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16

The Campfire / The Blood-soaked Way

« on: November 27, 2014, 12:12:03 AM »

Atop the white wolf he did ride, facing against the crimson abyss before them. The Dark Portal towered closer and closer as the orcs charged towards it, its blood red colour enveloping them. On the other side, fire and death awaited. The steps smeared with entrails and bodies as Groshnok led his wolf galloping down them, the night sky lit up in front of him by a thousand flames of the enemy siege weapons. But he did not care for them. As his axe bit hard into the neck of a Mag’har charging towards his ride, the familiar feeling of adrenaline coursed through his veins. And he grinned. Chaos was all around him, and in chaos, he was in his element.

   The wolf did not last long. But then again, Groshnok did not expect it to. Roaring as blade and bullet pierced it, the orc leaped from the worg as it fell, slumping to the ground, and Groshnok leaping upwards, to plant his axe in the head of an orc having his back turned to him, only in turn his left shoulderpad caught a knife, sinking into it and hitting the skin below. Turning with a growl, he locked eyes with the metal army. This was it, and he knew it. No more going forward into that Iron Tide. Ah well, he’d dodged death long enough. Maybe it was finally time for his own self to be smote down. But nay, as the sound from behind came, of a fierce crack, loud even over the roar of steel and the screams of the dying. Groshnok turned his head to see the portal fall, and saw running towards its ruins. So he ran too. Well, survival is always better than being an idiot and sacrificing yourself for nothing, he figured. Yet as he scurried towards the steps, a shadow loomed over. Looking up, Groshnok’s eyes met with a spinning, flaming ball fast approaching the ground. Grunting, he threw himself rightwards, as the Iron Star exploded on the ground, shrapnel and fire flying in all directions. A thud, and darkness enveloped him.

   Yet, it was only for a few brief moments. Coming to, he staggered up, coughing, falling back against the wall behind him, his back against it. The shrapnel from the weapon had pierced him, badly. Screaming pain seared from the left half of his face. He peered down, finding indeed his left half had taken most damage. Though, at least the plate on his lower half had helped him. His left arm on the other hand, the skin had been shredded where it hand been hit, with no protection to stop the full brunt. Blood seeped from it, mixing with the fl—his arm was on fire.  Roaring, he smashed it off the wall, though it pained him, the flames quickly quenched. Feeling a pull on his arm, he looked up to find himself being half-dragged up the steps by a grunt, and he soon began hobbling along, shaking free of the orc’s grasp. It all merged to a blur as the forest in front of him merged into an iron road once again. He looked down at his arm. Losing blood. Too much. Needed attention. Grunting, he hobbled on, finding his boot knife in his right hand. A new one, he had put the good adamantite dagger in that time-box thing. Ergh, more use it would’ve been to me here, he thought. He growled, anything that came against him getting a wild slash towards it. He didn’t know what they were. He could barely see, his face was so bloodied. Wiping his right eye, he looked up, as he watched two ships depart from the harbour, a while in front of him. Quickly, he realised that must’ve been what they were running for. Too late.

   He staggered on, though darkness clouded the edges of his blurred vision. He hoped Rashka had made it on. A hand grabbed his right arm once again, as he grunted, being dragged on. Thoughts raced through his mind as he stumbled and swayed, yet still the vice-like grip persisted to carry him forward. Suddenly, the footpath seemed to give way, and he found himself being set down on something cold, and hard. His body slumped back, his spine hitting something hard behind him that kept him someway upright. His blurry eye looked up to try and make out what had brought him here, but only a brown mass was visible in front of him. And with that, Groshnok succumbed to the darkness.




One week later

   “And that is how I smashed those bloody midgets right into the ground! Har! I can tell you, they didn’t stand a chance against the Giantsbane!”

   If it had only been the two of them awake, Groshnok would have gutted him the first chance he had. Since he had woke four days past, he had heard nothing but the tales of the eejit at the front of the boat, the one who called himself Giantsbane. As he had been told at least seven times already, he received this nickname because he had slain a field full of gronn in Nagrand during the reopening of the Dark Portal a few years prior. Afterwards, he had returned to Garadar to make love to three she-orcs at once. His tales were as tall as the gronn he claimed to have killed, but Groshnok could not zone his stories out, between the roar of the motor to behind him and this orc’s booming voice in front of him. Nine orcs in total were packed into the boat. Himself, “Giantsbane”, four other grunts who had managed to sleep for most of the time, one grunt who had stayed in a coma, a Mag’har and thankfully, Rashka. It was the Mag’har who had saved him, an orc who had been taken prisoner by the Iron Horde. His tongue had been cut out, so he could not speak a word, but he showed kindness, dragging Groshnok to a small abandoned boat to cleanse his wounds. A Shaman, it appeared, by the totems he carried. It seemed the rest had followed him onto the vessel, and they had set off before they would be set upon by the Iron Tide.

   The silent Mag’har seemed always awake, steering the motor of the boat. Fel knew where he was taking them, but each day had grown colder and now Groshnok was freezing, wrapped up in some furs. He looked jadedly around the boat. The four grunts, wounded and sleeping in the early morning. Rashka, cuddled up next to him, snoring soundly. And the other grunt, his lips gone blue. Groshnok grunted, somewhat amused. Took long enough.

   “Now, Grosh’nal, let me tell ye the story of how I got this axe!”  shouted Giantsbane, holding his black greataxe up triumphantly. Groshnok grunted, annoyed. How bloody hard was it to get a name right? He had corrected him twice already, and still he was getting it wrong. Still, he scanned the black axe the orc in front of him held up. A fine piece of craftsmanship it was. He wouldn’t mind it for himself. “It was after I had led a bunch of rowdy lads into Goldshire…” Groshnok looked around, trying to see if he could spot anything to take his mind off the ramblings of Giantsbane, even though he knew it would not work. He sighed, looking down. Minor cuts and bruises had been healed by the Mag’har, but his left arm was still hurt badly. From shoulder to wrist, bandages wrapped around the skin, or what was left of it. Still hurt like hell, and would for some time to come. It would heal. But what would not heal, was his eye. The majority of the left side of his face had been bandaged, the skin their torn by shrapnel that had scraped off it. For someone only wearing a wolf mask, it was incredibly lucky the damage was not worse. He did not mind much. The eye blinded had been blurry enough from being hit in the past, anyway. He'd just have to get a patch for it.

   Both his thoughts and Giantsbane’s story were cut off by the sound of a loud gargling noise. Groshnok’s head shot backwards quizzically, to find the Mag’har being the source, his bony finger pointing to the front. Groshnok followed it, to see through the thick early morning fog appeared white rocks. They were close. They were too close. “We’re gonna crash,” he thought aloud, shifting to his feet with a stagger, holding onto the side of the boat. “Ge’ up, ge’ up!”

   “Har! Never fear, the Giantsbane has been in many a shipwreck!” the orc in front declared. Before even a snarl could emit from Groshnok’s mouth, the boat shook violently. Ice, ice in the water. It tore through the iron hull of their boat, debris flying. Groshnok ducked, turning back, to see the Mag’har now trying to cut the engine, only for a chunk of iron to impale him through the head, sending his corpse flying into the water. He held onto the side of the boat for dear life, another violent smash sending the boat veering left, and he watched with horror as Rashka’s sleeping body tumbled over the side. His hand outstretched to try to save her, but too late. Too late. Turning with a roar, the rocks were only seconds away, and there was Giantsbane, somehow holding on at the front. My only chance, he thought, letting go of the side and leaping forward to grab the orc.

CRACK.

   Groshnok’s claws sunk into the back of the howling orc as they slammed forward, hurtling through the air. Giantsbane landed hard on the shore, screaming in agony as he skidded along with Groshnok pressed firmly to his back, weighing him down. As they stopped, Groshnok rolled off of him, staying down, breathing heavily. His injured arm seared with pain, and his head pounded. But he couldn’t rest yet. Grunting as he pushed himself up with his right arm, he sat next to the orc who had been his shield, lying face down in his own blood. Grabbing him by the hair, Groshnok hauled his head up to take a look at what was left of his face. Nothing. The sharp rocks skidding against it had flayed it down to the bone, some bloody strips hanging on here and there. And still in his grasp, was the black axe. Tearing it from his dead hands, Groshnok heaved himself to his feet, peering down at the shoreline, searching, as he sheathed the axe behind him. And there she was. Crawling from the waters on all fours, Rashka. She was alive. And shaking. His gaze snapped down to Giantsbane, a fine furry cloak on his back. “Well, y’won’ be needin’ this,” he said with a grunt, tearing the straps from the corpse’s neck and hauling the cloak up. Hurrying down from the shore, he wrapped the cloak around her as she crawled up to embrace him, and he held her for a few moments. Looking down, he found her already to be passed out.

   Grunting, he placed her over his shoulder gently, looking around. The rest, dead. No matter, they would be a liability to him anyway. She was all that mattered. Her, and the cub. He trudged forward into the freezing abyss, his mind at him. Was the cub okay? Where were they? He didn’t remember any snow in Outland, so why was there in this place? Looking at a nearby ridge, he shifted towards it. He needed to find a cave. Caves were in rocks. Such as ridges. There’d be a cave there, there had to be a cave there. Trudging on, the cold gnawed at his body, he shivered in response, though his arm still burnt like the fire that had blazed it. Now, survive, he thought, gritting his teeth as he pressed on against the cold. Survive. For her sake.

17

The Campfire / On the Cliffs of the Scar

« on: August 26, 2014, 05:09:08 AM »

  On the cliffs overlooking the Battlescar he stood, peering down at the chaos. Swaying slightly, the effect of the alcohol had still not worn off. Groshnok had drunk a bit too much tonight, two and a half bottles of the Bolts’ whiskey. The cool night breeze of the Barrens seemed to be helping though, at least. He looked up, as the warmth of a flaming boulder passed by, over to the other side, where it landed with an explosion. The orc squinted, just able to make out the light of flailing humans before they fell to the ground, the flames taking them. He grinned a little, letting out an amused snort. He wasn’t going to see battles like this for a while, so he was enjoying the time while he was here.

   His attention turned down towards the fighting on the ground, illuminated by the torches surrounding the area, and the odd fireball and explosion. His thoughts went back to the days when he himself was dressed in raider gear, down in that very scar. A bloody few months before he was sent back to Grom’gol. He’d loved fighting down there, a stalemate battle he hadn’t seen the likes of much place else. And to Stranglethorn I return, from this place again he suddenly thought, quirking a brow. Funny how life repeats itself.

  Groshnok grunted, as goblins bumped into him on either side, rushing down into the chaos below with bombs strapped to their backs. Idiots he thought, watching after them. If somehow they made it through that scar alive, they’d try to blow up the human fort on the other end. That was always the goblin’s plan down here. Rare it would be, that one would make it through. It was rare enough for anyone to go through the heart of the scar and make it out the other end, really. But that’s what Groshnok was waiting for tonight. The first human to make it to this end. And he did not have to wait long, as a plated figure pulled itself up the cliff before him. Sneering, he kicked it back down with a grin, hearing the scream as the heavy metal dragged the body down onto the hard ground below. He’d finish the human later, but for now his mind was at him.

His thoughts, that night, were plaguing him. He’d told Kradak to curl up and die, and Kradak had tried to obey back in the Wyvern’s Tail, cutting his own throat. Groshnok had thrown his body outside to leave him rot, but the Bolts had saved the brain-damaged orc. He was wracking his mind, thinking as to why he didn’t finish Kradak while he was down. The kill was for the taking, but there were too many Bolts around if he succeeded who would probably pin him down. He grunted, still wishing he’d tried. Should’ve would’ve could’ve, as they say.

  Snorting, his hand went to his flask on his belt. Twisting the cap open, the smell of whiskey wafted up to his nose, and he pressed the top to his lips, tilting his head back, letting the warm liquid flow down his throat. Putting it back on his clip, he stared back to the Hold for a moment. If they could see me now, wouldn’t they just be delighted? Groshnok let out another snort of contempt, his brow furrowed as he turned back to the battlefield. The drunk. That’s all I’ll ever be to them. He had tried. For a few months, he had tried hard, drinking only the occasional ale. But no, no matter what he did, whether it be a jest, or an insult, his drinking was always brought up. He hated it. Playing along with the joke only made him feel worse, being sober constantly. Always sober, yet they never saw. The lazy Nag’Ogar, that’s all they see. But now, now after Rashka losing the cub he was back, hitting the bottle again. Just some more jokes for them, isn't it? Gritting his teeth, his fists clenched together. Acting it didn’t stop it. Playing along didn’t stop it. Joking about it didn’t stop it. Fighting back was only going to make things worse for him. Nograx was right, it was time to start ignoring. Ignoring, before this problem ended up with him hurting someone. And wouldn’t they only love that more? he thought, angrily.

  He unclenched his fists, a little bit of blood trickling down from each palm. Peering over the cliff edge, his eyes scanned downwards, as he felt another whoosh of heat fly quickly over his head. The human was there, writhing and moaning. A fall like that in full plate, bones were definitely broken. Groshnok looked down to his own coverings. Just a belt, pants and boots made of leather. It was easier, freer movement this way, while still being able to hit the axe just as hard, if not harder. He was still having to get the hang of dodging though, used to his old plate taking the beating for him. He sighed, unclipping the flask again and taking a long, last gulp from it, before clipping it back for the final time that night. He turned his attention up to the battlefield in time to see the fireball that had flew over his head strike the other cliff, erupting a machine there in flames. He could make out the outlines of its engineers desperately trying to quench the flames, but it was too late for that. Patting his flask, he stood right over the edge of the cliff. It was time to leave the intoxication of alcohol behind, tonight, for his favourite buzz. The adrenaline of bloodlust.

  Jumping down, Groshnok landed next to the armoured human, grinning at him. He withdrew his dagger from his boot, and slammed it hard into the human’s eye. A short scream, and then silence. It was done. Putting the bloodied dagger back into its sheathe, he turned his body towards the Battlescar. He put his hand to the hilt of his axe, watching as a wyvern plucked a dwarf from the ground, to drop him back down from high in the air. Groshnok grinned, fully unsheathing the axe, and moving forward. Spotting a human cutting an orc down near him, he roared, charging forward at it, his sadistic grin only growing wider. It was his last night here. And he was going to enjoy it.

18

The Campfire / The Not so Great Adventures of a Hungover Orc

« on: June 03, 2014, 05:33:36 PM »

June 2nd
8:50PM

Sounds could still be heard from Darkspear Hold in the Echo Isles, around the ninth horn of the night. The drums beat as rituals were  held around pyres, children ran around playing, although sluggish now from their day’s activities, and the Darkspear trolls feasted. All around the hold, trolls ate and danced, enjoying respite after a hard day’s work.

And off by the edge of the main island, in a cold, damp crevice between two trees, an orc groaned. Lying in a puddle of his own piss and puke, Groshnok’s eyes slowly opened and quickly shut again, the small light that the sliver of moon radiated pierced his skull harder than any axe blow. After a few minutes, he sat up, and slumped against the tree next to him. Groshnok rubbed his eyes gently, before putting one hand to his head, hoping it would do something to ease the pain. But it didn’t. It never did. It was plain and simple, he knew.

Groshnok Gorewrath had drunk too much. Again.

Opening his eyes again after a few minutes in a squint, Groshnok looked around. The sand beneath him soon gave way to the waters of the Great Sea, and he could make out Sen’jin Village in the distance. The strong smell of salt from the sea wafted up his nose, and quickly began to make his stomach churn. Heaving over on his hands and knees, Groshnok spewed up black bile for a few moments, before collapsing down into the sand next to it. The vomiting worsened the pounding in his head, and the orc rolled onto his back, clutching his skull. Looking up into the sky, he gazed at the moon for a little while. It was painful to watch, but somehow it soothed his stomach a little, reminding him of nights of old, as a grunt in the Barrens. He’d often be on night’s watch, with the moon as his only company. He turned his gaze eastwards, and saw a passing goblin trading ship heading up North along the Durotar coast, up towards Bladefist Bay. Suddenly, two words pierced through his head again and again, making him clutch his head tighter.

The ship. The drink had seemingly comatosed the orc  for almost an entire day. The airship that the tribe were taking to Northrend would have definitely been departed by now, with Groshnok left behind. Frantically, he tried to focus his thoughts towards the spirit link, anything to call out. Maybe it wasn’t too late, and they could turn around for him.

The efforts were too strenuous on him, though. A searing pain screamed through his head, and the juice in his stomach soured. Suddenly, Groshnok’s face met with the sand again, as black bile spewed forth, the orc’s eyes held shut. And just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Groshnok rolled onto his other side, and for the second time that day, passed out.








Luckily, nobody had taken his wolf with them when the tribe had set out from Durotar, and Groshnok had found it where he had tied it up in Sen’jin Village. Riding through the morning, he had come across the Southfury River, his wolf narrowly missing a few prowling crocolisks’ bites, to the old bridge that once connected Durotar and the Barrens without a delta on the Durotar side. From there he pressed on to the Crossroads, stopping to water his wolf. Pressing onwards once again out the eastern road, finally he reached his destination: Ratchet. From the Troll isles to the Goblin port town, after a five hour journey in the blistering summer head, in his full plate armour, he was there.

June 3rd
2:55PM

Tying up the wolf, he walked towards the tavern and found himself a seat. Unclipping his shoulderpads and pulling off his gauntlets, he called a serving maid for some ale. Thirsty from his ride, he went to the mug straight away when it arrived, chugging back the brew. Wiping froth from his lip, he looked around. He needed a ship, one going to Northrend. Borean Tundra, wasn’t it? He’d be hard pressed to find a ship whose journey was there. But Groshnok didn’t have enough gold for the zeppelin’s that ran from Orgrimmar, who often journeyed north. He had lost a lot betting on the fights on the Echo Isles, and doubted he even had enough to buy passage for a ship, without pulling his weight on it.

Talking with the patrons and the barkeeper, it turned out he was in luck. A Horde supply ship was sailing for Northrend the next morning, but it was bound for the Grizzly Hills, shipping food and weapons towards the outpost up there, Conquest Hold. It was Groshnok’s best bet, unless he wanted to wait for a goblin ship going to the Tundra that was coming in a couple of weeks. Even then, that ship was too expensive, and would have him down below deck rowing if he wanted to join it. By then the tribe would surely be gone too.

Buying passage on the Horde ship was cheap, Groshnok found out. Only a few gold coins, as the ship was happy to have an extra axe-wielder, in case of pirate raids. They weren’t very common this far north, but were still a danger of happening. He was given the time the ship was setting off by one of the Goblin’s onboard, the eighth horn in the morning, and he set off towards the inn once again. Ordering another mug of ale, Groshnok plopped himself down on one of the seats. Looking out the open door, he watched the ships in the harbour coming and going. He thanked the serving maid when she arrived with his drink and took the mug from her, setting back to watching the harbour, slowly sipping the drink from time to time. He’d be savouring the drinks tonight, he couldn’t have too many. This was his chance to get up to Northrend, he couldn’t miss that boat. How far away from Borean Tundra are these Grizzly Hills anyway? Groshnok had served as a guard in Warsong Hold during the war against Arthas, the Lich King, and had only seen a few maps of the place. He tried to remember its location, but it could not come to him. Shrugging, he went back to his brew. It couldn’t be that far away anyways, ships never went to the very north of the icy continent.

The orc stayed there until the sunset. Finishing his fourth, and last mug, he stood up and walked down towards ship. Untying his wolf along the way, they walked aboard, Groshnok leading him by the reigns. After putting him below deck with the other animals, Groshnok found found his quarters, and climbed into a hammock tied up above another one. He looked around at the hammocks lining the walls. It seemed he’d be sharing this small room with six other people. He hoped none of them snored, as he snuggled down into the criss-crossed ropes. Time passed, and with every hour Groshnok’s eyes grew more heavy. The ninth horn came, and with it, so did unconsciousness.






Will Groshnok survive his trek to Borean Tundra? Yes. But how? Find out in two weeks’ time in The Not so Great Adventures of a Cold Orc         

19

The Campfire / The Morning After

« on: April 23, 2014, 07:32:50 PM »

The city of Silvermoon was alive and bustling, just as noon came. The sun at its highest point warmed the city, children played in its light, and peddlers sold their wares. All around, the people of Silvermoon prepared for the festival celebrations, welcoming parties were at the gates to see to travellers, and constant checks were being made by its people to make sure everything looked extravagant.

And in a cold, dark alley in Murder Row, an orc groaned. Lying in a puddle of his own piss and puke, Groshnok’s eyes slowly opened and quickly shut again, the small light that the alley had in it pierced his skull harder than any axe blow. After a few minutes, he sat up, and slumped against the building next to him. Groshnok rubbed his eyes gently, before putting one hand to his head, hoping it would do something to ease the pain. But it didn’t. It never did. It was plain and simple, he knew.

Groshnok Gorewrath had drunk too much. Again.

Pulling himself to his feet, the orc wiped the small chunks of vomit that clung to his shoulders off with his hand, and wiped his hand along the wall. Sighing, he looked down at his body, to check if he still had all of his belongings.

He did not. Everything above his belt, from his tabard to his gauntlets were missing, as was his greataxe. But at least his coin purse was still there. Sighing, Groshnok stepped out of the alleyway, putting a hand above his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun. Wandering through the street, he looked around from time to time, hoping to spot a familiar face who could help him out. But all around him were unfamiliar Blood Elves, most staring at the puke-stained green skin who staggered down their streets. Groshnok wouldn’t bother to talk to one, as it seems they were trying their best to avoid him. Sighing, he looked ahead, seeing a sign for an inn. Maybe there’ll be someone in there I know, he thought to himself, as he pushed himself in the door.

Luck was not in his favour. Very few faces were inside, and Groshnok recognised none. However, something caught his eye, bringing a memory back to his pounding head. A table in the corner, he had been there last night… there were goblins with him too, he recalled. But the more he tried to remember, the harder his head pounded. Groshnok found himself a nice chair, and slumped down into it. Not a moment after his arse had hit the cushions, a young, raven-haired barmaid popped up next to him.

“You left your things outside here last night!” she told him. Groshnok winced at the high pitched voice assaulting his ear drums, drilling into his skull. “But luckily I saw them, and I put them in the back for you!” At that, the orc perked up, and turned his head to face the smiling elf.

“Ye’ got me armour?” Groshnok asked.

“And your axe! It was heavy, but I did it!” At that, the excited elf flexed her right arm, and laughed. Groshnok would have laughed too, only her voice was threatening to split his skull. Instead, he forced a smile.

“Thank ye’,” he said graciously.

“You want it now?” the elf asked, her eyebrow raised.

“No, no, not now,” the orc replied. It was already roasting hot outside, he’d cook if he put on the plate armour.

“Okay!” the elf chirped. “I’ll keep it in the back then. Any time you want it, you come to me.” She nodded happily, and walked off. Groshnok sat in the chair for a few more minutes, before pushing himself to his feet, and walking to the bar, where an old elf stood cleaning a mug.

“Give us an ale there, would ye’?” he asked the barkeeper. The old elf nodded, and Groshnok rested his elbows on the bar as he watched a tankard being filled by the frothy brew.

“That’ll be 15 silver, please,” the barkeeper told him, placing the drink before the orc. Groshnok went to his coin purse, and fished out the money, placing it on the bar. The grey-hair elf nodded at him again and walked off with the silver, putting it in a coin box behind him. Groshnok picked up the tankard and took a long pull from it, before setting it down, and turning towards that familiar table. New details were coming back now. It was a drinking game with a spinning bottle… goblins… and lifting up a tauren…

The young orc shrugged, before turning back to his drink. Eh, these were things that he’d find out later anyway. He just hoped he hadn't done anything last night to bring the wrath of the city guards down on him. He’d be sure to get a scolding off Rimeweaver about responsible drinking if he did. Groshnok brought the ale to his lips again, and took another long pull. Placing it back down on the counter again, he grinned a bit. For all the shit he'd given it on the way in, Silvermoon wasn't actually that bad of a place. The bright colours weren't good for his hangover, but at least the inside of the inn was dark. Groshnok finished his drink as the bells rung. A new hour, he thought to himself, his head pounding in time with the chimes. He walked away from the bar as the ringing stopped, down the narrow hallway of the inn's exit and out into the city. After strolling down the street for a few minutes, Groshnok found himself a nice shadowy spot in a new alley, a sat down against its building, relaxing. And a new day.

20

Game Related / Wear it proudly, Oathbound Blackman.

« on: February 16, 2014, 11:58:42 PM »

16/2/2014
Neva 5get (dats 1 mre dan 4get)

21

The Campfire / The Watchtower

« on: February 16, 2014, 12:52:59 AM »

   The sun had began to set across Nagrand, and a calm breeze flowed like the river that ran through Garadar, cooling the orc’s face. Seated at the top of the southern watchtower, he rested his back against the tower room, his gaze fixed on the direction of the Ring of Trials. Of Kil’sorrow Fortress. Or, at least, the crater that it now was. Groshnok sighed, taking a sip from his flask, the hot whiskey burning his throat.

   Memories of the two massive warlocks, infused with so much demonic fel that they were hardly orcs anymore, pressed on his mind. He had been getting up after being smashed against a gate by one of the monsters. They were half the size of a gronn easily, and the punch had dazed him. He remembered struggling to his feet, watching as Sadok cast a lightning bolt straight into one of the monster’s chests, exploding its heart, and by the blood curse the two fel orcs shared, exploding the other’s too. The ear-piercing screams coming from their mouths, and then…

   Their skin, huge balls of energy began to shine from them, growing bigger, consuming them. Groshnok had begun to regain his senses then, as the group began to run, run for the main gate. That was the aim of every orc there, be he a Red Blade or the few Kil’sorrow still remaining. Everything was hazy past then, but that was what adrenalin did. “Run, get on your wolf and get out of there,” was the only thought going through his mind. He couldn't remember anything else. That was, until the explosion.

   The two balls of fel energy had morphed together, and grown as large as the courtyard of the fortress, and in an instant, shattered the surrounding areas, along with anything unlucky enough to stand in its way. Groshnok had almost been thrown from his wolf as the earth shook violently beneath him, but had managed to hang on. His ears were ringing, sound ever so slowly returning to them. He looked around. Caruk looked unphased, as always. Sadok was on the ground. Oguur’s voice could be heard through the spirit-link, saying that where he was wasn’t looking good. But there was one orc missing. Mokhtar was not with them, nor was he responding to calls for him in the spirit-link.

   Groshnok grimaced, taking another sip of the flask. It had been a day now, and no word had reached his ears of the newblood being found. In the panic after the warlocks were killed, he must’ve taken the side gate, Groshnok had realised. That gate only led two ways. South, to a mountain range that bordered the Terokkar Forest. Or west, to an open plain that led to a drop off into the Twisting Nether. If the newblood had gone north, he’d have been vaporised. The blast had reached the mountain range, and even as far as the road to Terokkar near it. If he’d gone east, there was a chance he could have escaped the radius, but there was also a chance he could have been blown into the abyss.

   His memories began to drift back. Back to when he was a grunt in the outposts around Kalimdor. Specifically, the first place he had guarded in. Razor Hill, four years ago. Fresh out of his home of the Valley of Trials, Groshnok had spent a year and a half serving there. Just like all new grunts, he though himself to be invincible. Nothing could defeat him. Especially no human filth that decided to show up on his shores.

   He was 18, and was leading a scouting group against the Kul Tiras on Durotar’s eastern shores. There were three of them in total, Groshnok was the most senior. Even now, Groshnok could remember their names as clear as that day he led them, the first day he had met them. The silent Ner’gesh, 16 years old and deadly with a dagger. Gad’jin, a 15 year old troll from Sen’jin Village, able to pierce his target’s heart with his bow from 50 yards. Groshnok could never forget that day, the day he would first lead, even if it was just a small scouting group. It was his proudest moment, at the start. It was the second worst moment of his life, behind his mother’s death, at the end.

   Their task was simple, one that young grunts were sent on every day. See if the humans have started working on anything outside their castle, patrol changes, stuff like that. Groshnok hated it, whenever he’d be dragged along to do it. The leader would always make them stay afar, not get anywhere close. Well, now that he was leading this group, he would do it differently. He’d get up close, get the information Razor Hill really needed.

   “I don’t tink dis be a good idea,” whispered Gad’jin, as the trio crept forward to the keep. “The sergeant said we was to-”
“Oh that old idiot’s too cautious, you know that,” Groshnok whispered back, cutting the troll off. Ner’gesh padded alongside Gad’jin, his eyes scanning the distance for any movement. They were edging closer and closer to the keep, using any bit of foliage around the desert to keep themselves from being seen by an eagle eyed archer. Suddenly, Ner’gesh stopped dead in his tracks, and pointed in front of him. Grosnok looked towards where the green finger was pointing, and the sight made his blood boil.

   A jailor was dragging an unconscious orc with a rope bound around his hands across towards one of the towers. “Shoot him,” Groshnok ordered, looking towards Gad’jin.
“We only here to see, brotha, not to fight,” Gad’jin replied warily.
“Shoot him,” Groshnok repeated, his voice becoming angrier. “That pig’s got one o’ ours captured. We’ve gotta save him.” He turned to the troll, giving him an icy glare. “Do it.” Gad’jin paused for a few moments, before slowly nodding and stringing his bow. The arrow sailed through the air, embedding itself in the human’s skull. Groshnok grinned, and quickly crept over to the orc on the ground. “Get up, brother, you’re s…” Groshnok trailed off, his mouth open in shock.

   The orc on the ground was not unconscious. The dead human was not a jailor. He stared in horror at the empty eye sockets of the dead orc. “What… the fel did they do to ye’…” he gasped. Suddenly, he felt hands on his back, and in a flash his face was in the dirt. He quickly spun around to face his attacker… Only to find Ner’gesh in the place where he was a second before, with an arrow in his chest. He could hear yelling coming from behind him, and he turned his head to see archers notching their arrows on the ramparts of the castle.

   “Groshnok!” came Gad’jin’s voice. The orc sprang to his feet, as the orc beside him fell to the ground, letting out his death rattles. Groshnok had no time to stick around, as he sprinted for the trees, where Gad’jin was already running to. His eyes were glued to the ground, as he sprinted into the foliage. Arrows sailed past him left and right, and he grunted as one of them smashed into his arm. He was on the other side of the trees now, and the arrows were still coming. There was a pit ahead of him, and in front of that Razor Hill. He could hear Gad’jin running beside him.
“Dive for cover!” Groshnok screamed, the torrent of arrows beginning to thin out as the pit became closer. He leaped into it, yelping as an arrow clipped his foot.

   Groshnok opened his eyes. He was alive. He made it. “Ye’ alright, Gad’jin?” he called out, looking around. He heard a low moan to his left, and looked over to see the troll lying in the sand, the blood running into it from the arrows sticking out of his slender back. Groshnok stared at the sight. Gad’jin let out a few more shallow breaths, before the light went out of his eyes. “Shit,” the orc breathed, his hands over his head. “No, this isn’t happening, this isn’t… Grom’damnit!” Groshnok pounded the earth in rage until his knuckles became bloody. Then, a shadow loomed over him, and Groshnok looked up.
“Blackrend?” called Sergeant Rackspear, peering down at the orc from the edge of the pit. His eyes went wide when he noticed the dead troll beside Groshnok. “What the fel is going on?!”

   Groshnok closed his eyes tight, gulping down the whiskey as the memories came flooding back like a brick wall hitting him in the face. He had lied to Rackspear, saying that they had been ambushed. He would have been court martialled if he told the truth. However, Groshnok was moved to the Crossroads in the Barrens, as Ner’gesh’s father had been in the high command of Razor Hill, and was furious at his son’s death. “Get yer things, an’ get on the supply caravan, Blackrend,” Rackspear had ordered. It was for his own safety.

    That wouldn’t be the last time Groshnok had blundered while in command. He thought back to the Twilight Highlands, where he had led Toradar and Oguur into a battle with the dwarves on a scouting mission. A battle that failed horribly, and almost cost the three orcs their lives. And now this. A newblood missing, probably dead. Under his command. Groshnok sighed again, thinking about the talk he’d had with Nograx a few hours before hand. “What could you have done better?” the Dragonmaw had asked him. There were a lot of things he could have done better. But hindsight was a bitch, and there was nothing he could do now. Just wait, and hope Mokhtar would be found.
  
   The sun had fully set now, as Groshnok clipped the flask back onto his belt. He gave one last look towards the south east, before walking down the planks. “We all make mistakes, Gorewrath,” Nograx’s words rang in his mind. Groshnok frowned. “Aye, but this orc never seem to learn from them,” he thought, as he strode towards the hut he was staying in.

My first Groshnok story, hope you enjoyed!