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The Trick Is Seeing What's Under The Skin

Lu Zeitan's picture

Oliver had been in that cell so long, he’d almost forgotten about mirrors.

It was easier than he’d thought. When you’re an animal, you only care about a few things, and you forget anything that doesn’t have anything to do with food or shelter. By the time the potion had finally come to him, he cared for little more than what his next meal would be, and how best to kill the jailor.

He’d forgotten all about mirrors, until he looked into one the next day. 

Oliver dropped the clothes he’d been holding, jumping back, snarling in hostility and surprise as the towering, nude Worgen glaring back at him. It wasn’t until he flattened his ears and bared his teeth, that he remembered just what he was looking at. It was just his reflection, not competition. It wasn’t here to hunt him, or hurt him. It was just there, no other reason.

Oliver stood straighter, shaggy paws taking one, two shaky steps forward (He wasn’t used to bipedalism just yet). Blue eyes, cold and bright as the ice that coated Northrend, took in the form. He’d added some fat to his body, likely just a natural mechanism against the cold. He could work that off within a month, and return to his sculpted, chiseled frame. Oliver had spent hours and hours perfecting his physique when he was young. Some called it narcissism. Oliver just called them jealous.

Still, the more things change, the more they stayed the same. Oliver raised  a claw, lifting a tuft of fur to reveal a line of scar tissue on his shoulder. Some shrapnel, he remembered, from a naval battle long ago, back when the Light was shaped by his own hands. It was gone, now, as were all the titles and rights he’d had to his family.

But he still had the Axe.

Oliver looked to the chair, where it rested, head down. The wicked curves and grooves of the orcish Howling Axe gleamed at him, it’s song echoing in his ears. It had been sharpened and cared for, Oliver noticed; likely by someone who wasn’t ready to give up on him.

Bless that poor captain.

Oliver reached over, Worgen claws gripping the rough leather for the first time. He lifted it up, and turned back to the mirror. This was him, now, he realized, and never to be seen as his old self again. Perhaps Oliver Ironrend had truly died that dark day on the desolate tundra. This was a new Oliver, a more feral and savage Oliver.

Still, Oliver confessed internally, a wry grin coming to his lips as he curled an arm in the mirror, resting the axe on his other shoulder, this Oliver was still just as ruggedly handsome as the last unlucky bastard to bear the name, and that was a feat in itself.


Drogar's picture

A neat concept. I like how

A neat concept. I like how Oliver's high levels of self-confidence helps him accept his new form.