The Not so Great Adventures of a Hungover Orc

[Groshnok]

June 2nd
8:50PM

Sounds could still be heard from Darkspear Hold in the Echo Isles, around the ninth horn of the night. The drums beat as rituals were  held around pyres, children ran around playing, although sluggish now from their day’s activities, and the Darkspear trolls feasted. All around the hold, trolls ate and danced, enjoying respite after a hard day’s work.

And off by the edge of the main island, in a cold, damp crevice between two trees, an orc groaned. Lying in a puddle of his own piss and puke, Groshnok’s eyes slowly opened and quickly shut again, the small light that the sliver of moon radiated pierced his skull harder than any axe blow. After a few minutes, he sat up, and slumped against the tree next to him. Groshnok rubbed his eyes gently, before putting one hand to his head, hoping it would do something to ease the pain. But it didn’t. It never did. It was plain and simple, he knew.

Groshnok Gorewrath had drunk too much. Again.

Opening his eyes again after a few minutes in a squint, Groshnok looked around. The sand beneath him soon gave way to the waters of the Great Sea, and he could make out Sen’jin Village in the distance. The strong smell of salt from the sea wafted up his nose, and quickly began to make his stomach churn. Heaving over on his hands and knees, Groshnok spewed up black bile for a few moments, before collapsing down into the sand next to it. The vomiting worsened the pounding in his head, and the orc rolled onto his back, clutching his skull. Looking up into the sky, he gazed at the moon for a little while. It was painful to watch, but somehow it soothed his stomach a little, reminding him of nights of old, as a grunt in the Barrens. He’d often be on night’s watch, with the moon as his only company. He turned his gaze eastwards, and saw a passing goblin trading ship heading up North along the Durotar coast, up towards Bladefist Bay. Suddenly, two words pierced through his head again and again, making him clutch his head tighter.

The ship. The drink had seemingly comatosed the orc  for almost an entire day. The airship that the tribe were taking to Northrend would have definitely been departed by now, with Groshnok left behind. Frantically, he tried to focus his thoughts towards the spirit link, anything to call out. Maybe it wasn’t too late, and they could turn around for him.

The efforts were too strenuous on him, though. A searing pain screamed through his head, and the juice in his stomach soured. Suddenly, Groshnok’s face met with the sand again, as black bile spewed forth, the orc’s eyes held shut. And just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Groshnok rolled onto his other side, and for the second time that day, passed out.








Luckily, nobody had taken his wolf with them when the tribe had set out from Durotar, and Groshnok had found it where he had tied it up in Sen’jin Village. Riding through the morning, he had come across the Southfury River, his wolf narrowly missing a few prowling crocolisks’ bites, to the old bridge that once connected Durotar and the Barrens without a delta on the Durotar side. From there he pressed on to the Crossroads, stopping to water his wolf. Pressing onwards once again out the eastern road, finally he reached his destination: Ratchet. From the Troll isles to the Goblin port town, after a five hour journey in the blistering summer head, in his full plate armour, he was there.

June 3rd
2:55PM

Tying up the wolf, he walked towards the tavern and found himself a seat. Unclipping his shoulderpads and pulling off his gauntlets, he called a serving maid for some ale. Thirsty from his ride, he went to the mug straight away when it arrived, chugging back the brew. Wiping froth from his lip, he looked around. He needed a ship, one going to Northrend. Borean Tundra, wasn’t it? He’d be hard pressed to find a ship whose journey was there. But Groshnok didn’t have enough gold for the zeppelin’s that ran from Orgrimmar, who often journeyed north. He had lost a lot betting on the fights on the Echo Isles, and doubted he even had enough to buy passage for a ship, without pulling his weight on it.

Talking with the patrons and the barkeeper, it turned out he was in luck. A Horde supply ship was sailing for Northrend the next morning, but it was bound for the Grizzly Hills, shipping food and weapons towards the outpost up there, Conquest Hold. It was Groshnok’s best bet, unless he wanted to wait for a goblin ship going to the Tundra that was coming in a couple of weeks. Even then, that ship was too expensive, and would have him down below deck rowing if he wanted to join it. By then the tribe would surely be gone too.

Buying passage on the Horde ship was cheap, Groshnok found out. Only a few gold coins, as the ship was happy to have an extra axe-wielder, in case of pirate raids. They weren’t very common this far north, but were still a danger of happening. He was given the time the ship was setting off by one of the Goblin’s onboard, the eighth horn in the morning, and he set off towards the inn once again. Ordering another mug of ale, Groshnok plopped himself down on one of the seats. Looking out the open door, he watched the ships in the harbour coming and going. He thanked the serving maid when she arrived with his drink and took the mug from her, setting back to watching the harbour, slowly sipping the drink from time to time. He’d be savouring the drinks tonight, he couldn’t have too many. This was his chance to get up to Northrend, he couldn’t miss that boat. How far away from Borean Tundra are these Grizzly Hills anyway? Groshnok had served as a guard in Warsong Hold during the war against Arthas, the Lich King, and had only seen a few maps of the place. He tried to remember its location, but it could not come to him. Shrugging, he went back to his brew. It couldn’t be that far away anyways, ships never went to the very north of the icy continent.

The orc stayed there until the sunset. Finishing his fourth, and last mug, he stood up and walked down towards ship. Untying his wolf along the way, they walked aboard, Groshnok leading him by the reigns. After putting him below deck with the other animals, Groshnok found found his quarters, and climbed into a hammock tied up above another one. He looked around at the hammocks lining the walls. It seemed he’d be sharing this small room with six other people. He hoped none of them snored, as he snuggled down into the criss-crossed ropes. Time passed, and with every hour Groshnok’s eyes grew more heavy. The ninth horn came, and with it, so did unconsciousness.






Will Groshnok survive his trek to Borean Tundra? Yes. But how? Find out in two weeks’ time in The Not so Great Adventures of a Cold Orc         

[Gridish]

Will Groshnok survive his trek to Borean Tundra? Yes. But how? Find out in two weeks’ time in The Not so Great Adventures of a Cold Orc         

Those spoilers bro...