![]() Cursed as they were by the mark of Krug, so vulnerable to the beast within, theirs was the path of hardship. Perhaps this was some small glimpse into what it meant to be orcish. Perhaps here was a horde finally worth fighting for, worth dying for. With each day a great number of Krug’s children rallied to the banner of the Hordespeaker and his Chieftains. Despite suffering a set back in their first battle an even greater number of orcs had answered the Rex’s call for the second battle. Straight backed and heads held high for the first time Grommash saw pride in his people. Grommash watched his warriors returning home and his heart stirred. The last of the Horde’s rear guard were finally arriving, accompanying the early rays of the rising dawn. Snarling he rose to his feet, stalking past the wounded and the corpses he made his way through the shifting sands and oases towards the black gate. Yet still he could feel the scare of his Grandsire deep in his soul, For all his discipline, all his learning from the wise elders, the curse of Krug always lurked. Grommash remembered his spirit walks with the wizened Falum’lur, the wisdom he had gained from the old Rexes of the past. Brasca had fallen, but they had managed, somehow, to fight their way to safety. The venerable Falum’lur and Kho’Gorkil slaughtering many foes before rallying to the war horn of the Rex. Yet despite the slaughter many Orcs had conducted themselves well. Some laughed as they died, impaled by spears and arrows, having earned their good death. Mountains of human corpses at their feet. He remembered watching proud orcs fall one by one. He remembered his keshig, Klog and Apek dragging him from the battle field as he battled against the blood rage that consumed so much of his life. He remembered the great Gorom’Vinteki roaring in pain and fury, human pike man stabbing at him as he dealt death with his massive club. Whenever Grommash closed his eyes he could see flashes of the battle. Daily he received missives from the innumerable princes of the midlands. So many warriors sent to die for another human war. The sands were laden with funeral pyres, giant shrouded corpses arrayed around them, each waiting for their turn in the flames. As he sat beside one of the innumerable cooking fires of the hordelands that harsh fact was all too real.Įven now his warriors limped back from the battle. A war of this size had not been seen for many years. His dreams had proven truer than he could imagine. It was moments such as this if he wondered about his choices. His dreams had been filled with the warsong these days, in the rare moments of respite where his eyes were allowed to close for a moment. The screams of the dying, the cleaving of flesh, the clang of metal. Grommash grunted as he remembered the warsong from earlier in the day. So freely did blood flow that the earthen ramparts grew muddy, having drunk too deeply of that red wine of life. ![]() Great ologs sweeping the ramparts clear with each swing of their monstrous weapons. Eight foot tall warriors clad in black steel each doing the work of ten men. Truly Horen must have been part rabbit, such was the fecundity of his descendants. The siege of Brasca had been a hard and bloody affair, the tide of manflesh washing over the ramparts of the fortress after what seemed to be an eternity of bombardment. ![]() An understatement if ever there had been one. ![]()
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