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From the Annals: Blood of the Varog'Gor

June 15, 2018, 10:05:00 PM
Written by Kozgugore
From the Annals: Blood of the Varog'Gor

With Okiba's story competition in full swing, this month is the perfect opportunity to be reminded of the vast amount of lore and background stories this guild has collected over the years of its long existence. In between the monthly newsletters and Member Spotlights, we'll be regularly taking a look back into the history of the Red Blade's stories and see what its creative members, both former and present, have written in our new format, "From the Annals". By taking these stories out of the depths of our website, they'll get some well-earned, renewed exposure for members who may not have been around at the time to see the conception of the story at the time.

To kick this series off, I've selected one of three stories regarding the clan's most influential ranks: The Rrosh-tul, Varog'Gor and Thur'ruk. Back when these ranks were first created, Morgeth helped give these ranks a bit of spice by providing a background story for each one of them. These stories hearkened back to the time of Clan Redblade back on Draenor and illustrated the conflict they had with another fictional clan, the Bloodmaw clan. All three stories can be read in the Ranks: A history of blades thread, but below is the story she wrote about the Varog'Gor. A story that perfectly captures the feeling of the Varog'Gor, the responsibilities they have and the culture that exists around them. I was very happy with the stories at the time, and feel they're a perfect representation even now, eight years later!



As the sun broke down over the tall, green trees, a flock of black birds lifted to seek shelter beyond the edge of this vast forest. Below the branches resided what can only be described as a village of orcs, teeming with the life of daily labours. It would be wrong to say that things had always been like this, because conflict - it seems - lies in the blood of any race of the world. But these orcs, despite the red blade that had given them their clan name, could now enjoy a time of relative quiet. But as those very birds lifted from their tree, it seemed that time may well have reached its end.

A party of five orcs had arrived, daring to hold the colours of their clan banner high, even in these lands, which they had never held the strength to call their own. Their weapons remained undrawn, and so the trespassers were let into the village, constantly kept under the watchful eyes of its inhabitants. Even the children stopped in their tracks, no longer running around with the worg pups roaming the village, nor falling prey to the alluring prospect of playing with their dulled blades. From several huts, laid in different areas of the village, emerged a certain kind of orcs. They held no similarities in neither gender, nor build or weapon skill, but their eyes were somehow the same, and their steps held a certain confidence. They were the Varog'Gor; the chieftain's handpicked advisors.

As the visiting party drew closer to the chieftain's hut, standing bigger than the rest, several of the Varog'Gor had already arrived. From the strangers emerged a leader, sitting atop a brown-maned worg. The orc gave his head a mocking, little bow in greeting.
"Throm'ka, orcs of the Red blade clan. I am Vrashnak of the Bloodmaw clan. I have come here to have words with your chieftain. I take it he is present and of health?"
A wide-fanged grin revealed the malice behind his facade, that this visitor could no longer keep as a secret. His words, however, soon earned their own reward, as the fur covering the entrance to the chieftain's hut was motioned aside.

From the safety of his own home, emerged Grathork the Wolfking, chieftain of the Red blade clan. His shoulders were broad, his physique at the peak of the male form, but the undoubtedly most notable thing about him was, in fact, a mask. The ragged fur seemed not particularly old, nor worn, but simply ragged, as the heirloom itself was what remained of Magoth, the great wolf that had been tamed by the chieftain's own grandfather; Kraag the Wolfking. No matter their business, visitors would always shy away from the first look of the chieftain's gaze. Perhaps they thought it to be an ominous thing, to be stared down at by such a creature, that even when it had passed, held such a powerful presence. This time, it seemed, was no different.

Vrashnak of the Bloodmaw clan tightened the hold of the reins to his wolf, hiding his bout of nervousness with a snort, before inclining his head to the chieftain.
"Greetings upon you and your clan, chieftain. I am -"
His jaw still hung slightly opened, but the Bloodmaw orc became hushed by the simple, but decisive gesture of a raised hand. A gesture soon followed by the rumble of a dark voice. The chieftain spoke, and his Varog'Gor drew closer, as if feasting on his presence.
"I have heard your name, and your clan. But I have yet to hear of your business here, orc. Bark it out quickly, before you return to lick your master's feet. I have no patience for pups come to bark out of their own territory."

All of the Bloodmaw orcs grew tense at the chieftain's words, for only the dead or a fool, would fail to detect the dismissive rudeness they had come to face with. All of them grew tense, but one. For there was little Vrashnak could do, but smirk in response.
"Oh, chieftain. Your own words bring about my business, for they do in fact concern territory. Your nearby woods here provide your clan with the resources they need, but you see, our own lands lie not far, and due to recent circumstances, we have been looking for ways to.. expand."
The orc licked his lips, barely able to contain a small laugh, before continuing. Always under the watchful eyes of the chieftain and those sworn to protect him.
"The ogres south of here, a vicious bunch. I know you have had your troubles with them before. But you see, my chieftain holds not only strength in the arm that wields his axe, but he is also a master of diplomacy. Despite their somewhat clumsy manner, ogres can make for perfect allies, don't you agree? Especially for a chieftain that seeks to enhance his territory. I come to you simply as an act of courtesy, to tell you that our hunters might come to encroach on what you.. call "your" lands."
The fiendish smirk remained upon Vraknash's lips as he peered up towards the chieftain standing just a few feet away.

By now, some of the Red blade villagers had already drawn their axes, eager to cut down those who came so eagerly, so boldly, and tried to lay claim upon what they had so long called their own. The rumble in the chieftain's voice became even more noticeable as he snarled down towards the orc in front of him.
"Your hunters?"
A small chuckle preceded the answering words, and was enough of an insult for the chieftain to lift his hand, letting it grasp firmly around the hilt to his blade.
"Oh", spoke Vrashnak. "Perhaps some of our scouts, and as our numbers grow, you might notice our huts in the distance. I am sure we will all learn to get along. Perhaps your clan will grace the Bloodmaw with gifts, seeing how well we work along with others." Hungry eyes lifted, as Vrashnak peered over to a lone female, standing outside of her hut to view visitors and chieftain alike. His leering gaze at her was greeted with the simple pulling of a crude, but most likely effective knife, that she used to skin her game. Vrashnak chuckled once more, and his gaze carried a certain glow, as he turned back to the chieftain.
"Or, if you do not find the view to your liking, chieftain. Well, then I hear there are sites for villages to be built further up north. Rocky ones, but in these crowded times, we orc must adapt, don't we?"
The party of visiting Bloodmaw were washed over by a wave of amusement, and now even they dared peer over to the masked chieftain, as if trying to see if his visage had faltered, if a dent had been made in his resolve.
"We will not linger for long, as it would be a shame to waste your resources, now that they have most likely become ever so precious to you, chieftain. My own clan, however, will expect to hear of your reception of these news. Perhaps a token of the lasting friendship between our clans would suffice, or - if you wish to take that path - I shall return empty handed."

At this point, the chieftain's gaze turned towards his most trusted. The claws upon the wolf that was his clan; his prized Varog'Gor. They stared back at him in silence, but in their eyes shone the unified rage of a beast awoken. The chieftain's muscled arms broke apart, as if embracing the visitors into his home and heart, but from his jaws erupted a deafening roar.
"Varog'Gor! Give them our reception!"

There is a certain beauty to brown skin, steel, and shed blood. The chieftain could appreciate all of it, as the carnage unveiled before him. The Varog'Gor poured down the steps like a flood upon a child having strayed too far into the river. From afar he watched, almost gripped in awe of the ever changing view. A Bloodmaw clumsily reaching for his axe, only to feel the sharpness of two daggers driven into his neck by a female agile enough to jump up on the orc's own wolf, granting him a swift passage to whatever ancestor that would greet him. Her bloodied hands were soon lifted, only to swiftly paint her face with the blood of her kill, and under the chieftain's watchful eye, the female Varog'Gor let out a fearsome howl. She was greeted with the raised axes and blades of a village in triumph. They celebrated her savage nature; they basked in it.

They worked together, and that was the true essence of it. Like a pack of wolves, they tore the Bloodmaw apart, limb from limb. They even had the good taste to make it last, repaying insult with pain. When only Vrakash remained, his broken arms restrained behind his back, the chieftain strode forward. He was interrupted in doing so, as his eyes - and the Varog'Gor alike - were drawn to someone struggling to get to the Bloodmaw emissary. She would have been stopped, but the chieftain saw no reason for it. Instead he signaled to give the female orc a free path, as she strode forward; skinning knife in her hand and murder in her eyes. A bubbling attempt at diplomacy, or perhaps yet another insult, began to form over Vraknash's lips, but was never allowed to reach its crescendo. The female stomped forward, and with a loud scream, she let her crude knife slash over his eyes, as to never let him gaze upon her again. When she raised the dagger a second time, however, the blood-faced Varog'Gor stepped in, snaking a strong arm around the female's chest, only to hiss into  her brown ear.
"Calm your blade, sister. He is but a blind rat, and not worthy of such wrath. His final fate is decided by the chieftain."

The chieftain granted his bloodied advisor a little smirk in gratitude, before he - finally - stood in front of the still screaming, now blind orc. A mocking slap, one a master gives its bitch dog when it makes too much noise, was granted over Vraknash's cheek.
"Now listen to me, Vraknash of the Bloodmaw clan. This part of the woods, and the lands that surround them, belong to the Red blade clan. Now your chieftain will have to ask for my permission to even set one foot near it, or any of his ogre whores for that matter, or I shall fill his ass with so many arrows he will think a gronn mated with him. Return to him, like the mutt you are, lick his feet and tell him this. The Red blades bow to no clan, especially not as despicable and weak as your own. Know the stench of your brothers blood, for you will smell it aplenty, Vrasknash."
As the Varog'Gor holding the Bloodmaw orc's arms stepped aside, the chieftain gave his chest a firm push, shoving the orc down into the puddle of the gathered juices, still seeping from the corpses of those Vraknash had arrived with.

Hours later, he would still be crawling over the village paths, leaving behind a bloodied trail, as he searched for a way back to those who had sent him. Again the children of the Red blade would play, daring each other to run close to the orc, and whisper the secrets of his fate. For they knew, as well as he, that he was already dead. His spirit was simply held back, by that useless husk that remained of his flesh.

That night, the chieftain's Varog'Gor stood in front of him inside his hut, and spoke the words of war. In truth, they nurtured not only his safety, but the tribe as a whole, and he was bound to that as much as they were bound to him. "Then it is decided, that instead of waiting, we shall strike the first blow. Take the fight to them, and the ogres. It will give the village the benefit of escaping unharmed, should we succeed. And should we fail", the chieftain peered around the gathered orcs, nodding to himself as to finalize his decision. "It will give time for some to escape."

The Wolfking's gaze moved over the faces of those closest to him in the pack, their faces illuminated by the strong flames of a nearby fire. With a low grunt, his hand was raised.
"I shall not go to war without the wisdom of the ancestors and elements bestowed upon me. I need her council. Send for the Thur'ruk."

About the author

Kozgugore registered at Orcs of the Red Blade on December 07, 2007, 11:48:24 PM and has posted 4215 posts in the boards since then. Last visit was November 15, 2024, 09:25:10 PM.