The Exodus

Gorfrunch stood before the many Grin within the hallowed home of Stonard.

"The war seems to have moved to Northrend." He turned to the many excited faces before him. "And with that, we must shift as well. Stonard here is our home, fought long for, and well deserved. I have no intention of giving it up. But Stromgarde has outlived its usefulness."

Confusion spread through the ranks like wildfire. The excitement of some was electric, seeming to sparkle in their eyes, visions of what would lay before them now forming.

"We will put it to the torch and move our operations to Northrend."

With these words many Grin laughed. Some were happy to lay waste to the Keep one last time, others anxious about losing the only home they had ever known.
"We've been offered enough Zeppelins to move our basic supplies north. Take what you require from the Keep. Trash everything else. We're moving out of these lands for good, to a place that we're needed. To a place where war is abundant."

"We are Grin, we do not fear any Undead Kings. Trifles like him do not bother me, Garrosh leads the Horde against the Alliance and we will reinforce his men for that purpose and that purpose only. Let the politicians deal with the Undead. Our concern now and always will be slaughtering the Alliance pigs.

"Go now and prepare for our exodus; we will be moving soon. For the Grin and for the Horde, blood will cover the fields of Northrend. If their corpses should rise again, it will give us the pleasure of killing them a second time."

The Grin had many burning questions, and the news of a new war rekindled bloodlust in those who remembered the past ones. The newer Grin were filled with a desire to prove themselves on the field, while the older recalled former battles, and yearned to see their like again.

The Grin made their way to Stromgarde to pack up what they needed and raze the rest. They would do this until they received word to move on from their Chieftain. The Smashblade contemplated the war ahead as he prepared to lay the first torch to wood.

Khabijoo stood in the courtyard of Stromgarde, watching the Grin scatter as they began to gather up their supplies and lay waste to the soon-to-be-abandoned keep. The grots rushed to their warrens, some of them knocked down and trampled by the higher ranked members. Joo stepped over one of the more unfortunate grots and made his way toward his room.

The wooden door to his room creaked open slowly. He surveyed the meager contents. The room was lit by a dim torch in a sconce on the wall. There was a cot, a staff leaning against the wall, a table and a chair small enough to have been made for a child, and on it a voodoo doll, a handful of sharpened metal pins, a large flask, and a troll skull. He shuffled over to the table and picked up the skull, holding it up an inch from his face.

"Whatchoo tink mon? About all dis?"

The skull stared back at him.

"Bah, watchoo know. Choo dead anyway."

He shoved the skull into his pouch, and sweeped the doll and the pins in after it. His voodoo mask sat uncomfortably on his face, and as he adjusted it, he wrinkled his nose and wondered if this was the best decision for the Grin.

Joo thought back, about the old days of the Grin. The Keepers of Stromgarde had always been one of their main enemies. Surely, when they took their stronghold, it had been a major victory. But what has it led to? The grin couldn't get complacent sitting in a castle of human stones. No, this was for the best. The fight was in Northrend now. There was no glory in keeping Stromgarde anymore.

Khabijoo picked the flask up off the table, lifted up his mask, and took a swig of it. With a smile he poured the alcohol over the cot, and grabbed the torch off the wall. As he walked out of the room, he tossed the torch over his shoulder, and lowered his mask as the room was engulfed in flames.

Mido gathers her belongings, watching the activity in the courtyard from her quarters hesitantly. She wouldn't be moving North with the Grin. Every day, the reason became steadily more apparent. She couldn't hide the bulge in her torso for much longer.

The priest sighs, picks up her notes, research, and saved letters and slips them into a simple bag.

Mido finds Kisuk outside the keep, tying the last of her belongings to a saddle bag. The shaman salutes the priest.

"I've done as much as I can for you, Orc. I can only hope that you're an apt pupil." The blood elf hands the simple bag to Kisuk.

"Are you leaving now?"

Mido sighs.

"No. Not yet. My peers and and the warchief deserve an explanation." The two stand quietly, observing the smoke rising from the left wing of the Keep. "Prove yourself worthy, shaman."

Sitting in the Ogre Quarter of Stromgarde, Rawlk was amidst a collection of papers and diagrams. All having to do with the upcoming tournaments. It had been like this for weeks as he had tried to assemble something from nothing.

Recent events had seemed to change everything for the young tauren. He had joined the Grin to fulfill a blood debt and failed. Taking that time to join the Horde Military and fight on the front lines taught Rawlk how the Smashblade and his ilk saw battle.

His third return to the Grin was not triumphant. It was not rejoiced. It was quiet but it was as though the Smashblade had waited for him. He had received orders to build a tournament. One to resemble the tournaments his father participated in. Another cruel punishment from the deranged orc.

As he was staring down at his plans, noises began erupting from the main courtyard. The tauren grabbed his war mace and prepared to defend a keep he didn't feel any stake in. As the heavily armored tauren stepped forward, what he saw surprised him.

Grin had erupted through the gates as if they were sieging them, instead of just walking in like people who lived there. The grots ran into their burrows and the Grunts marched to their quarters. Followed by officers shouting out to pack up.

Rawlk holstered his mace and walked back to his own living area. Letting the psychotics do what they did best. Obviously there was some agenda behind the razing of Stromgarde, but it was something to contemplate another day.

Rawlk only had one possession. If the Grin actually did move, he would be ready.

Packing was easy: all she needed was her armor and weapons, which were in the various bags strapped to her Blackrock-bred wolf. There was her sleeping mat as well, which was rolled up and affixed at the back of her saddle in no time.

But everyone was having so much fun... so why shouldn't she? Kohnaana's blood has been burning with bloodlust ever since the announcement, and it needed sating. Her glowing red eyes scoured the surrounding area for something, anything. There! A pile of crates marked "Explosives"... excellent! The towering Felsworn orc strode over and ripped off the top without as much as a flinch to reveal several saronite bombs.

Within seconds she was lighting them and tossing the bombs into any Grot holes she cold find, without a care in the world whether one was occupied or not. The occasional Grot came scurrying out as fast as their legs could carry them, often mere seconds before the blast went off. With each detonation, Kohanna smiled (as best she could) as she reveled in the destruction she was causing. But the best was yet to come.

Soon the Grin would be in Northrend; soon the echoes of the Ered'nash would resound across the frozen continent, that the enemies of the Grin might hear them and despair. For underneath her taciturn demeanor, the gears in Kohnaana's tainted mind had begun to turn, and had set in motion a destructive machine...

Kreatchur stood out side the entrance to the Stromgarde crypt. So many bodies yet to be harvested. Kreatchur sighed at the thought of all the power that was still held within the veins of all the carcasses that had yet to be discovered. Terrible waste.

Kreatchur shambled down the steps that led deep into the crypt. His hands absently thumbing the dual blades hidden within his chest cavity. His thoughts strayed to how he had arrived. Even been held prisoner in these dark halls. When the Grin had captured the keep it taken them months to dig out the rubble of the crypts from the explosive vanguard the Keepers had devised. It was there that Kreatchur had waited. Chained to his wall, powerless. Yet something still spoke to him that this was his home. A marred grin crossed his features as he remembered when the Grin finally discovered his long buried cell.

He arrived at his cell. Entered and took a long look around. Except for the chains and the large coffin it was empty. His hands ran along the length of the chains and then rubbed his wrists. Coming forth from his near idle trance he stepped over to the coffin and peered within. Like the room the coffin was near empty except for several scalps used as a pillow. He snagged them and shoved them within a body crevice.

After a few minutes left his room for the last time. All will be provided. He laughed loudly at the thought. Willingly or not. A few steps later he entered a another room, it was large and had a domed ceiling. By the looks it had had the same purpose as the previous but on a larger scale. Chains had been mounted closely on walls and went clear around the room. They were only punctuated by the occasional tomb entrance. The dirt floor was heavily pocketed. Kreatchur strode to the center of the prison and knelt. He drew Lifesorrow from his back sling and pierced the earth before of him. Slowly he reached within his abdomen and carefully withdrew his dual runeblades until the tips of both weapons were level and opposite of each other on either side of his body.

A chant began in his throat and burst forth from his mouth.

Uden gloin dana odes lithtos ash wirsh ras dana va odes ruftos! Lifesorrow became a deep shade of scarlet. The blade in Kreatchurs left hand, Gyta, turned a dark green, while the blade in his right, Vytre, turned icy blue.

Kreatchur remained were he knelt. For a moment there was no movement at all. Silence reigned. Then all at once the ground rumbled and dozens if not hundreds of corpses began to crawl forth from the ground and anywhere the was a hole large enough to fit through. Before long the entire room was filled with ghouls staring quizzically at their still motionless master. Kreatchur stood. A grin crossed his marred features.

"Ador noth Majis eynes dana eynes!" Tear this place stone from stone.

With that Kreatchur returned up the stairs and left the ghouls to their work. The crypts ran most of the length beneath Stromgarde. The collapsing of the entire network of crypts would completely raze the structures above.

Kreatchur squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sudden sunlight. He grunted and then gave a shrill whistle. Valyrk burst forth from the ground directly below him. He took one last look at the crypts and then sucked in a long breath and exhaled. He withdrew a flask, uncorked it, swished it and then smelled the aroma. His eyes rolled with pleasure. Kreatchur took one long swig. Yes, all will be provided. The loss is necessary. I have just about bled this shithole dry. Time to move on. Kreatchur grinned and rode away.

“Stromgarde has outlived its usefulness...We will put it to the torch and move our operations to Northrend...”

The platinum haired elf pushed her glasses up on her nose with a trembling finger. She surveyed the, no, her library. The well worn shelves gleamed with fresh polish by the light of Sin'doreien lamps. In her time at Stromgarde, Iceleindis had managed to stock them with a number of tomes, some she had found when she arrived, many from her inherited private collection, and even more by donation or purchase. In the far corner on a simple wooden table, a green arm cut off at the elbow squirmed. Snakelike tubes fed the appendage from beakers filled with foul-smelling liquids. The arm pallid skin bubbled, decomposing slowly. Next to this table sat her blood collection, and even further, a small display case with leather-bound tomes. On the opposite wall sat another glass case, this one with various critters on display; spiders, insects, the occasional lizard. And still next to that sat her newest edition; a large globe-shaped tank, filled with water nearly to the brim. The goblins of Booty Bay had supplied her with a mechanical water-filter and oxidizer. A soft humming sound emitted from the tank, and inside, swam a single codfish. Ice approached her newest prisoner and pressed her face against the glass. It's silver eyes stared back at her, as empty as her heart. Spined gills waving, it's pouting mouth opened and closed rhythmically.

Disjointed thoughts fired through her mind in twists and turns, faster than she could formulate words to match. Ice felt the world blacken around her and begin to turn. She grabbed the edge of the tank and closed her eyes to avoid a coughing fit, “Calm as still water.” she repeated, and all grew quiet except for the bubbling of the filter. She opened her eyes, and the fish continued it's vacant stare. Iceleindis gathered many of her private things, her forehead smooth and and her eyes, tired. She had procured a number of chests and boxes for the hundreds of books, and there they sat, just inside the door. “And now, to move it all.” Ice wandered over to the window and peered out. She saw remnants of architecture thrown to the wind. Smoke rose from a tower far from her library, and it would only be a matter of time before someone set fire to this place as well. She thought she felt something pressing on her chest, and though it didn't feel like her usual lung pain, she dismissed it as so. Dozens of Grin, Grots, and the occasional slave were running around on the ground beneath her. Exhaling, Iceleindis fumbled with the window catch and turned it. The wind blew it outward and hit the exterior wall with a large crack, yet no one seemed to notice in all the chaos. Some of the Grots were moving their own things rapidly from their holes or helping the higher ranks. Grot things would have to wait. Ice cleared her throat and prepared to yell down to them.

Erzod's grip falters. The crate falls and breaks open on the cobbles. Enraged, he kicks it aside, it's contents sent flying. He reaches into his tunic and retrieves the small, luminous purple orb. He looks at it for a moment. It reminds him of the marble his father gave him when he was very young. It calms him.

Dull thuds echo out across the courtyard. He glances back over his shoulder and sees an orc woman lobbing bombs into the Grot holes. One of them is his. The bomb explodes. He feels no loss. He tucks the dimly swirling orb back into his tunic, and picks up another crate.

Northrend. The thought of moving to the icy northern continent did little to raise Siaris' spirits. He would not miss the grime of his warren, as he had no connection to the crumbling castle of Stromgarde. Moving locations had never bothered him. Since leaving his homeland, there was no place that ever filled the space once occupied by that village in the shadow of Thunder Bluff. The village that had been forgotten by all. All but one.

As he strode towards the gates of Stromgarde, Siaris could hear the mayhem of the other Grin quickly packing their belongings before setting things ablaze, punctuated by an occasional explosion. "Sounds like the fun has already begun..." he muttered under his breath. Turning the corner towards his hole, Siaris was surprised to see someone had already blown it apart. He looked to his left to see Kohnaana lighting bombs and throwing them into whichever Grot hole was closest. There was a wild look in the Orc's eye, and with each explosion she let out a mad cackle, only elevated when a Grot's severed arm or leg flew out of the exploding hole. Siaris turned around and left the warren. "Crazy Orc." He was happy there at least wasn't anything of value in his now-smoldering hole.

He reached in under his breastplate and pulled out a worn piece of leather with some writing on it. Grasping it in his hand he looked to the sky, now hazy with the smoke of Stromgarde. "So the path leads to Northrend? You know I hate the cold." He bowed his head as he returned the leather to its secure home beneath his armor. "Very well. To the north it is." His eyes look up to the destruction in the courtyard. "But not before some fun." He said, as a smile comes across his face and he grabs the closest torch.

The robed figure skulked his way silently through the burning hulk of Stromgarde Keep closely followed by the bat winged succubus. He moved past figures scurrying this way and that, gathering belongings, setting fire to scaffolding, throwing bombs into grot warrens. Ghostlike the orc entered the crypt and passed through the doorway to the false wall on the far side of the room. A quick shove and the wall moved aside to reveal the room just as he had left it. In the lower corner of the far wall, a gaping hole where a stone should have been stared blankly back at the red eyes that glimmered in the darkness. Memories flooded back as those eyes stared at the hole. The power of the gem was now nothing but a wistful memory, but that memory still held a power all its own. A shudder passed through the orc’s body as he recalled the power the gem had given him. Though it’s destruction had been complete, the feelings were still strong. But that was long ago. The orc sighed to himself and began gathering those things he wished to salvage from the room. A few dusty tomes were scooped up into his bag as were the carefully preserved vials with the reagents needed for his work. He felt the fleshy tail of his companion wrap itself around his leg before he heard the soft whisper in his ear. “Someone’s coming Master.”

The warlock didn’t turn but listened carefully to the sound of someone bounding down the stairs into the crypt. As the footfalls grew closer the orc moved to the side of the doorway and drew a long wickedly curved dagger from his belt. A few moments later a troll with a crazed look in his eye burst through the doorway, torch in hand ready to set the room ablaze. The troll never saw the dagger that pierced his side. The blade viciously tore its way towards his heart, ripping the flesh and leaving a jagged hole in his abdomen. As the troll dropped, coughing blood, the warlock began to speak demonic words and the troll felt his lifeforce ebbing. In his confusion, he thought he could almost see his soul being pulled from his body and entering the warlock. Then he was gone.

The orc looked down at the crumpled corpse. The troll wore no rank insignia. Yet another new grot who knew nothing of the warlock’s history. So much the better, he thought to himself. Placing the last of his belongings into his pack, he picked up the torch from where it had fallen on the ground near the dead troll. Taking one last look at the room, Bok’theg tossed the torch onto the bed and watched as the flames spread across the blanket. Smiling thinly, he stepped carefully over the body.

“No sense getting blood on my shoes.” He thought to himself as the flames consumed the room and the dead grot.

Rawlk rode his worg back into Arathi Highlands from Stranglethorn Vale. The trip had taken him a few days but he refused to ride upon the wings of a wyvern. The solidarity of the earth was much more desirable than empty air, or the unstable ocean.

The sea...

Rawlk remembered that the Grin was soon to be bound to Northrend. The chaos of the recent tournament had driven the thought from his mind. In fact, the concept of travel hadn't even occurred to him.

Thinking of this now, Rawlk let out a loud snort to clear his nose. He was duty bound to the grin, as awkward as that seemed, to see this through. He would continue to follow the clan, and host their tournaments. War was on the horizon.

Looking up towards the sky, dark plumes of smoke were still rising above the ruined Stromgarde Keep. The Grin wanted to make sure that the city would lay unusable for the humans who were bound to return.

Still, Rawlk knew that the Ogres had not been contacted. Strange as it seemed, the Grin and the Ogres did not communicate. Rawlk had assumed an alliance would have been formed immediately, but the Grin seemed satisfied with their portion of the city, and the Ogres did not seem to mind the Grin.

Rawlk rode past the broken gates into the main city. Holes in the ground still smoldering from some lunatic's rampage. Rawlk rode past Animal, the recent winner of the Grand Grot prize. The orc did not seem to notice, and Rawlk continued into the Ogre district. Rawlk chose to live amongst the Ogres. Not for their company, but instead to avoid the crowded gates of the city. There was far too much traffic for Rawlk's tastes and if sleeping amongst filthy Ogres was the sacrifice needed to avoid being bombed while asleep, he was willing to take it.

With this advantage, Rawlk hoped to speak with the Ogres. Perhaps he could convince some of them to join the Grin. If not, then provide a proper welcome to any human who wished to step within Stromagarde, after the Grin had vacated.

There was only one way to find out. The tauren rode further into the slums that marked the beginning of the Ogre District.

Dartok snorted at the scattering Grots, his thick, brown fur appearing disheveled, as the bull had just been woken up from the yelling outside. His features twisted themselves into a glare at the people outside, his large, bulky arms folding themselves over his bare chest, the tabard he usually wore still sprawled onto the floor.

Giving a disapproving shake of his head, he allowed his arms to drop back to his sides, turning and walking back into his dwelling. "You'd think we're being attacked with the kind of running everyone's doing.." He said, ears flicking lightly at the response - or lack thereof. His head turned to the side, expecting to see someone, but was only met with empty space. For what seemed the millionth time, he averted his eyes to the ground, a sense of shame washing over him for once again thinking his lost companion was with him.

He tilted his head side to side, a sharp 'pop' coming from his neck at each one. His shoulders rolled to and fro as the Tauren walked to his bed, a simple stone slab with some blankets serving as a cushion between it and him. He kneeled down, gathering the old scout's tabard from the ground, and slipped it on, his mouth opening wide in a yawn to reveal a mouth full of fine, pointed teeth.

He stood, appearing much more alert and awake than he had before, his hands meeting themselves in a clap, head turning side to side to look the room over for anything he'd need to gather for the journey.

He picked the barrel of coal.

Solothas nodded as word came to the errant Ranger that the move would happen. he had not invested any personal belongings into the Keep, though not unusual for him, it certainly made things easy in a time like this.

Nodding to the spider at his side, Solothas booked passage to the Dark Lady's outpost, making a note to meet up with the Grin once he arrived. He no doubt had a beating coming to him for missing the briefing, but that would have to wait another few days it seemed.

Khabijoo hummed to himself in a low monotone as he dismounted his tiger outside of the keep's armory. She glared at him and growled restlessly, eager to go in all of the excitement. He patted her neck and sighed.

"Soon girl we be gettin outta 'ere. Tings need ta be done first though."

He surveyed the rest of the keep and smiled. Smoke rose from several places in the keep, fires were visible, some small and some engulfing entire buildings, and rubble and piles of dirt were randomly scattered from bombs. The noise was deafening: officers barking orders, grots scurrying to follow them, grunts lugging their possesions through the keep. Khabijoo thrived in the midst of chaos, it was what made him such a capable fighter all of these years. Strapped to his tiger was a broad two handed sword wrapped in cloth. A glowing red rune was peeking from a gap in the wrappings. His glowing eyes seemed to dim for a just moment as he ran his fingertips across it. He shook his head and covered it back up, and turned away from his tiger to face the armory.

Wanton destruction was well and good but there were supplies other than personal belongings that needed carrying. They were marching into war, and had to be prepared. He gestured for two grots to follow him and walked into the armory. Racks of swords, battle axes, and maces sat along the walls. There was a barrel full of unstrung bows, and a side room full of racks of armor, most of it made by the grin blacksmiths with scattered pieces made for humans scavenged from the keep. Khabijoo walked to the corner where several stacks of shields lay neatly piled. He pulled one out from the middle and flung it at the grots feet, causing the whole pile to spill across the stone floor in an echoing clatter.

"Choo get dese weapons tied up ta da kodos by dee enda today, ya 'ear me? 'An if dey be any ya don't get to, choo two be da ones carryin dem on da march.""

His eyes narrowed to barely discernible slits behind his mask.

The grots bobbed their heads and Khabijoo walked past them without another word.

Jornag sat within a broken down cabin within the Ogre District. It seemed that a tauren had convinced the ogres that they would soon inherit the rest of the keep. This news excited the ogres, and made them much more amicable than the ogres the orc had dealt with in Blackrock Mountain.

It had been a few days now since he found where Smashblade was hiding. Jornag was overall impressed with how the orc had held up over the years. The ogres talked about him as a vicious creature from beyond the grave, but Jornag just took that to mean that the old orc was grumpy in the morning.

After searching the keep grounds, Jornag found nothing of note. There was dark power emanating from the crypts, but he could not investigate further due to them being collapsed. This miffed him a bit, but he would endure.

Up in the tower that a studious blood elf called home, Jornag had stolen a book of enough value. He had barely kept it hidden from that meddling runt that Gorfrunch had tailing him. Still even if she found it, he was sure he could explain it away. He leafed through the history of the cult worshippers found hidden throughout Stromgarde.

All in all it wasn't a book of any power or value. Just a book of knowledge, something the orc didn't try to bother with. Still he had to occupy his time with SOMETHING before he would go meet with the Ice Trolls, a little light reading on the apocalypse was good enough for him.

Stromgarde keep lay crumbled. Only a few partial towers still stood reaching vainly to the sky. The Upper Courtyard was still relatively undamaged, only a minimal amount of debris was strewn at random. The buildings that had once stood around it were now little more then crumbling piles of timber or in one case a large and ever widening sinkhole.

At the center of the courtyard Kreatchur the Hallowed was practicing his swordsmanship in a brilliant display of skill. Several ghouls were serving as opponents, two of which were already lying face down on the ground having had their heads severed. Kreatchur performed a complicated twirl followed by a cleaving swing and ended with a move executed so that his blood red weapon whistled vertically through the air and sliced a ghoul down the center to his abdomen. The ghoul remained transfixed by Kreatchurs runeblade, Lifesorrow. Two other ghouls fell to the earth having both been cleaved across chest and the heart during the intricate attack.

A grot applauded. Kreatchur shot him a venomous stare forcing the grot to quail and flee for fear of his life. Would not be the first i killed a grot.. Over a smaller offense too. Kreatchur thought malevolently. He slide the runeblade out from the corpse as it toppled. For a moment he just stared at the blade as it gleamed inches in front of his face. His eyes dulled and for a moment lost their icy blue color. He blinked and shook his head. They returned to their normal hew.

He released his hold on the weapon and it floated to a position four feet from him. Kreatchur reached into his abdomen and drew a pair of dual rune blades, Gyta and Vytre. For a moment nothing moved. Then all at once Lifesorrow and Kreatchur began to duel. Gyta and Vytre against the larger Lifesorrow. All three weapons blurred on their trajectories only to clang with one another or meet air.

Grots ran to and fro trying to gather their meager belongings and do their warrens bidding. All the while steering clear of the courtyard for fear of being the next melee target. The clanging and humming of the runeblades as well as Kreatchurs ragged breath and growls added to the tumultuous mayhem of explosions, shouts, gunshots, and screams. Kreatchur was in his element. He was ready for war.

“I'll handle it, Chieftain, but I'm still not sure this is the best course of action...”

“Everything must be perfect. One false move, and we might be crushed. The North is a more dangerous place than we're used to, with many factions in play... We must not be crushed in the works.”

Grimnir nodded in agreement, but still looked unsettled. “Certainly you should bring along more than the Jaks. I don't question their skills, but this is a... dangerous matter.”

“I trust no others to keep themselves quiet. This is a negotiation I can trust to no other, and it needs to be done now, and it needs to be done silently.”

“Where shall we tell the Clan you've gone?”

“To scout the borders of Grizzly Hills and make contact with the Warsong stationed there. I'll make sure to accomplish that as well. Need any drinks while I'm out?” Gorfrunch grinned at Grimnir. The ancient Frostwolf smiled at the joke, but concern still touched his face.

“I'll see you at Conquest Hold, old friend.”

“Blades sharp. Keep the Clan safe.” Gorfrunch mounted Sharpfur and rode away from the edge of the Grin encampment outside Stromgarde where he and Grimnir had been talking. Grimnir turned back to make the final preparations for the Clan's relocation to Conquest Hold, muttering to himself.

“Fel Orcs, demon gems, ancient grudges, forgotten cultists, and now the Undead... What else have I to look forward to in my old age?

(( The event this thread has been leading up to, the clan's finishing touches on Stromgarde and travel to Conquest Hold will take place in game on Monday, October 26th, at 5:30 server time. Feel free to continue adding to this thread if you have anything relevant before we leave, but keep in mind the timetable. ))

The ruckus from the other night had turned out to be an organized attack against the Keep. This was slightly amusing to Jornag; what timing. If the humans had waited another week, they wouldn't have had the Grin to deal with. Living amongst the ogres had truly been a boon for the orc. Not only was he left alone for the most part but now it appeared to be the safest place in case of attack. Not a single human had crossed that threshold. The attack also did something else. It occupied the Grin and most importantly occupied Kisuk. Now was the time to meet a member of the clan that had caught his interest particularly early.

Rain fell upon the smoldering ruins of Stromgarde. Dark clouds could be seen overhead blocking out the moon. Loud thunder blocked out most conversation. Down below, Jornag saw two trolls chattering with one another, tossing bones. Near them on an elevated platform stood another troll wearing complete voodoo garb, just staring out into the highlands. Jornag continued past them all to a worn down hut within the Grin District, formerly the Keeper's land.

"Smell anything?"

Gelbis appeared on the orc's shoulder with a mischievious grin on his face. He fiercely shook his head violently maintaining silence as per his orders.

"Two nods if strong magic, one nod if weak"

The imp gave a single nod, and the orc smiled. The warlock who lived here felt safe, the protective charms weak. That could signal a few things. The warlock was either of poor skill, strong political standing, or making an effort to appear welcoming. There was only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath the orc threw the door open without knocking and stepped inside. The resident of the house stood up quickly facing the intruder, a shocked expression on his face. Clearly he hadn’t anticipated so brazen an intrusion.

"What? No hello?" Jornag gave a sarcastic smile and looked about the room. A few trinkets were strewn about, nothing powerful. It all appeared pleasant, meaning the good stuff was hidden.

"Who do you think you are trespassing in my home? Sloozun, Heel!" A fel hound crawled out from beneath the shadows of the room. Jornag eyed the beast and then looked at his imp.

He whispered to the treacherous demon, "I thought you said you didn't smell anything."

The imp just gave a shrug. Cursing, Jornag quickly turned his attention back to the resident. “Settle down, as you can see I’m unarmed. I just want to ta-“

The orc threw an immolation spell upon Jornag whose robes quickly caught fire. Swearing again he patted it out with one hand and threw a fierce glare at the warlock. Their eyes connected and as the resident stared into Jornag’s eyes his disposition shifted from anger to fear.

Jornag brushed out the fire on his robes and walked into the house. The fel hound lunged but Jornag banished him. He walked up to the orc, who seemed to be in a trance of complete terror, and pushed him into the chair he sprang up from. Going back to close the door, he sat himself down and removed the fear effect from the warlock.

“Let’s start over. The name is Jornag.” The orc gave a smile to the dazed warlock.

“Who are you and what’re you doing in my home?!”

“Ahh, good question. I’ll just have Gelbis make us something to eat and we can talk. I just arrived here not a few days ago. I’m a friend of the warchief you see. From Blackrock Mountain.” His imp flew off his shoulder and made way for the pantry. Loud noises being created as he searched for food.

“Oh! Well, any friend of the chief is of course a friend of mine, but that doesn’t answer what you want with me.” The orc straightened up in his chair getting more comfortable, his fel hound now being released from his banishment and lying next to his masters feet, anticipating another attack.

“I’m here because I don’t think any friend’s of the warchief is a friend of yours. And I want to be your friend… uhh”

“Bok’theg.” The warlock motioned for Jornag to sit in a nearby chair.

“Right, Bok’theg. You see Bok, I have a feeling that the magic emanating from the crypts had something to do with you. That interests me a great deal. We may have the same ideals.” Boktheg looked at Jornag wearily, with a slight bit is distaste in his eyes but a pained smile on his lips. The intentional use of the familiar form of Bok’theg’s name annoyed him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, friend. I… are you the emissary from the Council?”

Taken aback by this turn of events Jornag eyed the orc meticulously and looked around the room once more for good measure. Taking a deep breath he gave a concise answer, though it was a lie. “Yes.”

Boktheg’s eyes grew bright with excitement. Recent events had not gone well for him, but perhaps this was a sign of change. “Hrrrrrm, I can’t trust you of course.” He said matter-of-factly. “ And I can’t really help you either. You see I’m a bit constrained as to what I can do these days. I am bound by…” he paused for a moment and his fingers twirled in the air as he chose his words, “…an oath of sorts. And that old frostwolf Grimnir watches my every action like a hawk.”

Jornag nodded. “What if I got you out of this oath? Would you listen to my proposition?”

Bok’theg laughed and nodded. “You’re certainly welcome to try, but if you end up dead, then we never talked.” Bok’theg leaned close to Jornag conspiratorially and said “I need something from him…a scroll.”

“Scroll?”

“Aye, a scroll that I was forced to sign. It binds me to a single favor of Grimnir’s choosing. Get it for me and I can undo the magic.”

Getting up, Jornag nodded in seeming satisfaction. “Don’t worry about the details, friend. Consider yourself to soon be a free man. Then we discuss business.”

With a jaunty wave, Jornag walked out of the hut and Bok’theg locked the door behind him. Inside the hut, Bok’theg began to strengthen the protective wards on the door for the first time since his return, relieved that the intrusion was over. Nonetheless the orc’s curiosity was piqued. “Interesting.” He mused. “The council has finally sent me help. Perhaps I won’t be a lapdog as long as I thought. Even if this Jornag is not what he claims, what do I have to lose?” He smiled as he thought about the posibilities that now lay before him.

Outside Jornag walked through the rain back to his home in the Ogre District. His imp appeared on his shoulder his arms laden with dried meat and bread. “You’re actually going to get him the scroll?”

The orc took a piece of the proffered bread and bit into it. “Probably not, but I might be able to get the frostwolf to use it. Then both of our problems are solved.”

A bit of moonlight peaked out of the clouds above as the rain began to die down. The two trolls who were gambling below were now fighting with one another. The troll in the voodoo garb still stared out into the highlands.

A raging bonfire burns in the middle of the Keep as the day of leaving draws nearer.
Mortacus has been ready to leave the Keep for days now, but has been pacing the Keep with a serious expression on his face and a blue piece of fabric in his hands. He's been muttering to himself, seemingly debating.

Tonight is different though. Mortacus slinks to the fire and sits on the balls of his decayed feet in front of it, blue fabric in hand and a grin on his face. He unfurls an old, ragged Frostwolf tabard and holds it out before him, grin wider than ever.

"Some ties...must be severed," he said softly, before crumpling the tabard and tossing it into the fire.

He sits there for a moment, staring at the fire as the tabard catches and joins the blaze. He thens stands quickly, turns, and walks back toward his quarters, disappearing from sight before he even leaves the fire's light.

Bok'theg's Jounal
Entry: October 29

Conquest Hold is nothing like Stromgarde. In fact Northrend is so different from Azeroth as to defy imagination. While the details of our departure from that filthy hulk of a keep will be left to the history books, the events that transpired during this clan's stay there will most certainly be underestimated in their importance.

While the gem I suffered so greatly to create is no more, the memory of its power haunts me still. The knowledge remains and yet...where will I find another who can assist me as the dead elf witch did? And what artifact is left to me? I can feel that answers lie just beyond my grasp but are there nonetheless.

The arrival of this new warlock disturbs me. He cloaks himself as a friend and yet...I must not trust him completely. His power is greater than mine and should he form a partnership with the Frostwolf against me I would be doomed indeed. I cannot seek to rely on the favor of the Smashblade. He would just as soon cut my throat as look at me. No doubt his recollection of my hold over him has not been forgotten. The old Warchief is long dead and where am I left? WIthout allies and without confederates.

And yet....perhaps there is hope. My final words with Grimnir clearly struck a nerve. He worries for himself. Perhaps he worries over the fallen? Or over the new Warchief? Or his position within the clan? Or this strange relationship with Kisuk?

I must learn more and perhaps then the answer to my dilemma will become clear.

Nimbus prowled along the rain soaked riverbanks of Grizzly Hills, occasionally stopping to jab with a paw at a salmon jumping from the currents. Around him the distant screech of a bird of prey or the roar from a bear joined the otherwise still air, punctured only by the sound of something large being constructed.

Nimbus sunk low against the muddy ground and turned his nose toward the east from where a familiar scent wafted through the air. He backed into a clump of bushes that almost completely obscured his opaque appearance, and waited. The sound came closer and Nimbus could feel against the ground that the sets of footsteps numbered many more than one or two.

As they drew closer, Nimbus dug his front claws into the dirt and stabilized his back end. Voices in an unfamiliar language came closer. With a growl and roar, Nimbus leaped from his place in the bushes. Raking a paw to his side he made contact with a body, leaving four pronounced red scrapes across the human's front before bounding off across the riverbank. The group fired on Nimbus, who quickly added distance bounding up the hills toward Conquest Hold.

Inside, a group of orcs clad in black tabards sat around a fire with a Tauren whom Nimbus prowled up next to, sat down and began to lick and pick at a paw. He looked up at the Tauren, who nodded and looked toward the orcs saying simply, "they're looking for us."

~~~~~~~~This is the end of this chapter~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~