Post by Skreeran
Note: At this point in the timeline, Dag'rema is roughly 14 years old. Here is approximately what she looks like.
Dag’rema stood there, shaking in shock and joy and terror and shame and relief. There, before her, lay her mother, Kal’rema, in an ever-growing pool of blood. Dag’rema dropped the knife to the floor and fell to her knees sobbing.
There she remained for several minutes, her tears mixing with her mother’s blood as she cried and cried. Finally she stood, still shaking from the adrenaline rush and shock of the act she had just committed. She looked back down at her mother, a startled expression still on the corpse’s face. The throat was cut wide open in several places, all clumsy in their execution. The blood had stopped flowing now, for the most part, but it still covered the bed and the floor and saturated the dead warlock’s clothing. Dag’rema bit back another sob as she pulled the blood-stained sheet over her mother’s face.
She had to escape. The orcs were already wary of spies and had precious few numbers without murders. With Orgrim Doomhammer as Warchief, she’d most certainly be executed immediately if they found out what she did. They didn’t understand what she had been through. How much she had needed to do what she had. They didn’t understand at all. They’d been imprisoned like animals, but she had been forced through hell. She had to get away.
She was about to leave the tent and run when she had an idea. Doomhammer hated warlocks. Perfect. She dragged her finger through the pool of blood and quickly began drawing runes all over the body, the tent, the clothes, anything she could see. She placed the dagger in the body’s hand and forced it to cling onto it. Now all that remained was the blood on her fingers. She looked around, trying to determine what to do. She could not rub it off. It would leave a stain. Finally, took a deep breath and licked the blood from her fingers.
The coppery taste of blood was not foreign to her. She had had the stuff forced down her throat many times. She hated it. She hated the taste and the stickiness and the color and the smell. And yet she had been forced to swallow it more times than she could count as part of this ritual or that.
Finally, her ruse was set. She stepped outside, feigned horror, and called the guards. The grunts looked inside and didn’t know what to make of it. Finally, the Warchief himself was summoned over to give his judgment.
“Hmmm… That one was a warlock, right?” Doomhammer asked grimly, gesturing to the body. One of the grunts nodded. “Then I think I’ve seen enough. Burn the body. I don’t want whatever foul purpose she killed herself for to come to fruition.” The Grunts nodded and carried the body away to be burned, and Doomhammer returned to his business.
Dag’rema finally exhaled. She was free.