Narthok

Red Blood Green Skin The room was quiet. The commanders of the Alliance were awkwardly clustered around a large map pressed to a table. The reports of the scouts were clear. The coalition would march its forest through the rolling hills of Westmark. “We break them here or the war is lost” Grunted one of the gathered number. “The scouts claim they have little in the way of Cavalry, as with the previous sieges they intend to drown our walls with their heavy infantry”. In the corner of the command tent the Hordespeaker lurked, flanked by his champions and chieftains. Stooped awkwardly, the top of his head still brushed the top of the tent. Plodding forward he raised his hand to speak. “Warriors of Horde will ride beast, bring bow and spear. We fast. Coalition slow. Much space for moving.” extending his finger he’d tap the portion of the map where Gaspard had circled “Best chance winning” Having said his piece the Rex murmured something in blah to his warriors, the Orcish party departing. The season of war waxed as the moon. The elders spoke of manydyings being written in the stars. The warsong would be heard once more in the green lands of man. It was time for more Uruks to earn their good deaths. The young Rex stood breathless on the blood soaked fields. The corpses of coalition soldiers were stacked so high they nearly crested the height of the large Urukhim. But they had Victory The words were sweet on his tongue. Victory. Many had questioned their involvement in the war. Perhaps many still would. Yet the Rex had persisted. The horde had given its word. And its word was iron. In the early hours of the battle the Orcish cavalry had crested the ridge of the hill. In a crash of steel and horseflesh battle had been joined. The cavalry screen of the Coalition had been smashed by the weight of the Orcish charge. Men and horses screamed and weeped in pain. But it was over. Keshig Klog had been knocked from his mount after cleaving two warriors in half with his great Keshig Axe. Azfrai’Lur had taken a javelin trying to protect the Rex, her wounds were still being treated by the Goblin herbalists. Grommash winced as he remembered his precious Orcs throwing themselves onto lances to kill the knights behind them. Before the battle he had instructed the Orcish outriders that it was critical to utterly destroy any coalition cavalry if they were to have victory. He had not expected his orders to be taken so literally. More Orcish blood. More Orcish death. Yet they had died well. And finally they had died for a step forward in the war. The genocidal march of the Coalition had been shattered on the hills of Westmark. Atleast for now the Horde could breathe. A brief respite from the threat of annihilation that hung over its head. The army of eights’s numbers had seemed limitless. Their massive columns of soldiers armoured in black Daemonsteel nearly countless. But they were slow. They were stupid. With the corpses of Coalition cavalry nourishing the hills of Westmark they were vulnerable. From the hills and the forests rode the outriders of the Alliance, hammering arrow and javelin into the soft flanks of the column. Orcish javelins smashed through coalition shields, impaling the wielders and those behind them. As the Alliance went about its grim trade the Coalition leaders began to realize the danger of their position. The smug arrogance they had exhibited in the earlier days of the war was nowhere to be found as they shrilly screamed contradictory orders at their soldiers. Coalition soldiers ran around in panic, sprinting from tunnel to forest all as the jaws of the Alliance closed tighter, slowly whittling away at their numbers one death at a time. They had Victory Grommash remembered the warpath of Targoth Apek. The massive Uruk had his mount shot out from under him early in the battle. Yet he had continued on. Wielding his massive Keshig’s Axe, forged by the skillful Gazhnakh he had torn a bloody hole in the army of the coalition. Grommash had watched as Apek fell to his bloodlust, cleaving a soldier in half with one swing of his man-sized axe, before sinking his massive fangs into the throat of another. The victory still astounded the young Rex. Outnumbered almost three to one they had decisively defeated the enemy in the field. Looking down at his hands he could barely see the green under all the blood. He had been piked in the final charge, the impact knocking him unconscious, countless arrows bristled from his armour, a few had even punctured the plate and embedded them in the flesh below. Perhaps this is what Kho spoke of when he spoke of dying old. The thousand scars, the countless aches. Grommash brushed the thought from his mind. He drew breath thanks to the valiant effort of the Urukim to save their Rex from the hungry blades of the foe. Grom took a moment to offer up a prayer in thanks. He did not know by what auspices Krug had found him worthy to serve as Rex. Or how he had come to be blessed with such excellent Chieftains and Goths. Yet as his warriors broke out into celebratory dance Grommash was left alone with his thoughts. Many orcs had bled and some had died for this victory. Overwhelming as it had been, the coalition was still numerous. They had won a battle, but that was a far cry from winning the war. Perhaps having seen the brutal ineptitude of the coalition commanders would help some of the enemy see reason. Was the genocide of Adria and the Horde so desireable as to permit the inept to send their citizens to brutal death? Perhaps not. Today they had shown the coalition that the alliance would not roll over and die softly. The wolf still had teeth. The season of war waxed, and the war for the Midlands was not over. Goblin attendants of the Rex would read out letters to all the members of the Horde, both Urukim and vassal.

Grommash would stand in shock amongst the mounds of Coalition corpses. Their numbers had counted for little in the face of their panic and ineptitude of their commanders. With pride he cast his eye about his battered but unbroken warband. His warriors had proven themselves countless times over in the day's fighting. At the very tip of the spear they had broken the Coalition Cavalry at great cost to themselves. But in doing so they had prevented the slow cumbersome column from having any means to strike back at the nimble alliance forces. The war for Ultramar the Midlands was not over yet. But the invincibility of the enemy had been shattered.

I am not signing but I would like to give a comment / character witness. I have seen Candledragon grinding incredibly hard in old vale usually by themselves just to keep things alive. My rp interactions with them have been of great quality and they have been a real pleasure oocly as well. I have full confidence that they have the competence and gumption needed to make a settlement work and survive on lotc.

Tonguedancers and Honour Grommash reflected on his visit to the Nordelands as he rode south with his warriors. While they joked and shouted at one another, taking pleasure in mocking the conduct of the Nordlings the young Rex rode in silence. As usual he was confused. The more he spoke to other races the more confused he was becoming. These humans were fond of flowery words to tell lies with a smile. Over and over the Nordling had demanded that Grom do 'scheduling', was scheduling a strange human ritual to tell an unwelcome visitor to leave? The sun had been high in the sky, the wind had been blowing clean and clear from the west. What reason could the Norderex have for having their warriors act so rudely? If they had been occupied then they should have simply had their warriors inform Grommash. If they did not wish to share fire and meat with the Hordespeaker then so be it. Instead Grommash was met with these peculiar nordlings stomping their feet and shrieking. They had accused Grommash of all kinds of insults. The tongue dance his sire had told him of. The thousand ways to lie with words. It was interesting to see those who claimed 'honour' and 'civilization' show their true colours. When confronted with honour and truthspeaking they would gnash their teeth, perhaps enraged by one who would not play the tongue dance game? They had said that Grommash had come to kill Nordlings and to take the head of the Norderex, if that was true, then why would Grommash bring a peacebanner? He had brought peace banners man places. To the dwarves when he had first forged their warbond in the first days of his Rexdom. To the Balianites when he had returned the body and the possessions of the brave Balian warrior who had fallen in single combat. Yet the Nordish insisted on insulting Grom's honour. They claimed that the peacebanner was a wartrick? If this was true then why did the warriors of Grommash let the little guard scuttle past them and into the city. The guard had been so meek then. Only when he was safe behind the stone and the steel of his walls had his venom began to show. It reminded the young Rex of the jackals of the desert, their incessant laughter when they were safe, their squeals of pain and fear when the Lion grew tired of their barking. As his warbeast slowly made its way south, Grom took in the soft lands around him. He was reminded of the stories the elders had told when he was just a young orc cub. They had spoken of the old Norderexes in their snow covered fortresses. How they had waged war on the heartlanders, and how they had had war waged upon them. Their depraved state confused the Rex. When he had come to be master of the Horde he had found the orcs unorganized, scattered, divided. Yet the blood of the Urukim still flowed thick and strong, the quality was there, it merely needed to be honed. He saw none of the myths in these little warriors. In their words he heard ruin, not of his people or of any other, but of their own. A once great nation, a nation which had once mastered lands and legions, reduced to... this. In their eyes he could see the truth, they were well aware of what they had become. Perhaps that was the root of their hatred, a warrior of honour reminding them of what they no longer had, and could probably never recover. The season of war waxed, the dreams of Grom were much filled with the warsong of battle and death. Many more would die. Perhaps Grommash had condemned the Horde to annihilation. But Grommash remembered the words of the grizzled veteran Kho in that moment. "Better to die well, than to die old". Grom smiled, the sire of the Urukhim had a funny way of teaching lessons. It was better that the orcs live and fight without fear. That they embrace death with a smile, than be reduced to... Shaking the thought from his head he pulled his war horn from his belt and put it to his lips. The tone ringing out across the soft fields of the midlands. They would race home if death was coming for them then they would meet it well. If it was not then they had been blessed by the Grandsire to live another day in the sun. Lok'tar Ogar Grom thought to himself. Better death than dishonour.

Hozh, but change dah text tu nub black zo dah udders can read

The Beast Within It has been a long day. An understatement if ever there had been one. The siege of Brasca had been a hard and bloody affair, the tide of manflesh washing over the ramparts of the fortress after what seemed to be an eternity of bombardment. Truly Horen must have been part rabbit, such was the fecundity of his descendants. Yet the Orcs had stood in the ground. Eight foot tall warriors clad in black steel each doing the work of ten men. Great ologs sweeping the ramparts clear with each swing of their monstrous weapons. So freely did blood flow that the earthen ramparts grew muddy, having drunk too deeply of that red wine of life. Grommash grunted as he remembered the warsong from earlier in the day. The screams of the dying, the cleaving of flesh, the clang of metal. His dreams had been filled with the warsong these days, in the rare moments of respite where his eyes were allowed to close for a moment. It was moments such as this if he wondered about his choices. His dreams had proven truer than he could imagine. A war of this size had not been seen for many years. Many had died, many more would die. As he sat beside one of the innumerable cooking fires of the hordelands that harsh fact was all too real. Even now his warriors limped back from the battle. The sands were laden with funeral pyres, giant shrouded corpses arrayed around them, each waiting for their turn in the flames. Had he made a mistake? The thought haunted his waking hours. So many warriors sent to die for another human war. Daily he received missives from the innumerable princes of the midlands. They promised steel and fire. Death for all orcs. Whenever Grommash closed his eyes he could see flashes of the battle. He remembered the great Gorom’Vinteki roaring in pain and fury, human pike man stabbing at him as he dealt death with his massive club. He remembered his keshig, Klog and Apek dragging him from the battle field as he battled against the blood rage that consumed so much of his life. He remembered watching proud orcs fall one by one. Mountains of human corpses at their feet. Some laughed as they died, impaled by spears and arrows, having earned their good death. Yet despite the slaughter many Orcs had conducted themselves well. The venerable Falum’lur and Kho’Gorkil slaughtering many foes before rallying to the war horn of the Rex. Brasca had fallen, but they had managed, somehow, to fight their way to safety. Grommash remembered his spirit walks with the wizened Falum’lur, the wisdom he had gained from the old Rexes of the past. Yet still he could feel the scare of his Grandsire deep in his soul, For all his discipline, all his learning from the wise elders, the curse of Krug always lurked. Snarling he rose to his feet, stalking past the wounded and the corpses he made his way through the shifting sands and oases towards the black gate. The last of the Horde’s rear guard were finally arriving, accompanying the early rays of the rising dawn. Yes there were dead. Yes there were wounded. But there was so much more. Grommash watched his warriors returning home and his heart stirred. Straight backed and heads held high for the first time Grommash saw pride in his people. Despite suffering a set back in their first battle an even greater number of orcs had answered the Rex’s call for the second battle. With each day a great number of Krug’s children rallied to the banner of the Hordespeaker and his Chieftains. Perhaps here was a horde finally worth fighting for, worth dying for. Perhaps this was some small glimpse into what it meant to be orcish. Cursed as they were by the mark of Krug, so vulnerable to the beast within, theirs was the path of hardship. Through rigorous training could the beast within be confronted, suppressed, mastered. The children of Krug would not be animals. They would not be slaves to the rage that burned within each of them. As the warriors returned to the Goi they set about their tasks with grim determination. The Ruka’s under the supervision of the Minto’lur already laboured in the mines, the foundries and on the walls. The warriors of the Krughai forged by Grimruk’lur and honed daily by the training of Klog ad Apek were already returning to their brutal training regimen. Grommash turned from his warriors, heading into the city to meet his Goths at the Gothklamor. The spirit of the Horde had been hardened. The tide that bled was coming for them. And unlike so many others, they would meet it standing.

The Mysterious Case of the Boat Parachute The clang of metal played second fiddle to the warsong of battle cries and death screams piercing the final minutes of dusk. The warriors of Veletz and the Horde had stormed the heights of the Aaunish fortress, scattering what palty guards were available before putting the Aaunish king and the Haenser Pontiff to heel. By some strange miracle the two of them accompanied by their sycophants clambered into strange looking water craft, launching them from the heights of the fortress Grommash awoke from his fanciful dream with a start. His dreams were oftfilled with the mysterious augurs these days, many that demanded the interpretation of the wizened Madoc and Falum. Yet this strange dream left him totally disoriented. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he turned towards the door. The young Vinteki orcs, Klog and Apek cast aside the curtains of his sleeping chamber, informing him that their warband along with the warriors of Veletz had captured the King of Aaun and the Pontiff. Snorting the Hordepskear rolled from his pile of furs, beginning to bark orders to his various goblin attendants. A letter would be compiled, perhaps it was time for words. To Haenserex and associated Haensevassals Grommash writes to you on behalf of the Alliance. We have captured the Aaunrex vassal of Haense, and the Pontiff, also vassal of Haense. I am told by the Velerex and his advisors that these two human lords are very important to the Haense Empire. You have abandoned your vassals and your allies, for what reason we cannot fathom. Rather than merely slaughtering them, compelling you and your penslaves to write angry letters telling your people about how evil I am, I propose something more interesting. By the Honour of the Velerex and the Hordespeaker the Haense vassals will be spared and held as hostages. The Haenserex, representing his Empire will meet with the Velerex and the Hordespeaker to discuss peace terms. HIS GRACE, Gaspard of the House van Aert, Captain-General of the League of Veletz,the Bull of Middelan, Duke of Middelan, Bannerlord of Velec, Protector of the Midlanders *The Red Hand of Grommash has been pressed to the page, closer inspection would reveal the hand print to be Orcblood.

Grommash gasps in outrage "This is fake news!, I never fought the ologarch!"

Hordespeaker Grommash would receive news of the decisive victory of the Alliance against the Axis of Five. He would nod, chuckling to himself as news of the brutal slaughter reached his ears. Upon hearing of the capture of the Hysparex he would depart to Veletz immediately, there were words to be had.

The Battle of Orcoburg Desert The young Hordespeaker sat on the walls of San’Briu. The hot sun of the desert briefly cloaked with clouds as a cool breeze swept down from the mountains of the Hordelands. For a brief moment he was alone. The clamouring of the Goths and the clan chieftains, the incessant letters from humans, all in their irritating chicken scratch text, the direction of the Rukas, the training of the Krughai; for a moment he had silence. It was time to think. He had returned from the diplomacy meeting with the Haenser Rex. His chieftains had urged him not to go to the meeting, surely he would be assassinated, the Horde’s fragile stability would be shattered with the taking of one life. Luckily the quick wit of Kho’Gorkil had saved him from such a dishonourable course. A day for cunning rather than for brutality. The warriors who had assembled to Guard the Hordespeaker had all donned the armour of the Horde, as had Grommash. Young warriors such as Kub’ub rugged veterans such as Grimruk’Lur were indistinguishable beneath the full helms of the Krughai armour. They had ventured to the snowlands of the Haensers. They had been offered little of interest, so they had returned. The humans always wove such wondrous pictures with their words, yet Grommash always recalled the words of the Ologarch. He would not be led astray. Surprisingly they had not been attacked on their departure. Perhaps the humans understood the sacred laws of Guestright and honour. == The Hordespeaker was left with a curious predicament. One way or another blood would flow in the lands of men. Where would that lead his fragile horde. The chieftains had accepted him as the voice of the Horde. His people were beginning to show signs of flourishing. Old urukz not seen in the Hordelands for many years were beginning to return. Kybal, Chieftain of the Akaals had returned, paying homage to the Lord of the Horde amongst his warband before bestowing upon him the massive Rexhammer. The ancient elders Eath’Lur and Falum’Lur had returned, seen often in whispered conversation near the bonfire, bent from the centuries the two of them had witnessed. Yet the Horde swelled with new life as young orcs entered adulthood, proudly joining the warriors, the workers or the shamans. The vitality of these young warriors had already led them to many victories not only in the hunting grounds but on the endless tribute missions and raids of the Horde. So much promise. Yet so fragile. A single mistake and the clans would be at each other’s throats once more. It was not enough. Many times before the Orcs had emerged from squalor, rebuilding themselves into something of note. Only to be smashed. If the humans were allowed to fight then the winner would once more become the dominant power. And as so many times, the bored humans would look to the activities of the Orcs as an easy distraction. A brief expedition into the holy desert, drowning the children of the Horde in a tide of flesh. If the cycle of the Orcs was to be broken then history must be seized with both hands. Now was the season of war, and his Horde would not hide meekly in the sidelines waiting for a new overlord to emerge that they must cower to. It would be war. == The traveller Izh’Rak has returned to the Hordelands recently, seeking a brief respite amongst his brethren before he ventured once more from the holy desert to learn of the Krugless. The Horde-see’r spoke of great columns of humans clad in steel, vast trails of wagons laden with foodstuffs and engines of war. The bragging and the threats of humans was one thing. They were a proud and short lived race. Breeding likes rabbits and consuming everything in their path. Grommash could tolerate their tongue dancing. But he would not tolerate the violation of the holy Hordelands. The desert was a beautiful thing. Around the cooking fires the Shamans leaped and danced, drawing the very stars down from the night sky as they spun memories from words. Krug had given the desert to his children. Not the forests of the Elfs, not the mountain fortresses of the Dwarfs, nor the fertile meadows of the Humans, Krug had given his children the best land. The Desert was hard, it was flat. One found no respite or refuge in the desert, hardened each day by the sun the greenskins grew strong. This was the blessing of Krug, he had placed them in the crucible, and like steel the Orcs, the Ologs, the Goblins, all had become hard. Those who could not survive died. And thus the Horde grew stronger with each passing generation. These humans with their great caravans thought they could march through the holy lands of Krug without asking for permission? They thought they could defile the sands with the dung of their idiot oxen? Poison the oases with the infinite thirst of their uncountable throats? No. The dreams of the Hordespeaker had spoken the truth. For months his rest has been filled with the scent of blood, with cries of pain and the clash of steel on steel. The Warsong was on the dream winds. Soon it would be heard on the winds of the waking world as well. Peering into the flames of his cooking fire Grommash called for one of his trusted Rukas “Minto” He rumbled “Find Grimruk, find Kho, summon the chieftains. The desert cries out for justice. Krug demands blood. The Horde is going to war” WARGOAL: Interception of the Balian Warpath, Preventing the Balian Army from passing through Orcish lands, Preventing the Balian Army from reaching Veletz to reinforce [Interception to take place on Desert 8] ATTACKERS: The Kingdom of Balian DEFENDERS: The Horde TIME: Not really sure how this works tbh. I don't think anyone has done an interception battle before. LOCATION/WARPATH: Rules as Written justifying this War Action: Proof of Sovereignty

"Konichi'ug" says the young Hordespeaker, shepherding the flood of new young orcs into the Krughai barracks for training. The song of war was on the wind, it was time to live up to the legacy of their greatsire Krug.

"Pretty based" says Grommash, excited that there will finally be a proper war

Grommash congratulates the fleeper for defeating the legendary Trackpad Tornado of the Iron Horde

The First Hozhklammor of the New Horde THUNDER, THUNDER IN THE HORDELANDS. The great Horn of Yar bellowed its song across the valleys and peaks of the Hordelands.The Rex’s Klammor would soon begin, the Horde was summoned. The many peoples of the Horde streamed across the badlands. Caravans laden with gifts and goods meandered across the rain starved plains, whilst bands of Lur hunters astride their great wulfen mountains raced back to the beating heart of the Horde. Approaching the heart of the Hordelands one would notice great changes afoot. Even as merchants, venerable elder Shamans and great Wargoth clanlords made their way through the gaping maw of the city the sounds of labour could still be heard. The Pale Orc, the Yazgurtan of the horde could be seen speaking to her Rukagoths and the gangs of Ruka Orcs swarming over the city with feverish abandon. The strange halfling merchant who muttered in Orcish blah could sometimes be overheard gossiping about a mysterious ‘Orcgrimmar’ but none could really say if he spoke truth or madness. The young Rex stood at the gate, a keen eye laid to the souls entering what had only recently become his domain. As the twin warlords of the Horde, the proud Wargoth of the Gorkils, Kho, and the animated Wargoth Grimruk of the Lur arrived, accompanied by their warriors, the Rex made his way to the Klammorhall. The Horde would speak, and the Horde would listen. Such was the way of the Klamor. The Rex looked down on his people. There was none of the cold discipline of the humans. None of the austere haughtiness of the elves. His were a raucous people. Entering in their innumerable colours and fineries already the people of the Horde bickered. Grommash had not yet opened his mouth, yet the noise in the hall was near deafening. Clans bickered over old feuds. Massive Uruk warriors nearing nine feet in height slammed their heads into one another before beginning to brawl in the middle of the great meeting. They were his people. Unlike any other. And he loved them. Letting out a laugh as he reflected upon the proceedings he drew in a deep breath, his lungs expanding impossibly wide before letting out a great roar. “Brothers of the Horde” he began “Today we have important business to discuss, today is the first Klamor of Grommash. Today the Horde will learn of its future. Today the Horde will speak, and the Horde will listen The Old Dominus has proven unworthy of the title. He has stolen from the Horde, he has shirked his duties. The Horde does not, no, the Horde CANNOT be led by those who will not put the Horde first. The Horde will not be led by those who would steal from the Horde for their own benefit. Marosh is STRIPPED of Dominus and declared OUTSIDE HONOUR. He will have no clan. He will have no people. He will have no rights in the Horde. He is WHITEWASH. Any honourable member of the horde is to kill him on sight no matter the circumstance. With the departure of the WICKED Marosh, may Krug spit on his memory, the Horde finds itself in need of a new Dominus. I say now to the entire Horde. Any interested in the position of Dominus step forward." Rolling his massive shoulders the Wargoth of the Gorkils stepped forward, his back to the Rex he faced down the Horde. “I claim the title of Dominus, is there any who would challenge my right” Slamming a massive fist on the table a warrior would rise “Grothzark of the Dom challenges” He bellowed, stomping directly over the feast table, kicking the innumerable cups and plates out of the way as he did so. With a Roar the two warriors met in the center of the massive hall. Neither made any attempt at defence, simply slamming their massive fists into the others face. With a scream of rage the mighty Gorkil drove his fist into the face of his immense opponent. The final blow dropping the Orc warrior to the floor. Offering a mighty WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH scream to the sky the Gorkil extended his hand, offering the fallen Orc a hand back to his feet. The hall exploded into cheers. A new Dominus had been chosen. “Kho’Gorkil is the new Dominus of the Horde” Grommash declared to the cheering crowd “Now, to the next business. The song of war can be heard on the winds. Each of us knows in our hearts that the season of war is once again upon us. This Horde needs a Targoth, one who is not only strong, but one who can lead others, who can trade the young warriors of this Horde into the hardened warriors they must be. Let any who desires the title of Targoth declare themselves now” Forward stepped Grimruk’Lur, Wargoth of the Lur clan, storied warrior with many successful raids to his name. “I claim Targoth, are there any who would challenge me” The Wargoth declared, waiting. As before an Orcish warrior, the scarred veteran Himdokh stepped forward Once more the two Orcs met with a vicious clash in the center of the hall. Blood flew as the two massive beasts exchanged blows. After what seemed an age, Himdokh began to tire. Wasting no time Grimruk darted forward for the kill, covering his opponent with blows until at last the great warrior fell to his knees, a blow to the jaw robbing his consciousness for a mere moment. Yet it was long enough. Once again the hall erupted into cheers, “Grimruk of the Lurs shall be the new Targoth of the Horde” Grammosh waited for the celebrations and war cries to subside before he continued “But it is not enough for the Horde to have great warriors at its heart. Even with the strongest warriors we would be complete. The Horde needs wisdom. I call on Madoc of the Lurs to speak on the ways of the Shamans” The elderly Shaman ambled forward. He declared his claim for Motsham, spiritual leader of the Horde. Yet this time none challenged his claim. Madoc’Lur would be Motsham. Madoc’Lur would shepherd the souls of the horde and commune with the spirits of the lands. Yet unlike his predecessors, Madoc would have duties to the Horde, and to Shamanism. Under his leadership a great council of shamsn would be established. Comprised of the spirit-talkers and spirit-walkers of all the spiritualist peoples. The Great Spirit lodge would teach the ways of spiritualism to the people of the Horde, and would cleanse the Hordelands of the decay and filth that had plagued it for so long. With the important leaders of the Horde selected, Grommash called forth the various vassals of the Horde. Each pledging loyalty, Grommash responds on behalf of the Horde, promising protection and lands in exchange for tax and martial service. A few other Horde affairs were discussed. Banishments lifted, Offenders pardoned, and questions answered, old orcish feuds put to rest. Rex had spoken. Now it was time to listen to the Horde. As the last supplicant finished their requests Grommash took a moment to lean on his axe. It had been a long meeting. The Klammor had lived up to its reputation, the hall had been filled with bickering for the entire duration of the meeting, Raising a hand he brought silence to the hall. “Before we depart I have a final announcement to make. The Hordelands and the Goi must undergo a complete overhaul. I will be working with the Yazgurtan and the Rukagoths on the Orcgrimmar Project. Those interested in supporting the Horde and the project and encouraged to speak to me or the Yazgurtan and her Rukagoths. Some of you have spoken to me of your doubts. I thank you for your wisdom. But this Horde must move forward. Orcgrimmar will be built. However, we cannot forget the past. For it has important wisdom that we must learn from. The heroes of the past and the villains must be remembered. I ask Motsham Madoc'Lur to have his shamans organize a great memorial feast and prayer for San'Briu. We must give thanks for those that came before us, and learn from their example.” With that he dismissed the Klammor, the many clans, tribes, and vassals streaming from the hall. Yet there was a new energy to the Horde, subtle, but noticeable. Perhaps once more the people of the horde were regaining confidence, but only time would tell. For now there was much to do, and so little time. The season of war grew closer with every passing day, would the Horde be ready?

"With the song of war on the wind, the Krughai will need to become strong quickly" Grommash would murmur to himself, striding off to discuss the construction of arms, armour and war machines with the Rukas of the Horde.

Grommash grunts as he is brought news that one of the human shamans is telling lies, summoning his favourite goblin scribe he begins to dictate a letter outlining the position of the Horde

Grommash nods in approval at the declaration of the proud wargoth

A Rex’s First Address The Goi bustled with new life, goblin and orc workers running about the large city carrying out the orders of the new Rex. Change was coming to the Horde. As pickaxes smashed into sandstone and food and cloth were bundled and strapped to moaning beasts of burden, the young Rex turned to one of his freshly acquired Goblin attendants. “I have words for the Horde” he grunted “You will spread them” The goblin hurriedly withdrew a scrap of parchment from his voluminous robes and quickly began to scratch down the words of the Orc. “My name is Grommash, I am Rex of the Horde. Here are my words. All Orcs belong to the Horde. All Orcs are welcome in the Horde. All banishments are lifted I ask that all Shamans return to the Goi to select a new Motsham. I am not knowledgeable in the ways of Shamanism. For a strong Motsham to be chosen I require the advice of the shamans. All tributaries and vassals of the Horde must come to the Goi and speak to me in person. You will tell me what your agreement was with the Ologarch. We will discuss new terms of agreement if you have been useful to the Horde. The Orcs have lost their way. We have forgotten the path of hardship, of Krug, of Honour. Once we have finished preparations I will be taking the Horde into the desert. Our people will be hardened by thirst, hunger, sand and sun. The Horde will focus on honour and on shamanism once more. All Orcs and all people of the Horde are summoned to the Goi for a Klammor on the 5th day of this year [Friday 4pm est in the Goi] For the duration of the Klammor there is to be no feuding or fighting between any people of the Horde, greenskin or otherwise. This is a time for Orcs to discuss Orc futures. Hear my words, I have spoken. With that the Rex would wave the Goblin off with a hand, turning back to his many tasks. Within the hour many goblin riders would bolt from the city of the Orcs, bearing missives to the far flung tribes and clans they could think of. Standing on the battlements overlooking the lands over which he now held dominion, the young Rex could not help but think to himself that there was an uncertain future before him. His people had once been strong and proud. Fearing no one, secure in their traditions and the ancient ways of their sires. Now they were a shadow of themselves. Shattered and divided. The wise and learned shamans far away, the traditions thin and fading. His would be a time of turbulence and change. If the Horde was to be rebuilt, strong, proud and free, then he would need help. He would need strong chieftains and strong shamans. That would come later, for now, the foundations.