged after the fleeting outsider. He knew well magic would win him this fight on a level or narrow ground. Testosterone pumped through the men, and rage plated with strength sent these men like elephants.



How cruel the fates played upon Mowg when he found a cliff before him, but acting fast, he grabbed onto moss and vines, and with every ounce of strength he could muster in him, he lifted himself atop this gargantuan ledge. Fireballs flew across the night sky, and burnt the foliage around Mowg. He cared not for the inaccurate missiles, and his calm-head allowed him to climb to safety, but for how long? Acting quickly, he grabbed a vine fro ma tree, and snapped it down. Then he fastened a knot, but it was short after the troll emerged from the cliff as well.



The vine whistled through the air, and entangled shaman whom he had been chased by. With one mighty tug, he pulled the man atop the hill, but the troll landed on padded feet and darted for Mowg. Vicious spiked tore into Mowg's arm, and he had no choice but to drop his tabar there in the weeds. From his sash, Mowg grasped forth a slightly bent knife. He thrust this blade between the ribs of his enemy, but that trollish berserk kept the shaman from falling. Again he thrust his blade in an instant, but he met contact with the shield. The troll let out a bestial howl, and tore his mighty tusk into Mowg's face. Precious lifeblood began to draw from Mowg even greater at that moment, and he was losing strength. He kicked the troll away, but under-estimated his strength. The shaman staggered back and fell from the cliff, and his spine shattered on contact with the emerald land below.



Sweat flowed like a river down the hairy Orc's chest and body. He sat to rest, but the dampness and heat of the jungle night prevented any real comfort. So he set out to seize his tabar from the weedy jungle floor. He cast a glance down to the shrunken head, and wondered why the life of a shaman and two mighty hunters had been worth it, but his wonder routed instantly when he saw before him a sleeping Ogre. Mowg knew damn well those animals thought of Orcs are puny, and so he dared not disturb its slumber.

He crawled away from that sight, but to no avail. The lumbering hulk of a beast awoke when he crushed a lizard under one foot, and it let out a death-howl. Mowg widened his bloodshot eyes and took again to fleeing. Being in no condition to fight, and an objective before him, he wasted no effort to flee. The mighty ogre kept in pursuit, and tore down all trees and bushes that dared stand in his way.



Mowg suddenly drew back and tossed a rock in the direction he had been fleeing. The Ogre, not yet adjusted to the night, continued his path, and Mowg crept away from that place. He remained as silent as possible until not only the sound of the Ogre grew distance, but the smell equal to ten thousand rotting oranges slipped away as well.



Tired, exhausted, abused, and hungry Mowg sat on exposed granite and caught his breath. He needed to rest for the journey that'd lie before him tomorrow. He looked down at the head again and muttered in Orcish, “You had better be worth the trouble, damn it.” Then he stuffed the head into a bag, and laid there. His heart pounded loudly in his ear and his mind drifted to his time in Mulgore. The more he thought about it, the more he missed those plains.



The next morning Mowg continued further south, and did not stop until he reached the Gurubashi Arena. He was harassed by two more trolls this time, but delivered quick slaying. Despite the trouble he had been pushed through for this stupid head, it seemed all worth it. The contractor would have to wait though, as Mowg needed rest, and even though trolls were the bane of his thoughts at this time, the troll wenches at the bar did not seem too bad. The one which caught his eye had a dainty build, and small features, and short red hair, but with a curvy hip. He just snorted and demanded her price, and thus his troubles came to its end for now.

[Jeff]

For days the fulvid Orc carried ebony head with him. He traveled once from the Arena to Booty Bay, and then back again but no sight had he of Dazhid, the troll who contracted him. It was a rainy night when the Orc left the Arena. His red silk chaps were dressed in rain and red and brown harnesses gave off a stench of dampness. Mowg continued on through the blackness of the jungle in silence, but eventually came upon a place to rest. The night made the jungle a different place than day. The birds, which normally filled the sky with a chorus grew silent. The night-cats began to prowl in the shadows, and so a fire was needed. Apes howled through the night almost as much as they had done through out the day. In the shadows of night every vine appeared as a lengthy snake hanging or crawling from a tree, and every shadow bore the same fear of predators. The muddy soil was more difficult tell from quick-sand and mud pits.

Mowg caste these fears to the back of his mind, and brought in its place the memories of a Durotar night. He recalled the cool ocean winds, which differed from the Razor Winds. At night, Durotar's red soil appeared light orange, and its once hot soil grew cold. He remembered the smell of pig and sweat which would paste the Valley of Trials permanently, and the way the blue moon hung over the vastness of the open sky on a typical night. The nostalgia brought forth further memories to Mowg of his journeys with Bruwk Brokentooth, the leader and brains of the trio, and Vak'Doz Elfkisser, the drunken debaucher. The memories gave over into pleasant dreams of strangling imps and wrestling wild boars.



When Mowg awoke the next day the jungle had been coated in a thin fog, which restricted the sigh of distant objects. It was almost eerie to watch the spine-leafed bushes and vine-wrapped trees fade from emerald to a dull gray. Silver gorillas prowled their grounds to protect their share of hunting lands. Mowg wanted nothing to do with them, and continued forth at a distance.



Before long, the xanthous man came across a camp. Beige colored tents remained empty, baring not even a hint of prior dwelling, but in contrast a fire remained fresh in the pit as through it had been created not long ago. This sight sent shivers down the barbarian's spine, and his leg hair stood on end. The man gripped his tabar and left the sight of such a thing. Had not a priest healed him recently then he would have been further worried, but his wounds from the earlier fights were mostly sealed by this point.

He wandered forward through the jungle until night fell above him yet again. The blackness overtook the fog. The humidity did not let up, but Mowg pressed on. He arrived at a bridge, but it like the tents before remained unattended and empty. Mowg could only guess what had been happening here. He was too green to understand the dangers of Savage Coast.



Waterfalls were vast in this cove, and it echoed deeply through out jungle. Rivers and creeks had been founded all over, but yet despite this the only other life Mowg could see at this point was fish. The birds, and monkeys had all but abandoned this place, and Mowg could not guess why. His instincts told him to turn back, but as a man of his sorts, he dared to press forward even further still. He followed a well-traveled trail, or so it appeared, and left not its path. Again another bridge had been crossed, and it was all but unattended. This one was slightly longer, and the wood had rotted enough to make him walk carefully. Moss and fungus over grew on the sides of the bridge. The night was young, and already Mowg grew weary, and his hazel eyes scanned for threats at every bend and every turn before him.

Once he crossed this bridge it was not long before he saw why the area had been so abandoned. A slimy snake-like man crawled about the path ahead. Its blue scaly hand gripped tightly to a trident. Truly this was a beast like no other Mowg had faced at this point. When its mouth opened, fierce fangs were present like a serpent, but rather than just two fangs the entire mouth had a set of dagger-like teeth.



Mowg watched the alien creature carefully for longer than he realized. The bright moon already shone upon the water off on the shore. The night's breeze brought in the smell of dead and rotting fish blanketed with saltwater. With no further choice, the fulvid Orc grasped his tabar. He charged from his cover behind a leafy fern, and smashed azaleas beneath a semi-bare foot. He placed himself carefully, and crept upon this creature.

The slithering animal detected Mowg's presence through sound and whipped forth to take sight of the tawny brute. Spines suddenly tore from the blue scaled, and stood on end, revealing yellow flesh between each spike. Then from its arms the same sharp scaled emerged. It opened its mouth and let out a loud hissing noise. The barbaric Orc felt no fear facing creature armed with a weapon, especially one such as cowardly as a spear.

Then the creature spoke, “You have come to the wrong coast, Orc. We are the Naga, and you will certainly not survive.”

He flinched when the serpent spoke, as he expected the same gibberish that he'd heard from dying Murlocs on the coast of Durotar. His shoulder and arm muscled tightened as his grip over the tabar grew to a clutch. He responded with a grunt and, “I's Mowg Kodoskin. I aint afraid of no damn snake-man or no damn tribe. You's in my way. Step aside or I is bringin' the fight to you.”



The serpent slithered forward and began to trace circles around Mowg. He remained still, and watched his reptilian foe from the corner of his eyes, and listened to its heavy breaths as it came around Mowg's back. Three times it revolved around the Orc before it dared make an attack.

Long experienced to combat, Mowg whipped around before the Naga could thrust his spear into Mowg's spine. Mowg's tabar caught between the throng of spear-heads at the end of the slimy man's pole-arm. The Orc, having long since planned on fighting against this weapon, followed this attack up by sliding out to the side, and jutting in diagonally with the axe following. The hard scales absorbed much of the blow, and black-purple blood ran across the tip of his blade.



The Naga continued on his attack, and thrust again at Mowg. The Orc's shield was his tabar; again he caught the weapon, but this time with the shaft of his tabar. It was easily torn from his hands, and thrown aside. “Grom's balls!” The Orc exclaimed as the weapons had been thrown aside like a useless object. He had not time to reach for a knife in his sash, for just as soon as he was disarmed the serpent-man sent a sharp spine at Mowg's chest. He felt it tear deep into his side, and cause his ribs to run with blood.



Mowg threw himself into that Orcish fury, and gave into the strong desire of victory and to see his opponent dead. It almost intoxicating like any Opium he had ever tasted. Mowg threw himself at the beast, and tore it to the ground. There he stood upon its weapon arm, and coiled his arms about its neck. With one good toss of his arms, the neck of the creature snapped loudly. It fell limp and collapsed over its self in death. Mowg let out a fierce roar in victory.

He panted heavily and collected himself just after this fight. Perhaps this would be a journey for another day, Mowg thought. He grabbed up his tabar and headed back the way he came, but blood coated him, leaving a trail for any predator which wished to hunt him. His journey ultimately took him back to the abandoned camp and bridges, but as he arrived to the camp. He armed himself around the camp, and watched carefully for any further evidence of the hideous beast-men. Nothing was there, although fresh footprints were in the mud. He counted about three people had been there not long ago.

A rain settled in, as it often would occur in the jungle. Mowg's blood mixed well with it. He drew in a heavy breath and decided to head down the other path which was bordered with an old rickety rope-bridge. The Orc glanced up at it not once, but twice. The second time he spotted something move.



Through the night blackened much of his vision, he read himself and called up to the bridge. “Stop ya' hidin'! I's not gonna fight if you is.”

He was almost immediately replied to. The accent was unmistakably troll. “Who ju be talkin' to mista. I be restin' not hidin'. Who ju be?”

Mowg glared up at the bridge with score in his bloodshot eyes. He again called, “Who is you? I is answer when you is!”

The troll laughed heavily at Mowg. “Ah, ju be de rock-head who I done sent at' get me head, eh? Took ju long enough to get eet here!”



Mowg was taken back. Dazhid. He demanded the troll come down, but the troll demanded he come up, and so he did. The bridge served little practical use, and once he climbed up the side of the hill, he saw the other side was nothing more than a mossy crag. The troll stood there in at the side of the bridge, and was dressed plainly in gray and brown rags studded with glossed wood. The belt was nothing more than a rope-cord below some black straps. This was the priest Mowg was supposed to receive payment from?

The xanthous Orc looked into the primal yellow eyes of the priest and examined the elaborate tribal paint. He snorted a grunt and asked, “I's got ya' head, but where be the money?”

The troll laughed. He fished out a single silver coin and flicked it at Mowg. “Take eet, eez jors.”

Mowg's personal honor would not take such an insult. All that blasted work for a damn single coin? He expected a great payment. Mowg held out the ebony head and snarled. “I aint givin' it to you for just that.” But despite his protests, the troll had his own tricks. He blasted a torrent of flowing flames at Mowg, which knocked him back, and exploded on contact like fireworks. The bridge was lucky not to be in flames. This caused the head to be freed from Mowg's grasp. “Ya' damn Zandali-rat! I aint takin' this from you” he mumbled below his breath.



The gray haired sorcerer swept up the head and passed the warrior, who had been knocked hard to the wooden bridge. The fight with the Naga and bleeding drained him to the point where his head spinned. He hardly noticed Dazhid pass him in laughter. This insult bore heavily upon Mowg's chest, and rage would become synonymous with that face.

He laid there, unconscious for Grom knows how long before help arrived. He could not identify the silhouette of a woman he saw standing over him.