The sun shone clearly on the rolling hills of Nagrand, warming the air through the feathers of the soaring rokk. He coasted on thermals, high above the plains and lakes, golden eyes sweeping across the lush land of Draenor. Below, clefthoof and elekk meandered through the tall grasses, and talbuk lapped at the edge of streams to keep cool. The rokk soared higher, wheeling about the rocky hills, up into the northern mountains where the air was colder. A few flaps of his great wings brought him up above the line of grasses and trees, to rocky outcroppings, and finally the top of the mighty mountain.
Blademaster Grimjak felt all of this. He felt the majesty of the soaring rokk, the slow thoughts of the clefthoof, the calm strength of the mountain. It had taken him a long time to learn to listen to these things. When he had come to the mountain seeking peace, he had already been an old orc. Past his prime with younger orcs rising in his clan. He had lost track of his time on the mountain, but he clearly remembered the first twenty years being rather dull. But then what he thought was silence had taken on a different tone. He listened to the wind, to the call of the rokk, felt the solid rock of the mountain, and they had resolved into a chorus. He no longer ate or drank, the dew and the wind were his sustenance. He simply sat and listened, revelling int the feel of peace. After years, he began to sense a power. Some strength that was of the world, but also of himself. A power within his heart but somehow also connected to that of the water, the tree, the rock. As Grimjak brushed the edges of that power, the chorus of life soared, lifting his spirits. Time had no meaning to him.
Suddenly, a tremor. The chorus faltered. The power retracted.
The old orc screamed. A howl of pure pain and abandonment. He fell to the ground from where he had floated several feet in the air, hitting hard enough to make his old bones creak. Pain lanced through his head as eyes that had not been seen daylight in a decade shot open. His wail trailed off, his breath leaving his body. He couldn’t remember his name, he didn’t know where he was, what he was doing. Only that the beautiful song of the world had left him, the light and power were gone, leaving him empty. He slammed his fists impotently against the ground until his blood and tears mixed together in the dust. Then his broken mind came together enough to hear it. The tremor that had interrupted his meditation. The pounding of war drums.
At the foot of the mountain the gathered tribes of the Orcs carpeted the grassland. Everywhere, banners waved, orcs cheered or argued, great cooking pits roasted whole clefthoof flanks. The gathered nation surged like a living tide. And Grimjak wandered through it, swept up like a reed in a storm. His brain felt numb, but somewhere in the back of his head he wondered what could cause such a gathering, what force could unify such chaos. He wandered past a group of young orcs drinking from skins they had filled at a nearby keg. The old orc grabbed a skin of potent smelling liquor from a young warrior.
He growled “Hey! Give back or you lose arm!” He stepped forward pulling a wicked looking axe from his belt. Grimjak took a long drink then turned to meet the youth’s eyes. He might as well have slammed a fist into the warriors jaw. He stumbled back, the sense of emptiness in the ancient orc’s gaze sending him reeling. He shook his head, but by the time he looked back the old orc was gone.
Grimjak wandered among the clans. From keg to keg, drinking himself into a haze. He thought bitterly of the peace on the mountain. “If peace in this world I cannot have, then peace in a bottle will do.” Finally, after what seemed like days he found what he was looking for. The hastily erected huts were huddled closely together, all the orcs wore blackened tabards, and moreso than most areas in the sprawling mass of orcs, the song of steel being sharpened rang out clearly above the din. The old orc looked down at the rags he wore, his own tabard depicting the red rock on the blackened field that the banners shared. He stumbled into the camp rheumy eyes searching. He finished another skin of strong liquor, and moved towards a tightly packed mass of orcs around a rock where a massive orc with an antlered helm spoke to the throng.
Grimjak stood at the back of the group of orcs who a half century or more ago were his clan, he saw noone he knew, and his old ears didn’t allow him to hear much. The clan formed a line, leading up to a shadowy hooded orc who bore before him a massive chalice dripping red with blood. The old orc fell in line, recieving apprehensive looks from his clansmen, either from his age or his smell. Through the haze of pain and liqour he couldn’t really tell what was going on, but from the muttering of the orcs around him, and the massive gathering around the clan, he knew it could mean only one thing.
War.
The war was long. At least that’s what the stories that shamans tell say. First against the hated Draenei, then through a massive gate, onto a different world. Different land, different trees, different enemies. But it was all a blur to the old orc. He fought when he was ordered to fight, and drank when he wasnt. the whistling sweep of his spear was the last thing many enemies ever heard, but Grimjak paid them no more mind than he would wheat before the scythe. His life was empty, listless, punctuated by bursts of unfathomable rage, and the blackness of unconciousness brought on by drink. The massive orc with the antlers fell, and was replaced by another with a hammer. His clan split, a son leading it. All these were a blur, barely noticed by the ancient blademaster.
Then one day it was over. There was a massive storm. Grimjak remembered only the lash of rain against his face, and the earth beneath him seemed to tilt more than usual. And then there were no more battles. Everything seemed same, boredom, drink, but then there was sand. And after the coming of the sand, his clan ran out of liquor. For the first time in four years, Grimjak awoke with a pounding head, bulging eyes, and nothing with which to combat either. He realized that the mists were not simply in his head. He stumbled out of his cobbled together lean-to, and looked out at a beach shrouded in fog. To his left thick trees began and ran until interrupted by sharp mountains. To his right a calm sea lapped at the shore, visible only for a few dozen yards before dissapearing in the gray mist. Then Grimjak did something he hadn’t done in years. He thought.
He thought about the blur of battle, the blur of the drink, and the blur of the storm. He thought about the peace lost on the mountain, and the surrounding mist. He thought about his clan, many lost but by the huts gathered on the shore, some still remaining. He thought of the waste of his life and how he would improve it. And when he was done thinking...... He vomited.