Sarahmoo
10-27-2010, 02:38 PM
Hi there everyone! I finally got around to trying a "proper" short story about Warcraft. I'm not very original or creative, I chose to write up the scene at Grommash Hold between Garrosh and Vol'jin. Please post any feedback or comments you have, and thank you sincerely for reading! Please enjoy.
Garrosh was alone.
He sat alone upon his throne in Grommash Hold, his mind ablaze by the day’s events. The night had already claimed Orgrimmar and the city was at an eerie peace. The flicker of the brazier being the only warmth in his still chamber, Garrosh’s head sunk in regret and … sorrow? It was on this day that Cairne Bloodhoof’s funeral pyre had finally returned the old bull to the Earth Mother. Garrosh had not been there, of course. He told himself that his duties as acting-Warchief compelled him to remain within the city; that he was too busy to consider the prospect of leaving for Mulgore. He wasn’t sure if he truly believed that himself.
It had all happened so fast. A haze of battle … a shattered runespear … a rapid parry … a single swing of Gorehowl … and it had all been over. It was honourable, wasn’t it? It was Cairne who had challenged him to the mak’gora after all, he had been obligated to accept! But there was no honour in what happened that day. The treacherous Magatha Grimtotem coated his precious axe with a damned, black poison that robbed him of his kill. Garrosh would never know if his combat skill alone could have brought down Cairne honourably. The doubt had been eating away at his mind ever since.
“Ya never did strike me as a coward, Garrosh. But now I be seein’ ya true colours.”
The voice broke the quiet equilibrium as a giant figure seemingly crept out from the shadows themselves. The creature lurked towards him before stopping just at the border of where the brazier’s light met the darkness. It was Vol’jin.
Garrosh rose from his throne, his expression turning from weariness to barely masked agitation at the interruption. “You had better have good reason for coming to my throne room unannounced, troll.” His hand subconsciously rested upon the hilt of Gorehowl.
Vol’jin seemed un-phased by the gesture and continued on as if Garrosh were not even there. “It be Thrall that be da architect behind ‘dis Horde. Cairne an’ I were merely da builders. Now, da Hellscream pup be content to try an’ tear it down brick by brick. Any idiot can break something beautiful; it take a true leader tah nurture it.”
A flash of anger rose within Garrosh. Where did Vol’jin find the nerve to speak this way to his superior? “Don't talk back to me, troll. You know who was left in charge here. Haven't you stopped to ask yourself why Thrall chose me instead of you?”
Vol’jin replied nonchalantly; his tone remaining calm as if he were talking to a newly born infant. “Dere be no question why, Garrosh. He gave ya tha title because ya be Grom's son and because tha people be wantin' a war hero,” It had been no secret. Garrosh fought adamantly for the Horde in the icy wastes of Northrend against the Lich King’s rotting dead. And the people had loved him for it. Voljin continued, “To which I tink ya be even more like ya father den he thought, even without ya havin' da demon blood.”
Garrosh now wrapped his hand tightly around Gorehowl; the blade fuelling his fury. Garrosh replied with deliberate warning in his voice to the darkened troll. “You are lucky I don't gut you right here, whelp. You are foolish to think that you can speak to your Warchief in such ways.”
Vol’jin rose to his full height, an imposing display even to Garrosh. Vol’jin’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the Mag’har. What had Thrall been thinking appointing this oaf to such a noble responsibility? Not allowing himself to be distracted, Vol‘jin responded to the threat. “Ya be no Warchief of mine. Ya've not earned my respect and I'll not be seein' tha Horde destroyed by ya foolish thirst for war.”
Garrosh let out a deep chuckle, his mind amused by the notion of a leader, who only very recently managed to reclaim the Echo Isles from the mad Zalazane, actually giving him advice on war! “And what exactly do you think that you'll do about it?” Garrosh said.
Before allowing a response, he continued, all humour now lost in his voice. “Your threats are hollow. Go slink away with the rest of your kind in the slums. I will endure your filth in my throne room no longer.”
Vol’jin had predicated such a response. Cairne had once hoped that perhaps Garrosh could be negotiated with, be reasoned with. But now he knew there would be no compromise with the acting-Warchief. He would not allow this warmonger bring the Darkspear and the other brothers and sisters of the Horde into an unending conflict again. Cairne would not have died for nothing.
“I know exactly what I'll be doin' about it, son of Hellscream. I'll be watchin' as ya people slowly become aware of ya ineptitude. I'll laugh as dey grow ta despise ya as I do. And when tha time comes dat ya failure is complete and ya "power" is meaningless, I will be dere to end ya rule, swiftly and silently.”
Vol’jin strode straight up to Garrosh, his face merely inches from the orc’s. Looking straight into Garrosh’s eyes, his voice solemn and filled with a dangerous certainty. “Ya will spend ya reign glancin' over ya shoulda and fearin' tha shadows, for when tha time comes and ya blood be slowly drainin' out, ya will know exactly who fired da arrow dat pierced ya heart.”
Garrosh, enraged and shocked by the boldness of the Darkspear chieftain, stepped back and held Gorehowl right against Vol’jin’s sharpened tusks. He declared “You have sealed your fate, troll,”, spitting at Vol’jin’s feet as he finished.
A wicked grin spread across Vol’jin’s face, revealing a series of menacing teeth that glistened against the chamber’s flames. With barely a whisper, he replied slowly and with genuine sincerity “And you yours, ‘Warchief’”
And like that, the shadow hunter sank back into the darkness and was gone.
As soon as he was certain the troll was away, Garrosh let out a furious howl, flinging Gorehowl from his hands and sending it clattering against the stone floor. How dare that miserable troll dictate to him? A blood-like haze clouded his eyes, howling and roaring in anger as he paced his throne room.
No. He would not let Vol’jin get the better of him. That is what he wanted all along. No, Garrosh would be careful. A warrior had to know when to stay his blade and when best to strike. He would wait. He would not let old parasites like Vol’jin suck off the glory of the revitalized Horde. With uncharacterised tenderness, he retrieved Gorehowl and gently rested it by the edge of his seat. He slumped down into his throne, staring as the brazier’s ember slowly withered and died.
As always, he was alone.
Garrosh was alone.
He sat alone upon his throne in Grommash Hold, his mind ablaze by the day’s events. The night had already claimed Orgrimmar and the city was at an eerie peace. The flicker of the brazier being the only warmth in his still chamber, Garrosh’s head sunk in regret and … sorrow? It was on this day that Cairne Bloodhoof’s funeral pyre had finally returned the old bull to the Earth Mother. Garrosh had not been there, of course. He told himself that his duties as acting-Warchief compelled him to remain within the city; that he was too busy to consider the prospect of leaving for Mulgore. He wasn’t sure if he truly believed that himself.
It had all happened so fast. A haze of battle … a shattered runespear … a rapid parry … a single swing of Gorehowl … and it had all been over. It was honourable, wasn’t it? It was Cairne who had challenged him to the mak’gora after all, he had been obligated to accept! But there was no honour in what happened that day. The treacherous Magatha Grimtotem coated his precious axe with a damned, black poison that robbed him of his kill. Garrosh would never know if his combat skill alone could have brought down Cairne honourably. The doubt had been eating away at his mind ever since.
“Ya never did strike me as a coward, Garrosh. But now I be seein’ ya true colours.”
The voice broke the quiet equilibrium as a giant figure seemingly crept out from the shadows themselves. The creature lurked towards him before stopping just at the border of where the brazier’s light met the darkness. It was Vol’jin.
Garrosh rose from his throne, his expression turning from weariness to barely masked agitation at the interruption. “You had better have good reason for coming to my throne room unannounced, troll.” His hand subconsciously rested upon the hilt of Gorehowl.
Vol’jin seemed un-phased by the gesture and continued on as if Garrosh were not even there. “It be Thrall that be da architect behind ‘dis Horde. Cairne an’ I were merely da builders. Now, da Hellscream pup be content to try an’ tear it down brick by brick. Any idiot can break something beautiful; it take a true leader tah nurture it.”
A flash of anger rose within Garrosh. Where did Vol’jin find the nerve to speak this way to his superior? “Don't talk back to me, troll. You know who was left in charge here. Haven't you stopped to ask yourself why Thrall chose me instead of you?”
Vol’jin replied nonchalantly; his tone remaining calm as if he were talking to a newly born infant. “Dere be no question why, Garrosh. He gave ya tha title because ya be Grom's son and because tha people be wantin' a war hero,” It had been no secret. Garrosh fought adamantly for the Horde in the icy wastes of Northrend against the Lich King’s rotting dead. And the people had loved him for it. Voljin continued, “To which I tink ya be even more like ya father den he thought, even without ya havin' da demon blood.”
Garrosh now wrapped his hand tightly around Gorehowl; the blade fuelling his fury. Garrosh replied with deliberate warning in his voice to the darkened troll. “You are lucky I don't gut you right here, whelp. You are foolish to think that you can speak to your Warchief in such ways.”
Vol’jin rose to his full height, an imposing display even to Garrosh. Vol’jin’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the Mag’har. What had Thrall been thinking appointing this oaf to such a noble responsibility? Not allowing himself to be distracted, Vol‘jin responded to the threat. “Ya be no Warchief of mine. Ya've not earned my respect and I'll not be seein' tha Horde destroyed by ya foolish thirst for war.”
Garrosh let out a deep chuckle, his mind amused by the notion of a leader, who only very recently managed to reclaim the Echo Isles from the mad Zalazane, actually giving him advice on war! “And what exactly do you think that you'll do about it?” Garrosh said.
Before allowing a response, he continued, all humour now lost in his voice. “Your threats are hollow. Go slink away with the rest of your kind in the slums. I will endure your filth in my throne room no longer.”
Vol’jin had predicated such a response. Cairne had once hoped that perhaps Garrosh could be negotiated with, be reasoned with. But now he knew there would be no compromise with the acting-Warchief. He would not allow this warmonger bring the Darkspear and the other brothers and sisters of the Horde into an unending conflict again. Cairne would not have died for nothing.
“I know exactly what I'll be doin' about it, son of Hellscream. I'll be watchin' as ya people slowly become aware of ya ineptitude. I'll laugh as dey grow ta despise ya as I do. And when tha time comes dat ya failure is complete and ya "power" is meaningless, I will be dere to end ya rule, swiftly and silently.”
Vol’jin strode straight up to Garrosh, his face merely inches from the orc’s. Looking straight into Garrosh’s eyes, his voice solemn and filled with a dangerous certainty. “Ya will spend ya reign glancin' over ya shoulda and fearin' tha shadows, for when tha time comes and ya blood be slowly drainin' out, ya will know exactly who fired da arrow dat pierced ya heart.”
Garrosh, enraged and shocked by the boldness of the Darkspear chieftain, stepped back and held Gorehowl right against Vol’jin’s sharpened tusks. He declared “You have sealed your fate, troll,”, spitting at Vol’jin’s feet as he finished.
A wicked grin spread across Vol’jin’s face, revealing a series of menacing teeth that glistened against the chamber’s flames. With barely a whisper, he replied slowly and with genuine sincerity “And you yours, ‘Warchief’”
And like that, the shadow hunter sank back into the darkness and was gone.
As soon as he was certain the troll was away, Garrosh let out a furious howl, flinging Gorehowl from his hands and sending it clattering against the stone floor. How dare that miserable troll dictate to him? A blood-like haze clouded his eyes, howling and roaring in anger as he paced his throne room.
No. He would not let Vol’jin get the better of him. That is what he wanted all along. No, Garrosh would be careful. A warrior had to know when to stay his blade and when best to strike. He would wait. He would not let old parasites like Vol’jin suck off the glory of the revitalized Horde. With uncharacterised tenderness, he retrieved Gorehowl and gently rested it by the edge of his seat. He slumped down into his throne, staring as the brazier’s ember slowly withered and died.
As always, he was alone.