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[If a nightmare is less horrific than reality, is it just a dream?]

Hello!
I am not sure if anyone remembers me, I have been inactive for a while, but with the announcement of WOD and my reading of ‘Rise of the Horde’ and ‘The Lord of the clans’ I have once again gained that hunger to hear Lok’tar Ogar!
This is a short, sombre, tale of Var’agga Wolfblood's last few months. She hopes to return and be accepted once again.

If a nightmare is less horrific than reality, is it just a dream?


A warm haze comes over her as she watches him. His light green skin, just like the fathers’, darts across the plains as he chases the wolf pup. The evening’s low red hue frames the pair, Orc cub and wolf; dodging, running, sidestepping and tackling into the wavy sun kissed grass.
Youth, in all of its primal bliss.


Be it animal or Orc, it does not matter, the two seem to grow, to understand and to form that soul bond. The same connection she once had with her wolf.

As she watches, her brow begins to furrow, eyes squint. It is happening again. It always happens like this. His image becomes a blur, his movements warped, like a smear of paint on canvas. She cannot recall his face, distorted like an object under water, never whole, always fluid. He runs to her, his hooded brown tunic flapping in the wind, arms open, ready for her embrace, mother and child as one. Her burley arms wrap around him, his head nestles between her shoulder and neck. For a second, a fragment in time, she forgets how this ends. how this always ends.

The child’s hooded head tilts back to gaze at his mother, and she cannot help herself but to gaze back. And the pain begins. His colour goes first, from light green through to dark brown then charcoal. His features contort and deform in the seconds this nightmare takes to end. His hooded face, now featureless, begins to crust, like an ancient stone fragmenting and weathered.  Then the once warm embrace turns cold, Stone flesh turns to black ash. His entity, his body, dissipated to nothing. The ash, once skin and bone, is caught by a light breeze and what remains of her son fades on the zephyr like dust in a sandstorm.

She no longer wakes covered in sweat. The nightmare has become part of the routine. The anguish and morning tears have been replaced by an almost debilitating headache.



She had not given the stillborn a name. It was simply ‘He’. After months of nurturing the living being inside her, a visit to an elderly Shaman had shattered her world. The news that the embryo had stopped breathing sent Var’agga into despair. But, the trauma of giving birth was far worse.
She faced the ordeal alone. For eighteen hours she struggled with the searing pain, like muscle being torn from bone, and finally, with a monumental push ‘he’ was born. She had sat watching his lifeless body for what seemed hours.
‘What is it called’, she cried to herself, ‘If a birth brings no life into this world. Is it simply another death…?’


Months on, the pain is still raw. A cut can scar and scab and heal. This was akin to an emotional burn. A mark on her soul. Never to be forgotten.

It had been more months than she could remember since she had seen the blades. The night of the Kosh’harg, the conception, had been the last she could recall. She had not continued on with the rest of the Tribe, she’d stayed behind. Abandoned her oath. Forgot the blood vow she had taken. Dishonoured her family. The child had meant everything. She had sung her Lok’amon to no avail.


Now she would seek out the Tribe. It was the only option left. If they forgave, she would have bridges to build and faith to restore. If they did not, perhaps they would give her the release from life’s grip she so desired.

Apologies for being away for so long, RL has been busy. Hope everyone is well.
Var'agga

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaiSHcHM0PA

Loving these DK insight snippets!

This is my attempt at a campfire story, its a little longer than I'd wanted, and a little more gruesome, hope it doesn't offend anyone. Apologies if there are any lore inaccuracies.

The warm, metallic, sticky taste of blood flooded Kroth’Gar  Snakequiver’s mouth.
Coughing, gaging and spluttering blood down his bearded face he sat, petrified to his charlatan’s bone throne. His wiry, callous fingers gripped the arm rests so tightly, that they began to fracture. Before him stood an Orc holding a blade in one hand and a blooded mass of flesh in the other. Kroth’Gar’s flesh.
‘How? How had this happened? How have I been so…BLIND!’ thought the Orc. It would be sentimental to say that his life flashed before his eyes. But all he could think about was where this story had begun and how it was about to end.

Kroth’Gar Snakequiver was born into the Thunderlord Clan, on the cold planes of North western side of Draenor. As a child he learnt to ride a wolf before he could run. As a teen he could hit a bull’s-eye with an arrow from 100 yards. By the time he had come of age, he was one of the few Orcs that could fire a true shot whilst riding.
He had always arrogantly attributed his name to his dark green skin colour and his skill with a bow. This was not the case, his peers distrusted him, and his elders saw his malicious manner with the pups and his ability to squirm out of any corner he had got himself into. In his early twenties he was exiled from the clan after he had used a wolf as moving target practice. His defence that he’d ‘Hit both eyes before the wolf fell’ further infuriated the clan.

There are some lost years, where even Kroth’Gar cannot remember his path, but the night of the Kosh’Harg festival he would never forget.
He had arrived in Nagrand with the premise to pay his respects to the spirits and hopefully meet up with some old Clan friends. Ale and Pork was abundant, and by the early evening Kroth’Gar was already worse for wear. He had spotted an Orcess named Gul’rash that took his fancy, slender, bright blue eyes and had the air of confidence attained only through respect. Throughout the night Kroth’Gar’s approaches had been knocked back, she was polite at first but after an hour or so she had told him to ‘Stick his arrows up his arse!’ As she left, a drunk and infuriated Kroth’Gar followed her, sneaking in the shadows, until she was alone meandering through the festival tents. Blade in hand, Kroth’Gar pounced on Gul’rash, forcing the dagger between her teeth. He dragged her into the woods, her muffled cries drowned out by the din of the festivals celebrations...
She lay on the nights’ damp grass, naked, shaking, and sobbing; Kroth’Gar drunkenly gathered his things and turned to glance at the Orcess. He stopped, frozen. In the light of the moon, against her pale green skin, he saw a small tattoo. A tattoo of a Red blade.  Enrage by the daunting prospect he had found himself in, Kroth’Gar took the blade to her mouth. ‘WHORE! Your clan will never know of this!’ He Snarled, giggling a little, ‘In fact, you will never utter a word’ Kroth’Gar’s blade slid into her mouth, and with a flick of his wrist he had cut out her tongue.

For the second time in his young life Kroth’gar had been forced into hiding. He fled to the western forests of the Bonechewer clan, and for a few months went unseen, living a nomadic life of the banks of their rivers. Adorning himself with the bones and skulls of the prey he caught with his bow, Kroth’Gar manifested the illusion that he was a Bonechewer Ranger, patrolling the clan’s border. After a fortuitous incident with a Bonechewer clan Alpha (Kroth’Gar had been watching their hunt, and managed to save the Alpha from a bloodwolf pack ambush) he was rewarded with an official blood initiation into the clan.

He impressed quickly. His talents with a bow were put to immediate use training the younger Orcs. Over the next few years Kroth’Gar continued to rise in the ranks of the Clan, He showed no discern for their cannibalistic ways, and at times, when required, would join in. He excelled in the harsh lessons of archery taskmaster, and his elite group of young bowmen were revered within the clan for their sophisticated and efficient approach to battle. By now he had taken three wives and his first and only son, Krommar, was wiry, cunning and emerald green as his father.

At then tender age of ten Krommar was brought on his first hunt with his father and the pack. His inability to hit a single stag with a bow infuriated and embarrassed his father. Incensed Kroth’Gar gave the boy a blade and sent him to find his own meal for the night. In the smoke of the morning campfire there was still no sign of Krommar. Kroth’Gar rounded the pack and readied themselves to go back home, abruptly two small figures appeared in an opening of the forest. A young Orc with a wolf, black as the night, carried an exhausted Krommar upon its back. Kroth’Gar readied his bow, ‘Ave’ you done this!?? I’ll shoot out ya’ eye child!’, the young Orc shook his head. ‘Ya’ best tell me what ‘appened, and sharpish!’ the Orcling remained silent.
Krommar roused, and in a low voice whimpered, ‘He …Saved me… he saved me from the wolves in the night…fed me...I...I.. owe him ma’ life father’ Furious, Kroth’Gar grabbed his son by the tuff of hair at the back of his neck and threw him onto his mount. ‘Ya’ll need saving again bastard after I’m done with ya’!’. Kroth’Gar turned to consider the young Orc. He was tall, stocky for a young’un, leather rags covered his dark green skin. He had a small linen pouch and a rusted steel blade on his belt. Kroth’Gar bent down, face to face with the Orc, noses inches apart. ‘What be ya’ name?’.
Silence.
‘I said WHAT BE YA’ NAME!’ bellowed Kroth’Gar. The Orc stood, unflinching, in silence.
For the first time in his life kroth’Gar was confused. ‘I’ll give ya’ an ultimatum. If ya’ tell me ya name, I’ll give ya’ this pouch o’ gold, Five pieces, enough for a years’ lodging at an inn. But if ya’ say nuttin’ I’ll cut the eyes out of ya’ wolf.’ The young Orc straightened his posture, standing tall, he ushered the wolf toward Kroth’Gar, then unsheathed his dagger and held it out to Kroth’Gar, handle first.
‘Mwhahahah!, ya’ be spirited alright! What are ya’ a mute? Well we need a bit o’ spirit in these woods mute. Infact that be ya’ name from now one “the Mute”!’ And so Kroth’Gar took the mute in as his own, a sliver of compassion, an act never shown before and never to be shown again.

Bonechewer tradition was steeped in blood. Each Alpha had two members as ‘bodyguards’, called their ‘shield’ and their ‘Axe’. To become an Alpha a pack member would have to have the two members vouch for him with their lives, they were customarily the proposed alpha’s two sons. Kroth’Gar had resigned himself to having Krommar and ‘The Mute’ as his shield and axe.
Over the next five years two slight problems had arisen with his ascendance through the ranks. Firstly, Kroth’gar’s own Alpha (Kroth’Gar was his offensive lieutenant, the Axe) was very much still alive, and secondly Krommar was making little if any improvement in his skill as a warrior. Comparatively, ‘The Mute’, was gargantuan in stature, could comfortably wield two axes, and often came back from battles with the most skulls.

Opportunity graced Kroth’Gar once more however, in a skirmish with the Bleeding hollow clan to the southern edge of the forest;
Kroth’Gar’s Alpha had been killed with a single arrow to the throat. This should have been a cause for internal delight for Kroth’Gar, but two facts had alarmed him. The arrow had hit from a high vantage point from the North of the forest (they had been fighting toward the east) and even more startling was the mark on the arrow. A single red blade carved into birch shaft. Kroth’Gar snapped the arrow in two on the carving explaining to the pack that it had been a Bleeding Hollow clan arrow that killed the Alpha. With the body still warm, Kroth’Gar presented himself as the new Alpha. He argued that the old Alpha’s ‘shield’ had not protected him well enough, and subsequently, Kroth’Gar should be the new Alpha. The pack unanimously voted for Kroth’Gar’s promotion, and a night of celebration was planned.

New Alpha initiations meant one thing, Ale, and lots of it. The pack filled the grand hall to feast and toast kroth’Gar. He sat at the head table, with the Mute to his right as his new ‘Shield’, and a buoyant Krommar to his left as his new ‘Axe’. As the night dwindled on, Kroth’Gar, drunk as swine in muck by now, noticed Krommar had been missing for a while. Stumbling and swaying he made his way to the doors of the grand hall. In the evening night he saw the figure of his son, smittenly walking hand in hand with a young Orcess from the village. Kroth’Gar’s brow furrowed, his wiry hands became tight fist balls and a slight snarl appeared across his face.
As Krommar and his date crossed the threshold of the hall, he gave his father a sly wink. Kroth’Gar’s hand lashed out and gripped the forearm of the Orcess, turning her to the old man. ‘Pretty little green thing ya’ are…what ya’ doing with my Ogre brained son?!’ Mwhahahah!’ cackled Kroth’Gar, the girl was now visibly shaking and Krommar had slumped against the doorframe in an enraged disbelief. Kroth’Gar continued,’ Don’t ya’ know it’s my coronation? Don’t ya’ know the clan rules about tonight and pretty little green Orcesses! Mwhahah!’ Clutching the Orcess’ arm he pulled her into the great halls’ alcove. ‘Father! Wha…what are ya’ doing?’ Whimpered Krommar. Kroth’Gar spun to face his son, and with his free hand grabbed his neck, slamming him into the stone of the grand hall wall. ‘Ya should be congratulating ya’ father ya’ little bastard! Now feck off back to the hole ya’ crawled out from’. Krommar collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. His head tilted slightly to look at his father, ‘I’ll kill ya’, ya’ old bastard, I’ll kill ya’!’ At that Krommar pounced into the air, and with a sudden thud was met by the Mute’s huge fist. Krommar crashed into the floor. Bending down, the mute’s huge arm clasped Krommar in a headlock, preventing his squirming. ‘That’s a REAL son!’ Bellowed Kroth’Gar, ‘Ya’ bastard stepbrother be ten times the Orc ya’ll ever be!’ And with that, Kroth’Gar staggered back to his quarters, sobbing Orcess in tow.

The lights, drink, sounds and protagonists of the celebration had left by the time Kroth’Gar returned to the great hall. He had sobered somewhat, and now contemplated the huge bone clad chair his was to occupy as Alpha. To his right stood the Mute, his ‘shield’, the son he wished he’d had. Kroth’Gar sat for a while in silence. Then quietly said, ‘I can smell ya’ Krommar, come out from the shadows, come let ya’ father tell ya’ about ya’ little Orc princess!’ Krommar, hiding behind a bone mural to the left of the chair, emerged, axe in hand. ‘I be ya’ Axe, father…I want to test out my Axe skill….see if it better than my bow! Mwhahah!’ and with that Krommar sprinted toward his father, axe ready to jackknife into Kroth’Gar’s skull. But before krommar could take his third step, Kroth’gar had unsheathed a small dagger from his bracer, dashing it at his son’s neck. Krommar stumbled a few more steps dropped the axe and held his neck which had become a fountain of red mist. The Mute and Kroth’Gar watched Krommar hold his neck as he writhed and squealed for a few minutes as he bled to his death.

With his dark green head in his hands, Kroth’Gar whispered to the Mute, ‘Come close mute’ The Mute bend down inches away from Kroth’Gar,’ You…you be my son now…always knew it’d be you…my shield…’

The Mute leaned close and whispered, ‘Father, my name is Gul’ak, son of Gul’rash the silent.’ Kroth’Gar’s eyes widened to the size of a full moon, he let out a pathetic gasp, ‘My mother has a message for you. She wanted to deliver it herself but she’ a little...tongue tied. Red blades never forgive and they never forget.’ Gul’ak the mute then slid his blade into his father’s mouth and cut out his tongue.

Gul’ak the mute stood a blade in one hand and Kroth’Gar’s flesh in the other.