Post by ripgut on Jun 24, 2014 13:16:45 GMT -5
BLACKrock DOWN
A Gnome with short cropped light green hair skipped down the road through Southern Stranglethorn Vale. He whistled a hymn he’d grown up with since childhood while he hunted for some Liferoot herb. His tiny body moved slowly compared to the average races of Azeroth, with his basket over his arm he skipped gaily down the road. A big toothy smile from ear to ear painted his face between whistles. Not even the rain was going to break his stride, the puddles in the road made fun to jump in and splash. He giggled each time he landed in a puddle, singing, “The rain won’t stop Ray Finklehorn! A few drop of water make travel fun!” He whistled and carried on, “Come on with the rain I've a smile on my face, I walk down the lane with a happy refrain!”
The smell of urine and strong body odor permeated the Salty Sailor Tavern in Booty Bay. It was hot and musty, for three days now rain had cut off any airflow that would normally keep the air inside fresh. A large and brutish Orc sat at a table clad in silver and black plate armor shaking a cup in his hands. Slamming the cup to the table top his jaw dropped in awe.
“A Fucking Three?!?!?! That is four in a row!!! You better not be cheating me Mazzle!!!”
His plan was coming together perfectly. The Goblin Death Knight took another swig of his Sulfuron Slammer and belched a small flame into the middle of the room on the top floor of the tavern.
“I never make a bet I can’t win Warlord! You should know that by now. After all these years you still persist to dump your gold into my pockets on the chance of these dice. Besides why would I cheat you, luck is blessed on my people! You keep bringing me those delicious Sulfuron Slammers from your Grim Guzzler, I wouldn’t dare cheat the mighty Warlord of the Blackrock Clan!”
Words. Like a song he wanted to hear, Warlord Ripgut foolishly and drunkenly bought every word the goblin sold him. Sure he had beat the goblin before, whores, beer, and Felweed all coming from the goblins pockets. But this time was different. In his arrogance Ripgut had challenged the goblin to a drinking contest. No goblin had ever beaten him at his own game, but the goblins gambling and drinking over the years had made the Warlord forget he was not among the living. As easy as beating a one legged man in an ass kicking contest the Undead Goblin watched his gambling buddy slip deeper and deeper into his drunken state. It was not hard to for Mazzle to slip a pair of egg dice into Ripgut’s cup, and as drunk as he was he was slow to notice the way they rolled from having shaved edges.
“Well you’re an Orc of your word Ripgut, I’ll be taking my cut and heading out.” The goblin hopped up on the table to look the large hulking orc eye to eye.
Shaking his head and slurring his words the brute snapped back, “You Goblin bastard I’ve left bigger ssshits then you. Here!” Ripgut slammed a heavy sack of gold coins on the table. “FUCK!” Standing on wobbly legs the angry orc made his way down to the first floor. “Nixxrax you lil sshit! Gimme a Cherry Pie!” The goblin Bartender served the orc up and gagged at the sight of him smashing the pie into his mouth. Crust and berry fell from his face and down his armor, while some of the sticky residue stuck to his permanent five O’clock shadow.
Stumbling slowly and oafishly out the front door of the tavern Ripgut climbs on his Mechano Hog. Flipping a gold coin to a goblin he belches, “There ya go, Grimestack.” The small stablemaster replies, “She’ll always be safe when gold is watching!”
In unison Ripgut’s right foot stomps down to the boardwalk floor and twists his right hand around the Hog’s grip. Black carbon monoxide shoots from the exhaust of the hog as it roars loudly through Booty Bay. Ripgut leans to one side and breaks wind before revving the engine a few times. After a small peel out on the slick boardwalk the Warlord hauls off toward the jungle leaving only a black skid mark and the smell of burnt rubber.
Skipping and singing from rain puddle to rain puddle the gnome, Ray Finklehorn swung his basket around his arm and made his way toward Booty Bay. He knew soon he would be seeing the Blackwater Raiders’ pirate flag that stood erect out front letting him know he arrived. His beautiful song echoed, “I'm singing in the rain! Just singing in the rain! What a glorious feelin' and I'm happy again!”
The boardwalk ended at the beginning of the road through Southern Stranglethorn Vale. Driving recklessly through the tunnel Ripgut emerged under the Sharks Teeth that introduced him to the jungle. He was raging fueled by anger at losing; and the dozen mugs of Blackrock Ale in his gut. He roared into the damp jungle sky throttling full speed around the sharp turn separating jungle form harbor.
“YYEEEEIIIIIHHHHH!!!!” The gnome screamed in stark terror, frozen in fear seeing the massive orc on the Hog heading straight at him.
“Move Bitch! Get o……!” Ripgut roared, but there was no time to react. The drunken orc slammed head first into the tiny gnome. The tires of the bike ran over the gnome and launched the bike upwards into the branches of a palm tree, ejected the warlord into the air. The gnome hit the ground splitting his skull open on the hardened stone path, his chest caved in from the intense blow. Twenty feet through the air Ripgut flew before smashing upside down and back first into massive tree trunk. He bounced off the tree’s base and then ricocheted of a heavy vine, tumbling through a patch of dense fern he spiraled out of control over a small hill and finally ceasing in Mistvale Valley.
Breathe Deep he thought to himself. Shake the pain. He looked down and saw his right arm, four inches below his elbow his wrist dangled a clean break rendered his forearm useless. Pain shot in agony through his upper body, his face rubbed flesh off against tree bark and the jungles dirt floor. One eye quickly swelled shut and his breathing became more difficult. He did not know what he was angrier about now, his foolish challenge to out drink a death knight or putting himself in this broken chaos. A strong metal taste in his mouth left his teeth red and sticky, and the creeping darkness became harder to fight off. Lying on his back and looking at a silver haired elder mistvale gorilla pass he could not feel his legs. He could not believe what he did, shame set in. This was not the way to die. His death was meant to be on the field in battle or of heart failure under a whore, but not like this.
Closing his one open eye, Ripgut took a deep breath. Too deep, pain shot through his ribs that undoubtedly crushed under impact of his plate armor bouncing off the solid tree. Daggers by the dozens poked and prodded his broken body, but this would not be his end he swore. Licking his dried lips Ripgut made an effort to roll over moving only slightly before the pain over whelmed him. Casting down a bright flash over his face was the Warlord custom crafted axe called the Arcanite Reaper, which was lodged high above in the tree that his body crashed into.
Slowly Ripgut spoke out loud, “father, do not forsake me. May I die with an ax in my hand or a whore on my cock. I will not die here today!” In his last ounce of rage he roared a Warcry into the jungle and succumb to the blackness that engulfed him.
A Gnome with short cropped light green hair skipped down the road through Southern Stranglethorn Vale. He whistled a hymn he’d grown up with since childhood while he hunted for some Liferoot herb. His tiny body moved slowly compared to the average races of Azeroth, with his basket over his arm he skipped gaily down the road. A big toothy smile from ear to ear painted his face between whistles. Not even the rain was going to break his stride, the puddles in the road made fun to jump in and splash. He giggled each time he landed in a puddle, singing, “The rain won’t stop Ray Finklehorn! A few drop of water make travel fun!” He whistled and carried on, “Come on with the rain I've a smile on my face, I walk down the lane with a happy refrain!”
The smell of urine and strong body odor permeated the Salty Sailor Tavern in Booty Bay. It was hot and musty, for three days now rain had cut off any airflow that would normally keep the air inside fresh. A large and brutish Orc sat at a table clad in silver and black plate armor shaking a cup in his hands. Slamming the cup to the table top his jaw dropped in awe.
“A Fucking Three?!?!?! That is four in a row!!! You better not be cheating me Mazzle!!!”
His plan was coming together perfectly. The Goblin Death Knight took another swig of his Sulfuron Slammer and belched a small flame into the middle of the room on the top floor of the tavern.
“I never make a bet I can’t win Warlord! You should know that by now. After all these years you still persist to dump your gold into my pockets on the chance of these dice. Besides why would I cheat you, luck is blessed on my people! You keep bringing me those delicious Sulfuron Slammers from your Grim Guzzler, I wouldn’t dare cheat the mighty Warlord of the Blackrock Clan!”
Words. Like a song he wanted to hear, Warlord Ripgut foolishly and drunkenly bought every word the goblin sold him. Sure he had beat the goblin before, whores, beer, and Felweed all coming from the goblins pockets. But this time was different. In his arrogance Ripgut had challenged the goblin to a drinking contest. No goblin had ever beaten him at his own game, but the goblins gambling and drinking over the years had made the Warlord forget he was not among the living. As easy as beating a one legged man in an ass kicking contest the Undead Goblin watched his gambling buddy slip deeper and deeper into his drunken state. It was not hard to for Mazzle to slip a pair of egg dice into Ripgut’s cup, and as drunk as he was he was slow to notice the way they rolled from having shaved edges.
“Well you’re an Orc of your word Ripgut, I’ll be taking my cut and heading out.” The goblin hopped up on the table to look the large hulking orc eye to eye.
Shaking his head and slurring his words the brute snapped back, “You Goblin bastard I’ve left bigger ssshits then you. Here!” Ripgut slammed a heavy sack of gold coins on the table. “FUCK!” Standing on wobbly legs the angry orc made his way down to the first floor. “Nixxrax you lil sshit! Gimme a Cherry Pie!” The goblin Bartender served the orc up and gagged at the sight of him smashing the pie into his mouth. Crust and berry fell from his face and down his armor, while some of the sticky residue stuck to his permanent five O’clock shadow.
Stumbling slowly and oafishly out the front door of the tavern Ripgut climbs on his Mechano Hog. Flipping a gold coin to a goblin he belches, “There ya go, Grimestack.” The small stablemaster replies, “She’ll always be safe when gold is watching!”
In unison Ripgut’s right foot stomps down to the boardwalk floor and twists his right hand around the Hog’s grip. Black carbon monoxide shoots from the exhaust of the hog as it roars loudly through Booty Bay. Ripgut leans to one side and breaks wind before revving the engine a few times. After a small peel out on the slick boardwalk the Warlord hauls off toward the jungle leaving only a black skid mark and the smell of burnt rubber.
Skipping and singing from rain puddle to rain puddle the gnome, Ray Finklehorn swung his basket around his arm and made his way toward Booty Bay. He knew soon he would be seeing the Blackwater Raiders’ pirate flag that stood erect out front letting him know he arrived. His beautiful song echoed, “I'm singing in the rain! Just singing in the rain! What a glorious feelin' and I'm happy again!”
The boardwalk ended at the beginning of the road through Southern Stranglethorn Vale. Driving recklessly through the tunnel Ripgut emerged under the Sharks Teeth that introduced him to the jungle. He was raging fueled by anger at losing; and the dozen mugs of Blackrock Ale in his gut. He roared into the damp jungle sky throttling full speed around the sharp turn separating jungle form harbor.
“YYEEEEIIIIIHHHHH!!!!” The gnome screamed in stark terror, frozen in fear seeing the massive orc on the Hog heading straight at him.
“Move Bitch! Get o……!” Ripgut roared, but there was no time to react. The drunken orc slammed head first into the tiny gnome. The tires of the bike ran over the gnome and launched the bike upwards into the branches of a palm tree, ejected the warlord into the air. The gnome hit the ground splitting his skull open on the hardened stone path, his chest caved in from the intense blow. Twenty feet through the air Ripgut flew before smashing upside down and back first into massive tree trunk. He bounced off the tree’s base and then ricocheted of a heavy vine, tumbling through a patch of dense fern he spiraled out of control over a small hill and finally ceasing in Mistvale Valley.
Breathe Deep he thought to himself. Shake the pain. He looked down and saw his right arm, four inches below his elbow his wrist dangled a clean break rendered his forearm useless. Pain shot in agony through his upper body, his face rubbed flesh off against tree bark and the jungles dirt floor. One eye quickly swelled shut and his breathing became more difficult. He did not know what he was angrier about now, his foolish challenge to out drink a death knight or putting himself in this broken chaos. A strong metal taste in his mouth left his teeth red and sticky, and the creeping darkness became harder to fight off. Lying on his back and looking at a silver haired elder mistvale gorilla pass he could not feel his legs. He could not believe what he did, shame set in. This was not the way to die. His death was meant to be on the field in battle or of heart failure under a whore, but not like this.
Closing his one open eye, Ripgut took a deep breath. Too deep, pain shot through his ribs that undoubtedly crushed under impact of his plate armor bouncing off the solid tree. Daggers by the dozens poked and prodded his broken body, but this would not be his end he swore. Licking his dried lips Ripgut made an effort to roll over moving only slightly before the pain over whelmed him. Casting down a bright flash over his face was the Warlord custom crafted axe called the Arcanite Reaper, which was lodged high above in the tree that his body crashed into.
Slowly Ripgut spoke out loud, “father, do not forsake me. May I die with an ax in my hand or a whore on my cock. I will not die here today!” In his last ounce of rage he roared a Warcry into the jungle and succumb to the blackness that engulfed him.