((Hello hello! I really like this scenario so I'm gonna post and give it a shot in the arm to see if anyone is still interested. Cheers!))<br/><br/><b>*WHACK! WHACK WHACK!* <br/>
Huge burly arms hammered down with precise repetition as the equally huge owner of the arm, a massive Draenei man of eight feet with two inches to spare, drove the rusty metal spike deep into the ground. When it sunk in deep enough, he reached down into the burlap sack next to him, seemingly not minding at all that said sack was dripping profusely with sickly crimson ichor and promptly pulled out a rotting head, its mouth agape and eyes wide and unblinking. Half the flesh had already simply wasted away, leaving only a barely recognizable form of a former orc that looked as though perhaps he wasn't much better looking when he was alive. As quick as any deed of this macabre caliber the Draenei had done before, Quixl'mesh placed the decaying head onto the spike with an ease as though he were setting a pretty porcelain vase upon an endtable, the decapitated head sliding down rather easily due to the blunt force applied, the spike jutting out distinctly of the cavernous eye socket. Two more heads were pulled out, a male blood elf, and one too far gone to even recognize the race, they too joining their orcish companion upon the rusty spike making a rather morbid shish kebab. The image of it did absolutely nothing for Quixl'mesh's appetite though. Still, it was a task he had readily accepted when all the other members of his rag tag group of survivors adamantly refused to do. <br/>
<br/>
They looked at the eight foot mountain of muscle with looks of relief, glad to have someone with the constitution to do the kind of dirty work needed to survive in a literal hell-hole Azeroth had become. The three owners of the heads were merely traitors, fel users and demon worshippers who had no business keeping their heads if they were idiotic enough to use them for something like that. He was both executioner to their crimes, gravedigger, and a warning to anyone else with the same intentions. Quixl'mesh merely carried out what was needed to be done, already forgetting the mens names by the time he got around to mounting their heads outside the gates of their sordid fortress. It was three less people to feed and water at the very least. <br/>
<br/>
Wringing his hands of the dirt and blood on a nearby towel, he picked up his mighty hammer and made his way back to the place they called "Light's Stand", hoping for a palatable supper but knowing it would be anything but. They would instead feast mostly on empty meaningless prayers and scriptures while priests and clerics would go about telling of some grand master plan to retake some fortress five hundred yards east of here or some former city three hundred yards south of there and blah blah blah. Quixl'mesh hated it all. He hated being the only one of his kind here. Hated the bloody light worshippers and all their pomp and ass kissing. Hated that he hadn't had a nice wet hot pussy to fuck in over a year now. But even after all that, he hated being dead even more, and outside the fortress...there was no fucking hope whatsoever. The priests of Light's Stand always made excellent use of a man like Quixl'mesh, being as tall as a giant and strong as a bull, and so they accepted him despite his rather..."non light-worshipping" ways with great enthusiasm, making him their primary warrior and soldier, giving him command of the barracks and making him their go to guy with something needed to die.  So he made his way back, hoping against all hope that something...anything would change for him soon, or that he'd at least get to kill or fuck something.</b><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>