Ranks: A History of Blades

[Morgeth]

These are stories meant to serve as explanatory text, and inspiration, regarding the Red blade tribe's officer ranks. They are written to depict the tribe's past, when it was still a clan living on Draenor.

There are three different stories, each assigned to a specific rank. They all follow the same storyline, so they should be read in order.

1. Blood of the Varog'Gor
2. Visions of the Thur'ruk
3. Howls of the Rrosh-tul

[Morgeth]

Blood of the Varog'Gor

As the sun broke down over the tall, green trees, a flock of black birds lifted to seek shelter beyond the edge of this vast forest. Below the branches resided what can only be described as a village of orcs, teeming with the life of daily labours. It would be wrong to say that things had always been like this, because conflict - it seems - lies in the blood of any race of the world. But these orcs, despite the red blade that had given them their clan name, could now enjoy a time of relative quiet. But as those very birds lifted from their tree, it seemed that time may well have reached its end.

A party of five orcs had arrived, daring to hold the colours of their clan banner high, even in these lands, which they had never held the strength to call their own. Their weapons remained undrawn, and so the trespassers were let into the village, constantly kept under the watchful eyes of its inhabitants. Even the children stopped in their tracks, no longer running around with the worg pups roaming the village, nor falling prey to the alluring prospect of playing with their dulled blades. From several huts, laid in different areas of the village, emerged a certain kind of orcs. They held no similarities in neither gender, nor build or weapon skill, but their eyes were somehow the same, and their steps held a certain confidence. They were the Varog'Gor; the chieftain's handpicked advisors.

As the visiting party drew closer to the chieftain's hut, standing bigger than the rest, several of the Varog'Gor had already arrived. From the strangers emerged a leader, sitting atop a brown-maned worg. The orc gave his head a mocking, little bow in greeting.
"Throm'ka, orcs of the Red blade clan. I am Vrashnak of the Bloodmaw clan. I have come here to have words with your chieftain. I take it he is present and of health?"
A wide-fanged grin revealed the malice behind his facade, that this visitor could no longer keep as a secret. His words, however, soon earned their own reward, as the fur covering the entrance to the chieftain's hut was motioned aside.

From the safety of his own home, emerged Grathork the Wolfking, chieftain of the Red blade clan. His shoulders were broad, his physique at the peak of the male form, but the undoubtedly most notable thing about him was, in fact, a mask. The ragged fur seemed not particularly old, nor worn, but simply ragged, as the heirloom itself was what remained of Magoth, the great wolf that had been tamed by the chieftain's own grandfather; Kraag the Wolfking. No matter their business, visitors would always shy away from the first look of the chieftain's gaze. Perhaps they thought it to be an ominous thing, to be stared down at by such a creature, that even when it had passed, held such a powerful presence. This time, it seemed, was no different.

Vrashnak of the Bloodmaw clan tightened the hold of the reins to his wolf, hiding his bout of nervousness with a snort, before inclining his head to the chieftain.
"Greetings upon you and your clan, chieftain. I am -"
His jaw still hung slightly opened, but the Bloodmaw orc became hushed by the simple, but decisive gesture of a raised hand. A gesture soon followed by the rumble of a dark voice. The chieftain spoke, and his Varog'Gor drew closer, as if feasting on his presence.
"I have heard your name, and your clan. But I have yet to hear of your business here, orc. Bark it out quickly, before you return to lick your master's feet. I have no patience for pups come to bark out of their own territory."

All of the Bloodmaw orcs grew tense at the chieftain's words, for only the dead or a fool, would fail to detect the dismissive rudeness they had come to face with. All of them grew tense, but one. For there was little Vrashnak could do, but smirk in response.
"Oh, chieftain. Your own words bring about my business, for they do in fact concern territory. Your nearby woods here provide your clan with the resources they need, but you see, our own lands lie not far, and due to recent circumstances, we have been looking for ways to.. expand."
The orc licked his lips, barely able to contain a small laugh, before continuing. Always under the watchful eyes of the chieftain and those sworn to protect him.
"The ogres south of here, a vicious bunch. I know you have had your troubles with them before. But you see, my chieftain holds not only strength in the arm that wields his axe, but he is also a master of diplomacy. Despite their somewhat clumsy manner, ogres can make for perfect allies, don't you agree? Especially for a chieftain that seeks to enhance his territory. I come to you simply as an act of courtesy, to tell you that our hunters might come to encroach on what you.. call "your" lands."
The fiendish smirk remained upon Vraknash's lips as he peered up towards the chieftain standing just a few feet away.

By now, some of the Red blade villagers had already drawn their axes, eager to cut down those who came so eagerly, so boldly, and tried to lay claim upon what they had so long called their own. The rumble in the chieftain's voice became even more noticeable as he snarled down towards the orc in front of him.
"Your hunters?"
A small chuckle preceded the answering words, and was enough of an insult for the chieftain to lift his hand, letting it grasp firmly around the hilt to his blade.
"Oh", spoke Vrashnak. "Perhaps some of our scouts, and as our numbers grow, you might notice our huts in the distance. I am sure we will all learn to get along. Perhaps your clan will grace the Bloodmaw with gifts, seeing how well we work along with others." Hungry eyes lifted, as Vrashnak peered over to a lone female, standing outside of her hut to view visitors and chieftain alike. His leering gaze at her was greeted with the simple pulling of a crude, but most likely effective knife, that she used to skin her game. Vrashnak chuckled once more, and his gaze carried a certain glow, as he turned back to the chieftain.
"Or, if you do not find the view to your liking, chieftain. Well, then I hear there are sites for villages to be built further up north. Rocky ones, but in these crowded times, we orc must adapt, don't we?"
The party of visiting Bloodmaw were washed over by a wave of amusement, and now even they dared peer over to the masked chieftain, as if trying to see if his visage had faltered, if a dent had been made in his resolve.
"We will not linger for long, as it would be a shame to waste your resources, now that they have most likely become ever so precious to you, chieftain. My own clan, however, will expect to hear of your reception of these news. Perhaps a token of the lasting friendship between our clans would suffice, or - if you wish to take that path - I shall return empty handed."

At this point, the chieftain's gaze turned towards his most trusted. The claws upon the wolf that was his clan; his prized Varog'Gor. They stared back at him in silence, but in their eyes shone the unified rage of a beast awoken. The chieftain's muscled arms broke apart, as if embracing the visitors into his home and heart, but from his jaws erupted a deafening roar.
"Varog'Gor! Give them our reception!"

There is a certain beauty to brown skin, steel, and shed blood. The chieftain could appreciate all of it, as the carnage unveiled before him. The Varog'Gor poured down the steps like a flood upon a child having strayed too far into the river. From afar he watched, almost gripped in awe of the ever changing view. A Bloodmaw clumsily reaching for his axe, only to feel the sharpness of two daggers driven into his neck by a female agile enough to jump up on the orc's own wolf, granting him a swift passage to whatever ancestor that would greet him. Her bloodied hands were soon lifted, only to swiftly paint her face with the blood of her kill, and under the chieftain's watchful eye, the female Varog'Gor let out a fearsome howl. She was greeted with the raised axes and blades of a village in triumph. They celebrated her savage nature; they basked in it.

They worked together, and that was the true essence of it. Like a pack of wolves, they tore the Bloodmaw apart, limb from limb. They even had the good taste to make it last, repaying insult with pain. When only Vrakash remained, his broken arms restrained behind his back, the chieftain strode forward. He was interrupted in doing so, as his eyes - and the Varog'Gor alike - were drawn to someone struggling to get to the Bloodmaw emissary. She would have been stopped, but the chieftain saw no reason for it. Instead he signaled to give the female orc a free path, as she strode forward; skinning knife in her hand and murder in her eyes. A bubbling attempt at diplomacy, or perhaps yet another insult, began to form over Vraknash's lips, but was never allowed to reach its crescendo. The female stomped forward, and with a loud scream, she let her crude knife slash over his eyes, as to never let him gaze upon her again. When she raised the dagger a second time, however, the blood-faced Varog'Gor stepped in, snaking a strong arm around the female's chest, only to hiss into  her brown ear.
"Calm your blade, sister. He is but a blind rat, and not worthy of such wrath. His final fate is decided by the chieftain."

The chieftain granted his bloodied advisor a little smirk in gratitude, before he - finally - stood in front of the still screaming, now blind orc. A mocking slap, one a master gives its bitch dog when it makes too much noise, was granted over Vraknash's cheek.
"Now listen to me, Vraknash of the Bloodmaw clan. This part of the woods, and the lands that surround them, belong to the Red blade clan. Now your chieftain will have to ask for my permission to even set one foot near it, or any of his ogre whores for that matter, or I shall fill his ass with so many arrows he will think a gronn mated with him. Return to him, like the mutt you are, lick his feet and tell him this. The Red blades bow to no clan, especially not as despicable and weak as your own. Know the stench of your brothers blood, for you will smell it aplenty, Vrasknash."
As the Varog'Gor holding the Bloodmaw orc's arms stepped aside, the chieftain gave his chest a firm push, shoving the orc down into the puddle of the gathered juices, still seeping from the corpses of those Vraknash had arrived with.

Hours later, he would still be crawling over the village paths, leaving behind a bloodied trail, as he searched for a way back to those who had sent him. Again the children of the Red blade would play, daring each other to run close to the orc, and whisper the secrets of his fate. For they knew, as well as he, that he was already dead. His spirit was simply held back, by that useless husk that remained of his flesh.

That night, the chieftain's Varog'Gor stood in front of him inside his hut, and spoke the words of war. In truth, they nurtured not only his safety, but the tribe as a whole, and he was bound to that as much as they were bound to him. "Then it is decided, that instead of waiting, we shall strike the first blow. Take the fight to them, and the ogres. It will give the village the benefit of escaping unharmed, should we succeed. And should we fail", the chieftain peered around the gathered orcs, nodding to himself as to finalize his decision. "It will give time for some to escape."

The Wolfking's gaze moved over the faces of those closest to him in the pack, their faces illuminated by the strong flames of a nearby fire. With a low grunt, his hand was raised.
"I shall not go to war without the wisdom of the ancestors and elements bestowed upon me. I need her council. Send for the Thur'ruk."



A short explanation of the Varog'Gor
The Varog'Gor, or Wolf Claws, are, as the name implies, the claws of the wolf. Where the tribe is the wolf, the Varog'Gor are the claws with which the tribe is kept safe. As the Chieftain's loyal bodyguards, they do not only ensure his safety at all times, but they also make sure to deal with any threat that may lurk behind the scenes, whether it be within the tribe or outside of it. Donning themselves with wolf furs and heads, they give an image for any orc to strive for, as their very presence hints towards the bestial nature of ravenous worgs. The Varog'Gor share a sacred bond of sorts with the Thur'ruk, as they too play a great part within the circle of the Cult of the Wolf.

[Morgeth]

Visions of the Thur'ruk

The coming of night can mean so many things. For some it brings forth the hour of the hunt, when blood is to be shed and the craving hunger can finally be slaked. Whilst for others, it is a signal for retreat to the safety of one's home or family. For Khea it was both, and also more. She sat there, by a creek far north of her village, with her naked feet deeply dug into the mud at the bottom of it, feeling the cold water splash far up her ankles. Through peace, and war, some things seemed to always stay the same. Neither would make this creek run faster, for example. This, she had been told, was why the elements would not be budged over such simple things such as the small trifles of the mortals who still walked this earth.

But Khea could not help but wonder if war could not change even the flow of a creek like this. Some orcs simply held little respect for the way of things, and paid more heed to that which could only be written in blood. Was it then so unwise for the elements to choose side, if one clearly held them closer to the heart than the other? In the end, she could ponder such questions endlessly, but even if this creek had time to contemplate its flow, her clan was running thin on just that. Despite the clan ranks being filled with warriors, both cunning and fierce, it was her words that would weigh heaviest on the chieftain's ears. Khea knew this, because she was currently the clan's only Thur'ruk, and no chieftain of the Red blade would witlessly throw away the opinions of the ancestors or elements.

Their faith in her would surely lessen, would they only know how clueless she felt at such a dire time as this. The Bloodmaw clan had declared war, and in response, the chieftain would turn and attack them. Sometimes a wise wolf bites first, he had said. Khea could agree with that, but her personal opinion meant just about as much as talbuk crap in such a matter. At least that was how she felt right now. In truth, she was but a child in her own opinion. Perhaps past it in body, with a few good years behind her at that, but a task such as this seemed simply overwhelming. Sighing to herself, the young orc looked up towards whatever stars dared shine through the network of branches above her head. Her mind drifted towards the old teachings, and companionship, of her tutor Hargun. Many years ago, he and the other Thur'ruk had come to the hut of her parents, only to inform them about the qualities they had seen in their daughter. Over the years, these wise orcs had all died, or gone missing. Hargun had been the last to pass. He had done so only after countless of speeches, assuring Khea that she was ready. Had he seen her now, she suspected he would not have been so sure.

Enough, Khea finally thought to herself. The pity had to end, and it did so here. She had been chosen, regardless of all, and had taken upon her this duty. In the end, it mattered little that she was out here alone, because from what she had been taught, no orc was ever alone. You need only embrace the things around you. As she leaned back, the Thur'ruk became ever so more aware of how the water flowed around her legs, and how the muddy dirt nestled in between her toes. She heard the wind sing between the trees, seemingly playful in nature, but with a hidden promise of destruction yet to come. Fire, she told herself, had always been in her heart, but just to be sure, she had lit a small campfire just next to her. The warming flames cast light anew upon these wooden halls, creating shadows that stretched far beyond Khea's sight. She was part of this, she told herself, even if that part would - in the grand scheme of things - be a rather small one.

The leaves whispered above her head, sharing secrets of what this shaman was trying to accomplish. Khea smiled to herself, even as she retrieved the dagger from one of her bags and clenched the hilt of it in her right hand. Her eyes closed, and as the dagger cut into the palm of her left hand - ripping into it a deep wound - the young shaman spoke. Not only with her lips, but her mind as well, reaching for those elusive spirits that defined the world she lived in.
"Of earth, water, fire and wind we are all made. The wilds breathe into us the creatures that we are. Long have we honoured this understanding; to give and take. Long have we honoured you, those that define us, because in the end, we are one."
Khea paused, taking in the sensation of the cut burning over her hand, and hearing the thick drops of blood hit the gentle stream of water flowing underneath. She eventually sighed, shaking her head, before continuing with an almost dire urgency in her voice.
"War is upon my clan. Death is a natural thing, but whilst I do not fear it, I would wish for my clan to survive. For the voices of them and our ancestors to be carried throughout time itself, because we are strong, and we are dedicated. Not only to ourselves, but to the world around us. We follow those who are of the wolfking's blood, and as the wilds embraced him, I would wish they still hold us in favour. I ask you not to choose us above any other, but grant me the knowledge that you are still with us. Give me.. a sign."

Khea's eyes opened, holding hope and expectation in them, as she quickly glanced around the dark woods surrounding her. It was all still. The creek kept running, her feet was still dirty, the wind still seemed to whisper, and the fire right next to her peacefully licked its way around the dry wood. The young shaman grunted, perhaps even in disappointment, before gritting her teeth in a little hiss, and looking down to her hand. The blood flowed freely from her palm, more so than she thought it should. Perhaps she had cut too deep. Now that would be just grand, would it not? Wounding her own hand before they would ride out into war. When all this was over, she would not only be a bad Thur'ruk, but a lousy staff-wielder to boot. As she leaned back, reaching for something in her bag to tie around her bleeding hand, Khea's ears perked to a sound not too far away.

Her body stiffened as on the opposite side of the creek, just a bit further down from her own position, emerged a small pack of worgs. The enormous creatures seemed at first like naught but a mess of black, ragged fur and fangs, but as Khea kept staring at them - she could not keep herself from it - she could tell that there was more to their unity than just that. The largest worg stood aside the creek, leaning in over it to sniff the dark waters. His eyes rose, meeting with those of the orc opposite of him, but he did not lunge at her. Instead his attention returned to the water, sniffing it once more, before letting his large tongue lap over it. Khea gasped, which in a different situation would have rewarded her with a feel of fangs against throat, as she looked down upon the worg. But she did not do so because of his size, or his feral nature, but rather the fact that the water he was currently drinking was heavily stained with her own blood. She could not see that it was from this distance, but some part of her could still tell that it was. The worg was tasting her blood. Soon the beast lifted its massive head, and locked gaze with the shaman once more. From behind its massive paws stirred something significantly smaller, and out from the bushes a pair of worg pups emerged, sniffing their father's fur in keen interest. Khea's jaw slackened slightly as the beast lifted its head, letting a loud howl echo throughout the darkness of the woods. And as the worg sang his song - of war, strength, and misery - the fire next to Khea grew larger, the creek's flowed stronger, the dirt's hold of her grew more intense, and the winds played along in the beast's tune.

Once the worg had finished his howl, his gaze briefly scanned the presence of his young pups, before turning to view Khea once more. Licking its muzzle, the large creature seemingly inclined its head towards her, before turning to stalk back into the woods, closely followed by his pack. The young shaman sat motionless, gripped in awe, before her lips produced the only words she could think of.
"Thank you."
With pain and worry forgotten, Khea scrambled to her feet, and assembled what few things she had brought with. As she did so, numerous howls began to echo in the distance. Some more far away than others. A worg's song, it seems, is never one sung alone. Basking in the presence of the wilds, Khea began to run back towards her own village, her naked feet navigating over moist dirt and crooked roots. The worgs of the woods let their blessing echo around her. War would come, and blood would be spilled, as is the way of things.

Back at the village, a lone chieftain stood outside his hut, his gaze turned towards the dark woods that had served as a home for his clan for so long. Underneath the powerful mask made of the fur of Magoth himself, the chieftan frowned, as the woods themselves seemed to come alive in feral song.
"Big pack", the chieftain muttered to himself. "They must be gathering to hunt."
He was just about turn to enter his hut, when something came racing around a corner, bumping into his chest with such a force behind it that it would have landed the runner on its rear, had he not gripped the orc's arms. With a snarl upon his lips, the chieftain prepared a scolding for whatever frail-minded orc that had been foolish enough to almost cause him to topple over, but the flicker of a torchlight's flame shed enough light on the other orc's features for his anger to be stilled. Instead a small smile crept up over his lips, as he gently squeezed the Thur'ruk's shoulders, before letting her regain her composure.

The young shaman, not keen on resting after having had such a long, intense run back, raised her bloodied hand to silence the chieftain, even though any words had yet to be spoken. The urgency of her own voice built up instead, as she grabbed onto the chieftain's wrist.
"Chieftain, I- The wilds, the spirits. They have..", she wet her lips, looking up to the wolf mask so close to her own face. It struck her, all of a sudden, how much the mask looked like the worg she had met out in the woods. Moments passed. Eventually, the chieftain cleared his throat, and leaned forward with a soft grunt. "Mind finishing that sentence for me, Thur'ruk?"

Khea flinched upon the chieftain's words, and the fact that he was now much closer, but soon remembered her appointed task. A feeling of pride washed over her, as she realised she had passed this - her final test - and despite the passing of her tutors, their lessons had stuck with her.
"They have spoken, chieftain. They approve."
The chieftain granted her a smile, but as he turned slightly away to nod, his expression grew more grim. Viewing the nightly sky, the massive orc breathed a loud sigh.
"Then a-hunting we go, my Thur'ruk. Their blessing and yours was all I needed."



A short explanation of the Thur'ruk
The Thur'ruk are the trusted spiritual advisers of the Chieftain. Like a Far Seer is to any other clan, the Thur'ruk are the spiritual leaders for the Red Blades. Their task is not only to give the orcs confidence in the field of battle by blessing them with the ancestors' boon, but to aid those who are in need of spiritual guidance or aid as well. A shroud of mysery hangs over the Thur'ruk, as their ranks are said to be home of the famed, old Cult of the Wolf, long ago founded by the shaman Mruthgor, who managed to make contact with the revered spirit of Kraag the Wolfking.

[Morgeth]

Howls of the Rrosh-tul

The sun's relentless glare was hot upon his skin, but Brolg did not mind. Instead he savoured the feel of the dirt underneath his armoured feet, and the steadfast breathing of orcs and worgs alike. He stood on a small field, surrounded by the gathered forces of the Red blade clan, amongst his brothers and his sisters. His peaked senses allowed him to be aware of the smallest of things, like the bead of sweat escaping down his throat, and the feel of the heavy fur making out the wolf mask fastened to his features. He stood shoulder to shoulder with three other orcs, facing a female clad in soft leather. She had an inviting look to her, the Thur'ruk, but Brolg's mind did not linger onto such thoughts. Today he knew only one thing, and that was how to wage battle.

He, along with those three orcs he stood with, were the Rrosh-tul. At the chieftain's command, they would lead these orcs into war. They would be the chieftain's voice empowered, his limbs grown stronger, and his words enforced. It was no sacred duty, such as that to commune with the spirits, but Brolg had learned that communing through the blade was something to be respected as well. As the Thur'ruk walked their ranks, each of the Rrosh-tul bowed before her, letting her lift a small bowl above their heads, and empty the content of it onto their wolf masks. The rusted scent of blood filled Brolg's nose when it was his turn, as thick streams of it drizzled from the shaman's bowl to his head. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, and could not help but feel a growl grow at the back of his throat, when his posture straightened once more.

His awareness remained peaked, and when his eyes opened again, he could see beyond the ranks closest to him. The Varog'Gor drew close to the chieftain, sworn to protect him, as the Thur'ruk walked amongst the orcs, letting her sheer presence empower them. Brolg's presence was of a different kind. For whatever spirit had blessed him upon his arrival into this world, it had been one dedicated to death. With one look shared between each other, the Rrosh-tul nodded their bloodied heads, and broke their small formation. They spread amongst the gathered orcs, perhaps in an attempt to sniff out any weakness that could endanger the clan. This day, there was no weakness to be found. They had already inspected the weapons of the other orcs, to make sure that no blood would be spilled due to a weak blade or a poorly balanced axe.

Being the senior Rrosh-tul, having served the longest of those ranked like him, Brolg was used to leading his fellow clan members. It never ceased to amaze him, however, how the gathering of such orcs could inspire and shape themselves. He imagined, be it only in his own minds, that even the spirits must be impressed. As Brolg approached the front of the lines, he looked to the chieftain, who in turn nodded at him. Tugging firmly to the reins of his riding worg, the chieftain rode to stand facing his clan. There he drew his blade, grabbing a firm hold of it and raising it for all to see. His voice was loud enough to rise above those of the others, and when the chieftain spoke, the entire clan listened to him.
"Brothers and sisters! Just beyond these fields, down the hills, lie the forces our enemy has been able to drag together. They might be superior in numbers, but this clan is not like ours. They ally with ogres to create the strength which they can not muster themselves."

As the chieftain briefly paused, Brolg looked out over the lines of orcs, and smiled to himself. Such simple words, but when spoken from a chieftain's tongue, they seemed to awaken something within each orc's heart. It was as if the chieftain spoke not only to them, but their ancestors as well, and was able to draw out their collective rage. When the chieftain finally continued his speech, Brolg closed his eyes, eager to enjoy the moment to its fullest.
"They would claim these lands from us, reduce us to honourless visitors upon the dirt which we have treasured for so long. But we will not give up our rights, and these Bloodmaw creatures will soon find that blood will indeed have to be spilled for them to EVER set a foot upon RED BLADE soil!"

The winds themselves seemed to guide the chieftain's voice to the lines at the back of his army, and they responded in a wave of roaring fury. The chieftain grinned, and when he did so, he looked more like the beast upon which he sat, than the calm, collective orc he had been known as for so long.
"Honoured Rrosh-tul, are you with me?!"
Brolg's eyes opened at the chieftain's words, and as he walked the final steps up towards his leader, the orcs behind him began to stomp their feet against the soil, keeping a strong rhythm to which the entire world seemed to obey. He joined his brothers at the chieftain's feet, where they knelt down. The stench of the worg's breath reminded Brolg of its predatory nature, making him proud to share in it. On days like these, he could finally let himself be what he was meant to be. The chieftain nodded approvingly, his growling words concise.
"You know my orders. Carry them out with strength and honour."
The four Rrosh-tul nodded at their chieftain, before slowly getting to their feet. As they turned to face their clan, their weapons rose into the air in a greeting. The chieftain's voice again bellowed over the field.
"Orcs! Welcome your Rrosh-tuls!"
And in the first lines and beyond, weapons were thrust into the air. Spear, axe and blade, all in unison to their greeting roars. The Rrosh-tul would lead the clan into  war, and together they would shed blood in honour of their heritage and ancestors. This was a day to rejoice, for battle would soon be upon them.

Brolg gazed upon his fellow Rrosh-tul and nodded at them. They broke their line, moving instead to the different units that would be under their command. As he arrived at his own unit, Brolg curled a smile to his lips. There waited Jarkor, his son, who held a firm hold of the reins to Brolg's worg. As he lifted a hand to rest it over the head of the large beast, letting it know battle was soon to come, the Rrosh-tul looked down to his offspring. Jarkor was just out of his child years, but already sported muscle older orcs would be envious of. He made for a fine son, and Brolg nodded approvingly.
"Your axes sharp, boy?"
Jarkor smirked, handing the reins over to his father, before patting the hilts of the two axes strapped to his sides.
"Always, Rrosh-tul. I would not fail you on a day like this."
Brolg grunted as he mounted the worg, responding to the beast's restlessness with a little snarl, before he glanced down to his son once more.
"Remember, boy. Ogres may be large, but they are dull in mind and reflexes. Let your blades be quick and deadly."
Jarkor's smirk faded, as he and his father exchanged that final glance, before they both nodded. Brolg turned his wolf around, inspecting his unit, before shouting out to them.
"Don't break formation when we flood their flank. Boworcs, keep focusing your fire on the ogres. Aim for their eyes." He glanced over their faces. Male, female, young and old. They were a beautiful sight to behold, and Brolg bellowed forth a roar. "Blood!"
He did not have to wait long for them to sing to him, their voices blending into a unison.
"BLOOD!"

Brolg snarled in anticipation, and turned his wolf around, so that he could see the chieftain up in front of all the lines of orcs. The burly figure extended its arms once more, and the winds carried the words of the Red blade's leader.
"Rrosh-tul, are we ready for battle?!"
Four bloodied masks were amongst the gathered orcs, and from the mouths belonging to those masks, came the response the chieftain was looking for.
"Lok'tar Ogar, chieftain!"

And so it came that the descendant of Kraag the Wolfking turned his mount around, and led his orc into battle. The gathered forces of the Red blade clan crashed through the fields, driven by their lust for the blood of their enemies, and intent wish on keeping their own lands safe. Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters all came together on this day, where steel clashed and another mark was made into the history of orcs. Accompanied by his Rrosh-tul, his Thur'ruk and Varog'Gor, the chieftain met with the enemy forces and when they collided, the thundering of the earth was felt from afar. Blood would be spilled, as was the way of orcs, and one clan would emerge victorious and continue to thrive.



A brief explanation of the Rrosh-tul
As the numbers within the Red Blade Clan grew, so too did their army grow. With the increasing amount of Nag'Ogar, or Iron Warriors, the need arose to train more of these orcs, as well as to guide them in the field of battle. Inspired by the legendary warriors of old, the Rrosh-tul rose up to be the link between the Chieftain and the Nag'Ogar on the battlefield. Carrying out his exact orders, they would make sure the warriors ended up where they were meant to be, and cut their way through the enemy's ranks under the Rrosh-tul's watchful guidance.