The Dream

The Dream

Lightning split the sky, crashing into the dusty ground. There was no sound, only vision, the lightning made no noise.
Grim smiled at the sight, the symbolism being clear to him - Drek Skysplitter. Grim slowly drew his sword, named after his deceased mentor and laid it over his knees reverently. He stared deeper into the fire, focussing on the vision being shown him by the spirits.
He recognised the location of the lightning storm, it was Desolace, but before the Sundering. More symbolism, he knew this was where Drek had earned his surname.

"Why Drek?" he asked the spirits, "His spirit has not spoken to me in some time, why do you show me this?"

No answer, just soundless lightning striking a dusty floor. Grim sighed, was this to be another vision he would never understand?
He frowned, beginning to lose focus of the vision when he thought he heard something, some whisper, quiet and barely noticable. He sat still, trying to pinpoint the sound. There! It was a whisper, he had not imagined it.
The whisper grew louder, more whispers overlapping it. He could not make out what was being said, just a wall of noise, garbled and unintelligable.

He concentrated, listening in, trying to hear the original whisper. There it was... A name. He groaned, that name again. "Drek."

Why were the spirits doing this to him?

The vision of lightning-wracked Desolace shimmered and faded, being replaced by the sight of a snow covered land, weak sunlight filtering through heavy clouds. He recognised this place too. Northrend, the Frozen North.
This was getting more and more curious...
The vision zoomed in suddenly, coming to rest on a wide steppe, the Borean Tundra. Warsong Hold stood proud, Horde banners flying high. He had been here, he had fought here. Battling the monstrosities of the Scourge proudly and with honour.

The vision sped up, passing through the Borean Tundra and into a snowy wasteland covered in the bones of dragons. The vision stopped suddenly, in a land of green hills and dark forests, a heavy air of corruption present.
Grim knew this place also, the Grizzly Hills. He had fought there too.

This land faded into blackness, a new sight appeared; a wolf, battered and bloody, eyes dull and almost lifeless.

Goodbyes

Grim had never enjoyed goodbyes. The death of a friend was one thing, they could be honoured and mourned, but actually saying goodbye to still-living friends was tough.

Words had failed him as usual, saying goodbye to the Marauders he cared about had been upsetting, saying goodbye to the Marauders he respected had been worse.
He had looked at Thrakha and seen the barely controlled anger in her eyes, he had said farewell and she had nodded curtly and turned away, as if glad he were leaving.
Not surprising really, Grim supposed.

And so, he had left the Marauders. Perhaps he had left weeks before, when joining the 'revolution'. But perhaps not, that had been FOR the Marauders, not against them, nor against Thrakha. But this revolution had entered dangerous territory and he no longer fully agreed with Sylphi's methods.

As his hawkstrider, Beaky stalked along the long road back to Stonard, Grim thought long and hard. Where was he going?

Northrend.

Why was he going?

He didn't quite dare think why. Deep down he knew, but saying the reasons to Ru he realised they sounded foolish.
Perhaps best not to think too hard then, perhaps best to follow his visions and await whatever the spirits threw at him.
He was an orc, he was a blademaster. There was little on this world he feared and he would face any dangers with honour in his heart and his blade in his hands.

Grim looked up, peering into the distance before smiling. Life was not so bad, his honour was intact and he was alive.

He chuckled suddenly, the unexpected sound startling in it's clarity. "Lok'tar Ogar!" he roared, before digging his heels into Beaky's flanks and speeding off towards destiny.

Stonepaw

His first stop was Orgrimmar. If he was going to head into the frozen north and risk death on a whim he would go with his finest wargear.

After a day of cleaning, polishing and sharpening he stood in one of Orgrimmar's many shops, this one offering tabards and finely embroidered banners.
He paid the shopkeeper and left, proudly wearing a new tabard bearing the emblem of the Horde. More importantly he had a sashimono strapped to his back. It had been a long time since had bothered wearing this, and this time he had a new banner...
A large wolfhound rearing violently over a mountain had been sewn skillfully onto the fabric. He grinned at the arrogance of it all, but he would be damned if he went skulking out of Orgrimmar looking his usual scruffy self.

He strutted through the streets of Orgrimmar, swords and armour glistening in the hot sun, banner flapping in the wind.
He had a zeppelin to catch.

The zeppelin service to Warsong Hold was mainly used for transporting supplies to the skeleton-crew of Horde soldiers there and Grim parted with several gold coins to secure himself an uncomfortable berth alongside crates of rations and replacement armour and Beaky a cage, barely big enough for its feathery bulk.

"Don't see many of your lot travellin' ta Northrend boss!" a goblin crewmember shrieked at him.
Grim nodded in reply, he had no desire to explain his reasons to anyone, let alone this goblin.
He leaned on the railings, looking over at the land far beneath him. What if there was nothing in Northrend for him? What if his quest was a waste of time? Would he shuffle back to the Marauders?

If his visions were true... If he found who he was looking for... he could return to the Marauders a hero... Triumphant and glorious! Thrakha would be forced to acknowledge him and respect his deeds...

Grim snarled and spat over the side of the zeppelin. Foolishness. He was not heading into Northrend to earn glory, he was heading there for a friend. For a mentor, and to repay a debt.

Honour-Brother

Grim sat in the zeppelin's hold, sheltering from the cold wind outside. He had emptied his mailbox on the way to the zeppelin but had not had time to read through his letters.
Now was as good a time as any, so he pulled out the first letter, ripping it open casually and pulling the paper inside out.

"Dear Grimmy,

Someone said you have gone to do some stuff somewhere where it is dangerous. I am picking frogs..." etc etc.

With a grin he continued reading. It was always a pleasure to hear from Roéd, his honour-brother. He owed that elf his life and soul and considered him as close as a blood relative.
He often had little to no understanding of what Ro was talking about in his letters but it was comforting to receive them nonetheless.
Ro had been picking frogs? Could frogs even be picked?

Pointless wondering, Roéd could have meant almost anything by those words.

Grim sighed as he carried on reading. Roéd's letters of late mentioned Igra a lot. What in the name of the ancestors was he getting at?

Pulling a goblin-made pen from his bag Grim set about writing a reply in the hold's dim light.

"To my honoured brother,

I travel to Northrend, the frozen north..."

Grim wrote more, explaining a little of why he was going and where he was going to. He could trust Roéd.
He rolled the letter up and sealed it before standing up and walking off to find the goblin in charge of the messenger pigeons.

Glory

A figure towered over him, its arm extended towards him. He took it and the figure pulled him upright.
"Grim." the figure snarled.
Grim's vision swam, slowly regaining it's clarity. The figure in front of him was an orc, tall, old and battered. Blood leaking from several injuries, black armour rent and torn.
"Ghel...?" Grim asked.
"It is time young one." Ghel replied, gesturing around himself.
Grim looked around, corpses surrounded them. Corpses of Marauders. Marauders he knew.

It was the dream again, the vision he had been shown once before.

He nodded at Ghel and moved to stand beside him. "It is time then old one?"
Ghel nodded, "Just us two now boy. They come back for us." Ghel pointed ahead of them, to a column of marching soldiers.
"Damn humans." Grim spat.

The vision differed this time. Previously Grim had held his sword, Skysplitter. This time claws extended from his gauntlets, caked in blood and filth.

The humans marched closer, tentatively. Clearly not one of them wanted to take risks now, against their last two enemies. Ghel growled, pointing his axe at them.
"Come young one, let's see how many we can take down with us."

And with that Ghelgor charged towards the enemy. Grim followed, howling with the rush of it all. A charge into the jaws of death! There could be no death more honourable than this!
He could feel his ancestors and the elements filling him with their support, fire erupted along his claws.

Together the two orcs hit the human shield wall, bowling the smaller humans over like chaff, blades swinging great arcs of blood with every swipe.

Then it was over. Grim blinked rapidly, vision swimming back into focus again. This time there was no dream or vision. Just blackness and cold.
Dazed he stared at the ground, seeing his sword in front of him. He grasped for it, fingers numb.
Where was he?
Northrend. In a cave.
Why was he here?
To find someone.

Suddenly a pierching shriek rang out, echoing off the walls. Grim turned to look in the direction of the scream, seeing a small, red-haired figure desperately waving a staff around, trying to fend off a giant tentacled creature.
Grim's mind unclouded somewhat and he saw corpses, not Marauders this time, but humans, orcs, many different races, all clad in thick purple robes.
Cultists!

Heroism

He picked his sword up, feeling its reasurring weight. He struggled to his feet, stumbling towards the red-headed figure.
The tentacled creature swung an arm, catching the red-headed figure across the chest and sending it flying.
Rage filled Grim. Burning rage, a rage he had not felt in a long time. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, his stumbling became a run.
"Face Grim and face death!" he screamed, sprinting towards the tentacled fiend. It span around to face him, lashing out with a set of tentacles.
Grim vanished, reappearing behind the creature. He stabbed his sword at the creature, puncturing it's thick skin. A black, viscous and foul smelling ichor dripped from the wound.
"You face a blademaster of the Horde now!"
The creature span back around, quicker than Grim has believed it could. Its tentacles wrapped around Grim's throat and lifted him up to where its face should have been.
"Gth'unik Crrrrrut'egath." the words, entered Grim's mind. No mouth had spoken them, and he did not know what they meant. He grinned, despite the pain of the tentacles around his throat.
He rasped, "Gibberish. This is not your world creature."
"Yit'urrgun erreth'byo." more words in his mind.
Blood began to drip from the corner of his mouth. The tentacles were crushing him, killing him. He chuckled, blood spraying the creature. It tilted its head, almost quizzically.
"A.... blademaster. Not easy... to kill."
The creature looked down. Grim's shortsword, Malbane, was up to the hilt in its chest, a thick bubbling line running up its torso. The creature squealed, a hideous sound, like an orcish baby in pain. Its body shuddered, black ichor spraying everywhere.
The creature dropped him, its body shuddering, it flailed wildly, catching many of the cultists milling around chanting. Broken bodies flew.
It fell to its kness, and Grim strode forwards grinning. He raised Skysplitter, his main-blade, and brought it down in a mighty sweep towards the creature's neck. The blade made contact, embedding deep. The creature screamed louder, despite its lack of mouth. It fell forwards, dead.

The adrenaline faded, Grim felt tired, hurt and in pain. He limped ahead now, leaning down to reclaim his blades. His hands found their hilts, pulling them out of the creature's body.
He blinked rapidly, "Wha....?"
There were only hilts. He looked down, shattered bits of sword-blades, stained in the creature's ichor lay on the floor.
"Skysplitter.... Malbane...", Grim slumped to his knees, his injuries overtaking him. dimly he was aware of renewed chanting, and the sound of many feet moving.

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"B b b brother!" Roed shouted. His brother had done it! He had killed the tentacle monster! But he looekd sad now, on his knees. Roed hoped he was ok, he had best go and check really.
His ribs hurt from where the tentacle monster had slapped him. The tentacle monster was mean. He was glad it was dead.
Roed looked up and saw people, the same weird people who had been singing songs that made his head hurt. They had weapons and they were looking at his brother. Maybe they were going to help him too?
"H h hi guys! A a are you g g g going to help Grim too?"
They ignored him, one lifted an axe up high. Roed thought that was odd, then realisation dawned.
"H h hey! Y y you leave him alone!" Roed felt angry. They were going to hurt his brother! His brother was a hero! His brother thought that Roed was a hero too, a hero would help another hero!
Mumbling a spell Roed lurched forwards, his hands moving in intricate patterns. His thrust his hands forwards and a ball of flame erupted forth, smashing into the axe-armed cultists head, burning it hideously.
Roed giggled, it was fun being a hero!
He launched more balls of fire, setting the other mean people alight. They ran around screaming in agony, which made him giggle more. But he had a job to do, being a hero wasn't just about killing people. It was about saving people too. He ran forwards, still giggling. He reached Grim and tried to pull him to his feet. Grim was heavy though, so it was a struggle.
"Roed. You.... you killed them all. A dozen or more. You saved me brother.""
Roed giggled nervously. "I'm a h h hero! And s s s o are you!"
Grim struggled to his feet with Roed's help. "Brother, can you help further? My blades are broken, help me collect the pieces. Then we go to find Drek."
A warm feeling flowed through Roed's body. Adventures were fun!