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Oh dying orc amongst the ferns
The day is late, the sun, it burns
His head is sore, his stomach churns
Another dies, the world, it turns.

Oh dying orc in pale moonlight
His body broken, he cannot fight
Bereft of honor, strength or might
It’s growing dark, he fades from sight.

Oh dying orc soon to be drowned
Sinking slow, never to be found
No last rites, no burial mound
He breathes his last without a sound

Oh dying orc face down in snow
Failed to block his enemy’s blow
Such wasted life ‘neath spiteful foe
He feels so numb from head to toe

Oh dying orc beneath the trees
Lets out a final painful wheeze
No one around to hear his pleas
He could have lived, he’ll rest in peace

Oh crying orc amongst the furs
So wracked with grief, she softly purrs
Her love is gone and woe is hers
She turns to ale, her vision blurs

[Orc]

Orc

Y’can take an orc, shake an orc
Forsake and rake and stake that orc
Grom, quake and make him ache, that orc
But you can never break that orc.

You can kick an orc, prick an orc
Pick, crick, flick and stick that orc but
An orc so sick has skin so thick
And you can never trick an orc.

You can hit an orc, split an orc
Slit, commit and spit on that orc
Take a steamin’ shit on that orc
But never make submit that orc.

You can whack an orc, smack an orc
Hack, make him lack and crack that orc
You attack and rack, but that orc
And his pack will always hit back.

[The Buoys are Back in Town:]

This week's Tribe Fishing Derby was a chance for the tribe's orcs to kick back, relax and hone their angling skills. Some selected photographs of the event, along with incredibly bad wordplay as commentary:


^ The Buoys are Back in Town: As the Derby begins, our participants get their feet wet at beautiful Shadowprey Village.


^ Making Waves The competition gets into the swim of things, with Vashnarz Talonslayer and Yegra both angling for the top prize.


^ Hook Line 'n' Stinker: Varog'Gor Swiftstrike doesn't participate, but seems to be having a 'crate' time nonetheless. I suppose she didn't want to be dead in the water.


^ That Sinking Feeling: Falling behind in the competition, Orok Felbane must tread water or have his hopes dampened; under pressure, perhaps he should invest in a barometer.


^ There's Plenty More Fish in the Sea: The tribe had great fun at the Derby, but now have bigger fish to fry. Onwards to Northrend!

[Something different]

Heart stopped when I saw you, you spoke to me
Bouncing and jumping, your spirit so free
Longing to caress your hair crimson red
I taught and loved you but left it unsaid

Yet still I’d hide it if not for that ale
I was weak and lonesome in Ashenvale
We hunted, we bonded like it was fate
In the Barrens night I made you my mate

I saw you last night ‘neath Durotar tree
In the pale moonlight I called out to thee
You didn’t know me, you hadn’t a clue
With ignorant bliss, cried out ‘You’re new!’

I woke from the nightmare, covered in sweat
You peacefully slumbered, sharing my bed
I sighed in relief, gently stroked your cheek
You know and love me though I am so weak

Your skin oh-so soft against my sharp tongue
You soothe my anger, you carry my young
My armor, my strength, without you I’d die
Don’t ever leave me and don’t ever cry

((Something different for both myself and Sadok. In the former's case, I wrote this composition in just over an hour rather than my usual bloated process of writing. In Sadok's case, this captures him in a raw, vulnerable mood, a world apart from his ode to himself's overwrought verbosity.))

EDIT: It has come to my attention that the phrase 'a departure' could be taken the wrong way. I have no intentions of leaving anytime soon - rather, I meant a departure from my usual writing technique. Derp.

The sun scorched my neck as it bore down mercilessly upon Desolation Hold. I was alone, sat upon a crate of armaments in the sweltering heat. The Slitherblade sat in my lap; I saw the distorted reflection of a pathetic orc in its chipped hessonite pommel. The stale, humid air was thick with smoke and the reek of gunpowder.

Dark stone walls, reinforced by spiked obsidian metal, dominated my field of vision. A mighty pyre burned intensely as heavily-armed grunts stood regimented in the courtyard below, awaiting the command of Warlord Bloodhilt. In the distance, I heard the clash of steel and desperate cries of ‘Lok’tar Ogar’; within my mind rung the shrill cackle of Feralheart, the gruff chuckle of Devilstep and the insipid ‘har’ of the Son of Stronghand.

The atmosphere was oppressive. This was not a settlement like Razor Hill or the Crossroads. This was a fortress; the Horde’s sole stronghold in the chaos of the Southern Barrens. In my mind, it felt more akin to Lordamere Internment Camp; Desolation Hold was a prison of our own making. Within its walls, paranoia was rife - rumors of traitors in our midst and morbid rumors about the fate of Warlord Gar’dul hung heavy on my mind.

Glistening sweat scalded my brow as I turned my thoughts to the Battlescar. Of all the Barrens, this was the single most desolate place; the land itself torn apart and ravaged beyond recognition. Abandoned siege engines smolder amidst a sea of mutilated corpses as wounded soldiers attempt to rally around the tattered rags of battle standards. The fighting at the Battlescar has continued relentlessly since I arrived at the hold. I do not know when it will end. I do not know if it will end.

I have heard this war referred to as the Path of Conquest. If it continues such, will there be anything worthwhile left to conquer?

((Written for the current PvP campaign. First time doing IC prose in a while, so apologies if it's a little shabby.))

[An Ode to Sadok Slitherblade]

An Ode to Sadok Slitherblade
By Sadok Slitherblade

An Ode to Sadok of Lordamere;
A child, a shaman, a student, a mage;
Born in the camps, amidst anger and fear;

Until that day he was set from his cage;
And went with his people across the tides;
With the ambition and zeal of young age;

A difficult pupil, stubborn and snide;
Thought the elements’ power a mere tool;
Spoke to the spirits, they never replied;

He derided his trainers as weak fools;
Bought passage aboard the Gullible Gnome;
The seas that night were vicious and cruel;

He wandered the ruins of his old home;
Then dropped to his knees at a wondrous sight;
A brilliant towering violet dome;

A blazing beacon in the pale moonlight;
He slept that night on a bed of heather;
And woke determined to put his wrongs right;

He asked around, he learned of the Nether;
And heard stories of magic, frost and fire;
And falling from heights as though a feather;

At Undercity he was met with ire;
He found a library, stayed well effaced;
Burned midnight oil, read tomes and studied quires;

And five years later he did leave that place;
Far had he come and hard had he wrought;
But still he craved acclaim from his own race;

So the proud Red Blade tribe, Sadok sought;
Searching by day and dreaming in twilight;
Of glory, greatness and battles hard fought;

But on joining the tribe, the hardest fight;
Was to stay his sharp tongue, to remain mute;
So often annoyed, and never polite;

The Oath of Blood was his single pursuit;
His tutor, the bard, simply set one goal;
He spoke with a simper, strummed on his lute;

He demanded of him to find a soul;
Be humble, relax and also ‘get laid’;
And Sadok laughed, finding the tasks quite droll;

But as sure as his boots were clefthoof suede;
For many a year, should he still offend;
He’d remain New Blood in tribe Red Blade;

Which brought our dear Sadok to just one end;
The most powerful mage, mighty and feared;
Is beneath the peon, without one friend;

And this proud, pathetic mage, so oft jeered;
Is the orc named Sadok of Lordamere.

((Had actually lost the original copy of the poem for a while, so I'm posting it here for posterity.))