Chapter I
Grommash slowly wandered into the tent, following his father. Golden eyes wandering from figure to figure, he spotted some he thought to be Frostwolves sitting on a log next to the fire, talking with a few from the Blackrock. The Thunderlords were keeping their distances, though they seemed intent on one of the younger Frostwolves.
The young Hellscream simply frowned to that. Turning his attention away from them, he noticed his father walking towards one of the logs set across the fire from the Frostwolf the Thunderlords were intent on. Although he was slow to do so, Grommash move to follow his father over to the makeshift bench.
Once the members of the various clans had finished gathering, a young-looking Blackrock orc stepped forward. He looked to be no older than eighteen, but the way he held himself told he had seen many a battle. "I am Dravok, chieftain of the Blackrock clan. Our former chieftain was killed by the G-"
Dravok was cut off by a growl from the group of gathered orcs. A Burning Blade orc stepped forward. "You? You're no older than a whelp. Is your clan really so desperate as to grant an inexperienced whelp the 'honour' of being called 'chieftain'?"
A few grumbles of agreement sounded amongst a handful of those gathered, but the majority kept quiet. As the Burning Blade started to speak again, Dravok stepped forward, throwing a punch with enough strength that the other orc fell back and to the ground due to a mix of the force and surprise. Kneeling down beside the Burning Blade, Dravok swiftly moved to pin him down by the throat. Leaning closer, Dravok quietly growled his response to the other's ourburst. "You speak of honour? I fought and bled my way to where I am now. Through the smoke of the burning forges and through the heat of battle. I am Dravok. I am the chieftain of the Blackrock clan. Our will is unbreaking, and should you want to test this – know that you will fall. This isn't a question – it's a fact."
Another, more elderly, Burning Blade stepped forward, knocking the hilt of his longsword against the rocky outcropping of the firepit to gather their attention. "Enough!" Turning to glance down to the pinned orc, he growled a quiet response of his own. "Get up. You do little more than spit at the name of honour with comments like those. Should a warrior prove their strength and their honour – that is all they need. Without these two things, what truly is there? You dishonour us all. And you can expect a punishment when we return to Hallvalor. Do you understand this, fool?"
As the pinned orc mutely noded, Dravok pushed forward on him, throwing him to the ground with a thud. The elderly Burning Blade turned to face him one the Blackrock was fully standing. "I, Dharl of the Thrice-Bloodied Blade, greet you as a fellow chieftain, Dravok. And I hope you will accept my apology in spirt of the festival for that fool's outburst."
Dravok grunted slowly in response, dipping his head in greetings. "Dharl. I've heard of you… They say your blade took the blood of the ogre warlord that enslaved your clan and both of his lieutenants…" Dravok bowed his head again before nodding. "It is an honour to greet you as chieftain. I accept your apology."
The elderly orc grinned slightly. "Good!" Clapping Dravok's shoulder, Dharl turned to walk back to his seat amongst the orcs.
The youth glanced around slightly to see if any of the others planned to speak up against him. When no-one did, Dravok nodded slowly before walking back to finish what he was saying. "Our former chieftain was killed by the Gronn calling itself 'Gruul'. Its ogre servants stormed the Forge, slaughtering whatever they could. But while our chieftain fell in battle, we were the victors in the end. We, the Blackrock, crushed the ogre servants and imprisoned the Gronn deep within the Forge's mines. The beast will never escape."
A mix of cheers, grunts of approval, and laughs sounded throughout the tent as the youth finished. One among the crowd, a Thunderlord, nodded in approval. "Well killed, Chieftain Dravok. I've heard tales of this Gronn. He's a nasty one, that."
The Blackrock Chieftain simply nodded slowly. "Yes. It was. But the beast is no longer. It will be broken. This, I'll see to personally. Once-" Dravok broke off as a loud 'crash' sounded from somewhere nearby, followed by three more if quick succession. "Blackrocks! To arms!"
Chaos broke out throughout the once festive tent as orcs from each and every clan raced to grab their weapons , hurrying outside to find out the source of the noise. Grommash fell in line beside his father as the elder Hellscream quickly removed the leather binding strapping Gorehowl to his back. Rushing to join the others as the thrill of the hunt started to take over his senses; Golmash grumbled a quick order to his son. "If this is more than a small ogre party, take Claw and gather the Warsong."
With a quick nod, Golmash rushed out of the tent, glancing around. Smoke roses from multiple locations just beyond the tree line. Meteors started to fall from the sky as the crashing noises continued. Stars started to appear out of nowhere, dotting the sky and growing. From the elder Hellscream's right, a Shadowmoon orc quietly mumbled, "This isn't right… Not since the legends of the Dark Star has something like this happened… The spirits are trying to warn us…"
Grommash tensed as he looked around. Glancing to the sky, he noticed another dark meteor falling from the sky and unbelievably swift speeds. The meteor was falling closer. And within mere moments, it hit the ground – throwing two full grown warriors aside like they were little more than pieces of grass. Slowly, the meteor started to rise out of the ground.
Sickly, metallic tentacles slowly slid out of small holes on the 'meteor's' lower half – which Grommash now realised was segmented into two separate halves. On the top half of the 'meteor', two small plates separated, revealing a small round shape that looked reminiscent of a misshapen eye. On either side of the top half, two small, strange, box-like shapes extended out – with a smaller hole in the front of each 'box'. When the first blast of molten fire shot out from each box, laying deathly scorch marks on whichever warrior was hit by it, chaos erupted. All throughout the clearing a single phrase was easily heard. "Lok'tar ogar!"
As more of the strange meteors crashed into the soft ground of Oshu'gun, Grommash remembered his father's order. He ran as hard as he was able – searching for the deadly Garn, Claw, that his father had tamed so long ago. This was no ogre attack, and the Mok'gol outpost had to be warned. They could send out more outriders to warn the other outposts and clans afterwards.
Despite half no crafted weapons of his own, Grommash saw that Claw was already having his fill of battle. Ripping and tearing at one of the 'meteors', the young Hellscream saw that it was actually made of metal. There were dozens of now sparking tendrils inside of the metal – the sparking increasing as Claw tore through them.
As Grommash approached, he called out to the wolf a simple command in orcish. "Claw! Here!" The Garn dipped his head in submission before rushing to the young Hellscream's side. Quickly climbing up on the wolf's back, he made one last glance around the clearing. When he heard the infamous howl of Gorehowl cutting through the air and into its prey, Grommash turned his attention back towards the treeline, ushering Claw to hurry forward.
Minutes flew by as they ran uninterrupted, none of the metal meteors yet giving chase. Grommash risked a glance towards the sky, hoping to tell how much time he had left before night fell completely. The young Hellscream grimaced slightly as he noticed both that night was about to fall, and that the stars were growing greatly in side. Now they more resembled elongated boulders flying high in the sky. One of the smaller ones even looked as if it was going to soon touch the ground.
Grommash tried to usher Claw to hurry. These were definitely not tied in with the ogres, be them the servants of the Gronn or the 'empire' to the south-west. These were something entirely different. Possibly even more deadly, too. It only took a single, effortless shot of molten flame to kill a fully grown warrior.
As much as the young Hellscream hated to admit it, he figured they would need every orcish clan to fight these intruders, be them Warsong or Frostwolf; Blackrock, Bleeding Hollow, or Burning Blade; Thunderlord or Shadowmoon… As much as he hated the thought, he knew they may even be forced to request aid from the wild Laughing Skulls and the Draenei from Talador, Shadowmoon Valley, and Farahlon. This was not going to be a fight of pride. There would be a fight for survival. Showing weakness against these enemies would mean only one thing. Death.