Older, seeming stiff and moving with slight difficulty, as though his movements were not as natural as they should be. His weapons are tended to meticulously, his armor not so much.
The body is not nearly ‘healthy’ – vicious scars are visible where the armor is rent, the marks of weapons rather than natural attacks or spells, though they seem to have been tended to with as much care as he can provide.
A slight chill follows him, albeit one that does not seem to actually cause water to freeze or air to frost. The chill seems to affect the living – a common enough curse for those who were returned by unnatural means.
A dark, thick laugh cut through the smoke of the air, languishing in the cave’s dim light. Well within the shelter, the dark-clad orc played with the sputtering embers of the campfire with a stick, as though tending to roaring flames. The blue-tinged eyes that peered from beneath the thick hood of his robes echoed the same wraith-light of the more decomposed creatures that stood aside.
The eyes never looked away from the flame, though the smouldering stick was smeared on a bloodied sleeping bag that bore the emblem of the Explorer’s League of Ironforge. The dwarves had no risk of returning in protest any time soon. Outside, the nether winds had brought an impromptu storm, the jagged landscape cut by rain. The chaos of the landscape that had once housed the Thunderlord clan was a pleasing irony. Now their namesake cut the sky, whilst their blood and soaked the earth.
Mockingly, Grelloth closed his eyes, calling to their spirits through the sacred songs of the Burning Blade, passed to him by his father. The hissing of the irritated, angered elemental was the only response, earning the dim fire a splash from the water from his flask, quenching it. He was no longer a shaman by any means, defiled twice beyond their trust. He did not care.
Though he had escaped the control of the Scourge, he was still grateful for their knowledge, plucked from the mouth of death itself, plagues to slay the living even as he twisted the shadows in the way he had learned as a warlock. A simple gesture had the skeleton alongside stand guard near the entrance, the ghoul moving to follow suit, the motion well-practiced from his work a lifetime ago, bringing demons to the fight under the forces of the Blackrock banner.
Twice he had served a master, and twice he had survived them. Now was his time to rise, a twisted, black star to rise on a still-moving pile of his enemies.
Grelloth would be a whispered name of fear once more.
His laugh was mimicked by his creations, their hollow voices an eerie echo in the rain-thick night air.
Category: Warcraft Characters
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