The day began like any other. Jan-Mak awoke in Honorfall, read the briefing, heard the petitions of the citizenry, listened to the advice of the Farseer, and went about his business.
It wasn’t until five bells did everything go awry.
The ground shook, the earth split, and great chasms erupted all through the length of the base. Magma flowed where swamp and marshen lands once resided. Multiple buildings suffered structural damage, but the true threat was the beings that poured from these rifts.
They reminded him of the undead. When Honorfall fell to an overwhelming wave of the reanimated. Elementals- rogue, some mindless, some mindful. When the first building was set ablaze - it reminded him of Orgrimmar, before the fall.
He was paralyzed watching it all be set ablaze. The ground being ripped apart as if a giant’s child were having a tantrum. An orc chipped his axe upon the dermis of a craggy molten fiend- his head crushed with a strong hook of the earthen one’s fist.
A rabid commotion is unleashed in Honorfall- for the most part, its walls hold, but as more hours passed, the more difficult the situation became.
Jan-Mak is only able to finish that one letter before another seismic rupture rocks Honorfall. The clashing of blades and several war-cries pull him into reality. Commotion down the hall to his stationary grows louder. He commits himself to the next letter. It was personalized- but to whom? The Queenreaver? Orgrimmar? Fleetfoot? A jostle of his footing causes the ink to spill maddeningly across the parchment. He curses loudly- tearing it apart and hurling it across the floor. He hunches over like a drunken nun- knuckles going white as he held onto the stationary for dear life. It felt like he was attempting to stand upon water itself.
The combat outside his door grew louder. Beings with flesh made of stone and blood of fire, water, air battled his soldiers. His breathing was rapid and strained- soot, smoke, and assorted debris burning his lungs. He used his quill like a dagger, and the paper like a corpse he was skinning. Ugly, blotted, and dark.
Reaching for the device granted to him by the goblins, he immediately begins to replicate the letter. Again and again- but there are none to deliver them. Without weapon and blocked in his room, he continues to duplicate them. Again and again- filling them into a large burlap sack.
Adrenaline rushed through him. At any given moment the building could collapse and shudder. Yet he remained. The door could split open and an earthen one might claim his life. Sweat rolled down his face and the greater part of his frame. He continued to duplicate the letter- sweat caking the stone that he stamped the parchment with in his grip.
BANG, BANG two heavy crashes against the wooden door. It sounded monstrous- and he couldn’t tell what the shadow was beneath the threshold. He wound the end of the sack tightly into a knot, and then strapped the entirety to his chest. Underneath the desk lied a rectangular box - about the size of a small child. Breaking the lock with a frantic kick of his heel and throwing it open was a ceremonial shotgun. Loaded with bullets made of silver - a comical weapon gifted to him by an old friend. The maker’s initials: “J. D. R.” with an Arathorian crest on the hilt. Cocking it, preparing it, he shoved the table over and hunched down low. Gun pointed at the door. His heart pounded and his eye was wide. He wasn’t very good with firearms, but he’d only get one chance to drop the beast before it got to him.
The door flung open with a great cloud of dust. Blinding him with the stinging heat of soot. Immediately, his eyes watered and his vision blurred even more. Unable to prevent the loud, rolling coughs that bled from his stomach and chest. Doubled forward with the gun’s stock pressed to his leg- still pointed at the broken-hinged-door. His thumb ran over the hammer- his finger about ready to pull the trigger. . .
Rushing at him was not a giant, nor an elemental, but a sleek figure he hadn’t seen in several weeks. Cloaked head to toe in black, with his personal sigil as her tabard.
“High Warlord!” the nightborne cried out. One of her blades broken, another wet with strange ichor. Elemental miasma. Dropping the broken weapon, she’d kick aside the gun and reach down with an open palm. “Quickly, the building is going to collapse!” she hissed.
Jan-Mak had never been happier to see those bladed ears.
Congrats on all the history and quality RP you seem to have going