AN: This chapter has been revised according to the reviewers' disappointment regarding the reactons of Northerners seeing an orc for the first time.
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Thrall
"We came to this world as exiles and outcasts – but together we can be more." Boomed a voice in the Horde encampment upon the foreign shores. The Clan had all pitched their makeshift tents and the newfound allies of theirs, the Darkspear Tribe had already pitched in with the rest of them. While they had their differences in both tradition and culture; they all heeded the words of their Warchief. Thrall, Son of Durotan stood clad in the doomplate armor worn by the late Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer. His blue eyes were in contrast with his green skin and stood 6'11" in height which was imposing enough as he wielded the legendary Doomhammer which was crafted long ago in a pool of elemental lava on the orcish homeworld of Draenor.
By his side stood Grommash Hellscream the Chieftain of the Warsong Clan at the height of 7'1" with Gorehowl in hand. His wild black hair with an exception for a long ponytail was hanging loose on his bare shoulders, a single pauldron strapped to a single thick bandolier across his torso diagonally to his girdle. The bare chest was covered with ritualistic tattoos where upon his lower jaw, was tattooed solid black. The sickly green skin and the uneeringly glowing crimson eyes, the ring through his nose and the rings pierced by the edges of his pointy ears gave him a nightmarish appearance.
"A weapon to break the chains of oppression. A bastion for the hunted and the lost. A family bound by blood and honour." Thrall continued with his booming voice. Drek'thar sat by with Nazgrel and the Frostwolf Clan nodding with approval. Vol'jin and the Darkspears whom stood taller orcs when upright. They were blue of skin and slender of build while tusks were prominent features of their faces. Thrall had come to learn that their build didn't diminish their worth as warriors. Voljin was a pristine example of that. Right now he was imposing ad humans would without a doubt call him savage with the fierce warpaint on his face, styled red hair and ornamented long tusks.
"And if our enemies will not give us peace then we will give them war!" Thrall's voice boomed and was answered by an approval chorus. "Victory or Death, this I pledge as your Warchief, until the end of days I live and die – For The Horde!" Thrall raised Doomhammer in the air as Grommash threw back his head and let out a horrific, earsplitting shriek of a battle cry joined by a chorus of orcs and trolls. "For The Horde!" Thrall looked around with a smile on his face, his rallying cry at boosted their diminishing morale and his chief advisor Grom patted him on the shoulder. "You did well, little brother. However, the time for rallying speeches has come to an end. It's time for action. We need to know the lay of the land if we're to survive. Our supplies are meagre as it is after our long voyage."
The Warchief nodded, taking the words to heart. Many confused Grom to only be a bloodthirsty warmonger and not a leader whom looked out for his clan and now his people. They walked away and joined the other leaders around the campfire. Vol'jin stood there close to the fire, if he and hi skin wasn't familiar with the cold environment they didn't show. Drek'thar, the venereble shaman of the Frostwolf Clan sat down in contemplation. Thrall came to recognize when Drek'thar was wary and this was one of those rare moments. "The spirits around here are quiet but I can make out faint whispers." The elder said as Gordul of the Shattered Hand, dressed with leather and a cowl not so many paces away frowned. Varok Saurfang and Eitrigg of the Blackrock Clan stood diligently nearby with their proud and disciplined postures. Nazgrel, the last descendant of the famed warrior Kash'drakor. He carried Serathi, a massive axe covered in notches and orcish runes. He stood tall and proud with the guise of a wolf on his head. "Yes, they feel a lot more different than in the Eastern Kingdoms which is troubling to say the least."
"Indeed, I've only felt such a difference between worlds." Drek'thar said in returned, obvious troubled by the prospect of their people having travelled from one world to another without their knowledge. "Agreed but it's a notion we've to worry about later. Firstly, once all of the Horde are ashore, we'll scuttle the ships and scavange for material before migrating further into the land itself. Meanwhile we'll dispatch a expeditionary force to map out the new land and discover whatever danger lurks beyond our horizon." Thrall said decisively and no one there argued. "Nazgrel, I want you to lead the expedition. Take whomever you need for the task." Nazgrel stood there and nodded in acknowledgement. "Swobu."
"Rokhan be ma best scout, take him and some of de darkspear with ya, they will be serving ya well." Vol'jin said without hesitation. A bluntness which Thrall appreciated as he turned his ire towards Nazgrel whom nodded in appreciation. "While you go ahead, the Warsong Clan shall secure resources in the region so we may start construction when we'he found a suitable position for our future capital." Grom nodded with a satisfying smirk spreading across his lips. The Warsong wasn't only the strongest and violent clan but were always on the move. Their nomadic traditions and fierce nature had served them well against the ogres back on Draenor and the humans during the Second War and beyond. "Some of the clans have lost their chieftains. However if our wars with the Alliance has taught us anything. We need a military reform and until such a reform can be achieved. Varok Saurfang shall be their Warlord with my blessing." Varok Saurfang stood still in contemplation over the sudden offer. He had been Doomhammer's Second-In-Command during the Second War which made him a ideal choice. "As you command, Warchief."
Thrall continued while his ire then fell on Gordul, leader of the Shattered Hand. A clan of assassins whose reputation was second to none. The clan 's namesake came from the tradition of crushing the left hand before cutting it off and replace it with a hook, blade or a scythe. While the tradition has become optional in the Clan, there were many who clung to the old ways of self-mutilation to celebrate a victory. Gordul was one of the younger members of the Clan but no doubt the smartest which made him the ideal choice as its leader."The Shattered Hand will be covering our tracks. If the humans followed us here, I'd like them to not know which way we headed." Gordul was shorter but no less fierce with plenty of scars to prove it.
"The Horde needs to be fed. Drek'thar can you beseech the spirits of the wild for its blessing?" The blind shaman nodded. "It will be done Warchief. I'll have the best hunters and gatherers dispatched for the task at hand." Thrall smiled, his clan the Frostwolves had proven themselves quite resilient and capable of restraint instead of resorting to violence. The clan got their name for their frostwolf companions. Snowsong was his companion and hunting partner who honored him by allowing him to ride her like human rides on a horse.
"Aka'magosh, blood and honour for the Horde." The Warchief said while others murmured in a chorus afterwards bringing their meeting to an end. Drek'thar obviously didn't require his eyes to see that Thrall was wary. That's what the Warchief appreciated the most; the wisdom of those whom advise him. Kalimdor was nothing like what he had seen in his dream but they had sailed due west from Lordaeron. There's no reason it shouldn't be Kalimdor but yet. He felt it wasn't when his ire turned northwards where many miles away stood a wall of ice glistening in the sun. "Drek'thar, you sense it too."
"Indeed, there's a darkness looming in the horizon." Drek'thar spoke sagely but with a hint of wariness in his voice. A wariness which didn't put the Warchief at ease.
…
Nazgrel
It's been a couple of days since they left the main camp on the shore. The Horde Expedition had been traveling westwards through the woods like a pack of wolves. Reghar Earthfury had been Nazgrel's first choice to come with them. Not only because he was a great fighter with a keen mind but also a Shaman. Through him, they could bring words to The Horde carried by the wind. With them was Broxigar, the Red Axe and brother of Saurfang. One of the Horde's finest warriors. Samuro of the Burning Blade was an agile and dangerous blademaster whom fought with fluidity and grace mixed with the ferocity of an orcish warrior.
Rokhan the Shadow Hunter was supposingly the Darkspear's finest scout. The jungle troll wasn't what they had expected. Blue of skin and slender of build with a white beard and knot of hair on his head. The tusks were a prominent features of his face and wielded a glaive similar to Vol'jin's. The Expedition itself was two hundred strong and consisted of all the various clans. Nazgrel rode with his steadfast companion Stormfang, a healthy frostwolf whose fur was as untamed like a storm and the fangs glistening like if coursing with lightning. He had been a raider before he became a trusted advisor of the Warchief and now he rode again with other raiders. Some of which were of the Frostwolf Clan like him. However most of the Frostwolf Clan and their frostwolf companions with the Expedition were out scouting with the Darkspear Headhunters.
The scouts had already reported that humans already lived in these lands and from the looks of things, they had been here for a long while with old castles.
They became more cautious since then and delivered the news to the Warchief. Fortunately they managed to avoid detection of the locals with the aid of the shamans whom started to become more accustomed to the elemental spirits of these lands and had carved new totems from the local wood.
The Expedition was making camp in the middle of a forest when the sun had set. The scouts returned and Nazgrel didn't think he could be more suprised. The humans had castles and each had their own banners flying and none were those of the Alliance. However what suprised him the most was the colours of one banner was a grey direwolf upon a ice-white field. To say that the expedition commander was puzzled was an understatement. The Frostwolf's colours was a white wolf upon a blue sky and have the largest humans waving similar banners could imply that either the humans knew of their presence and was mocking them or that it was all just a coincidence? Nazgrel found the former as much unlikely as the later but he had to make a decision of how to proceed, with or without the Warchief.
…
Eddard
The Lord of Winterfell set his ire on the greenskin before him from the throne in the great hall of Winterfell. Although he would've preferred the days before the King's arrival to be uneventful. Nevertheless his household guard was present along with his son and heir Robb along with Theon Greyjoy, Ned's Ward. When the doors to the great hall open and a large humanoid being with coarse and scarred greenskin was harshly lead in a the hall. Ned was mortified by the sight. He saw how many of his household froze as out of sheer shock or fright. Theon Greyjoy whom often displayed questionable attributes became pale. Robb tried his best to compose himself and while doing better than most still couldn't hide the same mortified expression which summarized how Ned felt. Ned was now glad that his principal bannerman, Jon Umber the Lord of Last Hearth whom stood as tall as Hodor but twice as wide had brought the greenskin here.
He was more bound with a chain around his neck and ankles while his wrists were bound behind his back. Yet he stared right back at him with unsettling crimson eyes and stood at a height which rivaled Greatjon's and proudly so.
"This beast was found in a wood clearing, my Lord." said Jon Umber also known as Greatjon whom seemed to have overcome the initial shock. "It was surrounded by dead wildlings and was bleeding. We thought him weak and dying before he rose again and killed three of mine with this axe." Greatjon lifted the big and notched axe of a design which Eddard didn't recognize. In truth he could scarcely believe what he heard, let alone what he saw. The others and the children of the forest were no more and existed only in stories. "It defended its necklace with everything he had even his teeth which killed another of my men."
Ned saw the bone necklace Greatjon spoke of, it had strange runes carved into it. "What made you decide bringing him to me." The Lord asked, he expected Greatjon wanted to avenge his fallen, blood had been shed afterall.
The Greenskin frowned when called a he instead of a it. So it does have knowledge of the Westerosi tongue. "If there's one of them around then there ought to be more where he came from. As my liege and Warden of the North, you ought to know when your charge is under threat."
Eddard couldn't fault his logic and was grateful indeed that the greenskin was caught instead of killed no matter how monstrous it appeared. "Let him speak." His command made Greatjon frown but bowed all the same before he turned to face the greenskin. "You may speak, greenskin. By the grace of Lord Eddard of House Stark. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
"I'm Nazgrim of the Warsong Clan." The greenskin spoke harshly as his gaze was peeled at Eddard. "You are no Lord of mine, Human." Nazgrim spoke as if he was about to spit in Eddard's face but didn't. Ned could see how the Greatjon was seething but refrained from maiming the greenskin for his insolence. "Why are you here, Nazgrim of the Warsong?" Ned inquired lordly from his seat. However the greenskin just stood silently in defiance. "Speak and on my honour, I shall let you live." Nazgrel answered with a chilling grin. "You think that I fear death, human? You speak of honour yet you have me brought here before you in chains like a rabid beast. If you have any honour then prove it by removing my bounds and allow me to fight for my freedom. Me alone against all of you." Ned was taken back by Nazgrim's statement. Does he truly not fear death and would rather die fighting than talking to save his life? If that was the case then the Greenskin before him was perhaps as brave as any knight. "I can't fault you for your courage, Nazgrim. Yet I fail to understand your contempt for my kind which you call humans."
Ned was answered by a frown. "You truly don't know about my kind then?" Ned answered with a lordily nod and saw how Nazgrim contemplated this information. Could it be that his kind have been wrong in the Free Cities and the Summer Isles? "Since the end of the war between our races, your people have rounded up mine like cattle and put us into slave camps in Lordaeron." Ned could hear the contempt and hatred for humans in his voice. "We were a broken people who had lost our way but no more. The Clans have been united and our spirit revived."
Ned listened intently to Nazgrim as he spoke, everyone in the great hall was. The way he spoke, it couldn't be falsehood in spite of Ned have never heard of a war with the orcs or the Kingdom of Lordaeron for that matter. He couldn't help but feel sympathy that his people have been treated as slaves if not worse. "The Horde is revived and our bonds are now iron and our will unbreakable."
"The Horde sounds like a formidable force but what are you doing here?" Ned proceed to inquire as Nazgrim answered with less contempt. "We fled the Eastern Kingdoms on the command of the Warchief for a new land to call our own. You can imagine our suprise to learn that your people are here on Kalimdor."
This time it was Ned's turn to frown. "Kalimdor? You must be mistaken. You're in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros."
"The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros?" The Orc mused before he outright declared. "Never heard of it."