Anger in Ashenvale
folder
+S through Z › World of Warcraft
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
5,123
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+S through Z › World of Warcraft
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
5,123
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own World of Warcraft, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Anger in Ashenvale
So, I've finally deigned to write my own little story; you all will fear what I am writing because it likely does suck! HAHAHAHAHA!
Any way; rape will follow once I figure out how to make breaking the Bitchy Whorelock's pride... buwah. Haz fun reading!
ASHENVALE ANGER HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
----------------------------------------
-Domination starts with Intimidation
It was the Ashenvale forest's very nature to be filled with neurotic beasts, quest givers, and of course your standard newbie. Of course for the men and women of the Alliance it was dangerous and treacherous to cross to enter anywhere thanks to Horde, Demon, and just about every other thing wanting to eat, enslave, fuck, or kill you. It'd not been long since he'd stepped foot into the forest that he'd found a suitable lackey; and just gone ahead to the location of his so called 'quest'. He'd listened to the human's description, deciding not really to ask many questions and just help the poor bastard; although the constant whining eventually just made him plain out abusive and angry toward the poor boy. Although, most of it was just insults or anger directed at the fact that he has to listen to some sissy whine and complain all the way to their target! Of course, the massive Kal'Dorei wasn't one to complain about much of this, in fact, he liked it a lot more than those 'find this item' quests.
The human he was grouped with had shared a quest with him, and quest giver had never exactly said what gender the Orc 'they' was supposed to kill was; nor did the ‘child’ of a man he’s pulling through know either. Fact of the matter is all he knew was the title of Vic the Bloodeye. The near incomprehensible difference between the two men on the quest is astounding to say the least. The other warrior, a short, squalid, somewhat chubby human man in what appears to be dirty armor not even befitting a poor man! Thick limbs and an obvious lack of anything ‘empowering’ had made the elder warrior take pity on the man, this quest a good bit of reputation for himself and the man beside him, after all, he really does want to show off to his latest ‘friends’ his prowess an Reputation within the Alliance. The Elder warrior, that much being said as far as it will go, the poor human is plain and rather scruffy and little or nothing under the foot of the massive Kal’Dorei male. His wrought metallic stone shoulder blades, and indeed they were -blades- were pitted, scarred, and torn in places that would show the sheer age of his armor, more so his own age...
The hill upon which they'd needed to arrive was nothing more than an ambush for the orcs below. He tilts his head to the side, that darkened faceplate making his eyes glow with a vengeance not seen in many a warrior. Well, he just stares down at the Orc women that make up the compound; he laughing lowly, his voice as dull a tune as his age would make it, “These? I was worried they’d be mighty warriors; but they all seem to be -women-!”, he sneers down at the warrior, who’s shaking in fright as such well endowed females of his race’s most hated enemies. It's rather hard for the large, nearly ancient, warrior to understand why! The Kal’Dorei warrior just… dies a little inside; it’s not every day, or any day rather, that you have the help of some beastly fighter… and the man won’t even tell him to attack, well...
With a savage grin, he puts a hand on the man’s back, and pushes him into the slope, forcing the man head over heels and to roll… right into the center of assembly, how fun this will be. So, that warrior, stares, frightened, at the women about him; the fear evident in his eyes as they all close about him, ready to attack.. The elder man sneers, sauntering down so he might get a better view of who comes to attack him; after all, it’s not his job to baby sit this buffoon. He just standing back, to watch what chaos would brood from this unexpected visitation! White hair flows around his helm, the wind making the scene a far more dread teinder; if the Orcs would look up, that that poor, stupid, insignificant bastard was just bait. And indeed, he's thankful none of them bothered to look in his direction.
It wasn’t long before, like sharks, or some type of large fish, approaching the kill, that the women begin to circle, most laughing at such a bumbling fool; the bastard child of idiots and more so a coward to boot. Green fingers stroke long blades as one by one they begin their assaults on the warrior; one by one they knick and cut and slice and rend his flesh; but, that’s all it took. With as mighty a screaming roar as the inexperienced child of a man can muster he begins to swing that bladed weapon in sloppy arcs, easily missing women that he was supposed to slay left and right; those that were unsuspecting being nicked or bruised thanks to such a dull edged thing. Seriousness alights on features of the ancient warrior, who’s stone like lips turn up into a malicious snarl, his own roar in chorus to the man who he’d forced into this dangerous situation… That beast had joined the fray and with a single sweep of those massive maces, he’d killed four of the assassins who’d been part of this band of sisters, and the sounds of their screams cause more of the warrior women to see their destroyer. They know that it’s of little use to run; to call for more, they care little for running for they are not afraid to die. Vicious yells, screams, and feminine roars of defiance meet his ears, that twisted snarl of appreciation alights upon his grizzled old features, “Bring me your dead… yes, come to me poppits; my weapons thirst…”, then, with an explosion of metal clashing and weapons shearing across one another it definitely had begun!
The fray had easily become very one sided, his hammers flashing about him like a true to form beast, thickly muscled sinews, the armor he wears easily deflecting all but the most determined of strikes to his form. Indeed, it was almost as if one were watching a war-machine in action; tearing, shredding, destroying flesh with powerful pummels of his maces. Two dead, three dead, four dead go. It’s barely been ten seconds and he’s killed five people, their blood splattering messily against their sisters in battle, the all female ‘Warsong Raiders’ were being reduced in membership indeed, especially with this beast in their midst. Their black blood stains most of his armor now, he standing there, his eyes a blaze with primal fury as he begins to laugh, the stains of sweat rolling down as he holds his arms to the side, ready, for more if they dare come face him. White hair blackened around the edges, his armor splattered with flesh, bone, and gristle that'd been torn free by the fierce battle maces.
Battle ready she-orcs were glaring, their cold blue eyes almost pulling him to pieces, and snarling at his ferocity with near wild abandonment and sharp tusks, as their so called reinforcements rushed in. Though they kept at a safe distance of several long feet, each having their swords, or in most cases daggers out, pointed toward him, malice obvious as the sat ready to strike. All but their formerly living sisters were covered in black cloth bandannas, looking like true to form wannabe assassins. They started to advance forming a circle around him, although his elfin ears could catch the sound of bowstrings being pulled, his reaction to this not being as warily obvious to the hidden archers crouched on the nearby trees, aiming at him, not minding the useless male nearby, well, who would? He’d been killed almost five second after the big man had entered the fray; a few lucky strikes had rendered THAT option of distraction a useless bit of fluff right there.
"Aw... well... He was a good distraction... while he lasted.", he poking the now lifeless corpse a lucky strike had found, well more like friendly fire his head is missing… He slowly turns around, opening his arms wipe as he lets out a booming challenge, "Are all you women the pride of the Horde that these humans feared? I can slay any and all of you without worry for injury! Come! Show me your leader so I might dispatch him!", obviously he doesn't care about he Archers, he grinning under that plate helm, "You archers had better not miss too, I tend to be very... hard to hit...", damn him and his bravado... damn him. And it’s then that several of the archers fire off their shots. The shouts and jeers from the women deepened, getting angrier than from him killing four of them, now even daring to insulting them!? The row on his front and back growled at the same time and rushed toward the abomination of a elf, whilst the dozen of archers unloaded their arrows, loading new ones already, albeit, they’d already had several shots fired before their sisters had rushed in for the attack…
His entire form, big as it is, is a deadly graceful figure as it curves, several of the arrows striking his powerfully entrenched armor; knocking this way and that even as stray ones kill several antagonists. Oh, he’d backhanded a few of these harlots; easily keeping himself at an advantage as he fights. Thousands of battles had honed his skills, any thousands of years of conflict had molded his instinct, and many more times he is a warrior; and they are the violent sort. Indeed, as he finishes with that attack his body moves with a liquid grace, four long bladed throwing weapons leave his hand; and yet four more screams fill the air as he allows himself a hollow, guiltless, laugh. Indeed he felt nothing for killing these women, who’s husbands, if they had that, raped and killed the females and men of his race; sometimes eating their flesh, and kept them as slaves… why, should he, of all people care about what he does to these… beasts.
The attackers that saw this, started to cower, experiencing fear for the first time in their lives as they looked at this man, whilst several dead sisters fell on the ground with a thud nearby. Their morale and anger fading, and most of them look like about to run away. Yet suddenly, to the right the women split, obviously shivering in the black leather boots, making a path as it were. An orcess, dressed in far more finery than her so called sisters begins to slowly walk towards him, her red eyes filled with pride and anger, while her braided hair, reaching down to her rather wide arse, was bouncing around as she stepped. She was wearing dark silken garments that were really quite revealing, but far too much covering for a whore. It was obvious this woman either was the leader herself, or at least a viceroy to the entire outfit. Finally, standing before him with a low growl she slaps his armor clad face; this just earning a startled chuckle from the warrior.
She wasn’t happy, as was so obvious by her stance and the way she held herself. At long last she cleared her throat as she stopped, looking at this, abomination of nature, this ‘elf’. When she does start speaking it’s with a calm, sweet, young, but strong and proud voice “You have come to slay me?”, the question making the man’s eyes roll, “ Is that all you need?” So, she is the leader? … There are other plans on his mind; other than the bounty. Other than rending her flesh with his maces and feeding her blood to the beasts within them. The dominating beast within him can't help but ponder over her body... his lust barely contained as he wishes to break this poor bitch down... She was carrying herself with grace, although her large ass was the most of the thing he wanted, not to mention those tightly hugged, pillow-esqu breasts bounced far too easily to be kept within the confines of a bra, well, when she'd been walking. These were rudimentary things his pleased side of his brain had noted; the other half, however, was focuses at hand.
"Well now...", the ancient being from another era speaks, his voice cracking with it's attempt to hide emotion, his smug, cocky, attitude bleeding through, "... I see that I have a warlock here... tell me... Are you... Afraid?", the last bit said with venomous intent enough to cause weeping in many a weaker mortal. She looked at him defiantly, not seeming afraid of what just happened, although, if he were barefaced he could –easily- smell her fear. And to his trained eye, she was shaking; the wobbling of her large portions made it more so obvious than anything.
"I think...", that dull toned voice says to no one in particular, "... that I earned something more than the right to slay you.", and it's simply put there. A way to escape death. But, will she take it; that was what really mattered to him.
Any way; rape will follow once I figure out how to make breaking the Bitchy Whorelock's pride... buwah. Haz fun reading!
ASHENVALE ANGER HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
----------------------------------------
-Domination starts with Intimidation
It was the Ashenvale forest's very nature to be filled with neurotic beasts, quest givers, and of course your standard newbie. Of course for the men and women of the Alliance it was dangerous and treacherous to cross to enter anywhere thanks to Horde, Demon, and just about every other thing wanting to eat, enslave, fuck, or kill you. It'd not been long since he'd stepped foot into the forest that he'd found a suitable lackey; and just gone ahead to the location of his so called 'quest'. He'd listened to the human's description, deciding not really to ask many questions and just help the poor bastard; although the constant whining eventually just made him plain out abusive and angry toward the poor boy. Although, most of it was just insults or anger directed at the fact that he has to listen to some sissy whine and complain all the way to their target! Of course, the massive Kal'Dorei wasn't one to complain about much of this, in fact, he liked it a lot more than those 'find this item' quests.
The human he was grouped with had shared a quest with him, and quest giver had never exactly said what gender the Orc 'they' was supposed to kill was; nor did the ‘child’ of a man he’s pulling through know either. Fact of the matter is all he knew was the title of Vic the Bloodeye. The near incomprehensible difference between the two men on the quest is astounding to say the least. The other warrior, a short, squalid, somewhat chubby human man in what appears to be dirty armor not even befitting a poor man! Thick limbs and an obvious lack of anything ‘empowering’ had made the elder warrior take pity on the man, this quest a good bit of reputation for himself and the man beside him, after all, he really does want to show off to his latest ‘friends’ his prowess an Reputation within the Alliance. The Elder warrior, that much being said as far as it will go, the poor human is plain and rather scruffy and little or nothing under the foot of the massive Kal’Dorei male. His wrought metallic stone shoulder blades, and indeed they were -blades- were pitted, scarred, and torn in places that would show the sheer age of his armor, more so his own age...
The hill upon which they'd needed to arrive was nothing more than an ambush for the orcs below. He tilts his head to the side, that darkened faceplate making his eyes glow with a vengeance not seen in many a warrior. Well, he just stares down at the Orc women that make up the compound; he laughing lowly, his voice as dull a tune as his age would make it, “These? I was worried they’d be mighty warriors; but they all seem to be -women-!”, he sneers down at the warrior, who’s shaking in fright as such well endowed females of his race’s most hated enemies. It's rather hard for the large, nearly ancient, warrior to understand why! The Kal’Dorei warrior just… dies a little inside; it’s not every day, or any day rather, that you have the help of some beastly fighter… and the man won’t even tell him to attack, well...
With a savage grin, he puts a hand on the man’s back, and pushes him into the slope, forcing the man head over heels and to roll… right into the center of assembly, how fun this will be. So, that warrior, stares, frightened, at the women about him; the fear evident in his eyes as they all close about him, ready to attack.. The elder man sneers, sauntering down so he might get a better view of who comes to attack him; after all, it’s not his job to baby sit this buffoon. He just standing back, to watch what chaos would brood from this unexpected visitation! White hair flows around his helm, the wind making the scene a far more dread teinder; if the Orcs would look up, that that poor, stupid, insignificant bastard was just bait. And indeed, he's thankful none of them bothered to look in his direction.
It wasn’t long before, like sharks, or some type of large fish, approaching the kill, that the women begin to circle, most laughing at such a bumbling fool; the bastard child of idiots and more so a coward to boot. Green fingers stroke long blades as one by one they begin their assaults on the warrior; one by one they knick and cut and slice and rend his flesh; but, that’s all it took. With as mighty a screaming roar as the inexperienced child of a man can muster he begins to swing that bladed weapon in sloppy arcs, easily missing women that he was supposed to slay left and right; those that were unsuspecting being nicked or bruised thanks to such a dull edged thing. Seriousness alights on features of the ancient warrior, who’s stone like lips turn up into a malicious snarl, his own roar in chorus to the man who he’d forced into this dangerous situation… That beast had joined the fray and with a single sweep of those massive maces, he’d killed four of the assassins who’d been part of this band of sisters, and the sounds of their screams cause more of the warrior women to see their destroyer. They know that it’s of little use to run; to call for more, they care little for running for they are not afraid to die. Vicious yells, screams, and feminine roars of defiance meet his ears, that twisted snarl of appreciation alights upon his grizzled old features, “Bring me your dead… yes, come to me poppits; my weapons thirst…”, then, with an explosion of metal clashing and weapons shearing across one another it definitely had begun!
The fray had easily become very one sided, his hammers flashing about him like a true to form beast, thickly muscled sinews, the armor he wears easily deflecting all but the most determined of strikes to his form. Indeed, it was almost as if one were watching a war-machine in action; tearing, shredding, destroying flesh with powerful pummels of his maces. Two dead, three dead, four dead go. It’s barely been ten seconds and he’s killed five people, their blood splattering messily against their sisters in battle, the all female ‘Warsong Raiders’ were being reduced in membership indeed, especially with this beast in their midst. Their black blood stains most of his armor now, he standing there, his eyes a blaze with primal fury as he begins to laugh, the stains of sweat rolling down as he holds his arms to the side, ready, for more if they dare come face him. White hair blackened around the edges, his armor splattered with flesh, bone, and gristle that'd been torn free by the fierce battle maces.
Battle ready she-orcs were glaring, their cold blue eyes almost pulling him to pieces, and snarling at his ferocity with near wild abandonment and sharp tusks, as their so called reinforcements rushed in. Though they kept at a safe distance of several long feet, each having their swords, or in most cases daggers out, pointed toward him, malice obvious as the sat ready to strike. All but their formerly living sisters were covered in black cloth bandannas, looking like true to form wannabe assassins. They started to advance forming a circle around him, although his elfin ears could catch the sound of bowstrings being pulled, his reaction to this not being as warily obvious to the hidden archers crouched on the nearby trees, aiming at him, not minding the useless male nearby, well, who would? He’d been killed almost five second after the big man had entered the fray; a few lucky strikes had rendered THAT option of distraction a useless bit of fluff right there.
"Aw... well... He was a good distraction... while he lasted.", he poking the now lifeless corpse a lucky strike had found, well more like friendly fire his head is missing… He slowly turns around, opening his arms wipe as he lets out a booming challenge, "Are all you women the pride of the Horde that these humans feared? I can slay any and all of you without worry for injury! Come! Show me your leader so I might dispatch him!", obviously he doesn't care about he Archers, he grinning under that plate helm, "You archers had better not miss too, I tend to be very... hard to hit...", damn him and his bravado... damn him. And it’s then that several of the archers fire off their shots. The shouts and jeers from the women deepened, getting angrier than from him killing four of them, now even daring to insulting them!? The row on his front and back growled at the same time and rushed toward the abomination of a elf, whilst the dozen of archers unloaded their arrows, loading new ones already, albeit, they’d already had several shots fired before their sisters had rushed in for the attack…
His entire form, big as it is, is a deadly graceful figure as it curves, several of the arrows striking his powerfully entrenched armor; knocking this way and that even as stray ones kill several antagonists. Oh, he’d backhanded a few of these harlots; easily keeping himself at an advantage as he fights. Thousands of battles had honed his skills, any thousands of years of conflict had molded his instinct, and many more times he is a warrior; and they are the violent sort. Indeed, as he finishes with that attack his body moves with a liquid grace, four long bladed throwing weapons leave his hand; and yet four more screams fill the air as he allows himself a hollow, guiltless, laugh. Indeed he felt nothing for killing these women, who’s husbands, if they had that, raped and killed the females and men of his race; sometimes eating their flesh, and kept them as slaves… why, should he, of all people care about what he does to these… beasts.
The attackers that saw this, started to cower, experiencing fear for the first time in their lives as they looked at this man, whilst several dead sisters fell on the ground with a thud nearby. Their morale and anger fading, and most of them look like about to run away. Yet suddenly, to the right the women split, obviously shivering in the black leather boots, making a path as it were. An orcess, dressed in far more finery than her so called sisters begins to slowly walk towards him, her red eyes filled with pride and anger, while her braided hair, reaching down to her rather wide arse, was bouncing around as she stepped. She was wearing dark silken garments that were really quite revealing, but far too much covering for a whore. It was obvious this woman either was the leader herself, or at least a viceroy to the entire outfit. Finally, standing before him with a low growl she slaps his armor clad face; this just earning a startled chuckle from the warrior.
She wasn’t happy, as was so obvious by her stance and the way she held herself. At long last she cleared her throat as she stopped, looking at this, abomination of nature, this ‘elf’. When she does start speaking it’s with a calm, sweet, young, but strong and proud voice “You have come to slay me?”, the question making the man’s eyes roll, “ Is that all you need?” So, she is the leader? … There are other plans on his mind; other than the bounty. Other than rending her flesh with his maces and feeding her blood to the beasts within them. The dominating beast within him can't help but ponder over her body... his lust barely contained as he wishes to break this poor bitch down... She was carrying herself with grace, although her large ass was the most of the thing he wanted, not to mention those tightly hugged, pillow-esqu breasts bounced far too easily to be kept within the confines of a bra, well, when she'd been walking. These were rudimentary things his pleased side of his brain had noted; the other half, however, was focuses at hand.
"Well now...", the ancient being from another era speaks, his voice cracking with it's attempt to hide emotion, his smug, cocky, attitude bleeding through, "... I see that I have a warlock here... tell me... Are you... Afraid?", the last bit said with venomous intent enough to cause weeping in many a weaker mortal. She looked at him defiantly, not seeming afraid of what just happened, although, if he were barefaced he could –easily- smell her fear. And to his trained eye, she was shaking; the wobbling of her large portions made it more so obvious than anything.
"I think...", that dull toned voice says to no one in particular, "... that I earned something more than the right to slay you.", and it's simply put there. A way to escape death. But, will she take it; that was what really mattered to him.