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Topics - Gashuk

The Campfire / An Orc in Wolf's Clothing
April 11, 2020, 01:23:15 PM

"Please. Do not play games with me. It's belittling. I'm not stupid - I can spot a wolf in sheep's clothing when I see one -  and your claw's are showing." - Shadowmoon Farseer.

It was perfect. The swirling blue skies of Nagrand always gave Gashuk a sense of peace. Even the odd floating rocks and islands brought on by Outland's shattering had become the norm, a staple part of the landscape to be enjoyed and admired. Kosh'harg was around the corner and soon the closest thing the Clan had to a home would be littered with all the races of the Horde who travelled every year to embrace the festivities and learn of what it means to be an Orc. Now, more than ever Gashuk thought, Kosh'harg was especially important to celebrate. It brought peace, if only for a mere week or two, and peace was something that no coin could purchase.

“Ghrm, it's a pity I won't be around to enjoy it myself...”

Kosh'harg was a perfect opportunity for one to slip away unnoticed. The festival itself had a busy schedule and the crowds it brought in from Azeroth could easily mask one Orc's absence. Archery Tournaments, songs around a campfire, the fabled Challenge of the Wyvern. Who would care to miss the Orc that spends most of his time in his tent buried in a book regardless?

“No, no. Now is the time. Mustn't waste it...”

Gashuk scurried around his tent gathering what he would need. Simple linen clothing. A sharpened knife. Some herbs. It was all quite simple really as long as it went to plan. The Varog'gor had tasked him to hunt a Worg and take it's pelt for his own; to fashion it into armour suitable for the Gul'thauk and any missions that may lay ahead under the guise of a “Dark Knife”. Typically the Shadowmoon would have liked to travel to his Ancestral Lands of the Valley and hunt under it's dark thickets with the stars above him for guidance; but alas, those lands had long since been suitable for any ritual hunts far too saturated by the Fel Magicks that corrupted the Valley beyond any redemption.

“Off we go then...”

And with a parting kiss to a sleeping Rhonya, Gashuk left in the early morning quiet. He took the eastern gate and followed the winding road until it forked north-east, continuing along into the thickets aptly named Windyreed Pass through into the Marshlands. Did Zangarmarsh always smell this foul? Signage pointed him in the direction of the Forests, dimly lit and ominous as always. Only the sight of Shattrath overseeing the land like a protective titan brought the Orc some sense of comfort but he knew that wouldn't last.

“Star's guide me, Black Fur protect me...”

Tearing from the safety of the roads, dashing into the wilds, stalking like a savage. Teromoths, Spiders, Basilisks thought to be able to turn you to stone with a single gaze. Terrokar was certainly no Kosh'harg picnic. Yet as the hours slipped by and the already darkened forests turned darker, the prey became more active. Wolves.

“Easy does it Bloodmoon...”

Gashuk's plan was simple. Any Orc could hunt and skin a Wolf. He wanted more. He wanted to understand how the Worg's ticked, how they hunted and how they protected one another. The Gul'thauk follow three essential virtues; Devotion, Protection and Subtlety. Each of these tenants were mirrored in the way the Wolf lives. To understand this, Gashuk thought the only course of action was to become one. Simple.

“Here wolfie wolfie wolfie...”

The transfiguration was less simple. To become one of the Pack, Gashuk had to replace one of the Pack. He needed to mimic not only their appearance, but their scent and pheromones. He had to make his ritual kill first, and then take the time needed to learn from the Pack, and so he waited. He waited until the moon was at it's highest and even the spiders had scurried to their rest and found his target. A Pack always has an odd one out. One who sleeps alone, one who gets the left-overs and dry-bone after a hunt. Nature is cruel in that way, but tonight, Gashuk was going to be crueller. He taunted the runt to rouse from his slumber and sent out a probing incantation to calm the beast from any potential rage, clouding it's mind in hypnosis. Closer and closer the Worg walked towards it's death, transfixed by the Sorcerer's magic until a knife found it's way into the runt's throat.


The wolf pelt and the heart. That was all the Sorcerer needed to take upon the wolf-shape. The ritual would not be pretty, but then again, rarely was anything pretty when blood-magic was involved. Perhaps this is what the Varog'gor of old did to become true Wolf Claws. He skinned the beast whole, through the early hours as carefully as he could, gutted and removed the warm now-still heart from it's chamber, and discarded the rest of the carcass for the wilds to consume. It was time. Gashuk stripped himself as bare as when he was born, tore a chunk of meaty sacrificial heart, staining his beard with blood  and consumed the worg's essence. In a daze he chanted his incantation praying to Shar'guul for his blessing and clambered onto all fours. He placed his arms into the wolf's forelegs and his legs into the hind before placing the bloodied snout upon his brow. As he incanted agony struck. The pelt begun to take life contorting Gashuk's orcish form into it's own, binding and stitching itself up at the back as limb by limb the Orc transformed until he inevitably passed out.

An Orc in Wolf's Clothing.

Pinned to the Clan Redblade noticeboard, wherever they may be, reads the following;

The Code of Clan Redblade regarding Warlockry and the Fel

Application of Fel

Orcs may not;

- Steal the soul of either friend or foe.
- Prematurely age either friend or foe.
- Drain life to sustain oneself from an unwilling party.
- Dishonour the Wilds by corrupting it with Fel saturation.
- May not hunt using Fel Magic as the means to kill.
- Counteract their own death via the means of a Soulstone.

Orcs must;

- Take extreme care when practicing Fel Magic of any kind and only do so under the circumstances suitable.
- Be subject to dishonourable execution if required.
- Be subject to review by an Elder if seen to be acting out of the ordinary.

Orcs may;

- Study Fel Magic in theory in public.
- Draw pentagrams and perform other methods of practice without evoking them.
- Wear items of clothing and use weaponry of an enchanted Fel nature without repercussion.

Application of Demonology

Orcs may not;

- Worship Demons or submit themselves to them or their magic and practices.
- Attempt to summon or bind Greater Demons such as Annihilan, Nathrezim or Man’ari.
- Summon or commune with any Demon outside of the field of battle.
- Rely on a Demon for transport or support outside of the field of battle.
- Create nor use an infernal stone under any circumstances.

Orcs may;

- Prepare rituals and cantrips to aid the process of summoning on the field of battle beforehand.
- Summon Demons under the supervision of an Elder for demonstrative purposes outside of the field of battle.
- Only summon and control the following list of Demons and their variations; Imps, Felhounds, Succubi, Voidwalkers, Observers, Felguard and Doomguard.
- Expect others of the Clan to -not- harm, or impede their summoned Demons unless said Demon acts outside of the Code.

Application of Entropic Felfire

Orcs may not;

- Apply entropic fel-fire on anyone other than a foe of the Clan.
- Create excessive infernos of fel-fire that become out of control.
- Light a hearth or bonfire with fel-fire.
- Burn trees, grass-plains, jungles or forests with fel-fire.

Orcs must;

- Direct and control fel-fire upon an enemy on the field of battle.
- Immediately extinguish fel-fire once the enemy is defeated.

Application of Curses

Orcs may not;

- Curse anyone who has pledged allegiance to the Horde.
- Apply Curses of unnecessary pro-longed inhumane pain.
- Apply Curses as a method of torture.

Orcs may;

-Apply Curses on the field of battle to debilitate and harm enemies of the Clan.
The Campfire / Power: Big things, small packages.
January 25, 2018, 05:38:00 PM
"Power without abuse loses it's charm". - Acolyte of the Black Harvest

Wrapped tightly in linen, linen warded with runes written in dark orcish blood, tucked tightly inside of the Shadowmoon's ritual robes lay two shards of ore. To the blind eye the ore was nothing special. It shone in the light slightly more than usual, but had nothing out of the ordinary about it aesthetically. Yet this ore was certainly nothing to ignore. Even those with barely any affinity to magic could sense the energy emitting from it. It shone in more ways than one and the warded linen helped dim that from outsiders.

Gashuk, through no efforts of his own, had managed to acquire two shards of the ore in a matter of a week. The first had come from Karnna, a pilfering Nag'ogar with enough curiosity to kill a hundred cats. Picked from the Horde caravan that the Clan had been protecting when they were ambushed by the Alliance earlier that week. The second had come from Zouyo Rainclaw; a wandering Pandaren who returned from the deep south unconscious on the back of his Cloud Serpent; poisoned by the Alliance, clutching his shard tightly in his paw. Gashuk had simply been in the right place at the right time.

At first, in fear of the political repercussions, Gashuk had sought out the Chieftain, Wolfking Feraleye, and explained the situation and what he had found. The Chieftain had given him mandate to continue to study the ore and present his findings. Something Gashuk honestly hadn't expected given his current social status. It did dawn on him however that none left in the Clan had the ability to analyse what they had found aside from him, but the trust meant a lot regardless. The energies the ore emitted were not spiritual, they had no ties to any particular element, this was definitely not work for a Shaman. Gashuk, the Pariah, was the best the Clan had.

Almost immediately Gashuk went to work. His nights laying with Rhonya under the stars turned into nights experimenting with the ore into the early hours. He had deduced a few innate properties; firstly, the energy it emitted was definitely arcane in nature. The fear many had given it's location, is that the ore may have been a product of the mountainous sword that pierced Silithus. If it had been, it would have been cosmically fel without doubt. The name was rarely mentioned, but everyone knew who they saw in the sky; Sargeras, and nothing He created would be anything but. Secondly, Gashuk deduced that the ore was a-kin to blood in it's meta-properties. The way it held energy, the way that energy could be manipulated and tapped into. It felt very much like other blood weaving that the Ritualist had done in the past which for something as physical as ore, was an odd thing to attribute towards it.

Yet this wasn't the first time something as solid as stone had turned out to be blood. Rhonya had drawn the comparison to Saronite. An ore found in the reaches of Northrend, an ore that had turned those who mined it insane with crazed whispers. The blood of an Old God.

The comparison was well made; yet Gashuk's concern wasn't that the ore could be blood, but more that if it was, whose blood was it? That had yet to be answered.

Nevertheless, Gashuk continued to pry into the meta-physical nature of the ore, his notes growing ever so messy and disjointed as he got closer and closer to a discovery only to fall flat with pure assumption over any sound conclusion. It was important to get this right. After all, twice now, had the Alliance split blood over it. Twice now, had people he held dear, nearly lost their lives. Yet the closer Gashuk got to an answer, the more personal the quest became.

A long time ago when the Clan was still a Tribe, Gashuk had made a promise to himself. In the wake of the Siege upon Orgrimmar. In the presence of his new-found family, the Red Blades, he had promised to relinquish using Fel Magic, a promise that he found himself unable to keep. Years of dabbling in that Magic had it's toll. Sacrifice, life, fuelled it and Gashuk had made many sacrifices. It was innately corruptive and whilst Gashuk had the willpower to fight against it; his skin, like the rest of his race, had turned green and the Orc was rendered infertile by his continuous flirting with the Fel. Hailing back to his ritualistic roots; the Orc regularly casted his spellcraft with his own blood spilt as the catalyst and that over many years had it's toll. He may not have protruding horns or scaled hide, but Gashuk, was about as disfigured by the Fel as you could be, without falling into it's metamorphosis.

Gashuk decided then that enough was enough; he had first turned to the Spirits. Whilst they may never see eye-to-eye, Gashuk still remained faithful to them deep down. In his eyes they had been the reason he turned to Fel in the first place, perhaps they would be able to help him turn away from it. It worked, for a while, but it became apparent over time that the solution wasn't permanent. One of the consequences of using Fel for so long is that once abandoned, it left a power vacuum within Gashuk's psyche. The Spirits, ever fickle, filled that vacuum like a broken tap; dripping water into a sink that yearned to be filled to the brim. It had potential of course, the Spirits could if they so pleased empower a Shaman into realms of almost god-like nature, but such occurrences were rare and out of the Shaman's immediate control. As a result Gashuk felt de-powered by them. He found himself at the time surrounded by the alternate Shadowmoon Clan of Draenor and felt engulfed by their culture; one so close to his youth, yet so different. The Void was their tool and in time Gashuk learnt to associate that Void with the Spirits; in essence, by using the Void, he fixed the dripping tap and had the water flowing into the sink at a much faster rate. It was the Tribe that taught him how wrong he was by doing so, how close that was to Dark Shamanism and for the ever full of himself Orc, he eventually took their advice to heart and swore never to meddle with the Spirits in such a fashion again.

Then came the Burning Legion. Assaulting Azeroth on a scale never before seen. It was all too easy, and all too required of him, for Gashuk to fall back into his old habits. Fight fire with fire. And he did so, throughout the War since won, that blaze was extingushed; the Legion fell, and once again Gashuk is in a position to fill the power vacuum left behind when he consciously shuns the Magic that made him who he is.

To Gashuk, the shards of ore in front of him didn't just represent power for the Horde or the Alliance; but for himself. It represented freedom. It represented a future for him with Rhonya, a future without the shadow of his past hanging over him. A future without Fel. A big thing, in a very small package, if only he could learn what it really was.

He had enough rest in the Soulstone; it was time to go to work.
The Campfire / Divination: Ripped Sky
January 17, 2018, 12:10:47 AM
"Astrology is a Language. If you understand this language, The Sky Speaks to You.” - Shadowmoon Starcaller

Being an outcast had it's benefits. Solitude was easy enough to come by and none bar his mate-to-be ever came to find and bother him. Gashuk enjoyed that; the shadow cast by his hooded shape was enough to turn anyone's head away from him, he could come and go as he pleased and was rarely approached. It was lonely at times, but he had Rhonya to turn to and she was more than enough for him. Days had been spent around the Crossroads, the bustling town had come a long way since the Legion had first invaded and besieged it. If anything War did bring commerce. Partially destroyed buildings had to be rebuilt and the Crossroads held all the travellers who wanted to lend a hand throughout the Barrens. Plainswind, the Tauren who owned the Inn, must have made a fortune. Well deserved too, after all the locals had been through. The nights were spent outside of the town; Gashuk and Rhonya had found an enclave across a mountain-face to the west, the area was close enough to the town to be rarely frequented by wildlife, but far enough to away to be undisturbed should anyone feel the need to seek the pair out; something that never happened.

Peace came easily now. Gashuk's mind was at ease at long last. Even the prophecy of Akashok hadn't perturbed the Shadowmoon, although he knew Rhonya was anxious about it. "When the currents have changed course and the skies have turned blue, the heart of one close to your own will cease to beat by your own hand. It shall be then, that the debt of life shall be considered repaid in full." -  the words echoed in his head as Rhonya repeated the Patron Spirit's judgement. It was a clear portent; the Spirits were warning that Rhonya would have to kill someone close to her in reparation of what she did to bring Gashuk back. Eye for an eye. Gashuk knew that part of Shamanism particularly well, in some respects it showed their parallel to the Fel. Sacrifice bought power, no matter the source, but Gashuk also knew that the Shaman of the Clan would never see things that way. There was no use causing more distrust and anger by pressing the point either.

As a Shadowmoon, Gashuk was brought up gazing at the stars. His Clan was deeply spiritual, known as the most peaceful amongst all the Clans on Draenor and their Shamanism was deeply ingrained into their culture. They even created the festival Kosh'harg which is honoured still to this day as a time of peace and prosperity. Astrology was a key factor to their faith; they believed that they could glean the future from stellar movements and Gashuk's youth was full of recording the patterns of the stars and interpreting them. Now he had a time of peace, he enjoyed having the time to properly return to that craft.

Through the Stars, Gashuk saw an alternative to what Akashok had said. Gashuk saw all the possible alternatives. After all the Stars were not a book with ink-stained upon the pages to be read, but ever changing with every night sky that gave them birth. Gashuk knew that terms such as fate, prophecy and destiny were fluid. As a Warlock who had defied death he knew more than most that his life was in his own hands, as was Rhonya's. No fickle Spirit could change that.

It was the Stars that Gashuk looked to now. Rhonya was out with the Clan and the sky was free of the pollution of daylight; it was a perfect night to scry them, to track the constellations and divine their nature. He started by finding a suitable spot to sit and from within his robes drew a scroll used to mark the movements he was looking for. He shut his eyes and allowed himself to breath deeply, inward then outward, regulating his heartbeat as a Monk would whilst meditating and after a few moments opened his eyes with his head pointing towards the night's sky; the image was fresh, the stars burnt bright and left impressions in Gashuk's mind. It was like a tapestry woven to perfection and was absolutely breathtaking.

Gashuk quickly found the constellations he tracked; one called the Lady, or occasionally, the Lover. A cluster of stars that changes with each night but always remains in the rough figure of an hour-glass shape with a smaller cluster of stars within it; representing the heart. They had moved somewhat but remained on the right course, a smile crept to his lips as he saw that; it meant a lot to him. Hours passed as he continued to track and note the movement of the stars, and inevitably he slowly drifted to a slumber; one full of vision and fortune.

As he slept, Argus continued to shade the sky with a green-hue above him; a bad omen to most, but Gashuk had paid it no heed. He could feel the rift even now as he slept, pulsing behind him with immense energy. The nature of the rift taught Gashuk that Argus was not truly in the sky he read, but was merely an image of the planet much, much further away connected to Azeroth through a portal of such powerful magic surely only a titan would be capable of it, yet nevertheless it was understandable in theory at the very least.

Suddenly the green was replaced with red; Gashuk woke with a start and spun around, his scroll flying to the side as he re-focused his gaze on the rift containing the fel-ridden planet. It was closing. The power radiating from the rift was immeasurable, Argus' green had been completely overpowered by the deep red of a figure; a figure so titanic that Gashuk could make out details of the features of his face, and the image burned itself into his eyes. His heart knew who this was, but his head couldn't compute it. It felt so real but this had to be a vision granted by the Stars. Gashuk watched in utter terror for what seemed like hours; the figure was being pulled back, defeated but had a look of pure defiance on his face. A sword the size of a mountain, no even bigger, was grasped in his hand and he plunged with it - From Gashuk's perspective, it looked as if the sword was coming directly for him, but it missed. As it struck into the planet he felt a cataclysmic quake and as the figure was finally dragged away and the rift slammed shut on itself, the Shadowmoon Orc passed out and the sky was left as black as ink with no Argus to be seen.

The stars screamed in agony as the sky was ripped apart and no one was there to hear them.
The Campfire / The Life of a Pariah
January 13, 2018, 03:41:27 PM
"Forbidden love is always the strongest".

It had been over a week since he had returned. A long eventful week that shook the very foundations of the Clan. Blood-oaths had been absolved, honour had been stripped and yet amongst all of the strife; love had blossomed. Shadowmoon Valley suddenly felt like a very long time ago.

At first Gashuk had been confused. The Soulstone had rendered his Spirit incomplete and that had temporarily affected his memory. Three Orcs stood around him but he knew none of them. Each of them wary, each of them suspicious. At first all Gashuk had wanted was his Mother and Father, his inner child screaming out, but it became apparent that they were not coming. With each aching minute his brain felt assaulted by memories flooding back in, years of his life that whilst lived, felt as if they hadn't happened. Not to him at least. He became angry and lashed out at one of the Orcs; the male one. Peering at the night sky of his homeland Gashuk ripped energy from the stars, from the Nether beyond them, and knocked him clean out. It was like second nature. Yet nothing about him felt natural. His hands were aged, scarred and green. His reflection was not one that he recognised but deep down, he knew it was him. The two females had pleaded, begged with him, one in particular tried to get him to remember her, but the pain was too much. He knew everything, but at the same time, knew nothing.

All of a sudden something clicked. Gashuk started to list names. Orcs he couldn't picture the faces of, but Orcs he knew that he cared for. It felt like literal word-vomit and with every name uttered, he felt some relief. Eventually the pain started to subside and he finally recognised the Orcs in front of him. Steelheart, Windwatcher, the Son of Knulk. His Family.

He felt guilty for that now. Sarguk didn't deserve to be blasted aside like a ragdoll, and quite frankly, Gashuk felt the apology he gave him wasn't really accepted. The Blackrock had kept his distance since returning to Orgimmar, likely planning his next steps as he always did. It wasn't truly his fault though; Gashuk had warned them that he may be disorientated when he came back. In truth, Gashuk hadn't really known what the consequences might have been. It was lucky to have gone as smooth as it did. Especially when nothing at all had gone smoothly since.

He hadn't expected his return to the Clan to be easy. He expected the funny looks, the poisonous remarks. After all, quite a few of the Orcs hadn't even liked him beforehand, so why would they now? Trakmar, Groshnok, Nosh'marak. None of them ever appreciated having a Warlock in their midst anyway and now he was even more of an abomination in their eyes. He had however expected them to be more forgiving towards his accomplices. Both of them were Shaman that had contributed more to the Clan's well-being than any other, but even they felt the sting of disapproval from Orcs who had once relied on them to save their lives on multiple occasions. The fact that he had created that distrust pained Gashuk, but what had been done, was done.

The trial was ruthless. Surrounded by an angry biased jury of his kin. Out of the three of them, Kogra had got off lightly with only a slap on the wrist and an order to repent to the Spirits. Gashuk himself got exactly what he had expected; a life of a Pariah. Yet Rhonya had it worse. Not only was she stripped of title and honour, but she had her blood-brother publicly humiliate her by cutting all ties and absolving their blood-bond. Kozgugore had struck her where he knew it would hurt and whilst Gashuk had every intention to boil the Wolfking's blood from within for his actions, he had refrained from doing so. What good would it have done?

Since the Trial, he kept himself to himself. Kozgugore had tried to punish Rhonya for choosing Gashuk over him, but all he had done is push them closer together. The only Orc he found himself spending anytime with was his blood-sister; and after a long time of soft forget-me-nots, the pair finally started to show some affection to one another. A development of their relationship that had started long before Gashuk died, and had only grown stronger as they spoke through the power of the Soulstone.

Rhonya and Gashuk had a complicated relationship. They had known each other for years; both saved the other's life, and whilst one was a Shaman and the other a Warlock, they had more in common than any could imagine, they had a fondness for each other that couldn't be questioned and over time, stargazing long into the night until they fell asleep in each other's arms, that fondness was found to be love.

Quick kisses turned to passionate ones. Gazing at the stars transitioned into gazing into each other's eyes. Evenings asleep in each other's arms became evenings doing anything but sleeping.

The Clan wouldn't see eye-to-eye with the pair, they both knew that. There would be more arguments to come, more poisonous looks and whispered curses. Gashuk was condemned to the life of a Pariah, and some within the Clan felt obliged to remind him of that at every opportunity, yet oddly he had never felt more content and accepted in his entire life. He had Rhonya to thank for that.
The Campfire / Friends amongst Foes.
November 12, 2017, 08:19:42 PM
"Hell is not fire and brimstone, not a place where you are punished for lying or cheating or stealing. Hell is wanting to be something and somewhere different from where you are." - Shadowmoon Farseer.

In all of Gashuk's rituals, he had never thought much of the stench Fel magic carried; but now, on the Broken Shore, he finally noticed it. “Sarguk, duck!”, he yelled, drawing on the Nether to summon Luushon â€" his loyal Felhound â€" to leap from his summoning portal to tackle a rushing Felguard. Biting his tongue to curse the Demon, as the Felhound and Blackrock fought together, resulting in a mighty cleaving blow of decapitation. Gashuk had found kinship with this Blackrock, Sarguk he called himself, a fair bit younger than himself but with a similar head on his shoulders. The Orc had fought for the Horde for a long time, and whilst his Clan's reputation had been tainted in recent years, you could tell that he had followed the right path instead of the wrong. “Felhand, you fool! Did you have to launch that beast at me!” - chuckling, as his voice boomed over the sounds of the battlefield, “I nearly cleaved it in two!”. Sarguk had no real qualms with Warlocks, Gashuk had learnt that his Mother had been one of the first taught on old Draenor, but he did tend to lose his focus in bloodlust and these days, you never did know what Demon was friendly, and what Demon wasn't. “I told you to duck, Blackrock.”, smirked the aged Shadowmoon. “It's not my fault if you didn't listen.”.

It had been many moons since Gashuk had heard from the Red Blades. The Tribe had dwindled as the Legion threat grew and over time the spirit-link they all shared started to fade. Rhonya, as far as Gashuk knew, was safe. Safe in the Barrens, aiding them rebuild after the Legion's initial invasion there. As for the others, well, as fond as Gashuk was of them, he only ever cared for Steelheart. It had taken a lot for the Warlock to not return to her, to let the young fight the War and be with his blood-sister. He had thought a lot about that recently, longed for it even, but the Legion was a threat that he couldn't walk away from. All of his years of study, all of the nasty looks, the poisonous insults and the not-so-empty threats were meaningless, now that he could finally prove his worth and use what he knew of the enemy against them. Demons, Gashuk knew Demons. He knew how to summon them, bind them, and more importantly, he knew how to kill them. He couldn't walk away now.

“Gashuk, eyes up! More come, and we're nowhere near the ritual ground!”. - The two of them had been tasked with interrupting a ritual to summon a Nathrezim into the frontlines. Together with other Acolytes of the Black Harvest, with Sarguk as the hired muscle. “If we linger for too long, we're fucked!” - Grunting in agreement, the group prepared for the next big push. Felfire and Shadow magic, flung from side to side like some kind of sport. If anything, at least the Armies of Legionfall had brought some form of unity to the races of Azeroth. Gashuk fought alongside Humans, Worgen and even a Gnome. All of which had their own Grimoires with teachings both agreeable and not. The Council of the Black Harvest had grew substantially and it had never been a better time to learn from others. Warlocks, often renowned for their secrecy, all spilled their guts for a chance to please the Council. Gashuk had taken advantage of that. “Luushon!”, the Orc shouted, pointing at an Eredar in the midst of the battle. She stood, wildly cackling and channelling her Magic, erratic fel-fire spouted at the group and had already made ash of the Gnome. Spotting the charging Felhound however, turned her cackles to screams. More fel-fire tried to gather around her hands but with a sickening crack the casting stopped. Devouring magic was just one of the many things a trusty Felhunter could do.

“We're nearly there; Intel said the summoning ground is just over that hill!” - leading the group, sweat pouring off his bald skull was Sarguk, his blade drenched in green blood. He pointed his bastard-sword in the direction of the charge and screamed at the top of his lungs - “FOR THE HORDE!”, and Gashuk couldn't help but join him. “FOR THE BLOOD!”, he screamed so loud his throat felt red raw. It felt good. It felt right.

It wasn't long before the group was surrounded by the corpses of slain Demons and the ritual-site was in view, two Eredar in dark red robes paced restlessly between their runes and reagents incanting repeatedly. If it took this much of an effort to bring this Nathrezim into play, it was paramount that they stopped them. The Legion had brought entire regiments of Demons to the fray with instantaneous spells before now, why did this Demon deserve such a welcoming party? Wordlessly gesturing to the Warlocks, Sarguk drew them close together and knelt out of view. “Felhand, any ideas how we can stop them?” - Snarling, the Worgen amongst them barked “We could-..”, “Shut your mouth mutt, I wasn't speaking to you...”. As the two stared each other out, Gashuk broke the silence with a click of his fingers. “Now now, play nicely. We need to disrupt the runes, but we must be careful. If we shatter the wrong one at the wrong time, the entire ritual ground will explode. These Eredar are -not- messing around.”. - Nodding in agreement, the Blackrock grunted. “So how do we know which one to fuck up first?”. Smirking, Gashuk softly said “Leave that, to me.”. Sarguk chuckled and nodded - “Gladly.”.

The next fight was a blur. All of the Warlocks bar Gashuk had died. Sarguk was wounded, bleeding heavily from his chest, his left hand held the skull of an Eredar by the hair and his bastard-sword lay to the side, well worn. Various corpses of various Demons lay freshly strewn around the ritual-site, either summoned by the Black Harvest or the Eredar themselves in the heat of battle. They had succeeded, Gashuk had managed to recognise the runes and destroyed them in the correct order, but the rest of the group had barely managed to hold their ground. He spat on the corpse of the up-start Worgen as he paced towards the bleeding Blackrock, weaving the Orc's blood in a painful, but effective manner of healing. The blood bubbled, seared and cauterized, leaving a grotesque scab and an even more impressive scar underneath. “There, you'll live...”. - “Thank you, Felhand.”, he replied, grasping his chest with curiosity. “My Mother always said there was power in Blood. Now I know what she meant.” - Smiling, Gashuk nodded. It was rare that Sarguk spoke of his past. All he knew is the Orc had half his childhood in the midst of the Second War and the other half in an Internment Camp and that his first real taste of battle was during the Third War, and later, serving under Saurfang's Might of Kalimdor in Silithus. He had spent the rest of his years serving the Horde in any capacity he could, and even though his Clan had served Hellscream religiously, Sarguk claimed to have kept his distance and doubts over the young Warchief's regime, eagerly joining the Rebellion when the time came to besiege Orgimmar.

He had shared some of his past with the Warrior as well. Stories of the Wars the younger Orc barely remembered and stories of the famous Red Blade. He had even shared his love for his blood-sister, a love that went further than friendship in Gashuk's eyes. He had convinced Sarguk to help him find them, the Tribe that is, find them when this was all over. If they should both survive, it would be fitting. After all, Sarguk had little friends outside of War and the Red Blades took anyone who could earn their keep and maintain their honour.

“Look at this fucking mess, Gashuk.”, Sarguk spat slowly rising to his feet, peering over the result of their skirmish. “I hope this Dreadlord was worth losing those.”, gesturing to the corpses of the Acolytes, “I hope your council won't be too pissed”. He was speaking to himself, and he knew it.  Gashuk stood over the ritual ground fixated on the remains of the ritual, gleaming what he could from the magic they had ruined, as he always did. What happened next, happened in the blink of an eye. As he leaned down to grasp his bastard-sword, the Blackrock had barely time to register the movement and out of the corner of his eye a flash of steel appeared as one of the fallen Eredar rose. There was no time. Gashuk's back was turned, and Sarguk's scream of warning came too late. Gashuk's face went pale as his throat was slit and he slumped silently to the floor. As he did Sarguk's blade sung past him like a spear, and impaled the Eredar who had mustered the energy to seek revenge. A cruel smirk pursed across the Demon's lips and he drew his last breath as he fell back, pinned by the sword. There was victory in it.

“Sarguk...” - The voice cracked. Barely audible. As gargled blood drowned the speech.

“Tell Rhony-...”
The Campfire / Lok'vadnod
May 14, 2016, 05:23:37 PM

0:00 - 1:00

Krogon Devilstep -

An Elder, in spirit nay rank, was he,
An Orc with t’sharpest of eyes, and the -
Reddest of pasts; crystal for all to see.
For when a Devilstep charges for a
Cause. It is known that with-out any pause,
The Orc will sunder to protect his home.
Expecting no fame, o’round o’applause,
A bladestorm t’which battlefield ‘e roam.
Krogon, by name, a Devil was he, yet â€"
Honour-bound; be he a slave to his codes?
His tongue, nigh acid, did it bear a threat,
To t’glory of a war-torn crossroads.
Bound t’the Tribe, as True Blood as any,
Devilstep, t’oath-broke brother t’many.

A little something I whipped up to honour the good, and bad sides, of our late Krogon. Feel free to post your own honorary Lok'vadnod's for other lost Orcs.

Notice Board / Scuttling Spirits (Failure)
May 02, 2016, 11:01:49 PM
Post the looting of the ship-wrecks of Scuttle Coast; Gul'thauk Soulfury reported some riled Water Elementals and deceased Goblins. The Coast seems to be haunted by more than just the Cataclysm.

Rrosh'tul Bloodpaw would like those that walk the Path of Wisdom to venture to the Coast, try and calm the Water Elementals and give due rest to the other unrestful Spirits that remain.

Those that walk the Path of Strength can guard them.

1 Fang per Orc.

Additional notes:

Anyone can lead/DM this but atleast one Shaman must be present; just reply to this thread with completion.



New potential expansion leaked, topics below! If correct, would ensue a rather Troll-centric expansion, with a new class 'Shadowstalker', a rogue/hunter, with spell slinging ranged action as either a Dark Ranger, Shadowhunter or Spirit Mender!

Obviously the authenticity of the 'leak' is highly dubious, but as ever, the topic of future expansion is rift with speculation and always sparks interesting conversation!

What do you think about the leaked information and what would you like to see in ; "The Dark Prophet"?
Red Blade Records / Oargoth Bloodscar
June 22, 2015, 06:06:28 PM

Character name: Oargoth
Alias: Bloodscar, Son of Grond.
Gender: Male
Age: 54
Race: Orc
Class: Deathwalker, previous Berserker.

Birth region: Draenor, Tanaan Jungle
Specific area/town: Zeth'gol (Main Universe)
Family: Grond (Father)
Known friends or enemies: Friends: Surviving Bleeding Hollow Clan-Orcs, Archerus Knights (Tenaciously).

Description: Oargoth is a well-built Orc, clearly suited to a life-style of battle. His eyes are a dim dark blue and his skin, dark brown. He has been in a state of undeath since his lethargic days in Lordamere Internment Camp, you can notice that upon observation but he is far from a decaying forsaken with a hinged jaw and jutting ribs.

The skin on his arms is etched with runes; scars that are freshly reapplied as the unnatural flesh mends over, you would recognise them as mostly water or blood symbols, raw and undefined in the style of the tribal Bleeding Hollow Clan.

Personality: Oargoth is a savage Orc; yet he follows his superiors without question, his battle techniques are barbaric without mercy but undeath has given him a sense of control over his berserking blood-lust. He would happily murder an encampment full of women and children, but only if ordered too; he considers himself the ultimate expendable Warrior and would undertake suicide missions for an honourable death - though he often returns alive.

His loyalty to the Horde is unwavering, their forgiveness of his crimes under the Lich King is touching and Oargoth has great pride in representing his Clan within their ranks.

History: Oargoth was born within the harsh Jungle of Tanaan; he was brought up to be a typical Bleeding Hollow Orc. Sadistic, savage and, full of rage. His Hunts were not done with decorum, and ended more often than not with the drinking of the prey's blood staining his chest crimson. He earned his title Bloodscar at a young age, slaying a Worg in a tremendous battle leaving him soaked in it's and his own blood, the Worg had raked his chest and upon it lay three long gash-wounds that made the first of many ritual scarrifications.

He served his Clan well and followed blindly into the blood-craze, drinking Demonsblood as he had drunk Blood many times before and revelled in the after-effects. His Father, Grond, died during the First War and Oargoth was distraught, donning in his Father's Worg-Skin cloak, his skin scribed in Runes by the Shaman of his Clan, he marched into battle to honour his name and all grief was forgotten in each swing of his axe.

Yet the years of War and death were not to end Oargoth, he survived every battle he fought and found himself not slain, but captured. Thrown into an Internment Camp in Lordaeron, crazed and angry at the dishonour brought upon himself and his Clan, he was renowned for causing chaos and whilst the other Orcs fell into a state of lethargy, Oargoth only screamed louder for release. He eventually got it.

Orcs had turnt to cattle, Humans mocked and spat on them. They didn't even care, taking the beatings like an insolant Pup - and when Oargoth lashed back, ripping the throat of a guardsman out with his teeth, he was put down - A lance through his back, his body disposed of in a river.

Yet not even death could keep this Orc tame, washed up, eventually he was risen to be used as a killing machine under the Lich King's grasp - his history of Blood and Rune Magic gave him an edge and he mindlessly slew for the Scourge until his mind was freed. Sickened by his loyalty to such a creature and what he had become, an insult to the Spirits, he finally fell under lethargy, his lust to kill only driven by his unnatural need for it. He stripped himself of his old name Bloodscar, as the scars that had given him the name, mended over, he hated himself and still does to this day.

Only now, that Draenor is reinvigorated and his Jungle is to be besieged, Oargoth has come back to his senses - he seeks to find a group whom he can serve with orcish honour and either kill, or cure, his alternate Clan's fel-thirst, using his own past as a testiment to disdain and foolhardiness.

((A short background brainstorm for my new Orc, subject to small changes.))

Odds & Ends / An Interview with a Gosh'kar
June 13, 2015, 02:20:07 PM

-In a first task set by High Blade Thur'ruk Sadok Sharptongue, Gashuk Soulfury sought to tackle the current Gosh'kar and learn of their histories, below are three individual anecdotes of the interesting origins of Srelok Grimtide, Trakmar Beastbane and Grek'thar Earthstorm all according to notes made by Gashuk during interviewing.-

The Compassionate.

A mere thirty-one years ago, born in an unknown internment camp deep in the foothills of Hillsbrad, one of our Gosh'kar was lucky enough to avoid the lethargy that had our kind in it's deathgrip; lucky perhaps but not fortunate. Most Orcs had simply given up hope and that had more of an impact on him than it had on Orcs under it's grip. Death was a common factor in the Camps, we all acknowledge that, yet this Gosh'kar had a burden on his shoulders that made each and every loss etch away at his own spirit.

He recalls an old Blackrock, clearly a savage Warrior in his prime, aged with defeat and lethargic corruption; face first in mud, laying still and docile, his rippling muscles unused as if they did not exist. Battered. Bruised. Beaten to an inch of his life by the humans who guarded the camps. Others gathered and felt nothing for him, just one of many, yet our Gosh'kar could feel his peace. He had given up and when you desire death, more often than not, you die. Imagine how it affected such a young Orc sensing the acceptance of death. Empathic, sympathetic, compassionate beyond the means of everyone else. 

He may have escaped the lethargy himself, but when you sense the despair of every Orc around you, have you truly escaped it at all?

Hiding from threats, sneaking to safety, the liberation of the Camp came at a huge expense to our Gosh'kar. He left at such a pace, a mere seven years of age, leaving behind his entire world and those within it he held dear. Including our own Thur'ruk Steelheart. Following the masses of Orcs being reinvigorated by Thrall, he dashed into the wilds, feeling invincible, brave, strong and for many moons until near adulthood, our Gosh'kar kept himself to himself.

Yet lone wolves are more suspect to traps. Hunted by a Frostwolf who saw him as a potential threat, the two battled; and with such raw potential earned each other's respect. Laruk Axefury took our Gosh'kar in and showed him as much compassion as he now shows us, feeding him, clothing him, and teaching him of the Spirits and a Shaman's Way.

And that is how Srelok Grimtide grew to become the Alpha that he is today.


The Nomadic.

The Red Blade Tribe consider ourselves to be nomadic, we travel across the lands in search for where best to settle, to help our Horde and keep ourselves on our toes yet in the days of old upon Draenor there lived a Clan that was named Earthwalker due to it's reputation to wander, never staying in one place for an entire season. This Clan bore true Hunters in it's midst, moving from Frostfire Ridge to Nagrand or Shadowmoon Valley as winter closed. It was during one such winter when one of our Gosh'kar was born in the frozen north.

The Earthwalker's did not simply travel for their own desires, they had caravan's of supplies from each region offering the native Clan's meats, herbs and other reagents they needed from the far reached lands they rarely travelled too. In exchange for these supplies, the Earthwalker's did not ask for gold, no, they had what they needed. They simply asked for shelter and safety on Clan's grounds and such a relationship formed loose allegiances with two particularly strong Clans; the Shadowmoon of the Southern Valley and the Thunderlord, of the frigid North.

Wars waged and the Earthwalker's remained neutral; rather than involve themselves, they moved onwards as such a small Clan cannot afford to have enemies from the greater Clans and besides, our Gosh'kar notes, more beasts lived with the Earthwalkers than Orcs. They had no army to fight with, even their Elders were considered burdens. It was considered a respectful end to send those who slowed the Nomad's down to their final hunt, accompanied by other Hunters, the old Orcs would throw themselves at an enemy and for better or for worse would take to the flames as a respected Hunter.

Yet this wasn't the only tradition of the Earthwalkers; they gifted each young Orc with a young Beast to become a lifelong companion; Bamak the Lynx was our Gosh'kar's, (since slain by the Shattered Hand in Gorgrond after we arrived through the Dark Red Portal), and the two had such a bond that Bamak's Spirit continues to accompany our Gosh'kar through his journeys today. He recalls a fond memory of the pair greedily snapping up the meat they would offer the Shadowmoon Clan; a picture of gluttony. Short, fat and with a taste for anything edible, it's difficult to imagine our Gosh'kar with such traits yet whatever he was eating surely worked. Look at the size of him.

Somewhere far back in his linage, he acknowledges potential blood of Mok'nathal; outcasts of Clans proved themselves to the Earthwalkers and found a place within them so the blood of the Earthwalker's ran thick with each and every Clan. His Mother was a Bonechewer, his Father a true born Earthwalker.

It is prudent to note that with many different homes, comes different names; Beastmaw, Earthwalker, Bloodmaw and now Beastbane, Trakmar continues to teach us all what it truly means to be nomads and guides us as we step into the unknown.


The Visionary.

Farahlon; a region of beautiful hills, rolling over field after field. Many of us know this as the home of the Laughing Skulls, yet it gave birth to more, the nigh extinct Bladewind Clan kept themselves to the mountains and managed to remain alive and in relative peace away from the upheaval of the Clans as they stormed through the Dark Portal to command and conquer the unknown. Born during this time, just as the First War took hold upon Azeroth, in the Plains of Farahlon, our Gosh'kar was brought up in a new time for Draenor; the time of it's death.

It is said that the Bladewind Clan developed green-skin by mere association with the other Clans; eventually the Alliance counter-attacked on Draenor and together they fought back, a troublesome 'Horde', under the command of Ner'zhul feasting off his supplies, it was only when Draenor was due to shatter when the Bladewind fled through the Dark Portal themselves and merged with the Horde; broken and captured, hauled to an Internment Camp like the rest of them. The Alliance had all but won.

Together with his lethargic Mother and Sister, Warlocks the pair, our Gosh'kar watched as they died; and through tearful eyes, was dragged to redemption under Thrall and served as a mere Grunt. Shamanism had begun to set itself back into our culture, but our Gosh'kar had no aptitude for it, no interest; his lethargy had come a moon or two late but he had not given up entirely. Surviving through the battle of Hyjal, the Scourge Invasion and up to the Cataclysm; our Gosh'kar led a relatively simple life. He had mated and was expecting a pup and in the Valley of Trials watched as the riled Elementals ripped and swallowed his mate and pup; a mere week old, whole.

A mother. A sister. A mate and a first born child. All gone.

There is only so much grief an Orc can take before he flips; demanding the Elements to listen to his rage, our Gosh'kar begged of answers. Why this, why now, why him; in response they showed him the source of their angst, a vision of Deathwing rising from the maelstrom and in apology for their actions granted our Gosh'kar a deal. They would grant him power, strength and in return, he would hunt the one that caused the world to break. Full of rage and anger, he accepted.

The Black Dragonflight shed blood for the losses he had to bare. Yet again, lone wolves are nothing without a Pack and to bring down the bigger prey, our Gosh'kar joined our Tribe. His Om'riggor detailing much of his nature, in the Blade's Edge Mountains on Outland he hunted a fully grown Black Dragon; earth shielded him, fire absorbed the spewed molten flames and taking his axe after it had already shattered against it's mighty hide, he hurled it into the Dragon's eye and using it as a conduit, the axe hilt became a lightning rod, cooking the Dragon from the inside out with the biggest storm he could muster.

For this, and all the other sacrifices this Gosh'kar has made; is why he is called Grek'thar Earthstorm.

The Campfire / A Shadow yet complete.
June 01, 2015, 11:37:23 PM
As t'sun dies the earth turns black
And sky-blue oceans become abyssal
We try t'fight back with our fire
But it turns t'ash at our dismissal.

So t'wind, it picks up strength as resistance is futile,
To carry the ash across;
We stagger, gripping jagged cliff,
As we blindly mourn our loss.

With t'fire dead, sea at unrest, our wind whipped and t'earth unsure beneath our feet.

It makes an Orc wonder; (if he but opens his eyes), does moonlight strike thunder, whilst it calms tides, grips the stars an'illuminates your path.

Or is it wholesome, a Shadow yet complete.

- Gashuk Soulfury
Red Blade Records / Gashuk Felhand
May 02, 2015, 06:31:30 PM

    Character name: Gashuk Felhand
    Alias: Soulfury, Felhand, Bloodfire, Son of Garrak.
    Gender: Male
    Age: 71
    Race: Orc
    Class: Warlock, previously Shaman.

    Birth region: Draenor, Shadowmoon Valley
    Specific area/town: Shaz'gul (Main Universe)
    Family: Garrak Felhand (Father, deceased)
    Known friends or enemies: Friends: Rhonya Steelheart (Bloodsister), Sarguk, Son of Knulk (Bloodbrother), The Red Blade Clan and other remaining Shadowmoon Orcs.

    Spoiler: Description • show
    Gashuk is elderly for a Orc, grey beard and all, and looks befitting of a more scholarly than physical lifestyle. He is of average height and lean with toned but small muscles remaining on his old body. His skin colour is a darker green hue, full of scars both battleborn and self made. He usually stands with a slight hunch and walks with little haste unless necessary.

    He has a few sets of Robes he prefers to wear; simple ancestral brown linen, blood red tribal robes and more recently, his traditional ancestral robes befitting of a Shadowmoon Shaman. He has a grotesque scar across his neck that looks as if the blow was lethal.

    Spoiler: Personality • show
    Gashuk is a honest Orc that shouldn't be judged by his cover, while he may have been a Warlock for the majority of his life he is deeply honourable and Orcish tradition is embedded into his every action. Whilst his power is great, it's only to serve the Horde that he strives to empower himself.

    He follows a simple motto; “Instinct and Duty”, coupling his intellect with his orders to resolve most issues competently. Deeply loyal to his Clan and Race, Gashuk is rather cold towards other races especially the Alliance whom he will usually slay on sight.

    He respects the Spirits and encourages Shamanism; but he does not trust them, he has learnt the hard way how fickle the Spirits can be, and prefers to live by the calculated risk of the eldritch and arcane arts.

    When all is said and done though, Gashuk loves nothing more than to study, read literature from many sources and enjoys stories and poetry spoken around a campfire.


    Spoiler: Early Life • show
    Gashuk was born into the Shadowmoon Clan years before Ner'zhul was deceived and lead a true orcish life among his Clan as a Shaman named Bloodfire, (due to his Om'riggor revealing an innate connection to the Fire Spirits), alongside his Father, Garrak a powerful Farseer. Garrak was Gashuk's only true friend, a mentor in all things and together the two of them served their Chieftain well.

    War eventually befell the Orcs and they rose to quell the Draenic uprising, unsurprisingly, Gashuk was called as a Shaman to protect a small skirmishing group of Orcs he considered his brothers and sisters. As he did so, the battle grew fierce, and the Spirits withdrew their gifts of power due to the actions of Gul'dan elsewhere; they condemned the Orcs to die and as Gashuk looked into the eyes of his kin, he saw the confusion and betrayal in their eyes and fled, helpless to do anything to save them.

    Together again with his Father, both betrayed by the Spirits, naturally the two Orcs dabbled into Fel Magic at the will of the Chief and his Apprentice, Gul'dan. Summoning Demons, evoking Felflames and cursing the Draenei acted like a drug and soon one by one the role of Warlock overran the Shaman.

    The pair of them, now known as the Felhands, grew in power and aided the Shadowmoon in magically aging Orc Children and completely lost themselves in blood lust and magik frenzy slaughtering the Draenei, travelling through the Dark Portal and continuing onto the pink-skinned Humans that awaited. It was only with Garrak dead and Gashuk imprisoned in the Hammerfall Internment Camp that Gashuk started to sober up.

    Spoiler: The New Horde • show
    When Thrall redeemed the Orcs and lead them to new glory, Gashuk took the opportunity to mourn his Father's passing and began anew serving a new Warchief with a New Horde, but where many of his fellow Warlocks turned to Shamanism again Gashuk refused. Some would call it corruption, some would call it good sense but Gashuk devoted himself to true power- whilst respecting and encouraging Shamanism back into Orc Culture it was no longer his path and thus Gashuk continued to develop his warlockry.

    In the years and many war campaigns since the founding of Orgimmar, Gashuk spent time finding himself and in deep study, previously his Magic had been raw and powerful, all-consuming, but it was time for it to be precise and delicate. Whilst the Horde re-emerged into the Outlands, Gashuk studied the taint his Clan had left and studied the theory behind Demonology, to know his enemy. When the Horde and Alliance struggled against the Scourge, Gashuk delved into Spiritual Magics, forms of Necromancy and Shadow Magic and when the Cataclysm struck Gashuk developed his Blood Magic incorporating the Art previously used in his Shamanism into Warlockry eventually aiding the combined forces in the Firelands where his destructive nature came forward.

    It was during this time that Gashuk began to long for an immediate leader, a Chieftain, whilst he followed the Horde's Orders as much as he could during his studies it wasn't the same and whilst in hiding from the tyrant Hellscream and his Kor'kron hunting and persecuting the Horde's loyal Warlocks, Gashuk heard wind of the Red Blade Tribe and before long when the rebellion finally took Orgrimmar he sought this tribe to hopefully make a home for himself.

    Spoiler: The Red Blade Tribe • show

    Spoiler: Withdrawing from Fel • show
    After time within the Wolf Pack, Gashuk slowly grew distant from his Fel Magic, the loneliness that fed his addiction to being all-powerful was sated by his tribal connections, friendships. It took the aid of the Red Blade Thur'ruk's, Sharptongue and Steelheart but Gashuk drew the line at last and filled the emptiness left by the chaotic Fel with Shadow Magic; a connection to the Void that allowed him a back door entrance into the Shadowrealms littered with Orcish Ancestral Spirits. It pained the newly named Soulfury to see his ancestors in such limbo, especially so when he was approached in dreamstates by his own father, Garrak.

    It became Gashuk's main task to aid his Father in passing onto the Eternal Plains and after success, it grew apparent to the Elder that this was a new start for him, the Spirits once again approached him; it was time for a new start and like his Father before him as a Farseer, Soulfury's inherited gifts of Spiritwalking begun to plague his dreams. Through them, he was set upon a new task and Soulfury left the side of his Tribe for the Cleft of Shadows. It was nothing like it once was, a shell where little to no Warlocks or Magi were after Hellscream's reign. It took weeks, but together with many others, the Orc contributed to re-building a community, a sense of trust again amongst Warlocks and Magi alike and established the Cleft as a place of learning once more. Yet this was never meant to be a home for Gashuk.

    After returning to his Tribe, Gashuk realised something. The Spirits had set him on this task for a reason, the reason was to teach him that he was not alike these Warlocks any more. The Orc had dubbed himself many things over the years; a Shadowmage, a Warlock but that was all a misconception. Gashuk felt like he was merely a Orc of many talents with no true title; more or less rid of his Fel addiction and finally connecting once more with ancestral spirits, it was time for Soulfury to take that final step and re-connect with the Elemental Spirits and return to his heritage as a Shadowmoon Shaman. It felt like the days past on Draenor were getting closer and closer for some reason, and with each passing moment it bore new youth and a spring in his aged step.

    Spoiler: Void Shamanism • show
    Since the Tribe endeavoured to counter-attack the Iron Horde threat and charge into the unknown on alterate-Draenor, Gashuk found himself mostly astray, yet oddly born again on his home-planet in the time of his youth. He swiftly left the Frostlands and immediately travelled to Shadowmoon Valley; with mud on his skin and perhaps a little magic, he infiltrated the Clan (his Clan) - and using his knowledge and experience of their customs became one of them. Keen to revive his old ways, keen to serve them again as a Shaman.

    This naturally taught him much of the Iron Horde, their victimisation of the Shadowmoon and the Void Magic that the Clan now wields, enamoured by the naturalism and full of inside information, it was time for the Gul'thauk to return to his Tribe with a new philosophy in his mind; Void Shamanism.

    To Gashuk, the Void, where those who dare peer for divination, was as much a part of the natural world as any Element, as any Spirit. In fact, he theorised that it was in itself, tied to every element; the shadows cast by flames, the whispers on the wind, the depths of water and in the core of earth. He begun weaving Void Magic in his shamanic rituals, and found them ever successful. Driven by success, Gashuk was keen to teach others and show them that the Void wasn't to be feared, it was to be embraced.

    Returning to the Tribe, Gashuk continued to preach and teach his newfound ideals and found them met with distrust and confusion. Many didn't like the idea of touching the Elements with the Void and considered it very alike the Dark Shamanism that was practiced under Garrosh. Gashuk, as ever, disagreed and continued to do what he had learnt from his alternate-Clan. It took many moons, and many discussions with his blood-sister, Rhonya Steelheart, for Gashuk to understand what he was doing, to understand that he was using the Void to force the Spirits, not using it alongside them willingly, and disgusted by it, Gashuk refused to ever manipulate the Elemental Spirits with the power of the Void again.

    Downtrodden by his foolishness over the previous months, Gashuk made a second vow, he would not pretend to be a Shaman again. He had tried, and only made matters worse. No, he reminded himself of when the Spirits had abandoned him, many moons ago, and firmed his steel. He would never rely on them, and likewise, they would never rely on him.

    Spoiler: Return to the Fel • show
    As the Legion begun to besiege the world, Gashuk took it upon himself to fight fire with fire. He re-embraced his previous studies and became a bonafide Demonologist. The Tribe did not entirely appreciate the decision, but never the less, he continued. It was his philosophy that he could use his knowledge and power to counter the Legion and it's allies like no one else could, he understood the Demons, he could unwind their rituals, he could bind and banish them and felt that at his age, it was his duty to protect his Tribe and the Horde by doing so.

    Spoiler: The Broken Shore • show
    During the beginning of the War effort, the Tribe splintered, the spirit-link was shattered and the Orcs went their own way. Gashuk found refuge with the Black Harvest Coven, and together with the Armies of Legionfall, defended the Broken Isles upon it's Shore. It was here that he met his newest Bloodbrother; Sarguk, son of Knulk, and bonded with the Blackrock Orc quite well.

    Unfortunately on one fated mission to interrupt a demonic ritual meant to bring about the coming of a Nathrezim; Gashuk was struck from behind, and had his throat slit by an Eredar Warlock. Sarguk, screaming in rage, avenged his brother but the damage was already done and Gashuk was unable to do anything to mend himself. As he died in Sarguk's arms, Gashuk made him promise to find his sister, Rhonya, and give her the coffer which contained Gashuk's basic personal belongings. He asked the Blackrock to find the Tribe, whatever remained of it, and tell of them of his death, of his sacrifice. And so Sarguk did.

    Spoiler: The Red Blade Clan • show

    Spoiler: Resurrection • show
    Eventually, Sarguk found the Red Blades and within them, Rhonya herself. They had gathered together once more at the request of the Wolfking Kozgugore Feraleye; but the Tribe was still in tatters. After some time,
    Sarguk aided the Orcs in their mission and eventually the Tribe was reborn, resurrected as a Clan with different tenants and oaths.

    All the while, Rhonya had taken the news of her Brother's death rather badly. She wore the necklace left to her in his coffer, but had no idea of it's true nature. The amethyst within the necklace's setting was no mere gemstone, but a Soulstone, that contained a portion of the Spirit of Gashuk. A eldritch artifact made by the Warlock whilst he studied with the Black Harvest, a countermeasure that he put in place should he ever die, so that he could continue to fight and hopefully find his sister again; an Orc of which Gashuk grew deep feelings for.

    Over time, the Soulstone begun to reach out to Rhonya. Gashuk, the spirit inside, had gathered enough energy to mend Rhonya's wounds in battle; and once Rhonya recognised the magic at play, she sought to find a method to reach into the stone and reconnect with her brother once more. Through sacrifice, she empowered the Soulstone and together, the two Orcs devised a method to bring Gashuk back to life. It took time, and much preparation, but with the aid of Kogra Windwatcher, Thur'ruk of the Clan and Sarguk, they completed the ritual to revive the Orc.

    "Under the Birthmoon at it's fullest, blood-red and gorged, combine;
    Earth of the Ancestors, ripped from the ground, to draw the Spirit from death.
    Blood from a Lover, willingly split, so body and soul can align.
    Essence from a Minion, taken, not asked for, to fuel the Master's first breath.
    Chant the true name thrice, no more no less,
    And place the stone upon the corpse's breast."

    Sarguk reclaimed the Orc's corpse from the Black Harvest and kept it well preserved in secret.

    Rhonya organised for a meeting with an old friend; a Warlock named Solanna, who summoned Gashuk's old Felhound and together with Sarguk, defeated the Demon and claimed it's essence. Felhounds act as batteries of energy; they feast off it, and Gashuk had fed his Hound plenty over the years. By harnessing the essence of the Demon, the energy Gashuk had given it, could be returned to the Master.

    Kogra journeyed with them to Gashuk's homeland of Shadowmoon Valley, and they gathered the earth and native herbs to be used in the ritual itself.

    And with Rhonya's final blood sacrifice, and repetition of Gashuk's three true names, the spiritual energy within the Soulstone transferred back into the body and the Orc breathed once more.

    Spoiler: New Beginnings-Pariah • show
    Returning to the Clan, Gashuk stood infront of them gathered for the regular moot; he told them of his story, his sacrifice, his Soulstone and how and why he came to be reborn. Naturally his story was met with derision, some of the Shaman were disgusted and the fact that two of the Clan's most revered Shaman aided Gashuk in his ritual disgusted them further. Gashuk, Rhonya and Kogra went under trial and each received their own punishment befitting of their actions in the eyes of the Wolfking.

    Gashuk was stripped of all honours and titles he had earned in his past life and was declared a Pariah, an outcast of the Clan. To this day, he remains an outcast and works to try and earn the trust and respect he once had and devotes his efforts to trying to further his relationship with his bloodsister; Rhonya Steelheart, an Orc of which Gashuk has grown to love.

    Spoiler: Things you may know about this character: • show

    • Gashuk is an adept Bloodweaver and uses it not only in offensive spellcasting but for mending purposes.
    • He usually sports a ritualistic dagger rather than any other form of weaponry but does own a powerful Stave given to him by Uzguul Stormgaze when he first joined the Tribe.
    • Gashuk's Father was part of the original powerful Stormreaver Clan, Gul'dan's personal guard! Gashuk himself didn't make the cut.
    • Gashuk is open about himself and is fierce in defending himself and his heritage.
    • Gashuk's original earned surname is Bloodfire, earned from an Om'riggor at the age of twenty. It's where his warcry, "Blood and Fire!" stems from.
    • Gashuk slowly returned to his shamanic roots, re-connecting with the elemental spirits and more recently, the Void and it's Ancestral ties to the Shadowmoon. It didn't go well.
    • Gashuk died upon the Broken Shore; and through a ritual of resurrection, returned through the power of a Soulstone. He is not undead in any fashion, although he does sport a nasty scar across his throat.

    Spoiler: Things you may not know about this character: • show

    • Gashuk has spent his long life in the pursuit of magical gain; he has studied magic both eldritch, arcane and spiritual and is a very accomplished caster.
    • Gashuk is deeply traditional, from getting traditional gifts for pregnant she-orcs to practicing tribal Blood Magic and shamanic divination from star-gazing.
    • He would rather die than be truly fel-corrupted; for example being subject to a metamorphosis or completely losing his mind to his Craft.

    Author's Note: Biography last updated 09/01/2018 - Please note this is not a detailed account of every major plot point the character has been through nor does it detail every relationship the character has made. It is a summarised account of his life and story.
    The Campfire / Beloved Tribe
    November 05, 2014, 06:32:01 PM
    T'deepest green, a flash o' grom'damned fel,
    Upheld by our old orcish tradition,
    Spillin' fresh red blood an' guts; shit t'smell.
    But we won't be 'gain held t'submission.
    Yer changed me, t'views I could nay foresee,
    Dedicated, t'Spirits made me great.
    Such I could not complain o'ever flee,
    A home tha' kept me like a livin' mate.
    I drew blood fer yer an' I had nay doubt,
    Wars were fought in yer name, I fought, I served,
    Screamin' 'Lok'tar' t'honour yer with shout.
    An' as I gave t'Pinks all they deserved,
    I remembered t'annals; vows describe,
    "Fer the Blood!" of t'Red Blade Tribe.

    I felt the need to pervert my original sonnet written for Kingdom of Arathor, I think I like this new one more. Here is the original if you want to read it for a nostalgia blast for those who were around in those times.

    "The purest green, as stunnin' as the Light,
    Downtrodden by my childish feet surpass
    Yer ever dry plains, such a gorgeous sight,
    A whole new world wit' Hills tha' last an' last.
    Ye grew wit' me, as I aged, so did ye,
    I loved ye, an' ye blessed me with life
    Such I could nay complain, o' ever flee,
    A home tha' kept me, like a livin' wife.
    I drew blood for ye, an' I kept ye well,
    Wars were fought in yer name, I fought, I served
    Shoutin' 'Ah-hoom', te honour ye with yell,
    An' as I gave te Orcs all they deserved.
    I remembered vows thought lost to old lore,
    Esarus thar no'Darador, my beloved Arathor."
    The Campfire / Water, Earth, Air and Fire
    September 14, 2014, 09:00:44 PM

    "Water, taken in moderation, cannot hurt anybody" - A Frostwolf Farseer

    -Chapter one, Water.

    “Grhm, it is no doubt tha' Devilstep is no Shaman if he truly believes that t'water tha' still lays in Oshu'gun's ridges is in no way connected t'the Elemental Spirits. There be a spirit in every rock, flicker o' flame, every raindrop an' every breath o' wind...”, grunted the aged Shaman as he took determined steps ever closer to the Spirit Mountain travelling south from Garadar's warmth. His right hand worked it's way ever closer to the four totem's strapped to his side absently feeling their length and running his fingers across their unique rune carvings. Four sharpened lengths of dark wood, not quite the same quality of wood that Gashuk Bloodfire wrought from the trees of Shadowmoon in his youth, but all the same the spitting image.

    It had taken Gashuk years back then to studiously learn then delicately carve the specific runes for each and every totem so that it became a suitable conduit for each differing element, thankfully this time around he already knew how and as he walked on, Gashuk ran his fingers along the Earth Totem. Along each and every powerful etching, knowing that they intertwine with one another like earth does, knowing that each and every one of them points in the direction of the ground so that any spirit who willingly ties himself to the totem can feel closer to it's home. His green fingers moved onto the Air Totem, immediately Gashuk sensed the difference in the shape and direction these runes ran in, facing the sky, these runes like powerful gusts of wind did not block each other, they ran freely up the length of the dark wood separated like each thunder strike is before it smites the ground. Gashuk smiled, feeling the wind at his back like never before, as his fingers move onto the newest addition to the replicas. His Water Totem, it still felt warm from the camp-fire where he sat finishing it's carvings mere moments ago, it's carvings were still raw and felt rough to the Shaman's touch as he followed their winding pathway flowing freely along the length of the wood, intertwined and together but without blocking the other runes, they work as a team, mimicking a river's stream. Finally Gashuk gripped the Fire Totem to be, he felt it's bare length, absolutely untouched and within an instant, released it. “Grhm, not yet Soulfury...Yer not ready...”, warned the Shaman to himself as his eyes finally caught the splendour of Oshu'gun's peak.

    As the orc continued onto the Spirit Fields, he begun to think to what he was about to do. Climb into the depths of Oshu'gun for the first time in many moons and ask to share what was the Ancestors; the water gifted to them by all who participated in the Kosh'harg festival mere days ago. Suddenly the enormity of the task hit Gashuk, he slowed to a stop and looked at the mountain in front of him; tears running down his face from it's glory. “T'Spirits guide” grunted the orc, thinking back to many months ago.

    Redridge, another mountainous region, claimed by the Alliance yet held many orcs in it's grasp. It was an old Blackrock ruin that the Horde found itself in and terrible battles raged for the supplies that the Horde so desperately needed, yet it was not the only place that saw battle. Deep within the lake nearby dwelled a corrupted Elemental screaming out for aid and eventually the Shaman within the Horde's forces heard it's pleas.

    Gashuk remained still, his streaming eyes fixated on the glimmering mountain in front of him as he remembered.

    The water face refused to bear his weight even after accepting every other orc, troll or even goblin upon it's surface. He remembered how he swam against it's current clad in soaked heavy robes, he remembered how he refused to give into the warnings and was forced under it's currents choking on the water as it filled his lungs up just to keep him away. Then he remembered how it felt when he aided the Elemental, used his magic to cleanse the stained blood that lurked within it, how it felt when his lungs were allowed to properly breath air once more and his robes dried and when even he, a Warlock, was bestowed an Elemental's blessing. It was the first step on a long path, Gashuk knew that now, the forgiveness of the Water that he once forsook for Demon's Blood, it was a testament to the Spirit's ability to forgive yet Gashuk knew they would never forget.

    Finally drawing his gaze from Oshu'gun's beauty, Gashuk grunted and begun to turn away yet his steps felt heavy and fatigued him. “How could I be so stupid! How could I 'onestly believe tha' I could just walk into Oshu'gun an' be forgiven fer wha' I have done? How could I believe tha' t'Spirits within it would let me take a footstep in it's ancient halls again, let alone allow me t'bath my totem within it's gifted waters...” he began to roar, his arms rose to the skies and he howled, letting his emotions run free, he didn't even notice the earth beneath him turn soft and wet and with every further step toward Garadar, he sunk. Gashuk felt his feet get deeper and deeper in the mud, soon he was up to his knees in the Spirit Fields and the Shaman stopped his growls, tired, wading in the mud that had appeared around him.

    Grunting he remained there and it wasn't long before he thought back to Mulgore and the lake beside Bloodhoof Village, how he bathed in it's waters and first begun to hear the element's mutterings once more. It took many attempts, and many swims, but it was on that lake that Gashuk proved to Thur'ruk Steelheart that the Spirits listened to him and bore his weight once more, it was where Soulfury's appreciation for water and the balance it portrays developed once more. Nights spent laying on the surface in the middle of the Lake whispering too and fro with the frolicking spirits taught Gashuk how blood co-exists within water and water within blood, they compliment each other, cleansing and mending flesh as a pair. It was within these teachings that the water gave Gashuk clarity, contentment and calmed him and as he remembered what he learnt, Gashuk begun to calm again and the mud started to release him as he turned to face the Spirit Mountain once more.

    “It seems once more I am humbled by t'Spirits, Water an' Earth workin' as one t'strengthen m'resolve an' renew my spirit”, thought the old Shaman, a soft smile rising to his lips as he walked onwards. It didn't take long before he reached the base of the Spirit Mountain, Gashuk peered up it's immense height and was humbled, walking around it's circumference until he found the entrance. Stopping in his tracks one more, his ears prickled, out stretched for the voices of any Spirits that may refuse his entry but he heard none. Satisfied, he drew his sharpened Water-Totem and slashed his wrist with it's dagger point, spreading the Blood along the walls as he walked inside muttering prayer after prayer as he took each deliberate step towards where the Thur'ruk had her ritual; he remembered, up on a ridge accessed through the halls of Oshu'gun itself but too deep within them.

    The words from her vision echoed in Gashuk's mind as he followed her footsteps. “Frost forged, fire made; Blood marked, red blade; Oath broke, oath sworn; It screams reborn” Suddenly a scream echoed throughout the cavern piercing Gashuk's ears forcing him to stop, the scream bore a gust of wind and all of the ever-lit lanterns were extinguished. Instinctively, Gashuk held his Water-Totem like a weapon and continued to walk on, convinced in his resolve, his new armour covered in mud.

    “Thump, thump, thump.

    Thump, thump, thump.”

    “Drums?”, thought Gashuk, puzzled, as the rest of Rhonya's words played out in his mind as he climbed blindly up the steep incline that lead to the ritual ridge. “The hunter's moon; The war-drum's tune; Eight horns, ten chimes; Wrong place, wrong time.” “No, this is t'right place, t'right time!” roared Gashuk out into the darkness as he struggled to control the emotions evoked by the spirits within here, the drums continued to pound in his mind yet Gashuk continued to move on, his dagger outstretched, the runes streaming down it now filled with his blood still trickling from his sacrificial wound. “Cast iron, red gates; It burns, it hates; It ends and then: Begins again.” As sudden as the light went, it returned, blinding Gashuk as he fell to his knees crossing his arms along his eyes in attempt to block out the piercing light. “Begins again”, echoed through his mind, as he slowly removed his arms from his eyes and looked out.

    Shimmers of orcish spirits wandered the halls within and they acknowledged Gashuk with a stern, yet forgiving gaze reminiscent of a parent. They did not say a single word, but all pointed towards the small exit that led onto the ritual ridge of Oshu'gun. Soulfury bowed deeply and continued to walk out squeezing through the gap that he was sure Thur'ruk Steelheart had an easier time getting through. Before him spread the Spirit Fields in a view that was like no other, he could see where the Kosh'harg had taken place and smiled as the water-skin remained where it was placed. Picking it up, he uncorked it and carefully begun to wash away the blood that had started to stain into the dark wood, it shimmered in the sunlight and was absorbed by the wood yet did not wash the blood away completely. Gashuk smiled, appreciating the balance between the two powerful life-liquids and took in a deep pleasurable sigh.

    “It is not an easy task, returning t'Shamanism” acknowledged Gashuk, calm and collected. “But it is an even harder task to truly live t'rest o' yer life as one, it will span many moons and my passion inside will rage but peering out over Nagrand like this, it's easy t'realise, it's so worth it.”
    The Campfire / Spiritwalking
    June 28, 2014, 10:47:51 PM

    Spiritwalking- Part 1 - The Elder's Elder.

    Sholazar's stars shimmered bursting into life as Gashuk peered up into the night sky, his eyes now deep pools of black. Constellations he barely recognised formed and danced around reflecting their swirls of yellow and black in the Elder's dreamy gaze. For all of Northrend's misgivings, the sky at night was almost equal to the piercing beauty of the star-studded sky that was home to the shadowmoons of the Gashuk's ancestral homeland. Tonight was unlike most, spent under nature's watch with nothing but spare robes to rest your head on, it all played havoc with Gashuk's still mending wounds and whilst comfort was often a rare commodity, sleep was scarce enough for the budding spiritualist.

    Gashuk had picked a spot a little out of the way from the rest of the Tribe, he snuggled against the trunk of a tropical tree. It was mid way through the night, as it always was, when the troubled Orc felt the supernatural tug of sleep at his spirit. For nights now Garrak Felhand had entered the Elder's mind and almost as soon as Gashuk's eyelids shut and his mind grew lucid, out of shadows, walked the image of the great Stormreaver. “Aka'magosh, son”, greeted the Spirit, his wispy robes still portraying stains of human blood. “Throm'ka, father”, replied the slightly more solid image of the spirit walker.

    “I feel a shift, m'son, yer not yerself, not as I made ye.” grunted the inquisitive spirit, peering deep in and through Gashuk's presence, as if he wasn't truly there. “I undertook Om'riggor again, they call m'Soulfury now” came the answer, tenacious and meek for Gashuk's usual aura of confidence. “Ye're kiddin'? Ha!” barked Felhand, “Ye some kind o' Pup, Gashuk? Did I bear t'worlds first Orc t'age in reverse? Ye always looked like a wrinkled bag o' bones as a sucklin' babe.” The words stung at first, Garrak's often did, he was a harsh father but a good one but this wasn't the Garrak Gashuk knew. He was bitter, twisted by his final actions, unable to truly roam the eternal plains like all Orc's deserved.

    “Fer all m'studies, Father, I still don't kno' how t'help ye. Why lash at m'with words? One o' t'reasons I took t'this change so well was because o' yer blood in m'veins.” returned the younger Orc, “Wha' happened?” The pity in his voice was almost physical, smacking Garrack firmly across his ethereal cheek. “Gul'dan...” started the spirit, his tongue trying to find the words as Gashuk interrupted “Gul'dan!? When are ye goin' t'take responsibility fer yer own actions? Ye'd rather stick in purgatory watchin' yer only son grow old an' die than admit ye was a fool an' move on.” The shadows around the pair seemed to react to the anger, the mists turned darker and grew around Gashuk's feet, his tongue ablaze with sheer audacity, all tenaciousness forgotten. “All Orcs kno' what ye Stormreavers did, Father, by t'Spirits we even 'ave a survivor amongst us an' even 'e isn't shunned as much as ye shun yerself! We all were led in directions we didn't want t'go, it was t'Second War, we 'adn't even settled on this planet! Our eyes were as red as our anger an' no Orc should blame themselves fer t'actions of our Chieftains.” Gashuk's temper started to run low, the growing shadows begun to shrink and pale away once more, his eyes previously wide and piercing grew placid and peaceful once more. “It would've been worse t'disobey...”, finished Soulfury, turning his gaze from Garrak's vunerable spirit to the translucent floor that supported their images.

    “Have ye forgotten, son, t'horrors we unleashed?” lowly grunted Garrak, his hands gesticulating, his eyes firmly fixed on Gashuk. “Allow m't'remind ye.”, and as the questioning gaze of his son slowly rose to meet Garrak's gaze, the shadows dispersed revealing the blood stained grass of the Hillsbrad Foothills.

    More to come of that night, enjoy.
    The Campfire / Falling from grace, again.
    June 01, 2014, 03:31:11 PM
    Gashuk grunted, wiping his brow of sweat as he stood by the Crossroads Inn, strapping his fully packed saddlebags across Greymane's back with a grunt of exertion. "I can't do this" spat the Orc, mounting his Wolf with an elder's speed, "I can't just stop, it's impossible, the Fel it's been too long, it's too strong..." thought Felhand, kicking his Wolf extra-ordinarily hard to pace into the desolate Barrens. "Sadok's heart is in the right place, maybe if I had more years in me, I could be this Arcanist he desperately wants me to be."

    As Greytooth's paws padded silently over the Barren's harsh savanna, Gashuk's thoughts flickered back to his first hunt, without Fel Magic, it was only a few days ago and the scars he bore from it were the first the once-Shaman bore with shame.

    "Grhm, I admit I have always been capable o' Arcane Fire, ever since t'Firelands but it's o' a completely different nature. It mimics t' character o' real fire, burns unnaturally sure, but is fuelled by air t'same, is doused by Water, it's weak compared t' what I am used too." noted the Warlock, strapping his Mageblade to his side as he explains to his onlooking Tribe-Orcs, "Fel Fire is entropic, it lives from feedin' off life. It will burn through anything as long as it has somethin' t'feast upon. A plate helmet housin' a human head, a dwarf, who 'as leapt into t' water in false attempt t' escape it. It burns off me too, takes it's toll fer evoking it into this plane! If I do not feed t' felfire, it would feed off me. Bloodweavin' be my sword an' shield against this, a corruptive circle, and round an' round it goes..." as Gashuk finished his speech, he nodded in turn at the gathered Orcs, they knew what he planned, some approved but most were disappointed at his insistence to go at this alone, after all, the Red Blades were more than a Tribe, they were family and family stood by each other in testing times. Yet alone the Orc went, no Wolf by his side, no sickly green aura soaking in the Barren's heat, and thus the Warlock sweated, his simple robes soaked through. It didn't take long for the Mageblade, famed for being ignited in green Fel-Flame turned into little more than a dull walking stick, it's blade used to sinking into flesh like butter was resorted to sinking into dry earth. Gashuk had no idea what he was hunting, it was almost like the Orc had undertaken a Om'riggor ritual, a test of his own will to adjust to the nature of Arcane completely cold turkey of Fel and it's gifts.

    As the sun's heat bore down mirages began to appear, voices from nowhere piercing Gashuk's vulnerable brain. "Master! Master!" barked a desert snake, slithering silently, "The Centaur will find you soon, Master, summon me and we will hunt together!" and empowered by mirage, the snake morphed, contorting into a Fel-Hound- Luushon. "No!" roared the grizzled Orc, his walking stick lashing out cutting through the illusion but rending no harm. The demon-wolf sniffed around, it's powerful tendrils nearly stroking Gashuk's cheeks with affection before it turned and faded sensing danger faster than any Orc could. Surely as warned, two Centaur rode forward their powerful horse-legs carrying them high, "Surely too a mirage..." thought Felhand, right before a arrow struck home in his left shoulder. Luushon was nowhere to be seen now, only whimpers of it's desire to help remained lingering in the back of Gashuk's mind.

    "Grrah!" roared the Orc, as conjured red not green fire circled around his body, lashing out towards the approaching horse-men. One drew a second arrow from it's quiver and nocked it for battle whilst the second, a Shaman of their kind, summoned wicked thunder to counter the flickers of magefire. As the second arrow flew, Gashuk was prepared, raising a wall of flame to burn it to cinders as more flew through behind it, each and every one fell to the sand as dust. Only the thunder shot through piercing through the flames striking Gashuk directly in the chest, knocking him to the floor. As the Orc fell, as too did his conjured flame, falling to the sand hopelessly trying to cling onto combustion to remain aflame without the pyromancer's gesticulation. Yet this was not entropic fire, it didn't cling to the caster like a cloak ready to leap out and leech off the centaur's life spirit. "By t'blood!" burst Gashuk, clenching his burnt, now bleeding, flesh as the Centaur bore in closer another arrow at the ready. In a flash of dark crimson, the blood soaking the Warlock rose and attacked in defence, disarming the Archer and boiling his skin as the Centaur began to bleed from it's nose and eyes, the curse improving it's hold with every second before the victim fell, the Shaman's eyes grew alight with grief staring down at the still weakened Warlock. "I will end you, Orc!" it screamed, reaching it's arms high towards the Barren's sky to summon yet more lightning. Gashuk's eyes widened, his mind blank as the lightning struck him again bursting through his tough green hide. Visions of spell books flew through Gashuk's thoughts, ideas of abjuration, wards and shields all commonly used but lost to the Warlock that was used to sacrificing demon's for their boons and redirecting the incoming damage into the nether. It was like a switch flicked in his mind's eye, and as the pain turned numb, a single phrase was uttered into the open in a cruel tongue- Eredun.

    "X adare laz rikk veni shi!"

    A dark bargain was struck and the lightning was wholly absorbed allowing Gashuk to stand, again conjuring flames to circle around him, this time as green as his skin. It lashed out as fierce as it's caster, instantly catching the centaur alight as it feasted on it's strong life essence. The assault was over nearly as soon as it begun and with a heap of ashen bone in front of him, Gashuk finally breathed relief.

    "How little I truly understand" grunted the aged Orc, "T'Arcane is so weak, so grom'damned weak, at least in my hands."

    "I was right, the Arcane is weak, like a rattle compared to Doomhammer. I can't do this, the Fel is too strong, too woven into me that betraying it feels like forsaking the Elements all over again." thought the Warlock, more grimacing thoughts of failure and weakness once again over coming his desire to purify himself for the Spirits. "Maybe instead of gaining years of experience wielding the Arcane myself, I can take what I lack from Sharptongue and Rimeweaver, perhaps..." Again kicking Greytooth perhaps a tad too hard, the pair bound northerly towards the dry hills. "Maybe he can make me this Arcanist he so desperately wants me to be."

    The Campfire / Gosh'kar Felhand
    May 27, 2014, 03:54:49 PM
    “Grhm, grom'damnit Sharptongue, makin' me out t'be some sort o' sick twisted demonsblood drinkin' fool, I respect t'Orc, he's a long standin' Thur'ruk but I'm getting' fed up o' proving myself t'the Tribe.” muttered Felhand lowly to himself, as he flickered lazily through a large tome resting by the hearth's equally lazy fire. “I mean no ill will t'any Orc, I made a sacrifice, why can't they see...” Raising to his feet, Gashuk grunted as his back cracked from the effort, as the tome is shut dust coughs out of the pages and with a minor incantation the grimoire shimmers out of the existence.

    “Blood Magic offendin' t'Spirits...”, grumbled the Elder as he walked out of the Inn along the dusty paths of the Crossroads, “Aye, I agree tha' Blood be a offerin' to the Spirits, I do this often, especially t'Ancestors tha' belong to tha' Blood Linage bu' t'use such a Energy without their consent? No, I am no Shaman, I do not do thin's solely with t'consent o' Spirits naymore, not since they abandoned me in t'first place. I made tha' choice.” spat Gashuk, a foul grimace on his face, meditating on the subject. “Perhaps if Steelheart was t'practice more Bloodweavin' like I, then she would adapt tha' mentality, offer t'Blood up and treat t'ritual t'same as any spiritual o' elemental undertakin', but how can I beseech tha' role wieldin' t'eldritch like I do.” grunting more than speaking, the Orc slowly but surely lowers himself into the shade of a tree's shadow, turning his words more into thought now out in the open.

    “I promote Shamanism more than any Warlock I know, even the ones I converted to my thinking. Yet still, I can't be both a Shaman and a Warlock, can I, the Fel is in me, I control that but my Blood pumps fierce with my Shadowmoon heritage. Perhaps, if I developed my Bloodweaving more and portrayed it as a spiritual undertaking, if I found a balance between taking and asking, the Tribe wouldn't be so wary, especially Sharptongue and Bloodmaw.”, the Warlock-Shaman pondered, wiping his brow of a bead of sweat, “Perhaps I could rise as a Gosh'kar, using Blood as my connection to our Ancestors, and Fel as my weapon for their vengeance. Can I truly see myself as a Rrosh'tul leading our forces, at my age, with my Magic, no but I proved my point as Nag'ogar.”, grunting to himself, Felhand proves his name, igniting his hand with a cruel flicker of entropic fel-fire. “I could see myself a Thur'ruk, a Elder by age and by title, developing our Tribes-Orc with the mind of a aged Shaman, one who made that sacrifice into Warlockry, and kept his sense of Orc intact. I cannot hide behind my supposed intents no longer, not as an Iron Warrior, it is time to prove them.” a smirk curls around the side of Gashuk's tusks, not a cruel smirk but a challenging one, “Wolfheart be first, once she has safely solidified her connection with the Spirits of Life, I can prove the true nature of Bloodweaving...” and as the battle-worn Orc rose to his feet once more, a final thought flickered through his head.

    “I'll do this, Father, for you and for the Blood of the Tribe.”
    The Campfire / The Felhands
    April 29, 2014, 05:02:34 PM

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

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


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

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

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

    In a heartbeat, two twin Felhounds leapt through the chaotic camp-fire with tendrils aimed for the human's neck blasting his head from his shoulders with their magic. The scene turned to hell as the charging Orcs leapt forward leaving the two Warlocks in the background manipulating the Fire like an extension of their own beings burning the encampment to the ground as the pink-skins were cut down to size. Orrok was quickly locked in fierce battle with two who had both held weapons, one wielded a poor excuse for a sword and the other, a mace more suited to beating meat than skulls, yet they held their own and countered the Orc's sweeping blows well, parrying the single sword taking the advantage with their number. Orrok was blinded by battle and thrusted inward, opening himself up to land a killing blow on one of the humans, his cursed blade boiling the pink-skin's blood as he screamed falling to the floor and as the other jolted his sword backwards the Orc blinked seeing the thrust just about to pierce his undefended heart. Mere seconds before the heart was pierced the sword dropped to the floor scrapping just flesh, Orrok blinked once more and looked up as the human grasped at his sword hand that burnt with a glorious entropic flame melting through flesh and bone leaving nothing but a stump allowing the Dragonmaw Orc the chance to land the killing blow. “Which one of you do I owe my life too!”, roared the Orc turning to the Warlock's with a apparent anger, but as he approached the two, the fires they controlled whipped around them in defense before they dismissed the hungry flame. Father and Son stood side by side, their casting as one and both remained not in the slightest fatigued. “Grhm, damn felhands...”, the Orc grunted impressed yet begrudged his honourable death. “Oh shut it an' gather what ye can, Blackhand can't use yer dead, we've only been 'ere five minutes.” grinning at each other, the pair turned to return. “What in t'name of hellfire are these 'pink-skins...'”, “Fel kno's, Father but I wish ye 'adn't ruined the pig...”
    The Campfire / Luushon, the Wolf Demon.
    February 11, 2014, 08:08:06 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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