Worn, calloused fingertips played over the large axe lying across the orcish warrior's lap, brushing against the runes hewn into the steel where it was bound to the haft. Deep red eyes studied the young orc seated a few feet away, who stared back eagerly with similar ones, a lesson was being taught... a story was being told.
"Draenor is lost to us boy, along with all of our history..." the gruff voice rose above the sound of the crackling fire and the rustling canopy overhead. "...the rest of our clan was possessed. They were taken by the legion."
There was a slight pause as Wulfgar Varul reached up, scratching at one of the many ragged scars covering his pale scalp with a large fingertip. He eyed his son, the last of what was once a great line, the final child of Varul, and one corner of his mouth curled slightly, the only visible sign of the pride he felt.
"We are free, just as The Warsong are, but we are not of their clan." he continued, sighing heavily, he knew that what he was about to say would crush his son more than any blow could ever do. The orcish boy was very young, only nine, but his resolve was firm and his hands were strong. It wounded Wulfgar to speak further, but he knew it had to be done. "...I go to fight with them but you are not to follow me... you are not yet ready to stand on the field of battle."
The look of disbelief that followed those words cut to the old warrior's core. Durfang did not reply, he simply stared at his father. He did not need to ask why, his expression did it plainly enough...
"You will stay behind at the encampment with those of The Warsong who maintain it when we depart." Wulfgar said, rising to his feet. "You will continue to train in the manner that I have trained you. Harden yourself and make your arms strong..."
The faint smile that had faded moments before appeared again, curling the right side of the older orc's mouth as he hefted his large axe over one shoulder. Something in his blood told him that he was going to meet his death at the new Warsong Warchief's side... but it was his time. Some might argue that what he should have done is continued to train his son, leaving the battle for another day... that he should have stayed behind and taken care of his only family... Those people would never understand what it meant to be orc, they would never know what true honor was.
"Remember Durfang..." he said, reaching out to place his free hand on the youth's shoulder. "...life is war. Trust only in your own strength, never show pain or fear to those who stand against you. You are free, live free, die free..."
The boy didnt cry, he had been trained to know no pain, no fear, no weakness. His heart may have broken at his father's words, but it was not shattered, he was too strong for that. Silently, Durfang nodded, staring up at his father with the deep red eyes that was one of the traits of their shared blood.
"We will see each other again my son... in this life or the next."
...and with that, the older orc turned, leaving his son alone in the small clearing by the crackling campfire. As he walked towards the Warsong encampment he lowered his head, feeling the pangs of true sadness for the first time in his life. He had pledged his axe to Thrall and his dream of a free orcish nation, and thus, he had to turn his back on the one being in any realm that meant anything to him now that everyone else he had ever known was lost.
"Goodbye, my son..." he whispered to the winds, the last remnants of the faint smile fading from his eyes... all that remained was the hardened look of a warrior, a killer, someone who was not afraid to die. Alone, he walked to fulfill his pledge, leaving his world behind him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The young orc stood alone by the fire, watching his father disappear into the night. Part of him wanted to follow, but it was small and weak, the last remnants of childhood innocence that had been all but brushed away by his harsh training. He was young, yes... but he had seen death and dealt it himself. He knew what it was to be a warrior, he was his father's son. His face was resolute as he turned his bloodred eyes upwards, staring through the clearing's gap in the canopy of trees at the stars above.
"...yes father." came the reply, heard only by the wind.
Bloodlines by Durfang
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Re: Bloodlines by Durfang
<TCHUNK>
The moonlight glinted off of the axeblade as the young orc holding it wrenched it out of the treestump, shouldering the weapon as he readied another piece of wood. The axe was raised once more.
<TCHUNK>
The two halves fell to the sides of the stump onto the growing piles. Durfang reached for a fresh piece of wood. He heard the footsteps behind him and his grip tightened momentarily on the haft of the axe in his hands but he did not turn around, he knew from the sound of the footsteps that it was another orc, his senses were sharp, he trained himself constantly.
<TCHUNK>
The axe shimmered again as the moonlight played across its steel edge for a brief moment before it was driven down into the block of wood that had been set up to be split.
"...Durfang? They've returned, The Warchief and the others, they say that its all over, we will find a home where we can all live in peace." the orcish steward said, eyeing the youth. He was well built, despite his age, with long red hair and strong hands that knew their way around an axe. It almost pained the elder orc to continue, this boy represented the future that The Warchief had promised them all, he was the next generation, strong... proud...
<TCHUNK>
"I know, I saw them earlier today." came the reply, Durfang did not turn around, he simply set another block of wood on the stump and raised his axe.
"...your father, Wulfgar..." the old orc said, his face drawn in a solemn expression. "...he did not return. The Warchief bade me find you and let you know."
<TCHUNK>
"I know..." came the reply. Another piece of wood was set on the stump, the axe was raised again to catch the moon in its blade.
"But how?" the steward of the Warsong encampment stammered. "They've only just returned this afternoon... and youve been here chopping firewood since this morning. How could you know this?"
<TCHUNK>
"I've known since he left me." the young orc said, readying another piece of wood. "Was there anything else you needed, elder one?"
The old orc shook his head, eyeing the pale skinned orcish youth before him with a mixture of pride, respect and sadness on his face. The boy was a warrior, even at his young age. "He was what? Nine, when his father left with Thrall?" the steward thought to himself, rubbing his age-spotted scalp.
"No, young one... nothing else. We will all leave this camp within the next few days. I will let you know when we are to go so that you can prepare your things."
<TCHUNK>
"Very well. Goodnight elder one." again, the reply in the same strong voice, followed by the axe being shouldered, the wood being placed, the axe being raised again.
The older orc nodded, studying Durfang for a few moments before turning back towards the raucous sounds of the firelit camp a short distance away. "That one is bound for great things..." he thought to himself as he walked back to join the festivities that were being held in The Warchief's honor.
<TCHUNK>
<TCHUNK>
<TCHUNK>
On the edge of the forest, Durfang continued his task, dutifully hewing the wood as he had been asked to do by those who minded the camp he had called home since his father had brought him there and departed with Thrall. His face betrayed no emotion, it was blank, devoid of any weakness, but the depths of his eyes told a story of sorrow that none would ever see or hear. It was that story, being told within him, that brushed away the last pieces of his broken youthful heart.
<TCHUNK>
The young warrior reached down, picking up another block of wood. He set it on the stump. He raised his axe. He continued his work. He was alone.
The moonlight glinted off of the axeblade as the young orc holding it wrenched it out of the treestump, shouldering the weapon as he readied another piece of wood. The axe was raised once more.
<TCHUNK>
The two halves fell to the sides of the stump onto the growing piles. Durfang reached for a fresh piece of wood. He heard the footsteps behind him and his grip tightened momentarily on the haft of the axe in his hands but he did not turn around, he knew from the sound of the footsteps that it was another orc, his senses were sharp, he trained himself constantly.
<TCHUNK>
The axe shimmered again as the moonlight played across its steel edge for a brief moment before it was driven down into the block of wood that had been set up to be split.
"...Durfang? They've returned, The Warchief and the others, they say that its all over, we will find a home where we can all live in peace." the orcish steward said, eyeing the youth. He was well built, despite his age, with long red hair and strong hands that knew their way around an axe. It almost pained the elder orc to continue, this boy represented the future that The Warchief had promised them all, he was the next generation, strong... proud...
<TCHUNK>
"I know, I saw them earlier today." came the reply, Durfang did not turn around, he simply set another block of wood on the stump and raised his axe.
"...your father, Wulfgar..." the old orc said, his face drawn in a solemn expression. "...he did not return. The Warchief bade me find you and let you know."
<TCHUNK>
"I know..." came the reply. Another piece of wood was set on the stump, the axe was raised again to catch the moon in its blade.
"But how?" the steward of the Warsong encampment stammered. "They've only just returned this afternoon... and youve been here chopping firewood since this morning. How could you know this?"
<TCHUNK>
"I've known since he left me." the young orc said, readying another piece of wood. "Was there anything else you needed, elder one?"
The old orc shook his head, eyeing the pale skinned orcish youth before him with a mixture of pride, respect and sadness on his face. The boy was a warrior, even at his young age. "He was what? Nine, when his father left with Thrall?" the steward thought to himself, rubbing his age-spotted scalp.
"No, young one... nothing else. We will all leave this camp within the next few days. I will let you know when we are to go so that you can prepare your things."
<TCHUNK>
"Very well. Goodnight elder one." again, the reply in the same strong voice, followed by the axe being shouldered, the wood being placed, the axe being raised again.
The older orc nodded, studying Durfang for a few moments before turning back towards the raucous sounds of the firelit camp a short distance away. "That one is bound for great things..." he thought to himself as he walked back to join the festivities that were being held in The Warchief's honor.
<TCHUNK>
<TCHUNK>
<TCHUNK>
On the edge of the forest, Durfang continued his task, dutifully hewing the wood as he had been asked to do by those who minded the camp he had called home since his father had brought him there and departed with Thrall. His face betrayed no emotion, it was blank, devoid of any weakness, but the depths of his eyes told a story of sorrow that none would ever see or hear. It was that story, being told within him, that brushed away the last pieces of his broken youthful heart.
<TCHUNK>
The young warrior reached down, picking up another block of wood. He set it on the stump. He raised his axe. He continued his work. He was alone.
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Re: Bloodlines by Durfang
Red snow crunched beneath his platemail boots as the orcish warrior scaled the hill's slope. The top was in sight, and below, in the valley, were his enemies. His feet pounded the frozen earth as he ran, leaving a trail of large footprints behind him. He could hear them shouting in the common tongue, yelling their battlecries to the winds as they charged towards Iceblood Tower. Durfang reached the snowy hill's peak, his powerful legs tensed and pushed against the frozen soil beneath them. He was airborn, axes raised, his red eyes focused on the mounted paladin rushing up to meet his descent.
"For The Horde!"
His thundering battlecry was echoed by the other forces who followed him over the hill, crashing down onto the enemy riders from above. His feet met the paladin's breastplate and sent him to the ground, the human wheezed, dazed by the three hundred and fifty pounds of orcish muscle and platemail armor that had just come hurtling down onto his chest. The warrior's axes came down in a viscious strike, the wheezing stopped, the paladin slumped.
"Give them no quarter!" Durfang shouted. It was his first command, his first chance to lead The Horde's forces against The Alliance, and it was going very well. "There will be no prisoners here!"
<Thunk,Thunk,Thunk>
The arrows drove splinters of ragged pain through his back, piercing through tiny gaps in his armor to bury themselves in his flesh. The orcish warrior turned, his red eyes burning as he fixed his gaze upon the night elven huntress standing a good twenty yards away. She glared back at him, shouted something he did not understand and raised her bow, drawing another arrow.
His feet pounded the snow, charging her as only a warrior could. Closing distance was something he had practiced for days, weeks, years... he knew how to fight against hunters.
"Push them back! Force them north!" he shouted into the frigid winds, his powerful voice carrying over the battlefield.
The elven huntress' bow lowered for a moment as Durfang's warcry sapped her resolve, demoralizing her. There is something terrifying about staring down a redeyed orcish warrior as he charges you, bellowing in a language that you do not understand. That second of weakness was all the opening he needed.
<THUD>
His pauldrons met her chest, throwing her down into the snow. She blinked, obviously stunned by his assault, disoriented as she tried to focus her eyes.
"Thalanasiir delo tannath?" she said weakly, trying to push herself into a sitting position as her lungs sucked in the air that had been forced out of them by his charge.
"Die well, Alliance filth." Durfang muttered, slashing down with the axe in his right hand, opening her throat, executing her.
The elf gurgled a plea in what must have been her native tongue, the glow fading from her eyes as her lifeblood seeped into the snow beneath her flowing green hair.
"PUSH THEM NORTH!" Durfang shouted, grinning as the gathered forces behind him routed the Alliance charge and sent the remnants retreating towards Stonehearth Tower.
He reached back, tugging the barbed arrows out of his back with a grunt as he whistled into the wind and shouted a single word.
"JAX!"
A large dire wolf loped towards him from the treeline, its fur was covered in blood. The warrior grinned and caught the wolf's mane as it ran past, vaulting up onto its back.
"Charge!" he yelled, brandishing his axes as he resumed his place at the head of The Horde's advance.
The battle raged, the clashes of steel meeting steel rang out over Alterac Valley, and for the young orcish commander, it seemed as if time had lost all meaning. He fought, bloody and cold, as if it were the only thing he had ever known, and in many ways... it was.
"For The Horde!"
His thundering battlecry was echoed by the other forces who followed him over the hill, crashing down onto the enemy riders from above. His feet met the paladin's breastplate and sent him to the ground, the human wheezed, dazed by the three hundred and fifty pounds of orcish muscle and platemail armor that had just come hurtling down onto his chest. The warrior's axes came down in a viscious strike, the wheezing stopped, the paladin slumped.
"Give them no quarter!" Durfang shouted. It was his first command, his first chance to lead The Horde's forces against The Alliance, and it was going very well. "There will be no prisoners here!"
<Thunk,Thunk,Thunk>
The arrows drove splinters of ragged pain through his back, piercing through tiny gaps in his armor to bury themselves in his flesh. The orcish warrior turned, his red eyes burning as he fixed his gaze upon the night elven huntress standing a good twenty yards away. She glared back at him, shouted something he did not understand and raised her bow, drawing another arrow.
His feet pounded the snow, charging her as only a warrior could. Closing distance was something he had practiced for days, weeks, years... he knew how to fight against hunters.
"Push them back! Force them north!" he shouted into the frigid winds, his powerful voice carrying over the battlefield.
The elven huntress' bow lowered for a moment as Durfang's warcry sapped her resolve, demoralizing her. There is something terrifying about staring down a redeyed orcish warrior as he charges you, bellowing in a language that you do not understand. That second of weakness was all the opening he needed.
<THUD>
His pauldrons met her chest, throwing her down into the snow. She blinked, obviously stunned by his assault, disoriented as she tried to focus her eyes.
"Thalanasiir delo tannath?" she said weakly, trying to push herself into a sitting position as her lungs sucked in the air that had been forced out of them by his charge.
"Die well, Alliance filth." Durfang muttered, slashing down with the axe in his right hand, opening her throat, executing her.
The elf gurgled a plea in what must have been her native tongue, the glow fading from her eyes as her lifeblood seeped into the snow beneath her flowing green hair.
"PUSH THEM NORTH!" Durfang shouted, grinning as the gathered forces behind him routed the Alliance charge and sent the remnants retreating towards Stonehearth Tower.
He reached back, tugging the barbed arrows out of his back with a grunt as he whistled into the wind and shouted a single word.
"JAX!"
A large dire wolf loped towards him from the treeline, its fur was covered in blood. The warrior grinned and caught the wolf's mane as it ran past, vaulting up onto its back.
"Charge!" he yelled, brandishing his axes as he resumed his place at the head of The Horde's advance.
The battle raged, the clashes of steel meeting steel rang out over Alterac Valley, and for the young orcish commander, it seemed as if time had lost all meaning. He fought, bloody and cold, as if it were the only thing he had ever known, and in many ways... it was.
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Re: Bloodlines by Durfang
"You did well today, son of Varul..."
Drek'Thar, general of the Frostwolf forces, offered the flask in his right hand to the warrior in front of him as he motioned for him to sit with his left. Durfang graciously accepted, taking both invitations. He grunted as he sat down on the animal skins covering the floor of the mighty general's chamber, the wounds he had recieved were still fresh and had only just been tended.
"You are cold and bloody." the general continued, reaching up to run a large scarred hand through his long grey hair. "...as is this valley. It has seen more death than most other places on Azeroth. I think that the ground here drinks the blood of orcs, elves and men gladly... it is hungry earth, as the tauren say."
The older orc turned his blind eyes upwards, smiling faintly as he breathed in the cold night air. There was no fire in Drek'Thar's chamber, and it seemed to Durfang that the old orc preferred it that way.
"I knew your father." the general continued, a smile gracing his scarred features as he scratched at his neck. "We served together under The Warchief during the great conflict..."
Durfang bowed his head respectfully as his elder spoke, his expression blank. He knew that Drek'Thar had served with his father, that was the main reason he had asked The Warchief to allow him to serve in Alterac, on the front lines.
"He was a fine warrior..." the general said, turning his face back towards Durfang. "You honored your blood and his memory with your actions on the field today... I have reported our victory to The Warchief and he is pleased that his faith in you was well founded."
The old orc chuckled, reaching out to pat the younger warrior's shoulder with his large hand.
"I told him that a child of Varul would not come back alive if he failed, so the mere fact that you survived the battle was proof of our victory."
Durfang looked up at the aged orcish commander sitting in front of him. He nodded, curtly, respectfully, not showing any hint of the joy he felt at the old orc's praise.
"I serve with everything I am, General Drek'Thar." the young warrior said, his resolute red eyes searching the blindfolded orc's face. "Your praise is a great honor."
The old orc smiled again, reaching into his tunic, producing a small insignia of rank. Durfang recognized it and drew in a slow breath.
"In The Warchief's army, ranks are not given, they are earned." the general said, affixing the insignia to Durfang's breastplate. "You have earned this with your strength, your bravery and your loyalty."
The younger orc bowed his head, allowing himself a small smile.
"We expect great things from you, Durfang." he continued, patting the warrior's right pauldron with his massive hand. "You are now to be known as The Pallid Axe, as your father was before you... A title well earned and a rank that no others hold."
Drek'thar paused for a moment, smirking as he pulled his hand back, grinning wolfishly at the warrior seated before him. He chuckled, his rough voice resounding in the high-ceilinged chamber.
"...but dont let it go to your head, little warrior."
With a final nod, Durfang stood, saluted the general, and took his leave, his gauntleted right hand covering the symbol that had been attached to his breastplate. As he stepped out of the general's chamber, he removed his hand and looked down, his red eyes fixed upon the insignia. Two large axes crossed behind a wooden shield... it was familiar enough to any orc... but instead of the reds, browns and steely greys that adorned the normal orcish insignia, there was only white.
"For you, father..." Durfang whispered, turning his eyes up towards the sky. Snow had begun to fall.
The warrior walked off into the snowcovered village of Frostwolf with a look of accomplishment in his eyes and the alabaster insignia of his rank affixed to his breastplate. Inside the large building he had just exited, the orcish general smiled to himself, and took a long drink from his flask.
"...great things." he muttered, stroking his beard.
Drek'Thar, general of the Frostwolf forces, offered the flask in his right hand to the warrior in front of him as he motioned for him to sit with his left. Durfang graciously accepted, taking both invitations. He grunted as he sat down on the animal skins covering the floor of the mighty general's chamber, the wounds he had recieved were still fresh and had only just been tended.
"You are cold and bloody." the general continued, reaching up to run a large scarred hand through his long grey hair. "...as is this valley. It has seen more death than most other places on Azeroth. I think that the ground here drinks the blood of orcs, elves and men gladly... it is hungry earth, as the tauren say."
The older orc turned his blind eyes upwards, smiling faintly as he breathed in the cold night air. There was no fire in Drek'Thar's chamber, and it seemed to Durfang that the old orc preferred it that way.
"I knew your father." the general continued, a smile gracing his scarred features as he scratched at his neck. "We served together under The Warchief during the great conflict..."
Durfang bowed his head respectfully as his elder spoke, his expression blank. He knew that Drek'Thar had served with his father, that was the main reason he had asked The Warchief to allow him to serve in Alterac, on the front lines.
"He was a fine warrior..." the general said, turning his face back towards Durfang. "You honored your blood and his memory with your actions on the field today... I have reported our victory to The Warchief and he is pleased that his faith in you was well founded."
The old orc chuckled, reaching out to pat the younger warrior's shoulder with his large hand.
"I told him that a child of Varul would not come back alive if he failed, so the mere fact that you survived the battle was proof of our victory."
Durfang looked up at the aged orcish commander sitting in front of him. He nodded, curtly, respectfully, not showing any hint of the joy he felt at the old orc's praise.
"I serve with everything I am, General Drek'Thar." the young warrior said, his resolute red eyes searching the blindfolded orc's face. "Your praise is a great honor."
The old orc smiled again, reaching into his tunic, producing a small insignia of rank. Durfang recognized it and drew in a slow breath.
"In The Warchief's army, ranks are not given, they are earned." the general said, affixing the insignia to Durfang's breastplate. "You have earned this with your strength, your bravery and your loyalty."
The younger orc bowed his head, allowing himself a small smile.
"We expect great things from you, Durfang." he continued, patting the warrior's right pauldron with his massive hand. "You are now to be known as The Pallid Axe, as your father was before you... A title well earned and a rank that no others hold."
Drek'thar paused for a moment, smirking as he pulled his hand back, grinning wolfishly at the warrior seated before him. He chuckled, his rough voice resounding in the high-ceilinged chamber.
"...but dont let it go to your head, little warrior."
With a final nod, Durfang stood, saluted the general, and took his leave, his gauntleted right hand covering the symbol that had been attached to his breastplate. As he stepped out of the general's chamber, he removed his hand and looked down, his red eyes fixed upon the insignia. Two large axes crossed behind a wooden shield... it was familiar enough to any orc... but instead of the reds, browns and steely greys that adorned the normal orcish insignia, there was only white.
"For you, father..." Durfang whispered, turning his eyes up towards the sky. Snow had begun to fall.
The warrior walked off into the snowcovered village of Frostwolf with a look of accomplishment in his eyes and the alabaster insignia of his rank affixed to his breastplate. Inside the large building he had just exited, the orcish general smiled to himself, and took a long drink from his flask.
"...great things." he muttered, stroking his beard.
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Re: Bloodlines by Durfang
"...you have been doing well in Outland, Durfang. The Horde, and I, appreciate your efforts."
Durfang nodded slightly from where he was kneeling, but he did not speak. After a few moments, Thrall continued, watching the younger orc carefully with his sharp eyes.
"Your father was a great help to me in the past..." The Warchief said, relaxing further on his throne. "...an excellent soldier."
"Thank you Warchief." came the reply, almost instantly. "I can only hope to become half of the warrior he was... for The Horde."
Thrall grunted, shifting slightly on his seat as he examined the platemail clad orc knelt at his feet.
"Praise where praise is due..." he said. After a few moments of intense scrutiny, he continued. "You are very much his son. You do your blood proud."
Another curt nod was the reply, no words were spoken, Durfang knew a question was coming... he could feel it.
"Your guild, The Grim." The Warchief spoke the words slowly, leaning foreward as he did so, his fingers steepled in front of his broad mouth. "...they are quite capable at working against The Alliance... they have been a thorn in the side of The Horde's enemies for a long while now."
Thrall lowered his voice slightly as he studied the warrior before him.
"They have promoted you recently, have they not?" a question to which Durfang was sure The Warchief already knew the answer.
"Yes, Warchief, I have been promoted this very day." the reply came anyways.
"As ive learned, members of The Grim are permitted to wear the guild's colors when they move up in the ranks..." the older orc continued, peering intently at the young warrior. "...yet your tabard..." Thrall motioned to the heavy cloth draped and belted over Durfang's breastplate. "...bears a symbol that is not your guild's."
No answer, Durfang turned his red gaze up to meet Thrall's eyes.
"Where do your allegiances lie, Durfang?" The Warchief said in a low voice, raising an eyebrow slightly.
There was no hesitation in the reply.
"First to my blood, then to The Horde and to you, Warchief, and then to The Grim."
Thrall nodded slightly, his face impassive as he relaxed back into his large chair's cushioned backing, still studying the warrior.
"Thank you, Son of Varul. That will be all"
Durfang bowed his head again, stood and turned, walking out of Thrall's chambers. He had been expecting the question for awhile now. If he were in The Warchief's shoes, he would have asked the same...
"Interesting, that one..." grunted Thrall, rubbing his cheek as he watched the orcish warrior walk out of his hall. "Very interesting..."
Durfang nodded slightly from where he was kneeling, but he did not speak. After a few moments, Thrall continued, watching the younger orc carefully with his sharp eyes.
"Your father was a great help to me in the past..." The Warchief said, relaxing further on his throne. "...an excellent soldier."
"Thank you Warchief." came the reply, almost instantly. "I can only hope to become half of the warrior he was... for The Horde."
Thrall grunted, shifting slightly on his seat as he examined the platemail clad orc knelt at his feet.
"Praise where praise is due..." he said. After a few moments of intense scrutiny, he continued. "You are very much his son. You do your blood proud."
Another curt nod was the reply, no words were spoken, Durfang knew a question was coming... he could feel it.
"Your guild, The Grim." The Warchief spoke the words slowly, leaning foreward as he did so, his fingers steepled in front of his broad mouth. "...they are quite capable at working against The Alliance... they have been a thorn in the side of The Horde's enemies for a long while now."
Thrall lowered his voice slightly as he studied the warrior before him.
"They have promoted you recently, have they not?" a question to which Durfang was sure The Warchief already knew the answer.
"Yes, Warchief, I have been promoted this very day." the reply came anyways.
"As ive learned, members of The Grim are permitted to wear the guild's colors when they move up in the ranks..." the older orc continued, peering intently at the young warrior. "...yet your tabard..." Thrall motioned to the heavy cloth draped and belted over Durfang's breastplate. "...bears a symbol that is not your guild's."
No answer, Durfang turned his red gaze up to meet Thrall's eyes.
"Where do your allegiances lie, Durfang?" The Warchief said in a low voice, raising an eyebrow slightly.
There was no hesitation in the reply.
"First to my blood, then to The Horde and to you, Warchief, and then to The Grim."
Thrall nodded slightly, his face impassive as he relaxed back into his large chair's cushioned backing, still studying the warrior.
"Thank you, Son of Varul. That will be all"
Durfang bowed his head again, stood and turned, walking out of Thrall's chambers. He had been expecting the question for awhile now. If he were in The Warchief's shoes, he would have asked the same...
"Interesting, that one..." grunted Thrall, rubbing his cheek as he watched the orcish warrior walk out of his hall. "Very interesting..."
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Re: Bloodlines by Durfang
Thrall, Warchief of The Horde, studied the orcish warrior kneeling in front of him. He knew what he was about to ask, just as he already knew what the answer would be. Oaths would be broken and reformed in the next few minutes, it was simply a matter of going through the motions.
"Do you know why I have summoned you here, Durfang?" The Warchief asked, scratching the side of his face.
"No, Warchief." came the reply.
"Our ties with the blood elves are tenuous..." Thrall continued, furrowing his brow as he relaxed further into his large throne's cushioned seat. "...I need a new emissary."
Durfang nodded, listening carefully to the older orc's words.
"For services rendered to The Horde, and your family's infallable loyalty to my cause, I am offering you this position." he continued. "You worked well with the Mag'Har as my envoy in the past... I am asking now that you do the same in Silvermoon."
"Of course, Warchief. I accept this honor gratefully." the younger warrior said, not allowing the pride he felt at The Warchief's praise to show in his face.
"You know this means that you must leave your guild..." Thrall said, studying Durfang's face. "You must leave all of your current allegiances aside and focus on your new position in The Horde."
"Yes Warchief, I am aware of this." there was no pause between the question and the answer. "My allegiance is first to you and to The Horde."
A smile crept across Thrall's broad features as he nodded.
"I knew I could count on you Durfang, son of Wulfgar." he said. "The blood of Varul has not yet failed me and I am sure it will not anytime in the future."
Durfang stood, saluted The Warchief and took his leave, turning this new twist of events over in his mind as he left Thrall's chambers. It was quite a promotion, and he had not been expecting it in the least, but it seemed to him that The Horde's leader had already known what his answer was going to be before the questions were asked.
"...going through the motions." he muttered to himself as he took one last look at Orgrimmar. "What must be, must be..."
"Do you know why I have summoned you here, Durfang?" The Warchief asked, scratching the side of his face.
"No, Warchief." came the reply.
"Our ties with the blood elves are tenuous..." Thrall continued, furrowing his brow as he relaxed further into his large throne's cushioned seat. "...I need a new emissary."
Durfang nodded, listening carefully to the older orc's words.
"For services rendered to The Horde, and your family's infallable loyalty to my cause, I am offering you this position." he continued. "You worked well with the Mag'Har as my envoy in the past... I am asking now that you do the same in Silvermoon."
"Of course, Warchief. I accept this honor gratefully." the younger warrior said, not allowing the pride he felt at The Warchief's praise to show in his face.
"You know this means that you must leave your guild..." Thrall said, studying Durfang's face. "You must leave all of your current allegiances aside and focus on your new position in The Horde."
"Yes Warchief, I am aware of this." there was no pause between the question and the answer. "My allegiance is first to you and to The Horde."
A smile crept across Thrall's broad features as he nodded.
"I knew I could count on you Durfang, son of Wulfgar." he said. "The blood of Varul has not yet failed me and I am sure it will not anytime in the future."
Durfang stood, saluted The Warchief and took his leave, turning this new twist of events over in his mind as he left Thrall's chambers. It was quite a promotion, and he had not been expecting it in the least, but it seemed to him that The Horde's leader had already known what his answer was going to be before the questions were asked.
"...going through the motions." he muttered to himself as he took one last look at Orgrimmar. "What must be, must be..."