Grim Views

Orgog tossed the last corpse onto the pile that had amassed during the long day of fighting. Nearby peons were already sifting through the heap of mangled limbs and bodies. He had told them at the day’s start what he sought from them. The feckless runts tentatively cut ears and stripped bones from the dead. Satchels were filled with either the pointed elf ears or the clean bones found amongst the fallen. The ears would go to the Grim. A pair for each dead elf. One to prove the kill, and one for the crazed rouge to have. The bones, however, would be given to the great gladiator of the Frostwolves as a tribute. The gladiators would spread the word throughout the Horde that Orgog Strongaxe was the scourge of the Kaldorei. Five hundred night elves slain in one day. The Alliance would learn soon that the name Strongaxe means death for all.

One of the peons gagged when a particularly rotten corpse fell apart in his hands. Orgog watched the pathetic scene for a few seconds. When it was clear the worker would not continue his task, Orgog made for him at a swift pace. The gagging neophyte looked up just as Orgog’s boot collided with his face, shattering his nose. The peon yelped and clutched his broken nose, writhing on the already blood-soaked ground. “On your knees, maggot. You have bodies to sift through,” Orgog said in a flat, disinterested tone. The sniveling whelp slowly picked himself off the ground and returned to work. The dishonorable runt worked diligently under Orgog’s red glare. The rest doubled the pace of their cutting and bagging.

When the task was complete, Orgog had the bags put into two carts and dragged off, one to the Orgrimmar portal, and one to his wyvern, to fly back to Frostwall. When he was not a few minutes out at sea, a crossbow bolt buzzed past his wyvern, narrowly missing the beast. Orgog turned toward the origin of the bolt, and saw an Iron Horde vessel floating off the coast of the isle of Ashran. He grunted in mild exasperation and pushed his armored mount into a swift descent. Once he was within range of an easy shot, he dove off the wyvern and crashed onto an orc with a sickening crunch. The soldier’s neck snapped, and Orgog charged off to fight the rest. An arbalester. The crossbow never lifted from his hip before Orgog’s sword passed through his throat. A quick twist and a pull, then Orgog barreled down on his next target. And so it went for a few minutes of glorious slaughter. From topdeck to the lowest deck on the ship, the paragon of clan Strongaxe slathered the vessel with orc blood.

An amusing distraction, but it was over as soon as it began. The Iron Horde was weaker than Orgog had ever imagined, and they were growing weaker. After rigging the ship’s engine to explode, Orgog turned to depart. He was stopped by the sound of a weak voice. “You…strange green orc…,” she said crawling from the corner, bloodied and broken, “You fight with honor…with purpose…yet you are not one of us…why did your kind side with others…over your own kin?”

Orgog looked down on the dying orc with eyes lacking mercy. “You are not my kin,” he said, “You threatened my homeland, my entire world.” Orgog moved in front of the orc and crouched down. He grabbed her hair and tugged her head back so she would look him in the eyes. “No weakling may live to threaten me or my kind while I yet breathe. Take my words to the next life. I am Orgog Strongaxe, Stone Guard of the one true Horde, defender of Azeroth, slayer of dragons, and scourge of the Alliance. I will paint the world red with the blood of any fool enough to challenge me.” Then the snapped her neck.

Ruuki had been checking the notices pinned to the guild hall message board when the bags arrived. She was used to gifts of tribute being made to the Grim, and she'd seen plenty in her short time as an officer. Once she found out who it was from, she directed the delivery grunts to bring the bags to her office.

"Seems I've got a knack for obtaining Supplicants who take the trials of the Inquisition very seriously." She spoke to no one in particular as she closed the door to her office, cutting the ties on one bag so she could examine its contents. Ears, more ears than she could count. Still, she laid them out, even matching up which ears she could. Five hundred night elf ear pairs. She grinned with pride at his achievement, and stuffed the ears back into the bags haphazardly, not bothering to sort them again. Half she'd send to Syreena to enjoy as a snack, the others she'd find a way to make a sort of trophy. She sat at her desk, finding a scrap of parchment to pen a reply for Orgog.

"Orgog,

I only gave you this task a few nights ago, and you've already completed it. It's little wonder then that Ashran has been much quieter today. I will present this bag before the Grim tonight to announce the completion of your first trial. I am very certain that the Shadowblade will enjoy this tribute to her.

This is only the beginning of your life in service to the Mandate. You are a prime example of the Mandate in the flesh.

-Inquisitor Ruuki"

Drakes, wyverns and various other flying mounts ascended into the sky in swift retreat from the Temple of Elune in Darnassus. Orgog directed his own armored wyvern towards a tree off on the edge of the isle of Teldrassil, overlooking the Veiled Sea. A blind spot, where night elven riders could not spot him without leaving the perimeter of the city. Over his hearthstone, Orgog heard his instructions clearly. He was to teleport away from danger as soon as possible. An order given for his and the other Grims’ safety, no doubt. But Orgog had other plans. When would he have an opportunity like this again? The Alliance’s attention was fixed on the Temple and the fleeing sky riders. Resistance would be inconsequential. Orgog tucked his hearthstone in his saddlebag and took off. He pointed his wyvern towards the wooded region opposite the Temple across the body of water at the center of the city. The wyvern took shelter in the trees. The sentinels saw even better than he in the night, so he mustn’t count on them not looking for him. One warning to the city guard, and he could be cornered. All his strength would mean nothing if he applied it at the wrong moment.

Orgog saw that moment when an elf stepped from his treestump of a home and began a lonely walk down the road. No other elves were close enough to witness his attack. The elf man stopped and frowned at the sound of alarm in the direction of the Temple. Orgog’s wyvern glided down towards the ground, slowly, quietly. A few feet above the elf, Orgog leapt off the beast and fell onto the elf, knocking the wind out of him. He hit the ground with an oomph, and Orgog immediately began lassoing him with ropes tied to his wyvern. Once the ropes were secure around the elf’s waist and chest, Orgog reached out for his still descending wyvern and lifted himself off the ground. He took off without opposition. The night elf didn’t manage a yell until they were well above the treeline. By then it was much too late. Orgog had claimed his prize. A short flight back to the mainland would give him time to resecure the ropes. Then they would make for home. To Orgrimmar.

Orgog wasn’t surprised the night elf had ceased his cowardly shouting after arriving in Orgrimmar. He had met many night elves before, albeit always in combat scenarios. They had a habit of keeping their cool under pressure, especially when it came to their pride in the face of an enemy. Orgog dragged the man by rope into the depths of the Ragefire Chasm. A few trolls and tauren glared at him on his way through the city streets, but he paid them no heed. A stone guard of the Horde had the authority to take prisoners of war. It would take quite the uproar to get a superior officer on his case, and he didn’t plan to stick around on the ground level long enough to cause one.

Orgog had once served the Kor’kron. He had assisted in building the massive underground fortress Garrosh Hellscream had used as a bunker in his final days as Warchief. There were plenty of patrols throughout the citadel, those searching for stranglers from the recent siege and such, but Orgog knew where he had to go to avoid unwanted attention. The storage chamber was still filled wall to wall with remnants of the campaign in Pandaria. The Horde had made an effort to sort through the artifacts to either return them for political reasons or reuse them for their own purposes, but there were plenty of nooks and crannies for the right person to exploit. In one such place, Orgog secured his prisoner, and removed the burlap sack he had thrown over his head for security reasons.

The night elf’s face was painted with concern now that only Orgog could see him. The masks these elves could put on impressed Orgog, but their strength was what he admired most. Night elves were inhumanly strong, rivaling even orcs in the most extreme cases. That combined with their hunter’s intuition and dexterity made for ferocious killers. The man who kneeled before Orgog, however, was a mere worker at best. The night elf spoke in the Common tongue of the humans, "I do not know what it is you want, orc. I will do whatever you want, please, don’t hurt me. I have a family!” Orgog understood. He had been taught the language by a shaman translator while in captivity. A useful skill, to know the voice of your enemy.

Orgog put a finger to his mouth, silencing the elf. He removed his dragonscale helm at a leisurely pace. Slow enough to build suspense. The elf would do anything to save his own skin, no doubt, but Orgog had to be sure. Once his helm was removed, he place it on the ground and let the elf get a good look at his face. Wrinkled and gruff, Orgog’s face was smeared with grease, sweat, and a long beard running along his jawline. His eyes were pure red, his hair a deep crimson and cut in a short Mohawk. Several scars, many still red and fresh, dressed his face like form-fitting clothes. They complimented his look nicely and told stories of his accomplishments. The elf stared, breathing hard, waiting for the orc to speak.

Orgog finally obliged, “What I want from you is total cooperation. You will do something for me, and in return you will live your pathetic life however long you elves live these days. I am searching for a man. An orc, named Randar Strongaxe.” Orgog paused to let the name sink in. “Randar was imprisoned years ago by the Alliance. He must be somewhere in one of your capital cities. Stormwind stockades, Darnassus dungeons, Ironforge prisons. You will search them all. If and when you find him, you will find me, and then you will forget we ever met.”

The night elf stared at him, too stunned for words. When he finally spoke, he asked, “Why me? I don’t know anything about prisons, or orcs, or combat. I’m only a peaceful leatherworker!”

Orgog grunted, as he often did when he needed to be blunt. “I picked you out of chance. You were alone, and easy to capture. And you are no military type like the many of your kind I slew on the battlefield only yesterday.”

The elf sat in silence for a few moments, unclear on how to respond. Then he spoke again, “And if I agree…you will return me to Darnassus? What…what’s to stop me from going to the sentinels for protection?”

Orgog was curious as to why the elf would ask, but he quickly reasoned it out. If he didn’t ask, and he did go to the elves, Orgog might have an unpleasant surprise waiting for him. Even if he did raise Orgog’s suspicion, it would be better to know how one was being tracked than to live in the shadow of death unknowingly. Orgog spoke, “I have an ally who will take care of that for me. A shadow priest.” Orgog left it at that. Alleda, the priest he spoke of, was a specialist that worked for a friend of his in Silvermoon. She was a prodigy in the ways of the shadows, especially in mind control magic. She would keep an eye on this man so long as she was within a reasonable distance. Hiding her somewhere on Teldrassil would do.

The elf looked uncertain, but he spoke more quickly this time. “I will do as you ask, so long as myself and my family as unharmed.”

Orgog squinted at the man. “Swear to me by the souls of your ancestors, and by the moon goddess of your people.”

“I swear…by the spirits of my ancestors, in the light of Elune. I shall search for Randar Strongaxe.”

((very cool *stamps approval*))

((cross-posting on TNG and RH sanctum))

The letter came delayed, the courier who delivered it quickly slipping it into Orgog's hand and scurrying away before he'd had a chance to read it. It was dated from a few days prior, smeared with mud and most likely blood.

"Supplicant Orgog,

You are now in your second trial. You are tasked with speaking to three ranked Grim. Learn from them, their motivations, their goals, and how they've been shaped by the Mandate's words. With any luck, it will inspire you and help you carve your path in this harsh world. Line that path with the bones of your fallen enemies with the wisdom you gain.

High Inquisitor Khorvis Bloodstar- I feel there might be some camaraderie between the both of you, and I think it would do you well to hear his words.

Monk Druthers- He is an orc who chose an entirely different path and yet he has found himself beneath the Grim banner. Learn from him, as I think he represents a viewpoint that you may not have considered.

The third Grim is your decision. I trust you possess solid judgment and will select to speak to someone who might broaden your horizons. After all, a kodo with blinders on cannot see or react to the threat immediately behind him.

You have one month to complete this task.

-Inquisitor Ruuki"

Orgog did not like to be kept waiting, especially by a Sin’dorei that prided herself on punctuality. He tapped his metal boot against the filthy wooden floor of the furbolg den, the sound of it echoing through the empty tunnels in impatient sequence. The night elf sat in the dirt-stained dead foliage littering the ground, seemingly praying to his goddess. Orgog cared little for the green gods of the elves, but at least the elf was keeping quiet about his prayers. Against his will, Orgog’s mind began to drift, thinking of his own childhood prayers to the spirits of Nagrand, the fallen of the Second War, and the elements themselves. A bitter taste floated around in his mouth at the memory of their silence.

A shadow flew across Orgog’s face, and he lifted one of his greataxes, prepared to carve open the skull of the one intruding on his business. A voice slithered up his spine, cutting through his flesh like a phantom knife, “Put down that axe, oaf. You should know better than to threaten me on a bad day.” Orgog turned, facing the blood elf hiding in the shadows. Her fel green eyes were the only thing bright about her. Her cloak and robe were tattered in places and dark grey in color. Her hood cast a sinister shadow over her once beautiful features. Her overgrown silver-white hair dangled in tangles down her gaunt face. A permanent scowl wrote a tale of mistrust, which Orgog read briefly while considering his response.

“I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten your debts, Alleda,” he said, lowering his fiery red weapon to the floor. “I trust you know why I brought you here.”

Alleda rolled her eyes, drifting soundlessly to the night elf. She cast her hateful gaze down on him as she said, “Your mind is an unfurled scroll before my eyes, Orgog. It never was your weakest feature, but certainly not your most powerful.” The night elf looked up from his prayers, shaking uncontrollably under the verdant spotlights pinning him in place.

Orgog sensed another presence approaching, and a second elf was drawn into place at Alleda’s side as if by magic. He was a young sin’dorei, but his features were less prominent than those Orgog had seen on others of his kind. His ears were smaller, more rounded like a humans, his eyes glowed with a smaller degree of magic than an elf’s. His complexion was less fair than even Alleda’s. Orgog regarded him with a red-hot glare as his axe rose to his waist level. “You did not mention a half-elf accompanying you, elf.”

Alleda turned to face the orc. “The Raven is always by my side. He is sworn to keep me safe while I sleep. I am prepared to begin my task. Once I have taken full control, you may place a hand on my shoulder to see what the Kal’dorei sees. It will not hinder my concentration…so long as you keep your thoughts quiet.” Orgog did not know what a loud thought meant, really, but he was pleased he could at least witness the fruits of his labor. Alleda sat in a stance of meditation, and closed her eyes. The space dimmed. At first, Orgog thought it was the light from her eyes fading, but he remembered the other times such an event had taken place. Alleda was calling to the shadows, and they came. Her frame darkened, and became nothing more than another shadow in the dim space. The “Raven” watched her carefully. He seemed little more than a child in Orgog’s eyes, but he knew elves were deceiving with their age.

The orc walked over to the sleeping Sin’dorei as the night elf convulsed. The shadows seemed to thicken around him, and a scream nearly broke through his lips before his entire body froze. His eyes had once shone yellow as polished gold, but now they were pale as the full moon. Orgog was repulsed by this display of magic, but he knew what must be done, and would not turn back now. He sat to Alleda’s left side. The air was cold as death around her, an aura of darkness stripped the light from all objects around her. Without hesitation, Orgog gripped her shoulder…

((This thread was featured in a podcast recently!))

(What podcast is that?)

((TheLoreCraft Podcast at http://www.thelorecraft.com/. Specifically episode 28.))