Fire and Chains
Burning.
Pain.
His whole body burned. Even after the fire was extinguished he could feel his skin and flesh smoldering. A constant pain that made him want to howl. But the burning in his veins was fading. The ever present burning in his blood that only his iron willpower prevented from igniting cooled. Only this allowed him to ignore the burning of his body.
Redemption. I am redeemed, Thrall. I have freed myself.
Those were his last thoughts when his eyes closed for the last time. His spirit faded from his broken body. He was only somewhat surprised to be conscious, when he knew that he had just died. This must be when I stand before my ancestors, he thought preparing himself for judgement. I can only hope my past actions are forgiven so that I may look them in the eye.
"Oh, you can never be forgiven."
The deep rumbling voice was unmistakable. It was the voice of the demon he had just defeated, whose fiery death had ended his own. He tried to growl back a response, but he could only see darkness and could not feel his body. In fact, he felt as if he was floating in an endless expanse. However much it angered him, he had no physical body so he could not do anything but listen. The rumbling voice reverberated into his very essence, "You may have defeated me, but know that I will never let you go, my greatest son."
I am not your son. I am free, he thought in anger.
The demon's voice sounded amused. "Truly you are my greatest achievement. But so treacherous. So very treacherous. I gave you the gift of my blood to let you slay all those who stood before you. Even a god. And how do you repay me?" The rumbling had turned quickly from amusement to a roaring anger. "With death!"
After a brief pause of silence the rumbling continued. "No matter. I commend your ability. You, my greatest creation have even managed to slay your great master. But you still have my blood in your veins. I can feel it. Even as it fades, I still have power over you."
No. He could not help the fear that sunk into that denial. His spirit was free. He had freed himself from the demon's control.
"So, with the power that I have left and what little corruption still flows within you. I curse you. You shall not join your people in death. I curse you to fight. I curse you to once again struggle." Even as the demon spoke, he could feel his spirit floating. He could somehow feel his being dispersing from the realm that he knew. If he could struggle he would have. He would have fought with all his might if he could, because a clan chief does not ever give up.
"I want you to know this. Every time there is pain. Every time there is anger. Every time there is despair. I am the one that has brought these to you. Know that I, Mannoroth, have cursed you again. You will never be free and I am the one who has chained you for all eternity. Know this my mighty son." Then the laughter began. The deep rumbling laugh from the pits of hell that he hated so much. As his spirit slowly lost its connection to the realm that he knew, he could only hear the cackling of the demon and once again feel the burning of his body.
Burning.
Pain?
His eyes were shut. He dared not dare open them to see what realm the demon had decided to torture him in. No, there was no pain. The burning felt like the sun on a hot cloudless day. He could feel a cool breeze brush his hair against his chin. The breeze felt good. He exhaled slowly. He hadn't felt this good in many years. The demon's presence in his mind and body that had burdened for most of the last years of his life was gone. He inhaled deeply, smelling the clean air heavy with the scent of grass. Strange. I expected hellfire to await me. He opened his eyes.
Endless plains of golden grass greeted his vision. It almost remined him of Draenor, before the presence of the Burning Legion. He extended his hand to feel the golden stalks brushing against his waist. He nearly yelled out in shock. His hand. It was tan. A human tan on human skin. Raising both of his hands out in front of himself he saw that his green skin was replaced with the tanned skin of a human. No. His whole body had been replaced.
Looking down at himself, he saw that he now had the form of the enemy of his people. Taking slow breaths to calm himself, he investigated his own body with curious pokes. He was pleased to note that he still had his musculature and it appeared his proportions were similar to his orc self, if it were converted to that of human's. However, he had no reference for how large or how small he actually was, considering that he could only compare his body to the tall grass that seemed to stretch out in an endless sea in all directions. In addition, his body was still littered with scars from his orc body, but not the burns from the demon's fire. This pleased him even more, as he was proud of the physical reminders of his triumphs in combat and glad that not one trace of the demon remained on him.
After his examinations, he peered out into the horizon, raising a hand to shade his eyes from the bright sun. He could see mountains far off in one direction. Grunting to himself in affirmation he decided to head in the direction of higher ground, taking off at a brisk jog. He needed to find food, shelter, water, and most of all find out where the demon had sent him.
Days passed slowly in the shadow of the mountain. But that gave him enough time to establish himself in his new home. He had created a small hidden settlement for himself at the base of several boulders that had crumbled from high above long ago. The stone provided him a means to fashion himself a large hammer from tying grass to the end of a sundried stick. Although it was not very effective and prone to breaking, he used it to kill a lion which roamed the same mountain that he now dwelled. It thought itself the alpha predator, but he taught the beast a valuable lesson. A lesson that ended with him wearing its pelt across his body, its claws as a necklace, and its large canines woven into his long hair that hung to the middle of his lower back.
He had never thought to find peace on this world. Mannoroth's words had convinced him that he would suffer for eternity. During the day he worked to survive, but it was the good kind of work, and at night he gazed out into the stars until he fell asleep trying to find which one was his home world. Old Draenor was long gone, but this world was almost as good. The only things missing were the battles and fights. His body was restless for action and the adrenaline of a good duel.
The thirtieth morning found him laying prone within his woven grass hut gazing out at a large dust cloud out in the sea of grass. He had seen movement like this before back on his home world and in his campaigns in Azeroth. It was a vast swarm of humans. He could see them riding on horseback, sitting in carts, or walking. They were but small figures far in the distance, but he could not mistake the scent, voices, or figures of his long time enemies. But now that he was one, he was torn. He did not know how to fit into human society. Should he approach them? Or should he stay in his own sanctuary? If he approached he did not know how they would react to a stranger, but he knew that humans like orcs had a better chance of survival in groups. If he stayed hidden, he would eventually have to move anyway due to a lack of resources. But the most important thing was the answer to the question that had been haunting since his arrival in this new world of whether he could return to Azeroth. Perhaps he could find a way back to the Horde. After all, he still had much to do to if he were to fully redeem himself to his people. He made up his mind and stalked towards the great swarm.
He approached slowly, his path making a large arc so that he would eventually reach the back of the swarm by avoiding the main body of the caravan. He noticed that the females, children, and older humans were located there. His plan was to capture one to interrogate it for information, so he decided to hunt for the weak. There was no point in becoming injured in a reconnaissance mission.
Crouching in the tall grass he listened. The muffled sound of discussion too quiet to make out indicated the older ones were deeper in the crowds of humans. Louder laughter and yelling came from nearby. The children were carefree and unsuspecting. He could grab one and be off with it before anyone noticed. He saw one younger male and one female playing some sort of game, unaware of his approaching presence. As he was about to strike, they spoke quickly to each other, laughing, and he almost slapped himself in his own stupidity. The words they spoke were unintelligible to him. Of course, even though he looked human, that did not mean he could understand them. Even among the Alliance, there were several human languages. As his two unsuspecting prey went out of ear shot, he groaned to himself. How could I have forgotten something so simple? Formulating a new plan, he decided to follow the swarm of humans sticking closer to the back where the weaker humans stayed. He needed to learn about his intended targets first before making any rash decisions. Yes. I will learn from the humans just like Thrall did. He did mention that the old taught the young just like us orcs. I will learn their language and culture to see if they are truly worthy of the presence of a chief such as myself.
Many of his fellow orcs thought him only a bloodthirsty warrior. While that was true in part, he was also a highly intelligent chief of the Warsong clan. So, he learned the language of what he now knew of as the Dothraki people much more quickly than one would expect from someone of his appearance. The Khalasar, what these people called their swarm, moved slowly due to the large number of people. This allowed him to easily follow while still hunting the small game that lived in the tall grasses. He tried to watch the young ones, as they were much more likely to be taught by the females and elders. Even with all his skills at stealth, children's eyes were sharp and they were curious. He had too many close encounters to count, considering that he made great efforts to avoid the obvious warriors of the of Khalasar that rode on horseback. Although, he wanted to show these humans the power of an orc, he knew that he was at a severe disadvantage not knowing anything about the world that he arrived on.
It became even more difficult to learn once he had progressed from the younglings' education. He tailed the elders and females as they provided more information than children could offer him, but they tended to travel in groups and didn't stray too far from the Khalasar. Today though, he felt that his ancestors were providing him with a change in fortune. One of the younger females was straying far from the Khalasar to pick small flowers that grew on select grasses amongst the many types he had learned of in this land. Now was his chance. He felt that he had learned enough to directly question one of the members of the Khalasar. The female was young, but older than a child that needed to be taught the ways of their people. She will provide me the information I need. Even though he had learned much about the Dothraki people, such as the fact that they too were nomadic tribes much like the old orcs of Draenor, he needed to know how they treated their slaves and strangers who were not already part of the large caravan. He needed much more information before he could offer his services. It was surprising, but he found the ways of the humans, the Dothraki, to be strangely comforting. They reminded him of the good days on Draenor, which was why his decision was leaning towards joining these people, no matter how much it rankled his orcish pride.
The girl was nervous as she plucked the flowers off the grasses. She was tan like everyone else in the Khalasar and wore the hides of animals that they killed in the plains. Her nervousness was uncharacteristic, thought Grom. It was much more obvious than usual, most likely from straying so far, as she kept glancing back towards the caravan. Most likely she is afraid of being left behind. Unfortunate that I am to fulfill her fear. Quick as lightning, he reached out and grabbed the girl's furs twisting her around so that her back was pressed against his chest and covering her mouth so that her screams were muffled.
"Quiet." He commanded in a whisper. "Or I will be forced to kill you."
The girl immediately stopped screaming, but she trembled against him and tears were streaming down her face, wetting his large hands. She had every right to be scared. He allowed himself a small grin. It was good to know for sure just how large he actually was, his human body was the same size as his orc body. The girl's feet kicked against his knees as he held her tight against him to prevent her from struggling. He warily eyed his surroundings as he whispered into her ear.
"I have some questions for you and if I am happy with your responses I will let you go unharmed."
He felt a nod, which made him look down. The girl's eyes were full of fear, but also surprise. It seemed she did not expect him to be able to speak to her. Good. That meant that he had learned the language well enough to be understood. Before he could ask her any questions the sound of thundering hooves filled his ears. Riders with their curved blades poured out from where the girl had been looking before her capture. They tricked me. She was the bait! He growled in frustration and anger, throwing the girl down into the grass and turning to run. More riders approached from further out of the plains shouting their battle cries. Curse you Mannoroth! It seemed the demon had made good on his promise. His life was going to be full of suffering and struggling again.
It was too late to join peacefully now that he had been caught abducting one of their people. He knew it was it was going to be impossible to outrun the riders as well. He had to avoid their whips and nets for long enough to grab one of their horses. He continued sprinting away from the caravan to gain some distance from the larger group of riders. Pulling his necklace from his neck, he held the lion's claws in his hands like daggers. The first of the riders reached him quickly screaming in joy, cracking a long whip. He leaped over the long weapon and stabbed the claw straight into the chest of the rider. He cursed as the horse continued running. Pulling his dagger out of man he just killed without pausing to look at the shocked face, he tried to mount the horse. It was still slowing down, but there were no reigns to help him up. The crack of another whip and his left arm was wrenched backwards. Another rider had caught up and was laughing and screaming at him while trying to reel him in. He inhaled deeply before giving his famous roar. A roar so loud and terrifying that it gave credence to his name. The horses panicked which allowed him to stop the pull of the whip. He grabbed the offending weapon with his left hand wrenching it closer so that he could also grip it with his right hand. With a heave he pulled the rider off his mount. The dismounted man let go of the whip when he realized that he was no match in a contest of strength. Yelling in response, the man pulled out his curved blade. It gleamed in the sun turning almost gold as it reflected the tall grasses waving in the breeze. Unwinding the whip from his bleeding left arm, he charged the man who tried to slash at him, but he was too quick, sidestepping and snapping the wrist of the man. Before the man could scream in too much pain, his neck was also snapped in a quick twisting motion. These humans are pathetic.
Another crack of a whip and he was pulled away from the horse by his ankle. Two more whips found their marks encircling his other leg and his right arm, before a net entangled him. Even then he struggled, managing to pull two more riders off their mounts, before others helped them pull the whips taut to restrain him. Perhaps I spoke too soon, Grom admitted. Once the commotion died down, several riders approached. One he recognized as the Khal, the leader of the Khalasar. One of the others he did not recognize, but the man stood out. He was not dressed as a member of the Dothraki, as he was wearing silken robes and had jewels hanging from his neck and wrists. He also had obvious guards in chain mail and leathers riding with him. What he didn't like was the way the strangely dressed man eyed him like a piece of meat for sale.
After the silk clad man made a strange gesture, a guard approached carrying a slave girl on his mount. He spoke something not in the Dothraki language. Ah a translator. His assumption was proven correct when the slave girl spoke in the high pitched voice of adolescence.
"My master introduces himself to the unworthy as Uzamon zo Horan, as he is impressed by the unworthy's fighting skill."
From under his restraints on the ground he only growled in response. The Khal only laughed, prompting his other riders to laugh well.
Gold laden arms gestured at him as a smile encrusted with gems spoke in that flowery language, so different than the guttural Dothraki that he was used to. So weak sounding.
"My esteemed master wishes to save the unworthy from his fate at the hands of the Khal. My master will allow the unworthy to serve under him as a slave."
He only growled in response while staring in hatred at the smiling weakling. The Khal seemed to have enough of him as he pulled out his curved blade. The supposed master shouted in alarm, causing an argument to break out. The words were too fast for him to understand. Before he could make use of the distraction, leathered guards dragged two chests from the caravan and laid them out in the grass, which seemed to appease the Khal. As the argument died down, he heard the slave girl say, "My master promises you more when we return to Mereen."
The Khal nodded and shouted at his riders. Ten different curved blades were at their prisoner's throat as they tied up his arms and legs and then forced him into a kneeling position. The Khal reached down grasping the orc turned man's long hair, cutting close to the base of his neck. "You are undeserving of this," the Khal taunted, throwing the black strands into the grass. Before he could respond, the shadow of the slave master draped over his tied form as he gave spoke more to the slave girl than to him.
"The great master has purchased you from the Khal saving your unworthy life. He asks for the unworthy's name."
No response. Only the rustling of the dry grass and the low chuckles of the riders could be heard. The slave master looked annoyed.
"My esteemed master knows from the Dothraki girl that the unworthy can speak. My master wishes to know the name even if it is in this language."
He did not respond. Instead glaring in hatred at the slave master. The slave master gave an angry command and the whips fell. He made sure not to make a noise, but he grimaced in pain as whips cracked over and over again against his tied form. The weakling doesn't even strike me himself. The slave master was red with anger taking his frustration out on the slave girl who cried in pain as he struck her. Even though he was tied down, seeing a slave being treated so unfairly caused him to roar in anger. He realized his mistake, once he saw the jeweled smile. Pulling the slave girl into his own seat, the slave master pulled a golden knife from his silken robes and held it against the slave girl's neck. He whispered into her ear like a snake.
The slave girl spoke in a bored tone that was at odds with her scared expression. "My master will honor my unworthy body with torture if this unworthy slave does not name himself." The Khal laughed at the phrasing and stroked the slave girl's cheek roughly as he looked at her appreciatively. This one likes his mates submissive and weak. He is unworthy of his title. There is no glory to be earned in slaying such a foe.
The slave girl shivered in fear as the knife nicked her neck, but she continued translating. "My master gives one more chance."
From the ground, his body bleeding, he saw the fear in the slave girls eyes, the cruel smile of the Khal and the curve of the jeweled mouth near the slave girls ear. The golden knife dripped with droplets of blood. At this point there was nothing to be gained here, but meaningless pain and death. He sighed in defeat, but straightened his body upright as much as he could, proudly stating, "I am Grom Hellscream of the Warsong clan."
The Khal didn't seem to recognize the phrasings but he lost his smile when he heard the name Hellscream. The Khal whispered it to himself, causing his riders to stir and look at each other with hidden apprehension. Oblivious to the Dothraki's uneasiness, the slave master's smile only grew wider as he pushed the slave girl roughly into the arms of his guards. The slave master giddily spoke in a heavy accent rolling the name in his mouth like the most delicious wine, "Grom Hellscream."