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Drak’thul smiled cunningly as he walked through the Blackrock camp. Blackhand sat in his tent, but he hadn’t been sent for him. Orgrim was sparring with another orc, beating him to death with his legendary hammer, but his business was not with him either.

Finally he reached a small unassuming tent, in which sat a warlock. A female warlock, to be precise. She sat in meditation, various dark relics and reagents scattered haphazardly about her tent.

“Greetings, Kal’rema,” Drak’thul chuckled in a hoarse whisper. The other warlock’s eyes snapped open in surprise. Drak’thul glanced over her for a moment. Her thick brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, her perfect features, a brilliant mind, and that great magical potential. Yes, she would do nicely.

“Yes, Master Drak’thul?” Kal’rema answered annoyed, not liking the way the older warlock was eying her up and down.

“I bear news… From Gul’dan,” Drak’thul smirked, taking a seat in Kal’rema’s tent.

“Well? Spit it out, old one!” Kal’rema demanded, not enjoying the other’s company at all.

“Calm that tongue, young mistress,” Drak’thul laughed, “Or you may find it cut out one day,” He responded snidely. “I bring news from Gul’dan. You have been chosen for an… experiment of his.”

Kal’rema’s nose wrinkled in a scowl. “I have seen the experiments he has performed before,” She growled back. “No, thank you.”

Drak’thul smirked. “Ah, but you have not heard his offer yet,” He answered slyly. “You no doubt know that it is he who holds power over the Horde, not Blackhand,” He whispered, looking around to make sure no one was listening in on them. “It would be wise to gain his favour. He is very powerful, and he rewards those who show devotion to The Cause.”

Kal’rema sighed. He was right. While the true might of the Horde lay in its armies, the true sight of the Horde was in its warlocks. They guided it. Directed it. Without them, the Horde was just a lifeless tool. It would be wise to gain standing with those truly in command. “What must I do, then?” She asked, still somewhat irritated by the other warlock’s attitude.

Drak’thul laughed. “Come with me,” He answered, leading Kal’rema several hundred meters away, where a large wooden pen held, not beasts, but orcs, although they seemed no better than beasts. Ogres surrounded the pen, standing still as statues as they guarded the massive group.

“You have seen them before, yes?” Drak’thul asked quietly, staring in what seemed to be awe at the bestial orcs.

“The Burning Blade clan…” Kal’rema answered, a look of disgust on her face.

“They somehow gained a greater effect from the demon blood. The power held by one of their number is easily a match for ten normal orcs,” Drak’thul continued. “It is a shame they are too stupid to be warlocks.”

“And how does this involve me?” Kal’rema grunted, still annoyed.

“You haven’t figure it out yet?” Drak’thul answered, a sly grin on his face. “A mixture of your powerful mind and magic combined with their immense demonic power would be unstoppable.”

Kal’rema’s jaw dropped in a horrid mixture of revulsion, shock, and resentment. “You want me to—”

“To produce offspring with one, yes,” Drak’thul nodded. “Many others have been chosen like you to produce a new generation of perfect orcish warlocks.”

Kal’rema scowled at the other warlock but said nothing.

“It would surely prove your dedication to our cause, Kal’rema,” Drak’thul smirked. “And Gul’dan would surely remember it when you require something.”

Kal’rema thought about it. A child would be a terrible distraction from her arts, feeding, cleaning, teaching… But the rewards would be great as well. A place among this new order of warlocks. The favour of the true leader of the Horde. Besides, if she refused the request, there was a good chance Gul’dan would simply have he killed.

“I’ll do it…” She nodded eventually.

“Excellent,” Drak’thul smiled. “You shall begin immediately. We have provided a privacy tent nearby,” He added with a smirk.

Kal’rema frowned begrudgingly as the ogres released a tall, powerfully built orc, one they called Gorn, from the pen. He was bald, and his eye were orange both from natural coloration and the fire that smouldered in his eyes. And she was supposed to mate with him. She snarled hatefully as they were led by an ogre escort to the tent.


“There, now kill it!” Kal’rema demanded the little Orcish girl at her feet who stared at a bound rabbit before her. The girl hesitated and began crying, dropping the knife in her hand.

“Bah! You’re useless Kitanga! I’ll do it!” Kal’rema growled, striking the girl hard across the face and picking up the knife, quickly cutting the helpless rabbit’s throat and smiling as its blood ran down the grooves in the table within her tent in Dun Algaz. She collected the blood in a golden chalice, stolen from the coffers of Stormwind Keep and approached Kitanga. “Now, drink it.”

Kitanga was still bawling loudly in the corner and turned her head away from the cup offered. “Why you ungrateful little b*tch!” Kal’rema snapped, catching Kitanga by the hair and forcing her lips to the cup. “Drink the blood.”

Kitanga finally gulped down the blood, falling to the ground dejectedly as soon as she was finished to cry more.

By the burning hells, Kal’rema hated her. As soon as she had been born she could feel that she had practically no magical potential. Regardless, she had tried to train her in the path of the warlock, and with each step she failed miserably. She had even once caught her staring at the Burning Blade orcs, emulating their fighting. The beating she had received that day.

Kal’rema had several times considered killing her and trying again, but Gul’dan had been cowed by Doomhammer, and had been put under heavy watch. Drak’thul had assured her that they did not have time or opportunity to try again, and had precious few remaining warlocks anyway, and had ordered her to continue training Kitanga, whatever that required. And so here she was, trying to force her daughter to take the power from animal blood. That was just the first step. She could barely take the life from blood. Kal’rema dreaded eventually trying to teach her to harvest the soul, a much more abstract and difficult to grasp concept. She wished she could just kill the little nuisance now and be done with it.

Kitanga was a failure in all aspects of  being a warlock. She was terrified of the tiniest imp or felhound. Fire and shadow refused to bend to her weak will. She couldn’t even stomach the death of another creature. Kal’rema sometimes wondered if she was even a true orc, or if the Shadow Council had merely played some cruel trick on her, disguising a weak human prisoner or another lesser race as an orc and convincing her to mate with it for their amusement. But she had seen Gorn fight in the pens, and he was all orc. But where had Kitanga gotten such weakness? It certainly wasn’t from her. And it couldn’t be from her father. She shook her head and stood the girl up, trying again to teach her again the basic principles behind curses. Kitanga understood the words, but couldn’t muster the will behind the curse that made it work. Kal’rema growled and tried again. She would make this girl into a warlock one way or another.
This is my shaman, Kitanga's story.
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Submitted on
September 24, 2009
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