Only in silence the word,
only in dark the light,
only in dying life:
bright the hawk's flight
on the empty sky.
Many once proud warriors had fallen. Stained by the rage of Fel, muddled by magics beyond their comprehension. Now nothing more than a feast for the crows. Both the devils blood and the ignorance of blue men drove them to an early death. Bodies and weapons littered a once tranquil grass clearing. The smell of an entire battlefields feces along with pools upon pools of blood was almost unbearable. Though one of the remaining survivors, amidst the settling smoke and cawing of the overhead crows, stood perched atop a rock, his body beaten and bruised as he looked out over the piles of both Horde and Alliance corpses. This had not been the paradise he imagined. This had not been the world he fantasized when the others spoke of the first Horde, and for a second... he missed the rolling hills of Nagrand and the company of those in Garadar. Though Draenor was doomed, his ancestral lands gone and lost to the edge of reality. This was his families life now. Blood was oozing from several wounds across his torso, albeit these cuts were mostly drowned out by a coat of others bodily fluids. He was Orcish, a hulking broad figure dressed in brown furs and leathers, his skin equal in color to the pelts he adorned. A long braided beard hung from his face, well-kept dreadlocks hanging down to his back. The battle-worn Orc was on the older side, possibly around his early thirties, and he looked horribly fatigued. He seemed to be smoking a pipe, most likely looted from one of the many deceased Humans in blue and gold plate surrounding the formation he sat upon. A way to calm himself after the battle. He barely even had enough strength to move his arms. The cold sound of crackling scorched wood and squawking birds was eventually pierced by the clanking sound of somebody stepping over various corpses and weapons from behind.
And then, a young, fragile voice came not long after. "Father..." Muttered a rather thin Orc lad between exhausted breaths, no more than fifteen or sixteen. He too was dressed in blood soaked pelts, his skin pale and sickly, from what they did not know. A battlefield was no place for a boy of his age, yet there he was. "The warband marches north... they'll leave without us if we don't go soon." Exhaled the child, his eyes widened from both fatigue and stress. His father merely grunted in reply. "Go find your mother by the trees, boy. Gather what supplies you can. I will not have my son, and my mate, be forced to fight another battle. We make for the hills." And with that, the old Orc glared over his shoulder, nodding towards the boy, before sliding off his stone seat.
Nardrod, 396 years before the opening of the Dark Portal.
No land held more beauty than Nardrod. An isle of gigantic snowy mountains, rolling woods and grasslands, and a freezing rocky desert. All separated from the western Draenor mainland by an icy sea few have braved. The infamous amount of bergs and mist kept any curious seafarers away from the isle, which were a rare occurrence. All until an Ogre warlord by the name of Kall sought to take the land with his warband. Ogres are not known to be sailors by any means, but the small amount of forces the warrior commanded were able to easily take the island for the Gorian empire, due to the fact that it was void of sentient life. And, of course, being Gorian men, they had slaves transferred to aid them in their exports, all of which were Orcs pulled from various Nagrand and Frostfire clans.
The Ogres built many fortresses and mines deep within the freezing northern spires of Nardrod, and managed to establish many flourishing outposts over the course of fifty or so years, mostly because of their use of slaves. Though, you cannot expect generations of Orcs all ranging from different clans to remain in chains forever. When the Gorian empire began to weaken on the mainland, so to did the imperators ties with Nardrod. The Orcs rebelled against their masters, rising up and forming a liberated army deep within the mountains. When the time to strike was right, the rebellions leader Gnoth the Mighty stormed down south with an army of freed slaves and burned village after village, slaughtering every filthy Ogre they could find. His men would of wiped them out, if not for the fact that surviving Ogre refugees fled to the west, their numbers constantly dwindling due to lack of land and food.
When the empires ties on Nardrod were diminished, it came under Orcish rule. The liberated Orc slaves had little to no knowledge of boats at the time, making it difficult to return to the western mainland. What remained of the scattered liberated slaves settled on the isle, their numbers rather low for hundreds of years, until only a few newly birthed families remained in the wilds, living off the land while remaining at peace with their own newly formed beliefs. The two most powerful families were not on the best of terms. The people of the snow lived in the north, settling among destroyed Ogre ruins and fortresses. They were fierce and hardy, a warrior family mostly dedicated to the worship of Caygon, the Nardrod god of death and honor. The second largest family remained in the southern woodlands and steppes, choosing to live at one with the forests and the elements, albeit still worshiping the same deities as their Northern counterparts.
Tyrarn, Son of the Hunt
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The Orc, aged 23
Birthplace: Nardrod, Draenor
Residence: Stonetalon Mountains
Faction: Horde Aligned
Alignment: Neutral good
Languages: Common (broken), Orcish (fluent), Taurahe (fluent)
Weight: 220 lbs
Author's note: I will continue to edit and work on this,
what you're seeing now is most likely just a small part of the massive story to come. Also, many may
think this character involves "custom lore". It does not. I am simply roleplaying something canonically
plausible, like 90% of the RPH population. If you come at me with that bullshit prepare to have my massive
cock shoved down your throat.