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The Last of the Rabid Wolves

Started by Groshnok, April 04, 2019, 06:40:05 PM

Previous topic - Next topic


If you haven't, I would recommend reading my last story from a few years back, Rabid Wolf, to get a sense of some of the characters that will be mentioned and appear in this story.

Chapter 1

The salty night air blew calmly over the port of Ratchet. Although most ships had set sail or arrived during the day, a few still stood ready soon depart. It was truly a town that never slept. In front of a large cargo ship, two shadows stood, watching their valuables being loaded. An assortment of races, of all ages. Slaves. Some strong, fresh from auctions. Some weak, fresh from capture. Among the weak, hobbled along an orc, hunched from pain. The beating from his captors had been severe. He had been working in a mine to the north for months, though to him it seemed years. Time passed slowly breaking rocks until your muscles and bones snapped like the stone the pickaxe crushed. He had tried escape, yet to no avail. The hunters quickly tracked him, hunted him down. He did not have the speed, nor the strength of years prior to fend them off. And so, here he was. A ship bound for somewhere across the sea. A ship, he had heard, that once you board, you do not come back. He could not imagine a hell worse than he had been in, yet the hunters who had captured him promised a fate far worse than both the mines, and death.

As he stumbled forward towards doom, the manacles biting into his wrists and ankles, he tried to turn his thoughts towards happier times. It would keep you sane, a troll slave had told him. He wished the same troll had mentioned that as time went on, those memories became foggier and foggier. A brotherhood… he was sure he was once a part of. That he was certain. Laughter around a campfire. Glorious battle, axes swinging through the air. Though looking at his chained hands now, they could barely hold a full bowl of broth, nevermind a weapon. The ship loomed closer, yet, so far away. His stomach growled painfully, sharply drawing his throbbing brain’s realisation to his feeling of weakness. He had not eaten in days, not since he had tried to escape. They gave him water so he would not die, but this was all part of the punishment, he knew. Passing the shadows watching the ship, he shifted his eyes from the floor to gaze at them. His heart skipped a beat.

The hunters.

Suddenly, he felt himself flying towards the dirt below. His eyes were drawn to them only for a few brief seconds but that was all it took for him not to notice a rock, tripping over it. Groaning in pain, his eyes blurred, and his ears rang with the sound of nearby laughing goblins, mocking his predicament. The brightness of the earth he lay on, shone by the nearby lamp lights darkened. The two shadows loomed over him. He struggled to turn onto his back, as his became clearer, the shadows’ features emerged.

“Get up, boy,” came the smooth voice from the figure on the right. A tall blood elf, his blonde shoulder-length hair shimmering in the lamp light. “We don’t want a repeat of earlier now, do we?” The orc struggled upwards but fell to his knees. He felt a large hand envelop his neck, yelping painfully as it dragged him to his feet. His head arched upwards slowly, trying to meet the gaze of the hand’s owner, yet the dead eyes of a wolf met him. A mask, shrouding the figure’s features, save for the snarling mouth with a single tusk protruding from the right corner. The sight sent a chill down his spine. He had not got a good look at the pair in his struggle as they captured him, but he knew all too well who they were now.

With a turn and a shove, he was sent towards the ship, hobbling forward with speed from the shock. Up the plank, down some stairs, into a cell. Peering around at his cellmates found him only more misery. A withered looking human. She did not look like she would make it through the voyage. An angry dwarf, roaring at the slavers through the iron bars. An old troll, sat still in the corner, seemingly staring into nothingness. The lights were on but nobody was home. He sighed in defeat, shuffling to the tiny window, soaking in the last glimpses he would get of Kalimdor. That wolf mask… yes, he had worn one once in his glory days. He tried hard to remember them. Yes, keep your sanity. That’s all you have, that’s all you’ll ever need.

Yet the sight of the two burned into his brain. They may not have been the first ones to take his freedom, but he knew in this cramped cell they were the last. The blood elf had a silver tongue, able to manipulate almost any being into giving information of dissent in the mines. And if you were stoic enough to resist, his blades were just as sharp, enough to make you sing the tune he wanted. The other one though… he was surprised he still lived, from the things he’d seen. His mind cast back to a month prior when a young night elf, still with youthful strength and naivety on his side, had made his daring escape. He had warned the young elf not to do so when he had spoken of it, not just for what would happen if he was caught, but he was in very dangerous territory. The young elf assured him, he knew he could not be too far from the northern border of Ashenvale. The burning of Teldrassil was only a myth to keep his people from escaping, he was sure. That boy had been in the mines far too long. The orc had seen the soldiers of that campaign return to Orgrimmar himself.

A day was all it took for them to find the elf. The slaves had all been shuffled out of the mines to watch as the pair strolled into camp with his broken body. The orc dragged the corpse behind him by the ankle, as they drew closer the horror dawned. The night elf’s lifeless face was covered in blood, seemingly savaged down to the jugular. The orc’s features may have been shrouded, yet the crimson mask around his snarling maw gave the weapon that had done the deed away. An example to the rest.

A roar from above sounded out, echoing through the halls from ship hand to ship hand, breaking the orc from his trance. Five minutes. He sighed in final defeat. This was his end. He peered intensely out the window, taking in as much of Ratchet as he could. So many memories here. Great memories. A shame this was his last. His eyes peered down to the two hunters, now shadows once more away from the lamp light. Gritting his teeth, he cursed the wretches. The bringers of his damnation.

The Curtsy Cutthroat and the Rabid Wolf.

“You really should come, you know,” sighed the blood elf, looking disappointedly at his companion. “It’s meant to be a lovely little island. Very cushy job, if I do say so myself. Fabulous beach, and those little goblins do know how to put on a good time for those in their employ.” The orc across from him shook his head, grunting.

“No’ my seen. ‘sides, think me time be done ‘ere,” replied Groshnok. “Time fer me to move on.” The blood elf raised his eyebrow quizzically in response.

“To move on? So you won’t even stay in the mine?” he asked. Groshnok shook his head.

“Nay. I’ve ‘ad enough o’ this. ‘sides, tha’ minin’ operation won’ last much longer. No’ in Horde lands.” Groshnok shook his head, letting out a grunt. “They’ll barge in, kill ‘em all, honourable grunts killin’ filthy slavers.” A small grin curled around his mouth, his sole tusk tightening the right side. “An’ then send ‘em’s own prisoners to die there.” The elf let out a titter, swiping his hand lightly through the air.

“Oh, I do love how you orcs work,” he giggled, patting his chest to slow the laughter. “But yes, you are most likely right. It’s probably for the best.” He paused for a moment, eyeing the orc up and down. “Although, where will you go? The goblins didn’t pay you that much. That coin won’t last you forever.”

“I’ll find a way,” replied Groshnok. “Don’ ye’ be worryin’ about me, Kalrius.” The blood elf sighed melodramatically in response.

“Very well, if that really is what you want, I can’t stop you.” He peered up towards the ship. “Well, I’d better be off. It’s been a pleasure to work with you, Blackrend.” Kalrius offered his hand to the orc with a smile. Groshnok grinned in turn, grabbing the elf’s forearm and squeezing, causing him to squeak in pain. He kept his smile though, squeezing the orcs forearm back.

“Been a good three months, Kal. Be safe,” said Groshnok. Releasing his grip, Groshnok stepped back, allowing Kalrius to massage the place where his hand once was.

“Yes,” grunted Kalrius cheerfully, trying to mask the pain. “It has. I shall think of you while sipping cocktails on a sunny beach.” The pair chuckled, as Kalrius finished massaging his forearm. “I will not miss your orcish handshakes, however.” Groshnok grinned at him.

“Bah. Toughens yer perfumed arse up. Now get goin’, ‘less ye’ wan’ yer cocktail to be a watered-down whiskey here.” Kalrius nodded with a smile, turning to ascend the plank to the ship. He turned as he reached to top, waving down to Groshnok for a final time. Groshnok responded with a wave of his own, watching as the elf disappeared from site, further into the ship. His grin quickly faded as he turned on his heel, strolling from the dock towards the inn. The elf could be good fun, but there was no replacement for the hole his shattered mind was trying to seek out. There was no replacement for his old blood-brothers. And yet, his mind kept seeking it out, as if it would be the key to repairing it, when it was the very thing that started its destruction. Back then, he could not see that, but now he knew.

Yet his mind kept seeking it out. The world had changed too much, too quickly, for an alternative. He felt lost, left behind. As time had passed since he had left the tribe more than eight months ago, the cracks began to worsen. He barely knew who he was anymore. He only knew what he was good at. Being the very thing the jungle had shaped him into during his twenties. Thirty-four years on this plane and he felt like an old man. His body was starting to weaken, too. His right tusk had been cracked off in a skirmish in Uldum months prior. He had joined a mercenary band on a contract to raid a gnomish caravan, carrying some sort of invention, to steal it for some goblin engineer. The goblin could have told them the invention was a weapon. A few inches further and its hammer would have cracked Groshnok’s skull in two. It was not the only appendage missing.

His left ring finger, now just a stump. He was lucky it was not more. In his first week at the mine a troll escaped the camp. Groshnok had been asleep at his post, a bottle of whiskey next to him. The troll had been found, and while he received a beating before being sent back to the mine, it looked like Groshnok’s head was on the chopping block. It would have been, if not for Kalrius.

He had worked on a contract in Tanaris with the elf shortly after leaving the tribe. If not for his vouching, his body would surely be prowler meat by now. Yet the goblins did not let him go unpunished. The phantom pain of that finger, the fact that he would never grip a blade so well again with that hand, was a reminder. A reminder he took seriously. He did not deal lightly with those trying to escape from then.

He sat upon a hillside outside Ratchet, bottle of whiskey in hand, staring out in the direction of the Crossroads. The liquid burned his throat yet soothed his thoughts somewhat. Another job finished. Where next? Everlook? Gadgetzan? How much longer could he keep this up? It wasn’t the same. The past could never be truly replicated. It was dead, gone and long buried in a shallow grave, with his hopes of the Horde returning to what he wanted. He sighed, hoping his old blood-brother would visit tonight. No longer did the spirit haunt him. In recent months they had reached an understanding. But even then, it was not the same, for Groshnok didn’t know if he was even there, or just a figment of his imagination. The sprawling nothingness of the Barrens darkened his mood. A deep sense of longing, and loneliness filled his heart. He ruffled his satchel, producing an old picture. Five orcs filled the photo, grinning wildly, huddled together. Brothers. Gra’tagesh, Reg’nosh, Gre’lak, Urgarok. All gone. He was all that was left. The only one to carry the memories of their deeds, memories he would take to the grave.

The Last Rabid Wolf of Stranglethorn Vale.


Wonderful conclusion! I feel a bit bad for Grosh though. Fingers crossed he finds some belonging.

Does his mean you're coming back!? (if not already...)

:o ;D
Okiba Spearbreaker - Nag'Ogar and Warrior Monk of the Horde
"Strength, Discipline, Mastery."


Yes, he'll be back again soon!

Chapter 2

“Ye’ sure ye’ want to do this?” asked Gra’tagesh. The three orcs in the tent peered at Groshnok. The orc looked worried, but certain. Garrosh Hellscream’s rule as Warchief had come to an end almost a month prior, causing a noticeable air of uncertainty between the four orcs. Their mission had always been clearing out troll encampments in the surrounding area. Now, with the new Warchief being a troll himself, what was to become of them?

“Aye,” replied Groshnok. “I mean, even if ‘em Kor’kron don’ come back to raze this place, even if the bug-eatâ€"”

“Warchief,” Reg’nosh, interrupted. The old orc’s eyes pierced Groshnok sternly. He was always the most Horde proud, an orc who had seen the three great wars, and had stood firmly loyal, regardless of what was asked of him.

“Even if the Warchief do no’ like wha’ we done… who’s to say ‘em won’ kill us anyway?” Gra’tagesh leaned in with his brow furrowed, taking a gulp of ale from his mug. “I mean, it’s no’ like wha’ it used to be ‘ere. When’s the last time we raided some bug-eater village?” Silence descended amongst the gathered, as uncertain eyes shifted from orc to orc. “Let’s face it Grat. We never been t’ones ‘em wan’ shown front an’ centre. We’s barely welcome inside Grom’gol.  ‘em’s never been proud o’ wha’ we do.” Gre’lak let out a chuckle, soon descending into a coughing fit, before he could speak.

“Heh, no’ proud’s an understatement,” he said weakly. “I ever went back to the Frostwolves an’ told ‘em ‘bout this, ye’ can bet tha’ me thanks would be me head on a choppin’ block.” Gra’tagesh waved his hand dismissively.

“Tha’ may be true, bu’ someone had to do this job. We be just as Horde as the rest of ‘em bucketheads.” Groshnok snorted, slamming his fist on the table in anger.

“Yer no’ listenin’ to me! That’s no’ the way ‘em’s gonna see it! The trolls be done ‘ere! Our job be done ‘ere Grat! Don’t ye’ see?!” he cried.

“There’s plenty other jobs ‘em can send us on. We’s needed!” he retorted.

“By Hellscream, aye! An’ Hellscream be no more! Fel, all we’ve done the past year is shi’ ‘em Kor’kron won’ do!” roared Groshnok, getting to his feet.

“There is always a need fer orcs who’ll do wha’ ‘em bucketheads won’t!” Gra’tagesh shot back. “We’ve been in this jungle a decade. A whole decade an’ we’s still standin’!” Gra’tagesh rose from his seat in turn, piercing his glare through Groshnok.

“It’s over Grat,” snarled Groshnok. “Jus’ face it, it’s over!”

“It is over when I say it’s over!” Gra’tagesh’s eyes were bulging with rage. “Ye’ would do well to remember who’s saved yer arse time and again all these years, pup! It is over, when I say tha’ it is--”

“SILENCE!” roared Reg’nosh, slamming the butt of the axe on the floor. The two orcs froze, barely seconds away from launching at one another, turning their attention to Reg’nosh. “The boy has a point, Gra’tagesh.” Reg’nosh’s old eyes sunk into the squad leader’s soul. “We all be wantin’ the old days back bu’ this is comin’ a very long time now, even before the war in Orgrimmar. Urgarok’s been dead months an’ they haven’t sent another marksman! Haven’t ye’ realised that?” Gra’tagesh snarled, taking another swig of ale from his mug.

“We ‘ave contacts in the Bay. We’s done plenty work for ‘em. Can always goâ€"”

“I am not leaving the Horde to go work as a goblin’s blade,” snarled Reg’nosh. “Besides, look at Gre’lak. He’s barely fit to leave the camp.”

“I’m fine,” snarled Gre’lak, spluttering once more before taking a swig of whiskey from his glass. “It’s jus’ some jungle shi’, it’ll pass.”

“Been saying that a while now boy,” replied Reg’nosh sternly. He turned his attention to Gra’tagesh again. “We’ve been here long enough, Gra’tagesh. I can’t move like I used to, an’ despite wha’ tha’ idiot says, he be in no state to travel.” Gre’lak flicked a dismissive hand at Reg’nosh, before descending into a coughing fit again.

“Fine,” grunted Gra’tagesh, rubbing his temples. “Bu’ wha’ abou’ Blackrend?” His hand gestured across the table to Groshnok. Reg’nosh sighed, peering over to him.

“I think yer right.” Silence descended in the tent, as every eye fixed itself firmly on the old orc. “Yer still young, Groshnok. Ye’s been here a long while, but I think ye’ can make it out. Ye’ still have time.”

“It’s no’ like I wan’ to leave, Reg’nosh!” snarled Groshnok, looking downwards. “I jus’… wha’s the point in this anymore? Wha’s the point in sittin’, waitin’, only to know yer gonna be shipped off someplace shit, or wake up wit’ a knife down yer throat?” The old orc nodded at this.

“None, boy. An’ yer not built fer the grunt life anymore.” Reg’nosh turned to face Gra’tagesh. “Let him go. It’s for the best.” Silence descended once again as Gra’tagesh slowly sat back down, brooding for a few moments.

“Go then,” he said, with a flick of his wrist. “Ge’ on yer warg an’ run.” Tense silence passed yet again before Gra’tagesh sighed, his fury calming. “If this be wha’ ye’ really want Groshnok… I won’t stop ye’.” He snorted. “Don’ worry about desertion. ‘em in the camp won’t care. Maybe ye’ are right… maybe our time be over.” His eyes fell downwards, sorry etched on his face. “So, this be it, eh?”

“Aye,” answered Groshnok, tearing up slightly. He took a last gulp from his mug of ale. “Bu’ it’s been a good run, hasn’ it?”

“It has,” said Gra’tagesh, looking up with a small smile. “Now get yer arse movin’. Find some place better. Ge’ some she-orc pregnan’, ‘ave a load of cubs runnin’ ‘round.” Chuckling broke out from the four gathered. “Jus’ make sure ye’ do wha’ ye’ wan’.”

Giving a final look to his blood-brothers, he gave a salute, with them giving him one in return, as he made his way outside the tent. His wolf was already packed. This wasn’t a spur of the moment decision, he had planned it for a few days. As he climbed to his saddle, he found Reg’nosh standing beside him.

“I hope ye’ve a plan?” he enquired.

“Gonna stay in Orgrimmar fer a while. Been years since I seen the city. Wit’ ‘em cleanin’ up the aftermaths, might be a good place to stay quiet in,” Groshnok replied.

“Ye’ wan’ my advice?” asked Reg’nosh. Groshnok nodded in response. “The Kosh’harg be soon. Ye’ ever heard of it?” Groshnok nodded once again. “Stories yer parents probably told ye’. It’s bein’ held in Nagrand. A long way I know, but there’s an old friend of mine in the Bay tha’s makin’ the trip. He can help ye’ get there.” Reg’nosh stretched his hand upwards, presenting a piece of paper to Groshnok, the younger orc taking it. “A tribe called the Red Blades be hosting it. Good orcs, supposedly. Ye’ should go, ye’ might find somethin’ there… or at least, some peace away from ‘ere.” Groshnok nodded, looking down at the paper.

“Me thanks, Reg’nosh…” Furrowing his brow, he peered down at the older orc. “Ye’ know I can’ read, aye?”  Reg’nosh replied with a shrug.

“Plenty in the Bay can. Ye’ll find someone who knows ‘im eventually. Now go, before the sun starts settin’.” He smiled up at the young orc. “Safe travels, brother. An’ lose the accent for a bit.” He smirked, looking at the trees around. “‘em migh’ no’ be likin’ a troll soundin’ orc ou’ there,” he said with a chuckle, imitating Groshnok’s heavier accent.  Groshnok nodded with a grin in response, kicking the sides of his worg to set off.

Nagrand. He’d heard plenty of stories of the lush green fields from his parents as a boy. The camp slowly shrank out of sight behind him. His eyes fell back, nothing but undergrowth met them. Six long years he had spent with them. Six long years, and this was goodbye. He hoped he was making the right decision. His gut told him yes, and he always listened to it. It was often right, after all. Who knows? Maybe he could find a safe place to camp in with these Red Blades.


The whiskey bottle was nearly empty as the partying in Ratchet began to get louder, rougher, and sloppier. Groshnok swayed on the hill, his thoughts a mess. “Ye’ still have time” Reg’nosh had said. He wished the old orc was right. But six years was far too long. No matter how hard he tried, nothing sated what once was. As much as he wanted, he just couldn’t adjust back.

“So yer done wit’ the slavers then?” came a voice beside him. He looked up to find the spirit of his old blood-brother, Gra’tagesh.

“Aye,” grunted Groshnok. Gra’tagesh snorted.

“So, what’s next?” he asked.

“I don’ know,” replied Groshnok.

“Of course ye’ don’,” Gra’tagesh said, rolling his eyes. “Ye’ never seem to fuckin’ know. Jus’ shamble from one job to the next. Look at the state of ye’, Blackrend. Yer a damn shell o’ yerself.”

“Wha’ would ye’ have me do?!” Groshnok snarled. “Go throw myself out on some ship, bound fer some place I don’ give a shi’ abou’, to die some glorious deat’ fer the Horde?!”

“Nay, but ye’ surprise me,” Gra’tagesh said with a shrug. “No’ like ye’ t’shy away from a battle fer the Horde.”

“Tha’ Horde be dead!” Groshnok rose to his feet, stumbling. His wolf mask slipped back, revealing his scarred face, his one eye wide with fury. “A rotbag as Warchief. Oh I stood there at Teldrassil Grat, an’ I watched it burn, an’ I fuckin’ loved it! A rotbag as Warchief, I thought maybe I was wrong?! ‘sno’ so bad!” he slurred. “An’ then I hear wha’ was done at Undercity. Tha’ witch! ‘er killed the wounded! ‘er raised ‘em as monsters! Our people! Our warriors! An’ then… oh, oh then!” Groshnok took a swig of whiskey, finishing the bottle. “Then! ‘em bug-eaters… the ones tha’ brought the hell back after the world shattered… the ones who undid all our work! Made us have to start over! So many more Gurubashi! I gave me soul fer the Horde! I gave me blood for the Horde! I lost me mind in tha’ jungle fer the Horde! An’ now tha’ rotbag bitch, ‘er brings ‘em into the Horde?!”
Groshnok roared, hurling the bottle high off the hill, down towards the plains below. “I piss on the Horde!” His face had turned feral, his breathing sharp and ragged. Gra’tagesh looked down at him with a sigh.

“So this be yer answer? Slowly kill yerself by tryin’ to relive the glory days? It don’ work like tha’, Groshnok.”

“There would be no glory days to kill meself fer, if ye’ hadn’ done this to me!” Groshnok screamed, clawing his chest in anguish. “Look at wha’ ye’ turned me into! Look, ye’ bastard!” Groshnok collapsed to his knees in desperation. For the first time in a long time, tears streamed his cheeks.

“I gave ye’ a choice after yer first burnin’,” Gra’tagesh snorted. “Ye’ chose to stay. Are ye’ sayin’ ye wish ye’ didn’t?”

“I… I…” Groshnok stammered. “No… no it’s just…” Groshnok swallowed a lump in his throat, staring up at the spirit. “I’m fuckin’ broken without ye’ Grat. All o’ ye’. I thought I could go straight, I thought I could, I was doin’ it. I was a Nag’Ogar… I was good at it, I was on me way to Varog’Gor, fer fuck’s sake!” His left fist pounded the ground in anger. “But I couldn’! I ain’ made fer this! I’s a Grom damn village clearer! I’s a troll hunter! I’s… I’s…” Thoughts screamed in his head. His entire body shook uncontrollably. “I wish ye’d killed me when ye’ tried.”

“I don’t,” Gra’tagesh said. Groshnok looked up to the weakly, confusion plain across his face. “I was bitter, furious, sure. Bu’ I was barely goin’ straight myself. An’ there was ye’, a mate an’ a cub. An’ tha’ tribe ye’ was so proud t’be in. Ye’ did better than ye’ realise.”

“It don’ matter,” Groshnok grunted out. “There be no mate t’go back to anymore. I can feel it.”

“So?” Gra’tagesh replied. “Ye’ still wan’ to go back to yer clan.”

“I can’t.”

“Ye’ want to.”

“An’ how do ye’ know?!” Groshnok roared.

“Your left shoulder. Ye’ never go’ rid o’ it,” answered Gra’tagesh. Groshnok grunted, clearing his eye, peering over to the spot. He was right. A tattoo of the sigil of the once Red Blade Tribe. All those years ago, after a Nag’Ogar training, in the dark, dingy inn of Gadgetzan, Rrosh’tul Grogona Wolfheart had given it to him. He still kept it. He still looked at it.
“Go straight again, Groshnok,” said Gra’tagesh with a sigh. “It’s the only way ye’ drag yerself out o’ this.”

“Bu’…” stammered Groshnok.

“Forge’ the Horde. Forge’ it all. Ye’ve bitched about seein’ ‘em in yer dreams enough to me already. Go back to yer clan.”

“An’ if ‘em won’ take me?” asked Groshnok.

“Well, at least ye’ tried,” shrugged Gra’tagesh. “Ye’ be no’ a young pup anymore Groshnok. Yer hair’s startin’ to grey. It be time ye’ made a choice. Go home, or die out ‘ere.” His eyes sternly met Groshnok’s. “Stranglethorn is long dead, brother. Let it rest. Go home.”

Home. It was home, wasn’t it? Or was it, anymore? How many of them had left the clan? How many died in the recent war? Most importantly, how many were left that even remembered who he was? Even still, if they did, he was a shell of that orc. Broken. Battered. Perhaps it would be better to die out here. But something screamed at him. He had tried and failed so many times. He was nearing the end of his tether out here, and that rope was going to snap soon.
Go home or die.
Go home or die.
Go home or die.
Go home.
One last ride. One last shot. He had to try. He had to… he had to mean something? Be a part of something? Be remembered? Be cared for? He didn’t know. Something… just a feeling. A feeling of belonging. A feeling of home. Home. He needed to go home.

“I think I’s done enough hauntin’ o’ ye’ fer one lifetime,” said Gra’tagesh with a grin. “Make yer choice, an’ stick to it Groshnok.” He turned, beginning to walk away. “See ye’ on the other side, brother.”

With that, he was gone. Groshnok blinked. Had he ever truly been there? He didn’t care. Gra’tagesh was right. Go home. Go home. Go home, boy. Run. Run away. Away. Like Nagrand. Like you’ve always done. Stay this time. Stay or die. Leave and die.
The screaming never stops though, does it Groshnok?
The souls his blades had taken, their agony cried out through the cracks of his brain. What had they done? All of it, all of it was for nothing. How many had they wiped out? How broken had that jungle left his mind? It didn’t matter. Six years of chaos and it didn’t matter. Six years, in the end, orcs now died for them rather than against. For the Horde. The clan was Horde. The clan was home. But the Horde was not home, no, not any more. He had to try, though. He had to. One last time.

Go straight, Rabid Wolf. Go straight.