Grim Views

A sharp *crack* alerted Gundnir that his nose was broken. As if the blood that streamed from his nostrils and the searing pain in his sinus wasn't indication enough. But he was already lost to the frenzy of battle. Gundnir threw the pain away, wiped his face free from the blood that burned his eyes, and took a moment to scan his opponents.

One knight lay on the ground to the right, his throat removed. The remnants of his jugular still dripped from the serrated claw at Gundnir's right hand. Oddly enough, the knight continued to live, each breath making a sickening gurgling noise.

Another knight, this one an Elf, seethed hatred from behind a slitted plate helm. He brandished a crowned mace, and the throbbing pain in Gundnir's knee attested that the Elf possessed some skill with it.

And the last one, the one that had crept up from behind like a common bandit. His fist was covered in red, though not from his own wound. Blood from Gundnir's now-broken nose covered the knuckles. That one chuckled, knowing that they had the advantage in numbers.

Gundnir's cold, blue eyes narrowed.

The Shaman walked slowly through the streets of Orgrimmar, remembering his Trial. But though his eyes were focused inward, in his past, he weaved easily through the crowds. Sharp ears picked up only bits and pieces of his surroundings.

"Fifty gold for a stack of wool?! You play me a fool!" Auctioneer Wabang's voice was permanently angered.

"Please, a gold, or two. Anything will help." The sniveling beggar was ignored. Gundnir had little patience for those that could not take or earn what they needed.

"Tell me of your husband, Acherontia." Even Mel, his Deader comrade, was ignored in the crowd.

The two Elf knights circled Gundnir, biding their time. Though their camp lay just over the ridge, they did not bother to call for reinforcements. Elves were notorious for their overconfidence. The second one, who had just broken his nose, now armed himself with a chained-flail. Slowly, methodically, he swung it around, the weighted head churning the air with each revolution.

Gundnir stood in the center. His breath came heavy, frosting as it left his maw and rising as steam in the winter, snow-fallen air. The one whose throat had been ripped free had stopped gurgling. His blood turned the snow around him red.

Elemental power surged through Gundnir's veins, but Gundnir did not release it. He was still a fledgling Shaman, and each calling of elements still weakened him considerably. He, too, bided his time.

Instinctively, Gundnir stopped at the Pub. Without thinking he ordered a tall pint and exited without a word. Still lost in reliving the past, he drank absently.

Confident, they did not attack as one. They were sloppy. The first came high with a sword. Gundnir brought his warhammer up with his left hand. Steel rang against iron, and the blade deflected away. Elven eyes grew wider from beneath the helm. They had expected a weary, fatigued Orc, having just finished with their fellow knight. But Gundnir was just getting started. His purpose was beyond this one.

The knight was thrown off balance by the deflection. He wore heavy plate, which became sluggish in the cold. Gundnir was clad only in wolfskins and leathers. He moved much faster than his foes. Teeth clenched in malice, and the Shaman drove the claw beneath the plated chest armor. A horrific slurping sound told Gundnir he had hit flesh. Blood ran down the jagged blades, steaming instantly as it hit the cold air.

But while he focused on the dying Elf, the other made his move. Gundnir had little time to react. With a shrill *shlink* the claws were freed from the knight's belly, and his warhammer was swung wildly to ward the other away. The last Elf attacked with the chain-flail. It happened so quickly, there was no time. It was going to hit, and hit hard. The Shaman did the only thing he could. His left arm raised to keep the flail from caving in his skull.

The flail's chain wrapped around Gundnir's left arm, but he held fast. Gritting his teeth, he prepared for the impact. But when the flail head finally landed, Gundnir felt nothing. The weighted weapon snapped fast as it came to a sudden stop around his forearm, and the impact shattered bones. The snapping force carried its way up his arm, cracking more bones in his forearm and devastating his hand.

But Gundnir felt nothing.

He was overcome with the rage. With the flail wrapped around his arm, and since the Shaman did not falter, a logical thought would have caused the Elf to drop the weapon and put some distance between the two. But the Elf did not know what to do. He hesitated a moment, and that was all it took. Gundnir crashed into him with his shoulder, sending both tumbling in the frozen ground.

Still the Elf was stricken with panic.

Gundnir balled his good fist, dropping the claw from his right hand. He pounded his enemy's face over and over.

And still the Elf did not defend himself.

Gundnir mauled his enemy. Blood sprayed into the cold air. And he continued until the knight was still and his face was no longer recognizable as such.

Weary, bleeding, ragged. Gundnir stood and looked up. It had begun to snow.

The Shaman snapped back to the present. Three empty ales were at his feet, and he looked around. He had made his way to the Valley of Honor.

"Honor." It seemed that the word in Orgrimmar had lost its meaning. Gundnir thought back to his Trial of Glory.

"East of here there is an enemy camp. Elves and humans, damned things. But they will prove a cunning adversary.

You, Gundnir. You have proven your worth thus far in this war. But you seek a greater glory. The Bloodname of Vayde is what you covet, and with that, the honor to ride a wolf. Yes, much glory in this. And you would strengthen the Bloodline of Vayde. This will not be easy for you.

Go to the enemy, warrior. Return to us with their General's head held high, and drenched in their blood. Do this, and Clan Blackwolf will recite your name as a Marauder of Vayde."

How long had it been since the Second War? Since Blackwolf was recognized as a proud Clan of the Horde? When honor and glory were something you earned and fought and bled for?

Gundnir stopped at the Orgrimmar Riding Master and sneered. He looked around and saw undeserving riding proudly on their wolves. The Riding Master even let Elves take wolves. Though they claimed alliance, and Gundnir grudgingly accepted such, they did not deserve such an honor.

In his time, one had to prove one's worth to take a wolf. To be accepted by the beast, to earn its respect, become one of its pack, its companion, protector and protected. Brethren. Kin.

Gundnir shook his head at the Riding Master and spat to the side. He sneered as the Riding Master accepted another stack of coin in return for a riding harness and an overfed wolf. It was almost sickening.

He shook his head and turned. Gundnir balanced a finely carved bone pipe between tusken teeth, filled it with a bundle of ground Swiftthistle and lit it with a wooden match. He walked slowly from the Valley, and meandered absently again, this time heading out of the city.

It was time to find some old companions.

As he slowly made his way out of Orgrimmar, Gundnir looked down at his left hand. He removed the chain gauntlet that protected it and flexed his fingers. Though it still functioned, and could still hold a weapon, he preferred a shield in that hand. The fingers were gnarled and permanently curled like thick talons, for the shattered bones had never fully set right. This made wielding a weapon in his offhand more difficult than his right hand.

Gundnir tied a strip of cloth around his hand, wrapping it tight with snow to lessen the swelling. It was useless, for now. Even a healing touch from himself would not mend the ravaged bones. He would have to tend to it later. He had to focus.

His nose was re-set with a crunch and a grunt. Some ale would have been nice.

"Ya could have warned me of tha third one behind me, ya know." Gundnir spoke to the tree before him, or, more specifically, the dark-feathered Hawk Owl that perched on a high branch. The Owl did nothing but peer at him with large, inquisitive eyes. Like it always did. It never made a sound, never did anything useful. It just followed him, as it had been for the past month. Gundnir did not know why, but the Owl would not leave his side. Occasionally it would prove helpful, if it could be considered as such, catching small rodents and leaving them for Gundnir to cook.

Gundnir focused now. Wolfskins were draped around his shoulders, rations were stored in his pack.

"Winterspring, eh? Don't get too many going that way."
Gundnir ignored the Flight Master as he handed him a handful of coin. He hefted a harness and selected a thick-furred Wyvern, for Winterspring was known for its harsh cold. Securing the straps, he offered the Wyvern a raw elk haunch to earn its favor and climbed its back. With a whistle, they headed north.

A storm laid waste to the enemy camp. A storm wrought from elemental fury, born from shamanistic rage and the utmost dedication to upholding the glory of his Clan. Lightning surged from his fingertips. Fire fell from the sky. The earth trembled. The cold of the winter night howled and burned.

Gundnir revelled in the bloodletting.

Most of the day had passed in the flight to Winterspring. Gundnir's Wyvern was a hearty stock, but even it was weary after the journey. He let the Flight Master at his destination take the beast to stable and feed it. And Gundnir set out, walking north and west.

A storm had picked up as he walked through the snow, often knee-deep at times.

And still Gundnir walked on.

He headed up a mountain. The footing was steep and treacherous. Stone and rock fell with each step, threatening to topple him back down.

And still Gundnir walked on.

Bitterly cold winds howled from the peak, stinging his eyes with chill and snow. Frost formed at his hair and wolfskin cloak. The Owl, his mysterious, silent companion for all these years, watched him perched on a dead tree. It seemed unaffected by the painfully cold weather.

Gundnir was covered in blood and gore. Smoke rose from singed flesh. But his enemies laid before him. He clutched the severed head of the Elven General in his right hand by the hair.

But the assault had weakened him considerably. He had been overcome in the bloodletting, calling on every elemental spirit he could. His knees gave out, and Gundnir fell to the frozen ground.

The trek was treacherous. How many days had he been climbing? His rations were spent, and no fire cold warm him now. Gundnir stood from his makeshift shelter, nothing more than woven branches of a pine tree. His knees gave out, and Gundnir fell to the frozen ground.

He lay there, on the brink of consciousness. He heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart. And then, whispers. First one, and then many.

He lay there, on the brink of consciousness. He heard nothing but the howling winter wind. And then, whispers, First one, and then many. Just as before. The spirits had been quiet up until now. And now, they flooded his ear.

They called his name. Sang of his honor. Urged him, spurred him to move. Burned his blood, hardened his temper. Gave him strength.

They called his name. Sang his honor. Urged him, spurred him to move. Burned his blood, hardened his temper. Gave him strength.

Gundnir returned, grim-faced and emotionless. Blue eyes flared with fire as he stood before his warboss. He raised the severed head of his enemy high, proudly, on display for all those gathered to see.

"You have brought your Clan great glory. Go, Gundnir of Vayde. And let all of Blackwolf know you as Wrath-of-Storms. Go and claim your wolf as a Marauder of Blackwolf."

Gundnir stood at the gates of the hidden settlement. Proud and tall he stood. And he called to his kin.

Sweet, pungent smoke born of Swiftthistle filled the tent, and more ale was called for. Gundnir ripped hungrily at the roasted venison offered to him. Only one other sat in the deer-skin tent, across from Gundnir. This one, Malgol, the warboss of the remnants of Blackwolf, was devoid of emotion. His creased face was a mask of indifference.

"A long time it has been, Gundnir Wrath-of-Storms." Malgol was old, a veteran of many wars. His sight was failing, and he relied primarily on the eyes of the spirits that followed him. But even at such an age, Gundnir would not have challenged him. What Malgol lacked in physical prowess he more than made up for in elemental power.

"Aye, a long time...." Gundnir trailed off. It had been a long time. Clan Blackwolf scattered at the conclusion of the Second War. The treachery of Stormreaver and Twilight's Hammer gave the Horde a two-front battle, one that could not be won. Rather than face annihilation, like so many of their brethren, Blackwolf withdrew to preserve their bloodlines. To return with renewed ferocity. Some day.

Malgol's pale eyes narrowed.
"You fought for coin, lended your weapon to those who cared nothing for you, anybody who would pay you. Your glory has dimmed, Wrath-of-Storms."

Gundnir cringed. The Third War had been harsh - dodging Alliance patrols, rupturing Orcish internment camps, fighting to earn another meal. Indeed, Gundnir was no stranger to mercenary work, but he did what he needed to survive. He imagined the Third War was no easier on Malgol and his followers, though the warboss would have never stooped so low as to be a sellsword.

"Why do you dishonor yourself further by coming here? Do you seek-" Malgol was cut off by Gundnir fierce gaze.

"I seek ta redeem mehself. True, tha spirits and meh ancestors cut meh off during tha Third War. But they have returned. I know ya see 'em. They sing ta me, whisper glory in meh ear. They know I am worthy." Gundnir knew that, if anybody, Malgol would in fact be aware of the legion of souls that followed him now. They left him when he fled so many years ago, and he had forgotten the power that they gave him. The feeling was euphoric.

Malgol lifted his head, the moose-antler crown he wore casting a massive shadow over his aged visage.

"You are wrong, Wrath-of-Storms. They never left you. It was you who left them."

Somehow, Gundnir knew this to be true. Malgol continued.
"You are a warrior of Blackwolf. You earned the Bloodname of Vayde, a hero of our past. A Marauder, if I recall correctly, you earned your wolf. Blackwolf does not forget these past honors.
"I already know why you have come. Those I serve have been watching you for long. When you earned your Bloodname and the right to take your wolf, you earned the right to his bloodline as well. His progeny are of proper age now."

Gundnir nodded and stood.

"Claim one for your own, if you can, for their sire was of fiercely independent stock. But it is not I that can give you a packmate....." Malgol trailed off, not needing to continue the thought.

Gundnir knew this already. It was only the wolf that could grant him this honor, could allow him to blaze through the wind on its back. His first wolf Ghorghor, the sire Malgol spoke of, was powerful and vicious. Gundnir could have chosen a weaker breed, one that would have become obedient. But he did not want a servant. He wanted a brother, and now was no different.

One by one, Gundnir looked into wolven eyes, gazing deep into feral souls.
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It was weeks before Gundnir returned, for he did not fly. Instead, the Shaman rode proudly atop a Dire Wolf. He rode tall, confident. Gundnir had become brothers with Khor Fangs-First, and he brothers with Gundnir.

He was not recognized as a wolfrider by Orgrimmar, for the city had become corrupt, greedy. But he was recognized by his ancestors, by his Clan, and by the pack.

"Let none dare challenge meh honor."