The night was young, quite the opposite of the Orc that now paced his tent. He was built well; tall and broad, while slender and lean at the same time. He was waiting for words from his brethren to float in upon the breeze at the will of his shaman.
"Can you tell me of our homeland again father?"
The Orc turned to face his only son Durotan, and a smile came across his worried face. "Sit young Durotan and I will tell you of our wondrous home."
"Our home was in the lush fields of Nagrand, some months away from where we are now. It was teeming with many creatures, and we had honoured them as we honoured our ancestors and ourselves. We took from the land only what we needed, and lived peacefully amongst the other Orcish clans."
"The Orcs were not the only ones there though. For a time we shared the land with the Draenei - the exiled - trading goods and skills amongst ourselves. We rarely interacted with each other but saw no reason to quarrel. Although the Draenei sought peace with us, the Ogres of Terrokar forest did not. They were large, almost twice the size of a full grown Orc male, and they carried clubs the size of the children. Peering with one eye, and spitting out harshly spoken and unintelligent words, they meant only to destroy us when they saw fit. Their masters, the Gronn, were no exception. Standing as tall as the trees, and even more cunning than some of the beasts, they made formidable foes and often claimed the lives of a few Orc."
A cough sounded behind him and he turned to see his head shaman "Mother" Kashur. She motioned that the others were ready. He rose and began to dress himself in leathers made from the animals that once filled his belly and his heart.
"This, Durotan, is a Talbuk fur. The Talbuk were nimble and intelligent, sticking in groups and protecting each other as we would our own. And that fur you sit on now belongs to a Clefthoof; a mighty beast that could feed an entire clan, sometimes at the risk of a life."
He watched as Durotan ran his fingers through the familiar bedding and yet another smile crossed his face as he brought back the memories of the Kosh'Harg festival.
"Once a year, each and every clan would assemble in the fields of Nagrand and we would host a grand festival honouring our ancestors. There were roaring fires, lots of good food, and everyone was at peace with the world. Each festival the shaman would climb Osho'gun - the sacred dwelling of the ancestors - and learn from them; discover the paths each clan would take and find out if a young one had been born under the path of a shaman."
Durotan lay down on the warm Clefthoof fur and began to close his eyes.
"One day Nehr'zul - our most coveted shaman at the time - had a vision of false hope. He saw an enemy in a friend, and victory were only failure could thrive. Many others agreed with his new ideals, his new... weakness. He had not realised that the demon known as Kil'Jaeden had manipulated him to his will. By the time Nehr'zul realised what he had done it was too late; the once harmless Draenei had become mortal enemies and the ancestors had abandoned the Orcs altogether. There was nothing more he could do."
"Sending a letter to each clan leader he explained what had happened and what had to happen if the Orcs were to survive, but they were all enthralled by Kil'jaeden and paid no heed to his warnings. I was the only one who considered his words, and for that we were banished. But I do not regret my decision, nor will you my son."
Durotan was now sleeping soundly and his father called for a small contingency of shaman and warriors alike. One of the shamans grabbed Durotan and went towards the tents door.
Durotans father looked up at the great mother through the peak of the tent and gazed upon her glory for a moment before smoke began to cloud his vision. This would be the last time he saw her, and he was pleased that his death would be an honourable one.
"So long Durotan, son of Garad, Chieftain of the Frostwolf clan. You do not yet know it but you are destined for greatness, and I have faith you will lead our people to a peaceful and prosperous land. Have strength, have honour, and be a wise leader."
Garad stepped out of his tent, his head shaman by his side, and watched as the children were quickly hustled away from the camp, Durotan amongst them. With a deafening roar - a war cry so fierce that it stirred the very souls of his fellow warriors - Garad charged. His foe was the Burning legion - his old friends and family twisted by the magic and will of Kil'jaeden - and although he was the one labelled the traitor, he knew he would die an honourable death on this day.
Let me just say that condensing 250 pages of book into 2 and a half is almost impossible to do, and I must say I am pleased with the little description I managed to leave in. The names, and places are all real but the times and situations are made up - hence the fan fiction.
If you haven't already guessed I have begun to read the World of Warcraft books, and being not even through the first one entirely I have learned so much about the lore that it forced me to write a small snippet in honour of what was done years ago.
I hope you enjoyed it