This will be my first story on . I've been cooking this plot line for awhile and I've only recently put the full first chapter into words. Constructive criticism is requested since I plan to turn this story into a full book and series in the future. With the help of some of my fellow writers and WoW fans, I hope to make this book even better! Setting takes place several decades before the corruption of the Horde (about when Grom Hellscream was born) on Draenor.
Words from the Death Weaver
I have many names… The Necro Lord, The Dark One, Master of the Ancient Dead, Lord of Duskwood, The Weaver of Death, Bearer of a Thousand Souls… All of them signify my power, my malice, my lordship and dominion over others, but my true name, the one that was given to me as a child which strikes blind terror and dread into the very souls of my enemies, is Gro'chal. This is the tale of my journey to power, a journey filled with rage, hatred, sorrow and suffering, from a broken child with a shattered mind and spirit to an omnipotent demigod. I am Gro'chal Deathweaver, and this is my story…
Chapter One: The Hunt
Today was a blessing from the elements. The rolling plains of Nagrand were filled with the young spirited Talbuk, the majestic Elek, and the occasional barbaric ogre to test our prowess, cunning, and strength. The ground was adorned with morning dew and the wind gently rustled the leaves on the ancient and green-fleshed trees alike. A horn of deep resonance echoed across the valley. Today was the Great Hunt.
In the distance, following the horn, sat a humble village. The buildings were mere tents, made from animal skins, sticks, and reeds. Some of the tents were larger than others, most likely to house larger families. Around the village the people were busy cooking meat, sowing clothing out of leather and grass, and doing general work. Women were nursing their young, children were playing, and the men were getting ready for the hunt.
The people, if you could call them that, were not human. No, it would be a generation or two before they would encounter mankind and their long-nosed steeds. They were large and muscular, about two to three times the size of scrawny little humans, but just about one to two feet taller. Their skin was an earthy brown, though some were more sandy toned. These were Orcs, the noble, tribal, honor-bound Orc, complete with two tusks on their lower jaw.
The men were strapping their thin tribal leather armor to their bestial chests, thighs, and defined biceps, and applied black war paint to their faces, made from water and dried lion's blood. Each of them located a primitive axe or spear that was made of strong wood and viscous stone. One of them held an axe with intimidating vulture feathers mounted on top. He also had a skull painted on his chest plate, marking him as the chieftain, the leader of the village and clan. This Orc was also leading the hunting party.
They strode with anticipation toward the feral looking riding wolves; they in turn wagged their tails happily as the mounted. The Chieftain blew the horn twice to signal the departure. Then they rode off to the west, toward ogre territory and the Blades Edge Mountains. Late morning turned into early afternoon and the Draenorian sun began to set. One of the men spoke, stopping his wolf and gazing over toward the sinking fiery orb in the sky.
"Chieftain Grall, we've been riding for hours and haven't found anything, not even a Talbuk!" said the rider.
"Yes, this is very strange. Not even a bird or a rabbit, as if some shadow of Death has frightened them away. I feel a chill in the air…" replied Grall, sniffing the air, "Fan out! You three ride your wolves out one hundred yards in each direction, scout the surrounding area! Dul'gan, run up to the top of that hill, tell me if you see anything!"
Three of the riders took off with the haste of the mighty winds as ordered. Another Orc, slender in stature but well built took off running like a Talbuk being chased by a cougar toward a tall hill to examine the surrounding lands.
An elderly Orc, wearing a cloth robe and carrying a wooden staff walked up to Grall. He wore a stern face full of wisdom. His staff, which rested in his right hand, bore five feathers. A red one symbolized the fierce Spirit of Fire, while a blue one represented the life-giving Spirit of Water. There was also a white one that reflected the free Spirit of the Wind and a yellow for the strong Spirit of Earth. Finally the last one, a green feather that lay separate from the rest, gave homage to the noble Spirit of the Wilds. Eyes clouded with many years of wisdom looked out over the horizon, as if they saw something that only they could.
"I sense a great veil of shadow descending upon the land to the north. Some Great Evil has awakened deep within the darkness of the Bladesedge Mountains. The Elements cry out in agony, disgust, and despair." said the Orc, with depression showing through his cloudy eyes.
"Then let us find this evil, and destroy it! Or shut it away again!" growled Grall in reply.
"Chieftain! Black smoke rises from the north, from the Bladesedge Mountains!" cried Dul'gan from atop the hill.
"Well, our feelings were correct," replied Grall, "Let's move out!" Putting his rough brown lips to the horn gave it three short bursts and a long one.
The remounted and rode north. The others soon came to the location, called by the horn blasts, and followed in their direction. Onward the riders went, their wolves smelling out the foul scent of Death. The hunters rode the ferocious canine steeds with a stature of confidence and a gleam in their eyes, ready for battle.
Coming to the foothills of the mountain range, Grall looked up at the mountains. The sides went up at near vertical angles; some made a curve at the middle to the side. Peaks soared into the sky and ended in razor sharp points. Powerful constant gales pushed against the weathered mountains. Mighty winged beasts, both feathered and scaled, lay impaled on a few of the peaks. These were the Bladesedge Mountains, as harsh terrain as the monstrous Ogres that called it "home." To the east was the Zangarmarsh, where towering mushroom grew around its murky waters. Sporelings, sentient creatures born from the land, and the fungal Swamp Giants roamed the ancient land. West of the mountains lay the calm sea; stretching far beyond any Orc could hope to see.
Between two mountains Grall saw a wide canyon and path that was probably made by the barbarous Ogres. He and the riders journeyed toward the gap with the razor sharp mountains towering above them. They rode silently, both Orc and Wolf. The men were silent while the great canines' muscles tensed.
"Be on your guard, this is Ogre territory," said Grall. "One of those towering brutes might befall us any second…"
After while they walked past a pile of rocks, but the elderly Orc stopped suddenly and lifted his head, as if listening to an unheard whisper. He looked over at the direction of the rocks.
"There…" he said, pointing his staff at the boulders, "It is coming from there…"
"Dul'gan, check those rocks!" ordered Grall.
Dul'gan dismounted and walked over to the rock formation. He gently ran his strong rough hands over the rocks.
"I feel a breeze!" he called back. His hand slid between two rocks and suddenly it seemed as if the crack had swallowed him whole. As they waited, the last of the sun's rays disappeared over the mountains around them. After what felt like an eternity he remerged. "Grall, there's a thin crevice hidden in the rocks. It's just wide enough for an Orc to squeeze through. I don't know how far it goes, but there's a light breeze!"
"Dismount! Weapons ready, who knows what lies at the end of that passage."
They got off of the wolves and they sat down with a sigh and opened their mouths wide in a yawn. Single file they each disappeared between the rocks, following the cold stench of Death.
The sight that greeted them filled each with questions. They came to a large open area. On the ground lay three large Ogres covered in blood. One of them, a two-headed Ogre magus, was missing one of its heads. Lying beside the Ogres were five mysterious creatures. Their skin was blue, ranging from a light sky blue to a more dark purple. Tendrils came out of their chins and flowed down their chests. They had long lizard-like tails which went down to their feet. Instead of feet, they had hooves like a goat's. In their hands rested great swords and mallets, some had shields plated in gold. The elder Orc spoke.
"So these are the mysterious Draenei. I've only heard rumors of their existence, but I have never seen one until now. They say that they came from the sky in a flying mountain made of pure light… from another world. From other clans I heard that, on occasion, they would visit and trade beautiful gems and incomprehensible devices for our furs. Their language was almost musical compared to our deep and guttural Orcish tongue. They are truly incredible beings."
"Now they lay in the field of battle, bathed in their blue blood," scoffed Dul'gan, "No longer of the living. I guess their pretty magics didn't help them against these brutes. Ha!"
As the ventured down the path, Grall looked at the bodies and thought about how they were positioned. It appeared that the Ogres were trying to guard something or maybe this path… How did they even get in here anyway?
Across the large open space in between the mountains was a shorter corridor. They decided it would lead to where the smoke came from and brave hunters suddenly became nervous as the walls of stone closed in and loomed over them. The path seemed to breathe an eerie atmosphere that was cold and dark, as if some living shadow was now watching them with murderous hunger.
Finally, they came upon an opening to a cave that had a doorway, but it was shattered into five pieces. The frame and door were made of a dark, coal black stone. Each had markings, symbols, and dark runes that were in an unknown tongue, but it had signs of Orcish. All of the symbols showed signs of warnings of shadow, death, darkness, and evil. Whatever wanted in, they wanted in, for the shattered door pieces were a good cubit thick. A cold breeze came from the hateful darkness beyond the doorway. The very air seemed to whisper words of sorrow, pain, and rage.
"By the Spirits…" gasped Grall, gazing into the dark passage, "What in the name of the Ancestors happened here? Shaman… do you know what these markings mean?"
The old Orc stepped forward and knelt down next to the stones and inspected each of the pieces with thoroughness, guided by the Spirit of Earth. He ran his wrinkled and scarred fingers along the runes, tracing every crevice and detail with care. At last he let out a sigh.
"This place is very cold, the spirits are silent. If I could see, my eyes would weep… Long have I lived by the phrase learned by every shaman, 'Everything that is, is alive,' but this stone – puts that to folly," he looked back to his chieftain and gave him a look full of worry and sorrow, "This stone is dead."
They stood around the shattered doorway, afraid, Afraid of what this door kept out – or what it kept in. Grall stood with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched while Dul'gan gripped his axe tightly. The shaman stood walked over to their leader.
"Chieftain Grallosh, these markings have no meaning to me. I am unfamiliar with this dialect of Orcish… but I feel the stone that was carved for them cry out the words in agony. I feel no breath in it, no life, only whispers. This stone is dead, yet cries out wordless warnings. They are warnings of death, of shadow, pain, and rage. They cry out 'Those who dare pass through the Gate of Death must suffer meeting its maker, the Weaver of Death. Turn back, for Shadow dwells here, and Darkness is its guardian.'"
"It looks like someone has ignored that warning, and did not fear the darkness," Grall gazed into the shadowy, cold passage, and then strode in with a reckless bravery, "And neither will I…"
The others stared blankly into the darkness, trying to comprehend what their leader just did. With fearful hesitation they followed their chieftain. The shaman muttered something about an irresponsible fool.
They came out of the cave to find the ruins of a village. Several of the huts were burning or crumbled in a heap. Corpses littered the ground, Draenei, skeletons, and Orcs. The Orcs wore black clothing from head to toe and appeared to have ash on their faces and hands for a war paint. Their eyes though, were very peculiar… The eyes of each of the fallen Orcs were a glossy black, like two polished onyx stones placed into a cold deathly statue.
Not a single person was spared by the Draenei. Men, women, and children were all slaughtered violently. The skeletons that littered the ground seemed old and long deceased. It is said that Draenei were peaceful and good hearted beings. They would have to have a good reason to bring genocide to an entire village and defile their dead…
The group followed the chaos, destruction, and death. Soon they came to a flight of black steps that led to a large building. It stood like a dark overlord over a poisoned land. Great pillars once rested along the path, but most were knocked down and broken. Statues had stood on top of them of great Orcs clad in dark robes. They were made of onyx while their eyes were sapphires, which seemed to glow faintly. Each of them was a bit different except for what they held in their hands: A long black staff with blue and black runes across the shaft. On the bottom was a sharp tip like a spear. The top had a skull of a small horned creature with razor sharp teeth. Small sapphires filled the empty sockets of the skull.
Forward they went, following the destruction and vandalism of what looked to be sacred ground to this clan of Orcs. Finally they reached the doorway of the large building and gazed up the enormous pitch black walls. The door appeared to once be made out of a thick, heavy, and strong wood, but now lay on the ground in splinters; its hinges shattered. One of the stone pillars that were along the path lay perpendicular to the door.
Stepping through the doorway they found themselves in a courtyard. Even more bodies lay strewn everywhere, both Orcish and Draenic. Several of the Orcs here were dressed in dark robes and had the image of a skull painted on their faces. In the center of the courtyard lay a large stone slab elevated of the ground with smaller flat rocks. Surrounding it were several skulls, ribs, and limb bones of both Orcish and Draenic ownership. On top of this table of sorts were the remains of a slain Talbuk. Its hooves were hogtied and its throat slit. Flies swarmed over the carcass and corpses around it. Lying next to this altar face down was a robed Orc carrying a black-bladed dagger. A white spear protruded from his back.
"Dul'gan, check that one." said Grall, gesturing to the dead priest.
Dul'gan dashed over to the robed Orc and knelt down next to the corpse. He lifted his large hand up to where the spear had entered the body and pulled apart the cloth. After examining the wound he called back to Grall.
"Chieftain, the spear severed the Orc's spine. There are burn marks around the entry point!"
They continued on to the other side of the courtyard, trying to ignore the stench of the fly infested corpses. Again the found the shattered remains of a thick wood door, yet not as small the first. Beyond this door lay the inner chambers of this temple-fortress.
Even more bodies were scattered about this smaller room than the entire courtyard. However, none of them were Orcs… Draenei, at least twenty of them, dressed in thick plate armor leaned against the walls and lay mangled on the floor. Some were burnt to a crisp beyond recognition, creating a vile stench, while others had large gashes and holes in their armor. Blue blood covered the smooth polished floor. On the far side of the room leaned a single Orc…
The wall he leaned against bore an enormous symbol on it. A black skull with razor sharp teeth and fixed into a dark grin, engulfed in flames, was emblazoned with great detail on the smooth bricks. In the Orc's right hand rested a black staff with a smooth deep purple sphere mounted on the top. Like a freshly forged axe head being thrown into a bucket of water the sphere smoked. A spiked mal hung loosely in his left hand. Four white spears were stuck in his torso and his limbs were covered with slash wounds. There was something different about this Orc. It separated him from every other one that Grall saw in this village. This Orc… was still breathing.
Slowly, the Orc lifted his head. Even hunched over and leaning against the wall this Orc's head was up to Grall's chest. He was massive, and very strong to take down this many Draenei before finally falling. Underneath his hood was complete darkness, shrouding his face and eyes. In a strange and unknown dialect of Orcish, he spoke in a deep voice that seemed to echo from all sides of the room.
"Nombyt tookrinomve rinim rihiz dewooerrlowad rinim ooverrve…" he gasped, "Tookzapokve tooksehve yboobyt…" he lifted his left arm and shakily pointed over to the next room, which was blockaded with furniture, "Tookzapokve… nombyt hizoonim…"
The last unintelligible word was said with a deep, drawn-out sigh and the head of the Orc fell down. That single sound seemed to echo over and over again in the room. It started as a faint whisper in the ears of the hunters, but slowly grew louder each time until the very foundations of the building shook. A powerful ice cold gale blew past the group, sending them back a few steps. The echo stopped.
They stood there for a long moment, trying to understand in vain what just happened. The Orc was dead and the village was silent, silent as Death.
"Come on…" whispered Grall, everyone jumped at the sound, "Let's go see what's behind that barricade."
After removing the furniture they looked around the room. There was a thick wool rug on the floor along with imprints on the rug where the furniture used to be. Lying in the corner was the mutilated body of an Orc woman. Cuts and gashes covered her body and blood matted her hair and face. On the other side of the room sat a lone cupboard that somehow remained untouched by the Draenei.
They circled around the cupboard, swords and axes out, ready for anything. Dul'gan slowly walked up to the door and gripped the handle. After what seemed to be eternity he bit by bit, little by little, turned the handle. Finally, he jerked open the door, ripping it off its hinges. The shaman gasped and everyone took a step back.
Curled up in the now doorless cupboard, with his head tucked in between his legs, sat a small Orc child. His limbs and body were frail, thin, and shaking. The skin of the child was coal black with a slight blue tint. He lifted his head up to look at the hunters, revealing eyes that gave off a glowing blue light. In a young voice he spoke in the same language the other Orc spoke.
"Dewsegverive rihiz nomootooksegveri? Dewsegverive rihiz ufzatooksehveri?"