This is an in-character post, so beware! I’m actually a lot more nervous about writing this post than any of the other’s I’ve put up, so don’t make fun! Well, you can if you want but I’d appreciate other comments or constructive criticism a lot more than “zomg carebear kbye”. Actually I am on an RP server so I’m allowed, even though I don’t roleplay in-game. So I hope this is a nice change of pace from my usual content and that you all enjoy it, if it goes over well I’ll probably end up posting more of this style of writing.
Dalaran was crowded, but that was nothing new. Despite the masses of city residents and visiting adventurers the orc moved through the foot traffic with familiar ease. After releasing his mount at the flight pad to rest he made his way down a few well-traveled roads before descending into the network of tunnels that wound under the entirety of the magical metropolis. Things were a little less glamorous in the tunnels, which was probably why the hunter spent most of his time here. Of course a few of the less savory denizens of Dalaran made their living in the Underbelly, but they knew who deserved a wide berth (it helped to have a heap of canine muscle trotting beside you). The underground thoroughfares remained fairly crowded as the orc reached his destination.
He rounded a corner and was assaulted by the welcome commotion of his favorite haunt. Despite being in the heart of the Underbelly the Cantrips and Crows Tavern was always doing good business, bringing in a crowd who were after a little more secluded atmosphere, whether to seek a little peace and quiet (at least as peaceful as it could be in the busiest hub on the entire continent) or to conduct business away from the common passerby. The orc’s muscular bulk made the thick planks creak as he crossed over the cloudy water and into the tavern proper. He scanned the large common room, quickly finding a seat at one of the many mismatched tables looking over the docks and water below. The noise of the tavern’s many patrons, whether at the long, sturdy bar or around the crackling fireplace, was comforting to the greenskin as he settled into the soft time-worn leather chair and stretched his arms out wide. Even Sleet, a grizzled Frostworg matron that had become attached to him after his time spent with the Sons of Hodir, laid down stiffly and rested her scarred snout on wicked paws.
“Thakarron, it’s good to lay eyes friend! Got a fresh bowl of stew for you, Brella made some changes to the recipe after you suggested that new marinade for the Shoveltusk and it’s become a favorite once again!” blustered the well-known proprietor of the inn, setting out a simple bowl of simmering house stew on the wobbly wooden table along with a tall glass of sweet herbal tea.
“Same to you Ajay, it feels nice to have some time to relax,” replied Thakarron, his friendly smile was made fearsome by his broad tusks. The orc picked up the battered spoon and scooped up a spoonful of thick reddish brown broth along with a small hunk of dark shoveltusk shoulder. A heady aroma of garlic, rosemary, and other flavorful spices filled his nostrils as he let the decadent broth coat his tongue. The shoveltusk had just the right amount of marbling and was a mix of sweet marinade and gamey meat as it melted in the orc’s mouth. “Give my thanks to Brella, she’s outdone herself as always,” complemented the hunter, around a mouthful of hearty stew.
“I’ll try, you know shes already amazed that a ‘filthy greenskin’ like you could be such a good cook!” exclaimed the human jokingly, a wry smile beneath his salt and pepper mustache.
A guttural chuckle spilled from the orc, at odds with his menacing appearance. Brella was a young battle axe, even for a Dwarven woman, and firmly believed that the stout little people were clearly the master race of Azeroth. “Maybe its better you just tell her I bow before her endless skill with pot and ladel.”
The innkeeper barked with laughter and slapped the hunter heartily on the back, a gesture that barely stirred the muscular orc. “You always were more clever than I, Thakarron. Anyway, I’ll leave you to your business, stay as long as you like, I’ll have your room ready if you wish!” With that he turned and made his way to the back of the house, mingling with other patrons as he went.
Thakarron quickly gulped down his stew, the heat of it helping to protect against the cold that permeated all of Northrend. He was almost finished when Sleet nudged her large muzzle against his leg, her mouth open and tongue lolling out. With a sigh Thakarron fished out one of the last pieces of shoveltusk with his spoon and let it fall down toward his pet worg. Before it could even touch the ground Sleet caught the morsel in her mouth and gulped it down, letting out a chuff of approval before returning to her strenuous task of comfortably lounging.
Now that his meal was pretty much finished Thakarron slid his bowl to the side and took a simple journal bound in supple brown leather along with a writing set from his pack. With a delicate touch he opened the cover, exposing creamy parchment pages of utmost quality. He uncorked his inkpot and dipped the oversized quill, plucked from a roc in Sholazar Basin, into it. The orc paused with his hand over the page, his heavy brows furrowing in thought. After several moments he finally began to write in heavy skittering script…
***
I’m still not sure why I am writing this, I have told myself that it is because I feel like my exploits could provide knowledge to others. But perhaps this is an attempt to immortalize my fellow adventurers and I, so even in death we are not forgotten. I do not fear death, no true Orc would. What I do fear is meeting my end before I can serve my purpose, whatever it may be. In these dire times nothing is certain, so it seems this journal is an effort for my tale to live on beyond me. It is my hope that I can educate others through the horrors and wonders I have seen. My lessons won’t be taught in some soldier’s practice pen or in the children’s lecture hall. These lessons will be written in the blood of my enemies, told by the point of my arrows, and backed by experience wrought in the crucible of combat. I am Thakarron, proud hunter of the Horde, friend to many and enemy to countless more. Here I recount my adventures through Northrend, in peace and in battle, I hope whatever tales I record here bring honor to our brethren and terror to any who would stand against us. Lok’tar ogar!
As our war in Northrend pushes toward our final goal, the death of the Lich King, I find myself tested like never before. Not by the trivial bloodsport of the Argent Tournement, or the possessed gods and technological marvels of Ulduar, and certainly not the decrepit liches of Naxxramus. The foes here are great, but so to is the chance for glory. I am not rushing in headlong, the bloodlust of our past is certainly the path to destruction when the sakes are as high as they are now. For now we journey slowly through the Citadel of the Lich King, aided by heroes of the Horde as well as the warriors of the Ashen Verdict. I have acquired many wonders and relics so far, and tales of others have perked my interests. My father drilled into me to “train hard, fight easy” a phrase he lived by, considering his axe was never far from his hand. So at this time I hone my skills, my bow arm has never been stronger nor my marksmanship more unerring. Despite this I continue to search for further ways to push myself. I have heard whispers from the denizens of Storm Peaks of a exceedingly rare beast, a creature more myth than flesh. A holdover from times of ancient magic and rampant power. I cannot resist such a chance to track down a legend. Perhaps I will have to take a leave of absence from Icecrown when the opportunity presents itself. My only worry is that Sleet will become jealous, she is already as fickle as any Orc woman, a trait I do not place in high regard!
***
Although the first entry was short, Thakarron was satisfied for now. He closed the journal and quickly wrapped up his writing set. Several of the other patrons risked glances at the orc, seeing a greenskin writing with both speed and skill was a rare sight. No jokes were made though, many either knew of the hunter’s reputation or simply saw the ancient longbow stowed across his broad back. He took a long drink of the herbal tea before leaning back on his chair and shutting his glinting blue eyes for a bit of relaxation.
Track.. Knowledge? 