Note: Hey, this is my first attempt at a story, though I've been reading submissions to Literotica for a long time now. I figured I'd go with Warcraft because, well, 8 million people playing a game can't be wrong. Hope you enjoy it – give me tips if you feel I need them, because I know I do! I've got more ideas for shorts set in the Warcraft universe, so stay tuned!
*
It was very dark in the Stonetalon Mountains that night; both moons were invisible, and even the stars were mostly hidden by a thick veil of clouds. The animals, unaccustomed to the total darkness, were eerily quiet and still, all a little confused and hesitant.
All but one; unlike most of the other animals, this one was advancing through the woods, slowly but surely. He had been tracking his prey for hours now, and he wasn't going to let darkness and silence stop him. After all, his prey could easily turn around and become the predator if he broke the hunt. Cautiously, he checked the tracks again; they felt fresher. He was getting closer; in fact, he was sure that the beast was over the next ridge.
Garad readied his bow. He pushed his shaggy black hair out of his eyes again, and started walking away, his leather foot-pads making his advance as silent as humanly possible. He was a hunter; not in the sense that he was spiritually in tune with nature, but in the sense that he had a keen understanding of the way the wild world worked, and used this to his benefit.
Otherwise, though, he was an average human in most senses of the word; tanned only by virtue of his outdoor lifestyle, muscular only to the extent that he could pick up, toss around and carry his prey around once he had killed it, cunning only because he needed to outsmart the more intelligent of the beasts that roamed this world.
Just as, now, he was tracking a panther through the wilds. They usually stayed in the basin that was high in the mountains, Stonetalon Peak. This one, however, had come south to hunt goblins and the Horde; when Garad had started tracking him earlier this afternoon, the thing that had caught his interest was a mangled troll body. It was a pity; he would have preferred it to be a goblin that had met the claws of the cat that day, but what was done was done, and now he was hunting the cat, for sport more then anything.
That was what he was telling himself when he cleared the next ridge at a snail's pace, and suddenly spotted the beast. It was dark black, with a bluish hue to it, and paler spots marked its back. Its tail was waving back and forth in that manner that cat's tails so often did when they were pleased. And it was staring, intently, ravenously – not at him, but at something behind a large boulder in the ground. The cat, he realised, was hunting something else. And yet, surely it had had enough with the troll?
The wind – though it was about as windy as a rabbit's breathing – was in his favour, and the animal was distracted by its own hunt enough that he was unnoticed. However, he knew full well that if he began to pull the arrow back, the animal would sense it. He didn't know how, but they always did. He was too close – closer then he had thought he was.
So he waited, frozen, his muscles tensed to keep himself from moving too much. He would wait until the panther was ready to pounce, and catch it in the act. Whatever was being hunted would run away – it probably wasn't anything more interesting than a deer of sorts, not worth hunting down. Predators were always more interesting, or at least more dangerous.
And so he waited. The cat also was still; a low, quiet rumbling was emanating from its throat. He wondered, quietly, why the damned beast didn't just jump.
Then, all of a sudden, it shuffled its back feet around ever so slightly, raising its backside into the air a tiny bit. It was all Garad needed, though, to know that it was going to pounce in a few instants. Slowly, his arrow was fitted to his bow; as the big cat drew itself back to strike, he drew his arrow back to do the same. Then, with a roar, the panther leapt –
And there was a scream. Garad was startled; his arrow went awry. It still struck the panther, but in its hind leg rather then its heart. The force of the bolt sent the animal into a spin, and it cried out in surprise, batting the dart out of its flesh with its front paw. Garad stood there stupidly, his senses taking a good moment to come back to him. By then, though, the beast was running away.
He ran up to the spot where it had stood, and checked the bloodied grass; the wound looked somewhat serious, but it certainly wouldn't prove fatal, even for a wild animal. It would just be an inconvenience for a few days, a week at best. He turned instead to look at what – or who – had screamed.
At first he didn't see anybody. There was a leather pack, a couple of javelins, a burnt-out fire and a set of studded leather armour set up against the rock. What the cat had been hunting became clear only a few moments later, when he noticed that the rock wasn't exactly a rock – part of is was, but the other part appeared to be a sort of cloth, carefully crafted to look like stone.
His prey gone, he decided to take a look at what there was here… perhaps a wounded traveller he could extract money from. A Hordeling? Another wandering human? He had no idea who it could be. Glancing at the armour, he noted that it seemed to be made for a female; a slight grin spread across his face.
That grin faded, though, when he tugged the stony cloth aside, and answered by a green fist flying into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He staggered backwards to catch his breath; his head was facing the ground, and he didn't see his opponent approach and bash him on the shins. The pain was sudden, and he fell to the ground; immediately, he was kicked in the chest, and his opponent leaped on him. She pinned his arms down, and her legs clenched around his chest, as though she were trying to crush him.
Looking up, he finally saw the cat's prey, face-to-face. And he had to admit, he wasn't surprised at being beat by a woman so easily, since this one was an orc.
She stared at him, panting only a little. Her skin looked surprisingly smooth, for an orc's, and her tusks were tiny, barely more then large teeth. Her hair was blacker then the night sky, and her eyes – well, the scowl that was on her face wasn't flattering, but she had blazing sapphire eyes that would have added intensity to any emotion on her face.
Right now, that emotion was frustration, if he read her well. She raised her hand and, without warning, slapped him hard across the face, dragging her nails across his cheek. Then she started jabbering in Orcish – he didn't know a word of it, and he had no idea what she could be saying to him. He had just chased away a beast that was going to eat her, hadn't he?
After a few minutes, she paused. He decided to take his chances.
"Er, I don't speak Orcish," he started. "But could you get off?"
He flapped his hands up and down, miming her getting off him. She caught on quickly, and slapped him again. Then, seemingly distracted, she leaned over and pulled her bag of things closer, rummaging through it. She was wearing a sort of – well, it was like thin leather armour, but the front neatly cupped her breasts, and the back wasn't very substantial. Not a bra, though; it covered her torso below her breasts, and was fastened there with a set of straps on the back. He assumed it served the same purpose, though he didn't give it much thought.
The orc's skin was the green of young, verdant grass, and he could see clearly defined muscles around her the exposed part of her body. This orc was fit – though not built up enough to deprive her of her femininity, which he found a bit odd. Orcs were not known for being feminine.
