The Bludgeonings of Chance

They lay together in the cold cave, wrapped in crude, stinking furs. Body heat, trapped beneath the thick animals skins were all that was keeping them from freezing to death.
Vathel Cloudsalve lay there, watching him. The greenskinned orc twitched and whimpered in his sleep like a wolf cub having a nightmare.
What thoughts were running through his head, she wondered as she stroked his matted hair, trying to calm his dreams.

Vathel had found him bathed in blood, lying half dead in a puddle of melting snow made red with his own life fluid. She had seen other greenskinned orcs recently since the fall of the Portal and her Chieftain had assured her that they were friends.
Seeing this one, lying there so close to death, surrounded by corpses of Thunderlord orcs she had known he was worth saving.

She had dragged him into this cave days ago, knowing his wounds were too severe to survive a journey to Wor'Gol. Here she had tended to his wounds, bringing him from the brink of death to a state where she knew he would survive.
He grew in strength, physically but his mind remained weak. Whatever had happened to him since his kind had arrived through the Portal had damaged him.

She tried to speak to him, to sing to him, to tell stories and folktales. Sometimes he seemed to listen, other times he simply stared into empty space. She was not even sure if he could speak - the most she had got from him were grunts.

On the seventh night they had mated. Beneath the furs and taking great care not to aggravate his healing wounds they had mated in clumsy silence.
When she awoke the next day he was no longer present and she shivered, naked beneath the furs. He had returned, hours later, blood caking his metal-capped tusks and fresh wounds showing on his skin.

After he returned he seemed calmer, as if he had returned to sanity somewhat. He even spoke to thank her for her care, though slowly and gruffly, as if it pained him. Vathel asked his name, but his answer was merely a wince and a grunt, his one eye glazing over as if the attempt to recall was causing physical pain.

This calmness did not last. Within hours he was twitching and raving again, his tusks gnashing and his eye reddening.

Impressive! I'd enjoy reading a follow-up to this story.

Why thank you kind sir!

He stared at his reflection, tinged red in the bloody puddle before him. Green skin, one grey eye, the other eye covered by a torn and mouldering patch, filthy ginger-brown hair. Clad in torn scraps of plate and chainmail armour and armed with a pair of stolen axes he did not recognise himself at all.

Deep down into his psyche he probed. He knew his identity was hidden there, but something kept him from uncovering it.

Grunting in tired frustration he gave up again, returning to the real world. Before him lay three corpses in Iron Horde colours. The corpses were maimed and mutilated, with great chunks torn from their bodies.

He frowned, suddenly noticing that he could taste blood. With one gloved hand he wiped his mouth, seeing blood caking the leather he blinked and sighed inwardly.
It had happened again. He had blacked out and awoken surrounded by carnage and half eaten corpses.

Scowling he trudged back to the cave, worrying and wondering if he could trust himself. He had only slain enemies so far... but what if he turned on people who did not deserve death?

Vathel awaited him, he knew. As he closed in on the cave he worried further. What if he turned on her? What if he awoke one day to find he had slain her?
He must leave, he decided. Tonight. He would say farewell to her, thank her for her help and then leave. It was the only way to keep her safe.

He could barely stand looking at them. His own Clan.
They were strangers to him. He recognised their faces, but their names hovered out of reach.

They irritated him. Looking to him to lead them, to tell them what to do. He had ordered them to slay two ogres, and they had, eventually.
The hash they made of that irritated him too.

In the ruined tower, while the peons worked at cleaning it and turning it into a fortress he had given them orders. He was barely able to keep the contempt he felt for them dripping from his voice.

His orders given he had mounted his borrowed wolf and ridden out of sight.

Hours later, his anger still simmering he sat by a low fire, clenching and unclenching his fists. He threw dried herbs onto the smouldering flames and breathed deeply, feeling the anger and tension melt away...

Then he floated. His mind soared above his body and drank in the sights of Frostfire in all its savage beauty.

He was searching for her, for any spark or sign she lived yet. But, none was forthcoming.
Sighing inwardly he stopped his search.

Then...suddenly a faint whisper. Words half-heard and not yet understood.
Grim paused, listening. It was a female voice, an orc's voice but an elderly one. He sent his mind's eye chasing this quiet voice, searching for its source.
The chase led over the mountains and snow of Frostfire, entering jungles and lands he had not yet seen for real.
Something there drew his attention, a bright fire and choking smoke. Grim's spirit coalesced and approached the flames, seeing a wrinkled old brown-skinned orc sat there, grinning.
Through the heat-haze he walked, his spirit form not limping like his physical body. The old crone sat still, clad in rags and surrounded by grinning skulls. She turned to look at him, grinning widely through blackened tusks.
The crone began to chant, her words flowing and stuttering rhythmically, each word thumping around Grim's mind, pulsing pain through his spirit.
His spirit-form stumbled, the pain too much. All the while the crone held his gaze, and he found himself unable to look away...

Just as he thought the pain would force him to return to his body it ended. The hag smiled, her face softening.
She whispered, hoarsely, ""Swiftblade is safe, Kraknash takes care of her. Burn the bodies but keep the skulls."
The crone clicked her fingers, cackling and Grim found his spirit form catapulted away at speed, returning to the physical world.

Grunting he drew his cloak tighter around himself and put more fuel on his guttering campfire. The name 'Swiftblade' rang a bell, but he could not picture her.

"Damn this!" Grim growled, furious at the partial amnesia plaguing him. He concentrated on the vision he had experienced, scowling as he did so.
He inhaled deeply again, sucking in any last scraps of herb-smoke. His concentration perhaps combined with the herbs flashed an image in his mind.
A green-skinned orc, nude and pregnant. Heavy-breasted, lithe and attractive she lay still, one leg smothered in a mud poultice.

As quickly as it arrived, this flash of vision dissipated. But it had served its purpose, he could now remember who this Swiftblade was.

Another task then, he frowned at the thought. He must find Valeth, and now this Swiftblade. He closed his one eye, sighing in frustration. He must also find his memories, all of them.

There was no better place to describe him. A mountain bleeding fire, great rivulets of molten rock flowing from the earth.

Grim stood on the rock precipice, grinning into the wind. This was the life! This was completion!

Here, on this mountain all the elements met at once! The mountain stood tall and strong, its rocks solid as the foundations of Draenor! From this mountain flowed fire, anger and destruction made manifest, annhilating a path down the mountain!
The winds howled; buffeting Grim as he stood tall, threatening to blow him from his perch! Snow fell from the heavens, hissing as it landed in the lava.

And most precious of all, life... Even here tough lichen grew, clinging to life on the rocks and small creatures hunted one another.

Grim stood, grinning, his arms spread wide as he soaked it all in.

This was power, this was what it meant to be a shaman!

Visions assailed him as he stood, swaying in the wind. A female tauren, her face radiating kindness and love. An older orc, grizzled and black-haired and leaning on a great-axe. A Forsaken in a floppy hat, casting a fishing rod into thick, viscous green ooze. A huge black banner, bearing a red wolf-mask, flying proudly atop a battlement thick with slain humans...

So many visions, some made sense and others made none. But, the combined visions began to slot his memory back into place.

He was Grim Stonepaw. Battle-shaman of the Horde, champion and survivor of a thousand conflicts! Warseer of the Blood Wolf Clan! Outcast, seer, warrior, shaman, friend, lover, Chieftain...

A final blast of wind knocked him from his perch and he landed on his back with a thud. He rolled over onto his side, wincing and laughing at the same time. As he rolled, he saw it... The second such symbol he had seen in as many days.
A rock carving, hidden from view beneath a stone ledge. A carving of a wolf, half of its face torn and bleeding.

I've really been enjoying these. Keep them coming Grim!

Homecoming

There were still gaps in his memory. He could see his Clan members' faces, but struggled to attach names to them.

But it was time to go back.

He had found Vathel, wounded and unconscious, but in the care of Frostwolf shamans.
They wouldn't let him near her. To them he was a feral looking greenskin, stinking and unwashed and wild-eyed. They had however explained that she would live, and that a new life was growing inside her.

At that information he had turned and left. He was to be father it seemed, though Vathel deserved better than he as a mate.
He did not love her, not know that his memories were returning. What had happened had happened and he vowed not to dwell on it.
If she sought him out later he would not turn her away; he would aid her as best he could but he would also not leave with her.

Grunting at his decisions he had limped away from the Frostwolf settlement and found the nearest frozen lake to bathe in.
Weeks of blood, dirt and stink washed away and he emerged from the icy lake clean and feeling almost alive again.
Using his claws he hacked at his beard, trimming it back down to a manageable length.
He peered at his reflection in the still lakewater, grinning as he recognised the face there. Scarred, ugly but familiar!

Grim gathered his few belongings together and laid his armour flat on the snow. It would not do! This armour was simple, rusted and plain.
If he was to be a Chieftain he had to be... intimidating.

He drew a symbol around his armour and began an old ritual, one he had performed many times over the years.
He requested the spirits of earth and of fire to aid him, to bless his armour with their molten wrath.
Quickly, more quickly than ever before the armour ignited, burning brightly, chain links flowing over each other like liquid.
Frowning now Grim picked the armour up and was not harmed by it. He quickly armoured himself, feeling stronger instantly - the spirits answered so readily here!

Again he looked at himself in the lake. He looked like his old self; straight-backed and proud, an arrogant sneer to his lips. His armour crackled and hissed with elemental flames.
He was Grim Stonepaw again. Chieftain and Warseer of the Blood Wolf Clan and he would return to them in all his past glory because he had a mission.

One of their own was still missing, but he had an inkling where she was and a further inkling that discovering her would lead on to something bigger...