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Theme: "Someday, we all die. But what is important is how we choose to die. In glorious battle. For me, there could be no better death." Dragor Bloodfury Race: Orc Age: 62 Allegiances: The Horde, The Warsong Clan, The Warsong Offensive, Grom'goshar Aliases: The Old Wolf, Warleader of the Warsong Clan, Warleader of Grom'goshar Birthplace: Nagrand, Draenor Languages: Orcish, Common The Wars of Old Dragor Bloodfury was born into the Warsong Clan, many years before the opening of the Dark Portal and the subsequent wars that followed. For a time, Bloodfury had known what he described as "peace", if you could call it such. Before the Blood Curse ever tarnished the name of the Orcs of Draenor, there was the savage and primal time. For Bloodfury, his time was spent fighting alongside his father, battling the Gorian Empire in their twisted and ruthless efforts to place the Warsong back into slavery. No more would the Warsong become slaves, or so they thought... When Gul'dan rallied the Horde together to sate his own twisted plans, the Warsong Clan were the first to follow. Watching as Hellscream became the first to harness the power of the Fel, Dragor joined his kin, believing this new-found power could give them glory beyond measure. But how wrong he was, something he remembers to this very day. The memories of what transpired over the coming years act as a grim reminder of what atrocities he and his people had committed. With the Fel powering them, the Warsong lay waste to the Gorian Empire in an effort to completely topple the once mighty ogress. Though the thought of destroying the ogres was something Bloodfury relished, this was a manner he thought dishonorable, the way in which they massacred their people was neither proper nor honorable in his eyes. But he pressed on, as his father instructed. The bloodshed would continue until the Draenei, Ogres and other races had been annihilated. The siege of Shattrath was one of the next battles which saw Bloodfury question their actions. After succumbing to blood lust, Dragor found himself at the front of a slaughter of a collection of women and children of the Draenic people. To this day, he receives nightmares, the faces of those he massacred coming to him in vivid, haunting memories of the past. In time, this blood lust would only continue, before the rest of the Clan succumbed. Because of this, they were left behind on Draenor, whilst Warchief Blackhand lead the Horde during the First War. Though the Clan would be spared the defeat of the First War, they had to deal with the aftermath. As the world around them withered and died, the Warsong continued to fight with the other orcs and ogres, preventing Doomhammer to replenish his forces for the Second War. After the defeat of Doomhammer, the Warsong would finally partake in the war, being sent through the portal to protect it from the Alliance. This battle saw the fall of Dragak Bloodfury, Dragors father, as the Alliance Expedition slammed through Hellscreams lines, entering Draenor. In the chaos and confusion, a furious and sorrowful Bloodfury charged the Alliance forces, finding himself cornered. In the chaos, the orc would refuse to be slain. Despite the blows the Alliance soldiers inflicted, a strange force carried him on. Was it his rage? His might? The Fel? Even to this day he is unsure. In the end, he was rescued by a warband of orcs who came to his aid, offering a worg upon retreat. The last glimpses of that battle were the humans storming Draenor through the portal, with a number of scattered orcs being slain in the process. Despite the massacre he had witnessed on Draenor, and the acts he committed, this day would scar him. First hand, Bloodfury would realize that the humans were just like the orcs, and he bore a fierce grudge due to the death of his beloved father... Reign of Chaos Many years later, after countless efforts of evading the humans of Lordaeron, the Warsong Clan endured. Though hindered and beaten, they spat in the face of death many times over. At this point, Dragor resented the humans for locking up his people like dogs in cages, a poor display of what the Horde currently was. During such time, the relentless effects of lethargy plagued the orcs mind threatened to drive Bloodfury into weakness and incapability. Seeing the resilience of his Chieftain, Hellscream, he would continue to push on. At this point, he had a family. A mate, and two children, who shared the same strength and determination that he had shown before. But this would not last. Dragor would soon take a warband into the Hillsbrad Foothills, laying waste to the towns and camps in an effort to cause chaos and confusion, as well as provide the Warsong with essential supplies. At this time, the orcs began to break their chains and reunite along the new Warchief, Thrall, son of Durotan. This came after Doomhammers death at the hands of the Alliance whilst liberating Hammerfall. In time, the Horde traveled west to Kalimdor. Once again, Bloodfury allwoed himself to be consumed by old hatreds, joining his Clan in the strike against the humans who had traveled there to escape the Eastern Kingdoms. Blood would be shed, and Dragor would bathe in it... That is until the Warchief redirected the Warsong to the North, Ashenvale. It was there that certain events would indeed shape the orc to whom he was today. But theses events were not joyous, not one piece. There the raging battles between the Kaldorei and the Warsong were waged in the forests of Ashenvale, with the Kaldorei gaining the upper hand with the assistance of their demi-god, Cenarius. It was here that the Warsong made a desperate choice. Hellscream, having seen his Clan pushed to the brink, decided to drink the blood of Mannoroth once more. After loosing his family in the battles, and now a broken and demoralized orc, Bloodfury would drink. Regardless of what Thrall had taught them before about the dangers of Fel. He would have vengeance against the Kaldorei. The Warsong, now bolstered by Mannoroths "gift", would lay waste to the Kaldorei and to Cenarius, ending his life. Victory came, but at what price? Bloodfury remembers being freed from the blood curse, standing over the bodies of Kaldorei and Frostwolf alike. He had slain his own kin in his blood lust once again. Something that haunted him. But it was not all for naught. Hellscreams sacrifice had freed the orcs from the blood curse, and allowed them to eventually defeat the Burning Legion atop Mount Hyjal. Dragor would take the time to go into exile due to his actions, and reflect upon what had transpired during the 3rd War. There, the Old Wolf would question himself, and his honor. The Frozen Wastes When the Scourge invaded Azeroth in a bid to turn its people into the living dead and plunge the world into darkness, the Old Wolf returned. Having spent years in exile, he had prepared himself for what was to come. Having heard that the son of Hellscream had made a triumphant return, he was one of the first to pledge his blade in the fight in the North. Joining the ranks of the Warsong Offensive, he traveled North to do battle with the Scourge. Arriving in the Borean Tundra, the fight was like nothing he had experienced before. The way of battle had changed, especially with the living dead. Bloodfury would lead a number of raids upon the scourge camps in the Tundra in a bid to halt their operations, but at times it proved a daunting task. For all the undead they slew, more would take their place, some were even kin who Bloodfury had served with before. The task of putting them down grieved him deeply.. However, he was redirected to serve beneath Saurfang the Younger at Wrathgate. At Angrathar, the battle started positively, with the Horde charging gloriously into battle. It was at this moment that Bloodfury thought a decisive blow could be struck against the Scourge, until that moment came. The Lich King himself arrived, forcing Saurfang to charge in an effort to take the glory for himself. This proved to be his downfall, as the Lich King decimated him with Frostmourne, taking his soul. This was not the worst of it, as the forsaken revealed their treasonous nature. They released the new plague upon Horde and Alliance alike, with Bloodfury being forced to watch his own people succumb and die. Blacking out, he awoke to find that he was dragged off the battle with a number of wounds. There he would spent a period of the war confined to the hospital of the Warsong Hold. The Old Wold grew impatient. His fellow warriors were out dying whilst he was there, stuck in a bed, useless. He spent time honing his skills again, training so he could be fit enough to serve on the battlefield. Once he was ready, he was relocated to Orgrims Hammer, the airship hovering over Icecrown. It was here that he partook in more skirmishes, both with the Scourge and Alliance. After witnessing the Argent Tournament, something he found loathsome and pompous on behalf of the Argents, he prepared himself for the pivotal battle that would take place. Icecrown Citadel. The siege came swiftly, and gloriously. The chance to redeem himself, in his mind, had come. Leading a unit of Warsong soldiers, Bloodfury aided in the battle for the lower spire with the rest of the Horde and Alliance. They fought through scores of scourge forces who tried to halt their advance up the citadel. Once they made their way to the upper levels, they aided Orgrims Hammer in a fierce battle with the Alliance. Despite that battle threatening to undo the work that had been made, they soon went their own ways. Bloodfury and his soldiers were deployed in the upmost levels, to stop the Scourge rallying to prevent the heroes of Azeroth from being disturbed as they moved to engage the Lich King. In the end, he was defeated, and the Azerothians were victorious. At this moment, the Old Wolf felt he had redeemed himself. For the innocents he had murdered, for the times he succumbed to dark magic. It was here that he felt renewed. When the war ended, he returned to his Clan, to aid and teach them on what it meant to be a true Warsong. The Forsaken Isles When Deathwing shattered the world with the Cataclysm, the Warsong naturally rallied for war. Bloodfury was one of the first to join the fight against the Kaldorei in Ashenvale, when Hellscream commenced the Fourth War. The Kaldorei threatened the home of the Warsong, and Bloodfury did not take kindly to this. A brutal siege would occur, lasting a number of weeks before a daring counter-offensive would see the Warsong liberate their camp from the jaws of the Kaldorei. Even at this point, he was still searching for his friend, Gruk Charrbone, who had gone missing during the time of the Northrend Campaign. Having both served together in previous battles against the demons of Ashenvale, he sought to find his old friend. But at the same time, honor and duty demanded he remain with the Horde during the war. Once again, Bloodfury felt torn between the path he should take, and how best to go about it. In time, Hellscream would redirect some of the Warsong to the Twilight Highlands, to begin the invasion there. After years of knowing the treason of the Twilights Hammer Clan, Bloodfury would soon be able to bring them to justice, and he relished it. This would be short lived, however, as the vessel would be assaulted by a contingent of Alliance Vessels. In the battle, their ship was sunk, sending Bloodfury into the depths. It was here that he questioned whether he would get the glorious death he sought. If he would ever see his friend Gruk again. As the waves receded, he found himself on a strange, new series of Isles... The Doldrums. After hearing a number of his kin are on the Isle, and of the Horde, Bloodfury would set out to unify their people, so that they would survive under the banner of the Horde.

Name: Gratha Race: Orc Age: 28 Class: Shaman Affiliation: Dragonmaw Clan, Grom'goshar Although stunted in stature, Gratha possesses the semblance of a capable fighter with sturdy shoulders and a vigorous posture. Her thick black mane is decorated with a plethora of minuscule braids, and various clan-related trinkets. A pair of glowing amber eyes bring warmth to her grey features, that most often bear marks of battle in various forms. An outlandish tempest filled the air with unbearable pressure in the Twilight Highlands. A lone Shaman scaled down the mountains with what seemed like crawling pace, eyes directed to the slithering path ahead. The havoc that was slowing her down was wrought by those loyal to the Old Gods, and were now tearing land and skies apart. Howling of the wind and the unspoken threats of the blackened forest below deafened the Dragonmaw from everything else. It was the mistake she made, trusting to her hearing over other senses, and in a heartbeat she was off the cliff, followed by a trail of flames by her winged challenger. * I was falling, falling from a great height. Nothing would stop me and there was roaring black air all around me as I was plunging through it. I heard myself call out for the elements, a desperate shriek in the thick of the living storm. I woke with a violent lurch and laid winded against a cluster of rocks, torn fabric and sand was caught to my rough features. I had no memory of what happened. I scrabbled in my brain, but it was blank - an empty cavern, no echoes. Nothing. I tried to think of the last day I clearly remembered, but it was like looking into an impenetrable mist, with indistinct shapes looming. I possess the ability to call the elements to my aid, but as I laid here, I could feel nothing familiar surrounding me. Perhaps I had wronged the elements, demanded their aid to bring me here alive. The seawater was burning at my damaged body, prompting me to stop reminiscing and to focus on my survival, and to soothe the agitated elements. * Stranded, the scrawny Shaman began to make her way further away from the shore. Having never communicated with an ally other than a Dragonmaw, she had no faith in finding anything but hostility from where she now was. With that belligerent mindset, she ventured on. OOC: If anyone has found errors, please tell, my english is not the most fluent. Other feedback is also most welcome.

Gruk Charrbone Race: Orc Age: 76 (Venerable) Class: Pyremaster (Shaman) Alleigance: The Horde / Independent Languages: Orcish (Fluent), Ignan Kalimag (Fluent), Other dialects of Kalimag (adequate), Common (close to Fluent) A Land Called Home Charrbone was one of those Orcs that chose neither the path of the warrior and not nessecarrily that of the mystic. The clan he was part of, a minor one faded into obscurity and all but deceased, was one which made up the larger shadowmoon clan in Shadowmoon Valley on Draenor, one known for its shaman and mystics. Although he studied the mystic arts he was not destined to work with all four of the elements that made up the natural world, he was destined to become attuned to the elemental forces of fire as a Pyremaster. The pyremaster undertook a rather unique yet important role in Orcish society... whilst many would choose their own way of entering their afterlife, many would opt for the act of cremation so that the spirit free of flesh can conquer the elements in the next life, the pyremaster facilitated that transformation from corpse into spirit through a complex series of rituals which became less a formality over the years and became far more communal, a ceremony where the relatives of the deceased and their entire clan would drink, dance and sing songs of their deeds of valor and their accomplishments. Although an adult and a wise pyremaster by the time of the blood curse, his vision and clarity was not enough to prevent him from falling to the same affliction that befell the rest of the Orcish clans who, in their bloodfeud, put the Draenei race to the sword. During this time his skill with the flame were used to incinerate entire Draenei villages and settlements, sometimes even using his abilities for gruesome executions where Draenei vindicators were held in cages in arenas only to be set ablaze with blazegrease. Years of this would continue, a sensation not unlike being trapped inside one's own body, his actions not his own and that of the fel coarsing through his veins. Orcs vs Humans Following the decimation of the Draenei population of Draenor, the Orcs turned their gaze to new worlds to conquer in the name of their demonic masters who had enslaved them. Gruk followed some of the later clans through the portal to learn the ways of this new world they sought to invade and despite the years of push-and-pull conflict they would find themselves bound in iron servitude and enslavement to their new human masters, trading the fel-blood for the pinkskin. Age had begun to unleash it's own curse on the now aging Charrbone who began to wrinkle and slow as the passage of time battered him physically. During the internment period, a great many of the Orcish population withered away with many perishing and even more losing their identity and becoming shattered husks of the proud race once called 'Orcs'. It was in one of these internment camps that Gruk found himself becoming what was the equivalent of a human chaplin, he would tend not just the physical wounds of the Orcs but their spiritual ones, speaking great stories of their kind and of great hunts in Draenor and of their great shamanic heritage. After the uprisings in the camps, which resulted in the Orcs gaining their freedom, Gruk made his way across the sea to the land of Kalimdor seeing himself less a part of this newly formed 'Horde' and simply one who tends to the spiritual needs of the Orcish people. Upon their arrival in Durotar he became something of a hermit, he did not follow the Horde in the vision of its new warchief Thrall but instead chose the life of a recluse in the mountains in order to better come to understand his connection with the elements that he lost whilst under the demonic blood haze. As he lived in the mountains of Durotar he dispensed wisdom to the next generation of shamans as they sought to acquire the blessings of the elementals of flame. The Burning Crusade When the call to Outland was announced, Gruk packed up his meager belongings and set out on the long and ardeous road to the Dark Portal along with young and fresh faced heroes of the Horde. Deep down he knew what he was going to find on the other side of that portal but the horror wasn't lessened by the stories he had heard. Making his way to Shadowmoon Valley with the armies of the Horde he eventually came across the shattered remnants of his tribe's old settlement, only the faintest remains still marred the area with telltale signs of old tent positionings and family groupings from the position of carved stones, the tents having long since rotted or burned away even this close to where the coast once was and now only fragments of the valley's rocky floor broke off and floated into the nether where the sea should have been. Close to the centre of the settlement he spotted old Kalimag markings on the floor and despite his age he managed to dig down finding a cache of ceramic flasks nestled in an old wicker basket. Recognizing it immediately as the fabled concoction known as 'Blazegrease' which is tribe brewed for the blademasters of the Burning Blade clan, he proceeded to make headway back to Kalimdor upon realizing that all that remained in Outland were sad memories and thoughts of shame from the blood curse. Upon returning to Kalimdor, he left his life of being a hermit behind and became a close advisor to one of the Warsong Clan's riders, an Orc by the name of Dragor Bloodfury. During this time he managed to recreate the recipie for Blazegrease and from this a new generation of blademasters was formed under the banner of the Warsong! Little is written of the Gruk and Dragor's ventures, all that is known to others it that the two spent the year taking the fight to the Horde's enemies in Ashenvale and protecting the Warsong Clan's interests in the land of Kalimdor. Though despite the war banners from Outland being stowed away in this tenuous peace, they were summoned forth once more. Stranded It has been a year since Gruk set sail for Northrend. Unlike his comrades who set sail upon the larger juggernaughts and Orcish warships, Gruk simply sought passage upon a small merchant vessel with barely any crew upon it for the sake of contemplation and peace so that he may meditate for the fight to come. Though little did he know it he would never make it to Northrend, for across the great sea a horrific storm came from seemingly nowhere and threw the ship around as though it were a toy. The superstitious crew thought it the wrath of Neptulon himself visited upon them in the form of a monstrous kraken, Gruk however thought better and came to the realization that his strong affinity with the elements of the flame probably did not bode well with those of the Abyssal Maw and the lieutenants of the Duke Hydraxis. The last thing he remembered was taking one final gasp of air as the split wreckage of the ship sunk beneath the waves, blackness filled his mind until he woke up upon a sandy shore, a rather irate beach crawler prodding him curiously with its claw before scuttering off sideways when realizing Gruk was awake. Dusting the sand off his tattered robes he made his way inland on this jungle-covered island. Despite (or perhaps because of) his age he did everything in his power to survive against the wind, rain and tormenting heat of this new environment, fashioning a crude shelter and living off what animals didn't manage to outrun his feeble frame. On several occassions he even fashioned himself a raft or a crude vessel and attempted to leave the isles in the hopes of making his way back to Kalimdor or finding some rest in death on the ocean waves... but each time he found himself sailing towards the islands rather than away from them... all manner of incantations seemed hopeless in aiding his escape from this prison without walls. For a whole year he would find himself secluded in the most isolated and hidden parts of the jungle, keeping himself far away from unwanted guests and returning to his long-forgotten life as a hermit, all the while meditating and worryingly finding himself severed from the elements, unable to hear their calls... that is until one day he woke to find his head filled with shrieks and screams in what was quite audibly Kalimag... they came from all around him in the campfire, the pond by his camp, the air around him and the earth beneath him. Something very bad had upset the elementals in this world, so much so that it was noticible even in this land seemingly magically severed from the rest of the world. But that wasn't the least of his problems. Over the next several days he would notice a great many new survivors washing up on the beaches, appearing in freak portal accidents and all manner of strange happenings. Something very strange is going on... and Gruk reckons the elements may provide the answers. Appearance Age is the first thing that comes to mind when this Orc is spotted, he has a large amount of wrinkles and sags around his face suggesting an age many may not have ever seen in an Orc before considering their warrior-orientated culture. When the body looks aged, his clothes look doubly so. It is suggested that when he washed up on the isle his original robes of his position as a Pyremaster were lost to the waves and so he wears tattered rags and weaves from wherever he can find them making him look like a vagabond and an outcast. When visible his arms appear to have various markings on them, some as permanant tattoos and others as temporary markings, all of them have the same thing in common in that they are all a form of Kalimag writing.