[Story and bio] Warmistress Avrah

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The shaman kept muttering under his breath. His fingers traced the fresh wounds on Avrah's face and shoulders. His hand rested for a while atop a brutal gash across her belly. »Damn you girl, you're lucky to even be alive.« Avrah grunted in reply. The healer closed his eyes and began praying to the spirits. A soft shower of water sprang from his fingers. The Frostwolf warrior could feel her flesh stitching together. The hand hovered from her belly to her shoulders and finally to her face. My face... Thrak loves my face...

***

»Right grunts, you've seen your fair share of training, you know each other's strengths... and weaknesses. This'll help you when you stand together on the battlefield, but it sure as fel ain't gonna help you against the dwarves.« The sergeant spat at the ground. »That's why for your first mission you're gonna be defending this valley, away from the front lines. We're gonna see some action, but not enough to overwhelm us. Now, prepare yourselves. Go to the blacksmiths, get yourself some new plate and weapons.«

Avrah saluted and joined the rush towards the smithy. After half an hour, it was finally her turn. She was sent to one of the younger blacksmiths, barely out of aprenticehood by the looks of him. He smiled warmly and took the battered plate from her hands. »Damn, this is old.« Avrah nodded. »It was my mother's. From before the Portal's opening.« The smith whistled. »It's seen its fair share of battle, that's for sure. And I'm not too sure it'll fit.« He rubbed his ear where an iron earring hung. »Tell you what, come by tomorrow and I'll see what I can do in the meantime.« The warrior smiled and turned to leave. »Thrak's the name, by the way.«

She looked over her shoulder. »Avrah.«

Three days it took Thrak to mend and reshape the plate, and three days Avrah spent beside him. On the evening of the fourth day, the blacksmith asked her to be his life-mate.

***

The shaman pinched the broken bridge of Avrah's nose. She ground her teeth in agony. »Stop flinching, I have to get this right if you want to keep your nose at all.« The warrior closed her one good eye and tried to ignore the pain.

The healing shower softened the agony to merely a throbbing. As the healer removed his hand, Avrah reached to where the wound had been and felt hardened scar tissue. »I am sorry, child. Your wounds are deep, and traces of them will stay with you for life.« She nodded slowly. »I... understand.« The wound across her lips split open again and dark blood dripped down her chin. »I told you not to speak, didn't I?« scolded the shaman and sighed.

***

Thrak held a finger to his lips. Avrah could hear the dwarves prattling on in their gravelly lingo just outside the concealed trench. They would never know what hit them.

The commander held up a hand. Five fingers. Four. Three. Two. One.

»LOK'TAR OGAR!« The warcry escaped from twenty-three throats at once. The enemy barely had time to notice before their vanguard fell to the axes of the Frostwolves. Avrah swung her heavy two-hander, felling two of the Stormpike at once. She knew this was nothing but a diversion so the clan could move their warmasters and Drek'thar, the leader, to the safe heartlands of Frostwolf teritory. The commander called for retreat, but she found herself surrounded by dwarves and cut off from the wolves. Suddenly one of the beasts leapt over the warriors, pinning one to the ground in the process, and Thrak's strong hands pulled her into the saddle.

They had lost ten. Certainly, they had killed their fair share of Alliance soldiers, but still... it did not feel like an achievement. »We ran,« she said flatly in the safety of Frostwolf Hold. Thrak placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. »We escaped certain death, and our actions may have saved Drek'thar's life. We should be proud.« She looked into his eyes. »We still ran. Victory or death? But it doesn't feel like victory, and it certainly isn't death.« Her mate chuckled. »What's that they try to beat into our heads? 'Death before dishonour'... But what is honour worth to the dead? What is a blade without a hand to wield it?« He smiled. »I'm merely a humble blacksmith, but it feels to me that blind honour serves you nothing if it means you can't enjoy it.«

Avrah snorted in mock anger, but a smile crept across her lips. Thrak kissed her neck. »You know I'm right. I can tell you that knowing you fell with honour wouldn't save me from madness. It would mean never again seeing you smile or hearing your voice or touching your hair.« He stroked the long ponytail hanging from Avrah's otherwise shaved head. »No, I couldn't bear losing you to duty, and yet with every passing day that fate seems all the more likely.« »I can fight,« said Avrah defensively. »And that's the problem. You fight well enough to feel confident in your skills, but that will cause you to break ranks some day... and you will be cut down or burned by a mage's flames or shot down with arrows.« Avrah turned her gaze away. »I cannot always be there for you. I am your shield... but I can't protect you if you discard me like that.« Avrah kept silent, and Thrak kissed her temple.

Her eyes filled with tears. »Thrak... you know I wouldn't discard you. Not in this life or in the next.«

***

The healer had been dreading this moment. It was time to take care of the horrible wound across Avrah's brow. There was no telling whether the blade had missed the female's eye or pierced it. Caked blood covered everything from her eyebrow to her cheek. »Do you still have an eye beneath all that blood?« he asked. »I... I'm not sure,« whispered Avrah, afraid that the gash across her lip may open again. »How can you not be sure?« sighed the shaman.

»I don't... I don't remember... much...«

***

Last stand. The smell of blood and sweat... and over it all, the acidic stench of fear.

The Stormpike had cut off their warcamp from the bulk of the Frostwolf forces. Slowly the defenders were being crushed as the frontline attackers pressed them towards the soldiers at the back. »Hammer and anvil,« Thrak had called it, and Avrah could see the resemblance. Just like metal beneath the crushing blows of a blacksmith, their lines were thinning by the hour. Soon the defenders would be ground to dust.

The warhorn sounded one last time. They all knew what it meant. Victory or death...

Unbidden memories resurfaced. What is honour worth to the dead? The Frostwolved poured over the barricades like a tide, hacking and slashing at their enemy. Avrah saw the first lines fall to a salve of gunfire. What is a blade without a hand to wield it? She tried to stay alive, tried to help her comrades, tried in vain to make a difference. You will be cut down. Burned by a mage's fire. Shot down with arrows. Lose you. Lose. Die.

The Alliance advanced from all sides, crushing the Frostwolves. There were less than thirty standing now, many of them wounded. Thrak had picked up a fallen comrade's shield and was trying to stay as close to Avrah as possible, to intercept any attack made against her.

Then suddenly, the earth heaved under them.

Avrah's vision swam, and a high-pitched noise filled her ears. She called out her mate's name but couldn't even hear her own voice. She crawled across the snow towards a trench. The ground shook again, and now she saw what was causing it. The dwarves had brought in their tanks.

She threw herself into the ditch, hoping against hope to escape unnoticed. She crawled along the narrow corridor, keeping her head down. As her sense of hearing returned, all she could hear were the screams. Finally she collapsed with fatigue and despair. She tried to lift her head one last time, but it was all too heavy. Darkness crept in from the corners of her vision. Then she knew no more.

***

The shaman had cleaned out the blood, but was still uncertain whether Avrah's eye was still intact. The strike had sliced through her brow and had at least grazed her eyelid. Well, they would find out sooner or later. »Can you... see now? Is my eye...« muttered Avrah. The healer bit his lip. »I'm not certain. The cut is nasty.«

The warrior gently touched his shoulder. »Please... save my eye. He loves... my eyes.«

***

Avrah was losing count of the days she had spent in this rotten cell. Was it twenty-five? Twenty-seven? At least she knew Thrak was still alive. She had seen him once when they were paraded before the Stormpike command.

Something was going on, something big. The guards were shouting in their horrible tongue and running around like headless chickens. Avrah scratched her head with a mischievous smile. She was not given a chance to shave in this dump, so her scalp was covered with short bristly hairs. It was annoying her. She had been shaving most of her hair since the day she was first taught to fight.

She pressed an ear to the wall. There was something happening, a low rumbling that grew louder and louder with every passing moment. All the guards were gone now, presumably to fight whatever it was that had caused the disturbance.

The rumbling stopped. For a while, the only sounds were the shouts of the Stormpike soldiers. Suddenly, something like an earthquake shook the prison.

Dust was falling from the ceiling, and Avrah moved barely in time to dodge a stone that had dislodged itself from the ceiling. The iron doors creaked, but held together.

Then came the sweetest sound Avrah had heard in a long, long time. The sound of an orcish warhorn.

She could hear running footsteps in the corridor. Someone rammed a key into the lock and threw open the doors. Blinded by the sudden light, Avrah nonetheless threw herself out of the dungeon. Someone patted her on the shoulder and handed her a waterskin.

There were soldiers among her rescuers, but most were other prisoners wearing rags. She searched their faces and finally found the one she was looking for. »Thrak!« she yelled and threw herself into his open arms.

»They did it! They broke through the Stormpike frontlines!« She could not believe her ears. »So... we've won? We've actually... won?« she asked. Thrak shook his head. »Not yet, but we've got a good chance. The Horde has called in additional reinforcements. And of course...« They exited the complex, and Avrah held her breath. »The shaman managed to bind the Ice Lord.«

The gigantic elemental was crushing walls and their defenders alike. It seemed as unstoppable as an avalanche. »It's beautiful,« said Avrah, awestruck. »But... we haven't won yet.« Thrak held her close and whispered, »We're alive. We're free. Don't you see, my love? We've won.«

***

The shaman stood back and took a deep breath. He had done all that he dared to do. »It's up to you now child. Can you open the eye?« Avrah touched her eyelid. Part of it was rent by a scar.

The lid fluttered. Slowly she opened her eye. The scar was preventing her from opening it fully, and some pus was seeping from her tear duct, but the grey iris was untouched.

The shaman gave her an encouraging smile.

***

She could still remember Thrak's smile freezing as he heard the sound of cannonfire. They watched in horror as a blast took away a chunk of the huge elemental's body. »They're bringing in the tanks! Spirits help us!«

There was no time to lose. They ran searching for cover. The Horde's soldiers were forming into defensive positions, but Avrah knew full well what would happen to them. She had seen the machines in action before.

Thrak had obtained a heavy one-handed waraxe somewhere along the way. He used it to break open the lock of some thick iron doors and kicked them open. They found themselves in what looked like a scrapyard filled with tank parts.

They hid behind the shell of a siege engine. »Damn it, and just as it looked like we may get out...« Thrak swore loudly. Avrah shivered, and he put a protective hand across her shoulders. »I don't want to go back, Thrak. I don't.« He shook his head. »Neither do I, but-« »No, you don't understand!« she cried. »What they did... the soldiers, when the officers turned a blind eye... they came to the cell and...« Words failed her. She felt Thrak's fingers go hard as steel. When he finally spoke, there was an edge to his voice that she had never heard before. »I'll kill them. I'll kill the whole bloody lot of them, and then I'll haul back Gul'dan himself from whatever hell he's in, and make him raise them from the dead so I can kill them again.« Thrak had not raised his voice. Avrah would have prefered him to shout. There was a poisonous malice in his words that made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

Another barrage shook the building. The shouts were not only orcish anymore. Avrah could only hope they would not be found. As she heard a door creak, her heart missed a beat. Without thinking she pushed Thrak into the broken siege engine and leaped after him. There were hushed voices in the scrapyard, but she could not make out what they were saying. Someone coughed and spoke loudly in Common. Thrak's eyes flashed red. Avrah tried to stop him, but he was too strong. Her hand struck out to grab onto him. She took hold of his iron earring, but the heavy-set male was too far gone to care. With a ripping sound the ornament came off.

He shot out of the broken tank like a demon. Spitting curses he slashed at the nearest Alliance soldier, but his blow was deflected. There was a loud bang.

That will cause you to break ranks some day... and you will be cut down or burned by a mage's flames or shot down with arrows...

Avrah watched in horror as her life-mate's knees buckled and he fell heavily. The shot had taken off half his face. For a moment, one long moment, she stood frozen, unmoving, disbelieving. Then the realisation hit her like a sledgehammer. She let loose a terrible howl, all her rage and grief made into sound. Another shot barely missed her face and she ducked back into her hiding place. She knew the soldiers would be upon her in a moment, but she was unarmed, dressed only in the rough linen of a prisoner.

Thrak had taken the axe, the only weapon they had between them. Damn, damn, damn! She fumbled through the wreckage, hoping against hope that she may find some weapon, some armour, something, anything that could be of help. Her fingers touched something metallic in the darkness just as the first Alliance soldier jumped into the tank, his blade flashing. The terror and fury gave her strength to strike at him with the broken-down hatch of the siege engine. The human slipped and fell onto his face, and Avrah grabbed the opportunity to bash his head in with the iron slab. She managed to fasten the hatch onto her arm by its hooks. Using this makeshift shield she rushed through the exit. Another soldier was waiting just outside, gun at the ready. The shot ricocheted off the slab and she bashed the dwarf in the face. Still she ran, blocking blow after blow, shot after shot. She ducked and grabbed Thrak's axe.

»I will kill you all!« she bellowed in Orcish. »I will kill the whole bloody lot of you and I'll haul back Gul'dan himself from whatever hell he's in, and make him raise you from the dead so I can kill you again!«

She watched through a red haze as she cut down elf and dwarf and human alike. But even lost in the fury she knew that no amount of bloodshed would bring Thrak back.

***

»Old man?« asked Avrah as she was preparing to leave. »What is it, girl?« »What can I do now? What is left for me in this world?« The shaman sighed. »We have all lost our loved ones to this war, child. You're still young. You have a long life ahead of you. You will... forget.« Avrah scowled. »No, I don't reckon I ever will.« The healer shook his head. »You say this now, but some day you'll see that time is the greatest healer.«

The female's fingers brushed the doorframe. »Time... is the greatest healer.« She smiled bitterly. »They say that. They say a lot of things. Like how honour is worth more than life...« She turned towards the shaman, and a tear glistened in her eye. »But tell me... what is honour worth... to the dead?«


***

Name: Avrah

Allignment: True Neutral

Race/Class: Orc Warrior

Physical appearance: Though beautiful, Avrah doesn't seem to care much about her looks. Her face and body are covered in scars (see picture below for facial scarring). After escaping the prison, she had Thrak's earring repurposed as a nose-ring. She shaves most of her hair but always leaves a long ponytail. She generally wears heavy plate armour and a tattered Frostwolf tabard. She had the hatch that served her as cover reforged into a Horde-crest shield.



Personality: Traumaised and solemn. She is not too bright, but has a practical type of cunning. Never drinks alcohol.

Skills: Good with any weapon, prefers fighting with Thrak's axe and her Horde-crest shield. Her fighting style largely revolves around defending herself and her allies while others damage her opponents.

Languages: Orcish, broken Common