Redemption, Prologue

At the edges of the Northern Wastes, in the camp of the Undregons.

Anastasia hit the ground with a breath stealing, dust blooming thud.  The air escaped her in a quick, prematurely ended groan.  The pain in her chest distracted her from the pain in her jaw, but only for a moment.  She did not have time to take back her breath before a powerful hand took hold of her hair, yanked her head up, and slammed her face back into the ground.  The hand didn’t let go.  It pulled her, dragging her foot by agonizing foot toward the far side of the room.  Teeth and blood spilled from her mouth between abused, snarling gasps.  She reached at the things she hit, trying to find a handhold or a weapon.  Her attacker’s other hand gripped her at the thigh and hoisted her like a piece of lumber, only to toss her onto the raised stone altar.  She hit and her arm shattered beneath her weight, making her roll over in a flinching jerk.  One of the brutal hands grabbed the broken limb and stopped her involuntary escape in the most excruciating way.  Even through the pain and flaring lights in her eyes, she saw the man draw a befouled, rune-etched dagger from his hip and raise the weapon above her belly.

“In the name of the Four,” her attacker bellowed with an inhuman depth, “you have spawned your litter and served the purpose of the whore.  The Gods demand your soul.”

He raised the blade over his own head, summoning the strength and passion that only zealot barbarians can.

Anastasia screamed.  She screamed at the fates, she screamed at the Gods, she screamed at her attacker, and she just screamed.

Inception, Chapter 2 - Contrasts

Room is ten feet by fifteen feet.  Door likely an aluminum titanium alloy.  Glass likely a one-way mirror.  Breakable with three to four direct impacts.  Armed operatives on the other side. They will see me coming.  Draw them into this room and…

No.  For one moment in your life, just stop.

+ + + + + +

Steve inhaled deeply.  He rubbed his wrists again, feeling an aching tiredness settling into his bones.  He felt wasted and overdrawn, sensations he had not known since before the change.  He let the breath in his lungs go and it escaped him too quick to be relaxing.  It smelled of the steak descending into his belly and he caught himself hoping they were bringing more.

He ran a hand through the scraggly beard at his chin, pulling through the crossed and knotted hairs.  His fingers twitched with a nervous energy as he looked around the room.  He had spent over sixty years of his life on the run, in the wild, far from civilization and both its boons and restrictions.  The growing sense of claustrophobia was new to him as well.

The click of the door handle turning made his hands flinch into fists.  He forced them open and watched as the portal opened.  He expected operatives with restraints and weapons.  He expected the leader in the trenchcoat.  He did not expect a middle aged man in thick glasses and a labcoat, especially one that stood five four in shoes and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.  The man carried a file and was reading it as he entered.  When he saw Steve, his head cocked back in surprise, as if he weren’t expecting someone to be there.

The man pushed his glasses further up his nose and closed the file.  He looked Steve up and down with a hint of disbelief, as if he expected someone to reveal this meeting to be a strange joke.

“Wow,” he said with the tone of someone looking at a lab specimen, “you’re…big.”

Bloodhorn, Chapter 2 - Difficult Task

As he approached the feasting hall, Kelraxus found himself surrounded by the smell and sounds of company.  He felt naked without his weapons and armor, an acute vulnerability that could not be dismissed even in the presence of friends.  Propriety and respect for his fellows and their way of life demanded his disarming, but with each passing day he found himself slightly less concerned with societal constraints.

Baine marched ahead of him, dressed in a relaxed but dignified robe that indicated his status as Chieftain.  Kelraxus did regret his hostility to his friend, especially in the Tauren’s own home, but the image of the great warrior garbed for politics only solidified Kelraxus’s convictions.  The world had indeed moved on, and it felt more and more like a place he did not belong.  It was this notion, more than any risk to his physical person, that gave him reservations about Baine’s request.  All the scenic peaceful vistas in the world could not bring back the life he once had, nor could they quiet the song of war in his blood.  He flexed his hands and took a quiet, deep breath.  Reservations were for the weak, he told himself.

Baine stopped and turned back to him for a moment.  If the Chieftain held some annoyance or grudge at Kelraxus’s manners earlier, he didn’t show it.

“This is your last chance to say ‘no’, my friend,” Baine said. 

Kelraxus looked him the eye and let silence reply.

Baine nodded and entered the hall, Kelraxus a step behind.

Inception, Chapter 1: Progenitor

Colorado.  Rocky Mountains.  2012.

Downwind.  Temperature between twenty two and twenty four degrees.  No wind.  Distance between one-hundred and one-hundred and three feet.  No sign of competition or outside disturbance.  Neck turning to optimum angle in ten to fifteen seconds.  If first strike is a miss, target to flee at fifteen degree angle. Second strike to be thrown at ten degree angle to compensate.

Rise, slow and steady.  Raise spear to ear height.  Throw in three, two, one…

Vibrations.  Sounds.  Behind me.  Far, closing fast.

Helicopter.  Target notices disturbance and breaks for forest.

How did they find me?  Doesn’t matter.  Need to move.  Animal-skin gone, leaving obvious trail.  Doesn’t matter.  They cannot follow deeper into the mountains.  Storm approaching.  Keep moving.

Shapes in peripheral vision.  Black tactical suits.  Operatives.  They will not be able to keep up.

Helicopters can.  Military grade.  Deep rotor.  Likely carrying tactical teams.  Keep moving.

Operative, two hundred yards, directly ahead.  Woman.  Red-hair.  Slight build.  Confident stance.  Cold eyes. 

I don’t want to hurt her.  That’s up to her.  Go through her.  She will move.

Bloodhorn, Chapter 1 - Turning Tides

Baine and Kelraxus walked through Thunder Bluff, over its bridges and through its meeting places, toward the Chieftain’s personal residence.  The crowds that parted for them were mostly Tauren, who would bow their heads in respectful deference, but there were ever increasing numbers of Orcs, Goblins, and all manner of peoples who sought to experience life in Mulgore, if only for a while.  Kelraxus felt himself to be an acute interruption of the Bluff’s nightlife as butchers looked up from their partially carved wares and blacksmiths set down their still ringing hammers.  They were, without a doubt, paying subconscious homage to their chieftain, who acknowledged them with pleasant greetings, but no few gazes lingered on Kelraxus.  Eyes watched him go, trying to match his sight to the Tauren spoken of in tales of heroism and bloodletting that few of them could comprehend.

Had he be born an Orc, his name might have been shouted from the walls of Orgrimmar as a byword for glory.  But he was Tauren, and like him, his people were of two minds.  They honored him when called to, giving their thanks for fighting the wars they could not.  They also shunned him when they could, as if being in his presence were a way of invoking violence.   It was, some mused, the way of war.  To survive in a world where demons and demi-gods walked and pantheons schemed, a culture needed its heroes.  People needed individuals to stand against the darkness, to look madness in the eye and push it back.  But the sagas and songs always left out the aftermath.  They never told of what such heroism did to the heroes, or what flaws made them heroes in the first place.

Kelraxus kept his gaze level and straight ahead, careful to not look anyone in the eye or appear intentionally threatening.  He did it for their benefit and, if he were being completely honest, because he had little to say to them at this point anyway.

Inception, Prologue

1978.

Washington, District of Colombia, The United States of America.

“Agent Fury – the President will see you now.”

Nick turned to the two Secret Service operatives standing outside the Oval Office.  They were barely identifiable from one another at first glance, and they both used subtle restraint on their unease at the situation.  Nick felt he couldn’t blame them.  They were about to allow their sworn protectorate to meet with an eye-patch wearing ex-assassin with a reputation for pulling off impossible missions.  But if the substance of this meeting turned out to be what he was anticipating, it certainly fell under the category of desperate measures in desperate times.

The agent on the right turned and opened the door to the Oval Office, indicating that Fury could pass.  The agent on the left eyed Fury up and down, failing in his attempts to remain discreet.  Fury let a hint of smile play across his lips and entered the private working area of the most powerful human in the world.

           

President James Carter sat behind a heavy, ornate oaken desk.  He was comfortable but focused, staring at Agent Fury with neither desperation nor arrogance.  Nick’s first mental reaction was one of mild surprise, as President Carter seemed rather small in stature behind the furniture, but the look in the Chief Executive’s eyes was serious enough to show that the man knew the responsibilities and duties he had inherited.

“Nicholas Fury, I presume?” the President asked.  His Georgian drawl was perfectly formed and utilized, present enough to clearly indicated the man’s origins but subdued enough to show an experience of the wider world.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Fury answered, matching Carter’s seriousness.  It had been claimed by more than one commanding officer in Fury’s past that Fury had a penchant for cavalier attitude and actions, and whatever the veracity of such claims, Nick had no intention of conveying anything but the utmost dedication to what was about to be asked of him.

Bloodhorn, Prologue

A statue sat over the edge Thunder Bluff, on an outcropping of wood and reed.  It was an effigy of resilience and potency, a visage of measured power rendered into the form of a long-horned Tauren brave.  Its unmoving gaze watched over Bloodhoof Village and the hardworking people toiling there, promising protection and vengeance without a whisper of a word.  The people of Mulgore spoke of the statue in hushed and respectful tones, calling it “Bloodhorn”, its profile and appearance synonymous with the dichotomous relationship the Tauren had with war.  In one light, it could be noble, unyielding, and courageous.  In another, it could be titanic, thunderous, and destructive.  And because of the respect and fear such a thing engendered, because it was an avatar of the inner Tauren soul, it remained alone, over the edge.  Ready to fall, and never giving in.

Beyond the statue, Chieftain Bloodhoof approached the outcropping.  His bladed-mace rested easily in his massive hand, and the paired totems on his back added to his imposing frame.  Only his soft, careworn eyes belied the warmth of the soul beneath his slabs of scarred muscle and ornate leatherwork armor.  He walked out over the edge, not showing the slightest hesitancy in the face of the fall.  He stopped next to the statue and surveyed its line of sight, taking in the moment of blessed peace come to his people in their land.  He spared neither glance nor touch to Bloodhorn, for he knew it better than most.  He had been there when the statue was raised.  He had been there when the statue took its place.  He had been there when the statue’s crafter died.

Baine inhaled the fresh evening air and spoke out into the night when he let the breath go.

Welcome, brave and weary travelers.

And welcome to the rest of you bums.

I'm John, and this blog is for my fan fiction.  Most of it will be set in the following universes.
- Warhammer 40,000
- Warhammer Fantasy
- World of Warcraft
- Magic: The Gathering
- The darkest corners of my imagination.

I do hope you enjoy, and I encourage you to leave me feedback, either through e-mail or post comments. I only ask that you explain your position and be respectful.  Thanks for stopping by.