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[“FER THE HORDE!”]

"The feeling was an odd one, twisting, contorting your flesh and bone apart only to arrange it again in the same way. The differing environment hit you first, the warm yet wet jungle of Tanaan replaced by a harsher, colder, soggy morass that hits your throat with foul alien air thick and hard to swallow and as you spluttered to breathe, your sight was dulled by the black skies." -Gashuk Felhand

“Grhm, how far we've come”, thought Gashuk as a hardy bash to his shoulder knocked him back to sense ordering him to join the ranks of the Horde. All Clans now stood side by side, fresh from the onslaught of their homeworld, victors seeking a new challenge. Garrak stood tall, proud adorned in the finest shamanic robes stained by blue draenic blood with skulls hanging by his belt where his totems would've hung, “Bloodfire, m'Son! Behold this new world, it's ours fer t'taking pup!”, his eyes glowed a fierce proud red and as Gashuk joined the forces, more chants of glory and thumps of encouragement fell upon him; his own eyes mirroring the red of his kin as his lips opened to join the chants.

“FER THE HORDE!”

In the coming days, scouts had been sent ahead and reported more swampland lay ahead of where the Orcs had landed, yet some areas were fit for building upon, this was the first priority according to the Warchief and every Orc from the humble Peon to the mighty Warlock had to build. Summoning a mass of shadow energy and binding it, Gashuk ordered the muscular Voidwalker to lift for him, travelling bags of stone across the wet swamp, “Juk'gorg, with haste, t'Chief wants a dry place t'rest t'night!”, the mindless void mass groaned driven ahead alongside many more enslaved to the ex-Shaman. It took a few more days but by the fifth sunset the outpost of Rockard towered above the swamp overlooking the undiscovered north, “Bloodfire, with me.” came a summon from the revered Garrak mounted ontop of a jet black wolf, “Grab yer wolf, pup, we're joinin' a scoutin' party seems they've found somethin'.” The words formed a cruel smirk around the Elder's tusks as Gashuk hurried off to find his wolf, the demonic blood they all devoured had well and truly taken hold by now and to be frank every Orc, Blackrock to Shadowmoon was itching to fight and feel the release of sense to bloodlust. “Take me, Warlock, I will defend your old bones!” barked a Orc with one eyesocket empty, “Yer more than welcome, Orc, bu' I require no defence, defend yerself.”, the Orc mocked a salute and mounted his own riding Wolf as Gashuk hurried alongside the two, a twisted dagger strapped to his side.

“My name is Orrok, son of Orrack”, grunted the companion, his sword hand curled around the hilt of his blade as they rode, “From t'Dragonmaw Clan”, as indicated by his colours. The three Orcs were accompanied by three more Blackrock Orcs who were led by the one in the middle, the lean scout who returned with others whispering suspicious findings. “Garrak, of t'Shadowmoon and this is m'son, Gashuk Bloodfire”, grunts were exchanged as respectful greetings and the six rode onwards out of Rockard towards the northern swamp, before long Gashuk started to ponder “I wonder how far t'Blackrock went...” whispered the Orc - “Halt!” growled the scout, as his finger rose to his lips to silence Bloodfire, “Our Scouts 'ave found several encampments along the north of this swamp, maybe something actually poses a threat, heh.” His hand pointed at the smoke rising above the coming trees. “I don't know what they are, others said they're like us, but pink an' weak”, whispered the Scout in a hushed tone, “Regardless we don't know how well they fight, but know they're no mere beast” The Orcs peered between themselves before Garrak spoke up, “Grhm, then we take surprise as our gift an' slaughter whatever it is, we only return with corpses as evidence o' we don't return at all”, his red-eyes deadly serious as his gaze penetrated the Orcs before lingering over his Son as if waiting for his approval. It came, as Gashuk nodded slipping off his Wolf beginning to mutter cruel words that grinded his teeth against his tongue spitting blood to finish the incantation drawing forth a Felhound from the nether, Luushon leaped into existence whipping his tail side by side as he lapped up the blood like water. “Ha”, grunted Garrak as he brought forth his own Fel-Wolf in a similar fashion, Orrok drew his blade and asked the Warlock's to bless it, Garrak stood forth and cut himself on the blade wiping his blackening blood down the length of the steel as it shimmered touched by the foul enchantment and the three Blackrock grunted making their own battle preparations. The Orcs looked at eachother, their readiness given away by their itching sword and spell hands, “On t'count of three”, whispered the Elder, “One...Two...Three!”
                                                 


A group of ten or so pink-skinned beings sat on logs, spit-roasting a pig on the fire with a spear as they settled for rest, whatever armour they owned lay to the side useless and their weapons, if not used as cutlery, too lay tossed aside in the safety of the Morass. The fire cackled, and the Humans laughed and joked at the work ahead. “Old Farmer Johnstone wants us to just find that soil fer his crops, he reckons it's the best south o' Grand Hamlet, silly coot, in this Swamp I bet it's just our shit”, the oldest Human snapped back twisting the pig on the spear before turning, “Old Farmer Johnstone has been good to us, boy, fed us when noone else would! We wouldn't even have this Pig if it wasn't fer him, so shut up, he said it glimmered and shined, it won't be hard to find.” The fire started to growl, cackling around the pig's flesh blackening it somewhat, “Oi, less moaning at me and more cooking, your burning the pork!”, the fire grew even higher, unnaturally so, “I'm bloody well not...”, growled the old graying Human as he spinned to turn to the spit-roast again, “By t'Light, I made t'best fires in Azer-...”, grins turned to gaping mouths as the fire flashed green disintegrating the Pig as it whipped itself into an inferno lashing at the old man's face leaving burns forcing him backwards tripping over a log as the other human's begun to yell clambering for their weaponry.

In a heartbeat, two twin Felhounds leapt through the chaotic camp-fire with tendrils aimed for the human's neck blasting his head from his shoulders with their magic. The scene turned to hell as the charging Orcs leapt forward leaving the two Warlocks in the background manipulating the Fire like an extension of their own beings burning the encampment to the ground as the pink-skins were cut down to size. Orrok was quickly locked in fierce battle with two who had both held weapons, one wielded a poor excuse for a sword and the other, a mace more suited to beating meat than skulls, yet they held their own and countered the Orc's sweeping blows well, parrying the single sword taking the advantage with their number. Orrok was blinded by battle and thrusted inward, opening himself up to land a killing blow on one of the humans, his cursed blade boiling the pink-skin's blood as he screamed falling to the floor and as the other jolted his sword backwards the Orc blinked seeing the thrust just about to pierce his undefended heart. Mere seconds before the heart was pierced the sword dropped to the floor scrapping just flesh, Orrok blinked once more and looked up as the human grasped at his sword hand that burnt with a glorious entropic flame melting through flesh and bone leaving nothing but a stump allowing the Dragonmaw Orc the chance to land the killing blow. “Which one of you do I owe my life too!”, roared the Orc turning to the Warlock's with a apparent anger, but as he approached the two, the fires they controlled whipped around them in defense before they dismissed the hungry flame. Father and Son stood side by side, their casting as one and both remained not in the slightest fatigued. “Grhm, damn felhands...”, the Orc grunted impressed yet begrudged his honourable death. “Oh shut it an' gather what ye can, Blackhand can't use yer dead, we've only been 'ere five minutes.” grinning at each other, the pair turned to return. “What in t'name of hellfire are these 'pink-skins...'”, “Fel kno's, Father but I wish ye 'adn't ruined the pig...”

Hey! Gashuk is a Bully, not a Creepy Person! 

[“It is indeed true that the elements no longer answer the shaman's call for aid, some of you have, upon discovering this, leaped to a conclusion that what we are doing is wrong. But that is incorrect. What We are doing is achieving power the likes of which We have never seen. My apprentice, the noble Gul'dan, has studied these powers. I will let him answer any questions you have.”*]

“Imagine your Axe disappearing from your hands, your Shield crumble into ash, imagine the feeling of desperation and fear as your kin die around you.”- Gashuk Felhand

Dimmed in the shadows of Oshu'gun they gathered, Shaman from every clan lay in waiting all gathering for Ner'zhul the Elder Shaman and his loyal Apprentice Gul'dan. Gashuk knew Gul'dan well, being the son of Farseer Garrak was no mean feat and required a hell of a lot of dedication to the Shadowmoon Clan and it's shamanistic core. Gashuk had known many a Kosh'harg festival, spent many a evening in deep meditation within the Mountain's warm hold communing with the orcish ancestors that rest within yet Kosh'harg was months away and with the draenei threat looming down it was clear that the gathering of the Shaman wasn't a occasion of ritual. There was no surprise then Gashuk and the rest of the Shaman of higher status were the first to march to the Mountain of Spirits in demand to know why or how the ancestors ignored their pleas, this was unlike any gathering before, this was War.

“The Ancestors have forsaken us! We anger them! The Elements ignore our pleas!”, every cry was the same Shaman both young and old angry yet in mourning of the connection they once had, every Clan had suffered losses in this War and especially so now the Shaman had no power over fire, earth, water and wind. Echoed throughout the gathering however came the words of Ner'zhul.

“It is indeed true that the elements no longer answer the shaman's call for aid, some of you have, upon discovering this, leaped to a conclusion that what we are doing is wrong. But that is incorrect. What We are doing is achieving power the likes of which We have never seen. My apprentice, the noble Gul'dan, has studied these powers. I will let him answer any questions you have.”*

Odd, Gashuk thought that Ner'zhul would so readily hand over to his Apprentice, surely this 'power' he spoke of was one he too wielded, regardless every Orc had their head turned to the great Gul'dan as he spoke with even more confidence and finesse than his Master before him.

"What I am about to tell you may be hard for you to accept, but I have faith that my people are not close-minded when it comes to ways to better themselves, just as we were surprised and awed to learn that there were powerful beings other than the ancestors and the elements, we have discovered that there are ways to harness magic other than cooperating with the elements. Power that is not predicated on asking or begging or pleading, power that comes because we are strong enough to demand it to come. To control it when it does. To force it to obey us, bend to our will, rather than the other way around."*

It sounded too good to be true, the Shadowmoon Shaman had heard whispers of this new Power, the kind of damage it could deal and some had even scouted sight of the Draenei prisoners that Gul'dan and his chosen few Blackrock Orcs had developed them upon. The same prisoners that Gul'dan ordered to be marched with him to the Mountain laying shackled and defeated on the floor, the same prisoners that now had fire and shadow launched at them by the once Shaman and their new...Well they could only be described as Pets, scraping the floor with their curled nails, small to be sure but the fire they unleashed looked wicked and with every successful bolt they squealed in glee. Others had summoned different pets, blue masses of energy that beat the prisoners with large fists of shadow and some even had batlike wings, hooves and a fair body squeezed into leathers that wielded cruel whips that cracked by the Shaman's sides.

It wasn't any of these however that caught the attention of Gashuk, no, it was the creature on all fours, large spiked tendrils emitting from it's back as it snarled and bore teeth like a savage wolf. This was glorious, could this truly be the answer? Yes, it had to be and as the shouts grew in tempo, Gashuk reared his head and yelled alongside his kin “For the Shaman!”

"NO! No longer are they shaman. They were abandoned by the elementsâ€"they will call them no longer and beg for their aid. Behold those who have power, and who are not afraid to wield it. Behold , . . the warlocks!" *

Gul'dan's words pierced through the gathering like a knife, Warlocks. It felt so right. Eagerly Garrak pushed to the front of the gathering and alongside his fellow Shadowmoon deftly drew blades to sacrifice blood in honour of the creatures, Gashuk swiftly followed suit and immediately drew to his bloodpool came one of the wolf-demons, licking the powerful blood like a pup to water, slurping it eagerly. Gul'dan cackled, Ner'zhul was nowhere to be seen now but nobody cared. They all circled around the Blackrock that had been gifted the first Warlocks and demanded to know their tricks, their sorcery and one by one the instructions were shared, large tomes called Grimoires were offered and before long the powerful once-Shaman had grasps over what they were about to use.

Gashuk's attention had never left the wolf-demon, now known as a Felhound, trained to be a Felhunter by their master and it was time to summon his own. Apparently these creatures reacted to those who knew their names and part of Gul'dan's gift was a scroll covered in blood red ink reading names of these creatures in which the new Warlock's deftly called out in their incantations. Luushon, it felt like a song around Gashuk's tongue, soft and tribal. It was perfect and as he drew his breath drawing energy from within himself he called out the soft name, not once, but six times as taught and had offerings of his Blood and talbuk meat around him ready for the starving hound. The feeling was like no other, it was a rush that even the fire spirits couldn't evoke as two minds became one, the Felhunter Luushon charging to his Master's call eagerly devouring the offerings like a savage wolf. Grinning, Gashuk turned to his Father, who also summoned a Felhunter. Immediately the two ordered their minions to leap upon the prisoners, and under a legion of demons, the two tortured draenei cried their last screams.

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*, excerpts from the Rise of the Horde by Christie Golden.

Ah well I feel a bit better now that I know that things are in the pipeline, takes a small weight off my shoulder. I won't worry myself with organizing/planning things yet then, I'll leave things to you and the usual planners.

I shall however keep my mind ticking regarding Oshu'gun and Shamanism. I want that to be spectacular for all involved.

Please feel free to continue to use this thread for discussion and planning for Kosh'harg, may it be a good one.

Oh quite! Yet the point of this is to make plans, so make them

In terms of Oshu'gun, we need to make proper events about it with Shamanism, Visions and whatnot. Not cheese on toast

I discussed it with Maz, she said she was the only Shaman that did anything and as this was meant to imply, this post is mostly about them.

However this isn't about what we do or what we did, it's about planning. Week long event or day? Tournament or no tournament? I assume only Kozgugore makes these choices. :s Yet I admit, I don't know.

Aye it does, I'd certainly want to involve the real deceased Ancestors of the Tribe!

So as far as I am told, Kosh'harg is usually held in Feburary so it's about time it was planned, no? That is, if we're going to get our green butts off of Northrend to make the traditional pilgrimage, which I hope we do!

Firstly, I would like to offer the idea of having a weeks worth of events to honour it, making Garodar and Nagrand our point of interest for the week. These events would consist of many different aspects of a traditional Kosh'harg, as depicted in Rise of the Horde, including but not limited to; feasting, sparring tournaments, hunts, story telling and everything else you could plug into Campfire RP for which I know OotRB is famous for.

Furthermore, as a Shaman, I would like to perhaps plan something a tad special for the Shaman of the Tribe. Oargoth, being as old as he is, remembers old Kosh'hargs, in which all the Shaman of all the Clans entered Oshu'gun and undertook rituals in attempt to contact and commune with the Ancestors bringing back prophetic messages to their respective clans. I am under the impression that this was simply done by our wonderful High Blade Thur'ruk, Mazguul, in the past and frankly that is a shame.

I propose that all Shaman of the Tribe, perhaps even other Spiritual Orcs such as Sadok who isn't a Shaman but still reveres the Ancestors, enter the Mountainside and within we conduct a ritual including inhaling of certain smokes, devouring certain blood and meat and with any luck, contact the Ancestors. This should be a serious, proper event, not just one or two Orcs wondering into the Mountain and going afk.

But I see what you might think, this would limit the amount of Orcs in the Tribe that can take everything out of Kosh'harg, and to that I answer this. Firstly, whilst the Shaman shimmy off to do these tasks, I propose an event is run alongside it for the outsiders. Perhaps the tournament that I mentioned prior. Secondly, as I have been told has been done in the past, I propose that a thread be opened where all Orcs can mention something, if they wish, that may be revealed in prophecy. This way it has the potential to affect every Orc's life within the Tribe, which it should.

To conclude however, rambling aside, I've made this thread to discuss this year's Kosh'harg should we be having one and see what will or will not be happening. Whether it be a week long event, or a day, I hope for this to be a great Festival!

-The Dark Portal is opened once more and a shattered Draenor lays within it, troubled by this, Oargoth contemplates whether Azeroth is truely the home of the Orcs or if Draenor is worth returning to. Deciding no, he continues to note the arrival of Garrosh Hellscream, and reveres him due to his uncorrupted state-


Where is 'ome, I wonder, where one lays down
Wit' a frown at te end o' a days work.
O' where ye come from wit' Orcs coloured brown,
Past te endless Void where all troubles lurk.
Redemption struggles against corruption,
Glazed o'er in te Orcish eye o' I,
An' ye an' me avoid soul-destruction.
We follow te Brown, 'ear 'is voice fly 'igh,
'Is temper, tempers, te steel in our hearts
An' our passion ignites fire itself.
True Orc, free be he, as 'is preachin' starts,
Te leave nay Pinkskin, te free nay dark elf.
Yet 'War' Chief 'imself, did free all our souls,
Tis sad, te young fool, does nay share our goals.

-Kul'tirian Marines encroach the shores of Durotar, once again, Orcs face the Humans. Yet Thrall seems removed from the struggle, the name Proudmoore rings in his head and Oargoth, angered, criticizes his former idol. In his eyes, the Daughter, nay all the Pinkskinned should pay for the Father's sins.-


I thought I felt te cruel touch o' Dae'mons.
Freed, I believed, we be from te Pinkskins,
Te cause o' our Spirits tha' abandons
Us whilst history repeats due te sins.
Be ourselves crushed once more in this new world?
O' can our adored saviour rise once more
An' show, why 'e be te Warchief, so bold!
Bold an' strong, imbued, but 'e 'as a flaw.
Te Pup-Shaman, rumours tell, was born an' bred
From te teat o' a Human, milk so weak.
'E never tasted She-Orc, full an' fed.
Is this why 'e's so wary an' so meek?
From Draenor we did spawn, strong, fierce an' proud,
So why be I seein' Pink when I'm bowed?

-Orcs fuel their Bloodlust once more on the Demon Blood. Cenarius is slain and Kalimdor is at a height of War since the Orcs landed on the dusty shore, Oargoth, a bystander to all of this chaos criticizes the actions of the Orcs-who-drank-twice and meditates on the true reason behind the War, a reminder, perhaps.-


Heroes be fools in ligh' o' common hope,
Can't but 'elp themselves te die fer our 'cause'.
Lets pause. Our cause? Te fools got 'igh on dope
Drinkin' like cubs from a teat on all fours.
So wha' tha' they proved that God's kin still bleed
When, wha', how, tha' doesn't even matter,
Te Elves are fueled by an anger we feed.
An' we still 'and them Wars on a platter.
But grass is worth fightin' fer, I kno' this.
Food is needed te survive after all.
Lands te 'unt on, fer Pups te feel true bliss.
As they learn te kill on feet, 'stead o' crawl.
'Least tha's wha' I thought we were fightin' fer,
Orcs deserve life on this alien shore.

-In regards to the actions of the New Horde, Wars perhaps unnecessarily started, Oargoth ponders on his position and if War is the best course of action, coming to a rather unconvincing answer of Yes-

Starved enough te start a War like before,
Moonligh' keeps me from my sleep, I'm sick, drowned.
Bound, Spirit's don't kno' whut we're fightin' fer,
Am I a noone o' am I renowned?
Ancestors guide us back te damnation,
Soulsick I follow me'Pack unneeded
Bu' who is who, wha' rank means wha' station?
Wilds whisper o' Sheep as I pleaded
Te rise all as Wolves, slay thy pray cattle.
My foes turn from Pinkskins te task masters,
Te Great-Hut deserves more before battle.
War, like before, surely tells disasters?
Te Hunt's embraced by all unrequited
I, ignore, embraced passion reignited.

*Scrawled in red ink on dirty, even sodden parchment, reads.*

-In the founding of Orgimmar, what makes an Orc a Hero or a Peon? Oargoth, alone and confused, notes that perhaps the true Heroes of the Horde aren't the mighty Warriors, but the humble Peon as the New Horde struggles to pull itself together in the light of the new World.-

Blood pumps, thumps, me 'eart wholly asunder,
Our Pup o' a City, Our noble race
Anew, reborn, once imbued with thunder,
Seems suddenly chaste, hunted, out o' pace.
A Pack split, howlin' out o' te rhythm,
Who am I te bring Us back tegether?
Te make te Blood pump free wit'out schism.
Yet riddles utter, “Birds o' a Feather”,
But where, for dreams pass me by unexplored
As I lose me'self in visions o' pain,
I'm suddenly one Orc, lone in te Horde.
Who will be there te pull me, us, back sane?
As Heroes surround tales o' bloody glory,
Te Spirits tell o' te peon's story.

-As poverty sinks in and Durotar proves itself a harsh mistress, who is to say that Orcish pride didn't diminish and Thrall's pedestal loosen? The new Elements of Azeroth surpass traditional methods of Orcish Shamanism and Oargoth writes about his, and his Race's struggle, to survive. Perhaps it's impossible-

Growls keep me awake at night, in a fright,
Tho' I fight an' I fight lookin' alone
Fer te reason te live on through this plight.
Yet te whisperin' chills me te tha' bone,
An' te Earth ignores my pleas te swallow,
Fire detests my hunger fer burning.
Water, spirit o'  Life, leaves me hollow,
An' even Wind ignores me strong yearnin'.
Alien, this new Land, full o' poverty,
Wild an' free from Orcish dominance.
Spared Draenor's curse spawnin' from ye an' me,
Seems te Spirits exude confidence.
Our medicine tastes bitter doesn't et?
“Lok'tar ogar”, just false hope, I admit.

((Inspired by Morgeth's necroed thread, I decided to post the in progress poetry scrapbook of Oargoth's time during the founding of Orgrimmar. I'll add to the list of sonnets once I write more. Enjoy! ))