[Rhork]

((This covers the journeys and adventures of Rhork Greymantle, a young mage coming into his power under guide of a very irritable tutor))

“Wait.” Rhork takes in the crisp scent of high altitude air and gazes into the infinite blue of the sky, the sheer vastness of the open space enthralls him. The sun shines clear, sharp as any crystal, the rays free from some of the pesky layers of atmosphere. Beside him, a carrion bird idly flaps its wings to stay aloft. The creature stares at him, its beady eyes gazing directly into his. There was no way he could have predicted this. It's what he gets for throwing caution to the wind during his spell-weaving. Out of all of his attempts to teleport successfully to Darnassus, he was sure this time would work. Clearly that is not the case as gravity begins to remind him it is still a thing.

“Godsdamnit!” He roars, twisting his body to face the hard-packed earth of the Barrens now rushing to give him its rocky ‘hello’. Panic begins to set in while adrenaline does him a favor and ignites his every nerve, shocking his system into overdrive. The wind rushes past him, threatening new rends and tears in the already worn fabric of the dull gray clothing reserved for his training. They are already frayed enough. Likely he’ll need to replace them after – Oh right.

Rhork’s first instinct is to tap into his core, that integral part of him which enables the spell craft he’s come to love. Just as he is about to awaken that slumbering beast, he hesitates as fear of its use creeps into his thoughts, slowing his calculations for another teleport. Shifting gears, the terror of the fast approaching ground wins out his attentions. He opts to utilize the reserves set aside each day instead of taking another risk, it's what got him into this mess in the first place. As only precious seconds remain, he reaches the conclusion to his casting: choice of location. Anywhere, damnit, anywhere soft! The spell activates and Rhork disappears, much to the dismay of the hungry buzzard and his friends circling nearby.

In Stormwind, more specifically the Stormwind Lake, a citizen spends his time fishing for the day’s meal. Leaning back in his chair, he sips at a fresh glass of lemonade. Far from that conjured crap those highborn nobles like, this lemonade is the real deal. His wife made him a pitcher to which he happily continues to steadily drain. Without warning, his fishing rod jerks forward. In a sudden flinch to grip it, the precious drink spills to his overalls. If the fish is as big as he thinks it is, the loss is worth it, but just barely.

“Awh Fel yeah! C’mon, that’s it! Make me fight fer it!” He hollers with a grin at the challenge. He braces a foot against a stump and resists the fish’s attempt to dive with a sharp tug. The line catches along a log stuck in between some boulders and a few rocks that extends out a yard or two over the water. It bites into the soaked bark as the might of man and fish combat for dominance. Just a few yards away his wife lifts her skirt to quicken her pace, a hand at the side of her mouth as she yells, “Get it Dean!” Around her torso is a pack filled with a small lunch of bread, cheese, and a few bites of summer sausage.

Dean tosses her a wide, toothy smile and a wink, “Martha, don’t think this’ll be th’ only thing I’ll be catchin’ t’night.” His hint makes her blush and quicken her pace to reach him. A strong pull from the line snaps Dean’s attention back to his battle, “Woah there, I ain’t fergot about you!” Again he braces against the stump, thwarting another attempt to dive while reeling back the pole. With Martha cheering him on, he maneuvers the fish to a shallow pool. Sweat begins to bead as victory is nearly in his grasp. “Got ya!” He cheers, making for the final tug.

Thankfully, the teleport slowed his momentum enough to where the water would merely leave bruises across the majority of his body. Rhork slams into the murky surface directly on top of the fish Dean so nearly caught. His sudden appearance leaves the couple along the shore speechless, mouths slightly agape as they turn their heads toward each other for confirmation of what they just saw. The line is snapped, the fish is free, and Rhork floats face down in the water, slowly drifting along the reeds. With a bubbly groan, he turns to float on his back and gargles a little water as well. He spits it and coughs, the wind finally coming back to him. The two citizens toss insults and curses his way but he pays them no mind as their voices slowly fade once they depart. For a few moments he just floats, content and glad to be alive.

"Going to need the church’s services again…ugh…"

Rhork kicks lightly to shore, dredging his exhausted frame up from the water. The dull ache of slamming side first into the muddy lake begins to reach noticeable levels. A spike of pain here and there, notably from his ribs and arm, nearly doubles him over. With a sigh, he makes for the Cathedral, hoping he’ll at least dry off a little by the time he arrives. On the way, he gives some much-needed thought over his attempts to teleport to the Kaldorei capital. Swallowing his pride, he resolves to actually ask for help from his tutor. Better that than to show up at this Empire guild meeting in a body cast. Wouldn't make for a good first impression at all.

[Rhork]

Sharp clangs of metal against metal echo through the stone corridor coming from a door left ajar at the end of a faintly illuminated hall. The periodic interruptions in the soft light hint at the combat within. The air is kept cool, not too humid or too dry and perfect for long hours of studying or training. Having a kitchen and living quarters nearby helps as well though Rhork prefers to sleep someplace comfortable. This place, while accommodating, is far from it, so he stays with his family's residence, though only to sleep. Also he is not fond of sharing the space with his tutor.

“Again.” A bored voice sighs out, foot tapping lightly against a table leg. Azure robes bound tight at the waist shimmer lightly under an arcane orb’s light. Resting his head atop gloved knuckles a finger bobs back and forth, moving the light source about the room to the great annoyance of his student so dutifully carrying out his lesson in a shallow, circular pit.

With a grunt Rhork swings again at an animate suit of armor, his tutor its puppeteer. He insisted this be his training for a while after an impromptu sparring session with a rather interesting soldier of the Empire he so recently joined. The soldier’s name is Xandric, an incredibly large man half a foot taller than he and about twice as wide. Their spar had irked him, specifically from the fact the enchantments worked so carefully into his sword failed to even penetrate the fiery aura about the imposing man, let alone his monstrously thick armor. The only ‘damage’ he managed to inflict was a light cut along the edge of Xandric’s tabard. Hence his recent want to be taught how to further bolster his weapons, or anything for that matter, with stronger energy. Thankfully his tutor was swayed after no small amount of nagging with a dash of begging. A quick backhand from the armor sends Rhork to trip over the knee-high edge of the pit. He opts to not get up, enjoying for a moment the rug between his exposed back and cold stone.

It is his tutor’s turn to be annoyed, “If you cannot best an animated suit there’s no godsdamned way you’ll overcome anything more.” His crimson eyes bore into Rhork, words further damaging the young mage’s pride. “And what’s this?” He adds a slight raise to his voice, “Who told you to rest boy?” With a quick flick of his hand the rug beneath Rhork whips up, sending him flying toward the armor which readies a thrust with a wide and very deadly greatsword. The blade and puppet are enchanted with the tutor’s magic, Rhork’s goal being to enchant his own weaponry enough to cut through it.

Panicked, Rhork swipes away the blade before colliding with the armor, forgetting to slow his descent. The two tumble about, slamming to the wall of the pit. As the armor slowly reforms, Rhork similarly brings his wits together. His tutor is right. If he can’t get a hit on this dummy then what hope does he have to best Xandric? He pauses. Best? With all that power he commands? I’m lucky to be alive. The thoughts alone are enough to distract him from the slowly rebuilding opponent across from him. What did he go through to get on that level? Why did he call himself a monster? He’s only Human. He pauses again, attention directing inward toward that part of him kept tight under lock and key. Why did he suggest I could be a replacement? The idea the Paladin may have glimpsed what he strives to keep in constant check serves to distract him further from the heavy sword descending in a lethal slash.

“RHORK!” His tutor calls, a thread of energy laced into the words meant to snap his foolish student's attention back to the lesson, not bothering to halt the armor. If Rhork needs to learn a lesson, pain is the best teacher, though he slows the armor’s swing a tiny bit just in case. The yell serves its purpose. Rhork quickly reacts without thinking and parries, sending the upper half of the armor’s blade flying into the wall with a faint azure glow at the cut. He stares wide eyed at the armor and readies another quick strike to counter, still on auto pilot.

His tutor laughs, “Alright, alright, that’s enough,” and halts the armor. “It seems what I told you finally sunk in.” A gloved finger points to Rhork’s sword, now bathed in a dense pale-blue glow. He grips the handle with both hands trying to recall what he had done differently. Nothing immediately comes to mind, though was it really just as simple as his tutor said? All I did was put more into it. Just as he begins to check his, now empty, reserves of energy exhaustion hits him immediately and he stumbles forward, the suit of armor catching him.

“That’s enough for today. Rest up and we will begin again in a hour or two.” His tutor stands, dismissing the magics in the armor and proceeds to the door. Rhork falls back to sit along the edge of the pit. “Seems a gift basket came for you from someone named Skylah. It’s waiting at the front so take it with you when you leave tonight.” Before leaving he turns enough to see Rhork from the corner of his eye. “Your control is superb as always. Stop underestimating yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” Rhork pants, falling back against another rug. He kicks at the armor’s helmet and dozes off, deciding to take a much needed nap.

[Rhork]

“Concentrate. Focus.” Sweat runs freely down Rhok’s face, soaking more his gray tunic reserved for training. He sits cross-legged in the shallow, circular pit of his tutor’s residence, sword held before him with a hand gripping the handle and another hovering above the flat of the blade. He alone occupies the room usually shared with his teacher. Usually while he trains, the man would busy himself with whatever arcane studies were at the top of his agenda. Rhork went into this knowing most of his progress would have to come from his own initiative, though he did appreciate whenever his tutor actually had time to instruct during a lesson rather than just give him a task to complete. Today is one such time where his tutor is otherwise busy.

Magic must be focused, controlled, given purpose. The first of many simple lessons learned several months prior.

Rhork increases the flow of mana into the sword, careful to shape it before sealing it within the blade. Stop underestimating yourself. His tutor’s words echo in his mind, reaffirming what he’s learned over the past few days. His turquoise eyes glow with a faint azure aura as he intensifies the output at his memory’s command. Likewise the aura surrounding the weapon shimmers, blue and purple sparks flicking off the blade’s edge. The spike of energy in the air begins to lift his crimson hair; small static charges connect the metal bangles gathering his hair to his tunic. More intent focus and power is needed to keep the blade from shattering, the magic channeled needs a purpose. A small needle of panic hits the back of his mind. How do I shape it? What do I tell it to do? The feeling grows, the increasing volatility within the blade nurturing it. I can’t. I need to cut off the flow.

STOP UNDERESTIMATING YOURSELF.

The phantom command rings as clear as if his tutor was beside him, threads of his own voice mingling with it as well. Both hands hold the blade upright as Rhork hardens his resolve. If he cannot grasp how to do this then he is not worthy to continue his training. A tap, just a small tap, nothing more. He reaches deep down to the core of his being, daring only to let just a sliver loose. It is a gamble, one Rhork is fully aware of. His tutor had forbid him from using any amount of it, claiming he was not ready to handle what he was born with. The surge rushes through him, energizing his every nerve as he grits his teeth, body tensing to control it. Stronger connections of static play about his form, traveling up his arms to dance off the weapon. Sparks crackle and shoot off his joints as would a cable bearing tears in its rubber casing. In seconds the build up nearly slips from his control as the energies flare to electric life before him. Rhork laughs in triumph; the wild lightning sending tendrils of energy to jump about the shallow pit. His glee quickly fades as brilliant white cracks begin to travel up the blade.

Instantly he tosses the sword away and brings up an arm to form a haphazard shield in the scant few seconds before the weapon explodes. The enchantment along the blade took most of his energy, leaving this defensive maneuver weak. The blade shatters in a dazzling display of arcane lightning, sending shrapnel in every conceivable direction. Unfortunately for Rhork, most of the shards fly toward him, the lingering electrical quality of his aura enough to attract the fragments as any strong magnet would. He huddles into a ball, covering his vitals and head with his limbs and prays his piddly excuse for a shield is enough. The first of the barrage bounces off though the larger shards easily pierce through. Rhork bellows in pain as they cut his limbs and imbed into his flesh.

As the last of the lightning fades out Rhork’s tutor throws open the door, “What in the infinite hells is going on?!” His eyes widen at the sight of his pupil curled into a ball along the knee-high wall of the pit. A quick scan about the room provides the pieces to puzzle together what had happened as he rushes over. “Easy lad, easy, it’s not as bad as you think.” It is, actually, though he does Rhork this small kindness mostly to keep him from panicking further. He manages what he can to remove the largest of the shards, careful to not tear the wounds wider. Rhork whimpers a cry with every removal, trembling while his master gestures a hand toward the remains of his alchemy station. A vial of deep crimson floats over and is quickly uncorked. Some of the contents are poured directly to the most severe wounds after making sure no shrapnel remains. Thankfully the larger punctures did not have smaller fragments to complicate matters. His tutor refrains from having him drink the healing elixir to keep the remaining wounds from closing over the shattered blade still deep within him.

“The worst is done, Rhork, I’ll call for a healer.” Rhork nods, though does not reply. He recognizes the cold tone accompanying his tutor’s words and focuses on containing his magical aura beneath his skin, a trick he learned to help promote the healing of stress, fatigue, injury, and taking one's mind off of something.

Rhork isn’t sure how much time passed, though the sound of multiple footsteps, quiet murmuring and gentle instructions eases his mind. A Priest and her assistant lay him along a table and get to work removing what metal they can. Have they ever heard of morphine?! Rhork’s thoughts scream. He opens his eyes enough to glance to his tutor and his blood begins to run cold, the man’s features are hard, his stare uncaring. His crimson eyes lock onto his as he silently chides Rhork for his mistake. He concludes it must have been by his order the healers only stick to surgery and only use magic to keep the area and wounds clean. He isn't going to be reprimanded after they finish, no, his punishment is already underway.

[Rhork]

((Edited each vignette to better reflect what happens and clarify how I envisioned things.))

[Rhork]

It took about a week with roughly a day’s worth of recovery time spread throughout before Rhork made any significant progress. Hovering in front of him is the result of his efforts. A wide yet cautious grin of optimism spreads along his face as he slowly pulls away his hands. The crystal before him is special in that no matter how much energy is put in, no catastrophic shattering will result from it. Hitting a hard surface, however, is an entirely different matter. A chunk this size is rare enough, leaving Rhork to wonder exactly how his tutor came by it. Also the fact he let him use it to train baffles him further. The young mage nearly flinches out of his seat as an errant arc of lightning trails along the stone floor. Quickly he shoves a hand under it thinking it about to fall, though after a moment the crystal continues to float, the energy within keeping it aloft.

“Hoo man, I swear.” Rhork relaxes in the worn wooden chair. He takes the moment to wipe at his face with a small towel and drink a bit more water. The process is hardly as taxing as it used to be, requiring only a minimal amount of the magical reserves he recharges each day. It seems the trick is not to just blindly shove as much energy into a thing as fast as possible and Rhork laughs at his interpritation of the solution. “It’s like knitting, who knew?”

The crystal’s light blinks and Rhork immediately moves to catch it before it can hit the ground, a small amount of panic sobering him. The spike of adrenaline helps as well. Before anything else, he sets it back into its secure case and locks it in his tutor’s pantry of magical wonders and things best not to be questioned or acknowledged. Turning back, he eyes the training blades on a rack along the far wall and resolves to succeed at enchanting at least one of them with the same amount as earlier.

[Rhork]

Rhork is not quite sure how long he was out, only that his awareness of it was literally almost the blink of an eye. He planned to attend the Empire’s Military meeting after having just joined their ranks, eager to see what tasks they would have for him. The assignment would not matter to him, as long as it helps find his strengths as he is about as green as any new recruit can be.

As he floats in the dark void of whatever plane he now resides, he mulls over his portal calculations again and again. It takes a moment to conjure enough air to comfortably breathe once his lungs signal the absence of any real oxygen. The only things he knows to be present are himself and whatever is touching him as it also appears this environment lacks literally anything else. So far he detects nothing foreign in addition to what he brought with him. Not even a sense of time is given, an observation which leaves Rhork a tad worried. Who knows how fast or slow it flows in here?

After scanning the near infinite darkness in search of something, Rhork sighs. He became a little too complacent and confident in his grasp over teleporting around and thus cut corners. The embarrassment is his alone in this and he silently chides himself over it. This is why he dislikes compliments. They go to his head which he’s now positive his tutor is using against him on purpose. He KNEW the old codger had been too nice lately.

“Oh how quickly you’ve taken to portals!” Rhork recites his tutor’s praise in a mocking tone. “Your grasp over your power has improved, good job, keep it up, not much more for me to teach you!”

“Blah, blah, blah…Damnit…” He opts to float in whatever makes up this plane, folding his arms with a light scowl. Meanwhile, his tutor sips a nice chardonnay on a balcony somewhere idly scrying on his poor apprentice. At least that is what Rhork is almost positive the man is doing. He looks off in no particular direction and thrusts a middle finger where he is sure his master can see. If he actually is watching, that is.

Having basked enough in his own stupidity, Rhork rolls his eyes and channels his magic in preparation for another teleport. This time he sticks to the exact formulae and structure he was taught.

“Three, two, one, not here!” The arcane magics flare briefly as the spell comes to life. The bright light always makes him shut his eyes. Often he has thought to buy some goggles to actually see exactly when his teleports happen. He even figures he might catch a glimpse at whatever plane or dimension he slips through. Blinking open his eyes he –

Is exactly where he started. The ensuing silence mocks his paltry attempt to escape as small remnants of arcane magic flicker to nothing. He exhales, slowly, only a small amount of tension settles in his gut. The formula was perfect, execution flawless thanks to his practice. He even chose an exact location with the strongest ethereal anchor to lock on to – the Mage’s tower in Stormwind – yet here he still floats. The situation boggles him and only a serpentine hiss snaps him out of his stupor.

He concludes he will likely miss whatever meetings he planned to attend.

[Rhork]

“Alright. Air, check. Food, check. Water, check.” Rhork lists things he is going to conjure once he finishes running for dear life. Whatever chases him keeps pace with his frantic footfalls, his mind failing to comprehend exactly how he is able to run in the first place. Another snap of what is obviously a hungry maw bites clean through the fluttering turquoise robes trying its best to trip up the young, terrified mage. Back to making a list to stave off the ‘overwhelming’ part of his fear, he figures.

Several more serpentine roars sound and Rhork doubles his pace with each new addition. After a few moments he too joins in the chorus of what will likely be his death.

“NEW PLAN, NEW PLAN!” He tugs the strap of his pack, pulling it painfully tight to his torso before gripping the staff at his back. He pivots on a step, concentrating a blast of arcane energy at the ‘boom’ end of the stick. A pulse of dense magic surges forward and definitely hits something. In the flash of light, all Rhork can see are teeth, lots and lots of teeth. He did manage to chip one of the smaller ones though; small victories still count. He continues the spin, using the momentum from the spell to propel safely away from another lunge.

A high pitched screech signals an attack from his right. Four sharp claws rend through Rhork’s arm, the sleeve of his robe continuing to come apart until falling off completely. Rhork levels his cane where he thinks the attacker is and lets loose another surge of arcane energy, this one building off of the remnants of the last. The larger blue flash reveals deceptively sharp claws and the same razor lined jaws, though no actual body is revealed.

Thankfully, the situation begins to catch up with him. A moment of realization threatens to peel his attention from a third screech above him, approaching at an alarming rate. Rhork’s direction changes southward. It seems what controls his movement here is restricted only to his perceptions of it. With the aerial ambush no longer a top concern, he concentrates. Beside him appear three copies of himself who change direction, each sliding off into the darkness. The copies do exactly as Rhork intends, almost as if they share his train of thought, or something. Each of the three holds up a hand to create a blue light above them. Their fear induced yelling also serves to distract the shadowy pursuers from the real mage.

Rhork slows his descent after confirming nothing is close behind. It is more like a gamble though. He has no real way to know without some sort of light to inform him. At any rate, the reprieve is enough for Rhork to think; a task made phenomenally easy when not inches from a stabby, chewy death. He opts to sit, put fingers to face, and think. The first thought is to be as quiet as possible and not move an inch. It seems to work, even as the small blips of light in the distance go out, bellows of rage at the cheap trick following.

Rhork reaches his conclusion. I’m fucked. More frustrated screeching resounds from seemingly everywhere as the creatures scour the darkness for their dinner of questionable taste. Conjuring his list from earlier is out of the question. Too much light will attract them, so he wracks his brain in search of something he may have missed. They don’t really pay any mind to the air he continues to conjure, nor to his magical aura, he notices in hindsight. So that’s good, at least.

A bright flash of light silhouettes Rhork’s form and he nearly has a heart attack from an understandable resurgence of adrenaline. At this rate he will be too exhausted to actually do anything about the situation. Hazarding a look behind him, he sees nothing. As he begins to turn back though, another burst illuminates the darkness. He swears he sees a flash of turquoise in the center of it. Hold on a minute… Rhork peers into the darkness and extends his magical perceptions toward it.

No way. No friggen way. His senses are accurate, even after another check. A thought dawns on him and he scrambles from his resting place. None too soon either as a familiar chorus of screeches reach his ears, one in particular yell out of fear stands out. He begins to move toward the area of the first foreign flash, or at least where he believes it to be. Glancing over his shoulder he spots three orbs of light flare to life, each going off in a different direction. If what he thinks is happening actually is, then there may be a way out. The key to a new, desperate plan is in finding the exact spot he now searches for.

Resuming a decent pace, a growl rumbles a foot in front of him. He is found, though instead of turning tail to run, he sticks to his lessons and snaps a finger. Invisible to the eye, a confident smirk spreads along his face as he makes a wide sidestep, ending in a roll.

Rhork’s smirk falls. While invisibility does have its benefits, the major downside is the shift in the caster’s ability to perceive his surroundings. Before him lumbers a vaguely canine form, elongated at the chest and limbs to end at a dribbling maw of serpentine fangs. The skull of the beast is visible, lacking no skin or fur or scales. Only vapor trails of shadow energy drift from its form, their idle movement obscuring them. Much to Rhork’s horror, the beast turns to face him directly. It lunges forward, though Rhork was already up and running. It appears his spell changes his entire perception of the environment. Forms and shadows have a sort of thickness and density where he did not notice before; the most immediate conclusion being that those spots are more of these creatures. The one behind misses Rhork’s leg after his pace slows for just a moment, thoughts racing through his mind.

Another more curious phenomenon catches Rhork’s attention. A small shimmer of light appears briefly just before the same flash from earlier occurs again. He changes his course while swinging his staff in the beast’s direction to send a wave of force instead of a full-on arcane blast. The near invisible attack staggers the thing long enough for him to put distance between the two of them. Hope surges through him as he begins another spell, this time deciding to anchor it where his first attempt to teleport began: his bedroom.

Just as he predicted, the shimmer appears. Rhork lunges forward, releasing the energies of his spell as he soars through the nothingness. Looking back, he notes the shadow beast is well on his way. The beast will miss the chance to take him down as his spell to utilize the small fissure succeeds. This time, he forces his eyes open and for a split second sees himself emerge from the small rend in reality from his, at that point, haphazard casting. He finds himself back in his room sprawled on the wood floor, not caring to tend to his wounds. Being alive and out of there is all that matters, not time-space relations, not what those creatures were, not even the fact it has been two weeks since his teleport attempt. A series of bangs resounds from the ceiling, his tutor yelling for him to quiet down.

For the first time, Rhork is thankful to hear the old man’s voice.

[Rhork]

“We’ll go on three, okay?” Dinpik reassures him with a comforting tone. It brings out a grateful smile from her friend, a troubled mage named Rhork. The gnome stands just above waist height next to her human friend; her decorated robes move gently along a breeze. In comparison, the tattered gray tunic and pants which make up Rhork’s training garb struggle to keep together. Minor repairs to the thick fabric boast a novice skill with needle and thread, at best.

Rhork takes a few moments and focuses his thoughts, driving back any notion of failure and shutting out any images of ending up in that dark void which plagued his recent teleportations. Despite the gentle grip of her hand however, Rhork still shakes. The frequency of these little slips into, what was suggested to be the Twisting Nether (much to Rhork’s fear), had increased over the past two weeks. Whenever he found himself there, the previous tricks he used to escape failed. The only consistent element was the manipulation of time, usually revolving around whenever he entered. Either way he never managed to get out unharmed.

“Alright.” He pauses, “On three.”

Rhork’s portal leads to the Mage’s tower in Stormwind. The flickering image of its interior locks into place and both he and Dinpik smile. Rhork had been exact in his focus, acting only when he felt his location was absolute. She straightens her posture and gives a quick tug to Rhork’s hand. His grip on hers tightens, “On three?” Rhork keeps his attention forward to the other side of the opening in space.

Nodding, Dinpik begins the countdown and maintains her cheer-filled tone. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

The two jump through the portal, each with a wide smile and maybe an excited yell or two. The scene made a few of the Darnassus Sentinels laugh lightly and shake their heads. “At least they asked before teleporting within city limits,” one confirms. Her companion gives a simple shrug as the pair head out of the Temple of the Moon to begin their patrols.

Dinpik’s absence is the first warning sign. The second sign comes from the extra four or five seconds of weightlessness after jumping into the portal. The third? Well. The endless void, absence of the quiet chatter of Arcane students, and lack of any magical presence all weave together a sound knot in Rhork’s stomach. Wide eyed, he sweeps his panic filled gaze in every direction. The clatter of his staff against stone snaps his attention forward as the environment takes form around him. It strikes him as odd and helps to give his mind something to distract itself with. This is the first time he encountered any sort of scenery here. A stone floor supports his feet while violet torches line a wall several yards away. Their odd light fails to reveal little else save that the room is quite large as it lacks any hint of a ceiling, or other walls for that matter.

Rhork struggles against his restraints. He cannot recall when his wrists and ankles were bound, though it matters little as he stares into the face of a veiled terror leaning down to greet him.

“Breathe, Rhork.” The voice emphasizes his name inside his mind as the shattered humanoid skull barely has a jaw to move.

Gagged, Rhork takes in a breath and regrets it. The acrid scent of mildew and rot fills his lungs and he chokes, coughing against the cloth binding his jaw. ‘Flight’ wins out over ‘Fight’ as he attempts to dislodge the binding. The thick cloth remains tight and he opts to take in as much of his surroundings as he can. His slender captor hides beneath a drape of vaporous shadows. The only visible characteristic is the skull, broken and missing several chunks, embedded within a headless torso, or at least where Rhork assume a torso would be. How he became aware that the creature was smiling is beyond him. Nothing moved to indicate as such.

“This won’t take too long as I’m sure you have important business elsewhere.” The shadow creature brings out a wicked dagger, its tip possessing the ridges of a key. Rhork surges his will to pump defensive enchantments into his clothing. The density of the magic gives the creature pause, the faint green glow of an eye socket flares. Giggles of delight fill Rhork’s mind as its shadowed hand guides the instrument into his abdomen. The creature’s sense of fascination and glee translate to the mage as the blade sinks into his flesh at an agonizing pace.

“One.” The thing jerks the blade out then makes another plunge at a different angle into his side. Rhork’s magic shuts down. One of his reserves of power vanishes.

“Two.” Another stab into the opposite side. Rhork’s head falls forward. White flashes of pain shoot through his vision as his second reserve disappears.

“And...” It withdraws the dagger and sets the point to the center of Rhork’s throat, “Three.”

A small incision is as far as the blade goes. “Ah, I can’t, not yet.” The dagger vanishes. “This should be enough to get you started.” Again, Rhork feels a devious smile from the creature. He returns it with a gaze that bores into its single, glowing flame of the eye socket; his willpower failing to call forth magical retribution.

“Your battery isn’t empty, Rhork, it’s just gone, and those pesky wards you weaved into them with it.” The thing giggles more as his vision blurs. His lazy gaze drifts to his wounds, now soaking his garb in red. “You really should stop underestimating yourself. I look forward to meeting you again.” With a wave of a veiled hand, the bindings dissolve and his body falls, continuing to do so until his fading senses pick up the hurried yells and commands of clerics and priests within Stormwind’s cathedral. The last vestiges of his consciousness blink out as his body hits the stone floor.

[Rhork]

((After a month or two of floundering about, Rhork's settled down after his ordeal and has tried his best to keep out of whatever spot light might shine on him.))

“This is really, really hard for me to admit. Really.” Rhork feels the weight of his head, palm long numb to his chin. A candle flickers above a pool of wax causing the playful shadows to move about the cluttered desk. This is not the first candle to struggle for its life here, nor is it the last. The steady, ambient glow betrays the chaos of a storm outside. Their stands long lost to wax; these blips of light highlight the blank void of parchment nestled in a space barely big enough to accommodate it. Rhork drums his fingers against the desk, their beat adding to the performance of rain, thunder, and the clink of a quill against an ink well.

“I think I’m in over my head on this.” The window heaves at the onslaught of a gust, earning a leer. Rhork enjoys a good storm, or any amount of rain, but a broken window during one is more stress than he would like.

“She said she’d be able to help whenever, but, c’mon. The Empress?” Rhork asks a skull atop a stack of tomes. It doesn't respond.

“Like she actually has time for that.” His chair creeks as he leans back, arms crossed with a sigh. “Plus…she’s kind of cute…” A clap of thunder rattles the room and scares Rhork to a start.

“Okay! Yeah! No! Not even gonna think about that.” The skull silently judges him with its empty sockets, the bone bathed in the soft glow of the candle. "I've got Daphni helping me with my magic problem."

The city bell tolls midnight. Rhork yawns into a stretch. He wants to write this letter and get it out of the way, but anything that concerns his family is tricky and leaves a bad taste in his mouth. His father requested an update on his schooling as a Mage, which is a whole other can of worms he doesn't want to think about opening right now. The thought sends a light chill up his spine. Another crack of thunder and Rhork gets the message. “Fine…let’s get this over with…”

“Dear Father,

It’s not going so well.

Regards,
Rhork”

Satisfied, Rhork smiles, sprinkles some powder over the ink, and then seals the letter in a worn envelope. He likes to poke at his dad whenever he can. What’s he going to do, kick him out of the house?

“Pff, too late for that.” Rhork nods, licking the envelope shut.

Another yawn reminds him of how exhausted he is. With his tutor all but gone, his magic too much to handle, and his recent stumbling within the Empire he so recently joined, all of his efforts have gone into his swordsmanship. It’s great for stress relief and he enjoys how much better he’s gotten over the past month.

“Tarashan can go and shove it.” Rhork concludes, “I’m not gonna put all my eggs in the magic basket like an idiot.”

The candles go out as Rhork maneuvers toward his bed. His foot collides with a desk leg and he crashes to the floor along with a few tomes, papers, and the skull still judging him silently as a flash of lightning illuminates the room. He limps to his bed after shoving the books beneath a table and leaving the skull where it fell. As the rain patters against the window, Rhork stares up into the darkness until the sounds of the storm lull him to sleep. His last thoughts are of others and how they’re sleeping tonight. Comfortably, he hopes. No sleep sucks.

[Rhork]

“Alright, let’s do this.” Rhork is ready, more than he has ever been. His entire mindset when it came to his magic shifted to the point where his progress jumped leaps and bounds since his first meeting with Daphni Tumblespell. Prior to that he never utilized his Arcane talents, fearing his control would slip at the drop of a hat and release his truly horrendous amount of magic without end. His life until this point revolved around that possibility ever since blowing up his family’s first home in Elwynn nearly a decade prior. Never had he dared tap into his power directly since then. A system of siphons and batteries, recharging when he slept, was enough to advance him through his schooling. That system is no more due to reasons he wants to forget. The no-magic dry spell took two months to get past, which was two months spent pursuing his swordsmanship and earning a little side coin helping folks around Stormwind. Today marks the point where he attempts the spell which caused so much trouble and pain: Portals.

In a space carefully cleared in his small apartment, Rhork stands at the center with a palm outstretched. On the wall are calculations, sketches of Stormwind’s Portal Room, and confidence boosting one-liners from notable Human Magi (Khadgar being his favorite) in inspiring fonts. Each and every item in his immediate area is carefully chosen to hone his focus and direct his magic to where he wanted. Even the skull, with its mocking and judgmental stare looking down at him from atop a bookshelf, is necessary. He even gave it two paper Night Elf ears. Sure, he was about to make a portal to a location five minutes away on foot but precaution is precaution. Somehow he’s been redirected, personally, from portals a handful of months ago and did not much care for the experience to repeat itself now.

Shoring up his will, Rhork begins the process of spell casting. He maintains a steady breath and focuses. His magic hums, electrical strands dart from metal thing to metal thing in his apartment, bolt none larger than a thick twine. Knowing exactly how much magic is needed, he pictures his energy as something malleable, stable, and manageable. ‘Contained’ used to be on that list but abandoning that concept has only been a benefit. Rhork isn’t sure why. Redirection with as little prodding as possible seems to be exactly the way his magic should be handled. It goes against everything his past tutors taught, but it works for him. A drop, a nibble, a brush, a glance is all that’s needed to keep the portal stable for a very, very long time.

“Go time.” The air pulses with Arcane magic, condensing in the space above a red cross a foot or so on the floor in front of him. A ring of lightning, no taller than he, circles and connects with a loud crackle. The image of Stormwind appears, shifting and fading until solid. Rhork relaxes and admires his work, pacing around it with a thoughtful hand rubbing his growing peach fuzz (he was wondering when that would show itself). He smiles, nodding in approval and sets a crystal atop the portal.

“There, that’ll close you after a minute or so.” He did not want any random mage popping into his apartment from the Mage’s Tower, hence the alternative until he gains better hold on portal magic.

A notebook rests on the corner of his cluttered desk. On it reads in bold, blue letters ‘PLANS’ and below it, on the floor, rests a traveling pack. It has always been his goal to get to a point where he could travel. With grip enough over his magic he feels confident to make today the day he sets out to travel Azeroth. Having excellent swordsmanship as a fallback also contributes to this resolve. On the advice of a friend he spent time walking around the city with his gear until becoming used to its weight. The extra mass from provisions is new, but nothing he can’t handle or conjure later if need be. His excitement grows as a glance to the portal reveals it to be the most stable he’s ever created. He even grabs the skull and stores it on a whim before entering the portal, oblivious to the red tint spreading along the outer frays of lightning which make it.

"Here goes nothing. Portal attempt number one!" He speaks into his Guildstone. His room now sits empty save the clutter and a portal.

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Somewhere on Azeroth a figure gazes into a plane of glass mounted along a wall, the room lit with a light from no particular source. The soft glow is just enough to make out a reclined man in crimson robes lounging in a parlor filled with enough gold embroidered furnishings to make a Blood Elf jealous. His pristine goatee lifts in a graceful smile, amused. Many of his kind are jealous of him, so the observation is moot.

“Onto the entertainment. Where shall I send you?” The display of the clueless Human Mage disappears from the glass, an image of the Swamp of Sorrows replacing it.

“Mm…No.” A finger swipes through the air to an image of the Bronze Dragonshire in Northrend, “Amusing, but there has to be better...”

Several locations flick away, each one more dissatisfying than the last. He swipes finger after furious finger, growling and hunching forward. “Come on, come on! The Master forbids me from using his Sanctum anymore so where by the Sunwell should I redirect you?” He grips his bottle of wine and flicks at the label as his search intensifies.

“No. No. No. No. NO. NO. NO. NO…NO!” The wine bottle smashes into the glass, sending shards and splashes of red wine to color the wall and floor. Just as a fireball forms in his hand, the undamaged glass panel flicks to the image of a portal. THE portal. The DARK portal his Master is at, right now. He grins with the start of a laugh.

“Perfect.”