Oran's Crossing

===Oran's Crossing===
((This is a story concerning the adventures of Oran Locke, after the events of Fire at the Orphanage.))
==Some time after Darrowshire, at Corin's Crossing==
The day was warm and clear-skied, a rustling breeze playing through the trees scattered around Corin’s Crossing. Wagon wheels squeaked as they rolled along the cobblestone paths, carrying goods to and from all reaches of eastern Lordaeron. People were bartering in the streets, chatting about the weather, exchanging goods for coin and living their lives without a care or worry. Most were content, although whether they could be described as happy was a point of debate in the mind of one man as he stepped through the bustling masses.
Oran could hear snippets of conversation drifting through the steady tide of noise. They were the pieces of a larger puzzle he was eager to complete. There were many men and women who were discontent, those who were shaken enough by perceived unfairness and invisible prejudice to voice openly their complaints about a life greater than any they deserved. Taxes, security, money, profit, loss, and pride boiled together in a pot to brew an odorous concoction to poison the masses. Oran smirked to himself underneath his hood. They lived in the largest kingdom in the world with opportunity for the taking.
Only the weak could not succeed; Oran himself knew that he was stronger than the peasant toiling in the mines or the farmer who was unhappy working in the fields. He could move with complete freedom and could take what he needed, what he wanted, whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was the truth he had to learn the hard way, but unlike cruel fate, he would be generous in instructing others in the lessons of life and what it meant to possess it. The question in his mind was how to go about it. If it was without a message the act would be meaningless. He knew he had to do something that would draw the attention of even the most resolute, self-centered heart. But what?
Stopping by a fruit stand, Oran thumbed out a few copper pieces and picked up an apple. His new outlook was quite pleasant, when he considered it, because in comparison his job security was healthy and the future looked prosperous. All he needed was a careful plan to execute and he would never encounter difficulty, unlike the squabbling peasantry that milled around him like so many cattle. He bit into his apple and frowned at its bitter flavor, thinking back on the richer days before he knew the truth of existence. Apples were an illusion of sweetness and health because he had been filled with the same delusion as everyone else. Once he thought that survival was something one did out of necessity and that creature comforts were a measure of success in a man’s life. When a man could afford apples they were a sweet reward for the toil he spent out in his field or over a forge. Now, Oran knew better. Apples were just a bitter fruit that grew on trees. They were not a measure of a man’s success; they were food to be eaten. Survival was far from a thing one did to get by; survival was the only thing.
He turned down an alley and discarded the half-chewed core. It was less crowded, but people still walked through the shaded, building-lined corridors. A pair spoke in hushed tones at the far end from where Oran stood while a disheveled, drunk-looking figure slumped against the side of a wooden shack. At first he seemed not to notice his surroundings, his bleary gaze rolling listlessly across the other occupants in the alleyway. As Oran approached the man staggered to his feet, though, and stumbled closely. Oran drew out a dagger from his belt and kept it concealed beneath his traveler’s cloak. Both items had been wise to snatch when he arrived.
“Yuh…you…you,” the old man sputtered around his unkempt and tangled beard, “you’re not from around here, are you?”
“No,” Oran muttered. His fingers tightened over the dagger’s hilt.
“Ohh, I’ve seen it. Seen it! In the basement,” continued the incoherent ramblings. The man’s grubby fingers gripped Oran’s cloak and drew him close. A foul odor somewhere between unwashed stablehand and vomit-caked sack cloth stung his nostrils, almost bringing tears to the murderer’s eyes.
“Old man, I don’t have time for this.” He roughly shoved the beggar aside.
“Oh, no time, no time at all. The Barovs will take it all from you, too.”
Oran stopped. That name sounded important, almost like he could recall a time when it had been relevant to him. He was not a native of these parts so far north and had no idea where his next message should be sent, but serendipity seemed to follow him. With a slow turn and softer voice he approached the ragged man.
“The Barovs, old man?”
“Yes, yes! Alexei and his damned family, beneath the House of Barov!”
Oran scowled. “You aren’t making any sense! Speak slowly, explain yourself.”
“I-I,” the old man began, looking at the stern face beneath the hood. An impatient frown hung in the shadows. Something here was amiss. This man seemed far from the concerned type to inquire about a wretched outcast in the streets of the Crossing.
Suddenly the stranger surged forward and gripped the beggar by the collar of his scruffy tunic with his free hand. The old man wheezed when his back hit the wall of the building behind him and Oran’s face pressed in close to his own. A hot breath seethed out through clenched teeth and the words seemed to fall into place without further hesitation.
“The Barov family lives on the island in the middle of Darrowmere Lake! Caer Darrow is their pet project, they paid enormous amounts of money to have it rebuilt after the Second War! The family is rich, they own lands throughout the kingdom!” the geezer said rapidly, although he was much clearer. “Bu-But strange men have been coming onto the premises at night, doing something in the old tunnels under the grounds!”
Oran tightened his hold and lifted the old man off the ground, pinning him by the chest to the building. His creased face twisted into something resembling pure terror, the color drained out of him. If his heart had been only a bit dodgier he might have fainted then and there, but he was released to slump to the alley once again. Oran turned away and considered the idea forming in the back of his mind while the bum pulled himself back to his feet, coughing and clutching his chest.
Yes, it could work. The Barovs, a rich noble family with interests throughout the kingdom, murdered in their island fortress. Their passing would tear open the minds of the peasantry, especially those living within their claim. It would take a great deal of planning to pull off, but he was certain it could be done. The scuff of a boot reminded Oran of his loose ties and in a quick whirl he pinned the old man again. This time, those worried eyes widened and grew dim. The dagger slid easily into aged flesh and into a weak heart. As a thick stain spread from the wound, Oran withdrew his knife and tucked it away. His victim fell to the alley and toppled to one side in a useless heap. The two hooded figures down the way paid no attention when he simply spun on a heel and strode back out into the street.
==On the Isle of Darrow==
Some days later, Oran pulled himself out of the cool waters of the lake and onto the rocky shore of Caer Darrow. It was late in the evening and he would need to be careful as he approached the house proper, but so far he had seen no guards along this jagged, rock-strewn rise. The island was relatively well-populated, for an island, but the manor of the Barovs was located near the center, and the island was treacherous. A tall cliff face surrounded the stony construction, a natural barrier that would discourage anything but a clandestine assault or a single infiltrator picking his way across the rocky outcroppings towards the keep.
Oran kept to the growing shadows as he moved from foothold to foothold, the many enormous boulders comprising the uneven terrain slowing his progress to a crawl. Care was required; one false step and he would probably be pinned under these very same stones. Night was rapidly approaching. If he could make it closer to the keep he could camp out through the evening and sneak in during the morning, after observing the movements of the servants.
“Quickly, move your lazy backs, you fools!” a harsh order snapped out from somewhere below. Oran ducked close to the rocks, peering out at the nearby dock where a boat was tied. Shady figures in hooded cloaks were moving boxes onto the pier while more commonly-dressed servants were carrying them up the road toward the keep’s front gate. It was already too dark to discern anything interesting about the wooden containers, but the hooded men looked quite similar to the men in the alley, back at Corin’s Crossing, at least in their manner of garb and twitchy, suspicious movements.
They paid no attention to the rocks framing the rear of the keep, obviously not worrying about anyone who might not have been involved in their secretive shipment. Was this some kind of illicit goods trade, perpetrated by the Barovs? Could it be some kind of cover-up, a vicious murder that had taken place before Oran could enact his plan?
The last of the boxes was unloaded onto the dock as a few more servants collected the ones that had been left for them. With arms laden they walked back toward the fortified manor while the robed men spoke in hushed tones.
“This is the last delivery before our plans are put into motion at Andorhal.”
“The master will be pleased. This is enough grain to seed the whole city!”
“One of our most lucrative ventures yet, I’m certain.”
Seed the whole city? Andorhal? Were they planning something at Andorhal? And what did the Barovs have to do with this sinister plot? Oran scowled to himself and stooped low behind the rock. He placed his foot on what he thought was a stable platform only to realize a moment too late that it was unstable. A puny chunk of earth gave out and many small rocks scattered out from under him in an instant, pitching the skulking eavesdropper off-balance. He swore loudly as his shoulder struck the ground, his entire body flipping over and hurdling over a few mercifully-worn outcrops, though he felt bones popping oddly in the brief moments of sharp clarity every time he struck a boulder. If his lack of stealth at this point failed to reveal him, the creative stream of expletives that were bounced out of his chest as he fell certainly did. In a whirl of motion and pain he tumbled down to the dirt near the pier, resting still for a moment before he was able to push himself upright.
“Ugh, bastard,” Oran spat one last time before he remembered the hooded men. When he tried to turn he realized that his ankle was badly twisted. The men were approaching, drawing curved daggers from their belts as one shouted about an interloper and a no-witness policy. He was the first to approach, dark eyes glinting in the dying light under the shade of his hood. Oran disguised reaching for his dagger as simply cradling his broken ribs.
As the leader of the group approached, swift lunge buried the blade of the dagger deep into his leg. He howled out in pain, giving Oran the time he needed to stagger to his feet. The next hooded figure to run up tried to bull-rush his own knife into the intruder’s stomach, but a painful twist away made sure the unwieldy attempt missed its mark. The side of the blade caught Oran’s shirt and ripped it, drawing a tiny bead of red from him, but his fist quickly retaliated against the hooded man’s cheek. His right arm was still feeling strong enough to flatten the assailant, although a deep groan meant he was still conscious.
Oran drove his good knee into the face of their leader and broke his nose. He needed a weapon to handle the third man who had clambered out of the boat and was approaching quickly. The curved dagger fit easily into his fingers, the neatly-engraved blade bearing some nonsensical runes that were highly unimportant at the moment. Oran’s breath came in ragged, wet pants, the taste of blood from a split lip filling his mouth. He spat again as he and the last standing figure squared off, the hooded man watching his injured opponent with eerily familiar, murderous eyes.
Their attacks came at once, both lunging for a stab at the other’s neck or chest. Their hands met wrists, struggling to hold off the death blow that would end the first man to falter. Oran was grunting against the agony searing through his shoulder while the weaker, but healthy, hooded figure was straining to keep the crazed vagabond’s knife out of his jugular. Thinking quickly, he drove a knee into Oran’s side, eliciting a sharp as a rib jumped in a very broken manner. Snarling and hurting, Oran let his grip waver just enough to spread the man’s arms wide, then smacked him in a staggering headbutt. The hood fell away from the bruised face of a peasant man whose tan skin betrayed years of experience in the fields with a plow. Oran left his curiosity behind the blood-caked haze and took advantage of his opponent’s neglectful pause and slammed the dagger between his shoulders.
Gasping for breath, the killer slumped to one knee and looked around. The leader of the group was clutching a bloody face and cursing in pain, the second man was unsuccessfully trying to pull himself to his feet on the side of the rocky cliff from which Oran fell. They would need a quick end, before either one could completely recover his senses.
“I thought I heard something,” a placid voice said from somewhere up the road. Oran rolled his eyes and looked ahead to see what could possibly go wrong next. His gaze fell upon a tall man, elderly and bearded, dressed in ornate robes. A staff was clutched in his right hand and used as a makeshift walking stick, its top decorated with a hollow-eyed skull of some animal.
“Who…”
“I am Kel’Thuzad,” the man interrupted Oran’s wheezing question, “I see you’ve met a few of my followers. Unfortunate, they were good help.” He was impossibly calm about witnessing three of his men beaten by a single broken intruder.
“W…What’s going on here?”
“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information to one not our own, but I can remedy this minor oversight. You have a dark soul, and the weight of the world bears down on you like the crushing sea.” Kel’thuzad took a step closer and gestured grandly. “These men were recruited from the very fields of Lordaeron, dejected and unappreciated workers toiling endlessly in thankless lives. I gave them an opportunity that their so-called king could never grant. They willingly abandoned their meaningless existence to serve a different king, one that can make all your darkest dreams a reality.”
Oran looked up at the wizened creature, his long beard hanging low over his robed front. His fingers were spindly as they gestured over the dead man’s corpse, a strange mist passing from the warm body to the wizard’s hand. Suddenly the hooded figure’s exposed flesh became pale and drawn, his eyes rolling back of their own accord. Looking on in what could only be described as dumbfounded terror, Oran watched as the man shuddered and rose, his skin necrotizing rapidly into a sickly, half-dripping state. Pus boiled from his mouth and eyes and a guttural moan issued out of his ragged throat.
“Join us as we usher in a new era under the watchful eyes of the Lich King and you will be rewarded with power eternal in undeath.”
The zombified man swayed next to Kel’Thuzad, its empty eyes staring into Oran’s stricken expression. This was wrong, somehow, a perversion of what he sought to do in the world. What stood before him was an aberration, a parody of life and death itself. If the contrast between life and death, freedom and servitude could be pulled away so easily, what was the point of it? What validity could his own actions have if the consequence was abandoned?
When no response came, the old mage looked disappointed. “Kill him."
With frightening speed the zombie lunged forward and tackled Oran. It knocked him soundly off his feet and twined his rotten fingers into his shirt. They fell off the bank and into the water surrounding the pier, which quickly dropped off toward the bottom of the lake. Panic overcame him then as the creature spread its jaws and released a gargled snarl, yellowed teeth that were broken and pointy smiling at him wickedly before they tried to take a bite out of his neck. Both his hands shot out, ignorant of the pain in either anymore. He looped his thumbs into the monstrosity’s eye sockets, the feel of cold pus oozing out against his palms sickening him instantaneously. The urge to fight was much more powerful than the urge to vomit but his lungs were starting to burn. Pinned beneath the weight of a determined cannibal, Oran realized they were sinking toward the murky deep somewhere below. He had to act quickly or he might not be able to drag himself back to the surface before his ragged body gave up.
Firmly wedging his good foot against the zombie’s chest, his hands gripped its skull tightly. He pushed with all his might while his fingers clamped down, and to his relief he saw the grayed flesh separate at the neck. Vertebrae popped and the skull came free in his hands. Without its body the beast was helpless. Oran discarded the head and swam to the surface amidst the creeping realization that he likely had more fractures than his undead friend, who was currently drifting aimlessly through the lake’s cold water.
From the shore, Kel’Thuzad and the two living cultists watch a mighty splash farther out. A figure crested and struggled to find breath, then grew still against the surface, a shadow that bobbed across the disturbed waters.
“Should we go after him, Master?” asked one of the cultists, rubbing his sore head.
“No,” replied the necromancer, holding his staff out in front of his eager servant. “Let this one go.”
Category:Alliance Stories