Prologue

A tent which was abandoned by all, but one within, stood in the center of a raging battle. Inside, the one who occupied the space, was in great pain. Looking over the body which writhed in a hay-bed, you could tell was an older female. Her skin was no humans, but an olive green. She tossed and turned, suddenly letting out an animalistic scream, nearly foaming at the mouth. She was bare, except for a leather-skin bra and thong. Her belly was rather large—meaning she was with child.

 She roared once more, tears rolling down her cheeks. Then, she tore off her lower covering, beginning to deliver. There was none around to help. Her cries only added to the screaming of village occupants being slaughtered.

 In addition, you could hear the clash of weapons furiously slamming against strong armor, in harmony with the eventual cry the soldiers let out before their bodies fell to the blood-stained earth. Death took them with open arms.

Suddenly, a large towering figure came into view through the mist of battle on the sidelines. It had skin with a hue of dark olive green, complemented by a coal-black shade. Its eyes glowed a demonic crimson, its ears torn and pointed at the end, and two tusks, one broken, jutting out from its lower jaw. The overall appearance was frightening. It was clad in black and red armor, with spiked spaulders.  The tabard it wore was worn, but in decent condition. In the center of the tabard, a symbol could be seen. It was a half-spiked circle with, what appeared to be, a blood droplet, the exact color of fresh blood. One would think it was painted in actual blood.

The obviously male creature knelt down to a female crying infant, which shared somewhat of the same appearance similarities, such as skin color. Her eyes were a faded crimson color, as opposed to the male’s piercing, glowing red ones. He picked up the infant-grinning, his intentions obviously malicious. You could tell by just glancing at him, he spelled out trouble.

“Warchief Vargron Blood-Eye!” said a guttural call, as two smaller, similar skinned creatures marched up behind the larger one. Apparently the rank of ‘Warchief’, named Vargron Blood-Eye, was none other than the malicious creature holding the infant. They beat their muscular chests in salute, as a sign of respect.

The Warchief turned, standing tall with the infant his arms.

“Eh?” The Warchief narrowed his crimson, demonic eyes at the two, seemingly annoyed. “What’re y’doin’ ‘ere?! Go an’ get some ‘eads!  I want no slackin’! We’re orcs!” He barked angrily, somewhat over reacting.

The two smaller orcs shuddered, but did not falter in their salute. After a few moments, one of the grunts managed to muster the small courage they had talking to their Warchief, “We’ve came to report our forces have the upper hand.” The grunt gulped, smiling weakly. As much as an orc could possibly smile. The other grunt didn’t bother to speak.

Vargron’s malevolent gaze locked on them. After a moment, he nodded once. He enjoyed making them tense. He could sense it. “Very good. Gather th’remainin’ lugs, an’ bring the survivin’ Mag’har orcs an’ draenei back t’th’ Watch as slaves fer the Bloodied Blade Clan! We will feast well t’night.” He let out a wicked cackle, as the tiny, now known as an orcish babe, stared at Vargron unknowingly at what her fate held.

The night was a fierce one for Nagrand, one of the continents of the vast planet of Draenor.  Two Bloodied Blade raiders hauled a drove of slaves, orc and draenei alike, through the broken, rocky paths near the basin of the Zangarmarsh, another marshy continent. As their base neared, zephyrs grew heavier to the warriors; evermore painful to the unclothed slaves. The wind roared through the trees about the Clan Watch, some strong enough to butcher the limbs clear from their stout trunks. A few somewhat fortunate slaves whispered and peered out their windows as the brutes ushered the newly enslaved humanoids into the wooden pen houses forcefully with the butts of their axes. With a pummeling blow to an elderly orc male’s forehead, the barbed gating slammed. The grunts invited themselves eagerly around a small fire pit in the external walls of the thralls’ corral; the two plopped into the dirt while exchanging exhausted expressions.

“Errgh… Th’damned runts are more than a ‘small load’! Who has to discipline th’ah pathetic creatures when they fight back?! US!”  One complained to the other, as the orc across the small fire grunted in agreement. “Well… there is th’whipman…” He reminded him with a convicting mug to him. The other scoffed with little remorse.  “Th’whipman is a vile brute!” He laughed, “Other than beating captives that could be useful drudges to death, he could be doing real useful things…” A response was quick from his associate, “I’d keep yer mouth shut… Blood-Eye’ll have yer head if he hears y’ah talkin’ ‘bout his executioner like that. I heard some strange things about the man, that… Krom’gaal… they keep one eye in the shadows while speakin’ ‘bout him…”  The orc’s ears perked as he heard this, leaning in to the tiny inferno, more interested in the subject, “Oh really? I’ve heard a shot or two about him… That he was—“He gaped for the air that suddenly escaped from his lungs; feeling the cold bite of steel against his windpipe as his companion staggered back, the color leaving his face as he watched upon the act. He rose up slowly, his hands rising with him, releasing an almost stuttering message, “I-I surrender. P-Please don’t kill me.”

“Behst be keeping tw’auh ehyes in d’eh shadows then…” A frozen, haunting voice whispered between the two as the other was dropped to his knees with a swift force. What stood behind the plated warrior barely looked like an orc. His frame was much, much too thin; much too slender to be considered a battle worthy orc. The green, almost ash-like flesh drew taunt over little more than muscle and bones. As the violent winds toyed with his waist-length ebony topknot, it was clear that the man had to be well over seven feet tall. He rolled his neck, a fierce, pulsing maroon gaze was set in a shadowy, blackened mask, directed at the two astonished raiders with his lithe arms intertwined. Dual daggers’ pommels and hilts were concealed by gaunt, lengthy fingers as the keened blades ran down his wrists nearing jagged elbows. “Bring me d’eh most defiant slave. It d’eh Wa’chief’s ord’ahs.” He commanded to them in his thickly tinted Farahlonian dialect, which was the native Draenor language. “Now.” He added. The larger scurried to the compound with jittering digits, fumbling about as he undid the pen’s door conveying a stern-looking, scarred orc. He threw the man to the dirt at the feet of the ‘Whipman’, whom lifted the orc by the scruff of his neck.

Upon entering the clay hut of the Warchief, the great orc rose. The slave was forced to his knees with Krom‘gaal‘s dagger at his collarbone. Vargron laughed harshly, trudging down to the two. “This is th’most likely to begin a rebellion? HAH!” The Mag’har orc’s eye twitched; he had forgotten about the assassin’s knife at his sternum immediately when he began to bark back defiantly, “You will not survive! I will lead my brothers back to freedom!” Vargron yanked the head of the previous warrior to force his brown eyes to meet his ghastly crimson gaze. His grip tightened enough to crush bones. The Mag’har was lifted from the reach of Krom’gaal’s kris before the Warchief dropped him from his towering height. “Show th’ weak-blood th’feel of yer tongue’s whip, Krom’gaal.” He grunted, as the Mag’har rose with another attack, “Get your best whip, coward! I bet-” His eyes dilated the weapon extended at his side. The grizzly weapon was wrought of a braid of warped, crimson leather. Filed glass shards and Fel Iron shrapnel studded deep into throng. To make the matter much worse, the tip was an iron-gilded ogre tusk. The Mag’har chewed upon his lower lip as a rivulet of perspiration formed quickly upon his shaven scalp.

“And skin th’ thing when yer done. We need something t’ motivate th’ lazy asses that’re working…”

Warchief Vargron stood, and walked out of his hut, as Whipmaster Krom’gaal whipped the rebellious Mag’har mercilessly, cries of resistance and barking of insults were aimed at the Warchief. Vargron just stood there, grinning devilishly, outside of the clay hut, listening to the rebellious cries and insults of the thrall. Battle-hardened Warchief Vargron plastered the grin on his face, growing wider with malice after each cry from the slave, looking out into the distance from Clan Watch, up into the fire-blazoned sky.

Chapter 1

The Challenge

Much time had passed since the female orcling, now named ‘Narkra’ by Vargron, had been adopted from the bloody war-field.

Once she had become of age to wield a weapon, Vargron had her train vigorously everyday for long hours-even whole days and nights, until she couldn’t train anymore, and her body had run out of fuel.

She was taught that Draenor was a tough place to live on. Kill or be killed was the number one rule in this world.

Sometimes she would train in the wilds, after honing her weapon skills on a wooden, stuffed dummy.

Other days, Vargron sent her into the arena dueling grounds, which was against his own grunts.

Vargron always kept his dreaded gaze upon her at all times. There was no time for games in eyes. Only perfecting your strength, stamina, and skills. That went for the Bloodied Blade Clan as a whole. If you are weak, you would die. There was little to no rest except after a large raid or massacre.

The Clan reveled in death and destruction. They were ‘it’ incarnate. Vargron Blood-Eye was one of the most feared Warchiefs on the planet, among most of the others that shared the region. No one challenged him. Ever.

Narkra got older. She more so trained every single day of her life; dawn to evening until she had fainted. If she was still able to move her body, Vargron would beat her while training until she was out-like a candle blown out by a furious wind. Tonight was one of those nights.

“Aargh!” Narkra roared in excruitiating pain.  Vargron stood behind her writhing body, bareback shown, as she tried to pull herself up off the ground, holding an oversized spiked beat stick.

Vargron growled, bringing the beat stick down upon her bruised, scarred, bleeding bare back.

“Y’c’n still move! Get up, worthless bitch!” He gave a strong kick to her abdomen with his plated boot, then striking again with the beat stick, throwing it down harshly upon her back.

Narkra let out a small whimpering cry, long streams of crimson life-liquid draining from her battered body every moment. She clenched her teeth, her eyes closing and then opening, downcast at the bloodied ground between her arms that held her up weakly.

Her jet black hair was soaked and sticky from sweat and dried blood, unkempt with one long tuft of hair draped over her eye in an exhausted fashion.

Suddenly, her eyes opened wide, emitting the same demonic, crimson glow Vargron’s had-bloodlust. Her expression became snarled, filled with anger and hate, like a wolf ready to close in for the kill.

Vargron smirked, his yellowed teeth showing slightly.

“Good, good. Y’ve finally foun’ yer hidden bloodlust, Narkra. It took quite a long time, but we finally ‘ave done it!” He exclaimed. “Let yer body release its unbridled fury!” He made a loud, wicked, boisterous cackle.

Narkra growled as she slowly began to lift herself off the ground, a death glare piercing anything it came to glance at. She eyed a pair of daggers sitting near the dummy.

Fueled by hate and Vargron’s coaxing, Narkra swipes up the daggers, whirling on her heels to face Vargron.

She twirled the daggers in her fingers.

Vargron frowned, “What’s this? Y’wish t’challenge me? The one ‘oo raised y’an’ taught y’a everythin’ y’a know?!” The Warchief boasted, his expression twisting into a grin once more.

“I do challenge y’a, Vargron.” Narkra sneered. “None of them lugs’ll stan’ up t’y’a, why don’ I be th’one t’end yer long-overdue reign?”

She narrowed her eyes more, her lips curling into a devious blood-thirsty grin.

“So be it, pup.” He narrowed his eyes, his expression twisted into a glare. “T’morrow evening, in th’arena.”

Narkra frowned.

“Fine then. I’ll be waitin’. Y’ve tortured me far too long. If I win, I will take yer title of Warchief.” She said finally.

Vargron seemed to growl at the insolence she put out before him. “Deal.” Vargron smirked weakly, “If I ‘appen t’dominate y’a, you’ll bare m’soldiers fer me.” He seemed to bite back a dark chuckle.

Teeth clenched, Narkra nodded hesitantly, sealing the terms. She doubted she would lose.

Narkra left the training hut, seeming to forget about her deadly wounds, thanks to the bloodlust rush. She still bled profusely, though.

Vargron frowned again, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the disobedient adopted ‘daughter’ as she left.

Chapter 2

The Fall of Blood-Eye

The following morning, Narkra’s wounds were strangely bandaged, after passing out in the wilderness the night before. Her eyes had returned to a faded crimson as well. The pain felt now was similar to last night’s but much more after the bloodlust’s adrenaline rush had faded once she had awoken.

Narkra was laying down, in a rough but softer surface than the ground, her vision blurred. As she looked around, rubbing her eyes, she had come to see a figure much like her own, but completely black, illuminated by the scorching sun.

“Mm. You’re awake.” The blackened figure spoke, the voice feminine and raspy like her own, moving to grab something to the side of her and set it on her lap. The delirious Narkra’s vision came to see clearly again, now able to make out the figure’s features. It was an orcish female, a few years younger than herself with dirty brown hair, styled in a wild three-row Mohawk. Her eyes were a calm blue, much different than her faded crimson ones. Her skin was also a lighter olive.

Narkra blinked her eyes a few times, slightly tense beforehand, not knowing what the figure was, but now she knew it was a fellow orc. “Ergh… who are you?” Narkra finally questioned.

“I’m Taikal, the stable girl for the worgs. I suppose you can call me your half-sister, since we both came into the clan adopted.” She brought a cupped spoon up to Narkra’s lips, tipping it in so the broth could seep in.

Once Narkra had a taste, she had no idea how hungry she was before. She immediately sat up in an upright, cross-legged position and took the bowl of broth and spoon from Taikal quickly, scarfing down every last drop of the liquid-food. After downing it, she let out a loud belch.

Taikal sat with a contented smile, knowing for certain that she did something good for once.

Narkra sighed after setting the bowl and spoon back down on the hay she found she was laying on. She closed her eyes, taking in everything that was happening right now.

The lighter skinned female took the bowl and spoon, setting it beside her so she could take it out to get washed later on.

“I heard the commotion last night . . .  you and Blood-Eye are to fight this evening.” She said, suddenly grim and concerned. Narkra could tell this by just a glance at her facial expression.

Narkra sighed, suddenly having a flashback of the night before. How she changed, and was bloodthirsty. She’s finally come to the conclusion that she has gone insane from all the tortuous training Vargron has put her through.

“Yeah…” Narkra said, after a few moments of silence. “I’m not gonna let him dictate m’life anymore. He wants me t’be his ultimate weapon of war. . . an’ a brood mother fer troops. I’ll take hold of this clan, an’ rule it with an iron fist, more thn‘e ever could.” She declared, looking down.

Taikal sighed, “You really shouldn’t do this, Narkra. You could put yourself in more of a bad place than you are already. No one’s ever tried to challenge him. He kills his own men just if they look at him the wrong way!”

Determined, Narkra shook her head. “I have to. I won’t give up or leave that arena until his body falls to the ground, and I am victorious. I will be the first to challenge him.”

Narkra’s half-sister had tried to sway her decision, but in the end, failed. She nodded, standing and picking up the clay-ware bowl and spoon. “Good luck. You’ll need it.” She took one last look at Narkra before going back to her stable jobs.

The wind blew strong against Narkra’s seemingly limp body, as she thought about the coming evening. She finally stood, and decided to train on her own out in the wilderness for a while.

The morning seemed to pass faster today than the others, and evening approached rapidly.

It was time.

A large gathering of orcs, draenei, and slaves gathered around the Nagrand arena, torches lit around it dimmed the area. Cheering was heard for Vargron, as he stepped into the ring. Weapons were lifted in the air in addition to the cheering, “Beat’er face in!”, “Snap’er neck!”, “Eat’er face off!” were some of the crude comments thrown frown the unruly crowd awaiting bloodshed.

Narkra now arrived, the crowd going silent. She walked into the arena, dressed in a black leather garb, and an ebon mask around her face. “We finish this now, Blood-Eye.” Her eyes narrowed, unsheathing her daggers, one with red inscribed designs along the blade and one with black. She got into a swift-striking battle stance, eyeing the vital points on Vargron’s body before the duel even starting.

The warchief grinned, narrowing his demonic eyes back. “Yer makin’ a rather foolish decision in challenging me, runt.”  He removed two rather large, macabre-looking axes from a strong strap on his back, dried blood caked on the cutting edges.

They stared down each other, then the duel commenced.

Vargron rushed forward, and Narkra went to meet him head on, her daggers pushing back on the two axes that came at her.

“Give it up, runt! Y’can’ win!” He mocked and cackled wickedly as they were locked together.

Narkra narrowed her eyes more, snarling as she makes a quick strife to the right, taking advantage of Vargron being a tad slow with his weapons, along with his cockiness, stabbing him in the side between the armor’s separations from the plate greaves.

Roaring out in agony as he was wounded by Narkra, he dropped one axe, putting a hand to his now-bleeding side.

Narkra sneered beneath her mask. She actually wounded him. It was a start. She faced him again, as he turned to face her, lopsided with one axe in hand.

“You’ll pay fer’at!” He glared, as his eyes were ablaze in fury. Ignoring his wound, he ran towards her again, but this time, throwing the axe in front of him. Luckily, it hit Narkra in the abdomen on the blunt end, not decapitating her, but knocking the wind out of her. She didn’t expect that type of an attack. It took her a few minutes to regain herself, but by that time, Vargron was already lumbering towards her, nearly inches away.

With a strong inhale as Narkra struggled to try and defend herself, Vargron backhanded her with a strong plated fast, sending her down onto the ground, dust clouding the area around the two, un-allowing the audience to see clearly.

Narkra was out cold.

Vargron, grinning wide walked closer to her. He reached down and gripped her by the collar of her leather shirt, looking down at her. She was limp, and unmoving.

“Hah! She barely put up any type of a fight! Jus’ a flesh wound.” He reassured himself, patting his clotted stab-wound.

Suddenly, the limp body of Narkra twitched. Her eyes closed, looking to the side as she was held up by Vargron. Then, she opened her eyelids, the demonic, crimson glow returning to them. Vargron cackled, holding her up for the entire crowd to see like a ragdoll, the crowd cheering louder than before.

Narkra took this chance to strike. She had one small throwing dagger tucked within a side belt sheath. She reached in slowly, and then gripped it tightly. Vargron’s grip on her collar was very light, so it was easy to maneuver for a strike. She sharply sprung to life, raising her dagger high, and stabbed deep between the area between the neck and shoulder blade, growling. Vargron let out a gurgled roar of fury, blood starting to rise out of his throat and wound, dangerously close to the artery in his neck.

Vargron dropped her, reaching for his wound, trying to stop the flow of blood in vain. She then proceeded to leap upon Vargron, tear off his breastplate, and with her bare hands,  she tore the skin above his heart off, then dug inside, ripping out his black heart. She pulled herself off her adversary, raising the beating heart high for all to see.

Afterwards, she took it to her dirt-covered maw, biting into it, and then raised it above her head, letting the blood shower over her body, as Vargron writhed, twitched, and squirmed pathetically on the arena floor. Black, viscous blood pooled around his body.

She was victorious.

Chapter 3

The Birth of a New Leader and the Return of the Whipman

Narkra stood in front of her newfound army, a blood-thirsty scowl plastered upon her face. She sat down on a large rock. The troops were unruly, fighting amongst each other. Some were pleased with the new Warchief, others not.

She commanded, standing upon the rock, “Those’a y’lugs followin’ me, destroy th’ones who still wish to follow Blood Eye. They c’n join’em in death!” She roared, and the battalion started to brawl, some deciding to join out of mere cowardice. Though, most likely, there were multiple accidental casualties on Narkra’s side, fighting their own.

Narkra watched, grinning, her crimson eyes staring into the massacre as if were a casual form of mere entertainment. Some of the orcs against Narkra’s rule tried to climb and attack her, but she shoved them off with a boot to the face.

After a while, she seemingly started into space. But then, a grunt marched up. “Warchief Narkra, the Whipman approaches!”

Narkra snapped back into reality, turning her head only slightly to see the grunt, then behind, indeed—the Whipman did approach.

“Wa’chief,” He started. “I’ve beehn infauhrmed ov’ahr j’oor victor’eh agaihnst Blood-Ehye.” He held an eerie, emotionless calmness about him as always, stating this.

“Y’ave? What d’ya plan t’do now?” Narkra watched him carefully, a frown tugging at her lips.

“Fauhllow j’oo. D’ere nauh’ting elhse fo’ah me...” He responded unfalteringly.

“Good, good. Y’made a righ’ decision.” Narkra snickered to herself, devilishly.

Krom’gaal  proceeded to observe the brawling crowd of orcs, “D’eh troops gath’ahrr…” He murmured, not clearly to himself or the Warchieftess.

“Aye. Those who’re left shall serve me. They are th’stronges’.”

Krom’gaal nodded. “I’hll whip d’ehm when j’oo see it fiht, Wa’chief.”

The new warchief simply grinned, keeping her excitement in. She met her goal, and did exactly what she set out to do.

Later that night, Narkra began making herself at home in Vargron’s old personal clay hut. It was far more larger than most of the other ones in the Clan Watch, befitting for one of Narkra’s stature.

Krom’gaal suddenly appeared out of the darkened shadows behind her throne. The pupiless, amethyst eyes made it uncertain what – or who – he was staring at. “J’oo wa’chief nauh… It fihtting…?” He asked with his hollowed, frozen tone, emanating deeper from under the ebony hooded mask.

Narkra, without turning from what she was doing, replied, “Aye. It may take some time, but I’ll be rulin’ with an iron fis’ soon ‘nough.” She said, a little coldly.

Narkra walked over to her throne. Sitting down with a bored expression. “Why’ve y’come, Whipman?” She asked with suddenness in her voice.

Krom’gaal examined her wordlessly before responding, “I knew j’oor fadd’ahr, Wa’chief.”

She her upper lip, showing a few canines.

“Who was’e.” She seemed to look away, demanding an answer.

“Varok’ogal.”He responded.

Narkra clenched her teeth tight, “Of what clan, was ‘e.”  She demanded yet again.

“Laughing Skauhll, Wa’chief.” He responded again in a cold demeanor, once again, as always.

The young Warchieftess bit her lip; only slight emotions of sadness came to her, even as she held a high, strong stature. Vargron had told her never to let petty emotions, such as sadness or love envelop her. Hatred and rage is all she was brought up to know. It made sense to her.  Looking out for a mate, and mourning once they fall, only gives the enemy the perfect chance to attack, kick you while you were down and vulnerable.

“Leave me, Whipman.” She finally said, wanting to keep her image as a battle ridden warrior.

Krom’gaal saluted, and vanished within the shadows, and exited the hut, the drape covering the exit and entrance blowing in the wind, making it howl.

Once Krom’gaal had departed, she didn’t cry. She started at the wall to her side, thinking. She had lost her true sanity.

Chapter 4

The Massacre

Yet another day had come on planet Draenor. It began raining, hard. Clouds rolled in, and lightning and thunder reigned supreme over the skies.

Narkra stood on a hill, the rain beginning to come down harder, lightning struck and thunder boomed in the sky, lighting up the large army below her, awaiting orders. It was silent.

A blood thirsty grin stretched across her face.

“D’ya wan’ blood!?” Narkra roared over the thunder, breaking the silence.

The army of orcs roared back, cheering and raising their weapons in the air above their heads, enticed by their leader’s commanding voice.

Narkra snickered silently to herself, then shouted again, “Then you’ll ‘ave it!” She roared over the battalion, raising a torn flag post above her, which signified their clan’s flag.

With one last, mighty bellow, “Charge forward, slay every las’ weaklin’ y’see! Slay the women, the children, any who dare come to oppose us! Kill for th ‘Bloodied Blade! Kill’em not swif’ly, but painfully slow, without mercy! Destroy them!”

She egged the anxious army on, which eventually cried out, “FOR THE BLOODIED BLADE CLAN!” in unison. Krom’gaal stalked within the shadows of the crowd, silently obeying with the command of his new Warchief, eagerly awaiting bloodshed that was to be shed tonight.

Narkra threw an arm out, in the direction the army was to skirmish. The army moved on her command, the ground rumbling from the marching of the surprisingly large army. Narkra grinned, watching her hellish army become unleashed upon their enemies.

The army charged in to small encampments of Mag’har and Draenei, sweeping over them like a plague. Blood-curdling screams, the clash of weapons, the sounds could be heard for miles.

Blood thirsty orcs surrounded the areas so none could escape. None would survive. Some of the orcs ran through the encampments wildly, hacking away at anything that could be hacked, and anything that could breathe.

Narkra steeped through the ravaged camp, observing the power she held at her disposal.

A locked hut, seemingly untouched, she approached.

She grinned, unsheathing her dual daggers, eyes fixated on her target.

Kicking the door open, breaking the lock right off, she moved her glowing crimson eyes about the hut. There was a ramp to the upper level, which she strode up slowly, and carefully.

There was two quivering figures beneath a drape in the far corner, which when her ears perked, and stopping, she heard whispering. Fearful Mag’har children were underneath.

The warchief grinned with a ‘mad’ gaze, taking a slow ‘creep’ towards the draped pups. Once in arms reach, she sharply tore off the drape, grinning wider with malice.

“‘Ave a nice ‘sleep’ kiddies.” She cackled, as she thrust both her daggers into the terrified Mag’har pups, only barely of age to wield a weapon. A gurgling sound erupted out of the now-dying children, as Narkra tore the weapons out of the limp bodies, which fell with a thud to the floor.

The honor less assassin stood before her victims, looking down at the fresh corpses that started pooling blood around them, which started seeping in-between the floor boards.

She turned on her heels, kneeling down, the placing a bomb, set to blow any moment next to the bodies. Narkra leapt through a window, like a pin drop, the bomb exploded without any warning.

Once reaching the ground, she found the encampments were smoldering, bodies kissing the earth. Narkra felt ‘good’.

With a mighty yell, “Bloodied Blade! Move out!” She instructed her deadly army. They obeyed with utmost loyalty.

Chapter 5

The Near Eradication and the New World

It was another night within the Clan Watch.

Narkra sat on a high rock, looking over her seemingly battle-deprived soldiers, whom sat around campfires, drinking alcohol, and feasting on raw flesh.

A seemingly well-seasoned grunt ran quickly to Narkra, looking to have valuable and important information.

Narkra looked up lazily at the grunt.

“Warchieftess! There is a large portal beginning to open as we speak! The ground around it is becoming barren, and it seems demonic!” The grunt explained.

Narkra’s crimson eyes widened in surprise. “Are y’sure ‘bout this, Vrulgar?!”

The seasoned grunt now known as Vrulgar nodded, and the ground started to shake, cracks and fel-lava started flowing them, geysers erupting everywhere. “Orders, Warchief!?”

The quiet, uneventful night now changed to a confusing and loud one.

“Rally yourselves!” Narkra looked on, and just what they needed appeared. A Mag’har battalion took this possibly last chance to avenge their fallen, while the planet shook and the Bloodied Blade Clan was unorganized, Narkra unable to take full control over the mass of her army. “Gather who you can, an’ strike back! The survivors try to ‘ide out an’ meld yerselves in with th’other clans! If we survive this, we’ll need all we c’n t’old ourselves!” Narkra yelled over the loud commotion.

Vrulgar nodded quickly, running into the fray, obeying the Warchief’s orders. Krom’gaal appeared, “Ord’ahrs, Wa’chief?” He asked, “Do the same with th’assassins. If any may survive, its’em. Hold out if y’can. I’m goin’ t’investigate th’portal. I’ll be goin’ through it… meet me on th’other side, later, if y’survive an’ I survive.”

Krom’gaal respond, almost whispering the simple word. “Dahbu…”

Narkra nodded, turning as Krom’gaal vanished casually silent, journeying quick on her heels to the point of the Portal. She came to a mountain overlooking the Portal from a distance, Lightning struck around it, directly at the ground.  She darted closer, and she could see the structure in full, more clearly. It was rather intimidating.

Who was opening the portal? She wondered. She saw a warlock with acolytes, and they were channeling shadow magics. “Gul’dan!?” She said aloud to herself. He was definitely the one who started this. But, could he really be doing this with so few? There was talk of portal opening magics, but there required skilled spell casters, and another on the other side with the same skill. But, what, or who could’ve mustered that much power? Who could be as knowledgeable and strong in magics as Gul’dan?

She didn’t know, though.

Orcs poured into the portal as a voice on the other side spoke, rather deep and powerful, “Gul’dan! Steel your warlocks! The time is now; your orcish horde will now sweep across this ripe, unsuspecting world…”

Narkra watched a few minutes, then ran down the mountainside into the crowd of battle-ready orcs, and entered the portal, to an unknown, new world.

The End