True Wolves Are Always Free

[Kozgugore]

‘Little brother, do not treat me as if I am already dead, or dying. If you see me that way, then I would rather truly be dead. When you constantly fear that tomorrow will bring my death, you steal the now of my life away. Your fears clutch cold at me and snatch all my pleasure in the day's warmth from me.’
- Gruk's final words to Kozgugore, twenty years ago.


True Wolves Are Always Free

His gaze wandered down. As the orcs and their cries ebbed away behind him, the forest swallowed him into darkness. In his hand, he clutched a necklace made of bone. In one bone he had carved the amount of foes he had killed in the Battle of the Path of Glory. In another, the nicknames he had given to famed foes alike. Lighthammer, the Sober Dwarf, the Lionmaned, even the Busty One. Many names he saw in them, and many more coursed through his mind. Of fallen enemies, allies, brothers and kin. And of their faces, painted on the canvas of his retina. They had coloured him as he had coloured them in blood. All those deaths coloured him from a red gaze of a murderous orc to the brown eyes he carried now, holding him in restraint and moderation. Perhaps it had been too much of both. They had voted him away, and though he knew he should have been relieved, he was not. Something gnawed at him, eating its way from the inside like maggots through a corpse. He was back to the way he had started those many years ago, before he had joined the tribe to aid the Matriarch, Akesha Redblade. It was she who gave him purpose and direction after he had been a wandering ghost in the plains and deserts and forests. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Still he is once again but a lone wanderer in the wilderness, and still he has once again lost all of his family. His mate long gone, and his children he cannot reach.

A hand brushed over the worg’s mane that walked by his side. The beast could feel the old orc’s sorrow, as it pushed its warm nose into the palm of the hand offered to him. Perhaps one day he will be able to follow someone again as dutifully he did Akesha. But now the wounds are still too fresh. He did not fit in any longer, and perhaps the orcs had felt it. He was no longer the warrior he was once made out to be, letting reason and compassion guide his way to a better future instead. But now, the road he had carved with violence and anger had crippled underneath the weight of exactly that.

He lifted his gaze, and his mind reached out. Still the wildlife flourished, even with this misery and conflict that has played a central role in this life. Still the bears were catching fish in the flowing waters, and still the stags ran freely in the meadows. Despite his pained grimace, his nostrils expanded, breathing in the free air of the lush forest. Then, the worg beside him could sense the momentum inside the orc, and dashed forward. And the orc followed suit. He ran again, amongst the trees, through the thickets and alongside the wildlife. A free orc. His aging lungs expanded with every breath and his legs strained underneath the sudden sprint, but within was still the young, brown orc pup that ran with nothing but sheer ambition on the open plains of a once green planet. There was a growl in the back of his throat that he couldn’t suppress, one of anger and determination. Damned be that she-orc for leaving him like this, and damned be them for seeing their leader in him no longer. It was time to stop sniffing the carcass of his old life. A new hunger was stirred, and a hungry wolf is bound to wage a hard battle. Wolves have no chieftains, and one can just as well try to forbid this orc to run than to forbid the wind to stop blowing or the grass to stop growing. His spirit longed to be free again, to fight and to kill. And most of all, to take what was taken from him.

Nothing but the wind that carried his wild scent remained. And with it, a parchment that was carried back to where he came from. It had little more but some lines written on to it in old runes, describing a song much like the ones sung in the old days, when a clan would march to battle and sing with the rhythm of their feet.

Come rise up all of you wolves,
And raise up a cup to the New Horde,
They came and broke the Warchief's will,
And hunted Kor'kron in the valley and hill,
Here's to the rebels and the breaking of chain,
Here's to the false Chief and all he has slain,
Orgrimmar trembles, we stand at its wall,
The new Horde will rise,
And the Warchief will fall.

Our oaths resound, our blood shall flow,
In red skies our banners glow,
With glorious steel, with glorious heart,
We march to tear the Horde apart,
Here’s to Hellscream and his fallen head,
Here’s to the fire, the smoke and the dead,
Ogrimmar trembles, we stand at its wall,
The new Horde will rise,
And the Warchief will fall.
Here's to our rise and the death of Kor’kron,
Here's to us beasts and whatever may come,
Orgrimmar trembles, we stand at its walls,
The New Horde will rise,
And the Warchief will fall.

[Azolg]

Eep! I didn't think Koz would react so badly IC'ly!

Either way a well-written read as usual! Enjoyed it.

[Revax]

He is right to reach like that. Any leader that steps down should feel the bittersweetness of it all!

[Mazguul]

Oh my! I have been gone too long!

A wonderful read, Kozgugore old friend, and may there be more to come! Fire in the heart!!!

[Grekthar]

*sees the Mazzy post* MAZZY! *glomps* Come back to us!  We misses you!

And love the story Kozzy.

[Shargla]

Shouldn't have read this at work, nearly cried. Excellent. *thumbs up*