Orcs of the Red Blade

 

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Topics - Groshnok

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1
The Campfire / Old Friends
« on: April 28, 2020, 06:00:05 PM »
Chapter 1


Southern Nagrand, one day after the Autumn Kosh’harg

The sun was beginning to set on the green fields of a once lush land, now falling apart. It had been a long, arduous day of scouting but finally before the night fell Groshnok had found his price. Perched atop his half-garn on a hill, he spied it. A ferocious looking jet-black worg had burst from the forest below, chasing a wounded Talbuk. Its prey quickly seized around the throat by its terrible maws, brought crashing down to the soft ground. Now came the hard part.

Turning that predator into his prey.

Throatrender had given him the task days prior, and Groshnok was eager to proceed with it, to further his place down the Path of Cunning, and become closer to the spirit known as Sharguul the Unborn.  Now, killing a worg, that wouldn’t be too much difficulty. His gun could easily blast a bullet between its eyes, and if that did not fell the beast, his axes certainly would. No, this needed to be a clean kill. The pelt could not be sullied, for this was to be his new ritual armour as a Gul’thauk.

Clambering down from his half-garn, he gave the beast a steely gaze, instructing it not to go for the talbuk now struggling to cling to life. The half-garn snorted, slinking back into the shadows off the other side of the hill. Looking down to the commotion below, the Talbuk was still bucking somewhat, Groshnok noted, its last gasps of fight. He noted the wolf below becoming cautious, careful with its movements so as not to be wounded itself. Good, this would give him some time, and a distraction.

Circling behind the wolf, he slipped into the undergrowth of the trees before the clearing. Between two sturdy, twisting trunks he found his opening. A direct line to the beast, its back turned as the bleets of its meal faded. Slowly, Groshnok removed the trap he had planned from a large pouch at his side, cupping the steely spikes in his palms. Caltrops.

He had become well acquainted with a wooden version of these in his days in Stranglethorn Vale. The trolls would plant these into the earth, covering them with leaves and grass. Any person, or animal, unfortunate to step on them would not only be immobilised, but the scream from the pain of the many nerves of the foot being pierced would alert nearby hunters to their exact location. Steel plates had been inserted to the bottom of their leather boots for a reason, and although a young Groshnok had once thought it preposterous, he was thankful the first time he had felt bamboo snap against the metal. This worg would not have that luxury.

He had seven in total, enough to spread evenly of the distance of the worg’s stride. If even one paw could be pierced, the wolf would be his for the taking. Cautiously he placed them into the dirt, sinking them into enough place that they would stay, but should be ripped out upon contact. Creeping around then, he tiptoed to the clearing, the sun’s light shining against his bare chest. Save for his thick leather legguards and boots, he was armourless. The worg needed to think of him as least a threat as possible. Besides, if anything went wrong, he still had his gun and axes, of which one was now clasped in his right hand.

He could not risk whistling or yelling at the beast, lest his half-garn come running and ruin the plan. Instead, his right arm arced across his chest, before slashing sideways, hitting the oak next to him with a loud thunk. The worg, happily beginning his snack, reared its neck, its eyes focused, its mouth in a blood-soaked snarl. He had its attention. Lifting his wolf-mask, Groshnok met the worg’s glare with his own. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Silence upon the clearing, with two foes ready to see who would blink first. And Groshnok did, descending back into the shadows of the clearing, over the trap he had laid, backed up against a trunk of a tree. From the light shining between the two trees in front of him, he saw the black mass bounding forth, jaws hungry to take down that which would interrupt his meal, eyes fixed on his target.

In a flash, the eyes turned from anger to agony, its jaw opening wider to let out a pained yelp. Its front two paws had landed directly into the second set of caltrops, causing its hind legs to buck, and the worg came crashing down, its speed somersaulting it across the grass, directly towards Groshnok’s path. The orc leapt up as the wolf slammed with a sickening crunch into the trunk he had been backed against, yelping weakly in pain. Cautiously, Groshnok readied his axe, analysing the damage. The wolf’s landing had been as unfortunate as its paw placement. The side of its neck had bore the brunt of the slam, and Groshnok could see the body was weakly spasming. It had broken its neck.

Slowly, he approached the downed beast, putting his foot on the other side of the neck. The wolf stared at him, helpless, its eyes almost bleeding. Groshnok grunted, putting his full weight down on his foot, and with a crack and a last yelp, it was done. He couldn’t help but smile, admiring his work. This would indeed make a fine pelt. It was as intact as could get! He leant down to pick his prize up, when a large, fierce howl froze him in place. The half-garn.

He had never given it a name, as that was another lesson he had taken from Stranglethorn. Worgs never tended to last long there, either running off or being killed in scouting missions, often bearing the brunt of slow-acting poison darts. This one though, had been different. It had been with Groshnok since the clan had tamed its pack in Frostfire Ridge, after the Iron Horde had re-opened the Dark Portal. The worg was fiere, well able to hold its own. If it howled like that, something was very, very wrong. He rose to his feet, sheething his right axe and unholstering his gun. Leaving the corpse, he ventured out to the clearing, unsheathing his left axe as he looked towards the hill, where a large wagon stood. “Raiders?” he thought. No, that wagon did not look orcish by design. More Goblin-like.

Oh fuck.

Scrambling to the top of the hill, commotion began to grow louder. Pressing up against the wagon, he peered around to see his half-garn, covered with nets and unable to move, trying to gnaw away at its bondage. Next to it was a bloodied human, lying unmoving in the grass. Suddenly, darts were flying, landing in the wolf’s neck, as it swayed before crashing to the ground. Groshnok peered around for the assailants, and saw two goblins and an orc with their rifles poised, inching towards it from either side. In front of him, strolling towards the captured half-garn with hands clasped behind his back, was a rather plump goblin, outfitted in a fine purple velvet suit and top hat. Their leader, Groshnok assumed. And with all attention now drawn to his unconcious worg, Groshnok saw his opportunity to strike. Slinking forward he pressed the cold steel of the gun against the back of the goblin’s head. On instinct, the goblin froze, raising his hands in the air. Groshnok snarled, glaring up towards the three still moving towards his worg. “Get away from t’wolf or t’goblin gets i’!” he roared.

The three turned on their heel, pointing their rifles at him. “Easy now,” the goblin below him started. “Let’s not be hasty here. Just take that gun down from my head.”

“Tha’s no’ ‘appenin’ ‘till ye’ ge’ yer boys ‘way from me wolf,” Groshnok retorted with a snort.

“Well my boy, that’s not happenin’ either,” the Goblin replied, surprisingly calm. “That’s quite a wolf you have. Don’t see many like that. See, somethin’ like that could go on the markets for a hefty price, wouldn’t ya say?”

“Would do,” said Groshnok. “Bu’ ‘e ain’ for sale.”

“Shame,” said the Goblin with a shrug. “I suppose we’ll have to just take him then. See right now you’ses got three fine shots aimin’ some VERY potent night-night juice at ya neck.”

Groshnok looked up, eyeing the three. “Aye, an’ if yer boys ‘ad sense, they’d realise if ‘em shoots tha’ nigh’-nigh’ juice, ‘em’s coin-purse’s brains end up on the floor.”

“Lower the gun from my head, and we’ll leave ya depart unharmed,” the Goblin pressed. “I’m offerin’ more than generous terms here my boy. Be thankful that I never forget a voice.” Groshnok’s eyebrow arched, peering down at the back of the goblin’s head. The more he thought, the more this goblin’s voice was sounding hauntingly familiar too. The goblin snickered. “Ah, finally ya’s relaxed ya grip I see,” he said. “Ya know, of all the places I thought I may see you’se again,” he continued as he turned to face Groshnok. “This was surely the last place I’d expect!” Groshnok’s gun lowered as he stared into the beady eyes of a goblin he had not seen since his last time in Booty Bay.

“F-Fax?” stammered Groshnok, recoiling in shock. The goblin flashed a gold-toothed smile back at him. His years away from the clan, soul-searching had often led him to that Goblin’s employment. And now, on some hilltop in the middle of South Nagrand, their paths crossed once more.

“Glad to see ya remember me, Rabid Wolf! I sure remember you…” Fax said, his smile growing wider. Fax’s smile had always been his greatest weapon. You could never tell if it meant he was happy with you, or was planning on stabbing you in the back. Groshnok found this question answered quickly this time, as something stung his neck. He looked up to see the orc of Fax’s party with his gun aimed, directly where he had been stung. Shit.

Groshnok threw his axe aside, lifting his arm to rip the dart out of his neck. As he did, his legs went from under him, landing hard on his tailbone, and slumping back against the wheel of the wagon. It had been too late, the drugged dart had set in. He tried to reach out to grab Fax, but found his arms would not work. HIs vision began to blur, as the figure of the goblin came closer to him.

“It’s so nice to run into old friends, isn’t it?” it said, before Groshnok’s world went black.



2
The Campfire / No Weakness
« on: September 28, 2019, 05:44:04 PM »
A cool autumn breeze blew through the night sky of Nagrand, signifying not only the end of the Kosh’harg, but the end of the warm season. Under a tree’s shade by the lake in northern Garadar, Groshnok leaned back against its trunk, letting the gusts of wind prickle over his skin. He let out a sigh as he meticulously cleaned his pistol, his eye not leaving it as he brought up residual gun from its barrel. The same barrel, only a day before, had been pointed straight at Tagrok Valorwind’s head. The note had come the day before that, tied to Kyrazha Throatrender’s trusty worg Timur. Tagrok had fled, and Groshnok was to bring him home. He knew the reason why but could not give the orc any sympathy for it. It was weakness, plain and simple. Tagrok had let his emotions take over him. Regardless, Groshnok had his orders.

It only took a day. He had scouted up to the Terokkar border, finding no trail, before linking up with Vraxxar in the west. There they had found him, camped on a cliffside in northwest Nagrand, drunk and wallowing in self-pity. The sight made Groshnok’s blood boil, though not because of Tagrok’s circumstances. But because that sight had once been him. How many times had he taken leaves of absence from the clan, for months at a time? How many times had he returned to Stranglethorn, hoping to find death, only to come crawling back? How many times had he said to himself, “this is the last time”? Too many. Far too many.

And for that, listening to Tagrok’s speech, sounding far too like his own to the visions of his blood-brother Gra’tagesh, Groshnok had lost his patience. He had heard enough and drawn his pistol; his finger tightly gripped around the trigger. It was good that Vraxxar had stepped in, to deliver a strike to Valorwind’s face to try and bring the orc back to sense. Groshnok had told Tagrok that he never intended to shoot as they were back in camp. But he was not so sure that was all the truth. The Path of Cunning was set before him, and in the last few weeks had opened his eyes to where he truly had always belonged in the clan. But he also understood, from long talks with Throatrender, that there could truly be no weakness. Not with the threats they would face.

Setting the gun aside, the task of cleaning done, Groshnok breathed a sigh of relief and nestled himself cozily into the trunk, picking up the rolled paper next to him. The cigarette was packed full of herbs he had purchased from a troll at the Kosh’harg. He enjoyed the indulgence in these particular kind every once in a while. They reminded him of the jungle. He placed the end between his lips, and the flame of his zippo sparked to life in his right hand to light it. The sweet smoke hit his lungs as he relaxed his body further into the trunk, though his mind was far from that state. Indeed, the last week had been an interesting one. The night they brought him back, Kyrazha had hinted for Tagrok to try and learn from Groshnok. After all, she knew what Groshnok knew. They had both spent enough time in Stranglethorn Vale to learn of its harrowing rules and be morphed by them. And despite Tagrok’s fleeing, Groshnok knew he was a good, dependable orc deep down. So, he would take the task, and train the former Horde scout in what he needed to know. For Groshnok knew, in the ranks of Gul’thauk, there could not be weakness.

In any ranks, there could not be weakness.


Somewhere Outside Grom’Gol Base Camp, Northern Stranglethorn
One Year Before the Siege of Orgrimmar

It had truly been the most boring few weeks of Dro’mag’s life, stationed in the muggy heat of this blasted jungle. He shouldn’t have been here. He should have been in the newly discovered lands in the south of Azeroth, fighting as one of the honourable Kor’kron. He thought he was guaranteed it, for his great deeds on the field of battle in Ashenvale. But no, politics had reared their ugly head. Bribery was all it took for his deeds to be made another. Shameful. Dishonourable. He could not believe it had happened to him. And worse still, they had sent him away to a land he could not speak up about them from. Half the world away, in Stranglethorn Vale.

Dro’mag grunted with frustration, looking from his corner in the hut to the table across. There, four orcs sat, seeming excited about something for once. Since he had arrived three weeks prior, all he had seen was nothing but uneventful patrols. The only excitement came from one, where a lone Skullsplitter had been shot out of his tree by Urgarok. He had to commend the rest of them, for as wild as they seemed, he could not fathom how they could see the enemy through such thick foliage.

However, it was a lone occurrence. The Trollish thread had truly slowed in the Vale, with the Zandalari also migrating to Pandaria. He gritted his teeth. He should have been there, fighting them. Before his mind could wander to stolen glories, he felt a hand clap around his shoulder.
“Don’t be lookin’ so glum now,” an old voice game from above him. Dro’mag looked up to see the grey-haired Reg’nosh grinning down at him. “Today boy, you’re finally goin’ to see some action. Seems Blackrend found us a lil’ encampment.” Dro’mag’s stomach churned slightly as he looked over towards the mentioned orc. Groshnok Blackrend, the group’s “interpreter”, as they liked to call him. The orc could speak Zandali, but it was not for negotiation he used that tongue. He had heard the screams of a captured troll from the small wooden hut next door for the last few days. When he saw Groshnok finally emerge that morning, hands filled with blood and a gleeful smile upon his face, he dared not look inside to see what remained. Still, it was obvious by the buzz in the hut that he had found something important, and Reg’nosh’s words confirmed that. While the others in the group treated Dro’mag with distrust, Reg’nosh had been a welcoming mentor since his arrival. He had told tales of what their job was. Now, finally, he would be a part of one of their missions.

Gra’tagesh rose from the table, his long black braids spilling down over his shoulders with the movement, as the leader nodded to his orcs. Those at the table nodded back. It was time to move. Dro’mag grunted as he got to his feet, the chainmail armour having stiffened his legs a little. He knew he should not have sat down when he returned from the main camp half an hour prior. Shaking them out to bring the blood flow back, he picked up his great-axe, slinging clicking it into its sheathe across his back. Those at the table moved out of the cramped hut first, with Gra’tagesh whispering some words to Reg’nosh before he departed. The old orc nodded in return, before looking at Dro’mag. “Time to go. I’ll fill ye’ in.”

He walked as silently as the armour would allow him beside Reg’nosh, as their mission was explained to him. Another outpost, encroaching near Grom’gol again. Dro’mag understood. Raid, route, and take the wounded prisoner. Though, he pondered, perhaps giving those warriors an honourable death would be better. He shuddered to think what Blackrend would have in store for them otherwise. Dro’mag focused his eyes on the four in front of them. Gra’tagesh led first, cutting through the swaths of undergrowth with his long machete. To his left flank, the young Groshnok carried matching Gurubashi-like axes in each hand, his head on a constant swivel of every inch of foliage. To the right flank, the hulking Frostwolf Gre’lak’s motions matched, his large axe swung over his shoulder. Taking the rear behind them was the scrawny, warty Urgarok, an arrow already notched in his crossbow. As his head darted to the right, Dro’mag noticed the smaller orc was the only one with a grin plastered on his face. There was something about that orc that seriously unnerved him.

Gra’tagesh raised his hand, pointing his fingers down, and on command the group sunk lower. They were close. Dro’mag could feel the tension rising. As much as he knew these dogs of the Horde were rabid, he also knew they were not stupid. Something was coming. Something wasn’t right. And as if on cue, the next swing of the machete revealed what they had felt. The blade cut through a bush, revealing a small clearing. And in the center, a being looked up at them. A young troll boy, barely old enough to shave. In his hand contained a basked full of berries. His eyes, wide as saucers with fear, locked with theirs. The eerie silence, for only a second, seemed like an eternity before the basket fell, its contents spilling to the undergrowth. The boy darted for the trees. No sooner had he reaches the shadows, an arrow pierced the tree, just next to his head. “Shit!” roared Urgarok, snapping Dro’mag’s attention back to their position. Gra’tagesh snarled at him, and rightly so, thought Dro’mag. Though he was sure to warn the village, he was no scout. There was no honour in taking his life. The words from Gra’tagesh’s mouth though, shocked him.

“Told ye’ no’ to drink tha’ fuckin’ ale! After him!” their leader bellowed. The group fell into formation, and his initial shock was snapped as the large hand of Reg’nosh caught Dro’mag by the scruff of the neck, propelling him forward. The orcs rushed the foliage, and within the minute, Dro’mag could see the outline of an encampment through the cracks of the tree-line. Urgarok, with such dexterity Dro’mag did not imagine of the orc. Clambered up the branches, hopping from one to the other to take his place overhead of their target. Heat washed against Dro’mag’s right arm. Before they rushed the village’s clearing, he glanced in the direction of the heat to find Reg’nosh holding a bottle, cloth at its head set alight. The bottle soared through the air as they broke through the bushes, landing perfectly atop the main hut, shoddily built hut, setting it alight. Screams of voices and steel filled the air, as Dro’mag let his instincts take over, his axe caving the chest of an approaching troll warrior. He looked around, finding his comrades fairing as well as him. Despite the boy’s advantage, it had been too late. They had taken the trolls completely by surprise. Dro’mag spun, his axe cleaving another troll’s stomach right open. The rings of steel slowly died. Was it over already?

His senses returned as he peered around at the now ruined site. Blood from its inhabitants was beginning to flow into the river beside it. Dro’mag grinned. He saw now why they had been so excited. It had been a long time since he had felt this alive. And as quick as the grin had formed, it vanished into a look of horror. There before him, was the boy with the berries. A dagger firmly gripped in his hand. A crossbow bolt firmly gripped between his eyes. Dro’mag staggered over, falling to his knees at the sight. The blood rushed in his ears, blocking all sound out for a few moments as he locked eyes with a young pair who would never see through them again. Dro’mag looked up. This wasn’t just a raid. This was a massacre. His attention turned to his left, where bellows in a language he could not understand brought his hearing back to reality. Groshnok, his maw and blades dripping with blood, stood looking at an elderly troll with a twisted grin. The old troll pointed a bony finger, his eyes bulging with rage as he roared at Groshnok. The orc only turned his head curiously, chuckling somewhat at what had been said, before dropping an axe and grabbing the troll’s wrist. Dro’mag watched as the troll’s eyes widened in horror at the words Groshnok spoke to him in Zandali. In a flash, the axe in Groshnok’s right hand slammed upwards, burying itself in the old troll’s throat.

“No!” Dro’mag cried, but it was too late. Rage bubbled as Blackrend turned his head towards him. “Why?!” he continued. “Why?! Why are you doing this?!”
Groshnok chuckled, the dark tone sending a chill down Dro’mag’s spine. “Funny, tha’ ol’ fuck asked me t’same question. So ye’ ge’ t’same answer,” replied Groshnok. “Sorry, bu’ we ain’ takin’ no prisoners today.” Dro’mag scoffed.
“Monsters,” he breathed. To his surprise, Groshnok’s expression did not turn to anger. He did not go to strike him. Instead, the orc’s expression softened, his eyes sympathetic.
“I understan’,” he said sincerely. “Bu’ ye’ ge’ used t’it. I fel’ t’same as ye’ me firs’ burnin’. Bu’ we be t’los’ ones, Dro’mag. T’ones cas’ aside.” His expression darkened once more, as his red eyes bore into Dro’mag’s green. “Tha’ bug-eater cub ye’ looked at so dear there… ‘im would’ve killed ye’ ‘ad Urgarok no’ taken the sho’. ‘em don’ care out ‘ere. It be kill, or be killed yerself. An’ we plan on survivin’.”

Dro’mag’s eyes widened again. This was the most words the orc had spoke to him at once, if maybe at all since he had been stationed in their group. He growled, defiance rising up above the orc standing above him. Before he could even utter a word, the orc held a hand to him, continuing his speech. “Ye’ be no’ differen’ from us. We all be ‘ere for reasons, be ‘em us did too righ’, or too wron’. Ye’ go’ t’learn t’accept tha’. Whoever sen’ ye’ ‘ere wan’s ye’ t’die. Bu’ we won’. We gon’ carry out t’orders tha’ we been given…” Dro’mag felt the orc’s eyes bore into his very soul, as Reg’nosh, Urgarok and Gra’tagesh came to Blackrend’s side. “We be t’Rabid Wolves o’ Stranglet’orn Vale,” Groshnok continued. “Accep’ tha’. Accep’ ye’ be never goin’ back. Bu’ prove ‘em wron’. Ye’ be no’ dead, no. Ye’ be very much alive, Dra’mog.” Groshnok held out his hand to help the orc up, a smile forming upon his lips. A disgusting, revolting smile, thought Dro’mag. His green eyes burned with more defiance than ever, letting out a roar as he rose to his feet, slapping the young orc’s hand away. Groshnok stumbled back a few steps in shock, snarling. But before he could retaliate, Reg’nosh stepped in front of him, putting his right hand forward to shield Groshnok’s attack. His eyes looked bore a different look. Pleading.

“Consider wha’ the boy said, Dro’mag,” said Reg’nosh. “Ye’ have told me of Ashenvale. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did! Please, I beg of ye’, do not let your pride get in the way. Ye’ be a good soldier. Ye’ be a good orc, but the way things be here, it be no’ like on the battlefields ye’ve been on before.” The old orc grunted, his eyes the most genuine Dro’mag had seen any, since he had set foot in the Vale. “Please Dro’mag, reconsider…” Dro’mag grunted, his eyes searching each orc there. Urgarok seemed indifferent. Groshnok, though angry from his prideful speech, nodded along with what Reg’nosh had been saying. And the leader, Gra’tagesh. There was a flicker of hope in his eyes. Hope he would accept, or hope he would escape, Dro’mag did not know. But he knew that he could not become one of them. The anger boiled within him for even thinking of such thoughts of accepting their offer! He let his head crane to the sky, letting out an anguished roar, before looking straight ahead. Not at Gra’tagesh. But at Reg’nosh, who had so taken care of him.

“You bastard!” he screamed. “You promised me! Promised me how it would go!” Reg’nosh tried to interrupt, but Dro’mag held his hand forward, stalwart. “No! Don’t try to fill my head with shit of trying to protect me! You’re monsters! All of you!” he screamed, eyeing each and every member of the four in front of him in turn. “This is what the Horde asks of you? I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it! No! This is out of your own terms… But don’t worry,” said Dro’mag. “I won’t tell. Dishonourable bastards as yourselves will face judgement in the next life. Just relieve me of my duties here, and transfer me to another post,” he said, nodding at Gra’tagesh. “That’s all I ask.” He expected laughter. He expected mocking. But no. Something much worse came. Urgarok and Groshnok’s expressions darkened. Gra’tagesh looked at him with disgust. But Reg’nosh, Reg’nosh just looked at him with pity.

“Are you sure, my boy?” he asked. Dro’mag nodded with a grunt. “Then I’m sorry,” Reg’nosh sighed. “Go.” Dro’mag needed no further talking. He spun on his heel, his path for the undergrowth, never to look back at them. But his turn took him face first, straight into the mountain that was Gre’lak. Dro’mag went to shove the orc aside, but strangely as he moved his arm forward, it faltered. Worse still, neither would his legs make a step. Try as he might, Dro’mag was stuck to that position. He had felt Gre’lak’s fist hit his abdomen, but it wasn’t that hard. He wasn’t that easily winded. His eyes cast downwards.

Blood.

A trollish dagger was buried deep in his abdomen. Further downwards, he saw the corpse of the dead boy that had brought him to a standstill. No longer was that dagger in his hand. Dro’mag recoiled, realizing what had been done, but his footing could not be found, the orc collapsing onto his back. Gra’tagesh, Reg’nosh, Groshnok and Gre’lak surrounded him. Watching him bleed out. Watching his final moments. Reg’nosh’s eyes were still filled with pity as he leaned down, clasping Dro’mag’s hand. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he said. “But there isn’t any room for weakness here.” Dro’mag grunted, a bubble of blood breaking through his mouth. He croaked. Again and again they came up, as Reg’nosh squeezed his hand tighter for some comfort. It was at least, some comfort, Dro’mag thought. He croaked again, gasping for that last bit of air as the bubble of blood broke past his teeth. It finally seemed in. And with that, the world went black.

“She’s a pretty one, ain’t she! Oh, I like ‘er!” squealed Urgarok with glee, peering at the corpse of a dead she-troll. From the Dro’mag’s own corpse, Groshnok turned around, cracking Urgarok over the head.

“Be bad enough ye’ defile the livin’!” he yelled. “Don’ ye’ start wit’ t’dead, y’little rat. Be a wonder yer thin’ ain’ fallen off.” Urgarok growled, but fell slient once he saw Gra’tagesh’s steely gaze as the orc looked behind his shoulder. Groshnok sighed, walking over to Dro’mag’s body. “We’s ‘ardly gon’ leave ‘im for t’clean-up crew, is we?” he asked. Gra’tagesh shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “Best no’ t’leave him wit’ the rest. Ye’ an’ Gre’lak find a spot.” Groshnok nodded, picking Dro’mag’s legs up as Gre’lak hoisted the corpse upwards by the armpits. The pair walked silently towards the dense bushes. They’d find a spot where the panther’s would come out once darkness fell. It would be like the orc never existed after they had their feast, Groshnok knew. And even if the body was found, Gre’lak had been smart enough to drive a trollish blade into Dro’mag’s belly. Just a grunt on patrol, picked off easily. Groshnok grunted, looking down at the lifeless eyes of the orc, his head pressed against Gre’lak’s chest. It was a shame, really. He seemed like a good pair of hands. He remembered his first burning. This fate could have easily been his own, had he made the same decision as Dro’mag. But that was the way of life here, unfortunately. You had to let go of the past, and let your instincts take over if you wanted to survive. In their line of work, you were no longer a proud worg of the Horde war machine. And that title was something Dro’mag could not let go of, not descend from.

In the end, Dro’mag was no Rabid Wolf.



Groshnok crushed the end of the cigarette into the grass, breathing out the last plume of smoke as he dwelled on the memory. It really was a shame. Dro’mag would’ve fit in well in the clan, he knew. The path of strength could have used his capable hands. But that was a lifetime ago, and it was best not to dwell on the past. He had spent too much time already chasing it. His days in Stranglethorn were done, gone forever and never coming back. Despite it being over half a decade ago since he had left, it was only in the last few weeks he had finally come to terms with that fact and began to make peace with it. After all, there were more pressing things to worry about now. Tagrok being his main concerned.

He snickered, thinking of the Tagrok’s bitter words to him when Groshnok and Vraxxar found the orc on that cliffside. “Her bloodhound,” he had called Groshnok. It was the first time he had been called such a thing. He pondered the name for a while, but found it to be quite fitting in the end. After all, with the work he had done, he found it a title earned, rather than the insult it was meant as. A title Tagrok could attain too, and he would make sure of it. For as much as he learned in the jungle, Groshnok knew all too well the path of the Rabid Wolf, and would make sure it was a road Tagrok would not walk. Descending it was a dangerous enough task, but it was a road that kept you, never to let you out again, at least not fully. A bloodhound, though. That, Groshnok could make. He rose to his feet, looking out towards the Throne of the Elements. It would be bitter work, but Groshnok wouldn’t relent. The orc needed to learn. For every chain is broken by its weakest link. And to have one in the path of the Gul’thauk was something Groshnok couldn’t allow. He was capable as it was. Groshnok would mould him into something greater, no matter what. No complaints, no whining.

No weakness.



3
The Campfire / The Last of the Rabid Wolves
« on: April 04, 2019, 06:40:05 PM »
If you haven't, I would recommend reading my last story from a few years back, Rabid Wolf, to get a sense of some of the characters that will be mentioned and appear in this story.

Chapter 1


The salty night air blew calmly over the port of Ratchet. Although most ships had set sail or arrived during the day, a few still stood ready soon depart. It was truly a town that never slept. In front of a large cargo ship, two shadows stood, watching their valuables being loaded. An assortment of races, of all ages. Slaves. Some strong, fresh from auctions. Some weak, fresh from capture. Among the weak, hobbled along an orc, hunched from pain. The beating from his captors had been severe. He had been working in a mine to the north for months, though to him it seemed years. Time passed slowly breaking rocks until your muscles and bones snapped like the stone the pickaxe crushed. He had tried escape, yet to no avail. The hunters quickly tracked him, hunted him down. He did not have the speed, nor the strength of years prior to fend them off. And so, here he was. A ship bound for somewhere across the sea. A ship, he had heard, that once you board, you do not come back. He could not imagine a hell worse than he had been in, yet the hunters who had captured him promised a fate far worse than both the mines, and death.

As he stumbled forward towards doom, the manacles biting into his wrists and ankles, he tried to turn his thoughts towards happier times. It would keep you sane, a troll slave had told him. He wished the same troll had mentioned that as time went on, those memories became foggier and foggier. A brotherhood… he was sure he was once a part of. That he was certain. Laughter around a campfire. Glorious battle, axes swinging through the air. Though looking at his chained hands now, they could barely hold a full bowl of broth, nevermind a weapon. The ship loomed closer, yet, so far away. His stomach growled painfully, sharply drawing his throbbing brain’s realisation to his feeling of weakness. He had not eaten in days, not since he had tried to escape. They gave him water so he would not die, but this was all part of the punishment, he knew. Passing the shadows watching the ship, he shifted his eyes from the floor to gaze at them. His heart skipped a beat.

The hunters.

Suddenly, he felt himself flying towards the dirt below. His eyes were drawn to them only for a few brief seconds but that was all it took for him not to notice a rock, tripping over it. Groaning in pain, his eyes blurred, and his ears rang with the sound of nearby laughing goblins, mocking his predicament. The brightness of the earth he lay on, shone by the nearby lamp lights darkened. The two shadows loomed over him. He struggled to turn onto his back, as his became clearer, the shadows’ features emerged.

“Get up, boy,” came the smooth voice from the figure on the right. A tall blood elf, his blonde shoulder-length hair shimmering in the lamp light. “We don’t want a repeat of earlier now, do we?” The orc struggled upwards but fell to his knees. He felt a large hand envelop his neck, yelping painfully as it dragged him to his feet. His head arched upwards slowly, trying to meet the gaze of the hand’s owner, yet the dead eyes of a wolf met him. A mask, shrouding the figure’s features, save for the snarling mouth with a single tusk protruding from the right corner. The sight sent a chill down his spine. He had not got a good look at the pair in his struggle as they captured him, but he knew all too well who they were now.

With a turn and a shove, he was sent towards the ship, hobbling forward with speed from the shock. Up the plank, down some stairs, into a cell. Peering around at his cellmates found him only more misery. A withered looking human. She did not look like she would make it through the voyage. An angry dwarf, roaring at the slavers through the iron bars. An old troll, sat still in the corner, seemingly staring into nothingness. The lights were on but nobody was home. He sighed in defeat, shuffling to the tiny window, soaking in the last glimpses he would get of Kalimdor. That wolf mask… yes, he had worn one once in his glory days. He tried hard to remember them. Yes, keep your sanity. That’s all you have, that’s all you’ll ever need.

Yet the sight of the two burned into his brain. They may not have been the first ones to take his freedom, but he knew in this cramped cell they were the last. The blood elf had a silver tongue, able to manipulate almost any being into giving information of dissent in the mines. And if you were stoic enough to resist, his blades were just as sharp, enough to make you sing the tune he wanted. The other one though… he was surprised he still lived, from the things he’d seen. His mind cast back to a month prior when a young night elf, still with youthful strength and naivety on his side, had made his daring escape. He had warned the young elf not to do so when he had spoken of it, not just for what would happen if he was caught, but he was in very dangerous territory. The young elf assured him, he knew he could not be too far from the northern border of Ashenvale. The burning of Teldrassil was only a myth to keep his people from escaping, he was sure. That boy had been in the mines far too long. The orc had seen the soldiers of that campaign return to Orgrimmar himself.

A day was all it took for them to find the elf. The slaves had all been shuffled out of the mines to watch as the pair strolled into camp with his broken body. The orc dragged the corpse behind him by the ankle, as they drew closer the horror dawned. The night elf’s lifeless face was covered in blood, seemingly savaged down to the jugular. The orc’s features may have been shrouded, yet the crimson mask around his snarling maw gave the weapon that had done the deed away. An example to the rest.

A roar from above sounded out, echoing through the halls from ship hand to ship hand, breaking the orc from his trance. Five minutes. He sighed in final defeat. This was his end. He peered intensely out the window, taking in as much of Ratchet as he could. So many memories here. Great memories. A shame this was his last. His eyes peered down to the two hunters, now shadows once more away from the lamp light. Gritting his teeth, he cursed the wretches. The bringers of his damnation.

The Curtsy Cutthroat and the Rabid Wolf.

“You really should come, you know,” sighed the blood elf, looking disappointedly at his companion. “It’s meant to be a lovely little island. Very cushy job, if I do say so myself. Fabulous beach, and those little goblins do know how to put on a good time for those in their employ.” The orc across from him shook his head, grunting.

“No’ my seen. ‘sides, think me time be done ‘ere,” replied Groshnok. “Time fer me to move on.” The blood elf raised his eyebrow quizzically in response.

“To move on? So you won’t even stay in the mine?” he asked. Groshnok shook his head.

“Nay. I’ve ‘ad enough o’ this. ‘sides, tha’ minin’ operation won’ last much longer. No’ in Horde lands.” Groshnok shook his head, letting out a grunt. “They’ll barge in, kill ‘em all, honourable grunts killin’ filthy slavers.” A small grin curled around his mouth, his sole tusk tightening the right side. “An’ then send ‘em’s own prisoners to die there.” The elf let out a titter, swiping his hand lightly through the air.

“Oh, I do love how you orcs work,” he giggled, patting his chest to slow the laughter. “But yes, you are most likely right. It’s probably for the best.” He paused for a moment, eyeing the orc up and down. “Although, where will you go? The goblins didn’t pay you that much. That coin won’t last you forever.”

“I’ll find a way,” replied Groshnok. “Don’ ye’ be worryin’ about me, Kalrius.” The blood elf sighed melodramatically in response.

“Very well, if that really is what you want, I can’t stop you.” He peered up towards the ship. “Well, I’d better be off. It’s been a pleasure to work with you, Blackrend.” Kalrius offered his hand to the orc with a smile. Groshnok grinned in turn, grabbing the elf’s forearm and squeezing, causing him to squeak in pain. He kept his smile though, squeezing the orcs forearm back.

“Been a good three months, Kal. Be safe,” said Groshnok. Releasing his grip, Groshnok stepped back, allowing Kalrius to massage the place where his hand once was.

“Yes,” grunted Kalrius cheerfully, trying to mask the pain. “It has. I shall think of you while sipping cocktails on a sunny beach.” The pair chuckled, as Kalrius finished massaging his forearm. “I will not miss your orcish handshakes, however.” Groshnok grinned at him.

“Bah. Toughens yer perfumed arse up. Now get goin’, ‘less ye’ wan’ yer cocktail to be a watered-down whiskey here.” Kalrius nodded with a smile, turning to ascend the plank to the ship. He turned as he reached to top, waving down to Groshnok for a final time. Groshnok responded with a wave of his own, watching as the elf disappeared from site, further into the ship. His grin quickly faded as he turned on his heel, strolling from the dock towards the inn. The elf could be good fun, but there was no replacement for the hole his shattered mind was trying to seek out. There was no replacement for his old blood-brothers. And yet, his mind kept seeking it out, as if it would be the key to repairing it, when it was the very thing that started its destruction. Back then, he could not see that, but now he knew.

Yet his mind kept seeking it out. The world had changed too much, too quickly, for an alternative. He felt lost, left behind. As time had passed since he had left the tribe more than eight months ago, the cracks began to worsen. He barely knew who he was anymore. He only knew what he was good at. Being the very thing the jungle had shaped him into during his twenties. Thirty-four years on this plane and he felt like an old man. His body was starting to weaken, too. His right tusk had been cracked off in a skirmish in Uldum months prior. He had joined a mercenary band on a contract to raid a gnomish caravan, carrying some sort of invention, to steal it for some goblin engineer. The goblin could have told them the invention was a weapon. A few inches further and its hammer would have cracked Groshnok’s skull in two. It was not the only appendage missing.

His left ring finger, now just a stump. He was lucky it was not more. In his first week at the mine a troll escaped the camp. Groshnok had been asleep at his post, a bottle of whiskey next to him. The troll had been found, and while he received a beating before being sent back to the mine, it looked like Groshnok’s head was on the chopping block. It would have been, if not for Kalrius.

He had worked on a contract in Tanaris with the elf shortly after leaving the tribe. If not for his vouching, his body would surely be prowler meat by now. Yet the goblins did not let him go unpunished. The phantom pain of that finger, the fact that he would never grip a blade so well again with that hand, was a reminder. A reminder he took seriously. He did not deal lightly with those trying to escape from then.

He sat upon a hillside outside Ratchet, bottle of whiskey in hand, staring out in the direction of the Crossroads. The liquid burned his throat yet soothed his thoughts somewhat. Another job finished. Where next? Everlook? Gadgetzan? How much longer could he keep this up? It wasn’t the same. The past could never be truly replicated. It was dead, gone and long buried in a shallow grave, with his hopes of the Horde returning to what he wanted. He sighed, hoping his old blood-brother would visit tonight. No longer did the spirit haunt him. In recent months they had reached an understanding. But even then, it was not the same, for Groshnok didn’t know if he was even there, or just a figment of his imagination. The sprawling nothingness of the Barrens darkened his mood. A deep sense of longing, and loneliness filled his heart. He ruffled his satchel, producing an old picture. Five orcs filled the photo, grinning wildly, huddled together. Brothers. Gra’tagesh, Reg’nosh, Gre’lak, Urgarok. All gone. He was all that was left. The only one to carry the memories of their deeds, memories he would take to the grave.

The Last Rabid Wolf of Stranglethorn Vale.

4
The Campfire / The Long Road Home
« on: December 16, 2017, 02:27:31 AM »
The Long Road Home



“You really think this is such a good idea?” asked the disgruntled orc to his partner, sitting across the table from him. The two orcs were clad in their light leather armour, traditional of that of people of their trade. Mercenaries, rogues, bandits, blackguards. It went by many names. Always on the move, they did not wear much, as so to not slow them down. Not that they could get very far if trouble arose in their current predicament. The tight living quarters of a Steamwheedle trading ship, bound for Ratchet, did not allow such. Shul’Narok took a gulp of ale from his mug, running a hand through his long, black braid as he stared through his twenty-two-year-old eyes towards his senior partner. His partner flashed him a grin, dismissing the younger orc’s concerns.

“We’ll be fine. Don’t be worryin’ so much,” he reassured the younger orc. He was met only with a grunt.
“I still say we should’ve took up through Grom’gol,” argued Shul’Narok. “Be safer. We’re orcs, you really think they’re gonna turn us away?” Shul’Narok watched his partner’s face turned to a scowl. At least, what he could see of his face under his partner’s wolf mask.

“An’ I told ye’ it’s dangerous me seen up there, now hush yer fuckin’ voice!” snapped the senior orc. “Besides, got enough money from sellin’ ‘em pigskins to the gobbos. Be safer crossin’ here, an’ yer young hide can’t spend tha’ gold when it’s shot up wit’ Skullsplitter arrows, can it?” The senior orc’s scowl turned into its usual grin again, as he took a gulp of his ale. That grin, as jovial as it could often seem, always unnerved him. He had seen the same grin used by the orc during interrogations, and the results were never pretty. But he was damn good at them. Years of training in the jungle, he had told Shul’Narok. Working for the Horde, though no grunt. And that was all he had said, never more. Shul’Narok did not dare question him. Truth be told, as much as he trusted the older orc, he was also terrified by him.

“Aye, I know…” sighed Shul’Narok in defeat. “Apologies, Groshnok.”

Groshnok Gorewrath takes a gulp of ale from his mug.

“Don’t be, s’fine,” he replied. “We’re nearly there now anyway. Best to be away from Booty Bay now for a while anyway, after Rex’s…” Groshnok abruptly stopped, lowering his voice as he looked out the door to sense anybody listening in. “Botch.” Shul’Narok nodded in reply. There were some who were none too happy after it. Groshnok muttered to himself, silently cursing the foolish goblin. Still, had it not been for Shul’Narok knowing the captain of the ship they sat in, both could be as dead as Rex, Groshnok supposed. He was a good hand, that Shul’Narok. Not afraid to get his hands dirty, and loyal enough.

“Easy manipulatable, tha’ one,” said a ghostly voice with a snort. Groshnok glanced over the shoulder of the younger orc to see the spirit of his old blood brother. Groshnok grunted. The spirit of Gra’tagesh has plagued him since he had come back to Stranglethorn, nearly two years ago. Taking a cigarette from his pouch, Groshnok put it between his lips, lighting it with a zippo. As the first plume of smoke from the burning herbs entered his lungs, he watched as the spirit disappeared. Whether real or a figment of his imagination, the spirit of Gra’tagesh had a point though. Shul’Narok was loyal. Too loyal for a bandit. He could have taken off by himself, but he chose to bring what, Groshnok supposed, he saw as his mentor along. At the same time, it was probably Groshnok’s own fault. He had told the young orc tales of an old tribe, powerful, daring, a united pack of orcs. And with word of the tribe’s re-emergence, he knew, that Shul’Narok knew, it would only have been a matter of time before the older orc went to seek them out. But he couldn’t complain. Shul’Narok had now given him that chance.

“So you know where to find them?” asked Shul’Narok. “Who knows how long they’ve marched since that information came.” Groshnok snorted amusedly.

“How long y’been ‘way from Kalimdor, pup?” he chided. “Isn’t tha’ hard to find information. Ye’ know me.” Shul'Narok knew far too well, falling silent. “Ye’ think too much,” Groshnok continued. “I’ll find ‘em.”

“You think I’ll be able to get in?” asked Shul’Narok. “I mean, the dealings with Fax and stuff surely—”

“I said, it’ll be fine,” Groshnok said sternly. “And I told ye’ ‘bout yer voice. There probably be a few on board here who lost money, or friends, to Fax’s games…” Groshnok eyed the younger orc coldly, though his piercing glare could not be seen from under the wolf mask. “Drink yer ale, be glad ye’ go’ ‘nough gold to last ye’ a good while, an’ shut up ‘bout it.” Shul’Narok nodded, coughing as the smoke from the cigarette filled their room. He hated the smell of those herbs. He couldn’t figure how Groshnok could smoke them. Once he had asked, and once had been enough. The orc’s mood could shift wildly depending on what topic was brought up. He remembered a few days after they had first done a job together, months ago, of bringing up family. Shul’Narok’s had received a letter of his mate giving birth, and had posed the wrong question to the older orc. He remembered all too well the orc lifting his wolf mask, a task seldom saw, and his one eye piercing into Shul’Narok’s soul. He never asked about Groshnok’s family after that.

“So where first?” asked Shul’Narok hesitantly.

“Crossroads,” said Groshnok, taking a last drag from his cigarette and stubbing it out with his foot. “Ge’ lucky, they’re there. Chances is ‘em’ve passed through, but I’ll find out where.”

“It’ll be nice to have some safety of a pack,” said Shul’Narok with a smile. “Once I’m there, I’ll write me mate, and her and the cub could come along. No more this contract shit. We can finally have a life.”

“Aye, lad,” grinned Groshnok. “Sure y’will.”

“Port ahoy!” came a shout from above. The two orcs grunted, finishing their ales, and stood up. Wordlessly, they ascended to the deck. Groshnok’s eye lit up as the port of Ratchet came closer and closer.

Kalimdor. It had been far too long.

The tribe, with words Shul’Narok had told him, had been moving eastwards from Stonetalon. Such vague details didn’t concern him. He was home now. It wouldn’t be too hard to find their location from here. A few friendly words in an inn, or coin slipped to the right person. Fel, a knife held against the throat if necessary. But he would find the Red Blades… he had before, and after over a year, he would again. The plank smacked hard against the wooden deck, and the pair descended onto the hot sands of Ratchet. Even at a time of the year that was cold for many places of Azeroth, the midday sun of the desert did not let up. Groshnok moved to the left as the animals were being led off the ship, grabbing his half-garn by the reigns and hoisting himself up on it. “C’mon then, lad. We go’s ground t’cover.” Shul’Narok nodded, hoisting himself atop his black wolf. The pair travelled out of Ratchet, on the road towards the Crossroads. Groshnok looked back as Ratchet left behind them, and now all that surrounded them were deserted plains. Taking another cigarette from his pouch, he lit it with the zippo, sighing as he blew out a plume of smoke.

Shul’Narok was excited. Finally, a life away from the hell that was Stranglethorn. A new life. A place to call home. And Groshnok would vouch for him, he knew that much. For it was Shul’Narok who had led the pair to here. Shul’Narok who told Groshnok of the news. And even amongst thieves, Shul’Narok knew, there is honour. As sudden as thoughts thoughts had gone by a sudden,  sharp noise cracked through Shul’Narok’s ears, and an even sharper pain pierced his stomach. His wolf reared, throwing him off, as he crashed down onto the hard, paved road. Shul’Narok looked down to his stomach with a groan.
Blood. A gunshot wound. Oh spirits, there was so much blood. Shul’Narok’s arm desperately reached up, out towards Groshnok, only to his horror, seeing the barrel of the pistol pointed towards him. Groshnok grunted, the smoke coming from the pistol’s barrel mixing with that coming from his cigarette.

“Wh-what…” sputtered Shul’Narok. Groshnok only grinned, amusedly. That same, jovial grin that always had unnerved Shul’Narok.

“What? Ye’ know what,” said Groshnok menacingly, swinging down from his half-garn, the pistol still pointed firmly towards Shul’Narok’s head. “Ye’ve been helpful, pup, I’ll give ye’ tha’ much… Bu’ let’s be honest, we both know ye’ wit’ a bit o’ drink in ye’.” Shul’Narok’s eyes widened as he realised what the older orc was saying. “Oh ye’ take me for some washed up drunken rogue, I know,” continued Groshnok. Shul’Narok could feel the cold metal of the small pistol pressing against his forehead. “Bu’ I listen. An’ I listen well. Ye’ love to tell the she-orcs an’ whores yer tales of conquest…” Groshnok laughed mockingly, before lifting his wolf mask up to the top of his head, and Shul’Narok saw that serious, malevolent eye surrounded by a scarred face glaring at him. “Let’s jus’ say me tribe don’ appreciate our line of work too well.” Shul’Narok tried to move, but the blood loss had already weakened him.

“Please…” he let out hoarsely. Groshnok sighed, shaking his head.

“It’s nothin’ personal. I’s go’ a life there too, is all.” Shul’Narok heard the pistol cock, and closed his eyes. “Sorry, Shul’Narok.”




The young orc’s corpse had been left deep in the plains, surely a meal of the prowlers there by now. Groshnok’s eye darted constantly. You could never be too careful travelling these roads. But he remembered plenty of ambush locations from his time here as a young grunt, over a decade ago. Not that it probably mattered, he thought. Times change, as does the world. The last time he had donned the red spiked pauldrons, the Barrens was still one. Pigmen ambushes did not concern them, his half-garn could outrun them, and devour them whole if they got in the way. The axes lay to each holster by his side, and his boot contained the adamantite dagger of Krogon Devilstep. It was a constant reminder of the tribe, and as much as Groshnok had argued with the old orc constant, he had learned a lot from him. The tribe was his home, and in the last months before the invasion of the Legion, he had done everything he could to keep newbloods and oathbounds alike from deserting to the war effort of the Horde. For the tribe needed to be one to survive. And survive, it seems, it did. The Nag’Ogar were the iron shield of the tribe, and while they protected it in battle, Groshnok saw the position as protecting it from inside, as well. This was his true role in life, he knew. Until his death, his tribe was his home. It had been over a year of toiling as a mercenary, a slaver, a bandit. Waiting for any glimpse of them. And now, the long road home had finally come to an end.

Groshnok Gorewrath takes a drag from his cigarette.

5
Notice Board / Wastewander Wipeout
« on: June 01, 2016, 08:18:29 PM »
Wastewander Wipeout


Objective:
Gobbos cumplayn uv pigs to the south. Far south. Say we tayk em owt. Gud standing wit Steamwheedle Cartel cud hapen if we do

*Pinned to the note is a map of Tanaris, with a red X drawn at the Eastmoon Ruins, just west of The Gaping Chasm*

Rewards:
2 Fangs per orc.

Additional notes:
OOC: DM however you wish, but make sure to bring 2-3 orcs along. Annihilate the Wastewanders!




Status:
Incomplete

6
Notice Board / War Training (COMPLETED)
« on: May 30, 2016, 03:31:00 PM »
War Training


Objective:

war training - this wensday at haf past the athe horn. importent to keep str tran just be ther

- Gorewrath

Rewards:
2 Fangs per orc.

Additional notes:
OOC: War Training at half eight on Wednesday, focusing on battle formations.




Status:
Incomplete

7
Notice Board / Shipwrecked (COMPLETED)
« on: May 01, 2016, 10:53:27 PM »
Shipwrecked


Objective:

The cataci catacul Death Wing destroyd much uv east Durotar. The remanes of a fleet of ships stil lies sokd ther. Bownd to be sum res stuf we can yoos ther. Will need orcs for scavanjing ther.

- Gorewrath.

Rewards:
2 Fangs per orc.

Additional notes:
OOC: 3-5 orcs for some resource scavenging! I'll DM, so give me a poke online sometime if you're up for this.




Status:
Incomplete

8
Game Related / Warlords of Draenor - Lore Discussion
« on: April 25, 2016, 02:49:51 PM »
Yesterday in redorc there were a few of us having a good discussion on the lore, and Warlords' impact on it. Obviously AU Draenor will never be revisited thankfully, but it still was the gateway for bringing Gul'dan back into the story. So, discussion, if you people want!

9
The Campfire / Rabid Wolf
« on: February 23, 2016, 12:25:43 AM »
Booty Bay, two and a half months ago…

“Play!” the goblin screamed, his hand in the air calling for silence from the room as the gun was slammed onto the table. Its six chambers had been spun, with a bullet in one. On either side, surrounded by a ring of gathered people of all races, sat an orc, and a troll, staring at the revolver in front of them. It was the troll’s turn. The old Darkspear sighed, picking the gun up and placing it to his blue temple. The orc across, watched expectantly. His hand, clenched in an iron grip around a mug, brought it to his lips, as he took back another gulp of ale.  Eyes bulged all around, and the odd voice hollered for the troll to pull the trigger already.

click.

Cheers and groans alike erupted as the troll breathed out a sigh, placing the gun back on the ground. The orc’s brow furrowed. They’d been gone at this game for three rounds now. He was hoping it would’ve ended there. He wanted it to. His eyes glanced down to the mug, half full now, bringing it to his lips again for another gulp. While he’d only been gone for a few weeks from his family, he was starting to miss them dearly, this close to death not helping the situation. But money, money was needed. As much as he knew his mate could survive with their cub on their own in the wild, he wanted to have gold stashed away for them, so they could live a safe life. And this was the ultimate opportunity to achieve that.

One in the chamber.

High risk, but high reward. The gold he had already earned from his previous games in the past week, and this last one now, would have his family set fine. They could move away from the pack they travelled with, maybe have a nice life on a farm in Durotar with boar. Yes, he would like that. His mind had been troubling him all these years, the war he’d fought since he was born had fractured it. Maybe a quiet life could once again repair it. He had sought peace, and this he felt, could be the answer. Finally, he’d be free from the screams, from the constant need to kill. The orc looked down at the golden liquid again as the goblin spun the gun again.
And, he’d be free from that curse. The alcohol he had begun to realise tarnished his mind, had nearly driven the love of his life away from him. And now, with this new child of theirs, he could not allow it to grow up with a drunkard as a father.

“Play!”

The orc looked down at the gun, picking it up and placing it to his head. He had done this before, but this would be the last, he hoped. Death was not what he feared. He had become too desensitised to the feeling of its approach. He only felt a longing to see his family again. The trigger, his finger wrapped in it, was sticky and crusted, no doubt from the blood of whom this game had taken. He stared down at the ale, he did not realise he’d taken a quarter from it in that last gulp. Shouts were ringing in his head, not only the voices that plagued his mind but the voices of the angered crowd. He realised he’d been dwelling too long.

click

He tuned out the din of the outside for a moment as he put the weapon back down, sighing. He’d seen the effects of a cub growing up with a drunkard. It would not do. No, he would make them into a hardened warrior, he would be the one they’d strive to be like. Looking up, the roar of the crowd coming back to him, the troll had the gun to his head. He looked around at the faces, hungry for blood and gold. Just as he was. Funny, how all races could come together over one motivation. No bloodshed between orc and human happened in here. The citizens and visitors of Booty Bay loved their bloodsports and death games. As he did. Only this time he was in the chair. The troll’s eyes shut tight, his arm shaking a bit. The orc’s eyebrows raised. This was it, he knew it.

click

The orc let out a snarl as the cheers and groans erupted again. This game seemed to be going on forever. Maybe he could wrangle out a deal from the goblin that he could get a bigger cut for staying in so long? Surely there had been a lot of money put on this match at this stage, as the turns dragged on. He saw the arm raise, and the familiar shout from the cigar-smoking gamemaster ring out, the gun placed in front of him. The orc looked over to his mug of ale, raising it to his lips and draining it completely, as his other arm raised the gun to his temple. This was it. The last ale he would drink. He promised himself that. He’d go home clean, with money, they’d move to Durotar and live a happy life. His cub, and his future cubs would grow up to be great warriors, his experience over the twenty seven years he’d been alive would make sure of that. He smiled, a genuine one for the first time in ages. Things would get better, fin-

BANG!

10
Game Related / Let's Talk Lore!
« on: July 21, 2015, 01:30:59 AM »
Title says it all, let's have a discussion on the current lore of the game, and where it may be going.

11
Game Related / Warcraft movie trailer leak
« on: July 15, 2015, 02:26:15 PM »
So, now that the leak of the trailer is out...

12
The Campfire / Loose Ends
« on: July 02, 2015, 06:27:02 AM »
The backroom of a fish shop. A small crowd cheered, surrounding two fighters in a circle, who beating each other until one could no longer stand. Prize fighting. As the third horn past midnight went by, it was in full swing. The third fight of the night. The backroom had been cleared so boxes hugged the walls, with some spectators choosing to take their seats atop them, while others stood in front. It was a small gathering, true, but a lucrative one for the fish shop owner. Besides, much worse games were taking place in the belly of the port town.

The troll was not very powerful, but agility was his strong suit. Groshnok had been on the defensive from the start, as his punches came quickly in from all directions. The troll was aiming for his sides, trying to wear the orc down. An elbow, quickly as he aimed for the left again, sent the troll spinning back, spitting out blood as he growled at the orc. Groshnok glared, focusing, letting the feeling of adrenaline and rage consume. The crowd around drowned out, it was just him and the troll. Lurching forward with a savage hook, Groshnok yelled, but the troll weaved to the right, spinning to deliver a hook of his own to the orc’s ribs. Wheezing, Groshnok turned to face the troll, only to find an uppercut smashing into his jaw. The orc’s head snapped forward as quickly as it snapped back, as he caught the troll’s right arm before it hit its target, launching it into the air, the troll quickly followed, as the orc slammed the troll into the ground.

A roar came from the trolls mouth, but he was quick to roll away before he could be hit again. Groshnok eyed him as he staggered to his feet. The right arm hung limp. The troll went to grab it, as if to pop the arm back into its shoulder socket, but Groshnok was already upon him, delivering a blow to his ribs, sending the troll stumbling back into the crowd, only to be rebounded towards Groshnok, using the momentum to slam his working fist straight into Groshnok’s chest, sending the orc staggering back. They circled eachother as the troll set his arm back in place. The troll stepped to the right, and as Groshnok moved to punch he ducked, a blow hitting the orc in his right hip, another hitting his stomach straight on. Groshnok spluttered, lashing out and backing up to buy himself some time.

The troll was still quick, even with one of his arms damaged. The speed was going to wear him out soon, Groshnok knew. But the troll was light enough to throw with ease… and that was the way, he realised. The troll launched forward once again, sidestepping and weaving, till a punch from his good arm came forth. Groshnok met it, seizing his hand around the trolls wrist like a vice. A knee came up to try pry him away, but Groshnok moved, grabbing the arm with both hands and flinging the troll upwards, smashing him down onto the ground again. This time he did not let go of the wrist, grabbing onto the scrawniest part of it and squeezing, breaking some of the bones. The troll screamed, trying to lash upwards but Groshnok was on him now, knees locked against the trolls sides, he grabbed him by the hair, and began pummelling downwards. One. The nose burst. Two. Again. Three. The eye. It was as if red mist was clouding his vision, the fist flying again, and again, until he found the arm seized, as was his other one. The noise of the room came rushing back, as he found himself being dragged off the troll by two orcs. He looked around with his one eye, to see the cheers of the ones who had won their bets, and the scowls of the ones who had lost. Looking up, he found it was two grunts who had picked him off, now grinning down at him.

Limping to the front of the shop, Groshnok collected his winnings from the goblin at the door. Five gold for the fight, and another twenty five for the bet he had placed on himself. Grunting, he limped to behind the counter with his money-purse of winnings in his hand. Taking his plate legguards  from a box, he pushed the small bag into a pocket sewn on the inside of the armour, beginning to suit up into them and his greaves after. As he donned his chestguard, he noticed the two grunts had walked out of the backroom, grins on their faces and a few gold coins in their hands. One noticed him, nudging the other.
“Should see the state left of that troll in there! He still hasn’t got up,” the grunt said with a chuckle.
“Who knows if he will?” said the other. Groshnok grunted, leaning on the counter. Tired and battered, he would not linger long, but he supposed to humour the grunts, if for a little bit.

“Ye’ two from up Grom’gol way, is ye’?” asked Groshnok, peering at their uniforms.
“Aye, we’re down on a bit o’ leave,” said the second grunt, smirking. “This’ll keep us goin’ in the inn while we’re here.” He jingled the coins in his hand with a smirk.
“Fel, how many times have I told ye’ two?!” came a booming voice from the doorway. The grunts froze, their grins disappearing immediately. Groshnok turned his head with curiosity to the source. A middle aged orc stepped into the shop, a stern look on his clean-shaven face. His dark-braided hair flowed over his shoulder, grey in places. Groshnok fixed on his wolf-mask, leaving it low over his face, watching him. “Ye’ don’t wear yer uniforms down here! D’ye’ want to get killed by some cutthroat human?!” the orc continued, glaring daggers at the two young grunts. The orc himself was dressed in simple mail armour, though his arms were uncovered to leave breathing room from the heat. Its colours showed no allegiance to any faction.
“Sorry, sir, we j-just got caught up in this, that’s all,” stammered the first grunt.
“Yeah,” said the second. “This goblin invited us in to watch the fighting before we could change.” The older orc shook his head, turning his gaze to Groshnok.
“And who’re ye’?” he asked, facing him. Groshnok peered at him, now seeing him in the full light. His face, himself… he looked familiar somehow. He did not remember any officer in Grom’gol looking like him while he served there, however. Looking down, Groshnok’s eyes widened, as they fixed on the orc’s right hand. The ring finger was completely missing. He looked up at the older orc, peering at him intently. It had to be.

“Gra’tagesh… is tha’ ye’?” Groshnok asked, looking in disbelief. The older orc seemed taken aback by the question, though his eyes soon widened in realisation.
“I know that voice,” he said, looking somewhat shocked. The two younger grunts looked on in confusion, though they had sidelined themselves to the corner. The older orc walked forward towards Groshnok, trying to comprehend if it was the orc in front of him he thought it was. “Blackrend? I thought ye’d be dead by now.”


An hour passed, as Groshnok recounted the tale of where he’d been, and what he’d done, since he had rode away from Grom’gol camp nearly two years before. Gra’tagesh laughed along with him, but Groshnok could not help but notice that there was something uneasy with the orc. Nervousness, was that what he could see in his eyes? He did not mind though, he supposed he would be nervous too, if he thought he had seen a ghost. They had said their goodbyes before he had left Grom’gol, and it was no surprise to him that Gra’tagesh had assumed he would not make the journey to Nagrand at the time. It had taken weeks, and plenty of close calls to get there and find the Red Blades. Get away from Grom’gol. They had not known if the Kor’kron would destroy Grom’gol for Garrosh’s capture, or if the new troll warchief would for them encroaching upon jungle troll lands. While Gra’tagesh chose to stay behind, Groshnok had decided it was too risky. He was paranoid of what might have happened, and his arrival to the Red Blades had him appearing as an honourable buckethead, but once it showed that neither the Blades nor the new warchief had any interest at all in Grom’gol, he had let the mask off. And nobody had minded.


_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


“A mate? And a cub? Ye’?!” Gra’tagesh roared with laughter, slapping Groshnok on the back. “Did ye’ get a whore pregnant and feel sorry for her?” Gra’tagesh looked down to expect laughter back, but only got a scowl from the now mask-less orc.
“It’s no’ like tha’ anymore, Grat. Times change,” he said with a grunt.
“Not with ye’, Blackre—or what now? Gorewrath? That’s it,” Gra’tagesh grinned. “Ye’d never do that. Not after tha’ one Kra’le—”
“Don’ mention ‘er,” Groshnok cut him off with a growl. “Shit’s changed, Grat. This is real.”
“Alright,” chuckled Gra’tagesh. “I believe ye’, sure.” Groshnok eyed him up and down.
“Ye’ talkin’ ‘bout never changin’. Look at yerself. T’fel happened t’ye’? Ye’ look… fuck, ye’ look like some officer prick.”
“That’s because I am some officer prick now,” Gra’tagesh said with a grin. “Gotta look like one, and –talk- like one too.” He grimaced. “Fel, ye’ know how hard it is to get rid of –that- accent? Especially when some of the camp still speaks it.” Groshnok’s eyebrow raised.
“-Some- of the camp? Used to be a good few.”
“Time’s change, indeed. Lot’s o’ new recruits now. Like those two I sent to the gate.” Groshnok looked out the door, where Gra’tagesh had ushered the two grunts out as they began to talk, whispering orders to the pair as he sent them on their way.
“So tha’s where ye’ sent ‘em,” said Groshnok with a grin. “Poor eejits been waitin’ a long time now.
“Well ain’t that what we were trained to do?” Gra’tagesh chuckled. “Well, not us, o’ course.”
“Mmhm,” said Groshnok with a small smile. Nostalgia began to flow back to days gone by. “Any o’ the old squad left out there, anyway?”
Gra’tagesh shook his head. “Reg’nosh died when a panther came too close to camp when he was out havin’ a piss a few months back. An’ Gre’lak’s lungs gave in no’ long after ye’ went off. Ye’ remember he was coughin’ a lot before ye’ left?” Groshnok nodded with a sigh.

“So it’s just ye’ an’ me then,” said Groshnok, looking down at the table. Gra’tagesh peered at him for a few moments, before nodding.
“Just ye’ and me. The rest who’s gone went while ye’ were still there.”
Groshnok peered at the table for a while before speaking. “Why’d ye’ go straight anyway?” he asked, looking up.
“The good times were gone,” answered Gra’tagesh. “The troll threat had lessened with the Zandalari gone to Pandaria. Grom’gol had enough space, too. They didn’t see no point in forming new squads for village clearances. Besides, I led the squad well enough. Officer isn’t too bad once you know how to lead. Just, more rules. And ye’ won’t go anywhere up the totem pole if y’soundin’ like yer been in t’Vale fer t’long time. So that’s why this had to change.” Gra’tagesh sighed. “I reckon I’ll be out of there soon. Fel, maybe I’ll even get some command of another outpost somewhere. With so much effort in Draenor, shouldn’t be hard to get control of one in Azeroth. Think I’ve proved myself enough to seem like a good fit. Wouldn’t mind takin’ one of them back up Northern Kalimdor.” Walking to the door, Gra’tagesh looked out at moon, low in the sky now. “They can’t know about what happened though, what we did in the squad. Ye’ know?”
“I know,” said Groshnok, nodding. “Sure any up-and-comer would take those knowin’s as a chance t’ruin ye’, take wha’ yer tryin’ t’get.” He grinned at the older orc. “Yer an all big an’ honourable one now, Grat.” The pair chuckled, silence falling after.

“Well… I’ve got to be getting back to Grom’gol… received news of some importance before I…caught those two pups here. Walk a bit with me, would ye’? Only a bit up the road.” He turned to Groshnok, a small smile on his face. But mirth was not in his eyes, Groshnok saw. Though, there was never mirth in an officer’s eyes, was there? Must’ve been taking its toll on him. Groshnok rose with a nod, taking Sergeant Bash from beside him with a wince from the pain of his bruised knuckles, and sheathing the mace on his back, following Gra’tagesh out.

“Look alive!” shouted Gra’tagesh to the three grunts waiting at the Bay’s tunnel gate. The two from the fish shop stood upright and saluted, but the third stared dumbly out into the port, slumped forward. Gra’tagesh scowled at the two grunts. “The fel is this?” he asked with venom in his voice.
“You said bring the first one we found!” said one of the grunts.
“He’s drunk for fe—gnnrh, he’ll have to do.” Groshnok peered up at Gra’tagesh, confused, though his expression was hidden by his now adorned wolf-mask.
“Heh, surely ye’ can leave t’drunkard behind Grat.Ye’ should be fine goin’ t’road wit’ three o’ ye’,” said Groshnok.
“No,” said Gra’tagesh. “I… I need three, for back in Grom’gol.” Groshnok raised an eyebrow. “They don’t have manpower to do what the message told me, y’know?” Groshnok nodded in understanding, walking with them through the tunnel and out the other end. The two grunts in the back began to trail behind them, talking lowly to their drunken comrade. Groshnok looked to Gra’tagesh, his expression stern.
“Everythin’ a’righ’, Grat?” he asked. Gra’tagesh looked at him solemnly, then back towards Booty Bay, fading off in the distance. They were a good bit away from the port city now. Gra’tagesh gave a nod to the grunts, the two sober ones nodded back, whispering hurriedly to the drunk one.
“Righ’, well, I go’ a hole near here,” said Groshnok. “I’d better be headin’. T’mate’ll be worryin’ if I’s no’ there by t’time ‘er wakes up.” Groshnok went to leave the side of the road, but found his arm tugged on by Gra’tagesh. He looked up with a confused expression, only to see the older orc reach for his dagger.

Immediately, Groshnok whipped around, a punch smashing into Gra’tagesh’s nose, sending him stumbling back, releasing his grip on Groshnok at the same time. Groshnok clutched his fist, the swelling knuckles screaming from the punch as he bit down on his tongue. Looking up, the two sober orcs began to circle out to his sides, the drunkard standing in the middle, unsheathing his sword.
“Grat, wha’ t’fuck is ye’ doin’?!” Groshnok yelled out in confusion.
Gra’tagesh stumbled behind the drunkard, glaring at Groshnok as he clutched his nose. “A full week in Booty Bay if ye’ bring me that deserter’s head!”

Unsheathing Sergeant Bash, Groshnok gripped the mace, though the swelling in his knuckles roared for him not to. The pain would keep him vigilant, at least. He limped backwards, peering at the two sober orcs standing a few feet away from either side of him. The one on the left launched first, his twin axes sweeping cross-ways in a low arc. Groshnok had to throw himself back, landing hard in the dirt. Scrambling backwards, he groaned as he got to his feet, swiping an incoming Strike away from the left-grunt’s right axe with his mace, the axe flying off into the distance. Groshnok continued to back up as the two sober orcs formed a cone in front of him, the drunkard stumbling slowly towards behind them. The right orc slashed with his greataxe while the left orc cut downwards with his remaining axe. Groshnok barely blocked the smaller axes attack, but screamed out as the greataxe bit through the plate of his legguards, cutting into his thigh.

The grunt on the left had been pushed back from his parry, but the greataxe was only coming out of his thigh, Groshnok on a knee now with pain. He lurched upwards, his claws tearing along the right-grunts face, cutting across his right eye. Screaming, he fell backwards into the grass, Groshnok finding himself now with the orc on the sizing him up, trying to calculate his attack. A roar came from the road, as both orcs turned to see the drunkard charging with a wobble towards Groshnok. He slashed wildly, and though Groshnok managed to parry one of his attacks, the orc with the axe caught him in the back. Groshnok screamed, watching as the drunkard raised his sword for a killing blow, lurching forward. The axe, biting through the plate, had left a deep gash in the upper left side of his back. He fell to his knees, hands still wrapped around his mace. But it was too late. He looked downwards, tears now flowing. Why? Gra’tagesh was, out of all the orc’s he knew, the one he trusted most. He was a brother to him. And now, this would be his end. He hoped Rashka would not blame him. Though he knew to her this would be covered up as a drunken scrap.

His daughter, Korgara. Would she be alright? He hoped there would be some father figure in her life. Someone better than him, that would easily be found. He closed his eyes, thinking of his mate and child, as the drunkard’s sword came crashing down.

And split the head of the grunt in front of him.
Groshnok looked up in disbelief as he heard the crunch behind him. He had missed. The drunk bastard had missed. Groshnok screamed as he launched away desperately from the tangle, blood now seeping from his back and thigh. The grunt with the slashed eye writhed on the ground before him. Lifting the mace, Groshnok pressed it down into the grunt’s stomach, the vunerable part of the uniform. The grunt screamed, and steam rose from where the mace had dug into. Emberheart’s fire enchantment was working. As if molten flames were now pouring into the grunt’s stomach. He desperately tried to claw at the mace for a few seconds, before his hands and head fell back, limp. Groshnok crawled away, leaving the mace where it was. On the road now, with the drunkard trying to wake his comrade up, the sword wound gushing blood and brain matter from his head. Groshnok turned his head, seeing Gra’tagesh holding his nose, looking away. He tried to stand, but the wounds would not allow it. Down to his hands and knees, he let out a pained groan. Gra’tagesh turned around, a shocked look on his face.

“The fuck?” he growled out. “One job, and ye’ lot can’t do it?!” He glared down towards the drunkard, who turned to him.
“Kill?”
Gra’tagesh looked back to Groshnok, walking towards him. “No hard feelin’s, Blackrend.” Groshnok looked up, his arm trembling to hold himself upright, to see the dagger at ready. “I just can’t take the risk. No loose ends, and all that. Just like we did with the Raper.” The dagger was raised, as Groshnok tried his best to go for his own at his boot. “Just like that. See ye’ in the next life, brother.”

“KILL!” The roar erupted from the drunkard, charging with his bloodied sword sweeping in a low arc. Groshnok’s arm gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, wheezing. Gra’tagesh’s eyes widened, as he realised the drunkard was not stopping, and his arc was now too high to hit Groshnok.

The sword cut upwards into Gra’tagesh’s stomach, the brute’s force making the sword break through the mail armour with ease. The drunkard collapsed beside Groshnok, who had finally got Devilstep’s adamantite dagger from his boot. His trembling arm moved forward, pressing the blade down into the grunt’s neck. He held onto it, peering up at Gra’tagesh, now holding his stomach as blood began to pump out. He backed into a tree, sliding downwards against it, pressing his hands against his stomach, wheezing. Groshnok peered at the orc, snarling.

“I c-couldn’t take… any ch-chances…” said Gra’tagesh between heavy breaths.
“Me!” roared Groshnok. “Me! Wh-wha’ t’fuck did ye’ th-think I was gonna do?! Why t’fuck w-would I betray ye’?! Ye’ deluded shit… look wha’ ye’ve done…” Groshnok locked eyes with Gra’tagesh, growling. “Look at wha’ ye’ve fuckin’ done!” Gra’tagesh kept looking, breathing heavily. “Comparin’ me… t’the fuckin’ Raper. This is wha’ it is t’ye’?!”
“He was a brother too,” spluttered out Gra’tagesh with a bloodied cough. “T’squad was all brothers… G-Groshnok… no matter wha’ h-happened. Bu’ a bit o’ gold from… an enemy… can turn even me closes’ brother… ‘gainst me… they tried t’do it to Reg’nosh… th-tha’s how wha’… happened turned out…” Groshnok’s eyes widened in realisation, as he continued to back up into the undergrowth away from Gra’tagesh.
“Ye’ killed ‘im?” Gra’tagesh did not answer the question, but his eyes bored into Groshnok’s.
“I’m sorry… Blackrend… n-no one could find out…” His head lolled to the side, his breaths turning to gasps. “Just… go… disappear… ye’ was always g-good at th-tha’…” Another cough brought up blood, and with that, Gra’tagesh slumped over. Tears filled Groshnok’s eyes as he stared at the corpse. The one he had considered his best friend, corrupted by power, made paranoid by those all striving to be seen as the honourable leader, by any means necessary… Groshnok crawled into the undergrowth, every movement sending a shock of pain through his body. The cuts felt like fire burning his flesh, and they had bitten well. He needed to keep going, or he would not make it.

He had told Gra’tagesh the truth though. The hole, or tree rather, where Rashka was sleeping was near. And right now, she was his only hope. He crawled as fast as he could, his arms trembling before him as they pulled him each metre forward. His swollen fists began to feel numb. He looked up weakly from the grass to see it was coming closer. The moss, the surroundings, it was definitely it. He rolled onto his side, in front of it. Taking in a deep breath of air, he screamed out her name, a coughing fit following. Groaning in pain, he repeated the action, screaming her name once again. The coughing was worse this time around, and all he could do was look up at the tree branches, praying she heard him. The plate armour weighed him down too much, he could not move upwards. His eyes remained fixed on the branches, hoping to the spirits that they would soon rustle to have her emerge from them.

13
The Campfire / Facing the Past
« on: June 26, 2015, 03:58:15 AM »
Monday, 15th day of the 6th moon.


Fastening the straps of the left saddlebag, he was finally done packing. The half-garn growled, its eyes darting around the camp. He peered at it, grunting, tossing it a haunch of boar meat. It would tie over until the Barrens. Hoisting himself atop its saddle, Groshnok made a last check of what was on him. Krogon’s adamantite dagger in its sheathe at his boot. Flask attatched to belt, the whiskey it usually chambered now replaced with water. There was plenty in reserve in his right saddlebag, so he would not have to worry about running low. Finally, he tugged his sheathe across his chest, making sure the hefty, spiky mace was secured behind him in it. Woven tightly around his wrist was a bone charm, a good luck symbol from his mate. He would need it. Grunting once more, Groshnok dug his heels into the half-garn’s sides, setting off west out of Razor Hill.

The Southfury would be a mess. Still, the wreckage caused by Deathwing had not been dealt with, leaving problematic twists and turns filled with beasts and quillboar blocking the way to the bridge to the Northern Barrens. Passing the watchtower, Groshnok surveyed the situation. Going northwest would leave him running into the middle of a quillboar encampment. Though the menaces were also to the southwest, they could be more easily avoided. Plus, maybe the war training he held thinning out their numbers there may have meant their reach did not extend too greatly across the little land left between their vines and the crocolisk-filled water. The worg was swift, and strong at that, he thought. It should be no problem zipping by their outskirts.

And little resistance was met, indeed, only from worried squeals of the outermost quillboar scouts. The midday sun beat down on his back as he rode the worg past. It was a good day, summer’s heat blasting itself throughout the desert. That’s how he liked it. For over ten years, he had spent his time as a grunt in the deserts and the jungle. He’d become used to the climate. One of the reasons he was thankful the Red Blades were now back here. Draenor was strange, even if it was their old homeworld. It was not his homeworld. His was Azeroth, born into the world as the Warsongs stayed free from human capture in the internment camps. They would be going back there again soon, he knew, so he would enjoy the time left in the sandy lands they were in now.

The hours passed, as quickly as his worg passed snapping raptors and stinging scorpids. It was a skill he had developed during night watches in the time he began as a grunt in Razor Hill, over a decade before. Zoning out. The world and its time passed, but Groshnok was able to pay no notice. There was straight stretches where the half-garn could manage itself. He only needed his focus as they took the last twists around murky waters till the bridge came into view. It was a wonder it had not been broken in the flooding, but a blessing. He did not fancy his chances diving into the murky river separating the Barrens from Durotar. He stopped the garn by the bunker of Far Watch Post, finding a bowl to pour water in for it. The worg greedily lapped the liquid up as Groshnok looked around, noticing a scrawny old orc hobbling towards him. He pulled the flask from his belt, taking a few long gulps from it as he eyed the orc now standing in front of him.
“Mok’ra, traveller,” the old orc said, his voice hoarsened with age. Groshnok peered at him with his one eye, though his mask was low enough to conceal it. The orc’s eyes were wide, a smile on his face, as his eyes left Groshnok and fixed on the half-garn.
“He’s no’ fer sale,” said Groshnok with a grunt, looking down at the elderly orc.
“Oh,” he chuckled. “No, no, you’ve got me wrong there. I was just, well, he’s a strong looking one…” The orc eyed Groshnok up and down, nodding. “As are you.” Groshnok raised an eyebrow, wondering what bush this orc was beginning to beat around.
“Wha’ ye’ wan’ then?” asked Groshnok with a grunt. The old orc motioned back to a caravan containing a tower of covered boxes, being pulled by a kodo.
“Well, you never know what’s on that gold road to the Crossroads, do you?” said the old orc with a small smile. “If you’re headed that way, I’ll give you fifteen gold coins to guard the caravan over there.” Groshnok pondered for a moment. He –was- going that way, so free money to stand next to an old trader cause no problem with his plan. And fifteen gold was fifteen gold. If anything did go wrong, he could always take off. The half-garn would outrun anything some ragged bandits were riding. Groshnok nodded at the trader, heading back to his worg and climbing on, setting off with the old orc as the afternoon sun lowered itself across the sky.

Groshnok stayed silent as they trekked across the small road, deep in thought. The Crossroads were only a few hours off, the reason he was hear almost upon him. The letter he had received only a few days prior had turned his head upside down, his thoughts clouded and muddled during that time. It had been from Cra’kar, a shaman, almost an uncle to him during his childhood. He had been his father’s best friend, after all. And now, his father was dying. Cra’kar had found him by chance in the Crossroads, puking at the side of the inn after driving himself to oblivion once again. But his father’s puke was mixed with blood, and Cra’kar had said that he did not have much longer. But the news did not meet Groshnok with sorrow. Instead, a certain sense of resignment had been plucked from his brain. His father in his day had been a proud, fierce Warsong. Ra’nok Blackrend. He and Cra’kar were both inseparable and unstoppable on the field. When the demonblood had died in their veins, Cra’kar had turned back to the spirits, finding solace in them once again. Ra’nok, having now a family, pressed away from both the Warsong clan and his friend, with a group of settlers in Southern Durotar as Orgrimmar was being built to the north. Groshnok had fond memories of those early days, still only a boy, yet that did not stop him from smashing scorpids with the other settlers to clear a space for them to live.

Yet, a few years on, when it seemed to be going well, warlocks moved in to some nearby caves. Weak, but growing their power. Imps began to appear on the outskirts of their settlement, until one day, it was escalated. His mother, out picking cactus apples, vanished. The search parties were sent out, but no trace was found, at first. Till a few days later, out searching with some other orcs, Groshnok had come across her drained body, her stomach ripped open, yet no innards remained. Sacrificed. At twelve years old, his world had come crumbling down. Ra’nok had always been a drinker, but even with the warlocks quickly massacred after the event, revenge could not crush the pain of grief. So many attempts he made to help Ra’nok, yet the bottles, the fists, the bruises and the bloody noses were the answer to his tries at stopping his father from driving himself to oblivion night after night. And when he realised his words, his actions, could not save Ra’nok, hate began to set in for him.

Groshnok gritted his teeth as the memories flooded back. Why was the tinge of fear still there? He had faced worse opponents, been in worse situations, yet remembered them with a grin. Why did he still feel resentment towards him? The powerlessness of his younger self, or love? He was not even fully sure why he was on the road to his father’s deathbed. But it had been Rashka who pushed him here. Closure was needed, she assured him. And he took her at her word. He peered down to the bone charm wrapped around his wrist, squeezing the bone lightly in his palm. His drinking had been getting to her lately. But what was so bad with one or two in the evening?

The sun had set as they passed the gates into the Crossroads. No incident happened on the roads, thankfully. With a thanks and a goobye, Groshnok got his small sack of gold from the trader. Sighing, he tied his worg up next to the inn, it lapping water from the trough in front of it as he headed inside. He would find Cra’kar in the morning. It had been a long day, and he wanted his full strength for what was to come. Passing a few silver to the innkeeper, he found himself a comfortable looking hammock to lie down into, shutting his eyes. Tomorrow was an important day. It was time to face the past.

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Off Topic / Steam Summer Sale
« on: June 12, 2015, 05:24:17 PM »
The Steam Summer Sale is currently running! Have you guys made any purchases, or is there a particular game you're hoping to go on sale? I'm currently thinking about getting Monaco, but I'm snapping up the two Knights of the Old Republic games once they go down in price.

15
Game Related / What's your OOC view on Garrosh going evil?
« on: June 06, 2015, 09:57:50 PM »
To prevent the clogging of the poor shoutbox!

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