The Funeral of Gulmorgron Siegefist [H-RP]

Moon Guard
The Funeral of Gulmorgron will be an upcoming roleplay event for Moon Guard's Horde players, held in procession from Razor Hill all the way to the Valley of Wisdom in Orgrimmar. It will be held on Wednesday, the 20th, at 7:00 PM server-time. All characters who knew Gulmorgron in life are called upon to attend this event and pay their respects to an awesome orc, though anyone interested in attending is invited to do so regardless of how well they knew Gul.

(Attendees are expected to be respectful and of course are discouraged from attempting to disrupt the tone or distract from the seriousness of the situation.)

Time: Wednesday, 8/20/14, 7:00 PM ST
Place: Razor Hill/Valley of Wisdom
A bloody sun rose over the red sands of Durotar, cloaking the desert in a bleak dawn. The braying and howling of wild things echoed once more through the crags and valleys, slowly rising above the dull hiss of rising heat to greet the morning. A lone reptile lay flat on a cold stone, soaking in the crimson rays of the new sun, for soon the land would grow bright and hot. But the creature's repose was disturbed by a thundering noise in the earth, shaking it from its perch. Cocking an eye at the well-trodden road to Razor Hill from the iron spires of Orgrimmar, it snarled with discontent and slithered away from an oncoming procession of marching kodo laden heavily with warriors of the Horde.

The caravan was headed by an orc, guiding them through the tight canyon on a massive worg. In his left hand, the flesh red and raw and the thick digits blackened, he bore a torch blazing brightly through the dim twilight of early morning like a beacon. Behind him the hulking pack animals stomped onward, their peaceful demeanor and vacant expressions strangely like those borne by their riders. For upon every face of every orc, tauren and troll there was worn an expression of grave solemnity. No one looked at those around them. No one spoke.

Atop the jagged cliffs crowning the canyon, a low, mournful howl announced the sudden presence of a pack of wolves, stalking the grim parade from above. Karrag Redhand hardly stirred upon his mount as the wolves and their riders rushed down the rocky descent to join them, leaping and bounding. The orc who led this snarling onslaught joined Karrag's side, matching his pace.

“I think we knew we would return to this,” he growled, squinting at his companion with his only eye. “What we saw in Feralas...”

Karrag grunted, rolling his shoulders. Ordinarily he would welcome Gorzug's company, but he could not help but feel that this was a journey he must undertake alone – in mind and spirit, if not in body. He could not muster speech, could not put the storm of thoughts racing through his mind into words. The packmaster stared ahead blankly, slightly rebuffed by Redhand's silence.

“We are to bring him to Orgrimmar, then,” he said, almost in a whisper. “To the Valley of Wisdom. That is good, I think... he put so much of himself into Thrall's Horde.”

With a swift kick to his mount, Gorzug left the caravan behind, taking his pack down the road to Razor Hill. Karrag was left alone with the ever-burning torch, destined to set aflame the dead flesh of one he formerly believed invulnerable, perhaps immortal. And then, chancing a glimpse at the road ahead, with a sharp intake of breath he saw Razor Hill come into focus.

There, amidst a large throng of men and women, there rose a dais of stone surrounded by flickering candles. Shamans knelt before it, shaking ritual beads, chanting in their native tongues and that of Kalimag, the strange language of the elements. No one there spoke, either. No one wept. This was not the sort of rite held by softer races. This was not a time of self-pity and moist eyes. It was a time of remembrance, of deeds of valor and glory. It was a time to bow your head, not in regret or remorse, but in honor of one who has come before you and paved the road ahead.

For upon that dais, awaiting the strong arms that would bear him across the road to Orgrimmar, lay the dead shell of Gulmorgron Siegefist.
I won't be around for OOC reasons, but I think Baen would probably still pay her respects. She used to joke with the Stormrock that a stiff breeze could have knocked him over, but it never really clicked that death would come for him one day. He meant a helluva lot to a lot of her clan, and saw a number of them through some hard times in a way she could never have helped with. Baen was always thankful for his presence.
She'd be sad to hear of his passing.

I hope the event goes well :>
Years ago, the dancing flames of a bonfire shone outside the timber ramparts of Razor Hill where a gathering of Orcish shamans did listen to a tale of old, spun from the wily maw of Elder Gulmorgron, who spoke thus, saying,

"The gray-brown bluffs, towering ramparts of stone, rose sheer from the wild tangle of forest that sprawled over the plain of ancient Nagrand, a waving sea of foliage shimmering in the fabled winds. In those times, the great Mountain of Spirits had not yet fallen from the skies, and the primordial wilderness was host to shadowy throngs of inscrutable peril. None now live who remember what bloodline coursed through the veins of the barbaric Orcs of that mythic era, for time is a river and the names of Orcs and their deeds are often as unrepeatable and transient as its currents. But it was said amongst the elders that our ancestors walked those lands, carving their lives from the rigors of the Lohn'goron, nomads as they ever were over harsh and ominous frontiers.

Jutting skyward from the plain loomed a foreboding peak, the trees and the earth at its crest blasted and charred as though by lightning and a wake of flame. Here, upon a venerable altar of rough-hewn stone, two shamans of legend did hold counsel with the elements; Lo'dan and Ner'agha, mates bound by pacts lost to the abyssal maw of the past. The cryptic power of the two shamans drove both fear and respect into the hearts of their neighbors and kin, and so it was only rarely that the ineffable rites of that ashen peak were interrupted, and the tutelary wrath of Lo'dan and Ner'agha unleashed.

Sarkorath, a pupil of Lo'dan, acrimonious with envy of his masters' power and covetous of Ner'agha for a mate, one day stole upon the two shamans upon the summit of their sanctuary. Capable as a conduit for elemental power, Sarkorath faced Lo'dan and demanded that he hand over Ner'agha and leave the ring of power that wreathed the peak, for Sarkorath was adept enough to know that the circle of storm-struck tree trunks that marked the ring were possessed of a liminal power, enhancing the potency of the spiritual congress conducted therein. Lo'dan was speechless, and extended his hand to Ner'agha, where the two grasped as one a blackened branch of a tree. Ner'agha's eyes flashed suddenly, and in an instant a bolt of lightning struck the ground between the pair and the pupil. When the storm-bolt cleared and the thunder rippled across the plains with a rending echo, a wolf reared up from the smoke left in the wake of the blast, its fur ash-black as the charred earth beneath its paws. Despite its hulking size, this was a lean wolf with thick fur waving in the winds, and hard-etched features whose nature was Hunger. And with a half-starved gleam in his eerie eyes, one blue and one brown, the wolf set his ravenous attentions upon Sarkorath.

Thunder-struck and with trembling legs, his boldness quelled by the sight of the unearthly wolf, Sarkorath flung himself upon his masters' mercy. None know why Ner'agha and Lo'dan stayed their hands, but it is said that this they did. But the wolf asked of the shamans who had summoned him,

"You have called and I have come, for my hunger is great. What now am I to eat?"

And the reverberating voice of Lo'dan spake, saying,

"Behold, Sarkorath," and turning from his quaking pupil to the ravenous wolf, he answered the wolf,

"Eat yourself."

So indeed the wolf started to work. He began with his feet, gnawing gruesomely up through his legs, his belly, until all that remained of the wolf was its face, sated fangs dripping with blood as Sarkorath stared, transfixed with horror. Lo'dan and Ner'agha were enchanted, for to them this was a perfect image of life which lives by killing that which lives, and this very monstrous aspect of life that had frozen Sarkorath in terror was to his masters an invigoration. And this monstrous wolf mask, which was all that was left of the uncanny wolf, Lo'dan lifted in his craggy hands, saying in his ancient dialect,

"I will call you Gosh'gamukha, The Wolf's Face of Glory. And you will sit upon the face of my pupil forevermore, that he might never forget this day. For anyone who does not worship you, anyone who does not admit that life is monstrous, and glorious, and cannot be changed, comes not to knowledge of the sacred, and will fail as a conduit of its powers."

Thus speaking, Lo'dan carved free the grisly visage of the wolf, draped it over the quivering countenance of Sarkorath, and bade him go forth.

It is said that Sarkorath returned to his clan after wandering long in the wilderness, out in the great loneliness which alone may open the spirit of an Orc to all that is hidden to others. Some say that in time, Sarkorath took on pupils of his own, initiating many Orcs to the Gosh'gamukha, whose mask became that which we shamans wear today. Who may know for certain if it is so, but so it is said, and the tale I pass now to you..."
Another old one comes to the fold.
“All fled—all done, so lift me on the pyre—

The Feast is over, and the lamps expire.”
It is happening soon.
Apologies to those who came out and waited patiently this evening, but something came up for Gulmorgron and the pyre burning ceremony for his funeral has been postponed as a result. A post rescheduling the event will be put forth as soon as possible, and we hope to see you all again in the near future when the funerary rite is carried out as previously planned.

Aka'magosh!
Don't worry. Gul is just fashionably late ;).
Puts meaning in the term... "Late to your own funeral"

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