Darbakh scraped the wet innards of the Thalassian elf he’d just slain from his warhammer onto the spindly being’s own corpse, taking his time as he wordlessly wiped the guts away. The blood elf still twitched like a squashed bug, groaning and staring at the finely carved ceiling as half of its torso laid open.
Forming a semi-circle around him were six surviving Blackrock orcs, all of them kneeling and bowing their heads. Battered and bruised, they were surrounded by an audience of corpses strewn across the gore-stained floors of the grotto - mostly red-draped elves, others orcs from other clans or who’d refused to change sides. Most of the floor-to-ceiling pillars bore empty torch sconces, fading into the darkness as dim light shed near the aftermath of the subterranean battle matched the semi-circle of survivors. One of them coughed, its voice echoing long and deep into the darkness over unseen piles of elf corpses leading back to the entrance.
Without acknowledging the defectors, Darbakh hefted his hammer and walked over to the throne. The aesthetic of this realm bore so many similarities to the World-That-Was…a world he could only see in his dreams, yet which felt so familiar. What he knew from his senses, from what he could detect in front of him, was a grotto long ago carved from the very planet itself by the hands of Dark Iron dwarves and abandoned for reasons unknown, for no records were left behind. Now, it would return to his clan.
With the elven invaders dead by his hand and their orcish collaborators either converted to his cause or executed, he stepped over the cowering Flamewaker slithering near his feet and sat atop the throne. He lacked the resources to hold such a location on his own, and his elders would surely take command of it. For those brief moments, however, with his henchmen bowing and his enemies laying dead, he sat atop that throne and felt like a king.
More writings, photos, and ideas about Warcraft’s version of the Dawi Zharr coming soon…