((Hello everyone! This is my first posting on this character; I figured I'd give her an introduction to the RP community here! I hope you guys like it, and feel free to post feedback below. I may or may not update with events as they happen. As an aside: I may feature an interaction between Tograi and other player characters in my writing, but I will not name those characters, or cause the story to be primarily about them, unless the other party specifically gives me its "okay" to do so first.))
Tograi watched the blood elf walk out of the inn. Like most of his kind, his stride bespoke of a natural grace--despite the heavy plates of his armor. She slouched back in her seat, feeling the dusty warmth of Durotar seep into her skin. The confines of the Wyvern’s Tail were lit only by a few smoky torches and the glowing coals of the central cooking pit. A handful of patrons ranged about the interior, seated on piled furs or chairs. Tograi raised her clay mug up to her scarred lips and let the amber ale within it moisten her throat. She resolved not to judge this elf too harshly, just yet. Whatever his refined features may suggest about his capabilities (or lack thereof), she would wait to see the elf in action before she would render judgement.
“Making friends, are we?” The voice issuing from behind her was raspy; as dry as the parched earth outside the inn. Despite herself, the orc shivered. She knew the owner of the voice--indeed, she knew him more than she cared to admit.
“How did you get in here?” she asked, swiveling about in her chair, her leather harness creaking. Behind her, hunched over in his seat and clutching a weathered staff, was an orc wrapped in a plain linen robe. A deep cowl concealed most of his features, except for the long, tangled grey beard that emerged from within its confines. Tograi could just make out the orc’s lopsided grin, punctuated by grey tusks on either side.
“Even after Garrosh’s purge, the name ‘Saintsblood’ still opens some doors in Orgrimmar,” the old orc responded, shifting his bulk within the robe. Tograi couldn’t be sure, but as he moved, she thought she caught a flicker of green where the orc’s eyes would be within the concealment of the cowl. She shivered again, and the motion caused a flare of anger to blossom in her mind. She was no spineless human, to be cowed by the presence of an aging warlock.
She took a deep breath through her nose, attempting to settle herself. She knew that it would not do to allow her emotions to get away with herself in the presence of this particular orc. To her supreme annoyance, she could sense Saintsblood’s gaze upon her, which, along with that twisted grin, conspired to manufacture the feeling that he was aware of her internal struggle, and was enjoying the effect that his presence caused within her. Her hands twitched, itching to snatch up the daggers sheathed on her belt.
“It’s not like you to seek out companionship, Little Knife, and especially none so…” Saintsblood paused, his smile widening, “...pretty as that fellow.”
Tograi grunted. “Maybe so, but what else is there to do, now that the Iron Horde has mostly retreated into Tanaan? Perhaps this elf, and his supposed ‘band,’ knows where to pick a good fight.”
“So bloodthirsty, Little Knife?” The withered orc reached out a gnarled hand, and Tograi stiffened as he caressed the skin of her arm with one finger. His nails were long and cracked, resembling claws, and the skin of his fingertip was coarse. Tograi clenched her jaw, forcing herself to remain still.
“Your skin is so beautiful, Little Knife. In this light, it is almost blue.” His finger stopped in the center of her bicep, and she caught his eye beneath the cowl. He pressed down, sudden and hard, and a surge of energy transferred from his fingertip and into her body.
Her mind went flat. She was not bereft of consciousness, but the world had become dull. The only sensation that breached the separation of her mind from the physical world was the sudden awareness of her musculature; beneath her skin, her muscles seethed and clenched, swelling with strength. The interplay of dancing thews grew to be hypnotic, and a matching tempo began to emerge from within the haze of her mind, the beat slowly crystallizing into a single sensation….
...Warm blood running in rivulets down her hands.
Suddenly, the dysphoria vanished. Saintsblood’s hand had retreated back into a fold in his robe. Tograi’s jaw ached, and she realized that she was bearing her tusks. A wave of exhaustion swept over her body, and she felt her muscles crying out in protest.
Saintsblood’s voice was quiet; the satisfied murmur of a predator whose prey lay, defeated, before its claws: “The Gift I bestowed upon you still burns strong, I see. I had feared that, after all this time, its power might’ve diminished. I am pleased to find that it has not.”
Tograi said nothing. Her head was reeling from the after-effects of Saintsblood’s administrations, and an all-too-familiar soreness suffused her whole body. The old orc climbed slowly to his feet, aided by his staff. “Farewell, Little Knife.” The gnarled hand appeared again, fingers dragging through the wiry beard. He turned and made his way toward the door of the Wyvern’s Tail. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, and smoke wreathed his form; pierced by sunlight, it seemed that the warlock was enwrapped in blazing tendrils of luminescence.
Then he was gone, and only the sluggish stir of smoke filling in the spot where he had stood remained as evidence that he was ever there. Trying to calm the twitching of her muscles, Tograi brought her mug up to her mouth again and took a long pull. The cool liquid did nothing to alleviate the churning of emotion in her gut, but it did offer the promise of oblivion. The quiet susurration of chatting patrons enfolded her, and the darkness of the interior began to lose its antagonistic aspect. Tograi took another sip. The prospect of oblivion had become quite attractive.