The Way

[Narthok 10416]

 

 

The Scarred Servant

Spoiler

 

 

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In through the nose, out through the mouth, breathe. The wind howled about the cloaked figure, perched precariously on the mountain plateau. Screams, laughter, tears, rage, blood. Today, the voices of the wind had much to share, much to be heard. The listener did not mind; there was no war to fight, no clan to feed, no petty squabbles to resolve. Here, alone with his thoughts, the figure had peace. 

 

In through the nose, out through the mouth, breathe. The listener opened his eyes, casting his gaze on the world below the mountain. Endless sand, punctuated with the occasional sun-blasted mountain, cousins of his own refuge. The winds danced in the setting sun, taking up the dust of the desert in great swirls. Tears came to the see’ers eyes. The winds danced the dance of the hunt, of the young warrior, freshly blooded, bringing meat, fur, and horn back to his clan, back to the many kubs of his tent. 

 

The winds were capricious creatures. Older than the days, they had seen the rise and fall of countless empires, innumerable joys and sorrows. Naive and childlike, unchained by the qualms of mortals, yet capable of great wisdom, for there was little that could be hidden from the winds. Their favour and friendship was ever fickle. Yet, in a curious break with their nature, they had persisted n torturing the world-weary see’er

 

The winds shifted, and the joyous dance of youth faded, harshing, blood, rage, and sorrow. Red fangs in the sunset, the death of beloved comrades, the blood fields of broken blades. The see’ers fists tightened, his unkept nails cutting into the calloused green flesh of his palm. Even now, his jailors tortured him. He had taken up the mantle of leadership, though he was without clan or kin. He had served his people. Served them in mind, in spirit, in body, his massive frame bearing the enduring scars of his service, his haggard eyes betraying his nightmare-haunted dreams. He had served. Yet it was not enough.

 

Turning his gaze from the dance of the wind, the see’er looked to his hand, the blood flowing slowly down his forearm. The blood fire still burned within him. The great curse of the deceiver on the Children of the Firstborn. He remembered the years of blood, his futile struggle against the slave-bond of the curse. 

 

What could the winds know of the bloodfiire. What could they know of the fleshtide. Of the clans starving as the hunting grounds dwindled. What could the wind know of the sweet bliss of the curse, the first bite into meat after days without food, the cool reprieve of the oasis pool after hours being blasted by the desert sun. The gentle caress of a love when driving your axe into the foe, spilling their hot blood upon the earth, hearing the warsong of iron and screams fill the ears. This was the curse of his people. The slave-bond inflicted by the lie-speaker. The great shame. How could the Children of the first-born speak of strength when they lived in slavery. Pathetic.

 

His heartbeat quickened, the song began to roar in his ears, the sweet temptation of the curse. So gentle, so easy, he just had to give in, to surrender to what he was. The bird flies, the wolf howls, the - No. Whipping his head back the see’er roared banishing the silken words from his mind. He was not an animal, his people were not animals. They would not succumb to the slavery that had been inficted upon them. They would not satisfy the lie-speaker’s hatred of their forefather, the Firstborn.

 

In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe. In through the nose out through the mouth. Breathe. His heartbeat slowed, the warsong dimmed. Today at least, he would not be a slave. The dance of the wind redoubled. He jailors, delighting in his pain. The see’er bore no chains yet like all his people he was not free. He had served yet his service was not done. Shaking his head against the raucous laughter of the wind, the See’er began to descend. 

 

 

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Home

 

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His return was met with little fanfare. The listener, his bulk obscured by his ragged cloak was dismissed as another member of the shuffling clans making their way towards the new city of the new Rex. He took his time in that city, an eye to the construction of straight lines and carven stones of these new kinfolk from the north. The listener was struck by the lack of chieftains or clans. Though rarely as ornamented as the other races, the chieftains often wore a crown of spirit, they were easily recognizeable by their posture, the subtle movement of the head and the eye, the assured confidence that a master of war and the hunt exuded. Nor did the listener recognize the other signs of clan, the cliques of warriors and hunters, the insularity. The glances not of fear, but of measuring, calculating, watching, the look of predators sharing an uneasy truce at the watering hole. 

 

“Grommash”

 

Said softly, barely above a whisper, yet movement ceased. The sharp ears of the Children latching on to even the softest of sounds, particularly those invoking the name of the controvertial Rex of old. Removing his hood from his brow Grommash straightened, searching the crowd for the one who had said his name. The face of the exile was much changed from his tenure on the great throne of Orcgrimmar. His face, once noble, fired with youth was now a harsh caricature of its old glory. Gaunt and sunburnt, painted with hunger this was a face well acquainted with suffering. But perhaps the most striking change was his eyes, harsh piercing flames set deep within the leathery face of the exile. 

 

Turning, he found his mark. A small Urukine doe looking up at the strange alien that she once new as Rex, master of the Urukim.

 

“Throm’ka”

 

He had not spoken for so long. Only the elements serving as his companions. To feel the harsh tones of hhis native tongue flow from him once more was oddly comforting. Yet his words were stilted, awkward, lacking the idealistic zeal of his youth, he had been tempered by caution, by wisdom. 

 

Upon his uttering of the formalistic Uruk greeting the exile was flooded with questions. Where had he been all of these years? Why had he abandoned the Horde? What had he done with Daga’lur? Had he returned to be Rex. Had he returned to save the Urukim in their time of need. Grommash let the questions wash over him. Now was not the time to answer them. Nor would his answers satisfy. He had come to observe the new Rex from the north, to see the new nation of the Urukim. 

 

He had come to speak of the way.

 

The exile was brought into the new throneroom, a work of cut stone and glass. Alien to the eyes of the desert wanderer, but nevertheless these Urukim from the north were still Children of the Firstborn. The northern Rex was in the midst of resolving some dispute, his throne surrounded by a jostling throng of the Urukim, each clamouring for the attention of the newly minted master of the clans. 

 

Grommash recognized some of the gathered Uruk, Keshig from his own reign, towering warriors lathered in the scars of war. Shamans and mystics, their totems and charms hanging off of their robes, bickering over the innumerable differences of their thousand petty Gods. The exile shook his head, the chattering.

 

Tedious

 

They were meant for so much more. The blood of the Firstborn flowed in their veins, yet all the Urukim could do is brawl and roll around in the mud like animals. The pounding of his heart began to beat in his ears;the song of war, the screams, the clash of metal on metal. Why must he tolerate the foolishness? Why not draw his axe, quench the bloodthirst of the parched ground? Deliver these noisemakers to their ignoble and deserved end. With a snarl, and a slap to the face the exile banished the siren’s call of the bloodfire. He would not be a slave to the curse, not today. Despite the squabbling, Grommash was impressed with the young Rex. he spoke confidently and assigned tasks with an efficiency uncommon to the typical Uruk Rex.

 

But it was not enough. The Urukim needed something new yet also very old. They needed to break the bonds of their slavery and return to the roots of their forefather. 

 

 

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The Way of the Children

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Grommash departed the city of the Urukim. He had never felt comfortable around his people.The clanless Uruk, born with no people, he had preferred the comfortable silence of the hunt. Yet the will of the Firstborn had thrust him into mastery over the Urukim. There were many amongst the Children, ambitious chieftains, shamans of unusual charisma, who coveted the title of Rex. Yet the title had fallen to Grommash almost as a joke, placed upon his shoulders almost as a cruel joke by the ology tyrant who had preceded the reign of the then-fledgling Uruk warrior. 

 

Yet Grommash had been Rex. He had returned the banished clans to the fold, suppressed the ancient blood feuds of the Urukim, and through the cruel machinations of the deceiver embroiled his people in war. On his assumption of the Rexdom the Urukim had been scattered to the four winds, the few clans clinging to the homeland had been sparse in number, thinned by poor hunting and the endless squabbling of the warriors. In their division, their weakness, their foolishness, the hunting lands of the Urukim had been defiled. 

 

For many moons, the sleep of the young chieftain was tortured; the spirits screamed and roared and the outrage. Foreigners occupied the lands of the Urukim, the appointed servants of the Firstborn, this could not stand. The oases that fed the roaming herds of the south ran dry, the hunting lands slowly eaten away by the settlement of the diminutive humans. The hunts grew sparse and the Children grew ever thinner; there was simply not enough food

 

Again the fates laughed at the suffering of the chieftain. As surely as the sun rises and the herds roam the humans will go to war. As with the seasons, on occasion, there shall be a great overflow, a season of seasons, or a torrential rain or fire that the elders will speak of until the old memories are replaced by a new season of seasons. Such was the war into which the chieftain was thrust. The human realms marched to war, both approached the young chieftain, assuming perhaps that they could cajole the Urukim into dying in their wars for trinkets and empty promises. Grommash remembered their looks of disgust and condescension. They viewed his people like animals, their disrespect poorly veiled behind their far less veiled fear of his warriors, the pride of the Urukim, whose massive size dwarfed all who opposed them.

 

One promised to remove the trespassers from the land of the people, one did not. The choice was clear. The war of wars had come to the Urukim. Many of the Children would die. Sent to their deaths by a Rex who saw no other way. Grommash remembered the fallen well. In his travels he had revisited the sites of the battles many times. He had sat amongst the sunbleached bones and rusted armour of his fallen brethren, the memory of their deaths still burning bright in his mind.

 

He remembered riding with his warriors at Westmark the great armoured Urukim leading the vanguard. Loud had the warsong been that day. The clash of steel on steel, the hideous screams of dying men and warbeast. The roars and laughter of Uruk warriors fulling giving themselves over to the bloodfire. Grommash remembered the massive Uruk, torsos pierced by pikes, his warbeast dying beneath him laughing as he snapped pikes with his bare hands, ripping heads from torsos and soaking himself in blood, laughing in the throes of the bloodmadness as death took them, still standing.

 

He remembered standing amongst the battered but celebrating humans, the piles of enemy dead exceeding the height of even the Urukim. Yet all he could think about is how few of his warriors had survived. Yet it was upon his shoulders the Firstborn had placed the mantle of Rex; it was Grommash who had been commanded to serve as a Rex must serve. 

 

His warriors had died good deaths. But it had not been enough. The Kingdom of their human allies had been broken, all that remained was a ghost-haunted ruin. The vassals of the Kingdom breaking their oaths and supping with the enemy. Pathetic. The bloodfire robbed to Uruk of his nobility, of the greatest test of strength of all, the mastery of the self, yet honour still remained. To break oaths, better to die than to live the life of the lowest honourless vermin. The thought provided some solace to the exile, his warriors had died good deaths. While the strength of man had failed, the Urukim had built strong walls and prepared for the worst. Yet the hammer never came, and still the Children of the Firstborn lived free of the yoke of the north.

 

His time as Rex had passed, the Firstborn had placed the mantle of Rex upon the shoulders of another, commanding him to serve as a Rex must serve. Grommash had been commanded to serve; how precisely, he was not sure. It was time to teach the Children of the Firstborn, the Urukim, the way of their progenitor. It was time they returned to the ways of Krug. To the ways of strength and honour. 

 

Perhaps this is how the Firstborn wished for his world-wearied son to serve? Grommash did not know. As he made his way from the city he turned his gaze beyond the territory of the Urukim. There were many of the Children out there living apart from the Horde. First Grommash would gather them. Then perhaps they could begin to their place in the destiny of their people. Perhaps they could learn the way.

 

Spoiler

The intent of this post is to give an account of Grommash's perspective of orcish life and purpose. He believes in a system simply described as 'the way'. This system holds both external action and internal state in equal standing in terms of determining virtuous or meritorious action. In Grommash's eyes the blood curse upon his people is a longstanding humiliation played by Iblees upon the descendants of Krug. To turn the strongest of the descendants into slaves to their animal impulses, therby making them the 'weakest'. 

Grommash hopes to not only master his own impulses and free or at least minimize his slavery to the curse if the Orcs, but also to convince other Orcs that 'way' is the correct way for Orcs to live. Demonstrating strength not only through feats of strength but feats of self mastery. And honour through using strength for ends that align with the desire of Krug, the firstborn, progenitor of the greenskin races.

 

[Samson Option 9652]

Zilzibin squatted at the edge of a cliff-face that stared down across the entrance into the Lurakhangoi. The grizzled veteran of the guerrilla campaign recently ended against Hyspia watched protectively over his superior, the old Rex, as Grommash left for the sprawling savannah beyond the capitol. He tilted an ear to his naseeha, his admonitions, and took them to heart.