[Story] Devilstep

[Okiba]

"This is not the end, my son, Nor is it the beginning. Just another turn in the wheel, a change from this life, to the next. Do not mourn for me, for we will be reunited again." - Unkown

Devilstep: prologue

He took a slow breath. Deep, but calm. It had to be done right. Perfection was the goal, and anything else would simply not do. A standard was expected, and even now on this twilight day, perfection would be attained.

Just don't cut your thumb off.

He dragged the hardy Whetstone across the edge of the long, curved blade one last time. The cold blue alloy sang as sparks flew. Each side of the swords edge had been a torturous chore to sharpen to the perfect standard he wanted, and needed. Setting the tool and blade down at his side he allowed himself a ragged breath, he was done. Though what he would use the blade upon? who knew, all the prophecies, riddles and warnings were unclear. But, he would be ready for it come what may, as he always had been.

Now you are ready, with nought but time on your hands.

Krogon nodded to himself, his gaze drifting around the camp. Frostwolf overlook was quiet, the first rays of the dawn sun had only just begun to rise over the eastern mountains. Morning was upon the outpost, the rest of the tribe would soon be stirring... His favourite part of the day. Seeing them each arise from furs, either cranky from the previous nights ale, or bright eyed and ready for the challenges of what lay in the day ahead. Each Orc among that mass of sleeping rolls, furs and makeshift bed piles was so different from the last and the next, yet he called them family. His family.

Such a hard thing to give up and leave behind, after so long seeking it and with so little time to appreciate it.

He rose to his sandaled feet, sheathing his blade to the singing of steel and the click of the scabbard. A sigh of exhaustion escaped his lips. His body hurt, from foot to shoulder and bone through to muscle and sinew. Sixty five years he had walked the two worlds, and now each step was a chore, getting harder as the decades flew by. He concealed it well, or at the least thought he did.

Spirits have mercy, I will be glad to shed off all this pained weight on my bones.

Light, careful steps took him to the edge of the outpost. Its perimeter was lined by the ruined walls of some ogre settlement now long gone. From atop this small rise he could comfortably lean his left shoulder against the imposing great stones of a half fallen pillar, the cold surface relaxing his lifelong aches. Each had a story, usually ending in spilt blood or broken bones.

Many well deserved too.

He smiled at the thought. He had after all, not always been a 'good' Orc. Nay, it could be said in a past life he was much the opposite at times. From his first years to here, his last day, his life had been a flowing river of ups and downs that he could scarce believe.

So many memories...

With the folding of his arms, he inhaled deep the morning scents, dew damp grass, the smoke of fresh fires burning dry wood for the dawn meal. The sound of clattering metal, of woken bodies and stifled yawns permeated in his old ears. Sights, sounds and sensations he had grown used to, grown to love since he came out of his seclusion and joined the tribe. Things only someone part of a pack, of a greater family could appreciate, seeing and feeling the rhythms of each day among others.

His heart skipped a beat, struck with a pain. Flustered he placed a hand over his chest, was his aged heart betraying him? or perhaps...

No. But a wave of sadness, for that which I won't see again, not in this life anyway.

He forced a grim smile, standing along by his pillar as he watched all those green and brown faces of Orcs he knew begin to gather about the camp fire. He would miss every one of them...

...the songs and games in the shadow of Oshu'gun at Kosh'harg.

...the chants and cheers for the combatants at the tournament of the blades.

...the knowing grins and frustrated groan at a Wyvern challenge.

...the jokes and laughter around the campfire tree of Razor hill.

...the proud, welcoming yells for those who had newly taken the oath.

...and the howling of the wolves in anticipation of the hunt, blood, battle and victory.

Everything. I'll miss every dam thing.

He shuddered with a grunt, letting his heart beat freely at a pace now... nervous, worried, fearful and happy all at once. It was a torrent of emotion he had not let run over him in all his six years in the tribe. Six years he would not trade for all the gold in Ironforge.

A wistful sigh escaped his lips. It had been a long road to get to this day, and as much as he wanted to keep on going, he knew his body would not last... world weary as he was. He had near fully ruined what was left of his strength, securing victory at the last two tournaments of the blade. He had to spend every ounce of effort claiming the title of champion. If he did not, then he knew when the time came for the prophecy's and visions to be fulfilled then someone else would fall in his place. And today was the last effort, last task, last push on Draenor before they returned home...

It has to be today, it will be today.

He inhaled sharply, composing his breathing and thoughts. He had his memories, and would hold them close. He could not continue limping on as he had, from one scrape and caper to the next. What honour was there in surviving for no purpose? none, it would be an agony and a shame. But what really hurt...

...So many future adventures, so many new stories I will miss out on.

He forced a smile. The future and its glories belonged to them beyond this day, the past was his, and there he would soon stay. There was no times for doubts, or regrets, even if he could be allowed it, full well knowing what he had coming. His mind span, reeling back in time while the sun continued to rise...

How did I get to this point? How did I come to need so badly to be part of this pack? How did this road lead me here...

He quizzed himself, furrowing his brow forcing himself to recall. Shifting through the depths of time made into moving images upon his mind. The answer was obvious though, and he ought to of realized sooner...

That maimed old Goat--

At that thought he paused, and laughed. His own thoughts had become  littered with an Irony. There was little else to it.

Stretching his arms high, with the crack and pop of extended limbs and joints he smiled. Beginning his stroll down into camp, today he would eat a hearty breakfast, spend time with his pack and look back on his life in his own mind. for dying was a taxing business, and he would make 'death' work hard to claim him... but not before he was content with running among wolves for one more day.

With the nods and greetings of the others welcoming him to the fire, he thought to himself and looked back through the memory of his days...

...it all began, long, long ago. With a One-armed Orc, named Ashlan.

[Okiba]

"We who teach, should strive for only one thing. To teach others to be better than we were." - Ashlan of the Blade

Devilstep: Chapter 1 - Wanderer

His chest heaved with fire. Burning and frustrated exhaustion, scoured by the icy air of this inhospitable landscape. Each blast of frigid wind drained the warmth from his limbs only for his heart to pump hot blood right back in, rendering his skin numb and sore.

Spirits give me strength, pfah! This lands needs more fire, less frost!

Ashlan raised one old weathered timber of a leg, then the next, continuing his laboured trudge through the knee deep snow. He would get there, eventually, even if it killed him. His position and title as a master of the blade demanded it, it was expected. Nothing short of reaching his goal would do.

Though still, doing better than most, considering...

Ashlan huffed a jet of frosted breathe, his left stump flailing in a desperate attempt to keep balanced. From the elbow down, his arm was gone. The price he paid for being the student of a thug that used him as his own personal pit fighter. Maimed in a duel with another youngling, left for dead in a ditch like trash for the carrion.

He exhaled sharply in disdain, exposing his fangs, a snarl escaping his lungs. The thought alone stirred him to anger, and sped the movement of his numb legs. The wind howled again, sapping the warmth form his weathered brown skin.

Anger can be just as good as courage, when faced with a mountainous trek.

And anger was something he had plenty of in reserve. From misdeeds and dishonours put upon him as a pup, to the frustrating bumbling of his peers and 'seniors' to this day. But he had to compose himself, stay calm, stay controlled. It was what separated him from the others in that hole.

Hallvalor is not what it once was...

He mused. The ancestral home of the Burning blade was indeed a shadow of its former honour and glory. Grand master Dhal the thrice bloodied, his lap-dog honour guard and insufferable progeny had seen to the decay of all that place and the clan stood for. An apple from a broken tree, rotting from the inside out,

Perhaps it is time the apple should fall far from the tree.

He huffed at the thought. What he was doing was radical in intention, if not outwardly common. Seeking an apprentice, a student to teach from outside clans to become a Blademaster was not unusual nor frowned upon. Teaching said student and all that followed it a list of values contrary to what the leadership of the burning blade clan now held? That carried dangers, certainly. The snow began to get deeper with each step.

Like wading through muddy Arak swamps. Pfah!

Each movement of his legs was having to be accompanied by the swiping and pushing of his right and only hand. Bare as it was, he was getting the chills up his fingers from the action and that did not bode well in a place like this. Clad as he was in nothing but simple leather trousers, bandaged wrists and his long blade upon his back... he was ill shielded against the fury of the elements. Though refuge was in sight, and so close.

Atop the crest of this snowy, windswept rise sat a lonely tree surrounded by rock and cliff face. At least there he could use that solid shape and wall of stone as a shield against the bite of the icy wind. Though the incline was increasing, he would make it before he froze to death, Spirits willing.

Stonefang village will not be far, I'll get there Tomorrow.

He consoled himself with that thought, nodding to himself and the wind as he pushed aside a tough clump of snow. He would get to the village, rest, make for Wor'gol in good weather and find himself a student among a clan of 'amicable' Orcs. The other clans who sent students to Hallvalor had a penchant for carrying their worst habits and vices with them, adding to the Burning blades regime of folly. And so, Ashlan came here, to Frostfire ridge... the home of the Frostwolf clan.

Perhaps among them, I will find a fresh mind untainted by clan pride and selfish vices.

He sighed with the exertion, a bead of sweat forming and cooling on his brow just as the top of the rise and the shelter of the tree was nearly within reach... and ear shot. Sounds rang, alike to wailing and crying, a gaggle of small voices bickering.

What hostilities are these I hear?

He pondered, huffing as he pressed on at a redoubled pace. His right hand, stiff from the cold as it was rose to behind his back to feel for the hilt of his great blade. He would not be caught unawares, be it bandit, fool or otherwise.

If it is battle they seek, ice and cold be dammed, they shall find no joy or glory in confronting me!

The snow began to thin and his way was made easier as the voices became clearer... sounding more indignant and shocked than angry, the shrill and cursing tones of a child became clear...

"I'm going to shred the skin off your pup legs for that"! came a young voice, its tone spoke of scorned pride.

All Ashlan could do as the scene before him was revealed, below the bare boughs of that snow laden tree...

...was watch.

[Okiba]

"Nothing is as stalwart as blood, protecting its own.." - Unknown

Devilstep: Chapter 2 - Bully

"Cry baby!"

was the first shout, sending a chill of alarm up his spine and the burning rush of panic to his heart. He knew what was starting, his short legs turning on the spot, leather clad feet scraping against icy rock so he could sprint in the direction of the sound.

No! no, no, not again! move! stop them!

Balling his bare hands, he threw his legs back and forth with all the speed he could allow so that he would not slip. On his right the sheer rock faces surrounding the village, on his left the plummeting drop into the Boneslag that would spell certain death. In his short years he'd heard tale of how other pups had fallen down into that fiery chasm. He would not slip, his grand sire taught him to be sure footed.

Don't slip, don't slip! hold on, nearly there!

Each bound and limb stretching leap became more reckless despite initial caution, the shouts and clear jeers grew louder, accelerating his pace and panic.

"Hold him! my turn!"

"Knuckle his ribs!"

The turn to his right came suddenly, his leather clad feet grinding on the stony ground as he rounded the corner coming to a sliding stop. Ahead, three Orcs, well children, all taller than he... huddled over a smaller child, barely his own shoulder height. The smallest, the victim, wailed and screeched in terror as the others pummelled him with blows. to one side, stood a girl his own age, frowning but idle as she watched the bullies trying to draw blood. All this, unfolding below the boughs of a long dead, snow laden tree.

"N-no, no! H-help!" came that weak, weeping voice that he could not stand to hear. It made his blood boil with anger, his heart surge and lungs flare with fire. An inner flame that made him act without thinking...

"Get off him you skull dead runts!" He yelled, bounding forward and into a leap, throwing the largest unsuspecting bully a rushed fist to the side of the head. He stumbled, yelped, and returned the favour with a well aimed jab that sent him reeling onto his behind. skidding to a halt, his back grazed and propped to the rock-face between two fallen tree stumps. Half stunned, sat among a pile of fallen branches, it sank in what he'd done...

three of them, all bigger than me, stupid, stupid, stupid!

"You..." spat the largest, the one he struck, a glob of blood. "...are going to pay for that, dog meat." he snarled, curling his lip and clenching fists while his two cronies released the squirming runt. the largest bully was named Grort. And he didn't like him, or them in his shadow, not one bit. But then again, nobody liked Grort and his thuggish habits.

Grort began clenching his fists, balling them finger by finger as he approached with slow, intent filled steps. at first he tried to reel backwards, pushing with his feet on the icy ground but found the rocky cliff-face at his back, barring his way. The young female, while the goons and Grort shifted their anger towards their new prey, helped up the youngling they had been trying to traumatize... pulling him to one side, weeping as his small legs wobbled with cuts, bruises and grazes.

No place to run for me...
His hands pushed to prop him up, atleast he would try to be standing before they set upon him, but instead found a grip... Looking down to his right hand, he had found his way to holding a lengthy piece of fallen branch, fresh and un-ruined by ice, snow and cold.

Father and the others will scorn me, but it will be worth it...

One quick breath in later, he had sprang to his feet with all the energy he could muster and began charging... Grort had gotten too close to be able to turn or move in time, too close to raise his arms to block the blow. With the branch in hand, and with a deft swipe from his right to the left Krogon struck him square in the middle of his body, where the chest and belly meet. "Ufk--! the thug exhaled, keeling over as the air was knocked from his lungs.

Make him pay!

The second blow came down square in the middle of his back, Krogon's hands gripping the branch tighter and tighter as the third, fourth and fifth strikes knocked Grort flat onto his belly, wincing and gasping. His large hands reaching in vein attempts to drag himself away but finding no purchase, while his lapdog friends began backing away. They had courage only when their leader was winning.

"Never! Ever! lay hands! on my Brother! Again!" Krogon yelled, his breath hot and slick with hate filled bile as he rained strikes down on the Clefthoof brained thug who had caused his younger brother, and so many other pups so much pain and shame. Each gasp, shudder and now his weeping tears justified, Grort turned over slowly, raising his arms to shield his body... But he did not stop, could not, and would not.

Raising the branch one last time, he swung downward upon Grort's right forearm with all his strength and pent up fury. A stomach turning crack echoed off the rock faces, echoing through the air... both branch, and arm, had broken. Grort recoiled on his side curling into a ball, wailing and gripping the broken limb with his left hand.

No mercy, he'd give none...

His chest heaved after the effort, burning as if filled with embers. Throwing the broken stub of branch aside he clenched his fists and made a single step, ready to continue bombarding his punishment upon his brothers tormentor...

"Enough!

The air tensed, that word was both final and absolute as it washed over him from behind. He had never heard such a commanding tone of voice before, leaping on the spot to turn and look upon its source. Anger and triumph turned to shock and fear.

Besides the young female clad in her simple leathers, and his bloodied teary eyed brother stood an Orc, full grown. His long, silver whiskered beard betrayed his vastly senior years, while his taught, weathered brown skin displayed his scars and activities. Upon his back, peeking from behind his right shoulder was the handle of a great curved sword, slung about his body and within reach... while his left arm, below the elbow, was nothing. Severed and taken. But what scared him, what truly froze him in his place, was those eyes. Those dark, purple, piercing eyes.

"You..." He spoke, his tone lowered now, the thunder removed from it. it remained potent though, as he continued. "What is your name?" the one armed Blademaster asked, his head tilting to one side with curiosity. the boy, though struck with fear and panic hesitated, before pushing the word forth...

"...K-Krogon."

[Okiba]

"Just because we share blood, does not make us family" - Huf'ror of the Frostwolves

Devilstep: Chapter 1 - Mentor

Refusing the stool to sit upon was a common choice. Sitting in comfort promoted weak knee's, so he stood, or sat with legs folded as he moved to do now, folding one limb beside the other as he came to be beside the tents small hearth. It was dark in here, in this tent of hides, besides that small central flame. But cosy.

The home of a simple family.

"What did I tell you boy!? Don't antagonize them! and what did you do! beat the villages biggest grunts son to a pulp!" The indignant voice of the children's father boomed from the flap that flung open at the entrance to the yurt. He was not young, arguably old, and not of strong build. His brown eyes and black eye made a weak contrast, clearly the father of the pup with the broken arm had not been happy.

Simple, and yet terrorised by the same pack of thugs.

The father, Hur'gol as he had learned his name to be, stomped into the space of the home and around the fire, raising a back-hand for his eldest son.

"you will lose a hand and gain another bruise for that!" Snarled his mother Kol'ma, who sat beside close him, the smallest son upon her lap where she had been cleaning his scrapes and sores. Hur'gol stopped, and snarled.... unwilling to test the resolve in his mates emerald green eyes. She had a look of engrained defiance in her eyes that Ashlan himself found imposing.

"These boys will be the death of me woman! pfah!" Hur'gol huffed, before turning to look upon the Blademaster by the fire with equal amounts scepticism and worry. plumping himself down on the stool that had previously been offered to their guest, he resumed his quizzing that he had paused before going off to answer to the village elder...

"I am glad you stopped him killing the other boy, yes! certainly. But now I'll have his bloody father beating me senseless at every chance when the elders back is turned..." he spoke, as matter of fact, consigned to his fate of living in fear under the heel of another.

Such a weak willed coward.

"perhaps I have a solution to your problem, Hur'gol, that would benefit all parties." Ashlan answered calmly, he would not be riled up by the rhetoric of a panic struck tanner.

Turning his gaze to the mother and her two pups, he was particularly interested in the eldest son. 'Krogon', had handled that branch deftly, with speed and strength. A natural skill with a weapon, but more importantly he had defended someone weaker than he. Most other pups that age would let siblings be beaten silly, not this one, oh no. He protected his own, not just because he was family... but because it was right.

"And what exactly is that? You going to pummel him with your stump--" Hur'gol froze, realizing his scolding retort while his eyes widened and looked away with shame.

The indignant--

Ashlan narrowed his eyes. This was a game in itself, one of posturing and intimidation. Setting his piercing purple gaze on Hur'gol now, he would bore into him as he spoke, unrelenting and un-moving. speaking in flat tones to let him know he was unhappy.

Shout him down with silent stares.

"my suggestion is this... Hur'gol of the frostwolves." He began, reminding him of his clan, so he would remember Ashlan's and what that meant. "I will deal with this Orc who has been terrorizing you and this village with his fists, and progeny. But I want something in return. Something not easily parted with."

Hur'gol dared to look at him a moment, but quickly cowed as he met that glare and shifted his gaze to the fire. The mother raised a glance at this, running swabs of Clefthoof fur over the younger pups bloody marks before grasping his head to keep him still. The oldest son frowned, unhappy. No doubt at his father's whimpering.

"How, and what?" Hur'gol hesitated, fidgeting on his stool. He was sat higher than Ashlan and it was becoming clear he was uncomfortable with his unintentional snubs.

Calm, and sensible. Make it seems obvious and yet the only option.

"I will challenge the one known as Grortol, the thug who has done that to you, to Mak'gora. And make an example of him that he and no other will soon forget." Ashlan answered, nodding as if it was matter of fact.

Hur'gol and Kol'ma, raised their gazes to him as silence fell on the room. Even the eldest son sat up in surprise. The only noise to be heard was the icy wind bombarding the leathers of the tent, and the crackling of the small hearth within. Agonizing moments passed until the obvious one spoke up to ask...

"not that we don't doubt your skill Master Ashlan, but what is your price and fee for this? we have no gold, and little else." Asked Kol'ma. The mother being the only one of the two parents that had courage. Or seemingly sense.

Got them.

Ashlan nodded slowly. pausing to let the words and replies so far hang in the air. This conversation would proceed at his pace, ending when he wished. Letting up on his glare toward the father... Ashlan looked toward the pup, Krogon. his expression lightened as he inspected the child.

Not tall for his age, nor muscular. But neither was he short or rake thin. That thick tuft of night black hair atop his head was a stark contrast to his bright green eyes. They held much innocence, but also deep intrigue, inspecting and questioning everything. There was a brain in that skull, one that could weigh actions against consequence, backed with morality. Krogon narrowed his eyes, clearly not happy that he was being looked over in such a fashion, the mother frowned too... sensing something amiss.

I can work with that. If his temper can be reigned in or faded out.

"The boy."" Ashlan nodded.

"No." Kol'ma answered instantly, turning her lip in anger. No doubt the thought of losing her child would not be easy for her. Hur'gol However raised a hand, baying her to be silent, even glaring at her with malice as she opened her mouth to speak up, promptly stopping herself and returning to her glares.

That is not a happy union

"What for?" Hur'gol asked, an edge of intrigue in his voice. He leant forward, looking at the one armed Blademaster as if this was a transaction, and he was keen. No doubt preferring the safety of his own skin.

"I would take him as my student. And teach him the ways of the burning blade. He has the aptitude for such, and a student is why I came to this land. Frostwolves have a better temperament than most." Ashlan finished, adding some light flattery at the end. That was his pitch, and the father was certainly hooked. Kol'ma looked to Krogon, a hint of worry in her eyes while her youngest, Trogon, squirmed with an expression of confusion.

"that is... quite the offer, Ashlan of the blade, and generous." Hur'gol added, licking his dry lips while his beady brown eyes looked over the fire, weighing his options, and the odds of success. Would he put his faith in the skill of a one armed old master?

"do we, have an agreement?" Ashlan leant forward, extending his right hand over the fire towards the father. To be shaken, for conclusion, for such bargains are sealed with these things.

Hur'gol looked up from the fire, and at the hand, hesitation in his eyes. one hand grasped the other, unsure of what to do.

[Gashuk]

Finally got round to properly reading this last night! Very nice, can see how this must have been bubbling in your brain especially when Warlords was released. Excellent imagery and a great insight into the start of Krogon's life. More please!

P.S; I'm so rolling an Orc called Trogan. Did their parents have no imagination? That's like my Mum calling my Brother Joe (which she did) then calling me Moe! D;

[Okiba]

Finally got round to properly reading this last night! Very nice, can see how this must have been bubbling in your brain especially when Warlords was released. Excellent imagery and a great insight into the start of Krogon's life. More please!

P.S; I'm so rolling an Orc called Trogan. Did their parents have no imagination? That's like my Mum calling my Brother Joe (which she did) then calling me Moe! D;

The ... lack of imagination on someones part, may be explained soon enough.

[Okiba]

"Respect is earned, not demanded. Only an honourless fool forces it." - Ashlan of the Blade

Devilstep: Chapter 4 - Respect

A fair crowd.

Large indeed, an impressive gathering of Frostwolves of all walks of life had come together in Stonefang to see the one armed Blademaster fight Grortol 'the great'. Such was his pig headed arrogance, he himself made others call him that.

Fart brained ass.

Krogon huffed a jet of thin, frosty air with mild frustration. The 'mob' had formed a half-circle without anyone giving them instruction, for ease of viewing. Near the tavern as to make ale within easy reach, but curved around the great chair so that s suitable arena was created. Was plenty of space for what was to come, and more importantly ample view for the entire village. Krogon stood with his mother, and brother, right by where the elder would be seated. opposite them stood Grortol, black and blue with bruises with his smaller siblings at his side, ignoring their chattering while he projected a malice filled glare this way. It was enough to keep Trogon cowed and hidden behind mothers leg. His younger sibling was only four winters old, and thought the bully to be some monster.

I'll need a bigger stick next time.

Krogon slowly began to smile at the thought. The idea of bashing him senseless once more brought him some satisfaction, if bordering on mildly sadistic glee. Seeing that wolfish smirk, Grortol furrowed his brows and looked away from Krogon, the smaller Orcs cruel expression putting him off.

"Make way! make way!" bellowed an old, gravelly voice. the middle of the arc shaped crowd parted revealing the approach of Ger'oon the elder. Behind him stalked the one armed master to his left, and on his right that mass of axe carrying muscle that formed the bulk named Grort. Clad in nothing but his loincloth and armed with his trusty bearded axe, he was an imposing sight even if mostly naked. It was said he could crush an Orcs head in his hand, and with how he towered over that old goat Ashlan he could believe the rumour to be true.

Spirits, I'd forgotten how big he was...

Krogon barely noticed his father stalk in behind the more eminent trio as the crowd hustled and rushed back to their places behind them. Within moments, Ger'oon had planted himself in his high seat, as was his place. the old elder had a lengthy grey beard and led this village in Garads name more by wisdom than strength these days. quickly enough the two combatants had taken their places in the middle of the half circle. Father, moved to take his place by mother but was met with an angry glare, likely still fuming that he had agreed to this to begin with.

...Or more likely because he used me as payment to save his own skin. Bastard.

Kol'ma had stomped, raged and screamed at Hur'gol for hours after he had made the pact with the Blademaster. Even blessing him with another bruised eye, giving him a complete pair when he rose to strike her, a little ale had made him brave but no brighter. He soon skulked away after that, to whatever corner he usually hid in when she put him in his place. Mother was the strength of this family, he was a rock... tied to the leg mid swim.

Ashlan rolled his shoulders, though it struck Krogon as pointless to warm up the left. eventually drawing his war blade from over his shoulder to the smooth, singing of steel. It was an impressive weapon, marked and etched with runes upon dark blue alloy. Long and curved, it had reach. But how would he put weight behind it or keep balance?

Maybe losing his arm addled his old brain?

He snorted at that with amusement, looking to Grort next. The grunt, unlike the master, was in his prime. His size was imposing, complimented by massive muscled arms. His axe had a long wooded shaft and twin bearded blades at its top. several good swings had cleaved a gang of Thunderlord raiders in two only last winter. His bald head and black stubble was nothing interesting, but his beady brown eyes had an anger to them as he glared at Ashlan, stealing glances to Father and even Krogon.

I hope he kills father first.

"Now listen good, and listen close!" Ger'oon proclaimed, his voice strong despite his senior years. "Mak'gora is a serious matter! there will be no interfering, no nonsense, no fleeing, and no shame in its name! understand?" barked and then questioning he looked between Ashlan and Grort, the master bowed with respect toward the high seat in compliance. Grort however spat and snarled...

"Just call to start! the sooner this old turd is dead the sooner i can deal with that mongrel hiding behind him!" growled the grunt, holding his axe in both hands as his stance lowered. ready to make a pile of blood and screaming meat out of Ashlan. It was impossible to know how the old fool was going to hold him and that axe off, let alone land a blow.

"Hrmph... eager as ever, very well... Begin!" Ger'oon waved a hand and the crowd cheered, signalling the start of Grort's onslaught, his huge tree trunk legs thundering forward with the power of youth, his axe held wide to his right for a cutting blow. Ashlan straight in his sights... holding his own blade behind him, still and unmoving. Calm but immobile, he was insane to of wanted this.

...Mad old dog.

He was going to get killed, and he knew this because his mother had placed a hand on his shoulder now, squeezing. She was worried, afraid. And when mother was afraid then something was terribly wrong in the world. Grort took one last step and began to swing his axe horizontally from right to left, that huge axe whistling as it cut the air. The crowd inhaled with shock as mothers nails dug into the boys shoulder in terror... everyone expecting the old fool to be cut down in the blink of an eye. But that was just it, he wasn't. everyone watched the old Orc bend like long grass in a strong wind, and turn... the axe flying over him while he ducked under and smoothly ran past and under Grorts right arm and side. Grort staggered past, growling and turned to face his foe...

That was Fast--

Grort blinked, standing still as he narrowed his eyes on the Blademaster. Ashlan stood still once more, his back turned on the grunt in a display of defiance...  but what everyone's eye were drawn too was his long blade, and the small stain of blood that dripped crimson onto the snowy ground... Grort gripped his side, as the other Orc had ducked under his swing he'd whipped the tip of his blade through his ribs and left a deep but un-lethal cut. It would bleed a great, and inevitably need stitches.

Looking at his blood stained hand, the giant roared in anger and charged again, this time trying to swing his axe over his head and down on Ashlan. Once again, it met only air, the older Orc moving with grace and speed that was natural for someone with silver hair, and again whipping his blade out as a scorpid would its stinger, drawing blood on Grorts bare thigh. The grunt did not pause this time, instead he carried on pursuing the silver haired devil, bombarding him with a flurry of heavy axe blows. Each swing was dodged, or occasionally parried... the older Orc using his whole body to swing his only arm and whip the axe away before landing a nasty cut on some new unprotected part of Grorts hide.

How is he doing that?

Everyone stood slack jawed, Ger'oon leant forward in his seat, fixated. Mother had begun to loosen her grip of his shoulder, either set at ease or  as dumbfounded as everyone else watching the fight unfold. Oddly though, Hur'gol looked to be in terror. His shoulders sinking and eyes wide in horror as the Blademaster evaded the giant that was Grort, it made no sense. Surely he should be happy that it was going this way?

CRACK!

Krogon snapped his gaze back to the fight. Ashlan had struck Grort across the jaw with the hilt of his blade as he span past one of the giant thugs now seemingly clumsy swings. Grort staggered and fell to one knee, blood pouring down from his jaw and at least a dozen different open cuts around his legs, arms and torso. He was wide upon and easy prey for a finishing strike... but it never came. Instead the Blademaster stood back, and waited. His purple eyes fixed on Grort and his breathing calm while he held his blood stained sword low to his right.

Finish him!

Murmurs began to erupt in the crowd, everyone else was probably thinking what he was. Why give him a chance? Even Ger'oon furrowed his brows at this turn of events. Eventually, coughing and spitting out a broken fang Grort rose to his feet with a low growl...

"stand still and fight... hrgh, you dancing old talbuk-turd!!" Roared the grunt, moving in slowly now, using the bottom of his axe shaft and the axe head in the melee now, caution was gripping him. But it was to no avail, Ashlan kept his distance, dodging the fumbled strikes, confounding and aggravating his opponents further. Snarling and speeding up again with reckless abandon, Grort did not see the blade whip around low, swiping toward his right foot. Crimson mist sprayed, Grort howled, and was cut short as a knee struck him square in the gut, just below the rib cage. Then another hammer blow of a hilt strike cracked his head creating a sickening crunch.

"Popo!" Screeched Grortol in shock, fearing for his father's life,  held back by several adults from joining the fray. Which i just as well. Grort fell flat on his chest, and upon doing so was blessed with the presence of sharp steel impaling the back of his right thigh... straight through into the icy ground. The giant Orc wailed clasping as the dirt, but all the cuts, exertion and blood loss had taken all his strength. Ashlan had literally cut him down to size.

Good, now he'll finish him.

But he didn't. Instead he planted a sandaled foot on Grorts back and using his only hand drew the sword from the leg, promptly slashing it through empty air to fling the blood off, then sheathed it. The crowd stood stunned, Mother sucked in air as if it was her last. With the Blademaster victorious, her eldest would be beyond her protection, but also relief... Grortol and his like would be a problem no more. And father? he was on his knees in shock, an expression on his face that belonged to someone who had lost everything. A pang of worry, rather than joy struck Krogon...

What has he done...?

Ger'oon was on his feet and looked to be about to yell something in anger before Ashlan raised a hand and his own voice...

"This Bully is shamed! let all those present, and more importantly he and his kin, remember it! I claim victory, and as such... spare his life!" The silver haired Orc proclaimed, his voice clear and strong. Like iron on the wind. Turning he knelt down before the blood oozing body of the exhausted Grort, and spoke just loud enough for all to hear, his tone filled with purring predatory malice....

"If you or your brood should ever trouble anyone in this village again, young or old, I won't play with you next time."

[Okiba]

"Blood is thicker than water" - Human Proverb

Devilstep: Chapter 5 - Farewell

It itched. Not for efforts of flea or biting bug, but for the short, scratching hairs that stuck out from the stiff fur. He pulled it about his shoulders tightly, cursing under his breath at how it antagonized his skin. He didn't know what beast this was yielded from, but he thought the hunter should not of bothered. Though at least it kept out the cold, which was thick in the air.

Tiny flakes of snow descending upon the silent village slowly from high above... winters darkest weeks were close, the settlements inhabitants wisely staying indoors by the warm hearths and fires while the morning sun was still low. It would not be wise to linger out too long.

"Keep it wrapped close, Krogon, if a blizzard hits then you will be thankful for it." Kol'ma warned her son, fussing over his attire as she fixed a broach of bone to the edges of the great, dirty fur so her eldest son would have less trouble keeping it around his neck and shoulders. They stood before the tent that was home, his journey would begin with the Blademaster today.  The eyes of Kol'ma betrayed her sadness to him, watered with worry and a glint of anger. She kept herself busy to distraction these last two days, checking and adjusting the saddle bag of belongings he would take with him. Trogon watched on, tugging at the side of her fur dress, likely not understanding what was happening, his big green eyes filled with confusion.

Why did father agree to this?

"Do exactly as you are told, when he speaks you listen, when he commands then you obey. Understand?" Mother spoke in his ear as she wrapped fur strips around his hands and forearms to guard against ice and cold.

"yes mothe--" He began, but was cut short by the hurried interruption of his mother.
"Eat when you can, drink plenty of water, avoid snakes..." She added pressingly, tightening a strip of fur on his left hand, complete with a firm knot.

"I will-" He tried to speak again, Kol'ma in a world of her own pressed on with her ramblings. fixated on doing what she could while she could, binding and tying a knot in the strap of fur on his right arm now.

"And never leave his side, ogres and laughing skull wouldn't think twice about eating a ten year old Orcling--" she continued, obsessive.

If grand sire saw you like this...

"--Where is father?" Krogon spoke up, puffing out his chest and furrowing his brow. loud enough to be heard over his mothers chattering. Trogon perked up at this, his interest caught too. Mother however leant back, exhaling in resignation as she placed her hands on her lap in her kneeling position.

"Your father... has left us." Kol'ma spoke, her tone flat and cold. She was angry with him, full of rage. But it was subdued.

He left?

Krogon frowned, narrowing his emerald green eyes. Father had locked horns with mother before, but he'd never fled or gone away.

"He thought Grort sure to win... so he did something foolish." She added, the water in her eyes forming tears though her expression remained as stone. "He made a bet with the inn-keeper, to clear up his debts... if Grort won, your father would get silver and no more trouble. If he lost, they got our tent and winter furs and the rest of his debts." She finished, heart breaking silence descending over the trio. Trogon didn't understand, but Krogon knew all too well.

The bastard...

Fire burned in his belly, exposing his tiny fangs in anger. His father had thrown all of their lives away just to settle some gambling and ale debts? Leaving mother and Trogon her to freeze...

"We will be fine, wipe that angered look off your face... besides, he'll be long gone by now." Kol'ma added, inhaling to return herself to some composure. "me and your brother will go to Wor'gol, and see out the winter with your aunt, you worry about yourself."

"But mother-- He tried to press, not realising her mind was made up, and this is how it had to be.

"But nothing, Krogon." She snapped, her green eyes filled with anger and frustration. "you worry about your own hide. I will take care of your brother, we will survive. The greater challenge is yours... surviving him." She nodded behind him, Krogon turned to find Ashlan stood right behind him, his sharp purple eyes fixed on the family.

Spirits above he is sneaky.

"It is time." He spoke, turning on the spot to begin his walk to the entrance of the village. "make your farewells, I will wait by the entrance to the village." He spoke, loud enough to just be heard over the wind. His calm demeanour was surprising, it was as if he felt or thought nothing of the duel he four two days earlier.

But... who will look after them? And deal with father--?

thoughts rushed through his mind as Kol'ma placed her hands on her sons shoulders and span him back around, wrapping her arms tightly about him. Trogon leapt into the embrace too, managing to wind his way into the centre of the embrace, giggling with incomprehension that he may never see his older brother again.

Lowering her voice so that only they could hear, she whispered to her sons as the tears returned to her face...

"You remember this, both of you. This is family, your father did not understand it but we do. Now go..." She coughed, trying to control her emotions, pushing Krogon back firmly  with one hand.

"Have an adventure my son, and be better than your father. Go." She finished, turning away as she stood, hiding her face. Trogon looked up at her, a look of worry in his young expression as tears came to his eyes too, reality dawning on him.

Farewell...

He almost whispered it too, wanting to cling to her leg as his brother did. But there was no choice here. He picked up his pack and turned, walking away to the sound of crunching snow and the weeping of his mother.

[Okiba]

"We need rules, we need honour, without either we are only wild dogs fighting over scraps." - Ashlan of the Blade

Devilstep: Chapter 6 - Creed

Embers flared, spiralled and vanished as they rose upwards into the black night sky. The stars hid themselves, the flaming glow of the camp fire ensured they were masked by its light. And despite the heat that radiated his way, he remained gripped by the chill of the land., shivering in his meagre furs.

Why doesn't he feel it?

Krogon leant slightly to his right, to peer around the fire. Opposite him sat Ashlan, cross legged while he cleaned his sword with a dirty leather rag. His method was curious, gripping the hilt between his left stump and arm-pit while the right hand did the work... it should of been awkward, yet looked ritualistic and easy. But still, he had a bare chest open to the elements and biting cold, here in Frostfire.

Even a hardy Frostwolf would be wearing thick fur now.

It didn't make sense. Then again, most everything about the Orc didn't make sense. His fighting prowess came top of the list, shortly followed by his almost super-natural immunity to the elements and exhaustion. The long walk to this place had been fraught with many miles of endless tundra. He only stopped once to take on water and get rid of it again. Krogon furrowed his brows at that, keeping up with him had been a monumental challenge even though he was used to running on snow. Though still, despite all that, they had yet to reach Wolf's stand.

"What is on your mind?" Ashlan spoke softly, audible just above the crackle of the fire. Krogon winced, realizing he must of looked as if he had been frowning at the elder Orc, but how could he of known? Those piercing violet eyes had been on the sword the whole time.

Eerie...

"I... have some questions." He spluttered out, shuffling around the fire to sit to the left of the Blademaster. hesitantly stealing glances he didn't have to wait long for a response.

"I should hope you do, or this would be entirely pointless." answered the grey haired master, placing the sword within its sheath and propping the weapon upright against his right shoulder. With a content exhale of frosted breath he set his eyes on the younger Orc.

"Speak, and I shall answer. Though I wager the question will be along the lines of 'why, where, and how', correct?" Ashlan added, his brow raised more as a statement of fact than curiosity.

How did he...?

"Erm... Y-yes? I wanted to ask-" He began with hesitation and surprise, only to be cut off near immediately.

"You want to know why I risked my life to take you as a student, how I can tolerate the cold and where we are going?" Ashlan answered quizzically, his head tilting to the side in a predatory fashion, those purple eyes looking through the younger Orc.

Spirits above...

Krogon blinked, struck with bewilderment and shock, it was as if he was reading his mind, plucking out thoughts before he had chance to know them himself. It was all some trick, surely?

"Motive. My student, we all have one. Something you will have to keep in mind for all that is to come." Ashlan nodded, before he continued. "When you fought to protect your brother, do you know why you did it?".

Obvious enough.

"Because he is my brother? That is what brothers do, mother says we must take care of family." Krogon answered as if it was word of law. Though, judging by how Ashlan raised his brow he quickly fathomed the silver haired senior believed something else.

"You, like I, cannot stand bullies." He spoke, his words immovable in tone, it was not up for debate. "We can't sit by and watch the strong terrorise the weak, it makes our blood burn with fire. I could see it in your eyes as you thrashed him with that branch, the other Orc, the hate..."

...I was just protecting my brother...

"You have quite the ferocious temper, boy. But I will scour that from you. Instil you with discipline and control. They will serve you better than rage and fury as a Blademaster." Ashlan nodded with a huff.

"Why would I want to be a Blademaster anyway? I don't need to be one to help my brother, or others, you saw." Krogon snorted, a hint of defiance in his tone. The old master brandished a wry smirk at this. Krogon found his smile unsettling, feeling like a Talbuk that has a wolf sixing it up.

"Boy, if I had not come along... you and your family would of been at the mercy of that thug headed grunt. A whole tree of clubs could not of saved you, let alone that flimsy twig you had." Ashlan wafted his hand dismissively. It was true, Krogon had not considered that. Without his help, spirits only know what would of become of mother and Trogon.

As he continued, Ashlan shifted his gaze to the fire, staring into the flames... "We live in a world filled with all kinds of perils. Where the strong, despite being stupid and short sighted, shepherd the weak of mind and weak of will. What do Orcs have to aspire too when life revolves around hunting and bending knee to those with bigger arms? No, we are meant for more."

More?

Krogon dared, without thinking, to begin shuffling closer to his new master. Listening to his words with confusion and fascination, he was hooked. "...The bastard who took my arm was such a fool. One who would use others as 'possessions', gambling away a life before tossing them aside like refuse..." His lip began to turn, anger flashed in his eyes while the fire caused shadows to dance over his face. It was intimidating.

"...Our people speak of honour, yet seldom use their self proclaimed strength for anything beyond their own selfish wants. I would change that, one Orc at a time. Beginning with you." pausing, he shifted his piercing gaze back to Krogon, who froze with a gulp.

What could I do?

"I... I don't know how I could-?" He started, but as ever found himself interrupted.

"I will teach you everything you need to know. Then you will teach others with me, with your deeds and words. You will learn how to fight, when to fight and most importantly... why."

Krogon let his mouth hang, stuck between awe, bewilderment and exhaustion. Words could not form in his mind, struggling to take in what he was being offered, let alone if it was what he wanted for a life. Could he do this? should he?

Ashlan slowly stood, raising a branch with his only hand that had lain by his right side, with it he stoked the waning flames of the hearth...

"all you need to do, is arm yourself with honour, true honour."

[Okiba]

"To master the mind, you must first master the body. Mastery of the body comes with the purging of weakness, and the building of discipline." - Ashlan of the Blade

Devilstep: Chapter 7 - Weakness

He still couldn't believe it was so hot. Never had he imagined the story's of a 'roasting sun' to be close to true, but it was. Burning, scouring, drying and draining the moisture from his winter born hide. Relentless as it was, he would have no respite from it. Not out of choice, but out of obedience.

"Again!" Came that voice, stony with an authority that would not be challenged. Ashlan commanded and would be obeyed, projecting his voice from his perch atop the sun baked Boulder.

Once more...

Krogon instantly obliged,  tightening his grip as he swung down, repeating the count of one hundred cuts. In his hands he held, or more accurately had tied, a wooden training sword. Weighted, lengthy and most importantly tied around his hands to ensure he did not drop it, he would make one hundred continual cuts with all strength and speed.

As he commands.

His arms strained and shuddered though. He had been at this an hour while the sun beat down on him, losing track of how many sets he had completed. Gorgronds climate, he had begun to realize, was part of the training too. They had been here a moon, and each day was a chore of exercises, drills, real chores and more drills. Ashlan was merciless, telling him to do everything under the suns glare and well away from any shade.

Here in this make-shift camp hidden among the arid southern hills, they  were safe from prying eyes, allowing teacher and student to practice in peace, away from the dangers of Gronn and overgrowth alike. Though the location had one draw-back, the lack of fresh water, of which Ashlan especially enjoyed denying his apprentice.

Water, little and rarely, old bast-

"Faster! you are slacking again! keep your swing straight!" Barked his master from atop that perch. Though he could not see him, he knew the older Orc was glaring at the back of his head. He re-doubled his pace, sweat trickling down his arms and forming around his shoulders, making his body slick. If he had not had his hands bound to the training weapon, he would surely of dropped it by now. From finger-tip to elbow his arms screamed for a pause.

Block out the pain, if you stop he'll just make things worse.

"Pain, is the sensation you feel, when weakness leaves the body." Ashlan had said time, and time again over these weeks. When commanded to climb, to run, to swim and fight. Always again, always faster, always higher.

Who would choose to do this willingly?

He could not fathom it, why would suffering make you strong? His thoughts wandered as his arms grew heavy, his absent mind causing him to grow sloppy with his next mock blade swing... earning him a pebble to the back of the skull.

Son of an ogre...!

Wincing, he froze for but a second then cast his arms up then back down at a more acceptable pace, hearing the soft purr of a snarl behind him. Punishments could, and would be harsh if the standard was not met. A split lip and blackened eye had been his reward already for a defiant glare brought on by hunger. Insolence was not tolerated, only perfection in obedience. Even if things stung like hell, he would have to continue.

Is this not what he says he fights against though? The strong bullying the weak? He makes no sense.


He would make sense of it later. For now, what mattered was that he kept pace and angle. Narrowing his eyes, focusing on each individual swing. One by one, he would finish, even if it took until sunset. Hopefully, that would not be too long away.

Some sleep, just a few hours...

He snarled, angered that his mind had wandered to weak thoughts. Rest was not an option, if he thought like that he would fail and be punished... and as Ashlan ever eagerly reminded him, that was no option. Rest would come eventually, but not now.

No, he would continue. Gripping the training sword tighter, he continued to swing, letting the ache of tired muscles continue, while pain washed over him. Today it would be this, tomorrow something else. All he could do was keep at it.

The pain will end. Eventually.

[Okiba]

"To rely solely upon physical strength and prowess is a fools path." - Akinos Steelclaw

Devilstep: Chapter 8 - Guile

As far as monuments go, it was far from impressive, no more than a tiny dirt pile compared to the towering spires of a Draenei settlement. But that was the whole point, it was meant to be temporary, not last for centuries beyond mortal measure.

We shall see how his patience lasts with this.

Ashlan let the most subtle of smirks form on his fanged mouth as he gazed up at the pile of boulders and rocks he had gone to great efforts to form. For a week he had toiled with only one arm, dragging each from the Saberon dens to the west had been laborious, after all it was the height of Four Orcs. layered and constructed to be hazardous, each stone had to be handpicked. Impossible to climb without collapse or a fall, its jagged rocky edges and clever construction ensured a youngling could not scale it. Which is what he wanted.

At its pinnacle, impaled into the crowning stone, stood a pole. Taller than a full grown Orc, Krogon would never be able to reach what was placed atop that, not without crumbling the whole structure. Lastly, atop the pole was placed a simple eating bowl, the objective, the aim. He would never attain it, but he wasn't to know that, it was the epiphany that he wanted to stir up that mattered.

I shall have to try not to seem too amused by his coming failure.

"You are to retrieve the bowl without any rocks falling from it, do you understand?" Ashlan instructed, raising his only hand to gesture to the mound. To his right, the boy huffed with mild discontent as he eyed the obstacle before him. This past year he had grown, in both height and muscle. The drills had achieved the desired effect, he even kept his anger focused on inanimate objects rather than his master now. Though, it was still a problem, a bubbling pit of fury that adolescence was soon likely to make a nightmare. He was nearly that age.

"And that is all, Master?" His black haired head turned, his green eyes looking up to Ashlan, who in turn kept his focus on the bowl. The sun was high in the sky now, at its zenith peak for midday. Every shadow in Gorgrond had been chased under a rock, not to mention the boys pale green skin had been tanned by its rays until he could ignore it no matter the time or temperature.

"Indeed, bring me the bowl and you will have no chores for a week. But if you collapse the mound, and each time you do so, you will do an extra hour of drill each night this month." Ashlan finished with a nod, his wry smirk fading as to enforce a seriousness to the deed. The new moon was only the night before, and guaranteed a whole thirty days of extra effort...

He will be up all night doing drills for weeks.

"As you bid it then..." the boy reply trailed off, placing one foot slowly in front of the other to approach his challenge. He had indeed grown, but through his crude waist-wrap was still placed a wooden training sword, he was not yet ready for Steel. Live blades were a distance off yet, perhaps another year or three, once the worst of his teenage years had passed. Deadly sharp weapons were a dangerous thing in the hands of the inexperienced, more so those trained but not composed enough to be trusted with them.

He will learn, perhaps not today, but he will learn.

Krogon now stood arms length from the mound that towered over him, gazing up at his target, that bowl daring him to climb. Yet he did not start, instead his green eyes moved up and down, inspecting every little feature and shape. Slowly, his head began to tilt to the left, then over to the right.

Good, he is thinking about it, rather than rushing blindly in. But that will do him no favours.

Krogon huffed, rolling his right shoulder before circling around the mound. Within moments, he had turned around its jagged curved edge and was out of sight. No doubt trying to look for a weakness or route that Ashlan had not noticed.

He will find nothing, no advantage to exploit--

CRACK!

Ashlan shot his eyes upward to a splitting noise, struggling for a moment to focus as the sun's rays blindsided his vision. As things came back into view, shielding his eyes from the sun, he was instantly struck by the sight of the bowl... not where it was meant to be. It was airborne, hurtling upward with a spin, and coming this way.

What trickery is this!?

A moment passed with the bowl turning in the air before it began its descent, force and speed behind it. Ashlan snarled, clenching then releasing his fist, ready to snatch it from the air... as the sound of hurried bare foot-steps raced towards him. Around the side of the mound Krogon came running, bounding into a great leap. With a mid air grab, the boy landed with a skid. Coming to a stop in front of Ashlan he quickly straightened up, Bowl in his left hand.

By the great blade of Gatol, how did he--?

He did not have to wait long, his nostrils flaring and eye twitching... watching as Krogon began to bounce a small, smooth pebble in his right hand. A projectile, a throwing tool, a method and a solution. He had simply thrown a rock at the correct angle to knock the bowl off the pole.

"A whole week, Master?" the boy spoke, his green eyes alive with smugness while his face tried to remain flat calm. Ashlan clenched his only fist, letting out a strained breath. The boy had done the whole thing wrong, not the way it was intended, but it was his own fault for not being more specific with the rules. The sly little so and so had bent the edges of the test and turned them on his master perfectly.

"Ghrm, indeed, a week. On my word." Ashlan huffed, relaxing his fist. His anger was evident, but he had to save face, after all honour came first. Krogon allowed a wry smirk, clearly proud of his little victory. Ashlan would have to wait, spending this next week considering a suitable subtle rebuke for this. The boy had not considered the result of his actions beyond the week, he still had much to learn.

His craftiness and guile may be a problem, time will tell.

[Okiba]

"A good warrior is like good steel, resilient and tempered to perfection."

Devilstep: Chapter 9 - Temper

The road has been turbulent, to say the least. From the parched crags and vibrant jungle of Gorgrond then through the verdant forests of Talador. He would of enjoyed the new scenery of the Draenei inhabited region had it not been for break neck pace of Ashlan. The elder master had seemed ill at ease on or near the roads, either weary or fearful of the blue skins. Why, Krogon could not fathom. What he did know was that the haste with which his teacher moved was at stark odds with what he could manage.

Vindictive old coot.

Ever since that mound challenge, four years gone now, Ashlan had punished him brutally every time he had used the slightest bit of guile or crafty wit to solve a problem. It had been to prove a point, he knew it, what though he could not fathom. He would get a task, solve it in a way Ashlan had not considered then receive a reward after which he would then get double chores or exercises.

And that, is why I have all these bruises, all the time.

He was told never to give up, then punished for taking the route that would not result in failure. Over, and over. Either beaten senseless when they sparred with wooden training swords, or made to run until he unwillingly regurgitated whatever meal he had the day before. It was mind boggling, continual lessons without explanation and only presumption on his masters part that he would get the point. This was why he dragged his feet.

I am lucky I have not fallen behind completely.

He wearily placed one foot in front of the other, bracing for the pain that shot up his body from ankle to hip each time he put his weight down. It was fortunate that the Draenei roads had been so smooth and straight through the western part of Talador, though now in Nagrand he had to tolerate the tortures of rough muddy tracks and rolling grassy hills. Each step was a terrible test in itself now, Ashlan keeping his pace just enough to stay within view but quick enough to urge a pain incurring haste.

I won't let him beat me, no, not today.

He was short of breath now, this stint of the trek had lasted half a day without pause or rest. Though he was running on fumes now, propelling himself on with sheer willpower and a touch of hatred. Through all this he had not immediately taken in his surroundings, too focussed on keeping up, but he was indeed in Nagrand now. Though he could not name one hill from another, he walked among a wind kissed sea of grass. The scents of nature, the spirit of the wild, and no small amount of talbuk droppings bombarded his nostrils when he wasn't too busy focusing on the burning sensation in his aching limbs. Ahead loomed a wildly shaped series of cliff faces, beyond which loomed a great pillar of black smoke... the direction in which Ashlan led him.

That must be it.

He often asked himself why he stayed with Ashlan, coming up with no clear answer he could be content with. Nor did he know of any good reason to leave. Yes, he was ruthlessly strict now, but he also learned a lot, even if it wasn't immediately apparent. The clashes with Ogres and scraps with Laughing skull ambushers had shown him just how deadly an Orc with his masters skills could be, and if he could harness that knowledge himself, who knew what he could do?

And to finish my lessons, make them complete, he brought me here.

It was the whole purpose of the journey.  Ashlan could only train him so far on his own, to finish off and verify his place among the burning blade they would need to go among others who practised these ways. There, he would undergo the trials that all had to pass to be allowed to carry that title, they had to come to the home of the Blademasters.

Hallvalor.

He had the word here and there as a youngling, but he was fifteen winters old now, knowing that the place warriors were 'made' was just beyond these rocks almost put a childish spring in his step. Almost. Thankfully, Ashlan had finally decided to slow and even stop to wait for him before entering the network of rocky hills and ravines. Probably due to his usual paranoia.

He suspects everything, even his own clan?

He would feel more surprised, but Ashlan had always been overly cautious, it had saved both their lives a dozen times these few years. He should of been more relaxed her, yet if anything he seemed  more on edge as they proceeded through the small maze of rock and grass. Before long, they arrived at what felt to be a simple, if primitive bridge. Beyond, rose more plumes of smoke, followed by the scent of forges, blood and sweat.

Across it, stood a solitary sentry armed with a great war blade. The first Blademaster Krogon had ever seen other than Ashlan. His huge, bulging muscles and towering height made for a stark contrast as they began to approach and cross the bridge.

"Dhal-Hall and Aka'magosh Ashlan one armed, you are welcome in Hallvalor." the sentry spoke, his gaze shifting to Krogon then back to the armless senior. A silent word was exchanged between the pair before the sentry grunted and nodded them both through.

If it's that easy to get in, I'm surprised the Warsong or Ogres have not razed the place.

Krogon dragged his heavy feet, casting a weary glance at the sentry as he passed, getting a scrutinizing glare in return before he hastened to the heels of his master. He quickly got the feeling he would not be among kind hearted 'equals' here.

Ashlan muttered as the lay of the land revealed itself before them, almost as if uncomfortable with what he had returned too. Krogon however was instantly struck, what he had expected was a village like any other, instead he looked upon something entirely surprising...

No wonder the Warsong and Ogre do not tread here...

The first thing he saw was a pit, a pool, a small lake of molten lava. It bubbled and frothed with fury, he could even feel the heat from the edge of the settlement. From it, smithy's, peons and what he thought to be shaman worked its flame for the art of crafting steel. They did this on a dozen great anvils all around the camp, hammering and heating with relentless mastery.

Further out, were no less than a dozen different training circles, all packed with brown skinned trainee's of all ages, from pups to near adults who sat under the eagle eyes of tutors and instructors. Some sparred using training blades with brutal speed and strength, others fought hand to hand while one group even lifted weights for endurance and physical prowess. Glistening, sweat stained bodies pushed themselves to the limit all around, blood was drawn from noses and mouths while yelps of surprise surfaced from those too slow to counter training partners.

At the mountains side, sat a great cave mouth, and within that he suspected the clans grand master and closest followers dwelled, honing secret arts and techniques, or so rumour and legend spoke. Ashlan always seemed more sceptical of that.

This place isn't a village, it's a temple for warriors, a factory for blades!

Taking his first ragged breaths of relief all day, being glad to be stood still for a moment, he quickly noticed his masters gaze upon him, piercing and inspecting. Sizing him up as usual. Was he unsure if he would succeed here?

That was when it hit him... Like a lightning bolt to the mind. He let an involuntary gulp forth.

...This is about to get a whole lot harder.

[Okiba]

((As an Experiment in writing, I'm adding music to this chapter, placed at a particular point in the text in a spoiler, just open it up and hit play. once the music begins resume reading from that point! should add to the mood and setting!))

"Do not shun a pup, for one day they may grow teeth and become a Garn." - Frostwolf saying

Devilstep: Chapter 10 - Defiance

"Ghrm, his footwork is sloppy one-arm. You have put too much emphasis on his sword technique, he moves his feet too slowly." Hirakara muttered, gesturing to the scene ahead. The red haired master had a sharp eye for flaws in technique, and took a levy of joy from pointing out the short-comings of students and Ashlan alike.

But a student can always learn...

Ashlan scoffed, watching as Krogon was caught off-guard again, the teenage aspirant receiving a nasty knee to the belly mid blade clash. He had closed too much and over-committed in his step leaving him open to a counter-attack from the student of Hirakara. The Orc in question was named Hirashiro, and his muscled knee had hit home. Now using real, if blunt, Steel; Krogon was moving too slowly and hesitantly to keep pace with sparring opponents much more used to the brutal regime of Hallvalor.

He will have to rise to the challenge now, rather than later...

While his student took a moment to regain his breath, the knee having winded him all while Hirashiro enjoyed a wry laugh at his expense, Ashlan cast an eye around 'home'. Hallvalor had not changed these last years, and it had indeed been years since he was last here. Dhal, the clans grand master, had been content to sit on his hubris engulfed behind while buildings became derelict and standards of training fell. The fire fury in the lava pit had been slumbering for some years now due to improper reverence by the flame-speakers, causing the quality of steel to fall. That and the 'teaching' masters spent most their time huddled in the masters cave, letting their own skills and wits rust.

Shameful.

Ashlan huffed some more, he and Hirakara sat on the sidelines of the ring watching as a second student of Hirakara entered the sparring ring. Krogon was already failing, and now he had to fend off two foes. His student coughed, spat then rubbed his bruised belly, that knee having knocked the air out of him hard.

"Your boy is going to have a lot of bruises by the end of the day, one-arm! You picked a stubborn bone head as a follower, Ha!" Hirakara exclaimed, chuckling as Hirashiro and the second student, Korama, began to circle Krogon. Both were larger than the student of Ashlan, more experienced to boot, this would not end well.

I wonder...

"Perhaps you are right Hirakara, perhaps I did indeed choose poorly, for the wrong reasons." Ashlan spoke, loud enough to be heard by all, his gaze on his student. This instantly drew a steely green eyed glare from Krogon, that defiant look he  always got when snubbed, scorned or bullied. Yes, bullied.

With a turn of his neck, followed by the click of bone and the rolling of shoulders, Krogon raised his training blade above his head, standing his ground for what was to come. the rebuke from his teacher had stirred something in him that Ashlan had been trying suppress or alter for years now, perhaps it was time to let it grow.

Spoiler: show

Hirashiro came at him first, rushing in from his right side. Two steps into the charge, Korama did the same from the left. Krogon could only block one at a time, they were using their numbers and positions against him. Hirashiro swung first, looking to force his smaller foe into the swing of his partner... finding only air. Krogon had ducked, slid and rolled past him in the direction he had come from, and for his efforts Korama ran straight into him, too much momentum making it impossible to stop in time.

That's it, use their numbers against them!

Ashlan grinned, while Hirakara huffed and raised a brow in surprise. Korama was still standing and rushed after Krogon with his blade held to his right, Hirashiro scrambled to his feet and followed. Their green eyed opponent however did not pause or stop to let them overpower him, he ran in a wide circling arc, as either of them swung for a connecting strike, he would spin his body and whack their blows aside with a side stepping strake. once, twice, and a third time. Zigzagging so that Hirashiro and Korama were always blocking each other's paths.

Good Orc, do not tire yourself out...

Ashlan sat up, his eyes wide and hooked on his students sudden clarity and energy, fixated on the fight. Krogon was beginning to breathe hard now though, it took more effort to fight a running battle than stand your ground. Hirashiro tried to take advantage, waiting for Korama to swing and miss before using his powerful muscular legs to propel himself forward with a mighty charging leap...

He hit his mark, or rather, his mark hit him. Krogon ducked just in time, thrusting a brutal fist upward into the gut of Hirashiro as he flew over, sending him hurtling past and into a spin, landing on his back with a thud and groan. The Orc curled into a pained ball, his training sword rattling on the ground, he was out of the fight.

"By Hyperious!--" Hirakara exclaimed, quickly interrupted by the baying hand of Ashlan. "Calm yourself, it is not different than what he did to my student.". Hirakara muttered, simmering down as Korama rushed in, his blade held low, he was moving to make a blow that was hard to block or parry, cutting upwards ready for the counter.

Krogon however had different ideas, running backward in the direction of Hirashiro as Korama approached, his eyes alive not with glee, but with focused concentration. Ashland had without a doubt tapped into something...

Korama swung with all the effort he could, momentum carrying him forward, only to miss as Krogon pushed and leaped backward with his legs over Hirashiro. Korama could not stop himself, but managed to use his momentum to leap over his disabled team mate. Landing with a wobble, he too was greeted by an unwelcome visit from one of Krogon's limbs, an elbow slamming into his fangs.

"Fnngh--!!" was all the second student Hirakara could manage to spit out before he stumbled backward, tripping over Hirashiro clutching his bleeding face. Both lay on the ground stunned. With that, Krogon turned, giving Ashlan a rueful glare, that he could not help but return with a smile as his student stalked off...

"You hustled me, one-arm, did you know he was going to win all along!?" Hirakara growled, standing up. He was angry, his furious gaze fixed on the groaning bodies of his defeated students.

"Some things are a surprise to us all, old friend. Needless to say, you and I both learnt a valuable lesson today." Ashlan smiled, dusting himself down as he stood.

"And what is that, one-arm?" Hirakara muttered, looking to Ashlan with a perplexed frown. He was a master of sword skills, not of philosophy as ever.

"You learned not to overplay your hand, I however learned that you can motivate someone in unexpected ways ."

[Okiba]

"All hearts have two halves."

Devilstep: Chapter 11 - Kosh'Harg

"And stay out of trouble, observe, learn and witness the ways of our race-- Dam it Orc sit still!" Ashlan barked, his eyes aflame with annoyance as he folded his arm and a half across his chest. Hirakara chuckled as Krogon fidgeted, he was eager, filled with energy and a lust to explore. Hirashiro and Korama stood beside him, their eyes darting here and there too, trying to take in all that was around them.

Hurry up one-arm! this festival only lasts so long...

"Now, remember what we have said. Do not come crawling back to Hallvalor stinking of ale or fleeing a fight. Do I make myself clear?" Ashlan squinted, his purple eyes full of weary scepticism. He was not happy about this, but Hirakara had insisted the trio of students had the chance to see the other Orcs gathered here, Clans and all. It was Kosh'harg after all.

"Yes master!" The three answered instantly, turning as they finished before hastily walking off before their teachers could add another word. Krogon could of swore he heard Ashlan curse and Hirakara laugh as they made their way toward the mountain of spirits, Oshu'gun.

Something new, a change from the routine in that dam village...

He was relieved to be free of training for a few days, the boredom was driving him mad. The repetitive daily activities of the settlement had long since worn thin, five months he had been in Nagrand. Five months he had been cooped up in that pit. But today, with his sixteenth winter passed, he and the others would celebrate the spring Kosh'harg among the gathered crowds.

So many of them...

He never imagined so many Orcs existed. There had to be thousands and more, camped on the green grassy meadows in the shadow of the diamond mountain. Packed thick here, thin there, some in great circles as they spoke and discussed, others in lines as they bought, sold and exchanged food. Some traded, many bartered, others gave freely of their produce. Massive cauldrons of Clefthoof and talbuk stew bubbled over fires, while other delicacies dripped fat over fires.

The smells and scents were intoxicating, the clacking of mugs and cheerful chanting rang in his ears as a burly Blackrock, dark of skin thrust a giant frothing mug into his hands.

"Here young one! Drink! Gahaha! enjoy yourself!" Chortled the mountain of dark muscle, handing out flagons from a keg he had under one arm. Despite his size, within moments he had vanished into the crowd... along with Hirashiro and Korama. He was alone among a forest of souls, with nobody to judge him for a single indulgence.

One drink won't hurt, will it?

He shrugged, it wouldn't. And so he drank, one glug, two glugs, a third and empty. He downed the dark frothing liquid as it burnt his throat, leaving his stomach warm and bubbly. It was delicious, and left him wanting more, yet the giver of this fine gift had vanished. He would find him later... once had explored some more.

I wonder if all the clans are here?

He pushed his way through the hustle and bustle, moving from one large group to another. Each clan had settled down on a particular patch of ground in a great circle, separated by a short distance between each other. In between formed roads of those who wished to move in-between. He stood among Warsong who laughed and boasted of great battles, Blackrock that drank and joked, Shadowmoon who danced and spoke of omens. Then he realized.

What if there are Frostwolf here? Perhaps mother and bro--

Before he had willed his feet to take action, he was running, barging through the crowd in search. From one great clan circle to another he bounded, raising angry protests at his haste. It did not take long for him to spot the great blue and white banners of home, the snow white wolf of his own clan. Pushing to the forefront of their great circle, past carts and their iconic white wolf mounts, Krogon found himself among his own people. Yet not.

They all seem so alien...

He was now dark of skin, clad in the tough fabrics and leg plates of a clan that had adopted him. They were all pale, wearing furs with wolves at their side. He was one of them no longer. Yet that did not mean family was not to be found here. His green eyes scanned left, and right, from pup to elder and from warrior to shaman, yet he spied no sign of his Mother or Brother--

"Watch where you stand bucket head!" Exclaimed a soft voice that had taken a sharp edge, as he got an elbow in the side forcing him to step to his left. Past him strode a figure that paced out into the open centre of the circle, to applause and pleased gasps. Rubbing his now sore side, Krogon first thought to bark a challenge or insult but instead found his supposed assailant to change his mind...

By the fire of Hyperion...

She was beautiful. Is what anyone could say, any fool can say that word and not understand what that means. But she truly was. Her long purple hair cascaded down to her back with a two long braids passing her small pointed ears. She was his height, dressed in simple fur robes that covered her modestly yet conservatively... her pale green skin was smooth, but winter proven. And her face? she bore two small tusks of pearl white, but a strong face that wore a proud yet kind expression. He could not take his eyes off of her... all thought of conflict leaving him.

And then, she began to sing...

Spoiler: show

"Late lies the wintry sun a-bed..."

The crowd closed their eyes as if her voice had spirited them away. He could feel it too, those harmonious tones, strong yet gentle caressing his ears in such a way that could lull a raging wolf to peace, the rest of the festival became quiet to him, all he could hear was her...

"...A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again..."

She began to walk the circle, smiling and turning as she strode. A dance that complimented her wondrous voice and the subtle joy it held. He was staring now, and all others be dammed if they knew it, he could not look away.

"...Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress..."

Her song was Frostwolf to the core. Of winter and its daily chores. Yet it was not sad, nor was it truly over glad. It was perfect, leaving him content to listen to more while his arms and jaw hung limp in awe.

"...Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a Clefthoof-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door..."

Left and right, around the circle the clan sat. All rocking from side to side with every word, gripped and glad for the gift she was giving them. Everything else didn't matter, not the other clans raucous shenanigans or the great festival and the spirit mountain itself. She had them all captivated as she began to dance, her hands and legs moving in sync as she bounded and span, but the song remained the same even pace. Unlike his heart, that began to race.

"...When to go out, my aunt doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose..."

What did Ashlan say? Don't get drunk and involved in fights...?

Of that there was no danger he thought, no, this was something entirely different. A thousand times more enchanting and dangerous than stolen Draenei wines, or angry Warsong warlords...

Her dance was coming to an end now as she surveyed all those around her, the song near done. As the last lines escaped her lips she set her deep purple eyes on him. Looking at him, through him, curiosity in her expression, then a smile. She could see the way he looked at her now, dumbfounded as he was...

"...Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake..."

No, he didn't warn me of this...

Because as of that moment, His heart was hers.

[Okiba]

"There is nothing more honest and pure than the love we find in youth." - Hir'golaask the crone

Devilstep: Chapter 12 - Beloved

((play music now!))

Spoiler: show

Each hair was dark as night. Not the black of dirt or soot, nor smoke or shadow. But the night, as if it was made of a thousand different shades all intertwined and limitless in depth. She could count each strand for a lifetime, running her hands through the jet black forest that crowned his heads, letting each hair caress the inside of her hands.

We would be here all Day and Night. Not that I would dislike that...

The air was cool, after a warm spring day. Not too hot, nor too cold. Here by the river among the long grass above the banks they had spent the day. Sat with him laying so that his head rested upon her lap, he slept, or dozed, it was hard to tell.

Always so on guard.

His behaviour was odd. Even for a would be 'warrior', but she had quickly admitted to herself she liked that about him, his little awkward frowns and pup like attempts at being stoic. It was amusing, but he had other charms. He was crafty, and coy. That's how he had wooed her she thought. At first with little jabs at her singing, which she knew he liked, then with more dry wit. That is, once he had built up the courage to speak to her after staring from across the camp fires for hours.

Embarrassed yet still proud...

She liked that most, she thought, running a single finger across the edge of his chin. The dark stubble that rest there was new, showing his youth and junior years but was well spread. One day he would grow a thick beard perhaps. The tickling sensation of her touch brought a twitch to his nose and a smile to his lips as his eyes opened, looking up into her own.

"How long have I slept?" He asked. Those green eyes fixed on her. Of all his features she like them the most, how they betrayed his thoughts and showed his feelings. The shade was curious, emerald green, like the gems the Draenei sometimes cut, but deeper, alive.

"Too long, you would have me sat here with you all night and day if I allowed it, my brothers will be wondering where I am..." She answered, taking her right hand from the caress of his chin to place a palm upon his chest. His heart bat strong, and steady. Calm and at peace. He smiled at her, flashing his fangs.

"You let me worry about your brothers Bor'la. Are you not glad to be here with me?" He quirked a brow, the most subtle of wry smiles on the corner of his lips. It was true, she would rather be here... instead of cleaning up after her bucket headed brothers.

But I will have to return to them at the camp near the spirit mountain soon...

She sighed making no reply, looking to the river in dismay. The slow running waters cascaded south, until they reached a bend and headed west. They were close to the stones of prophecy here, not far from where she told her brothers she would be visiting. Of course, she had never made it there to commune with the spirits. The deception pained her, for having lied to her siblings and not speaking to her ancestors. Some aspiring shaman she was.

But this feels right...

A light caress of the wind rustled through the reads and grass, running over her skin like the hand of a friend. until she looked down to see his scarred hands cupping her chin.

"What pains you?" He asked, his brows furrowed, not with anger but with concern and worry, those green orbs searching her for answers.

He cares for my troubles...

"We cannot do this forever..." she answered, her voice light but sad, the thought that they would be separated made her heart pang and race. "I will have to return to the clan in Frostfire. And you to your training with your Master..." she finished, it was true, they would have to go their separate ways. A weaker Orc would of shed a tear, her mother would have, but her father taught her to be strong, containing her emotions as if she was the stony frozen earth.

He sat up, placing his hands on the grass for support, grunting. He sat to her right as she looked out to the river and grasslands beyond, his back to her. He was thinking, she knew it, he wasn't intelligent... but he took his time to think, to think for solutions. Though there was none to this.

Oh spirits, why do you do this to us?

"what if..." he spoke up, turning his head, shifting to sit on his knees facing her. He had a thoughtful expression, one of calculation and strain. As if he was on the cusp of a great plan or epiphany. "...what if we bonded?" He looked up, trying to meet her gaze.

Bonded--

Her heart skipped a beat, looking at him startled with her bright purple eyes. Was he serious? Perhaps, it was often hard to tell when he joked, but his eyes betrayed him. He was honest now, his affection clear in how he looked at her. But her brothers would never allow it, nor would his master...

"We would never be allowed..." She began, her shoulders sagging, it was true and he should of known it.

"then we don't tell anyone. I will finish my trials soon, and will be my own Orc, free of the commands given by Ashlan. And you could tell your brothers you are becoming a student of the shaman at the stones of prophecy... they are fighting for the Warsong for a few moons no? killing ogres?" He answered, staring at her as if every word he uttered made perfect working sense. "...they will be close by, so you can see them, and when we are ready we can tell anyone and everyone we want..." He finished, shuffling across the grass to be close to her.

It could work, but maybe...

"We don't know..." She started, uncertain, with so much to consider.

"I know--" He was about to add, but she had to stop him, cut him off and get a pause. He had taken the idea and run away with it beyond her wildest imagination. What would become of her shaman training, her brothers? so much else too...

"you can't know anything for certain, only the spirits can. This may not work, and maybe it's not to be, maybe this is not love--" She spoke, strong and wilful until he raised a finger to place upon her lips, gentle but firm.

"no, heart of my heart, I know" he finished. Smiling as his hand turned and moved from her lips to caress her chin, certainty in those deep green eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat, not with worry or shame at these deceits, but with joy. Raising her purple eyes to meet the emerald of his, she smiled from tusk to tusk, knowing that she wanted this too.