The village of Garadar sits upon a small plateau in the middle of Nagrand. The plateau would be much larger, save for a lake that dominates most of the minor elevation like a reservoir. Two rivers run out of the reservoir, but through the village rather than over the lip of the ridge. An amphitheater of smooth stone arches sits between the twin rivers and large adobe huts festoon the ridge, providing comfortable housing for a thousand, though at times the population has soared as high as ten thousand or more. As far as Orc cities go, it's positively ancient, having existed for nearly 400 years without being utterly wrecked or relocated at one point or another. Though it has been abandoned from time to time, Red Pox has had recurring outbreaks every other generation or so since the first occurrence, mostly cause by discovery and exhumation of infected corpses.

The purpose of Garadar, recently renamed for the Frostwolf chieftain Garad, is as it has always been; to house the victims of the Red Pox. Red Pox is a bio-weapon. When originally engineered, it was because the Ogres were terrified by the encroaching, brave and highly aggressive orcs. After an attempt to steal the orcs Shamanistic power at the Throne of Elements resulted in invasion, Ogre Magi at the behest of High Imperator Molok of Goria invented the plague. Red Pox is a derivative of the Curse of Seethe that only works on Orcs rather than blighting everything it touches, and more dangerously, is communicable between victims, thus the title of plague. This, needless to say, was too much, and the shaman turned the full fury of the Elements upon Goria, burying the city in a deluge of hurricane force winds, raging fires, earth quakes and even sinking parts of it into the Zangar Sea, shattering the empire into a series of city states, such as distant Highmaul.

The most recent habitation and renaming of the city was triggered by Gul'Dan when he unleashed the plague upon the Kosh'harg festival 10 years prior to opening the dark portal. The attack was on a larger scale even than the two times it was used by the Gorian Empire and blamed by Gul'Dan on the Draenai; one of several opening salvo's to the first war and the Rise of the Horde. Garad of the Frostwolfs was elected from among the infected to lead the re-habitation and reconstruction of the village and passed rulership of the clan on to his young son, Durotan. Though Geyah was not infected, she went with her husband to tend the sick and stayed there after he died horribly, not even a month later.

Geyah would watch the Horde in their Crusade against the Draenai from afar and become disgusted by them, distance and a connection to the elements allowing her to see the corruption of Ner'Zhul, Gul'Dan and their warlocks for what it was. And so... while the rest of Draenor would wither and die from the spreading practices of the Legion, Geyah used the orcs fear of the plague to keep the rest of the Horde as far from Nagrand as possible, going so far as to organize patrols and outriders from among the hardier afflicted residents. Under Greatmother Geyah's leadership, they would (quite ironically) come to call themselves the "Mag'har", meaning We Who Are/Not Corrupted.

It is these brown orcs with red speckles who boil out of their communal hovels to meet me as I land in their town square. As one can imagine, this is probably the last place an Ogre would be welcome and calling out for their leader had some decidedly mixed results. I am saved from a possibly swift and messy death, oddly enough, by the orcs themselves who don't even bother hiding their intentions as they swarm out to meet me, weapons raised and ready to strike. I raise a Shield with only a split second to spare and am astonished as steel arrowheads smash through it, sparking, only to be caught by their wooden shafts inches from my face.

Logically this failure should have deterred the crippled Mag'har, but they saw something I didn't and switched from arrows to Javalin. This forces me to expand the shield or become impaled.

"Enough!" a female voice calls out among the throng. It cuts through the din of strangled roars that are the plagued orcs war-cries and I feel the distinct tang of magic. Flicking a finger against one of the blades I can feel similar power, but more, coiled within and smile broadly. Truesteel...excelent!

"You have called, Mok'Nathal," the same voice spoke firmly, and I could quickly see a older Orc woman with greying hair split the throng like moses. "And so I am here." She stands straight, as she walks toward me, though by her forced and deliberate gait, it's obvious she too is in pain. There are very few in the mob of muttering orcs with her age, and none older. Behind her march a pair of green skinned orcs, moving cautiously through the camp, looking around furtively as though they're not sure whether to be more suspicious of me or their fellows.

Excellent, that's probably Durotan and Draka.

Aloud though, I chuckle. "You could call me that, I suppose. It's nicer than what I'm usually called." Twisting my neck and shoulders so that they crack and pop dramatically I repeat the woman's trick and cast my voice to the village. "Highmaul has fallen." I intone solemnly. "I expect this will please many of you, particularly former hellscream clansmen, but I wish to relate my story to your leader. It's... important."

The orcs stare at me, deathly silent. "You're very well spoken for an Ogre," the green man, Durotan remarks to chuckles by most of the crowd.

"And handsome too. I'm a marvel, I know," I drawl, brushing imaginary dust off my chest. Fixing Geyah with my stare I wait for almost a minute before my stomach growls.

The Orc Matriarch snorts and raises a brow. Her lightly wrinkled face creases in a smirk and she inclines her head for me to follow, turning and heading back towards the largest building in the camp.

Grinning, I follow her, my shield still a pin-cushion of captured weapons. Snapping the metal tips off many of them and setting them to float around me by their wooden stubs, I discard the remnants of the weapons to the outraged cries of those who'd attacked me. Not that they could do much more. As large as my shield was, they'd need to bring out a blademaster to saw his way through my defenses, and doubtless I'd already captured more of the elemental infused steel than any of them were willing to risk losing.

"We're going to need those back, Mok'Nathal" Geyah tells me dryly as I enter the central hall, shield sparking up a storm as I examine the weapon scraps floating within it.

I laugh at her. "If you understand how valuable this metal is, you'll understand why I refuse. You did attack me with it after all." Even if I wanted to, which I don't, I can already feel that [Gluttony] and [Ambition] won't allow me to just simply hand even a single arrow head back.

"They are valuable," the green woman replies, "but not in the way an ogre like you sees things." I turn to look at her fully. Bulldog like nose, too wide mouth, small tusks like a vampire with an overbite. But at the same time, high cheekbones, a good symmetry, purple hair that doesn't look dyed, piercing blue eyes and a figure like an amazon. [Lustful] allows her to hold my attention easily where I would scoff at Geyah. "Those weapons pierce the hide of the clefthoof we eat, and that is no small challenge. With your pox weakening the people here such weapons are desperately needed to make up for their lost strength."

I chuckle darkly. "It is not MY pox. Or even my peoples weapon. Not at this point. In fact, it's not even the Draenai's weapon." Durotan looks at me sharply, and Geyah purses her lips, not surprised, but not trusting either. "Bring me a feast fit for an Imperator and I will return the arrowheads and forgive the Mag'har's slight against this peaceful prophet." I tell them. "Listen to my story and give me a crafter capable of working Truesteel for my crew and I will return the Javalins."

I Leer at the pair of green orcs. "Just to sweeten the pot, I'll even tell you how you die, and how you might perhaps avoid it." [Enemy of the Bronze Flight] here I come.

~! #$%^&*()_+~! #$%^&*()_+~! #$%^&*()_+

The Orc's offering, once it was found by one kid who thought he could be sneaky that even a blademasters weapon could be stopped by it's own hilt guard, was impressive. A fat talbuck with bulging muscles meant for tilling fields was slaughtered and spit roasted in front of me. Blood wine was rolled in by the barrel and even some fresh fruit, which for an Orc IS precious, was brought in and set beside me. It amused me to be good as my word, and hand out the arrow heads as I devoured the entire offering, much to the fascinated horror of my audience. I did keep 1 of the 32 arrow heads as a necklace when one of the Drinking Horns they tried to give me was poisoned. Magnanimously I let the girl who did it live,.. though honestly, it probably wouldn't be long anyway with how pox ridden she was.

My meal mostly finished, I begin talking, waving a talkbuck leg in one hand and the blademasters's weapon in the other.

"Right! So! Contrary to what I said before, this whole thing did start because of the Draenai, but they neither killed the Bladewind tribe, attacked the elements OR unleashed the Red Pox. Somewhere around 25,000 summers ago, their leader, the prophet Velen took part in a civil war on the Draenai's own home of Argus. He and his heretics were chased out and changed their names from Eradar, to Draenai, which means 'The Exiles'."

"And now their civil war has come to our world?" Durotan asked, his voice using a tone I couldn't Identify.

I stared at him for a moment before shrugging. "Yes, but no, at the same time. Over the last 25,000 summers, the Draenai have lived on many worlds. They would stay for anywhere between one generation and a hundred before the Prophet Velen would sense their brethren nearing and they would leave again. Here, on this world... they don't have that option." I take a great bite of the haunch as the three of them exchange significant looks and the crowd of Orcs skulking around the edge of the fire-light begin to whisper up a storm. When things quite down again, I swallow and continue speaking. "Your sacred mountain? Osho-gun? The Vile Dark Star of shadowmoon valley? Those are the remains of the Draenai's ship. Without them, they cannot sail away and take their civil war with them, as they always have before."

"Blasphemer!" an orc shouts from the crowd. There's an unfocused roar of different insults I can't particularly make out, but I let it continue for a few moments before raising the blademasters sword and channel arcane lightning through it. The blade reacts violently, but rather than fighting it and exploding, a literal bolt of lightning sails down from the sky to strike the blade and bounce back up, silencing everybody here with the point blank Thunderclap.

"Osho-Gun is a Draenai ship, and you've been speaking to your ancestors there because of it's sole remaining resident, the Naaru, K'ure. The comforting light and song at the heart of the mountain? The power which gives the spirits the ability to known future events? That is he. K'ure." The orcs are silent at that, disbelieving, but unspeakably unable to deny me. Like the Tauren in 20 years, they recognize the truth of the Naaru with an undeniable certainty they can't explain. "Unfortunately, K'ure is also responsible for the Pale. K'ure cannot fly the Draenai and their problems away because he is Injured. And that Injury is the black power of the Pale, a contrast to the bright power of a healthy Naaru like which attracts your ancestors."

Geyah spears me with a stare that somehow holds weight, pulls my attention and silence me all in one motion. "So the Dark Star of Shadowmoon is also one of these Naaru?"

I nod. "K'ara. The Dark Star is what happens to a Naaru when it dies." The whole room was silent at that. "Another injured Naaru lays at the heart of the Draenai's burial ground, Auchindoun. The Bleeding Hollow clan will find it in...five years? Maybe six. When they do, they will attempt to use it to summon monstrous beings of darkness and the burial ground will explode, spreading the skeletons of Draenai across the entire region." I take another bite of Talbuck and a swig of literal blood wine while they digest that information.

"Now that I have explained the truth of how the Draenai are responsible for the current war, I shall tell you how the Orcs are responsible for your current suffering." There's a low growl of disapproval from the crowd, but they're too invested in my story now to object. "Eleven years ago, Gul'dan was a cripple living in Gorgrond. His shaman sensed great power in him, but because he could not be taught the elements and he was a weakling barely able to feed himself, never mind hunt, they kicked him out." The crowd guffaws in approval. Idiots. "As a last act of mercy, the Shaman tells Gul'dan to journey to the Throne of Elements. That they can give him the destiny nothing else could. Gul'dan was prideful and resentful however and did not go there for almost a year, only giving in when he was starving, skin and bones. He threw himself down to the Elements mercy and pledged to be a slave to their service, but sensing the hate, resentment and fury within him, the elements rejected him as everyone else had."

I laugh harshly, preempting the crowd and silencing them with my tone. "Would that he had died then, but he did not. Kil'jaden, the enemy leader in Velen's civil war, spoke to him, claiming to be a fifth element. There IS a natural fifth element, but Kil'jaden represents something much older and darker. Gul'dan agreed, and Kil'jaden taught him Fel magic. Elemental Chaos. The elements sensed this and appeared before Gul'dan again, intent on killing him then and there. Only..."

"Gul'dan killed them," Geyah cut in, soft voice piercing the room "didn't he?"

I shrug and grin mockingly. "The elemental upheaval came because Gul'dan won. He didn't kill them, but he used his new powers to steal much of the Fury's power and poison them with his new magic." I finish the talbuck haunch and toss away the bone as the crowd goes into an uproar. At this point they don't know who to hate. Gul'dan? Or Kil'Jaden and the Draenai. It's obvious to them now, that killing the Draenai never had a shred of the hope they'd been promised to appease the elements. But killing Gul'dan... that just might do it... I watch in bemusement as the girl from before, the one who tried to poison me, darts out of the crowd and snatches the bone I'd discarded, snapping it open and sucking out the marrow, greedily. Deciding enough time has passed, I weave a spell to allow myself to be heard easily over the din and continue speaking.

"Kil'jaden was pleased with Gul'dan, but that was not enough. He told the orc to ensure your people were brought to their knees. So... he went and told the bladewind that the Draenai were responsible for the elements pain, and that by sacrificing hundreds of Draenai the elements could be brought back into balance. The bladewind agreed, desperate and stupid. They raided entire Draenai settlements and brought them back to stonebreaker hold to be sacrificed. The Draenai responded, and Gul'dan slaughtered both sides personally with his new powers, ensuring no survivors to tell of his treachery. Then, at the Kosh'harg convened to discuss the elements pain, Gul'dan seasoned your food with the remains of a Red Pox plague victim and stumped around proclaiming that his crippled ass would fight the Draenai, shaming you all into agreeing to form the Horde."

The crowd was now frothing in rage, denial, horror, hate and, in not an insignificant number of cases, pain as their excited state agitated their plagued bodies. The sound only grew as those inside rushed out to share what I'd already told them with the rest of the city.

Geyah looked at me suspiciously and I kept my face flat, offering two of the three Javelin blades to her. She took them, apprehensive. As she should be...telling them all of this was meant for little more than to prime them to accept my demands later. "The war continued for a while, I suspect you know most of it." I continue, flatly.

Drakka nods. "The Draenai were fierce warriors. They commanded great magic and the fury of those who cared not for their own death. Even with the secrets my husband and Doomhammer shared, they fought honorably."

Honorably, right. Orcs had a weird conception of the subject, dealing more with combat than morals. "They gave as good as they got," I agreed, nodding. "This brings us to Gul'dan's angel and the offering of blood."

Durotan shuddered, but his gaze was sharp. "Garrosh is a good boy," he intoned quietly "Garadar does not need to know what happened there."

"Then bring him here, so I can protect him." I smile cruelly, dropping the voice projection spell for the green orc's sake. "Don't misunderstand though, he'll only be in danger because he's near at hand, not because of what I intend to tell these people." The Frostwolf Chieftain nods, and leaves the room swiftly.

I spear one of the fruits at my side with the last of the javelin's and prepare to bite into it when Durotan returns with young Garrosh. Well... that was quick... I remove the fruit from my mouth and observe the brat. He's somewhere on the edge of teen-hood, rail thin and all joints. I can't see his ribs, despite being mostly naked, so hes more stringy than malnourished. Not ripcord muscled either, I note as Durotan sits the boy down heavily between me and him. I extend the javelin tip toward him, fruit attached and as he grabs it and digs in rabidly, I notice several red pustules. Few, but noticeable anyway. Racking my brain I remember,.. he still has the plague in five years when the bladefists defy the quarantine looking for soldiers. Garrosh is supposed to learn of his father then.

I almost feel sorry for the kid.

I reapply the public speaking spell and continue as the kid eats and Durotan steals the last Javelin. Now all I have to bargain with is the blademaster's weapon. Heh... I can deal. "Right. The offering of blood. As most of you know, from your choosing the name Mag'har, the orcs were stalemated with the Draenai and Gul'dan offered a way out. He summoned a great monster, pierced its side, and then offered cups of it's blood to the Chieftain's of the Horde. Though Awed by the beast, most of the Horde refused... right up until Grommash Hellscream responded to Gul'dan's taunting and snatched the warlocks cup away, drinking and attaining the green skin and hulking muscles the Horde is now known for." Garrosh looks up at me, wide eyed and expression queezy. "With the chiefs shamed, Grom offers the cup and his exulted screams of power to the rest of the chiefs. Only Doomhammer and Durotan here refused." I explain, gesturing to the green skinned orc. The rest of the crowd looks on in confusion. "That much you know. What you don't know, is that the mere presence of the green orcs, drunk on Fel Blood will poison the land and the orcs around them." I chuckle, "you have nothing to fear from Durotan or the frostwolves, ...maybe... but they are the example. They didn't drink, and yet still, they are green, simply by walking with the Horde and sharing camp with them. Wherever the green orcs go, the land dies underfoot. Wherever warlocks practice their craft, plants, animals and the very land itself dies to fuel their magics." Garrosh vomits onto my toes and I continue. "Still, this power is exactly what the Horde needed to continue Gul'dan's fool war against the Draenai."

"As many of you know, this was a turning point in the war. With the fel blood, and Gul'dan turning the children who ran with the Horde into adult warriors, the Draenai were pushed back. Again and again, they lost settlements and were routed, until only Goria, sorry, Shattrath, was left. Huddled up like a Goren, the Draenai were untouchable. So Gul'dan and his warlocks took the Red Pox and altered it again, using it this time on the Draenai. As the pox cut you off from the elements, so too did the pox cut the Draenai off from the Light. The city fell within a week and those who escaped are mutating, much like the Arakoa of Seethe, into twisted broken creatures of shadow and hatred. Feel blessed, Mag'har, that you do not suffer the same fate. The part that makes this hilarious, is that once the Draenai were infected, Gul'dan's patron, Kil'jaden abandoned him. He and Blackhand have been leading the Horde against the Arakoa, Saberon, Zangar, Bottonai, Gron and Ogres in a desperate attempt to keep the Horde going without their patron or their purpose to guide them."

"There is hope though,.." I turn now to Durotan and Drakka. "I did promise to tell you how you die, didn't I?" The crowd goes deathly silent. Smiling broadly, I continue. "Has Gul'dan started summoning the clans to Hellfire Penninsula yet?"

Durotan frowns. "Hellfire? I do not know. He has summoned us to the Tannan wastes, that was where we were going before we stopped here to see Mother."

I shrug. "It'll be called hellfire soon enough." Then I get back on topic. "Gul'dan has a new patron. He allowed Cho'Gall to finally take his revenge on Highmaul because he needed a pair of stones to open a doorway to a new world where his patron waits, eager to set the Horde on a new group of hapless innocents like the Draenai. The effort will be successful, but because you make Gul'dan angry, he's going to exile you. The Frostwolves will not be allowed to travel to the new world for nearly two years. When you do arrive, he banishes you from the Horde and bids you flee north, ahead of the advance. Your good friend Doomhammer offers the Frostwolf clan some of his personal guard to help you on your way, but unknown to Doomhammer, these guards have already been enslaved by Gul'dan, and they kill you in a swamp on the north side of the continent."

Drakka looks to be torn between rage and resentful plotting, Geyah looks crushed. Durotan on the other hand looks at me suspicious. "You are hiding something. You said there was hope. What hope is this? Banished and murdered in a land not our own?"

I grin widely, showing all of my teeth. "Because, my good friend, in that foreign land, your son Go'el survives. He not only survives your death, he survives the Horde invading the land where he grows up. He survives the invasion of that land by the Hordes masters and leads your defeated people out of defeat, out of near slavery, and aids in the defeat of the Burning Legion, earning your people a new homeland for his service. What's more? He and Gromm face Mannoroth, Gul'dan's angel, who's blood cursed your people to be blood drenched monsters, and kill him, freeing the orcs, at the price of Gromm's life." The little boy beside me, is shaking violently now. "Still, good things do not come without a price. While your people escape slavery on this new world by being useless slugs who won't even grunt when whipped, Go'el takes the name slave and lives it for 15 years."

There's a scream of rage and suddenly Drakka is there, hovering in the air above me, suspended by two oversized axes who's heads are burred deep into my shield, caught by their hafts. "Drakka,.. you should know better. Next time, if I may suggest, use Genosaur roots for the hafts of your blades. They'll add the fifth element, spirit, to your weapons and not get caught and stopped by a simple wall of arcane force."

Geyah stares at me reproachfully. "I was mistaken earlier, calling you a Mok'Nathal for your odd appearance. You are truly an Ogre. Spare us your further cruelty and make your demands. What is it you want?"

I put a hand almost as big as the boy on Garrosh's back. "I want the kid." I tell her flatly. "Don't worry, I don't intend to kill him. But he'll commit a crime in the future greater even than his father drinking the blood. I want to...change that. The future is like a river. Toss in a boulder and it'll just flow around the rock, but with enough boulders? The river can change completely. Give me the kid, and I'll let you have the Blademaster's weapon back. Give me a smith who knows how to work Truesteel, and maybe a fallen shaman besides, for my crew, and I shall let Drakka keep her weapons. Unbroken. You may even be able to use what I have told you to sidestep your deaths. Maybe."

The crowd rustles and mumbles, like trees in the wind. Geyah looks like she's about to refuse and the green couple are pensive. The tension builds quickly as we stare each other down, until Garrosh stands up and places himself between me and the Orc leaders. I blink, surprised to have a facefull of the orcish kids ass and lean to the side.

"I will go with the Ogre, greatmother." Garrosh tells the woman firmly. "If anything he says is true, I must make up for...father's failures. Maybe I can even be the stone that changes the river."

"Young Hellscream..." the old woman tries to counter, her voice soft and pitying.

The tone only makes the shoulders in front of me stiffen in anger and pride. "NO. I must do this!" He turns around and I can see the expression of rage and utter determination on his small black jaw, as he extends his hand to me. Fighting off a smirk and keeping my face as solemn as possible, I hand him the blademaster's sword. Rather than trying to slash my throat with the leeway I've allowed him in my shield, he grips the handle in both tiny hands and turns around, presenting it to his chieftainess. "The blade that was promised. I'll take Gorehowl from my father when the time is right, but for now, I must go with..." I can almost hear him frown. He twists, looking back over his shoulder at me. "What is your name?"

"I am Thurm, Runemaster and Arcanist of Highmaul." And at this point in the Hero cycle, I'm that asshole who comes to town to issue the call to adventure. So who will you be, little Garrosh? Son of the king, who leaves home to redeem the old order? The cursed child on his first steps to become a villain? Or the withering wormtongue, following in the footsteps of the dark master. Hah... I flatter myself.

After Garrosh's statement, things proceeded quickly. The Translocation Rune I'd built for my quick escape allowed me to stow the kid away with a handshake and the crowd moved on to more important matters.

Like figuring out whether Drakka's weapons were worth two of their own being enslaved to an Ogre. Fun times.

I'm attacked five more times before the matter is decided on, three of those times by the same female orc who tried to poison me earlier. I'm not certain whether she just REALLY hates Ogres, or she's trying to die, but even my patience has its limits. Well, that and it's getting late so [Murderhobo] is making my skin crawl, my fingers itch and my mind wander through increasingly violent spell-forms, unbidden.

Her head exploding also solved an argument over whether or not I was honorable.

Turns out I am. Go figure.

My two new companions are an old-ish man named Gortag or "Steelgrip" if you care to translate, and his young half dead apprentice (and daughter) Gorka. Both of them are shaman, and both of them know how to work Truesteel. Apparently knowing a little shamanism is required to forge the metal.

More importantly, neither of them expect they'll live long, either. Even if they don't come with me.

Pricks.

The three of us translate up to the ship and I leave them on the deck with one warning. "You see those two stones, fore and aft?" They nod. "Touch them, and you die. If the flood of arcane power coursing through you doesn't burn you from the inside out, I will. Other than that, have fun! Find young Garrosh, wherever he's scampered off to, pick a room or deck and I'll be down shortly to furbish your rooms and call everybody to dinner."

The old man, Gortag, looks like he's sucking on a lemon and smelling shit at the same time, but he nods and replies "yes, master."

I snort. "None of that. I am Thurm. If you must be formal, call me Runemaster, Arcanist or Captain. Something approximating student when we get to the point where you start teaching me."

The grizzled orc huffs and stumps off, showing a back that used to be heavily muscled, gone to seed and covered in blisters. His daughter Gorka stays one the deck, staring at me. I return her stare with an elevator gaze until she becomes uncomfortable and stalks off. Hah. She's not bad looking though...for an orc. Gonna have to get her to drop the mohawk if she survives the next few weeks though.

Shrugging, I examined my network of flying circles and began plotting out improvements.