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I too, will be afk for a short while. I've been swamped with real life business and do not presently have time to log in to the game. Be back as soon as I am able. Take care, Orcs.

Thanks! That helps me out profoundly. Perhaps I can afford an alt after all. Great writing all around, the lot of you.

(( Hah, perhaps they are dissimilar in character, Sadok, but the manners of their deaths seem to have their correlations. ))

(( Well done, Sadok. Despite the death of Sharptongue, I hope you are still going to be around in some capacity or another. I much enjoy your writing and RP presence.))

(( Thanks for taking the time to read the story, Murrah. I'm glad you enjoyed it.  ))

Garulfkar Mok’Lo’gar sat within the dubious bastion of Revantusk Village, his spirit struggling to ascend from the treacherous abyss into which the recent demise of Sadok Sharptongue had hurled him.

The wolf-cowled sorcerer was the Orc who had guided him over the threshold of doom and lonesome wandering, into the pack of the Red Blade tribe. He admired the Orc’s keen wit, his intuitive eye for his kin, and his wizened grasp of the travails that faced the Orcish people. It was fate which had brought Garulfkar to his path-crossing with Sharptongue, just as it was fate which had brought about the death of his friend and comrade. And as his still living kin had gone about honoring their fallen brother in their own ways, Garulfkar had retreated into the wilderness, into solitude, to meditate amongst the wolves of Gosh’targal’s pack, and to find guidance from the spirit wolf, Shadowspine. Having returned to the paltry fortifications of the Forest Trolls, Garulfkar remained reclusive, and set about honoring his fallen brother in his own way.

He had nearly completed his intricate talbuk hide vestments, the materials of which he had long ago gathered from his hunting pilgrimage in the sacred lands of Nagrand. The horns of the slain animals rose up triumphantly from the spaulders, their teeth united in death alongside the fangs of the wolves for whom they had been prey; symbolizing to him the utterly inextricable relationship between life, and death. Life lives only by slaying what lives. This was the inalterable law that hung sacred within his mind, and yet as he reverently stitched and threaded the bestial hides together into a raiment, he struggled to affirm the death of Sharptongue, for it had been bestowed, not in honorable combat, but at the twisted end of a coward’s blade. And yet, to his reckoning, was not Sharptongue, in some way, an echo of Chieftain Durotan? Was his death not utterly and irrevocably sanctified by the symbol it had forged? Both Orcs had held holy their highest hope and honor, even unto death, and no venomous cur could ever undo that. Moreover, it seemed to Garulfkar that in slaying the honorable, the destroyers succeeded only in creating a martyr; a banner, an emblem, a rallying cry, an all-the-more defiant valor.

But Garulfkar’s spirit had taken wing again with such imaginings, and it was his present task which again rooted him in the earth. His hands loved the work of hide and leather, and the hunt which could grant such tools to his grasp. He wondered what it was that Sadok had loved in this way, and now, could love no more. The vengeance of the Red Blade pack would surely come, and already the embers had been stoked within his heart toward such predatory yearnings.

“Ogar’urdrosh,” he murmured to himself as he sat beside the bonfire, working diligently upon his garments.

“What’s that?” spoke Smith Slagtree.

“Ogar’urdrosh,” replied Garulfkar, his gaze undeterred from his work.

“Cryptic words, Wolf-singer...” muttered the Orcish Smith.

“If you will listen, I will try to dispel the mist that veils them from you.”

The Smith, glancing about to ensure that his labors were not needed, set aside his hammer and thongs, dousing the flame of his forge with a bucket of sea water.

“Speak,” grunted Slagtree.

“When last I wandered the plains of Nagrand, I encountered a Mag’hari Warrior named Aggoroxx Stonegrasp. His beard bore the ice of a late season, and his many scars upheld him as the roots bear up the aged Olemba’s great heights. The word I have spoken to you, ‘Ogar’urdrosh’ I first heard uttered by Aggoroxx.

“Before I departed Garadar on the sacred hunt, I sought the roots of a sturdy slumber. And as I unfurled my clefthoof blanket beside the bonfire there, a tale I did hear.”

Garulfkar paused, glancing up briefly to Smith Slagtree.

“Do you know of the Lok’riggor, Slagtree?”

“Zug zug!” exclaimed Slagtree, as though offended, “Even here in the Hinterlands the Lok’oshar is still sung to the tune of the forge hammer. Not even the war smiths of Orgrimmar have forgotten the songs of forging...”

Garulfkar nodded, and continued.

“Aggoroxx Stonegrasp sat upon the Olemba bench not far from where I did lay within the walls of Garadar. His mighty axe was cradled in his arms, and a broad cloak of talbuk hide draped over his shoulders as though mist on an ancient mountaintop. His face was marred by scowled ravines, his flesh twisted as though by flame, his voice a revelation of thunderstruck crags....”




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“A tale, Lok’riggor!” shouted Argesh, a Raider of the Wolves of Garad.

A soft grumble emerged faintly over the crackling fire from Aggoroxx Stonegrasp. But he shifted his cradled axe from one shoulder to the other, its blade resting upon the earth before his feet.

“Very well, Argesh. But tonight, it will be a tale for warrior poets, chieftains of song; for the Lok’riggor themselves....”

The haggard voice paused for a moment, staring into the mighty bonfire, before again starting along its way, like a sundered boulder long since shed from a cliffside.

"... Of the many clans that were caught within widening deserts of the Horde, one clan rests at the heart of my tale; the clan from beyond the Northern Blade's Edge Mountains, the clan of the Red Blade. They were Shamans once... Hunters, Warriors, Raiders, masters of blades and tamers of legendary wolves... the spawn of Magoth, whose howls alone could penetrate the unceasing ice of their ancestral lands. The severity of wars and near endless winters prevented the Orcs of the Red Blade almost entirely from tilling their lands. The invasions of Ogres and Gronn from the South had made the Red Blade Orcs most skillful in the arts of war craft... But they did not wage war for the same reasons the Ogres did... at least, not yet... Perhaps, in time, one inevitably comes to resemble one's enemies..."

Aggoroxx heaved a deep breath, as though the very recounting of his tale labored him greatly.

“The use of roc quill, inkhorn, and parchment was rare among clan Red Blade. Few traders ventured so far North with such wares, for the lands of my own clan, the Lightning’s Blade, were a dangerous chasm to span for even the boldest Orcs... I learned in time that when the Red Blade Orcs did not etch their songs of lore into memory, they had burned them onto wooly clefthoof hides, and had carved out their characters in stone.”

“It was not long after that final Kosh’harg of Winter, just before the making of the Horde, that I did first meet an Orc of the Red Blade traveling the treacherous gulches of the Northern Blade’s Edge. He was known as Urtharrosh, an Orc of grave and measured speech. We had crossed paths where there was no path, amidst the howling trees of a gorge's inward slope. His wood fire had died; the cold and the dawn light were seeping in through the uneven chinks in the craggy ramparts. Alerted to my presence by his wolf pack, those sable beasts that devour the flesh of foes, he hailed me and bid me join his meager camp. I was a young Orc then, and as many Lok’riggor, I did seek the Lohn’goron alone, so that none of the words for my songs would be devoid of blood, and trial. Urtharrosh knew something of the Lok, that mysterious spirit which binds us to the past and to kin as clan war skalds sing of the heroes and battles of their forebears... And Urtharrosh made this mysterious Lok more mysterious still. For it was in that moment I learned of a powerful Lok’tra of clan Red Blade which was the poetry of but a single Word. Such was its power, spoke Urtharrosh, that this one Word, sung as it was by his kin, did overwhelm them with ineffable rapture, and anguish, all at once, as though the two could no longer be severed...”

“And so it was that I went in quest of this cryptic Word, this song of power, in quest of the route that would lead me to the frozen lands of war and battle, where dwelled the Orcs of the Red Blade. Not without weariness and labor did I reach it, after a year of toil in the harrowing Northlands of the Blade’s Edge, and on into the ghastly snows beyond them....”

“It was night when I at last arrived; I noticed that the Orcs I met along my way regarded me curiously, and I could not fail to note that I was struck by an occasional stone, as though a warning had been made. I saw the glow of a smith's forge, beacon in the night to a remote Red Blade outpost called Wolf Spine. And so I entered, warily..."

"The smith offered me shelter for the night. Her name, she said, was Kor'thra, and her language was more or less that of the Lightning's Blade. We exchanged a few words. It was from her lips that I first heard tale of the Red Blade Raider who saw to the protection of her outpost -- Kronnosh, he was called, though his earned name I can no longer remember.... I learned that he had fought in many battles against Ogre pillagers, and that he looked with suspicion upon outsiders, particularly Orcs from other clans, and that it was his custom to feed such Orcs to his wolves after a Mak’gora. In order to avoid that fate, I undertook to write a Lok'drok, an extolling composition -- a sort of glorification of the Raider's victories, his fame, and his honor. No sooner had I committed the Lok'drok to memory than two of his Raiders came for me. I refused to relinquish my blades, which they respected, but I allowed myself to be led away.”

"The stars were still in the sky, beside the Pale Lady... We traveled through a stretch of land with huts scattered here and there along the way. I had heard tales of their bonfire planks, constructed in unknown customs of old like pyramidal effigies; what I saw in the first location was a stake of red-stained wood. On its sharp point I could make out the figure of an Ogre's head. Kor'thra, who had accompanied us, told me that the Ogre was the Word. In the next location I saw another red stake, upon which was skewered an Orcish skull. Kor'thra said once more that this was the Word. I asked her to tell me what word it was; she replied that she was but a simple smith, and did not know..."

"In the third place, which was the last, I saw a stake painted black, bearing an etched design which I no longer remember.... On the far side of the bonfire there was a long straight wall, whose ends I could not see. I later found that it was circular, roofed with mighty wood, and that it girded the entire outpost. The spawn of Magoth, on which the Red Blade Raiders rode, were all tied to a wooden post outside; thick-maned, and whispering warm ghosts into the chill air...”

"Kor'thra was not allowed to enter. I know not why. There were armed Orcs inside, all standing. Kronnosh, the chief Raider, who was suffering under some great affliction was lying with half-closed eyes upon a kind of rostrum; his pallet was of Skalbuk hides, those hardy Northern cousins of the Southern Talbuk, hefty with wooly fur. Kronnosh was a worn, bleak Orc, nothing less than a sacred and almost forgotten object: long, time-blurred scars made a tracery across his face and chest. One of the Raiders made way for me. Someone had brought a throsh'tar, upon which I could strum and drum as I delivered the song. I knelt and coarsely intoned the Lok'drok. It was ornamented with symbols to record the deeds of Kronnosh. I am not certain that the Raider chieftain understood it, but he gave me a bone ring, which I still possess. Under his pillow, I glimpsed the gleam of a long blade. To his right was a war bow decorated with the feathers of a great roc, and beside this a war trophy; a wolf paw that belonged to a Thunderlord Raider's mount.”

"The guards of Kronnosh pushed me back when the Lok’drok was finished, shoving me near to the doorway through which I had entered. Another Orc took my place, but he stood as he offered his own Lok'drok. He plucked at the throsh'tar's strings as though tuning them, and then very softly repeated the word that I wish I might have caught, but did not. An Orc among the crowd turned to me, and with supreme reverence said,

“Brave was he who knew fear but conquered fear, who saw the abyss, but with pride. Who sees the abyss but with the eyes of a great wind roc; who grasps the abyss with the talons of a great wind roc -- that Orc has courage. Remember this, outlander; It takes more courage to make an end than to make a new verse. Only thus does the undying Lok’tra persevere...”

"I saw among the Red Blade mourners eyes like frozen rivers here and there; perhaps these were the only tears these harsh Northern Orcs could permit. I respected them for that.... The Orc whose Lok’drok followed mine would raise his voice or it would grow distant; the nearly identical chords and drummings were monotonous, or, perhaps, infinite.... I wished the chant could go on forever, I wished it were my very blood and life. It felt as though it were, though this clan was not my own... Suddenly, it ended. I heard the sound of the throsh'tar when the singer, no doubt exhausted, cast it to the floor, destroying it. We made our way in disorder from the room. I was one of the last. I saw with strange astonishment that the light of Kronnosh’s torch was fading...

"I walked up a few steps. A hand upon my shoulder detained me. A voice spoke to me,”

"'The chieftain's ring was a talisman bestowed upon you, yet soon your death shall come, for you have heard the Word. I, Kosh'regar Mok'Thor'kosh, will save you. I am among the Lok'riggor of Clan Red Blade. In your dithyramb you called blood "axe-drink" and battle "Orc-temper". I remember hearing those words from outsiders at the last Kosh’harg. You and I are of the eternal battle song, the undying Lok; and for this, I shall save you. But unlike you, I have learned not to name every thing or event that fires my song; and that they all may be hidden within a single word, which is the Word."

"'I could not hear it,' I replied to him. 'Tell me! Tell me what trial I must brave to know what word it is!'

"He hesitated for a moment, and then said,”

"'I am sworn not to reveal it. And besides, no one can teach another anything. You must seek it on your own. We must hurry, for your life is in danger. I will hide you in my home, where they will not dare come to look for you. If the wind is with you, you shall depart tomorrow to the South, and return to your own people."

"Thus began the adventure that was to last for many winters. I shall not tell its hazards, nor shall I attempt to recall the true order of its shifts in fortune. I was thrice struck on the highest peak of the stormy Blade's Edge. I fell ill and was quarantined in Garadar. I survived this, became slaughterer of Orcs, Ogres, demons. I became Lok'riggor, assayer of deep water and of metals. I suffered a year's captivity in the Ogre's mines, which loosened my bones. On the banks of the Bladegulch river I was loved by a she-Orc I shall never forget; I left her, or she left me, which is the same. I betrayed and was betrayed. More than once fate made me kill. A Warsong Grunt challenged me to fight him, and offered me the choice of two blades. One was a handspan longer than the other. I realized that he was trying to intimidate me, so I chose the shorter. He asked me why. I told him that the distance from my hand to his corrupted heart did not vary. On the shore of the great sea South of Farahlon did sit the runed stone marker I carved in warning to the Laughing Skull, and I have lived long enough to see that sea, that stone, and the Laughing Skull come to ruin. In the course of time I have been many Orcs, but this whirlwind of events has been one... long... dream. The essential thing always was the Word. There were times when I did not believe in it. I would tell myself that renouncing the battle-torn game of the Lok, of forging deeds and words into one was foolish, that there was no reason to seek the single, perhaps illusory Word of Clan Red Blade, the One Word. But that argument failed. A Warmaul Ogre prisoner suggested the word 'Grog', which I rejected. One sunrise, on the banks of a river that widened into the sea, I believed that the revelation had been vouchsafed me.”

"I returned to seek the lands of clan Red Blade, and with difficulty found the house of Kosh'regar. He had been maimed in a raid on the Thunderlord clan for supplies, not long before the wars for Azeroth began. And so Kosh'regar had been left behind by his clan as they marched off to fight for the Warchief, for the Horde... I found him after his clan had abandoned their homes and crossed through the Dark Portal; he was but a shell of an Orc, and it was not long before our world broke apart from our betrayal; a shell sundered in death...”

"I entered his home and said my name. Night had fallen. Kosh'regar, from his place upon the ground, told me to light a torch. His face had aged so greatly that I could not help thinking that I myself was now old. As was the custom, I asked after the health of the chief Raider.

"'His name is no longer Kronnosh,' he replied. 'Now his name is other. And he is gone from these lands. They are all gone from these lands. I am all that remains, and now, I too shall go... Tell me... tell me of your travels, old friend...'

"I did so in the best order I could muster, and in great detail, which I shall here omit. Before I came to the end, Kosh'regar interrupted me.”

"'Did you often sing in far off Nagrand?' he asked.

"The question took me by surprise."

"'At first,' I said, 'I sang battle songs of the hunt to earn my meat. Then, from a fear that I do not understand, I grew distant from the singing and the throsh'tar.”

"'Hmm.' He nodded. 'Now go on with your story.'

"I complied. Then there fell a long silence.”

"'What were you given by the first she-Orc you slept with?” he asked.

"'Everything," I answered.

"'I, too, have been given everything. Life gives all Orcs everything, but most Orcs do not know this. My voice is tired and my fingers weak, but listen to me. . . .”

"He sang the Word, chanting it again and again in his frail, ghostly voice, 'Ogar'urdrosh', which means,



'Death is the path to awe'.



"I was overwhelmed by the song of the Red Blade Orc who lay dying, but in his song, in his faint drumming, and in his chord, I heard and I saw my own labors; the Orc who had given me her first love, the foes I had killed, the cold dawns, the blooded-vomit of the Red Pox, the crag-wrought spires over the valleys of the Blade's Edge, the unceasing torments of time and the undying Lok’tra.... I took up the throsh'tar of the dying Kosh’regar and sang -- I sang a different word; my own word; the blood word of my own life and trials..."

"And then I destroyed the old Orc's throsh'tar."

"'Hmm,' said Kosh'regar, nodding faintly as he closed his eyes forever. And I had to draw close to hear him,

“You have understood me."


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Garulfkar put the finishing touches on his vestments as he concluded the tale, rising from his seat near Slagtree’s forge.

“Wait... Lok’riggor!” shouted Slagtree as Garulfkar walked away toward the spot where Sadok Sharptongue had died. “Wait! What was the word that Aggoroxx sang?”

Garulfkar murmured as he walked on, leaving the smith forlorn in his wake,

“You have not understood me.”

(( Inspired by the recent events with Sadok and the Tribe, as well as a great debt owed to Jorge Luis Borges and his short story, Undr.))

Excellent.

Fantastic. Thanks for the post.

Below are the notes and story fragments I have been considering for an event I would like to initiate for our members. Depending on what our officers and members think of it all, I would be prepared to act as master of the ceremony, using various guild Shamans or Hunters to facilitate the ritual in compliance with its facets.

This event's goals would be twofold; to provide a means for New Bloods to acquire one of their marks (toward the three required), and to provide an Orcish themed ritual trial as a means of obtaining a wolf mount (or, if your character already has a wolf mount, to further guild RP and guild lore integration). I am willing to personally finance this event, providing both mount and requisite training to those who opt to undergo the trial and complete it successfully. The ritual combat between the Orc aspirant and the wolf he seeks to forge the bond with can be role-played out, or conducted via duel. In the case of the latter option, either I (on my Hunter) or another Hunter can use a wolf pet to conduct the ritual battle.

As will be evident from the descriptive text below, the ritual has its roots in the legends of Kraag the Wolfking and his bonding with Magoth, and would be a means of acting out in game the remembrance of and participation in that Red Blade myth. With that said, on we go to the description of the trial of the Gosh'dabul.

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It was in the unlikely wilderness of the Hinterlands that Garulfkar was first visited in his dreams by a fallen heir of Clan Red Blade; an Orc named Gosh'targal Wolfbite, who had perished by the gryphon feathered arrow of a Wildhammer Dwarf. Gosh'targal had died as many Orcs of his day died;  falling during the tactical retreat to Blackrock Mountain for the fabled last stand of the Second War.

It was said of old that when an Orc fell in battle, his comrades would roar with might so that the spirits of his ancestors would find and accompany him in death. So too it was said of old that should an Orc die with tasks left undone, that his comrades would see to their conclusion, so that the spirit of the fallen might find the rest which his death had earned him. In this way, Orcs had carried on the legacy of their forebears for many generations. But in the dark days of the First and Second Wars, such traditions had been forsaken, so great was the bloodlust of the Orcish people. No longer did they keep the ancient customs for their brethren who perished in battle. They did not even honor their dead with the traditional funeral pyre, leaving instead their fallen brothers to rot upon the countless battlefields of their ultimately doomed conquests.

Thus it had been for Gosh'targal Wolfbite, so that his forlorn spirit was cursed to roam the Hinterlands, lost in unending anguish. Or so it seemed, until it was fated that living Orcs of the Red Blade should find themselves in exile, surviving in the forested mountains near Revantusk Village. Long plagued by inexplicable dreams, rife with visitations from Orcish ghosts and cryptic visions, Garulfkar came to encounter the spirit of Gosh'targal as he made camp one night on the cliffs overlooking Revantusk Village. Gosh'targal offered to help his banished kin, if only they would finish the task he had left undone when it came to pass that he was slain by a Dwarven arrow. And so Garulfkar made the offer of Gosh'targal known to his brothers and sisters, leaving the decision of what to do to the great wisdom of their Chieftain, Kozgugore.

The Chieftain led the Orcs of the Red Blade in finishing the forlorn task of Gosh'targal, slaughtering scores of Wildhammer gryphons and collecting from them both feathers, and blood. And when the matter was settled, the tribe gathered to offer the blooded feathers upon a ritual fire, sating at last the spirit of their forebear, Gosh'targal. In return for their honorable deed, Gosh'targal and his spirit wolf companion, who had bonded with the timber wolves of the Hinterlands, offered their still living wolf pack to the tribe as protectors. These savage wolves of the frontier would watch over the tribe during their days of exile, and grant the Orcs of the Red Blade cover within their pack.

But this, it would soon be known, was not the only gift to be granted to the tribe by Gosh'targal and his spirit wolf, Shadowspine.

After the tribe had conducted their ritual hunt of the gryphons, the spirits of Gosh'targal and Shadowspine returned to visit Garulfkar in his dreams. And it was the trial of the Gosh'dabul which the long dead Red Blade Orc had come to impart upon the living members of the tribe...

The Gosh'dabul (The Bonding of the Wolf) was among the ancient rites of Clan Red Blade, inaugurated by an heir of the bloodline which Kraag the Wolfking had sired. Inspired by the Wolfking's ordeals with the legendary Magoth, the Wolf Riders and Hunters of Clan Red Blade had begun to use the ritual as a means of bonding their wolf riders and hunters with their mounts and companions, some of whom were perhaps the descendants of Magoth himself.

Under the trial of the Gosh'dabul, any would-be rider of the legendary spawn of Magoth would face the same ritual. Potential riders and hunters prepared for the rite by donning wolf skins, face paint, and by facing the droning chants of the Shamans of their clan. So prepared, the Gosh'dabul initiate would depart the world of Orcs symbolically, emerging (psychologicallly, spiritually, and physically) from the clan grounds into the wilderness where they would set about their Gosh'dabul.

The future wolf riders, under the impression that they had become a wolf (by way of induced trance, or hallucinatory potions administered by clan Shamans), ventured out in search of the wolf pack, or a lone wolf -- challenging it to a contest of strength and mastery, both as a means of communing with the wolf's spirit, and of bonding with it as Kraag the Wolfking had with Magoth. If the Gosh'dabul initiate was successful in bonding with the beast, the would-be wolf rider would seal his or her pact with the wolf, obtaining it as a loyal mount and companion (particularly the latter in the hunter's case).

Gosh'targal recounted the story of his father's Gosh'dabul as though it had happened to him personally, asking that it be passed along to the tribe:

"As soon as my wolf emerged from his pack to contend with me, he charged at me, causing me to tumble away from its fang-rimmed maw. All at once, I forgot about the pack and its howling to the spectacle of our combat. I began to fight as I had fought so often by myself at night under the moonlight, preparing. The Far Seer later told me that with my simple claw weapons, I had fought as a wolf fought; that it was a revelation in the ways of Gosh'dabul. I do not know, and I am not competent to judge such things. I simply fought as I believe one must fight, and no thoughts came to me outside of what I was doing. My own mind receded into this battle, merging into the wolf, making us one. I delivered myself entirely to the pure joy of fighting without being aware of either myself, or the audience of the howling wolfpack. When I was a pup, I would tend to the wolves of elder warriors, I used to talk to them; and the evening of my Gosh'dabul as I ventured into the wilds, the conversations I once had with those wolves arose briefly in my mind. "Come on pup, catch me!" I howled and bared my fangs, and went on with my speech, encouraging it to keep charging at me. "This way friend, charge me, nothing's going to happen to you, here you are, here you are. Catch me, brother! Don't be a coward! Catch me!"

Without knowing it, I was executing the ideal Gosh'dabul, the Gosh'dabul I had imagined with so much detail in my dreams that every line of it was drawn in my mind and spirit with predatory precision. The Gosh'dabul of my dreams always ended disastrously, because when I went in to bite the wolf's neck and pin it to the ground, the worg invariably broke free and fastened its jaws upon my leg to cripple me, just as in the legend of Mokkosh and Horogosh. Perhaps it was my lack of skill that led this dream to take its course as it did. Nevertheless, I went on imagining it, placing the wolf in my grasp, the howling of its pack fading beyond even a distant murmur.

And lo, when the moment of truth came, the eve of my Gosh'dabul, the wolf did break free and bite down upon my leg, but I was so intoxicated, so outside myself, that I scarcely noticed it. I went in again, grappling the beast so firmly that despite its bite, it was forced to surrender or be strangled.

"Bloodstride" -- as I then named him -- rides with me still. He is my most loyal companion. I would die for him, and he for me."

Gosh'targal then told the tale of his own Gosh'dabul. He had stumbled upon the sacred ritual by accident as a young Orc near the cusp of maturity, wandering from his home to follow his father.  

A young Orc, perhaps no older than he, stood nearly naked and unarmed save two crude claw weapons, encircled by a pack of wolves, while behind these wild animals stood a circle of torches, each of them faintly illuminating the cowled visages of the Red Blade raiders. The young Orc waited, and finally an unbound wolf of silvery fur lunged from the encirclement and pounced toward him. The combat joined, wolf and Orc wrestled in a blood-letting match of muscle and cunning, howls and roars from each of them blasting across the valley's silent stone ramparts.
 
Suddenly, as though an unspoken truce had been forged, the young Orc and the wolf ended their fight and sat together in the snow, the latter licking the former's wounds, while the Orc took blood from the wolf's open cuts to paint upon his forehead and jawline. The Red Blade raiders suddenly pounded upon their drums, chanting in low tones, droning out into the triumphant night.

As though pulled by some invisible force, Gosh'targal strode up toward the circle. The Raiders turned, gazing at him with cold glares concealed beneath ceremonial masks. But Gosh'targal was undeterred. He strode into the circle just as the other Orc had left it alongside his new companion, and here Gosh'targal stripped himself bare to the cold winter air of the Red Blade homeland.

The Raiders muttered in hushed tones amongst themselves, seeming to dispute this young upstart's uninvited appearance. Over the chill wind, Gosh'targal heard an elder among them, his silver beard gleaming in the moonlight, and he spoke, saying,

"...True, Galvarosh, but I admire the young Orc's boldness. Let the wolves decide if he is of our pack or not...."

The circle fell silent, and the numerous wolves in attendance, some of them saddled, others unburdened, began to growl and pace, watching the young Gosh'targal.

And then one, with long black flecks trailing down its spine, rushed toward Gosh'targal with fangs glistening.

Today, even in death, the spectral arm of Gosh'targal bears the twin fanged scar which he earned that night, and the patch of fur which he ripped from the wolf's neck with his own maw never did return as long as the beast did live. The wolf, named Shadowspine, died among the crags of the Hinterlands beside his brother Gosh'targal, faithful to the last. Thus it was that Gosh'targal came to be named 'Wolfbite'.

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Anyhow. It may need some tinkering, but you get the general idea. A ritual combat event in the spirit of Kraag and Magoth, Mokkosh and Horogosh, through which a mount or hunter companion may be obtained. As I said, I am happy to run this event with whatever help other guild members wish to offer, and I am happy to finance low level mount and training costs for any members who choose to participate in this optional ritual.

Feedback is welcome, and officer approval is needed before I will consider moving forward with the ideas above.

Thanks for taking the time to read this far.  

A Lok'marosh for Orgrimmar
(A traditional Orcish song about a city, stronghold, village, etc. For the pride Orgrimmar once held, and may yet hold again for the peoples of the Horde.)
(Adapted from the poet Carl Sandburg's work about Chicago)

Boar butcher,   
Maker of armaments,
Carver of stone,   
Singer of Lok'tras and the desert's hard seeds;   

Stormy, husky, brawling,   
Stronghold of earth-blood
and wind-carved canyons.

Your enemies claim you are wicked and I believe them,
for I have seen your warriors with blades painted red,
under the grim shadows of the ravines,
luring the gruntlings with the silent tales of their scars.

They say that you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true.
I have seen the Hands of the Cleft kill and go free to kill again,
in bleak alleys where the canyons grind
and the dry winds howl with the song of the pack.   

They say that you are brutal and my reply is:
On the faces of your women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
On the faces of your peons and Shamans I have seen the eyes of starved wolves.
And upon their visages all I have seen inscribed
the same desert pride,
Stones windblown but deathly defiant.   
Hearts of molten ore ever forging.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my home,
and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
   
Come.

Come and show me another city with lifted head roaring,
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.   
Hark to another city with canyons who thunder
with the adamant echoes of living lok'tras.
Gaze upon another fortress born of mightstone,
hewn by ragged limbs gasping
with a homeless despair
that will never be voiced
from these proud, tacit maws.
Show me another hold
whose unyielding marrow 
is the grim armory of the Lohn'goron.
Show me another fortress
whose threshold veins are transgressed only
by those storm-stricken with awe.
Show me another city whose very name is a lok'vadnod,
whose very spirit is fused
with such immortal flow,
in the ever-becoming lifeblood
of fathomless forebears.
Where even the gold handlers,
whose blood dampened Hyjal,
fling their earthquaking curses amidst the ceaseless toil
of iron spines and wyvern wings.
Here, myths are alive.
Here, the storm waves crash in vain against the eastern walls of earth.
Here, the scorn of the strong dares invaders to come.
Here, no wayfarers may enter
without the very soul of this fury-scarred city penetrating their hearts.
Here is a rocky bold wolf den set stark against the soft cities of the four winds;   
Fierce as a Raider with tongue lapping for action,
Cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,   
Bareheaded,   
Shoveling,   
Wrecking,   
Planning,   
Building, breaking, rebuilding,   
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth,
laughing with white fangs, long tusks, and horns.   
Under the terrible burden of destiny
laughing as a young Orc laughs at death,   
Laughing even as an ignorant warrior laughs who has never lost a battle,

Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse. and under his canyon ribs the heart of the people,   
Laughing!   
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of vigor and valor,
half-naked, sweating, proud to be
Boar Butcher,
Maker of armaments,
Carver of stone,   
Life-bound to Lok'tra and the desert's hard seeds.

Part I - The Pelt of Horogosh

Untold years ago, among the rustic Orcs of the Blade’s Edge Mountains lived a warrior known only as Mokkosh. He was born into clanless savagery, and grew up among the lowland war bands which populated the deep and treacherous canyons of the Blade’s Edge. It was rumored that his father, Goro’kosh Stonefang, had once been a warrior of Clan Redblade, a great uncle to their one time Chieftain Grenth Stonebrow. But had left the territory of Clan Redblade behind in his youth to seek glory and trial closer to the Ogre bands which carved out their existence among the Blade’s Edge Mountains. When Goro’kosh fell in battle, his orphaned son was raised by the Stonefang war band to whom he had served as warlord. In time, Mokkosh would come to know the failed dream of his father; to unite the Blade’s Edge war bands beneath the banner of clan Redblade, and to return home with worthy Orcs to empower his kin.

The years rolled by like distant thunder. The young Mokkosh had been painted with the blood of the his first solo kill in the Om’riggor, his talon-crusted axe had tasted the flesh of Ogres in many trials of battle, and he had seen the Stonefang’s numbers dwindle under the leadership of the aged Warlord who had replaced his father, Omruk Earthcleave. Mokkosh yearned to command, and though he had learned to obey, he knew that to challenge Omruk directly would further splinter the already weakening Stonefang war band. But without great valor and the loyalties thus earned of his comrades, he knew he could never provide them with another banner to unite beneath. So too, without great trials, he could not return to clan Redblade as his father had once intended. A Mak’gora with Earthcleave was inevitable, but Mokkosh was cunning, and devised a way to challenge his Warlord without dividing his brethren.

Among the many foes the Stonefang faced were the fierce Ogres of the Bloodcrag banner. Their Overlord, Urgocc, had subjugated a fearsome pack of wolves in the days of Mokkosh’s youth. The alpha of this pack, Horogosh, was a gargantuan beast, and was rumored to sleep upon a great bed of Orcish bones gleaned from the enemies of the Bloodcrag Ogres. Though no living Orc had ever dared penetrate the lair of Horogosh, legend held that when the Bloodcrag employed the beast in battle, no arrow, axe, or club could pierce or break the Dread Wolf’s uncanny hide. Grashkul, a hunter of the Stonefang who had followed Goro’kosh from clan Redblade, once told that while roaming the craggy slopes in search of highland Talbuk, he had heard the grisly howl of Horogosh, and that its song was enough to chill the molten blood within even the fiercest warrior’s veins. And the Stonefang war band were not the only Orcs to have lost kin to the Bloodcrag and their wolves. Many neighboring war bands and clans had great cause for blood feud with the pack of Horogosh, and the Ogres who commanded them.

Mokkosh determined that to slay Horogosh would win him both the loyalty of his war band, and grant him renown among the Stonefang’s neighbors. And so, Mokkosh set out alone from his village, clad in the rugged hides of the Talbuk hunt, and armed with naught but his war axe of Oshar’trk, and a hunting bow of the Northern Olemba tree; the likes of which he thought would avail him nothing in his blood-bound fate.

He made camp one night, a days march from the lair of Horogosh and his pack, a bleak and uncharted cavern situated in the cliffs above the village of their Bloodcrag masters. And as he faded into the protean realm of slumber, a vision came to Mokkosh. In this vision, his father appeared, wandering as though fixed to some unknown purpose amongst the strange moths who dwelled in the East. Goro’kosh was cleaving wide the silky cocoons of the winged creatures, and though Mokkosh called out to his forebear, Goro’kosh did not respond. Growing desperate and anxious, Mokkosh confronted his father, spinning him round to face him. The two spirit Orcs locked eyes, and though his mouth moved not, Mokkosh heard the voice of his father within his head, saying over and over, 

“I cannot hear you any longer. I cannot hear you any longer. I cannot hear you...”

Goro’kosh grinned slyly, and Mokkosh awoke, bursting from his meager hide blankets with a despair so complete as to nearly rob the breath from him. He gnawed on a strip of Talbuk jerky, and ate as well the berries of the Tor’kra bush which a Shaman once said would settle the spirit. Mokkosh thought the vision of the night to be an ill omen upon his quest, but as he gazed Eastward in the first light of day, he felt the Tor’mul within his chest, and like the wolf who pursues a flight of inspiration from its ravenous instincts, Mokkosh rose swiftly and set off with a barbarous resolve.

Two days later, Mokkosh returned to the menacing cliffs above the lair of Horogosh, though the arrows which had accompanied his bow were gone, and the haft of his war axe was cracked down its spine. He let forth a bleating call as dusk fell, mimicking as best he could the cry of a Talbuk fawn in distress. Despite the wind, he waited, and watched as his bestial call was heeded by the wolves who moments before had been slumbering outside of the cavern’s maw. Upon waking, the wolves seemed to catch a scent upon the wind, and snarling with a hunger thus awakened, struck off from their posts outside the cave to sate it.

Mokkosh wasted no time in descending the harrowing cliffside. Grinning slyly as he father had, he gazed at the last of the wolves who had scattered into the nearby woods after the bloody Talbuk meat he had scattered there. Skulking quietly with his tough, clefthide boots into the uncertain jaws of the Dread Wolf’s lair, Mokkosh soon vanished from the surface world. The wind howling outside reverberated against the cavern walls, filling the air with ominous spirits and a grim foreboding. But this song of the skies granted Mokkosh the damper he needed to strike up a flame, bestowing it upon a crude torch.

Deeper and deeper into the lair of Horogosh did Mokkosh plunge, the rough stones beneath his feet littered with the bones of beast and Orc alike. He slowly reached within a leather pouch upon his belt, lifting his hand to each side of his skull for a moment. And as he ventured further, the rank odor of wolf dung invaded his senses, throbbing within his skull like a thousand smoldering arrows. It was not long before Mokkosh began to grow nauseous, but no sooner had his belly revolted than did a low growl from beyond the torchlight force its quaking into submission.  

Before he could react to the disorienting growl and its echoes, seeming to surround him,  a dread black wolf of gargantuan size leapt from the shadows, and nearly seized upon Mokkosh’s arm with its fangs. The torch fell to the ground, and began slowly to fade within the festering sludge in which it landed. He could scarcely behold the terrible wolf, so close was he grappled with its formidable paws. The claws of its forelimbs tore into his chest, rending the Talbuk hides that covered it as though they were nothing. The wolf snarled as Mokkosh kicked free with his mighty legs, rising swiftly to stand.

“Ogar kar’tosh! Horogosh!” roared Mokkosh, the two seasoned predators leaping with fury against one another.

The wolf pounced against Mokkosh, knocking him fiercely onto his back amidst the fetid, rocky muck. As the wolf landed, its fangs sank into the scampering legs of the Redblade Orc. And though his anguish was great, Mokkosh swung his broad and mighty arms around the wolf’s neck while its jaws were kept busy upon his lower leg. Hand in fist, Mokkosh clasped himself around the neck of Horogosh like a constricting torque of adamantite, his brown arms unyielding as rough hewn stone. The wolf let loose a forbidding howl, but despite the tale of Grashkul, Mokkosh was undaunted and unshaken. His arms grasped tighter and tighter, a collar of death shackled about the throat of the Dread Wolf. Soon, the howl of Horogosh waned into bursting yelps and whines. And then, the final rasps at last diminished into shadows and death, the same shadows which overcome the Pale Lady to whom the Dread Wolf had long sung.

Mokkosh released the gargantuan wolf from his arms, and the slain beast slumped upon the cavern floor. Scarce was the light that remained from the torch, but Mokkosh bound well his wound with the knotted tatters of his Talbuk cuirass. He reached up to his ears, plucking forth the mysterious substance which had rendered him invulnerable to the piercing howl of Horogosh. It was silk... silk from the cocoons of the moths to the East! Panting heavily, he sat and surveyed his prize. But alas, though the massive beast was felled, Mokkosh was exhausted from his arduous triumph and could not bear off with the carcass. And it could not be long now that the pack outside would return to the cavern, trapping Mokkosh within its depths. As the wound in his leg throbbed with fury, Mokkosh remembered the words his father had told him as a youth,

“Ta’muk drak’kal Gronn, ruk ner’ekar horg draggath.”

“Tough be the hides of Gronn, but weakness sleeps beneath.”

Whereupon remembering the echoed voice of his Redblade forebear, Mokkosh seized a sharp rock from the floor of the Dread Wolf’s lair, opened the maw of Horogosh, and pounded its jaw until its most incisive fang was claimed for his own. The triumphant Orc held the fang of Horogosh within his hand like a knife, and set about the slow and gruesome business of carving free its resilient hide. When the gore-drenched business was complete, Mokkosh slowly donned the bloody hide of Horogosh so that the head of the Dread Wolf came to rest over his own skull, as though submerging him.

As Mokkosh emerged from the cavern, the other wolves began to surround him from a distance, yelping and whining with a frantic submission. The limp in his leg did little to shatter the image of strength presented to the now panicked-pack by the blood-dripping hide of their former alpha. Mokkosh snarled toward one wolf who drew too close, and it lowered its head, swiftly backing away.

Days later, when Mokkosh returned to the Stonefang stronghold, a wake of black wolves strode not far behind him. And as he emerged within view of its guards, the Redblade Orcs among the Stonefang war band gazed long at his skin, blood-encrusted; the Pelt of Horogosh adorning his vigorous frame. He knew in his heart that none among his war band would now oppose him, no matter the deeds yet to come between he and the Warlord Omruk Earthcleave... But that, that is a tale for another time...

(To Be Continued).

((Loosely modeled off the legends of Hercules.

*edit -- After finally reading more of the lore and stories behind the Red Blade, I realize now that this tale of Mokkosh greatly resembles the story of Kraag, the Wolfking. Perhaps this tale can serve as an archetypal example of how the descendants of the more ancient Redblade Orcs strove to embody and continue the myths and legends of their forebears, just as myths and legends of the real world build upon one another, playing with the same archetypal affinities all along.))

(( An excellent peek into the heart of Argrona. I look forward to reading more. ))

Oh awesome. I will see what I can whip up for this within the time allotted.