Hey Folks – I picked this story Idea up from Too Many Annas and A Stab in the Dark’s Friday 500 project. The idea was to write 500 words on getting mugged – and what happened to the mugger and the muggee.
Because I suck – I couldn’t stop at 500 words and wrote over a 1000. But sometimes, when the spirits bring you a story – you can’t help but listen and tell the tale they give you. It’s no Blood Covered Lion of Mountain Size – but I like it.
Orgrimmar – Night
Mago’oc crouched low in the wet, his sapphire skin greased almost black with roof tar and muck, his triumphant mane of green hair pulled tight to his skull and bound with raw hide. He was a predator amongst amongst predators, a lone wolf in a city that knew only the law of the pack and the strength of the clan.
Mago’oc was a thief and a killer and an addict. His tongue dry, the last remnants of grave dust he’d chewed that morning were long gone. His body ached for more, ached in a bone deep and desperate sort of way. He missed the incredible clarity of purpose and movement it provided, missed the tang of the metal and fire that coursed through his veins when he chewed the gritty drug.
When the drug left him it left him scorched and hollow, a husk demanding to be filled again with purpose and light. He burned for more. He burned right down to the ends of his tusks. A part of him, a small part not yet corrupted by the cheap, vat grown narcotic cursed the day he had first tasted a twist of stuff. Cursed the leering Forsaken who had offered it to him. Cursed the flowering sweetness that it lit for so brief a time in his blasted mind.
The rest of him hungered for more. But more came with a cost and coin was rare for a half starved addict squatting in an Orgrimmar gutter in the deepest twists of The Cleft of Shadow.
But want and hunger and need could drive a body to unlimited ends. This he knew. This he remembered from the old days. Coin was but an breath away for one that could use a blade, could stomach the cold calculated butchery of hard knives in the darkness. He waited. His prey, his coin and his curse were but a moment away, moving purposefully toward him along the rain soaked cobbles.
Hooves, he realized dimly from the foul recess of his hiding place. His prey was hoofed. Tauren then. For a moment Mago’oc paused. He had fought with the massive warriors of Mulgore in the old days. Along side and against. They were mighty – even the least of them.
For that moment Mago’oc loosened his hold on the ruthless shiv he held in the darkness. There were easier marks, easier coin.
The sound of hooves rounding the corner and clattering to a stop mere inches away from him spiked the troll’s hunter instinct. He doubled his grip on the blade and with unblinking, blood shot eyes surveyed his prey.
Tauren, a she-beast and young. For as much as the race could be called delicate, this one was. Slender, dappled buckskin with a reddish coat and long forward curved horns of ebony. Both were capped with leather bangles and the feathers of some great bird were tied with beads and bits of bone into the long braids of her mane. Cloaked and dressed for travel in leather and light mail, the she-beast raised her head and sniffed the night air like a wolf. Indeed, she wore a wolfs head helm and her eyes flickered from behind the mask. She looked right at Mago’oc.
Under the weight of that gaze something inside the troll quailed and fought to hide itself deeper into murky pit of black that his life had become. Another part grew hot with rage and before he realized it, Mago’oc found himself launching through the air in a spray of sewer water and malice.
He hit the she-tauren full in the chest and he felt her hooves lose purchase on the slick cobbles. He felt her start to go down and the lithe killer twisted to get a better grip on his prey; he needed leverage, leverage to use the knife.
Then his world exploded.
The rats that lived in the gutter quailed as the wolf masked she-tauren lit the Orgimmaran night with lightning pulled from the very air. Mago’oc’s body went rigid and the rats found themselves profiled in the ghastly blue luminescence that shot forth from his mouth and eyes.
Skychaser picked herself up from the slippery cobbles and called the storm again. The night screamed in a flash of crackling blue as she wound a shield of light around herself. The rats fled into the dark as the orbs of living lightning played in slow orbits around her body. Sky’ regarded the troll’s blasted form. By his tattoos she figured him to be Whitherbark Tribe.
A long way from home this one – in more ways than one.
Her gladiator’s maces rested heavy on the war harness at her hips and seemed to drip fire into the damp dark. She reached for one to finish the troll when something in the night wind spoke to the young Shaman. She reached for the storm and the spirits of the night, took heed of their counsel and held her hand.
Mago’oc’s body shuddered once as the she-tauren passed by, her hoof beats pounding in time with the strained beating of his own heart. His head turned and he breathed out a long gout of coppery smoke into the charged night air. For the first time in two long years, the small, desperate voice in his head found its tongue.
“Thank…you,” he gasped and with infinite care Mago’oc twisted until he could look up from the gutter and into the black and gray marble of sky that was a storm choked Kalimdor night. The poison was gone, burned free by the spirits the she-tauren had called into being inside his very body. He had no thoughts left of the dust, no burning longing, no gnawing hate.
There was only peace. Peace and the rain and the taste of copper on his tongue.
Thank you.” He said to the night again and somewhere a lone wolf called.