Necks

[Darren Tereos]

((This is a short response to the idea that was tossed around of providing in-character responses to the events of Tavern Nights.))

Dayari, rogue and wanderer, found himself in a corner of Orgrimmar. He sat cross-legged in the dirt, axe in his lap and whetstone in his hand, running it along the ever keener edge of the blade, making quick hissing sounds with each lick of stone to weapon. With irritation, Dayari looked up as a dry breeze brought a coating of ruddy dust to himself and his axe. While the Forsaken had selected this location for the lack of likelihood of running into any of the living being scurrying throughout the orc capital, it seemed no amount of care could keep the red dust away. Using his equally dust-covered tabard, he wiped his well-worn weapon clean. Giving a lopsided frown, Dayari returned to his work. It always amazed him how much work these weapons required. Unlike his tattered armor, anything less than the sharpest edge could lead to no end of trouble.

Mumbling to himself as he honed the axe's edge to razor sharpness, “Supposed to cut the head off of the one Not-Scourge, but then Dharkoth tells me to watch the other Not-Scourge. That's a lot of necks. The one was small, but still sometimes even small necks aren't easy to cut.” Glowering at another errant breeze and brushing the resultant fine coat of dust away, “Still, easy to find it. The noisy Not-Scourge finds us. But still, what about Solivar. He's supposed to be a good Not-Scourge. Dharkoth was worried though, made me write it down. Has to be important if I wrote it down.” Pausing in his work, he looked at the carved words Watch Solivar, etched into the leather of the palm of his glove. While several days had passed since the carving, the assorted dirt and grime that had found it's way into the lettering had ensured that the words were clearly visible, to the few people that would take the time to examine the hand of an undead.

At that moment, a shadow obscured Dayari's the every bright sun's rays. Eventually looking up to see the source of the sudden darkening, Dayari saw an orc standing over him, haloed by the bright Kalimdor sun. Saying, nothing Dayari watched the green-skinned fellow, noting large muscles and an even larger sword at the orc's side.

The orc's brow furrowed, “Hey bone-bag, don't you have your own city to do that in?” The orc folded his arms, staring downward in what most would have interpreted as an expression of contempt.

“Do what?” Dayari asked, axe sitting idly in his lap.

This seemed to further agitate the ill-tempered orc. Gesturing with closed fist while his other hand rested securely on the hilt of his sword. “Your weapon: go take it and your rotting carcass back to the Undercity, where your kind belongs. This is our land, from orcish blood and sweat; that means it's ours, not for a bunch of dead humans that didn't have the sense to stay killed. Garrosh didn't go far enough, should've expelled all of you. Go take care of your damned weapons somewhere else.” Spittle flecked his lips as he nearly shouted the last sentence at Dayari.

After the tirade had ended, Dayari glanced down at his axe, running a thumb along the edge, then examining the shallow cut it made through the dead flesh and responded “But I'm done sharpening now?”

The orc roared once and raised steel-booted foot aiming to directly stomp the impertinent Forsaken's skull. However, the loose ligaments seemingly barely holding Dayari's body together also allowed him to contort and move in manners incapable by most still amongst the living. Bending forward and vaulting under his attacker, Dayari was out of the orc's field of vision when the boot thumped into the ground with an audible thump and the stirring of a small cloud of dust. Whirling about and unsheathing his sword to face the inevitable attack from behind, the orc saw nothing but the usual denizens of Orgrimmar, interrupted by a hazy cloud of smoke hanging in the winds. Spending a few more moments looking for sign of the Forsaken, the orc, grumbling, placed his weapon back in his scabbard, his frown only deepened as he walked away.

[- Zentao -]

(( Nice... in the moment after the lunge, he must have forgotten that he had been attacked and walked to the store to get some goat's milk ))