Isiliosis and Gulgrim

If Gulgrim thought that Nagrand had made him sick of Ogres, he was to be introduced to the concept of -really- being sick of Ogres in the Ruins of Isildien. Every few hours another bunch of them came back for another fight, slightly more timidly now than on the first evening. Each time they came up with slightly more refined tactics too – like “Charge 'um from be'ind! Wen dem is not lukin!”
Stupid Ogres. Then again though, stupid Clan Dagger and Totem, Gulgrim thought to himself as he patched up a forearm abrasion he'd picked up. Hindsight had taught the young Orc many things, and the most important lesson learned from this whole situation would likely be 'do not trust the undead in any way, shape or form'. In this instance, thanks to assisting in the escort of a forsaken Apothacary looking for samples of Ogre flesh to play with, Gulgrim and a fair chunk of the clan who had turned up were now infected by the disease. He hadn't actually shown any signs of having it yet, but he knew it was there. He'd gone and asked the spirits about it, even though he'd been repeatedly warned by the Apothacary that it was a terrible idea filled with promise of contagion and death. The water spirit spoke to Gulgrim atop a great waterfall near the Twin Colossals, indicating a powerful foreign substance was now at work inside his body.
In short, it was only a matter of time before he fell as ill as some of the others.
It had been a horrid few days, since they'd been essentially quarantined within Feralas for the good of the Horde. All it was supposed to be was a simple cordon – stand on the edge of the area and not allow anyone in or out. It couldn't get much simpler, actually. Owing to that fact, Gulgrim had only brought his armour and one fresh shirt with him. Unfortunately, the shirt had met with a terrible end as Gulgrim tore it into pieces for face-masks before they crossed the border into the plagued area. He really wished he hadn't bothered now, as he hadn't been able to take his mail armour off even once this trip. Not only did he smell absolutely rancid by this point, but his body was bruised all over and his bones ached something fierce.
Sitting just inside the ruins, Gulgrim watched as two Ogres stood well out of range of his Shamanistic magic, grumbling to each other and occasionally gesturing at the Orc – knowing backup was camped only a few steps away from the visible Orc. What the Ogres didn't know, however, was that the deteriorating condition of all those who lay within was somewhat debilitating. Building a barricade was practically out of the question, so he'd have to fall back on good ol' Shamanism to keep them all safe from the bastard Ogres. Either that or maybe someone else in the clan knew something they didn't about these things.
He reached for his buzz-box and decided to give it a whirl. Turning the machine on for the first time in days, Gulgrim heard some vaguely familiar voices on the channel...
After a brief conversation with the clan, Gulgrim came to the conclusion that while they were doing the best they could, he really wasn't sure if the rest of the group could hold out for much longer. In addition, he was more or less told not to engage the Ogres and to stay inside. They could be over-run before the cure ever arrived.
Then there was that thing about air dropping a cure into Feralas...
This wasn't going to be a good week for Gulgrim.
Category:Story