Escape from Durnholde

In the Darrowmere internment camps thousands of Orcs were once held captive. These prisoners of war were treated like dogs and expected to die of old age before they could possibly revolt. Thankfully for the Orcs, Thrall, the current Warchief of the Horde, freed them from their shackles when he sacked Durnholde Keep and slew the overseer of the vile system, Aedelas Blackmoore. Before the Orcish revolution however, many members of the new horde escaped to aid Thrall in his plight. Not all of their stories were illuminated in the annals of history, but they all certainly deserve a place in the tales of this age.

Durnholde Keep was never known for its majesty. It was however, cleverly associated with the aroma of ale. As Murdus lumbered his way through the dimly lit halls of the keep, the smell of burbon and moonshine ever lingered beneath his nostrils. The scent drove him mad. His face contorted with every step he took toward Blackmoore’s chambers, where the stench undoubtably emanated from. Much to his dismay, he was being sent there to perpetuate the problem; to carry another barrel of rum to the commander’s room. The hallway was no longer than ten yards, but the orc drew out the sojourn for as long as he could, preferring to drag his feet along the stone floors over stride proudly to deliver more booze to his slaver. When he finally arrived at the chamber door, he reached out to knock on the ebony wood, but just as his fingers were inches from the surface, he withdrew his hand and slid it around the metal collar guarding his neck. He murmured quietly to himself “I’m going to do this the right way.” His hands slid away from the symbol of his slavery and instead guided it over his back, his fingertips being raised and lowered as they caressed over the various scars etched into his back by Blackmoore’s whip. He spoke softly once more “Senja cannot keep tending to these wounds…”

            Murdus gently rapped his closed fist against the commander’s door, only to have it abruptly snap away from his hand after the first tap. There Blackmoore Stood in place of the aperture, his blonde hair sullied by dirt, droplets of wine and spirits alike drenching his silver spaulders. He roared at the sight of Murdus’ package and pulled it from the Orc’s hands. “It’s about damn time you worthless Orc! You were no good at fighting and now you’re no good at deliveries, if I didn’t need your filthy hides for the sake of  breeding I’d have killed you all long ago. Begone!” As quickly as the entrance was revealed with a loud thump, it was hidden. The moment Murdus turned to begin walking back down the hall, the cries of a woman’s voice could be heard resonating from Blackmoore’s chambers. He couldn’t see her when he was in the doorway, but now he was certain. Aedeleas was forcing himself upon Taretha again.

            Like when he approached, Murdus hiked down the hallway slowly. He stopped briefly at the only window in the entire hall, from the highest point of the keep, he was able to see everything in the walls. Below him there were armed sentinels, with their spears held proudly defending the entrance he earlier took to arrive where he currently was. Peering further south, he witnessed one of his friend being whipped, an Orc a bit smaller than he by the name of Korusk, by his taskmaster, Sebastian Darkmire. With a grimace, he pulled his attention away from the horrifying sight and instead gazed at his salvation amongst the camp, a young troll woman with ivory hair, delicate blue skin and dimuitive tusks. “Senja..” he spoke her name every time he saw her.  He could find comfort in her topaz eyes from even the furthest of distances. She was surrounded by her bretheren, jungle trolls, forest trolls and other denizens of the former empires of the world.  The solace her voice provided however, was out of reach for the time being. Reluctantly, Murdus pulled away from the window and paced down the hallway.

            After climbing down the twisted stairs of the keep, nearly ten minutes later he reached the main gate. On either side of the massive drawbridge, there was an armed guard which held their spears directly at him until he raised his chin, and revealed his collar, a sign of his enslavement. At this juncture, both guard withdraw their spears and together motioned at a gigantic wooden cog, connected to a rope that held the bridge in place. “You’ll need to handle that yourself, orc. Be quick or we’ll throw you out on a skewer.” Murdus grumbled, but obediently began pulling the the drawbridge down. Within moments the path was opened and he sprinted out of the gateway, leaving the guards to pull up the gate behind him. He looked back with a grin, before continuing down the dust path that he had started on.

            It was dark outside. In his own land, twilight would have guided his steps, but now, torchlight and swords led him to his destination. The plentiful amount of guards on the path never failed to guide him with the tip of their swords, prodding him and always motioning toward the holding pens. However, it wasn’t until he reached the large shack that he and his peers were kept in that he met the most menacing weapon of them all, the menacing whip of his taskmaster.  There was little more than a second separating Murdus’ arrival at the pen gate and Darkmire’s whip ripping into the flesh of his back. He yelled from the darkness as the whip curled back into a coil. “It’s about time, Murdus! Get in your pen so I can get some sleep!” Murdus scowled as he reached for the whip wound, the throbbing flesh cut in a curved line along his shoulderblade. After a second of waiting the whip came thrashing down once more, leaving another long, bloody streak on his back. This time the accompanying statement sounded more anger-filled than the first, a sense of impatience in his voice. “Quicker, slave! I’ve got little time for this nonsense. A day of keeping you brutes in line leaves a man exhausted!” The orc grunted, both of his hands now reaching for his back as he struggled to maintain his walking pace. Despite the wounds, he managed to stumble into the pen, climb the short stair and fall into the holding pen. The surrounding orcs in the large hall did nothing to assist him. Instead they allow him to lay there, helpless. They all spoke softly, their voices filled with sorrow. “Should we?” “No, we’ll be punished again. He’ll wake up.” “I hope.” “Sebastian will kill us all before this is over.” “Work! Work! It never ends.” “No one would fight him.” “It’s suicidal. He’ll whip you then kill you!” “Someone needs to fight against him” Murdus could barely understand what they were saying. Their voices were drowned out. His consciousness left him.

            He awoke to the sound of light tapping on the roof. Soft tapping all over the thin walls of the shed. He stirred slightly, pulling himself onto his side, before finally turning onto his back and opening his eyes. By craning his neck, he managed to look out the door. It was raining. His feet were completely drenched. His lips silently curled into a smile before he began to quietly chuckle. Slipping his hands down onto the floor, he pushed himself up, his back straight and his shoulders high. With a loud grunt, he finally hoisted himself onto his feet, his entire body outside in the rain, the droplets exploding on his frame, small streams developing between his muscles. His steadfast posture was short-lived however, as with his first step forward, the water began to spill into the fresh wounds on his back. The sting halted him. His fists clenched, his smile dissipated. He could clearly recall the strokes that inflicted tonight’s bouts of pain. Everyone moment replayed in his thoughts. The whip. The voice of Darkmire. “I’ll kill that man.” The Orc clenched his fists tightly as he struggled against the pain. Every step forward hurting more than the last. “The ditch… it should be full.”

Breathing heavily as he strode forward, he eagerly kneeled by a small pool of water. It was only a few feet deep and less than a yard wide. As soon as he sat beside it he thrust his upper body into the depths of the water, his body soaking as he abruptly pulled it out. He rested his hands against the dirt edge and peered into the liquid’s surface. He could see himself for the first time in what felt to him, like years. The red of his eyes was thick and lidless, the two braids hanging by his shoulders were now damp and dark, the pigment being unleashed by the water soaking them, his tusks had remained as long and sharp as before, much to his surprise. As he peered into his own eyes, a shadow began to cast over him, the reflection of another could be seen in the water and  before he could turn, the slender, blue arms of Senja curled around his neck from behind. Soon after, the surface of her lips were caressing his neck, the warmth of her breath bringing his eyes to slowly close. As he was settling, she slowly pulled herself away from him, only to slowly pull him back, just to straighten his back. He allowed her to move him at her will, he recognized her touch. The feel of her flesh against his was too much for him to resist. She began to roll his fingertips along his wounds, the bloody scabs quickly closing, his taught green flesh beginning to look more vibrant with every moment she worked. He sighed contently. The pain was gone. For now.

Once his strength had returned to him, he pulled her down into his arms, leaving her to sit in his laps as he curled his arms around her waist and to rested her against him. “You’ve never left me to falter, Senja.” “I never shall. What happened?” “Sebastian.” Senja idly rolled her fingertips over his biceps, the gaping jaw of the warsong clan tattooed to his right arm beneath her caressing hands. “Yes… he has been causing a lot of trouble. Even the trolls that aren’t under his watch are falling victim to his whip.” “I will kill that man the next time his whip touches my flesh.” “Murdus, you can’t talk like that!” “If he were to touch either of us, I couldn’t gaurantee anything…I will never allow him to do what he did again.” “He hit me once, you can’t dwell on it. He will hit us both again before the week is over. We need only stay quit and survive.” “I will not be a slave any longer. Neither will you… but, now I think we both need rest. After a long night of lumbering around the keep I’ve grown incredibly tired… stay and rest with me, love.” His voice had already shown signs of weariness. “I can’t, you know if they find me here they will assume I left my pen before nightfall, you too.” As she spoke, it was too late. He already drifted off into sleep. “Dammit, Murdus.”

That night sleep was unpleasant. It was horrific. It was not a nightmare. It was a recallection of the past. Murdus and Senja were marching side by side, he could see clearly through his own eyes during the dream. It was unlike any previous encounter. The caravan was still intact. The supplies were there. His companions were alive. The orcs and trolls were making their way toward Blackrock to restock supplies. It was supposed to be safe. It was supposed to be easy. Then they showed up. Humans. Dwarves. Elves. They came spilling out of the hills. The first volley of arrows was completely unexpected. Several flew into his arm. The axe in his hand slipped free and suddenly a human was tackling Senja. He lunged toward the man, but was hit over the head by something. It felt like a shield. He couldn’t tell for sure. He dropped down and fell unconscious.

            Just as he had been knocked out in the dream, he sprung up outside of it, it was morning, but the strike of a whip against his back was the alarm to rise. Senja fell from his arms as he jolted to his feet and turned. There was Blackmire. His face was shown clearly in the daylight. The thick brown beard covering his armor and his long unkept hair were no longer hidden. Neither was the whip in his hand. “You know the rules, Orc! No breedin’ without instructions. No breedin’ with nothin’ that ain’t an Orc and most of all, no slippin’ outta yer pen before daylight. That goes for you, too, Troll wench!” The whip came down again, this time striking Senja, cutting straight through her tattered dress. She awoke with a yelp and turned to see Murdus charging Darkmire. By the time she held out her arm and murmured “No!” He had already driven his elbow into Darkmire’s chest and began viciously driving his fists into the slaver’s face. Sebastian tried desparately to free himself but within moments his face was no longer composed of blood, flesh and bone. Murdus had beaten his skull into the ground and the blood and flesh was now covering the triumphant orc’s fists. He let out a cry of victory. The roar bellowed over the camp. He grabbed the blade off of the slain man’s belt, then motioned for Senja to follow. “There are few ways out of Durnholde. The walls are of stone and cannot be beaten down. They are too tall to the climb.” He whispered. “The gate however, is guarded by only a few sentinels. The majority of the commander’s troops stay within the inner walls of the keep.” She responded. “We can’t make it alone, but… there are others of my clan here and your tribe. We will rouse them. We will free them.” The two split off and began running toward their pens.

            Murdus quietly snuck back into his hut. The early morning patrols would begin looking for Blackmire. “I don’t have very long.” He quickly pulled the blade out in the middle of his bretheren. “We’ve sat apathetic long enough, brothers! I have slain the taskmaster. The fate of the Warsong is to the tides. They lost many of it’s ranks when we dissapeared. We must free ourselves today, when the chance is best and help our chief. Hellscream and the Horde needs us!” The orcs surrounding him sat for the most part in malaise, but some of them stood. They cheered. Among them Korusk, the smallest of the group and best friend to Murdus. There were twenty of them together. The other fifty chose to remain. The large group of orcs began rallying outside of the pen, but the guards were aware of their presence. They formed a defense line in front of the pen.

 No less than ten fully armed men stood between the orcs and the rest of the camp. However, as it seemed that the unnarmed orc’s were to be halted, Senja and the freed Jungle trolls swooped down and hailed rocks on the guards from behind. The defense line broke apart, half of the men turned to see the trolls charging them, armed with crude spears fashioned from pieces of their pen walls. The lines of the trolls and guards met. Seconds after Murdus led his bretheren into a charge against the lines against them. The humans stood little chance. With every human warrior that was slain, another orc received a sword and a troll a real spear. The failure’s of Blackmoore’s advance force had condemned the guards at the gate. Not even a single orc or troll had lost their lives.

            The combined forces of the orcs and trolls stormed out of pens and soon the keep. The swiftness of the attack left the enemy no time to prepare. The rush of orcs and trolls pounded down the gate and fleed east to the Arathi Highlands, where they would hopefully meet up with Grom Hellscream.