Loose Ends

[Groshnok]

The backroom of a fish shop. A small crowd cheered, surrounding two fighters in a circle, who beating each other until one could no longer stand. Prize fighting. As the third horn past midnight went by, it was in full swing. The third fight of the night. The backroom had been cleared so boxes hugged the walls, with some spectators choosing to take their seats atop them, while others stood in front. It was a small gathering, true, but a lucrative one for the fish shop owner. Besides, much worse games were taking place in the belly of the port town.

The troll was not very powerful, but agility was his strong suit. Groshnok had been on the defensive from the start, as his punches came quickly in from all directions. The troll was aiming for his sides, trying to wear the orc down. An elbow, quickly as he aimed for the left again, sent the troll spinning back, spitting out blood as he growled at the orc. Groshnok glared, focusing, letting the feeling of adrenaline and rage consume. The crowd around drowned out, it was just him and the troll. Lurching forward with a savage hook, Groshnok yelled, but the troll weaved to the right, spinning to deliver a hook of his own to the orc’s ribs. Wheezing, Groshnok turned to face the troll, only to find an uppercut smashing into his jaw. The orc’s head snapped forward as quickly as it snapped back, as he caught the troll’s right arm before it hit its target, launching it into the air, the troll quickly followed, as the orc slammed the troll into the ground.

A roar came from the trolls mouth, but he was quick to roll away before he could be hit again. Groshnok eyed him as he staggered to his feet. The right arm hung limp. The troll went to grab it, as if to pop the arm back into its shoulder socket, but Groshnok was already upon him, delivering a blow to his ribs, sending the troll stumbling back into the crowd, only to be rebounded towards Groshnok, using the momentum to slam his working fist straight into Groshnok’s chest, sending the orc staggering back. They circled eachother as the troll set his arm back in place. The troll stepped to the right, and as Groshnok moved to punch he ducked, a blow hitting the orc in his right hip, another hitting his stomach straight on. Groshnok spluttered, lashing out and backing up to buy himself some time.

The troll was still quick, even with one of his arms damaged. The speed was going to wear him out soon, Groshnok knew. But the troll was light enough to throw with ease… and that was the way, he realised. The troll launched forward once again, sidestepping and weaving, till a punch from his good arm came forth. Groshnok met it, seizing his hand around the trolls wrist like a vice. A knee came up to try pry him away, but Groshnok moved, grabbing the arm with both hands and flinging the troll upwards, smashing him down onto the ground again. This time he did not let go of the wrist, grabbing onto the scrawniest part of it and squeezing, breaking some of the bones. The troll screamed, trying to lash upwards but Groshnok was on him now, knees locked against the trolls sides, he grabbed him by the hair, and began pummelling downwards. One. The nose burst. Two. Again. Three. The eye. It was as if red mist was clouding his vision, the fist flying again, and again, until he found the arm seized, as was his other one. The noise of the room came rushing back, as he found himself being dragged off the troll by two orcs. He looked around with his one eye, to see the cheers of the ones who had won their bets, and the scowls of the ones who had lost. Looking up, he found it was two grunts who had picked him off, now grinning down at him.

Limping to the front of the shop, Groshnok collected his winnings from the goblin at the door. Five gold for the fight, and another twenty five for the bet he had placed on himself. Grunting, he limped to behind the counter with his money-purse of winnings in his hand. Taking his plate legguards  from a box, he pushed the small bag into a pocket sewn on the inside of the armour, beginning to suit up into them and his greaves after. As he donned his chestguard, he noticed the two grunts had walked out of the backroom, grins on their faces and a few gold coins in their hands. One noticed him, nudging the other.
“Should see the state left of that troll in there! He still hasn’t got up,” the grunt said with a chuckle.
“Who knows if he will?” said the other. Groshnok grunted, leaning on the counter. Tired and battered, he would not linger long, but he supposed to humour the grunts, if for a little bit.

“Ye’ two from up Grom’gol way, is ye’?” asked Groshnok, peering at their uniforms.
“Aye, we’re down on a bit o’ leave,” said the second grunt, smirking. “This’ll keep us goin’ in the inn while we’re here.” He jingled the coins in his hand with a smirk.
“Fel, how many times have I told ye’ two?!” came a booming voice from the doorway. The grunts froze, their grins disappearing immediately. Groshnok turned his head with curiosity to the source. A middle aged orc stepped into the shop, a stern look on his clean-shaven face. His dark-braided hair flowed over his shoulder, grey in places. Groshnok fixed on his wolf-mask, leaving it low over his face, watching him. “Ye’ don’t wear yer uniforms down here! D’ye’ want to get killed by some cutthroat human?!” the orc continued, glaring daggers at the two young grunts. The orc himself was dressed in simple mail armour, though his arms were uncovered to leave breathing room from the heat. Its colours showed no allegiance to any faction.
“Sorry, sir, we j-just got caught up in this, that’s all,” stammered the first grunt.
“Yeah,” said the second. “This goblin invited us in to watch the fighting before we could change.” The older orc shook his head, turning his gaze to Groshnok.
“And who’re ye’?” he asked, facing him. Groshnok peered at him, now seeing him in the full light. His face, himself… he looked familiar somehow. He did not remember any officer in Grom’gol looking like him while he served there, however. Looking down, Groshnok’s eyes widened, as they fixed on the orc’s right hand. The ring finger was completely missing. He looked up at the older orc, peering at him intently. It had to be.

“Gra’tagesh… is tha’ ye’?” Groshnok asked, looking in disbelief. The older orc seemed taken aback by the question, though his eyes soon widened in realisation.
“I know that voice,” he said, looking somewhat shocked. The two younger grunts looked on in confusion, though they had sidelined themselves to the corner. The older orc walked forward towards Groshnok, trying to comprehend if it was the orc in front of him he thought it was. “Blackrend? I thought ye’d be dead by now.”


An hour passed, as Groshnok recounted the tale of where he’d been, and what he’d done, since he had rode away from Grom’gol camp nearly two years before. Gra’tagesh laughed along with him, but Groshnok could not help but notice that there was something uneasy with the orc. Nervousness, was that what he could see in his eyes? He did not mind though, he supposed he would be nervous too, if he thought he had seen a ghost. They had said their goodbyes before he had left Grom’gol, and it was no surprise to him that Gra’tagesh had assumed he would not make the journey to Nagrand at the time. It had taken weeks, and plenty of close calls to get there and find the Red Blades. Get away from Grom’gol. They had not known if the Kor’kron would destroy Grom’gol for Garrosh’s capture, or if the new troll warchief would for them encroaching upon jungle troll lands. While Gra’tagesh chose to stay behind, Groshnok had decided it was too risky. He was paranoid of what might have happened, and his arrival to the Red Blades had him appearing as an honourable buckethead, but once it showed that neither the Blades nor the new warchief had any interest at all in Grom’gol, he had let the mask off. And nobody had minded.

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“A mate? And a cub? Ye’?!” Gra’tagesh roared with laughter, slapping Groshnok on the back. “Did ye’ get a whore pregnant and feel sorry for her?” Gra’tagesh looked down to expect laughter back, but only got a scowl from the now mask-less orc.
“It’s no’ like tha’ anymore, Grat. Times change,” he said with a grunt.
“Not with ye’, Blackre—or what now? Gorewrath? That’s it,” Gra’tagesh grinned. “Ye’d never do that. Not after tha’ one Kra’le—”
“Don’ mention ‘er,” Groshnok cut him off with a growl. “Shit’s changed, Grat. This is real.”
“Alright,” chuckled Gra’tagesh. “I believe ye’, sure.” Groshnok eyed him up and down.
“Ye’ talkin’ ‘bout never changin’. Look at yerself. T’fel happened t’ye’? Ye’ look… fuck, ye’ look like some officer prick.”
“That’s because I am some officer prick now,” Gra’tagesh said with a grin. “Gotta look like one, and –talk- like one too.” He grimaced. “Fel, ye’ know how hard it is to get rid of –that- accent? Especially when some of the camp still speaks it.” Groshnok’s eyebrow raised.
“-Some- of the camp? Used to be a good few.”
“Time’s change, indeed. Lot’s o’ new recruits now. Like those two I sent to the gate.” Groshnok looked out the door, where Gra’tagesh had ushered the two grunts out as they began to talk, whispering orders to the pair as he sent them on their way.
“So tha’s where ye’ sent ‘em,” said Groshnok with a grin. “Poor eejits been waitin’ a long time now.
“Well ain’t that what we were trained to do?” Gra’tagesh chuckled. “Well, not us, o’ course.”
“Mmhm,” said Groshnok with a small smile. Nostalgia began to flow back to days gone by. “Any o’ the old squad left out there, anyway?”
Gra’tagesh shook his head. “Reg’nosh died when a panther came too close to camp when he was out havin’ a piss a few months back. An’ Gre’lak’s lungs gave in no’ long after ye’ went off. Ye’ remember he was coughin’ a lot before ye’ left?” Groshnok nodded with a sigh.

“So it’s just ye’ an’ me then,” said Groshnok, looking down at the table. Gra’tagesh peered at him for a few moments, before nodding.
“Just ye’ and me. The rest who’s gone went while ye’ were still there.”
Groshnok peered at the table for a while before speaking. “Why’d ye’ go straight anyway?” he asked, looking up.
“The good times were gone,” answered Gra’tagesh. “The troll threat had lessened with the Zandalari gone to Pandaria. Grom’gol had enough space, too. They didn’t see no point in forming new squads for village clearances. Besides, I led the squad well enough. Officer isn’t too bad once you know how to lead. Just, more rules. And ye’ won’t go anywhere up the totem pole if y’soundin’ like yer been in t’Vale fer t’long time. So that’s why this had to change.” Gra’tagesh sighed. “I reckon I’ll be out of there soon. Fel, maybe I’ll even get some command of another outpost somewhere. With so much effort in Draenor, shouldn’t be hard to get control of one in Azeroth. Think I’ve proved myself enough to seem like a good fit. Wouldn’t mind takin’ one of them back up Northern Kalimdor.” Walking to the door, Gra’tagesh looked out at moon, low in the sky now. “They can’t know about what happened though, what we did in the squad. Ye’ know?”
“I know,” said Groshnok, nodding. “Sure any up-and-comer would take those knowin’s as a chance t’ruin ye’, take wha’ yer tryin’ t’get.” He grinned at the older orc. “Yer an all big an’ honourable one now, Grat.” The pair chuckled, silence falling after.

“Well… I’ve got to be getting back to Grom’gol… received news of some importance before I…caught those two pups here. Walk a bit with me, would ye’? Only a bit up the road.” He turned to Groshnok, a small smile on his face. But mirth was not in his eyes, Groshnok saw. Though, there was never mirth in an officer’s eyes, was there? Must’ve been taking its toll on him. Groshnok rose with a nod, taking Sergeant Bash from beside him with a wince from the pain of his bruised knuckles, and sheathing the mace on his back, following Gra’tagesh out.

“Look alive!” shouted Gra’tagesh to the three grunts waiting at the Bay’s tunnel gate. The two from the fish shop stood upright and saluted, but the third stared dumbly out into the port, slumped forward. Gra’tagesh scowled at the two grunts. “The fel is this?” he asked with venom in his voice.
“You said bring the first one we found!” said one of the grunts.
“He’s drunk for fe—gnnrh, he’ll have to do.” Groshnok peered up at Gra’tagesh, confused, though his expression was hidden by his now adorned wolf-mask.
“Heh, surely ye’ can leave t’drunkard behind Grat.Ye’ should be fine goin’ t’road wit’ three o’ ye’,” said Groshnok.
“No,” said Gra’tagesh. “I… I need three, for back in Grom’gol.” Groshnok raised an eyebrow. “They don’t have manpower to do what the message told me, y’know?” Groshnok nodded in understanding, walking with them through the tunnel and out the other end. The two grunts in the back began to trail behind them, talking lowly to their drunken comrade. Groshnok looked to Gra’tagesh, his expression stern.
“Everythin’ a’righ’, Grat?” he asked. Gra’tagesh looked at him solemnly, then back towards Booty Bay, fading off in the distance. They were a good bit away from the port city now. Gra’tagesh gave a nod to the grunts, the two sober ones nodded back, whispering hurriedly to the drunk one.
“Righ’, well, I go’ a hole near here,” said Groshnok. “I’d better be headin’. T’mate’ll be worryin’ if I’s no’ there by t’time ‘er wakes up.” Groshnok went to leave the side of the road, but found his arm tugged on by Gra’tagesh. He looked up with a confused expression, only to see the older orc reach for his dagger.

Immediately, Groshnok whipped around, a punch smashing into Gra’tagesh’s nose, sending him stumbling back, releasing his grip on Groshnok at the same time. Groshnok clutched his fist, the swelling knuckles screaming from the punch as he bit down on his tongue. Looking up, the two sober orcs began to circle out to his sides, the drunkard standing in the middle, unsheathing his sword.
“Grat, wha’ t’fuck is ye’ doin’?!” Groshnok yelled out in confusion.
Gra’tagesh stumbled behind the drunkard, glaring at Groshnok as he clutched his nose. “A full week in Booty Bay if ye’ bring me that deserter’s head!”

Unsheathing Sergeant Bash, Groshnok gripped the mace, though the swelling in his knuckles roared for him not to. The pain would keep him vigilant, at least. He limped backwards, peering at the two sober orcs standing a few feet away from either side of him. The one on the left launched first, his twin axes sweeping cross-ways in a low arc. Groshnok had to throw himself back, landing hard in the dirt. Scrambling backwards, he groaned as he got to his feet, swiping an incoming Strike away from the left-grunt’s right axe with his mace, the axe flying off into the distance. Groshnok continued to back up as the two sober orcs formed a cone in front of him, the drunkard stumbling slowly towards behind them. The right orc slashed with his greataxe while the left orc cut downwards with his remaining axe. Groshnok barely blocked the smaller axes attack, but screamed out as the greataxe bit through the plate of his legguards, cutting into his thigh.

The grunt on the left had been pushed back from his parry, but the greataxe was only coming out of his thigh, Groshnok on a knee now with pain. He lurched upwards, his claws tearing along the right-grunts face, cutting across his right eye. Screaming, he fell backwards into the grass, Groshnok finding himself now with the orc on the sizing him up, trying to calculate his attack. A roar came from the road, as both orcs turned to see the drunkard charging with a wobble towards Groshnok. He slashed wildly, and though Groshnok managed to parry one of his attacks, the orc with the axe caught him in the back. Groshnok screamed, watching as the drunkard raised his sword for a killing blow, lurching forward. The axe, biting through the plate, had left a deep gash in the upper left side of his back. He fell to his knees, hands still wrapped around his mace. But it was too late. He looked downwards, tears now flowing. Why? Gra’tagesh was, out of all the orc’s he knew, the one he trusted most. He was a brother to him. And now, this would be his end. He hoped Rashka would not blame him. Though he knew to her this would be covered up as a drunken scrap.

His daughter, Korgara. Would she be alright? He hoped there would be some father figure in her life. Someone better than him, that would easily be found. He closed his eyes, thinking of his mate and child, as the drunkard’s sword came crashing down.

And split the head of the grunt in front of him.
Groshnok looked up in disbelief as he heard the crunch behind him. He had missed. The drunk bastard had missed. Groshnok screamed as he launched away desperately from the tangle, blood now seeping from his back and thigh. The grunt with the slashed eye writhed on the ground before him. Lifting the mace, Groshnok pressed it down into the grunt’s stomach, the vunerable part of the uniform. The grunt screamed, and steam rose from where the mace had dug into. Emberheart’s fire enchantment was working. As if molten flames were now pouring into the grunt’s stomach. He desperately tried to claw at the mace for a few seconds, before his hands and head fell back, limp. Groshnok crawled away, leaving the mace where it was. On the road now, with the drunkard trying to wake his comrade up, the sword wound gushing blood and brain matter from his head. Groshnok turned his head, seeing Gra’tagesh holding his nose, looking away. He tried to stand, but the wounds would not allow it. Down to his hands and knees, he let out a pained groan. Gra’tagesh turned around, a shocked look on his face.

“The fuck?” he growled out. “One job, and ye’ lot can’t do it?!” He glared down towards the drunkard, who turned to him.
“Kill?”
Gra’tagesh looked back to Groshnok, walking towards him. “No hard feelin’s, Blackrend.” Groshnok looked up, his arm trembling to hold himself upright, to see the dagger at ready. “I just can’t take the risk. No loose ends, and all that. Just like we did with the Raper.” The dagger was raised, as Groshnok tried his best to go for his own at his boot. “Just like that. See ye’ in the next life, brother.”

“KILL!” The roar erupted from the drunkard, charging with his bloodied sword sweeping in a low arc. Groshnok’s arm gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, wheezing. Gra’tagesh’s eyes widened, as he realised the drunkard was not stopping, and his arc was now too high to hit Groshnok.

The sword cut upwards into Gra’tagesh’s stomach, the brute’s force making the sword break through the mail armour with ease. The drunkard collapsed beside Groshnok, who had finally got Devilstep’s adamantite dagger from his boot. His trembling arm moved forward, pressing the blade down into the grunt’s neck. He held onto it, peering up at Gra’tagesh, now holding his stomach as blood began to pump out. He backed into a tree, sliding downwards against it, pressing his hands against his stomach, wheezing. Groshnok peered at the orc, snarling.

“I c-couldn’t take… any ch-chances…” said Gra’tagesh between heavy breaths.
“Me!” roared Groshnok. “Me! Wh-wha’ t’fuck did ye’ th-think I was gonna do?! Why t’fuck w-would I betray ye’?! Ye’ deluded shit… look wha’ ye’ve done…” Groshnok locked eyes with Gra’tagesh, growling. “Look at wha’ ye’ve fuckin’ done!” Gra’tagesh kept looking, breathing heavily. “Comparin’ me… t’the fuckin’ Raper. This is wha’ it is t’ye’?!”
“He was a brother too,” spluttered out Gra’tagesh with a bloodied cough. “T’squad was all brothers… G-Groshnok… no matter wha’ h-happened. Bu’ a bit o’ gold from… an enemy… can turn even me closes’ brother… ‘gainst me… they tried t’do it to Reg’nosh… th-tha’s how wha’… happened turned out…” Groshnok’s eyes widened in realisation, as he continued to back up into the undergrowth away from Gra’tagesh.
“Ye’ killed ‘im?” Gra’tagesh did not answer the question, but his eyes bored into Groshnok’s.
“I’m sorry… Blackrend… n-no one could find out…” His head lolled to the side, his breaths turning to gasps. “Just… go… disappear… ye’ was always g-good at th-tha’…” Another cough brought up blood, and with that, Gra’tagesh slumped over. Tears filled Groshnok’s eyes as he stared at the corpse. The one he had considered his best friend, corrupted by power, made paranoid by those all striving to be seen as the honourable leader, by any means necessary… Groshnok crawled into the undergrowth, every movement sending a shock of pain through his body. The cuts felt like fire burning his flesh, and they had bitten well. He needed to keep going, or he would not make it.

He had told Gra’tagesh the truth though. The hole, or tree rather, where Rashka was sleeping was near. And right now, she was his only hope. He crawled as fast as he could, his arms trembling before him as they pulled him each metre forward. His swollen fists began to feel numb. He looked up weakly from the grass to see it was coming closer. The moss, the surroundings, it was definitely it. He rolled onto his side, in front of it. Taking in a deep breath of air, he screamed out her name, a coughing fit following. Groaning in pain, he repeated the action, screaming her name once again. The coughing was worse this time around, and all he could do was look up at the tree branches, praying she heard him. The plate armour weighed him down too much, he could not move upwards. His eyes remained fixed on the branches, hoping to the spirits that they would soon rustle to have her emerge from them.