The rugged Lands of Durotar was one of untamed wonders. Dry red earth, badlands that stretched on for miles only broken by the occasional tree, and massive red mountains.

Rexxar had always liked it. It reminded him of home.

Draenor was long, long gone… But at least he could experience the same feeling of peace and excitement at seeing what was over the new hill, the next unconquered mountain, as he'd grown up with within the towering valleys of the Bladeridge Mountains.

He was an odd one, even for this land, and even taking into consideration the motley crew of vagabonds who had shown up here on the shores of Durotan recently.

None would mistake him for an Orc, for he stood a head taller than even the Likes of Thrall, and built far thicker than the mightiest of Orcs.

His skin was far more alike to that of a Human, with a tone of brown that might have belonged to a fisherman of Azeroth, always basking in the sun while at work.

His face was not that of a Human, however, possessing a powerful, square jaw that would make Orc women turn, with a set of fangs that looked not too dissimilar to that of the Warchief Blackhand.

Even his posture seemed Orcish, but not quite, being hunched over, but not to the extreme that Orcs with that kind of body build would be.

The equipment he wore, if nothing else about him, was very Orcish though.

Full fur and leather attire of black, with two massive shoulder pads, one studded with huge fangs rising towards the sky. A furry loincloth around his nethers, black boots, and gloves trimmed with Fur, and around his head and neck, streaming behind his back, a mantle made from the head and pelt of some great beast. A Direwolf, perhaps.

Around his waist, he had a segmented leather belt, with a massive hammer attached to the side, while in his hands he carried two enormous, rugged and wicked, barbed axes.

They were not designed to split wood with that design. No, they were made to tear into flesh and rip asunder.

If he was a strange figure in this land, his companion was even more so. At his side, sat an enormous bear, almost as big as he was.

The two of them were looking down from a height, down into the distance where a strange sight was to be seen far away in the lands below.

A ginormous river, cutting through the barren landscape.

It hadn't been there yesterday.

The bear made a whining sound.

"Yes… This is clearly the work of the Orcs… Interesting… I wonder how they managed that."

The gigantic bear turned it's head sideways, before giving another whining sound.

Rexxar contemplated what the bear said.

"Hm…. I have wandered alone for many years, little Misha... Yet sometimes, even I grow weary of this endless solitude."

He began walking, aiming towards getting down the mountainside.

As they walked the bear, now tracking behind him with a steady pace asked a question.

"No… I doubt it means anything good. I have watched the other races. I have seen their squabbling, their ruthlessness. Their wars do nothing but scar the land and drive the wild things to extinction. I doubt this will be much different."

Another whine.

"No, they cannot be trusted. Only beasts are above deceit."

The bear didn't make another sound after that, instead keeping quiet as they made their way down.

It was a tall mountain.

He wondered if there were any taller ones left in the land. Mayhaps he should make his way back to the Barrens next.

It was, as they reached the bottom, that both of them heard a sound that instantly awoke their instincts.

The sound of steel on steel.

"A battle!"

Rexxar immediately began picking up his pace with a speed that seemed almost unnatural for something of his size.

The bear did likewise behind him.

As they came closer and closer, they began hearing voices and screams.

"Come, you mongrels! Taste the steel of Mogrin's axe!"

That was an Orcish voice. The ones he was fighting were Quillboars, he could tell that from the sound.

He made his decision before he even saw them.

Out from a small passageway in the rock, Rexxar and Misha burst out to the shock of an old, Orc warrior black, and a small host of Quilboar warriors armed with spears, lashers, and maces.

"Hold fast, stranger! You shall not stand alone!"

The two giants crashed into the Quilboar lines.

Axes swung as Rexxar began a dance he had learned the steps of from countless fights and battles.

The dance of steel, that always managed to bring out that feeling of rushing blood that always would reach a ceiling… Always reaching for, but never hitting the famous Bloodrage of the Orcs.

The battle lasted for short while after that, before the Quillboars turned and fled, but in the chaos, a spear raked the old Orc warrior across the gut.

It bit deep into his flesh, and he staggered backwards, before falling down to the ground with a thud.

The high left Rexxar then, as quickly as it always did after a battle.

The Orc coughed as Rexxar and Misha stepped up to them.

"Damned... cowards."

"Your stomach's been split open. I can do little to ease your pain."

His tone was not unsympathetic, but it was not coddling either.

The old Orc sighed.

"I know."

He sounded resigned.

"This... would be a good death… if not for my… failure."

"Failure?

"I was to deliver... a crucial report... to my chieftain in the lands below…"

Rexxar immediately understood. He was on a mission. The hunt. The scouting. The attack. You did your job, and you did it well. The Orcish ideal.

"But now... I have... failed him. I have lost my... honor."

Rexxar did not hesitate.

"I will deliver your message, old one. For the sake of honor, I will uphold your charge."

That was what a true Orc would have done. No true warrior would have turned his back on a dying comrade in arms… Even one as briefly acquainted as this.

The Old man smiled.

"Aka'magosh, warrior... Thank you… Seek out the city... of Orgrimmar, to the far north... Find... Warchief... Thrall. Tell him-"

His unsteady fingers grasped a scroll from his belt and held it up for Rexxar to see.

He took it.

The moment the scroll was out of his hand, Mogrin gave one, final gasp of breath, as his hand fell down, hitting the ground for the final time.

"May the winds bear you swiftly to your ancestors, warrior."

An Orc would have buried Mogrin based on his Clan's custom. Some in the earth, some underneath a stone, some at sea, and some would have given him to the fire.

Not Rexxar. That was not his way… Nor had it been the way of his father, or kin.

They left the dead to the wilds, to be reclaimed by nature. To take their place in the eternal cycle of life, death, and renewal.

He held the scroll to inspect it. It Was good paper. And it was paper, not some form of Parchment. That meant some effort had gone into making it. He did not unfurl the band around it, to read the contents. He had been given a task, and he would not dishonor himself by sullying it with needless curiosity.

"Well, Misha, it seems we'll be seeing civilization after all. Let's get moving."

I


The journey north took a while. They trekked through the eastern valley along the sea, before hitting the mountains.

On the way, they sustained themselves by killing several boars and feasting on their fried flesh.

Upon hitting the mountains they turned west.

Finding this "Orgrimmar" did not prove difficult.

The further west they went, the more and more he came across Orcs.

Farms were being constructed around this strange new river that stretched all throughout this land.

Not a few farms either. Hundreds of them.

The farmers gave him a variety of looks, but he did not stop to talk to them, nor did he make any aggressive moves.

Some knew what he was, and others whispered to each other words that made it clear they mistook him for an Ogre, having presumably never seen one in person.

More and more. Families living in tents, while stone houses were being built beside their farms, and pigs being sequestered in pens.

Yes… They were definitely settling here. The Orcs were planning to stay in this land.

Finally, he and Misha reached the spot he'd expected the city to be located. The entrance to a series of valleys inside the mountain range.

Here he found countless men at work laying the foundation for a truly massive wall stretching from one end of the gap to the other.

The entrance, which was where stones hadn't been put, was flanked by quite a lot of soldiers.

One of the Orcs, probably the one in charge raised an eyebrow as he stepped up to them.

It was best to declare his business here, rather than try to strut in with no comments.

"So you did come. We were wondering when you'd finally get here."

Rexxar raised an eyebrow beneath his mantle.

The men did not seem surprised to see him, nor show any sign of worry at his bear.

"You knew I was coming?"

"Fremde, Lord of Creation, knew you would come eventually. She knew not when… But she knew you would come here. We'll escort you to her, as per her Orders, and she will take you to Thrall."

"Good. I carry a message for your warchief. I'll not stay long."

At that, the Orcs began laughing uproariously, but they waved him on, while one of them began leading him into the city proper.

Orgrimmar was… Impressive. It was in the beginning stages, but he could already see the foundations of a mighty city begin to rise, in that first of the Valleys.

Orcs were everywhere, bustling from one place to another on some tasks whether it be carrying stones, food, lumber, or seemingly just running messages.

He also saw the warriors. Not just those who kept the peace, or soldiers on the march. He saw the way everyone carried themselves. The weapons so many carried close at hand even while at work.

"A warrior city. I have not seen it's like in many years."

The Orc grunt snorted.

"Nor will you ever again. Orgrimmar will be the capital of the Horde, the living center of Orc-kind. The birthplace of Warriors beyond equal."

Yes… He recognized that too. The attitude. The belief you and yours were destined for greatness.

"Stay close to me, Misha."

The bear whined but did indeed step closer to him.

"It's a whiny bear you've got there. I hope it's good at killing at least."

"She is."

The Orc eventually lead him to a house, with several guards in plate armor standing guard outside.

"Go tell the Warlord I brought the Mok'nathal she's been telling us about."

One of the guards stepped inside to do just that… Leading to some audible swearing, before shortly afterwards a figure stepped out of the house.

An old Orc woman wearing a… Strange form of garment.

It reminded him of the long coats Human captains liked to wear at sea… Just with all the frills and silly things removed.

It was red and trimmed with strong, black, Orcish Runes stitched directly into the clothing.

Beneath she wore a set of leather pants and a set of leather boots.

And across her shoulder, she carried Grom Hellscream's old axe.

That took him aback.

"Ah… Young Rexxar. I have heard a lot about your recent exploits… Your travels through the wilds of Kalimdor.."

"Is that so? And may I ask how you know this?"

The old woman grinned. She had a broken Tusks which made the whole thing off, in a way that was just hard to describe. Like the asymmetry of it, all was somehow a sin against nature itself.

"Through sources that are no longer with us, I'm afraid… But that work was not wasted. Now come Young Mok'nathal… Let's go meet Thrall."

At that she simply took off walking, leaving him to follow.

"Thrall will be eager to meet you. He is all about the old heroes, and tales of the past."

Rexxar snorted.

"I'm no Hero. Just a wanderer."

"You stood up to Grom, when he was at one of his worst moments, and walked your own way. Surrounded by thousands of Warsong soldiers. That takes guts."

She truly was a strange woman.

"Your titles… The Grunt said you were… The Lord of creation… But also referred to you as Warlord… But the way you speak… The things you know… You sound like a spymaster."

"I have been that too in my day… But I have left that part of my life behind. Now, I simply oversee the Development of the Horde's infrastructure. In all of it's branches."

"So… A bureaucrat?"

"Yes. That is one way to put it. But on other topics… What do you think of Orgrimmar Rexxar?"

"I like it far more than Blackrock Spire, I can tell you that much. The air is clean, and you can see the sky for one."

"Oh, you saw the old capital during your travels?"

So she didn't know everything then.

"After I parted ways with the Warsong Clan, I went North for a time. I saw the Burning Steppes and the Searing Gorge… I passed through the Badlands, and into Loch Modan. Then the Wetlands and into Stromgarde… There I met Ogres, who agreed to take me on their voyage across the sea."

"Yeah… They had the right idea long before the rest of us. Just like you did."

As they walked around, Rexxar did notice something.

He saw a lot of colors, colors of all the Orcish Clans who made it to Draenor, even Stormreavers… But one was missing.

The purple and Gold of Grom Hellscream's Warsong Clan.

"So… What happened to the Warsong Clan?"

"Oh, you noticed they're not here? Don't worry, they're alive and well… If chronically short on women. As a great Clan, Thrall granted them their own full domain, with dominion over the Stonetalon mountains to the west. Well… The parts we control anyway. There's still a lot of work to be done both here and there before this land is tamed."

"I see… So they ARE part of the Horde then?"

"They are. Grom was the Warchief's Bloodbrother. His only remaining family. It was under their leadership that we crossed the seas."

Was.

"So Grom is dead is he?"

"He is. He fell to demon influence… But thanks to the Warchief's aid, he was cleansed… And he went to slay Mannoroth, and break the Blood Curse on the Orcish people forever… Though he himself perished in the battle."

Yeah… That sounded about right.

The Hellscream he remembered was absolutely idiot enough to fall back under demonic influence… Though he had apparently gotten a true warrior's death from the sound of it.

That was good.

"So… You inherited Gorehowl."

"One of two yes. But the original one is in the Warchief's possession. And speaking of…"

She changed course to where a massive Orc sat on an enormous white Direwolf, overseeing the construction of a larger house.

"Shore up those supports! When the razorwinds kick in again, they'll tear those roofs right off!"

The peons were dressed far, far better than any such Rexxar had ever seen, but he had no doubts they were peons, given the work they were doing.

"Yes, Warchief!"

The way they spoke only reinforced that idea. He had heard that accent many enough times in his life.

"Thrall!"

The man stiffened at the voice and turned around, the wolf immediately began to trot over to Fremde but made sure to glare at Misha the entire time.

"A moment, Warchief. This warrior has come to deliver a message to you."

Thrall frowned, but Rexxar hooked one of his axes to his belt and pulled out the scroll, and handed it to the Warchief.

Thrall unfurled it and began reading. Judging by his expression, it was a serious matter.

"How did you come by this report? Where is Mogrin?"

"He fell in the wilds. His last wish was that you receive this message."

"And who are you, warrior?

"I am Rexxar, last son of the Mok'Nathal."

"Mok'Nathal! I've heard tales of your people. They had both orc and ogre blood in their veins. It is an honor. You must be the one Fremde has told me so much about… The lone wanderer across Kalimdor… We've built this kingdom, Durotar, for all our kind. Durotar is as much your home as it is mine, Rexxar. Stay awhile. Accept what hospitality we can offer. It is the least we could do for one of the Horde's lost sons."

It was… Very charitable of him.

So charitable in fact, that Rexxar almost immediately gave in.

Truth be told… Despite his words to Misha, he had truly wanted to see Orcish civilization again.

"Perhaps I have spent too long in the wilds. Your offer is kind, Thrall, but I must carry my own weight. I will accept nothing else. Just show me what needs doing, and I'll earn my keep."

At that, Thrall smiled.

"I understand. I had similar thoughts when I joined both the Warsong and the Frostwolf Clans… And founding a nation is tiresome work… There are many around here that could use your help. In fact… Rokhan!"

A troll who had been standing a bit off from everyone else walked up to them.

"Ya Bossman?"

"Didn't you say you wanted something to do, rather than just follow me around each day? I got a job for you. Rexxar, this is Rokhan of the Darkspear tribe. He is one of my best scouts."

"How you doin', mon?"

"Well enough."

"Rokhan, I want you to introduce Rexxar to certain folks around the city who needs… Extraordinary help. You know the ones. And help him out with the tasks laid before him."

"Sure, Bossman. Want me to talk with Gazlowe first?"

"Yes… that… Would probably be for the best. We do need clean water."

Some might have balked, or been annoyed at the prospect of hard work. But not Rexxar.

On the contrary… He felt his bones ache from a longing to do something. He really had been away from civilization for too long.