[ It has been two days since she arrived. The situation has been explained more than once. The answers remain unsatisfactory, but Kettara isn’t one to deny the truth of a situation. She’s alive and upright, so she will endure. It’s the orcish way, though Kettara fears
Her hair has been cut off, her armor and jewelry gone just like her weapons. And there is a great, awful void in her soul where the elements used to reside. She’s spent every waking hour meditating, calling out to the spirits to answer her, to send her some sort of guidance.
The silence is awful. She is alone in all ways. It feels like punishment and offers no means for her to atone.
Kettara paces, for lack of a better idea. There is no on there who looks like her. Everyone she’s met has smelled human and looked upon her strangely. Her height and skin mark her irrevocably as different. Never before has she felt so obvious, drawing attention just by existing in this place. The truth is simple. If she is not attacked on sight, she will be challenged.
If she is challenged, she will have to fight. And she is unarmed.
The elements may have abandoned her, or perhaps these humans have cut something essential out of her, some piece that marked her as orcish and now renders her strange and alien to the elements, but Kettara Bloodthirst knows her own measure. She will fight. She cannot be herself if she does not fight.
And if she is not given a weapon, then she will make one.
She can be found scrounging through the safe house, digging through trash and bits of refuse until she finds a suitable piece of metal. Then, with great care, she will begin sharpening the edges.
She will not go down easily. Her ancestors would never forgive the shame of it. ]
What are you looking at?
[ Her voice is low and rough, an undercurrent of anger sparked throughout. She’s wearing human clothes, a hood pulled over her face, but her eyes gleam red in the dark. She stands, makeshift knife held in one hand. A clear warning. ]
Well?
Fight Club
[ Most of the people here are human, or smell like it. Exactly none have been orcish and those that have seen her have reacted strangely, staring at her tusks and the cast of her skin. That cannot be changed and Kettara knows better than to begin a war when she’s been so thoroughly knocked off balance.
This place is strange to her. She has been made strange by being in it. There’s a heaviness in her chest where something has been placed, and she knows instinctively that she has been changed, that things have been done to her that will not be easily undone.
More than anything, she fears she has somehow become un-orcish. That these people, whatever their means, have changed her in some fundamental way.
A troubling thought. She hunkers down on the walkway above the action, watching the violence below. The fight club rages down below. There are other spectators around her, drinking and talking, but not as many. The view is better down below.
But in the dark, she can sit and not be seen. Kettara hates that she must hide. She would rather be down in the thick of it, even if it meant fighting humans in the ring. Especially if it meant fighting humans in the ring. The violence would be stark and sudden. It would feel good, she knows, to hurt one. To fight and know she was honorable for doing it.
She doesn’t move. She sits on the edge and stares. ]
Are you going to fight?
[ Her voice is low and rough. She does not look at the figure she addresses. ]
Kettara Bloodthirst | World of Warcraft | OTA
[ It has been two days since she arrived. The situation has been explained more than once. The answers remain unsatisfactory, but Kettara isn’t one to deny the truth of a situation. She’s alive and upright, so she will endure. It’s the orcish way, though Kettara fears
Her hair has been cut off, her armor and jewelry gone just like her weapons. And there is a great, awful void in her soul where the elements used to reside. She’s spent every waking hour meditating, calling out to the spirits to answer her, to send her some sort of guidance.
The silence is awful. She is alone in all ways. It feels like punishment and offers no means for her to atone.
Kettara paces, for lack of a better idea. There is no on there who looks like her. Everyone she’s met has smelled human and looked upon her strangely. Her height and skin mark her irrevocably as different. Never before has she felt so obvious, drawing attention just by existing in this place. The truth is simple. If she is not attacked on sight, she will be challenged.
If she is challenged, she will have to fight. And she is unarmed.
The elements may have abandoned her, or perhaps these humans have cut something essential out of her, some piece that marked her as orcish and now renders her strange and alien to the elements, but Kettara Bloodthirst knows her own measure. She will fight. She cannot be herself if she does not fight.
And if she is not given a weapon, then she will make one.
She can be found scrounging through the safe house, digging through trash and bits of refuse until she finds a suitable piece of metal. Then, with great care, she will begin sharpening the edges.
She will not go down easily. Her ancestors would never forgive the shame of it. ]
What are you looking at?
[ Her voice is low and rough, an undercurrent of anger sparked throughout. She’s wearing human clothes, a hood pulled over her face, but her eyes gleam red in the dark. She stands, makeshift knife held in one hand. A clear warning. ]
Well?
Fight Club
[ Most of the people here are human, or smell like it. Exactly none have been orcish and those that have seen her have reacted strangely, staring at her tusks and the cast of her skin. That cannot be changed and Kettara knows better than to begin a war when she’s been so thoroughly knocked off balance.
This place is strange to her. She has been made strange by being in it. There’s a heaviness in her chest where something has been placed, and she knows instinctively that she has been changed, that things have been done to her that will not be easily undone.
More than anything, she fears she has somehow become un-orcish. That these people, whatever their means, have changed her in some fundamental way.
A troubling thought. She hunkers down on the walkway above the action, watching the violence below. The fight club rages down below. There are other spectators around her, drinking and talking, but not as many. The view is better down below.
But in the dark, she can sit and not be seen. Kettara hates that she must hide. She would rather be down in the thick of it, even if it meant fighting humans in the ring. Especially if it meant fighting humans in the ring. The violence would be stark and sudden. It would feel good, she knows, to hurt one. To fight and know she was honorable for doing it.
She doesn’t move. She sits on the edge and stares. ]
Are you going to fight?
[ Her voice is low and rough. She does not look at the figure she addresses. ]
You should go down, if you are.
Wildcard
[ Hit me! ]