Start of a short story - Worth finishing?

[Planetofjunk-arthas (Planetofjunk)]

Just for context, I do remove a lot of ‘bloat’ from my drafts, you can see here the bloat below from the initial draft → to what I posted (this will have punctuation issues and grammatical mistakes that I resolve afterwards)

Greshka had not been in the cleft long, the eerie purple hue cast off by this dismal place causing her visible discomfort. Although she could not entirely say she wasn’t curious as to what happened down here, her ‘business’ here was more punishment than sightseeing. Her loss of focus, and subsequent defeat during her previous sparring session had her ‘banished’ to the location of the source of her defeat, or so the sergeant said. In truth it was patrol, she had never minded it before, but down here the route was strictly for her humiliation. Of course, if she was humiliated, it had nothing to do with the defeat itself, and less to do with this patrol. Her eyes shifted quickly between the tattered tents and smoldering fires in this cavern, how the warlocks could stomach long stretches of time down here away from the sun was beyond her comprehension. Still, at least she could partially quench her fascination by remainly astute and absorbing all visual interactions the cleft had on offer. It was towards the bottom of the route, at the lowest point in the cleft, that her peripheral vision caught a glimpse of movement. The cleft of course connected with a tunnel that led off into the ‘chasm’, something once occupied by the malcontents of the twilight hammer. If something was moving there, it demanded investigation, and so she centered her gaze on the tunnel, her movements quickly guiding her to the mouth of the entrance. Whatever was moving was having great difficulty in doing so, the cloaked figure was stumbling over the uneven rocky terrain, attempting to use the broad face of the tunnel wall for support. She resolved that sheer will was keeping this person on their feet, she readied her axe in both hands adopting an aggressive posture as the figure came into view several feet ahead. Before she speak words of warning to the newcomer it hurled itself into the cleft, having cleared the remnants of the chasm tunnel. The figure rolled to its back, black robes marred by ash and high heat, the familiar facial features of a male orc now in plain sight. Him? How? As if to speak the question a loud she stood over the fallen frame of the orc, her voice drifting down to him coated in curiosity. “Warlock?” She didn’t receive a response, well not verbal, his facial features a combination of shock and relief before he seemed to fade from consciousness. She lowered her weapon and knelt quickly by his side, fingertips pressing to his neck to feel for a pulse. His heartbeat was faint, but consistent, and it was growing stronger. She glanced back over her shoulder for potential assistance, but the humiliating patrol demanded only her presence, and so she was alone in her guard. The other warlocks? Nowhere in sight currently, if he were to receive help, it would only come from her at the moment. She reached a hand under his hooded head and tilted him up, forcing his body into a sitting position. A hopeful glimmer of movement was seen beneath the orc’s eyes coupled with a mumbling of words as if the warlock were dreaming. “Pip’s? Different. How is she… Here?” Was the warlock in a trance? Well, as all warriors she also had a direct approach to fix these types of situations. A resounding slap across the orcs cheek echoed in the cleft as Greshka’s strong fingers and palm urged the warlock from his stupor. His eyes groggily popped open, a hand reaching up to firmly grip the wrist of his attacker. Greshka was surprised by the strength of the grip, but simply voiced her previous ‘greeting’ to see if he was now lucid. “Warlock?” His fiery gaze locked onto her own as he began to comprehend where he was, and what was happening. His fingertips released her wrist immediately, a flash of embarrassment flickering over his features as he spoke. “Yes.” Of all the things the warlock could think to say at the moment, the feeble response was all he could muster. “What were you doing in there?” her head nodded towards the chasm, a genuine curiosity filled her voice coupled with a hint of annoyance? “Oh, well, training” He sputtered, concealing the true purpose for his visit, and instantly regretting it as her eyes indicated she did not believe his response, even a little. “Training? In the chasm?” Her brows were raised now, communicating a clear, ‘are you serious?’. He resolved to change the subject, the immense strain he recently undertook audible in his groan as he tried to move to a standing position. “Well, what are you doing here?”

Her response was swift, she was quickly reverting to her previous demeanor whenever she had regarded him before. “Patrol. On your feet Warlock.” her hands moved to grip one of his arms as she tucked her smaller frame underneath her armpit and began rising to her own feet, forcing him to stand with her. Truly he was grateful for the assistance, he doubted he would reach his feet under his own power, he leaned ‘heavily’ upon her, perhaps more than necessary, if he was dreaming he would make the best of it. He did however make a conscious effort to not look at her, fearing his eyes would betray everything he was working towards. His voice instead conveyed its thanks, concentrating on keeping it neutral and steady. “Thank you.”

If Greshka provided any hint of her emotion, it was only in her voice, a warrior’s mask of discipline hiding any trace of facial expression. “Will you be training in this spot from now on?” The question clearly meant to catch the warlock off guard, perhaps indicating he was abandoning his previous training spot. He was quick himself to respond, even in his weariness. “No, but I have a lot to learn.”

“And your favored location, you were not learning there?” Of course, she was now directly referring to the location he often found himself while watching her drill sessions. He was quickly becoming a bit flustered at the direction of this conversation.

“I learned I didn’t have much to offer there.” He stood to his full height now, his gaze drifting away from hers, feeling the need for escape more so now then when at the peak of his previous climb.

“I see.” She responded. “Do you need help?” She gestured to one of the multiple tents behind her, long black braids jostling a bit at the sides of her face as she turned, as if recommending he find a location to rest.

“No, no - I can make it.” Surprisingly he was assertive here, he felt a new found power thrum within him and it was beginning to bolster his confidence. His voice became distant a moment, speaking as genuinely as he ever had before, something was different about the warlock now. “Do you ever feel as if you’re running out of time?”

She took a long pause before responding, “Yes… all the time.” Came her response, a play on words, possibly, but clearly she had her own trials she was going through, something that gave him strength to pursue his when he watched her persevere.

She moved to pick up her weapon, nodding to him that she was about to continue her patrol. He returned the nod, his gaze locking with hers for a moment, their goodbye leaving much unsaid, at least for his part. The purplish blue tint of the cleft was still a welcome beacon as he himself moved slowly to find a place to ‘figure things out’, first thing was first, he had to find Pip.

[Nightsong-mannoroth]

Kind of neat getting to see the two versions. Keep up the grind, your doing fine.

[Erilihn-moon-guard]

Thoroughly enjoying this so far! Looking forward to seeing more. I’d like to know more about Greshka’s personality; you’ve done a great job of getting me invested in the warlock—now I want to know she’s got enough depth to match his own!

[Planetofjunk-arthas (Planetofjunk)]

As the Warlock stumbled away from his brief encounter with Greshka, he cursed his luck. The phrase ‘Running out of time?’ echoed in his mind, poignantly true given his current predicament. Yet, his failure to articulate all the words he had always wanted to say marked another defeat. Upon reaching one of the several tents in the cleft below, he quickly entered and slumped down before the open flame of a fire burning in the center. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and forced his thoughts clear. What had happened to him? Pip had mentioned something about a mark. And how had he managed to summon the gateway that allowed his escape from the precipice in the chasm? He felt different now; stronger, more in control. What other abilities were now within his reach?

Slowly blinking open, he found himself absently staring at the gentle crackle of flames before him. The fire appeared curiously familiar. Squinting slightly as he sat up, he wondered why the flame seemed so reminiscent of a long-lost comrade. Raising his hand, he reached out towards it, feeling an odd surge pass through him that enticed the dancing flame to blaze higher and hotter, its hue shifting to a greenish tinge. A pleasant warmth spread through him. Astonished, he dropped his hand back to his side, allowing the fire to resume its normal behavior. Could he coax fire now?

His thoughts were abruptly cut short by familiar tendrils of pain, a stark reminder of the price for his newfound abilities. Gritting his teeth, he gripped his robes tightly in clenched fists until the sensation passed. He needed to find Pip. With newfound determination, he focused on the image of the imp, raising both hands in an attempt to will him into existence. Despite past failures, this attempt felt different, as if his soul itself had latched onto the little beast, pulling it towards him forcibly. A sensation he had only pretended to understand before.

A dull pulse of purple and blue formed a small portal before him. It widened, and Pip’s familiar tiny claws emerged, pulling the imp up and out of the orb. Pip looked at him with considerable annoyance. “Hey, I was in the middle of somethin-!” His gaze softened as he seemed to understand what had transpired. “Ohhh, I see,” Pip chuckled.

Before the Warlock could respond, he was wracked by another enormous surge of pain, toppling him forward to his knees. He could only bite his lip and endure the torment until it subsided. “You are learning. Power comes at a price,” Pip mused, skittering up his robes to pat his back comfortingly.

“What has happened to me?” the Warlock finally managed to ask when the pain eased. “Why can I suddenly do these things that were impossible before?”

“Oh, you always could,” Pip replied with mirth in his eyes. “We’ve just coaxed it to the surface.”

“We?” the Warlock asked, raising a brow in concern.

Pip hesitated briefly before replying, “You and I, of course.” His toothy grin returned.

The orc leaned back into a seated position, curiosity piqued. “You mentioned a mark earlier. What mark?” he gestured for Pip to explain.

Pip’s irritation at the line of questioning was apparent. “You wanted power, didn’t you? Remember that. You’re now on a path to gain more. And don’t forget your purpose,” he reminded, alluding to the Warlock’s quest for Greshka’s attention.

“You were rewarded after enduring much, only to be followed by your failure,” Pip chided, clearly referring to the Warlock’s recent encounter. “If you truly wish to win over that female,” Pip shuddered at the thought, “you’ll need all the power you can muster.”

Pip slid back to the ground, pointing a tiny finger at the orc for emphasis. The Warlock exhaled a long sigh, accepting the admonishment as part of his new reality. Despite his missteps with Greshka, he was determined to grow stronger. “So, what now?” he asked after Pip’s lecture.

Pip’s smirk deepened ominously. “Felwood,” he answered succinctly.

The Warlock’s eyes widened at the mention of the infamous forest, a sense of foreboding enveloping him. Yet, he nodded in agreement, steeling himself for the journey ahead, and focused on more comforting memories to steady his resolve.

[Drahliana-earthen-ring (Drahliana)]

Lackey put it this way.

"As a writer your first million words are going to be crap.

The only way to get past that is to write them."

[Planetofjunk-arthas (Planetofjunk)]

That night, Greshka’s rest was anything but peaceful. Enveloped initially in the warmth of her wolfskin fur blanket, she now found herself wrestling with a tumult of dreams, each one unraveling her cocoon of warmth as she tossed and turned. Her bunk creaked in protest, mirroring the tumult within her. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead, a silent testament to the intense visions that held her captive in the grip of the night.

In her dream, she stood alone atop a hill, a place that once thrived with life now surrendered to ash and ruin. The remnants of a past verdancy were now consumed by lingering flames of a sickly green pall, casting an eerie glow on the desolate landscape. Above, the sky was shrouded in smoky clouds, tainted with the same noxious hues, allowing only the faintest starlight to breach the darkness.

Clutched in her hands was her axe, a cherished legacy from her father, now dripping fresh blood onto the desolate earth, adding to the tormented landscape. She pivoted slowly, her gaze scanning for signs of life or threat. It was then her peripheral vision caught movement—a human female and a larger, hooded figure stood about 20 or 30 yards ahead. The human, her long blonde locks tarnished by the ash, was clad in armor, adorned with sigils that echoed the flames’ sickly green hue. Beside her, the hooded figure, with a staff and an aura of faint, sickly green, fixed a fiery red gaze upon Greshka. A chill ran through her, contrasting starkly with the surrounding inferno.

Recognition struck her like a blow; the warlock had now invaded her dreams. His once benign presence was replaced by an image of grim and indomitable will, disturbing her to the core. Whatever had transpired here, she felt certain he was at its heart. The warlock spoke to his companion, their words eluding her. The armored woman locked eyes with Greshka and charged, sword drawn, intent clear and lethal.

Greshka’s instincts kicked in, and she readied her axe, but the strike, when it came, was so precise, so powerful, that she found herself staggering, her hands trembling from the impact. The human female, her features a contradiction of softness and ferocity, prepared for another strike, adding to the surreal nature of the dream.

Then, as swiftly as it had begun, the dreamscape shifted. The battlefield vanished, replaced by the bedside of a gravely wounded orc warrior. Greshka’s heart clenched as she recognized her father, his life ebbing away amidst injuries too severe to comprehend. She dropped to a knee, grasping his hand, the warrior’s axe standing silently witness to the impending farewell.

“Greshka?” The feeble whisper, her father’s last utterance, sought her out.

“Yes, father, I’m here,” she replied, her voice a controlled monotone, suppressing tears in a testament to her strength and to honor her father’s warrior spirit.

Her father’s eyes fluttered open, offering a final, knowing glance. With a gentle squeeze of her hand and a faint nod towards the axe, he imparted a silent legacy before succumbing to eternal silence.

Jolted awake, Greshka sat bolt upright, her breath ragged, her skin damp with a mixture of sweat and tears. The vividness of the dream lingered, its images haunting her with their clarity and emotional depth. She lay back, her mind a whirl of thoughts and emotions. Were these visions mere dreams, or something more prophetic? Never had she experienced such vividness, such intensity. The warlock’s transformed presence, the unknown human warrior, the pervasive flames and death—all swirled in her mind, a puzzle demanding to be understood.

As dawn’s first light began to seep into her quarters, Greshka steeled herself for the day ahead. The dream’s portents weighed heavily on her, yet she knew a warrior’s path is forged from resolve and unwavering will. With her father’s strength as her guide and her own spirit unbroken, she readied herself to face whatever lay ahead, the memory of the dream fueling her determination to confront the uncertain future.

[Planetofjunk-arthas (Planetofjunk)]

The journey from Durotar into the Barrens had been rather uneventful, with the Warlock accompanied only by the rust-colored dust of the road beneath his feet and the incessant bickering of the imp persistently barking directions.

“If you take this road, we will lose time moving through the Crossroads. We could cut directly across the plains and reach Ashenvale in a day!” scolded the imp, hidden from view but its disapproving tone unmistakable.

“And risk an encounter with lions? I think not,” the Warlock retorted, his steps silent and measured on the path, his vigilant gaze scanning the surroundings. He respected the deceptive tranquility of the Barrens, fully aware of the swift and merciless nature of its threats.

Occasionally, he would pause to admire the scenery: vast plains of tall grass swaying beside the road, under a sky so blue it seemed to bake the land to a crisp. The sun’s relentless blaze weighed heavily upon him, and he lamented his choice of robes, unsuited for the journey’s harsh conditions. Pulling out a worn map, he confirmed his progress—halfway to the Crossroads. There, he intended to gather supplies and, if fortune favored him, secure transportation north into the foreboding depths of Ashenvale.

Fellow travelers occasionally passed by, prompting the Warlock to lower his gaze and retreat into the shadow of his hood. A recent encounter with a towering Tauren and his lanky troll companion was testament to this: the Tauren barely sparing him a glance, the troll eyeing him with thinly veiled suspicion. Accustomed to the disdain directed at his kind, the Warlock silently endured, waiting for them to pass before resuming his journey.

As midday approached, the Crossroads loomed on the horizon. Lowering his hood to appear less threatening, he braced himself for the scrutinizing gaze of the sentries. Magic users, particularly warlocks, were often met with suspicion and scorn, so he hoped his robes would be perceived as nothing more than an eccentric fashion statement.

Inside the Crossroads, he made his way directly to the inn, the largest structure in the modest town. The inn’s cool interior offered a welcome respite from the scorching sun, and the innkeeper’s gaze, devoid of the scorn he was so accustomed to, held only the curiosity of one who had seen all manner of travelers pass through her doors.

“Mok’ra, traveler!” she greeted with a warm smile.

Returning the greeting, he inquired about provisions suitable for a lengthy journey, deliberately vague about his destination. “North,” he offered succinctly when pressed for details.

She recommended dried jerky and melon juice, freshly delivered from Orgrimmar. He exchanged a few silver coins for the supplies, hastily securing the pouch to his belt while enduring Pip’s derisive snort at his choice of sustenance. An awkward motion to dismiss the imp’s complaints drew a puzzled look from the innkeeper, prompting a swift and somewhat embarrassed departure from the Warlock.

Stepping back into the blaze of the afternoon sun, he adjusted his hood and set off towards the northern exit of the Crossroads, his presence barely acknowledged by the wary sentries. The journey continued under the oppressive heat, the Warlock pausing only to sip the melon juice, immediately understanding the innkeeper’s caution regarding the goblin-made corks.

As dusk approached and the sun’s fierce grip on the land began to wane, the Warlock contemplated his next steps. A campsite in the Barrens was not a decision to be taken lightly; the wrong choice could be fatal. He relied on Pip’s supposed knowledge of the area to find a suitable spot near the base of a large mountain to the west.

Settled by his modest but proudly made fire, he attempted to find comfort in the barren landscape, using a nearby boulder for support. “I told you, this is the place!” Pip exclaimed, now visible as he danced around the fire.

“Hey, don’t mess around,” the Warlock warned, protective of the small semblance of home he had managed to create in the vastness of the Barrens.

But their quiet evening was abruptly shattered by the distant sounds of conflict—a cacophony of shouts and clashing metal. The Warlock was content to avoid unnecessary trouble, but Pip, ever impulsive, was drawn to the commotion like a moth to a flame.

“We gotta see this!” Pip exclaimed, scampering off into the darkness towards the sounds of battle.

“Wait, Pip!” the Warlock called after the disappearing figure, his plea falling on deaf ears. With a resigned grimace, he set off after his wayward companion, a silent vow forming in his mind: when he gained the strength he sought, teaching the imp obedience would be his first order of business.

[Nightsong-mannoroth]

Excellent work, so far.

Regardless of what others might say… you have written something and that’s more than most.

Keep it up.

[Planetofjunk-arthas (Planetofjunk)]

This has been fun for me. I’ll probably end up rewriting the whole thing after I finish to refine it. Thank you as always for the encouragement.

[Planetofjunk-arthas (Planetofjunk)]

By the time the Warlock had caught up to Pip and approached the aftermath of the night’s disturbance, the conflict had evidently ceased. His journey, initially a sprint that tapered to a weary walk, led him to a caravan scene that spoke volumes of violence, yet was eerily silent now. The typically mischievous imp that had driven him here was conspicuously absent, leaving the Warlock to interpret the remnants of chaos alone. He surveyed the battered caravan wagons, their sturdy build now compromised, bearing the scars of an explosive assault. Splinters of wood and debris lay scattered, painting a grim picture of the recent turmoil.

Approaching the first in the line of ravaged wagons, the Warlock’s gaze fell upon an unsettling sight: blood-soaked interiors and the lifeless forms of humans, an anomaly in the Barrens. Were these unfortunate souls from the Kul Tiran outpost, perhaps part of a prison caravan? His musings were interrupted by a subtle movement from the second wagon—survivors, albeit barely clinging to life. The last wagon, though damaged, sheltered unconscious figures, seemingly spared the worst of the onslaught.

As he pondered how to assist these survivors without derailing his own dark pursuit, Pip reappeared with his usual lack of gravitas, casually inspecting the carnage as though perusing market goods.

“Oh, someone had a blast here,” Pip quipped with dark humor, his taloned fingertips nonchalantly exploring the human remains.

“This isn’t funny, Pip. We need to leave before whoever did this returns,” the Warlock countered, his tone heavy with both concern and contempt for the imp’s morbid levity. “Maybe we can circle back to the Crossroads for help with these survivors.”

Pip’s smirk widened as he leaped to the second wagon, surveying the critically injured. “Help for these humans? There’s no saving them. But what a resourceful night this has turned out to be.”

The Warlock sighed, acknowledging the likely fate of some, yet knowing others could still be salvaged, especially those in the last wagon. “Some here can still be helped. It’ll only delay us half a day, maybe.”

Pip’s response sent a chill through the Warlock. “Oh, there will be no delays. What a beautiful night this has turned out to be. Resources everywhere.”

Alarmed by Pip’s ominous intent, the Warlock gestured for the imp to follow him back to seek help. “Resources? What are you talking about? Come on, Pip, we must hurry, or we will lose precious time.”

But Pip had other, darker designs. Perched atop the last wagon, he tapped his talons on the skull of an unconscious victim. “No, these people must be harvested,” he declared with unsettling glee.

“Harvested?” The word sent a familiar, icy chill through the Warlock, the same he’d felt upon being ‘marked’ by Pip.

“Yes, we will need their souls. Or more precisely, you will,” Pip insisted, pointing a claw at the Warlock. “Take them.”

The Warlock’s disbelief was palpable. He was aware of the dark rites of soul harvesting, but these were not his enemies; they were defenseless victims. He reassured himself of his ignorance of such arts, yet an unsettling knowledge lurked within him. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Pip. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. These people need help.”

Pip’s annoyance was evident as he bore down on the Warlock from his perch. “Yes you do, and yes you will,” he insisted, his words piercing like needles into the Warlock’s core. “Did you think this path would be easy? Power is not given; it must be seized.”

The words tormented the Warlock, compelling him to his knees in anguish. Pip then clambered up his side, gripping his robes, and directed his gaze to the trio of unconscious humans. “I will make this easy. You know how. Or would you prefer some other orc to occupy your ‘lady’s’ thoughts? Remember when you said you would do anything? Take. Their. Souls. Now.”

The imp’s command, laced with agony, left the Warlock with a harrowing choice. He drew in a ragged breath, grappling with the enormity of the act before him. Closing his eyes, he reached out with his mind, feeling the faint, fading pulses of the souls before him. A spectral purple light began to emanate, linking their life force to his outstretched hand.

“See, you know how. You’ve always known,” Pip whispered, the pain subsiding as the Warlock’s resolve wavered. Yet, the act of taking these innocent lives, of draining their very essence, weighed heavily on his conscience.

“Wait,” the Warlock pleaded weakly. “Please no, Pip. I can’t do this. Anything else, please.”

“DO IT!” Pip’s command was a searing strike, a pain that promised unending torment for any further hesitation.

The Warlock, his resolve crumbling, surrendered to the grim necessity of his path. He clenched his hand, drawing the ethereal energy into himself, a euphoric rush clashing with the dying cries of his unwilling benefactors. The blissful surge was marred by the wails of the damned, a haunting chorus to the rapture he experienced.

Then, silence fell. The cries ceased, leaving only Pip’s manic laughter to fill the void. The imp’s eyes, ablaze with victory, regarded the Warlock with a twisted admiration. “Oh, you are magnificent! Beautiful!” he exclaimed, his tiny claws affectionately grazing the Warlock’s cheek.

Collapsed to his knees, the Warlock slowly opened his eyes to the horror of his deed: lifeless husks, forever silenced in their final agony. A lone tear traced its path down his cheek, echoing the imp’s earlier words, a bitter testament to the dark path he had chosen. “Anything.”

[Planetofjunk-arthas (Planetofjunk)]

Greshka’s journey into the Barrens transitioned abruptly from the warm memories of her childhood near Crossroads to the harsh reality of her current mission. The caravan, once destined for Astranaar deep within Ashenvale, lay in ruins, its guards and kodo beasts decimated by a sudden and brutal assault.

Arriving at the scene, she swiftly dismounted her imposing red worg, a mount befitting a member of her elite guard. She advanced towards her unit, her arrival drawing a piercing gaze from her sergeant, who was in the midst of coordinating the unit’s response amidst the chaos.

“I’m glad you could join us,” his words implying she was the last to arrive.

“Sorry. I was delayed this morning, unexpectedly,” she responded, obediently nodding at the chastisement. In truth she hoped the answer was sufficient, her disturbing evening needed no divulgement.

The sergeant exhaled deeply, his frustration evident, yet he chose not to dwell on her lateness. Their immediate focus needed to be the grim scene before them; extraneous discussions would offer no aid. “This tragedy unfolded under the cover of darkness,” he remarked, his robust finger directing her attention to the shattered remains of the caravan. “The victims’ lifeless bodies suggest it happened mere hours ago. It’s evident they were victims of a surprise attack, likely through the use of goblin explosives – our brethren had no chance.” He began to stride forward, and Greshka promptly fell into step behind him.

He pointed westward, indicating the blood-drenched soil and trampled grass. “Over there lies the center of the skirmish,” he noted, his voice grave. “That is where most of the caravan guard met their end.” His gesture then returned to the devastated caravan line. “Meanwhile, our scouts are tracking a few prisoners who might have somehow survived and fled.”

Pausing in front of the final wagon, he scrutinized its ghastly contents. The wagon bore several bodies, their skin pallid and ashen, their expressions eternally contorted in silent screams – a testament to their agonizing end. Amidst the carnage, an undead figure moved methodically, its bony fingers delicately examining each corpse. Upon noticing Greshka and the sergeant, the figure paused, its pale, glowing eyes meeting theirs with an eerie, knowing gaze.

“Hello, Sergeant and…?” The undead apothecary inquired, his gaze falling upon Greshka. Unfamiliar with her presence, his query lingered in the air, acknowledging the divide between the undead and the Kor’Kron elite.

“This is Greshka, a new recruit,” the sergeant introduced, placing a firm hand on her shoulder to affirm her role. He issued his command with clarity, “Stay here, oversee his work, and relay his findings to me.” With those instructions, he promptly departed, his attention shifting to the returning orc hunters and their reports from further along the shattered caravan.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Greshka affirmed, maintaining her composure and discipline even after he had departed. She then turned to the apothecary, her tone professional despite her inherent unease with the undead. “Do you require assistance with your examination?” she offered, her duty to the Horde overriding personal sentiments.

The apothecary responded, indicating the stark reality of their grisly task. “No need, this is quite straightforward. These five,” he gestured towards the corpses in the final wagon, and then pointed to the adjacent one, “fell victim to Fel magic, and not long ago.” Greshka felt a chill at his words, acknowledging the grave implication of his findings.

Sensing her discomfort, the apothecary sought to assure her. “The assailant has certainly fled the scene,” he stated confidently. He demonstrated his point by lifting the head of one of the victims, highlighting the horror and surprise etched on their lifeless faces. “These were not combatants but rather unfortunate souls caught unawares and drained of life and essence. The lingering stench of Fel is unmistakable.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the desolate scene. “The sheer audacity of the act suggests the work of a demon or perhaps a warlock, given the absence of any effort to conceal the atrocity. In these barren lands, such wielders of dark magic are rare, and their actions leave distinct traces, much like the ones we observe here.”

Greshka edged closer to the wagon, peering intently at the macabre image inside. The sight of the humans, their faces frozen in terror, sent a shiver down her spine. She murmured, almost to herself, “Could a warlock be responsible for this?”

The undead apothecary, his voice a hoarse whisper, affirmed her fears. “Indeed. Warlocks harness their power by siphoning the very souls and life force of beings, unlike mages who draw from the elements or arcane.”

Her mind racing, Greshka probed further, “Is this ability common to all warlocks, or does it require advanced knowledge?” She was silently piecing together the puzzle, hoping her suspicions were unfounded.

The apothecary pondered her question, his bony fingers absentmindedly caressing his chin. “In the realm of the dark arts, one is perpetually a student. However, the act of extracting multiple souls is not the mark of a novice. This individual, I surmise, is quite adept.”

A flicker of relief passed through Greshka. The warlock she knew was a mere beginner, an unlikely candidate for such a heinous act. Yet, she sought clarity on the role of the warlock in the actual conflict. “Did the warlock engage in the fight directly, or were there signs of demonic forces at play?”

The apothecary’s analysis painted a chilling picture. “Warlocks wield their power diversely. Some engage directly, flinging fel energies, while others prefer the subtlety of demonic pawns. Here, however, the evidence suggests a spectator, or perhaps a scavenger who arrived post-battle to exploit the aftermath. Such cold calculation… it’s ruthlessly efficient,” he observed, a hint of morbid fascination in his tone.

Greshka’s expression remained impassive, masking the tumult of thoughts within. The mention of demonic pawns piqued her interest, prompting a follow-up question. “Pawns? Do warlocks employ demons in combat?”

“Indeed, they do,” the apothecary confirmed. “Warlocks forge pacts with demons, bending them to their will for various purposes, combat being one of the most common.” His words lingered in the air, adding another layer of complexity to the grim puzzle before them.

She offered a respectful nod, her posture rigid, as she saluted with a clenched fist over her chest. “I’ll relay this information, thank you,” Greshka acknowledged, her voice steady despite the swirling thoughts.

Turning on her heel, she retraced the sergeant’s steps, the apothecary’s cautionary words echoing in her mind, a somber reminder of the potential dangers ahead. “Tread carefully in your pursuit. A warlock capable of this is not to be underestimated.”

As she advanced toward the sergeant’s location, a myriad of thoughts clouded her mind, most prominently the haunting visions from her dream. The inexplicable connection she felt with the warlock, a mere spectator in her life until now, inexplicably tugged at her conscience. Why did his presence, previously a mere annoyance, now evoke such a profound sense of involvement in her fate? The brief, enigmatic exchanges beneath the city, his evasive demeanor, and his carefully guarded words - all painted a picture of an individual whose intentions, while unclear, had never felt malicious.

Her introspection was abruptly interrupted as she narrowly avoided a collision with her sergeant, lost as she was in her own contemplations. His puzzled expression and crossed arms signaled his expectation for a report.

Regaining her composure, she cleared her mind and succinctly summarized the apothecary’s conclusions. “The apothecary attributes the deaths to a warlock’s doing. He suggests the assailant might not have engaged in the initial conflict but rather seized an opportunity afterwards, harvesting the souls of the wounded before departing.”

The sergeant’s expression darkened at the mention of the warlock, his disdain palpable. “Honorless scum,” he growled. “The hunters’ findings align. The ambush was a brutal melee, yet no traces of spellcasting were discovered among the assailants. We will seek justice for our fallen. My squad will track the attackers westward. You, however, will trace the warlock’s trail north toward Ashenvale.” A smirk briefly broke through his stern demeanor. “You are the resident warlock expert afterall.” His smirk faded into a stern directive. “Apprehend or eliminate the warlock. Those who slay without honor warrant no mercy.”

With a firm nod, Greshka acknowledged her orders, her stance unwavering as the sergeant departed. She brushed aside any jibes about her past encounters, her resolve now firmly set on unraveling the mystery that intertwined her path with that of the warlock. If her unsettling dream bore any truth, it was clear her destiny was irrevocably linked to the shadowy realm of warlocks.

[Nightsong-mannoroth]

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