Rage

She was hurt.

His fault.

The Hammer were supposed to protect the Grove.

He led the Hammer.

This was his fault.

The fight had been chaotic, he hadn't even thought to worry about what the Grove and Circle were doing.
Stupid.
How had he forgotten the Hammer were not heroes, to rush in and slay the enemy in droves, but soldiers to protect their weaker comrades from the blades of the warband's foes?

His face felt like it was burning. A savage cut from a human sword had slashed down his face, over one eye. He couldn't see from that eye anymore, permanent or temporary he didn't care.
Amezia had come to him, to heal him. He had suffered her touch and her Holy prayers, shuddering with barely controlled rage. He had no time to be healed, his wounds were relatively minor.
The vision in his good eye had darkened as blood rushed to it. He was close to snapping.

Revenge.
Blood must flow.
She had been hurt.
His fault.

Growling, he shoved the frail elf away, not noticing or caring as she fell hard to the floor with a shriek of pain.

"Grim, boy. You will speak with me." rasped a familiar voice. His Aunt's.
He turned to glare at her.
"Not. Now."
"Now boy. Or by the ancestors you'll live to regret it."
His breath shuddered in anger. He had no time for this.

His Aunt dragged him by the arm, dragging him into an abandoned storehouse.
"Boy. Take your damned tabard off. I'm not speaking to you as a Marauder but as kin and I won't have you pull rank on me."
Wordlessly, Grim shrugged his tabard over his shoulders, dropping it carelessly onto the floor.
"Speak Aunt. Speak quickly."
His Aunt glared back at him, her top lip curling in a snarl.
"Your sister died and you do nothing?"

"She deserves nothing."

"Idiot boy. She is your kin, she deserves your respect."

"She betrayed the Horde."

His Aunt bristled, her face glowing with anger. "You know NOTHING of the Horde boy! Your SISTER was slain and you do NOTHING!"

Grim blinked, he could see tears in his Aunt's one eye.
"Aunt... Spyder... She had no honour."

The tears fell faster from his Aunt's eye. "Where is she? Where is her body boy?"

"Danroth took it. He parted ways with us. Find him and you find her body."

His Aunt took a step forward, staring up at Grim's face, her anger clear. "YOU find him. You bring her to me."

Admitting defeat, Grim lowered his head. "For you Aunt. Out of respect for you. I will find him and bring you her body."

She raised a hand, cupping Grim's bloodied cheek. "Boy. Do not be so quick to seek death. There are so few of us left now."

Grim gently removed his Aunt's hand from his face. "I am a shaman of the Horde. A battle-shaman, a shaman of war. Death in battle is part of that. Or do you expect me to grow old and lame? To raise children and grandchildren?"

His Aunt's eye glistened, tears streaming freely from it. "Yes Grim. I do. You've all left me. Your mother and father, my mate and my son. Your brother and sister. All that's left is you and I."

Grim shook his head gently, looking as awkward as he felt.

"You've all left me!" His Aunt raised her voice. "Do I deserve this? Stay here and live, make me proud! Fight for family and loved ones, not the Horde and not for sheer hatred and vengeance!"

Grim took a hesitant step forwards, hugging his Aunt tightly, smearing tacky blood from his armour all over her robes. Without a word he let her go and strode from the building, the sound of her crying loud in his ears.
He limped to the inn, ignoring the salutes of the Marauders. Ignoring their hails. He entered the inn, finding where she was laying, unconscious.

His fault.
He should have protected her.
Should have taken the wounds for her.

Kneeling, he unsheathed his left-claws. The blades forged from the shards of his beloved sword, Skysplitter. With the blades he hacked down into the palm of his other gauntlet.
Black blood oozed freely from the wound, he clenched his fist, watching the blood well from between his fingers.
Without a word he placed his bloody hand over hers.

Revenge.
Absolution.

Hours later, Grim crouched on a rocky outcrop, silently watching his prey.

A dozen humans in Alliance colours, armed with crossbows and daggers. Scouts. Sitting quietly around a low campfire.

He watched. He saw the scars on their armour, the rents in their tabards and the blood on their bandages.
They were from Fort Triumph.

Metal gleamed in the moonlight as Grim opened his mouth in a savage smile.