Grim Views

The sky waged its own war this night. No moon or stars shone to light the dark terrain. No owls or nocturnal beasts hunted their prey. Lightning blazed malicious scars across a thick cloud cover, while the spirits cried cold rain and howled with frosty wind.

It was this night Gundnir arrived to bolster the strength of the Grim Clan. An ideal night for a Shaman.

The door to the Hall was thrust open with much commotion, aided by the howling wind. His appearance was savage, brutal; grey wolfskins draped over his rock-solid frame, a heavy warhammer balanced over one shoulder. Each flash of lightning behind him revealed that the entire right side of his body had been ritualistically branded with runic glyphs. Three perfectly aligned scars had been carved along the left side of his chest, denoting some past rank.

Gundnir's chest heaved, and he shut the door behind him. And though he appeared beyond his prime, the Orc carried a massive wooden barrel over his other shoulder, held up by a steady hand. Without looking he deftly holstered his warhammer across his back and surveyed the place with fierce blue eyes.

A corner of his maw curled in a sneer, and he clicked his tongue over oddly clean teeth. With the precision and timing of one who was obviously no stranger to the hierarchy of battle, Gundnir snapped his body rigid and straight, his heels coming together and his chest puffing out proudly. Still carrying the rather large barrel over one shoulder, the Orc slapped a fist to his chest in salute.

Only after making his respects did he finally set the barrel down. Producing an intricately carved bone pipe from his pouch, Gundnir filled the bowl with a fingerful of ground-up Swiftthistle. And though he was perfectly capable of producing flame, he lit it with a wooden match. Sweet, acrid smoke rose from the pipe, the ember giving his grim visage a devilish glow. Without so much as a glance, his chain gauntlet was used as a hammer, ripping free a protruding wax seal and revealing a sturdy spigot in the barrel. A loud clank resounded as the gauntlet dropped.

Finally returning his savage gaze to the room, Gundnir raised a rather large flagon, cracking a vicious half-grin.

"Well now, who thinks they can drink with Gundnir?"



((My first serious attempt in quite some time, just saying hello. Feel free to join in, and I look forward to playing with you all.))

by Yichimet

Yichimet watched the new Grim orc rumble into the room, the acrid smell of swiftthistle burning his nostrils. Yichimet smoked peacebloom in his pipes, so the smoke wafting into the room shook him from his meditation.

The orc grinned as he set a barrel down, pulled a flagon and raised it, and challenged all present to drink with him.

"I am not much of one for drink, orc, but I will celebrate another in the fight against the long-ears and pink-skins," Yichimet said. He tipped a mug to his lips and drank slowly but surely.

"Aye then!"

Cold eyes lit up with anticipation, and Gundnir released the spigot with a crank of the spout. A frothy, dark liquid filled his stein to the top, and a sturdy head of white foam peaked just over the rim.

A perfect pour.

The bolsterous Orc strode further into the commons, sweeping his gaze over the Hall. One brow raised, and he lifted his brew in turn.

"Here's ta those we love ta hate:
We kill'em good and we kill'em dead.
We kill'em 'till they'ze long forgotten.
And if we need ta kill'em again
We'll dig 'em up
and kill'em rotten!"

Nodding with a grunt, satisfied with his toast, Gundnir slammed his flagon atop the wood of Yichimet's table. Froth and brew lept from the stein, but with speed and skill that belied his age, every drop was caught as the drink was brought up swiftly and downed in a single, unhealthy pull.

by Acherontia

Acherontia stared at the newcomer warily through her conjured eye as he emptied his stein in a single draught. His throat rippled as he drank and not a drop of the dark brew was lost. As the piercing gaze flicked over the table where Acherontia and Melchisedech sat, Acherontia jumped a little and was grateful it did not appear too much that she had been staring. She kept her face pointed towards the pieces of cloth laid out in front of her and continued to watch the shaman through the glowing green orb that hovered over the table.

by Melchisedech

Melchisedech looked up from his book, noting the boisterous orc. A smile crossed his pallid features. He was not inclined to admire the "lesser" races. Orcs, trolls, elves, dwarves... they were all flawed, save the Forsaken. And yet, this fellow... he had a joie de vivre that even the old corpse could feel. He seemed more couth than some, though the rotting priest was not impressed by the orcish manners he was raucously displaying. Still... he seemed strong and yet young, brash and bold, yet likely courageous and skilled. Moreover, the orc seemed of a season with Acherontia and himself. Melchisedech looked to Acherontia and noted her studiously not looking his way, and yet watching him through her Eye of Kilrogg. When the orc's gaze passed him, Melchisedech offered a polite nod and a brief lift of his pinot noir in toast to the new Grim.

Yichimet, wiping the foam from the bristles around his mouth, smiled at the old soldier behind his hand. The Bear spirit was in this one--tall, strong, hard-edged, but with mischief in his eye.

"A good toast, new friend." Yichimet pointed at the fire glowing in the hearth. "Share our fire and share your story." Yichimet pulled another flagon and sat down, waiting. While Acherontia and Melchisedech may be uncomfortable with this orc's stiff, soldierly manner, they were great listeners and thirsted for knowledge.

Wind fluttered gently from the window, and a dark-feathered Hawk Owl flew almost silently through the window. Without a sound, it landed easily upon Gundnir's shoulder. Large, yellow eyes looked around with curiosity.

Gundnir shrugged at the room, returning the Forsaken's nod. A toothy half-grin slid across his maw.

"It's alright. Few can drink wit' Gundnir." Spoken in mocking jest. The Orc looked around. Warriors of Clan Blackwolf were known, in the past, to challenge each other with games of drink. Those who could outdo others in drinking limericks and cheers were celebrated. He filled his flagon to the brim once more and raised it to the room.

"We mourn those who died livin' free,
An' honor their names when we sing,
But let'em stay dead,
Wit' dirt o'er their heads,
'Cause that means there's more drink fer me!"

On cue he brought the mug to his mouth and gulped rather audibly.

As the orc downed his second mug of brew, Acherontia let the Eye disappear and instead focused her shadowy gaze on the priest across the table from her. The demon-caller's ragged voice was low as she whispered under her breath, but her tone was light and teasing.

"Does that mean he would rather have the two of us in a cemetery somewhere than fighting by his side, just so long as he could have this?" With her ungloved hand - for she was sewing, and needed to have her hands bare for the task - she gently plucked the stem of Melchisedech's wine goblet from his clawed hand and brought it to her lips, inhaling deeply before taking a sip.

Melchisedech smiled at her as she took his drink. She was used to heavier fare, but he was encouraged by her reaction to some of what she occasionally called "higher-class" drinks. He had successfully exposed her to pinot noir, and even port, though THAT experience had ended an evening somewhat sooner than anticipated.

"I simply suspect it is a traditional soldier's limerick. Looking on the bright side of a comrade's death, that sort of thing. On a somewhat more somber note..."

Melchisedech stood up and lifted the bottle of pinot noir directly.

"Another day nearer the battle,
So drink up, my lads, and be brave,
For another day nearer the battle
Is another day nearer the grave."

Melchisedech tipped the bottle toward the shaman, and then tipped it back, pouring some of the fine liquor into his mouth. Not exactly a limerick, but something he felt the orc might appreciate nonetheless.

Acherontia sipped again from Melchisedech's glass after raising it once again. He had told her that he had been a singer, and his voice was rich and lyrical despite what decay his body had endured. Not for the first time, the warlock considered asking him to perform something, but she doubted he would in the middle of the guild hall, even less so if they were alone. His old life, he had told her many times, he was finished with.

"I did not know you were a poet as well as a singer, Melchisedech." Swirling the dark liquid around in the bottom of the goblet, she took another sip of the heady drink.

As Melchisedech took his seat once more, he smiled at Acherontia. "Hardly a poet, my dear. Like any fine artist, I stole those words. They were from a warrior's song of the Imperial Guard. Someday, perhaps, if we join the Grim in battle on the open field, I shall sing the entirety." The priest took another drink. "It is not entirely supportive of morale, however. Most of the verses follow the general trend, suggesting that soldiers must enjoy life now, for they will die soon."

"How thoroughly depressing." Acherontia held out the goblet for Melchisedech to refill after taking the final sip and rolling the liquid around on her tongue. "That would certainly appeal to the common soldiers to be found rutting in whorehouses and drinking themselves to sleep in taverns. What about the grand cause, mm?" She rested her chin in her left hand, remembering just in time that she needed to drink very slowly when it came to wine. Setting the goblet down, she continued. "A soldier should enjoy the life he is living in order to remind him of all the things dear to him that he would lose should he fail."

Melchisedech shook his head. "Now it seems you are growing existential." He smiled and gladly refilled her goblet, before taking another sip from the neck of the bottle. "Soldiers are... well, their lives are unpleasant at best. It is of little comfort that you are fighting for the pleasures of others when you know you are likely to die without experiencing them yourself. The aristocrats grow fat and weak, borne on the backs of the common folk, the farmers and soldiers and merchants. That is what I admire most about the Horde. No matter how uncouth and boorish any individual may be, none of the orcs, trolls, or tauren have the snobbish uselessness so indemic to 'civilized' society." Melchisedech chuckled. "Not all the Forsaken or Blood Elves can say the same. Nearly NONE of the elves, in point of fact."

A smile twitched at the corner of Acherontia's mouth at his last comment. "I am sure such a life would be very uncomfortable for them indeed." Curling her clawed fingers around the stem of the goblet, she resolved NOT to raise it to her lips once again. It was loosening her tongue - already she was embarrassed for having said the word "rutting" so openly. "But I was not speaking about the humans and their great lords. One man fighting to defend those he loves is greater than any ten hired soldiers. Take you for instance." She remembered the words he had spoken to her in Arathi - why they were there, why they fought. "You serve your Lady because you love her. Sylvanus points and you go. She does not seem to be growing "fat and weak", but if you did not love her, what would be your reason for fighting?"

Melchisedech leaned back, pursing what was left of his lips thoughtfully. For long moments, he was silent, considering his reply. "I do not fight out of love for Sylvanus. Perhaps once I did, but no longer. Now, I fight because I know I must. I fight because in my time with Sylvanus I learned what a useless waste my life had been. I fight to make a difference, to protect those about whom I care from those who would commit atrocities against them. Be it Scourge or Alliance, Silithid or Gurubashi, orc or human or lich, I fight to prevent them from harming you. I am no soldier, Acherontia. Whatever else, I am still a priest, and I would still advocate peace. However, I know my enemies will not negotiate peacefully, and so I subscribe to the philosophies of the Grim: Peace through annihilation.

I fight so that my enemies, not my allies, might be another day nearer the grave."