Hands of Slag and Steel

[Rakmal]

Rak'mal wiped some sweat from his forehead. It accumulated so fast underneath the old, rusty iron plates that covered the left hemisphere of his head. He inspected the back of his dark green hand. It shone like he had dipped it in oil and held it next to a candle. The evening sun baked over Orgrimmar, and even though he was inside, he could still feel its vicious heat. Just a bit longer, he though to himself. He was hammering nails into the new wooden boards in a quick, steady rhythm. The taskmaster had come by an hour or so earlier and seemed pleased with Rak'mal's work so far. The rot in the floorboards in the Orgrimmar barracks in the Valley of Honour had been completely removed. All that remained was to fill in the holes that had once housed the dank, mouldy planks with fresh, dry woodboards.

There! All finished. Rak'mal got to his feet and rolled his right shoulder. After working ceaselessly for a number of hours he simply hadn't counted, Rak'mal could finally take a break. He drank the remaining droplets from his waterskin and rolled his tongue over his parched lips. The taskmasters could at least leave a waterbarrel. It's not like they pay me to die of thirst, he though to himself and started putting his tools back in his toolbox. Once he had packed up his hammer, saw and little box of recycled nails, he got to his feet and stomped down the stairs.

At the entrance, he was met by the taskmaster. Rak'mal thumbed over his shoulder, to the stairway, and said, "Aye, I fixed the floor, orc. I'll take my twenty silver."

The taskmaster nodded and went up the stairs to perform his usual inspection. Rak'mal had gotten used to this. The taskmaster had probably gotten a poor job done at some point back in the day, and had failed to trust anyone since. Understandable. Some stomping was heard from above. A few harder stomps. Some lighter steps. Finally, sound from the staircase.

"A job well done, orc. Give him his silver."

The taskmaster's assistant counted twenty silver and gave them to Rak'mal. The orcs nodded to each other and Rak'mal split from the group after saying his aka'magoshes.

Back at the inn, Rak'mal began packing up his equipment when he noticed the most outrageous of details: His legguards had had its leather torn and ripped! "How?!" Rak'mal thought to himself. Then he remembered the battle with the boar-faced shaman a few days ago during Mozrogg Doomhowl's inspection of the old quilboar settlements.

"The thorns..." Rak'mal muttered under his breath.

Well, this was no good! He could fit his whole hand through some of the rifts! A Blackrock orc could not be seen with such mangled armour! That would be a disgrace to his clan!

Rak'mal sat down on the hard bed and kept investigating the damages. The longer he inspected, the more rifts, ruptures, missing steel rings and broken plates he found. "This, I have to fix," he thought to himself. There was only one problem: Rak'mal may produce quality wooden boards, but the closest he has ever been to metalworking has been hammering out bent nails. He had to have someone fix it for him. Rak'mal packed up his belongings, pulled on some cloth britches, walked out the door and slammed it behind him. He left a few silver on Gravy's counter and stormed down to the forges.

When he entered the smithy, it was deserted. The forge was relatively cool, and the tools had been put back in their respective slots.

"Hello?!" Rak'mal exclaimed.

Nobody answered - but it was unlikely that anybody was hiding behind the anvils or workbenches, anyway. Rak'mal pondered whether he should come back later, but his curiousity got the better of him. He took his armour out of his bags and put on a pair of working gloves he found hanging on the wall. It was time to get to work.

Rak'mal left some silver on the workbench to pay for the leather. He grabbed a needle, some thread and leather scraps and started sewing. He found it difficult to sew with work gloves on, so he took them off. A thousand times, he stung his fingers. Had it not been for the thick skin of his fingers, they would be bleeding like speared, tiny, green piglets. He sat there for a long times, sewing ceaselessly in fear of being caught. Surprisingly, nobody came in for the entire period he was patching his leather. He finished his patchwork post-haste - albeit it looked most amateurish. Rak'mal only cared about the armour's non-existent leather rifts, and indeed, they no longer existed.

He swiftly moved over to the forge bellows and pumped them up and down like his life depended on it. The forge blazed up like Blackrock herself. The heat was worse than the evening sun, but he had to endure. Rak'mal left his remaining pay from the work assignment in the barracks on the workbench. He then grabbed some steel bars and tossed them into the forge. He then had a moment of realisation: If the bars melt away in the burning coals, how will he get them out? Rak'mal, without thinking, stuck his hands inside the forge. He roared when his hands were burned by the heat and ran over to the water bucket. He drowned his hands for a good four minutes before he heard a mighty voice roar at him.

"HEY! What do you think you're doing here, orc?!"

Rak'mal looked up with a fearful expression mixed with embarrassment and pain. In the door stood an old orcess. Her head was shaved, but her brows were grey and lightly singed. Her body was muscular and her expression was furious. Rak'mal pulled his hands out of the water, but the warm atmosphere of the forge burned his burnt hands, so he stuck them back in.

"I... I was just-... I was... Uh!"

Rak'mal struggled to find words between his slow thinking and his hands burning. The orcess sprinted over to the forge, grabbed a pair of tongs and pulled out the two steel bars, that now looked like some red-hot slime. She shook her head and glared at Rak'mal.

"I am calling the grunts," she spat at him.

"No! Wait-!" Rak'mal said, taking his hands out of the water again. They still felt like bacon over the fire, so he snarled and submerged them.

The orcess took a gander at the workbench where Rak'mal's leather legguards laid. Next to the mess of leather scraps, jumbled threads and bent needles, was a pile of silver.

"Is this yours, whelp?" she snapped. She picked up the silver and started counting.

"Dabu," Rak'mal answered, feeling terribly awkward squatting next to a bucket with his hands  wrist-deep in lukewarm water. "I didn't feel comfortable stealing materials. The least I could do was pay for anything I'd break."

The orcess finished counting and turned to face Rak'mal. She knelt down next to him and glared him straight into his amber eyes. She paused to look at Rak'mal's head and the patchwork that had been done on it, but then looked back at his face.

"Listen here, cub. When I saw the smoke rise from the forge pipes, I knew something wasn't right. All the other smiths are currently over in the Valley of Strength, so they wouldn't come back here to fire up the forge. I was certain some goblin vandals had come to sabotage competition, but instead..." She paused. She stood back up and jumbled the silver coins around in her palm.

"Instead, I find an ugly-ass orc who burnt his hands while playing with fire." She gestured over to the workbench where the leather pants were. "And that - while still being prettier than your face - is a shitty patchjob. Arguably the worst I've seen in all my years as armoursmith. My kids made better crap than that when they were still suckling my tits."

Rak'mal hung his head in shame. He lowered his shoulders in defeat and just waited for the grunts to come and pull him off to a dank cell. The orcess took a deep breath and sighed.

"But just because you're ugly, doesn't mean you're a bad orc."

Rak'mal looked up in joy and confusion.

"I appreciate the payment, whelp. Keep this silver coming, and I'll teach you how to make those leather pants even prettier than you. And as a bonus, I'll fix your armour and teach you to fix it yourself. Ain't every day a thief actually pays for what he's stealing." She smirked.

Rak'mal snickered to himself and shook his head.

"I'll see what I can do. Thank you. I am Rak'mal Ironskull."

"I am Trukka Anvilflame. Now get your dirty hands out of that water before it infects the next blade to be cooled down in it with stupidity."

Rak'mal sighed and nodded. He pulled his hands out of the water with a snarl and Trukka immediately wrapped them in clean, white linen.

"Now, come back when your hands have gotten better. Leave your armour with me for now."

She tossed him some simple weapons and armour.

"Wear this for now," she commanded.

Rak'mal nodded with a "zug-zug" and the two said their gug'yes before parting. Rak'mal walked down the streets of Orgrimmar that day feeling more embarrassed and happy than he had in a long time.

[Wornag (Kronnor)]

Nice story... But you know you have a Blackrock orc in the tribe that would probably fix your armor for free (and Rakmal knows how skilled he is)  But I think Rakmal is still scared to approach him 
Anyway, keep it up. I want to see how Rakmal's story goes on.

[Rakmal]

I actually don't know if Rak knows Kronnor is an armoursmith at all, IC.

[Wornag (Kronnor)]

  I wasn't talking about Kronnor. He is a Frostwolf, not Blackrock. I'm talking about my alt, Broxxus.

[Rakmal]

Oh, right! I thought he was a weaponsmith, tho. Well... I suppose it's perfectly possible to be both, when I think about it.

[Wornag (Kronnor)]

Blacksmith He does not have a certain specialization, he's just good at both of them

[Rakmal]

Oh, okai.

[Rakmal]

Hands of Slag and Steel: Rust

The morning was grey and clouded. No doubt whatever winter Durotar experienced was fighting its last battle to stay relevant in the daily lives of Orgrimmar's citizens. Regardless of its efforts, however, the morning was relatively warm, and the smoke began to rise gently in neat little columns from all kinds of industrial buildings. Rak'mal shoved another fistful of charcoal into the forge and stomped over to the bellows. He placed his foot flat on it and pumped his foot up and down to the sound of the roaring flames inside the forge. He was about to have his first lesson as an apprentice armoursmith! The orc grinned from ear to ear as he was pumping the bellows up and down like a buoy floating at sea. He had spent whatever freetime he had had these last few days doing naught but work in the small smithy in the Crossroads. He had tried his hand at smelting and hammering hot metal. He had molded the hot metal into shapes of sizes and thicknesses that differentiated from one another both greatly and not at all. He felt ready for Trukka's test. Rak'mal's grin broadened and he picked up a hammer so he could put it ba-

What was this? This was no hammer. Rak'mal looked first in confusion, then in horror at the object in his hand. It was an axe, blunt-edged and splattered in blood and gore. He was in the smithy! How could this be here?! Rak'mal looked around and felt icy bolts of fear run down his spine. He was not in the smithy, but in the Valley of Strength. Gall built up in his throat and he looked down. There, a troll female laid, clutching an infant wrapped in a blanket. The blanket was red. Dark red. Rak'mal's breathing quivered. The infant and its mother were both coloured crimson with each other's blood, and its colour also coated the weapon is Rak'mal's hand. The orc tried to throw the weapon away, but he had no control. Instead, he felt his leg kicking the corpses away and stomp forward to slay a quivering troll male that knelt crying before what could be assumed was his family. One quick strike and the troll's insides saw daylight for the first time, before the male fell forward on top of his mate and child's bodies. Rak'mal's hand ran a rag over the axeblade held by the opposite hand when a voice called.

"Private Ironskull."

Rak'mal kept cleaning his blade. There was this spot that just would not go away. Around him, he heard more screams and howls of slaughter, the echoes of gutting, and shouts and commands being spat all around.

"Private Rak'mal Ironskull!" the voice exclaimed.

Rak'mal cut himself on the axe while cleaning it, but could not stop. The blade just would not be clean.

"Rak'mal!" Trukka shouted.

Rak'mal blinked. His thumb was bleeding. It seemed he had rubbed it against the coarse hammerhead that he had scraped away a good deal of skin. He looked up to see Trukka's annoyed expression.

"Had I known you'd be deaf, I wouldn't have let you back in here."

Rak'mal got to his feet and cupped his head. He looked at the hammer and threw it aside. Trukka scoffed angrily and walked over to pick it up.

"I... I'm sorry, Anvilflame. I didn't sleep all that well last night," Rak'mal said, followed by an exhausted sigh.

Trukka put the hammer back in its rightful spot and spat into the forge.

"Look, pup. You can have as many seizures as you want to. With a head like that, I'm surprised you don't get them all the time. But, you can't treat my tools like that! If you're gonna come here and sulk like a some beat child, then you know where the doorway is."

Rak'mal hung his head and rubbed his right temple.

"I'm sorr-."

Trukka smacked Rak'mal across his face. "And stop saying sorry," she said. Rak'mal froze and then turned to Trukka with a glare. Trukka nodded at him with a similar expression.

"That's the face I wanna see. No sulking, no meeping, no hanging lip. Eyes like the fire in that forge. You're Blackrock, for the spirits' sake! Show some of that discipline we pride ourselves on. Now, get to work, whelp. Show me that you're actual Horde material and not some weak filth."

Rak'mal growled softly, but gave Trukka a nod. He stomped over to the forge and began pumping the bellows again. He took one last look at the hammer on the wall, which still had a smear of blood from his thumb on it.

Rak'mal could not help but wonder whether that truly was his blood.

[Rakmal]

Hands of Slag and Steel: Unrefined

The air was humid. The sun was just waking up and its eyes glittered over the hills. The dry grass on the ground was slightly damp, and the sands of Durotar clumped together when kicked up by the great, colourful rivers of flesh that flowed through the streets of Orgrimmar. It was no doubt the final verse of the short song that is winter in Durotar. In not too long, the characteristic warm, arid winds would sweep across the wastes and flow into Orgrimmar, expelling whatever little air moisture there that could resist the rays of the sun.

Rak'mal glared at the thin shroud of mist over the ground. He could hardly wait for the summer. He loves few things more than warmth, and the warmest season is the summer. The season when the industrial fumes of Orgrimmar are no longer trapped inside the city by the cold, but instead allowed to soar up high and free the city's people from their nauseating stenches and toxic nature. Of course, non of that particularly phased Rak'mal. He was just happy that the humidity would no longer cause his head stitches to rust. Outside, the city had almost woken up: Merchants yelled; smiths lit up their forges; grunts and peons were having breakfast in the mess halls. Rak'mal grinned at the sounds and turned back to the forge.

The fires were hot now. Dreadfully hot. Rak'mal felt sweat building up under the cover of the gloves. He wiped his wet brow and scratched his bare chest.

"You should wear an apron." Trukka came in with two shipments of ore. It looked to be tin and iron, though most of the ore clumps looked too much like clods of simple stone to properly ascertain what they were.

Rak'mal turned away from the forge and dragged his goggles up on his forehead. "Didn't expect you to care for my safety, Anvilflame," Rak'mal said with surprise in his voice.

"I don't. The sight of your hairy torso scares the customers." She tossed Rak'mal an apron while grumbling to herself. Rak'mal caught the apron in the air and pulled it over his head. He tied it firmly behind his back and returned to the forge. He poked the red-hot coals with a metal rod.

"Have you made any progress since last time?" Trukka asked sharply. She folded her arms and stared at Rak'mal with a raised, singed brow. Rak'mal looked away from the forge again at her, clenching and unclenching his fists awkwardly. He opened his mouth and let out a long, continuous "uhm" before finally mustering the courage to speak.

"Not much," Rak'mal confessed with a frown on his face. Trukka clicked her tongue and glared daggers into Rak'mal's eyes. After a few seconds, she turned away, walked over to the wall and grabbed a hammer. Rak'mal looked down. He felt a clump of shame build up in his chest. That shame felt exceedingly painful, almost like acidic gall building up.

And then he felt some actual pain. Rak'mal smacked a palm to his swelling cheek. He licked the inside of his mouth and tasted blood. He pulled his palm away and looked at it. It, too, had small streaks of blood on it.

"What are you doing there, sulking like the lazy peon you are? Having another flashback?" Trukka snapped, flipping the hammer in her hand. The wooden hilt had faint droplets of reddish black on it. No doubt Trukka had given Rak'mal a wake-up call. Rak'mal shook his head and grunted.

"No, orc. I ain't having no flashbacks no more," he retorted firmly. His gaze caught aflame and he formed a wry smirk with his lips. "Gimme that hammer and I'll get to work."

Trukka shook her head. "Nah, you're not using this hammer with those sloppy shapes of meat you call hands. You'll be sewing leather jerkins as punishment for lack of effort."

Rak'mal spat into the forge and folded his arms over his chest. Trukka lifted a furious, seared brow and swung the hammer at Rak'mal's thigh. The hammer struck and Rak'mal fell over, clutching his thigh. As he squeezed the flesh, he felt no fracture, but there was a major bruise.

"I don't appreciate stubborn runts. Disobeying orders will not be tolerated in my workshop, pup. Go to that bench and get sewing!" Rak'mal sprung to his feet and brought his enormous fist up into her jaw, sending her staggering backwards. He then lifted both hands before his face and formed a guard, breathing heavily and growling loudly. Trukka regained her balance and ran a finger under her nose. Now she bled, too.

"You fucking-... Gah! Get out!" she spat and raised her hammer high. She charged at him and swung downwards, allowing Rak'mal to catch the weapon and disarm her. Trukka then kicked Rak'mal in the stomach with a well-placed kneecap. Rak'mal retaliated with another punch to the face, and Trukka broke through his guard with a series of straights, uppercuts and lefts and rights.

The brawl continued for a good fifteen minutes. Rak'mal, having the upper hand in physical size and combat experience, seemed to be gaining ground against his adversary, and when the two were both spitting blood and tusks, Trukka opened her mouth.

"What is it you want, pup?! Can't you just fucking do as I say?!" she exclaimed with a voice mixed between confusion and fury. Rak'mal snickered and spat a ball of mucus and blood at the floor. He lowered his guard and wiped his swollen mouth.

"I am working the forge today. I may not have made progress since last time, but I will make progress today. Sewing leather jerkins like I have done so many times before will not help me," he said, smirking. Trukka looked blankly at him. Then she let her head fall backwards with a loud groan. She smacked a palm over her eyes and grumbled furiously to herself. Rak'mal wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and bounced in place, evidently still abundant with energy. Trukka removed her hand from her face and folded both arms over her chest. She glared at Rak'mal, sporting one black eye and a broken lower lip. She shook her head and groaned again.

"Alright, fine. Whatever. Work that fel-damned forge if you want." She walked over to the leather workbench and picked up a piece of cloth, patting her bloody lip with it gently. She looked over her shoulder at Rak'mal's figure, which was hunched over the forge and in the middle of heating up what looked to be a bar of steel.

"Just so you know, I don't want this to become a normal negotiation method," she said, sighing afterwards. Rak'mal merely lifted a fist with a thumb pointing up, staring into the flames. Trukka sighed again and sat down by the workbench, grabbed a needle and some thread, and got to work.

[Nosh'marak]

I absolutely love these stories. Keep 'em coming!

[Rakmal]

Will do, fam! <3

[Rakmal]

Hands of Slag and Steel: Salvagable

Spring was setting in over Orgrimmar: Whatever plantlife there was in that dry city in a wasteland had begun to sprout and take the shapes of young flowers and old shrubs, futures set on another fine summer. Life was rampant, and the rivers of colourful flesh flowed through the streets, markets and caves of the city. The peons wiped their sweaty heads to the complementary rhythm of the taskmaster's blackjack; the rank Goblin Slums stunk rancidly in the spring sun; the zeppelin masters somehow managed to outyell the chaotic amalgam of sound coming from the valleys beneath the airship towers.

"Ah. Orgrimmar," Rak'mal said to himself as he drifted through the streams of bodies going to and coming from the Valley of Honour. "I haven't missed you one bit." He snickered to himself and adjusted his helmet.

"Ey, watch where you goin'!" Rak'mal stopped and looked around. When he looked down, he saw a grey-haired goblin pick up what Rak'mal could only assume were coins. He stepped back to give the goblin some more room and bumped into a tauren. The mighty creature turned its massive head and flared his nostrils, growling something that sounded like: "Watch your step, orc." Rak'mal, not keen on being pushed around, turned around to face the tauren, but saw that he had already floated too far down the flesh river to challenge. The goblin had also disappeared, though Rak'mal could not see which way he had gone. The orc muttered to himself and swam on through the Cleft and through the gates to the Valley of Honour. Over the yells of merchants and other folk that needed to yell, he could faintly hear the familiar sounds of hammers hitting metal coming from the smiths. He grinned at the thought that he was soon to see his mentor again.

Rak'mal stepped into the smithy. It was completely empty. He got a serious case of déjà vu, but shook it off and looked around. Not a lot had changed in the weeks he had been gone, apart from the number of metal bars stacked by the forge and the amount of coal in the coal cart. However, Trukka was nowhere to be seen. Rak'mal stuck his out the doorway. Judging from the sun, it was midday. Maybe she was taking a break. Rak'mal shrugged and stripped off his torso armour, replacing it with an apron. He grabbed some tongs from the toolshelf and used them to stick a bar of iron into the forge. He pumped the bellows up and down and looked into the flames and at the iron bar, which looked spongier and spongier the warmer it got. When he deemed it hot enough, he pulled the iron bar out and started cutting it up into smaller pieces, which he formed into small rings. He had to reheat the iron many times throughout the process, but eventually, the whole bar had become iron rings. Rak'mal stuck his massive hand inside a his satchel and pulled out a rolled up chain mail vest. The vest was close to finished, but was still missing a few rings around the waist. He attached the fresh rings to the vest and spent some time admiring his work. This would fetch him a good price.

"OI!" A voice broke Rak'mal's moment of pride. It was familiar. Rak'mal turned towards the door to greet his mentor and was greeted by a fist. Rak'mal's head flew back and he did not have time to swing it back down before he received another seven blows to the stomach. By the time he could see his foe again, Trukka had already swept his feet from under him and Rak'mal laid on the hot, sooted floor of the smithy, looking up at the angry, wrinkly face of Trukka Anvilflame.

"Nice to see you t-." Rak'mal was abruptly cut off by a boot hitting his face. He snorted some blood back into his nose and tried to get up, but Trukka planted her butt on Rak'mal's chest and started beating ruthlessly with both her fists.

"YOU LEAVE FOR WEEKS! WITHOUT SAYING A WORD!" She folded her hands into a ball and smacked them into his forehead before she went back to the usual beating rhythm.

"AND THEN YOU JUST SHOW UP! EXPLAIN YOURSELF, PUP!" Rak'mal spat out a tusk. Thankfully, his head isn't a vital part of his body. He shrugged sheepishly, which led Trukka to punch him again. Rak'mal snarled and shoved her off him, getting his feet. He felt a little dizzy, but staggered into a crude battle stance, awaiting Trukka's next blow. She growled at him and folded her arms, looking away. Rak'mal took this as a peace offering and rubbed his ailing face.

"Is that yours?" She pointed at the ringmail. Rak'mal nodded and started looking for something cold. Trukka, in the meanwhile, inspected the craftsmanship. She ran her rough fingers across the metalwork and muttered to herself. Rak'mal, having found a cold steel bar, walked over to her with the bar on his bleeding lip.

"My lip had just gotten better, Trukka. I's sorry I didn't tell you, a'ight? We just kinda moved out 'n off to Nagrand for Kosh'harg," Rak'mal said with a slight lisp due to his swollen lip and ailing tongue. Trukka kept inspecting the ringmail, only replying to Rak'mal with an absent-minded "m-hm." He snarled angrily at this and shoved her roughly with his right hand. She staggered a bit and regained her balance, looking at Rak'mal in anger an confusion.

"What?! What was that for?!" she exclaimed. Rak'mal's eye twitched.

"You give me a beating and ain't say back when I explain myself?! You's worse than my taskmaster in Blackrock, I tell you!" Rak'mal flared his nostrils and stomped towards Trukka with his fists raised. Trukka, actually looking scared, shoved her palm out in front of her and yelled, "Stop! Stop! I'm sorry! I was busy looking at your work!" Rak'mal looked confused and lowered his guard. Trukka looked away and then back at him with a proud smile.

"This is what I wanted from you, Ironskull. This... this is quality work." She grinned and gently patted Rak'mal on the cheek. Rak'mal could not decide whether to be angry or grateful, and in the confusion, he smacked Trukka's hand away. She recoiled, but nodded.

"Sorry I gave you a beating. Just tell me when you next decide to leave. I'd like to know where my students go so I can follow whether or not they die, y'know?" She chuckled, a laughter which became somewhat awkward when Rak'mal refused to join in. She cleared her throat and nodded again.

"Well, I'm glad you're safe, pup, and gladder you've gotten so good at making ringmail. C'mon, lighten up! I'm genuinely praising you! You're not the whelp I thought you were, alright? You're salvagable!"

Rak'mal let out a sigh. "Fine. Just don't punch me like that again before you see what I've made, a'ight?"

Trukka nodded with a smirk. Rak'mal returned the smirk with a grin, a fiercely ugly grin with another tusk missing, bruises all over the face and a lip the size of a trike tyre.