His name was Zorgarlog, a large
chested fighter in charge of the Orc’s main export: War. The Warchief, he was
called among many… A weakling, he was called by few… or none, depending on
whether or not they need be alive. The honour of himself among his people
relied solely on his ability to command, and especially to kill. The orc is a
race of bloodlust, and Zorgarlog has just that. When I say just that, I mean only
that. All other emotion had left his body, after he was forced to slaughter
his own drunken father, after he erupted in a fit of seething rage. When
Zorgarlog realized he would be the next Warchief, was when he felt nothing. The
pain of his father leaving him was far overtaken by the satisfaction of taking
the blood of man for his own. As a mere teen, he was numbed of emotion, numbed
of sight… but perhaps, on some other level, he understood more. More than any
human or elf could ever understand. Bloodlust does not consume the Orcish; the
Orcish consume the blood, make it part of them, and become stronger in heart
and mind.
There came a day though, that
killing one man at a time wasn’t enough any longer. The humans were invading
Zorgarlog’s residing town, Orgrimmar, which is also home to many of the Orcish,
Bloodelves, and undead alike. The reason behind this? The Stormwind Monarchy
had put a large bounty on the head of the Warchief. All of the human peons,
lower tier fighters and supposed “warriors” were lined up at the gates of
Orgrimmar. The hundreds of men seemed puny in comparison to the gate that held
them off. Cowering in fear, the Human army stood no chance against even the
Warchief alone, but the power of greed was stronger than the wisdom in fear.
Zorgarlog decided to play a game with the humans. On top of the sky tower in
the centre of Orgrimmar, he let out a bellowing growl that brought the
trembling humans to their knees out of pure vibratory force. He then yelled
above the cries of all the people, “YOU ARE NOT WARRIORS. YOU ARE COWARDS, IN
NEED OF MONEY SO DESPERATELY THAT YOU HAVE COME HERE. IF YOU ARE NOT A FOOL,
YOU WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE AND BE GRATEFUL FOR YOUR LIVES. THOSE WHO CHOOSE TO
STAY WILL FACE ME AND MY AXE ALONE.” The gate was lowered. There were 3 men
alone, standing in formation with their shields facing outwards. Little did
they know, that their decision had given themselves worse than a glorious fate
in the heat of battle. A wind rider of the horde flew out of the gate, and
picked them up. They were then brought into darkness, known only as the Cleft
of Shadow. The rest of their days would be spent toiling for the warlocks that
resided there.
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