Grisch
04-18-2006, 02:12 AM
Born to a simple farming community, Grisch grew up herding swine, chopping up wood for the mills and generally performing whatever back-breaking labor was required in the service of The Horde. His parents Lorg and Gullta traveled around after The Horde forces, providing
whatever work needed to be done during the second war.
Like many others of their kind, they were captured and placed in camps at the end of the war, where they submitted to slave labour under the Alliance. When Thrall freed the camps and gathered the Horde once again for their journey to Kalimdor, Grisch was in his thirtieth season.
After the combined forces of The Horde and The Alliance had beaten back the Scourge at mount Hyjal, Grisch's family and others in their group settled and formed a small farming community near Orgrimmar.
Believing that peace had finally come, they set about to farm in quiet. Thus it was not to be. Alliance groups in the area soon learned of their location, and that there was food and other resources to be had. Raiders became an almost daily occurence. During most of the raids, the locals would simply find a safe place to hide and wait untill the raiders had left, taking most of the food and anything else they could carry.
During one particular raid however, things did not go as smoothly as before. Most of the family were clustered together in a shallow hideout near the swine pens. From the start it was obvious that the raiders were new to this. For one, they'd begun by setting alight one of the huts and pointlessly killing much of the livestock. After loading up all the food they could carry and herding off any other live-stock they could find, a few of them walked around the farm, apparently in search of any missed bounty.
One of them, a tall, dark haired human, came across a pile of freshly harvested melons that the group had been unable to fit on their wagon in addition to everything else they'd taken. The human promptly set about putting his boot into every melon he could find.
At this point, something seemed to snap inside the aged patriarch of the community Lorg, Grisch's father. The old orc lurched out from the pile of leaves under which he had been hiding. Roaring a warcry that was no less impressive due to the coughing fit that wracked him afterwards, he bore down on the startled human. Three yards from his target, multiple arrows pierced his torso, and Lorg hit the ground in a spray of blood and dust.
The rest of the family remained in their hide, too shocked to take any action. Never had they expected such a re-action from the old man.
They watched as the last of the raiders gathered what they could and trotted off into the distance.
One by one the peons, farmers and their offspring appeared from their various hiding holes to surround the downed orc.
While this was happening, Grisch had noticed a strange sensation coursing through his veins. He had been particularly fond of his father Lorg and seeing him cut down in this manner had caused a strange effect on him. It was as if the old farmer's feral warcry had awakened something within his own blood. A creature of rage and chaos that roared a mighty bellow like the rumble of thunder at the world around it. His vision began to blur and as the others stepped away from him in fear, he fell to his knees beside the old dying orc.
It was said that his eyes had taken on the silver sheen of moonlight and quicksilver.
Others said that the ground had buckled slightly under his large frame as if something much larger and unseen had been standing where he was. Whatever it was that really did happen, one thing they did agree on.
Grisch had dropped his hands to his father's dying body, thrown his head back and roared.
The sound that came from his throat was his own voice, but magnified and intertwined with that of thunder, of trees growing very quickly and waves crashing against rocks.
Around him, grass and trees began to wilt and die, giving up their life essence as Grisch channeled it into the body on the ground. Surrounded by green coursing energy, his hair began to change from it's jet-black, to an unnatural pure white. Amidst this chaotic swirl of raw life-energy, Lorg opened his eyes wide and looked directly into those of his son.
For a brief moment, the two of them shared a knowledge as ancient as life itself... and then Grisch closed his eyes and collapsed quietly to the ground.
A few days later, Grisch set out towards the fabled 'Valley of Trials' in Durotar where he would begin his training as a shaman. He left behind his proud family, some confused pigs, and a small crater with smooth, glazed sides, a few yards wide.
This however, is only the beginning of his story.
For several days, he traveled, untill he finally came upon his destination. It was here that he met an old and wizened shaman by the name of Brakogar. The old battle-sage took Grisch under his wing and taught him many things. Reading, writing and how to use the orcish tongue in a manner that did it justice were among them. He taught him much on history, philosophy and the nature of both The Horde and The Alliance. He instructed him in the teachings of the Warchief and also brought him into his guild known as 'The Frostwolf Brotherhood'.
More and more however, Grisch noticed how his teacher was becoming dissilusioned with The Horde in general. So few were willing to let the old ways die and follow the new teachings of the Warchief. So many seemed caught up in the petty rivalries and vendettas between the two sides.
Eventually it became too much. Brakogar took leave of his friends and followers, sold or gave away many of his possesions, and traveled off alone into the wastelands of Kalimdor.
Leaderless and with no purpose, the last few remaining Frostwolves traveled around in search of some meaning. Grisch himself wandered the world trying to find purpose again. All around him he witnessed the petty hatreds and evils the war was bringing. He saw little honor or justice anywhere.
Falling into despair, he too set off after his mentor Brakogar. Shouldering his pack, he traveled into the demon infested wastes of Desolace, hoping to find some sign from the old shaman. Some last word that would give him direction once again.
Many days in, he found himself lost and dying of thirst. Wounds he had taken from the many vicious creatures inhabiting the wastes had begun to fester and turn him feverish. Covered in the fine white dust that permeated everything in this forsaken place, he crawled onward, with no purpose, other than to keep moving.
It was then that he found his sign. That however, is no longer the story of Grisch. It is the story of SANCTUARY!
whatever work needed to be done during the second war.
Like many others of their kind, they were captured and placed in camps at the end of the war, where they submitted to slave labour under the Alliance. When Thrall freed the camps and gathered the Horde once again for their journey to Kalimdor, Grisch was in his thirtieth season.
After the combined forces of The Horde and The Alliance had beaten back the Scourge at mount Hyjal, Grisch's family and others in their group settled and formed a small farming community near Orgrimmar.
Believing that peace had finally come, they set about to farm in quiet. Thus it was not to be. Alliance groups in the area soon learned of their location, and that there was food and other resources to be had. Raiders became an almost daily occurence. During most of the raids, the locals would simply find a safe place to hide and wait untill the raiders had left, taking most of the food and anything else they could carry.
During one particular raid however, things did not go as smoothly as before. Most of the family were clustered together in a shallow hideout near the swine pens. From the start it was obvious that the raiders were new to this. For one, they'd begun by setting alight one of the huts and pointlessly killing much of the livestock. After loading up all the food they could carry and herding off any other live-stock they could find, a few of them walked around the farm, apparently in search of any missed bounty.
One of them, a tall, dark haired human, came across a pile of freshly harvested melons that the group had been unable to fit on their wagon in addition to everything else they'd taken. The human promptly set about putting his boot into every melon he could find.
At this point, something seemed to snap inside the aged patriarch of the community Lorg, Grisch's father. The old orc lurched out from the pile of leaves under which he had been hiding. Roaring a warcry that was no less impressive due to the coughing fit that wracked him afterwards, he bore down on the startled human. Three yards from his target, multiple arrows pierced his torso, and Lorg hit the ground in a spray of blood and dust.
The rest of the family remained in their hide, too shocked to take any action. Never had they expected such a re-action from the old man.
They watched as the last of the raiders gathered what they could and trotted off into the distance.
One by one the peons, farmers and their offspring appeared from their various hiding holes to surround the downed orc.
While this was happening, Grisch had noticed a strange sensation coursing through his veins. He had been particularly fond of his father Lorg and seeing him cut down in this manner had caused a strange effect on him. It was as if the old farmer's feral warcry had awakened something within his own blood. A creature of rage and chaos that roared a mighty bellow like the rumble of thunder at the world around it. His vision began to blur and as the others stepped away from him in fear, he fell to his knees beside the old dying orc.
It was said that his eyes had taken on the silver sheen of moonlight and quicksilver.
Others said that the ground had buckled slightly under his large frame as if something much larger and unseen had been standing where he was. Whatever it was that really did happen, one thing they did agree on.
Grisch had dropped his hands to his father's dying body, thrown his head back and roared.
The sound that came from his throat was his own voice, but magnified and intertwined with that of thunder, of trees growing very quickly and waves crashing against rocks.
Around him, grass and trees began to wilt and die, giving up their life essence as Grisch channeled it into the body on the ground. Surrounded by green coursing energy, his hair began to change from it's jet-black, to an unnatural pure white. Amidst this chaotic swirl of raw life-energy, Lorg opened his eyes wide and looked directly into those of his son.
For a brief moment, the two of them shared a knowledge as ancient as life itself... and then Grisch closed his eyes and collapsed quietly to the ground.
A few days later, Grisch set out towards the fabled 'Valley of Trials' in Durotar where he would begin his training as a shaman. He left behind his proud family, some confused pigs, and a small crater with smooth, glazed sides, a few yards wide.
This however, is only the beginning of his story.
For several days, he traveled, untill he finally came upon his destination. It was here that he met an old and wizened shaman by the name of Brakogar. The old battle-sage took Grisch under his wing and taught him many things. Reading, writing and how to use the orcish tongue in a manner that did it justice were among them. He taught him much on history, philosophy and the nature of both The Horde and The Alliance. He instructed him in the teachings of the Warchief and also brought him into his guild known as 'The Frostwolf Brotherhood'.
More and more however, Grisch noticed how his teacher was becoming dissilusioned with The Horde in general. So few were willing to let the old ways die and follow the new teachings of the Warchief. So many seemed caught up in the petty rivalries and vendettas between the two sides.
Eventually it became too much. Brakogar took leave of his friends and followers, sold or gave away many of his possesions, and traveled off alone into the wastelands of Kalimdor.
Leaderless and with no purpose, the last few remaining Frostwolves traveled around in search of some meaning. Grisch himself wandered the world trying to find purpose again. All around him he witnessed the petty hatreds and evils the war was bringing. He saw little honor or justice anywhere.
Falling into despair, he too set off after his mentor Brakogar. Shouldering his pack, he traveled into the demon infested wastes of Desolace, hoping to find some sign from the old shaman. Some last word that would give him direction once again.
Many days in, he found himself lost and dying of thirst. Wounds he had taken from the many vicious creatures inhabiting the wastes had begun to fester and turn him feverish. Covered in the fine white dust that permeated everything in this forsaken place, he crawled onward, with no purpose, other than to keep moving.
It was then that he found his sign. That however, is no longer the story of Grisch. It is the story of SANCTUARY!