Though the humans attempted at reducing the internment camps via brutal purges, the fact that their garrisons were complacently and woefully undermanned along with the defiance against extinction rousing the spirits of the orcs saw more breakout than massacres at the end of the day. Unarmed and unarmored, the orcs tapped into their primal warrior spirit and raw numbers to fight their way to freedom.
Tales of gruesome sacrifice filtered in, of a mob of orcs rushing at their captors in a bid to bury them with their own dead bodies, or at least leave the humans’ weapons stuck in their corpses for long enough to even out the chances for their fellow orcs coming up behind them. There was a tale of a few blademasters from the Burning Blade clan fighting around a growing pile of human bodies with looted weapons, their bodies studded with arrows and marred with fresh wounds as they bought precious time for the other inmates to flee. Supposedly even as they died and their spirits left them, so desperate and enraged were they that their bodies continued fighting until they were hacked apart limb from limb.
The Bleeding Hollow clan had been lucky enough to be interred almost entirely within a single camp, and managed an organized breakout that saw miraculously few losses. Apparently their current chieftain had foreseen their fate through the clan’s secretive rites and had planned accordingly. Said chieftain also did not survive the escape, either standing with the rearguard to absorb a storm of arrows, or drawing out a one-sided duel with an arrogant human knight to slow down the pursuit. With such retellings, it was natural for the exact details to be lost in the chaos.
Broxigar of the Blackrock clan did not witness or experience such glorious breakouts himself. Instead of having to go through the ordeal of breaking out, his internment camp had been broken in. A massive force of orcs had smashed through the poorly manned defenses, and the human guard were sent fleeing. Initially, Brox had happily followed along with the remnants of the Horde, learning that it was still led by Orgrim Doomhammer, and was rebuilding its numbers thanks to the breakouts.
It seems that the humans had had enough of drawing the orcs’ death out through a long and honorless end, though their sudden change of heart resulted in pitiful execution and thus the rebirth of the Horde.
The malaise that struck most of the orcs after the defeat and shattering of the Horde had receded, thanks to their newfound hope Brox liked to think. No more did he or his brethren feel their arms or hearts too heavy, nor did their mind feel burdened by nihilism. With their will ignited with the spark of freedom and purpose, the liberated orcs joined their saviors and began marching back to regroup with the rest of the reinvigorated Horde.
Unfortunately, the large warband was far from discreet, and they fell prey to an ambush days later. Heavy cavalry came thundering into view as the orcs passed through rolling grasslands. Caught in the open, and with the forest too far behind them, what meager defense they could muster with scavenged weapons and armor was quickly brushed away as arrows and spells softened their formation before the mounted knights slammed in with their lances from two flanks. Brox fought for his life like his compatriots, feeling his blood sing with joy even from the simple act of bludgeoning a toppled knight with a snapped spear shaft.
He would have lost himself to bloodlust if not for suddenly spying two small figures huddled together amidst the chaos: Two orc younglings, standing back to back, their hands tightly gripping their daggers, their eyes wide with terror.
Something in Brox snapped, and his battlelust faded. The veteran orc shouldered his way straight to the children. With a grunt, he leapt to intercept a riderless horse, knocking it away before it could trample the frightened pair. Brox got up, barely aware of the blood and mud staining his legs and arms, and reached out to the younglings.
“Come,” he bade, somehow his voice managing to cut through the din of battle. “It is not safe for you.”
The children - both girls, likely sisters - trained their terrified gaze onto him, but they nodded as one and quickly followed after him. His awareness heightened, Brox fought his way back to the forest and away from the worst of the fighting, shoving aside brawlers or caving in the faces of any human unlucky enough to be in his path.
A few other orcs noticed Brox moving in the opposite direction, though upon seeing the two figures following after him, many simply offered curt nods and fought harder to open him a path. A few older orcs formed up with him, forming a protective ring around the two rarities of this world. Many had left their youngest children back in Draenor, or had been ‘blessed‘ to have their offspring’s growth accelerated to join the Horde’s ranks by the warlocks. To see a couple of children in this world was wholly unexpected, and it represented a reminder of why Brox and his kin were fighting for their lives in this world.
They managed to break out of the chaotic melee mostly unmolested. Safe in the cover of the forest, the girls were free to give in to their exhaustion, their trembling bodies reminding Brox of his own first gruesome fighting back before the Horde was formed. But these girls were not partaking in their first hunt, they were cast out to drown in the frenzy of battle. Even within the militant Blackrock clan, younglings were eased into warfare from the pragmatic belief that a blade needed to be carefully honed to sharpness. Their tasks would be carefully assigned, and the whelps were free to find their strengths or suffer from their own weakness, but they were not simply thrown into war untrained and untempered.
Brox studied the two panting children, these reminders of his race’s future, for a moment. After being satisfied that they didn’t suffer any grievous wounds, he then regarded the other members of his impromptu band. Six other blood-smeared veterans had followed him here, taking it upon themselves to aid him in his task in preserving lives of those who had much to yet see and experience. With the sounds of battle still raging in the distance, the veterans all shared a look among themselves, and shared a mutual agreement to protect the children as best as they could.
“We will have to find another path to Orgrim’s camp,” one muttered casually despite the fresh gash across his face.
“Do any of us know the way?” another asked, a female from the Shattered Hand clan judging from the crude blade jammed into the stump of her right wrist.
Every orc shook their heads, and for a moment indecision threatened to overtake them. “We will have to find our way there…” Brox decided, staring out at the fighting. “Without drawing further attention.”
“We could wait for the fighting to end,” someone suggested, though it was retracted as soon as they saw a line of knights reforming and then charging into the beleaguered and disorganized orc formation. It was clear that the humans would be the victors of this battle. The bloodlust of the Horde host had been broken, but unlike the last time, the humans were in no mood to make prisoners out of their defeated foe. Brox grimly saw armored footmen with long spears walking through the fields of corpses, far from the fighting, prodding at and occasionally wrenching hard at the corpses. Behind them, white-robed humans scuttled about to pull out their wounded, immediately tending to their blood-drenched casualties with their warmly lit magics.
Taking command of this meager band, Brox gave a grunt as he rolled his shoulders and ignored the small wounds that had accumulated all over him during his brief fight. “Come, we need to move before they decide to search the forest.”
And so the nine of them traveled through hostile lands, keeping mostly to the wilderness. The orcs fed off the bountiful local wildlife, wisely keeping away from the unfamiliar plants and fungi. With their old skills before the Horde recalled, back when inter-clan conflict was a frequent affair, they kept to the forests or hastily scampered across the grasslands like raiders. Knowing better than to risk attention, Brox and his band held back from ambushing oblivious caravans, though one of their number, Hurok, one of the rare orcs from the Laughing Skulls clan to make it to this world, managed to incite the mounts of one particularly bountiful wagon into a panic. The trail of flung and scattered loot provided some refreshing and much needed provisions, like powdered spices, waterskins, and dried meats.
The two girls, Gorgonna and Krenna, were kept out of harm’s way at all times. The older orcs all felt a protective urge over them, and whenever possible each took turns to train and teach the whelps important skills to survive in this foreign world. For their part, Gorgonna and Krenna were calm and collected, eagerly learning the intricacies of bladework or the most efficient methods of processing a kill without so much of a complaint. Brox felt a muted pang to hear that they had not only lost their parents in this world, but it was because their family had been exiled from their clan, the Warsong.
The same Warsong clan supposedly formed the backbone of this revitalized Horde. Grommash Hellscream and most of his clan had escaped capture all these years, and it was with their defiance that Orgrim Doomhammer had managed the first assaults into the internment camps.
Brox wasn’t the only one among his small group who wondered if finding their way back to the Horde would be best for their two young charges, but with little other option, they had to hope that the Doomhammer would at least have the sense to overrule the infamously bellicose Hellscream.
Wandering virtually without purpose for weeks, the orcs lived off the land while avoiding Alliance patrols, oblivious to the outside world. Every now and then they would debate whether they were headed in the right direction, but ultimately they would continue moving, knowing that aimless wandering was preferable to remaining still for the humans to find them.
Then in one afternoon, with a great mountain range dominating the horizon before them, Brox found himself shooting up to his feet and spinning about at the sudden presence that intruded in their camp.
And in his head.
“Greetings.”
All the orcs were already standing with weapons in their hands, forming a ring with Gorgonna and Krenna shoved in the middle as the older orcs warily kept their eyes out for the source of the sorcerous voice. Snarls and growls of challenge were met with startled wildlife, but it took a while more before the foreign voice rattled in Brox and his comrades’ head again.
“Worry not, I’ve not necessarily come for a fight.”
Heads snapped towards the sound of branches snapping and leaves crunching as a figure suddenly appeared out of nowhere. A small…no, a young human, wrapped in gold armor strode into view, emanating a palpable air of danger to him especially with how vastly different he looked from the other Alliance humans Brox had battled. To further emphasize the point, the intruder’s eyes glowed blue, and his mouth did not move at all as he somehow spoke into Brox’s head in his native orcish.
“You are coming close to trespassing on Alteraci land. My land. Lower your weapons, orcs.”
Without warning, Hurok broke from the ring to charge at the human. With incredible speed, the orc of the Laughing Skulls took only two strides to close the distance and leap towards the human, his scavenged greatsword raised high. More incredibly, the human effortlessly sidestepped the attack, letting Hurok fall onto the boy’s waiting fist with such force that the orc audibly gasped as the air was blasted out of his lungs. As Hurok rolled on the ground, a blade of light shimmered out from the bejeweled bracers on the human’s forearms, glowing in the same blue tint as his eyes.
“First and last chance,” he threatened.
“You will kill us anyway!” Vorna of the Shattered Hand yelled, falling into a stance for a charge.
The young human shrugged casually, taking a few steps to place some distance between himself and Hurok. “‘Will’? No, with how small your little group is, I think I can be convinced to host you in my lands.”
“We will not be prisoners again,” Brox growled.
“Who said you’ll be prisoners?”
“Don’t toy with us!” Gorr, a fellow clanmate, hissed. “Prisoners, slaves, you offer a fate worse than death.”
“Really now?”
Brox suddenly groaned and dropped to his knees as visions were forced into his head. He saw a snowy clearing in the mountains, filled with a few dozen huts within a perimeter of golden, waterless pools. He saw orcs with Draenor wolves going about their lives, farming, leatherworking, building new structures… The Frostwolf clan, Brox realized, remembering their exile. They were far from grinning with glee, but neither were these orcs slouched over from the burden of oppression. They wielded tools that were clearly not of orcish make, and some of the materials were far more refined than anything the Horde could manufacture.
“Does that look like that bad a fate?”
The vision ended, and Brox was left blinking hard as he rose to his feet.
“You lie,” Hurok wheezed as he managed to stand on shaky legs. “It is an illusion.”
“If that is what you think…” The human suddenly smirked. “By the way, please note that I’m still standing here instead of trying to lop off your heads while you were all preoccupied earlier.”
Brox was not the only one snarling at the unsubtle threat. “What do you want with us?” he demanded, and the human shrugged again.
“Just some information from my would be trespassers. My offer is genuine though; if you are willing to behave and swear fealty, I can bring you to that village. The first outsiders to join the Frostwolf clan in their assigned territory.”
“Lies,” Vorna countered. “You have them enthralled to your whims. You’d do the same to us.”
The golden-armored figure rolled his eyes. “Right. Following some common sense laws counts as mind control…”
While the others readied for the inevitable battle, Brox took a glance over his shoulder, and saw the two girls standing with resolute firmness despite the confusion and terror in their eyes. He drew in a breath, and then turned to the bemused human.
“Human.”
“Hm?” The obvious shift in tone had drawn his curiosity, as well as the puzzlement from Brox’s comrades.
“We will not believe your lies. But if we cooperate…”
“Brox-!”
“Will you swear to leave the two behind me in peace? They are young, their hands are free of human blood.”
The other orcs immediately aborted their protests, and Brox shared a glance with them. Reluctantly, their hostility receded a little.
“Huh. I see.” The human was silent for a moment before his expression surprisingly hardened. “Tell me orc, when the Horde rampaged across the continent, what did you do with those humans and dwarves and gnomes whose hands were free of orcish blood?”
Brox winced at the memory of massacred settlements, the trail of bodies trying to flee from the Horde’s advance. The whole band tensed at the statement, bracing themselves for the human’s sorcerous wrath. But instead, the angry voice throbbed in their minds.
“You have no right to use that excuse. Their innocence is irrelevant here, you only wish to preserve your younglings.”
Before Brox could stamp on his own dignity and beseech the human for mercy, the human sighed before staring gravely at him. “Lower your weapons. Bend the knee and swear fealty to Alterac. You will be sent to the Frostwolf village. It is not an illusion. There will be no mind-ensorcelling. You will be given a chance to assimilate into my kingdom. That is the offer I give you. That, or a swift death.”
The veterans looked amongst themselves, glancing at the girls every now and then. Some would rather die than face internment again, Brox knew. But others had grown weary, and Brox himself had to admit that the vision was…tempting.
But what of the girls?
They looked uncertain, just as their fate was even if they did manage to return to the Horde. Would a life of servitude under a human be a better alternative? Would a swift, merciful death be a better fate for them?
“Human.” Brox returned his gaze to the waiting intruder. “You give your word?”
“Their words mean little!” Vorna hissed, but Brox ignored her.
“So long as you keep to yours once you swear fealty,” the human replied.
“I will not go back to the camps again, nor will I be a slave,” Vorna interjected angrily, with Hurok and two others adopting a combat stance as they shared her sentiment.
Far from taking it as a threat, the human rolled his eyes. “Fine, I guess you could be a good test study…”
Before Brox could step in, his body froze for a fraction, and then suddenly he and the others were stumbling. It took a second for him to register that the sharp air rushing into his lungs was much colder, and that his hide boots crunched into even colder snow, and his surroundings had suddenly changed. Steading himself, Brox found himself up in the mountains, in the same village as the visions had earlier shown. Around him were orcs, Frostwolf orcs, all staring at his group with trepidation. Up close, they looked far healthier than any orc Brox had seen, interned or Horde.
“Thrall,” the human suddenly called out, reminding Brox of his presence. Turning to the voice, Brox found the human standing rather smugly, with several golden eyeball constructs hovering in place behind him.
An orc stepped out from among the Frostwolves, with blue, non-glowing eyes. “Yes, King Kyle?”
The human Kyle gave a brief glance to the blue-eyed orc, mostly settling his gaze on Brox and his band. Still his mouth did not move as he spoke in their minds. “See if these orcs can adjust to your clan’s life. Brief them on what life is like here. I’ll return in…say a week or two? You’re free to try and convince them to bend the knee by then.” Left unsaid was what would happen if they didn’t.
Thrall gave a solemn nod, and Kyle and his golden constructs suddenly took on a blue shimmer for a brief moment before vanishing with a muted thunderclap.
Still disoriented and left staring with disbelief at the human’s vanishing trick, Brox and his comrades remained dumbfounded until Thrall spoke up - genuinely and gingerly spoke up. “I…welcome you to the home of the Frostwolf clan. Come, the cold can be harsh. Have you all eaten yet?”
It took a moment before the nine confused orcs let themselves be led into a feasting hall, and Brox remained perplexed throughout the awkward welcome from the Frostwolves. He couldn’t understand how he’d arrived here from the forest, even if Thrall and his clanmates had spoken about being trapped in crystals and carried by the human king’s golden minions.
Author's notes: Basically, Kyle stasis field-ed the orcs, and got his probes to pick them up since they're not limited to game mechanics, and then recalled the whole bunch over to the Frostwolf settlement.
Though the humans attempted at reducing the internment camps via brutal purges, the fact that their garrisons were complacently and woefully undermanned along with the defiance against extinction rousing the spirits of the orcs saw more breakout than massacres at the end of the day. Unarmed and unarmored, the orcs tapped into their primal warrior spirit and raw numbers to fight their way to freedom.
Tales of gruesome sacrifice filtered in, of a mob of orcs rushing at their captors in a bid to bury them with their own dead bodies, or at least leave the humans’ weapons stuck in their corpses for long enough to even out the chances for their fellow orcs coming up behind them. There was a tale of a few blademasters from the Burning Blade clan fighting around a growing pile of human bodies with looted weapons, their bodies studded with arrows and marred with fresh wounds as they bought precious time for the other inmates to flee. Supposedly even as they died and their spirits left them, so desperate and enraged were they that their bodies continued fighting until they were hacked apart limb from limb.
The Bleeding Hollow clan had been lucky enough to be interred almost entirely within a single camp, and managed an organized breakout that saw miraculously few losses. Apparently their current chieftain had foreseen their fate through the clan’s secretive rites and had planned accordingly. Said chieftain also did not survive the escape, either standing with the rearguard to absorb a storm of arrows, or drawing out a one-sided duel with an arrogant human knight to slow down the pursuit. With such retellings, it was natural for the exact details to be lost in the chaos.
Broxigar of the Blackrock clan did not witness or experience such glorious breakouts himself. Instead of having to go through the ordeal of breaking out, his internment camp had been broken in. A massive force of orcs had smashed through the poorly manned defenses, and the human guard were sent fleeing. Initially, Brox had happily followed along with the remnants of the Horde, learning that it was still led by Orgrim Doomhammer, and was rebuilding its numbers thanks to the breakouts.
It seems that the humans had had enough of drawing the orcs’ death out through a long and honorless end, though their sudden change of heart resulted in pitiful execution and thus the rebirth of the Horde.
The malaise that struck most of the orcs after the defeat and shattering of the Horde had receded, thanks to their newfound hope Brox liked to think. No more did he or his brethren feel their arms or hearts too heavy, nor did their mind feel burdened by nihilism. With their will ignited with the spark of freedom and purpose, the liberated orcs joined their saviors and began marching back to regroup with the rest of the reinvigorated Horde.
Unfortunately, the large warband was far from discreet, and they fell prey to an ambush days later. Heavy cavalry came thundering into view as the orcs passed through rolling grasslands. Caught in the open, and with the forest too far behind them, what meager defense they could muster with scavenged weapons and armor was quickly brushed away as arrows and spells softened their formation before the mounted knights slammed in with their lances from two flanks. Brox fought for his life like his compatriots, feeling his blood sing with joy even from the simple act of bludgeoning a toppled knight with a snapped spear shaft.
He would have lost himself to bloodlust if not for suddenly spying two small figures huddled together amidst the chaos: Two orc younglings, standing back to back, their hands tightly gripping their daggers, their eyes wide with terror.
Something in Brox snapped, and his battlelust faded. The veteran orc shouldered his way straight to the children. With a grunt, he leapt to intercept a riderless horse, knocking it away before it could trample the frightened pair. Brox got up, barely aware of the blood and mud staining his legs and arms, and reached out to the younglings.
“Come,” he bade, somehow his voice managing to cut through the din of battle. “It is not safe for you.”
The children - both girls, likely sisters - trained their terrified gaze onto him, but they nodded as one and quickly followed after him. His awareness heightened, Brox fought his way back to the forest and away from the worst of the fighting, shoving aside brawlers or caving in the faces of any human unlucky enough to be in his path.
A few other orcs noticed Brox moving in the opposite direction, though upon seeing the two figures following after him, many simply offered curt nods and fought harder to open him a path. A few older orcs formed up with him, forming a protective ring around the two rarities of this world. Many had left their youngest children back in Draenor, or had been ‘blessed‘ to have their offspring’s growth accelerated to join the Horde’s ranks by the warlocks. To see a couple of children in this world was wholly unexpected, and it represented a reminder of why Brox and his kin were fighting for their lives in this world.
They managed to break out of the chaotic melee mostly unmolested. Safe in the cover of the forest, the girls were free to give in to their exhaustion, their trembling bodies reminding Brox of his own first gruesome fighting back before the Horde was formed. But these girls were not partaking in their first hunt, they were cast out to drown in the frenzy of battle. Even within the militant Blackrock clan, younglings were eased into warfare from the pragmatic belief that a blade needed to be carefully honed to sharpness. Their tasks would be carefully assigned, and the whelps were free to find their strengths or suffer from their own weakness, but they were not simply thrown into war untrained and untempered.
Brox studied the two panting children, these reminders of his race’s future, for a moment. After being satisfied that they didn’t suffer any grievous wounds, he then regarded the other members of his impromptu band. Six other blood-smeared veterans had followed him here, taking it upon themselves to aid him in his task in preserving lives of those who had much to yet see and experience. With the sounds of battle still raging in the distance, the veterans all shared a look among themselves, and shared a mutual agreement to protect the children as best as they could.
“We will have to find another path to Orgrim’s camp,” one muttered casually despite the fresh gash across his face.
“Do any of us know the way?” another asked, a female from the Shattered Hand clan judging from the crude blade jammed into the stump of her right wrist.
Every orc shook their heads, and for a moment indecision threatened to overtake them. “We will have to find our way there…” Brox decided, staring out at the fighting. “Without drawing further attention.”
“We could wait for the fighting to end,” someone suggested, though it was retracted as soon as they saw a line of knights reforming and then charging into the beleaguered and disorganized orc formation. It was clear that the humans would be the victors of this battle. The bloodlust of the Horde host had been broken, but unlike the last time, the humans were in no mood to make prisoners out of their defeated foe. Brox grimly saw armored footmen with long spears walking through the fields of corpses, far from the fighting, prodding at and occasionally wrenching hard at the corpses. Behind them, white-robed humans scuttled about to pull out their wounded, immediately tending to their blood-drenched casualties with their warmly lit magics.
Taking command of this meager band, Brox gave a grunt as he rolled his shoulders and ignored the small wounds that had accumulated all over him during his brief fight. “Come, we need to move before they decide to search the forest.”
And so the nine of them traveled through hostile lands, keeping mostly to the wilderness. The orcs fed off the bountiful local wildlife, wisely keeping away from the unfamiliar plants and fungi. With their old skills before the Horde recalled, back when inter-clan conflict was a frequent affair, they kept to the forests or hastily scampered across the grasslands like raiders. Knowing better than to risk attention, Brox and his band held back from ambushing oblivious caravans, though one of their number, Hurok, one of the rare orcs from the Laughing Skulls clan to make it to this world, managed to incite the mounts of one particularly bountiful wagon into a panic. The trail of flung and scattered loot provided some refreshing and much needed provisions, like powdered spices, waterskins, and dried meats.
The two girls, Gorgonna and Krenna, were kept out of harm’s way at all times. The older orcs all felt a protective urge over them, and whenever possible each took turns to train and teach the whelps important skills to survive in this foreign world. For their part, Gorgonna and Krenna were calm and collected, eagerly learning the intricacies of bladework or the most efficient methods of processing a kill without so much of a complaint. Brox felt a muted pang to hear that they had not only lost their parents in this world, but it was because their family had been exiled from their clan, the Warsong.
The same Warsong clan supposedly formed the backbone of this revitalized Horde. Grommash Hellscream and most of his clan had escaped capture all these years, and it was with their defiance that Orgrim Doomhammer had managed the first assaults into the internment camps.
Brox wasn’t the only one among his small group who wondered if finding their way back to the Horde would be best for their two young charges, but with little other option, they had to hope that the Doomhammer would at least have the sense to overrule the infamously bellicose Hellscream.
Wandering virtually without purpose for weeks, the orcs lived off the land while avoiding Alliance patrols, oblivious to the outside world. Every now and then they would debate whether they were headed in the right direction, but ultimately they would continue moving, knowing that aimless wandering was preferable to remaining still for the humans to find them.
Then in one afternoon, with a great mountain range dominating the horizon before them, Brox found himself shooting up to his feet and spinning about at the sudden presence that intruded in their camp.
And in his head.
“Greetings.”
All the orcs were already standing with weapons in their hands, forming a ring with Gorgonna and Krenna shoved in the middle as the older orcs warily kept their eyes out for the source of the sorcerous voice. Snarls and growls of challenge were met with startled wildlife, but it took a while more before the foreign voice rattled in Brox and his comrades’ head again.
“Worry not, I’ve not necessarily come for a fight.”
Heads snapped towards the sound of branches snapping and leaves crunching as a figure suddenly appeared out of nowhere. A small…no, a young human, wrapped in gold armor strode into view, emanating a palpable air of danger to him especially with how vastly different he looked from the other Alliance humans Brox had battled. To further emphasize the point, the intruder’s eyes glowed blue, and his mouth did not move at all as he somehow spoke into Brox’s head in his native orcish.
“You are coming close to trespassing on Alteraci land. My land. Lower your weapons, orcs.”
Without warning, Hurok broke from the ring to charge at the human. With incredible speed, the orc of the Laughing Skulls took only two strides to close the distance and leap towards the human, his scavenged greatsword raised high. More incredibly, the human effortlessly sidestepped the attack, letting Hurok fall onto the boy’s waiting fist with such force that the orc audibly gasped as the air was blasted out of his lungs. As Hurok rolled on the ground, a blade of light shimmered out from the bejeweled bracers on the human’s forearms, glowing in the same blue tint as his eyes.
“First and last chance,” he threatened.
“You will kill us anyway!” Vorna of the Shattered Hand yelled, falling into a stance for a charge.
The young human shrugged casually, taking a few steps to place some distance between himself and Hurok. “‘Will’? No, with how small your little group is, I think I can be convinced to host you in my lands.”
“We will not be prisoners again,” Brox growled.
“Who said you’ll be prisoners?”
“Don’t toy with us!” Gorr, a fellow clanmate, hissed. “Prisoners, slaves, you offer a fate worse than death.”
“Really now?”
Brox suddenly groaned and dropped to his knees as visions were forced into his head. He saw a snowy clearing in the mountains, filled with a few dozen huts within a perimeter of golden, waterless pools. He saw orcs with Draenor wolves going about their lives, farming, leatherworking, building new structures… The Frostwolf clan, Brox realized, remembering their exile. They were far from grinning with glee, but neither were these orcs slouched over from the burden of oppression. They wielded tools that were clearly not of orcish make, and some of the materials were far more refined than anything the Horde could manufacture.
“Does that look like that bad a fate?”
The vision ended, and Brox was left blinking hard as he rose to his feet.
“You lie,” Hurok wheezed as he managed to stand on shaky legs. “It is an illusion.”
“If that is what you think…” The human suddenly smirked. “By the way, please note that I’m still standing here instead of trying to lop off your heads while you were all preoccupied earlier.”
Brox was not the only one snarling at the unsubtle threat. “What do you want with us?” he demanded, and the human shrugged again.
“Just some information from my would be trespassers. My offer is genuine though; if you are willing to behave and swear fealty, I can bring you to that village. The first outsiders to join the Frostwolf clan in their assigned territory.”
“Lies,” Vorna countered. “You have them enthralled to your whims. You’d do the same to us.”
The golden-armored figure rolled his eyes. “Right. Following some common sense laws counts as mind control…”
While the others readied for the inevitable battle, Brox took a glance over his shoulder, and saw the two girls standing with resolute firmness despite the confusion and terror in their eyes. He drew in a breath, and then turned to the bemused human.
“Human.”
“Hm?” The obvious shift in tone had drawn his curiosity, as well as the puzzlement from Brox’s comrades.
“We will not believe your lies. But if we cooperate…”
“Brox-!”
“Will you swear to leave the two behind me in peace? They are young, their hands are free of human blood.”
The other orcs immediately aborted their protests, and Brox shared a glance with them. Reluctantly, their hostility receded a little.
“Huh. I see.” The human was silent for a moment before his expression surprisingly hardened. “Tell me orc, when the Horde rampaged across the continent, what did you do with those humans and dwarves and gnomes whose hands were free of orcish blood?”
Brox winced at the memory of massacred settlements, the trail of bodies trying to flee from the Horde’s advance. The whole band tensed at the statement, bracing themselves for the human’s sorcerous wrath. But instead, the angry voice throbbed in their minds.
“You have no right to use that excuse. Their innocence is irrelevant here, you only wish to preserve your younglings.”
Before Brox could stamp on his own dignity and beseech the human for mercy, the human sighed before staring gravely at him. “Lower your weapons. Bend the knee and swear fealty to Alterac. You will be sent to the Frostwolf village. It is not an illusion. There will be no mind-ensorcelling. You will be given a chance to assimilate into my kingdom. That is the offer I give you. That, or a swift death.”
The veterans looked amongst themselves, glancing at the girls every now and then. Some would rather die than face internment again, Brox knew. But others had grown weary, and Brox himself had to admit that the vision was…tempting.
But what of the girls?
They looked uncertain, just as their fate was even if they did manage to return to the Horde. Would a life of servitude under a human be a better alternative? Would a swift, merciful death be a better fate for them?
“Human.” Brox returned his gaze to the waiting intruder. “You give your word?”
“Their words mean little!” Vorna hissed, but Brox ignored her.
“So long as you keep to yours once you swear fealty,” the human replied.
“I will not go back to the camps again, nor will I be a slave,” Vorna interjected angrily, with Hurok and two others adopting a combat stance as they shared her sentiment.
Far from taking it as a threat, the human rolled his eyes. “Fine, I guess you could be a good test study…”
Before Brox could step in, his body froze for a fraction, and then suddenly he and the others were stumbling. It took a second for him to register that the sharp air rushing into his lungs was much colder, and that his hide boots crunched into even colder snow, and his surroundings had suddenly changed. Steading himself, Brox found himself up in the mountains, in the same village as the visions had earlier shown. Around him were orcs, Frostwolf orcs, all staring at his group with trepidation. Up close, they looked far healthier than any orc Brox had seen, interned or Horde.
“Thrall,” the human suddenly called out, reminding Brox of his presence. Turning to the voice, Brox found the human standing rather smugly, with several golden eyeball constructs hovering in place behind him.
An orc stepped out from among the Frostwolves, with blue, non-glowing eyes. “Yes, King Kyle?”
The human Kyle gave a brief glance to the blue-eyed orc, mostly settling his gaze on Brox and his band. Still his mouth did not move as he spoke in their minds. “See if these orcs can adjust to your clan’s life. Brief them on what life is like here. I’ll return in…say a week or two? You’re free to try and convince them to bend the knee by then.” Left unsaid was what would happen if they didn’t.
Thrall gave a solemn nod, and Kyle and his golden constructs suddenly took on a blue shimmer for a brief moment before vanishing with a muted thunderclap.
Still disoriented and left staring with disbelief at the human’s vanishing trick, Brox and his comrades remained dumbfounded until Thrall spoke up - genuinely and gingerly spoke up. “I…welcome you to the home of the Frostwolf clan. Come, the cold can be harsh. Have you all eaten yet?”
It took a moment before the nine confused orcs let themselves be led into a feasting hall, and Brox remained perplexed throughout the awkward welcome from the Frostwolves. He couldn’t understand how he’d arrived here from the forest, even if Thrall and his clanmates had spoken about being trapped in crystals and carried by the human king’s golden minions.
Author's notes: Basically, Kyle stasis field-ed the orcs, and got his probes to pick them up since they're not limited to game mechanics, and then recalled the whole bunch over to the Frostwolf settlement.
