Spine Insurgency: CoE

==Khairan==
A calm, firm voice calls out over the Horde public channel. The speaker has a strong Thalassian accent.
"Good evening Kalimdor. 
I do not suppose a certain apothecary is here? 
Nathan Black, Perhaps? 
No? 
So, you think to hide behind a wall of silence; behind hostages that you have swindled... 
Well, you may wish to know that there is a point where you tempt fate too far for it to go in your favour, tease the dragon to the point where it bites back. 
You have reached that point. 
When you have attempted to intimidate those who stand against you - to cow their comrades into submission, in the vein hope that they will surrender, you forget one thing. 
One vital thing. 
There are those who cannot be broken, because they have lost hope once before. Those who have nothing more to lose. Those who will drown you in a river of your own blood because there is nothing to hold them back!" 
Around this point, another individual cuts in.
"You gurgled"
The first person seems to ignore this, continuing his speech
"Welcome to your own personal hell, Black; because you have just crossed the final line."
"Oh dear! I am very sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences." 
"Gladly. Once I feed you to the Brood of Al'ar."
"Oh Listen." Orcish, infuriated roars echo loudly. They sound remotely affiliated to Kren, a blademaster recently having gone missing in action while hunting the Spine. These last for a minute.
"But know this, you have fanned the flames that shall consume whatever is left of your corpse."
Two other voices are heard, this time Orcish.
"Bah!" 
"Krenneth!"
The discussion between the elf and the apothecary continues
"Sorry, where you saying anything?" 
"Listen to you? You have nothing to stop me. Kim'belore was a fool. 
You can keep that worthless wench."
After some chatter between the orcs and Black.
"Nathan Black, I do not fear you. I have been dragged through a hell of my own, and there is nothing that you can do to deter me."
There is more chatter between the orcs and Black. The elf seems to be finding the situation amusing.
==Relcha==
Pale light shines through the openings to the side and top of the large abandoned tent where the bound elf named Relcha Kim’belore rests, waking her from a blissful slumber to face the pain of her injuries once more.
This time her pain is coupled by a dull throbbing in her head and a sour taste in her acid-scorched mouth, reminding her that it was indeed a bad choice to drink strong alcoholic beverages while injured like this.
She clumsily shifts herself to sit, grateful that the bonds on her legs aren’t as tight anymore, allowing her some mobility. Her movement is accompanied by a crackle of dried leaves that make up her bed. One of those leaves sticks to the burn-wounds on her face, and she lets out a half-annoyed hiss as she peels it off, along with some dead skin that clings to it. 
She absently wonders if she’ll see a mender in time to make sure she won’t live with a scarred face for life, then shrugs off the thought. No use wondering when it’s not even sure that she’ll survive the week. 
Making sure none of the Forsaken guards are within sight, she pulls out a blood-stained ritual amulet, hidden within the fetid-smelling black clothing she was given. Although at the time she first put them on they it weren’t as fetid. That was before she was dunked in stale cave-water several times. 
She draws from the magic within the amulet briefly to empower her demonic armour spell when it fluctuates, then stashes it away again, closing her eyes and groaning softly.
She’s sure the one called Black knows her secret. Why else would he have agreed to let them beat her up so badly? Without her armour, she would’ve died from the treatment they gave her. 
She grimaces. Soon her armour won’t make a difference, though. Blood-loss, dirt and lack of treatment for her wounds will claim her eventually. She’ll have to speak up about it.
==Sorlain==
The sword's tip was a blur, the Knight narrowly stepping back before his opponent's weapon of choice nicked his neck. A sparring match until first blood it was, though he could hardly tell with the ferocity with which his foe, an aspiring Adept flung himself at the Master. Auburn hair billowing in the wind, the other elf fought with a grin on his lips, pressing his advantage at every turn, even know getting Sorlain flatfooted, his stance faulty, and his left leg twitching.
Two memories flushed into his head as one. The first one was dim, a storm of hammers and lightning, running through his body, breaking armor and bone alike. He had not screamed then, he was among his men, he had strength. Yet when the round went through his thigh, embedding itself in his flesh, he was sure the whole of Tanaris could hear him. He didn't match his supposed rescuers' eyes then, he didn't want them to see him like this. The illusion of power was fragile.
He was on his back foot now, the other elf charging again, shortsword and shield in his palms and the Light flowing into them visibly. For him, this was his chance to prove himself worthy of being a Master. For Sorlain, it was merely a matter of survival, if he failed now, the Order would think him broken. To fall against one so far beneath him was a shameful affair.
Finally an opening presented itself. The Adept dove forward, but pulled his shield too far back for the sake of theatrics. Steel clanged against each other as his blade met Amaran's, Sorlain's sword kept in one hand through the Light alone. Yet even with such an opportunity, he needed more force. The Archon bit into his lip, grit his teeth and brought his right hand to the hilt. A pang of pain followed immediately thereafter.
The pain was unbearable, the Undead indistinct shapes in the distance. He knew Sunshard and the others were there, he had heard them, he had. He only hoped they wouldn't see him, writhing on the ground, barely able to move. He remembered the wretch's grin, the one in red. He looked down at Amaran, twisting the blade further into his shoulder.
"This'll be your scar from me, elf, one just like the rest. But you won't be able to fight properly with that for months, and when they ask, you'll never tell them it was Barristan who did it. If you do..."
His grip wasn't steady, but the Light gave force enough. He swung his own claymore in an arc, forcing the Adept's weapon out of his hand, to the bewilderment of the growing crowd of awestruck initiates, and the approving gaze of his fellow Masters. The youth looked ahead in shock, as Sorlain brought the cold steel to his throat. For however briefly, the sight made him shudder.
They were going to kill him. They had poisoned him and now Black would kill him. All he saw then was the cold steel of the knife as the fire illuminated it, drawing ever closer. He doubted anyone would understand but he heard himself, and his heartbeat clearer than ever before.
"I don't want to die. I don't want to die." He repeated, time and time again, but it didn't stop, and the edge was at his neck. Black didn't strike however, he just left the slightest of punctures on his neck, the thinnest line of blood running down. Though no one else heard it, Sorlain was sure he heard the Professor laughing.
Amaran repeated those same motions, the images so clear in his head, drawing blood and sheathing his sword, his right arm falling limply to his side. The pain subsided, if slowly, and the Archon looked towards his beaten opponent. The anger was clear, yes, but he hid it well.
"Thank you for the bout, Master Amaran. It has been an honor." He spoke clearly, giving one of the false smiles he had become so used to over the years.
He knew he could not judge the Adept for his pride, for he had acted much the same back then. It did hurt him however when he saw no fear in the other elf's eyes, not even when the sword was at his throat. It was what he had based his influence upon, the armor and the blade, his demeanor and his voice, all of them were meant to inspire fear in their would be foe, and it was that look that sustained him through the disdain of his peers, as with fear came respect.
Now all he saw, even in the weakest of the Order, was pity for the scarred prisoner of war, a grievous reminder of what happened when one lets his guard down. He didn't want their pity, it irked him far more than any disgust he had ever seen in their gaze.