Informant's Tale: Arkturas' Past

[Arkturas]

((My apologies, I am leaving some things vague, but taking some liberties with plot and characters. This isn't going to be IC if people object, I will rewrite it. But I wanted to give people a way to get some knowledge of Ark's past.))


Dazrath sat at the bar, in the darker sections of Stormwind, grimacing down at the ale. Well, calling it ale might be a little generous. Tough bits floated in it, presumable some of the grain from it's manufacture. at least, he hoped that was what it was. Swathed in a brown traveling cloak, he waied miserable for his contact.

He did it well, he thought. His job. Getting information, for a fee. But then, why was he waiting in this cesspit of humanity, surrounded by dirty, sweaty flesh, awaiting the few people who sent shivers down his spine?

Just then, a slim figure, wearing a cloak over a red outfit, slid next to him. A soft voice greeting him. But despite the lack of overt threat, he shivered, nonetheless. He had been there the last time someone had disappointed this person, and the group represented therein. It had not been pretty.

"So, Dazrath. What have you learned?"

And so, he began.

"Arkturas, Draenei, male. Eight foot and change, must be at least 500 pounds. Facial scars, particularly one on the left side of his face. Indicates he is or was a soldier."

The figure made a sound of disappoinment, sending a spike of fear through him. "This we knew. Tell me something we don't."

Careful to keep his voice calm, he continued. "I went and picked up some info from the Draenei. Records, his CSV. Their records are hard to get a grasp on, because they don't use our time system. But as near as I can tell, he's been a soldier for thousands of our years. Solid notes as a fighter and commander, survived some nasty shit. Until recently, was leader of a battalion. Officially known as the 3rd Draenic Legion, it's called colloquially "Arkturas' Hammers'. I have a a file on the them for you."

A fat leather scrip is passed over, beneath the surface of the bar.

"And?"

"Well, his records leave off. Granted they are in no way complete. Many blackedout sections, pertaining to a group known as the 'Swiord of Argus'. If I had to wager, they are a special forces group of sorts. Their records are not available. But at the end, there is a note revealing that he is on paid leave, pending review. Something referring to Nagrand and the 'Orcish-Draenic War'. No records on it either."

The slim figure stood up, and turned. "Thank you, this is sufficient."

A purse found it's way into his hands, and with that, it was over. Dazrath took up his mug with shaking hands, and choked it down. After the sour taste of fear in his mouth, even the ale tasted good.

[Arkturas]

As the slim figure left the bar, she frowned to herself. Where might she find out what had happened in Nagrand? Her instincts were screaming that this was good dirt.

A smile curled her lips. Where else but the source? On the other side that is.

**********************************

Some time later, a blood elf women walked through the gates of Orgrimmar, sweating in the oppressive heat. For hours and hours she walked through the bars and taverns, dropping hints and coins, seeking a tale from Draenor. From Nagrand. And as the sun slipped below the cliffs around the orcish city, she found it. An ancient orc, skin wrinkled heavily, burned to leather by the sun, sat in a hut. White eyes stared at the world, as he sorted plants and herbs by feel and smell.

"Throm'ka, wise one." She said.

The orcs hoary brows rose. "Ah, such respect, from one such as you. What do you want."

"I apologize, elder. I am seeking tales. Taled of Draenor, and Nagrand. Someone told me you may know of the man I seek."

"Perhaps."

She lay a skin of good wine down, as well as a haunch of meat. "I bring a token."

A brief smile broke his features. "Thank you, young one."

As he broke his fast, she spoke again. "I seek a man. Draenei man."

"We knew little of them. They kept to themselves. Until the shamans whispered of their designs on our lands. And we killed them. They fought. It was not enough, for we were strong. Stronger than they!"

"But not all. Some survived, including this one. He was a fighter, this one I seek. He was tall. But the notable thing, is the scar he has. Thick and knotted, down the left side of his face, from temple to jawline."

As she finished, the orc blanched, and whispered in a horrified tone of voice. " Thrakk Kazreth!"

"Excuse me, wise one?"

"The Thrakk Kazreth. We do not speak of him. He and his demons fought the longest, the hardest against our warriors. But where the rest fought only against our warriors, it struck deeper. He killed our women. Our children. Burned out towns and cities and villages. Razed our lands to dust and sowed them with salt. Less than one in a hundred survived their coming, in the beginning. None survived once we knew the horrors that followed in his hooves. Demon, we call him. The Silent Butcher. Thrakk Kazreth."

The orc shivered, falling silent. The girl turned to leave, and he spoke once more.

"I was one of them. He fell upon our warband like a wolf on rodents. And I was the lst, he dragged me clear of the carnage, as his warriros dismembered the bodies that they might find no rest in the net life. I still remember his face, eyes blazing like pits of fire, words cold as the depths of winter. He bade me to tell all. That he was coming. That nothing we could do save flee would spare us his wrath. I ran. But in the light of day, what was I to think? H had not so many.

But then a village was discovered. All were dead, the bodies gone, save for their heads, decorating the orchards like putrescent, rotten fruit. After that, it was one village after another. Some were left as charnel houses of the dead, bodies swelling in the sun. Others, were worse. Others were untouched, as if the villagers had decided to go on a walk, to return in time. They were never found."

The orc snatched out, grabbing her arms suddenly. "If you seek the Thrakk Kazreth, you go only to your doom, blood elf. He is death, and worse than death. Suffering follows in his wake, and war rides before him."

The orc cast down her hands, and turned his back to her. He was done.

[Arkturas]

Also, if people might brainstorm things that Ark might find out, by talking to bartenders, informants, whoever, about the KtK, I would appreciate it.