A/N: Someone who knew me from a forum asked me why I hadn't posted ALL of my Warcraft Stories. So if you enjoy the story, thank Minganisabeast (and check out his story!) u/1103797/
This is an orc and a blood elf DK. It contains violence, nudity, sex, and various other potentially offensive adult topics. It is fully written and complete, but will be posted as I get time, since people complain that my When Orcs Cry Freedom is only one chapter.
The armor was staring at him, and he found it intrinsically disconcerting. It hung on a wood-frame tailor's mannequin beside the armoire across from him, the baleful blackness of the helm glaring at him with a deep malevolence. It seemed to whisper something to him, and despite its obvious evil, it seemed seductive and alluring.
It wasn't the kind of allure that the prostitutes had, nor the same sort of allure that the succubi had. It was a kind of soul pull; a tugging at him that caused him no end of discomfort. It was much like the calling of Discipline, but it was deeper somehow, more intimate and yet somehow grotesque at the same time.
He looked around the room again, trying to stare anywhere but at the cold black armor, and the icy blue sigils that crawled across it. He studied the sparse room, trying to find something interesting in the plain round bureau, or the matching armoire. Even the bed with its blue curtains couldn't seem to hold his attention.
When would the confounded woman be back? He'd been sent to interview one Sanabeau Del'Verys, and he wished he could get it done and over with. Then he could be gone from this place with its silently seductive sentinel.
His eyes once more drew back to the desk, and he studied its contents. Pens and paper. A small book- closed- with no title. There was nothing else, not just nothing of note, but literally nothing else.
Finally, as the moments ticked past, and he sat in the silent room, he stood up and began to pace. After some time, he couldn't take it anymore, and opened the book. He realized immediately that it was a journal. He sat it back down; he wouldn't read someone's private journal.
He went back to pacing, then sat down again. Time passed, and he found himself pacing again, stopping in front of the sinister armor. He just wanted to touch it. Just once…
He turned away, his breath speeding up. The seductive call of the armor and sword was immense, to pull a Shaman to it to such a degree. He swallowed and paced again. At last, more to distract himself than out of interest, he opened the journal again. Rationalizing it by his irritation at being made to wait, and also by the fact that he was here to get to know her and find out if she would be acceptable as a Horde specialist, he began to read:
I am bitter today. I escaped the control of Arthas. With the others, I was freed from his grip forever. All those long months and years, I thought I would never be free again. I thought that my soul would be crushed before I could walk free again upon this land.
Yet here I am. I am free, am I not? For isn't it enough to be free of Arthas?
No, I am no freer now than I was then. No, now I am a proud murderer- I mean, member, of the Horde.
Okthar's eyebrows rose as he read. She didn't sound like a very proud member of the Horde to him. But then again, from the date at the top, it was only a few weeks after she'd escaped from Arthas. Perhaps it was difficult at that time to be happy about anything. He tried to set aside the misgivings that arose in him from the words he had just read and continued:
I kill now, just as I killed then. Is my life to be an endless eternity of murder and death and devastation?
And what, then, will they do with me when they no longer have any use for my skills? What shall I do, knit and make crumpets?
No. They will kill me as surely as they will destroy all the other instruments of death. I will be a reminder of all they have lost, and a threat to all they hold dear. I have become a destroyer, they cannot afford to let me live.
Okthar put the diary down suddenly, snapping the book closed in surprise. Something welled up in him, and he began to pace again, tapping absently on his right tusk as he always did when he was disturbed by something. An Orc, not a blood elf, could have written the words on the page.
He and his people knew well what it meant to be nothing more than weapons of destruction. The Orcs had been weapons in many, many battles. And when it was all over with, so thoroughly had they deprogrammed themselves from things like love and compassion, that giving up killing had been surprisingly difficult.
Self-preservation in times of war often meant becoming hard, very hard.
Yet somehow, though he'd read so little of it, the woman writing this page didn't seem at all hard to him. In fact, she sounded emotionally fragile, if such a thing could be said of someone who had worn that armor and brutally slaughtered hundreds of people.
He glanced at the offending armor, and felt it calling to him again. Resolutely, he turned back to the journal to escape its baleful stare.