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Author: Vodral

Vodral's Bad Day
- An Explanation of Recent Absence -
(NOTE: foul language included. Kiddies, beware!)


The first thing Vodral knew when he first awakened was that he was extremely angry. So angry, in fact, that he would've given his left tusk just to have something to punch the living snot out of. As consciousness gradually seized his brain, the anger began to fade from a level of "Out Of Control" to "The Usual," meaning he had returned to his typical, perpetually grumpy state.


Along with consciousness came the realization that the right half of his body was searing with agony. With a groan and a sputter, he rolled on his better side and squeezed his eyes tight. What the nether was going on? Did he drink too much? He didn't remember stumbling home with a distrustful-looking broad, so it couldn't be that.


A lightbulb went off.


Ah. He'd signed up for a recent venture into alliance-controlled waters; an attempt on his superiors' part to retake a portion of the sea. This turned out to be a very, very bad idea, and it was getting increasingly worse as new daggers of pain stabbed at Vodral's muscles.


Somewhere in the back of his mind, a question screamed: where was he? He tried to voice this inquiry, but all that came out was,


"Aggghhhhhhhhhghhhhhhh!"


with possibly more H's and some capital letters thrown in for effect.


Fuck the horde, he thought, amidst various other expletives. I don't get paid enough for this kind of shit. Loa be damned, what'd they do to my arm?


Reluctantly, a bigger and possibly much brighter lightbulb went off.


He'd lost it, hadn't he? That was it. That was why his side hurt so damn much. He'd lost his arm. The whole thing. Gone. It was the stupid alliance with their stupid cannons and stupid tendencies to hit targets, which wouldn't have been so idiotic if it had been the horde doing the hitting and if he wasn't the target. Vodral clenched his remaining fist and shoved it in his mouth to keep himself from exploding with multi-lingual curses.


It'd grow back, of course, but the ache would last for too long a while, and the muscles would take time to rebuild. He certainly wouldn't be able to win a fair fight for at least a few weeks.


Damn it. Why had he joined the army in the first place? He should've stuck to -


- Somewhere nearby, a protesting door swung on its hinges. For the first time, Vodral's eyes snapped open and revealed a world of blurry messes; he could tell there was a brown blob there, some more brown-ish blobs over there, a pale blob moving in his direction. After a few moments, each shape turned into a more detailed object.


He was in a medical ward, he could tell that much from the bloody cots, odd utensils, and sparse furnishings. A troll physician stood at a nearby table, her wrist flicking as she documented something in a logbook. Was she writing about him? "Dire condition, will live, unfortunately for the rest of us. Bloody asshole."


Gingerly, he raised his head and squinted.


"Whhh--" he cleared his throat. Definitely hadn't been drinking lately. "Who're joo?"


The physician set her quill upon the tabletop and looked towards him. "Oh, you're up now?"


"Well, ain't joo observant. Joo oughta' be a trackah."


"No need to be crass, Mr... Zul'dren, I believe it was? Good, you had the right dogtag."


Vodral relaxed and allowed his head to fall back on the pillow. "Wha's goin' on?"


"You were deployed on a ship headed towards Menethil Harbor. From what I heard, you and your comrades barely made it out with your lives. You know, there's these things called 'ambush' and 'tactics,' maybe you ought to suggest them to your superior officers..."


"Ah'll take it up wit' dem right 'way," came the dry response.


The physician lofted a brow in the same manner as highly irritable teachers sometimes do. "... Right. Anyway, cannonball struck where you were standing, burst through the woodwork and took your arm clean off. We couldn't find it - your arm, that is - so you're just going to have to regrow it the old fashioned way. Good news is, you had a priest on board who managed to prevent you from dying of blood loss. Bad news is, he was shot while trying to remove the splinters from your chest."


"Joo're makin' mah day so much bettah alreadeh."


"We removed them in your sleep, if that helps anything," she said with a yawn. "Now then... you belong to the unit 'Harbingers of War,' correct?"


Vodral nodded carefully, so as not to disturb the herd of tiny cuts grazing on his torso.


"And you're a Sergeant in the regular army."


"Jeh."


"Well, Sarge," somehow, she managed to make it sound insulting, "as soon as you can walk, you're free to go. I'd recommend you return to your respective unit, inform them of what's happened, and see if you can't start working on that arm. Unless you get an infection, you're good to be on your own."


Vodral drew in a deep breath and felt the burning sensation in his side swell again. "... Gimme a coupla houahs," he wheezed.


"Don't take too long," the physician replied, her coat swishing as she turned to leave, "we're getting a new wave soon, and when they're in, we're going to need that cot."


The door shut, and the stuffiness of the ward conquered in the absence of fresh air. Vodral sighed, rolled onto his back, and shut his eyes, hoping that when next he rose, it wouldn't be to the company of such a bitch.

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