Rabid Wolf

[Groshnok]

Booty Bay, two and a half months ago…

“Play!” the goblin screamed, his hand in the air calling for silence from the room as the gun was slammed onto the table. Its six chambers had been spun, with a bullet in one. On either side, surrounded by a ring of gathered people of all races, sat an orc, and a troll, staring at the revolver in front of them. It was the troll’s turn. The old Darkspear sighed, picking the gun up and placing it to his blue temple. The orc across, watched expectantly. His hand, clenched in an iron grip around a mug, brought it to his lips, as he took back another gulp of ale.  Eyes bulged all around, and the odd voice hollered for the troll to pull the trigger already.

click.

Cheers and groans alike erupted as the troll breathed out a sigh, placing the gun back on the ground. The orc’s brow furrowed. They’d been gone at this game for three rounds now. He was hoping it would’ve ended there. He wanted it to. His eyes glanced down to the mug, half full now, bringing it to his lips again for another gulp. While he’d only been gone for a few weeks from his family, he was starting to miss them dearly, this close to death not helping the situation. But money, money was needed. As much as he knew his mate could survive with their cub on their own in the wild, he wanted to have gold stashed away for them, so they could live a safe life. And this was the ultimate opportunity to achieve that.

One in the chamber.

High risk, but high reward. The gold he had already earned from his previous games in the past week, and this last one now, would have his family set fine. They could move away from the pack they travelled with, maybe have a nice life on a farm in Durotar with boar. Yes, he would like that. His mind had been troubling him all these years, the war he’d fought since he was born had fractured it. Maybe a quiet life could once again repair it. He had sought peace, and this he felt, could be the answer. Finally, he’d be free from the screams, from the constant need to kill. The orc looked down at the golden liquid again as the goblin spun the gun again.
And, he’d be free from that curse. The alcohol he had begun to realise tarnished his mind, had nearly driven the love of his life away from him. And now, with this new child of theirs, he could not allow it to grow up with a drunkard as a father.

“Play!”

The orc looked down at the gun, picking it up and placing it to his head. He had done this before, but this would be the last, he hoped. Death was not what he feared. He had become too desensitised to the feeling of its approach. He only felt a longing to see his family again. The trigger, his finger wrapped in it, was sticky and crusted, no doubt from the blood of whom this game had taken. He stared down at the ale, he did not realise he’d taken a quarter from it in that last gulp. Shouts were ringing in his head, not only the voices that plagued his mind but the voices of the angered crowd. He realised he’d been dwelling too long.

click

He tuned out the din of the outside for a moment as he put the weapon back down, sighing. He’d seen the effects of a cub growing up with a drunkard. It would not do. No, he would make them into a hardened warrior, he would be the one they’d strive to be like. Looking up, the roar of the crowd coming back to him, the troll had the gun to his head. He looked around at the faces, hungry for blood and gold. Just as he was. Funny, how all races could come together over one motivation. No bloodshed between orc and human happened in here. The citizens and visitors of Booty Bay loved their bloodsports and death games. As he did. Only this time he was in the chair. The troll’s eyes shut tight, his arm shaking a bit. The orc’s eyebrows raised. This was it, he knew it.

click

The orc let out a snarl as the cheers and groans erupted again. This game seemed to be going on forever. Maybe he could wrangle out a deal from the goblin that he could get a bigger cut for staying in so long? Surely there had been a lot of money put on this match at this stage, as the turns dragged on. He saw the arm raise, and the familiar shout from the cigar-smoking gamemaster ring out, the gun placed in front of him. The orc looked over to his mug of ale, raising it to his lips and draining it completely, as his other arm raised the gun to his temple. This was it. The last ale he would drink. He promised himself that. He’d go home clean, with money, they’d move to Durotar and live a happy life. His cub, and his future cubs would grow up to be great warriors, his experience over the twenty seven years he’d been alive would make sure of that. He smiled, a genuine one for the first time in ages. Things would get better, fin-

BANG!

[Kozgugore]

Innocent fun and games as always! Good to see you and your stories again, Grosh!

[Groshnok]

Chapter 1

Groshnok Gorewrath takes a gulp of ale from his mug.

“Damn, that’s fifty more gold on the contract then, kid!” the goblin sitting next to him declared, as they both watched from their table the body of the orc who had lost being dragged off. It seemed death had caused an iron grip around his empty mug which could not be pried from. Groshnok grunted in amusement, turning to the goblin.

“Aye. This be why y’don’ be’ ‘gainst me, Fax,” he said, his grin the only part of his face being visible from under the wolf mask. Peering up, he watched as the old troll tottered off, it seemed the last few rounds had shaken him well. Peering over to the goblin, he cleared his throat loudly to get his attention over the din of the crowd. “So contract,” he started. “Wha’s it this time? Y’bring me off to a fuckin’ games room ‘fore tellin’ shi’. Y’tryin’ to wine an’ dine me ‘fore y’fuck me?”

The goblin left out a loud cackle at that, turning to Groshnok with a mischevious grin. “Ha! Startin’ to sound like ya don’t trust me. Have I ever not come through for you boys?” The orc shrugged in response.

“S’pose no’,” he answered.

“Speakin’ of you boys, where’s the rest of yer band of hoodlums, eh?” Fax said with a chuckle. Groshnok flinched, his eye turning back to the table.  Gra’tagesh, Reg’nosh, Gre’lak, and even the Raper. All dead. One by his hand, in a self-defence against betrayal. He snarled lowly at the voices in his head as they chanted the names, over, and over, before finally he could blurt it out.

“Dead.”

The goblins eyes widened slightly, but he nodded in understanding. “Heh. The jungle claims all, eh? Y’know, was wondering why I didn’t see yer leader guy down here anymore. It’s been months since anyone’s seen him, actually…” The goblin peered at Groshnok, eyeing him up and down. “… How do you know he’s dead?” Groshnoks eyebrows furrowed, as he let out an annoyed grunt.

“I’d heard whispers o’ ‘im missin’. Grat was never a runner. ‘im’s dead if ‘im’s no’ back.” The goblin seemed satisfied with this response. Groshnok sighed, leaning back in the chair. He could remember his blood-brother’s face as clear as day as the life went out of it. When the life nearly went out of him, too, if not for his mate saving him. He wasn’t right for weeks after that. His already frayed psyche torn even more. The one orc he thought he could trust more than anyone, even more than his own mate, betraying him so easily, ordering his death for the lust for power he so craved. It was sickening. But then, when had any of them ever believed in honour? There was no honour in their work. Lap dogs of the Horde, the clearers and the butchers, the ones never talked about for their deeds. The rabid wolves. It was all flooding back now, as he peered over to Fax. Their first meeting. Half a decade ago, it must have been, if not more.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“C’mon, t’fuck,” growled Gra’tagesh, slapping Groshnok across the back of the head lightly. “Down tha’ an’ ge’ movin’, we’s near late for the meetin’.” Groshnok snorted, but drained the ale, standing up and moving with the leader of their pack. Outside the inn, at the edge of the docks of Booty Bay, stood two of his other comrades, chatting to eachother as they waited.

“Took ye’ long enough,” grunted Gre’lak in amusement. The former Frostwolf leaned back against a broken boat, his blue eyes peering at the two exiting the inn.

“Aye, ‘ad t’get this young pup movin’ his arse, ‘tis like a nightmare tryin’,” snorted Gra’tagesh. Groshnok snorted back, peering at Reg’nosh, leaning his hand on a pole.

“Ye’ needin’ a cane t’stand there, y’old fuck?” Groshnok quipped with a smirk, earning a growl from the older orc.

“I’m not tha’ old ye’ lil’ runt,” Reg’nosh replied, before looking back to Gra’tagesh. “Couldn’t find Urgarok, bu’ I’m sure we can start without him, aye?”

“We’ll ‘ave t’, then,” sighed Gra’tagesh. “I’m gonna beat tha’ idiot bloody nex’ I see ‘im. This gobo wan’s a good squad, an’ we show up to ‘im without t’fift’ orc we said we’d ‘ave, it ain’ gonna look good.”

“We’ll be fine, Grat,” said Groshnok. “T’Raper may be t’best shooter we’s go’, bu’ if t’gobbo takes one look at ‘im all ‘e’s seein’s a weaklin’ made o’ skin an’ bone.” The pair by the boat nodded in agreement. Gra’tagesh grunted his acceptance, walking off up the dock, motioning for the other orcs to follow him. Walking through some shady alleys, they eventually came to a metal door. Groshnok stood back against the opposite wall, one hand resting on the sheath on his left hip. Gra’tagesh seemed to knock in a sequence, which was answered a few seconds later by a hobgoblin looking through a slit.

“What you want?” it said. Gra’tagesh glared into its eyes, grunting.

“We’s here t’see Fax,” Gra’tagesh answered. The slit closed, and the door was unlocked. Ushered in by the brute, the orcs walked through a small storage area and into a large room, empty aside from a table and two chairs in the middle, and a goblin sitting in a cushy leather chair, feet up on a desk, behind it.

“So nice of you to finally arrive! Grat’chess, wasn’t it?” the goblin said with a grin, puffing the cigar between his lips. Gra’tagesh growled lowly at the goblin.

“Gra’tagesh,” he replied. “An’ these is t’res’ o’ t’squad. We’s here for t’job.”

“The rest of the squad?” asked Fax cockily. “I only see four of you. Where is your fifth? Did you idiots lose him?” Fax let out a loud cackle, which was stopped short with Gra’tagesh’s shadow looming over him. The orc’s eyes looked dead as he stared down at the goblin. Fax shook a bit, but sighed. “Geez, relax. I’m just bustin’ yer balls.” He nodded towards a file on the desk, which the orc snatched up, flicking through it. “Slave number 23 and slave number 45,” Fax began. Two humans of mine. Seems they got a bit too friendly with eachother if you know what I mean. 23’s after knocking up 45. And so while we were all getting shitfaced at a party the last night, the two took it as an opportunity to escape.” Fax’s eyes turned dangerous, his fist slamming with rage onto the desk. “No one fucks Fax. No one.” He stared up at Gra’tagesh, who was looking at the pictures in the file, and a map.

“So, I’m gonna guess this map be t’camp o’ there’s?” asked Gra’tagesh, peering at it.

“Sure is,” answered Fax. My boys been telling me they been seeing smoke out that direction and it’s moving slowly, gotta be them. They’re moving slow, seems 45’s a bit along with the child in.”

“And why don’t ‘your boys’ do this job?” asked Gra’tagesh, peering at the goblin suspiciously. Fax laughed, looking up at the orc.

“What, are you crazy? I got a business to run, I can’t waste my or my boys time chasing up these idiots. Time is money friend, and all our time’s spent on making sure these games go right and making sure our trade stays flowing!” declared Fax.

Gra’tagesh smirked. “Outsourcing, right. So, how much for each?”

Fax perked up, his hands clasping together on the desk. “Well… these two I want. Real, real bad. They crossed me.” Fax lowered his head, sighing. “100 gold for each, ALIVE. None if they’re dead. An extra 100 if you bring them back before the seventh horn…” Fax looked up, menacingly. “They’ll be the first game tonight, if you do.”

Gra’tagesh nodded, satisfied, and turned to leave.

“Wait.”

The room looked over to Groshnok, peering at Fax.  “Ye’ say two lives, 100 each?” Fax’s eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“Yeah… what are you getting at?”

“Well, shouldn’ ye’ be offerin’ us an’ extra 50?” Groshnok asked, his eyes locking with the goblin. Gra’tagesh peered confusedly at his subordinate, before understanding what he meant, turning to Fax with a grin.

“Heh, the pup’s righ’. Ye’ SHOULD be offerin’ us an extra 50. T’half life ‘er ‘as.” Fax’s eyes widened a moment in realisation, before a cackle arose from his mouth.

“You boys… heh. Yer good, I’ll give ya that. Fine. Fine. An extra 50. Now go. I want them back in time.” Fax nodded towards the door sternly, watching as they headed out. Groshnok followed Reg’nosh, last, glancing back to Fax with a smirk before he shut the door.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Groshnok sighed, peering over to the goblin. “Don’ ye’ worry, I’ll get this shit sorted meself. Wha’ is it yer wantin’?”  Fax peered over to the orc, passing him a file. Groshnok took it, a map of the Cape of Stranglethorn inside. North up the road from Booty Bay was a place marked with a red X.

“Bastard humans, again. Me trade routes bein’ disrupted constantly. I’ve had to dip into my pit fighters to keep this game running!” hollered Fax, pointing to the table. “This is my big money kid, and if this goes down, I go down with it. It’s been going on for years, and now these… runts. Caravans pass and they take them! Their camp grows stronger with every delivery. It’s getting out of control.” Fax glared over to Groshnok, fire in his eyes. “You understand what I’m asking, kid? This shit needs to be taken care of.”

“Don’ ye’ worry,” Groshnok nodded with a grunt. “I know Stranglethorn like t’back o’ me hand. These pigs is out of their depth here. Probably a’ready bein’ picked off by t’wild, if y’ask me. Bu’ I’ll make sure ‘ems burnt t’cinders. Trust me.” He grinned over at Fax. “Ye’ know it’s jus’ me now Fax. Bu’ don’ le’ tha’ think ye’ can pull one over on me.” Leaning over the table, Fax could only see a mouth curl into a malovent smile. “If ye’ fuck me over on this, I’ll skin ye’ like a pig an’ hang ye’ jus’ like one.” Sitting back straight, Groshnok took the file and put it in his pouch, standing up and giving the goblin a knowing nod. The crowd around them was filtering out the door and into the night. Groshnok took his mug, and turned to leave.

“Y’know kid, in all this time, I’ve never known yer name,” said the goblin behind him. Groshnok turned still smirking, eyeing the goblin. Voices swirled in his head, but for some reason, Siyah’Gosh the Diviner’s one seemed to ring.

“T’Rabid Wolf,” said the orc, as he turned to walk out the door. The night breeze was cool over the Bay, but at least it was not freezing, like other areas of Azeroth during winter. The orc came to the Bay’s edge, leaning up against a broken boat, his eyes fixed on the sight of the full moon above him in the clear sky.

Groshnok Gorewrath takes a gulp of ale from his mug.

[Groshnok]

Since this story will feature flashbacks to Groshnok's years in Stranglethorn, I would recommend reading my other story, Loose Ends, which features one of the characters from his flashbacks, as well as mentions the others. The story takes place in July of last year.

http://orcsoftheredblade.com/forum/index.php?topic=3981.0

[Groshnok]

Chapter 2

“You plannin’ on torchin’ a business, bub?” the old goblin asked from behind the counter, absent mindedly stroking his white beard as he peered at the orc in front of him, clad in only a white vest, leather pants, and a sheathed mace on his back. The orc looked up after filling the second bottle with gasoline, grunting from under his wolf mask.

“Ye’ go’ any rags?” asked Groshnok, still on one knee as he looked at the shop owner. The goblin stared at him for a few moments, before sighing, leaping down from his stool with a moan, his joints cracking as he hobbled to the back of the shop, taking down two clean brown rags from one of the shelves. He tossed them over the counter to the orc, struggling to get back onto his high stool. Groshnok gave a small nod of thanks, soaking the rags in petrol before cramming each into the neck of the bottles. The goblin paid no more attention, returning to his paper.

“Y’know if yer from that orc place up north, could ya tell them to quit snoopin’ around here? We don’t know none of a missin’… whatever he was,” said the goblin with a grumble. Groshnok perked up at this, fixing his attention on the old shopkeeper.

“ ‘im? Bu’ ‘im disappeared months ago,” said Groshnok, his eyebrows furrowing. The shopkeeper just wafted his hand.

“Oh, don’t I know it. They don’t come around as much nowadays, still once a month though, and once a month is too damn much! They’re drivin’ away all my business whenever they show up!” snarled the goblin, resting his elbow on the countertop. Grumbling to himself, Groshnok got to his feet, putting one of the bottles in a tight pouch, and keeping the other in his hand.

“Put this on Fax’s tab, will ye’?” Groshnok said, heading out the door. The goblin stared after him.

“You tell that bastard he still owes me money frâ€"oh forget it!” shouted the goblin, returning to his paper. “No one ever listens to old Grik these days anyway.”

His preparations complete, Groshnok made his way towards the main gate. His half-garn was too wild to keep with other animals in the stables, so he’d done what he always did. Let it off in the surrounding area. It was a big animal, it could take care of itself fine. The half-garn, fel, how long had it been now?  A year, nearly a year and a half, surely, when the tribe had tamed them. The usual dance of death to show the beast you were more powerful, and it was yours. The tribe, he dwelled. It’d been a few weeks since he’d left them in Razor Hill. He needed to get away, something wasn’t right. Peace times were always bad times with him, no action, let the mind wander, and Groshnok’s mind was not one that was made to wander. Boredom came easily, boredom led to drinking, which led to hangovers, which led to his mind becoming more pained, the voices becoming more loud, no action. Action was needed, bloodlust kept the mind active. And what a rush. The rush, he had experienced near every day in his years in Stranglethorn. It had called him back, and he had welcomed it. The memories, the nostalgia, the battles, the burnings. The burnings. The burnings.

No.

Snapping out of it, Groshnok realised he had come to the end of the main gate, the vast jungle of the Cape lying before him. He shook his head, slapping it once. Focus. This was no time to be getting side tracked. He had a job to do. Letting out a sharp whistle, he watched the trees for a few moments, before a blood-snouted worg bounded from them with a snarl. The orc smiled, hoisting himself up into the saddle, petrol bottle still clasped tightly as he grabbed the reigns. He’d take the worg up the main road for a bit, but not too close to the camp. He couldn’t afford to be spotted. Whipping the reigns, the worg took off, Groshnok staring up the road as the trees came towards him and passed by. Burnings had nearly been routine in his grunt days. Trolls trying to encroach upon lands that the Horde was carving out around the Grom’gol base. Small villages trying to set themselves up, with plans of expanding. It couldn’t be allowed. That was their squad’s objective. Burn them out. There was a certain ecstasy in them, watching the chaos unfold amongst the flames. It hadn’t always been that like that though. His first burning, at the time, had been horrific. How different his eyes were back then.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


“Weapons ready, pup?” the old orc said with a smirk, eyeing Groshnok’s twin axes at each of his hips. Groshnok nodded sternly in response, standing up straight.

“Weapons ready, sir,” said Groshnok, saluting Reg’nosh. Laughter broke out amongst the hut, the rest of the squad nearly doubled over at Groshnok’s expense. The young warrior couldn’t understand what was so funny. He peered around. Gra’tagesh, the strong leader, was sitting on his hammock, having spat out some of the ale he was drinking. Gre’lak, brutish in size and muscle, was leaning on his greataxe’s head, snorting. Urgarok, scrawny, with only some lean muscles, was cackling to himself in the corner, filling his quiver with bolts. Groshnok could surely say he’d never saw an uglier looking orc. Boils seemed to cover every part of the orc’s body, and his demeanor… there was something off about him. But he had seen the orc shoot, and he was impressed. Urgarok could pin a fly to a tree, Groshnok reckoned. He had only been with the squad a few days, transferred from the blistering cold of Borean Tundra to this blistering, murky heat. His attention turned back to Reg’nosh in front of him, finishing a snigger.

“Ah, ye’ll learn yet. We’ll ‘ave t’teach him!” hollered the old orc, earning another round of laughs from the hut. Groshnok’s eyebrow perked, but he still remained upright.

“Teach what, sir?” inquired the young orc. It was Gra’tagesh this time, who piped up from the back.

“This ain’ no formal army, pup. Ye’ won’ las’ long ‘round here if ye’ keep all tha’ demeanor up.” His grin seemed to have a malovent twinge to it. “This ain’ Razor Hill no more.” The squad leader returned to putting on his armour, leaving his new recruit in a confused state. He decided it best to follow though, and relaxed himself, taking his shoulderpads and fixing them on. The outfit was exactly the same as ones he’d worn previously as a grunt in Kalimdor, except instead of the red dye of the regular grunt armour, it had been dyed green. He looked up to see the four orcs were leaving, as he sprang to his feet himself to follow.

“Keep t’eyes peeled,” Gre’lak said sternly to Groshnok as they walked through the trees. The younger orc looked over, puzzled, to realise there was no joke this time. His comrade’s eyes were fixed, focused, looking for any discrepancy that could lead to their doom. Peering around to the others, he realised they were doing the exact same. Groshnok unsheathed his weapons, a certain nervousness coming to him. This was new land, unfamiliar land. He’d never been in a jungle before. Was it this bad? Was it panthers about? No. No, he realised. Trolls.

“We’re comin’ up now,” whispered Gra’tagesh, as he perched on a ledge of some upper ground. Below them was a small drop, following into a campsite with some huts. Groshnok’s ears perked, he could hear the faint bustle from it in the distance. Laughter? He took his position beside Gre’lak, peering towards the camp. He’d been involved in similar operations in the Barrens with quilboar. Kill the fighters, rout the rest. It was a lot more difficult when you were in a habitat not natural to you, and your enemy being at least a foot taller, however.

“I gots a shot, I do...” came a low voice from above, dripping with glee. “He’s a big one too!” Groshnok looked up to find Urgarok was perched on a branch, staring down his crossbow.

“Wait,” said Gra’tagesh, holding his hand up. “Reg’nosh. Bottle.” Silently, Reg’nosh padded over next to Gra’tagesh, producing what appeared to be an ale bottle with a  rag in it. He looked over to the squad leader to find he had produced a box of matches, lighting one, he tipped it off of Reg’nosh’s bottle’s rag, lighting it into a flame. Groshnok blinked. A fire bottle? It was a risky move, it could hit a non-combatant. Before he knew it, Reg’nosh had slipped down the drop, Gre’lak with him. The old orc began to break out into a run, hurling the flaming bottle towards the tents.

“Now!” roared Gra’tagesh, dropping his arm and taking off down the slope. Groshnok followed suit, keeping directly behind his squad leader, an axe poised in each hand. The screams and confusion began to grow louder as they hurled themselves into battle. Screams of steel and voices pierced from all around. Groshnok roared as he found himself driving his right axe into the gut of an approaching troll warrior, his other sinking into its head. Spinning around, he moved to slice his left axe to parry a sword strike he spotted coming out of the corner of his eye, when his heard leapt. The left axe had become stuck, embedded in the troll he had killed’s skull. The troll before him screamed, the sword held above his head, ready to strike down…

The warrior’s scream cut short by a bolt piercing his chest. Groshnok looked up into the canopy to see a grinning Urgarok, loading his crossbow. Quickly, Groshnok pried his axe from the skull, peering around to find his comrades had dispatched the few other fighters the campsite had. They were… rounding the rest up? He peered curiously at them, something was not right. Why weren’t they routing them. The battle was done, there was no honour in tormenting those left. Kick them out and be done with it.

“Blackrend, get yer arse o’er here and help us!” snarled Gra’tagesh, glaring at Groshnok. The young orc nodded, darting to the squad leader’s side. “See tha’ big hut o’er there?” said Gra’tagesh, pointing to a building that had not been touched by the flames. “Round ‘em in there.” He was uneasy, but Groshnok did as he was told, helping the others form a circle to get the remainder of the camp into the hut. He looked at the faces, some angry, some terrified. An old man holding himself up by a cane, a small child clutching her mother. Gre’lak had come over with a wooden barrier from the side of the camp, blockading it in front of the hut’s door. Groshnok’s nerves began to grow again, as he looked over to Gra’tagesh.

“What… what is it you’re doing?” he asked. He knew the answer as soon as he saw the grin from the orc beside him. There was no need for words. To his left, He watched as Urgarok dragged a screaming troll into the bushes, a crossbow bolt deep embedded in her leg. Just what was he…?

“This is life here, pup,” said Gra’tagesh lowly. “Look o’er there.” Groshnok followed his finger, landing at the remains of a troll, no older than 12, lying dead with an axe firmly grasped in his hands. “They be trained from birt’, like us, t’fight. If we don’ ge’ rid o’ ‘em all, ‘em’ll jus’ come back t’kill us later.” There was a certain look that drove a sinking feeling into the pit of Groshnok’s stomach that Gra’tagesh was giving him. “D’ye’ understand?” Groshnok just stared at the orc in front of him, half disgusted, half wondering how in the spirits he got here. Gra’tagesh’s brow furrowed as he produced a dagger, pointing it towards Groshnok. “I said, d’ye’ understand?”

“Yes,” Groshnok answered quickly. He would not die over a petty matter. Besides, maybe the orc had a point. The jungle was a harsh, unforgiving place, and the people to survive had to be harsh and unforgiving. This would be for the good of the Horde… wouldn’t it? Gra’tagesh’s furrowed expression turned into a smile.

“Good. Now, let’s be goin’. T’raper should nearly be finished by now, I’d say.”

“The who?” asked Groshnok. And it hit him. He looked over to the bushes, disgust plainly across his face. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder.

“Aye, don’ worry. He’s no’ righ’, bu’ he’s t’best damn shooter we’s go’. Ye’ saw ‘im,” said Gra’tagesh with a nod. “It’s better if ye’ jus’ ignore him when this happens.” Gra’tagesh sighed, peering over to Gre’lak. “Light ‘em up.”

Groshnok just stared at the spot in the bushes where Urgarok had gone. Was this what insanity felt like? He had been involved in brutal battle before, but this? This wasn’t warfare. This was slaughter, murder. That bastard general, he had it out for him. Borean hadn’t killed Groshnok, and as punishment he was going to make sure the orc died, or lost his mind here. Ever since the incident in Razor Hill, him only a new grunt. Thinking he could lead some scouting against Kul Tiras, a mission that ended up with the general’s son receiving an arrow through the heart. He’d sought the most miserable posts for Groshnok since, but this was by far the worst. How was he going to survive here? And what was that smell?

The screams had lessened, as he looked over to the flames of the hut, they were silenced. The smell, he realised now what it was. His legs went out from under him, on his knees, he retched, the contents of his meal before the battle now coating the plants on the ground. His head was pounding, all he could hear were their screams. He felt himself be hoisted up by the harness, but could not hear the voice shouting at him to get up. The screams were the only thing that rang through his head. This… this was chaos. Madness.

This was Stranglethorn.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

There were so many screams from so many burnings Groshnok could no longer decipher them from each other anymore. They still swirled in his head, a constant cry. It had become normal over the years, and sometimes strangely soothing. Yanking the reigns, he slowed the half-garn to a halt, spotting smoke in the distance. He would go on foot from here. Stalking into the undergrowth, he pulled his mace from its sheath, passing tree after tree until he could make out the silhouette of the camp in the distance. He sat there for a moment, preparing himself before he would scout closer to analyse it. He placed the fire bottle down on the ground for a moment, taking his hip flask from its clip. It had been a long time since he’d done something like this. He smiled. While his comrades may no longer be alive, this would still just be like old times. Unscrewing the lid, he brought the metal opening to his lips.

Groshnok Gorewrath takes a gulp of whiskey from his flask.

[Groshnok]

Chapter 3

Loud, hurried voices rushed into into his ears as he edged closer through the undergrowth towards the encampment. Groshnok could make out a few shadows from the firelight, seeming to be gathered around in one area. The orc peered left, spying a small perch that would give him the view needed. Climbing on, he surveyed the scene.

Pig tongue, he didn’t speak it, but he could hear the anger, worry, fear in it. Four of them, gathered around some bodies, a few appearing to be missing limbs. The living seemed to be tending to one who remained with them, agonising screams piercing through the camp as his friends tried to save him. The wilds of Stranglethorn were a dangerous place for the unknowing. These humans were too close to a gorilla ground, Groshnok reckoned. It was perfect. They had done half his job for him, and with the remaining few distracted, he would finish it. Placing the mace down for a moment, he dug his hand into a side pocket to produce a square metal box. Flicking the top open, he pulled his thumb against the flint, creating the spark on the zippo lighter.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


“Blackrend, y’have to see this.”

Groshnok looked up from the map he’d been analysing, it had only recently arrived. So much of Stranglethorn had changed following the earthquakes, they were lucky that Grom’gol was not wiped out by a flood. Only now had they finally received the full survey of the damage in this new map. No longer were they in Strangelthorn Vale, but a subset, now it seemed people were calling Northern Stranglethorn. His eyes met Gre’lak, his head poking through the tent opening with a wide grin plastering his face. Groshnok grunted, taking a sip from the mug of ale on the barrel beside him.

“Bit busy here, ‘case y’haven’ noticed,” he said, pointing irritatably to the map on the table. Gre’lak just rolled his eyes, grunting.

“Jus’ move yer arse. The gobbos are after givin’ us some new weapons. Y’won’ believe this.” Groshnok perked up at this, eyebrow raised. New weapons? Coming from goblins, these would be as likely as to blow up and kill you than they would be to kill your enemy. Taking the mug, Groshnok rose to his feet, ducking out of the tent. Following Gre’lak out of the small encampment outside of Grom’gol, the pair made their way down to the beach, where Gra’tagesh seemed to have some sort of rifle in his hand, talking to a goblin. He wasn’t the usual Steamwheedle seller, Groshnok noted.

“So ya carry the fuel up on here,” the goblin said, pointing to his back. “Make sure it’s hooked up, an’ fire away.” The goblins finger moved from his back to a crudely constructed dummy a few metres away from them. Gra’tagesh nodded, aiming the gun towards the dummy.

“Don’ think t’raper’s gonna be able t’carry a rifle tha’ big,” said Groshnok, taking a gulp of ale. Gra’tagesh just grinned back at him, facing again towards the dummy.

“Oho, this ain’ no rifle.” Groshnok’s eyebrow raised, but his questions were answered as Gra’tagesh pulled the trigger. It was as if a dragon had roared from the end of the gun as flames shot forth, scorching their way across the beach and encasing the dummy in an inferno. A cheer rose up from the squad leader, running a hand through his black, braided hair, he turned to the goblin grinning widely. “This’ll do us. This’ll do us well.” The goblin, satisfied with this, toddled off towards Grom’gol with a wave and a promise that he had what they needed in future. Gra’tagesh turned to the two other orcs, both looking astonished. “ ‘em call it a flamethrower,” Gra’tagesh said with a nod.” We won’ need fire bottles no more.”

“Who was tha’ gobbo anyway?” asked Gre’lak, peering after the goblin as he walked up the beach.

“Our new friends, t’Bilgewaters,” answered Gra’tagesh. “Buildin’ all sorts o’ engineerin’ these days, fer us. This thin’ seems more reliable than anythin’ we’s bought down the Bay, too.” He turned to Groshnok, his expression getting more serious. “How goes tha’ map fer us then?”

“Goin’ good, ye’ start gettin’ co-ordinates an’ I’ll start markin’,” said Groshnok. “I heard word ‘bout ‘em gonna make a move soon, somethin’ bein’ ‘bout Zandalars.”

“Well, we’s go’ ‘em righ’ fucked wit’ this now, don’ we!” laughed Gre’lak. “ ‘em won’ know wha’ hit ‘em.” Groshnok snickered, turning back to the tent.

“Well, I’d better get tha’ map knowin’,” he said, tapping his head. “Few bits changed. Ye’d want t’have a look at it too.”  Ducking into the tent, he relaxed on the wooden stool again, studying the map in front of him. They’d need to do a proper scouting soon, to make sure that this map was reliable. He couldn’t believe what that goblin had given them. Such power, they’d barely need to raid before scorching the encampment. It would be interesting to see how its first use turned out.

Groshnok Blackrend takes a gulp of ale from his mug.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The smash of the bottle and the scream of pain as the pig’s nerves were scorched. He was off. Adrenaline coursing, Groshnok charged forward, ducking and weaving to add confusion to the shadows that were twisting and turning to see where the source of the attack was coming from. The bottle had smashed a human clear in the chest, igniting him in the fuel instantly. It was too late for him to put it out, but he tried, desperately as he fell to the floor, his hands in flames trying to pat them out.

Three.

One charged forward blindly, right into his path. Just a dagger, good. Groshnok roared, swinging his mace in a full arc, smashing it into the human’s soft stomach, and letting go.

Two.

The force sent the man, the spiked mace embedded in him, crashing into his female comrade behind, sending her flying into the flames.

One.

Turning with a snarl, Groshnok saw the last remaining human running for an axe next to a tent. He was fast. The orc was faster. Bolting, closing the gap, the orc dove, primal instincts in full force. His claws embedded the man’s torso as he tackled him the the ground, mouth closing around his neck before he could yell.

None.

His powerful jaws locked around the man’s throught as his fangs ripped through the skin, through the jugular, till the gurgling noise could be heard. Biting it away, he stared down at the man, life seeping away, his throat looking as if a worg had ripped it out. The orc’s hands were shaking wildly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. His eyes darted about, but there was nothing left. The red haze began to fade, as much as Groshnok did not want it to. It was the ultimate euphoria an orc could attain. Grunting, he stumbled over to retrieve his mace. It took a good pull, embedded deep within the man, its many spikes had frayed his torso open. The woman behind him, he hadn’t even heard the screams. His attention had been too focused on the fourth human. The rest of the camp was a mess from the earlier attack. It was then, he realised, all this blood would soon attract more predators. Quickly, he sheathed his mace, and skulked off the way he came, back through the undergrowth.


“Damn good job, kid!” shouted Fax with a smile. “Good timin’ too, otherwise business was goin’ south here!” Groshnok took a gulp of ale, peering back at the goblin.

“I said I’d ge’ it done, didn’ I?” he said with a grunt.

“That you did,” said Fax, though, Groshnok noticed, his smile was faultering. “Heh. Y’know, I didn’t want to say it at first but, eh… you’ve kinda got a bit of blood… there.” Fax pointed to his mouth. Groshnok just continued to look at him. “Eheh, eh, never mind. I’ve got a bathroom in the back if you want to wash up, anyway.” Groshnok nodded.

“I’s got some washin’ stuff back at t’inn, it’ll be fine.” With that he stood, draining the rest of the mug.

“Hey, you thinkin’ of stickin’ around here?” asked Fax, peering up at the orc, putting a coin purse on the table, pushing it over to Groshnok. The orc took it and opened it, peering at its contents, satisfied.

“Might do if yer offerin’ somethin’,” replied Groshnok.

“As a matter of fact, I might just be,” smirked Fax. “Why don’t you swing by tonight, I’ll fill you in on the details.”

“Sounds good,” said Groshnok, giving him a final nod as he made his way to the door. Dawn was breaking outside, and it was only now he realised how tired he’d been. The battle’s excitement had all worn, he was drained from the night’s activity. Heading for the inn, it seemed, even in his tired state, his mind was still restless. Going back to the place of his golden years, he thought, might help him, but it seemed to only be making him worse. The constant craving for something to do, he realised, was always sated during his time here. And the cravings, back here, were not being met. He sighed, peering up to find he was already at his room. Walking in, he plopped down on the bed, removing his armour. Lying down, tired, he peered up at the ceiling. He could get used to this, he supposed. Maybe Fax’s job was more permanent, not just a once-off. That would be good. That would be help. He hoped.

[Groshnok]

Chapter 4

The sickening crunch of blade hitting bone as the axe embedded itself in the goblin’s head. It had begun. Gre’lak roared as he pulled the blade forward, raising it to the air in defiance as the many goblin workers in front of him scrambled, some in retreat, some to use their pickaxes as weapons. As one charged Gre’lak, he did not get within two feet before the bullet of a rifle ripped through his chest, sending him skidding across the undergrowth. From left, behind and right, the remaining three warriors charged. Reg’nosh’s polearm sliced the stomachs of two retreating miners, while Gra’tagesh blocked their route. Groshnok charged behind them, ready to meet them full force with his mace once they turned from his commanding officer. It was an easy slaughter. None had been trained to fight. It did not take long for the two orcs to close the gap and butcher those in their way.  

Letting out a grunt of amusement, Groshnok turned around to find a goblin sprinting away from some boxes, his hiding place. A loud crack, and a bullet ripped through his stomach, sending him back on his knees, his last breaths choking out. Groshnok sheathed his mace, walking over to watch its fleeting moments. Gra’tagesh and Reg’nosh pulled back to the canopy, where the Raper lay, while Gre’lak stared at him in confusion. “Ye’ comin’ or no’?” he asked. Groshnok grunted, moving to walk towards him, before freezing. He once again stared down to the Venture Co. miner, at the bullet. The bullet from a rifle… The Raper’s shoulder would be broken from the kick of a rifle. So how could hâ€"

“Hey! C’mon Mr. Muscles, we ain’t got all day!” Groshnok shook his head rapidly, looking up to the place where his comrade stood only a moment ago, his eye widening to see a goblin standing at the spot. What had just happened? It was all coming back to him now… a job from Fax. Clearing out some competition. Groshnok grunted, following the goblin. He had been working for Fax the past two months and still it seemed he was no closer to healing his mind. In fact, the hallucinations had been growing worse. This was not the first time he dreamt the dead lived, and he felt that the goblins were starting to notice. Weakness to them was something to exploit, and he had no want for ending up at the game table. Speeding up his walk, he caught up to the goblin in charge.

“Called Fax there. He’s wantin’ to see ya,” the goblin told the orc, lighting up a cigar between his lips. Groshnok nodded in reply, staying silent. Still trying to process what was going on. The trees had turned to a building, and Fax was in front of him.

Blink.

Zoned out again. He had zoned out again. Fax’s expression bore something akin to a look of suspicion as he handed Groshnok  a pouch containing his wage. “Boys say ya been actin’ funny the last while…” drawled Fax. “Everythin’ okay up there?”

“Fine,” Groshnok blurted with a grunt. “Bloodlust, tha’s all. Ye’ know ‘ow us orcs ge’.” Fax nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“Right then. Whatever you say. Ya can go now, I gots more important shit to attend to than this.” Groshnok nodded, heading for the door. He turned his head as he stood halfway through, his eye locking with both of Fax’s. Those were not eyes that trusted his word. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Heading for the inn, Groshnok kept his thoughts focused. Could it be that the goblin saw the cracks? How much did that squad tell him? There had been violent outbursts from him the first few times he realised that he was not in fact fighting with his dead comrades. Groshnok shook his head, grunting. Maybe it was time to move on. Gadgetzan might have some work for him. There was surely mercenaries needed in the harsh desert. Opening the door of his room, Groshnok made sure to turn the lock behind him. Opening his chest at the foot of the bed, he frantically began to pack, his mind racing with thoughts more desperate by the second. Fax was going to sell him out. He knew it. But how? Grunting, the orc began stuffing the chests content into a satchel, strapping his shoulderpads on. Left done. Righâ€"

“Goin’ somewhere, Blackrend?”

Groshnok froze. The shoulderpad thudded to the floor, as he craned his neck up in horror, looking into the eyes of Gra’tagesh.

[Groshnok]

Chapter 5

There was something about Gra’tagesh that he couldn’t look away from. He wasn’t like the hallucinations earlier, no. He looked as he did back before Groshnok had left Stranglethorn behind, but… there seemed to be something surrounding him… a ghostly aura, Groshnok realised. Shaking his head rapidly, he looked up once again, only to find Gra’tagesh was still standing there, a smug grin now plastering his face.

“Don’ be so down now, Blackrend. I’m not going away anytime soon,” Gra’tagesh glowered.

“Yer no’ real. Yer long dead,” growled Groshnok in retaliation. Gra’tagesh’s grin only grew wider.

“Yer mind is weak. Easy t’pester,” said Gra’tagesh. “I be a spirit, the real thin’…” Floating to the window, Gra’tagesh peered out into the bay. “… or am I?” he asked, whirling around to eye Groshnok again. “Am I jus’ yer imagination?” Snarling, Groshnok returned to snapping on his right shoulderpad, tightening the straps as he adjusted it.

“I don’ ‘ave time fer this,” he said, trying to ignore his dead former comrade floating metres away from him.

“An’ jus’ where are ye’ of to, Groshnok?” asked Gra’tagesh. “Away from Stranglet’orn again, aye, bu’ to where now, I wonder?” Groshnok snarled, hitting the chest with a balled fist.

“Jus’ wha’ d’ye’ care?!” he roared at the spirit. “Ye’ be t’las’ fuckin’ person t’judge me, Grat! Ye’ would’ve brought me down las’ time I was ‘ere fer wha’? Paranoi’ I’d rat ye’ ou’? O’er what?!” Blood was boiling, his vision was close to red, as he stormed up to the pale blue being staring back at his wolf mask. Gra’tagesh only snickered in response. Snarling, Groshnok turned back to the chest, prying it open once again, making sure it was clear. A few silver, he stuffed into the pockets. Clear, but for a scrap of what looked like paper in the corner. Picking it up and examining it, once again, Groshnok froze. For a moment, Gra’tagesh was drowned out, the sound of the world deafened, and the voices and screams that constantly filled his head were silenced. A picture. But not just any kind. Yes, he remembered taking it with him, to remind him of her. Steeped in the madness of the jungle for the past few months, he had almost forgotten what he had left behind.

Both eyes intact, he noted. It was from before Draenor. Long before, as she clearly was not pregnant. Both smiling, both happy. Both had their mug of ale grasped in their hand, steins clinking together, arms wrapped around eachother’s shoulders jovially. A pain shot through is chest for a brief moment as he realised he had, even with all the best intentions, left her alone. Rashka, his mind uttered. Rashka, as each time getting louder. Over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over anâ€"

“Ha. Ye’ kept a photo. ‘ow touching,” sneered Gra’tagesh, snapping Groshnok back into reality. Groshnok stood, still staring at the picture, grasped in both hands. He remembered the day well, in the Wyvern’s Tail. Another day of peacetime drinking, but a Goblin had been there, with some machine that produced an image. And here it was, calling him home. But where was home? Did he have a home? Surely she was still there waiting for him… right? “So, ‘ow long ye’ been gone now?” asked Gra’tagesh, making Groshnok turn his attention away. “Two, three months?” His silence only made Gra’tagesh press more. “Two, three months… long time, Groshnok… time like tha’ can make someone… move oâ€"“

“Shu’ up,” Groshnok interrupted.

“Jus’ sayin’,” said Gra’tagesh with a shrug, malevolence clear across his face. “She’s a good lookin’ thin’, plenty o’ lads I’m sure would love a gâ€"“

“Shu’ up,” growled Groshnok, his voice raising. “Ye’ don’ know ‘er. ‘Er’s loyal. She’d ne’er do anythin’ like tha’.” Gra’tagesh flashed a knowing grin.

“Ye’ though t’same when ye’ go’ deployed to the Barrens ‘bout Kâ€"“

“SHUT UP!” roared Groshnok, launching at the spirit, but finding himself on the floor, Gra’tagesh laughing above him.

“Still an old wound, eh?” cackled Gra’tagesh. “They say ye’ never ge’ over yer firs’.” Groshnok’s eye flared with hatred as he got to his knee, staring up at the spirit. “Ye’ never really go’ over Kra’lena, did ye’, Groshnok?”

As if the torrent of emotion that speared his chest from his current mate wasn’t enough, it felt as if his stomach had been twisted into a knot at the mention of his former mate’s name. Kra’lena, his mind uttered. Kra’lena, as each time getting louder. Over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over…


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As the five orcs walked back to camp, Groshnok trailed at the rear, staring dead ahead into Gra’tagesh’s back. This was life here, then. Indiscriminate killing, regardless of gender, or age. There was no concept of honour amongst the orcs he walked with. And if he was to survive, he realised, he’d have to lose himself to the blood fury his father had taught him to control as a young cub. As they reached the gates of Grom’gol, Reg’nosh, Gre’lak and Urgarok strayed off to the squad’s hut to the east of the camp, but Groshnok found a hand guiding his back through the gates.

“Sorry to be so ‘arsh on ye’ back there, lad,” said Gra’tagesh with a sigh, letting go of his back. Groshnok grunted in reply. “Ye’ saw their pup back there. Migh’ ‘ave been young, bu’ ‘im still ‘ad t’strengt’ t’gut ye’ if ‘im go’ close.”

“I guess,” Groshnok replied. He realised the direction they were heading for was the inn, but Gra’tagesh stopped outside the entrance, leaning against the doorframe.

“Listen,” he said sternly. “Ye’ can’ handle this shit, ye’ ge’ t’fuck out o’ ‘ere, righ’ now.” His eyes bore into Groshnok’s hard, and the younger orc felt that he could not stray away from the gaze. “Don’ care ‘ow ye’ do it, ye’ leave. We’s no’ carryin’ no cub.”

“I’m not deserting my post,” said Groshnok stubbornly.

“Good,” said Gra’tagesh with a smirk. “Ye’ learn quick. Best keep learnin’ quick, or ye’ ain’ gon’ be lastin’ much longer out in this place.” Gra’tagesh patted him on the shoulder, turning away. “We’s go’ an interrogation t’morrow in t’mornin’. Don’ stay in t’hut fer it. It’ll be a learnin’ experience.” And with that, Gra’tagesh was out the gate, out of site. Groshnok stared after him, mulling over what the orc had told him. True, the younger trolls were fierce. And, the more he thought about it, how was it different from the quillboar in the Barrens and Durotar? He had killed them in droves in his time as a grunt there, they had slaughtered the piglets to make sure they would not grow up to pester them again… maybe Gra’tagesh was right. Sighing, Groshnok ducked into the inn. An ale was in order… or a few.

The inn was mostly empty, but the orc at the bar had the ale ready in seconds as the silver was placed on the counter. Taking it to an empty table, he plopped down, taking a long gulp, sighing after. It had been a long day. Trekking through the undergrowth was taxing, especially with the humidity of the jungle. Just another thing he’d have to get used to. Midway through his second gulp, a shadow loomed over him. Looking up, he found a smirking she-orc looking down at him. He eyed her up and down. The usual battle scars, auburn hair that lay nestled on her shoulderpads. Typical grunt look to her. But what did she want?

“Gra’tagesh’s new one, then?” she asked, answering his question. Groshnok nodded, watching as she took the seat across from him, taking a gulp of ale from her own mug. “Ye’ look a bit muddled. First day raidin’, I take it.” Again, nodding dumbly, Groshnok found his voice.

“Aye, aye… it was somethin’,” he got out, taking a gulp of ale from his mug. The she-orc guffawed.

“Somethin’ is right. Those lads ain’t right, though,” she said with a smirk. “Give it time, ye’ll become like ‘em.” Eyeing her up and down once again, Groshnok took a gulp of ale from his mug.

“And how do you know them?” he asked.

“Used t’do translatin’ fer ‘em,” she replied, grinning. “Eventually taught Gre’lak the basics enough. Can’t say it’s a job I want again.” Groshnok raised his eyebrow.

“Why? Surely watchin’ an interrogation isn’t going to scar you. Looks like you got enough of them already,” Groshnok said, finding his own smirk. The she-orcs grin turned to a grimace.

“Be not the torturin’. Be Urgarok,” she said with a shudder. Groshnok’s mind flashed to earlier that day, as the hut burned, and Urgarok dragging his captured prey into the bushes. Groshnok took a long gulp of ale, grunting.

“Aye, he’s… a strange one.”

“That’s an understatement,” she grumbled. “Only bloody reason he’s still there is because he can somehow pick a shot good. S’the only thing good he’s got goin’ fer him.” Silence descended on the pair, descending further into awkward ale drinking from the both, before the she-orc piped up. “Y’know, out here, knowin’ trollish could be useful,” she said. “Or, Zandali even.” A giggle escaped her lips after, and Groshnok couldn’t help but like it. It was a kind laugh, not like the insane ones of his comrades.

“Ye’ offerin’ t’teach me?” he asked.

“Only if yer wantin’,” she replied.

“Alright so,” he said with a grin, clinking his mug against hers, as both orcs took a drink.  â€œGroshnok,” he said, introducing himself. She smiled softly, nodding at him.

“Kra’lena.”

[Groshnok]

Chapter 6

“Now repeat it back to me,” Kra’lena asked.

“Oi, ya show da place on ‘ere map or ya finger be gettin’ de… erm…” Groshnok stopped his Zandali abruptly, his tongue pacing the roof of his mouth as the last word came to him. “Skinnin’!” he declared with a grin. His mate nodded in approval across the table, taking a gulp of ale from her mug.

“Ghrm,  good. Yer makin’ good progress. Yer passed Gre’lak’s by now anyway,” she said, flashing a grin. It was true, in the last eight months Groshnok had made good progress on his Zandali, but it was not hard to learn when the female who taught him had such… incentives. Draining his own mug, he stood, going to the door.

“S’pose I’d better make my way over. ‘em want tha’ interrogatin’ sometime today.” He looked back, finding her nose to be scrunched into a snarl of disapproval.

“Yer startin’ to sound like them, y’know,” she growled. Groshnok raised his eyebrow at her.

“Bah. I’m speakin’ troll half the day, be hard no’ t’…” Groshnok stopped, correcting himself. “-Not to- have it slip in the odd time.” She wafted a hand at him, sipping her ale.

“I don’t want to be beddin’ a troll is all.” Groshnok snickered, leaning against the doorframe.

“An’ wha’ wud be wron’ wit’ da’, gerl?” he said with a smirk. Her serious face couldn’t help but form to a grin as she peered over to him.

“Don’t make me regret teachin’ ye’ this shit. Now go on, ye’ve got work to do.”

“Don’t ye’?” asked Groshnok. Kra’lena responded by pointing to her bare shoulders.

“Off day. I told ye’ last night, ye’ dolt,” she said with a snicker. “Now get out o’ here already!” Groshnok chuckled, walking away out of the inn, out of the gate, towards the squad’s camp. The closer he came, the more his face dropped from a smile to a scowl. Taking the wolfmask from his belt, he fastened it atop his mowhawk, letting the maw of the worg conceal his eyes. It struck fear into them, Reg’nosh had advised him. Although he really had surpassed Gre’lak’s Zandali weeks before, it was only now he was getting his first chance at an interrogation. Gra’tagesh had said the time was right. An initiation, it seemed like. He had burned huts, but now he had to prove to them that he could find them more. It wasn’t a hard job for him. He had pried information from the odd quilboar back in the Barrens. How much harder could a troll be?

In front of the tent his four squadmates sat in a circle on barrels, a bottle of whiskey being slowly passed around. Laughter erupted from all but Urgarok, who looked like he wanted to shoot a bolt through the trio. The laughter died slowly as Groshnok stood in the circle, nodding at Gra’tagesh. “Ready,” he said. Gra’tagesh replied with a nod towards the tents flaps. As Groshnok headed towards them, he heard hushed murmuring from the four orcs behind him.

“Fifty silver, mhm, ‘e walks back ou’ he does,” he heard Urgarok whisper with a deliberate loudness, his shrill cackle exploding after. Groshnok grunted in annoyance, opening up the flaps to find himself locking eyes with a young female. She did not seem to be a warrior, fel, she did not even look like she had had her first moon’s blood. A gatherer, caught, he noted. She looked up at him with fear. He kept the mask low. Approaching, her silent stare turned into whimpers, and then to pleas. He looked her up and down again, his head debating for a fleeting moment on what to do.

They be trained from birt’, like us, t’fight. If we don’ ge’ rid o’ ‘em all, ‘em’ll jus’ come back t’kill us later. Gra’tagesh’s words rang in his head like sword hitting shield. It was true. If she was not a fighter, then she was a birther. It had to be done. For the good of the Horde. Looking at the map of the lush jungle, a large circle north of Grom'gol marked the area they suspected trolls who had escaped from previous raids were hiding. It seems that this girl was the prisoner that had been found a few days ago by a patrol, just at the outskirts of the marked area. It was likely she was collecting food for them, it seemed.

“We know wha’ ya are,” Groshnok began in Zandali, peering for a reaction. The girl’s eyes widened, stammering, trying to get something out it seemed. Groshnok would be patient. There was no point in going in hard this soon.

“Ya… y-ya speak…” she blurted out.

“Yes,” he replied, grunting in annoyance. “We know whe’ ya from,” he continued. Taking the map, he placed it in front of her, grabbing her roughly by the hair, making sure her eyes were forced to view where he pointed to. “Hea’, an’ hea’,” he said, pointing to two red X’s on the map to the east and west of the circle. “Hea’ is whe’ we foun’ an… an…” Fuck. Don’t stammer, don’t stammer. Find the word. “ya little… ratnes’… an’ ya lil’ village… mmhrm, ya know it, ‘course.” He looked up, fury seemed to replace fear in the young troll’s eyes. She nodded, gritting her teeth. “Now… ya be a sma’ girl, escapin’ us…” Going good so far, he assured himself. Keep it up, and she’d crack. “So ya be sma’ ‘nough da ya know wha’ I wan’… hea’…” Slow. Keep the voice slow. Intimidating. Controlling. The troll snarled.

“I be no’ tellin’ ya. Ya be no’ killin’ da res’ me bredren!” she cried in defiance. Groshnok snorted, using her braided hair to toss her back against the back of the tent, the force of one of her chained arms catching pulling her left shoulder out of his socket. A scream of agony erupted from her mouth, only to be silenced by a backhanded strike.

“I was kind. I gave ya da easy way…” Groshnok grimaced, moving to stand her up again.


_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


The location didn’t take long to pry, once the knife came out. The damaged left arm had been punished even more, her upper forearmed skinned of its flesh as if she was a pig, the searing pain broke the young mind. Marking it on the map, Groshnok stood up straight, watching as the cuffs on the young trolls arm dug more into the exposed flesh the more she strained. She had given up enough. Served her purpose. Groshnok grunted, going to stand behind her. Her wailing and struggling stopped as she gazed up at the orc, her eyes paralyzed as she could only watch the knife rocket towards her throat.

Stepping outside, Groshnok sheathed the bloody blade in his boot, to the mocking cheers of his comrades. He was in no mood for their japes after what they’d sent him. He thought he’d be facing a warrior, not a whelp. He took the bottle of whiskey forcefully from Gra’tagesh’s hand as he approached, taking a few gulps from it. Gra’tagesh grinned, patting him on the back in response. “Good job, lad. ‘ere, take a seat,” he said, ushering Groshnok towards the newly fifth barrel, around what was no longer an empty circle, but a campfire. Dusk hadn’t even settled yet, and no food was present. Why did they need one? It was Reg’nosh who stood up to answer his question.

“We had our doubts, Blackrend,” he said with a proud smile. “Bu’ ye’ proved ‘em wrong. Ye’ stayed in there long, ye’ didn’ give up. This be no’ a squad fer most, bu’ ye’ve proved yer no’ most.” He stepped forward, producing a dagger, etched with carvings in the steel, a ferocious looking worg on its pommel. “I speak for all of us when I say, we’d be proud to call you brother.” Groshnok’s eyes widened under his mask as he realised what was going on. He’d heard of these with some bands, considering them stronger than comrades, a brotherhood. This one though, these group of borderline mercenaries were nothing more than lapdogs who’d be thrust aside when not needed. He had come to realise that there was a reason they did not make home in the camp as he did with Kra’lena. He had come to realise why she did not want him to become like them. And yet…there was something so enticing, that rush in the raid, it was the feeling of bloodlust that all orcs wished to embrace, he thought. A searing pain brought his mind back to reality as he realised that he had stuck his hand out towards the dagger that was now slicing his palm. Staring at the fire, he realised that this was it.

Groshnok Blackrend sheds his blood to the flame.


_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Crawling into their furs they had made in a small den behind the inn, Groshnok padded as quietly as he could down beside his sleeping mate, but a grunt told that he had awoken her. “Yer late,” she grumbled.

“Sorry…” he said, the word slurred. “Bit… bi’ of time wit’… wit’… y’know.” She sighed, but rolled into him.

“How’d the interrogation go?” she asked.

“Good,” he replied.

“Ha. So me wolf bested the mightiest of jungle troll warriors?” Silence descended upon the pair, as the terrified face of the young girl flashed before his eyes, her screams only another in the many that had recently began forming in his head.

“… Yes.”

[Groshnok]

Chapter 7

The trollish threat surrounding Grom’gol had slowed in recent months. It seemed as though they had realised advancements near the camp would all be in vain. And the orcs certainly didn’t feel like charging Zul’Gurub anytime soon. No, that would be left to whatever adventurers decide to save the world from a blood god. Still, patrols were a regular thing. Couldn’t get sloppy. And from time to time, they still found small bands of Gurubashi, or Skullsplitters, vengeful and trying to take back their land from their perches in the trees. Sometimes there could be as many as five, sometimes there was only a lone wolf. But the orcs had become accustomed to the signs of ambush. Wildlife was everywhere in the Vale, and a patch with none was always regarded as suspicious, and met with a quick bolt from Urgarok’s crossbow. Winter had approached, but that meant nothing to Stranglethorn. The humidity in the air made the jungle feel boiling all year round. It was different from the desert heat Groshnok was used to, but being in the Vale for two years now, he had grown accustomed to it. At least rain was more frequent.

They had been watching the road to Darkshore as a goblin caravan led by some Grom’gol grunts trundled up the road from Booty Bay. Supplies. Groshnok sat bored, leaning lazily against the tree behind him, as he absent-mindedly sipped whiskey from a flask. Gre’lak peered continuously through his looking glass at the surrounding area, scanning for threats, with Urgarok behind him, crossbow at the ready. Reg’nosh seemed to have fallen asleep among a pile of leaves, snoring softly, while Gra’tagesh watched the caravan. “Fel, s’dull,” he noted.

“Aye,” said Groshnok with a nod. “Bu’ ‘ey, once we’re done ‘ere, done fer the day.”  He looked over to the caravan as it crossed the river’s bridge, safely now in the orcish territory of the Vale. Groshnok grunted, getting to his feet. “Looks like tha’ ones fine then.” Gra’tagesh nodded, kicking Reg’nosh lightly, the old orc wheezing in response.

“Ge’ up. We’s done,” he growled, snorting afterwards. “Fel, I’s in dire need o’ an ale righ’ now.” Reg’nosh scrambled up, as Gre’lak began the walk south, Urgarok chatting about something beside him. Groshnok sighed. He was going to miss this. There had been a breakout of bitter fighting between Horde and Alliance in the south of the Barrens, and they were drafting available orcs for help. Although Gra’tagesh had fought tooth and nail not for his squad to be taken, it had been decided that their services were not as needed as they once were, and so, the newest of their members, Groshnok, would have to go. The zeppelin was shipping out in a weeks, so he still had some time left, at least. Gra’tagesh promised him it wouldn’t be for too long, though, from what he had heard of that front, short tours were usually due to the length of the combatant’s lives. Ah well, they had the next few days off. Down to Booty Bay, it was. The group together, they began their trek.

And all of a sudden, south of Grom’gol, it stopped. Another tremor, the land had been plagued by them of late, but this one… this one was not the same. Snarling, Groshnok grabbed onto the nearest tree to steady himself, only to see on the opposite side of the river’s delta, trolls running, trees collapsing around them. Some Gurubashi routed from their holes, it seemed. But they were running in the orcs’ direction.

“Trolls!” screamed Gre’lak over the rumblings. Urgarok tried steadying himself for a shot, but collapsed almost immediately. Looking back at the camp, Groshnok realised they were too far from Grom’gol to get their safely. Branches began to fall around him as the tree gave way, falling east, smashing into more. Gripping its roots, Groshnok held on for dear life, praying to whatever spirit could be listening that a branch would not fall and crush his skull. He looked up once more, his eyes widening as he watched the trolls falling… falling… the delta had somehow given way. Some had made it passed the rocks crumbling, but the abyss was quickly gaining on them… and gaining on the orcs position too. Scrambling back, he heard Gra’tagesh’s shouts to run, and Groshnok took off on all fours. Gre’lak in front of him helping Reg’nosh along. The tremors began to slow, yet still the sound of trees collapsing roared in his ears. A dug trench came up before them, and the five bolted inside, taking cover from the destruction. The orcs, dusty, bloodied and bruised coughed, trying to regain their breath as they pressed against the dirt for cover. The rumblings began to slow, as Gra’tagesh got to his knees.

“We go’ t’ge’ back,” he gasped. “Urgaro’, fuck… check tha’ none o’ ‘em followed.” Gra’tagesh took off, followed by Gre’lak helping a limping Reg’nosh. Groshnok stood, peering over the side of the mound, but no troll lay in sight.

“Ain’ nothin’,” said Groshnok. “le’s gâ€"“

“One!” interrupted Urgarok gleefully, pointing past his crossbow. Groshnok followed the finger to watch as a troll hoisted a young she-orc from the gaping abyss, both clinging to each other. Groshnok nodded at Urgarok as he notched the bolt, aiming it at the kneeling troll… and in the blink of an eye, both orcs were covered in dust and dirt as a tree that had been clinging to its last roots slammed down in front of the trench. Spluttering dirt away from his mouth, Groshnok blindly grabbed Urgarok, wiping his eyes as the pair sprinted towards camp. He looked out to the coastline, only to see waves as high as mountains on the horizon. This was it, the end of the world. And there was only one thing on his mind.

Kra’lena.

“Wait! Wha’… wh-wha’ bout ‘em?!” croaked Urgarok.

“Go back an’ kill ‘em if ye’ wan’, I’m gettin’ me arse to camp!” snarled Groshnok back at him, letting go of the scrawny orc as he pushed on towards Grom’gol. His heart felt like it would thump out of his chest as he scrambled through the gates to the sound of roars of commanders and screams of panic. The wounded were being dragged to a side, healers rushing to their ready. Groshnok peered around frantically, searching for his mate. The west had shamans ready to face the wave should it hit the camp, but it seemed to be breaking further out in the sea. The roar in his ears was muted, as he zoned in on the sharp cry of his name. Turning around, he came eye to eye with her, as his mate stared at his body in horror. Groshnok followed her gaze down, realising he was streaked with blood, small cuts peppering his body making his wounds look a lot worse than they were. He grunted, wiping the worst from his right arm with a wince, eyeing her up and down. She looked shaken, but otherwise alright. Seems she had been stationed in camp. Embracing her tightly, he looked around at the destruction. Aftershocks still rumbled, wounded patrols came stumbling in. A sergeant was standing on a box, trying to muster grunts together. Some engineers were trying to work a goblin radio device. This had to be it. The end of the world.

The night was still filled with shouts outside, grunts being mustered out to explore the destruction and look for survivors. Guards kept the perimeter secure, lest the trolls mount an attack amidst the chaos. The inn was full, a bandaged Groshnok sitting down inside, Kra’lena in his lap, as both watched ale in hand at the sight the hushed crowd had gathered to see. Radio reports were coming in from other stations. It had not just affected the Vale. The entirety of Azeroth had been hit. Each one added another layer of stress to the engineers’ faces.

“Massive damage to Booty Bay, tsumani hit,” one said, leaving an audible groan of terror and disappointment among the inn’s patrons. It was no mistake that many enjoyed their off days down there. “Wait…” he continued. “Damage, aye. It still stands, though.” A sigh of relief followed his words, though his face became scrunched in horror. “Righ’… command sayin’… multiple reports that what did this… is a dragon.” Silence once again descended upon the crowd, followed by murmured whispers.

“A dragon? But, I thought ‘em wasn’t meant to attack us no more?” gasped Kra’lena quietly. Groshnok took a gulp of ale, his brow furrowed. This was bad. What of Kalimdor? Did Orgrimmar still stand?

“The Southfury has flooded west Durotar. Razor Hill, is okay,” stated the engineer. “Orgrimmar, also okay.” His jaw fell as the other end of the line buzzed through. “The Barrens…” Groshnok sat up a bit, making sure he could hear the report. The Barrens was already a site of conflict after Taurajo’s destruction. What more could this dragon have done? “The Barrens… is now two.” The whispered murmurs now became yells of rage and confusion. The Barrens held a lot of meaning for many of the orcs. It was a hunting ground, and for some, a former home.

“How is it two?!” cried a grunt.

“Is the Crossroads fine?!” came another. An axe hit the ground hard as a sergeant yelled for quiet, bringing the audience to a hush. The engineer turned around, taking off the headset, facing the audience.

“There’s a massive lava fissure, from the Stonetalon border eastwards,” the engineer said with a grunt. “They’re not sure where it ends just yet, said they’d let us know when the full scout is done. Other priorities are in order.” He swung round once again, putting back on his headset. “Tanaris. east coast, wiped out in the north by a tsu…” The rest meant nothing to Groshnok. This had gone from bad to worse. With a massive lava fissure, there was no way for troops to get down south by ground. Going downriver meant crossing Northwatch Keep, making any boats sitting ducks for the cannons. Taking a gulp of ale from his mug, he peered down at his mate. It seemed she had put together the same pieces. She had nearly torn him to pieces when he told her he had to leave, but eventually she calmed down, realising there was nothing he could do. Gra’tagesh would get him back soon, he had promised her. And he hoped that his blood-brother would come through with his promise. But in that moment, both orcs realised that their time together before Groshnok would ship out was about to become shorter. More locations, Mulgore, Thousand Needles, were called out, but Groshnok’s attention was snapped away by a booming voice at the door.

“Anyone from Desert Brigade, ye’ be to come to the centre o’ camp. Now,” said the orc. Groshnok looked up to find it was the commander who had been head of the grunts bound for Desolation Hold. Groshnok winced, feeling claws digging into his bandages. He looked down to his mate, desperation and anger clear on his face. He patted her head soothingly, draining his ale as he stood, shuffling out the door with over a dozen others. They gathered in formation, the commander overseeing them on a box.

“As ye’ heard,” he began. “The Barrens is ruptured. And while the world recovers, we must be quick to act. We know not if the line between Dustwallow and Fort Triumph has been cut, nor do we know the state of Northwatch. But one thing is for certain…” The commander paused, eyeing his soldiers, surpressing the grin that wanted to burst out as he saw the enthusiastic, hooked expressions. “They will ready themselves. They will know of our supply line’s loss. But that is where we will rise. We will destroy their advances. We will push them back to Theramore!” A loud cheer rang up among the orcs, as they raised their weapons. But Groshnok could feel the pit in his stomach. He knew what this meant. “The Tauren have turned their backs, shut themselves behind  their great gate. But we will not let the sons and daughters of the Horde be crushed!” The cheer rang again. “The Barrens is ours! We fought and bled for years and years for it! And no fucking pig, and I don’t care if they’re from Razorfen Kraul, or from Stormwind, is going to take our rightful land! We, the soldiers of Grom’gol, will wipe. Them. Out!” The stomping of feet made it seem like the aftershocks had once again come back, but they were silenced to Groshnok as the commander emitted the dreaded words. “We do not wait! We ship out, on the morrow! FOR THE HORDE!”

“FOR THE HORDE!” the crowd bellowed. Groshnok snorted, pushing through the back of the line towards the inn, to find his mate had been watching them. She looked sternly at him, but he could tell her true feelings behind the stone-faced mask. He was shipping out onto a bloody battlefield, and he knew that she thought he would not be coming back.

“I… thought we’d have more time,” she choked out. Groshnok stared at her, then back to the crowd of eager troops.

“So did I.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


“Wish I could say I’d write, bu’…” Groshnok joked, smiling sadly at Kra’lena. The orcs of the Desert Brigade were ascending the zeppelin behind him, as he held his final moment before boarding with his mate. She smiled back, looking down to the ground.

“Ye’ could always try learnin’, y’know,” she replied.

“I’s no’ gon’ have time fer tha’,” he said with a grunt. “They say it’s constan’ battle there. Nay rest.” She sighed, grasping his hands firmly.

“When ye’ get back, and ye’ â€"will- be back… we’re goin’ on the longest matin’ hunt this world has ever seen.” She smiled at him, her eyes glassy. “Y’hear me?” she said, her voice cracking. They shared their last kiss, as Groshnok broke away with a nod.

“Aye… y’know it.” He had said his goodbyes to the squad earlier that morning. It was hard for all of them, like losing a limb. The team had gotten well into their stride of a force of five orcs. Now they would be down to four again. Gra’tagesh had promised and promised him that he would only be a few months away. He’d swing to get him back the second a trollish threat popped up. Groshnok took his last good look at her over his shoulder as he boarded up the vessel. Getting on top, he leaned over the railing next to many other orcs, as many below had come to wave their comrades off. He gave his nodding to the squad, camped outside the base, but as the zeppelin pulled off, his eyes were only locked on one orc, only turned away when the base camp became out of view.

Kra’lena.

[Rhonya]

Hihi hidden Kyra <3 Keep it up, it's nice to read some more about Grosh his background and you write well!

[Groshnok]

Chapter 8

Day 75. Or was it day 76.
Day 90?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care anymore. Every day was hellfire raining down from the skies, the air stinking of sulphur and death, and the sound of explosions, steel ringing, and the screams… oh the screams. They had embedded themselves in his mind, like a poision seeping at his sanity. Stranglethorn had moulded his mind into a madness of cruelty and brutality, the ins and outs of an interrogation, the best ways of torture to get information. The screams of terror and pain there, they had been controlled screams. And he had loved them. But this place?

This wasn’t madness. This was fucking chaos.

The Battlescar, a blighted trench of the dying, dead, and death-wished, lay before him, assaulting his senses. Groshnok rolled over in the scorched sand, groaning painfully. His vision was blurred, his ears ringing, as the sound of the dance of death only a hundred metres away came roaring back into his ears. Coughing painfully. He began the slow crawl away from the trench. Peering to his right, saw the crater where the mortar had landed, the grunts dead centre of the blast were now a mangled mess of organs and bone. Unrecognisable. The pained groans of the survivors filled his ears, the voices crying out for help. A she-orc crawled beside the crater, desperately, but to no avail, both legs blown off and losing blood fast. Too late for her. He had to make sure he survived. He sighed heavily, remembering what happened as he crawled. Third row, right side. The mortar had hit the edge of the left side of the second row, and bodies were sent flying. They hadn’t even made it to the fucking Scar. He looked forward, watching as two grunts ran up to him, grabbing him by his bloodied wrists. “Yer alright,” was the last thing he heard, from one of their voices.



Day 120. Yes, he was sure, that was what they had said. The failed push from the squadron he had been placed in had happened two weeks earlier, and only now was he able to fight again. Four months. Longer than he had thought he had been away from the Vale. But time flowed quick when there was nothing but battle. It’s every orc’s dream, isn’t it? He smirked. Every orcs dream. Pah. He had watched the commander as they puffed their chests, telling the young that a glorious death is the highest honour they could achieve. And he had watched as hopeful young grunts ate it up like it was a hunk of boar. There was nothing glorious about that killing pit. Oh sure, the adrenaline pumped through your veins like no other. But that was it. No victory. Just one push forward, the pigs would push back. And still the commander was bellowing at the gates, just one charge will send them flying. Just one charge. Just one charge. Day 120. How many fucking charges had he been a part of, that were “just one charge”? Groshnok’s head leant back against the wooden wall of the zeppelin, sighing, a flask of whiskey clutched in his hand. He was out now, though. The trolls were stirring up in Stranglethorn Vale, and command had issued a recalling of Desert Squad. Between the orcs from Grom’gol, and those they had picked up from other Horde outposts along the way that had been drafted, they were a company 113 strong.

9 remained. 5 of which hadn’t ever set foot inside Grom’gol Base Camp, and he was sure that 2 of which’s minds were so frayed they wouldn’t last three days without completely snapping. A creak from the barrel in front of him let out, as Groshnok looked up to find a shaken looking grunt, green shoulderguards  adorned, peering at him. One of the other three from the Vale. He nodded at Groshnok, sighing.

“Think they remember us?” he asked, looking at Groshnok as if he would give him some form of reassurance. Groshnok let out a small chuckle, peering over to the orc opposite him.

“Remember us…?” Groshnok repeated. “Listen,” he said leaning in closer. “I counted. Four. Me, ye’, two others. Four. That’s all that’s left from t’one’s shipped out from Grom’gol. FOUR.” Groshnok snorted, taking a gulp of whiskey from the flask. “I don’ know either o’ ye’ three. I wouldn’ know if ye’ had even fucked off t’this shithole had I not also been placed in ‘ere.” Groshnok snickered, taking another swig of whiskey as the grunt across from him’s brow furrowed. “Remember? Maybe ‘em who knew ye’, aye.”  His eyes locked with the grunt, who’s own eyes seemed to just stare right through him. “Bu’ ‘em think yer dead. An’ t’orc ‘em knew, he is dead. Yer no’ the same one tha’ left at all, are ye’?” Groshnok leaned back against the wall again, a knowing grin plastered on his face. No one was the same, not after the horrors they’d all seen. Before the grunt could respond, the bell of the zeppelin rang. They were reaching home. Groshnok stood, nodding at the grunt with a smirk. “Time to see the welcome committee, eh?” Getting to the first step, the grunt’s voice behind stopped him.

“You think there’ll be one?” the grunt asked, somewhat hopefully. Groshnok laughed, turning to him.

“Look around ye’. We’re on a fuckin’ supply ship.”



Indeed, there was no hero’s welcome. Only goblins and peons, loading the supplies off from their stopover in Orgrimmar. The smell of salt from the sea filled Groshnok’s nostrils, as he peered about the camp. Not much had changed. He was home, finally. As the rest of the former “Desert Squad” descended the ramp, they were met at the bottom by a sergeant.

“Lok’tar, warriors,” he said sternly. “Report to the barracks at once, for assignment.” The orcs saluted, trailing off towards the “barracks”. Groshnok snorted amusedly, the sergeant eyeing him up and down. “Ye’ deaf? Barracks, that way,” he said, pointing at the large building in the middle of Grom’gol.

“Barracks?” asked Groshnok. “There’s no fuckin’ barracks ‘ere. Ye’ lot tryin’ t’big up the inn all a sudden?” The sergeant’s eyes widened a bit, anger seeping into them, but he maintained his stiff composure.

“I’ve heard the hell of the Barrens, so I’ll forgive you this once for stepping out of line. So yes, head to the inn for assignment.” Groshnok grunted, walking off towards the edge of the camp. “Inn, I said!” the sergeant bellowed after him.

“Just tell whoever’s in charge tha’ Gra’tagesh’s one is back!” Groshnok yelled back. The sergeant looked confused for a moment, before marching off to the inn with a grunt. Coming to the tent, Groshnok paused before entering. Why were none of them at the landing? Were they not told? Laughter could be heard inside, and with that, Groshnok grunted, ducking his head in, the laughter falling to silence as four glares pierced the intruder of the tent, only to freeze into disbelieving stares. Groshnok grunted, eyeing his comrades. His usual barrel at the table was left free, he noted, as his eyes turned to it. “Showin’ a mark o’ respect fer the dead, is i’?” Groshnok asked, some venom to his voice. Gra’tagesh was the first to rise to his feet, walking slowly up to him.

“Blackren’… yer…?”

“Aye.”

“We though’--”

“Well ye’ were wron’.”

A shocked Gra’tagesh slunk back to his seat, as Groshnok took his. A mug of ale was being finished poured by Reg’nosh in front of him. Silence lasted a few more moments, before Gre’lak spoke up. “How was it?”

“Shit,” Groshnok responded, taking a long gulp of ale from his mug. Reg’nosh nodded solemnly.

“So we’d heard,” the old orc said, before turning to him. “Groshnok… ye’ do realise that… well… ‘em sent out from here died?”

“I know,” Groshnok responded.

“Nay lad,” Reg’nosh chided. “As in ‘em stopped sendin’ reports.” Groshnok’s eyebrow raised quizzically, turning to listen to the veteran. The faded blue eyes peered deep into his own, a sense of sadness yet relief in them. “Fer t’last two n’ half mont’s… Blackrend, yer all been considered dead since then.” Groshnok grunted in response. Taking his wolf mask from his belt, he once again fastened it atop his head, letting the shadow take over his features.

“Dead,” Groshnok responded. “Should’ve guessed tha’.” The room descended into silence once more, as Groshnok’s eyes fixed on the map on the table. “Trolls?” he asked.

“Course,” replied Gre’lak. “Back a’ it again from t’east. Somethin’s goin’ on there.” Groshnok nodded, looking at the markings. All coming east, out of Zul’Gurub. Just when they thought the skirmishes were finished, they were starting once again. But that was alright. This was better. More controlled. More adrenaline fuelling than the chaos of the Barrens. He’d get used to it in no time again, no bother. But still, one thing was left niggling on his mind as the night went on. None of them brought her up. Not even in passing conversation. And as his fifth pint sat half-drank in front of him, the name screamed in his mind louder than the memories of the Battlescar.

Groshnok Blackrend takes a gulp of ale from his mug.

Kra’lena.

[Groshnok]

Just a small Author's Note here, quick reminder that the present day stuff takes place in early December 2015 in the first chapter and late January/early February 2016 in the latest present day chapter. This story was meant to have been finished in March, and later June, but then real life/burnout from WoW got in the way. So since I'm coming back I said I'd trundle on with this, considering it gives a bit of Grosh's backstory. The flashbacks timelines range wildly. I'll put a proper timeline in after the Epilogue.

[Groshnok]

Chapter 9

“Loyalty,” uttered the spirit. “Loyalty, is everything. Isn’t it, Groshnok?” His gear readied, his weapon slung on his back, Groshnok snarled as he made his way to the door.

“Yer one t’preach,” Groshnok growled. Gra’tagesh only shrugged in response.

“True, brother,” he responded. “But I’m no’ wrong on Kra’lena.” Groshnok turned, to find Gra’tagesh’s ghostly figure smirking at him. “Jus’ like I’m no’ wrong on this oâ€"“

“I told ye’ t’shut up about Raâ€"“

“Two months!” exclaimed Gra’tagesh sternly. “Two months is all it took for tha’ whore t’find another. Jus’ like this one will.” Groshnok’s hand reached out to the handle, but something niggling in the back of his mind drew him back to face his former blood brother. “Oh sure,” he continued. “Sure y’go’ a cub an’ all now. Bu’ who’s t’say tha’ cub ain’ gon’ be callin’ another orc ‘dada’?” Groshnok stood still, his fists clenched in rage, claws digging in to his palms. “Two mont’s, Blackrend, Gorewrath, whatever t’fuck they know y’as these days. Two mont’s an’ we all thought y’was all dead there.” The spirit floated over to him, the essence face to face with him now. “Two mont’s, yer missin’ from yer tribe. Who’s t’say it’s no’ the same?” Groshnok wanted to scream. Wanted to tell his tormenter, whether he be real or false, how much he was wrong. But what he spoke was true. Two months without a word. Two months trying to find solace in reliving old times. And it had brought his mind nothing but pain, as no doubt it has brought his mate. A vague note was all he’d left. Maybe she had thought he’d left for good? And what of the tribe? Did they even care? Sure, he was a senior Nag’Ogar. But he could be replaced. No doubt Steelheart was glad he was gone. Duskstalker, if he was still living, would be delighted thinking of his death. Fuck it. Half the tribe wouldn’t give a shit if he was lost to the wastes. Who in there cared for an orc who didn’t follow their rules of honour? Yet, in the back of his mind, he still knew, there had to be one. No matter what.

Rashka.

He turned to the door, finally catching the handle, his belongings flung over his back in a sack, to fling it open hard. As he stormed out, the ghostly voice left out an echo that sent chills down his spine.

Run away, Rabid Wolf.

Run.

Yes. It spoke truth. He had run away from his problems, run back to the past. But now it was time to run back to where he belonged. His mate. His cub. His tribe. His home. Out of this fel-forsaken shithole before he became the one on the game table that he had seen blow their brains out, that he had bet on, so many times. A ship to Kalimdor. Ratchet. There was always one going to Ratchet. That’s what he needed to find.

Blink.

It had happened again. He was in front of the harbour, yet he did not remember the walk. Zoning out had been something he’d learned while on sentry duty, yet now it seemed, it was happening without notice. And suddenly, in front of him, was one of Fax’s goons, staring up at him, mace in hand.

“Hey bub,” he started. “Fax has another job lined up for ya, if yer interested.” Groshnok stared down at the goblin for a moment, the greedy green eyes staring back at him. “Lot of money in it!” he enticed. Lot of money. Lot of gold. Where there’s lots of gold, there’s a good job. Good battle. Good battle in the jungle. The jungle. The jungle. The jungle. Trolls. Hunting. Scouting. Raiding. Burning. Oil bombs. Fire. Blaze. Screaming. Killing. Grom’gol Base Camp, Northern Stranglethorn. Gurubashi. Skullsplitter. Bloodscalp. Gold. Contracts. Ale. Ale. Ale. Fun. Madness. Madness. Madness. Chaos.

The Best Times.

Reg’nosh.

Gre’lak.

Urgarok.

Gra’tagesh.

Friends?

Brothers.

He missed them dearly. Where were they? Why was he alone? Why was he the one left behind? No. He had left them behind. He had fled, in fear thinking that the new troll warchief would punish those who had killed the jungle trolls. All trolls were the same in the jungle. But what if he remained? Urgarok was dead at that stage, left to die by them. Gre’lak’s cough soon was to take him, if Gra’tagesh was to be believed. And old Reg’nosh. Had he really been paid to turn on Gra’tagesh? Did Reg’nosh just want to get out of that hell and retire somewhere, or was that just Gra’tagesh’s paranoia? Either way, if he’d remained, he’d have met the same fate as the oldest member of the squad. But no matter where he ran, they never left his mind. He couldn’t forget.

No. No more.

Groshnok shook his head down at the goblin. “Tell ‘im I’m done.” The goblin though, didn’t seem at all surprised, nodding.

“He thought ya might think that,” said the goon. “Still, invited fer a drink, should ya want a last one before ya head.”

“No,” replied Groshnok. “No, I’m on me way out. Give ‘im m’thanks, if I’m back I’ll call.” The goblin peered at him for a moment, before speaking into a radio attatched to his chest. A funny language, Groshnok had always thought. It would have done him well to learn a few words of it over time. Too late for that now though. The goblin nodded at him, holding out the wireless radio. Groshnok nodded in return, taking it.

“Wise choice,” came the voice from the other end. Fax. “Wise choice, Rabid Wolf.” The voice dripped with sarcasm. “But hey. Ya been good enough around for protection,” he continued. “There’s a ship bound for Ratchet leaving in half an hour. Big purple merchant one, I’m sure ya can see it from where you are. Get on it, tell ‘em I sent ya. Free of charge.” Groshnok looked across the harbour, spotting it, goblins loading goods on as a captain bellowed.

“Free o’ charge?” asked Groshnok. “There’s no such thin’ as free o’ charge wit’ a gobbo. I know tha’ much Fax.” His brow furrowed. The voice on the other end just chuckled.

“Free? No, nothing comes for free. But favours, ‘em come. An’ yer gonna solve a problem.” Groshnok’s brow furrowed deeper. A problem? “Right now that inn room ya were stayin’ at, is bein’ rifled through by a few grunts.” Groshnok’s eyes widened. “Fax is a trustworthy fella. An’ ye’, well ye’ fit a certain wanted orc’s description, don’t ya?” Groshnok snarled, peering frantically about his surroundings.

“Fax, wha’ the fuck is this?” he growled.

“Relax, kid,” came the reply. “Yer in no danger. Because the one last seen with that… officer fella, well was someone fittin’ youse. An’ now, yer escapin’ Booty Bay. They’re too late t’find ye’, they fuck off, an’ they stop botherin’ us.” Groshnok grunted, peering down at the ship. “Win-win fer everyone.”

“An’ how do I know I’s no’ jus’ steppin’ into a trap?” asked Groshnok.

“Ya don’t,” the voice said coldly. “But what use have I killin’ ya?” A dark chuckle crackled through the radio. “Besides, youse’ll come back. An’ good old Fax will have a job for ya.” Groshnok snarled in response.

“I’m done ‘ere.” A static cackle replied.

“No. No you’re not,” Fax said. “I see your eyes. This is where yer home is. But don’t worry. When you’re back, you know where to find me.”

Click.

Groshnok grunted, handing the radio back to the goon. The goblin took it, motioning his head towards the ship. “Password’s ‘Varian’s cock licker’,” guffawed the goblin. Groshnok snorted at him, walking off. “Hey!” called the goon, Groshnok craning his head back to him. “That wasn’t a joke, bub,” he said with a grin. Groshnok grunted, pressing on. Up the plank, stopped by the captain.

“Hey, what’s your story?” barked the impatient goblin. Groshnok sighed. He was going to have to say it, wasn’t he?