Post by grimzor on Feb 18, 2010 10:19:22 GMT -5
Gursh Longaxe sat upon the edge of the pier, the flimsy fishing rod in his hands as lifeless as it had been all day. The fiery sun beat down upon him, bathing the Valley of Honor, and all of Orgrimmar, in all of its mid-day glory. Letting out another long-winded sigh of resignation, the aged orc reeled in his frayed line, and checked his hook. Once more, the rusty metal was bare of any bait, picked clean by fish too small to garner any attention.
"Blood and bones, what a waste." The number of baitless hooks he had found was beyond count, now. Nearly two weeks had passed, since his kennels had been razed by angry quilboar. Every timber burned to ash, every worg slaughtered, left to rot in the sweltering heat of Kalimdor. The skins he had been able to save, thanks to Horkugal and Garrah, had been delivered to the Warchief shortly after, but nothing could be done about the lost livelyhood. And so, the old warrior found himself sitting on the dock, fishing in a desolate, tiny little pond in the middle of the Horde capitol.
For the third time that day, Gursh contemplated grabbing his axe, and wading through the first tribe of quilboar he found, laying waste to each and every one of them. And for the third time that day, his leg twinged painfully, an old wound reminding him how quickly he would be torn assunder by the mob. It would be an honorable death, but one he was not yet prepared to enjoy.
The Roaring Rock Clan, the clan that had once called him Chieftain, and had fought side by side with the Warsong and all of the rest of the Horde, for the first two wars. It was nothing more than a name anymore, and yet the old orc could not end his life without naming the next Chief. His choices were few, and the decision was made in all but the most formal of ways, but it was not complete yet.
So, before he could die an honorable, vengeful death, he had to name the next Chieftain of the Roaring Rock Clan, even if there were no clan left to lead.
With a disguisted grunt, Gursh tossed his shoddy fishing rod out into the water, only mildly appease by the faint splash it made as it sunk beneath the surface.
"Crafty little bastards." With a sneer in his lip from the pain of his old injury, the orc hoisted himself slowly to his feet, and turned back towards the shore.
Shortly afterwards, he stood inside the cool, sheltered walls of the Orphanage, careful not to step on any of the young as he walked through the small care center. The Matron sat on a rickety stool nearby, two children in her lap and a toddler crawling around her feet.
"Lok'Tar, Matron. Nash and Loe seem to be settling in well." Gursh looked at the two troll children in the aged females lap. Nash and Loe were the two newest additions to the small army of orphaned orc and troll children, sent to live in the crowded confines of Orgrimmar's orphanage.
"Aka'Magosh, Chieftain Longaxe," the Matron replied with a soft smile and a nod of her head. She spoke to him often as though he still stood at the front of a great Clan, and although it pained Gursh to remember such times, a small swell of pride filled his chest as well. She bounced both children upon her knee, as she watched the veteran warrior hobble towards the row of rickety, worn bunks that lined the rear wall. Gursh stopped, chewing on his thick lip as he eyed the pile of worn-out tools that he had arrayed at the foot of one bed.
One thick, meaty hand reached down and picked up a rough file, begining to smooth the thick peg that stuck out of the crossbeam. One of the other orphans had been badly injured, when they fell from the bunk in the middle of the night and caught their braid on the poorly-crafted pin.
The rest of the day wore on slowly, as Gursh wove his way among the despondent orphans, doing odd bits of repair wherever it was necessary. Though any peon could have done the work, it gave Gursh a glimmer of purpose to be helping the youth of the Horde. It didn't hurt to have the Matron eyeing him secretly as he worked, either. After all, even and aged orc was still an orc, and the cool desert nights were starting to feel even more lonely than before.
<Still a WIP>
"Blood and bones, what a waste." The number of baitless hooks he had found was beyond count, now. Nearly two weeks had passed, since his kennels had been razed by angry quilboar. Every timber burned to ash, every worg slaughtered, left to rot in the sweltering heat of Kalimdor. The skins he had been able to save, thanks to Horkugal and Garrah, had been delivered to the Warchief shortly after, but nothing could be done about the lost livelyhood. And so, the old warrior found himself sitting on the dock, fishing in a desolate, tiny little pond in the middle of the Horde capitol.
For the third time that day, Gursh contemplated grabbing his axe, and wading through the first tribe of quilboar he found, laying waste to each and every one of them. And for the third time that day, his leg twinged painfully, an old wound reminding him how quickly he would be torn assunder by the mob. It would be an honorable death, but one he was not yet prepared to enjoy.
The Roaring Rock Clan, the clan that had once called him Chieftain, and had fought side by side with the Warsong and all of the rest of the Horde, for the first two wars. It was nothing more than a name anymore, and yet the old orc could not end his life without naming the next Chief. His choices were few, and the decision was made in all but the most formal of ways, but it was not complete yet.
So, before he could die an honorable, vengeful death, he had to name the next Chieftain of the Roaring Rock Clan, even if there were no clan left to lead.
With a disguisted grunt, Gursh tossed his shoddy fishing rod out into the water, only mildly appease by the faint splash it made as it sunk beneath the surface.
"Crafty little bastards." With a sneer in his lip from the pain of his old injury, the orc hoisted himself slowly to his feet, and turned back towards the shore.
Shortly afterwards, he stood inside the cool, sheltered walls of the Orphanage, careful not to step on any of the young as he walked through the small care center. The Matron sat on a rickety stool nearby, two children in her lap and a toddler crawling around her feet.
"Lok'Tar, Matron. Nash and Loe seem to be settling in well." Gursh looked at the two troll children in the aged females lap. Nash and Loe were the two newest additions to the small army of orphaned orc and troll children, sent to live in the crowded confines of Orgrimmar's orphanage.
"Aka'Magosh, Chieftain Longaxe," the Matron replied with a soft smile and a nod of her head. She spoke to him often as though he still stood at the front of a great Clan, and although it pained Gursh to remember such times, a small swell of pride filled his chest as well. She bounced both children upon her knee, as she watched the veteran warrior hobble towards the row of rickety, worn bunks that lined the rear wall. Gursh stopped, chewing on his thick lip as he eyed the pile of worn-out tools that he had arrayed at the foot of one bed.
One thick, meaty hand reached down and picked up a rough file, begining to smooth the thick peg that stuck out of the crossbeam. One of the other orphans had been badly injured, when they fell from the bunk in the middle of the night and caught their braid on the poorly-crafted pin.
The rest of the day wore on slowly, as Gursh wove his way among the despondent orphans, doing odd bits of repair wherever it was necessary. Though any peon could have done the work, it gave Gursh a glimmer of purpose to be helping the youth of the Horde. It didn't hurt to have the Matron eyeing him secretly as he worked, either. After all, even and aged orc was still an orc, and the cool desert nights were starting to feel even more lonely than before.
<Still a WIP>