Korahngar sat in the Wyvern’s Tail, bitterly nursing some foul concoction from some distant land surely made by some unsavory gnoll which had never cleaned under its fingernails. “Is there such a thing as a savory gnoll?” he mused before snorting at such absurd existential ponderings.
This had been part of his life recently. Whenever he wasn’t freezing his bum off in Northrend, or sweating his nads off in those spirits-forsaken jungles the trolls were trying to maintain hold of, he was here. Drinking. Ever since…
He shook his head to drive those memories away. This is why he drank. To forget. To lose himself in the buzz, rather than wallow in the despair. He and his brother had taken on with a goblin mercenary, scurrying out to collect an herb here, or a bauble there. Whatever the boss thought could make a gold or two, he was obligated to dig up, or forcefully acquire from a current owner. The pay was garbage, but at least it kept him drunk. If he bought cheap liquor. Occasionally Gravy would “accidentally” spill something decent into his cup, but it was probably just to keep Korahngar from dying of liver failure in the bar.
So inebriated was he that he barely startled when the linen-wrapped package was suddenly tossed onto wooden table in front of him.
“Listen, pig-kisser…” he began his protest, turning to the antagonist who obviously wanted a stone pillar summoned from the ground directly under his nether regions for possibly spilling Korahngar’s discount liquor. His words turned to ash in his mouth as suddenly as they formed, though, when his eyes focused on the stranger. Well, focused might be too strong a word, but even through the haze of rotgut alcohol, Korahngar could see the dignity this shaman exuded. His fingers absently probed the bundle as he studied the orc.
“What’s this?” he finally managed.
“Open it,” the other instructed.
As obstinate as he felt, Korahngar could not formulate an argument, and he found himself obeying, despite his surliness. The bundle was soft, obviously cloth, though certainly heavy cloth. The booze-induced haze lifted slightly as his curiosity piqued.
He clumsily untied the twine holding the bundle closed and lifted the first fold, then froze. The telltale blue background and silver piping told him what this was. His heart knew, but his brain protested. This was certainly in the realm of impossible. He hastily pulled the bundle from the linen wrappings and unfolded it, revealing the sigil of his clan, the battle standard of the Frostwolves.
His fingers curled into fists, gripping the fabric. In his mind, he was reliving that moment when he last saw this standard, slowly falling into the mud and blood and demon ichor as its bearer fell, changing Korahngar’s life.
Fire blazed in his eyes and electricity arced and crackled between his hands as his focus returned, his rage fueled by grief and bitterness and no small amount of liquid courage.
“HOW DARE YOU!!” he bellowed as he jumped to his feet.
“Not in da bar, mon!” Gravy chided, but as usual was ignored.
Korahngar’s fist pulled back, sparks and droplets of lava quickly forming in a sphere around it as the elements responded to his unspoken rage.
“Orcs die, Korahngar.”
Those simple words froze him as surely as if he had been struck by stone.
“Warbands die. Even entire villages… die.”
The shaman’s speech was monotone. Quiet and almost passionless, except for the faintest hint of sadness.
Korahngar stood, mouth ajar, mesmerized.
“But so long as one member lives, so does the Clan. You know this to be true. And we have many more than one who lives.”
Silence filled the room. Korahngar struggled before finding his voice. “Wh…who are you?”
The stranger smiled faintly, a smile of gratitude rather than derision.
“Get some rest, Korahngar. I need your help. Tomorrow, we begin the search for the others.”
Korahngar quickly looked to a dark corner, the shadows under the stairs almost entirely obscuring the form of a goblin. Shankenheim leaned forward, appraising both the shamans. He used a toothpick to clean between two of his jagged teeth, more to buy himself thinking time than for any practical purpose.
“Go. GO!” the goblin relented. “I’ve got other projects I’m working on anyway, and you and that lumbering ice cube brother of yours would just get in the way.”
Korahngar looked back to the stranger, barely constrained excitement glimmering in his bloodshot eyes.
“Tomorrow then,” the stranger affirmed before turning and moving towards the exit.
“Wait!” Korahngar called after him. “Who are you?”
The stranger stopped and smiled over his shoulder. “I am Ulmor, of the Frostwolf Clan.”
And then he left. Korahngar remained standing at his table, still stunned into immobility by the events of the evening.
“At last,” Korahngar felt as much as heard the words coming from under two eyes blazing with a pale blue flame from the shadows behind him. “You have your Clan back, brother.”
“Yes, Moghrarg” Korahngar replied, turning to the death knight. “Yes we do!”
It was the first time in a long time Moghrarg had seen his shaman brother smile.