Ogar'urdrosh [In honor of Sadok Sharptongue]

[Garulfkar]

Garulfkar Mok’Lo’gar sat within the dubious bastion of Revantusk Village, his spirit struggling to ascend from the treacherous abyss into which the recent demise of Sadok Sharptongue had hurled him.

The wolf-cowled sorcerer was the Orc who had guided him over the threshold of doom and lonesome wandering, into the pack of the Red Blade tribe. He admired the Orc’s keen wit, his intuitive eye for his kin, and his wizened grasp of the travails that faced the Orcish people. It was fate which had brought Garulfkar to his path-crossing with Sharptongue, just as it was fate which had brought about the death of his friend and comrade. And as his still living kin had gone about honoring their fallen brother in their own ways, Garulfkar had retreated into the wilderness, into solitude, to meditate amongst the wolves of Gosh’targal’s pack, and to find guidance from the spirit wolf, Shadowspine. Having returned to the paltry fortifications of the Forest Trolls, Garulfkar remained reclusive, and set about honoring his fallen brother in his own way.

He had nearly completed his intricate talbuk hide vestments, the materials of which he had long ago gathered from his hunting pilgrimage in the sacred lands of Nagrand. The horns of the slain animals rose up triumphantly from the spaulders, their teeth united in death alongside the fangs of the wolves for whom they had been prey; symbolizing to him the utterly inextricable relationship between life, and death. Life lives only by slaying what lives. This was the inalterable law that hung sacred within his mind, and yet as he reverently stitched and threaded the bestial hides together into a raiment, he struggled to affirm the death of Sharptongue, for it had been bestowed, not in honorable combat, but at the twisted end of a coward’s blade. And yet, to his reckoning, was not Sharptongue, in some way, an echo of Chieftain Durotan? Was his death not utterly and irrevocably sanctified by the symbol it had forged? Both Orcs had held holy their highest hope and honor, even unto death, and no venomous cur could ever undo that. Moreover, it seemed to Garulfkar that in slaying the honorable, the destroyers succeeded only in creating a martyr; a banner, an emblem, a rallying cry, an all-the-more defiant valor.

But Garulfkar’s spirit had taken wing again with such imaginings, and it was his present task which again rooted him in the earth. His hands loved the work of hide and leather, and the hunt which could grant such tools to his grasp. He wondered what it was that Sadok had loved in this way, and now, could love no more. The vengeance of the Red Blade pack would surely come, and already the embers had been stoked within his heart toward such predatory yearnings.

“Ogar’urdrosh,” he murmured to himself as he sat beside the bonfire, working diligently upon his garments.

“What’s that?” spoke Smith Slagtree.

“Ogar’urdrosh,” replied Garulfkar, his gaze undeterred from his work.

“Cryptic words, Wolf-singer...” muttered the Orcish Smith.

“If you will listen, I will try to dispel the mist that veils them from you.”

The Smith, glancing about to ensure that his labors were not needed, set aside his hammer and thongs, dousing the flame of his forge with a bucket of sea water.

“Speak,” grunted Slagtree.

“When last I wandered the plains of Nagrand, I encountered a Mag’hari Warrior named Aggoroxx Stonegrasp. His beard bore the ice of a late season, and his many scars upheld him as the roots bear up the aged Olemba’s great heights. The word I have spoken to you, ‘Ogar’urdrosh’ I first heard uttered by Aggoroxx.

“Before I departed Garadar on the sacred hunt, I sought the roots of a sturdy slumber. And as I unfurled my clefthoof blanket beside the bonfire there, a tale I did hear.”

Garulfkar paused, glancing up briefly to Smith Slagtree.

“Do you know of the Lok’riggor, Slagtree?”

“Zug zug!” exclaimed Slagtree, as though offended, “Even here in the Hinterlands the Lok’oshar is still sung to the tune of the forge hammer. Not even the war smiths of Orgrimmar have forgotten the songs of forging...”

Garulfkar nodded, and continued.

“Aggoroxx Stonegrasp sat upon the Olemba bench not far from where I did lay within the walls of Garadar. His mighty axe was cradled in his arms, and a broad cloak of talbuk hide draped over his shoulders as though mist on an ancient mountaintop. His face was marred by scowled ravines, his flesh twisted as though by flame, his voice a revelation of thunderstruck crags....”




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“A tale, Lok’riggor!” shouted Argesh, a Raider of the Wolves of Garad.

A soft grumble emerged faintly over the crackling fire from Aggoroxx Stonegrasp. But he shifted his cradled axe from one shoulder to the other, its blade resting upon the earth before his feet.

“Very well, Argesh. But tonight, it will be a tale for warrior poets, chieftains of song; for the Lok’riggor themselves....”

The haggard voice paused for a moment, staring into the mighty bonfire, before again starting along its way, like a sundered boulder long since shed from a cliffside.

"... Of the many clans that were caught within widening deserts of the Horde, one clan rests at the heart of my tale; the clan from beyond the Northern Blade's Edge Mountains, the clan of the Red Blade. They were Shamans once... Hunters, Warriors, Raiders, masters of blades and tamers of legendary wolves... the spawn of Magoth, whose howls alone could penetrate the unceasing ice of their ancestral lands. The severity of wars and near endless winters prevented the Orcs of the Red Blade almost entirely from tilling their lands. The invasions of Ogres and Gronn from the South had made the Red Blade Orcs most skillful in the arts of war craft... But they did not wage war for the same reasons the Ogres did... at least, not yet... Perhaps, in time, one inevitably comes to resemble one's enemies..."

Aggoroxx heaved a deep breath, as though the very recounting of his tale labored him greatly.

“The use of roc quill, inkhorn, and parchment was rare among clan Red Blade. Few traders ventured so far North with such wares, for the lands of my own clan, the Lightning’s Blade, were a dangerous chasm to span for even the boldest Orcs... I learned in time that when the Red Blade Orcs did not etch their songs of lore into memory, they had burned them onto wooly clefthoof hides, and had carved out their characters in stone.”

“It was not long after that final Kosh’harg of Winter, just before the making of the Horde, that I did first meet an Orc of the Red Blade traveling the treacherous gulches of the Northern Blade’s Edge. He was known as Urtharrosh, an Orc of grave and measured speech. We had crossed paths where there was no path, amidst the howling trees of a gorge's inward slope. His wood fire had died; the cold and the dawn light were seeping in through the uneven chinks in the craggy ramparts. Alerted to my presence by his wolf pack, those sable beasts that devour the flesh of foes, he hailed me and bid me join his meager camp. I was a young Orc then, and as many Lok’riggor, I did seek the Lohn’goron alone, so that none of the words for my songs would be devoid of blood, and trial. Urtharrosh knew something of the Lok, that mysterious spirit which binds us to the past and to kin as clan war skalds sing of the heroes and battles of their forebears... And Urtharrosh made this mysterious Lok more mysterious still. For it was in that moment I learned of a powerful Lok’tra of clan Red Blade which was the poetry of but a single Word. Such was its power, spoke Urtharrosh, that this one Word, sung as it was by his kin, did overwhelm them with ineffable rapture, and anguish, all at once, as though the two could no longer be severed...”

“And so it was that I went in quest of this cryptic Word, this song of power, in quest of the route that would lead me to the frozen lands of war and battle, where dwelled the Orcs of the Red Blade. Not without weariness and labor did I reach it, after a year of toil in the harrowing Northlands of the Blade’s Edge, and on into the ghastly snows beyond them....”

“It was night when I at last arrived; I noticed that the Orcs I met along my way regarded me curiously, and I could not fail to note that I was struck by an occasional stone, as though a warning had been made. I saw the glow of a smith's forge, beacon in the night to a remote Red Blade outpost called Wolf Spine. And so I entered, warily..."

"The smith offered me shelter for the night. Her name, she said, was Kor'thra, and her language was more or less that of the Lightning's Blade. We exchanged a few words. It was from her lips that I first heard tale of the Red Blade Raider who saw to the protection of her outpost -- Kronnosh, he was called, though his earned name I can no longer remember.... I learned that he had fought in many battles against Ogre pillagers, and that he looked with suspicion upon outsiders, particularly Orcs from other clans, and that it was his custom to feed such Orcs to his wolves after a Mak’gora. In order to avoid that fate, I undertook to write a Lok'drok, an extolling composition -- a sort of glorification of the Raider's victories, his fame, and his honor. No sooner had I committed the Lok'drok to memory than two of his Raiders came for me. I refused to relinquish my blades, which they respected, but I allowed myself to be led away.”

"The stars were still in the sky, beside the Pale Lady... We traveled through a stretch of land with huts scattered here and there along the way. I had heard tales of their bonfire planks, constructed in unknown customs of old like pyramidal effigies; what I saw in the first location was a stake of red-stained wood. On its sharp point I could make out the figure of an Ogre's head. Kor'thra, who had accompanied us, told me that the Ogre was the Word. In the next location I saw another red stake, upon which was skewered an Orcish skull. Kor'thra said once more that this was the Word. I asked her to tell me what word it was; she replied that she was but a simple smith, and did not know..."

"In the third place, which was the last, I saw a stake painted black, bearing an etched design which I no longer remember.... On the far side of the bonfire there was a long straight wall, whose ends I could not see. I later found that it was circular, roofed with mighty wood, and that it girded the entire outpost. The spawn of Magoth, on which the Red Blade Raiders rode, were all tied to a wooden post outside; thick-maned, and whispering warm ghosts into the chill air...”

"Kor'thra was not allowed to enter. I know not why. There were armed Orcs inside, all standing. Kronnosh, the chief Raider, who was suffering under some great affliction was lying with half-closed eyes upon a kind of rostrum; his pallet was of Skalbuk hides, those hardy Northern cousins of the Southern Talbuk, hefty with wooly fur. Kronnosh was a worn, bleak Orc, nothing less than a sacred and almost forgotten object: long, time-blurred scars made a tracery across his face and chest. One of the Raiders made way for me. Someone had brought a throsh'tar, upon which I could strum and drum as I delivered the song. I knelt and coarsely intoned the Lok'drok. It was ornamented with symbols to record the deeds of Kronnosh. I am not certain that the Raider chieftain understood it, but he gave me a bone ring, which I still possess. Under his pillow, I glimpsed the gleam of a long blade. To his right was a war bow decorated with the feathers of a great roc, and beside this a war trophy; a wolf paw that belonged to a Thunderlord Raider's mount.”

"The guards of Kronnosh pushed me back when the Lok’drok was finished, shoving me near to the doorway through which I had entered. Another Orc took my place, but he stood as he offered his own Lok'drok. He plucked at the throsh'tar's strings as though tuning them, and then very softly repeated the word that I wish I might have caught, but did not. An Orc among the crowd turned to me, and with supreme reverence said,

“Brave was he who knew fear but conquered fear, who saw the abyss, but with pride. Who sees the abyss but with the eyes of a great wind roc; who grasps the abyss with the talons of a great wind roc -- that Orc has courage. Remember this, outlander; It takes more courage to make an end than to make a new verse. Only thus does the undying Lok’tra persevere...”

"I saw among the Red Blade mourners eyes like frozen rivers here and there; perhaps these were the only tears these harsh Northern Orcs could permit. I respected them for that.... The Orc whose Lok’drok followed mine would raise his voice or it would grow distant; the nearly identical chords and drummings were monotonous, or, perhaps, infinite.... I wished the chant could go on forever, I wished it were my very blood and life. It felt as though it were, though this clan was not my own... Suddenly, it ended. I heard the sound of the throsh'tar when the singer, no doubt exhausted, cast it to the floor, destroying it. We made our way in disorder from the room. I was one of the last. I saw with strange astonishment that the light of Kronnosh’s torch was fading...

"I walked up a few steps. A hand upon my shoulder detained me. A voice spoke to me,”

"'The chieftain's ring was a talisman bestowed upon you, yet soon your death shall come, for you have heard the Word. I, Kosh'regar Mok'Thor'kosh, will save you. I am among the Lok'riggor of Clan Red Blade. In your dithyramb you called blood "axe-drink" and battle "Orc-temper". I remember hearing those words from outsiders at the last Kosh’harg. You and I are of the eternal battle song, the undying Lok; and for this, I shall save you. But unlike you, I have learned not to name every thing or event that fires my song; and that they all may be hidden within a single word, which is the Word."

"'I could not hear it,' I replied to him. 'Tell me! Tell me what trial I must brave to know what word it is!'

"He hesitated for a moment, and then said,”

"'I am sworn not to reveal it. And besides, no one can teach another anything. You must seek it on your own. We must hurry, for your life is in danger. I will hide you in my home, where they will not dare come to look for you. If the wind is with you, you shall depart tomorrow to the South, and return to your own people."

"Thus began the adventure that was to last for many winters. I shall not tell its hazards, nor shall I attempt to recall the true order of its shifts in fortune. I was thrice struck on the highest peak of the stormy Blade's Edge. I fell ill and was quarantined in Garadar. I survived this, became slaughterer of Orcs, Ogres, demons. I became Lok'riggor, assayer of deep water and of metals. I suffered a year's captivity in the Ogre's mines, which loosened my bones. On the banks of the Bladegulch river I was loved by a she-Orc I shall never forget; I left her, or she left me, which is the same. I betrayed and was betrayed. More than once fate made me kill. A Warsong Grunt challenged me to fight him, and offered me the choice of two blades. One was a handspan longer than the other. I realized that he was trying to intimidate me, so I chose the shorter. He asked me why. I told him that the distance from my hand to his corrupted heart did not vary. On the shore of the great sea South of Farahlon did sit the runed stone marker I carved in warning to the Laughing Skull, and I have lived long enough to see that sea, that stone, and the Laughing Skull come to ruin. In the course of time I have been many Orcs, but this whirlwind of events has been one... long... dream. The essential thing always was the Word. There were times when I did not believe in it. I would tell myself that renouncing the battle-torn game of the Lok, of forging deeds and words into one was foolish, that there was no reason to seek the single, perhaps illusory Word of Clan Red Blade, the One Word. But that argument failed. A Warmaul Ogre prisoner suggested the word 'Grog', which I rejected. One sunrise, on the banks of a river that widened into the sea, I believed that the revelation had been vouchsafed me.”

"I returned to seek the lands of clan Red Blade, and with difficulty found the house of Kosh'regar. He had been maimed in a raid on the Thunderlord clan for supplies, not long before the wars for Azeroth began. And so Kosh'regar had been left behind by his clan as they marched off to fight for the Warchief, for the Horde... I found him after his clan had abandoned their homes and crossed through the Dark Portal; he was but a shell of an Orc, and it was not long before our world broke apart from our betrayal; a shell sundered in death...”

"I entered his home and said my name. Night had fallen. Kosh'regar, from his place upon the ground, told me to light a torch. His face had aged so greatly that I could not help thinking that I myself was now old. As was the custom, I asked after the health of the chief Raider.

"'His name is no longer Kronnosh,' he replied. 'Now his name is other. And he is gone from these lands. They are all gone from these lands. I am all that remains, and now, I too shall go... Tell me... tell me of your travels, old friend...'

"I did so in the best order I could muster, and in great detail, which I shall here omit. Before I came to the end, Kosh'regar interrupted me.”

"'Did you often sing in far off Nagrand?' he asked.

"The question took me by surprise."

"'At first,' I said, 'I sang battle songs of the hunt to earn my meat. Then, from a fear that I do not understand, I grew distant from the singing and the throsh'tar.”

"'Hmm.' He nodded. 'Now go on with your story.'

"I complied. Then there fell a long silence.”

"'What were you given by the first she-Orc you slept with?” he asked.

"'Everything," I answered.

"'I, too, have been given everything. Life gives all Orcs everything, but most Orcs do not know this. My voice is tired and my fingers weak, but listen to me. . . .”

"He sang the Word, chanting it again and again in his frail, ghostly voice, 'Ogar'urdrosh', which means,



'Death is the path to awe'.



"I was overwhelmed by the song of the Red Blade Orc who lay dying, but in his song, in his faint drumming, and in his chord, I heard and I saw my own labors; the Orc who had given me her first love, the foes I had killed, the cold dawns, the blooded-vomit of the Red Pox, the crag-wrought spires over the valleys of the Blade's Edge, the unceasing torments of time and the undying Lok’tra.... I took up the throsh'tar of the dying Kosh’regar and sang -- I sang a different word; my own word; the blood word of my own life and trials..."

"And then I destroyed the old Orc's throsh'tar."

"'Hmm,' said Kosh'regar, nodding faintly as he closed his eyes forever. And I had to draw close to hear him,

“You have understood me."


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Garulfkar put the finishing touches on his vestments as he concluded the tale, rising from his seat near Slagtree’s forge.

“Wait... Lok’riggor!” shouted Slagtree as Garulfkar walked away toward the spot where Sadok Sharptongue had died. “Wait! What was the word that Aggoroxx sang?”

Garulfkar murmured as he walked on, leaving the smith forlorn in his wake,

“You have not understood me.”

(( Inspired by the recent events with Sadok and the Tribe, as well as a great debt owed to Jorge Luis Borges and his short story, Undr.))

[Murrah]

((Hell of a read, I was going to reply to this earlier but had to rush to school.))

[Garulfkar]

(( Thanks for taking the time to read the story, Murrah. I'm glad you enjoyed it.  ))

[Sadok]

((I certainly enjoyed this, and by no means just the 'tribute' part. There's a great sense of place and orcish flavour in the way you write, and it's definitely interesting to wade through it all.

And yet, to his reckoning, was not Sharptongue, in some way, an echo of Chieftain Durotan?

You're also a great comedian!  ))

[Garulfkar]

(( Hah, perhaps they are dissimilar in character, Sadok, but the manners of their deaths seem to have their correlations. ))