Sartusk pulled the hood of his cloak over his head to warm his freezing ears, thankful he’d been able to soak the dyed duskbat pelt in a siren’s pollen perfume before his deployment. His new undead allies had been accommodating of many of his needs but finding a garment that was both warm and didn’t smell like Nazmir’s coast at low tide seemed too grand of a request. When he’d signed on to this cultural exchange program, he’d pictured teaching these Desolates how to smash through enemy ranks atop a direhorn. Instead he found himself in the middle of an icy road in a snow swept mountain range dubbed Al-Ter-Ac with a duty to escort refugees. His only companion was both the only Forsaken he’d encountered that made him feel short and the reason for his presence in this frosty wasteland.
“Yeah he don’ talk too nice so ya need to be there to direct any wanderin’ civilians. Thas’ yer only worry. He’ll sort out any trouble iffin ya find some” Sartusk’s commander had said of his compatriot during the mission brief back at the haunted fort Sartusk now reluctantly called home.
His comrade was apparently something called a Vargul. One of those tall pinkies he’d seen in Dazar’Alor’s port that managed to become undead. He was sure the creature had a name but when he’d asked the Vargul’s response was to belch with such volume that Sartusk nearly mistook it for a war cry. He’d initially thought to just avoid conversation with the Vargul as it seemed likely he might easily confuse or offend it but the cold and boredom now bothered him more than the possibility of being mauled by the thing.
“Ya get cold big man?” Sartusk hazarded.
The giant snorted derisively, “No cold when flesh. No cold never now”.
“Well, I do. Ya mind if I set a fire?” Sartusk asked.
The Vargul shook his head, “No. We want to see them first.”
Sartusk cocked an eyebrow, “Thought we were looking for refugees. Why don’ we want ‘dem to see us?”
“There are more than no-homes in snow, little tusk. Wolves with sheep hats hide with them.” The Vargul responded.
Sartusk’s eyebrow remained raised for a moment before he concluded conversation was futile. He instead opted to study the terrain to distract himself from how numb his feet were becoming. That’s when he noticed a small group coming out of the blizzard from the north. Twelve by his count, at least a few of them Orcs and Forsaken given the shape and gait of the silhouettes. He turned to his partner for some direction but the Vargul had clearly spotted them first and was already prone by the side of the road. Before Sartusk could ask if he too was supposed to lay low the Vargul kicked a tree, shaking it hard enough to cause all it’s accumulated snow to fall on the creature with a loud forceful thud. Sartusk opened his mouth to ask if his companion was alright when a giant thumbs up burst from the powder before receding back into the pile. Sartusk smirked, impressed at the giant’s ability to conceal itself, and stood at attention as the vagabonds came into view.
Six Forsaken in civilian garb, two adult male orcs armored in horse leather, two Sin’Dorei children in potato sacks, one elderly Orc woman appearing more decrepit than any of the Forsaken, and a stocky forest troll Sartusk recognized as a Revantusk axethrower. He waved the entourage over and was greeted by the Revantusk who seemed confused to see a Zandalari Prelate in the onyx and violet armor of the Desolate Commissariat, but both men were quietly relieved to relax their tongues back into the familiar Zandali dialect.
“Found this group wandering down Darrowmere river, looking for a boat to Kalimdor. Not a safe path these days. Some of them red grassland pinkies out east head up north and hire those damn thunderbeard stunties to fly them over the area. Think it’s funny to take potshots at our fishermen. Figured I’d take them through this blizzard and get them to your purple dead boys for safe keeping” the Axethrower reported.
Sartusk nodded and reviewed the refugees with a weary sigh. He was a young troll, just a few weeks out of training when he was thrust into battle against the Mad Prophet’s heretics and the sea witch’s raiders, but he recognized their looks of desperation. He’d worn a similar one when he’d camped in the highlands of Zandalar with his mother and little sister after the Cataclysm flooded the island. The look in the eyes of the elf children were particularly heart breaking. They were steely and focused, scanning the terrain and eyeing everyone with suspicion. Sartusk had no great love for elfkind but the idea any child would be capable of such a world-weary look weighed on his soul.
“That was very kind of you. Follow me. The dead boys are working on fixing some port they gooped good back when, I’m sure they’ll know about transport. Plus, there’s some goblin traders along the way that’ll probably sell meat that didn’t come off a long dead corpse.” Sartusk said, waving the refugees forward.
His mind continued to dwell on the hurt in the children’s eyes, and his mind drifted to thoughts of home and his sister Uani. She was becoming a woman and a promising Priestess of Paku but to him she was still the helpless little girl he’d held tight on the steeps overlooking Xibala’s Rest. Perhaps he’d left too quickly. When their mother died in the Kul Tiran attack, he felt he desperately needed to be anywhere else, at least for a while. She’d seemed supportive at the time but he now worried her eyes might resemble the elf girls. Perhaps this had been selfish.
So lost in thought was Sartusk that he’d nearly forgotten about his Vargul partner, and could do little more than scream when the giant lurched from the snow and brought down his enormous hammer down upon one of the elf children in a single sudden movement.
“YA LOST YA MIND MON!” Sartusk hollered, reading his mace and shield as his body pulsed with the righteous wrath of the Loa.