Gurthoon (Once called Rotblood)

Part I: Life

 

The babe was born to two now-unknown orc parents. A boy, his skin a rich brown. It looked at it's mother and father with large eyes, expectant and wanting for nourishment.

 

Years passed and the babe grew into a young boy. Kosh'arg Celebration had come yet again. To Gurthoon, the time was uneventful and useless. He frowned as the other orcs played in the land under Oshu'gun, the crystal mountain. He frowned as he was forced to sleep in a tent with the rest of the children. He hated these times. Old orcs spoke in circles and engaged in hunts. Uneventful and everyday events. The young orc often got into fights with others. Unfortunately, Gurthoon was not blessed with the agility and strength by the ancestors. He was often beaten by the others for his angry mouth.

 

He enjoyed the times he would return to Blackrock lands. There he began to grow more intune with the Elements and, less so, the ancestors themselves. He reveled in the power granted to him; so much so, he was often chastized by the older shaman for his lust. He did not care, however, and was only bothered in the fact he must "ask" for the power. But, it was the only way to gain it, so he complied. He grew as a shaman, as he grew in age.

 

He would accompany warriors on the hunt, oftentimes with those who would beat him as a adolescent. He would come to the Blackrock warrior's funeral pyres, and "pray" their spirits join the ancestors. These warriors would oftentimes return to him in visions, and oftentimes they were ignored.

 

Then came Ner'zul.

 

Gurthoon had always respected the shaman, the most Powerful of his kind. He watched as he united the once distant orc clans together as one. He listened eagerly as they told him of a new enemy that sought to destroy the orcs. The draenei. Blue ugly creatures. Gurthoon had not ever seen one in his life, and he perferred it that way. Something about the alien creatures unsettled him, though he would never tell.

 

Gurthoon joined the first hunting parties against the draenei. The elements burned their skin, stopped their odd magicks, and aided in the orc's slaughter. He found enjoyment in these hunts, more than any. Something about ending another's existence...it made the orc feel Empowered. Strong.

 

The shaman did NOT feel strong the day the elements abandoned him. Nearly killed against a hunting party of draenei, Gurthoon managed to end his blue assailant only through a meager dagger he kept on his person at all times. Sweat poured down his brow, eyes wide with blue blood across his face. His Power had abandoned him. His Power was gone....

 

Gurthoon plead like a dog for months after, begging for the elements and even the ancestors to grant him power. He recieved visions from the orcs who had fallen in his hunts years ago. They looked at him, not with pleasure at his failures, but with dissapointment. They told him the way of the orcs, the slaughter of the draenei, was wrong. They were wrong. Gurthoon, always suspicious of the leadership of the Horde, the legion they were becoming to be known as, eagerly awaited some notice of the ancestor's word's validity. Something to prove them true, or wrong.

 

His warchief, Blackhand, came to him one day. The large burly warrior chief told him of a new way for Power. Gurthoon learned the new Power. Dubbed a "warlock" this new magic was something entirely new. He enjoyed how it seemed to flow throughout him, at his call, without asking, at his WHIM. The power was corruptive, he immediately knew. It was not natural as the elemental shamanism was. But it was better, fantastic! This was Power!

 

Gul'dan taught him well. The wiley first of the warlocks brought Gurthoon into his inner workings, the Shadow Council.

 

Years passed, the draenei were slaughtered, by his and the Horde's hand. He reveled in the Chalice of Rebirth's Gift, giving him a constant euphoria in bloodlust. Power...Power was finally his. He cared not if his people suffered. He cared not if he sold his soul to this "Beautiful One," this Kil'jaeden. He needed only the Power everlasting.

 

Gurthoon's euphoria lasted only so long. The land corrupted; sky now a burning red of blood. He longed to enter this new land, Azeroth, and conquer the land with the Shadow Council. He eagerly followed Gul'dan in his ceremonies to open this Dark Portal.

 

He passed through the Portal, and enjoyed the slaughter of these new smaller beings called humans.

 

Gurthoon waited in his tent, one evening, after a day of conquering. He summoned a minion, a spry little imp, to serve him some of the clean water of this world. When he did not return after some time, Gurthoon grew impatient.

 

"Where is my water, you little rodent?!" Gurthoon scowled loudly. A large thump was his only response. Gurthoon's face twisted in confusion. A body was tossed into the tent, limp and hitting the ground hard. His minion.

 

The warlock looked upward as a large orc entered his tent. A large warhammer was held in his hand, the head covered in a green and black liquid. Blood.

 

Wide eyed with fear, the warlock looked upward into Orgrim Doomhammer's orbs. Hate seethed in the larger orc. Before he could cast a shadowbolt, the warrior lifted his weapon high above his head, and brought it crashing down upon Gurthoon's skull.

 

The Power was gone, black blood seeped out of his tent. Blackness.

 

He opened his eyes again, looking at Gul'dan, the old warlock master. He looked at his hands, smaller and human.

 

 

 

Part 2: Unlife

 

Gurthoon looked forward, the eyes of Gul'dan happily satisfied at something. He looked again at his hands. Human hands. They were smaller, thinner...and yet..

 

And yet, Gurthoon remembered he was supposed to be dead. He touched his face, and felt nothing. He looked upwards at Gul'dan questioningly. "What...what..."

 

The wiley old warlock chuckled at Gurthoon's babbling. "Your back among us, whelp. I hope your death wasn't too traumatizing, because now you serve me again, deathknight."

 

Deathknight. The word rang oddly to Gurthoon. He again looked at his body, and found the name's origin. His body was dead, rotting from maggots and natural decay. His soul returned to this human body, to serve Gul'dan. He looked upwards and nodded, accepting this fate. Gurthoon took the time to test out his new given power. It was similar to that of the warlock...but better. No longer was his body frail, but empowered with dark magic. He found this human he inhabited knew how to handle a sword, swinging it with ease only found in years of experience. He blasted fauna with bolts of Shadow magic, burning their body, but also twisting it into an unrecognizable form. He chuckled, his voice somehow managing to be in existence even with the gaping hole in his throat. He found himself knowledgable in necromatic arts, bringing back a fallen horse from a battle won by the Horde. He found himself to enjoy this unlife, so much more advantagous than his small orc body. Yes, being a deathknight would serve his likings well, even if he had to serve Gul'dan yet again. All that mattered was the Power. It was all he needed.

 

The deathknight followed the Horde into battle time and time again. The humans fought with the vigor of a cornered cat, bringing with them bearded smaller ones, and long eared ones. They all perished easily enough to Gurthoon. They all fell to the Deathknights.

 

Then Gul'dan betrayed the Horde. Gurthoon thought it odd, at such a pinnacle moment for this war, that the warlock would take such a large force for his own workings. Yet, he always knew that Gul'dan shared his lusts. He supposed that is why he kept following the warlock. He had Power, and Gurthoon wanted a piece. The deathknights fled with the rest of the Horde, losing the pinnacle battle of the human capital. Gurthoon found himself on the run, for the first time of his life. The deathknight followed Teron Gorefiend, first of his kind, back into Draenor, as much of the Horde fled. He watched as the Dark Portal imploded, dissapearing and ending the Horde's chances of conquest.

 

The deathknight found himself tailing Gorefiend for years, slaughtering orcs in minor conflicts in his lust for bloodshed. He laughed as they thought of him as an abomination. He laughed as a single nod of his finger would result in their heart stopping. Ah yes, the times were well after the Horde lost it's war. But, oddly, Gorefiend found the necessity to revitalize it. Gurthoon assisted in giving Ner'zul, once the greatest of shaman, now a subdued curr, a reason to lead the Horde again. He assisted in the capture of various artifcacts across Azeroth, to help create portals to new lands on Draenor. Gurthoon thought it would be enjoyable to continue his existence slaughtering unknown lives. He looked forward to it, and taking whatever Power's they had from their dead grasps.

 

Yet as Gurthoon battled the forces of the humans, somehow defeating the deathknights at the defense of Ner'zul's ceremony, he found that plans do not always follow through. He found himself in one on one against a simple footman. Easy enough a kill, the deathknight believed. He ran towards him, heavy sword in the air...and was struck, deadon, in the head with arrow. Gurthoon stumbled back a bit, glowing red eyes with suprise. He touched the arrow, and another came through his hand, forcing his sword to drop. He summoned his magicks, melting the face of the footman, as another arrow flung through his mouth. The deathknight then saw sword rise in the air, an elf ranger, and slice straight through his neck. He felt his power fading, the red menacing glow from his eyes fading. He watched as his view saw the world upside-down. The deathknight's body dropped, and fell to the ground. His head rolled to the side, eyes still in shock.

 

Once again, power had been taken away from him. He cried in his mind as he lost his second opportunity at Greatness. He cried...and was answered.

 

 

 

Part III- Last Chances

 

He had no sight, he had no feeling. He could only hear the soothing words. They came as nectar to his mind, filling him with promises and knowledge. He gave no name, this being, but Gurthoon knew. He knew this was one of the Burning Legion, the Sons and Daughters of the "Beautiful One" that the Shadow Council had served. This one gave no name, gave no clue to what sort of demon it was.

 

"You, little mortal, may call me Master." The voice came soothingly yet cold.

 

Gurthoon could not reply, but felt anticipation. What did this Master wish for the dead orc?

 

"You have served so many, little soul. So many that would give you what you desire."

 

The orc's mind raced in anxiety and excitment.

 

"Yes, I know what you crave, as your mortal masters before you did. You wish for that which all desire and need. Power. Control. Dominion over the rest."

 

Gurthoon agreed violently without words.

 

"Well, as of now you have NO Power. You have not even a body to call your own. Your soul, is in my grasp, to torture or consume, if I please. But, you have had two lives to gain Power, to control. You have failed both opportunities. The orcs have failed their opportunities."

 

Gurthoon felt fear, cold and running deep into his mind, freezing whatever existence he had.

 

"Little Gurthoon, little shaman, warlock or deathknight....little orc. I have Chosen many in my time, many to serve the Legion. They have all fallen. Humans, gnomes, and even the elflings of that inceptid world...they have all failed. But you...you have persisted, even through death. You crave it beyond anything, don't you? You would not fail should you be given a third chance, hmmm?"

 

Gurthoon agreed, straining his mind to say words in agreeance and grovel before this Master.

 

"I have Chosen you, Gurthoon, former orc, former warlock, former deathknight, to return to the world where Archimonde failed. I will give you your last chance, Chosen, to corrupt the souls of that world, to eliminate any threats to Fel."

 

Finally Gurthoon could speak, by the Master's whim. "YES! YES I WILL NOT FAIL! I WILL SERVE! I WILL ACHIEVE GREATNESS FOR THE MASTER--" The voice cut off.

 

"Good. Now go."

 

A whirling, unnatural feeling. Snuffed...buried. Gurthoon felt his entire body covered, his sight still not granted to him, nor feel of touch. He scrambled pushing what he knew was "up."

 

A single hand sprung from the wet dirt. The mud began to turn, falling inward as the Chosen rose from his grave. It opened it's mouth, a natural habit of trying to breathe. No air entered. Vision was granted, blue muddled sight. He wiped his eyes. He looked around him. Darkness..a swamp. He recognized this place...The swamp the Horde entered when it first came to this world. He lifted himself out of the mud completely, the rain beginning to fall. The dirt fell from his body, which he finally now began to look at. The hands were large, gnarled and..rotted. He picked a piece of hanging skin and found it fall without much force. He touched his face. Snub nose, tusks. He was green. He was an orc once again. A smiled wrapped around his yellowed tusks as he gave a fierce laugh, loud and gravely. He fell to his knees, cackling with vigour.

 

A noise stopped his laughter, he turned quickly, seeing a single orc. The grunt held a torch and looked at the risen orc with a suprised look.

 

"Lok'narash, orc... What are you doing here in this swamp by yourself?" Gurthoon noticed the orc was trembling slightly, as though seeing something unnatural.

 

Gurthoon felt his vision hued blue, and touched his new eyes. A feeling finally came upon him, magic. He looked down in a puddle in the mud. His eyes no longer glowed red, as his previous incarnation did. They now glowed a cold blue. He looked back up, the orc awaiting a response.

 

"I...I was..."

 

The grunt shrugged "Well, deathknight, do what you would. I don't truly care. Stonard is a small walk away, should you wish to get out of this ..rain..." He began to walk away.

 

Gurthoon was stunned. How did he know he was a deathknight? The knowledge troubled him, and he felt it was best to cut off any loose ends. Attempting to summon his dark magic, he felt a block. He looked at his hand, and attempted again. Nothing.

 

"You were NOT as you were before, one of that orc warlock's wretched creations. You are now a TRUE deathknight. Let me show you.."

 

Suddenly, his body became not his own. His limbs moved of their own accord, as he lifted a single finger foward, pointing to the grunt walking away. A bolt of green energy shot forward, blasting the back of the grunt. He fell, his skin burning. He somehow lifted himself up, and began a rugged charge at Gurthoon. The deathknight's hand lifted upward, as ice shackled the grunt's feet to the ground, causing him to fall. Gurthoon's body walked forward toward the struggling grunt. With a single hand, he grabbed the grunt's face, his eyes in confusion and terror. His face began to rot, in his palm. His eyes sunk into his head, his nose shrivvled away, and his jaw fell to the ground. The body fell and Gurthoon's body returned to him.

 

"Remember these powers, Chosen, lest you loose your chance..."

 

The voice faded and he looked at his hands, seeing at what they could now do.

 

Gurthoon remembered the words of the grunt and tredged towards Stonard. "So the old settlement still stands? Perhaps the orcs ended up conquering these wretched humans..."

 

Creating a Cult

Reborn and knowledgable with the events after his death, Gurthoon immediately set sail for this new world of Kalimdor. He peered at the new captial of the orcs, Orgrimmar in curiosity. Finding his way to the shifty Cleft of Shadow, the orc discovered a cult of mad orcs serving the Legion in a chasm beneath the city. He attempted to communicate with the cultists, but was met only with hostilty. Gurthoon then made his way to establishing his powerbase. He stationed himself in the Cleft, finding the naive, powerhungry and simply sadistic

Currently

Currently Gurthoon is continuing his ongoing plan of pushing the Horde's orcs into his fold. More to be explained when it is enacted in-game.