Oraias
03-01-2006, 02:32 AM
Red rocks. Sunlight. Bright steel. No. This is no memory, this is now. This is Durotar, not Draenor …and this axe sings so poorly … An Orc, standing naked and alone on a hill. Naked, but for the battleaxe in his hands. The axe which dances. Up, down, across, through. Overhead chop, spin … keep the footwork, don’t stumble … use the weapon’s weight, bring it around the body …uppercut. Drop to low stance, attack the feet … don’t be pulled over by the axe …So sad is this one’s song. The axe slowly comes to rest, the twin blades settling to the ground. The Orc looks out over the Durotar morning, and sighs. I should not complain. This axe is not the weapon of a hero. But I am no hero. Not anymore. Another thought strikes him, and he bows his head in shame. Perhaps it is not the axe. Perhaps these old hands just cannot coax the true music from this fine steel. It has been so long …who am I to think I can reclaim stolen destiny?
* * * * * *
A memory – Lordamere Internment Camp
“Destiny cannot be stolen, Oraias!” The old Orc glared angrily down at his companion. “So they killed most of us. So they rounded the rest of us up and dumped us in this internment camp. So what? We are Orcs. Our pride can not be held by these few wooden walls. We will not be in here forever. Do you want to be known as the warrior who gave up fighting because some human stole his destiny? Because he was caged? If so, then nothing was stolen. It is your destiny to be a coward.”
Oraias raised his head from the ground and looked up at the white-maned shaman standing over him. “You speak words of hope, Elder Gortuc. You were not there. You did not see the fate of Doomhammer’s armies. The fate of Doomhammer himself … The Horde will not rise again. Our spirits are dead.”
Gortuc sneered. “Spirits do not die. I am a shaman. I know. But your spirit is very close to giving up on you.” With surprising quickness and strength, the old man reached down and jerked the warrior off the ground by the collar of his shirt. “And that implies a weakness of spirit that proves you were never worthy of the honor you were intended for.”
He let Oraias fall back to the ground and stalked away. “To look at you now, I’m amazed you were ever considered for the position of Doomhammer’s blazon bearer. Such a tamed spirit…”
* * * * * *
A memory – the First War
He swings … flick the banner into his face … he’s confused, overbalances. Kick him in the back, now! He’s down … now the blade comes in … Great spirits above and below, how it SINGS! With a squelch, Oraias buried his falchion in the back of the human soldier. He looked up – Another one! No time to retrieve the blade … sword coming down, have to block … *SCHUNK!* Steel bit into hardened wood. Oraias pushed upward on the wooden pole he held over his head, forcing the human footman to release his embedded sword or be lifted off his feet. The human stumbled backward, and Oraias whipped the pole around, twirling it like an oversized quarterstaff, smashing the mud-covered butt end into the footman’s helm. The human crumpled, and Oraias set the bottom of the banner pole on the ground again and let the bloodstained blazon hang free again. Glancing around, he saw other warriors moving to support him. This banner would not fall into enemy hands anytime soon. He bent to retrieve his weapon.
He straightened, and noticed the other Orcs watching him. “What are you all standing around for?” He pointed his sword down the hill. “There’s bloodletting to be done!” He turned his back on the others, and raised the banner high. Blazon in one hand, blade in the other, he started down the hill. One foot, the other, faster and faster, walk to jog to run to charge … until his vision turned red and his own voice drowned out the sounds of battle … The voice of a warrior raised in homage to his Chief: “FOR DOOMHAMMER!”
* * * * * *
A Memory – the Second War
Lordaeron. Bloodstained battlefields. The Horde on the march. Oraias grinned. Scores of warriors at his back, the banner of Ogrim Doomhammer in his hand, a place at the side of one of the Warchief’s champions … *this* was living. The battle lines flowed like ocean tides as green-skinned warriors strove against those helmed in mithril. And where the lines faltered, there Oraias went. There the banner was raised to the wind, and the rage of Mannoroth’s blood was nothing compared to the pride of Orgrim’s chosen.
“Is the scent of war not sweet, Old One?” Oraias asked the aged shaman standing beside him.
Gortuc shrugged. “Perhaps. The glory of the Warchief certainly is.” The white haired Orc suddenly looked solemn. “Oraias. Look there.” He pointed a fetish-laden staff at a certain part of the battle line … a place where warriors were falling far too quickly … a place where a blue and gold blazon was borne rapidly forward.
Oraias scowled. “Quickly, Elder. Bind the standard to my back.” He bent down, both to allow Gortuc to do as he asked, and to lift the blade that had slipped from a comrade’s nerveless fingers. It was bigger than Oraias usually used, and would require both hands. But the standard must be carried. “Are you finished yet?!” he demanded.
“Don’t rush me, Ori! There! Get moving!”
“Then let them feel your spirits and fear my steel!” This one is heavier … no time to get used to it, just remember the training … there’s not a weapon in the world I haven’t made sing at one time or another … Too late for him, just avoid the body … between those two … A wedge of knights had driven deeply into the Orc army, and the footmen pressed in behind. And there, just out of sight … that bright flag that had drawn the old man’s eye. There! That boulder … from there I can see the enemy blazon … Oraias pushed between two hard pressed grunts and found himself amongst the enemy. Now, big sword … let’s hear you sing. Overhand … split him from crown to groin … turn into it, let the weight work for me … yessss … swing it UP! A human’s head flew. Turn, turn … swing the sword out … like a child’s top … Another fell. And another. How sweetly you sing, Big Sword! Like the sea, deep and powerful! And Oraias had reached the outcrop. He started to climb, as behind him injured Orcs climbed to their feet, their wounds knitted by Gortuc’s magic. An explosion of sparks showered Oraias’s shoulders, demonstrating that the Elder’s interests this day lay in more than just the “duties of an Old Man.”
Oraias reached the top of the boulder and looked down. The line was starting to reform, but was still being pushed back. Gortuc’s efforts were helping matters, but these were not mere footmen applying pressure at this point. And there. There rode a dwarf upon a great ram, garbed in plate mail that shone like the sun on the ocean. Behind him strode a tall human, and it was in this human’s hands that the blue standard was held. A golden lion stared at Oraias from the azure cloth, as if daring him to challenge the one who bore it, or the one he served. Oraias grinned again. The footing’s good enough … I’ll need a running start, but I think I can make it …
“FOR DOOMHAMMER!”
* * * * * *
A Memory – Yesterday
“You’re still a coward.”
Oraias sighed. “And you haven’t changed. Although your robes have. … and what is *that*?!”
Gortuc scowled in the dim light of Orgrimmar’s Drag. “*That* is Gakpep. He is an imp.” The small blue creature remained silent, staring at Oraias balefully.
“You’re a warlock?” Oraias was astounded. “Why? No one’s connection to the spirits was stronger than yours! You’re needed now, more than ever! You could be a great teacher, a-” Gortuc cut him off.
“You’re also a hypocrite. If you could just hear yourself, telling me how terrible it is that I’ve abandoned my life’s path when the Horde needs me … Well, I’m doing this for Thrall. That’s right, I serve the Warchief. I ask you again, why don’t you?”
Oraias sighed again. “Is that why you wanted to meet me?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve told you before – OW!”
“Maybe I can’t crack you over the head anymore, but now Gakpep can burn your behind for me. You’ve told me rot. You’re not unworthy, no one stole your destiny! You are just as great a man as you were then! If you do indeed lack faith, it’s because you lack faith in yourself! Your destiny wasn’t stolen it was … it was saved! Your destiny is to serve your Warchief *now*, not die for him five years ago.”
Their eyes met. “Fine, old man. What do you think I should do?”
“Thrall is recruiting. The valley of trials is filled with young orcs, even trolls, proving themselves worthy of serving him. Think you could do it?”
“No.”
“Will you try?”
Another sigh. Oraias looked at the ground.
“I brought you something. The quartermaster let me borrow it. I told him it would be back in the valley tomorrow at dawn.” When Oraias looked up again, Gortuc was holding out a plain, grey steel battle axe with two broad blades. “What do you think, Blazon Bearer? Can you make this sing?”
“For you, Elder Gortuc, I will try. For you, and for Thrall.”
* * * * * *
Oraias Steelsong shoulders the worn axe and walks down into the Valley of Trials.
{{Oraias Steelsong, just so you know, is unguilded, and will remain so until a general shows him/herself worthy of a dedicated herald and standard bearer. That said, any generals who want to step forward ... :wink: }}
* * * * * *
A memory – Lordamere Internment Camp
“Destiny cannot be stolen, Oraias!” The old Orc glared angrily down at his companion. “So they killed most of us. So they rounded the rest of us up and dumped us in this internment camp. So what? We are Orcs. Our pride can not be held by these few wooden walls. We will not be in here forever. Do you want to be known as the warrior who gave up fighting because some human stole his destiny? Because he was caged? If so, then nothing was stolen. It is your destiny to be a coward.”
Oraias raised his head from the ground and looked up at the white-maned shaman standing over him. “You speak words of hope, Elder Gortuc. You were not there. You did not see the fate of Doomhammer’s armies. The fate of Doomhammer himself … The Horde will not rise again. Our spirits are dead.”
Gortuc sneered. “Spirits do not die. I am a shaman. I know. But your spirit is very close to giving up on you.” With surprising quickness and strength, the old man reached down and jerked the warrior off the ground by the collar of his shirt. “And that implies a weakness of spirit that proves you were never worthy of the honor you were intended for.”
He let Oraias fall back to the ground and stalked away. “To look at you now, I’m amazed you were ever considered for the position of Doomhammer’s blazon bearer. Such a tamed spirit…”
* * * * * *
A memory – the First War
He swings … flick the banner into his face … he’s confused, overbalances. Kick him in the back, now! He’s down … now the blade comes in … Great spirits above and below, how it SINGS! With a squelch, Oraias buried his falchion in the back of the human soldier. He looked up – Another one! No time to retrieve the blade … sword coming down, have to block … *SCHUNK!* Steel bit into hardened wood. Oraias pushed upward on the wooden pole he held over his head, forcing the human footman to release his embedded sword or be lifted off his feet. The human stumbled backward, and Oraias whipped the pole around, twirling it like an oversized quarterstaff, smashing the mud-covered butt end into the footman’s helm. The human crumpled, and Oraias set the bottom of the banner pole on the ground again and let the bloodstained blazon hang free again. Glancing around, he saw other warriors moving to support him. This banner would not fall into enemy hands anytime soon. He bent to retrieve his weapon.
He straightened, and noticed the other Orcs watching him. “What are you all standing around for?” He pointed his sword down the hill. “There’s bloodletting to be done!” He turned his back on the others, and raised the banner high. Blazon in one hand, blade in the other, he started down the hill. One foot, the other, faster and faster, walk to jog to run to charge … until his vision turned red and his own voice drowned out the sounds of battle … The voice of a warrior raised in homage to his Chief: “FOR DOOMHAMMER!”
* * * * * *
A Memory – the Second War
Lordaeron. Bloodstained battlefields. The Horde on the march. Oraias grinned. Scores of warriors at his back, the banner of Ogrim Doomhammer in his hand, a place at the side of one of the Warchief’s champions … *this* was living. The battle lines flowed like ocean tides as green-skinned warriors strove against those helmed in mithril. And where the lines faltered, there Oraias went. There the banner was raised to the wind, and the rage of Mannoroth’s blood was nothing compared to the pride of Orgrim’s chosen.
“Is the scent of war not sweet, Old One?” Oraias asked the aged shaman standing beside him.
Gortuc shrugged. “Perhaps. The glory of the Warchief certainly is.” The white haired Orc suddenly looked solemn. “Oraias. Look there.” He pointed a fetish-laden staff at a certain part of the battle line … a place where warriors were falling far too quickly … a place where a blue and gold blazon was borne rapidly forward.
Oraias scowled. “Quickly, Elder. Bind the standard to my back.” He bent down, both to allow Gortuc to do as he asked, and to lift the blade that had slipped from a comrade’s nerveless fingers. It was bigger than Oraias usually used, and would require both hands. But the standard must be carried. “Are you finished yet?!” he demanded.
“Don’t rush me, Ori! There! Get moving!”
“Then let them feel your spirits and fear my steel!” This one is heavier … no time to get used to it, just remember the training … there’s not a weapon in the world I haven’t made sing at one time or another … Too late for him, just avoid the body … between those two … A wedge of knights had driven deeply into the Orc army, and the footmen pressed in behind. And there, just out of sight … that bright flag that had drawn the old man’s eye. There! That boulder … from there I can see the enemy blazon … Oraias pushed between two hard pressed grunts and found himself amongst the enemy. Now, big sword … let’s hear you sing. Overhand … split him from crown to groin … turn into it, let the weight work for me … yessss … swing it UP! A human’s head flew. Turn, turn … swing the sword out … like a child’s top … Another fell. And another. How sweetly you sing, Big Sword! Like the sea, deep and powerful! And Oraias had reached the outcrop. He started to climb, as behind him injured Orcs climbed to their feet, their wounds knitted by Gortuc’s magic. An explosion of sparks showered Oraias’s shoulders, demonstrating that the Elder’s interests this day lay in more than just the “duties of an Old Man.”
Oraias reached the top of the boulder and looked down. The line was starting to reform, but was still being pushed back. Gortuc’s efforts were helping matters, but these were not mere footmen applying pressure at this point. And there. There rode a dwarf upon a great ram, garbed in plate mail that shone like the sun on the ocean. Behind him strode a tall human, and it was in this human’s hands that the blue standard was held. A golden lion stared at Oraias from the azure cloth, as if daring him to challenge the one who bore it, or the one he served. Oraias grinned again. The footing’s good enough … I’ll need a running start, but I think I can make it …
“FOR DOOMHAMMER!”
* * * * * *
A Memory – Yesterday
“You’re still a coward.”
Oraias sighed. “And you haven’t changed. Although your robes have. … and what is *that*?!”
Gortuc scowled in the dim light of Orgrimmar’s Drag. “*That* is Gakpep. He is an imp.” The small blue creature remained silent, staring at Oraias balefully.
“You’re a warlock?” Oraias was astounded. “Why? No one’s connection to the spirits was stronger than yours! You’re needed now, more than ever! You could be a great teacher, a-” Gortuc cut him off.
“You’re also a hypocrite. If you could just hear yourself, telling me how terrible it is that I’ve abandoned my life’s path when the Horde needs me … Well, I’m doing this for Thrall. That’s right, I serve the Warchief. I ask you again, why don’t you?”
Oraias sighed again. “Is that why you wanted to meet me?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve told you before – OW!”
“Maybe I can’t crack you over the head anymore, but now Gakpep can burn your behind for me. You’ve told me rot. You’re not unworthy, no one stole your destiny! You are just as great a man as you were then! If you do indeed lack faith, it’s because you lack faith in yourself! Your destiny wasn’t stolen it was … it was saved! Your destiny is to serve your Warchief *now*, not die for him five years ago.”
Their eyes met. “Fine, old man. What do you think I should do?”
“Thrall is recruiting. The valley of trials is filled with young orcs, even trolls, proving themselves worthy of serving him. Think you could do it?”
“No.”
“Will you try?”
Another sigh. Oraias looked at the ground.
“I brought you something. The quartermaster let me borrow it. I told him it would be back in the valley tomorrow at dawn.” When Oraias looked up again, Gortuc was holding out a plain, grey steel battle axe with two broad blades. “What do you think, Blazon Bearer? Can you make this sing?”
“For you, Elder Gortuc, I will try. For you, and for Thrall.”
* * * * * *
Oraias Steelsong shoulders the worn axe and walks down into the Valley of Trials.
{{Oraias Steelsong, just so you know, is unguilded, and will remain so until a general shows him/herself worthy of a dedicated herald and standard bearer. That said, any generals who want to step forward ... :wink: }}