WOW Fan Fiction

Though I don’t have an account of my own anymore, I do have a good friend who lets me have a few toons on his account.  I have seen two of my creations advance to level 80, the limit at this writing. 

Uhhh, when I say “have seen” I mean that though I created them and played them into their 60s or so I really can’t claim much of what came after that nor the shiny gear they now wear.  Feeling somewhat estranged from Buuluchk and Curuada in their current iteration I have decided to recreate them.  That at least is done, now the weary work of advancement.

BUT as I go I plan to watch where they travel and what they do.  These adventures in a world of someone elses creation might be fodder for the writers craft.  This then is a bit of why Buuluchk, the Dwarf Paladin, is the way that he is. 

A note about the name: In Buuluchk’s clan, the prefix Buis a descriptor applied to eldest sons.  Buuluchk’s mother was Ulu.It is not common for a son to be named for his mother, but there was no choice in his case.  He does not know who his father was and Ulu took that knowledge to her grave. She assured him, in his youth, that he was noble and honorable. Likely to compensate Ulu appended the suffix chk which means honorable, or honored.  This suffix is not normally used in naming a child, rather it is more commonly added to a title or honorary.  Ulu’s reasons are her own, it is assumed that she meant well. 

The Honorable Son of Ulu

It was not considered a horrible character flaw in a dwarf, tending to a fierce temper, but Buuluchk was at the end of his patience.  He was at training in arms.  Often it was a great opportunity for him to release the tension of a day spent learning the niceties of spirit, and devotion to deity, the more difficult part by far of what is demanded of a dwarf paladin in the service of light, in Buuluchk’s opinion.

In truth, his difficulty in sitting through lecture after lecture, his inability to sit and meditate on the excellency of the light, his fidgeting and fiddling when he aught to be listening and learning had very nearly seen him tossed out of the order all together.  This training for the business of war was solace.  Rather normally it was, but today he was paired with the glib tongued Laudbrue.

“Honored son of the woman. . .”  Laudbrue hurled his insults with his attacks. “Honored son . . .    . . . of Ulu.”  And he laughed his petty laugh and acted as if he were teaching Buuluchk, as if he were his master, as if, for Buuluchk, this exercise wasn’t shield training so that he must withold blows because the master-at-arms had ordered it.

Laudbrue was older than Buuluchk by a year and a bit more, but more importantly he had been Buuluchk’s nemesis since childhood.  Hatred was an apt description of Buuluchk’s feelings toward Laudbrue and Laudbrue, for his part, had always been contemptuous of Buuluchk.  Who can say why it was, but it was indeed.

“What dangles by your side honored son?  Is it an arm, is that a weapon?” Laudbrue bashed Buuluchk’s shield with his mace and smirked, “Look all you! The honored son of a turtle.” This time Laudbrue carelessly leaped into the air in an attempt to strike Buuluchk an even harder blow.

“Quiet there you two.  Stop your playing and stick to work!”  Said the master-at-arms.  Ah the wrongness of Buuluchk being charged though silent while this pustulence dances and preens and flaps his vile mouth.

Thump, bang, clatter, shift and faint, but withhold, all the while the smirking Laudbrue cat-calls and mocks loudly enough to have fellow paladins snickering.  “Are you too weak Buuluchk?  I would have thought that your weapon arm was fit enough, you haven’t used it.”  There was a chorus of snickering laughs all around them, Buuluchk’s face burned as red as his beard.  Laudbrue dropped his guard as the master was busy giving instruction far off, “gods be good Buuluchk, you are pathetic.  Can’t you fight?” he snickered, “Well, son of the woman?”

“I could crush you. . .”, hissed Buuluchk.

“OH, crush me will you? Witness, see how he says so behind his shield.” Laudbrue dropped his hands completely to the side. “Admit, you don’t dare strike a real dwarf.”

“Come on Bullocks,” Laudbrue waved his shield at Buuluchk, “Have a go if you are a man at all.”

“I’d strike you, bastar. . .” He began a curse he couldn’t finish and a ripple of titters went out among his fellows.  Laudbrue struck a wallop that rang off his shield.  I could have destroyed him as if he were still standing without guard, thought Buuluchk, but the Master-at-arms says I must not.

“Me bastard?” Laudbrue laughed evilly.  “I?  The son of Bruall?” Laudbrue swung his mace wildly overhand.

The blow rattled Buuluchk’s teeth and made his arm ache, ” . . . you act one,” He said, “better to act or to be?”

Laudbrue’s eyes narrowed, “Who is your father then honored son of Ulu?” Laudbrue put all his strength into another bone-crushing over-hand smash, “Do you know, son of the woman? Do you?”

Laudbrue seemed unhinged, berserk, he rushed at Buuluchk, raining blows carelessly, battering away at his shield while Buuluchk gave ground. He laughed and taunted even more than he struck. 

“Fight turtle!” He swung and swung. “See?  He won’t fight, he can’t fight, he is a woman’s son and no man at all.”  Paladins around them were sparing an eye for the brawl, or an ear, some had stopped their training altogether to watch. Laudbrue’s attacks became ever more unbalanced, reckless, and erratic, but Buuluchk was tiring, both of the attack and the insults.  “Honored son? HAH! son of a whore.” 

Laudbrue reared back, preparing a devastating blow.  Buuluchk saw that Laudbrue used his shield as nothing but a counter-weight.  “I’ll show you your worth,” Laudbrue spit and charged, he leaped to add that momentum to his blow, his shield forgotten. 

But Buuluchk was not there.  He crouched, his leg muscles bunching for what he knew must come next.  He thrust, legs, shoulder and arm coming inside Laudbrue’s blow and drove his shield into his tormentor’s face.  Teeth and jaw shattered with a satisfying crunch.

*  *  *

The water roused him as much for the sting as it ran down his tortured back as for the coldness in his face.  “Come now boy, you have to be awake for them all.”  The trainer said almost kindly, “Just two more Buuluchk.”

The pain was exquisite.  His back was raw agony, but it seemed crueler to be woken from the pleasant memory of what had brought this beating than the pain that would pass.  Buuluchk chuckled a little and then in as clear a voice as he could muster said, “Well then, I can’t remember past twenty-seven.  I think you’ll have to give me three.”

For that, if nothing else, Buuluchk was remembered in the halls of Iron Forge.