(AN: If you thought the author's note from the last chapter was "rant-filled", just you wait. Here I finally get to provide an answer to the "gotcha" argument of the Garrosh fanboys: that Stonetalon Mountains redeems Garrosh of all past, present, and future evils. The short version of my answer is this: where are the druids responding to his devastation of Ashenvale, especially the Horde ones?)
Something Rotten
Umbakka was busy at his pot. Many powerful and useful potions were to be made for the Horde Expedition, and he had been busy for the past three days since the arrival in the Borean Tundra. The demand was greater than he could supply all by himself, and would often outsource the gathering of reagents to those soldiers whom he could persuade with gold or other useful items. As a witch-doctor, he had procured many useful things in his time: from the days on the islands to the march through Kalimdor with Thrall, then again back east to Stranglethorn Vale and Tirisfal. But gold and trinkets were not the only useful things that Umbakka peddled.
The old troll was crafty, and listened more than he spoke. He learned many things that could be useful to many people: important things, dangerous things, secret things. He could turn quite a profit from the eager goblins of Ratchet or Gadgetzan with the information he had. Of course he rarely gave his information freely, knowing the value of it and what it could cost. For instance, he had learned that some of the warriors of the Horde who had ventured into Zul'gurub had intentionally infected their beasts with the Blood Plague, and therefore spread the devastating plague not only among the Horde but the Alliance as well.
But today, Umbakka's primary concern was the concoction he was making. He was in desperate need of some mucilagenous to thicken the brew, but none of the plants he had been experimenting with had given him much success. Murloc eyes would do well, but he knew of none in the immediate area. The closest substitute were the gorlocs in the steam pools to the east. But Umbakka was old, thin, and not a warrior: perhaps in his younger days, full of blood rage, he could have torn the heads off a few gorlocs and taken their eyes. But the past was the past, and the years hadn't been kind to him. Surely he could find someone who would wrangle up some gorloc eyes for his purposes.
While he was working, the noise of shouting was heard from the troop quarters nearby. It wasn't uncommon for fights to break out among the soldiers of the Horde, especially now that the Blood Elves had joined them. Umbakka spat on the ground at the thought of the effeminate, arrogant elves. It had been bad enough when the undead, abominations against all living things, joined the Horde, but now it seemed that there were elves all over the place wherever the Horde went. The trolls once ruled the land of the Eastern Kingdoms, before the Elves and humans drove them into the forests and jungles: none of the trolls forgot this injustice.
The shouting grew louder, and Umbakka craned his long, clever ears that way. To his amazement, it had nothing to do with Elves, but the Orcs instead. He respected them: they honored their ancestors, even as the trolls did, and worshiped the Loa under different names. Presently, the commotion spilled out into the mess hall, where the old troll was brewing his concoction. A crowd of Orcs were gathered around two who seemed to be at odds with each other, both of them being kept apart by Gol'og, the captain of the Orgrimmar company. Umbakka knew and respected the old Orc, and was intent on hearing what had caused the veteran to intervene.
"Enough!" Gol'og roared. "The mockery of the Alliance will be our due with all of this petty bickering!"
"He started it!" an Orcish woman with three long braids shouted, pointing to a bald male who was wagging his tongue at her. "I only intended to finish what he started!"
"Me like how you think!" the male replied with a grin.
"Master yourselves!" Gol'og stated. "Both of you! We are not savages!"
"How quaint!" a Blood Elf male commented in passing. One of the Orcs around the commotion punched him in the face, and he cowered away whimpering and in tears.
"He tried to have his way with me!" the Orc woman said.
"Me want fuck, me take fuck," the male replied. "That Orc way."
"What?!" Gol'og roared. "You would insult your shield-sister's honor by making her wachook?" His large fist came down upon the bald Orc, laying him out on the floor.
"You're taking her side on this?" another Orc asked. "What if she's lying?"
"You dare insult my honor, Kron'gar?" the woman retorted.
"No more!" Gol'og shouted. He slammed the pommel of his great-axe into the floor, bringing silence to the crowd around him. "You, Drug, act like we've already won the war! This is a barracks, not a brothel! You can fuck when we've won; if you can't wait until then, you can sleep in the pig styes!" He looked at the others. "There'll be no more of this demon's talk. Might without honor is savagery; that is not the way of the Warchief!"
"Fuck the Warchief!" another Orc shouted. "We are Orcs, we take what we want, when we want, and don't ask sorry for nothing!" Several cries of agreement came from those around. Gol'og saw that only Kron'gar and the woman who had opposed Drug, the bald one, were not cheering.
"Keep this up," Gol'og stated. "And the Overlord will hear of this."
"Why should he care?" the one who had defied the Warchief asked. "Hellscream brings victory, Warchief makes Orcs weak, timid, passive."
"Then you'll answer to Saurfang!" Gol'og retorted. "And he's not as patient as I am." All fell silent at the mention of Saurfang. Gol'og grunted in disgust at them, then he turned to Kron'gar. "Bo'dakh is an Orc of her word, as are you. Challenge her at your own risk."
"I have no interest in mak'gorah," Kron'gar returned.
Gol'og grunted, then turned to the others. "What are you all gawking at? Back to your own business, all of you!" The crowds began to disperse, each going about their own way.
Meanwhile, Umbakka had been listening to the entire conversation. He grinned, shook his head, and continued stirring his stew. A week had passed since the Ogrimmar company had arrived at Warsong Hold, and their progress had been slow. The tundra was bare and lifeless; supplies and tempers were all low among the many battalions. The Horde had nevertheless pushed forward from victory to victory, with Overlord Hellscream becoming something of a hero to the soldiers. His brutal, ruthless rule favored strength and martial prowess, but also reinforced the idea of might makes right that the younger Orcs held as truth, making him immensely popular among them. For himself, Umbakka stayed out of the way of the overlord, as he was known to have quite the temper.
Just then, the large Orc Kron'gar walked past where old Umbakka was at his pot.
"There you are, old troll!" Kron'gar greeted. "How's that potion coming along?"
"It be comin' in due time, mon," Umbakka replied. "Meanwhile, ol' Umbakka gotta job for ya, if ye be up to da challenge."
"Always," the Orc replied. "What do you need now?"
"Da gorlocs in da pools to da east," Umbakka began. "Dare eyeballs be jus' what I need for mah brew. I be makin' potions an' hexes for da Offensive an' I be needin' sometin' thick for da pot. Da eyes work jus' fine."
"Excellent!" Kron'gar cheered. "I've been itching for a real hunt lately."
"Good, good," Umbakka smiled. "Ye be da right one for da job, mon. Bring me six o' dem gorloc eyes and I be rewardin' ye for ya troubles."
At that moment, the troll noticed someone speaking to a messenger near the entrance of the mess hall. He noticed that a large Orc was speaking to someone in a hood and cloak, whose whole features were obscured. The Orc went on his way towards the stables, and Umbakka wondered if there was something he should be hearing at this point.
"Tel'jirza!" he called out to his assistant, a buxom troll woman with green hair who was braising a pig on the spit. "Watch me pot till I get back."
"You be careful, mon," she returned.
Umbakka grinned as he left. Tel'jirza had been among several younger members of the Darkspear Tribe who had shown an interest in learning the ways of the Loa spirits under Sen'jin of old, who was like a father to their people. After Sen'jin's death, Tel'jirza and her companion continued their training with various other teachers. They were good, but neither of them seemed to be picking up the old ways very easily. While her companion was back in Kalimdor, assisting Zen'tabra with her study on why the Loa seemed to have spoken to their spirit leaders less and less, Tel'jirza had answered the call to arms in Northrend. She did not respond to the old ways as strongly as other students had, and so was given the lesser tasks, as was the case with her companion.
The stables smelled like excrement of the worst sort. The most rancid, of course, was that of the dire-wolves, the great mounts of the Horde. It was a task that was wholly without honor, and often reserved for the peons. As Umbakka had gleaned from keeping his ears open, the practice of drowning frail and sickly Orcish children had almost completely faded out during the time when the Horde was first formed. The Horde needed strong manual labor in order to run their war machine while the warriors fought, as the Orcs who were bred after their race almost unilaterally accepted the fel matured quickly but were increasingly dull and dim-witted. The class of peons was therefore formed, where the weakest and dishonorable were forced into servile manual labor tasks deemed unfitting of the warriors or warlocks. Though the Horde of Thrall's time had sought to restore the ancient and honorable tribal traditions from before the time of Gul'dan, the peon class was still active in the Horde as a matter of habit.
There was much noise coming from the stables. A Forsaken male was drawling on in a most annoying tone of mockery, coupled with haggard singing that sounded like it had been written by an ogre. Umbakka noted the words, which went something along the lines of this:
Sham, what a shame
Oh shame, what a sham
He's the weakest of the weak
He gives the Horde
A very bad name
Shame, what a sham
Oh sham, what a shame
Again the Forsaken sang his mocking ditty, at which time Umbakka now came within view of the stables. The Forsaken was standing atop a rock and was dumping buckets filled with piss and shit from the latrines and outhouses in the hold onto the head of a large brown Tauren. The old troll could see the rage building up in the Tauren's body, who was not enjoying his time here shoveling shit. Another bucket was dumped on his head and the Forsaken laughed aloud: whether he was smiling or whether his lower jaw was a false one that was permanently bent in a mocking grin, Umbakka could not guess. The Tauren roared and took a swing at the Forsaken, who ducked out of the way, causing the Tauren to lose his balance and fall face first onto the ground. The Forsaken laughed at him and dumped another bucket of waste on the Tauren's head.
"Talen!" the Orc shouted. "You're needed at the hold. Important message for you."
"Important?" the Forsaken asked. "Why couldn't you just give me the message if it was so damn important? I swear, you Orcs have brains the sizes of gnomes!"
"Shut your mouth, whelp, or I'll shut it for you!" the Orc challenged.
"Oh, look, the meat-head threatens me with violence!" Talen retorted. "Well, you won't do that."
"Why not?"
"Same reason shammy here won't touch me," Talen said, dumping another bucket of shit on the Tauren. "He's a fucking mountain of a cow and I'm a zombie; it's the same with you, green boy. If you hit me, then I'll tell the Overlord, who will hold you responsible for bullying someone weaker than you. And trust me, you wouldn't want to get on Hellscream's bad side."
The Orc grumbled angrily. "Should I tell your messenger that you're busy?"
"Messenger?" Talen asked. "You said 'message', not messenger. Why didn't you tell me there's someone waiting for me? You're about as slow as shammy here." He leaped off the boulder and kicked the Tauren for good measure as he approached the Orc. "Tell your messenger that if his message is so important, he can come here and give it to me himself. I'm nobody's lap-dog..."
"Except Malkorok's," the Tauren uttered. "And Hellscream's."
"Zip it, shammy!" Talen retorted. "Before I stuff your mouth full of shit!"
The Orc chuckled. "A clever dick you are!"
"He doesn't have one," the Tauren commented.
"Alright, that's enough!" Talen retorted, turning to the Tauren. "Time for you to eat shit, shammy! Maybe you can pray to the piss to save you, rain-speaking sham!"
"The messenger said you'd give me a hard time," the Orc commented as Talen went for the bucket. "She also said to tell you that her message is Hand of Vengeance business and must be delivered in private."
Umbakka noticed that Talen was moments away from shoving a steaming pile of dung into the Tauren's mouth when he heard those words. He let his prize fall out of his hand and stain the hem of his robe as he turned towards the Orc.
"Why didn't you say that in the first place, you dolt?" he asked. "Lead on, then, good Orc."
The troll noticed the change in behavior of the Forsaken. Whatever was about to be said between him and the messenger might be worth listening in on. He followed after the Orc and the Forsaken, not giving the Tauren a single glance in his direction. Though the Tauren also worshiped the ancestors and the spirits, and this particular one was known to Umbakka, he, like the others, was unsympathetic towards him. He was slow and dull and, generally considered, to be useless. If Hellscream had made him a dung-monger, then he had made his bed and it was his task to lie in it. Dishonor and cowardice is as dishonor and cowardice does, so was the phrase.
Following on from the shadows, Umbakka came to a place in the quarry just outside of the Hold. Here he saw the hooded figure waiting for them, the hood turning this way and that. As they approached, Umbakka hid behind an iron buttress that extended out from the hold as a support. From here he heard what was spoken between them as the Orc was dismissed from his duty. The two seemed to believe they were alone and so spoke: Umbakka recognized Talen's voice, but the other was a female's voice, or at least such as passed for female among the Forsaken.
"What business is so important," Talen whined. "That you interrupt me?"
"I didn't know tormenting others was so entertaining for you," the woman replied.
"It is fun!" Talen retorted. "Mocking that big oaf, making his life miserable: it's the only joy I can find in this life, as you well know. Besides, who are you to judge me for what I do as sport? Aren't you the baby-eating assassin?"
"Enough talk," the assassin interjected. "I didn't spend three days on the back of a turtle just to argue with some b*tch. The Royal Apothecary Society needs you back at Vengeance Landing. There have been some...problems with the field-tests."
Umbakka's breath caught. He had been in Tirisfal Glades during the assault on Naxxramas and heard about a plague that the Royal Apothecary Society of the Forsaken were brewing in the north: some kind of weapon they could use both on the Scourge and their living enemy, the Scarlet Crusade. As he knew that the leader of the Forsaken was an Elf, albeit a dead one, he was certain that she had an ulterior motive for this weapon that was being constructed. What they were talking about sounded like it could be just that weapon.
"And what does the Royal Apothecary Society need with a priest of the Cult of Forgotten Shadows?" Talen asked. "I'm not an alchemist, I'm a scientist of darkness."
"I'm sure they'll put you to some use," the assassin replied. "Now get your things together, we're leaving as soon as you're ready."
"I'm amazed the Dark Lady trusts you with such an important mission," Talen stated. "After you lost the Crown in Lordaeron."
Suddenly the assassin pulled out a knife and held its point at Talen's throat, while another hand seized Talen by the short, dank hair on his skull and held his head back, exposing his neck.
"You know, you're not useful enough to be this annoying," the assassin said.
"Please don't kill me!" Talen begged over and over; all the mirth vanished from his voice, replaced instead with fear and trepidation.
"Pathetic," sneered the assassin. "And a coward to boot." There was silence as Talen continued to beg for his life. "No, you're more useful to the Dark Lady and the Hand of Vengeance alive. You better watch your back, or you'll find a knife in it. Is that clear?" Talen nodded furiously. "Now get your shit together on the double: we're leaving."
"Yes, ma'am, understood, ma'am, right away, ma'am," Talen blurted out hastily.
"Now get away from me," the assassin hissed. "You smell like shit."
Umbakka grinned, recalling that Talen had soiled his hands in his mockery of the Tauren shaman he had been tormenting. Despite this, he kept silent and to his hiding place, hoping that he hadn't been spotted. Sentry ward fetishes were often best for keeping an eye on far away things and places, but they could not hear what was being spoken. Umbakka found it much easier to be there in person and hear what was being said. True it was dangerous, but so far he had managed to evade death himself for many years; he hadn't gotten to be this old by being careless.
He listened for their footsteps, so that he would know they were leaving and it was safe for him to return to his stew. But just then he heard the heavy footfalls of Orcish boots not far behind him. Turning thither he saw the Orcish warrior Gar'mosh making his way to the stables. With curiosity getting the better of him, Umbakka followed the Orc back to the stables, keeping just out of sight. He saw the Orc approach the Tauren, who was now back on his feet and shoveling dung as before.
"You disgust me!" Gar'mosh said. "You should have been drowned at birth. Get your ass to the hold: Overlord Hellscream has need of you right now. Hurry, he's in a bad mood!"
The Tauren rose up to his hooves and made his way to the hold; but even as he went, Gar'mosh kicked the back of one of his knees and sent him face down into the dirt. The Orc laughed at this then went on his way, with Umbakka following on behind.
As they entered the hold, Gar'mosh and the Tauren went up to the war room, where Hellscream and Saurfang were making their plans for war with the Scourge and, as Hellscream hoped, the Alliance as well. Umbakka stayed downstairs and listened; he wouldn't have to listen very intently, for Garrosh Hellscream made such noise that he could be heard in almost every part of the hold whenever he spoke.
"YOU ARE LATE, PUNY TAUREN!" Garrosh Hellscream roared. "PERHAPS SHOVELING SHIT IS ALL YOU'RE GOOD AT, FOR ALL THE TIME YOU WASTED ANSWERING MY ORDERS!"
"My apologies..." the Tauren began; there was the sound of a blow landing.
"APOLOGIES ARE FOR WOMEN AND ALLIANCE SCUM!" Garrosh bellowed. "WE ARE HORDE! WE APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING!"
"Not even the innocents we killed on Draenor?" the voice of Saurfang asked.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, OLD MAN!" Garrosh howled. "A DEAD DOG IS OF MORE WORTH TO ME THAN A FEW DEAD DRAENEI CHILDREN! NOW THEN, COW, STAND ON YOUR FEET LIKE A MAN AND HEAR THE ORDERS OF YOUR OVERLORD!"
"What would you ask of me?" the Tauren asked. There was another sound of a blow landing.
"YOU WILL SPEAK WHEN SPOKEN TO, ARROGANT LITTLE WHELP!" Garrosh shouted. Tense silence followed. "THE ALLIANCE ARE NOTHING BUT A RACE OF COWARDS! WHILE WE BOLDLY FIGHT AGAINST THE SCOURGE AND THE COLD, THEIR SOLDIERS ARE ABANDONING THEIR POSTS! WE'VE CAPTURED SEVERAL OF THEIR DESERTERS!" At this, the Orc Overlord laughed. "DEATH IS TOO GOOD FOR THESE COWARDS: THEY DESERVE TO GO BACK IN SHAME AND DISHONOR TO THEIR SUPERIORS, LIKE THE DOGS THEY ARE!" He grumbled in frustration, though his tone didn't alter. Umbakka wondered where this Hellscream got the strength to be so angry all of the time: he was young and the son of a proud Orc Chieftain whose strength never left him, even in his middle age, and he was of the Warsong Clan, who were bloodthirsty and savage even without the fel.
"EVERYONE ELSE IS BUSY DOING IMPORTANT TASKS," Garrosh continued. "AND I HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE IF THE ALLIANCE SCUM STAB US IN THE BACK AT THE CROSSROADS EXCHANGE AND KILL YOU! GO NOW AND DELIVER THE COWARDS BACK TO THEIR OWN!" There was silence for a moment, then Umbakka heard Saurfang's voice.
"Warden Bloodfrenzy can outfit you with a flare-gun," said Saurfang. "Once you reach the Crossroads, use it to signal the Alliance to the exchange. Throm'ka, soldier."
The slow, heavy hoof-falls of the Tauren clanged upon the iron steps leading down from the war room. Umbakka was about to leave when he heard Hellscream call for Gar'mosh.
"FOLLOW THAT PUNY COW TO THE CROSSROADS!" Garrosh shouted. "MAKE SURE THE TRANSFER COMES TO BLOWS!"
"Yes, Overlord!" Gar'mosh replied.
"Betraying a truce such as this is without honor," Saurfang said.
"THERE ARE NO TRUCES WITH ALLIANCE SCUM!" Garrosh shouted.
"The Warchief ordered that there be no hostilities with the Alliance until we've dealt with the Scourge," Saurfang added.
"THAT COWARD THRALL ISN'T HERE, I AM!" roared Garrosh. "I DECIDE WHAT ACTION THE HORDE TAKES, I DECIDE WHAT IS LAW, AND I DECIDE WHAT IS OR ISN'T HONORABLE CONDUCT! IS THAT CLEAR?"
"Inciting the Alliance to battle won't end well," Saurfang said. "There will be consequences."
"FUCK CONSEQUENCES!" Garrosh returned. "IF THE ALLIANCE ATTACKS US, IT WILL BE THEIR DOING, NOT OURS! IF THOSE COWARDS CAN'T KEEP THEIR ARMS AT BAY, IT'S THEIR OWN FAULT THAT WE DEFEND OURSELVES FROM THEM!"
Umbakka shook his head. The Horde prided battle as the way of showing honor, though this never made any sense to him. Ask any number of people of the Horde and they would give a different answer for the meaning of honor. How could something that was so essential to the conduct of Orc, Tauren, and Troll, have as many meanings as there were people in the Horde? But whatever honor meant, it was most certainly not honorable conduct to attack an enemy under a flag of truce, as would be happening at the crossroads. Most certainly the Alliance wouldn't tolerate this act of war, and then there would be battle upon the Plains of Nasam with two opponents rather than merely one.
On the other side of the peninsula, on the eastern shore, the Alliance's Valiance Keep stood defiantly against Warsong Hold, yet secure. Hellscream's fleet had been ransacked by the kvaldir and the Undead Scourge, and so the Alliance had control of the waters around the Tundra, save for the neutral tuskarr village of Unu'pe, which sat a few miles to the east. Yet despite this, the Alliance had made no move on Warsong Hold. The newly returned King Varian Wrynn had reluctantly agreed to the pact with the Orcish Warchief Thrall, that neither the Horde nor the Alliance would engage in hostilities against each other, whether openly or in secret, until the threat of the Scourge had been dealt with. For their part, the Alliance had kept their end of the bargain to a fault.
The Alliance had had their hands full since arriving here in Northrend. While their eastern outpost of Valgarde in the Howling Fjord had been assaulting relentlessly by the vrykul, here in the west they faced greater threats from the Scourge directly. From without the undead Nerubians, insectoid servants of the Lich King, assaulted the base, while there were rumors of activity of the Cult of the Damned within the walls of Valiance Keep. The supply village of Farshire had recently been attacked and plagued by the same plague that had held the kingdoms of Orcs and Humans in a state of panic the last several weeks and months. To the minds of the soldiers, they were walking into the very heart of death itself: the Scourge held sway over all of Northrend and the living did not belong here.
To this end, General Arlos had constructed a tavern for the off-duty soldiers to have some measure of the comforts of home here in the frozen north. It was in this inn that an old warrior sat at a table with some of her companions. Though the warrior was old in age, she was relatively new to the Alliance, having only joined a year or so ago. She was a Draenei, one of the people of Draenor and Argus who had joined the Alliance in the aftermath of the reopening of the Dark Portal. Though she was seated presently, when she stood up she was head and shoulders above everyone except for the males of her own race and the Night Elves. She was blue of skin, with long black hair that went down almost past her waist: a good deal of it was tied back in a bun near the back of her head, with the rest coming to just about the middle of her back. Upon either side of her upper head, just behind the hair-line, two horns extended out and swept backwards along the sides of her head. Four slender tendrils extended in pairs on either side from the back of her jaw, just below her leaf-shaped ears, and fell down to her shoulders; and her eyes were pale blue and glowed with a soft light.
With this particular Draenei were two human soldiers, men of her own company, and a Dwarf with a long gray beard. These were seated at a table, upon which sat the fifth member of their party: a Gnome with bright pink hair. One of the two humans was middle-aged, with thinning dark hair, and the other a younger man with light brown hair.
"...and so I ran the brute through his fat gut," the Draenei said. "And then, as if to rob my victory of its sweetness, the oaf fell on top of me! The others thought I was dead. It was all I could do to crawl out from under him." There was some scattered laughter from the group. "And that was how I slew my first ogre."
"That's an outstanding story!" the little Gnome exclaimed. "I don't think I'd be brave enough to face something three times my size."
"On the contrary," the Draenei returned. "Mikrei are some of the bravest of the Alliance I have ever met."
"Uh, what's a mikrei?" the Gnome asked.
"Why, you are!" the Draenei stated, a puzzled expression on her face.
The little Gnome blushed. "Well, I don't know about that..."
"Without a doubt," said the Draenei. "There is little else on your world smaller than you, and yet you go out into the wide world, seeking adventure, glory, and the honor of your people. I've seen what you're up against on the Horde, and they're all much bigger than you!"
"Aye," the Dwarf said. "A stout 'eart is good, but it needs a strong arm t' back it up."
"You should talk," the younger human stated.
"'Ey, watch it, laddie," the Dwarf retorted. "Ye've not enough hair on yer face t' be sharin' words with a man as can out-drink ye. Asides, we're easily thrice as strong as our stature. Any of ye 'eard the tale o' Finn Stouthammer, the Highfather o' the Twilight 'ighlands?"
"Oh, gee!" the little Gnome said, rolling her eyes. "Not this story again."
"'E's the mightiest warrior o' th' Wildhammer Dwarves!" said the Dwarf, as he divulged animatedly into his tale. "'is legend's known from the Aerie Peaks t' Blackrock Mountain. During th' Second War, 'e struck down a full-grown dragon with his storm-'ammer! The earth shakes with 'is footsteps as he walks by, they say."
"And who's they, I wonder?" the Gnome asked. "Your drinking buddies at the ale-house, no less, spinning yarns taller than sailors' stories about the lost continent of Pandaria."
"It's nae fable, ye wee Gnome!" the Dwarf exclaimed. "They say 'e breaths fire from 'is mouth an'..."
"Shoots lightning from his ass?" the young man asked. "And just why would a Bronzebeard be singing the praises of a Wildhammer? Aren't you lot supposed to be at war with each other?"
"Nae, laddie," the Dwarf returned. "But I have'nae time t' tell it to ye proper: if I told ye th' tale o' me people, we'd be sittin' 'ere till you came intae yer own beard!" The Dwarf chuckled. "But as I said, 'ighfather Stouthammer's legend is known throughout all places where Dwarves have walked." The Dwarf lowered his voice to a reverent whisper. "It's even said that, in recognition for 'is bravery and service durin' th' war, nae other than Kudran 'imself gave ol' Stouthammer 'is own beard ring!"
"I hope he washed it first," the Gnome added. This brought laughter from all those at the table, and caused the Dwarf to groan and shake his head.
"There's no 'ope for ye," he sighed. "I cannae share a proper legend without ye bastards criticizin' it like yer a bunch o' 'igh Elves!"
"Oh, come off it, Logan!" the Gnome said. "We're just having fun."
The Dwarf whose name was Logan sighed and drained his mug. The older of the two humans went to the bar to pay his tab, while the younger one began to sway about from what he had imbibed. The Gnome and the Draenei, meanwhile, remained where they were sitting: the tall blue one in her chair and the little pink-haired one on top of the table.
"So have you heard about the news from Fizzcrank Airstrip?" the Gnome asked.
"No I haven't, Zappy," the Draenei returned.
"It's Zippy," the Gnome chuckled. "But what do you think? Is it real? I mean, after what happened in Uldaman; all the things the Explorer's League discovered about our ancestry. Well, the Dwarves and the Gnomes, that is. I'm not sure how your people came about, or if there were even Titans involved on Archaedus...or Argon..."
"Argus," the Draenei corrected.
"Yes, that one," Zippy nodded. "But still, isn't it fascinating? The Explorer's League in the east, and here in the west, these mechanical Gnomes appearing east of the Airstrip. From what I hear, the Explorer's League believes that the Keepers of the Titans might still be here in the upper regions of the north!"
"Aren't we here to fight the undead?" the Draenei asked.
"Oh, yes, yes, of course," the Gnome returned. "But think about it! Wouldn't it be wonderful to meet the father of your race? To see the very first one that spawned, birthed, created your whole people. Oh, the things I would ask them!" The Draenei chuckled at the enthusiasm of the little Gnome.
At that moment, a uniformed soldier approached the table. The Draenei rose from her seat and saluted, while the Gnome stood up on the table and saluted.
"Leshara," the soldier said. "The quartermaster has orders from the general. You're to report to her immediately."
"Right away," the Draenei returned. She was in uniform and her swords were lying by the table; centuries of war between the Burning Legion and their servants the Orcs had made her constantly vigilant and ready for battle. She bade farewell to Zippy and threw her a gold coin for her drink before walking out of the tavern.
As the keep was the hub of Alliance activity in the Borean Tundra, there were two quartermasters who gave out the supplies to the commissioned troops. Leshara came to the Logistics Officer, a dark-haired human woman with the surname of Silverstone. The other one, Officer Brighton, was busy at the other end of the base.
"There you are, soldier," Officer Silverstone said. "Are you ready for your assignment?"
"Yes, ma'am," Leshara nodded. Yesterday, a message had arrived from Warsong Hold, stating that deserters captured by the Horde would be returned to Valiance Keep today. Silverstone gave Leshara a length of rope, which she was to use to tie off the deserter and bring them back to the Keep.
"Your...uh, goat is waiting for you at the gates," Silverstone said hesitantly.
"It's called a talbuk," Leshara replied. She was painfully aware that the Blood Elves, and some less tolerant members of the Alliance, referred to the uncorrupted Draenei as "blue goats", and most certainly not in an endearing way.
"It's waiting for you, just the same," Silverstone repeated. "According to the message, the Horde will send up a signal flare to let you know once they've arrived. Your mission is simple: get in, get the deserter, and get out."
"Understood," Leshara nodded.
"One more thing," Silverstone said. "I'm aware that your people have personal history with the Orcs, as does our King. For the present, you're not to engage the Horde or antagonize them in any way. We don't want to start a war on two fronts."
Leshara sighed. There were individual members of the Horde she had met who were not thoroughly detestable, but for the most part they were precisely that, even at their best. The Trolls were savage, violent, and secretive, the Blood Elves had violated the Naaru in Tempest Keep, and the Forsaken were a ruined and terrible form of life: no, rather a mockery of life. As for the Orcs, they had committed genocide against the Draenei in the name of the Burning Legion, and their use of the Legion's fel magic had broken and corrupted Draenor beyond recall.
"I'll do my best," Leshara resigned.
The day wore on as the small group departed from Warsong Hold. Gar'mosh took the lead, with his shield in one hand and his axe in the other. Behind him walked the Tauren shaman Gar Earthwalker, leading on a rope the deserter, a human male dressed in a thick wolf-skin whose face was pale and gaunt: humans didn't eat raw meat as the Orcs did, and his captors refused to provide him food to his liking. They walked on at a steady pace, in no great hurry. Perhaps Gar'mosh, believing what he had heard, thought that the Tauren couldn't go any faster and so walked slowly.
As they walked, Gar'mosh shivered from the cold. He hadn't grown up on Draenor and so didn't remember the home of the Thunderlord and Frostwolf Clans, the Frostfire Ridge. To him, the only significantly cold region he had been to had been Alterac Valley, which didn't sit with his liking. But here, in the land that the Tauren called the Roof of the World, the cold was much worse. Meanwhile, the Tauren shaman seemed to be enjoying himself for the first time since he had arrived in Northrend. He walked along, humming ancient melodies in the Taurahe language; likely odes to the Earthmother.
Gar'mosh didn't approve.
"Can you shut up?" Gar'mosh roared. "Your idiotic humming bothers me."
"Apologies, good Orc," the Tauren replied. "The spirits in this land are very powerful. They speak to me, lifting my heart as it hasn't been since I walked the Barrens."
"Pathetic," Gar'mosh snarled. "A true warrior's heart is lifted by battle and nothing else."
"As you may have guessed," the Tauren said. "I'm a shaman, not a warrior."
Gar'mosh sighed. "A self-righteous dirt-whisperer."
The Tauren chuckled. "I've been called worse things."
"So I've heard," Gar'mosh stated. "And perhaps you've earned those names? I remember the talk of the other grunts during our campaign in Kalimdor in the Third War. They said quite a few bad things about you."
"And you believed them?" the Tauren asked.
"A warrior's word is as good as his honor," Gar'mosh said. "And I would stake my own life and honor on those who I've fought beside."
"A noble statement," the Tauren stated. "But I'm surprised at your hatred for shamanism. I thought your people were intent on returning to your shamanistic roots."
"The Warchief may be," Gar'mosh said. "But most of us are not."
"Why not?" the Tauren asked. "From what I've learned, your people were slaves to the fel magic of the warlocks."
"You know nothing," Gar'mosh retorted.
"Then why don't you tell me the truth?" the Tauren asked.
"Warlocks, shaman, mages," the Orc began. "All of you spell-chuckers are the same: all talk, but never there when you're needed. That's the reason we lost the war with the humans; because Gul'dan and his warlocks abandoned us when we had Lordaeron within our grasp. A true warrior does not run from battle, no matter how difficult it may be. That is the meaning of 'Lok'tar Ogar.'"
"I can agree with you in part," the Tauren said. "Namely that a warrior should never run from a fight. My people believe that, which is why we were intrigued by you Orcs when we first met. But your disregard for the spirits is alarming."
"Your mouth is alarming," Gar'mosh retorted. "No wonder no one likes you if you keep spouting off."
Just then, the ground began to shake. Gar'mosh looked and saw a large magnataur come lumbering across the tundra, heading towards the road. These creatures were, like the centaur of Kalimdor, half man and half beast, and equally savage. But the equine centaur were not nearly as brutal and strong as the mammutine magnataur. Within moments the beast had plowed into Gar'mosh, throwing him off his feet and onto the frozen ground. With a loud laugh, the Orc pulled himself back onto his feet, defiantly knocking his axe against his shield.
"Good, an actual challenge!" Gar'mosh roared. He then looked at the Tauren. "Go on without me. Not wise to keep Hellscream waiting..." The magnataur swung with its massive tusks and Gar'mosh barely had the chance to duck before being swiped. The Tauren nodded and began to make his way around the battle, leading the deserter behind him. For a moment he hesitated: it wouldn't be honorable to strike the magnataur from behind, but at the same time, he didn't want to leave Gar'mosh to fight the beast alone and unaided.
"Go, you deaf cow!" Gar'mosh shouted, noticing the Tauren's hesitance. "I've got this!"
The Tauren pulled on the rope, leading the deserter with him away from the scene of the battle. In his heart he felt guilty, for he had walked away from battle. True, he had been ordered to do so, but that didn't help matters any more for him. Reluctantly he turned his back again to the battle and went on his way.
The crossroads. These weren't exactly roads as opposed to tracks made by the native wildlife; the magnataur, the snobolds - arctic variations of their kobold brethren - as well as the tuskarr, who had of old sacred grounds further inland. The ground was frozen almost solid, and only a strong kick from the foot of a magnataur could upset the dirt. Here and there, stark heads of dark gray rock jutted out of the orange and red scrub, around whose flanks gathered stunted shrubs spreading their crimson foliage. The peninsula of the Borean Tundra was at such an elevation that trees did not grow here, and one could be easily spotted coming miles away.
Behind a large rock Leshara huddled against the cold, with her talbuk standing before her to block the wind. It changed seemingly at random, sometimes going this way and sometimes that way; but always biting through the most protective clothing and chilling one to the bone. She didn't much care for the cold: it reminded her of the Great Dark Beyond, where her people had been in exile for countless millennia, being chased by the Burning Legion. Even in the Exodar, the inter-dimensional vessel of their exodus, the cold of the Great Dark Beyond could be felt within its crystalline walls. The thick cloak, lined with the fur of the woolly rhinos of this region, was barely doing its job.
This is absurd, Leshara thought. Even if the Horde honor this agreement, they would surely be setting a trap.
The Orcs were not particularly known for subtlety, but there were others among them who most certainly were: the Blood Elves for instance. They had appeared as the allies of the ally of convenience, the one known as the Betrayer. But, like Illidan, they had betrayed the Draenei people. The atrocities they had committed, draining the Light from the Naaru they had captured: such cruelty, such abomination, such blasphemy. The Naaru, the angelic beings of pure Light that had warned Velen the Prophet of the gift of Sargeras, were respected and revered by the Draenei. To see one corrupted, devoured, and destroyed, was as if the light of the sun had been snuffed out.
Leshara sighed, her thoughts drifting through the abyss of time and space back to her home-world of Argus. The ochre plains of Mac'Aree, the violet mountains of Shen'daar, warm summers under the golden sun, and the faces of those who had been lost. Of her eight uncles and five aunts - five uncles and one aunt on her father's side and three uncles and four aunts on the mother's side - four of them had remained behind and accepted the fel: the others met a cruel and brutal fate at the hands of the Orcs. Her love, her betrothed Kogaan, had also accepted the fel. Even after the division had been made, there were others who had been lost: Hatuun the Martyr, who had elected to stay behind and defend the others as they made their departure aboard the Exodar, and the countless tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, who had been lost or fell in the eons between leaving Argus and arriving on Draenor. She would never see their faces again, except perhaps in death. Not her love, though: whether he lived as a foul Eredar, a demon of the Burning Legion, or had been killed by them before becoming man'ari, or perhaps had fallen in a skirmish of the Legion's burning crusade on some distant world, Leshara knew not.
Suddenly there was a distant, dull thudding sound, like a Dwarven mortar shell being fired. She looked up into the cloudy, overcast sky, and saw a dull red flash.
"Well, Jaa'tu," she said to the talbuk. "It looks like they came after all." The talbuk let out a plaintive bleat, and she scratched its lower jaw just below the goattee. "You stay put. If all goes well, I'll come back for you. If not, you run for your life back to the Keep, do you understand?" The talbuk bleated, and she patted its head between the roots of its horns.
Upon her back she bore her swords, the weapons of her trade; the warrior. It would be foolish to go a-field without them, and even greater folly to not take them with her if the Horde would be near. Yet as she reached for her sword, all of her thoughts about Argus and the Naaru brought back memories of less severe times: of a time before Draenor, when her faith in the Light hadn't yet been tested.
"Light," she said. "I haven't always prayed for your guidance and strength. I must admit...I have...doubts about your efficacy; ever since the Orcs took Karabor. If it's your will that I survive today, so let it be: if not, then let my death be swift." With that, she drew out her swords and stepped out from behind the rock, ready for whatever the Horde had in store for her. Therefore it was to her great surprise that she saw a familiar face standing at the crossroads, holding the human deserter on a rope. There stood a large brown thing, half man and half bull: it was a creature of Azeroth, what was called a Tauren. He was clad in a tunic and kilt of lammelar male, with an additional fur cloak for the weather.
"You!" both of them said at once: the Tauren in Taurahe, and the Draenei in her language.
"Gar!" said Leshara, speaking in Common: the language they both knew. "I have not seen you since we took back the Black Temple from the Illidari!"
"Leshara," the Tauren greeted in the same tongue. "I did not expect to see you here in this desolate place." They both breathed a sigh of relief, and Leshara relaxed her grip on her swords. She did not lower her weapons, however; for she was still wary that there may be others present who were less friendly.
"So, you're here for the deserter?" Gar asked.
"Absolutely," Leshara nodded.
The large Tauren approached the Draenei woman: she was tall herself, but the Tauren was taller as well as bigger. Even a fully grown male Draenei, who were easily a match for the size of the Orcs, was half the size of a fully grown Tauren. He handed the rope to the Draenei, who sheathed her swords to take the rope as the Tauren passed the human deserter back to the Alliance: the human seemed like a child next to the Draenei and the Tauren.
"Well, then," the Tauren said. "That takes care of that." The two hesitated, the Tauren's brown eyes meeting the light-blue glowing eyes of the Draenei. There was no hatred between either of them. The Tauren resembled the talbuk in some respects, and had they not been part of the Horde, perhaps there could have been something else between their two races. On Draenor, the broken Draenei who began to lose their connection to the Light found solace in the crying whispers of the tortured elements of that place: in this they were similar, as the Tauren also had great respect for the elements, especially that which was the realm of the Earthmother.
There were also a few physiological similarities between the Tauren and the Draenei.
"Um..." Gar mumbled. "Your horns look nice."
"Oh, thank you!" Leshara exclaimed, laughing uneasily. She hadn't expected such a compliment about her horns: the males bore rugged bone-like plates upon their foreheads, while the females had horns, which they were very particular about the appearance thereof.
"No offense," Gar said quickly, noticing her discomfort.
"No, it's fine," Leshara returned. "If I may say so, your hooves are in good shape, yet you don't even wear hoof-shoes! You don't feel any discomfort?"
"Not at all," Gar replied.
"How is this possible?" the Draenei asked.
"A life of wandering across the plains of Kalimdor," the Tauren answered. Leshara smiled and he returned the gesture, though he quickly turned his head in embarrassment and she quietly chuckled.
"The Naaru bless you and yours," Leshara said in farewell.
"May our paths cross again," Gar returned. The two inclined their heads to each other one at a time, then gave each other the back and returned to their respective holds. Leshara pushed the deserter in front of her, eager to not have him try to get away a second time.
"You and I have some words for each other once we get back to the keep," she said, drawing out one of her swords again and pointing the tip at the deserter's back.
Umbakka was back at the keep, trying to light a fire for the cooking. While he struck the flint again and again, each time a spark being snuffed out by the bitter winds of the north - which were as invasive as sand, even in the hold - his mind went over the events of this morning. The Tauren who had been sent out to deliver the deserter back to the Alliance; he was not unknown to Umbakka, though he was disregarded by him. As far as he could tell, Gar Earthwalker had been a shaman in training of his tribe, but was generally considered to be a tool by the members of the Horde at large. He had traveled the world quite a bit, as the old troll had heard, going to see the Eastern Kingdoms, the lands where no Tauren had ever set hoof to grass. As a result, this Tauren had likely had occasion to learn many things in his wanderings; but Umbakka didn't bother asking him about it.
In a society like the Horde, where battle was everything, strength was the only law. The word of the strong was held as the only authority, and shame and dishonor was the burden of those who were weak. As such, few considered any knowledge that Gar had to offer as worth anything, as it came from someone generally considered to be a weak tool.
"He be not worth ya time, mon," Umbakka sighed to himself. "Gotta get dis fiyah lit."
He returned to the flint, only to become aware of the voice of Garrosh Hellscream howling with rage: someone had told him something that he wasn't pleased with. There was a sound of a weapon being buried in flesh, a groan of pain, and then two Orcs appeared in the mess hall, dragging a slain messenger between them; they unceremoniously threw the dead Orc's body at Umbakka's feet.
"There's your supper, cannibal," one Orc sneered.
"An' what me supposed ta be doin' wit dis?" Umbakka asked.
"Eat it!" the first one said. "Or give it to those filthy Forsaken if you can't stomach it."
The second one grunted and made a rude gesture, then the two of them walked away. Umbakka rolled his eyes, then looked down at the fallen Orc. Trolls had a reputation as cannibals - eating the flesh of any sentient humanoid, whether human, Orc, Dwarf, or other trolls - and while this had served to bring the Amani into the old Horde during the Second War, the Darkspear Tribe had this legacy looming over their heads many years after joining Thrall's Horde and forsaking the practice, having been moved by the Warchief's honorable actions on the Lost Isles.
Umbakka couldn't use this Orc's eyes for his old stew, as they weren't large enough for his purposes. He swore under his breath, wondering where that Orc hunter had gone; the one he had sent off for the gorloc eyes.
But all thought of fire-making went out of his head as his ears caught the commotion upstairs. Leaving the mess hall for a while, he made his way as close to the main room as he could, listening to what was going on outside of his purview.
"...they took back the deserter and we parted ways," the voice of Gar spoke.
"SO WHY ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!" Garrosh roared.
"I...I don't understand, my lord," Gar returned. "I carried out your orders exactly as you wanted..."
"DO YOU DARE CHALLENGE MY HONOR, PUNY COW?!" Garrosh shouted. There was the sound of a blow landing. "AND YOU, GAR'MOSH! YOU WERE SENT TO MAKE SURE THAT THINGS CAME TO BLOWS! WHY IS THIS LITTLE SHIT STILL ALIVE?!"
"A magnataur attacked while we were on the road," the voice of another Orc replied. "I fought it off single-handed..."
"AND YOU DIDN'T JOIN THE FIGHT?!" Garrosh exclaimed. "COWARD! YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN DROWNED AT BIRTH!"
"Overlord!" the voice of Gol'og interjected. "This simple Tauren was only following your orders, and he carried them out exactly as you ordered. Is he to be punished for following your orders?"
"YES!" Garrosh retorted. "AS WILL ALL WHO DEFY ME OR CHALLENGE MY HONOR!"
"How has your honor been challenged, overlord?" Gol'og asked. There was tense silence, broken only by deep, rasping gasps from the brown Orc overlord. Umbakka stuffed his three-fingered fist into his mouth to keep from laughing at this predicament: Garrosh didn't strike him as a very intelligent leader, even by Orcish standards. Although he did wonder what Garrosh meant by his honor being challenged.
"YOU CHALLENGE ME TOO?!" Garrosh finally exclaimed. "AM I SURROUNDED BY COWARDS AND TRAITORS?!"
"The magnataur was mighty!" the Orc who had been referred to as Gar'mosh stated. "I brought back his tusk as proof of my victory. But by the time he was dead, the cow was already on his way back and the prisoner had been delivered..."
"ENOUGH!" roared Garrosh. "YOU MAKE EXCUSES FOR YOUR FAILURE LIKE A SIMPERING HUMAN! YOU INSULT MY HONOR WITH YOUR VERY LIFE! AND YOU, OLD MAN; DON'T THINK THAT YOUR RENOWN WILL SAVE YOU FROM PUNISHMENT! MALKOROK, TAKE THEM OUTSIDE AND CUT OFF THEIR HEADS!"
"Overlord!" Saurfang interjected. "I advise you not to do this."
"YOU OVERSTEP YOURSELF, OLD MAN!" Garrosh retorted. "I AM IN COMMAND! I AM! ME! NOBODY ELSE! NOT YOU AND NOT YOUR PRECIOUS, HUMAN-LOVING WARCHIEF! CHALLENGE ME AGAIN AND I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF!"
Saurfang laughed. "How many wars have you fought, boy? How many victories have you added to your name?"
"DON'T CALL ME BOY!"
"I've survived all three wars our people have fought on this world," Saurfang retorted. "You couldn't kill me if you wanted to: and you will spare their lives."
"WHY SHOULD I? THEY INSULT MY HONOR!"
"If you had honor," Saurfang retorted. "You would merely punish the one for failing to carry out your orders, as foolhardy and reckless as they were. The Tauren followed your orders and so should not be punished. As for Gol'og, he is a hardy warrior and beloved by your soldiers. It would not be wise to kill him, as they would think that perhaps you silenced him because he was right. Your honor will be stained by his death."
There was silence, filled only with the panting of Garrosh Hellscream. While the Orc's tiny mind tried to figure a way out of this predicament with his honor intact, Umbakka marveled at what he had heard. The memories of this morning came back into mind: Gar had been sent on what Overlord Hellscream believed would be a suicide mission. In fact, he had been banking on it being a suicide mission, even going so far as to have the one called Gar'mosh accompany the Tauren and insure that the delivery turned into a battle. Likely the war-mongering Garrosh wanted to do battle with the Alliance, and viewed the death of Gar as an acceptable loss if it served to put their two factions at war once again: and war-mongering he was indeed, as Umbakka knew from first-hand experience about the mak'gora in Orgrimmar that had been interrupted by the invasion of the Scourge necropolises.
"THEY WILL NOT DIE," Garrosh said at last. "BUT THEY WILL BE PUNISHED FOR INSULTING ME! FORTY LASHES FOR THE COW FOR REFUSING TO DIE AND RUNNING FROM BATTLE! FORTY LASHES FOR GAR'MOSH FOR FAILING TO FOLLOW MY ORDERS! AND FOR GOL'OG...SIXTY LASHES!" There were some voices gasping in surprise at this. "FOR CHALLENGING MY HONOR!"
Umbakka chuckled to himself: he did not envy the two Orcs and the Tauren, that was for sure. The lash of the whip was not uncommon at Warsong Hold, whether for the back of the peons or those who were disciplined. Even back home in Kalimdor, the Crimson Ring continued the cycle of slavery that the Orcs had suffered at the hands of the humans in the internment camps. But aside from the fact that someone else was bearing the brunt of Hellscream's fury besides himself, Umbakka laughed at the inconsistency of Garrosh. From what had happened in Orgrimmar, Umbakka knew that the Warchief had mentioned Garrosh's father Grom, which had been provocation enough to trigger Garrosh into a rage where he challenged Thrall to mak'gora. Clearly the Overlord was a fool, if he could be so easily manipulated and lost his shit every time someone insulted him or his honor, or mentioned the former chieftain of the Warsong Clan.
At last, however, the flint made a spark. The troll blew on it, shielding the flickering tongue of fire from the cold winds with his hands. A small flame arose from the kindling over the hearth and the troll cackled.
"Now where be dat Orc wit dem eye-balls?" he groaned.
(AN: A nice long chapter, though I don't know if I'll be able to keep making chapters this long. They feel better than the 2k word chapters I'm used to, so that's a plus. As far as what I stated in the first author's note, I hinted at my version of Stonetalon Mountains within the prose. I'm thinking nobody's going to catch it and I'll have to explain it and then you'll complain that my author's notes are too long and rambling. I just can't win.)
(There is one thing I want to tell in these stories through subtext, which is something that I've realized after nine years of playing on the Horde: they're actually a pretty weak faction. Unlike the Alliance, who are united by their similar beliefs [most of them either believe in the Light or respect the Light through the faith of Elune] and physical homogeneity [Night Elves and Draenei being the variations thereof, and Worgen being human when they're not werewolves], the Horde is a fragmented group of different races whose only real purpose for unifying is self-preservation [which explains why Thrall let the Forsaken into the Horde, to create a balance of power on Azeroth]. The Orcs, Trolls, and Tauren have similar shamanistic and honor-based beliefs, but the undead and the Blood Elves believe in nothing and have no honor. Furthermore, the Blood Elves and the undead have bad blood with the members of the Horde as much as the members of the Alliance [i don't think Garithos alone blots out the centuries of Troll/Elven animosity].)
