What a Lemon is Worth

What the orc was doing could hardly be described as slipping through undergrowth, or even sneaking along the path. No; she was striding through the middle of it, in plain sight, plain clothes, and with a plain face. All in all, she was plain; there was nothing descript about her wrinkled face, her eyes dulled with the passing of the world, or her short, spiked, greying hair. Her clothes were not customised, and she carried no distinctive bags. Even her piercings were entirely standard - two through the top of each ear.
If one were to try to describe her to the authorities, they would scoff. This was exactly the way she preferred it.
Kruga had made mind to change her hair before she left Orgrimmar, as well as to put her old clothes away and get newer ones. Her meeting with Ryzarhn had been held with one guise - a guise that she now had to remember not to use for anything else. Her aim here was untraceability. But she would need to be recognised by Ryzarhn when they next met; so she would put those clothes, that hairstyle, and those piercings in next time she saw him.
And now, she was in Stranglethorn. What for? A lemon.
The goblins had been forthcoming with information. She knew how to work goblins. Goblins were easy informants, especially as many of them could appreciate a woman with experience moreso than their taller, less sleazy counterparts. Skin was the key; preferably, skin on the chest. If she were younger, legs would have worked as well, but not now. It was a promise, yes - but Kruga was hardly one to keep promises, and that was what made it tolerable.
Lemons, he had said whilst staring at somewhere most definitely not qualifying as her face, grew to the north-east, along the coast, and mostly up trees, so climbing would be involved. Kruga had bade him farewell before he made any awful innuendos regarding such.
And now she had reached the place where the map, which she had... acquired from a drunken adventurer, said was the most north-easterly part of the pathway. She was still for a few moments, and listened. There were the sounds of muggy heat: an almost constant whine of wings and mandibles on abdomens and other things that didn't bear thinking about; tropical birds, shrieking and whistling and hooting and shouting; far away mammals, giving their display calls, almost overwhelmed by the birds and insects; but, yes, there in the distance, the sounds of sea on shore. What she was listening for.
She looked at the thick undergrowth. Her small dagger - singular, now, as Ryzarhn had the other one, part of his choice about whether to remain a prisoner or not - would make no headway through the vines and leaves. She directed her sight upwards - she knew snakes resided in those trees, but it looked like her best bet.
She braced herself around the trunk of a particularly sturdy looking tree. Her clothes were practical for this purpose, as well - no parts too loose as to catch, and no parts too tight as to restrict her movement. Having grown up in Terokkar meant she had much practice at this particular exercise - knowing which branches would take her weight, which footholds were big enough, which vines were secure. She was fit in her middle-age, too - within moments, she was in the canopy of the tree, and, arm around one branch, hand on another and feet on yet two more, looking out towards the coast.
Her destination was still quite a while away. It would take her hours to get there, and not because of the distance. It was dangerous, even in the treetops. There were snakes and birds, the latter of which she knew from experience, not to mention the myths of such cruel creatures as tikbalangs. Although, as a fully grown adult and one not without her fair share of experience in the world and in combat, Kruga knew that tikbalangs were just a story to scare pups from running too far into the forests, the fear which such stories had instilled in her as a child had stayed with her. Being in the treetops made her uneasy.
There were some things that were bigger than personal trepidations, though. This was more important than what was convenient – although, she had to admit to herself, speed was of the essence. No time to waste, then.
Kruga began making her odd, careful way, through the treetops of Stranglethorn, to the coast where the lemons grew.
Category:Story