Tales of the Longaxe

[grimzor]

First, let it be known that this is written from an OOC narative perspective, until I get time to re-write it in a more formal, appropriate tone.

This, in short, is the history of the Longaxe Clan, of which once there were great and noble tales to be told. To date, however, there are only two, three at most, of this time-honored bloodline.

The Longaxe bloodline reigned as the hereditary Cheiftans of the Roaring Rock Clan for generation upon generation. Leading the Orcs of the Roaring Rock Clan as they carved out an honest and hearty life for themselves in a region called Aross was the Honor that fell to the ancient Longaxes. For time immeasurable, the Longaxes were respected and honored by their people, and the Shamans of the Clan were known throughout Draenor for their conection to one of the great elemental spirits, Margonyn, the Firesinger.
The Longaxe Farseer would know their time to lead the Clan had come when Margonyn would reach out to their souls, and inspire their powers to greatness, from his nearby volcanic lair. From that day forward, the Farseer was irevocably tied to the tropical land, their power focused at the great volcano that housed their totemic Firesinger.
It was sour fate that brought about the curse of the legion, which even the great chieftan of the time, Gursh Longaxe, and his mate, the Farseer Katara, took part of. Gursh was young, and newly given his mantle of Chieftan. He took part in the ceremonies that cursed all Orcs, and bid his mate to do the same. Soon, all of the Roaring Rock Clan had been cursed by the Fel Taint. Margon raged at the betrayal, sending his fiery vengeance out upon the land of Aross, and scouring it for three months. When the mountain lay cold and dormant as never before, and the remaining Roaring Rock Orcs left, they knew they would never return.
Time marched on as it is apt to do, and Gursh lead the Roaring Rock to great battle with the Draeni, and then the Humans. After the First war, the Longaxe line would grow, with the birth of Grimzor. The Second War brought more devestation to the Roaring Rock Clan, but soon Gursh and Katara were blessed with another son, Grogden. It was near this time, when the Horde had been crushed, an routed, that Gursh saw the error of his ways. It was not his wish to raise his children in such a violent, war-ridden world, nor to see his mate cut down in a haze of blood lust.
As the Alliance began to gather the beaten and broken Horde, and push them into their Encampments, Gurhs and Katara led the few remaining Roaring Rock Orcs to hiding along side the Warsong Clan. Eeking out a sad existance with Grom and his people, many more of the great Roaring Rock Orcs were slain. With each fallen kin, Gursh fell greater into despair.
Gursh would surely have taken his life had not Thrall arrived when he did, and rallied the Warsong, and taken them to free the rest of the shattered Horde.
With renewed vigor, Gursh and his Clan fought beside the new Warchief all through the third war. That is, until the Battle of Hyjal.
It as at this momentous battle, that the Roaring Rock was shattered beyond recovery. In the heat of the battle to stall Archimonde, Gursh was crippled, his left leg smashed under the demon's cloven hoof. As he lay upon the ground, agony over-riding his senses, his mate, Katara, was slain and Grogden was whisked away by the nightmarish gargoyles.
Grimzor drug his wounded father from the field, and the two retreated after the battle to mend their wounds. Soon, Gursh was given a contract by Thrall to breed new War Wolves for his Riders, and Grimzor was given a post in Alterac for a time.
Seasons changed, and wounds healed. Grimzor and Gursh remain the last of the Roaring Rock, each living as best as they can with no true Clan to call home, and only a fraction of their hearts still holding on to hope.
Hope, however, springs eternal. Nearly a year ago, Grimzor learned that there may be hope that his brother, Grogden, was not slayn at Hyjal, but kidnapped for something far more sinister than filling a cooking pot. Arthas, the new Lich King, has been growing his army, and every warm body he can lay his clutches upon has been twisted to the cold, empty shell of a Death Knight.
Twisted and tainted as he must be, Grogden is still a Longaxe, and Grimzor has sworn to give every ounce of honor and blood he possesses to free him, and return him home. A brother has no greater duty than that of Guardianship.

*Grimzor has since been tasked by the Warchief to acquire a ship and a crew, and sail to Northrend to assist in setting up some of their encampments. Though he is back in Durotar for now, he stands ready to return to Northend, and resume his hunt for Grogden.

[jahzara]

((Grim... you are such an orc. PLEASE TAKE ME NAO.))

[grimzor]

The saga continues....

Remove the dust from the tome and let it settle where it may, as you part the thick, leather-bound cover and gaze upon the aged and poorly handled pages within. The tale of Gursh Longaxe has been told, in so far as it must be, in order to understand the true story I would tell. While the feats of Gursh are worthy of a thousand tellings, at ten thousand bonfires, there is a newer tale to learn.
Behold, a son was born, bathed in blood and glory, raised high for all the Horde to see. Grimzor, the Fiery Heart, wailed his first screams of challenge upon a rain-soaked battle field in Azeroth. Gursh and Katara swelled with pride as their son grew, and soon was joined by his brother, Grogden. Fire and Ice, the two young Longaxe Orcs were. Grimzor raged and warred with anything and everything, always challenging his body to new levels of endurance as he tackled still-greater foes. Grogden watched, calculating and cunning, his mind as fast as Grimzor's swift legs. Together, the two were unstoppable, brain and braun to match any foe.
Though the two bickered as siblings do, there was never a doubt of the bond the two shared. Whichever path one chose, the other followed, each leading in turn when their skills were best put to use.
The summers changed to autumn, and each young Orc took their turn at the Hunt. Grimzor's hunt carried him deep into the valley, where he stalked, at first, a simple stag. A worthy trophy for any young warrior, though the young Longaxe felt slighted by his task. He roamed the deep forests for nearly a fort-night longer than any in his generation had dared to do, but walked back into camp under a fresh, full moon, dragging the battered corpse of a Chimaera behind him. Rare enough in the marsh-soaked land, the beasts were fabled to herald great change, or great despair. Nearly two years later, Grogden took his own Hunt, and was not to be outdone by his brother. While Grimzor had been gone far longer than any other, Grogden returned far sooner than any had expected. He had left the small camp at dawn, only to return before the setting of the moon that night.
Grogden did not simply strole back to town. Instead, he rode back to town atop a matching pair of glorious, ivory bucks. As he had been ordered by his elders, he took no pack or tool with him into the woods, though still he had befriended the beasts and lured them back to the camp.
Despite his simmering envy at his brothers miraculous return, even Grimzor could not deny the mark of a great Shaman upon him.
And so it came to be, that Grimzor followed the path of the Warrior, while Grogden meditated and communed with the spirits that guide all life.
For the first time in their lives, the brothers were seperate, and yet still somehow united. Steel against steel stood Grimzor, while Grogden wielded the great archaic powers of the shaman against all the foes born of ether.
Together still, the brothers were a wall of defense for their kin, and a honed blade of death to their foes.


<WIP>