Gen’tarn was not certain if it was blind luck, or the whims of the Spirits, that had allowed him to survive the assault.
One moment, the skies had been clear, the seas calm, the vessel, loaded with supplies for a journey to one of the Thousand Isles, had been running smoothly.
Then tentacles studded with horrid growths and glaring eyes had burst up through the ocean, through the deck, and the screaming …
The young Orc shook his head as much to rid himself of the memories as to shake the salt-crusted hair out of his face, and forced himself to his knees. The beach was made of sharp black grains of sand that caused the cuts and scrapes on Gen’tarn’s chest and limbs to itch madly, but at least there were no beasts coming to sniff around for an easy meal … at least not yet.
Apart from his kilt, his skinning knife, his pouch of totemic reagents and a half-broken barrel that had apparently been his life-raft from the doomed ship, there was nothing else on the beach. Just a lone Orc and an tropical island that looked to have, at one point, been a volcano of some sort before the fires deep under the earth had moved on.
“At least it isn’t Argus this time …” Gen’tarn laughed bitterly to himself, trying to keep the rising sense of panic inside his chest from taking control. He’d survived two years on the Manari home-world after the portal that connected it and Azeroth had been sundered, the Army of Light apparently uncaring of the forces still stuck defending the Broken natives of Argus from the Legion’s forces, and had seen the various demonic species that made of the Legion fall upon each other, tearing apart in sects and cults, each consumed with that desperate addiction for arcane magic and souls as Fiend consumed Fiend.
The first order of business would be finding water. Thick green fingers delved into his pouch, and the Shaman’s eyes widened in horror as he felt several sharp objects poke his fingers. His totem of water remained intact, the small wooden focus studded with sea-shells and wrapped with crocolisk hide, but the totem of fire and earth were completely crushed, and the totem of air had nearly been broken in half.
Panic nearly claimed the Orc, as he beheld the damage to the items that allowed him to call upon the Elements, but gradually he fought it down. The totems merely made it easier to call upon the Spirits of Air, Earth, Fire and Water, and could be repaired … if the Spirits were willing.
For now, Gen’tarn carefully scooped up the broken totems and placed them back into the pouch, then placed the Totem of Water into the beach sand, knelt before it and began praying to the Spirit of Water to guide him to a source of water that was safe to drink. Several minutes passed before the Totem began to vibrate softly, turning of its own accord in the sand to face somewhere to the north and west, up the side of the gentle slope of the extinct volcano.
“Spirits of Water, I thank you.” Gen’tarn whispered, gently plucking the totem out of the coarse black sand, brushing it dry, and then set about dragging his battered body in the direction the Totem had pointed, the warm vibration of the fetish in his hand guiding him if he veered off course.
A cave, a small trickle of slightly-warm water from a wall in the cave and a view of the southern reaches of the island. Water and shelter, and the Orc had seen plentiful prey, small boars, snakes, birds of all kinds. A crude wooden spear already rested against the wall of the cave, a sharp point hacked out of one end with his skinning knife, ready to be used tomorrow.
For now, Gen’tarn piled whatever loose stones he could find at the entrance, and at the back of the cave, just in case something else lived deeper inside. A small amount of brush and small branches lay before him, and he had begun the slow process of making a friction-fire. Lacking rope, he had to do it by hand, but prayers to the Spirit of Fire helped, both to remind the young Orc that he was not alone, and to coax the dried wood to stay lit long enough for him to place a small shredding of dried grass ontop of it, blow softly onto the embers, and start the beginnings of a fire.
Tomorrow, he would hunt, explore the island and see if there was any way to try and set up a signal-fire to contact the outside world. Tonight, he would rest, recover his strength … and pray that whatever abomination had sunk his vessel hadn’t followed him ashore.
I don’t need to eat, I can just build a shelter and wait for a ship.