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.