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[A Proper Farewell]

A Proper Farewell

"You and I, Ironclaw. We are not so different after all."

The words echoed in his mind as he placed down the last piece of the shrine. A finely carved statue, no bigger than the Orc's forearm but still immensely detailed and reaching its hand out as if seeking a gift. His eyes wandered across the shrine, nodding a little at the question from the she-Orc on his left, he sat himself down and accepted the finely crafted ritual knife. His heart pounding in his chest and his mind plagued by pure nervosity, he hesitated. He did not want to call on his friend in a way deemed unnecessary by the old one, but with a deep breath he took the hilt of the knife in to his mouth, running his uncovered palm along the palm and squeezing his blood in to the ritual bowl of herbs and spices and taking in the comforting scent of the contents, watching as the Orc on his left did the same. As their blood mixed, the bowl began smoking and chanting came from the one on the left.

"We will never be held by chains again, my friend. We will have our glorious deaths, our halls and hunting grounds."

The golden halls of Odyn had been a big topic of conversation between the two. He'd never heard of anything quite like it, but now he was almost afraid of them. This would be his farewell, he would never see the old man again. This rugged and brotherly old man. He let the scent of smoke and herbs hit his nostrils... Until screams, piercing shrieks of the damned echoed from the bowl, the smoke climbing in to his face smelling foul and deceitful. It was the smell of death and sorrow, yet not like he was used to. It wasn't the smell of the battlefield and glorious death as he'd expected, but of pure dread. His eyes widened as he reached his claws out, enveloped by the thick black smoke before finally, darkness consumed the two Orcs on the mountaintop. He clenched his eyes shut, not giving in to fear but neither being able to throw it off completely as he was thrown to a realm, so unlike his.

They were no golden halls, no. It was a terrifying place to be sure, thick mist covering the ground and the very hands of the dead grasping for the two Orcs, pleading to be allowed to drag their transparent forms down, never to let them leave. Never to let them feel anything but suffering... Yet they trudged on, guided by the black shape of a flapping raven who took them to where they needed to be, the mist even thicker here. A single glimmering eye peered at the two, before what could only be described as a mangled carcass groaned and creaked as it slowly crawled toward the two.

"Axeron, my friend? Is that you? Who are you?"

And so it shambled, held back by a chained noose quickly shattered by the Rrosh-tul who then glanced at the she-Orc on his left, who was swinging her staff in a wide arc to give the soul an anchor. This must be it, he thought as he reached his transparent hand to the shambling corpse. He was confused... This was nothing like he'd expected, but there was no time for fear nor sorrow. He pulled the lost soul up on the shore, refusing to step in to the fouled waters himself whilst the other Orc was performing her ritual, her staff still acting as an anchor to not let the now confusedly rambling soul fall back in to the waters.

And so they tried to figure him out; what was keeping him here, and why. And answers they got, the two Shaman struck by visions of many things pertaining to Axeron, the only one to be remembered being the poor Human's death... Cut down by men he would call sons, cold steel to his throat hindering him from the death he wanted. The death Ironclaw had promised him. The Orc felt what can only be considered dreadful guilt, stumbling back a little at the vision. And so the jailors of his soul showed themselves, great hounds of literal hell not keen on letting the two spiritwalking Orcs bring back what they'd come for. Yet wolves do not concern themselves with what dogs believe or want, and so the two Orcs battled with tooth and literal claw under the vague guise of Vrull, the Son of Strife not holding much power other than observation in a place like this. Yet as many times before, his gaze was invigorating. Fury bubbled up as the hounds were defeated, turned to ash or mangled by claws of iron, and so there was only one step... The she-Orc spoke with a grim nod.

"We must retrieve his soul, Nosh'marak. We must -be- Sharguul."

Approaching a chain-bound burial mound of skulls and bones, the Rrosh-tul nodded and brought his claws down upon the chains, every blow of the now-glowing steel weakening the chain before completely shattering it, giving a glimpse of a shimmering light inside the mound. And so he reached in, his hand barely reaching. He pushed himself further in, the hands of the damned grabbing at his spirit-y form until he finally caught a golden, shining hand and felt the world shift once again. Nausea filled him and he closed his eyes, not opening them again until the night sky of the Barrens once more threw its glorious glimmer against his closed eyelids. He stood up, offering a bloodied hand to help the weakened she-Orc up, the two of them having spilled ludicrous amounts of blood in to the now overflowing bowl. The mangled soul from before stepped forward from the slowly fading smoke, falling to his knees and weeping. They were the most genuine tears this world had seen, the pure thankfulness of them enough to shatter even the coldest of hearts. He spoke after settling a little, looking up at the two Orcs.

"Words can not explain my love for you... Thank you, my brother. I knew fate would bring us together once again."

"Will you be free, now? Will you finally get to feast in your golden halls, the ones you told me about? With ale and food aplenty, and songs to fill your head for all eternity?"

"I will... As soon as I've spoken to Edari. I must tell her that I'm free, and then I can pass on. No matter what happens, know that my gaze will be upon you. Thank you."

"Edari... The one from Tirisfal, yes?"

The spirit nodded a little, his mangled form still present but ever so slightly more bright now. As if a light was shining inside him.

"Yes, that's her. Thank you, again. Remember that I will watch over you and yours until the day comes for you to meet Vrull, and finally wander his hunting ground. Until we meet again."

"Remember what we said... Our promise to never be bound by chains again, forever to be free to our own destiny. That promise is fulfilled."

A single tear rolled down Ironclaw's cheek as he nodded, even offering a small smile, rare as they may be. He reached out as if to touch the spirit, before withdrawing his hand and realizing there would be no final handshake. Words would have to do.

"Farewell, brother. Until our paths cross again."

And so the two Orcs were left at the top of the mountain, the smoke dissipating once more and leaving them in silence with no more scent of death, and no more shrieks of damned spirits. It was done, and the burden had been lifted. Finally, he'd fulfilled his promise to the friend. It had been an odd friendship, but more genuine than any before. Kindred spirits perhaps. No matter. It was done, the human was free to go to his brothers and sisters in his long-anticipated golden halls, and the shrine would be left at that mountaintop for ages to come. He would not be forgotten.

[Chapter 2: The Slave Pits of Highmaul]

Chapter 2: The Slave Pits of Highmaul

Two decades before his defection in Tanaan...

He'd been brought in to this world screaming and kicking for dear life, and that was how he planned to leave it upon his death. Only one crucial difference between his birth and his death was to be fought for: this time there would be no hand to cover his mouth, silence his screams and his agony, afraid of the lash of the Ogre whips or the cutting of their blades. No... He would die screaming, laughing, his body broken but his spirit strong. That was his plan; despite his young age he did not fear death - he welcomed it as a matter of fact, so long as it provided a challenge or a way to prove himself. The young Orc smiled to himself, the thought of freedom in death bringing the stinging of the lashes on his back to a brief halt, filling him with ambition and longing.

"You! Puny thing! You work harder, or you die!" the Ogre shouted, interrupting his dreaming thoughts. He was no longer on a battlefield, axe in hand and bleeding to fend off endless waves of his Overlord foes, but rather back on the long ramp from the deepest mine in Highmaul, the rope running over his shoulder and down to the carriage of precious minerals and jewels providing him with nothing but the comfort of friction burns on his pale, almost never sun-touched skin. He flared his nostrils in defiance, but the young Orc could do no more than that. He was small, nimble, a runt that had somehow survived the wicked ways of this expansive underground world, hauling the weight of stones and jewels up the long and steep ramp day and night. Despite this, there was fight in his red eyes, a desire to become something more. And something more he surely would become.

We will have it eventually. Some day. Mother, we miss you; it is somehow empty here without you, even though the Ogres are plentiful. Come back.

His thoughts were nothing more than fragments, other than when he was caught up in dreams of freedom and his longing for a worthy death. The mother had passed on long ago, beaten to the eternal hunting grounds for the sake of birthing such a miserable child. One that would never be strong enough to work or smart enough to fight, a child that she never even asked to bear. She had given the Orc his name, Nosh'marak, more as a taunting gesture than anything resembling a loving name. Despite this it mattered little to the young Orc; he had his name, and yet hers was forgotten. He hated her. Or did he? The thoughts swirled around his head as he struggled up the ramp, finally bringing the carriage to a stop at the very top, where the next Orc took ahold of it, causing Nosh'marak to almost shrink on the spot. It was The Unbroken; some speculated that this Orc had been here longer than the emperor himself, a tall and hulking figure with eyes radiating nothing but hatred and dismay for whoever they were laid upon. The young Orc had once made the mistake of asking why The Unbroken did not fight in the arena, a question that was quickly met with a brutal beating from the other, larger Orcs.

You must kill them, too. The Ogres and those who wronged you will pay; we will flay them all the same!

He twitched a bit, the primal voice in the back of his mind being interrupted mid-speech by a calloused hand balled to a fist connecting with his back. He staggered, pain stinging throughout his entire body, before eventually falling flat and letting out a loud huff. Two more hands came down, this time working less violently than the first, grabbing ahold of his wrists to drag him off along the coarse ground in the mine, talking amongst themselves. And thus, as his head had connected with many of the rocks littering the ground, the world turned black. Blacker than the bottom of the mine, blacker than when he closed his eyes at night. Nothingness enveloped him.

"Puny one! You worthless in mine, you worthless in kitchen, and you worthless in life! You fight now, or you die."
They want to throw you to the gladiators. We made it; we are where we want to be, my friend. We -will- succeed.

The darkness enveloping him eased up, leaving him chained by his right hand to a wall. Flexing his fingers, he groaned. How long had he been knocked out? How long had he even been here? He was not sure. It felt as if he'd just been knocked out, but he clearly felt older, stronger, more potent. Thinking, the Orc came to the conclusion that the holes that riddled his memory must have lasted at least a few months. After all, he knew he'd never been this muscular. Had he? He was meant to be a runt in the eyes of others, not a gladiator. A bright beam of light shot from one of the walls, creaking wooden doors open like floodgates to the sunlight outside. Squinting, he looked to the light whilst the chain around his wrist was released with a satisfying click.

They want you to fight again. Do you remember how to fight? You must. Or you die a slave.

He snarled, twitching ever so slightly at the voice. Memories came rushing back; fights in the mighty arena against Orcs both larger and somehow smaller than himself. Fights that he had not lost so far, fights that the flame inside had let him win. He flexed his hands once again, looking towards the exit where the two halberd-wielding guards stood. He had to hurry, or they would whip him once more. He groaned, shambling towards the wooden gate only to be stopped by a hard punch to the chest. He gasped, folding over as the air was knocked out of him, but was pleasantly surprised at one of the guards handing him a spear.

"From one of da bosses. You gots good money on you, -slave-." the Ogre laughed, before pushing Nosh'marak out in to the arena, the shouting and cheering feeling like the beating of a hammer against his ears. It was time; he would prove himself again. And soon, freedom would be his.

Only sixty-seven left for you, after this one. Do not fail, you want your freedom and you will -take- it.

[Nosh'marak Ironclaw]

Very nice initiative, and I'll definitely join in!

Nosh'marak Ironclaw
As one born to slavery and gladitorial battles, Ironclaw's voice, whilst perhaps rarely heard speaking more than a few words at a time, reflects his experience and harsh nature. It's a deep, rumbling voice that carries heavy weight and adds a sting to every word. I'd say I imagine his voice as somewhat of either a down-pitched Marauder from Doom, found here:
https://youtu.be/lzMpLv6DCk4?t=105

Or Alduin from Skyrim, found here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRvbKgXjdbU

[Chapter 1: Tanaan]

Chapter 1: Tanaan

Water... So much water. Why was he surrounded by it? He was confused, no wisdom or insight offered by what was usually burrowed in to the back of his mind. He begun retracing his steps... He had ran down the side of what he'd appropriately dubbed "The Bleeding Hollow Mountain", lept across one of the chasms radiating their foul green fire at the bottom, and then-... A pained grunt interrupted him. He was drowning, water sweeping between his lips and down his throat to fill his lungs. Was he dying? He'd been close to it many times before, yet somehow this time felt so much more intimate. Like a giant snake the water squeezed around the Orc, whom in return kicked and paddled awkwardly. Only after the earth itself sent out a twisted and gnarled helping hand in the form of a tree root did he emerge to the surface, spluttering and swearing. He looked around, catching his bearings with his long black hair now sticking with wetness to his pale gray skin, his body glistening in the ever so faint evening light. Once he had completely emerged from the water, it was clear that this hulking Orc was  an extreme specimen, even by the standards of his own clan. Once one had looked away from his roughed up and bone-pierced face, the things that caught most's eyes were the quite literally thousands of scars littering a hugely muscular and bulky body. Some of the scars had been repurposed, their soft outer layer proving to be a perfect spot for thin, sharp, and long bone piercings that were present at least once on each section of his body. Five on each shoulder, two on his forehead, three on the forearms...

Hunt it. You can smell it. It wants to kill you, snap it's neck. Hunt the hunter, break it's bones. You know where it is.

He snarled, a sound only comparable to that of a deranged hyena escaping his lips as he begun stalking through the thick foliage. He crawled through tight clutches of vines, swung across open chasms that burned with bright green hellfire, and lept across corrupted rivers. He wanted this kill. No, rather; He needed this kill. He bounced slightly, pulling his hood down over his head, snickering in that deranged voice from before. He could see his prey, two Orcs of fel. He peered at them. It was hard to tell what clan they were, the spikey portrusions and grey-black skin with dashes of glowing green making it hard to tell. Bleeding Hollow? Probably. Those would be at Bleeding Hollow Mountain, wouldn't they? Else why did he call it that? He thought hard, his mind scrambled, pieces and fragments of it floating freely within his own head.

Hunt it. Kill it, prove your worth. Kill the weak ones, string them to the trees, leave your mark. Blood and glory, blood and glory. Let it be so.

He practically cackled at this, leaping out from his perch in the trees to instead slide down a thick, curved tree trunk to the soft and muddy soil below. The skulls and bones on his belt rattled satisfyingly, somehow not alerting the two corrupted Orcs. Scarfist prowled, silent for an Orc of his size. His leather-wrapped feet provided a quiet experience of squelching through the moist ground, thankfully also covered up by the sounds of faraway battle in the Jungle. Those other-worldly ones had come here, now. They too wanted to kill the demons, string them up in the trees, flay their skin from their bones... He shook his head. Can't get carried away. He was mere strides away from the two Orcs now, the savages twitchy and enraged as they patrolled, hunting the one that had got away.

They wouldn't have let you live, either. Kill them. Tear them apart.

His bone ornaments rattled again, one of the corrupted turning around, only to be met with a sharp bladefist to the skull. Falling like a sack of Nagrand grain, gurgling emitted from the fel Orc as he was turned in to nothing but a paralyzed bunch of fel. Toy with them. The Shattered Hand cackled again, shaking his head as if watching a silly display by the humorous ritualists at Kosh'harg. The other Fel Orc, two to three strides away swung around with a loud snarl, being met with a sharp stinging sensation to his ridged and sculpted belly. Scarfist giggled to himself again, his belt carrying one less of the poison-drenched throwing knives. It wouldn't paralyze these Orcs, he knew that; The demon blood was too strong for such luxuries, but he could at least slow it down enough to toy with it a little. Being lightly armoured, the Orc quickly slipped back to where he came from, leaping up the curved tree trunk once again, before stalking across the treetops as the corrupted Orc below lumbered, moving slower than usual, casting glances around itself.

The spikes. You want one of those. Snap it off.

He nodded eagerly to himself, leaping from his hiding spot and down another few tree branches, before taking a large step out to eventually land on the Fel Orc's shoulders with his feet. With a soft, almost methodical snicker he grabbed ahold of one of the many spikes portruding from the Orc's back. Not being able to hold his footing for obvious reasons, Scarfist stumbled forward, and with him he brought the spike, the snap of mutated bone followed by a roar of pain echoing through the jungle. Enough toying. Blood and glory. He wouldn't disobey the voice, this primal instinct that had chosen to speak to him, and thus he swung around, meeting the corrupted one head-on, who had also turned. A single blow of the Orc's mallet connected with Scarfist's side, who felt the satisfying snap of his ribs. Letting out a pained groan, he lept on top of the fel Orc and begun stabbing. Not with his own bladefist, no. But rather with his now prized trophy, the spike snapped from the corrupted Orc's back. Green-hued blood spurted across the ground, the Fel Orc's hammer useless in what had now become a wrestling match with a hint of stabbing.

No more stabbing. Finish it.

He nodded eagerly, sending his knee up to connect with the groin of the fel Orc. One of his many lessons in life had been to fight dirty; it would guarantee your victory and is far more entertaining to watch than two Orcs trading honourable blows for several hours on end. The fel Orc stumbled back with a roar, and so Scarfist's opening was clear. With a leap and a firm shove, the broken spike was stuffed in to the corrupted one's mouth, and a firm blow connecting with the jaw quickly affirmed the beast's death, the skull and brain pierced by mutated bone. After a moment of silence, the Shattered Hand recovered his prize from the jaws of the Orc, stuffing the spike inside his belt.

The fel Orc hunting duo was not discovered for many hours, only their weapons and blood remaining on the ground where they had fell. That is until the search party looked up, finding the two green-blooded ones strung upside down from the treetops, their skin hanging loose from their bodies that were now swaying gently in the wind.

It is I!

Welcome back to the fold, Kargur! Haven't seen you around before, but it seems like you're an oldie by the sounds of your application! Despite applications not being fully necessary anymore, I had a read through your short story and it definitely perked my interest in this character. You're free to contact any of the senior members or officers ingame, and get set up with an OOC and IC interview.

Even those of us who weren't around during your time surely know the name by now! Lots of good stories with your name in them.

As Krogon said, thank you for the nice words and we hope you're doing good outside the green/brown/grey life of Orciness!

[D]

Drip... Drip... Drip...

The water droplets fell one by one from the rocky ceiling, listening in on the otherwise unheard rhythm, and then falling. They fell a few feet, soaring through the cool air before making impact with rough green skin before slowly rolling off to fall another few feet, splashing against the pool of water below. An Orc stood atop a pole in the middle of said pool, balancing himself on one leg and keeping his head turned toward the ceiling, eyes closed. It was daytime outside, he could feel that much: he had learned to count the droplet's intervals overnight, keeping track of time and space despite his closed eyes and focused mind. To an outsider, he might very well have been a statue; his only movements being his chest lifting with each breath. The cave surrounding him was wide, only lit up by a ray of light from the entrance. The ray found its way through cracks in stone, soon settling on painting his upper chest with a vague yellow-ish tint. There was a tattoo, illuminated by the light: two black wolves, each leaping out to the sides from the center of his chest.

His ears heard everything around him. The creatures crawling in the rubble, the frogs perfectly swimming through the cool waters below, and the faint sounds of wood against wood outside the cave. The spar outside must have taken at least as long as his meditation, yet the Orc did not dwell on such things. His mind was as clear as the water below him; devoid of emotions and troubles, thoughts swimming aimlessly. Suddenly, a voice called out. And so the balance was shattered, and the heavy Orc found himself swaying on the spot before quickly realizing what was happening, and slipping down in to the cold waters below. He let out a grunt as he pushed himself up on to the edge of the pool, his eyes scanning his surroundings for the source of the clear yet oddly distant voice, not finding it no matter how much he looked. With a sigh, he grabbed his travel pack and wandered out of the cave, in to the bright light of the shining outdoors. The Jade Forest was spectatular this time of the year, the vegetation in full bloom. He smiled to himself, wringing the twin braids on his chin out and letting his bare skin glisten in the sun. He looked over toward the monastery grounds, blue eyes searching for the two other monks who had been sparring for the past day and some, yet his eyes did not find them. In fact, his eyes did not find anyone: the monastery grounds, usually swimming with activity, were empty. Not even the birds that usually chirped their happy and serene song were perched atop the lanterns and posts, the Orc's calm smile soon turning to a worried frown. He pulled his vestments on, covering up his tattooed chest, and hauled his travel pack over his shoulder before lumbering over to the gates.

It was a strange sight, not seeing young aspirants sparring in the courtyard or testing their skills on the various dummies around. Not only was it strange, but it was haunting, sending chills down the Orc's spine. Was he afraid? No, of course he was not; he was known for being courageous and strong. Was he worried? Most definitely. Something about this deviation from the usual had him worried, yet curious. With bare feet he walked to check every crevice and hallway of the monastery, even those that had been said to not be in use anymore. Yet despite his endless searching, there was not a single soul. He sighed, making his way to the training grounds once more to clear his now troubled mind. Monks should not simply disappear like this - It's not something you would consider to be natural. A rustle in the foliage caught him by surprise, perking his ears and freezing on the spot. He did not have his spear, but he was potent enough with his fists to tackle most foes that would be thrown at him. But then again, so were the other more experienced monks. He was strong, but by far not the strongest - how could he hope to defeat anything that had taken so many monks while leaving so few tracks?

A soft growling made him once more stop in his tracks and take a deep breath. He was courageous, but he was seldom first to strike. Soft steps behind him made him twirl around, ready to strike at whatever was coming for him, the Orc's heart now beating hard enough to feel as if it were shattering his ribcage. Yet there was nothing. No great beast, no monstrosity to gnaw on his bones, and no adversary to fight. All there was was a small print on the cobblestone, small enough to make the Orc have to kneel down to get a good look. He reached out a rugged and calloused hand, moving to touch the strange sign. He was not sure what it was; it reminded him of an eye, yet not as refined and soft-contoured as the Dalaran one. His hand halted just as it was about to touch the mark before he took to reaching out once more, even slower this time, to softly lay his hand over it. With his touch, the emblem crumbled, as did the ground underneath him, plunging him down to the dark below...

With a grunt, Rharok rose from the icy cold waters of the pool in the cave. In front of him was a familiar face: the face of his master and close friend. The auburn-furred pandaren reached out a friendly hand, one which Rharok gladly took, pulling himself up out of the water. His master gave him a firm pat on the back, the fur soaking up a few droplets of water still glistening on his skin. His next words were short yet sweet, containing a modicum of pride.

"Well, my friend. You seem to have finally found your path."

As the sun set over the plateaus in the forest, Rharok set out with naught but his leather attire and trusted spear, his feet carrying him toward the horizon. A new path had been laid before him; one that his brothers and sisters from the monastery could not guide him on. It was his path to walk, and only time would tell if he had to walk it alone, or if he would find new friends and allies to walk it with.

Evening Rehzu!

Glad to see someone who's been a part of AD for a while. Haven't heard the Bloodied Spear in a good while; but from what I remember they were a good bunch! I really liked the short story, it brought some light to what your character is doing on Azeroth and what she did before on Draenor, which seems to be all in order!

Feel free to send a message to one of our officers/contacts ingame to get yourself interviewed and invited, and hopefully I'll see you around in RP!

Heya Draz'hul!

Thanks for your application. Glad to see you opted to send one in after joining us for RP a few times already! Everything with your application seems to be in order, and based on your RP with us we'd be glad to have you on board! As applications aren't 100% necessary anymore, you're free to seek out an officer/contact ingame to get yourself interviewed and all set up IC.

Lok'tar!

[Witness The Wolf of the Iron Claw]

Witness The Wolf of the Iron Claw

Silence.. Naught but an eerie breeze blowing past the hundreds of Horde and Alliance soldiers, illuminated by the light of a great fire across the waters. The fires of a great tree, once a symbol of life, set alight by those too foolish to understand. By those so blinded by hate and dishonour, that they do not even realize what keeps them alive. Silence broken by a scream of terror, one drowned out and replaced by a mind returning to the present, the words of a great spirit echoing in said mind...

"YOU CALL FOR ME TO WITNESS YOU, WOLF OF THE IRON CLAW. AND SO I HAVE WITNESSED YOU, WITNESSED YOUR DEEDS AND YOUR TRIBUTES. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT HENCEFORTH ON THE BATTLEFIELD, YOU WILL RENDER MY JUDGMENT UPON THOSE WHO STAND AGAINST US. YOU WILL JUDGE THEM IN MY NAME, AND THEN PERHAPS, YOU YOURSELF WILL PROVE WORTHY TO STAND BESIDE ME AS MY CHAMPION. I WILL BE WATCHING YOU, WOLF OF THE IRON CLAW. WILL YOU RISE ABOVE WHERE MANY HAVE FALLEN AND TAKE YOUR PLACE BESIDE ME, OR WILL YOU FALL LIKE COUNTLESS HAVE BEFORE YOU?"

... A similar silence to the night of the burning lay heavy over the ranks of twitchy and war-craving savages; warriors with no regard for mercy, only for honour and the spilling of blood standing on the fields of Silverpine. Some shivered with nervosity, others hungrily licked their warpainted lips and their chipped tusks. For a moment, the loss and disgrace of the worldtree seemed gone, like dust on the wind. All that mattered was victory, as the grunts, archers, spellcasters, wolfriders, and others, stood lined up. Far to the right in their lines, past the endless ranks of mixed races, stood fearless wolves, topped by fearless Orc riders, lead by ambition and honour. Three stood at the front. Leader figures, perhaps. One was a rugged old wolf, Mag'har and pure. Tall as two humans stacked atop eachother, and even wiser. One was a battle-worn and scarred, yet young, grey wolf with cunning in his eyes and lust for battle in his blood, donning iron claws. The one who was in front of both however, was somewhat of both. A wise, cunning, and experienced wolf, one who had proven his worth a hundred times before and lead his pack to victory countless times. The Wolf of the Iron Claw sat proudly atop his trusted companion, a bone clad, hulking worg; young yet experienced, much like his rider. Behind the Wolf of the Iron Claw, sat many more alike him. The Iron Warriors of the Red Blade clan, the Nag'Ogar aspiring to stand among the Bloodriders of their kin, with excitement and battle lust amongst their ranks. The silence was broken by the leader, the Wolfking, who looked back at his trusted advisor, the battle-worn and cunning Rrosh-tul, the Wolf of the Iron Claw. He uttered a few simple, yet powerful words.

"Your Nag'Ogar stand ready, Rrosh-tul?"

The Rrosh-tul gave a short nod, one that was followed by the rhythmic beating of heavy war drums in the back of the Horde lines; starting off slow, it soon built up to a menacing song of war, the drums endlessly echoing over the field of battle for what seemed like an eternity. The Rrosh-tul raised his gaze toward the Gilnean town of Pyrewood, grinning to himself and licking his broken right tusk. As the drum beat sounded as if it were to reach its climax, a powerful shout was carried by the wind, from the lips of the Troll commander, and ending up at every soldier's ear.

"SONS AND DAUGHTA'S O' DA 'ORDE! CHARGE!"

A glorious wave of warcries emitted from the Horde lines as they charged; both shouts of "Lok'tar Ogar", and other shouts, in a long-forgotten Red Blade dialect of Orcish, signalling the start of the battle and the charge, the mass of Horde warriors swarming toward the Alliance defensive lines. The Wolf of the Iron Claw and his Iron Warriors however, stayed back for but a moment. When the Horde had started to cover ground, the Rrosh-tul howled out a call for blood. They circled wide, all the way around to the left flank, clashing with it and utterly dominating any that stood in their way. Cries for blood and glory drowned out pleas for mercy as the Nag'ogar fiercly cut down those who dared oppose them. The Wolf of the Iron Claw fought in an impressive display beside his worg, the beast and rider taking down one soldier after another. Not long after, they had breached the flank and the Alliance were on the run. The Iron Warriors savoured their victory for a moment, taking in every single whiff of blood they could, like the wolves they were. They were wolves, and they were wolves that had once more had a taste for blood in the hunt. Wasting no time, they once more swung atop their mounts, maws and claws bloodied by the fools who dared to encroach on their lands. They rode, spreading nothing short of terror on all sides of the Alliance. The humans and their allies were nothing but prey, ready to be chased down and have their blood spilled upon the cobblestones of the abandoned town. For many hours they rode, bringing death and destruction to those who yet stood in Pyrewood. Victory was theirs, and they loved every second of it.

Two days later, at the Sepulcher. The Horde has fallen back, and are preparing a counteroffensive against the Alliance, to deal a blow behind their front lines. The Nag'Ogar wolfriders once more stand ready to perform their duty.

Sounds of battle raged not far away, the wind carrying it along with smells of iron and death to the Orc's nostrils. It was a good day. Torches were strapped to their saddles, doused in oil and ready to be lit any moment. Pyrewood stood in the distance, empty and abandoned, yet still a beacon for the Alliance. A beacon of hope; hope that had to be crushed. With a snarl the Wolf of the Iron Claw commanded his riders, leading them. The Horde had pushed the Alliance back a fair bit, allowing safe passage for the wolfriders. Their wolves paws rhythmically beated against the cold soil beneath them. Tonight they needed no songs of war, no drums to raise their spirits. All they needed was the sensation of crushing the Alliance's hope; for hope has no place on a battlefield. Hope exists only in the minds of children, and those who are too weak to trust in true strength. Their wolves covered ground faster than many others would have, and their paws bore them to the flank of Pyrewood. They waited and scouted, growing more and more ferocious for every moment that passed. They were beasts, waiting to be unleashed.

And they were. In a flash of elemental fire, their torches were set alight, and their wolves carried them in to the town square. It was clearly abandoned, evacuated months if not years ago, the wood dry and chipped from neglect. As swiftly as they had entered, the Iron Warriors begun flinging their torches at the buildings, dousing every standing house in flames. They howled, savouring how they burned this beacon of hope. They finally got to the end of the town and halted, sniffing the air. There was a smell of fear on the wind, and the Wolf of the Iron Claw turned to his right, spotting two cowering figures. Humans, looking just old enough to fight. His gaze met theirs, and a sinister grin crept over his face. One turned pale, pale enough to believe he was dead, and fell to the ground, fainting. The other tried to run, as fast as his feet would carry him..  But Wolf's paws will always be faster than Human's feet, and he was stopped dead in his tracks, a bewildered look on his face. He was so intent on surviving, that not even the magi could keep him stuck as a sheep for more than a second. The Rrosh-tul snickered and slid off his worg, the beast hungrily eyeing the human, who fell to his knees, ready to die. The Wolf of the Iron Claw circled him, like a predator with his prey. The human whimpered for mercy, and the Rrosh-tul finally approached. He firmly grabbed the fragile being by his collar, hoisting him up and dragging him a few meters to the edge of a small hill. For once, the wolf spoke. He hoisted the human up, forcing him to watch Pyrewood, this beacon of hope, burn.

"You... Witness, our deeds. Witness what we do to your... Fragile hope. Remember, when the rest of your cities fall and your kin lie dead, the Wolf of the Iron Claw."

The frail human was tossed to the ground, left to watch hope turn to ash before him. Left by Wolves that showed no interest in such fragile prey, Wolves that now rode off to hunt prey more important than such miserable cowards who would run from battle. The smoke pillars rose to the night skies, proof of their deeds, carrying the smell of burnt wood and lost hope all the way to the front lines, the sinister wind taunting the Alliance soldiers, letting them know of their failure...

[G]

Greetings everyone!

Based on regular members (Gosh'kar and Nag'ogar) being able to tutor New Bloods on their path to swearing their oath, we officers decided it's time to give some proper guidelines on how Newblood training should be done, as it can be harmful to the overall community in the Clan if Newblood training is all over the place and not done properly. Keep in mind that the do's and don'ts in this post are extremely important, and should not be strayed from. Adding flavour to your tasks is alright - Changing the core principles is not!

Newblood training is a process in which an Orc who has sworn their oath tutors a New Blood Orc in the ways of the Red Blade Clan, including our culture, our code of honour, and how our Orcs act and think. This is normally a process that takes around a month, but times can vary from a few weeks to even a few months. When doing these Newblood Trainings, it's important to keep a few things in mind.

What to do when training a New Blood:

• Teach them about the Code of Honour/Code of Akashok. The Code is one of our most fundamental pieces of culture, and dictates how Orcs should act and treat the world around them; and thus is extremely important for the New Blood to learn and understand.


• Teach them about the Paths in the Red Blade Clan. One of the most important parts of the Clan is the structure within it, and considering a New Blood will eventually be confronted with the prospect of choosing one of the two paths, it is extremely important to learn about them both; hierarchy and values alike.


• First and foremost encourage player interaction. Not only are the tasks there to teach New Bloods about culture and Red Blade life, but also to have them fit in. It's highly important that the New Blood gets to interact with other Orcs during each and every one of their tasks, in order to know and trust who they surround themselves with.

What not to do when training a New Blood:

• Give marks for unrelated tasks. Marks are only to be given for completing tasks, and for extraordinary feats of strength that are directly connected with the wellbeing of the Clan and its members. If you send your New Blood to gather ten bear butts in Ashenvale and give them a mark for it, you're doing it wrong!
• Repeat any tasks. This one goes without saying; it's not quite productive to hand out the same tasks over and over again to New Bloods. As a tutor, you're expected to put in at least a fair bit of effort in to making the New Blood's journey the best it can be. Try to add some flavour to the tasks, based on the Orc you're handing them out to; it'll ultimately help them feel more welcome!
• Give tasks not based around player interaction. As said previously, Newblood Training is all about making the New Blood feel like they know who and what they surround themselves with, and that they fit in to the clan. If an Orc is simply sent to say, knit their tutor a scarf or conduct a ritual to ancestors of the Clan all alone, they won't actually know who they're doing this all for.

Examples of tasks that can be given:

• Listen to and/or tell an X amount of stories from others or yourself.
• Speak to an X amount of Orcs from each path and learn about their path, and why they chose it.
• Aid an Orc of higher standing with X amount of tasks or lectures.

That is the basic jist of Newblood Training! It's quite important not to skip out on any of these, because as said, if Orcs are simply rushed through training and do not get to know the Clan properly, it'll end up hurting the community in the long run.

Now go out there and train some New Bloods, all of you Nag'ogar and Gosh'kar!

Interviewed and accepted by yours truly! Welcome to the pack, Tahara!

Greetings Morya and thank you for showing interest!

It warms an officer's heart to hear that you've heard such good things about our merry green (also grey, brown, and whatever other colours we have!) band of Orcs! I'm glad you've decided to come visit the greener side of life after all that pointy-ear RP, I can promise you things certainly are as good as you've heard. 

As for your character background! While a bit on the shorter side, it seems all is in order with it and there are no major hiccups!   You've kept the timeline and backstory fairly simple, which there is absolutely no issue with, and is actually rather sometimes preferable to writing up a two page long backstory where everything is wonky With that said, you are now free to contact any of us officers or senior members ingame for an interview! The list can be found here.

Catch you in game, Morya! 

[Nosh'marak Ironclaw]

Nosh'marak Ironclaw

Self view:
Nosh'marak sees himself as a much better Orc than a few years ago, one who has not only attoned to the spirits for his sins, but also proven himself amongst the Red Blade Orcs he so desperately sought the respect of when he first joined. He's grown a lot in his own eyes; even rising to the rank of Rrosh-tul. While he started off nothing short of intimidated by the role, he feels he's settled in to it quite well and grown to be an even stronger and dependable leader. He's glad to see that he's gained the respect and trust of other Orcs in the clan, and hopes that he will continue inspiring his fellow Red Blades both in battle, leading them to victory, and out of battle, serving as a mentor and guide.

Despite this all he is a fragmented Orc at his core, just as he always has been. Nightmares plague his memory, as does trauma from times gone by. He often finds himself longing for a good death; one that will make him whole. But he has duties to perform, and death may not catch him until those duties are done. He remains unbroken.

Views of others:

Kozgugore Feraleye

Spoiler: show

An Orc that started off as an intimidating figure to Nosh'marak; being the chieftain and all. With time and effort however, he feels he's gotten past the hard shell that the Wolfking has, and gained his trust - Even going as far as to consider him a friend, more than just his Chieftain and leader. He enjoys the casual banter that the two have, both in the camp and during battle. He'd give his life without a second of thought for this Orc, no questions asked. To Nosh'marak, he is a friend, mentor, and overall badass. Blessed be thy holy Wolfking!

Trakmar Beastbane

Spoiler: show

An Orc that he immensely respects and looks out for. Despite the two having some definite rough patches of threatening eachother back and forth in the past, he's learned to appreciate the old Beastmaster and have finally gotten on good terms with him. He's definitely an Orc that Ironclaw wants beside him in battle, and one to also share an ale with back in camp. Though, he is admittedly puzzled by the giant old Orc's heritage... Who knows.

Kogra Windwatcher

Spoiler: show

An Orc who's helped him through some very difficult times. He definitely cares for Kogra, and sees her as one of his closest friends. She's always been there to talk to him, and vice versa. He feels they get along very well and that he can trust her with anything, and to top it off, her children are simply adorable.

Gridish Rimeweaver

Spoiler: show

Nosh'marak respects Gridish as much as the Wolfking, infinitely grateful for the help that the former Rrosh-tul gave him on his path within the then Red Blade tribe. He often looks to Gridish for advice and inspiration, seeing him as the ideal Rrosh-tul and aiming to live up to the legacy that Rimeweaver left for him. He is always glad when Gridish comes to him, both to give and ask for advice.

Makaroth Bloodaxe

Spoiler: show

Mixed feelings, for sure. They always got along well and always had eachothers backs, and Nosh'marak in due time saw Bloodaxe as his own brother. He was infinitely disappointed when the Orc turned back to fel and the Legion, especially after he had attoned to the spirit after his previous misdeeds. He often thinks back on the fond memories the two had together, but they are often spoilt by memories of Makaroth's death. He definitely wishes to visit the site where he ended his good friend's life, as a reminder of what dabbling in powers beyond your comprehension does to Orcs.

Kyrazha Throatrender

Spoiler: show

Not much to say about this one! He trusts her to the fullest to always have his back with her bow and arrow, and he enjoys the lighthearted spirit between the two. Sometimes he wishes she'd be more open though; he wants to know what stories lies under that mask of laughter and jokes. He definitely considers her a close friend. He misses Lian. A lot.

Kargnar Bloodpaw

Spoiler: show

Nosh'marak is always impressed by Bloodpaw's ambition and will to progress within the Clan once more, but he has, in the past, found the Orc to have some clear difficulties in choosing what path to take in his life. He's starting to see that his fellow Rrosh-tul has finally settled in to the path he has chosen, and thus respects his colleague who commands good authority and leadership.

Rhonya Steelheart

Spoiler: show

An Orc that he once saw as one of his closest friends, he feels they have drifted apart slightly. While he still respected her and looked to her for advice, she sunk more than just a little in his eyes after the debacle with Gashuk. However, he has put the past behind him and now looks at Rhonya as a friend once more.

Srelok Grimtide

Spoiler: show

One of the few Orcs that's always been helpful and guiding for Nosh'marak, Srelok is well-respected in the eyes of the Rrosh-tul. Heritage always bound them together in one way or another, even if it might not always have been known or obvious. Srelok is an Orc that Ironclaw will keep close to his best abilities, both as a friend and an advisor.

Gashuk Bloodmoon

Spoiler: show

After the debacle with Gashuk being raised from the dead, Nosh'marak has started to cool down and once more interact with Gashuk in a more friendly way. He definitely sees the Orc as a useful asset and respects him for becoming the first Gul'thauk.

Vraxxar Wildmark

Spoiler: show

A friend, fellow Elder, and overall a witty Orc. Wildmark knows how to deal with rough situations, has an admirable head for strategy, and is always a volunteer where one is needed. Ironclaw enjoys the time he spends with Wildmark, either drinking or idly chattering. He does wish that Wildmark would be a bit more open at times, as he is still largely a mystery in the Rrosh-tuls eyes.

Zi'tani Steelstorm

Spoiler: show

Eager and ambitious, but almost a bit too much so for her own good. Ironclaw watches Steelstorm's journey in the Clan with great interest, and looks forward to having her pull her weight. He's reminded of himself when he sees Steelstorm's joy and ambition, thus he most definitely enjoys her company and humour.

Nar'thak Strongarm

Spoiler: show

Wise and calm. An Orc that others can lean on in times of need, but one that also inspires others to pull their own weight. Despite this, he has never gotten to hold a full conversation with the Gosh'kar, always being dragged off to other duties.

Razaron

Spoiler: show

Returned from the dead by the will of a great spirit. Nosh'marak can not do much more than approve of the Varog'gor, enjoying both his company and his smarts. He does hope Razaron will be a more inspiring figure in the future, though; a bit too much banter for his own taste.

Tahara

Spoiler: show

She reminds Ironclaw of Kyrazha. A bit dumb on the outside, but with quite the vibrant and clever mind, whether she knows it or not. He approves of the intiative she takes, hoping to see the Orc become less of an idiotic figure and more as a cunning archer in the eyes of others.

The Skywise Sisters

Spoiler: show

He misses them, that's for sure. Witty and ambitious Orcs that always serve in the best way possible for the task at hand; he truly hopes to see them join the Nag'ogar ranks. Their synchronization kind of freaks him out, though. He is worried regarding how their training will pan out, but he has plans in store and is of the firm belief that the two are ready for their oath no matter what happens.

Magra Emberheart

Spoiler: show

A close friend, and an old friend at that. One of the first Orcs he frequently spoke with in his early days as a Nag'ogar, and one he values highly. Her humour and wit bounces off him quite well, yet he sometimes wishes her embarassment wouldn't get the better of her as much as it does. None the less, he respects and values her, and thoroughly enjoys the conversations they have as a break from day-to-day life.

Karnna Blackfeather

Spoiler: show

A mystery, but one he knows can be solved. Blackfeather, despite her unreliable and unpredictable nature, has proven an excellent addition among the ranks of the Nag'ogar. His ambition is for the Orc to open herself more to conversation and social circumstances, to find her place in the social hierarchy rather than just the Clan's inherent one, as he considers them both to go hand in hand.

Tagrok Valorwind

Spoiler: show

He is proud of Tagrok, despite their previous tussles. Valorwind is a close and highly valued friend, and Ironclaw would easily catch a blade for the Orc should it be needed. He is however worried regarding the Orc's reclusiveness and his seemingly paranoid nature.

Nakobu

Spoiler: show

Nakobu is a strange Orc for sure. Despite the fragile nature of the Orc, Ironclaw believes that anyone who is an Orc by blood can be forged in to one in spirit and body, should their mind be set to it. He looks forward to seeing the young priest's natural progression.

Skint - 'Meri'

Spoiler: show

Surprisingly, Nosh'marak does not look down on Skint. She is a runt, a weakling, one that should not be alive, based on the wicked ways of the world. Yet she's still alive, somehow. He doesn't know her all that well, only having broken words and given advice at some rare points in time. After all, he too has been a runt and a weakling, and he understands her nervosity and brittle nature. He wishes that some day, he can sow some form of ambition, to make use of the will that's carried her this far.

Za'karah Sporefang

Spoiler: show

Despite the fact that this Orc often carries a stench of hallucinogenics that he knows well from his own experiences, both good and bad, Nosh'marak finds this Orc to be fun! Lighthearted banter is often to be found with the Bleeding Hollow, something Ironclaw respects, despite not knowing her very well.

Non-Red Blades
Rrosh'gol the Worg

Spoiler: show

The name Rrosh'gol, meaning Bloodaxe in the Red Blade dialect, was given as a homage to Makaroth Bloodaxe. In a way, the spirit of his dead friend lives on in his trusted worg; a friend that one can always trust, and lean on in times of trouble. He loves Rrosh'gol like a brother, and is even slightly surprised himself at how well the worg mirrors his own behaviour. It's almost a bit creepy.

Borrock

Spoiler: show

Thoroughly confusing, and extremely stupid. Nosh'marak can not help but wonder if there is actually something going on inside that head, but he often finds himself drawing blanks. There's no way.