Desolace

Back in Desolace. Almost where it all began.

Time was cyclical, Grim mused. Once upon a time an orc came here to discover himself. The sky split and the orc was made whole.
This orc then passed his knowledge onto another. This other, younger orc came to Desolace. Not to discover himself, but to discover a tool which would aid him in finding himself.

That orc was Grim. And now Grim was back there.

His motley bunch of supporters had followed, but he had left them behind at their newest camp. He had a job to do now.
He remembered Skysplitter's task all those years ago. It had come back to him last night, camping alone here. He had looked up at the sky and seen a falling star. Nostalgia had overwhelmed him and now, today, with the sun shining he knew he must repeat himself.

So he rode his warg South. Deeper into the wastelands of Desolace.

His mind was alive with whispers, all directing him to one certain place. His skin felt like it was on fire, his eye burned with the knowledge of what he was doing.
Hours of travelling later he found it.

A crater. Gently smoking, casting whisps of smoke and steam to the sky. Grim stumbled from his mount and staggered to the hole in the ground, he fell to his knees and reached for the crater's contents.
A lump of iron, burnt and blacked. Star iron.

The shaman-smith Skysplitter had shown him was still alive. Still old, miserable and wizened but still willing to help a fellow shaman.
All it cost was conversation.

The shaman-smith grunted and eyed Grim up and down.
"Boy. What trouble are you in? You stink of trouble."

"The world has gone mad venerable one. I am merely fighting for what I believe in."

The shaman-smith chuckled as he began his work, hammering and moulding the blades.
"And for what you want."

"Yes. Is there anything wrong with that? I deserve what I desire."

Another chuckle emanated from the older orc's mouth.
"You will not enjoy it, even if you get it. If you get it. It will blacken your soul and your heart will grow bitterer than it is already. The spirits and the ancestors will abandon you in your misery and you will eventually..."

SMASH

The shaman-smith brought his hammer down on the blade he was forging.

"...Break."

Grim stood in the moonlight holding his position. Sword outstretched, light glinting off the metal.

His one remaining claw and all the shards of his original swords he had left, added to the star iron had gone into his new blades.

Two night elven sentinels lay dead in the dust around him. Their blood staining his moonlit blades and being sucked into the greedy dirt of Desolace.

The blades were blooded now. Sanctified in the blood of foes of the Horde.

Grim closed his single eye, not needing to see his new swords, able to just... sense them.
With a single fluid movement he thrust them point-first into the ground and let go.

Mistrunner.
Blood-Iron.

Mistrunner and Blood-Iron. His new blades.

Satisfied at their names, Grim stalked off, leaving the corpses behind.