Bolgron/Additional Adventures

At the tavern, an obviously-drunk dwarf turns to you and starts telling you a story. It doesn't matter to you anyway, you're pretty out of it yourself:

It's so cold…so, damned, cold! Bolgron lay in a snow drift; the remains of his expedition lay smoking two miles away. The Scourge had ambushed them on the bridge crossing Borean Tundra, and Dragonblight. It had taken all of their skill to make it across to Dragonblight, Bolgron himself firing at the Nerubian Scourge. They had stormed across the bridge behind him, while others flew from the North and swooped upon them. Their presence in Northrend had obviously become known. The Nerub'ar ravaged the group from above, plucking stragglers from the group and dunking them into the icy depths of the Frozen Sea, or flying them away, screaming, back northwards.

The Tauren he had come across at the D.E.H.T.A encampment fought bravely, and all stood their ground against the undead assault, unfortunately this was not the case for the rest of the expedition, who were falling rapidly, their pitiful defences no match to the relentless Scourge. Their resident brewmaster, himself not a great fighter, was also still standing; a strange smirk had donned his face. He emptied the contents of one of his kegs across the bridge, and a nearby gunshot set it ablaze. They were doomed. The druids leapt from the burning passage, miraculously transforming into great birds in midair, and flew to the southwest, the location of the D.E.H.T.A encampment, ruddy deserters.

The remaining few survivors charged to the other end of the bridge, the Scourge, quite literally, hot on their heels. *Snap!* The bridge fell in two. The survivors, only a dozen before now, were hurled into the icy depths below, all except for Bolgron Copperpocket, who had leapt from his falling Kodo onto the falling bridge. Countless Scourge fell with them, a few finding the falling Expeditionaries and making the final moments of their fleeting lives a living hell, complete with the flames, and pain. Bolgron had reached for the strange ore in his pack; whispers filled his mind, as he threw it at an incoming Nerub'ar. A maniacal laughter overcame him, a hoarse sound that scared him as his hands let go of the ladder, convulsing wildly as he fell. Death, Death, DEATH!!!

The frigid waters awoke him to his situation. He was not dead. He was a DWARF; cold could NEVER kill him…could it? Would he die here? Yes…death was appealing, so very appealing. Death would make everything better, if only he would die… It was cold, so cold, had he ever been this cold? Cold was good, cold brought death upon him, and death was good.

He had been this cold before, he HAD survived. Death was good, but life was better. NO! Death was better!! The whispers had become a shout, a vain scream of a point he did not want to accept…Could not accept. Bolgron had swum further than this in these waters. These icy, cold, waters of death, decimation, end… And he would survive. He MUST survive. His fortune must be restored; he had a pack full of the “Black blood of Yogg Saron”, along with another strange ore that was eerily shiny, perhaps in protest against the bleakness of the landscape it is found in.

Bolgron's limbs began to pump madly, propelling him to the surface of the water as currents carried him precariously away from land. A short eternity passed, the frigid waters blocking out any voice in his head. The air pierced his lungs. Not a pleasant experience, as the air was painful to breathe in the mainland, and out at sea it was more so, the wind forcing it down his windpipe. Land was close enough, a beach littered with washed-up remains of the Horde and Alliance excursions.

At the shoreline the crabs strolled up and down, showcasing their catches to an empty world. A gleaming, but weather-beaten helmet lay meters from him along the shore, bearing the Horde insignia. Bolgron rose shakily, walked over, and snatched it up. The whispers began again, seemingly issuing from the helmet, and Bolgron dropped it hastily, and it rolled across the sand, stopping on the forearm of a corpse. One of his men.

You MURDERED them! Lured them out here on false pretences, fame, fortune, and booze! More like death, destruction, and an incredibly early grave. In other words, Bolgron, just DEATH!

“NO!”

Bolgron stumbled up the beach to the snow covered mainland, walking shakily while he pawed at his head.

You're even DRESSED like a murderer! All black, like one of those shady humans in Westfall, concealing their blades from the world. You don't need blades do you? You're so good at it you need not even touch the bastards. Ooh, did you make any fatherless ones? I bet you did, with 50 men, ONE of them will have had a child, at least. You cruel, cruel man. The druids survived though, didn't they. Yes, the good for nothing Tauren survived. Did you not wonder why there were no Night Elves who came? It's because they were scared, Bolgron, scared that the Tauren betrayers would rip them apart at the first opportunity.

“N-no. The Tauren came because they wanted to stop us…to atone for the apparent crimes of their people against the children of their god.”

But they didn't say much in Sholazar…did they? No, they just let you get on with it, while taking their ‘medicinal herbs' for themselves. I bet they sell them at the first opportunity. Dirty, filthy, thieves and murderers, you choose the best of company Bolgron, the best. And look over the ridge and look what choosing that company did. Think about the families. I know you are. I can SEE that you are. I'm inside your head, I can see EVERYTHING. And right now, I think you should take a good long hard look over that ridge.

Bolgron looked to his left. Along the shoreline, and inland a little, smoke could be seen. Black objects were circling overhead. He fell into a snow drift next to him, his eyes transfixed upon the scene as a childish chant of “Murderer” resounded in his mind. He lay there and watched…and watched…

The sun rose overhead. The snow around Bolgron had begun to melt from his body heat. The sky exploded with colour as ever. The constant lights above streaming and blurring his vision but all was not right with this scene.

Murderer.

Bolgron got up, slowly, but surely. His mind pounded a constant beat onto the inside of his skull. Around once a second a ‘thump' would sound in his head, bringing with it agony. Every three seconds the voice would remind him of what he was: ‘Murderer.' Even with this did not prevent him from noticing the large figure in front of him, wielding a spear, and holding a shining object. The figure was a decent size, but not MASSIVE. It had tusks protruding from what must be its upper jaw, and looked suspiciously like a walking, mutant, Walrus. It handed him the object, his gun. How it had acquired it he did not care, but the Walrus-man had been watching the scene at the bridge unfold, and, seeing that Bolgron had felled some of the Scourge using this weapon, thought it would be apt to return it to him, for the safety of the stranger. The being then murmured something about Yogg Saron and strode away, and Bolgron followed instinctively. Obviously HE knew where he was going, unlike Bolgron.

The Tuskarr repeatedly stopped to sniff the air, but for all Bolgron knew he could have been opening a bottle of Thunderstout, drinking it, and obliterating any evidence. Bolgron was not taking much notice of the Tuskarr, but merely making sure he loped along behind without letting him get out of sight. In Northrend the days last longer, for some reason that Bolgron never cared to understand, but simply noted. Bolgron followed the Tuskarr for three straight days, night never falling. They ate whenever the Walrus-man decided, and drank at the same intervals: undetermined. Eventually, however, they came to a place where the ground was not covered in snow, but a forest floor. It was here that the Tuskarr left Bolgron. He took him to a small cave, and allowed him to sleep, and left the dwarf there.

During their journey Bolgron battled with his mind, a continuous bout of wills. The intruder constantly claiming Bolgron to be a murderer, and twisting his memories against him, while Bolgron himself claimed himself not to be a murderer, but a victim of circumstance, the Scourge's cruel joke. However, the voice was winning. Bolgron's every thought had been entered by the intruder, slowly changing the dwarf into a colder being. A slow struggle, which no there was no cure known.

When Bolgron awoke, the voice was gone, he was himself now. Where was the Walrus-man though? Had he LEFT him there? After taking him all that way! What an insult! What ridicule! How DARE he!

Bolgron roared bestially and glowered at the cave mouth. He charged out into the forest, as beast-like as a wolf itself. And so he hunted. No longer a man, but a beast. The beast shut out the man, testing itself, and becoming a true fighter.

Bolgron awoke in a treetop. How he got there, he had no idea. But his gun was hanging from a nearby branch. He felt full, but he had not eaten since the Walrus-man was with him. Time to get down then…

Bolgron grabbed his gun, finding two bullets within. He aimed upwards, through a gap in the trees, and fired. The sound reverberated across the landscape, and a gentle plume of smoke rose from his gun, which he ushered towards the sky, and waited. For what seemed like hours, he waited. As he dozed in the treetop sounds were heard below, sounds of horses and men.

“HELP!!”

Bolgron screamed the word, again and again, as loud as he could. They came. After much effort, the men finally retrieved him from the treetop with the aid of a Gnommish Parachute Cloak, which was fired up to him using another Gnommish device. The men took him with them to a Keep of some kind. Looming over them was something much vaster though; spanning the width of a river itself and towering so high it seemed to scrape the sky. The men called it “Utgarde” and named the town he was in as “Valgarde”. They placed him in a bed and left him there to be nursed by a Draenei. Bolgron didn't care though. The voice was gone, he was warm, and he was alive. He wasn't dead. Death was definitely NOT good.

You ponder how much of that was true, but congratulate the Dwarf on his story none-the-less, before heading up for bed. That was a long story, and you forgot how many drinks you had while he yapped.