From Scarfist to Ironclaw

[Nosh'marak]

Chapter 1: Tanaan

Water... So much water. Why was he surrounded by it? He was confused, no wisdom or insight offered by what was usually burrowed in to the back of his mind. He begun retracing his steps... He had ran down the side of what he'd appropriately dubbed "The Bleeding Hollow Mountain", lept across one of the chasms radiating their foul green fire at the bottom, and then-... A pained grunt interrupted him. He was drowning, water sweeping between his lips and down his throat to fill his lungs. Was he dying? He'd been close to it many times before, yet somehow this time felt so much more intimate. Like a giant snake the water squeezed around the Orc, whom in return kicked and paddled awkwardly. Only after the earth itself sent out a twisted and gnarled helping hand in the form of a tree root did he emerge to the surface, spluttering and swearing. He looked around, catching his bearings with his long black hair now sticking with wetness to his pale gray skin, his body glistening in the ever so faint evening light. Once he had completely emerged from the water, it was clear that this hulking Orc was  an extreme specimen, even by the standards of his own clan. Once one had looked away from his roughed up and bone-pierced face, the things that caught most's eyes were the quite literally thousands of scars littering a hugely muscular and bulky body. Some of the scars had been repurposed, their soft outer layer proving to be a perfect spot for thin, sharp, and long bone piercings that were present at least once on each section of his body. Five on each shoulder, two on his forehead, three on the forearms...

Hunt it. You can smell it. It wants to kill you, snap it's neck. Hunt the hunter, break it's bones. You know where it is.

He snarled, a sound only comparable to that of a deranged hyena escaping his lips as he begun stalking through the thick foliage. He crawled through tight clutches of vines, swung across open chasms that burned with bright green hellfire, and lept across corrupted rivers. He wanted this kill. No, rather; He needed this kill. He bounced slightly, pulling his hood down over his head, snickering in that deranged voice from before. He could see his prey, two Orcs of fel. He peered at them. It was hard to tell what clan they were, the spikey portrusions and grey-black skin with dashes of glowing green making it hard to tell. Bleeding Hollow? Probably. Those would be at Bleeding Hollow Mountain, wouldn't they? Else why did he call it that? He thought hard, his mind scrambled, pieces and fragments of it floating freely within his own head.

Hunt it. Kill it, prove your worth. Kill the weak ones, string them to the trees, leave your mark. Blood and glory, blood and glory. Let it be so.

He practically cackled at this, leaping out from his perch in the trees to instead slide down a thick, curved tree trunk to the soft and muddy soil below. The skulls and bones on his belt rattled satisfyingly, somehow not alerting the two corrupted Orcs. Scarfist prowled, silent for an Orc of his size. His leather-wrapped feet provided a quiet experience of squelching through the moist ground, thankfully also covered up by the sounds of faraway battle in the Jungle. Those other-worldly ones had come here, now. They too wanted to kill the demons, string them up in the trees, flay their skin from their bones... He shook his head. Can't get carried away. He was mere strides away from the two Orcs now, the savages twitchy and enraged as they patrolled, hunting the one that had got away.

They wouldn't have let you live, either. Kill them. Tear them apart.

His bone ornaments rattled again, one of the corrupted turning around, only to be met with a sharp bladefist to the skull. Falling like a sack of Nagrand grain, gurgling emitted from the fel Orc as he was turned in to nothing but a paralyzed bunch of fel. Toy with them. The Shattered Hand cackled again, shaking his head as if watching a silly display by the humorous ritualists at Kosh'harg. The other Fel Orc, two to three strides away swung around with a loud snarl, being met with a sharp stinging sensation to his ridged and sculpted belly. Scarfist giggled to himself again, his belt carrying one less of the poison-drenched throwing knives. It wouldn't paralyze these Orcs, he knew that; The demon blood was too strong for such luxuries, but he could at least slow it down enough to toy with it a little. Being lightly armoured, the Orc quickly slipped back to where he came from, leaping up the curved tree trunk once again, before stalking across the treetops as the corrupted Orc below lumbered, moving slower than usual, casting glances around itself.

The spikes. You want one of those. Snap it off.

He nodded eagerly to himself, leaping from his hiding spot and down another few tree branches, before taking a large step out to eventually land on the Fel Orc's shoulders with his feet. With a soft, almost methodical snicker he grabbed ahold of one of the many spikes portruding from the Orc's back. Not being able to hold his footing for obvious reasons, Scarfist stumbled forward, and with him he brought the spike, the snap of mutated bone followed by a roar of pain echoing through the jungle. Enough toying. Blood and glory. He wouldn't disobey the voice, this primal instinct that had chosen to speak to him, and thus he swung around, meeting the corrupted one head-on, who had also turned. A single blow of the Orc's mallet connected with Scarfist's side, who felt the satisfying snap of his ribs. Letting out a pained groan, he lept on top of the fel Orc and begun stabbing. Not with his own bladefist, no. But rather with his now prized trophy, the spike snapped from the corrupted Orc's back. Green-hued blood spurted across the ground, the Fel Orc's hammer useless in what had now become a wrestling match with a hint of stabbing.

No more stabbing. Finish it.

He nodded eagerly, sending his knee up to connect with the groin of the fel Orc. One of his many lessons in life had been to fight dirty; it would guarantee your victory and is far more entertaining to watch than two Orcs trading honourable blows for several hours on end. The fel Orc stumbled back with a roar, and so Scarfist's opening was clear. With a leap and a firm shove, the broken spike was stuffed in to the corrupted one's mouth, and a firm blow connecting with the jaw quickly affirmed the beast's death, the skull and brain pierced by mutated bone. After a moment of silence, the Shattered Hand recovered his prize from the jaws of the Orc, stuffing the spike inside his belt.

The fel Orc hunting duo was not discovered for many hours, only their weapons and blood remaining on the ground where they had fell. That is until the search party looked up, finding the two green-blooded ones strung upside down from the treetops, their skin hanging loose from their bodies that were now swaying gently in the wind.

[Nosh'marak]

Chapter 2: The Slave Pits of Highmaul

Two decades before his defection in Tanaan...

He'd been brought in to this world screaming and kicking for dear life, and that was how he planned to leave it upon his death. Only one crucial difference between his birth and his death was to be fought for: this time there would be no hand to cover his mouth, silence his screams and his agony, afraid of the lash of the Ogre whips or the cutting of their blades. No... He would die screaming, laughing, his body broken but his spirit strong. That was his plan; despite his young age he did not fear death - he welcomed it as a matter of fact, so long as it provided a challenge or a way to prove himself. The young Orc smiled to himself, the thought of freedom in death bringing the stinging of the lashes on his back to a brief halt, filling him with ambition and longing.

"You! Puny thing! You work harder, or you die!" the Ogre shouted, interrupting his dreaming thoughts. He was no longer on a battlefield, axe in hand and bleeding to fend off endless waves of his Overlord foes, but rather back on the long ramp from the deepest mine in Highmaul, the rope running over his shoulder and down to the carriage of precious minerals and jewels providing him with nothing but the comfort of friction burns on his pale, almost never sun-touched skin. He flared his nostrils in defiance, but the young Orc could do no more than that. He was small, nimble, a runt that had somehow survived the wicked ways of this expansive underground world, hauling the weight of stones and jewels up the long and steep ramp day and night. Despite this, there was fight in his red eyes, a desire to become something more. And something more he surely would become.

We will have it eventually. Some day. Mother, we miss you; it is somehow empty here without you, even though the Ogres are plentiful. Come back.

His thoughts were nothing more than fragments, other than when he was caught up in dreams of freedom and his longing for a worthy death. The mother had passed on long ago, beaten to the eternal hunting grounds for the sake of birthing such a miserable child. One that would never be strong enough to work or smart enough to fight, a child that she never even asked to bear. She had given the Orc his name, Nosh'marak, more as a taunting gesture than anything resembling a loving name. Despite this it mattered little to the young Orc; he had his name, and yet hers was forgotten. He hated her. Or did he? The thoughts swirled around his head as he struggled up the ramp, finally bringing the carriage to a stop at the very top, where the next Orc took ahold of it, causing Nosh'marak to almost shrink on the spot. It was The Unbroken; some speculated that this Orc had been here longer than the emperor himself, a tall and hulking figure with eyes radiating nothing but hatred and dismay for whoever they were laid upon. The young Orc had once made the mistake of asking why The Unbroken did not fight in the arena, a question that was quickly met with a brutal beating from the other, larger Orcs.

You must kill them, too. The Ogres and those who wronged you will pay; we will flay them all the same!

He twitched a bit, the primal voice in the back of his mind being interrupted mid-speech by a calloused hand balled to a fist connecting with his back. He staggered, pain stinging throughout his entire body, before eventually falling flat and letting out a loud huff. Two more hands came down, this time working less violently than the first, grabbing ahold of his wrists to drag him off along the coarse ground in the mine, talking amongst themselves. And thus, as his head had connected with many of the rocks littering the ground, the world turned black. Blacker than the bottom of the mine, blacker than when he closed his eyes at night. Nothingness enveloped him.

"Puny one! You worthless in mine, you worthless in kitchen, and you worthless in life! You fight now, or you die."
They want to throw you to the gladiators. We made it; we are where we want to be, my friend. We -will- succeed.

The darkness enveloping him eased up, leaving him chained by his right hand to a wall. Flexing his fingers, he groaned. How long had he been knocked out? How long had he even been here? He was not sure. It felt as if he'd just been knocked out, but he clearly felt older, stronger, more potent. Thinking, the Orc came to the conclusion that the holes that riddled his memory must have lasted at least a few months. After all, he knew he'd never been this muscular. Had he? He was meant to be a runt in the eyes of others, not a gladiator. A bright beam of light shot from one of the walls, creaking wooden doors open like floodgates to the sunlight outside. Squinting, he looked to the light whilst the chain around his wrist was released with a satisfying click.

They want you to fight again. Do you remember how to fight? You must. Or you die a slave.

He snarled, twitching ever so slightly at the voice. Memories came rushing back; fights in the mighty arena against Orcs both larger and somehow smaller than himself. Fights that he had not lost so far, fights that the flame inside had let him win. He flexed his hands once again, looking towards the exit where the two halberd-wielding guards stood. He had to hurry, or they would whip him once more. He groaned, shambling towards the wooden gate only to be stopped by a hard punch to the chest. He gasped, folding over as the air was knocked out of him, but was pleasantly surprised at one of the guards handing him a spear.

"From one of da bosses. You gots good money on you, -slave-." the Ogre laughed, before pushing Nosh'marak out in to the arena, the shouting and cheering feeling like the beating of a hammer against his ears. It was time; he would prove himself again. And soon, freedom would be his.

Only sixty-seven left for you, after this one. Do not fail, you want your freedom and you will -take- it.