Manus' Tale, Part 2: The Orcish Wars. (Done)

[EnheilRas]

COntinued from: http://tn.yzeens.com/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&t=538

[EnheilRas]

“Four Elements form the universe.
Two poles govern these elements.
The eight principals proceed from all.
All is as the Phoenix.”
--Metheron, Ultimate Magus

I awoke in a bed, or a cot more appropriately, being taken care of by a female Orc whom spoke a very odd dialect of True Orcish. It was tough to understand eventually, but I was informed that I had been found off the coasts of the Devouring Sea, and my body had wandered shore the Hellfire Peninsula. When I asked where I was, she called the place Zeth’kur, to which I had no knowledge of in Palladium. It took two months for my body to recover enough to where I could walk again. My muscles had atrophied, and there seemed to be no signs of any of the High Fist Clan. When I asked the nurse about the survivors of Aieer or any remnants of the High Fist, she claimed ignorance of such things’ existence, and informed me that I was having delusions brought on by head trauma.

When I was strong enough, I discovered that I was, verily enough, not dead, but had been somehow dropped into the ocean of a planet called Draenor, which was covered in Red. The very sand was colored as blood, and the mountains were dotted with alizarin, and the sky was a gruesome crimson. There were Orcs, everywhere. The entire planet was theirs. Did I die? Was I in Daka? Could it be that ChumRas Orka was achieved? Certainly, the coincidence with the planet Draenor being called the Red World by its own people, and the righteous worshipping of the Red God Lopnel, and the fact that he symbolizes Conquest and the Orcs have conquered none other than a Red world was certainly too much to dismiss.

I was quick to learn where I was and who I was surrounded by. I learned that the 14 Orcish Nations had banded together a few years ago and named themselves the Horde. They had then gone on the Crusade of ChumRas Orka, and achieved it flawlessly, conquering the entire world of Draenor. But in the ongoing months, they became to turn on each other in petty civil conflicts. It was at this moment a great portal was opened that would allow them to extend the ChumRas Orka to other worlds! In this sense, ChumRas Orka would be a never-ending searching of complete conquest, with infinite other worlds to extend it to. The physiological differences between these Draenei Orcs and myself were quite obvious. The High Orc race stood 6-8 feet tall, and the Draenor Orcs were 5-5’6” tall. To Blend in, I had to slouch my posture somewhat, and spoke lowly. My bright orange hair was dyed with black highlights to match the black and greys of the Draenor Orcs. I also managed to blend their language somewhat with my own natural, true Orcish tone, although I still write in the hieroglyphics that they can’t understand.

With my equipment lost, including my signature Skells and my fitted set of Orcish Splint mail, as well as my personal Bow and magical artifacts procured as les fruits des guerre, I was at a loss of what to do. More than half the organized clans had left through the portal half a decade ago. Without any tattoos to mark my clan heritage of this Horde, I was an anomaly of the people of Draenor, and so my aptitudes were tested. My atrophy had not diminished my superb skills as a warrior, and through my tests, the clan membership that was chosen were the Bleeding Hollow, as led by Chieftain Kilrogg Deadeye.

The eye of the bleeding tear was sketched upon my right bicep, and I was scouted to the Dark Portal, North of my new home of Zeth’kur, into the Black Morass, being greeted by the Black Tooth Grin Clan held deep within the Swamp of Sorrows. The Scouts escorted me past the mountains of the Gorge and the Searing Lands, through the awesome Blackrock Spire, into the front of Ironforge, a Dwarven Kingdom that had been taken over by Kilrogg Deadeye’s Bleeding Hollow. The dwarven infestation had become a major problem in liberating Khaz Modan from the long-beards. However, the enemy, the Human Alliance, was in quick retreat from their King being slain and headed across the seas to the northwest. In retelling my story of fighting in the Elf-Dwarf war against the hated Dwarven enemies of the Elves, the Horde found my expertise in combating the stubbly-faced ones instrumental in finding their hiding places and cubby holes to secure Ironforge for the Bleeding Hollow. Hundreds of them were routed and imprisoned, others killed on sight. The one prize kill not achieved, the Dwarven Gryphon Master Kurdran, would later cause much grief to the Horde as he sailed to Dun Modr. It was given responsibility to ensure the safety of Khaz Modan and the Wetlands to the Bridge of the Highlands in Lower Stromgarde for the Horde. As such, both beachfront defenses and scouting parties consisting of reconnaissance death squads were common during the time before the second war.

We had never heard the news of the War of Orcish Ascension before it was already over and the Warlock named Gul’dan had already submitted. It was months with the Horde, and I grew to enjoy the world. Although I was not a chieftain, and certainly not the Warchief, my title of EnheilRas carried over. My ability to fight and unnerving bravery against insurmountable odds allowed me to keep the title of ‘Warmaster’ amongst these new people, whom since I easily identified them as Orcs, once again became my people. My memories of past failures and regrets were fading away, but ever lingering were the losses that weighed most heavily: My colleague in Faith, Riga; my surrogate son, Delgon; my superior in arms and closest friend, Teel; my advisor and personal tactician, Trabian; my DanRas, Ignex; my most loyal soldier, Belca; my concubine, Arana. Though my own beauty was almost celebrity fame to these Orcs, I never once involved myself with a relationship. Love tends to make one weak, it stills the blade. Weakness involves the feigning of Might, and to do that one loses all freedoms and liberties. However, with the new Warchief, a Thunderlord Orc named Orgrim DoomHammer that ascended through the Blackrock Clan, a bid was made to Crush Lordaeron and finish off the Alliance to restore ChumRas Orka in all of Azeroth. The first step was to rescue the Forest Trolls from Stromgarde and enlist them to our aide, and that responsibility was given to none other than Kilrogg’s Bleeding Hollow.

It was a winter season when our offensive in Hillsbrad began against Danath Trollbane and the Alliance Kingdom of Stromgarde. They had recently captured the leader of the Forest Trolls, a being called Zul’jin, which had united the Revantusk and Witherbark clans and had succeeded in countless lightning raids against Quel’thelas and Stromgarde itself. Though considered a murderous criminal to the Alliance, he was a revered hero of the Troll people and savior. He was being held in a small prison camp with his bodyguards just east of Southshore itself. After setting up a base camp on the Island of Zul’dare, the Warchief issued that the Bleeding Hollow and Blackrock rescue this great forest troll and escort him into Horde custody where DoomHammer would negotiate a brotherhood of arms with the troll people. I remember the effect the blistering cold had on the steel plates covering my boots. At the time, the Foothills were covered in forests, so small unit tactics were advised. With wolf pelts covering our backs and snow to hide the glint of the blades of our axes, we fell unto the humans and the small group of elves protecting the walls of the camp. With my own skills in archery, I was able to initiate the ambush by striking one of the Elven archers, which allowed the rest of the team to leap onto the other defenders, cutting them down and bashing open the doors of the prison camp.

It was at this moment that we witnessed the troll leader, Zul’jin. Now, at first, I thought that the extremely tall, green thing with the crooked spine and emaciated figure was just suffering from torturous conditions and malnutrition, but over the years that he fought with the Horde, his condition never changed and I figured that he was just a tall and skinny troll with a serious scoliosis problem. Nevertheless, he fought ferociously, and was as agile as the quickest of apes, swinging through trees and on limbs to leap on the elves and hurl his jagged hatchets into the necks of his enemies. I always did find it odd that he targeted elves first and humans second. He was ridiculously hard to hit with any weapon, as his crooked backbone allowed him to maneuver his torso in unnatural ways. Yet it was his scarf that always seemed to be the weirdest thing about him, as if it was some sort of security blanket.

With Zul’jin in tow, myself and my brothers of Kilrogg returned to our base camp and Zul’jin pledged his allegiance to the Horde, knowing that a pact with the Orcs would be the only chance to ensure the survival of his people. The forest trolls rejoiced in their newfound brotherhood with my people, and immediately they came out of the woodwork, aiding the Blackrock Clan in the assembly of the Orcish Navy, the Tides of Darkness, off the coasts of the Great Sea in Westfall and off the Wetland Coasts near Tol Barad to prepare for a coastal siege of Hillsbrad. Yet I was not involved in naval matters, because word came down from the Twilight’s Hammer and Stormreaver Clans that there was supposedly a magical artifact of great importance laying directly north, across the area that would later become called the Hinterlands. The Chieftain, Gul’dan, was sure he had located a RuneStone and divined its location to be in an island in the middle of a great lake, like the great eye of the world.

As it was the prime responsibility of the Bleeding Hollow to take care of the Dwarven City of Ironforge, it also fell upon us, as was our upkeep, to supply the Horde with the necessary weapons and armor that could be forged from the great molten pit. Over the years of occupation, this was where I inevitably learned the trade of smithing. In all honesty, I was not skilled at it. I was a High Fist Orc, not a Blazing Hammer Clansman back in Palladium, so my ability to comprehend and operate the forges and smithing hammers was somewhat limited, so my apprenticeship into the job was somewhat rough on me. It just took time, and I was less than pleased to be biding my time against an anvil then to charge the Highlands of Arathi and storm the Kingdom of Stromgarde as the Blackrock Clan pushed north against the Lordaeron nation.

[EnheilRas]

“I am the warrior’s curse.
I steal his future.
I mar his past.

The more he has, the less it seems.
He becomes a slave
Of glittering things.”
--The Book of Avarice.

Patience wore thin, and soon the Blackrock Clan gave the Bleeding Hollow the Green Flag to push forward across the Thandol Span in the preparatory invasion against the Elven nation of Quel’thelas. We were backed by the Stormreaver and Twilight’s Hammer Clans, two of the Orcish Clans made primarily out of spellweavers and ogres from Draenor. I found that, even though they were called Ogres, they did not look anything like the Ogres I knew… well, they were big, dumb, and ugly like the ogres I was familiar with, so I suppose that wasn’t too far from the truth. I was still put aside with the whole double-head thing. The warlocks in the two clans, which presided over their leadership in a guild known as the Shadow Council, were nothing like the warlocks I was familiar with, like Trabian. These were called Diabolist Summoners in my world, as they communed and spoke with demons, and used their power with a number of ritualistic markings, wards, and arcane abilities. The warlocks in Palladium were involved in Elemental forces of the world, and were able to tap one of the four great elements in existence, to summon and weave the Elementals as they see fit in a very symbiotic, brotherly way. The Horde calls that Shamanism, but we didn’t have Shaman, just warlocks.

With a military defeat in Khaz Modan, with the Dwarves in their stubbornness to the Might of the Horde liberating the occupied city of Dun Modr, the War Chief issued the defense of our lands and the Bleeding Hollow and Black Tooth Grin Clan was informed to retake Dun Modr, and then destroy the Alliance’s staging point, the Island of Tol Barad. Using the Troll Warships and Goblin Zepplins, we staged a razing of the City of Dun Modr and drove the Alliance out across the great Thandol Span. I was personally operating a catapult division, launching the great rocks into the Keeps and Barracks of the Alliance, crushing their buildings and rolling over their corpses with the pronged wheels of the mighty machine. With the nation of Stromgarde defeated, we set up base camp and I aided with the construction of the Horde’s warships that bombarded the Azerothien held Island of Tol Barad, burning it to ash.

As the Black Tooth Grin Clan escorted the Twilight’s Hammer Chieftain Cho’gall through the Badlands of Kargath to visit the Dragonmaw Clan’s pet in Grim Batol, as well as the Khaz Modan refineries in our own Ironforge, defeating the ambushes of the nation of Stromgarde yet again, we then were able to march across the great span and take siege to Stromgarde. Once again, the combined effort of the Black Tooth Grin, with Rend and Maim Blackhand personally in action, with the Bleeding Hollow and Twilight’s Hammer, the Human Nation of Stromgarde was obliterated and its capital destroyed. I sometimes have dreams, nightmares rather, of the burning of the city of Thoras Trollbane. In fact, Zul’jin was personally there, and his fierceness was unrivaled in that battle. He had dozens of kills, and personally cleaved the Regent Lord of Stromgarde in twain. Danath and Thoras were not present for witnessing the destruction of their home.

With Gul’dan the Warlock right behind the Aged, but powerful, Kilrogg Deadeye, the armies of the Bleeding Hollow, fueled with bloodlust from the Magicks of the Stormreavers, trudged through the Hinterlands, with the massive troll populace already in place in their natural habitats in that area, and over-ran the southern borders of Quel’thelas. The Alliance was broken and splinters with the brash invasion of the High Elves’ realm, less than a week’s travel from their sacred city and their precious sunwell. The great Citadel in Darrowmere Lake, where the mighty Caer Darrow Runestone was held, was quickly uncovered with the Blackrock Clan crushing any resistance against the nation of Azeroth’s and its survivors brought, and Gul’dan brought forth the great Runestone. With his twisted powers, he warped the great power that the elves contained in the stone into mutating the Ogre race, especially those loyal to the Shadow Council, giving them an arcane intellect and a cunning that has never been witnessed in their race since. This massive transformation and magical alteration of an entire race has never been seen before since the Blood Haze.

The War Chief then issued that the Black Tooth Grin Clan proceed to the Island of Tyr’s Hand, a pivotal point that secured the Naval Supply lines to the Elf Nation of Quel’thelas. As I was not an experience sailor, I was unable to head to the front, but the last remnants of Stromgarde could not hold it, even after a lengthy and costly naval battle along the seas against the great Elven armada. With Tyr’s Hand in our grasp, the greatest Oil Refineries in the Alliance were the next target. Orgrim DoomHammer sent his own Blackrock Clan to personally siege the great Alliance city of Stratholme, where the great supplies of the crude fluid were being processed to be sent to supply Western Lordaeron across the Darrowmere Lake. With all their Resources cut, the Elves of Quel’thelas were certainly lost. I remember walking in the great lands of Quel’thelas in the rough of our conflict. The land itself was covered in snow at the time. Another year had passed, and it was winter again in the elven forests. The air smelled differently, and everything seemed enchanted.

The Blackrock Clan, and Stormreaver Clan, cooperated in the siege of Quel’thelas, but the combined effort of the Survivors of Azeroth, the nation of Kul Tiras, and the wizards of Dalaran, kept the siege to a mighty stalemate. Even with the raisings of the twisted GromBolar, the siege never ended, but with Quel’thelas cut off, the rest of the clans could focus to the West, with the Tides of Darkness following. It was at this time, as the Death Knights roamed the area that would be called the Plaguelands, the two Warlock Clans left the Horde and sailed Southwest, off the Coast of Westfall, from the Stormreaver Citadel in Balor, and raised a volcanic Island just north of the coast. Orgrim DoomHammer saw fit that both the Twilight’s Hammer and StormReaver Clan be disbanded, by a sheer act of force. Cho’gall and Gul’dan’s life was forfeit, and a handsome bounty was raised for anyone who would return with the Skull of Gul’dan. Immediately the Blackrocks went for it, and sailed with the Ogre Juggernauts and Troll Warships, and invaded the Islands of Balor and the Tomb only to find that Gul’dan had already been killed, and much of the Clans murdered by the demons that were released in his foolishness. Many Blackrock Orcs died escaping the Daemons of the Burning Legion, and the casualties incurred in this instance are so in numeral, that it led to a collapse of numerical superiority that lead to our later defeat.

Orgrim DoomHammer did not see this, so he gave full voice to the DragonMaw Clan and Zuluhed the Whacked to unleash the childer of Alexstraza the Red DragonFlight to soar against the mages of Dalaran. The entire force of the Dragonmaw against the city that was manifest by all the mages of the Alliance created a sense of death in the air. The great fires that spread across the skies lit it aflame. Without the other two magical clans to back the Horde up, the Horde could not storm the City of Dalaran. Yet, even though resources were being used up in the siege of Quel’thelas, the City of Dalaran needed to be kept as a Stalemate as well to ensure that a third siege, one aimed at the Capital of Lordaeron itself, could go through. Eventually, the Blackrock Clan just strayed too far and underestimated the resources it had in the 6 other clans. With 30% of our forces being killed by demons in the course of a fortnight, we did not have the numerical power to succeed at three sieges at once, and the Horde fell at Lordaeron.

The overextension of the Horde’s main forces led to a very quick and very chaotic breakdown of lines in the retreat to Azeroth. With our main aggression no longer withstanding, our lack of an offensive push gave the Alliance not only time to inhale a breath and rest, but allowed them to exhale and push back. DoomHammer had called a full retreat back into Azeroth, and to wait out the Alliance in our Strongholds. The Burning Blade Clan was recalled by the War Chief to intercept and slow Alliance forces as they broke free and pushed their assault back into Khaz Modan. The Nomadic tribes of the Burning Blade clashed against the Alliance across the Highlands and Wetlands, around the great Thandol Span that bought the remaining clans time to regroup and rearm themselves at their fortress citadels. The chieftains knew that, as mad as the Burning Blade was, they lacked the organization and numbers to ever really stand a fighting chance against the Alliance, and their sacrifice accorded us the time necessary to prepare for the siege.

When the Alliance retook the Span and crossed into Dun Algaz, we had already reached Ironforge and were sacking it for all the supplies we could carry in a mad dash to Blackrock Spire in the Searing Gorge. Kilrogg had ordered the Bleeding Hollow to take as much as they could carry and get out; we had to abandon our Stronghold of Ironforge, a place we had held for over a decade in Azeroth. As far as I know, we left just in time. The dwarves had never known we’d been there when they went inside. The Bleeding Hollow, Blackrock, Black Tooth Grin, and Dragonmaw Clans were all that was left, and DoomHammer had ordered that we all combine our forces in create a defensive barrier in the Searing Gorge around the Spire. Zuluhed, sensing that he was the only Warlock left, instead barricaded himself and the rest of his clan, inside Grim Batol and severed contact. With news that the Kul Tiras navy had taken the Great Sea, and the Tides of Darkness had been crushed, the Horde had to brace for a naval invasion on the western from while the Lordaeron Armies marched down from Khaz Modan. Rend and Maim built bulwarks around the Swamp of Sorrows to protect the Dark Portal with the Black Tooth Grin, even though most of their clan had been captured in the Hinterlands when the Siege of Quel’thelas was broken.

Yet it was Kilrogg, who upon seeing all that was seen in so short a time, whom made the decision not to intervene in the Gorge. He spoke to us, in his wisdom, that it was time to go home. Nothing the Bleeding Hollow could do could change the fact that the second war was over, and we had lost. I had felt a stunning sense of déja vu, as I remembered the pivot point in the Horde’s failure of achieving ChumRas Orka in Azeroth was due to the bretrayal of their own kin, much like Xerxus and the Raging Bear had done to my own clans at Balraga. It was history repeating itself in some sort of twisted wheel of vile satire of my existence. All the memories of my past and the confessions of my failures of upholding the philosophies and doctrines of my people flooded back into my brain; the thoughts I had kept from everyone for so long because the war had given me new hope and new goals, I had forgotten my past and who I was, and most importantly, from where I had come. When the Alliance came to assault the Blackrock Spire, the Bleeding Hollow was nowhere to be seen. Kilrogg Deadeye led us through the Swamp of Sorrows, into the Black Morass where the Dark Portal was, and we went home.

No one else ever came out after that.

[EnheilRas]

“I am the warrior’s madness.
I curse him with trust and respect.
I slow the blade in its course
By stealing his passion for Blood
And offering a softer emotion in return.”
--The Gift of Love

Hundreds of us instantly returned to Draenor, and the red tint of the homeworld bathed us, allowing us to bask in the rolling crimson hills and the vast plains of alizarin. The great mountains of clay eclipsed the stars’ light upon us. It was the death of knight, and the rocky ground of the Hellfire Peninsula felt like the sandy beaches of a heavenly Elysium. We were beaten, bloodstained, our armor dented and covered with entrails, and our weapons were dulled and rusted. But, as weathered and tired as we were, it just felt so comfortable to be back home. With my stationed home just south, Kilrogg led us to Zeth’kur, where he allowed us to rest while he caught a ride across the Devouring Sea to the Skeletal Coast, the domain of the Shaman’s Clan and met with Ner’zhul, the leader of Draenor and Warchief of the Old Clans, in Fortress Shadowmoon.

Several of us unloaded our cargo and followed Kilrogg to the Fortress. I remember distinctly the sheer size of it, and how the lack of wind cause the normally brush of then remains of that old Chieftain’s hair to fall flat, and the skull that he used as a knot for his beard nearly falling out. It was there we encountered the Shaman Ner’zhul. His face was painted white along his skull and covered in, like some necromantic mime. His left bicep was covered in ritualistic tattoos that resembled runes of some kind, but not made from any sort of Orcish Hieroglyphics that donned the Sigils of the Clan. He had shaved his head, save for a sling of hair tied in a ponytail, but he had been long ago, for stubbles were rising from his flesh. He had a glove only on his left hand, where the odd tattoos were, covering it. Later, I surmised that his left arm was the binding of his pact with Kil’jaeden that marked the Shaman, and he tried his best to hide it, lest the others figure out what he had done.

We discovered that Ner’zhul had been in some sort of psychic contact with Kilrogg since the Fall of the Spire, and led the Chieftain to the Black Morass to help us home. Kilrogg did not know the way at all, he was lost. It was Ner’zhul whom ordered even him, and the retreat into the Swamp and the siege of the Spire was all at the summons of the old Shaman. Much like us, Deadeye was just following orders. But was it fear of death that strayed him from his hand to thrust into the spire? I know we could have mad a difference… changed the outcome somehow. We did not know what occurred at Blackrock Mountain yet, but the fact that none of the clans had come through the Portal yet was dire enough warning of the massacre that occurred. Ner’zhul embraced Kilrogg, and welcomed him, and the rest of the Bleeding Hollow as Heroes of the Horde, returning victorious from the War in Azeroth for over thirty years. But a few of my clansmen had been counting their time in Azeroth, and the very few that had survived the entire affair had only counted 23 winters in the human lands.

It was at this time that the time-distortion began to weigh somewhat on my mind. Yes, my brothers in the Bleeding Hollow had aged near two decades since I met with them in Ironforge, and the places in Draenor I knew, had grown up and had orclings and families of their own, and grown old to be elders of their tribes. Clearly over three decades had passed in Draenor, but I hadn’t changed a bit since the day I landed in the Red Planet, out of Palladium. I hadn’t aged a bit; my muscled had stopped in their heinous atrophy and were static in their build. My mind was solid, and unyielding to senility. I was sure that some Bleeding Hollow grew suspicious of my apparently agelessness, but I was just as perplexed by it. They were all in their 40’s, approaching elder status and near ready to retire from the wars, and I was still as bold looking at the day they had called me a whelp. To this day I still have not aged a single day, and my skin is tight around my build, and my bones are not prone to breaking under the pressure of time or the weight of my winters I carry.

Ner’zhul commanded that the Bleeding Hollow Clan should be welcomed as War Heroes, and the entire planet celebrated our return. Those whom carried the Eye of Kilrogg on their arms were given great respect by the Draenei Clans and the Orcs of the Red World. Throughout Fortress Shadowmoon to Fortress Auchindoun, to the Hellfire Citadel and my own Zeth’kur, great festivals took place, with large banners waving around the clan capitals with the sigil of my clan, the Bleeding Hollow. In my home of Zeth’kur, the drums beat especially heavy as the majority of survivors were already resting there before moving to their families. We were given fame, fortune, and all the luxuries that could be gained because of those. Exquisite weaponry and armor was at our fingertips, and all mannerisms of ecstasy and lustful actions could take place without repercussion. Large Murals of Kilrogg Deadeye donned the insides of walled foundries and strongholds, and the clan was considered the Holiest of Holies. Even within the Horde, the Bleeding Hollow was made of up the elite warriors and craftsman, but with the Old Clans, we were sanctified. We were patron saints of the conflict; veterans proven on the grounds of combat. For the few months when we arrived, we were Gods, untouchable and infallible.

The Bleeding Hollow’s clan territories were granted south of the treacherous swamp of the Bonechewers and west of the Bone Wastes where the Shadowmoon Clan had recovered the Giant Skeletons for the construction of the Grombolar. The wastes are somewhat reminiscent of the Badlands, with the large bluffs and desolate sands washing away the white remains of an extinct race of former titans of Draenor. The Mighty Fortress Auchidoun was given as a Gift to Kilrogg as a command center of the Bleeding Hollow, and the rolling red hills and flat terrain gave us plenty in terms of agriculture and homebuilding. There was even a rare forest to the southwest territories, where the hunts of the wild beasts were plenty, and several native Draenei resistant camps proved to refine our skills on our home front.

For several months until the Eve of Summer that year, Kilrogg stationed himself near Zeth’kur and masterminded the smuggling of any survivors or stragglers of the Orcish Horde we could locate. Using precise paths and small unit tactics, we were able to avoid all the Alliance patrols, and even sneak around the construction side right in the Morass, where they were building the Nethergarde Keep. The Swamp of Sorrows proved to be the most difficult, as a High Elf witch by the name of Alleria was in charge of the Quel’thelasi Rangers, and the elves lusted for vengeance of the Horde for the ravaging of their nation. Yet, not even the Elven rangers, as elite as the Arathorians thought they were, could match the stealth and guile the Bleeding Hollow had as we trekked across the Swamp, and through the Redridge mountains to the Burning Steppes, searching for any sort of survivors.

From the reports of other teams, we were incredibly successful in our efforts, rescuing throngs of Ogre-Magi, Death Knights, and Dragons. I was in the team that discovered the rogue Death Knight Teron Gorefiend, who was wandering the Searing Gorge, and had nearly raised an army of undead just from the corpses in the area. Gorefiend meant to use this force and bring it south to destroy the Nethergarde fortress, but he was warned that any Paladins in the area would make very short work of his Shadow Council powers. Gorefiend feigned his lust, and joined us back to the Portal. The Renegade Black Dragon Deathwing, who was not known to be the Aspect, had found the portal himself, and roosted with dozens of the Dragonmaw’s forces, as he owed a boon to the Goblin Alchemists who had grafted his scales with the toughened metal adamantium, the same which bound the Red Dragon Queen Alexstraza. The great Black Dragon struck an accord with the Horde of Draenor, leading the refugees of his Flight through the Dark Portal, heading far across the blood red waters into an Island to claim for his own from the Warsong Clan’s tribal lands. Bleeding Hollow agents escorted hundreds of Orcs back to the homelands of the Hellfire Peninsula, where teams of Shattered Hand barbers and medical teams in the Hellfire citadel dealt with wounds, lacerations, battle fatigue, starvation and dehydration. For those unaffected by lacerations, Zeth’kur offered a place of rest for the weary, and allowed the Draenei Clans to hear the stories of the true war.

Blackrock and Black Tooth Grin Survivors informed us of the siege of the Blackrock Spire, where Orgrim DoomHammer had sealed up the rest of the Horde and awaited the assault of the Alliance, led by none other than Anduin Lothar and the Silver Hand. The Alliance marched across the Searing Gorge and clashed with the Blackrock Clan and the Horde. But the numbers and lack of time to organize for a counter-offense gave the Alliance too grand an opportunity to dismiss, and they surrounded the Mountain Fortress and struck against the Horde in their grandest offensive in the twenty year campaign. Beaten into a corner, the Blackrock Orcs held up the best they could against the overwhelming odds of the Lordaeron Armies and their mounted Knights and Paladins. Orgrim DoomHammer himself, in a final bid of might, strode out of the spire, surrounded by the hundreds of humans, and charged with his lieutenants into the Burning Steppes directly into the elite cadre of Paladins that encompassed Lothar himself. The Mighty Orc War Chief stood against the leader of the human Alliance, the Knight that had evaded the Horde through twenty years of combat, and called him out, pointing the mighty DoomHammer at the steel-clad human. They engaged in brutal combat, and much to the glory of the Orcish people, the greatest human to ever live was cut down in single combat against the greatest Orc to ever be. His First Knight, Turalyon, took up the dead man’s shield, and attacked DoomHammer as he fell back to the Spire. The slaughter that transpired was too gruesome to listen to, but only a handful of Blackrock Orcs managed to escape the terrible massacre, with DoomHammer in tow, and retreated to the Blasted Lands, where the Portal was. There they met with the Black Tooth Grin Survivors, but were cut off from their way home. What was left were killed by the terrible wrath of the humans, with DoomHammer and a few others being considered worthy as prisoners. They were all seen being hauled north back into Lordaeron, further and further away from their gateway home. To make matters worse, that’s when Turalyon ‘destroyed’ the Dark Portal and began the construction of the Nethergarde Keep.

With the influx of the refugees, Ner’zhul commanded that the Ogre-Magi, Dragons, Death Knights, and the Troll peoples be used by the rest of the clans in Conjuncture. They were branded with their new tribal allegiance, and sent to their new homes. The Trolls especially found this new world somewhat disturbing, as they had never visited it before. The Witherbarks’ and Revantusks’ didn’t have much of a choice. Their loyalty to the Horde by Zul’jin gave them a ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t’ situation. The Elves and Humans were killing them off as terrorists, where they were really just trying to survive, and their pact condemned them even further. Now they were war criminals, and any sort of mercy they might have had was thrown to the wind. Their exodus into Draenor, without their leader Zul’jin, was made in a natural instinct to escape their own genocide. The Trolls under our own clan’s care felt the most comfortable with their brothers, but I’m sure that many trolls who joined the Bonechewer Clan relished in the cannibalistic ramifications.

When Ner’zhul called for conclave at Fortress Shadowmoon, where all the Chieftains of the Old Clans were to meet to discuss current affairs of Draenor, I was given personal honor of being a Blood Guard, and given rank to supervise my own team of grunts. In ceremonious splendor, the Bleeding Hollow awarded me with the privilege of command, and another steeple of esteem was imprinted on my body. The Tears of Kilrogg still stain my upper right bicep, the Hellscream of the Warsong below that, and the Mark of Durotan of the Frostwolves just above my forearm, with the Symbol of Chaos is fading from my left. The Sigil of the High Fist is imprinted on my upper left breast, and it is the only tattoo still left from my time spent at home. I have several scars across my ribs from cuts too close and others being blatant stab wounds into my bowels, the most obvious scars being a 6 inch cut into my right thigh from a dwarven axe, three arrow wounds below my left shoulder, four dagger stab-wounds in my lower back near my left kidney --- which was removed --- and a blade wound through my right side that impaled through below my ribs, but touched no vital organs. It’s a miracle I’ve survived through battles where I shouldn’t, and it’s truly a miracle of Lopnel that I still live this day.

While the Chieftains met, where Ner’zhul was informing them of his plans to invade Azeroth again with the sole purpose of purloining rare and valuable magickal artifacts and relics hidden deep within human territory in order to escape Draenor, which the Shaman believed was approaching its final days. Many Orc prophets and doomsayer cults had risen and the word of Armageddon was spreading in the cities of my people. The world was coming to an end, and Ner’zhul’s Shadowmoon clan was harboring their fears and rallying them into supporting the Shadowmoon’s future campaign. Ner’zhul had unlocked the secret to re-open the Dark Portal in the Blasted Lands, and had learned to operate the Nexus that Medivh had created to allow for precise dimensional portals into the world, and manipulated the clans, with his Ogre-Magi Dentarg as muscle, into guerilla offensives to take what he needed. However, what Ner’zhul lacked was the ability to gain access into other worlds, and the only one that did know that, the Orc Teron Gorefiend, was not telling. Ner’zhul would have to find out himself.

When I finally decided to move from Zeth’kur to my Clan’s capital of Fortress Auchindoun, I had taken a wife by the name of Etsumi. I had not known the touch of a woman in what seemed like eons. The very scent of their kind had disappeared with the wretched taint of crusted blood boring through my nostrils in the long winters of Azeroth. My loneliness had breached through the compassion and love I had for my former concubine, Arana, in my true home, Orca, in Palladium so long ago. For the first time since I was but a child and knew my destiny to lead my people to the promise of ChumRas Orka, I lain my weapons down, and no longer embossed myself in sturdy armor plates. I knew peace in Draenor. Etsumi was a magnificent woman. She was an heir to a provision trade that crossed from the Blade’s Edge mountains to the Skeletal Coast. Her father owned the caravans used to supply a majority of Draenor trade stocks. As such, she was quite intelligent and very skilled, more so than most Orcish Handmaidens. She could craft weapons and armor that outmatched my own ability at the trade, and took delicate quality to her work. She wore her amber hair in a long knot, across her shoulder to lie limply betwixt her bosom, and although she was strong willed, her body was lean and muscular from her work at the forge, which never seemed to roughen her soft, green flesh that always seemed to comfort whatever they touched.

Etsumi and I became parents quickly, spawning three Orclings --- two boys and a girl: Velin, named after a warrior of the Dorn Riders whom I shall never forget; Ignex, for my DanRas; and Felika --- and raised them within the safety of Fortress Auchindoun. I enjoyed being a father more than anything else; more than fighting, more than the philosophies I was bred to believe as faith, more than worshipping a God than forsook peace, more than anything. The boys would make fine warriors one day, and I took as much time away from the Orcish Army as possible to teach and instruct them in the histories and ways of my true people, as they were the first hybrid Orcs created. My love with Etsumi had formed the only combination of Palladium High Orc and Draenei Orc blood. The boys had shown a somewhat ferocious nature that I believe could have been an offset of ill intention of my actions to create them. However, the true reason was due to the Warlock Nekros, who’s very existence allowed the Blood Curse to continue in potency, and due to the relationship with Etsumi, was corrupting my children just like it did everyone else but me. They desired to be fighters, to gird themselves and throw their bodies into the fray and die for the cause of our people. Though something like that should have brought great pride to any father of the Horde, I somehow was put-off by it. Our children shouldn’t grow up seeing things in such black and white colors. The very culture was acidic that the Horde was raising its children in, as they churned out Orc after Orc ready to kill for the sake of killing. Children should be raised to know peace, to be able to have some chance at happiness. War was never meant to be a constant state… it had to end. They were only still infants when the call to arms was raised, and I was employed by the Draenor Horde, and the Bleeding Hollow was meant to deploy to Zeth’kur, and prepare to invade Azeroth through Ner’zhul’s new portal.

[EnheilRas]

“I like songs about drifters – books about the same
They both seem to make me feel a little less insane.
Walked on off to another spot,
I still haven’t gotten anywhere that I want.
Did I want love? Did I need to know?
Why does it always feel like I’m caught in an undertow?”
--The World at Large

What we were told, though it was really just a scrim of valor put over our eyes to keep the truth, which was comprised of desperation and fear, was that, although the campaign of Azeroth seemingly had ended, there were new worlds, all around, which the Elder Shaman could gain access to. These worlds were untainted, and pure, and we could inherit them for our people and our children. We were destined to spread the word of ChumRas Orka, and leave Draenor, which had turned into a hellish manifestation, a twisted mirror image of its former beauty, and achieve happiness on a world more beautiful. This appealed to almost everyone. There had been, as of late, several earthquakes in major areas. The world was clearly becoming unstable. The Warsong Clan reported losing one of their islands deep in the Devouring Sea to the ever-consuming ocean. Some coastal towns had begun losing land to the ravenous waters, and tsunami waves and changing riptides made any sort of beachfront property hazardous. Volcanic activity had grown to an all-time high since primitive history of Draenor’s creation. Ner’zhul had foreseen the destruction of the world in his Far Seer visions, but was not about to tell anyone else what was happening. We had no idea that it was the portal which was causing it all. The void was somehow draining the planet’s very energies to empower its tear, or at least I think it was. Its manifestation was due to the most chaotic powers possible to distort reality and tear through space-time and dimensional fabric. The energies required to keep it lasting for so many years had to, in some respect, depend on the planet’s own ley enegies to sustain it and deprive its dissipation.

The Shaman’s Conclave had deducted that he could gain miraculous powers over space and time – enough to control the fabric of reality itself – and save our people by moving to other planets, but he needed a number of relics, and had met with Kargath Bladefist of the Shattered Hand and our own Kilrogg Deadeye of the Bleeding Hollow with Grom Hellscream of the Warsong to be his Shocktroopers. Ner’zhul knew where the artifacts were, and planned on using these three clans in lightning-fast strike squads to pilfer and procure what he needed, and act like they were just random raiding squads to throw the human alliance off Ner’zhul’s track. As a lieutenant Blood Guard in the Horde, I was given command of a small tactical team, which I dubbed the High Fist. Our mission was one of necessity, it was to act as a diversion in the Swamp of Sorrows and lead the Elven Scouts away when Ner’zhul sent the armies out into Azeroth to gather his artifacts. As such, I was able to meet Kargath Bladefist himself as he hand-picked many of the units to be in my team due to the amount of stealth and subtlety required. To say the least, the Orc carried an aura of fear and respect about him, and it wasn’t just due to the huge scythe that he had jabbed into the stub that was his left hand. Bladefist’s Shattered Hand was responsible for most of the rogue training in Draenor. Those that were loyal to the Horde stayed in Kargath’s Clan, for his was the second largest fighting force in Draenor. Those that strayed too far from Kargath’s teachings were exiled to the Laughing Skull, under the treacherous leadership of the Ogre Mogor. Because Kargath was, for all intensive purposes, the most powerful Rogue in creation, he could see the skills in those who were to be in my tribe of warriors. Some of them were to be in Bleeding Hollow due to my allegiance to Kilrogg, hand-stub or not. I was glad to see that in the Draenei Orc society, clan membership was still quite fluid, as was my own society in Palladium. If you had the skills and maintained the drive, there’d be no reason why a stable Orc could not move to any clan he desired.

Kargath and Kilrogg allowed me a four-Horde team to command to engage and divert the Elven squads, lead by the High Elf Ranger Alleria, away from the main forces of Ner’zhul. Besides myself, whom was ranking quickly among the Bleeding Hollow Clan for valorous deeds in contribution to the Horde and Honor in combat, there was a female tracker named Kranin who was adept in the many scents and prints of the swamp animals, she was a Shattered Hand member, and found a trident where her left hand would be; a young and impressionable warrior named Tharil’zun who ached to make a name for himself among the annals of heroes of Orcdom; a troll named Zul’gazrel whose expert marksmanship with ranged weapons were nearly unmatched, his regenerative qualities were higher than norm, and he enjoyed cutting off a finger as a parlor trick; and an Ogre named Broktin who was adept in the Ogre-Magicks granted to his race by the Caer Darrow Runestone whom spoke in a formal accent in his one-eyed head and believed that Orcs were brutish animals and uncivilized. It was quite the team that was assigned to me, and even though I really just wanted to leave it all behind and be a father to my orclings, I had a duty to my people to uphold, and with these four rambunctious characters, I lead them back into Azeroth.

Nethergarde had been completed by the time that Ner’zhul sent the scouting tribes back into the humans’ world. Yet, it was still brand new, and the humans’ eyes weren’t so sharp in their reconnaissance of the Blasted Lands. The garrisons were easily avoided in order to sneak into the Swamp of Sorrows. Formerly territory of the Black Tooth Grin to uphold and defend the Dark Portal, I had little knowledge of the Swamp and its surroundings. The ground was foreign to me, but it was dense in foliage and creature alike, and with the sunken ziggurat in the middle of the lake which we used as a base camp—which oddly the Troll only knew of and led us there—we were able to set up and gird ourselves for the many months ahead while the Draenei Clans mobilized to raid. We knew that the Elf Alleria was hunting the rest of the Horde, and most notably targeted the Bleeding Hollow Clan, for vengeance on the siege of Quel’thelas and the razzings of the Kingdom’s outer territories, such as the loss of Tyr’s Hand and Stratholme. She had turned into a creature of vendetta, and as such, had lost her concentration and focus. But it was not that we would hunt down our would-be predators, for their instant disappearance would call for significant investigation by the Arathorians. We would have to play with them and stretch out our chases and leads. Make them think what we wanted them to, and let them hunt us. It was a very dangerous tactic, but necessary, especially since the game involved a cadre of all elves.

Our first step was to make sure that they knew we were here. The Murloc tribes of the Misty Reeds proved to be useful fodder as we flagged the troll especially m down with our axes, tied with a banner of the Horde. Kranin then took vials of Murloc blood and painted some trees and lead a trail through the edge of the swamp to the strands to allow them to discover the holocaust of the fish people. When the scouts arrived to investigate, Broktin’s incantation to summon the Eye of Kilrogg proved invaluable in reconnaissance, tracking, and even the locating of their base camp. The dense plantlife and environmental ambience of the swamp allowed the silent eyeball supreme stealth. The snobbish Broktin would inform us of their every step, and we took measures to ensure that our stay be as long as possible. With the Pool of Tears, Dragon-Free in that time, the Witherbark especially enjoyed just laying submerged in the edges of the pond, waiting for an elf to show themselves—the crocolisks never seemed to bother him, like they had some type of animalistic understanding—then lodge a trollish throwing axe into one’s shoulder, leg, or arm—as long as it was a non-lethal blow—then sink into the pool and wade silently away. That was my order. I didn’t want any of them killed… yet. If we just started killing them, or facing them in open combat at all, then they’d only send more to take their place, or we’d risk having a casualty or needing to evacuate our Temple fort. We had to just get their attention and keep it. Alleria was a very hot-blooded woman, and the fact that we would leave traces of the Sigil of the Bleeding Hollow to infuriate her would only allow our diversion to take so much of her focus that the Draenei clans could easily get through the Pass into Darkshire uncontested.

Our ruse went on for weeks. Using Arcane Runes from the Ogre’s teachings, we could set hidden explosive traps to catch the rangers off-guard and be nowhere near them to set them off. Broktin was an invaluable asset, if not for his snobbishness that bordered on elitism, he’d have been a good friend of mine. We were rarely caught, and whenever my troops were sighed by the elves, I informed them to try only to wound their legs and run. I disliked sending any of them alone, for fear that they would not return and no one would know what happened. I had to be wary of traps and ambushes by Alleria’s forces. With Kranin by my side, we could spot out their bulwarks and their own snares to avoid, but leave intact so as to not give away our presence. Kranin would also tame the crocolisks and send them at the base from afar aggressively or use them to set-off traps that we needed to disarm in order to complete our patrols. Zul’gazrel enjoyed cooking the animals in his famous gumbo recipe. We ate it thrice daily; to this day I can’t stand Crocolisk Gumbo anymore. Without the proper spices, it just tastes like the blandest salted pork you’ve ever had. However, the Witherbark did teach me a bit about cooking and how to make a proper fire. I owe him my expertise at cooking to this day, wherever he may be. He also used the Crocolisk scales to fashion a taiko drum, which Tharil’zun seemed to enjoy playing, and the crude metals from the Murloc weapons that I forged into an indented buckler for him so he could play some southsea troll music for us. It’s those little things that got us through the long stay at the swamp and turned us from an army company into a family.

The Alliance became very aggressive after several raiding parties by Draenor had completed and secure the various magical items the Shaman needed. Those lost in battle were quickly discovered to have different clan insignia’s, which led the Human nations to believe that different clans were doing this, and not just renegade Horde. As the humans began to prepare for their own invasion of our world, the activity in the Swamp swelled. We did not hear any news of the success of the artifacts, because sending runners to my encampment would have been too risky in exposing our location. However, the Eye of Kilrogg never lies, and the Ogre-magi was first to discern that Alliance activity had grown dangerous. Hundreds of them were barring the shields of Lordaeron, mobilizing in Nethergarde. It was the beginning of the end, and we had to somehow get around them and get back home to warn the Draenor Clans of the incoming invasion. To my own horror, the Ogre described a face I knew very well: the Elf Alleria, to whom I had met on the battlefield not two weeks before. I identified her by her signature woad, after she had nearly killed Tharil’zun with her bow. I had seen her fire and put my hand out to block them with my shield, but the power of her arrows shattered through the buckler and shot through my forearm, slicing between the bones and stopping through my muscles. We quickly rushed back; the arrows were dug in enough that I was not leaking too much blood. Upon tearing them out of my arm, Kranin discovered that the jagged spikes were laced with poison, and her own first aid skills could not stop it from infecting my entire arm unless it was severed at the elbow to stop it before it could flow into the bloodstream; that was why she did not give chase, she knew that what she hit died soon afterwards anyway. Zul’gazrel had different plans, however, and used my own axe to slice his finger off, and squeezed all the blood he could out of it into the wounds. He said that his blood had minor regenerative effects, and it would cleanse the poison from my body and heal the holes in my arm. Kranin bandaged me up and over the course of the next two days, the Troll’s blood magic had worked. I don’t even have any wound markers on my left arm from the incident. However, Tharil’zun would have mental scars from the situation, where he was three inches from death.

When I was well, I decided that we would pack up and go home. We had spend nearly three months, if not more, in the swamp, and the Alliance activity had grown too aggressive and too numerous to continue our operation in safety. They were bringing in throngs of troops daily, and we could hear the anvils crack over the hills of the Blasted Lands. They were rolling in Ballista’s from Quel’thelas and importing dwarven dynamite from the reclaimed capital of Ironforge. It was thundering that night that we decided to leave. I had never seen a severe thunderstorm in the swamp before, but I assume it had its origins south, in the blasted lands. It was pitch black, and the hard rain put out any kind of torches to light our way. The way the swamp looked was terrifying. The animals had all but disappeared in the horrific lightning storm that illuminated the shadows in only the most frightening ways. The rain had flooded the swamp lands from the East Sea, and our weight would not stand for much in the way of extra provisions. We had to let a lot of extras sink into the Swamp never to be recovered. The excess water had begun to drain into the valley that was the Blasted Lands. Deadwind pass would fill up only slightly in its gorge. It was imperative that we keep together. The harsh wind and blinding rain would make it all but impossible to find anyone in the weather. However, when we entered the Blasted Lands, things did manage to clear up to do the lack of foliage and plant life, caused by the razzings of the Black Tooth Grin and the Alliance construction work and resource harvesting. All the new barracks and forts that were built to house the incoming Alliance forces that would later form their Draenor Expeditionary Force made it somewhat tough to try to avoid the many human sentries. We were forced to take a mountain route along the Blasted Lands. We did not stop for rest, nor were there any breaks to feed. We had to get home now. When we reached the portal, there was a small contingent of dwarven archeologists there. We rushed in with no other alternative, and slain them to make our way into the gateway, but in our fray, Kranin took a shot to her back from a dwarf prototype that would, years later, be refined into their blunderbuss. The wound was alien, and she was bleeding badly. I hoisted her over my shoulder and ordered the full retreat back in the Red world.

[EnheilRas]

“The more I see, the less I believe.
The more I know, the less I care.
We used to be the chosen ones, second to none.
Look at what we’ve become: a pathetic excuse for life.”
--Instinct

Zeth’kur was the ideal first stop, where we dropped off the near-dead Kranin for emergency medical treatment. No one had ever seen a wound like hers before. Some kind of rock had propelled itself into her faster than any sling could fling it. It had imbedded itself past her flesh and left a sizable gape in her back from its impact. She had a broken rib where it had initially hit, and one of her lungs had been pierced by the shattered prong of bone and collapsed. Several Shaman and Witch Doctors from the Shadowmoon Clan had to keep her under observation to examine the impact and lethality of her wounds. It was in Zeth’kur that I once again learned the news of my people. Almost all of the relics that Ner’zhul needed were collected. The success of the Warsong, Shattered Hand, Bleeding Hollow, Thunderlord, and Shadowmoon clans had been unrivaled since the early days of the Horde. However, the defeat and almost complete holocaust of the Bonechewer and Laughing Skull Clans had occurred due to the inner treachery that once again breached my people’s civilization. Yet again, I had also learned that while I was only gone for a few months in the swamp, it was over a year passed since I left. I yearned to visit my family and my little Orclings, but I had to sail to Fortress Shadowmoon and report to the Elder Shaman about the Alliance forces just on the other side of the doorway.

It proved unwise for us to just send armies to Nethergarde where they would have a distinct advantage. Ner’zhul decided to let them come to Draenor and ambush their forces in the Hellfire Peninsula. As such, the Hellfire Citadel and Zeth’kur were evacuated and to be refitted as military Fortresses to prepare for the assault. The Warsong, Shattered Hand, and Bleeding Hollow Clans were the first to be rallied and station them along the fortifications. I was not given leave to visit my family in Auchindoun, and, along with Broktin, Tharil’zun and Zul’gazrel, sent back to the Peninsula to join with my brothers of Deadeye. The Bleeding Hollow and Warsong Clans were stationed together to defend against the brunt of the incoming invasion. It was there in the Hellfire Citadel where our rallying point was staged that I met the chieftain Grom Hellscream in person for the first time. Even though Kilrogg was many years his Elder, Grom seemed to have more leadership qualities. His charisma reminded me of my true people; how he could silence the masses and make them wait on every word from his mouth. He was a prophet of Draenor, a harbinger of the cause, a pariah of the Horde. Ner’zhul may have commanded the cause, but Hellscream made the methods. He seemed to appreciate Kilrogg as a DanRas, and held utmost respect for Deadeye, moreso than a brother. Even then, Grommash still had the proverbial five o’clock shadow and his voice was as gruff as a grinding stone. His hair was much longer though, and it was unkempt, like a thick wild mane of black locks, as if he never bothered to clean the blood from his face after the fight had ended. Even though our Chieftain was Kilrogg, Hellscream gave us our cues in war. The age was bearing down on Deadeye, and his mind was beginning to dull. It seemed that Hellscream was destined to be one of the greatest Orc leaders that the Clans had ever had. Many hoped that he would procure the DoomHammer and create a new horde to lead the people to another era of prosperity and glorious warfare.

When the Draenor Expeditionary Force arrived, led by perhaps the greatest enemy of Orcdom, Turalyon, the initial fight was devastating to both sides. The Alliance would try to siege Zeth’kur and use it at a staging point, as if Nethergarde wasn’t already close enough. The Shattered Hand, with Kargath Bladefist personally leading his roguish brethren, rushed into battle. As the fires illuminated the red world like none before in a valiant attempt to repel the alien human invaders from genocidally eliminating our people—as that was their goal: to kill every Orc in the planet—the isolation of war on the Hellfire Peninsula allowed the Shadowmoon clan to begin their ritual. When the Alliance pushed forth, we held our ground at the Citadel, and stopped them from gaining any ground. The Thunderlords backed our ranks, and I was able to see the infamous Orcish Wolf Raiders in action for the very first time in my life. They resembled the Dorn Rider’s clan in terms of beastmanship and fighting style, using large warblades to cleave humans in two and trample over the dwarves. They had been disbanded in the Horde’s clans before I had joined them in Ironforge, and I was stationed in the Swamp during their excursion into Azeroth. However, seeing the Orcish mounted cavalry charging into the Alliance ranks as my brothers of the Blue Warsong and my Bleeding Hollow troops fought off the Azerothiens was indeed something to behold. We fought against them for weeks on end, with a supply line in the Portal nearly cut off by the infamous Black Dragon Deathwing and his Flight on the Island to the East. However, the ongoing bloody fight was truly apocalyptic due to the ritual that the Shaman was doing. My theory that the existence of Portals was truly draining on the latent ley energies of a planet was coming true, with devastating effects. Using the ancient energies and knowledge of Teron Gorefiend, leading Warlock Death Knight of the Shadow Council, Ner’zhul cracked open the boundaries of the realm of reality and the great Nether. Potent Ley Line Storms cracked around the world as we battled the Alliance, and the very world felt its largest tremor as the ley nexus’ around the planet ripped rifts into the Nether. Portals opened everywhere in the world, and entire continents began to break apart and sink into a rapidly evaporation ocean. The atmosphere was breaking apart, and gravity itself gave way to the intense magical interference. Ner’zhul’s prophecy was coming true; Draenor was doomed, and he was the cause of it.

Grommash, Kilrogg, and Kargath ordered that what was left of the Clans fight through the Alliance and get back to the Portal. When the news filtered into the ranks, I knew that we had to go back to Fortress Auchindoun and get the rest. They were unprepared and unknowing of the future destruction of the planet. However, Kilrogg advised that if I were to sail back to the Clan lands, that there would be no guarantee that they could wait for us to return. I had requested for a Draenor Wolf from Chieftain Fenris, and rode night and day to the Hollowed Lands. All I saw along the side was the chaos of Draenor as it quaked and moaned. Volcanoes rose from the very plains and erupted. Poisonous sulfur and ash poured into the skies. Hills shook from the entropic movements underneath the planet and sunk into the swirling sands. Places along the coast were flooded, and the water level was rising—rather, the land was sinking—and the very world just sang of its future destruction in cacophonous unison. Entire villages were erupting in chaos and riot. The majority of Orcs did not know what was happening or what to do. I ordered those with me to stop at towns and cities and try to get as many people to the portal as possible. I did not stop until I would reach Fortress Auchindoun, but I’d be damned if I wouldn’t try to save the lives of my people along the way. It took nearly two days to reach Auchindoun by Wolf across the land, and I was unaware of how far Hellscream and Deadeye had breached into the Humans’ armies to reach the portal. Electricity shot from the ground into the sky, and entire pieces of land soared into the air, propelled and levitated by the forces of the Great Void. Draenor was becoming an Outworld, a terrestrial wasteland floating in space. The fortress had fallen into collapse when I reached it. There lay bodies strewn about, some trampled on by the fleeting chaos and riots that had engulfed the Orcish population. There was nowhere to go, so apparently those that didn’t hide in their houses fled to Fortress Shadowmoon in an attempt to find spiritual guidance to give them a path to salvation from the very person responsible for the oncoming Armageddon. The irony was just too bitter.

I found my family hiding in the ruins of a burrow inside the city walls with several other survivors. It seemed they had locked themselves inside to protect the women and children from the chaos and hostilities that had reigned in the closing days of our civilization. They would not let me in at first, for fear I was just another pillager, so I had to break into it. I was so relieved to hear that my family was safe, and felt so cherished to embrace my wife Etsumi and touch the faces of my children again. It was picturesque, to feel so content in a moment so torn with strife and death and just feel relief. It was the first moment in my life that I would have welcomed death if it would have come for me, which I would feel more than ready to let go of life with my wife and children again by my side. However, I could not get them to the Portal. There was only one wolf. It would not seat all of the burrow-hidden. I couldn’t let them die and selfishly save only my loved ones. The piercing of honor that made me a Blood Guard of Draenor just could not forsake my people. So, naturally, I let my wife and children sit upon the wolf, and lead all the Orcs from Auchindoun northeast, back to the Hellfire Peninsula. The trek would have taken almost a week, which would have been too late, dooming us all to the fate of Draenor, had I not met Tharil’zun just miles from the Fortress. The young warrior was happy to see me, and proclaimed that he had been looking for me and sought me out. It seemed that Tharil’zun had commandeered a Troll battleship, one of the few left in Draenor, and had dug it into the shore. With it, we could sail to the Portal from the docks of Zeth’kur, and make it to Azeroth. Tharil’zun informed me that Kargath and Grommash had thrust through the Alliance’s ranks, and all of the Bleeding Hollow and most of the Warsong had made it through, with the final remnants picking up Shattered Hand Clan members—It seemed Hellscream would not leave Kargath behind—and bringing them out of Draenor. Most of the Thunderlords had been lost in battle against the Alliance, and were too far from the Portal to make it in time. Tharil’zun led us to his hijacked boat, and we all boarded the quick seaworthy vessel. Within a day we had crashed into the docks of Zeth’kur, which had all but been destroyed after its abandonment by the invaders.

With Etsumi carrying Felika and my boys in my arms, perhaps the first time I never held a weapon since before I can remember, Tharil’zun and I led 30 Orc women, children, and civilians through the Burning Wastes as the most powerful explosions erupted, and the seas, burning of earthen flame, consumed and ravaged the landscape. The Portal was surrounded by a team of Warsong, ushering Orcs through at the last moments while their last remaining forces pushed the Alliance from destroying the salvage of Orcish Lives. Hellscream’s clan proved to be a savior of Orcs, and as we passed through back into Azeroth, the human forces crashed through the remaining Warsong and began the ritual of destruction on the Draenor side of the portal. We were the last ones out, as the Alliance’s force collapsed the tear soon afterwards just moments before Draenor ended. Any feelings of safety were soon dashed to the wind as the two remaining clans found themselves surrounded by the Alliance Forces of Nethergarde Keep.

The Azerothien Defenders of Nethergarde were overwhelming in number of the combined survivors of the Bleeding Hollow and Warsong. I let go of my children and sent them to their mother, where I thought would be safe with the other survivors, and with Tharil’zun and the Warsong Clansmen that saved our lives, we breached into the fray once more. Kilrogg Deadeye had been at the front, clawing at the stone walls of the fortress to break through into the Swamp. However, our arrival was pre-empted by a second battalion of Alliance that were couriers to Turalyon’s force, and the Orcish Lines collapsed. Most of us were surrounded, and in the battle, I was separated from my family, and taken with the Warsong Clan in our retreat across the mountains. From all accounts, everyone who survived the end of Draenor that was not with the small Warsong group was taken into Alliance custody and carried off to the prison camps, including the Bleeding Hollow Chieftain Kilrogg Deadeye. That was where the strongest sense of defeat overwhelmed my people. We were truly lost, and the remaining Warsong had built a flimsy settlement near Deadwind Pass, where we consolidated our provisions and supplies. If not for the presence of Grom Hellscream, we would have certainly drifted into oblivion, or had been killed by a roaming war party from Zul’kunda. Most of the trolls, ogres, and goblins had abandoned us in our retreat and went to their own safehouses. There were probably less than two hundred Orcs, most of them fighters of the Horde. The majority of our civilian population, our children and farmers, were locked up or obliterated. This was the beginning of the Underground, as it would later be called.

My own fear and anxiety concerning the fate of my family fueled my rage to assault the Humans again and push north to raze every camp and lynch every guard until I rescued them from their captivity. Never in my life had I contained such a sense of vendetta. I once again contained the fire inside my heart, where nothing would stop me from killing every single man, woman, elf, dwarf, gnome, and other manners of beastlings to get to my family. As long as I contained a weapon in my hand and another Orc to follow, I would reap into their ranks with an invulnerable will to gain the freedom of my people. I became reckless, driven by a maddened lust for the death of anything non-orcish that would stand in my way. I killed to kill and lost my focus. It became so bad during the months in the Underground that even Grommash Hellscream had to calm me down and reset my concentration into what mattered. As leader of the Underground, Hellscream became some sort of a leader in guerilla tactics and precise raiding. Though seen in the picture of some sort of ravenous creature hell-bent on spreading carnage, Hellscream proved to be a powerful and experienced leader who knew how to handle the situation that his people were put in to keep their freedom. He explained that he had found out that Orgrim DoomHammer had escaped from captivity in Lordaeron and had become a hermit in the mountains in the Northern Continent. He also knew of an exiled Orc lands high in the fallen Kingdom of Alterac that was hidden away from the Alliance. Grom had already planned to lead us to this Shangri-la where we could settle, but until the time had arrived, he fought against the Alliance still to free the people.

We began small raids against the humans in order to steal the bare minimum to survive. Agriculture, forged metals, cloth and assorted threads, and any kind of weapons we could find were targeted by Shattered Hand rogues while our Warsong distracted their militia with mindless pillaging. We were actually astounded that there were Shattered Hand still around. The rogues prophesized that their clan-lord, Kargath Bladefist, still lived and made it out of Draenor and evaded the Alliance. Kargath was supposedly heading straight to DoomHammer, carrying a small contingent of the greatest orc thieves, assassins, and fences, and was marching through the post-war lands of Azeroth and Lordaeron to Orgrim. All paths were leading to the WarChief of the Horde, and there were only rumors of the lost Frostwolf Chieftain in the last Goblin Zeppelin in the sky. The Underground movement was pushing North, in nomadic settlements, with hit & run tactics whenever necessary. Hellscream enjoyed melee in small skirmishes to cause fret to the Alliance whenever possible, but he never got in any large battles or those he did not know he could win. Grommash realized his importance to the Orcish people and his necessity to survive and maintain a strong sense of livelihood and being with our mission.

In the coming months, a young Orcling arrived at the Warsong camp by means of Goblin Zeppelin, looking for Hellscream. He identified himself as the son of Durotan, former chieftain of the Frostwolves, and met with the Warsong Chieftain in private. Not a day later, the Zeppelin loaded up with Grom, the Orcling named Thrall, and a small force, including myself, and with the happy-go-lucky goblin named Gazlowe at the helm, Grom explained how to get to the Hermitage of Orgrim DoomHammer. We arrived there late at night, and were surprised to see Kargath and his bodyguards had already arrived. Bladefist, Hellscream, DoomHammer, and the Orcling met at a private fire that night. None of us were allowed to see or hear what they were saying, but we traded news and had a good meal. I had heard from the Shattered Hand members what happened with the Dragonmaw Clan at Grim Batol, and what had occurred to Deathwing after his escape of Draenor. Though the Underground did not experience a severe lethargy due to the death of Nekros, as was told by the couriers about a feeling of lost and weakness, there was a sense of abandonment with the cause of conquest, but the goal of vindication was still present, mostly due to the leadership of Hellscream.

As the Chieftains talked over politics and the future of the Horde, I sat by my own fire outside the grunts’ tent, eating a mutton chop. It was dark, but there was not a cloud in the sky, allowing the stars to twinkle something quite fierce. A rush of blue, electric energy shot through the heavens, and I was visited by the spirit of my old friend from Palladium, Dorin the Darkweaver, Chieftain of the Clan of the Dark Circle. Dorin had been the most powerful Orcish Mage in the planet, and his knowledge and ability of the arcane would have easily matched Gul’dan’s or Ner’zhul’s. In our world, magic was linked to the planet, and drew from the ley line energies of the world, which were fueled by the cycle of life and death, unlike in Azeroth, where it was driven by the dark energies of the twisted nether. Dorin looked exactly the same, if not a hazy transparent blue. I had known the Darkweaver to be one of the most bloodthirsty and battle hardy Orcs to ever step on the field of honor, wielding staff and sword simultaneously and completely driven by ChumRas Orka and the philosophy of the Orc. Dorin sat across from me, and spoke to me after all the other Grunts had left. I learned that thousands of years had passed in Palladium, and no traces of my people had remained. The Orcish race in Palladium, without its brave leaders, had fallen into permanent disarray, and had remained enslaved to the humans, elves, and other monster races for millennia. There was no hope for them anymore. From my discussion with Dorin, I learned that he indeed did survive Balraga, and escaped to Riga’s Temple of Lopnel to hide in the catacombs in order to initiate a ritual of interdimensional teleportation to hide in a pocket dimension. However, the Giants chased him down, and interrupted the incantation just as Dorin ended it. The finality transported his body, but left his very soul in the world, ripping his life from him and keeping him from ever living again. His spirit had been wandering for endless years, searching for any traces of his people… my people. In that time, Dorin renounced his belief in ChumRas Orka. He explained to me that the end result does not, or will it ever, be absolute. In the end, if we ever did set ChumRas Orka into completion, there would be nothing else to do. With the world conquered, the only thing left would be to wander the plains in boredom. He discovered that it wasn’t the goal of ChumRas Orka that ever inspired our people, but the way to it that excited us. We were truly a war-born race, and relished in the gains and throes of war, rather than the end result. Dorin discovered that we could never have peace in ourselves unless we gave up the philosophy that had dominated our very lives; that had taught, raised, and instructed everything we had ever known. The worship of Lopnel was not inherently wrong, but one would have to take in account the fact of his instinctual arrogance, pride, and overwhelming excess that he exuded as a person with his deeds of a warrior.

When the campfire chat was done, it was announced that the Orcling would visit his Clan lands in Alterac, in the Frostwolf village, and we would begin the final movement to free our people from humanity’s evil clutches. It felt like eons since I had seen Orgrim’s DoomHammer raised. But with our small band of freedom fighters, we would liberate the Orcish people, and lead them to build their own empire, rather than taking it from someone else. I had a lot to think about: about my very life and how it had nearly been all set up as a grand fall, a fate for my people that no matter how many twist the knotted string obtains, it still leads to the same severed end. Raat had informed me of this, and his words had a fuller meaning still. If I was to ever find peace in myself and with my people, I, too, would have to renounce the very philosophy that I had been ordered since the title of EnheilRas was bestowed upon my name to not only uphold, but enforce upon all others. In that dim fire, I faced a bright future and a dark revelation: the Fate of Dorin the Darkweaver was the Fate of ChumRas Orka; forever stuck in the self-made bondage of eternity.

[EnheilRas]

“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.”
--Ezekiel 25:17

In the next twelve months, the Underground moved to the Frostwolf Village, with Orgrim DoomHammer at the lead, titling it once more its true namesake, the Horde. From the hidden village in Alterac, DoomHammer sent scouts throughout Hillsbrad and Alterac, finding and outlining every prison camp, containment center, and internment base that held our people hostage. The Frostwolf Orcs, untainted by the Demon Haze or the Laws of Gul’dan that forbade the practice of the liberating arts of Shamanism, trained the next generation of the Horde’s spiritual advisors and force. The Elder Drek’thar single-handedly oversaw the tutelage of those whom sought the wisdom of the ancient arts of the taming of chaos into order. I remember vividly those cold nights, with nothing but wolf pelts to cover my armor as I would sit on a mountain ledge and watch the lightning storms ravage the sky during their trainings.

When the Horde once more inducted the Frostwolf clan in it, combined with the Bleeding Hollow, Warsong, and Shattered Hand, we became a close family. Separated only by the tattoos designating our lineage, we were one force, no longer a codependent conglomeration of multiple forces. Under the training of the Orc warmasters, Thrall, formerly trained and raised by humans, entered into puberty and greatly expanded in muscular girth and entered manhood. He had been raised by humans most of his life, and the torturing regiment and life the humans forced him to endure had made him grow to be in their form. When I met him, he looked like a bald human with green skin. As such, he was teased quite a lot by the Orc Grunts and Guards for looking like he did. Even Nazgrel gave him an especially hard time, which could account for his somewhat gruff disposition. But when he was ready, Thrall paid homage to his father, Durotan, and took up the headdress of the Frostwolf clan. The Horde was finally united, and it was time to visit the slaves and make our people aware.

With the four mighty chieftains at the lead, we began our lightning strikes at the camps, amassing large forces and overwhelming the internment prisons in glorious combat. The humans had been completely unaware, or at least acted in such a manner. We received news that the Horde had become such a fervent threat that they send Uther back at us, but with Thrall’s guidance over tactics and Orgrim’s Might in warfare, we evaded the Silver-Hand left and right without so much as a feint. Durnholde was razed to the ground; the camps all along Hillsbrad and Arathi broken to pieces with Frostwolf siege catapults; it was perhaps the most meaningful string of battles in my life. Sadly, Kargath was claimed by his age in the liberation of his people. The Shattered Hand was so overcome with emotion of the loss of their Chieftain that they still, to this day, have yet to reclaim a Chieftain to lead the clan. Every fight counted, for every prison break meant the rescue of hundreds of Orcs, and it brought a newer possibility that I was not too late to find my family. It took less than a year for the Horde to liberate every camp, ‘til the last one, a major containment center in Arathi Highlands, lay in wait with the rest of the Alliance Guards, as they knew we’d strike it. It was this which would later be called HammerFall.

It was a bright day in Arathi, I do remember fondly. I was very excited because I knew, just from Process of Elimination, that my family was inside. They just had to be. We met at the ruins of Stromgarde, where some of us joked about how much better it looked now than it used to be when last the Horde visited, before striding over the plains towards the Northeast. The Witherbark Troll tribe had refused to help us, and all politics met with the death of our courier. Perhaps they blamed us for the death of Zul’jin? With Orgrim at the lead, Thrall and Grom right behind him, the final battle for the freedom of the Orc people from the bondages of humanity began. With many warriors, rangers, and paladins to back them, the humans fiercely defended their stockades, but our rage and our strength was too much for them to properly fend off, and they quickly buckled, allowing a quick Orcish intrusion.

I was one of the first to leap over the burning walls of the prison with axe in hand, cutting down bewildered humans wherever they crossed my path. With reinforcements in tow, we traveled from bunkhouse to bunkhouse, chopping and bashing down doors to the excited cheers of the hostages. The third bunker, we discovered to be the children’s house, held my darling Felika, who was almost 10 years old, having been in captivity for nearly half her life, with her brother Ignex and the other children, crying and scared for the war outside. I immediately threw my weapon down, grabbed her and lifted her in my right arm, and held Ignex’s hand as we lead the children outside to the burning prison. Elves had taken residence in the Scouting Towers, and shooting prisoners and warriors from above with precise and lethal arrow strikes before being crushed to pieces by an accurate catapult toss or being electrocuted by a calling of the elements by the Shaman. The humans had begun to panic, and the horn of retreat called forth. Some of the more merciless humans began slicing down prisoners left and right, fighting with attrition to make our victory less flavorful, before being torn to shreds by angry warriors. I turned to see one of the last bunkers being broken in, and a bunch of women screaming as they poured out, many of whom reached for the weapons of the dead and turning to find any of their captors left to kill, and with children in tow, rushed inside to find my wife, Etsumi, bedridden and unable to move.

Etsumi had been beaten severely, and one of her legs had broken and not been fixed into place to heal. Two of her ribs had been shattered as well. Her strong spirit kept her alive and she smiled as she saw me and the two children. I asked where the eldest, Velin, was, and tears ran down from her face. Velin had been killed defending his mother from their captors after killing two men with a shank he cut from wood and iron. They hung the child, and buried his remains in the ground in the prison. Etsumi’s disposition had grown full of rage from the incident, and it incurred the wrath of the guards, leading to many beatings and floggings, some public, which explained her current state. She did not have the strength to leave, and she knew that I knew it. She smiled her last smile, seeing that her children would not have to live in such a hellish place all their lives, and I kissed her one last time. I slid my hand over her face to close her eyes, with a loving grimace still stuck in her last expression, and took my weeping children from the house.

The prisoners had begun a full riot, dragging anything non-orcish into the mud and beating them senselessly into a pulp of broken bone and blood. They used whatever they could, from bones, to splinted plywood, boards with nails, shanked boomsticks, flaming pieces of flotsam and jetsam, to sharpened edges of broken armor, to maim and dismember their foes. Myself and a high-ranked Frostwolf Orc named Belgrom Rockmaul began running out when a single arrow fell through the sky from a Quel’thelasi sniper, most likely aimed for me, but stuck into the stomach of my son, Ignex. Belgrom quickly tossed up an axe and threw it, plunging into the neck of the Elf, felling him from the tower. I tossed him Felika and ordered him to get her to safety as I picked up and cradled my son. Both of us escaped to the rolling Highlands, where the humans had all but retreated. Thrall was carrying the Warchief’s DoomHammer and was wearing Orgrim’s Armor, which spelled something incredibly ominous to us as we left. We weren’t told what happened to Orgrim until the battle was over and we counted our dead, but we knew something was wrong. Hammerfall lay in ruins, and all of the Orcish people were free. However, the arrow was stuck too deeply in the stomach of Ignex, and removing it would kill him through sepsis, and not removing it would cause him to bleed to death. I lain my son down, and held his hand tightly. He looked only at me through my eyes into what Orcish soul I still had, and told me that he was proud of me and he tried his best. Kneeling down, I cried for the first time when Ignex stopped breathing.

The Sorrow of Hammerfall was as deep for me as there was for any Orc. Orgrim DoomHammer’s passing was a hard hit for the Horde, but Thrall had unanimously been voted by all the Chieftains before his death to ascend to the title of Warchief. The Draenor Orc ritual calls for the burning of the dead. Orcs did not believe in burial, we cremated our kind. So with Heavy Heart, I painstakingly dug up the corpse of my first son, Velin, and I collected the body of my dead wife, and placed her by her sons on a cot over a stack of wood. With many of my brothers of Warsong and newfound compatriots of Frostwolf, I set my lineage aflame, and watched them burn to ash. I only had Felika now, and I promised her that she would continue in life as proudly and glorious as her mother and I attested her to. The plume of my family went to the sky, and as Orcish beliefs go, it created a tunnel for their souls to ascend towards Daka. I wondered whether or not they would join with my own DanRas, Ignex Max, and the other High Orcs lost in Palladium, or become one with their own people who died in the millions in Draenor. Maybe, all Orcs from all different realms go to the same Daka? It would be a beautiful thought.

Thrall had but one more target in the Frostwolf Village where there were still things to be done by the Horde, and that was Blackmore’s Estate. When we reached Alterac, that was the only thing on his mind, an end to a personal vendetta that his Clan rightfully carried for capturing, enslaving, and torturing an Orcish Child who just happened to grow up and become the current champion of his people. I was given military leave due to my own personal circumstances in HammerFall, and resigned from the military to cope with my loss, so I did not go to the fight. I heard it was a valorous affair, with a clear and decisive victory where Thrall personally claimed the life of his ‘Father.’ With no more to do, the Horde retired to the Frostwolf village, having freed all the Orcs from captivity and done away with the enslaver Blackmore in only four years time.

[EnheilRas]

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Credits:

Part 1: Opening Quotation to Drakkhen, an infamously bad SNES RPG. In fact, that opening quotation was easily the best part about this Game. It's so bad that no retailer (EB Games, FunCo Land, etc.) will buy it for credit.

http://www.mobygames.com/game/snes/drakkhen/screenshots/gameShotId,77282/

Part 2 & 3: A Riddle from Baldur's Gate, over the Six Sins, before facing Sarevok.

Part 4: "The World at Large," a song by the Indie Rock band Modest Mouse, from their first major CD "Good News for People who Love Bad News."

Part 5: "Instinct," a song by the Swedish Metal Band Arch Enemy, from their CD "Anthems of Rebellion."

Part 6: The Book of Ezekiel, the Old Testament (Inspired to use that passage due to the character Jules -- Played by Samuel L. Jackson -- in Quentin Tarintino's "Pulp Fiction" in all honesty).

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Evalutation

Well, here we go: part 2 literally dumps the character directly into the middle of a conflict which he has no ability to understand or comprehend in any logic or reasoning. He's taken from everything he's ever known in life, and is told from the get-go that it was all a dream. He is an anomoly to the universe around him, and begins to question his own existence, or does he?

I found it interesting in the outlook of Manus in Part II, being thrusted into the middle of the Orcish Wars that take place in the WarCraft I, II, and IIXP Games, as he takes but a glance and his impulse is to put *his Crusade,* which he stubbornly rejects the notion of it failing, on the cause of the Wars, ignorant of the Burning Legion's curse (As were most of the Orcs), or anything else. At this time, very little character development occurs due to him just doing what he's always known: Warring.

It took me a long time to attempt an accurate portreyal of the WarCraft Games. There've been countless contradictions, but the worst is the timeline and span over the course of the Wars. When push game to shove, I kept to the Game manuals and what occured in the game. Even in this, there was a huge discovery in the news that the Manual accosted the Portal was only open a couple dozen years, and when the Bleeding Hollow returned to Draenor, the Clans informed them that they had been gone over thirty; This meant that there was either a time distortion effect from the portal, or the better cause: Draenor's planetary revolution (It's year), was nearly half that of Azeroth's. This, of course, made estimating Manus' age quite burdensome.

I chose for Manus to go on a special forces mission, per se, during the Aftermath of the Second War mostly due to my inability to find my copy of the game, and had given up completely on looking for a *second* copy of that, (Or WC2BNE which had both). Though I knew, from memory, what had transpired, I couldn't recall exactly what clans were sent to find what. Rather than write inaccuracies, I cheese'd out and gave Manus a small team to hide in the Morass to distract Alleria--Sylvanas' sister--whom was noted as to have mercilessly trekked the swamp to find any trace of Deadeye's Clan before joining the Draenor Expeditionary Force with Turalyon and invading the Red World.

As a minor note, I have storyboards of some short things to write about the team, having fleshed out all four characters: Tharil'Zun, Kranin, Zul'gazrel, and Broktin, rather nicely. Tharil'zun, however, becomes a very important character (and appears in WoW as an NPC).

What changes Manus' personality into one of dynamics is when he does indeed marry and have children. In my line of work, I've noticed that the only thing which can break a big, burly, tough-guy, is having a daughter. I felt that after so many years, his trauma in Palladium would simply just be locked away, and he'd force himself to start a new life. In having children, Manus' becomes to know Peace for the first time in his life. He discovers that the only thing better than being a warrior, is being a Father. The revelation is short-lived, however, before being recalled to front-line service.

I mention Fortress Auchindoun, the Bleeding Hollow Capital, a few times. Personally, I cannot wait until the WoW Expansion due to Auchindoun becoming a huge (Neutral?) city, and having an instance inside it. I'm undoubtedly sure that a great RP story will come out of Manus "Returning Home." Zeth'Kur, the City by the Bay, and closest one by the Portal, will have undoubtedly been destroyed.

Near the end, I go into the great novel "Lord of the Clans," with mentions to the events of "Day of the Dragons." Having kept up on the failed "WarCraft Adventures" before the book was written, I knew quite a lot of the storyline and how things did transpire. What I don't mention is that Stonard, the Camp in the Swamp of Sorrows, was the center of "the Underground" as Manus' referred to it: The Warsong Clan's last bids of survival.

Any who have met Manus will instinctly know that he is a member of Four Clans: The Bleeding Hollow, Warsong, Frostwolf, and his own the High Fist. He proudly wears the Tattoos of all four. Only a couple people have ever asked him about it. At this point, most will have full knowledge of why and how it has come that he's been able to do this. Clan membership in Orcish society has always been sort of Fluid. You are placed where you may best contribute. If circumstances arrive where it is discovered that your aptitudes may better serve elsewhere, then that path is opened.

Near the end of the Story, where "Lord of the Clans" Ends, Manus' feels loss. He gives up on life. HammerFall (the Day) was almost too much for him to bare. He retires from the Horde this day. The capture of his family turned him into a raging monster, but the death of his family was in a sense the death of him as a loving person. That, in a sense, begins to explain that in all his bids for power, the greatest cost of Hurt was paid three-fold into him. He's never gotten a firm chance at happiness, having been surrounded by, and being the cause of, death -- be it meaningless always -- and emotional loss.

I find it amazing that the character rarely speaks of friends. He mentions fellow soldiers, but never any friends. He also only seems to talk about wars and combat, only speaking of other things in breif passing. This is the kind of person he is: one so instilled with an instinct of fighting: To Kill or be Enslaved and Destroyed as a Monster, that he takes a role of this savage beast. He never finds time, or even desires, to socialize with civilians. He becomes almost one-sided during the Orcish Wars, a one-dimensional soldier without any want of anything but to carry out a mission that was never supposed to be.

[EnheilRas]

Part 3: http://tn.yzeens.com/modules.php?name=Forums&file=viewtopic&p=7238#7238