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A heady breeze blew in from the east, tasting of salt. The sun beat down on the dry, cracked ground. Orcs began crowding into the center of Razor Hill, dutifully ignoring the brutal heat. Varg'rok began counting and came to the conclusion that they were pitifully few in number. Still, few to an orc was many to any foe. Small in number, vicious in combat; his clan was something to be proud of.
However, Varg'rok was not an overly optimistic shaman. He knew how valuable fresh warriors were. The clan would need all the manpower it could get if times continued on like they were.
It was approaching midday now, and the sun was at its highest. The elderly shaman sensed the rising discomfort of the crowd, and began drawing what little water remained nestled in the earth. Pulling, tugging, thanking, Varg'rok coaxed a small cloud of water overhead, shielding the assembled orcs from the worst of the dreadful Durotar sun.
As the last of the able bodied orcs arrived, Varg'rok signaled a massive Tauren astride an even larger kodo. The Tauren nodded and began pounding in a slow, steady beat on two large drums his mount carried. The orcs heard the call to march and responded with vigorous cheers. The clan trotted to the stables and grabbed their worgs.
The clan's finest, the Worg Raiders, were on the ride again. They had been summoned to the Ashenvale border to drive back the ever encroaching night elven army.
Clan Stormfist is looking for orcs, Shu'halo, and trolls to fill our ranks. We are an RP-PvP guild centered around orcish beliefs and traditions. The majority of our RP events in the past have been PvP oriented, but we are now expanding into more aspects of RP. For more info about the guild or our upcoming events, contact Vargrok or Thrangar in game.
Edited by Vargrok on 4/29/2013 1:41 PM PDT
As they rode through the rest of the scarred desert, through the watershed and over the river into the Barrens. His shield thrown on his back, a mace strapped to his saddle in front of him, enchanted with the living essence of the world he traveled. Behind him on a separate strap hung two axes, each enchanted, one with the frozen ice of Northrend, the other with the sharp winds of the Twilight Highlands. As the worgs strode through the dry plains Dalnar glanced back at the rest of the Clan, giving a small grin.
Always confident, never feeling down, they road past the Crossroads, young Orcs and Tauren looking in amazement as they went by riding north into Ashenvale, meeting up near Splintertree, just east of the Warsong labor camp. They gave a cheer before riding up north to deal with the elves.
He remembers the day before in Stonard, a places where he often visits and is currently dealing with some aggressive negotiations to annex it into the Clan. Walking around the swamp, remembering when the land was secure. No Alliance intrusion, no politics, no rebellions, an understandable Warchief, who knew when to bring peace, but then also knew how to crush his enemies under the earth. He dared not walk to far, the swamp was not as safe as before. A new Alliance fortress was just to the north east, filled with fresh troop, thirsty for war. We repelled them once here, we will do so again if needed.
He walked to the west instead, avoiding these new forces. We stomped through the swamp, walking across another alliance encampment, not nearly as bloodthirsty or threatening as the other. Broken they were called, they have been in the area ever since he could recall. Always living with the Orcs in the area, never bothering them, not minding the constant scouts on the road. The scouts did not bother them, and in turn did not bother us. The good ol days.
He came back to the present as they charged on, letting out a cry he flung the shield off of his back and grabbed his mace and charged in, helping those fighting, protecting them from harm, as well as helping control what enemies he needed, this was going to be a good battle.
For the Clan!
Dro'garth reviewed the contracts.
"I want them ironclad!" Ugan's distant voice rang in his memory.
He knew they had to be ironclad, he knew who would be looking at them, and he knew exactly how shrewd that Resick can be...this would be his finest work yet.
Ugan was going to grab the employee contracts for several Orc's in the employ of Resick, the CEO for A.C.M.E. Import and Trade, and this deal would be epic. A complete, and resounding "I got you!" from himself, the former Director of Emerging Markets.
He had schooled Ugan in how Resick negotiates, the infuriatingly smug Goblin could spot a loop-hole in any contract negotiations, and would exploit that loop hole for everything it was worth. The Orc's had ten year contracts of which, if memory served him right, Resick's secretary had casually mentioned that they were on year three.
"Hail Dro'garth!" came the greeting from an Orc approaching the table, "the Clan is meeting in Razor Hill to do some maneuvers before riding off to Ashenvale. You joining us?"
Dro'garth, a.k.a. Dispelhope looked up at the Shaman, Gomoth with a flat, unreadable face, and spoke, "Let me guess...lots of armor clinking, lots of grunting, sweat pouring off the skin like rivers, clouds of dust clumping up in said sweat, along with rough, out of tune songs that would frighten the trolls back into their swamps."
"Well," Gomoth always thought Dispelhope...Dro'garth, could see the future, "yes, kind of..."
"No thanks." Dro'garth had decided to write some key negotiating points for Ugan to refer to before he met with Resick.
"What kind of Orc are you?" Gomoth said, trying to shame him into wanting to run around like a grunt.
"I'm a clean Orc." Dro'garth said dryly, and went back to writing, and then added, "with very nice skin."
"WE ARE NOT A BUNCH OF FLOWERS, WE ARE THE HORDE!"
Dro'garth set the quill down, sighing.
Clearly, he was not going to be able to finish this while he had him here yelling at him.
"I wonder," Dro'garth said softly, almost purring, looking Gomoth up and down by the table, "what you would look like and smell like after a good, hot, floral bath?"
Gomoth Blinked in surprise, not expecting the direction this was going in, and was about to voice his thoughts but was overridden by Dro'garth's continuing appraisal.
"In fact," Dro'garth now got up and began walking around Gomoth in a slow circle, inspecting him up and down, "I wonder what you would look like if we got you out of this over-used armor, and put you in some Pandaren silk robes...purple I would think, with flashes of white along the sleeves, and silver piping around the collar, and front panels."
Then, he leaned in, somewhat, exaggerating the act of smelling him, "And I would think a bath of mixed florals such as lavender, and um...hmm...perhaps, rose, to lay a base of pleasantness to your rather overbearing earthy smell."
Gomoth backed up...it was the details of the bath that made him think perhaps the Warlock would bundle him up into a bath, and scrub him himself.
"Gomoth!" Dro'garth called out as the Shaman ran out of the inn, "I want you to let the Clan Chief and council of Elder's know that I'm going to suggest we have regular bath days for everyone in the clan...a clan clean day...Mondays, Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sunda...WAIT, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!"
Watching the Shaman crawl over himself to get out of the inn was satisfying, and Dro'garth returned to his writing...picking up the quill, he thought some more, and the stopped, "actually, a bath sounds really nice right now."
((Bump for clean Orcs!))
..and I suggest weekly baths for all Orcs of the clan.."
Growling, Shoita crumpled up the letter that had been posted on the message boards threw it on the ground. Picking up a brush, she began again the task of brushing all the dirt and filth out of her worgs fur. The previous days hunts through the highlands had filled the fur with brambles and mud. "Why did we have to cross that river three times?" The wolf shook off the ticklish feeling of having all its fur flowing in the same direction. "Clean Orcs..." The thought was stuck in her head now as she continued to mumble to herself "Who ever heard of a clean Orc?" Sweat dripped down her face from the work at hand, as it did, reconstituting some dried blood from the night before, stinging her eyes *sigh* "Well, maybe a quick bath"
Varg'rok stood surveying the scene. Members of his clan, as well as those other champions of the horde. Warriors brave enough to enjoy the glorious sport of the Mok'gora.
Maybe not true Mok'gora, but it was similar, and Varg'rok supposed that was all he could hope for now. Mentally shaking himself, Varg'rok turned back to the sparring combatants just in time to see one fall. The elderly shaman bellowed out the winner's name, and then the next two contestants.
"A shame that so many are so weak these days. This horde is not strong enough to weather the storm with warriors such as these. We need true champions these days," Varg'rok mused.
If you think you're hot stuff and you have what it takes to be the champion the Horde needs, come on down to Mok'gora Monday. Talk to me or Thrangar in game for some more information. This isn't an only Horde event, either. Alliance: come on down, I'd bet my naked fighters could show you a thing or two.
Bath time, smashing and kitties. FOR CLAN STORMFIST!
Now we're talking!
And I'm looking into this little goblin invention called "shower."
I think it's catchy, and might appeal to the more...er..."earthy" smelling of our clansmen who indulge in battling in dust and dirt.
How can you guys see in that stuff anyway...give it a chance to settle down.
:::waves hand while sipping his wine:::
Ach, the sun...well, back to the shade while you boys wrestle and tickle each other.
:::goes back to reclining in a overstuffed chair under an awning:::
90 Orc Hunter
Stormfist eh? *chuckles quietly* Your finest meet ours soon... Don't worry. Should be over quick. Ours are war veterans. Unless yer gonna do what you do best and try find peace before the fight. It'll be over even quicker that way.
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