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Number of posts : 19
Localisation : Deep 13
Registration date : 2007-04-10

PostSubject: Something need doing?   Thu Feb 28, 2008 8:22 am

Name- Bhug (sound: dog wakes from bad dream)
Age- Lots
Class- Shaman gila monster
Professions- Makes plants into THINGS YOU NEED, cheap!
Race- Orc
Clan/Tribe- Blackrock

Appearance- Green
Family Members- Who remembers?
Favored Deities- Cthun
Friends- Mushroom people, the jabbering ghoul, Twilight
Marauder Morna (well, I try to be friends).

Enemies- Those three scarlet culties who try to kill my
friend the jabbering ghoul.
Additional Details:

In the years following the great wars
we few orcs who escaped roamed in small
groups as, nomads. It was our
belief at this time that the greenest
among us possesed a resistant constitution,
so were sent out to wander the wilds,
searching out knowledge of how to make
useful things. If one's skin compared
favourably to that of a green-bellied
bloatfrog he was chosen. I was one of these.

Our creed was to eat new things and see
what happened, make poisonous creatures
sting and bite us and see what happened,
put parts of different animals and plants
together and see what happened, and burn
things, breath the smoke they made, see
what happened. Of course this was many
times fatal, but those who lived learned
lots of things, and became greener still.

After many years of these wanderings it
reached my ears that the horde had
formed again under a new warchief.
As I made my way to the appointed place
I expected to see again a great horde
warcamp - tents and fires of all the clans
stretching to where the earth meets the
sky. Instead I came to an immense stone
gate. Orgrimmar. For the first time I
walked into a city not as an invader.

It seemed there had been an occurrence
here, as the ground was littered with
dead bodies of the tiny peoples we
called nibbler-dwarfs. What madness
had driven them to assault this bastion
without even donning wargear? This new
horde must be prosperous indeed not to
have even gathered them for meat.

Past the gate the great city and it's wonders
lay open before me. There was a grand bazaar
here where war booty was bought and sold,
a bank so I no longer had to hide my objects
in a bag with scorpions, and a "post box" where
one could receive messages from afar. Upon
this had been placed another of the hapless
nibbler-dwarfs, perhaps as a joke.

Everywhere throngs hurried to and fro.
For the first time I saw the minotaurs
of Kalimdor who had pledged to the
warchief, and the undead who I was
told had sacked Lordaeron after we,
the horde, had failed. Strong new allies.

But perhaps years on walkabout
had dulled me to the ways of clan
life, as I did not understand all
the goings-on here.

Someone I did not know asked if I
wished to purchase money. Another
stranger then accosted me to join
his guild, but only if I would leave
it immediately. As I pondered the
absurdity of these transactions
the sound of battle erupted behind
me. One of the bull-men was being
murdered in the street. A spy
perhaps? I resolved to watch my
step in this strange new city.

At length I made my way to the hall
of the young warchief. He was full
of vigour and set me the task of
killing renegade orcs. This did not
seem unusual to me then. Many times
in the old days we had to crack heads
to keep the boyz in line.

There were a great many renegades it
seemed. Few clans were spared. I was set
against even Dragonmaw, the last fighting
horde, and Bleeding Hollow, who's screaming
lads were always at the sharp end in the
second war.

Trolls fared worse yet. All but three
tribes declared savages and marked
for destruction. Skullsplitter, Sandfury,
Bloodscalp, Witherbark, Gurubashi,
Vilebranch - I killed these until I had
killed more than I ever had stunties,
humies or pointy-ears in two wars.

Years have passed. I look now at my
wargear, if it can be called that - shiny
gold and white things. I kill orc and troll
dressed as a paladin of the alliance?
Now war is called against Zul'Aman,
and I have had enough. Their berserkers
protected us from the silly bird-riding
dwarfs. They are not my enemies.

Maybe these new ways are better.
Orcs have lands and meat and cities.
But my skin turns yellow. A smith
should stick to his anvil, so I go
back now to wander the wilds - to
eat new things and see what happens,
make poisonous creatures sting and
bite me and see what happens, burn
things, breath the smoke they make,
see what happens.
Maybe I see you in the world.
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