Facing the Past

[Groshnok]

Monday, 15th day of the 6th moon.

Fastening the straps of the left saddlebag, he was finally done packing. The half-garn growled, its eyes darting around the camp. He peered at it, grunting, tossing it a haunch of boar meat. It would tie over until the Barrens. Hoisting himself atop its saddle, Groshnok made a last check of what was on him. Krogon’s adamantite dagger in its sheathe at his boot. Flask attatched to belt, the whiskey it usually chambered now replaced with water. There was plenty in reserve in his right saddlebag, so he would not have to worry about running low. Finally, he tugged his sheathe across his chest, making sure the hefty, spiky mace was secured behind him in it. Woven tightly around his wrist was a bone charm, a good luck symbol from his mate. He would need it. Grunting once more, Groshnok dug his heels into the half-garn’s sides, setting off west out of Razor Hill.

The Southfury would be a mess. Still, the wreckage caused by Deathwing had not been dealt with, leaving problematic twists and turns filled with beasts and quillboar blocking the way to the bridge to the Northern Barrens. Passing the watchtower, Groshnok surveyed the situation. Going northwest would leave him running into the middle of a quillboar encampment. Though the menaces were also to the southwest, they could be more easily avoided. Plus, maybe the war training he held thinning out their numbers there may have meant their reach did not extend too greatly across the little land left between their vines and the crocolisk-filled water. The worg was swift, and strong at that, he thought. It should be no problem zipping by their outskirts.

And little resistance was met, indeed, only from worried squeals of the outermost quillboar scouts. The midday sun beat down on his back as he rode the worg past. It was a good day, summer’s heat blasting itself throughout the desert. That’s how he liked it. For over ten years, he had spent his time as a grunt in the deserts and the jungle. He’d become used to the climate. One of the reasons he was thankful the Red Blades were now back here. Draenor was strange, even if it was their old homeworld. It was not his homeworld. His was Azeroth, born into the world as the Warsongs stayed free from human capture in the internment camps. They would be going back there again soon, he knew, so he would enjoy the time left in the sandy lands they were in now.

The hours passed, as quickly as his worg passed snapping raptors and stinging scorpids. It was a skill he had developed during night watches in the time he began as a grunt in Razor Hill, over a decade before. Zoning out. The world and its time passed, but Groshnok was able to pay no notice. There was straight stretches where the half-garn could manage itself. He only needed his focus as they took the last twists around murky waters till the bridge came into view. It was a wonder it had not been broken in the flooding, but a blessing. He did not fancy his chances diving into the murky river separating the Barrens from Durotar. He stopped the garn by the bunker of Far Watch Post, finding a bowl to pour water in for it. The worg greedily lapped the liquid up as Groshnok looked around, noticing a scrawny old orc hobbling towards him. He pulled the flask from his belt, taking a few long gulps from it as he eyed the orc now standing in front of him.
“Mok’ra, traveller,” the old orc said, his voice hoarsened with age. Groshnok peered at him with his one eye, though his mask was low enough to conceal it. The orc’s eyes were wide, a smile on his face, as his eyes left Groshnok and fixed on the half-garn.
“He’s no’ fer sale,” said Groshnok with a grunt, looking down at the elderly orc.
“Oh,” he chuckled. “No, no, you’ve got me wrong there. I was just, well, he’s a strong looking one…” The orc eyed Groshnok up and down, nodding. “As are you.” Groshnok raised an eyebrow, wondering what bush this orc was beginning to beat around.
“Wha’ ye’ wan’ then?” asked Groshnok with a grunt. The old orc motioned back to a caravan containing a tower of covered boxes, being pulled by a kodo.
“Well, you never know what’s on that gold road to the Crossroads, do you?” said the old orc with a small smile. “If you’re headed that way, I’ll give you fifteen gold coins to guard the caravan over there.” Groshnok pondered for a moment. He â€"was- going that way, so free money to stand next to an old trader cause no problem with his plan. And fifteen gold was fifteen gold. If anything did go wrong, he could always take off. The half-garn would outrun anything some ragged bandits were riding. Groshnok nodded at the trader, heading back to his worg and climbing on, setting off with the old orc as the afternoon sun lowered itself across the sky.

Groshnok stayed silent as they trekked across the small road, deep in thought. The Crossroads were only a few hours off, the reason he was hear almost upon him. The letter he had received only a few days prior had turned his head upside down, his thoughts clouded and muddled during that time. It had been from Cra’kar, a shaman, almost an uncle to him during his childhood. He had been his father’s best friend, after all. And now, his father was dying. Cra’kar had found him by chance in the Crossroads, puking at the side of the inn after driving himself to oblivion once again. But his father’s puke was mixed with blood, and Cra’kar had said that he did not have much longer. But the news did not meet Groshnok with sorrow. Instead, a certain sense of resignment had been plucked from his brain. His father in his day had been a proud, fierce Warsong. Ra’nok Blackrend. He and Cra’kar were both inseparable and unstoppable on the field. When the demonblood had died in their veins, Cra’kar had turned back to the spirits, finding solace in them once again. Ra’nok, having now a family, pressed away from both the Warsong clan and his friend, with a group of settlers in Southern Durotar as Orgrimmar was being built to the north. Groshnok had fond memories of those early days, still only a boy, yet that did not stop him from smashing scorpids with the other settlers to clear a space for them to live.

Yet, a few years on, when it seemed to be going well, warlocks moved in to some nearby caves. Weak, but growing their power. Imps began to appear on the outskirts of their settlement, until one day, it was escalated. His mother, out picking cactus apples, vanished. The search parties were sent out, but no trace was found, at first. Till a few days later, out searching with some other orcs, Groshnok had come across her drained body, her stomach ripped open, yet no innards remained. Sacrificed. At twelve years old, his world had come crumbling down. Ra’nok had always been a drinker, but even with the warlocks quickly massacred after the event, revenge could not crush the pain of grief. So many attempts he made to help Ra’nok, yet the bottles, the fists, the bruises and the bloody noses were the answer to his tries at stopping his father from driving himself to oblivion night after night. And when he realised his words, his actions, could not save Ra’nok, hate began to set in for him.

Groshnok gritted his teeth as the memories flooded back. Why was the tinge of fear still there? He had faced worse opponents, been in worse situations, yet remembered them with a grin. Why did he still feel resentment towards him? The powerlessness of his younger self, or love? He was not even fully sure why he was on the road to his father’s deathbed. But it had been Rashka who pushed him here. Closure was needed, she assured him. And he took her at her word. He peered down to the bone charm wrapped around his wrist, squeezing the bone lightly in his palm. His drinking had been getting to her lately. But what was so bad with one or two in the evening?

The sun had set as they passed the gates into the Crossroads. No incident happened on the roads, thankfully. With a thanks and a goobye, Groshnok got his small sack of gold from the trader. Sighing, he tied his worg up next to the inn, it lapping water from the trough in front of it as he headed inside. He would find Cra’kar in the morning. It had been a long day, and he wanted his full strength for what was to come. Passing a few silver to the innkeeper, he found himself a comfortable looking hammock to lie down into, shutting his eyes. Tomorrow was an important day. It was time to face the past.