in which an embittered Orc maiden ponders the true meaning of Winter's Veil
The hard-packed snow crunched loudly beneath Ghakuu’s feet as she jogged up yet another blinding white slope. When she reached the top of the ridge, her breaths were labored. Large gulps of icy air rasped her throat and came panting out in thick clouds of vapor. She scanned the valley below, her yellow eyes narrowing.
Leeshivazul, her husky yet pea-headed minion (and consort) trudged up the slope behind her, his heavy axe clanging against his plate armor leggings. “As usual, you waste my time, pathetic creature,” he grunted in his gravelly voice.
Ghakuu did not acknowledge Lee’s insolent comment; she had grown accustomed to the demon’s constant show of insubordination. Too bad for him that he was enslaved to her, subject to her will and desire. On any other occasion, she might tease him about this fact, maybe even engage him in an impromptu wrestling match. With her, of course, ending up on top.
Today she was not in the mood.
Today, she was a continent away from where she wanted to be, answering to the Warchief’s command. “Report to Winterspring,” the message had stated, “your services are required.” (Whoever was doing the writing for the new Warchief certainly had a way with words, or lack thereof. Blunt and uninformative seemed to be the new style, along with the unspoken assumption that orders will be followed.) Ghakuu would much rather have stayed in the Blasted Lands, basking in the fel energies which, in the shadow of the Dark Portal, seemed to emanate from every garishly colored rock and crevice. Instead, she was in a world of white: Winterspring Grove. Near the top of the world. Far from everywhere else.