Oargoth's Scrapbook

Thought it was about time I added the numerous sonnets I have written, ICly written by my Orc Oargoth, these depict his life and view on Orcish life starting from the founding of Orgimmar and going forward from there. I'll add more as they're written, enjoy!

-In the founding of Orgimmar, what makes an Orc a Hero or a Peon? Oargoth, alone and confused, notes that perhaps the true Heroes of the Horde aren't the mighty Warriors, but the humble Peon as the New Horde struggles to pull itself together in the light of the new World.-

Blood pumps, thumps, me 'eart wholly asunder,
Our Pup o' a City, Our noble race
Anew, reborn, once imbued with thunder,
Seems suddenly chaste, hunted, out o' pace.
A Pack split, howlin' out o' te rhythm,
Who am I te bring Us back tegether?
Te make te Blood pump free wit'out schism.
Yet riddles utter, “Birds o' a Feather”,
But where, for dreams pass me by unexplored
As I lose me'self in visions o' pain,
I'm suddenly one Orc, lone in te Horde.
Who will be there te pull me, us, back sane?
As Heroes surround tales o' bloody glory,
Te Spirits tell o' te peon's story.

-As poverty sinks in and Durotar proves itself a harsh mistress, who is to say that Orcish pride didn't diminish and Thrall's pedestal loosen? The new Elements of Azeroth surpass traditional methods of Orcish Shamanism and Oargoth writes about his, and his Race's struggle, to survive. Perhaps it's impossible-

Growls keep me awake at night, in a fright,
Tho' I fight an' I fight lookin' alone
Fer te reason te live on through this plight.
Yet te whisperin' chills me te tha' bone,
An' te Earth ignores my pleas te swallow,
Fire detests my hunger fer burning.
Water, spirit o' Life, leaves me hollow,
An' even Wind ignores me strong yearnin'.
Alien, this new Land, full o' poverty,
Wild an' free from Orcish dominance.
Spared Draenor's curse spawnin' from ye an' me,
Seems te Spirits exude confidence.
Our medicine tastes bitter doesn't et?
“Lok'tar ogar”, just false hope, I admit.

-In regards to the actions of the New Horde, Wars perhaps unnecessarily started, Oargoth ponders on his position and if War is the best course of action, coming to a rather unconvincing answer of Yes-

Starved enough te start a War like before,
Moonligh' keeps me from my sleep, I'm sick, drowned.
Bound, Spirit's don't kno' whut we're fightin' fer,
Am I a noone o' am I renowned?
Ancestors guide us back te damnation,
Soulsick I follow me'Pack unneeded
Bu' who is who, wha' rank means wha' station?
Wilds whisper o' Sheep as I pleaded
Te rise all as Wolves, slay thy pray cattle.
My foes turn from Pinkskins te task masters,
Te Great-Hut deserves more before battle.
War, like before, surely tells disasters?
Te Hunt's embraced by all unrequited
I, ignore, embraced passion reignited.

-Orcs fuel their Bloodlust once more on the Demon Blood. Cenarius is slain and Kalimdor is at a height of War since the Orcs landed on the dusty shore, Oargoth, a bystander to all of this chaos criticizes the actions of the Orcs-who-drank-twice and meditates on the true reason behind the War, a reminder, perhaps.-


Heroes be fools in ligh' o' common hope,
Can't but 'elp themselves te die fer our 'cause'.
Lets pause. Our cause? Te fools got 'igh on dope
Drinkin' like cubs from a teat on all fours.
So wha' tha' they proved that God's kin still bleed
When, wha', how, tha' doesn't even matter,
Te Elves are fueled by an anger we feed.
An' we still 'and them Wars on a platter.
But grass is worth fightin' fer, I kno' this.
Food is needed te survive after all.
Lands te 'unt on, fer Pups te feel true bliss.
As they learn te kill on feet, 'stead o' crawl.
'Least tha's wha' I thought we were fightin' fer,
Orcs deserve life on this alien shore.

-Kul'tirian Marines encroach the shores of Durotar, once again, Orcs face the Humans. Yet Thrall seems removed from the struggle, the name Proudmoore rings in his head and Oargoth, angered, criticizes his former idol. In his eyes, the Daughter, nay all the Pinkskinned should pay for the Father's sins.-


I thought I felt te cruel touch o' Dae'mons.
Freed, I believed, we be from te Pinkskins,
Te cause o' our Spirits tha' abandons
Us whilst history repeats due te sins.
Be ourselves crushed once more in this new world?
O' can our adored saviour rise once more
An' show, why 'e be te Warchief, so bold!
Bold an' strong, imbued, but 'e 'as a flaw.
Te Pup-Shaman, rumours tell, was born an' bred
From te teat o' a Human, milk so weak.
'E never tasted She-Orc, full an' fed.
Is this why 'e's so wary an' so meek?
From Draenor we did spawn, strong, fierce an' proud,
So why be I seein' Pink when I'm bowed?

-The Dark Portal is opened once more and a shattered Draenor lays within it, troubled by this, Oargoth contemplates whether Azeroth is truely the home of the Orcs or if Draenor is worth returning to. Deciding no, he continues to note the arrival of Garrosh Hellscream, and reveres him due to his uncorrupted state.-


Where is 'ome, I wonder, where one lays down
Wit' a frown at te end o' a days work.
O' where ye come from wit' Orcs coloured brown,
Past te endless Void where all troubles lurk.
Redemption struggles against corruption,
Glazed o'er in te Orcish eye o' I,
An' ye an' me avoid soul-destruction.
We follow te Brown, 'ear 'is voice fly 'igh,
'Is temper, tempers, te steel in our hearts
An' our passion ignites fire itself.
True Orc, free be he, as 'is preachin' starts,
Te leave nay Pinkskin, te free nay dark elf.
Yet 'War' Chief 'imself, did free all our souls,
Tis sad, te young fool, does nay share our goals.

Orc sonnets! I love!