note to self Whoever wrote that plot point hasn’t reared a child. Hopefully.
That certainly explains why Thrall is not racist. They stole a plot point from every single anime ever.
I apologize for not reading this earlier. That said, it’s a very good read. I’ve not played WoW, and the only Warcraft game I’ve played is III, but I have beaten that. The characterization is very well done, and as always, your prose is nigh-flawless. I do hope to see a continuation soon.
Thanks, GG 
Also, watching the new episode of “Azerothian Supervillains” put quite a spin on the latest chapter, I must say XD
Aw, and here was I hoping for a new chapter. (j/k, j/k. Don’t press your writer, kids. Otherwise you get the equivalent of a-book-a-year writer, and how many Balzacs do you think we have?)
Ask and ye shall recieve!
Although it’s not a full chapter, I’m still working on the ending of it.
Balzac? Try Enid Mary Blyton, one book a week XD Aka “It’s easy, just throw in a picnic basket to fill up space!”
Uh-oh… SPARTACUS REFERENCE AHEAD 
And I don’t mean that every grunt stands up and shouts “I’m the Warchief” while Blackmoore and his goons looks on in bafflement, while Thrall breaks down crying because they won’t let him give himself up and save all of them from crucifixion and whaaaa that’s so saaad ;____; (Incidentally, said to be the moment in movie history where male viewers most often cries. I believe the death of Bambi’s mum is the second one.)
Thrall: “I AM NOT AN ANIMAL!”
Random orc woman (which doesn’t really work because he’s paired up with Jaina here, dammit!): “Neither am I.”
Why do I remember that kind of thing when it was ten years since that ONE time I saw that movie? Eh, whatever. I remember cheat codes for Kid Icarus, too (although they don’t work in the Wii version 
).
Ahem.
Okay, let’s make the Warchief a bit more of a mortal man, shall we?
It happened, sometimes, that Aedelas Blackmoore decided that his near-adult “pet” had done well enough to deserve a certain kind of reward. At those times, in the evening light a couple of guards brought one or another young orc woman to Thrall’s cell, her teeth clenched so hard that her jaw might have broken.
The first time, he didn’t understand until he saw the smirks on the guards’ faces as they pushed that first woman inside, locked the door and walked away.
He couldn’t even now put into words how disgusting it made him feel, what they expected him to do and be grateful of.
What ever really happened was that he got a rare occasion of speaking with one of his own kind in peace. Before that ever happened though, he had to convince that tense woman – a new one each time – that he really had no intention of touching her.
They did all believe him, finally, but he still saw their cautious eyes, ever waiting to be asked anyway. He never did.
He told Jaina of this in the early morning, when crisp light filtered through the curtains covering the windows. She watched him all the while, a gaze he met even as it grew unbearably pained. Her hand moved, fumbling over his jaw line and cheek, seeking something that could make the memories go away when both of them knew that nothing would ever, ever do that.
It was never his intention to cause her pain, but he needed her to know. Seeing what it did to her filled his chest with a swelling feeling, a torturous brew of regret and sadness and gratitude for her silence, her clumsy caress, the empathy – not pity, and that difference meant the world – in her eyes.
Never had he spoken much about his youth, not with anyone – and never, ever about this. The disgust was still there, but speaking of it with Jaina eased the memories. An act of cleansing, of sorts, to honor those women who had been meant for abuse. It got easier then, to recall not only their thin lips and tense bodies, but the careful relief when they understood that he really had no intention to stand up from his corner and grab their wrists.
But the most painful thing to admit was that it hadn’t been as easy as it should have been, to leave those women in peace. He had to battle with himself, against that desperate wish for a touch that wasn’t a tear or blow. Every time guarding his eyes not to look at the woman sitting there at the other side of the cell in a simple, too thin dress, so agonizingly close. Spirits knew if he had been strong enough if any of them had reached out to touch him, even innocently.
In his darkest moments he wondered if he controlled himself only because he knew that Blackmoore expected him to be grateful, but he could not be. In his brightest, he knew it was because Tari would have despised him, and he was a better person than that. Often, though, the darker moments were more plentiful than the bright.
These occasions were thankfully rare, because the admiral seldom felt kind at that point in time, his drinking having taken over more and more. So there were only a handful of orc women who this happened to – although Thrall never did hurt them, they still had to bear the fear of being abused before he convinced them otherwise. Not all of them survived the battle for freedom. But if they lived, they remembered well that night spent in a cell with the future Warchief, speaking in low voices until both of them fell asleep at opposite sides of the prison.
It filled him with a sense of fascination, how after the camps they always seemed to find those neigh nonexistent moments when he was not in the middle of preparing troops, arranging the journey westwards, in battle, or deep in planning with Drek’thar and everyone else.
How closely had they watched him, waiting for a chance? And were they aware of each other, since only one voice murmured with the guards outside his tent, and only one pair of feet sounded against the ground at any time?
“I wanted to say thank you, Warchief, although I don’t know if you remember me.”
They all said similar things, one way or another. He did remember all of them.
Few as they were he had managed to keep a distant track of them – most had mates by now, all of them far away. One fought her way into the Kor’kron Elite, and died on Hyjal.
To him, and most probably for her as well, it was only him being as honest with Jaina as she had been the night before, when confessing that she had been Arthas’ lover. He didn’t really realize that opening up to her like this was an act of seduction for both of them.
Silence settled as he stopped talking. Just watching each other, her with her head on his arm, each shadow on her face soft in the first light of dawn.
“I don’t want people thinking you forced me to anything,” Jaina finally murmured, her thumb brushing against his cheek. “It’s not fair to you.”
He pushed himself up a little to be able to shake his head.
“Some will think it no matter what,” he said, laying back. “Our allies will understand that I didn’t. The only thing I care about in this matter, is that you don’t feel pressured.”
“No, no, no…”
As if to make a point she shifted, shuffling closer. Spirits, her night dress did nothing to keep the warmth of her body away from his skin, no more than it had done during the night. Even now he had no idea how much, or little, sleep he had gotten. The smell of her hair filled his nostrils, and blond strands flitted against his thick skin when she moved. He could hardly believe that he could feel the tiny brush, as light as it was. The warmth, also, because he knew he was warmer than her. Her body heat too seemed so much more soft and delicate.
The cell was so fresh in mind it seared into his thoughts, but he wrestled it aside with an ease that surprised him. No, this was nothing like that, it may as well have been another world entirely. How strange it was, really. When he had oh so secretly thought of Jaina before she proposed, and even after, he had never dreamed that she would really be able to so completely relax against him as she had in the night.
This wasn’t relaxing, though. She moved with determination, and the arm around his neck was strong – loudly arguing against the panicked voice in the back of his head that feared that she was so much more frail than she really was. No, nowhere near his own strength or even that of a regular woman of his race, but far from weak.
His own arm followed her motion, resting against her back as she settled and spoke. It took a couple of words to pull him out of his stupor.
“Thinking back on your initial reaction to the proposal, I almost feel like I’m the one pressuring you,” she said, smile widening to a grin when he stared at her for a moment before chuckling.
Loosening up she drew her arm back, splaying her fingers against his chest as if for support. They too, seemed so small and soft, he could hardly think of anything else for a moment.
“Are you worried about what Vol’jin and everyone else will say?” she asked suddenly, straightening slightly.
The question was a little surprising, but they had been speaking their allies. Thrall still found himself begrudging the return to practicalities, but accepted it.
“I have sent for Drek’thar… and a message for my grandmother, saying I will have important news for her soon.” He paused, then shook his head with a sigh. “I don’t think that many will like it, initially. Given time, though…” He gave his head another shake, looking at her. All those things he would face in time, and worrying would do no good. “What of your side?”
“To be honest, Aegwynn made a correct guess last night when I discussed Kael’thas before coming here,” Jaina said.
She was silent for a little while. He waited, just humming briefly in reply to her revelation about the old sorceress. It did not bother him much if the former Guardian had found out the truth, knowing well how Jaina trusted that woman.
Finally, Jaina spoke again.
“Tandred…” She stopped and sighed. “I don’t know what he will say. I’m composing letters in my head all the time.” Still speaking, she bowed her head beneath his chin. “In a way I really want him to know the truth about this, but I’m not sure if he could handle it.”
Thrall let out a deep breath, reaching out with his other hand to touch her shoulder as he often did. In this, he could not speak, could not help her. When it came to the last shreds of her family there was too much guilt for him to act, no matter that she did not blame him.
“He’s not like father, he isn’t, but I just don’t know,” Jaina murmured. “I can’t brave a guess of his reaction. Light, I want him to accept it.”
Feeling her hand ball against his chest, he reached down and enclosed her fist in his. There, her fingers relaxed at least a fraction.
She exhaled slowly, breath flowing down between them.
“It will hurt if he doesn’t accept it, but if so, then so be it,” she said, resolve returning to her voice. “Kul Tiras is as far away as everything else.”
You chose an orc over your own kin again.
“You’ve always been stronger than you should have had to be,” he murmured.
“Look who’s talking…”
Her half-hearted mumble faltered when he shook his head and rolled over fully on his side, letting go of her hand to reach around her back. It was a gamble of sorts, and he took it in the terse moment, even when pressing her so close to him, and then just staying right there, was nearly unbearable. But no, not before Jaina said it was fine, not a step further until then. Her calm and touches now only proved that she trusted him.
“Should you need support, you know where to find it.” He was quite surprised at how composed his voice sounded.
Only after a moment did she reply, leaning her forehead against his chin. It was enough to take his breath away too. Just a murmur, and then she snaked her soft arms around his neck again. Right then he really wanted to ignore everything duty had to call him with, and just remain where he was instead of returning to his daily role as Warchief. He would not disregard his obligations, of course, but he wanted to.
In the Valley of Spirits, a portal opened.
The grunts standing by the official landing point of this mage spell looked up, eying the robed troll woman stepping through and onto the wooden plateau. A male orc in full armor followed, but he moved strangely slow, half turned and with his arm lingering inside the hole in the air. The guards who stood well enough to see through the portal caught a glance of rolling green hills and trees, but there were a lot of orcs on the other side, blocking the view.
Orcs that did not have green skin.
The plated orc moved his arm closer, supporting the woman carefully stepping through the portal. Long, grey hair framed her wrinkled, brown skinned face, and she squinted at the world around her with a curious hunger hampered with her obviously bad eyesight. Although she hunched slightly, every move was driven by determination.
With orcish gentleness the warrior supported her steps further away, as more orcs with the uncorrupted, brown skin color entered Orgrimmar. A bench stood by the edge of the plateau, for those who wanted to sit and look across the valley and listen to the trickling water. The old orc woman sat down when helped to it, but she kept gazing about without a hint of exhaust.
The grunts stared, until the warrior looked around at them and spoke.
“Tell the Warchief that his grandmother has arrived.”
The rumor spread like wildfire through the city. By the time that Thrall reached the valley, not even remembering the work he simply abandoned to come to meet her, the path was crowded. As soon as people noticed the Kor’kron Elites, however, they quickly moved aside to make way for the Warchief. Many even stepped into the shallow lake to get out of the way.
Greatmother Geyah stood up as Thrall climbed the stairs to the plateau, hearing and seeing well enough to recognize him despite her ailing senses.
“Go’el,” she said in her warm, rough voice.
“Grandmother.”
He took her thin hands into his young, strong ones, staring down at her with a great mixture of emotions. As much as his chest swelled with joy at seeing her again, concern muddled the surprise.
“Are you well enough to come here?” he asked, muttering to her in a low voice.
At that, she snorted.
“Nonsense,” she said. “I’m not that sick.”
[i]Yet.[/i]
She was far from healthy, they both knew it, and even a journey supported by magic could not be good for her. But she gazed up at him through the mist hanging over her sight, scowl bespeaking only resolve. The spirits flocked around the two of them, whispering their warm welcome so fervently that wisps of the two orcs’ hair fluttered without aid of the wind.
“Show me your city,” Geyah said.
Nodding, he bent down and picked her up into his arms. Well enough if she decided that she was fit to travel through magical portals, but he would not have her walk through Orgrimmar. She scowled at him for a moment, but that had eased up by the time he reached the bottom of the stair.
In the back of his mind he noted that she, unsurprisingly, weighed a good deal more than Jaina. Not that it bothered him, but the thought was difficult to deal with and so he pushed it aside.
“What of the Mag’har?” he asked.
The crowd spread out to make way for him, the Elites, and the handful of Mag’har warriors who also had entered through the portal. At a sideway nod, his guards fanned out not to block the old woman’s sight.
“They can do without me for a day,” Geyah replied, sounding somewhat distracted as she threw her gaze all around them. Then she looked straight up at him, smiling. “Garrosh can take care of things, now.”
Thrall breathed in deeply, this simple comment sweeping over him like a warm wave. It was good to hear of Grom’s legacy.
They reached the end of the Valley of Spirits, where the path winded precariously along the cliff, high above the city itself. Here he stopped, and the guards moved aside so that the view laid open to Geyah.
“This is Orgrimmar,” Thrall said.
She probably could not see much more of the city than blurred outlines and colors, but that was enough to let her understand the size of the place, and the great amount of inhabitants – orcs and otherwise. She didn’t say a word, but the intake of breath bespoke her feelings.
Looking at the city his people had constructed always did fill Thrall with a sense of pride, but since he saw it everyday it had begun to turn into a commonplace feeling. Now it was renewed, and he gazed upon the rooftops as if for the first time, lips stretching wide.
After a little while he turned and continued. He could have gone straight to Grommash Hold from there, but instead he carefully walked over the rope bridge connecting the cliff path with the flight tower, and made his way down to the ground level. From the Valley of Strength he took the path towards and through the Drag.
As he walked, an unusual hush fell over Orgrimmar. People lined the streets, stretching and straining to catch a glimpse of the revered grandmother of the Warchief. Not cheering, one did not greet an aged, spiritual leader with cheers, but with smiles and bows.
It was quite a long walk, and he chose to save the Valley of Honor until later, to let Geyah rest for a bit first. She would never admit it, but he saw the curiosity in her eyes muddled with exhaust.
He only paused at one point. Walking out of the shaded Drag, he walked through another shadow and then turned as soon as they bathed in the sunlight. She squinted at the dark outline of a fat, dead tree, surely noticing that there was something odd about it. The Mag’har warriors gazed up at it too, muttering amongst themselves and the Elites.
“It’s our monument to the demon Mannoroth’s death. Can you see his skull up there?” Thrall said.
Her brow furrowed and she shifted in his arms, teeth bared.
“If ever I wished my eyesight was better again,” she growled, her voice deep inside her throat. Then she settled back, shaking her head. “I can’t see it, but I believe you when you say it’s there.”
He considered having it taken down for her sake, but her tone was final at the last comment. Bringing the huge skull to the ground would take some time and be quite a dangerous project, too. She would probably only see it as a unnecessary endeavor.
Neither of them commented, but Grom, and his son, was on both their minds as Thrall continued into the hold named after the hero who killed Mannoroth.
The Warchief gave an order for the Mag’har to be given accommodations and to be shown anywhere they wanted to go inside Orgrimmar. He also called for food to be brought to his room, making it clear that he would speak with his grandmother alone. She didn’t make a comment, but he noticed her gratefully sag against his chest plate as he slowly climbed the stairs to his own quarters.
After closing the door, he set her down on the softest rug on the floor before sitting down before her. Now that they were alone, she actually allowed her fatigue to shine through in lowered eyelids and slumping shoulders.
“Grandmother…” he started, frowning deeply.
“Don’t say anything foolish,” she said, looking up. The tiredness swept away under the force of her mind. “I will never regret coming here to see this. The memory will give me strength for quite some time.”
There was a knock on the door, and two orc women entered carrying trays with meat, fruit and drink. Setting their burdens down before the Warchief and the Greatmother, they respectfully saluted and left again.
“What is this?” Geyah asked, grasping and lifting an orange up to her face to see better.
He had to smile, forgetting his worry for a moment. If she was well enough to be curious about a fruit, she could not be ailing as badly as he had feared.
“There are crops and other things in this world very different from what grows on Draenor,” he said, reaching out to take the orange. “This one has to be peeled before eaten.”
Mannoroth is a bastard (ya rly), because later on I want to have Jaina drag her bro into Orgrimmar and him going “What the HELL is that thing?!”, and it’s kinda ruined when the monument has already had its moment but it’s kinda unavoidable here. Oh well.
Offhand, Jaina (very possibly) has a half-belf half-sister (Christ on a cracker…), and had another older brother whose last words were something along the lines of “Father, we’re being attacked by a dra-”
Oi.
I’m suddenly reminded of something a friend and I was discussing a while back.
We were talking about movies and emotional scenes and I mentioned that when HAL 9000 is disconnected in 2001: A Space Odyssey, is kinda sad.
So we came up with:
How to spot a nerd.
Normal person: I cried when bambi’s mother died.
Nerd: I cried when HAL was disconnected.
I don’t remember there being cheats in Kid Icarus.
Codes, sure. But not cheats. (I’ve even got some of the codes around here, somewhere.
My dad made maps of the castles and a special code-sheet that looks like the pause screen so you can fill in the stuff you’ve found. ^^
He also made a complete, fully accurate map over the entire Metroid game using only a pen, a piece of paper and a ruler. <_<
He used to be awesome. Now he just plays Winmine, and sometimes Tetris clones.)
Aaaand the story… Like I said, I can’t really write proper construtive critisism, so I just read it and shut up.
I never cried at Bambi and I never saw 2001. So thbpt.
Anyway. Good chapter, Wei.
This should teach me to have more free time when I ask for things.
Okay, let’s make the Warchief a bit more of a mortal man, shall we?
Okay, bring down the poor sod. Abused in his childhood, knee-jerk anti-authoritarian (he wondered if he controlled himself only…), with flawed personal security (what if these women who reached his tent were disguised ninja assassins, hm?) etc.
You shall address the Warchief with more respect
Someone should create a spin-off where the orcs are Meiji-era Japanese and the humans corrupting furriners. Because nothing beats an orc-made bouquet of flowers.
More seriously, the characterisation about the Warchief’s past was nice. Especially since they must be lacking psychologists at that time (not to mention the constant wars of course).
It’s good to see Aegwynn getting a nod as someone in the know (even if by accident).
He would not disregard his obligations, of course, but he wanted to.
Many even stepped into the shallow lake to get out of the way.
And here’s the obligatory nitpick 
I think “of course” and “even” detract instead of emphasising. The respect Thrall gets is obvious by his followers being spontaneously mildly inconvenienced (“even” makes it sound like they’d do something more drastic) while “of course” sounds like he needs to be persuaded, because what about the public image of the Warchief? “Come on Thrally, the Warchief’s got obligations, right? No staying in bed for this one, nope sir {I wonder, will he ever get up?}”. He doesn’t like it, but he gets up. The “of course” is acted upon, it’s more than words.
And Warchief’s granny is a troll? What did you just call his granny!? XD
Having oranges introduced is a nice bit.
because later on I want to have Jaina drag her bro into Orgrimmar and him going “What the HELL is that thing?!”,
Why not? Then Jaina can go all u n00b on him. That’s what you get when you don’t visit your allies.
Also, I bet Abba’s lyricist(s) never imagined a story would have to all these lyrics of theirs. Such a succession of clichés.
Yeah, shame on you, Rig. Your skills in telling the future are lacking, to say the least. Back to your trainer and rearrange that skill tree of yours. NOW!
You shall address the Warchief with more respect
Eh? Where did I say that? Although the mental image of Thrall dressed as a samurai and orcs harvesting rice is both hilarious and horrifying. XDD
Anyway, glad that you liked that little dip into the past… as for the clichés, I was writing the whole grandmother thing with a slow groan wanting to escape my chest because it was just so bloody clichéd. It’s only going to get worse when she demands to see Jaina, too. Bah, all these old women are so smurt. Yet, I felt it wasn’t very fair to not have granny included, and she probably would have killed Thrall if he went and got married (“took a mate” UUURGH I HATE THAT PHRASE LIKE KEFKA HATES YOU) without her having a look at the lady first.
But wait, where did I give the impression that she’s a troll? O_o
About the clichés… well, I am of the same country as ABBA, but I didn’t have them in mind at all XD Where were those lyrics?
I contacted a gardener and this time next year my skill tree will be full of thick branches, all of them blooming or my money back! I’ll save a few points for divination.
Oops, I typed that “You shall address the Warchief…” as my comment and then quoted it, forgetting it was mine. [Concept art of orcs with samurai haircuts, yes precious.]
I also took that “robed troll woman stepping through” for the granny, failing to read the next sentence. I should have read the fic when I was less sleepy.
You know, if you want to have Thrall follow tradition (and as he’s the symbol of Orcdom and ready to do something rather provoking, he’d better do), he’ll have to follow some clichés. My rule of thumb is if it’s meaningful to him* file under tradition, otherwise under cliché.
The film version of Mamma Mia plays in more than half of the theaters here and it throws in two dozens of Abba songs for good measure. I’d just seen it.
*and/or to you
Perhaps you could recommend me to that gardener, I’d like to branch my skill tree out to make room for ice spec. So that the kids will stop saying I should spec in ice instead of fire. SHADDAP, I LIKE BURNING SHIT!
(Yes, stopped playing over a year ago and remembering that still annoys me. Although that “Aren’t you too old to play this game?” heard from a sixteen-year-old holds a special place in my heart. And of course “i’m 13, ur too old for me”. That one made me wish I could reach through the screen and gently pat the kid’s head, saying “There, there… as if, you naive little brat”.)
Disregarding the fact that there aren’t enough skill points to be had… shh!
Anyway… hey, if Pandaren ever becomes a playable race, maybe we WILL get to see other races playing as samurai-style… things XDD And orcs do have the right hair color.
Aaah, that cleared up the confusion. Happens easily, just look at my little spelling mistakes.
I figure that considering that Geyah is Thrall’s only living blood relative (that we know of), she’s extremely important to him, so I suppose a bit of corniness has to be expected. Also, I get the idea from lore (and God help me, Cycle of Hatred) that orcs have very strong views of family - in for example that they name things like ships (there’s a scene in Cycle where an orc captain reflects on humans being weird about naming their ships - he named his after his brother), and countries (Durotar) and cities (Orgrimmar, and in the same vein, Grommash Hold), after people close to them.
Poke: Somebody ought to make stickers and decals out of that one XD
I think that was the point of it, because on a similar one, the artists comment says something about making pins.
I’m thinking about asking if there are pins of it, or if it’s okay to borrow it to make a pin of my own.
Although that “Aren’t you too old to play this game?” heard from a sixteen-year-old holds a special place in my heart.
Cute. Hope you didn’t slap your face too hard when you read that.
Pandarens are great. They are pandas on two legs, with a conical hat, samurai sword and they’re designated for drunken brawling. Which proves that the best concepts are sometimes the joke concepts. However, rule 34, eww
Slap my face, no… but the claw marks on the desk does raise questions when I have guests. XD
I really hope pandaren will be a playable race at some point. They’re adorable and kickass at the same time.
And… I just checked the official time line of the Warcraft world. By the time of the burning Crusade, it’s year 26 (counted from the first orcish invasion).
In the year six, the second war with the orcs started, and the expansion pack, Beyond the Dark Portal, starts at year eight.
Now… Thrall was born at the end of the second war.
Dot de dot.
O_o
I know they always called him “the YOUNG Warchief”, but Christ on a pogo stick! I thought he was older than twenty, at least!
Hm, seems Thrall spent part of his life as jailbait incarnate.
Oops, I stand corrected. He was actually born in year two. Still, that means he was sixteen when he became the Warchief, and eighteen when he met Jaina.
…
I think we’ll just stand over here and solve my dilemma of discovering this by shouting “Blackmoore, you SICKO!”
(And then again, it’s a mideval world. People probably get married when they’re fourteen. Ew.)
And besides, where is it written that orcs mature at the same rate as humans? For all we know, sixteen could be considered adulthood.
-Young Warchief, don’t forget your cape! It’s cold outside!
-Aw, but my wolfies want to show me something nooow! Lemme go!