Wolves of Warsong
AN: So this is a story with a setting just before Warlords of Draenor, please review and hope you like it.
I urge you to read the short story "Hellscream" in order to catch one or two references, since it makes it that more pleasant to read :D. You can find the short story on Wow's website and such.
Chapter 1: Acceptance.
After assisting his father Grommash Hellscream and exposing Gul'Dans plans to enslave the orcs on Draenor for the warlock's now dead master- Mannoroth, Garrosh was rewarded to be Warlord of the Warsong clan. The proud Nagrand orcs welcomed their new additional leader and a great celebration was due. Yet, there were some among the higher ranks in the clan who felt great injustice had been placed upon them, since one of them were to pick up the mantle, by right. Pleading to Grommash Hellscream for Mak'gora to prove they had the will to be Warlord of the clan, the three lieutenants were denied just that, and was told to respect the new blood.
3 months before portal was finished.
The sun shone on the green hills of Nagrand, Garrosh stood atop the mountain of the Warsong hold, watching the horizon. He had always liked the vast greatness of his homeland, the glorious sun and fresh life-giving air, to the little Talbuk relaxing in the shadows under a fertile tree, secure and safe, by the mother's cautious eyes. The stronghold of Grommashar was truly impressive, with its high towers and walls of the strongest lumber Nagrand had to offer. The new buildings were made of true iron, black as the orcs that constructed it and covered in red banners with Warsong's sigil on it, the howling avatar ever intimidating as the raiders who wore it into battle.
The newly appointed Warlord had enough on his hands though, and rarely had the spare time to sit atop the mountain-spire, and thus enjoying every moment of quietness, besides the distant roars and clashing steel from the training grounds, Garrosh could never think ill of hardworking soldiers, seeking to better themselves in the art of combat.
The young Hellscream sat down on the soft grass, his massive arms resting on his lap. He closed his eyes and started daydreaming of victory and glory for the Iron Horde. After minutes had passed, he could feel a mild wind come down on his tough brown skin, even less on the tattooed parts, covering his torso and lower jaw. Its soft touch felt like being embraced by a lost love, far away from these orcish lands.
"Zaela…" He forced his eyes open, they were the blazing yellow of a raging fire. The scowl that accompanied him when he was the former Warchief of the Horde reappeared and he squeezed his noseback with his indexfinger, followed by the thumb radiating frustration as bright as Gorehowl reflecting the suns glow. The great axe of Grom Hellscream laid a few inches away, awaiting its new master's iron grip. It had become more of symbol than actual weapon these days, showing the clan what trust Grom had placed on Garrosh. However, the soul of wielder and blade longed for a chance to dismember and slice through unworthy foes of the clan.
"I wish you could see this world, our world." He whispered silently. "I've fought so long, and I will return to you. With my father's new Hor-" Garrosh was interrupted by a lone guard. Exhausted from the run up the mountainpath, the guard saluted and urged the Warlord to come down from his sanctuary, the lieutenants had been gathered and was discussing the monthly rations of food and livestock, but demanded that the highest authority made his appearance. Garrosh made a respectful nod while picking up Gorehowl and started the long walk down the small mountain, leaving the guard behind to catch his breath
As the new Warlord walked pass the many buildings and market, he could see the great hall in the Far East. The market was alive and thriving, shouts of fresh fish and meat ringed in Garrosh's ears, "Even the traders has lungs, worthy of a Warsong" he thought to himself, a faint smile growing on his lips. Each step brought him closer to the wronged commanders and it felt like his boots became heavier, his bandages had begun itching too. The three orcs would probably not be very talkative more than necessary as always, it had been weeks of this childish behavior. Back on Azeroth the generals like Nazgrim would rejoice in seeing their leader, showing deep appreciation- sharing a mug of Orgrimmar's finest malt, even Eitrigg participated, despite his skeptic view on the Horde's actions under the young Hellscream. Garrosh wondered if disposing his new underlings was an option, since they would not come to terms with his rule. A chain of command couldn't work with three weak links, they had to be reinforced, or replaced.
He passed the younglings daycare, it seemed that today's assignment was to befriend a wolf. One little orc was sitting in the mud, tears on her check, her head hang low on her shoulders. Garrosh wanted to intercept her pathetic state, but before he had a chance, Sero'na Wolfmother made her move, heavy steps towards the little one, her fur cloak basking in the wind. The Wolfmother knelt and brushed the youngling's reddish long hair. Garrosh eavesdropped briefly, hearing the faint words of encouragement that Sero'na provided. Sero'na stood up, the child in hand and whistled for the little pup to come. She saw Garrosh eyeing the two, so she smiled kindly before her attention was directed elsewhere, namely her business with the pup and the orcling. He almost missed out returning the gesture before she had her back to him. He saw a little brown hand carefully petting the pup, and heard the child's laughter before he picked up the paste, and kept on going.
This is what I fought for Thrall, an uncorrupted Horde, this is something you will never be a part of.
When he came closer to the center of command, the two guards saluted him proudly.
"The riders of three are waiting for you, Warlord."
Garrosh marched right passed them, an angry grunt was the only confirmation they would have this day.
Garrosh rounded the corridor, the voices of the discussing lieutenants became more and more clear. It was definitely not talk regarding rations and belly filling.
"YOU'RE A FOOL NARK'RIM!" Malerok hammered his armored fist on the table, leaving a mark on old maps and receipts, the latter involving the Blackrock's payments for fortifying Grommashar.
"Speak lightly Malerok, one could think you had rabies." Chuckled Lorkz Bloodroam. His happy wrinkles visible around his brown eye-patch.
Nark'rim grinned casually at the remark, cutting a chunk of meat from something resembling a bird, bloodied but fresh. When the riders saw Garrosh enter, Nark'rim quickly made another cut into the bird, receiving a large piece before putting the remains in his satchel. Nark'rim Swifthunt always had a special customized satchel on him, for the messier of prey.
"Greetings Warsong." Garrosh stated, his voice calm and gentle, leaning Gorehowl against the wall behind him. As always, the three just nodded in agreement, only Nark'rim had an excuse, of course, stuffing his mouth with wild Kaliri on purpose, freeing him of voicing his greeting.
Several seconds of silence passed. "You have summoned me, Commanders." Garrosh was already gnawing through his patience, biting his inner cheek while waiting for the three to talk. Lorkz stroked his brownish beard, looking at the others with his one good green eye to see if they wanted to go first. When none of them spoke up, he redirected his gaze to the Warlord, smiling grimly before speaking.
"We have urgent matter to attend to. The ogres of Highmaul has been spotted on our territory and ambushed a trading wagon with supplies from the Bleeding Hollow." Lorkz paused, feeling degraded by Nark'rims chewing, glaring absently he took the chunk and flung it against the wall. Nark'rim did not pay it much trouble, only giving Lorkz a weak snarl.
Malerok stepped forward, offering Garrosh his words of advice and interrupting Garrosh's gaze that was on Nark'rim. "Warlord, we need to strike back and quickly. We have to teach them a lesson in the only language they understand, death." The last part said with spite and undoubtedly hatred for the larger race.
"And lose more riders and hunters?" Nark'rim inquired, his mischievous voice roaming the conversation for the first time in days.
"The Warlord will certainly not sacrifice his own kin, just to heed your primitive needs." He grinned, yellow jagged teeth exposed to the dim light in the meeting hall.
"You think yourself clever!?" Malerok bellowed, turning to Nark'rim. "I'll have your head on my battlestandard, when I'm do-" Garrosh intercepted the heinous message and made his own mark on the table, putting the tables thick legs to the test, a vibration making its way to the feet of all in the room. Garrosh swung his eyes from one orc to another, reassuring he had their undivided attention. He laid his meaty hands on the table, molding them into fists. Leaning on the table, he glared daggers at them, how did they ever manage to rise above all the other candidates, what did Grommash ever see in them?
Garrosh sighed deeply, filling his lungs with air, it was humid and yet dry to the taste.
Coolly, Garrosh looked at the map, it was made of Clefthoof hide and worn, Garrosh swept a hand gently across the lines, an ogre skull marking an outpost to the far north of Highmaul. He marked the outpost with his indexfinger, "Here, Malerok, take your pack to this outpost, and let your blades run red." boring into the hide, with his finger, Garrosh stared at Malerok, waiting.
"Perhaps you're not so soft, as I thought." Malerok made a toothy grin, but dismissing it instantly as Garrosh made a low growl, showing his own set of sharp teeth, as if his tusks wasn't enough. Malerok saluted and left in a hurry, he was proud and brave, but the young Hellscream towered him with a head, and was his better in any physical way. Only experience was Malerok's advantage. The commander had witnessed his new Warlord's abilities in combat, Malerok had been shocked beyond his belief when "The Stranger" had beaten three Warsong, while on his back. Truth be told Malerok had to admit, the Stranger was cunning and had so many similarities to his Warchief. Yet he still showed his rebellious nature where he could, his family had always been obnoxious and quick on words, a true Ogrebane always had the last comment on anything.
Nark'rim thought of leaving aswell, but stood his ground when the Warlord caught him looking at the exit. Tiny bubbles of sweat appeared on his forehead, knowing what the Stranger would ask him. If only he had not forsaken the damn caravan.
"You know what I'm thinking." Said Garrosh sternly, Lorkz joined him in down staring of the packleader.
"i-i-i didn't think… think, they would come from the south…" Struggling for words Nark'rim let his hand run through his obsidian colored hair. It was greasy and full of dirt.
"It was your duty, Nark'rim, five of our clan died bravely while you hid in the grass." Garrosh was deadly calm now. "If Malerok doesn't get the chance to mount your head on a spike, it will be because I took it for myself, Nark'rim… you failed our clan." Lorkz took this opportunity to distance himself from Nark'rim, moving closer to far end of the table, his mail armor making a treble sound as it drifted along the iron-plated board.
"You have no right…" Nark'rim said with a low animalistic demeanor, his face a shade of red, indicating his own temper reaching the breaking point. Garrosh stepped closer, walking with heavy steps to Nark'rims side of the long iron plated wooden board. Nark'rim was not the tallest of orcs, therefore only meeting Garroshs' chest in height. Nark'rims weapon of choice was his bow, not the great axe like his counterpart, but no Warsong would fear the bad odds, even he lived by those principles.
When Hellscream stood right in front of the smaller orc, Garrosh pushed Nark'rim's boundaries further, letting his breath fall upon Nark'rim's shoulders. "Speak up, Swifthunter, I'd not Hear…you." Nark'rim faced his Warlord, his black eyes looking straight into the yellow globes of rage.
"You have no right, Stranger.." Nark'rims voice broke, quickly repeating his sentence with more confidence. Hellscream tensed his massive body, his eyes penetrating the little orcs black pools of uncertainty.
"I have every right, more than you know…"
"It WAS a trick, it must have been. No outsider should be commanding the Warsong!" Nark'rim hissed, his clawed hand, reaching for his dagger. Swifthunter had prepared an ear-piercing howl, but the sound of his struggling breath was all that came out, for Garrosh had in a moment's notice, pinned him to the wall, having him dangle in one chokehold. Nark'rim vainly let the dagger fly rapid, but Garrosh caught it quickly, breaking the hunter's hand in the process. The sound of cracking bones overwhelmed the hall. Nark'rim would not whimper, Warsongs roar and let their howls be heard, not whine and snivel like a beaten dog.
Garrosh gave more pressure to his neck, silencing Nark'rim, but not enough to kill him. Garrosh knew he would never accept an outsider, only true clansmen could claim the mantle of Warlord, for a moment, which felt like hours, Garrosh thought hard.
He has to know.
"Nark'rim, you serve only Warsong. Accept me as one of your kin or DIE!" Garrosh let off the pressure, just enough for Nark'rim to have feet on the ground, and breath to speak.
"I'll never serve an outsider, with nothing to show his own glory and fame, you believe one battle in the clan's arena will make you my superior?" Garrosh increased pressure on his throat, the hunter's neck yearning to crack under the might of Hellscream.
"You..dont…even, have a name. You're nothing." Nark'rim wheezed, feeling his grip on reality slipping.
"MY NAME IS GARROSH, SON OF GROM, HEIR TO THE WARSONG, AND A HELLSCREAM!"
Garrosh flung the hunter over his shoulder, Nark'rim collided with the wall near the exit, weapons of all kind leaving the walls secure hold, creating a ballad of noise at the steel hitting the stone floor.
Lorkz stood silent, clearly in deep thought, shielding himself from the situation ahead of him. "Son of Grom." He bluntly stated his voice raspy and thin.
Garrosh was in battlestance, his torso heaving with each breath, he saw Nark'rim getting on his feet, moaning and trying to find the entrance. Judging the hunter's movements, he had blurred vision, the Packleader's legs trembling with uncertainty.
"You're no Hellscream." He laughed, cackling madly as he turned his back to the hulking orc. The hurt commander, salvaging the remains of his pride.
"You're dead, my riders will run you down…" again, the mad cackling, injured and broken. The laugh continued, piercing Garrosh's thoughts, but before he could put an end to the laughing hunter, a silky line of blood landed on Garrosh's chest, the warm liquid forced Garrosh to relive past killings of war for just a second, he shook his head, returning to the present once again. The sight before him shocked him to his core, even for a battle-hardened orc like himself.
A dark blade had run its course through the small orc. Nark'rim dropped to the floor with a heavy thud, his eyes full of horror. Desperately the dying hunter reached out for Garrosh for help, but in vain. His attacker had an iron sole on the bleeding orc's chest, slowly applying pressure to the deep wound. Nark'rim died shortly after, choking on his own blood.
"Greetings whelp, Son of 'Grom'." The husky voice sinister but imposing, the familiar stench filled Garrosh's nostrils. The narrowed yellow eyes of the young Warlord interlocked stares with the new arrival, the newcomer had a pair of sickly orange ones, feral and cruel.
"Kargath…"