The Lost Warchief

By: Grommak (Darrowmere-US)

A single, ragged orc veteran, clad in a worn set of plate armor, ascends the archaic stone-relic foot

steps of the former Kaldorei temple. As he comes to a dilatory halt, his breath waveringly takes in the pierce chill of the Winterspring air. As he surveys the expanse, he is met with consternation as his eyes lay rest to a ruined village. Several segments of debris and slaughtered, blue, orc bodies, of differing ages, litter the snowy ridge. He slowly strides over the battlefield to a broken shaft of wood. It's fine design and specific material shows that it is all that remains of a large hand axe.

The villagers had taken up arms against their attackers, but they were trapped between their assaulter and Frostwhisper Gorge. Silently, Grommak gathers the fallen Wartorn, and digs out their graves and buries them with the clans specific burial rites. Among the graves, the lone orc grins slightly, taking solace, that his mate, Mira, and their son Grommosh, are not among of them. Grommak had left family, people, and his leadership to mete out the will of his Warchief, leaving them all in the care of his son, Grommosh. He stands up and turns to face a growing number of frost giants encroaching upon the temple.

As he grips the handle of his two handed axe, he shouts a warning to the invaders. "You will not encroach upon Wartorn lands. If you take one step further, I will slay you where you stand!" A lone giant responds to his challenge by placing one huge foot forward. At this sight, Grommak lets forward a bloodied scream and charges the unprepared monster with immense speed. The axe comes down and swiftly executes the target, and it is felled in one blow.

The giant creature falls to the ground with a loud crash beside the now enraged warrior. The rest of the giants now back down and swiftly retreat to the safety of the alpine forest. The provoked warrior takes several minutes to calm himself. He looks around to the remnants of the village once more and spots an open pathway to the south. He approaches it and he is met with instant hated once again.

The pathway leads into the previously inaccessible summit of Mount Hyjal. Decorating the path, is a Twilight Hammer gate. The deep rage he has, comes from experience, to the twisted outlook of the cult. A religion that worships the horror of the old gods. Thoughts of their hatred for sanity and the innocent sacrifices made his blood boil. He knew this cult well.

He would have to wait to search for any survivor of the Wartorn. He had to now rise to meet this new threat. The whole world is threatened by these monsters and their gods. Whatever horror lies beyond this gate, must be stopped. One more service to the Horde, and then he will search.

He starts forward, leaving the chill of the mountain, that he knows well. Unaware of the dangers he blindly runs into, he steels his mind with thoughts of honor and vengeance. The strength of the Wartorn and the Horde go with him. He is met with the heat of magma, deeper in the chasm. He grips the handle of his weapon ever tighter an charges forward in anger, up the path.