The hot Duratar sun setting to the west made the city glow against the deep blue of the sky. The earthen walls radiated the heat they had absorbed all day, releasing it to flow over the barren landscape and the group facing the massive gates, waiting.

They all sat astride scruffy black worg mounts, in columns with armor spit-shined, if not matched or of the highest quality; a miss-matched bunch, but quiet, lethally patient and unaffected by the gathering and curious crowd around them.

Pikki turned slightly at the sound of a muffled whisper, glaring angrily at the nearest grot who lowered his eyes quickly then stared straight ahead. “Dese grots are gitten outta ‘and” she thought, grinding her teeth. She squeezed her shoulder blades together trying to hasten the drop of sweat sliding slowly down her back, making her even more irritable than normal.

“Wha’ da bloody‘ell am I doin ‘ere.”

Not a new thought. It surfaced every so often, mostly at times like this, waiting for something. She hated waiting. She had no trouble watching, at least she knew what she was watching for…

She focused again as a shout from ahead caused the riders to move. She had warned the grots that if any screwed up in front of the Warchief, they would be tied to the catapult and launched at Fort Triumph. They seemed to have listened for once as the two lines moved out smoothly toward the gates and through into Orgrimmar.

The crowd usually gathered inside, counting their gold or stumbling out of the tavern, turned at the approach of the silent soldiers, led by Kromgosh, Warchief and Elder of the Blacktooth Grin Clan. Some stared, some ignored, some jeered once the tabards were recognized. The column continued at a walk, as Pikki watched carefully for any missteps. She felt a touch of pride as the grunts and grots in front of her continued unaffected after their Warchief, through the streets and into the Great Hall itself.

As Kromgosh stood defiantly, meeting the glaring eyes of Hellscream and ignoring the others standing around the Horde Warchief, Pikki wondered again at her place here. Kromgosh’s words flowed over her, some penetrated, but it wasn’t the words, so much as the atmosphere and attitude with which they were delivered. She felt the tension in the room, she felt the pride of the Clan circling their Chief, she felt the disdain of the sycophants who hovered, waiting for their turn.

It wasn’t in her to delve too deeply into the reasons for anything. She mostly took things at face value, black and white, good and bad. Lately though…it had to be since the discovery of Chaoseater at the Dream Place portal, she thinks…gray shadows had started creeping in. There were cracks in the good and evil armor that had seemed so solid before. Thoughts of her place, and her reason for being here started to plague her at odd times.

The movement around her brought her back to the present. The columns moved out, mounted and raced rag-tag out of the city. Their pent up energy and tension released in the shouts of “FEAR THE GRIN!...”

……”See yer don’ drop nothing, an straighten dat belt, yer ma never showed yer ‘ow ta dress?!...”

She sent the grots out, looking awkward in their orange shirts. She grinned at the thought of their discomfort. One more small and irritating lesson in humility…it was interesting watching the breakdown to become the warriors some of them would one day be. She readied herself and made her way to the great fire in the middle of the drill yard. Not needed in the heat, she thought, but tradition was what it was…these Orcs, full to their thick green necks with tradition.

The Tauren from Thunderbluff gathered together on one side, the Grin on the other, perhaps eyeing their competition for the dueling that would start shortly. Usually the Clan shunned others, this was a new direction, and some, she knew, were uncomfortable with the alliance and openness that the new Warchief was encouraging. These were different times, in a different place. The Clan had become sick and stagnant in Stonard, much like the swamp that surrounded them. The audience with Hellscream at Orgrimmar was indication of the Clan’s drawing of a new line in the endless expanse of hard, dry and hot dirt of Desolation Hold and the Barrens.

Pikki waved over an orange shirted grot, took a mug from the tray he carried and waved him off again. She sat on a small rise to the side, preferring to watch the duels, over joining in. The cool ale cleared the dust from her throat and she sighed contentedly, watching the skies for any sign of interference in the rare occasion of the Clan’s celebrations. She had posted eyes around. They would have a fair bit of warning, if any felt brave enough to attack.

Another sip… the duels stirred up the dust, but the cheers indicated the Grin had taken the first round.

Her thoughts and the ale’s effect took her back a bit to where she had been, the Island, the escape, Booty bay…the scrambling , the deals, the conniving. Always pushing to get back what she had lost. The merchants…one in particular…she grinned slightly and blushed at the thought. She had enjoyed her training at Fuselight, the excitement , the explosions…all of it. When they had sent her to the Swamp as liason to the Clan, she had been thrilled at the adventure…which became more as she got to know the gruff warriors and those others that made up the clan. But still, she was stubbornly apart – her own woman. The former Warchief had changed that. He had unconsciously given her a place. She had embraced it and had grown in it, becoming a leader in this Clan of outcasts. Those things that were once important, no longer drove her. Others of her race sometimes disgusted her, especially those in the city. They didn’t seem to realize or conceive of moving on from where they had been. The Cartel was a shadow of itself, struggling to hold on to nothing of substance.

She took another sip and chewed on the turkey leg a grot had handed her. The duels had progressed and seemed even at this point between the huge Tauren and those of the Clan. Cheers went up as the last of the Thunderhoofs went down. Now Thuugom and Lizardrat faced each other…

The duel ended quickly with Lizardrat the victor in a close match. The two combatants laughed and patted each other on the back as mugs of ale were handed them. The expected jibes and insults came, the payment of wagers won and lost and all laughed and drank and settled once again.

Pikki raised her hand again for a fresh mug and frowned at the grot, waving her away from blocking her view of the gathered Grin and Thunderhoof Clans. Xibalbah tried in vain to get their attention until the huge Grymhorn banged his pot and shouted for their attention. Pikki was just out of earshot, but knew that the gentle Ha’gosh announced the next competition…

She leaned back onto her elbows, setting her empty mug aside on the hard packed dirt. She smiled to herself, looking around at those gathered. This was her place, where she was meant to be. The honor of the outcast, the determination of the fighter, the strength of Clan... she counted herself lucky to be among them.