Not the best of the three. I had the rough idea of this when writing BBB, but it didn't seem necessary with the flow of the story. After that, I continued refining it on and off for about a year until I put it on the shelf. Once I decided to write In the Beginning I figured I could dust this one off and finally post it. In this story, I'd say that Show of Good Faith is the best, followed closely by Under the Crimson Banner and this is a distant third. Someone suggested elaborating on Shaak's past, which I think is a great idea, but I don't know if anything will ever come of that. At the moment, I don't have any plans, its just a distant idea. Well, thanks for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed this. Next week, I'll post Being Horde (see profile). See you then.

Brotherhood

South.

Travel south. To Orgrimmar. To the Warcheif.

The sun was slowly setting beneath the rim of the tree line, to the orc's right, so he knew that forward was south. To Orgrimmar. To the Warcheif. Though he believed he was going to die long before he ever reached the city.

He had to walk with his jaws open or the blood would pool in his mouth and he'd drown. He'd still swallowed a lot of his blood, and not for the first time he wondered which was more of a threat: loosing the precious ebony liquid, or swallowing too much of it down. Or maybe he'd just collapse from exhaustion. The animals of the Ashenvale forest would see to his death.

The orc looked down at the hand that still dragged the battle axe. He'd taken it off of a guard he'd killed, when he was consumed by that the fury and anger, blinded by the rage that tore through his captors and left him free deep within the forest. It was doing nothing but slowing him down. He didn't even have the strength to lift it, let alone swing it with any amount of efficiency. He dragged it behind him. A line was carved in the soil, following him from the prison he'd escaped from to his current whereabouts. Any idiot could follow it and find him: weak and on the brink of death. His head would look nice on someone's mantle.

The orc heard the horse before he saw it. It was a beautiful chestnut mare, adorned with polished armor. Its rider was a human, a woman, armored in heavily polished golden plate and armed with a large sword strapped to her back.

Behind her, he noticed a gnome woman as well, riding the robotic chickens her kind loved so much. Typical, he thought, for the Alliance vermin to travel in number. He doubted she would think of attacking him if it were one on one, even in his weakened state. But with the numbers advantage, she wouldn't hesitate to engage.

The human climbed off her horse and made her way to the orc. Accepting his fate, he let the battle axe slip out of his hand and fell to his knees. It could be worse, he decided. Death at the hands of the enemy had more of an appeal than collapsing, and allowing the jungle cats to have their meat.

"Quick?" he asked. His voice was gargled and drowned in the blood, words were hard to pronounce without his tongue, but he hoped she would understand.

"What does he mean?" the human asked. The orc had a basic knowledge of common, if only from his time in the camps.

"I think, he thinks you're going to kill him," the gnome squeaked.

The human chuckled a tad, before taking a canteen off her belt and throwing it to the orc. Without another word, she mounted her steed. She and the gnome rode past him.

The orc didn't move for a long time. Eventually, he opened the canteen and sniffed at the contents. Smelling nothing wrong, he spat out the blood in his mouth and took a long drink of water. The water was stale, but the taste brought a tear to his eye and eased the scratching of his parched throat. Gathering his axe, he continued south. South toward Orgrimmar.

---

"Damn it," Aloos muttered. "I am so damn lost."

The troll lowered to his haunches to gather his thoughts. "Fucking elves," he spat. "Panther humping bastards. Everyone of them."

Approximately two weeks ago, the night elves and their Alliance comrades had begun a campaign of aggressive pushes into the orc's territories. They had set up a few extra bases: hastily assembled with tents and patrols, and grown a little extra hostile to anyone who gets near. The Warsong clan, fearing the night elves' growing strength, sent in a spy. She was a troll, a new recruit. Did a few operations, turned a few heads.

"Shoulda sent me," he muttered. "Sensitivity demands the best."

Instead they sent the troll girl, and she'd gotten caught. None were sure of how much she actually knew, but anything she knew could be used against them. None were sure how long she would last, Aloos the night elves could be more torturous than demons and fel orcs. Aloos was ordered to fix the problem.

He didn't like killing comrade. He didn't mind killing, but to execute one of his own left a certain sickness in the pits of his stomach. But he did it, quick and painless. And he knew, should he ever be captured, someone would be sent to silence him. It was not an idea he liked, but one he accepted.

"Panther humpers," he spat.

He'd done the dark deed, and gotten out of the base just fine. But making his way through the woods, a night elf stumbled upon him. He had killed her, cut open her throat like the humans did pigs, but not before she called out to one of her sisters. He had killed that elf too, drove a dagger into her backside. Then, turning her around, he jammed a second dagger into her stomach, and dragged it down to gut her. There was a look in her eyes, a realization that this was the end, that she had been killed, though he wasn't sure which she found more troubling: that she had been killed or that a troll had killed her.

Dying in his arms, she whispered some sort of plea. He remembered thinking, as he pulled the daggers out and whipped the blood off on his pant leg, what a shame he couldn't speak darnassian.

Aloos had to go south towards the Crossroads. There, he could ride a wyvern to Orgrimmar and tell of his success. He doubted her would make it that far.

The forests were alive with elves. They snuck amongst the leave, waiting, watching, stalking. They were hunting Aloos. They didn't know it was him, but they knew one of the Horde had snuck into their base, and that creature of the Horde needed to die.
Though, if he had to admit, it wasn't the hunting parties that scared him. Elves, bigoted and egotistical that they were, would never admit that a troll could avoid being found as they could. They would never believe a troll could fight as effectively as they could. That's why he'd managed to beat both elves with relative ease, they had underestimated him.

"Pasty faced, glowing eyed, purple skinned, long eared, tree hugging, panther humping, hippies."

He wished he had Plisken, his raptor. His legs were tired and his feet hurt. These forest were different than his jungle homelands. The ground was twiggy and rocky and sharp, his wide feet were torn and scrapped. "When day make shoes for trolls?" he muttered.

Then he heard it: a twig snapping. Not an elf, no elf would make such a noise. But he was still in Alliance territories, which meant it may have been one of the elves' comrades. A human, or a dwarf, clumsy, stupid. But their numbers gave them advantages.

He slithered behind a tree, slowly pulling the daggers out of the sheaths. He could kill up to two he decided, any more than that and he would slink away to fight another day. It was not cowardice, it was a business decision. The profit of killing a few extra Alliance did not outweigh the deficit of dying. Losing his life was not something that scared Aloos, but it was not something he pursued either.

He was surprised when instead of a human or dwarf, an orc stumbled out of the trees, angrily thrashing about as he struggled for some semblance of balance. He fell to the ground, and managed to crawl three more feet before collapsing.

Aloos didn't approach immediately. He'd heard horror stories involving the Alliance: when the humans caught an enemy, they would torture and beat him, before releasing him. And they would follow as the prisoner, dazed and hurt and scared and confused, stumbled back to his comrades. Knowing the location of the enemy's base, the Alliance can plan for the attack.

But there was no one in the trees, no elf waiting to spring upon him or dwarf sniper nestled in the brush. Still holding both daggers, Aloos approached.

The orc wore tattered rags that barely clung together. Exposed skin showed countless scars and gashes, marks of honor and victory and the hundreds of fights the orc had survived. His clothing and skin was damp and slick with black blood.

"Mon?" he asked, rolling the orc onto his back.

The orc's face was painted with an ebony sheen. Aloos checked for wounds, but didn't find any until he opened the orc's mouth.

"Damn," he groaned. "Dat is gross."

The bleeding seemed to have stopped. Never the less, the orc had lost a great deal of blood. If he received medical attention, there was a chance he'd survive, but even that was slim.

"I ought ta leave you mon. Dumb greenskin. Ye dug dis hole. I gots to look out for myself.

"Don't look at me like dat. Like ye wouldn't just abandon me without a second thought. You fuck up, you die. Natural selection. Dumb an weak, dey die an the smart and strong live."

Aloos squatted down. "Corse, we trolls ain't too smart. We ain't too strong. We got our lands taken by a buncha fish men. Least the tauren got beat by centaurs, dey pretty scary. We'd a died if not for you orcs, stupid greenskins."

He looked to the orc. He hadn't moved at all, he wondered if he was dead. "Fuck," he spat, hoisting the orc onto his shoulder, than shifting him into a fireman's carry. "Ye moher fucking owe mi."

If progress was hard before, it was nearly impossible now. The orc was lighter than most others of his kind, skinny and starved to the brink of death. He was still heavy, and weighted heavy on the troll's shoulder. Things got even harder when the orc started to thrash about. Aloos's balance waned. He fell, the orc fell on top of him, forcing the breath out of his lungs.

Aloos shifted his weight and rolled the orc off of him, before mounting the struggling greenskin. "Stop," he warned, putting his dagger at the orc's throat. "Ye be of da Horde. I be of da Horde. Ye get me mon? No need ta fight, no need to scream, least ye want every elf in da forest ta hear."

The orc blinked and nodded.

"What ye name?"

The orc tried to speak, but it came out as a low, inaudible growl. Sighing, he kneeled down and spelled CERBERUS into the ground with his thick index finger.

"Well Cerberus, I'm Aloos. How ye doing?"

FINE.

"Ye lost a lot of blood mon, ye think you can travel?"

The orc nodded.

Aloos helped the orc to his feet, looped a thin arm over his shoulders and aided his steps. "Well mon, nother two miles till we out of dese trees. Think ye can make it."
Cerberus grunted and nodded.

"Youse a tough mother fucker. Nice an strong. Well mon, I reckon dis is da beginning of a beautiful friendship."