You’re allegiances are exposed Tehya.
And it’s a good one i have to say, true this bunch are awesome. 
FOR THE HORDE!
Proceeds to charge into battle alongside Tehya.
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(Accidentally posted this in the old thread.)
Lovely bunch of people. Every RP event that’s hosted by the officer team is of top-notch quality and well-researched. There’s a great love for detail and character freedom involved in this guild. GREEN GANG sticks together!
If you want to roleplay a Grunt, join this guild.
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The Streets of Orgrimmar
Smoke rose on the horizon, illuminated by countless campfires somewhere beyond the passage leading to Razor Hill. Toq was certain that somewhere beyond those cliffs, orders were being shouted, rations distributed and swords sharpened.
The small, sleep-deprived goblin had seen enough sieges from both sides of the field to know that the invading force was planning to strike quickly. The Alliance had mastered assembling their siege towers in record time and a small forest of them would no doubt be gathered in the open fields below before long.
Through sheer force of habit, the pale blue eye not covered by an eyepatch scanned the field for anything out of the ordinary. A scout, deserter or anyone else foolish enough to dare test the accuracy of the archers lined up along the Orgrimmar city gate. Nothing.
He sighed softly, looking instead to his spiked boots, dangling off the edge of the wall. These quiet moments before a battle always brought with them a sense of clarity. It was easy to be overwhelmed by such a sensation, the feeling that one could see everything that was going to happen in the coming days. Of course, any such visions would be long gone the moment attention shifted back to reality.
With a mild scoff, he pulled himself to his feet, turned on his heels and began walking across the heavily fortified gate. On either side of him, a mixture of scared young soldiers and grizzled veterans prepared themselves. Each of them with their own thoughts and worries painted on their faces. None of it would matter tomorrow. Countless lives would be taken all the same, young and old alike. Those who would live, would have worried for nothing. Those who would die, would have died despite all of their thoughts.
As he took a step onto the edge of the wall facing the Valley of Strength, Toq stopped. Below, the city was buzzing with life. Hundreds of tiny fireflies in the form of civilians, soldiers and beasts, moving about in a desperate attempt to prepare for the day to come. By dawn, windows would be barred shut and doors would be barricaded. The usually busy streets would soon be empty of anyone not carrying a weapon and a fear of death.
In the crowd, he spotted a single grunt, desperately trying to help an old merchant push his kodo along. The beast was overburdened by, what Toq estimated to be the old orc’s whole life, including his wife and child, sat in the saddle.
Toq’s eyes widened slightly at the realisation that, while he had spent much of the night reflecting and preparing, his people were, as always, protecting the city. Even now, the grunts of Orgrimmar put the people first.
Ashamed, he turned once more and began the lengthy climb down the stairs of the city gate. To the streets of Orgrimmar.
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Well written.
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Durotar’s dust jumped into the air where large paws tread, the orc twisted and turned the leash carefully up to the cliffs edge and gently did he nudge both feet to encourage the large wolf up to the highest point to observe the horizon. A storm of steel marched slowly towards Razor Hill kicking more of Durotar’s desert into the sky above. Pullo watched for a time, digging his palm into hairs of his wolfs mane to keep her calm. The wolf let out a worried whine and Pullo concurred, “All too familiar,” he said with solemn, his throat dry and tired – worn from it all. With a simple tug the girl turned back towards the slope and the two rode down towards the canyon path, Orgrimmar for the second time was preparing for a siege soon to come. Many soldiers hurried across the main route towards the city, others prepared deadly traps in the ground but still Pullo took it slow, he was in no rush; the orc was still in thought.
What is even left? He thought to himself. There were so many dead they were practically running on fumes now. It was bold to march on the city, perhaps some weapon? A secret entrance? Defectors who will open the gates? What was their plan? The warchief had the numbers, no doubt more than they, and she had the walls. They would need more than double to pull off a full attack and hope to win.
That soft Durotar wind blew against him, a brief relief from the desert heat, and his thoughts. By now the Orc had approached the great walls of Orgrimmar, civilians huddled with carts and livestock into the great gate in a panic, grunts bellowed and rushed to move what supplies remained from the docks towards the entrance. Pullo looked up high towards the many banners decorating the top, those of the Horde and those of the Banshee Queen; the warchief. His eyes narrowed, his eyes fixated on the Forsaken that manned the right section of the wall. Always divided, always wishing to be seperate, never truly Horde. Never really his people. But now in control of us all. The Orc thought on his own tattered flag, the symbol of the Thirteenth, a skeletal hand clutched around their symbol. Once a sign of Grog’kash’s sacrifice, but now what he saw as the death’s grasp on them all.
Pullo looked down with some disdain in himself, he felt guilty for admitting such a thing, but it gnawed at the back of his mind, ever since Teldrassil, Lordaeron and before. The deeds he had witnessed in the Legion, those they could not stop, the ones overlooked for that promised final peace. How many slights did he ignore, how much injustice went by?
“Final peace.”
He said those words with loathing, too long had he played to it’s tune. Watching good people die on those words.
The Orc tugged at the leash again, but instead of forward the beast turned back towards the rising cloud of desert dust. Pullo was confused, but he didn’t stop her - he wanted to - but the Orc felt the conflict in his heart and so did she. The wolf walked along slowly once more, no one stopped to question them. Was this really what he wanted? The Orc sighed, clutching the reins tightly in his large grip. He thought on Saurfang, Thrall, the people he looked up to most in this world. Those he was with in the beginning. The pain he had felt at their betrayal, to abandon him and the Horde. He didn’t truly understand why. Part of him thought there may be a reason he could - wanted - to understand. But to side with a rebellion and their Alliance, to ransack his home? To be branded as a traitor, oathbreaker, outcast as they were. To kill those who defend Orgrimmar? His own brothers and sisters?
Pullo halted the leather straps in his hand in anger, tugging his wolf with some force. He would never forgive himself, in this life or the next. If they won or lost. No. Never. Curse his name and make sure he was left to be forgotten. To even entertain such a thought was treason enough for the Orc, and to abandon them all in their time of need; madness. Pullo fought with himself until the horns rang out from the distant city walls. He stared back towards the red banners flying proudly across the fortress walls. Pride swelled through him as he heard those calls to arms, and for a brief moment it all became clear.
“Duty.”
With determination he turned, riding back to the great gates of Orgrimmar, his face stern and mean. With great pace he called his wolf to ride, the two practically charged to the call of battle.
Live or die, tomorrow he would see. For the Horde.
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Spix brought his hammer down, striking the red-hot metal.
Clang.
Working had always helped him calm down, as paradoxical as it seemed – Something about the rhythm of the process was relaxing to him. It was something routine, either way, and what with tonight’s extreme break of routine… he really needed that.
He brought the hammer down again.
Clang.
The Thirteenth would never be quite the same again. Much like the metal he was shaping, it was altered in the flames of revolution. The question remained – Would it be forged into something greater, or would it end up brittle and frail?
He struck the bar of iron twice, in rapid succession.
Clang-Clang.
He froze. That sound… it was the same sound which had shaped the future of the Horde that night. The two tolls, the banners tapping that signaled… surrender? True peace? A mere truce? He didn’t know.
He sighed, taking a few moments to catch his breath. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and continued working.
Whatever would come to pass, he had to stay strong. He’d survived everything else so far, and he couldn’t let up now.Clang-Clang.
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[An announcement is put up on boards and walls around the city]
Let it be known that Apawi Summersnout, former Stone Guard of the Thirteenth Orgrimmar Grunt Infantry is dead.
As the Warchief abandons her Horde, and the High Executor betrays his legion, so must the Thirteenth look within and cleanse itself.
Tonight, First Sergeant Toq of the Thirteenth executed Apawi Summernout using a flintlock. Upon death, she was claimed by her diety, An’she, and turned to ash.
The Thirteenth Orgrimmar Grunt Infantry denounces all loyalties to the traitor Warchief, Sylvanas Windrunner, and promises to work tirelessly towards righting the wrongs committed during the tyranny of the traitor Windrunner.
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The banners clanged on Orgrimmar’s walls.
Tink, tink,
Tink, tink,The Seer hurried to the hall.
Tink, tink,
Tink, tink,The Thirteenth did not hear her call.
Tink, tink,
Tink, tink,The High Overlord was coming home.
Tink, tink,
Tink, tink,Some were in panic, others watched in silence. Pullo spoke firm and loud amidst the confusion of those on the wall, he gave a command – “It’s over, First Sergeant. Now it’s time.” The Goblin gave a knowing nod.
“There is something we have to do first,” he retorted.
There they marched banners in hand towards the Hall of the Brave, a great crowd had gathered behind them. Some called for blood, others watched their every move – curious to what would happen next. The Seer was waiting, Stone Guard of the Thirteenth, bellowing orders, dictating terms. The mob roared in anger as the grunts rallied behind their leader, it was their duty to do so. There would be blood.
Pullo stayed where he was, next to a familiar face clad in thick plated armour, and a hammer at his side. Even now he pleaded with the Seer, her face contorted and looking for escape. As the crowd shouted so did she, the Stone Guard was willing to cut them all down – the Orc thought, even now at the end. The Thirteenth couldn’t disobey, they were honorbound, duty bound. But Pullo, Pullo could. He moved forward from the crowd, the Tauren watching by his side and the Seer staring back; their eyes locked and he raised his arm to the crowd for silence as the banner of the Thirteenth was placed into the ground, the bones of the boar shaking, a breeze flapping the tattered black flag.
“It’s is over. The war is done.”
It was simple, it cut through all those words before. The reality of it all began to set in, he could see the change in their faces. There was no rage in his voice, no anger, it was a simple truth. She didn’t listen. With a yell the seer ordered the Thirteenth to step back, they armed themselves at the barracks arch. The crowd yelled and cried out in outrage but didn’t move, they didn’t wish to draw first blood; they never did. Pullo grunted as the Stone Guard - the seer - rushed inside behind the line of the grunts, and he looked over to the first sergean facing the crowd – readying himself for the next move. The Orc stared down at him, then, moved forward with heavy, hard steps. The burden weighed heavily on his spirit. As he watched some of the grunts hurry to barricade the door Pullo met those metal steps, planting that old banner in the ground.
“I am Pullo, you remember me. From the cold of Alterac to the deepest forests of Ashenvale, from the thorn jungles of the South to the tallest mountain in the deserts. From Teldrassil to Lordaeron we have fought together. I want you to listen.”
His voice was loud, but it was tired. Some of the grunts stopped to listen from their work, others watched on to stare at what he had to say; some for, some against. Inside the barracks was silent, but he could see some lurch out from the side, those of the Forsaken. Even some in the crowd watched.
“We share a bond you and I, that brothers and sisters in battle can only know. In our most dire moments you have upheld your oaths, through great suffering, death, and sacrifice. I remember every one of their names. I remember your names.”
The Orc paused, his eyes closed for a moment as he clutched the draped flag resting on his shoulder. Some of the older grunts stepped forward from the line, those he had known for a long time. A couple of others joined him where he stood, and the the rest continued to look on with fixed attention. They needed to hear this, Pullo thought, no one has told them this for a long time.
His eyes opened again. “You have fought bravely, proudly – for the Horde. You have all done your duty, and I am honoured to have served with each and every one of you.”
Some of them smiled, a swell of pride in their forms, there was someone who recognised them. A few others moved closer to him in response and he paused again, looking at each and every one of them who were there, and those who were not. With passion his voice trembled as he gripped the banner firmly.
“You deserve long and happy lives in peace.”
Not only did he speak for them, but himself, and to all those around him; he spoke to the Horde. Pullo gave them time to let it sink in before he spoke again, to let them know who they were. Silence hung around them as they looked to Pullo, and they to each other. Then, with time for them to reflect, he spoke a final time.
“Now I ask you for one last act of duty.”
The Thirteenth looked on, he placed his large hand on one of the Orcs shoulders who stood by his side. He was ready Pullo thought. They all looked ready. His eyes reached out to search for the Goblin, the first sergeant, but he could not find him.
“Bring the First Sergeant, we go to honour a hero.” Pullo commanded.
A piercing, loud sound of a gunshot came from the barracks, the faint smoke of gunpowder leaving through the archway as a flash of light followed with fire and then – silence. The entire valley watched that gloomy interior of the archway until a familiar face stepped into the outside, the lingering smell of gunpowder all over him.
“The Stone Guard is dead.” The first sergeant uttered exposed to the mob, peculiarly they did nothing but stare. Some shocked, others outraged, but most seemingly satisfied. Similarly the grunts were stunned, shocked – the Tauren in their ranks suddenly aimless. Pullo was silent, but he simply gave the Goblin a slow nod as he turned around.
“Make way for the Thirteenth! There is a hero to honour!” The Orc roared out.
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It had been a long night. The young Bleeding Hollow sat by the campfire in the Valley of Wisdom. It was always his favourite valley… now more than ever. Most of the shouting coming from the Valley of Honor almost completely died down.
His ears flickered as a group of Tauren coming from The Drag walked by.
They were speaking ill of Apawi, as many of the other Tauren had done that night. One wished for her corpse to be hanged, another wanted her head on a spike of the gate.Vulture exhaled. He kicked his boots off and took off the chestpiece. The many bandages wrapped around his body were clean. He expected them to be dirty and bloodied after the War was over. He grabbed a golden filament interwined in the sea of white. A golden bandage he kept from his days in the Thirteenth.
He peeled it off and took a long look at it. He could almost feel the light of An’she emanating from the linen fabric. He bumped a fist on his heart before tossing the bandage into the flames of the campfire.
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(Pretend I posted it on my main)
Now conducting random patrols throughout the city, for both criminals and banshee loyalists!
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Big showdown today with the night elf terror squad …
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Did you forget about us?! I shrank down half of your battalion!!
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Didn’t know you have a face too, Ryder. It seems it was a prophecy for the faces to be revealed. 
Killing killing killing
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Hot metal dropped onto the anvil from iron tongs, it’s form blazing molten orange that burned with a great heat into the cold desert night. Next came the hammer large and crude in design, it’s weight smashed down into the soft bar of metal until it began to form a long, thick sheet of curved iron.
Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.
The Orc wiped his brow thick with sweat, the forge had blazed deep into the dark as all others rested. His form was famished, bones protrude under the skin. He was weak. A long time he had spent in the depths, loyalty his only crime. A gruntled, whine came as he waned on the anvil, his arms were frail and thin, they burned as the roaring flame of the fires did behind him. Bang. Bang. The hammer weighed heavy in his hands, each time he swung the mallet fell to the cracked muddy floor. Only his determination kept him standing as Azoc forged aknew.
The second sheet of iron came, and with the same blackened tongs he placed the other overlapping to create two large plated shoulder forms. Azoc panted, the hammer dragging across the floor that refused to budge. He stared at his iron work until he could muster all that was left in him for two final strikes. With all his strength left he brought two precise swings against their marks, sealing the two pieces of metal together. Bang. Bang. It was done, The orc let the hammer fall against the side of the anvil as he collected water. Slouched, tired, walking in pain towards the river way opposite of the forge Azoc let the bucket drink deep from the pool as he knelt to the ground.
Water poured and the metal shrieked and hissed, the rushing steam enveloped across Azoc’s body as he refused to move. There he stared directly at the fuming metalwork as the mist cleared, two mighty shoulder plates of his design tempered with pain, rage and fury.
Dawn crept over the canyon walls around the city, the Orc looked directly to the rising sun, gripping the warhammer with both his dirty hands.
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“Sergeant.” The Tauren softly smiled at the Orc, she was tired, drained and the pain was returning. Today had reaped a heavy toll on her. Pullo rummaged in the satchel wrapped around his large wolf companion that rested by her side, and he took the courtesy to look over to the girl when she spoke again.
“It will be good when the two of us get to fight in Arathi again.” Omavi said faintly towards Pullo. The Orc brought with him a glass bottle filled with a white liquid, and bandages that glowed a faint golden hue. He huffed, kneeling next to where the Tauren lay on the hammock, where her leg once would be now missing – wrapped in bloody soaked rags he intended to change. “I never liked Arathi, Omavi.” Pullo merely uttered with a grizzly tone, he did not wish to dwell on it. He had never liked Lordaeron, and what lay beyond Thordains Wall. He kept quiet as carefully with both hands he tried to unbind the bloodied bandages, applying the thick, creamy ointment on the severed flesh of what was the Taurens leg before.
“Oh?” Omavi almost whimsically said, “It was exciting, wasn’t it? I hope we get deployed again, better than being stuck dealing with lowly criminals.” The true weight of the situation had not dawned on her, not quite. The remedies given to her before were doing their trick, but Pullo could tell she was still in shock. The Orc let out a soft huff, he did his best to ignore talking about those wartorn fields, and bad memories.
“– Of course I will be a Grunt, nothing can stop me.” Omavi uttered to another.
“Do you know of the poppies that grow in Arathi?” Pullo interjected quickly, such talk was forbidden now.
“The flowers?” She replied a bit confused, looking up to the Orc as he wrapped those glowing bandages around her stump. “I think so, yes sergeant.”
Pullo’s mind dwelled on the thought for a time as his mind wandered and his hands worked. “There was a boy many years ago, he used to watch them grow beyond in the fields. One day one grew very close to the wall where the boy lived. He watched it through the crack of the wooden stakes. There was nothing but dirt in his home, the wet mud. Filth. But that flower? It grew and grew until one day it began to bloom a great red. The boy had never seen something so beautiful before … “
Omavi’s attention was fixated on the Orcs, his own working on the Tauren’s ruined leg. “Everyday the boy tried to reach for the flower beyond the wall, but he could never get close – for there were dark creatures watching. Nasty things that would chase him, beat him when they could. He feared them.” Pullo watched the ointment do it’s trick, the liquid began to swell into Omavi’s mind, bringing her some peace from the pain again, it seemed for a moment the Tauren wasn’t really there.
“But one day there was a great storm, lighting struck close to where the boy lived. A great fire erupted that scared the dark creatures, the boy braved the storm and hurried to the crack in the wall. With all his strength he reached out to the flower, digging his hands below the root and into his grip. The boy hurried back to his bed and nurtured it, snuck water past the demons when they lurked the muddy grounds day after day.” Omavi starred in fascination, eager to see where the story went. Pullo had carefully sealed the bandages tight and moved himself to sit by the Tauren’s side.
“Every day when the demons came the boy hid the flower away, and with each rising sun the flower grew and grew until finally, one day a mighty poppy bloomed. It’s petals a bright red, spread out against a black center. It stood strong and proud, something not even the dark creatures could stop.”
“Did they ever find it?” Omavi perked up in wonder.
“They did.” Pullo said with some sadness, looking over to the Tauren laying flat on the hammock.
“And-… what then?” She asked with worry.
“The demons gathered, and in their malice tried to destroy it.” Pullo uttered with grief in his voice, Omavi looked worried, “But then … he was free and the flower saved? A good ending? Surely … “ The Tauren tried to smile, hopeful.
“The demons ripped the flower to pieces, but it was too late. They knew that the little boy was no longer scared. It had brought peace to his heart where there was once fear.” Pullo muttered to himself and her, in the quiet of the barracks at night.
“You Orcs really had a tough upbringing.” Omavi muttered back. Pullo didn’t respond, he merely looked ahead to his wolfen companion, who now walked across towards him, gently nudging her snout under his arm to cuddle in his embrace. Sitting herself gently down next to him for the night to rest.
“Did he … ever talk to it?” Omavi asked with a curious wonder, almost excited to hear what Pullo said. “They talk back, you know?”
Pullo’s hand gripped the hammock, gently swaying it backwards and forwards. The ointment was gently putting the Tauren to sleep as he had hoped. He looked over to Omavi one final time and showed a slight smile.
“He would stare at the flower every night, and then towards the stars and the moon above and sing to it.” The Orc said softly to her, looking back ahead. Omavi’s eyes gently shut as he continued to sway the hammock and Pullo leaned himself back against the bedpost that kept the bedding secure for the night. The Tauren gently muttered to herself before drifting away. The Orc’s hand gently caressed the head of his wolf as he softly sang to both of them under his breath, looking out to the doorway at the distant starry sky above.
" … She was dancing there, to a song of a voice unseen. The light of stars was in her hair,
her song released the sudden spring, and he saw the poppy-flowers spring,
He longed to dance and sing upon the grass untroubling,
In the light of flowers glimmering."Poppy gently drifted off into a slumber, and soon too did the Orc.
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Brighthorn ran.
He kept running. Not out of fear, a true adherent of An’she does not know fear, but out of sheer determination. Pure loyalty. To die now would end his devotion to An’she’s glory, his honor-bound duty to Orgrimmar, to the Thirteenth.
And so, his hooves trudged first over stone, then through mud and leafs, then across branches. Eventually he found himself hidden among the branches of one of the greatest trees of Ashenvale. The trucebreakers would not pursue him, he knew this. They had their trophy, and likely knew that a Sunwalker’s patience is not infinite.
Once he found rest and peace, he finally got a chance to acknowledge what had happened. It had taken all of them to take bring him to his knees, for they knew that alone they’d be crushed into the dirt. His tail was cut from his body by a gloating coward, one who hid behind her allies, relied upon them to do all the work. His spear taken from him by a cowardly pup, one that had fled every single time he fought her directly.
One wound, however, he could only feel and not see. Though they made no effort to hide its nature. Upon his forehead, a worgen had branded him with the Icon of Torment, the symbol of the Forsaken and as such, of the Banshee Queen.
Despite this, the tauren lives, he breathes, he survives… and his rage burns brighter than any flame.
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Man if officers are never present i really wonder who’s the guy Toq and Spix i keep seeeing, with daily IC reports I do wonder who is doing that if not the regular active player base they have, which I saw numerous times before 8pm before scheduled RP.
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I only wish you would’ve made these absolutely inaccurate complaints in-game instead of waiting to make a forum post at 5 AM using a Classic alt. I wonder if you’ve ever actually been in the guild at all
I don’t know but I heard they’re really cool
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