No Weakness

[Groshnok]

A cool autumn breeze blew through the night sky of Nagrand, signifying not only the end of the Kosh’harg, but the end of the warm season. Under a tree’s shade by the lake in northern Garadar, Groshnok leaned back against its trunk, letting the gusts of wind prickle over his skin. He let out a sigh as he meticulously cleaned his pistol, his eye not leaving it as he brought up residual gun from its barrel. The same barrel, only a day before, had been pointed straight at Tagrok Valorwind’s head. The note had come the day before that, tied to Kyrazha Throatrender’s trusty worg Timur. Tagrok had fled, and Groshnok was to bring him home. He knew the reason why but could not give the orc any sympathy for it. It was weakness, plain and simple. Tagrok had let his emotions take over him. Regardless, Groshnok had his orders.

It only took a day. He had scouted up to the Terokkar border, finding no trail, before linking up with Vraxxar in the west. There they had found him, camped on a cliffside in northwest Nagrand, drunk and wallowing in self-pity. The sight made Groshnok’s blood boil, though not because of Tagrok’s circumstances. But because that sight had once been him. How many times had he taken leaves of absence from the clan, for months at a time? How many times had he returned to Stranglethorn, hoping to find death, only to come crawling back? How many times had he said to himself, “this is the last time”? Too many. Far too many.

And for that, listening to Tagrok’s speech, sounding far too like his own to the visions of his blood-brother Gra’tagesh, Groshnok had lost his patience. He had heard enough and drawn his pistol; his finger tightly gripped around the trigger. It was good that Vraxxar had stepped in, to deliver a strike to Valorwind’s face to try and bring the orc back to sense. Groshnok had told Tagrok that he never intended to shoot as they were back in camp. But he was not so sure that was all the truth. The Path of Cunning was set before him, and in the last few weeks had opened his eyes to where he truly had always belonged in the clan. But he also understood, from long talks with Throatrender, that there could truly be no weakness. Not with the threats they would face.

Setting the gun aside, the task of cleaning done, Groshnok breathed a sigh of relief and nestled himself cozily into the trunk, picking up the rolled paper next to him. The cigarette was packed full of herbs he had purchased from a troll at the Kosh’harg. He enjoyed the indulgence in these particular kind every once in a while. They reminded him of the jungle. He placed the end between his lips, and the flame of his zippo sparked to life in his right hand to light it. The sweet smoke hit his lungs as he relaxed his body further into the trunk, though his mind was far from that state. Indeed, the last week had been an interesting one. The night they brought him back, Kyrazha had hinted for Tagrok to try and learn from Groshnok. After all, she knew what Groshnok knew. They had both spent enough time in Stranglethorn Vale to learn of its harrowing rules and be morphed by them. And despite Tagrok’s fleeing, Groshnok knew he was a good, dependable orc deep down. So, he would take the task, and train the former Horde scout in what he needed to know. For Groshnok knew, in the ranks of Gul’thauk, there could not be weakness.

In any ranks, there could not be weakness.

Somewhere Outside Grom’Gol Base Camp, Northern Stranglethorn
One Year Before the Siege of Orgrimmar

It had truly been the most boring few weeks of Dro’mag’s life, stationed in the muggy heat of this blasted jungle. He shouldn’t have been here. He should have been in the newly discovered lands in the south of Azeroth, fighting as one of the honourable Kor’kron. He thought he was guaranteed it, for his great deeds on the field of battle in Ashenvale. But no, politics had reared their ugly head. Bribery was all it took for his deeds to be made another. Shameful. Dishonourable. He could not believe it had happened to him. And worse still, they had sent him away to a land he could not speak up about them from. Half the world away, in Stranglethorn Vale.

Dro’mag grunted with frustration, looking from his corner in the hut to the table across. There, four orcs sat, seeming excited about something for once. Since he had arrived three weeks prior, all he had seen was nothing but uneventful patrols. The only excitement came from one, where a lone Skullsplitter had been shot out of his tree by Urgarok. He had to commend the rest of them, for as wild as they seemed, he could not fathom how they could see the enemy through such thick foliage.

However, it was a lone occurrence. The Trollish thread had truly slowed in the Vale, with the Zandalari also migrating to Pandaria. He gritted his teeth. He should have been there, fighting them. Before his mind could wander to stolen glories, he felt a hand clap around his shoulder.
“Don’t be lookin’ so glum now,” an old voice game from above him. Dro’mag looked up to see the grey-haired Reg’nosh grinning down at him. “Today boy, you’re finally goin’ to see some action. Seems Blackrend found us a lil’ encampment.” Dro’mag’s stomach churned slightly as he looked over towards the mentioned orc. Groshnok Blackrend, the group’s “interpreter”, as they liked to call him. The orc could speak Zandali, but it was not for negotiation he used that tongue. He had heard the screams of a captured troll from the small wooden hut next door for the last few days. When he saw Groshnok finally emerge that morning, hands filled with blood and a gleeful smile upon his face, he dared not look inside to see what remained. Still, it was obvious by the buzz in the hut that he had found something important, and Reg’nosh’s words confirmed that. While the others in the group treated Dro’mag with distrust, Reg’nosh had been a welcoming mentor since his arrival. He had told tales of what their job was. Now, finally, he would be a part of one of their missions.

Gra’tagesh rose from the table, his long black braids spilling down over his shoulders with the movement, as the leader nodded to his orcs. Those at the table nodded back. It was time to move. Dro’mag grunted as he got to his feet, the chainmail armour having stiffened his legs a little. He knew he should not have sat down when he returned from the main camp half an hour prior. Shaking them out to bring the blood flow back, he picked up his great-axe, slinging clicking it into its sheathe across his back. Those at the table moved out of the cramped hut first, with Gra’tagesh whispering some words to Reg’nosh before he departed. The old orc nodded in return, before looking at Dro’mag. “Time to go. I’ll fill ye’ in.”

He walked as silently as the armour would allow him beside Reg’nosh, as their mission was explained to him. Another outpost, encroaching near Grom’gol again. Dro’mag understood. Raid, route, and take the wounded prisoner. Though, he pondered, perhaps giving those warriors an honourable death would be better. He shuddered to think what Blackrend would have in store for them otherwise. Dro’mag focused his eyes on the four in front of them. Gra’tagesh led first, cutting through the swaths of undergrowth with his long machete. To his left flank, the young Groshnok carried matching Gurubashi-like axes in each hand, his head on a constant swivel of every inch of foliage. To the right flank, the hulking Frostwolf Gre’lak’s motions matched, his large axe swung over his shoulder. Taking the rear behind them was the scrawny, warty Urgarok, an arrow already notched in his crossbow. As his head darted to the right, Dro’mag noticed the smaller orc was the only one with a grin plastered on his face. There was something about that orc that seriously unnerved him.

Gra’tagesh raised his hand, pointing his fingers down, and on command the group sunk lower. They were close. Dro’mag could feel the tension rising. As much as he knew these dogs of the Horde were rabid, he also knew they were not stupid. Something was coming. Something wasn’t right. And as if on cue, the next swing of the machete revealed what they had felt. The blade cut through a bush, revealing a small clearing. And in the center, a being looked up at them. A young troll boy, barely old enough to shave. In his hand contained a basked full of berries. His eyes, wide as saucers with fear, locked with theirs. The eerie silence, for only a second, seemed like an eternity before the basket fell, its contents spilling to the undergrowth. The boy darted for the trees. No sooner had he reaches the shadows, an arrow pierced the tree, just next to his head. “Shit!” roared Urgarok, snapping Dro’mag’s attention back to their position. Gra’tagesh snarled at him, and rightly so, thought Dro’mag. Though he was sure to warn the village, he was no scout. There was no honour in taking his life. The words from Gra’tagesh’s mouth though, shocked him.

“Told ye’ no’ to drink tha’ fuckin’ ale! After him!” their leader bellowed. The group fell into formation, and his initial shock was snapped as the large hand of Reg’nosh caught Dro’mag by the scruff of the neck, propelling him forward. The orcs rushed the foliage, and within the minute, Dro’mag could see the outline of an encampment through the cracks of the tree-line. Urgarok, with such dexterity Dro’mag did not imagine of the orc. Clambered up the branches, hopping from one to the other to take his place overhead of their target. Heat washed against Dro’mag’s right arm. Before they rushed the village’s clearing, he glanced in the direction of the heat to find Reg’nosh holding a bottle, cloth at its head set alight. The bottle soared through the air as they broke through the bushes, landing perfectly atop the main hut, shoddily built hut, setting it alight. Screams of voices and steel filled the air, as Dro’mag let his instincts take over, his axe caving the chest of an approaching troll warrior. He looked around, finding his comrades fairing as well as him. Despite the boy’s advantage, it had been too late. They had taken the trolls completely by surprise. Dro’mag spun, his axe cleaving another troll’s stomach right open. The rings of steel slowly died. Was it over already?

His senses returned as he peered around at the now ruined site. Blood from its inhabitants was beginning to flow into the river beside it. Dro’mag grinned. He saw now why they had been so excited. It had been a long time since he had felt this alive. And as quick as the grin had formed, it vanished into a look of horror. There before him, was the boy with the berries. A dagger firmly gripped in his hand. A crossbow bolt firmly gripped between his eyes. Dro’mag staggered over, falling to his knees at the sight. The blood rushed in his ears, blocking all sound out for a few moments as he locked eyes with a young pair who would never see through them again. Dro’mag looked up. This wasn’t just a raid. This was a massacre. His attention turned to his left, where bellows in a language he could not understand brought his hearing back to reality. Groshnok, his maw and blades dripping with blood, stood looking at an elderly troll with a twisted grin. The old troll pointed a bony finger, his eyes bulging with rage as he roared at Groshnok. The orc only turned his head curiously, chuckling somewhat at what had been said, before dropping an axe and grabbing the troll’s wrist. Dro’mag watched as the troll’s eyes widened in horror at the words Groshnok spoke to him in Zandali. In a flash, the axe in Groshnok’s right hand slammed upwards, burying itself in the old troll’s throat.

“No!” Dro’mag cried, but it was too late. Rage bubbled as Blackrend turned his head towards him. “Why?!” he continued. “Why?! Why are you doing this?!”
Groshnok chuckled, the dark tone sending a chill down Dro’mag’s spine. “Funny, tha’ ol’ fuck asked me t’same question. So ye’ ge’ t’same answer,” replied Groshnok. “Sorry, bu’ we ain’ takin’ no prisoners today.” Dro’mag scoffed.
“Monsters,” he breathed. To his surprise, Groshnok’s expression did not turn to anger. He did not go to strike him. Instead, the orc’s expression softened, his eyes sympathetic.
“I understan’,” he said sincerely. “Bu’ ye’ ge’ used t’it. I fel’ t’same as ye’ me firs’ burnin’. Bu’ we be t’los’ ones, Dro’mag. T’ones cas’ aside.” His expression darkened once more, as his red eyes bore into Dro’mag’s green. “Tha’ bug-eater cub ye’ looked at so dear there… ‘im would’ve killed ye’ ‘ad Urgarok no’ taken the sho’. ‘em don’ care out ‘ere. It be kill, or be killed yerself. An’ we plan on survivin’.”

Dro’mag’s eyes widened again. This was the most words the orc had spoke to him at once, if maybe at all since he had been stationed in their group. He growled, defiance rising up above the orc standing above him. Before he could even utter a word, the orc held a hand to him, continuing his speech. “Ye’ be no’ differen’ from us. We all be ‘ere for reasons, be ‘em us did too righ’, or too wron’. Ye’ go’ t’learn t’accept tha’. Whoever sen’ ye’ ‘ere wan’s ye’ t’die. Bu’ we won’. We gon’ carry out t’orders tha’ we been given…” Dro’mag felt the orc’s eyes bore into his very soul, as Reg’nosh, Urgarok and Gra’tagesh came to Blackrend’s side. “We be t’Rabid Wolves o’ Stranglet’orn Vale,” Groshnok continued. “Accep’ tha’. Accep’ ye’ be never goin’ back. Bu’ prove ‘em wron’. Ye’ be no’ dead, no. Ye’ be very much alive, Dra’mog.” Groshnok held out his hand to help the orc up, a smile forming upon his lips. A disgusting, revolting smile, thought Dro’mag. His green eyes burned with more defiance than ever, letting out a roar as he rose to his feet, slapping the young orc’s hand away. Groshnok stumbled back a few steps in shock, snarling. But before he could retaliate, Reg’nosh stepped in front of him, putting his right hand forward to shield Groshnok’s attack. His eyes looked bore a different look. Pleading.

“Consider wha’ the boy said, Dro’mag,” said Reg’nosh. “Ye’ have told me of Ashenvale. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did! Please, I beg of ye’, do not let your pride get in the way. Ye’ be a good soldier. Ye’ be a good orc, but the way things be here, it be no’ like on the battlefields ye’ve been on before.” The old orc grunted, his eyes the most genuine Dro’mag had seen any, since he had set foot in the Vale. “Please Dro’mag, reconsider…” Dro’mag grunted, his eyes searching each orc there. Urgarok seemed indifferent. Groshnok, though angry from his prideful speech, nodded along with what Reg’nosh had been saying. And the leader, Gra’tagesh. There was a flicker of hope in his eyes. Hope he would accept, or hope he would escape, Dro’mag did not know. But he knew that he could not become one of them. The anger boiled within him for even thinking of such thoughts of accepting their offer! He let his head crane to the sky, letting out an anguished roar, before looking straight ahead. Not at Gra’tagesh. But at Reg’nosh, who had so taken care of him.

“You bastard!” he screamed. “You promised me! Promised me how it would go!” Reg’nosh tried to interrupt, but Dro’mag held his hand forward, stalwart. “No! Don’t try to fill my head with shit of trying to protect me! You’re monsters! All of you!” he screamed, eyeing each and every member of the four in front of him in turn. “This is what the Horde asks of you? I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it! No! This is out of your own terms… But don’t worry,” said Dro’mag. “I won’t tell. Dishonourable bastards as yourselves will face judgement in the next life. Just relieve me of my duties here, and transfer me to another post,” he said, nodding at Gra’tagesh. “That’s all I ask.” He expected laughter. He expected mocking. But no. Something much worse came. Urgarok and Groshnok’s expressions darkened. Gra’tagesh looked at him with disgust. But Reg’nosh, Reg’nosh just looked at him with pity.

“Are you sure, my boy?” he asked. Dro’mag nodded with a grunt. “Then I’m sorry,” Reg’nosh sighed. “Go.” Dro’mag needed no further talking. He spun on his heel, his path for the undergrowth, never to look back at them. But his turn took him face first, straight into the mountain that was Gre’lak. Dro’mag went to shove the orc aside, but strangely as he moved his arm forward, it faltered. Worse still, neither would his legs make a step. Try as he might, Dro’mag was stuck to that position. He had felt Gre’lak’s fist hit his abdomen, but it wasn’t that hard. He wasn’t that easily winded. His eyes cast downwards.

Blood.

A trollish dagger was buried deep in his abdomen. Further downwards, he saw the corpse of the dead boy that had brought him to a standstill. No longer was that dagger in his hand. Dro’mag recoiled, realizing what had been done, but his footing could not be found, the orc collapsing onto his back. Gra’tagesh, Reg’nosh, Groshnok and Gre’lak surrounded him. Watching him bleed out. Watching his final moments. Reg’nosh’s eyes were still filled with pity as he leaned down, clasping Dro’mag’s hand. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he said. “But there isn’t any room for weakness here.” Dro’mag grunted, a bubble of blood breaking through his mouth. He croaked. Again and again they came up, as Reg’nosh squeezed his hand tighter for some comfort. It was at least, some comfort, Dro’mag thought. He croaked again, gasping for that last bit of air as the bubble of blood broke past his teeth. It finally seemed in. And with that, the world went black.

“She’s a pretty one, ain’t she! Oh, I like ‘er!” squealed Urgarok with glee, peering at the corpse of a dead she-troll. From the Dro’mag’s own corpse, Groshnok turned around, cracking Urgarok over the head.

“Be bad enough ye’ defile the livin’!” he yelled. “Don’ ye’ start wit’ t’dead, y’little rat. Be a wonder yer thin’ ain’ fallen off.” Urgarok growled, but fell slient once he saw Gra’tagesh’s steely gaze as the orc looked behind his shoulder. Groshnok sighed, walking over to Dro’mag’s body. “We’s ‘ardly gon’ leave ‘im for t’clean-up crew, is we?” he asked. Gra’tagesh shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “Best no’ t’leave him wit’ the rest. Ye’ an’ Gre’lak find a spot.” Groshnok nodded, picking Dro’mag’s legs up as Gre’lak hoisted the corpse upwards by the armpits. The pair walked silently towards the dense bushes. They’d find a spot where the panther’s would come out once darkness fell. It would be like the orc never existed after they had their feast, Groshnok knew. And even if the body was found, Gre’lak had been smart enough to drive a trollish blade into Dro’mag’s belly. Just a grunt on patrol, picked off easily. Groshnok grunted, looking down at the lifeless eyes of the orc, his head pressed against Gre’lak’s chest. It was a shame, really. He seemed like a good pair of hands. He remembered his first burning. This fate could have easily been his own, had he made the same decision as Dro’mag. But that was the way of life here, unfortunately. You had to let go of the past, and let your instincts take over if you wanted to survive. In their line of work, you were no longer a proud worg of the Horde war machine. And that title was something Dro’mag could not let go of, not descend from.

In the end, Dro’mag was no Rabid Wolf.


Groshnok crushed the end of the cigarette into the grass, breathing out the last plume of smoke as he dwelled on the memory. It really was a shame. Dro’mag would’ve fit in well in the clan, he knew. The path of strength could have used his capable hands. But that was a lifetime ago, and it was best not to dwell on the past. He had spent too much time already chasing it. His days in Stranglethorn were done, gone forever and never coming back. Despite it being over half a decade ago since he had left, it was only in the last few weeks he had finally come to terms with that fact and began to make peace with it. After all, there were more pressing things to worry about now. Tagrok being his main concerned.

He snickered, thinking of the Tagrok’s bitter words to him when Groshnok and Vraxxar found the orc on that cliffside. “Her bloodhound,” he had called Groshnok. It was the first time he had been called such a thing. He pondered the name for a while, but found it to be quite fitting in the end. After all, with the work he had done, he found it a title earned, rather than the insult it was meant as. A title Tagrok could attain too, and he would make sure of it. For as much as he learned in the jungle, Groshnok knew all too well the path of the Rabid Wolf, and would make sure it was a road Tagrok would not walk. Descending it was a dangerous enough task, but it was a road that kept you, never to let you out again, at least not fully. A bloodhound, though. That, Groshnok could make. He rose to his feet, looking out towards the Throne of the Elements. It would be bitter work, but Groshnok wouldn’t relent. The orc needed to learn. For every chain is broken by its weakest link. And to have one in the path of the Gul’thauk was something Groshnok couldn’t allow. He was capable as it was. Groshnok would mould him into something greater, no matter what. No complaints, no whining.

No weakness.