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Post by Tarq on Jul 22, 2006 7:54:45 GMT -5
It had seemed so damned simple when they thought of it. A little absurd, yes, and dependent on theatrics and mistaken identity, certainly. But outrageous plans had served Tarquin well before, as long as he kept them simple. Even pushing forty, Shaila could pass for her own daughter well enough, and he had no doubts about his own ability to get the damned fool girl out. That at least had worked - fool or no, she was as quick as a snake, and didn't question him when he told her in no uncertain terms to run. "I'll catch up after I take this pair," he'd said; "Get outta here an' don't look back."
But then the two black-clad guards had become six, and six had become eight, and all of a sudden he was in over his head. What am I, third-year dogmeat again? he thought wearily as they closed in around him. This is gonna be damned tricky. "Impossible" was a word he'd long ago discarded as an excuse for people not to live their lives.
Tarquin took the fight to the anonymous guardsmen, knives flashing, leading his attack with a packet of flash powder to cover him. He fought more by feel than sight these days; the pair of long knives were old friends and he knew without looking that there were fourteen inches between the clenched knuckles of his right hand and the slightly curved tip of Treason. Two of them were down or dying before the smoke cleared, and Tarquin said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever had urged him to wear the armor Rohan the Assassin had made for him - as suited for murder as subterfuge.
The space was wide open, but even still, only so many could come at Tarquin at a time, and his wild rush had caught them off balance. His left hand put Perfidy into a black-clad woman's throat, dropping her immediately, and then he was beyond them, already snapping out his wrist to drop a second concealing cloud of flash powder. His greatest worry was that Jaina would get nervous and come back, and he'd have to distract them again instead of making a clean getaway.
But the five surprised him; they split and went around, keeping their distance, advancing steadily until the smoke cleared. Expectin' it, looks like. That was odd. He kept his blades up, dancing back and forth and trying to drive one back at a time, ever advancing towards the back door he'd rigged to open but once. Every time one of Tarquin's foes stepped back from his knives, another got a little closer. Irritated, he spun and tore a dripping gash in one of the mercenaries' arms. "Teach you...keep your distance," he panted, and was glad to see chagrin in the man's eyes. On the gray side of forty or not, he was still a man to fear.
But they kept coming, cutting in at him, checking his movements, and slowly herding him away from the door. Tarquin felt a brief upsurge of panic, forced it down, and did a quick tuck and roll that knocked himself and one of the men in black down together, wagering that they wanted him alive. He was right, and when he disentangled himself from the stunned man, he had time to drop the simple but garishly efffecitve flash bomb in his hand.
They staggered, of course, and he wasted no time bolting forwards. Perfidy flew from its sheath, thrummed in his hand, and went in and out of the gap between a woman's third and fourth ribs, penetrating the dark leather with ease. His feet did their work, and for a few seconds, he was free, leaving these hirelings - whoever they were - behind.
Then something slammed into his leg like the bite of a crocolisk, all hard punching sharpness and barbed pain. The tingling came next as his leg started going numb. The Crippler, that simple but effective green bile that Parwyn Osborne had taught him to make. Had taught them all. He glanced back and saw one of the first men he had stabbed, blood leading from a wound between collarbone and shoulderblade, deliberately reloading a small, polished crossbow with oily-headed darts.
Tarquin surprised himself then, and spun about to confront the four who still stood, using them as cover from their crossbow-wielding friend. He moved on the man with the gashed arm first, widening the gash yet further until his hand was hanging by tendons, and as that man shrieked, the rogue lurched forwards and parried a looping swing with a monstrous heavy-looking mace. He was feelin the tingling all over now, except for his wounded leg, which felt nothing at all; it was very hard to move. This is gonna be a problem, he observed.
Then another bolt hit him, in the shoulder this time. The effect was much swifter. Twitches overcame his right arm, dropping curve-tipped Treason and streamlined Perfidy to the dusty ground. As they subsided, he snatched another knife from his belt - a very old friend, this one, from the red lizard-ridden depths of the now-empty Molten Core. He'd still worn the colors of the Diaconescu House and Gilneas when he'd found this knife. It slipped into the closest man's eyesocket quickly and easily, and blood gouted to almost douse the black unlight it exuded.
The twitches were back now, but he couldn't feel them. Dimly, he sensed another crossbow bolt punching into his knee, which should hurt a great deal, but mainly he just felt that tingling. It came up on him by surprise, just like getting old. Just like getting foolish. Had it really been a minute ago that he had been thinking of escape? How stupid, how damned stupid, because he recognized those black uniforms now, those leathers of the First Finger that he had once aspired to wear. No wonder they knew his tricks.
Tarquin tried to raise the red-hafted knife again, but his arm palsied and that knife too fell to join Treason and Perfidy in the dirt. He hoped Jaina had made it out. He hoped someone came for him soon, because this had all the hallmarks of something very bad indeed.
((more to come, must sleep))
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Alishe
Guild Member
I have absolutely nothing witty to say.
Posts: 314
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Post by Alishe on Jul 23, 2006 4:56:37 GMT -5
((Beautiful. Absofuckinglutely beautiful.
Every time I read writing from you guys, I feel the need to kick more into Alishe's journal. You seriously inspire me. Her journal is honestly the only real outlet I've given myself for her stories. Maybe in time, that'll change and I can contribute more to the stories here too. *smiles* I'd love that.))
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Post by Tarq on Jul 25, 2006 21:38:21 GMT -5
Tarquin was immediately aware of three things when he woke up. The first and most immediately compelling was that his leg hurt like an absolute bastard, shrieking lines of pain running up and down from knee to hip. The second was that his right arm was completely numb, hanging limp and useless at his side. The third was that he was a captive, and he thought he knew of whom.
He was in a small, bare room, lying on the slightly damp floor. There were two people in the room with him, a man and a woman, both wearing plain and well-used black leather armor. He recognized them as two of the group that had brought him down; a bandage on the man's shoulder near his collarbone marked him better than any of his nondescript features. They were talking in low tones, but when the woman glanced and saw Tarquin looking at them, she stopped and nudged the man, who reached down to his hip with his good arm - moving a little awkwardly, Tarquin noted - and came up with that small crossbow he'd been using earlier. He watched Tarquin like a hawk, saying nothing, while the woman left the room.
The rogue eased himself to a sitting position, using his left arm, and took some satisfaction in watching the guard's finger slip towards the trigger of his crossbow. "Easy, lad, you're guardin' a cripple 'ere." As the years went by, Tarquin's northern brogue had rather faded, except when he really wanted to call on it. "Be a sad thing if Parwyn Osborne's trainin' boys as can't hold a crossbow on a one-armed man without gettin' nervy." The man stayed silent, but Tarquin saw him look away when he heard Osborne's name.
Then the woman came back into the room, with another leather-clad soldier, followed by a short, aging man; two more agents bearing crossbows brought up the rear. Tarquin barely registered the guards, focusing his attention on the man in the middle. His orange hair had gone the color of rusting iron and retreated halfway back his scalp, and he walked with a cane and a pronounced limp; rumor had it that on some days his gout was so bad he could barely walk. Even his eyes had gotten old, their deceptively mild sea-green gaze filmy and bleary. But Tarquin knew that, at least for the moment, this small half-crippled sextagenarian - who took a personal trip to the Stormwind Orphanage every Winter's Veil to hand out small gifts, and had been declared the hero of a national holiday by King Anduin Wrynn himself - was the most dangerous man in the world.
Mathias Shaw stopped and looked and Tarquin, resting on his cane. Tarquin got to his feet as best he could, biting his tongue at the pain tearing through his leg, and looked back. "Been a long time, Shaw. Three years now?"
"Three," agreed Shaw, his voice quiet but surprisingly strong, "since Lord Endrigan's funeral. And eighteen since we last had a real conversation. I believe you threw your badge on my desk and told me to stick it up my ass along with all the damned secrets."
"I was a young man o' surprising eloquence," said Tarquin with a one-shouldered shrug, "An' not much sense." Shaw nodded and went on looking at him, his bleary eyes scanning Tarquin's face, looking for something. "Well, since it's been eighteen years," the younger man went on, "I s'pose you been dyin' for my company and all. But you coulda just sent a short note."
Shaw didn't respond for some time. Then he smiled almost sadly and said "Parwyn Osborne is dead." Tarquin blinked, shocked and caught off-guard. He had seen the Night Man not a month ago, in for a drink with his cronies at the original Pig And Whistle; while Osborne had certainly looked old - he must be seventy by now - there had seemed plenty of life left in him. After all, the man they had called Giorgi had been past eighty when he passed, and he had lived a far harder life than most.
"It was the rains two weeks ago," Shaw continued, with that same faintly regretful tone. "He took a chill riding to Goldshire, and by the time he returned, he had grown feverish. The holy men did what they could, but it was too late. Parwyn was always more careless than he let on." He gave Tarquin another small smile; and he trained you, he didn't have to say. "On his deathbed he called for me. He said one of his younger student had heard what I was planning in Ratchet, and urged me to call it off. With the fluid of his belly choking his lungs, he asked me to spare you. Told me it had been far too long, that you were no longer a danger."
Tarquin felt something twist within him. For five years after he "graduated," he and Osborne had been close; after all, it was the Night Man who had overseen the end of his journey into manhood, and trained him in all the skills and tricks he needed to survive life in the Fingers. Their bitter argument after the double betrayal of Loche Shadowstalker had broken something, though, and his defection to the Greymane Exiles had severed it entirely. But on his deathbed, the Night Man had pleaded for Tarquin's life, pleaded to save him from..."Then you set this up," said Tarquin bluntly. "Jaina was a trap, from the start."
"So she was," said Shaw, not bothering to hide the pleasure in his voice. "These idiot goblins could never have caught her on their own - after all, she's Shaila Viridiant's daughter. No, if anything explains Steamwheedle's dominance, it's their ability to get other people to do jobs they're not suited at." He chuckled, a gentle, hoarse, slightly quavery old man's laugh. "And capturing her wasn't much of a stretch for me."
Tarquin almost contradicted him, until he remembered that Shaila had taken her daughter's place. "Where's she now?" he asked. trying not to let his worry show. Surely Shaw wouldn't...
"In the same place she was when you almost broke her out, I imagine," said Shaw with a shrug. "Unless they've hanged her already. The goblins were very put out with her, you know - so much so that they were willing to do something that would doubtless lose them a great deal of custom."
An electric shock ran through Tarquin's body, and his wounded leg almost buckled. Shaila, dead? He couldn't be serious. The young woman - Tarquin would always think of her as young, even though she was now closer to forty than thirty - had lived through far worse than a township of goblins and a handful of leather-clad thugs. "You're not serious, Shaw. You wouldn't have a hand in that. 'Tis murder, plain and simple, and does nothing to serve Stormwind."
He noticed from the corner of his eye that one of the men looked visibly uncomfortable. The others could have been carved from stone. But Shaw only simled again. "Oh, but it does - it secures our peace with the powerful Steamwheedle Cartel. It's nothing that your average man in the street could be expected to understand, but it had to be done. It's ever been my lot to do the dirty work that must be done - like eliminating a notorious and malicious criminal, who's escaped Lady Justice for far too long from right under her very nose." He touched his own nose for emphasis, his other hand leaning heavier on his cane.
A feeling of unreality crept up on Tarquin, and he opened his mouth again, trying to talk some sense into not just Mathias Shaw, but the whole world. "Mathias, be reasonable. It's been nearly twenty damn years, and I've not breathed a word to a soul. Hell, I've fought for Stormwind; you saw me at Darrowshire when we finally broke the Crusade, and I was one of the last men out of Naxxramas before it fell. They made me a marshal during the siege of New Stromgarde! There's boys in your Service right now who look up to me as a hero. Probably some o' these boys here. What possible reason could I have to tell what I know?"
Before he could go on, and force Shaw to admit that it was a little foolish, and he had always hoped to bury the hatchet, and it was really a devious ploy to gain the trust of the goblins, the old man interrupted him with another laugh. This was not the kindly, wavering, tired-old-soldier laugh of a minute ago; this was a sharp, snarling cackle, interrupted with wheezes and coughs until Shaw nearly doubled over. One of the First Fingers stepped forward to support him, but Shaw shoved him away and leaned on his cane until he recovered. Then he looked up, and the piercing weight of his eyes fell on Tarquin. Behind the gray film and mild green irises was hate, a real blood-red hate, nursed for nearly twenty years until it had a life of its own.
"You think this is about Vagos?" said Shaw, making the man's words into something obscene. "You idiot, nobody gives a shit about that weasel anymore! You could shout what he told you from the rooftops - the Mason's Guild, the Wenderwyl refugees, Varian Wrynn's first wife, everything - and nobody would blink! That's old news, boy, and so am I. They just want to hail me as a hero and let me do my work until I find a quiet corner to die in, and not think about what that work is. I could take one of those mewling orphans I feed every year and fuck her in the middle of Canal Road until she bled, and they'd sigh about the stresses of my job!" He laughed again, spittle flying from his lips, his voice getting louder as his milky eyes got brighter and brighter. "No, this isn't about what you know. This is about you, Tarquin ap Danwyrith. One of the two best agents I invested in between the Third and Fourth wars, and just like the other, you turned on me. Bit the hand that fed you, that made you. I won't be scorned, you little shit! Not by you! Not by anyone!"
He went silent but for his unhealthy wheezing, leaning on his cane to get his breath. Tarquin's stomach turned over inside him, while his leg sent bright screaming messages of pain to his brain. This was it, then, he realized; done in by an old man's spite. Simple and final. He tried one last time. "I turned him in, Mathias. Loche Shadowstalker. He was my friend and I gave him to you."
Shaw's head came back up slowly, and the red madness was gone from his eyes. He looked quietly regretful again. "So you did. And then not too many years later, you joined him. It was one of the greatest disappointments of my life. I had such hopes for you." He turned walked over to the side, leaving Tarquin facing the five guards. All of them had loaded crossbows. None of them would meet his eyes, or Shaw's, or each other's. He looked at them and wondered if this was what the face of death looked like; four anonymous young men and one anonymous young woman, with dwarf-made crossbows, in undecorated black leather armor.
Ceil, he thought suddenly, and the tears came then. He had not been afraid of death for many years - but losing Ceil, nothing could terrify him more. The others too - the old Riders as well as the new; Chryste's brave son Jacob, Theolaire Endrigan who had grown from a nearly pathetic youth to a remarkable man, and Shaila's daughter who called him Uncle Tarq, worshipped him absolutely, and had now gotten him killed - but none as much as Ceil, the beautiful, mercurial, loving presence that had filled his days and nights for nearly two decades now. He couldn't imagine life without her. He couldn't imagine death without her. He had done his best not to think about growing old and watching her stay young and untouched by the years. Now, it seemed, he'd never have to worry about it. He'd never see her again. Ah, Ceil, my darling, my dream, my wife, I'll wait for you, 'til the sun and stars go dark.
He saw Mathias Shaw smile and closed his eyes until the tears rolled back. But then he opened them and smiled. He wouldn't die angry. "Then there's nothing more to say, is there?" he asked.
"Afraid not," said the old man, that infuriatingly kind smile still stamped on his sallow face. "You were shot resisting arrest. A terribly tragedy."
"Well, if that's the case, then." Tarquin said, greeting it with his own smile, "I got a few things to say myself."
"I didn't offer you any last words," said Shaw, chuckling; "Those are for prisoners. This is a tragic accident, don't you remember?"
"Aye, just like your birth, you shit-spawned son of a mongrel dog and a two-copper kobold whore," he spat, feeling something joyous rise behind his smile as Shaw's pleasant grin twitched. "But these ain't for you, these are for these five." He turned to the impassive assassins. "You tell my wife - you tell her I never stopped loving her, even when you murdered me. And you tell everyone you see that this man ordered the death of Varian Wrynn's first wife when she proved barren, unknown to the king 'imself." He was pleased to see a reaction to that, from a couple of the agents as well as Shaw, whose smile was curdling. "Tell them-"
"Shut him up," snapped Shaw. Tarquin talked right over him.
"-that when the last son o' the Wenderwyls of Andorhal fled here after the plague, taking two hundred of his peasants and soldiers all the way from Lordaeron over orc-infested land, this man had them all poisoned to quell the fears of the nobles." This time, all the agents reacted, looking directly at him, even as a couple began to cock their crossbows.
"I said shut him up!" This time, Shaw's voice was louder than Tarquin's; spit spattered on the ground. The assassins were moving, but slowly and distractedly. The man with the wounded shoulder, who had flinched earlier, was struggling to cock his bow and his eyes kept flickering to Shaw with every accusation. Tarquin wondered if he might be able to talk his way out of this. His voice rose, the northern brogue growing.
"Tell them that he engineered the rebellion o' the Masons an' the creation o' the Defias, ta give Stormwind an enemy ta fight! As if they needed more! Tell 'em that he had woman killed, an' children, an' men even older an' lamer'n he! Tell 'em the truth 'bout this fuckin' monster!"
The wounded man's finger clenched the trigger of his crossbow convulsively, and his bolt flew off and stuck into the ceiling. "For fuck's sake, you useless poxy little bastards, kill him now and kill him dead!" Shaw shrieked, and then doubled over coughing. Whether it was Shaw's rage, years of training to obedience, or the fired bolt that did it, something galvanized the three men and one women with loaded crossbows - they hastily finished cocking their bows and took aim, and Tarquin saw the end of the road coming, sooner and shorter than he'd ever thought.
He raised his good arm and pointed at them, green eyes blazing; if Ceil had been there, she would have never thought him handsomer. "Shoot straight, you bastards!" he cried over Mathias Shaw's cataclysmic coughing fit. "Don't make me die ugly!"
Tarquin ap Danwyrith, of Stratholme and Stormwind City, filled his mind with his wife's face as the triggers slammed and the bolts flew; it was impossible to miss at that range. It would all be worth it, he thought at the last, if I could but say goodbye. The bolts hit him chest and stomach, groin and throat, tearing through leather, skin, flesh and organs, sending him flying backwards with his mouth open and his bright eyes going dull, to lie in a puddle of blood on the floor.
I went to see him just today, Oh but I didn't see no tears All dressed up to go away First time I'd seen him smile in years
He stopped loving her today They placed a wreath upon his door And soon they'll carry him away He stopped loving her today -George Jones
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Post by Bricu on Jul 26, 2006 9:12:54 GMT -5
He raised his good arm and pointed at them, green eyes blazing; if Ceil had been there, she would have never thought him handsomer. "Shoot straight, you bastards!" he cried over Mathias Shaw's cataclysmic coughing fit. "Don't make me die ugly!" I have yet to read a finer death scene.
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shaila
Honorary Guildie
Rogue. Priest. Mommy.
Posts: 325
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Post by shaila on Jul 26, 2006 14:02:50 GMT -5
She had been crying for almost three hours, now. She would probably be crying for several hours more, having held back her feelings on the matter for so long after the deaths of their mother and Tarquin. Between each sob, Tobias Viridiant could feel and hear the shuddering intakes of breath as he held his little sister close to him. She'd always seemed small to him. But now was the first time that she seemed so incredibly vulnerable. Tobias had cried all he could for their mother the days following getting the news of her death. Now he was crying for sister. The news had arrived in the mess hall of the Theramore Barracks. A marine that he was friends with came into the room with a pale face, and at first Tobias thought he'd be hearing a story about some strange sea creature when his friend had headed straight for him and taken a seat, not daring to look at Tobias. After some urging, the friend managed to find enough words to communicate to the marksman what he had seen. "We'd been out on patrol...y'know, s-same one we always go on. 'Round the Ratchet...area." He swallowed, glancing at Tobias briefly before returning his eyes to the table. "Well...we went in to the docks. Like usual, I...I looked up where they put up the freshest hangings, y'know? See if we don't have to worry about any of the local pirates anymore. I..." His mouth stayed open at this point, before closing as he swallowed once more. "She was there, Tobias. Your mother was there." Tobias had refused to believe him. His mother had aided the Steamwheedle Cartel so much. He couldn't think of any reason for them to hang her as if she were some lowly Southsea trash. His friend insisted so vehemently that Tobias had decided to humor him and go down to Ratchet to check it out. As he had expected, her body wasn't there. He returned to Theramore satisfied that his friend had mistaken someone else for her, and wrote a letter home to his mom to check up on her. The letter back hit him like an ogre taking a swing at his gut with an adamantium plated fist. Dear Tobias,
I am hard pressed to think of any task set before me previously that is harder to carry out than writing this letter. I'm not sure quite how to lead into this...so I suppose it's best I just get out with it. Your mother, the woman we have all held so dear for so long, recently passed away. Tarquin passed not long after she did.
Your sister, Jaina, had been captured by the Steamwheedle Cartel. Don't worry, from all we've heard she got away safely thanks to Tarquin and your mother. Unfortunately, they did not make it through the rescue attempt. Tarquin was ambushed by some members of SI:7. Your mother...she had taken your sister's place, disguised as her. The goblins were furious with the escape attempt, and wasted no time in hanging her.
I am truly sorry you had to find out like this. I had intended to come and tell you in person, but things have been bad here since Tarquin's death. I could find no one to take care of little Saeyera, and did not want to put your smallest sister through a boat ride across the Great Sea. I was just about to send a letter much like this one when I received yours.
My thoughts are with you and Jaina, Tobias. Please let me know as soon as you see her.
Sincerely and forever, Delion OreweaveThe letter had been dotted with darkened, weak spots of paper, indicating Delion had apparently still been trying to deal with the loss. Included with the letter had been something Tobias would treasure forever, and was thankful for his mother deciding to get all those years ago. It had been one of the pictures Lansiron and Suchevane had drawn of her, a portrait of his mother in Winterspring. www.obsidianmoon.org/paintedaxe/img/auto-resizable-pop-up/ShailaPortrait.jpg((Continuation coming...))
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shaila
Honorary Guildie
Rogue. Priest. Mommy.
Posts: 325
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Post by shaila on Jul 27, 2006 3:06:39 GMT -5
It had been Jaina and her crew that had taken Shaila's body down from the rope. It was her last act of piracy, taking back her mom's body. Wracked with guilt as she was, she would not tolerate the goblins leaving her mom's body out in the open to rot before the eyes of every damned goblin in Ratchet. There would not be enough time to take her back to her other loved ones, not even Tobias down south in Theramore.
So Jaina and her friends had seen to Shaila's burial themselves. They chose the shores of the nearby Durotar as the place to cremate her body. Shaila had mentioned wanting that, with the danger of undeath and necromancy still present in the world. She looked beautiful at least, her face lit in the dark of the night by the light of the fire approaching her. She looked almost golden, like the image of some forgotten goddess from Azeroth's past. Her brown hair swayed gently in the winds of the orclands, and a smile was on her face. Jaina supposed it couldn't have ended any other way for her mother. She spent so much of her life smiling, it was only fitting she spent the rest of eternity doing so.
They all had different reactions to the ceremony.
Tybalus, Shael and Norra's child, was kneeling near the fire and praying to the Light for safe passage to the other side for Shaila. His face had never before been so serious.
Nerida, Shael and Norra's other child, was standing solemnly near the fire, looking past it to the stars above Durotar. The warlock had never really thought of the afterlife, or what those lights in the sky could be. She was thinking of it tonight.
Their tuskarr friend was singing a song often sung by his people at funerals. His soft tone complimented it, as his small eyes shined with happy tears at the thought of Shaila making the journey the song spoke of. The singing would continue until dawn, accompanied by the soft sound of the waves and seagulls.
Jaina's husband, an ogre by the name of Gol'grek, kneeled silently before the fire, battle-axe beside him, looking up at Shaila's closed eyes. He believed she deserved the respect of him kneeling before her, acknowledging her as a warrior with honor and bravery far surpassing his own.
Jaina herself could not stand to look at her mother for as long as the others. She still clung to the stubborn belief that she must remain a rock in front of her crew, so she soon walked a ways away from the ceremony to sit down against a rock. She huddled up in front of it, looking out onto the waters of the ocean. Fen, Chelody and Rhel's daughter, was near Jaina throughout the ceremony. She kept close watch on her best friend through her own tears, and was there to embrace Jaina as she finally broke down into sobs on the shore of Durotar, the sun rising as the tuskarr finished his song.
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