[There was a hook in his throat. Another buried in his side. His armor was broken, his voice crippled, his muscles dragged taut by the chains yanking him forward.
This is what he remembers.
When Koltira opens his eyes, the afterimage resonates. Sylvanas's face, enraged but smug. Her promise to him. Her assurance that she would thank him later.
But he isn't beneath the Undercity. He's somewhere else, somewhere he doesn't recognize, and he's not wearing any boots.
He sits up, staring, observing the teeth shoes strewn around him. He marks the ostensible exit, too, but he'll get to that in a minute. It's imperative that he recover his armor, and he knows it's here--he spots other, non-toothy footwear among the scattered piles.
He searches with increasing agitation, his ears twitching, his mouth a hard line. Then he sees someone--someone holding his boot.]
Give that to me.
[It's an order, and it doesn't sound friendly.]
it's you or me, buddy (taxxons);
[Koltira's seen worms of this like before. The massive jormungar of Northrend could be cousin to these monstrous insects, and he suspects they're just as amenable to company.
Koltira draws his sword as a few of the creatures skitter around him, up close to him. He doesn't actually smell like much of anything, beyond frost and sometimes scotch--usually. But he's not going to wait for them to attack, and besides--there are others here. Besides besides, he just wants to hurt something.]
Bash'a no falor talah.
[He swings his sword, its runes shimmering blood red, and cuts deeply into one Taxxon's soft underbelly. A terrible smile darkens Koltira's face as the blood flows. As the blood begins to burn.
Shrieking echoes through the halls.]
hey, listen (exploring);
[Koltira wanders the city, feeling an odd, increasing sense of unease. There's something not right about this place. Some kind of magic prickles at him, runs like fingers up and down his spine, and it's not pleasant.
He's hardly seen another soul, either, living or dead. But wait--there's someone, near the twisting spires. Koltira rushes to catch them, calling, his voice probably significantly more hostile than it should be.]
koltira deathweaver | open
[There was a hook in his throat. Another buried in his side. His armor was broken, his voice crippled, his muscles dragged taut by the chains yanking him forward.
This is what he remembers.
When Koltira opens his eyes, the afterimage resonates. Sylvanas's face, enraged but smug. Her promise to him. Her assurance that she would thank him later.
But he isn't beneath the Undercity. He's somewhere else, somewhere he doesn't recognize, and he's not wearing any boots.
He sits up, staring, observing the teeth shoes strewn around him. He marks the ostensible exit, too, but he'll get to that in a minute. It's imperative that he recover his armor, and he knows it's here--he spots other, non-toothy footwear among the scattered piles.
He searches with increasing agitation, his ears twitching, his mouth a hard line. Then he sees someone--someone holding his boot.]
Give that to me.
[It's an order, and it doesn't sound friendly.]
it's you or me, buddy (taxxons);
[Koltira's seen worms of this like before. The massive jormungar of Northrend could be cousin to these monstrous insects, and he suspects they're just as amenable to company.
Koltira draws his sword as a few of the creatures skitter around him, up close to him. He doesn't actually smell like much of anything, beyond frost and sometimes scotch--usually. But he's not going to wait for them to attack, and besides--there are others here. Besides besides, he just wants to hurt something.]
Bash'a no falor talah.
[He swings his sword, its runes shimmering blood red, and cuts deeply into one Taxxon's soft underbelly. A terrible smile darkens Koltira's face as the blood flows. As the blood begins to burn.
Shrieking echoes through the halls.]
hey, listen (exploring);
[Koltira wanders the city, feeling an odd, increasing sense of unease. There's something not right about this place. Some kind of magic prickles at him, runs like fingers up and down his spine, and it's not pleasant.
He's hardly seen another soul, either, living or dead. But wait--there's someone, near the twisting spires. Koltira rushes to catch them, calling, his voice probably significantly more hostile than it should be.]
You there! Stay still.