INTRODUCTION POST
Behemoth was a commandeered Bloodsail vessel mired along one of Tanaris' southernmost beaches. Although the beach itself was sundered, the cog's crew found no difficulty navigating through the heaps and mounds of churned sand and earth left askew by the Destroyer. In fact, they frequented the strand as assumed by the eskers dredged in the sandy knolls, but not to scavenge—to survey.
Leading the patrol was a bandy troll with biceps the size of barrels. He marched through the remains of the beach flanked by two Sandfury skullsplitters, each dusted in a noticeable veil of sand. “The beach has been empty for weeks, mon,” put in one of the Skullsplitters, “Ain't nobody been 'ere before the Sundering and nobody after, except for us. It's safe, I'd bet my right tusk.”
“The one dat be missin'?” His partner howled with laughter and pointed, mockingly, at him. “Ya can't bet whatcha ain't got, mon!” Before their bickering worsened, the largest of the trio snorted, meriting the attention of his subordinates.
“We won't wait any longer, 'den,” he grunted, “Return to Zul'Farrak and summon 'da delegates. If 'da Messiah wants this moot to happen, now is 'da best time.”
Some hours later, when the sun was at its zenith, the Behemoth was riding the waves northeast of Tanaris, but not so far from Kalimdor that the shores were entirely unnoticeable. The captain—a windburnt troll with flesh toughened by sea spray—shielded his eyes from the sun while his left hand gently passed over the cog’s binnacle. The hand on the compass was teetering north, a direction which he abhorred traveling in—truth be told, naga were as thick as bass in these waters. He had seen many a vessel succumb to their numbers or felled by the seawitches and their ice magic.
“Captain,” a troll called. He was the very same that lead the patrol on the beach. “Have you seen Vis—”
The captain spat; chagrin straddled the corner of his lips and forced them into a sour scowl. “Vis’eera? The naga? ‘Aye, the shaman has him workin’. Last I saw, he slithered off the deck into the depths. Gods be good, he’ll stay ‘dere.” The captain, bristling, stroked the length of his tusk as a means of pacification. “Da shaman’s a clever woman, Tazingo, I know dat … but wit ain’t no match for instinct. Ya know dat tinglin’ ya get in your tusks when somethin’ bad s’about ta happen? … Bad juju, mon. Bad juju.”
Tazingo couldn’t help but to chuckle; his laugh was a hearty laugh, thunderous and good natured. As a response he gently clasped the captain’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring pat. “Maybe ‘da years at sea have made ya a little too salty, mon.”
“And maybe ‘da years in ‘da dessert have made you too complaisant. Ya never listened to me when was younger and ya ain’t listenin’ to me now.”
A strident, wet slap on the vessel’s deck caused all heads to turn. Half of the deckhands watched on in horror while others brandished their scabbards and scimitars. “Hold,” Tazingo commanded. The resulting splash had flattened his mohawk against his skull and smeared the warpaint which once daubed his long, prominent nose and well across his cheeks.
The culprit—the creature that was responsible for provoking a fearsome torrent of seawater—was a naga. His scales, a splendid dyad of cream and coral, glimmered under the sun’s golden fingers as he hoisted himself on the deck. By then the deckhands had retreated to their respective chores, weapons sheathed and horrified miens left nonchalant as they had been before.
“Vis’eera,” Tazingo beamed, “What’s da verdict?”
Vis’eera dawdled; he washed his hands over his snout to purge arrant beads of seawater. Everything about him was magnificent, from the length of his spines to his whiskers, each bejeweled in niello and silver. “The naga surrounding Alcaz have agreed to disperse,” Vis’eera reported, “On the agreement that no harm is to befall their fetishes or banners. They have made it quite apparent that the islet is … theirs … and will act accordingly in response to whatever harm befalls their accouterments.”
When the Messiah first governed Zul’Farrak she allowed the naga exile Vis’eera citizenship. Though the Sandfury bridled over his extrication, she welcomed him with open arms and even entreated him with a seat on her council aside Tazingo, Zul’Farrak’s champion and most notable war veteran during the city’s first siege. As the year transgressed Vis’seera’s affinity for wisdom and obsequious mien earned the people’s trust. He became the Messiah’s adviser and a very close friend.
While Vis’eera and Tazingo commiserated, the crew began assembling the tools for disembarking. Two trolls hurried up from below deck with a gangplank while others began adjusting the sails accordingly. Like clockwork, the winds caught the sails and inflated them with an unseen fervor.
“Strange,” Vis’eera began, “I have not seen the waters so still since the Destroyer was felled. It is a queer sight, one I am certainly not opposed to.”
“It’s strange, I agree,” Tazingo quipped, noting the abandoned island glide into view, “You’ll forgive me for interruptin’ your moment of nostalgia … but where is ‘da Messiah?”
Vis’eera laughed.
“Why, she’s already there.”
AVERAGE POST
His brother's one folly was to allow Saxa to draw his attention. Sedullus, being the behemoth of an opportunist he was, roped his massive arms around Agron's waist and drew him over his head as if he were a sack of flour. In fact, to Sedullus, he felt like one - rough hewn flesh tortured by battles and elements similar to burlap and equally as weightless and like the flour itself. "Our brothers, they do not lie!" he cried, "You are soft!" He flexed his biceps and brought Agron barreling into the earth in a cloud of stirred dust and sand. The Germans gasped - some even jeering - while tightening their circle around the duel.
Saxa's incoherent profanity drowned the others' hollers, inspiring Sedullus to bring an end to their good-natured one-on-one. His hand, equipped with bone crushingly thick fingers, furled into a fist so tight that his knuckles whitened. Just before he connected it with Agron's jaw, Saxa intervened. Although a sinewy, scantily clad wildcat, Saxa proved efficient in her persuasive skills, however virulent they may have been. "Stop!" she screamed, though her voice was absent any concern towards Agron's well being, "The winner is evident! I wish for new contest!"
She gestured to Ammon who was perched upon the temple's highest stair noshing on a handful of dry blackberries. She and Nasir had quietly conversed among themselves before Saxa's boast sent the Germans roiling. To Ammon, her challenge reminded her of foreign Roman language when her mind first came to process it. "A contest?" Donar suddenly inveighed. He was sharing conversation with Horrus, but felt heavily intrigued with Saxa's challenge. "She has challenged you, Ammon," he chuckled, wriggling his nose at the wall of cinnamon ensnaring her, "It would be unwise to decline."
"And unwise to challenge her," Nasir harped in response. Ammon didn't seem as enthused.
"Hesitation? You were not as hesitant this morning! Fight me, sandskin! Show me that you are suitable as our sister, not simply Agron's whore!" A series of murmurs and mocking chortles broke out among the Germans. Ammon looked to Donar expecting translation, grinning from ear to ear. "She called you a whore," he conveyed, flatly.
Though his translation was years from precise, Ammon assumed position regardless. Words were just that - words. Sounds mean to convey gestures and emotions, they never broke skin or cleaved bone. Seldom had she been moved to react to a taunt, but the Germans' raucous nature awoke a sleeping lion within her. As she began unfastening her shawls, the cheers rippled through the circle, even Donar and Mira added to the cacophony. When Ammon wore nothing less then her bandeau and her trousers, Saxa knew that her challenge was accepted.
Ammon welcomed the sensation of sand on her bare feet again, however cool it may have been. It was a sight to behold, two wild women with untamed manes hued flax and coal, one sinewy and emaciated in stature, the other shapely and womanly at every curve. For a breath, as Saxa turned to ignite the crowd, Ammon trained her gaze upon Agron and smiled.
AVERAGE POST
From her haunt Meraad observed the battle through her trained eyes. She knew of ogres and their makings - they were the children of tainted kossith that were abducted and made broodmothers by the darkspawn. Though she was human, she lamented; the female kossith had her sympathy: she was about to slaughter their children.
One of the beasts lumbered forward with several arrows distended from its chest cavity, clutching an avaraad as if he were a weightless sack of flour. The orge sniffed him then howled, casting spittle and saliva all over the soldier. The stench from their exhale cloyed the entire grotto. It was a foul, intrusive odor reminiscent of fetid, rotting flesh, sulfur and shit. It was the qunari's last whiff before the orge crushed him with one fell clutch of a fist. Meraad could hear his sternum and ribs crack like a heel to a twig. The ogre threw him; his corpse hit the stone with a sickening thud and rolled off of an escarpment into the unexplored depths below. "Meraad, we are not equipped to fell these beasts," put in one of the soldiers, "We should retreat." Meraad, suddenly enraged, jabbed the butt of her staff into his abdomen which subsequentially whisked him off his feat and onto the ground. Despite the turmoil around her, Meraad was given an objective.
"We were sent to meet a demand of the Qun," she said flatly, "The demand will be met." It was customary for the qunari to slay their own then and there, however, Meraad did not want to further jeopardize their mission. Just as she was finished admonishment, the ogre called out in agony. A human appeared and felled the beast - rather than be relieved, Meraad was infuriated. The qunari in her party were beaten and bloody with numbers falling to less than Meraad could count on both hands, but she would not be encumbered by a concourse of arrant mercenaries.
As the remaining qunari composed themselves, Meraad rifled through the dead for signs of life. One soldier with a sword through his shoulder was salvagable, but the others were simply corpses now. She knelt into the dust and wrapped her fingers around the blade. "Breathe," she said calmly. The qunari did as he was bid; though he resembled stone, unwavering and nonchalant, she could sense his fear when she clutched the bastard sword's hilt. In one clean pull the weapon was on the ground and her hands, now soiled in the soldier's blood, were clamped over the wound. He gnashed his teeth quietly behind his lips as a mean to cope with the agony while Meraad reached the satchel strapped on her backside and produced a material for a poultice.
"You are unwelcome here," snarled a soldier to the human. "Leave."
Meanwhile, Meraad prepared her cataplasm with a small mortar. She was not a healer nor had she ever had any intention to be and Ariqun's priests were unavailable to venture into the Deep Road's with them. "Sit up." Again, the qunari complied. She poured a mouthful of water from her waterskin into the mortar and ground the flax until it was porous enough to be applied like an ointment. Though he winced during application, the qunari was altogether tractable. As she began to unroll a spool of linen, she commanded the soldier in Qunlat. He understood her interdiction and retreated to the battlefield where he collected useful items from the dead.
"Take your party and find another path to travel," she called out to the ogre-slayer, "We have claimed this." The earth beneath her began to rumble. It was curt, nothing unusual for the Deep Roads, so she neglected the notion. Another short rumble followed. Again, she paid it no mind. When her patient was strong enough to stand, Meraad did so also. She grasped her staff and planted it firmly in the earth; arrant sparks danced from it, warning those nearby that it was a powerful conductor for destructive magic spells. "I will not give you a second warning. Panahedan."