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Felcrak Ragetotem
Ditch

Title

Bruiser of the Sixty Thieves

Gender

Male

Race

Tauren

Age

47

Class

Warrior, Beserker

Affiliation

Sixty Thieves, the Horde,

Occupation

Criminal, Outlaw

Relative(s)

None known

Alignment

True Neutral

Felcrak is the Bruiser of the infamous criminal syndicate, the Sixty Thieves. By this, he is the most physically dangerous member of the thieves, and the leading force of criminal aggression, violence, and protection exchanged between the Thieves and society. He is also the main point of contact for any civilians wishing to purchase "less-subtle" man power from the Thieves. His previous affiliation with the Horde as a decorated soldier in the 57th Beserker regiment has granted him the strength, the contacts, the authority, and the prowess in armed combat that have allowed him to quickly leap through the ranks in the underworld.






WANTED - A warrior outlaw Edit

"Citizens of the Horde, please be on alert for an armed and dangerous Tauren, by the name of Felcrak Ragetotem. He is also believed to use the alias "Ditch". He is mammoth in proportions, therefore, do NOT tackle him alone. He has been spotted recently wearing the tabard of the Sixty Thieves, ordaining black platemail, and a pair of unique twin axes, that have been reported to emit a feint blue glow, when viewed at night. He is wanted on multiple counts of drug trafficing, multiple counts of assault, two counts of murder, and multiple accounts of resisting arrest. We are offering 10,000 gold in return for his capture alive. Do NOT fatally wound said criminal, unless absolutely neccesary. Take absolute care when approaching this criminal, he has been previously known to incapacitate multiple pursuers at once. Exercise EXTREME caution."

- This message was issued by the Horde authorities 7 months ago. Felcrak is still at large.






DREAMS - flashbacks of an honorable past Edit

Tenth month. Ninth Day. The small hours.

Ditch rustled in his deep slumber. The brown hat tipped across his bloodied horns sheltered his eyelids from the sharp moonlight. A brisk breeze swept through the Hideout. I guess someone left the window open...

"MEN! DRAW YOUR ARMS! READY YOUR SENSES! LET'S CUT THESE FUCKERS DOWN! FOR THE HOOOORDEEEE!"

Felcrak's hooves dug into the grassy turf, his eyes wide. Fear etched itself across the young tauren's face, the twenty so orcs surrounding him stirring for blood. He towered above the orcs, his innocent posture far heftier than any of theirs. He held an iron axe, standard issue - mark III, in each hand. His palms perspired in awkwardness. The war drums stopped. Felcrak took a deep breath, which suspended in his lungs, in limbo.

The young tauren's innocence was about to die.

"RIGHT FLANK! INCOMING! HEADS DOWN! CHARRRRRRRGGEEEEEE!!!!

Felcrak charged, fear clawing at his heels. He was on the second row back. A thin wall of green flesh and muscle was all that was between him, and what he thought was his imminent death. The frontline hit. Almost instantly, a severed elven fist, bone inching from the indignant purple flesh, flew over his shoulder in a flourish of blood and shrieks in Common.

PUSH MEN, PUSH! BLOOD! HONOR!!

Felcrak rushed around, foreign blood now splayed across his face, in blind panic. Arrows zoomed over his head. Friend and foe fell, writhing in hellish torment, limbs scattered. The war drums began to pound, once again.

A human charged at Felcrak, dashing skillfully over the bodies, screaming inaudibly. His sword was raised, his shield was poised. The terrified tauren stood, numb, his axes at his side limply. Metal flashed before his face. Blood spewed fro-

Felcrak sat up sharply, eyes wide, glistening. He panted, feeling his face, with an anxious, worried curve carved into his brow. The sound of his gruff breathing died in the soft wood of the Hideout. All was quiet. Tiny twitched in the darkness, sleeping softly, on the opposite wall.

Ditch simply stared at the wall. His hands were still.






Tenth Month. Twelfth Day.

Ditch's crime-sodden eyes flickered as he ambled through the Drag. The sun had long submerged the horizon, and the air was beginning to grow chilly. No breeze. Distant war-cries could be heard, as the all too familiar training sessions in the Valley of Honor raged on through the night.

"FALL BACK!!! RETREA-..."

With flared nostrils, Ditch's eyelids heaved themselves open. Old hatreds danced in his retina, taunting him with a toothless, yellow grin. They gradually faded, as the tauren clambered up the stairwell into the Hideout.

Peering around, the thieves rested. The exotic menagerie of familiar snores and wheezes was oddly comforting. Sliding his back down the wall and hunching into a comfortable spot in the corner, Ditch's eyes reluctantly yielded to fatigues strain. Silence ensued. Silence.

...-RETREEEEAT!!!

Felcrak turned and ran, nurturing his savagely wounded shoulder with a harsh limp in his stride. Bullets scorched the hairs on his arms, to fell his comrades running in front of him.

Ditch's eyelids flickered. His left shoulder twitched, wincing.

Felcrak trampled his own underfoot, orc skull splintering under tauren hoof. The ranks were broken. Red banners burned, and toppled to the ground, the young tauren's heart along with them. The screams of a dying regiment resonated through the cloud of gunpowder, arcanity and blood, as what little remains of the frontline were left were crushed ruthless under the alliance's onward marching hammer.

Felcrak broke the crowd. He ran, and ran. Scattered trees blurred, as he looked over his shoulder, and saw one thing.

Fire.

Ditch stirred restlessly, perspiration glistening from his snout and neck in the pale blue moonlight.


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