Warsong Offspring

[Kozgugore]

(( Here's the first part of Koz's very, very long biography, which I hope to finish one day. I'll be posting all parts of the story on Kozgugore's page on the Defias Brotherhood RP forums, which can be found on http://defiasrp.forumotion.net/forum.htm. Hope it'll make it easier for those of you actually interested to want to read all of it to understand Koz more in the end! ))

Unlike the beginning of any grand tale, this one doesn’t start off with a stormy sky or a glorious battle or not even a child that gets shot straight out of the canals of his parent into a wall. No, this story starts as natural as it can be: A little orc, coming kicking and screaming out of his mother’s womb â€" albeit with some complications.

“A little small, ain’t he,” the burly male said.

“They’re all this small at this age, love,” The she-orc added with a fanged smile as she laid a hand on her mate’s back. Although she had a cheerful tone in her voice, worry could be seen in her eyes, fearing that she may have let her mate down. The orc pup had indeed been born smaller than usual, having been born prematurely.

“They be that. But... they said this one came early. He be fit to live?” The male tilted his head to the side as he peered at the orc pup who hung helplessly in his big hands. Squinting its eyes against the glaring sun, the brown, little toddler motioned its stubby hands in the air as it’s being inspected by its father, who grunted in thought, obviously new to such a thing.

“The shaman say his limbs are strong, but his breathing was something we worried about at first. He... seems to be doing well now, doesn’t he?” The she-orc glanced over the shoulder of her mate, looking unto the son she had delivered the day before. She had her fingers clenched into the cloth of her dress â€" not only out of anxiety, but so her dress wouldn’t get soaked either. Her strong, brown legs were dipped knee-high into the water as they stood in a river that bordered the clan village. Although surrounded by trees on either side, the slowly rising sun managed to shine perfectly in between all of them, casting a calm reflection upon the water.

“Gmh. That he does.” The male grunted as he looked the orc pup deep into its bright, brown eyes. “You seem eager enough to face whatever challenges that await you out in this world, little friend. Even came earlier than you were expected to.” With this, he lifted the little orc higher in the air, revealing his stubby features to a small gathering of orcs that stood waiting by the riverbank, observing the little ceremony from afar. Their hands were raised in the air in praise in the knowledge that the newborn has been approved by its father, denying it a premature death.

“Welcome to your clan and family, Kozgugore.”

An orc’s youth is not as violent as most may think. In the ensuing months, the little Kozgugore spent days in his parent’s hut, feeding himself upon the blood and milk from his mother’s bosom, Thrylka, and admiring the wooden figurines that would often be carved by his father, Thorg, which â€" incidentally â€" had to endure the toddler’s growing teeth as well, as in time, more and more little bite marks were found on the wooden wolves, talbuks and even clefthooves. A deadly premonition, so one would think.

There were days that his father randomly started talking to him about matters that Kozgugore had no idea existed whenever he was sitting on his father’s lap.

“Now hear here, Kozgu,” Thorg would say. “You see them hides, over there?” He nodded to a bale of bright, white furs that laid piled up in a corner of the hut. The little orcling curiously followed his father’s gaze. “Those be talbuks’. Strong, proud beasts. Your father here hunts them with the other hunters whenever we go south. See, this be what them look like.” He gestured at one of the small, wooden figurines that rested by the little table in front of them. “This one day we hunted them, I got separated from the rest. It was a great chase before I finally got to drive me spear through some unlucky talbuk’s flank.” He prodded a thick, brown finger against the flank of the wooden talbuk that rested on the table. “See? The thing be, you don’t finish them off quick enough, them will call out to the others. I was on me own, so aye...” The orc shrugged his shoulders as the orcling looked up to him, curiously inspecting his father’s brown, stubbled features, although he most likely barely understood a thing of what Thorg truly was saying. “So I got me some company. Two talbuks, one male, even. Them were about to go right at me, were it not for a little trick I was taught by me own father to scare talbuks away.”

For centuries, orcs have survived on the plains and forests of Draenor simply by passing on knowledge from orc to orc. Legend nor skill is remembered by books or monuments. After all, such things only make for more clutter among the far more useful, domestic mess in an average orc’s hut. No, nothing beats teaching our young by simply orally passing on old habits from generation to generation. And what we have here, is one of such examples at its finest.

“You scream at them! And make yourself look just as big and scary as your mother!” Thorg burst out, putting up his ugliest face in an attempt to imitate an angry she-orc during a bad period of the month â€" a sight every brave orc mate is familiar with â€" as he roared down at his little son.

Being no talbuk himself, however, all the little orcling did was giggle in glee.

Life was good in the clan village. Hunters hunted, mates prepared wholesome meat, and orcs celebrated as one after another festival passed.

His father being a hunter, little Kozgu often saw some of the hunters his father worked with. Especially for a little toddler, they were quite something to behold. Trophies of past hunts adorning their necks and leathers, often returning carrying skins or even entire animals over their broad shoulders. He would often admire them as they passed his parents’ hut, pretending the wooden, little figurines were his own preys, and that their wooden fur made for a good trophy; which would certainly explain a thing or two about all those bite marks.

One time when they returned from a hunt, however, something entirely different happened. He wasn’t preying his little figurines or trying to squeeze their wooden lungs tight or anything (as he was taught by his overly eager father, much to the dismay of Thrylka). Instead, he simply sat there in front of their hut, while it was obvious something was awry. The wind seemed to live a life of its own around him.

Little, brown leaves fluttered in front of him in a circle, and all the little toddler did was laugh and giggle at them as he extended his chubby fingers time and time again to try and snatch them. Little did he know that his parents were watching in awe from a distance. It would seem, after all, that the elements like to choose them young.

For them, it was a sight to remember.

For him, they were just cowardly, little leaves that didn’t want to be caught.

[Greggar]

Awww, little Kozgu ^,^ How cute.

A lovely piece to read Koz I'm curious about the rest.

[krek]

keep them comming:)keep

[Mazguul]

This was lovely Koz! I can just imagine the little pup-koz sitting there biting at those wooden figures - so cute!!!

Please do see if you can write more about our grumpy Chieftain, I for one would love to hear it all

[Claws]

About time you wrote this.
Nice

[Kozgugore]

They say an orc is ready for combat training at the age of six. They say an orc is fit to join the hunting parties at the age of twelve. They say an orc reaches adulthood at the age of sixteen. Moreover, an orc is supposed to be able to carry their clan’s honour since the day they were accepted among them.

Learning the way to natural balance, however, is a timeless struggle for any orc.

“Concentrate, boy! How can you ever expect to sparkle a fire at you feet â€" let alone reach out to the elements â€" if you can’t even draw the correct rune for the aspect of fire? Try again!” With a sudden motion, the bottom of the wooden staff was brushed over the rune that one of the young orclings had drawn in the dry earth. The young orc leaned back and sighed, rolling his eyes at the strict yet revered shaman.

The middle-aged shaman, with his hair and beard stained by silver and his stubby frame hugged by a far too narrow kilt, used to make it a habit to gather the young, aspiring shaman of the clan village on this hill in the early morning, the air still fresh of the sweetness of fruit that has passed from merely ripe to mellow and rich, and of sunlight touching and awakening their essences. Not only would it be easier for him to ramble on without any of the orclings being perky enough to whisper to one another about just how boring some of his lessons are, but it would allow him to send the orcs home earlier as well, giving him more time to spend the rest of his day on more important matters concerning spirits and elements. Or perhaps simply some good bean soup.

“Now remember, students,” he said as he started walking along the rows of young orcs who were each drawing their own runes into the earth. “It’s no small feat to just request anything from the elements. When you're performing your ritual before you go hunting a talbuk, your resolve won’t be shown from some sacrifice, Grohkar. It’s in the heart of an orc. You don’t truly need to revere them every day, or until they grant you what you desire, Vrog. And I know that look on your face, Mordakesh! You don’t need to lie in your hammock in the morning when you can have some good bean soup instead! It’s not about what the elements can do for you or your clan when you summon them, but about what you can do for the elements on your clan’s behalf â€" without making yourself look like a fool!” He waved his slender hand in the air, motioning all the orcs to resume their work with renewed spirits as he kept on walking among them. “The most important aspect in our efforts, however...” he leaned down to one of the younglings, staring sternly in its face as the words rolled over his red tongue. “... is passion, Kozgugore.”

The young orc he stared at curled its little tusks in what can be described best as a sheepish smile. He had always thought Galth to be just a bit more than a regular oddball â€" and not only for his passionate love for bean soup. It was one of those oddballs you respected, however. He may not be the elder of the village, but he was close enough to have about as much say in your life as your own father does. Once, he had even allowed Kozgugore to join him in his Dry Season rituals, gathering firewood and even allowing him to join the chanting as they requested the blessing of the elements for a fruitful season.

These were the kind of matters that Kozgugore only did because he had to, however, and because he was simply said to be good at what he did, or so he was always told. Later on, it seemed more like that was simply an excuse for him given by his parents to simply keep on going. Because even back in those days, he had other things on his mind than just ancestors and elements.

It’s a heady thing to suddenly be the centre of someone’s world, even if that someone is a new-born orc. Although the sensation wasn’t completely new to Thrylka, it was something that the young Kozgugore was far from used to, now that his mother had given birth to a healthy girl.

Kozgugore was well into his seventh year when he was joined by his baby sister, who was named Thrazna. He didn’t quite mind, as life was often quiet at home. Thrylka was usually working on the leathers while Thorg would be gone hunting. Instead of the calm scrapings of leather, Kozgugore’s days would instead be filled with the suckling sounds of his little sister, who would constantly cling to the bosom of his mother for a healthy mixture of blood and milk. At times, little sisters simply want to drive any brother out of home, however, and it would be during those times that he would go out and meet with the other children of the village. It was often a very different world in its own right.

Some of whom he played with were in fact quite different than him. They were not trained to  be shaman, but warriors instead. Although Kozgugore was to undergo the same training as them, like any Warsong at the starting age of six, these orclings knew and cared little of how deep the ways of the spirits would go. And to Kozgugore, this was a blessing.

“You cheat!”

“Ha! I can’t help it your arms are too short to even reach for my head, Muzg!”

The ground here was scorched, but it wasn’t so because of any harsh seasons or an unfortunate encounter with a herd of beasts or the like. No, the sole reason all grass had faded away here, was because of the many orcs utilising this outskirt of the village as brawling grounds. And now, a class of little warriors in the making were working one another towards the ground, rolling through the red, dusty earth, which painted a natural war colour on their half-naked, brown hides.

“That’s not it! You just lifted me by my belt!”

“That’s right! Didn’t stand a chance! Hah!” The orc towering over Muzg widened his jaw and laughed out loud, swinging his bulky arms, even for a youngster, around in the air in glee and victory. All of a sudden, however, his arms flailed again, but if this were meant to be any kind of victory dance, it would be the ugliest one ever recorded in orc history. Instead, the bulky orcling got floored, and Kozgugore crawled on top of him to wrangle him into a grip.

“Have to keep your guard up, Orboz! You’re as big and clumsy as an ogre!”

Orboz, who was superior in size over both of the other two orcs, bit the dust as he tried to roll around on the ground in vain. While Muzg rushed in to join the lock on Orboz’s head, battlemaster Galrat was already stomping over to the three orclings, the dust that wafted up from the ground being enough of a warning to all three of them to know what time it is.

“What do we think we’re doing, little bunnies?! Your fathers sent you here for practice, not to go sitting on one another’s heads! You three have got exactly five seconds to dust yourselves off and make yourselves useful!”

As if they could already feel the master’s whip on their backs, they all jumped up straight, albeit not without giving one another an elbow in the side.

“Pfah. Fine then. You two think you are at a disadvantage because I’m bigger and stronger than both of you combined? I’ll race you both instead!”

Both Muzg and Kozgugore merely snorted their noses at Orboz’s challenge, knowing full well that they both made up for speed and skill what Orboz had to compensate with brute strength. Clearly he didn’t get to suckle his mother’s bosom long enough and had to make the jump to raw meat even before he had grown all his teeth. It was the only explanation they could give that made him such a first grade, thick-headed boaster. “Other side of the peninsula far enough for you, Orboz?” Kozgugore replied.

“Meet you on the other side!” the bigger orcling responded, and all three of them dashed forward towards the tree line ahead. They could still see the battlemaster scratching his head in disapproval at them, this being not quite what he had in mind in terms of “usefulness”.

They ran through the small woods that bordered the village, jumping over branches and roots, before a long, lush plain stretched out ahead of them, mountains reaching out towards the horizon in the far-off distance. They could only imagine what possibly awaited them out there, in the wide world beyond. They had heard of tales of the Blade’s Edge Mountains with its dangerous clans of ogres and even gronns, and of the beautiful, sacred mountain in the Land of the Wind to the south. Even the Devouring Sea, which rested in the far east, hiding many mysteries and lush islands. One day, they would run all the way there â€" but now, the outstretching peninsula with those daunting mountains up ahead was more than enough for them. They were truly blessed with a rich and wonderful world.

Indeed, one day, they said to one another, they would see it all. They would conquer it for themselves.

[Claws]

Nice 

[Mazguul]

(( Wonderful! You spoil us with your stories, Koz, really you do! ))

[Kozgugore]

“Strike! Strike! Keep those feet steady, you runt! How do you expect to get a Laughing Skull rat on his knees with a blow like that?! Put your weight into it! Strike!”

The battlemaster walked among rows of young orcs, barking his words at them as they struck into the air with their wooden weapons. Although orcs would rarely fight a fellow clan, it wouldn’t be an unnatural thing for a clan to attack a rivalling one over a manner of honour, land or food. The Warsong clan, true to its name, was no exception in this. It was therefore that all orcs were trained into the arts of combat starting at the young age of six, which involved the aspiring shaman as well. Flanked by his friends-in-arms Muzg and Orboz, Kozgugore waved the wooden object which was supposed to resemble an axe back and forth.

“And strike! Right, that will do for you runts! Now, those of you qualified for further training, line up! The rest of you, get out of my sight!” With a waving gesture, the battlemaster waved the rest of the orclings who would not be drafted into the clan’s warriors away. This included Kozgugore, who is expected to become a shaman instead. After all, there’s no need to waste further resources and time on those who won’t end up waving a blade in the end anyway. Much to his dismay, Kozgugore turned away from his two friends, who were, unlike him, eligible for advanced combat training.

As he walked back to the clan village over the dusty, hot path, the red earth heating up the soles of his bare feet in the scorching summer day, he walked past other orcs who were, in turn, training to become that which they had been chosen to become. Grunts, archers, shaman, raiders, pitfighters, even common orcs who simply worked their leathers, hot iron or food all contributed to the clan and its well-being. Like a well-oiled machine, every part has its own responsibility and function. Take out one of those pieces, and the clan would easily fall into chaos and neglect. His feet led him to the butcher, where his father had just finished delivering his share of some hunt as he greeted Kozgugore with a ruffle over his jet-black hair, part of which that had been tied back into a thick braid that flowed down his back.

“There you are, little friend. Come, I was just about to return home. You can help me put the skins outside, what with your mother having her hands full with your baby sister. I swear by all the spirits, that little girl has got the spirit of a ripe ravager slut sitting around its nest.” He chuckled to himself as he led Kozgugore down the sandy path through the village.

“Why should I have to learn about the spirits if I know how to fight, da? Why can’t I join Muzg’s and Orboz’s side, in battle? I’ll be of more use with an axe than a... totem,” Kozgugore exclaimed as he looked up to his father who, as he always did in his eyes, seemed like the reliable kind of orc to ask honest questions at, despite the brown and burly features that would give him this certain grim and serious look.

“That’s not the point, Kozgu. Come.” Thorg rested his hand on Kozgugore’s shoulder, leading him to their hut, where his mother was sitting outside in front of the entrance, keeping Thrazna, his sister, closely clutched against her. She greeted the two as they made their way to the other side of the hut’s lawn, where the skins were awaiting to be prepared. “It ain’t about what position that you be given in the clan that you like best, pup. It be about what position you can serve your clan best in. You have been chosen by the elements, which be a great honour in its own right. After that, the clan elders chose you to be trained as a shaman, which be an even greater honour. You see, you will be able to put your true calling to use. And -that- be what honour be all about. Doing that which you be best at, on behalf of the clan. In your case, it be a great responsibility to guide your fellow orcs down the path of the ancestors and elements.”

“Doesn’t sound as fun as what Orboz and Muzg get to do,” Kozgugore muttered out as a response.

“Ha!” Thorg burst out, giving his son a sympathetic pat on the back. “May be. But they will grow to envy the things you will do in the future, pup. We all have our own part in the clan to fulfil, and doing exactly that which we be expected to do be what brings us our honour.”

“But what about Crutark’Kar? Wasn’t his legend about making a name for yourself and never to stop aspiring to be the greatest? To never stop fighting to expand your honour?” Kozgugore looked to his father as he lifted one of the furs and rested it on a long, wooden beam. He had always been fascinated about the stories which he was told of old legends. One of which was that of Crutark’Kar: Crutark’s Hound, of an orc who left his own clan in order to carve a way through his own destiny. It was said the nameless, wandering orc, no older than the age of sixteen, had killed the watch dog of Chieftain Crutark of the Redwalker clan after he had been walking through the fields of the Chieftain’s livestock unawares. As a matter of compensation, he had offered to be the Chieftain’s watch hound until a replacement could be found. Slowly, he gained the clan leader’s trust and rose through the Redwalker’s ranks with his deeds and insights. It was unnatural for an orc to rise up to the rank of a Chieftain’s personal bodyguard and champion without even having any history or ties with the clan whatsoever, and thus some elders would rather have dismissed it as mythological blabber for children than recognize it as non-fictional history.

“Pfah. Those legends of yours, Kozgu,” Thorg let out with a sigh. “It takes an unnatural miracle for an orc to rise like him. He forsook his own clan for the sake of his own, personal glory. There be no justifying that, when there be a clan and family to protect and feed. Especially what from all the ill omens that followed him in the end of it. No, the best way for an orc to live and die honourable is for him to trust and follow the path he has been given by the ancestors and his elders.” With a grunt, Thorg spread out the rest of the furs on the wooden beam as he gestured for his son to come and help him. “Now come. Let’s get these leathers ready so you can go see elder Galth afterwards. He told me it be time for you to get ready for your trial. Can’t have you rambling on about old children’s stories while you’ve got an Ar’karut to finish. Believe it or not, Kozgu, you be destined for great things without having to follow in some old legend’s footsteps. Spirits be my witness.”

Kozgugore let out a quiet sigh, but eventually join his father in what he was told, leaving the matter to rest. After all, the Ar’karut is a great honour to be considered worthy for it as it is. It takes great confidence for an elder to think one of his students ready for such a spiritual trial. Despite all of that, however, the young orc’s passion never truly laid with the arts of shamanism. There was something that laid even closer to his heart. There was a certain scent in the forest nearby the clan village that did not came from a single flower or leaf. It felt as if it was everything around him that cried out to run free â€" to leave all sense of belonging to a clan behind and let his life be his own. A place where all realization of time is irrelevant and the choices were simple and his own.

It was the call of the Wilds.

[Greggar]

Oh my god this is great writing ^^ Love it so much. If there was an actual book of koz's life I'd so buy and read it... And I barely read any book willingly!

[Kozgugore]

Chapter 4 - Invitation of the Wilds

Under the branch, over the root, and into the vegetation. Trees passed at a rapid pace as breathing became hard. Behind, the increasingly louder steps of the predator could be heard coming ever so closer. Eyes, brown as Nagrand nuts, widened as the fleeing prey summoned its final shred of strength to gain distance. Muscles were lifted until, right there, it tripped. Stumbling over its own legs, the prey struggled to get back up from the puddle of rainwater it had fallen into, spluttering in confusion and fear. Then, it was as if a massive boulder fell upon it. Gripping is strong claws into the prey’s skin before strong jaws were set firmly into its throat. The prey spasmed and writhed underneath the weight, making a final effort to break free until, finally, it had made its last twitch in its physical existence, slumping down into the pool, which was slowly running red of blood. The predator lifted its head and snapped its bloodied maw shut.

-That- is how you hunt prey, straggler!

From the vegetation behind them, a young, brown-skinned orc appeared, panting heavily as he made his way to the scene of the slaughter. Unable the speak, he simple threw himself down on the ground, no longer caring about the primitive spear he carried as it rolled to the side. It had obviously seen little action. “That’s... no fair,” the orc said with a raspy voice, still trying hard to catch his breath. “The trees... they get in my way... Can’t keep up...”

You two-legs and your way of thinking. Seeking shelter underneath stone and fabric instead of good soil and leaf. You can never be one with nature if you reject yourselves from it.

The young worg, who still had its claws sunk firmly into the ragged hide of the boar underneath it, looked up to the orc. Bloodied fangs spread in what nearly seemed like a mocking, wolfish grin. The beast leapt off the carcass, only to grab it by the throat again and drag its lifeless husk out of the bloodied mess of a rain pool.

Only if you are one with it, you will understand.

The young orc muttered something to himself, only to finally get up to his feet as he made his way to the carcass, already drawing a skinning knife from the side of his leather belt. The worg looked up to him accusingly.

Come on. Really?

The orc looked back at him, before dragging a deep sigh. He sheathed the knife again, only to kneel in front of the dead beast. The wolf dug in to its tough flesh first, obviously taking the best for itself as it had made the kill and, just perhaps, felt a slight sense of superiority over the other. It also cleared a path for the orc to sink his teeth and nails into, savouring the bloodied gift that was spared for him.

Worg and orc feasted together. But it was not always like this. Before the rain season had started, such an alliance was yet unheard of...

It was on a cloudy day, that much can be said. The autumn was yet to reach its peak, and the kaliri were yet to make their long flight to the far south. The late evening welcomed a bright red sundown as it was Kozgugore who ventured through the forests, once again having shirked away from shaman training. What use are blessings and healing salves when you don’t -plan- on getting injured in the first place? He wouldn’t need any of that.

His feet, clad in simple leather and fur-linen boots, brought him to a clearing in the forest where a small river flowed through. He kneeled next to it, dipping both his hands into the clear water as he splashed it up to his face. This feeling, this reassurance, that nature could provide for any of his primitive needs, was comforting. This told him why his father had chosen the path of a hunter over that of a blacksmith, as his father had done. Normally, many sons would accept the profession of their fathers, but Thorg Cragshot had proven otherwise on his Om’riggor. It made him wonder whether he could choose a different path than that of a shaman. In his heart, however, the orc knew that such a thing would be considered not only foolish, but downright blasphemy as well. To turn away from the path of the elements if it was offered to you, would be to disrespect and, who knows, even anger them.

He sighed. Although being shaman wasn’t really that bad, the very reason he’s here is because shaman tutor Galth, despite his great wisdom, bored Kozgugore to death. Of course, it’s important to know the meaning of a certain sign in a vision, or the very origin of each element and of its ability to reach as far as to this world, but-

His thoughts were interrupted by a stirring in the vegetation on the other side of the river. His gaze lifted from the water, keeping himself as still as a rock as he watched how a lone worg, still looking relatively young, strode forth to the river. It lowered its head to drink from the succulent waters. It was then that their eyes met. The brown orc, clad in little more but some furs to warm his young frame, was an easy target to spot in the green surroundings. As their eyes locked, he could do little but sit there and wait, hoping the worg wouldn’t find a reason to leap over the small river. The bright yellow eyes on the other riverside didn’t blink, only stared, as time slowly felt as if it froze.

Perhaps it was a sort of spark that lit, caused by but the subtlest of touches. Silently and without notice, like a small fire in the cropping, only to all too quickly unfold in a great wildfire. It reached to him, over the river, but without moving. In the worg’s eyes, he suddenly saw untold stories, reserved only for the marvels of the wilds, and they slowly grasped his mind. He didn’t even notice how it happened, or for how long, but as he reached out to the furred beast, its thoughts responded in turn. It told him of a life unlike his own, as if it was his for the taking. The wildfire engulfed him, without pain or harm, but instead with a soothing warmth, wrapping him in its fiery blanket as he saw what the worg had seen, even briefly seeing himself through the worg’s eyes. Unbeknownst to himself, he let the feeling overtake him, but as the faintest of disturbance stirred in the grass, he blinked, snapping out of the sensation as quickly as it had grasped him. He gaped, and as the worg’s yellow gaze shot to the side, he followed it, resting his eyes upon a rabbit that had sprung out of the a nearby foliage.

He shook his head. For a second, he looked upon the rabbit as it seemed nothing more but easy prey, filled with wholesome meat, warm liver and little ribs to gnaw on. Nothing more but a snack, but nevertheless enough to feed on for at least a half a day. He felt strange, somehow even disgusted with the strange visions of warm blood rolling down his chin. He stood up, shirking back from the rabbit and the river, as his gaze returned to the wolf. It seemed to watching upon him with what nearly seemed to be accusing eyes. It unnerved him, and even as he turned around to slowly leave the site, he felt fierce eyes prying into his back.

Later that night, when he was safely back at his parents’ hut, resting in his furs, sleep just couldn’t grasp him. He kept twisting and turning, his thoughts still occupied by that worg that nearly seemed as if it had burned a mark of itself inside of him. Frustrated, he tossed the furs aside and got up, walking outside into the fresh, soothing breeze of the night. He deeply inhaled, his thoughts coming to a rest as he focused on the silence. The village was asleep, and any wildlife that could still possibly be up at this time of hour are far away from the village’s perimeter.

He realized this until he saw a stirring in the forest ahead. Startled, he slowly motioned backwards, before his eyes slowly narrowed down to mere slivers, trying to pierce through the dark night to spot the creature ahead. It was the very same worg, and it had been waiting for him.

“Why are you here?! This ain’t a place for you to be at! Go back!”

Kozgugore raised his hand in a fist as he made some fierce gestures into the direction of the worg, hoping to scare it away before it poses a threat to the village. Or, better yet, the village a threat for the worg.

The worg didn’t move a muscle however. Instead, those same, yellow eyes pierced Kozgugore’s own gaze, reaching out to him. It slowly overtook the young orc again, and as his senses calmed, he saw brief flashes of a pack of worgs hunting together, and relying upon one another’s skills. Many images, of the blood and gore and the thrill and glory of a hunt and of life, all forming one and the same word in the end. It was “pack”. That one word that made a difference between life and death in the dangerous world out there was the worg’s explanation. Strength in unity. As Kozgugore seemed to be able to understand him, he chose the young shaman to be his “pack”.

“I... think I understand. I understand -you-. You have more to show me, don’t you?”

The young worg briefly bowed its head in acknowledgement before it, without further delay, turned back to the forest. As it reached the tree line, it glanced back to Kozgugore. The worg’s invitation whispered in his heart: Come, hunt with me. Leave the pain behind and let your life be your own again. There is a place where all time is now, and the choices are simple and always your own. Wolves, they have no chiefs.

[Morgeth]

*Salivates* This, Koz, is one of your best pieces so far. I love the overall interaction between beast and orc, especially with a sense of superiority of the former. This explains, and gives insight, to Koz's bond with the spirit of the wilds. It's delicious!

[Kozgugore]

"Every wolf must find its own meal, like every orc must carry his own burdens."
- Orc proverb


Chapter 5 - An orc's burden, part 1

There’s smoke all around. The young orc hunter can’t see much further than his own hand in front of him, but his mind is still sharp. He can feel it approaching, somewhere out there, as it raced towards him. Suddenly he turned, and he sees the face of a berserking ogre right in from of him. The face gets cleaved apart with a powerful swing of his axe, and Kozgugore howls out in laughter as he swings around, chopping yet another ogre in two. They keep coming, but he’s always there, swinging his giant, powerful axe at them all. None of them stand a chance, and none of them can keep him from his glorious prize: Leadership over all the ogre clans.

Why he would want such a thing? Because he overheard Battlemaster Galrat claiming  that whoever controlled the ogres might just be as powerful as the Shadowmoon Clan’s most revered shaman â€" combined! And they would all be under his command, carrying him into battle in a giant… ogre-carriage. Or no, he would lead the charge himself. What lazy orc warlord would let himself be -carried- into battle? No, he would be at the front of the ogre armies, and lead them to victory on behalf of his beloved Warsong clan! Another ogre approached, but it lets out a bellowing cry as Kozgugore’s axe is shoved into its fat stomach. Nothing can stop him! Nothing will-!

“Uergh! Wh- what?!”

Kozgugore opened his eyes as a slender hand was shoved against his face and motioned itself down along his features, leaving a trail of black paint on his face. The orc in front of him, a shamaness by the name of Sei’hala, gave him a reprimanding look as she finished the paint drawings on his half-naked body.

“Stop daydreaming, boy. You’ll need all the sense you can muster when you face the trial of your Ar’karut. You don’t want to waste Galth’s time now, do you?”

Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward towards the young orcling, demandingly wrinkling her nose at him. She may not be very old, but Sei’hala certainly knew how to leave a stern impression on Kozgugore whenever it was concerning such a serious matter. After all, the Ar’karut is not something to underestimate, so he had been told. It’s something all shaman of his clan take when they are to rise from mere pupil to an esteemed student of the elements and ancestors. The one test to decide whether or not he will be worth the old seer, Galth’s, time, as well as to see in just what manner he might serve what element of perhaps even the spirits.

“No, Sei. I don’t. Thank you for helping me,” the young orc responded, pouting at her. “What does it feel like? Does it hurt?” He looked up to the young shaman with those big, brown eyes of his, perhaps even a hint of fear in them. Fear for the unknown, and the unexpected. They barely told him anything about the trial, except that it will reveal his future path or something vague like that.

The female raised her back again, letting out a thick grunt as she continued to paint long, dark lines along Kozgugore’s bare shoulders, trailing down along the length of his arm. “Every shaman will have an entirely unique experience. I was afraid of what might happen at first, but it turned out to be very gentle. It was like the wind picked me up and gently breezed along my skin. I could fall through the sky at any time to be crushed at the Windlord’s whim, but my fears were gone. I had trust, and as did the elements. The winds of Skywall had graced me, and I let my spirit flow with its currents.”

She smiled gently at Kozgugore, but then a more sly and sinister smirk curled around her small tusks. “Or you could undergo a more painful experience, like Tardrim did. They say his hands were burned after he was ‘blessed’ with the presence of the lords of fire. They aren’t as known for their gentle and tender approach as the winds are.” There was a spark in her eyes, a playful glint, as she leaned forward and pressed her hand upon Kozgugore’s chest. “But that’s what they are; just stories. Don’t let words discourage you, little shaman. Reserve your fear for your enemies. Open mind, and strong heart.”

Kozgugore nodded at her as her hand slipped from his chest again, taking a deep breath as he straightened his back. “I’m ready.”

Sei’hala guided Kozgugore out of the little hut, and on towards a bigger one on the opposite side of the small square. This was a special part of the village intended only for those spiritual of mind. In fact, it was an honour for Kozgugore to be here to begin with, not even having made his initiation just yet. Others went about their own business, tending to their daily tasks and chores as he was led to the special lodge.

“I may go no further here. Keep your ancestors close to heart little Kozgu, and they will find you.” With that, Sei’hala remained at the doorway, whilst she gestured for the young orc to enter. There, all the windows were covered with thick blankets, leaving but the faintest of lights to illuminate the room. Judging from the runes etched into the ground, it was clear that he would have to stand in the middle of it, as to await his judgement.

It was then, while he was standing there, that he could see four elderly orcs standing around him in the darkness as he squinted his eyes to try and make our their features. He couldn’t see save for their silhouettes, but he knew who they were. The elders of his clan; the most revered shaman and wisest orcs he would no doubt ever meet. It was below his status to even be in their presence, and he knew it as he bowed his head, looking to his bare feet instead.

“Do not be ashamed, youngling,” said a deep, raspy voice from the darkness. “You are here for your Ar’karut, correct? This is a great honour indeed. But first, a test.”

The speaker, an elderly, greyed-out orc with cracked lips, stepped forward as he reached a hand for Kozgugore’s chin, lifting his gaze as to inspect the young orc’s features, as he would the elder’s.

“The jawbones of your father and the eyes of your mother. You are indeed of our blood, but do you -know- your blood as well? Tell me, young one. Death is less painful and easier than life. However…”

“… Death is the opposite of choice,” Kozgugore hesitantly responded as he recalled the old saying he was taught by his father. “And for a Warsong, it is not our choice to make.”

“Very good,” the seer responded as his scrawny fingers traced a path along the drawn lines and symbols upon the orc’s body, inspecting his physique and health. “Praise not the axe or the arrow for their sharpness…”

“But praise the orc who wields them to defend what he loves.”

“Indeed so. Lastly, wisdom only us chosen ones will ever truly understand. Overpowering others is strength…”

“… Overpowering your spirit is power.”

“And may you do well to remember it,” the old shaman said as he slapped Kozgugore on the shoulder. He stepped back, back into the darkness again, as he raised his emaciated arms into the air. “You own the blood and the wisdom of your clan and forefathers. You are an orc of the Warsong. We stand witness to this. Now be seated, Kozgugore of the Warsong, and meditate on this.”

As Kozgugore complied to the shaman’s blessing and instructions by sitting down and assuming a meditative position, he could smell the thick scent of incense invading his nose. As he closed his eyes and began to take deep breaths, the shaman around him began to chant in a low, guttural tune. He could recognize certain parts of the chant as the saga of the first spirits of the world. Of the wolf spirit, Lo’Grakka, who went searching for her two missing cubs after a great flood had devoured most of the land. She found them at the bottom of a drowned valley and brought them back ashore. There they began to split open and emitted a bright light, only to be raised towards the heavens where they formed the Great Sun and the Pale Lady. Their creation brought the world back into its harmonious balance, which evened out the Devouring Sea and the great landscape he now knew as his beloved homeland. All thanks to one she-wolf’s duty towards her kin.

As he was reminiscing on all of this, Kozgugore didn’t even realize his body was beginning to lose its grip on its host spirit. He was trying to move his thumbs, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even twitch a muscle upon his brow as the chanting of the seers around him began to sound more hollow. He began to follow their rhythm, using it to slowly dance his way out of the shell of his body. This is what they expected of him, and it almost felt so easy and natural that he could barely even realize nor prepare for what was about to happen next. His very conscience and nature was about to be put to the test, to be judged for the entire course of his life to come.

[Kozgugore]

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Yet another story to read? We've got a ton of these coming in these last few days already!" Indeed! And I'm happy to see so many people letting their inspiration fly on this website! Still, I've had this one in the making for a little while, and it's been waaaay too long since I last added an entry to this series, of which I'm actually having quite a bit of fun playing around with. Hopefully whoever can be bothered to read this can have just as much fun as I did writing them.

[Morgeth]

Loved the story <3 It's always fascinating to read new stuff about Koz. And I particularly loved the day dreaming about becoming ogre king XD