“Lok’tar friend,” Kor greeted the nearest guard, stopping as he arrived at the outpost.  “I have come looking for the Warsong Clan.”  The guard gave him a quick glance before returning his vigilant gaze to the forests.

“They have a command tent, not far from here,” the guard said, his attention never straying from the trees. “Follow the path up into the small hill, not far from here.  There you will find the Warsong battlemaster.  He coordinates all of the Warsong raiding parties who seek to defend the gulch from the Sentinels.”

“Thank you,” Kor said gruffly, turning from the guard.

“Dabu,” the guard said absently.  Kor left the outpost and quickly found the path the guard had spoken of and followed it up into the hills.  He soon found that he heard the sounds of axes striking wood and knew that he was close.  The Warsong Orcs protected a lumber mill that supplied the lumber the Horde needed.  Within minutes, Kor had reached the outskirts of the camp and saw an Orc splitting wood.

“Mok’gra,” Kor called out as he approached.

“Whaaaat?” The Orc said turning.

“I have come to help,” Kor said proudly.

“Something need doing?” the other Orc asked again, giving Kor pause.

“What is it you do here?” Kor demanded, assessing the other Orc.

“Work, work,” the other Orc simply stated, bringing his axe down upon a log and splitting in two, reinforcing his statement.  Kor thought back to his few days in the Valley of Trials.  There had been workers there as well.  The trainers there had called them ‘peons’ and they had been simple creatures, much as he perceived the Orc standing before him. 

After the sun had set on his first night in the valley, all of the young Orcs sat around the fire and listened to the wise shaman.  Kor had asked the Shaman about the peons, since he’d never seen them at the orphanage. 

“The peons,” the shaman had told him, “are the vile doing of the first Orc warlocks.  In the early days of the Horde, the warlocks committed many atrocities.  Some blame the taint of the demons over our people, but I remember those Orcs.  Many took up the demonic arts as the only choice in a war we started, but many embraced the vile magic as if they had sought it all their lives.

“The leaders of the Horde decided that we did not have enough soldiers, at least not enough to annihilate the Draenei as quickly as they would’ve liked.  The warlocks told us that they had a solution – a way to give the Horde many, many more warriors in a single day.  They called upon all Orcs from all the clans to bring forth their young.  The warlocks told them they would make them strong, proud.  Too many trusted the warlocks in those days.  For generations, they had been the shamans of the clans.  Too many were fooled, for the warlocks were not the same as the shamans who had come before.

“And so the young were brought before the warlocks in a grand celebration.  The warlocks called upon their foul magics and began to drain the life forces from the young.  At the time, many hailed the warlocks as saviours.  The Horde had an entire new army of soldiers who looked as big and as strong as any other.  But there had been a price that none of the warlocks had mentioned.  Their bodies had aged into adulthood, but their minds had been wrecked and remained infantile.  The results were the peons.

“The peons had the look of Orcs, but they had the minds of Ogres.  But they lacked all of the things that made either formidable.  They had neither the wit nor the agility of an Orc and they lacked the brute strength and size of an Ogre.  It had become a problem in the battles with the Draenei, who were every bit as intelligent as any Orc, if not more.  Their spellcasters soon realized that if they cast a harmful spell under the feet of a peon, it was not smart enough to move out of the affected area.  Too often they simply died where they stood.  Fairly quickly it was decided that they didn’t even make for good fodder, and they were put to work on construction projects instead.  To this day, they only remain capable of being labourers.”

Kor remembered that he had felt sickened by the story the shaman had told.  He’d listened to many stories that Brak had told him, but Brak never spoke of the days when they lived on Draenor and Kor had never thought to ask.  He fought back that same sense of revulsion as it resurfaced in him while he thought about it again.  He brought his focus back to the peon in front of him and immediately realized that while he had been momentarily distracted, the peon had stopped working and simply stood staring at him.

“Back to work,” Kor growled at the other Orc.  The peon was startled and dropped his axe.  He stooped and picked it up and glanced at Kor as he straightened himself.  The momentary gaze was enough to distract the peon again, who had returned to his staring.  Kor started towards the peon, who stepped back towards the wood he’d left laying on the ground.

“Leave me alone,” the peon complained, bringing his axe down upon the log he’d left idle.  “Work, work,” he said, as he chopped another piece to show Kor that he’d resumed his task.  Kor had never had any intention of disciplining the peon, he’d simply wanted to avoid causing the peon to be disciplined for being idle while Kor had spoken to him. 

Kor had witnessed the harsh treatment of the peons in the Valley of Trials.  Their sadistic task master handed out blackjacks to any Orc who entered and gave them instructions to flog any peon who may not be working to their fullest.  That had struck Kor as being even more wrong than the story told by the shaman, and one day, Kor planned to return to the Valley and flog the task master himself.  But not today.  Kor quietly walked away from the peon, not wanting to draw his attention again, and continued on the path towards the Warsong battlemaster.  His mind quickly forgot the plight of the peons and he began to return to the warrior training that he’d been taught in Orgrimmar.  As he approached the Warsong encampment, he could almost smell battle upon the wind.  His heart raced as his blood began to burn with a lust for battle.  Soon, he would taste battle.

Some had left with Edwin Vancleef, taking what they believed was rightfully theirs, but Kadmos believed that stealing was wrong, no matter the justification someone might have.  There was no argument that any of the Stonemasons could give him that would’ve convinced him.  When they began raiding civilian caravans, it had gone too far for Kadmos and he’d left the guild for good.  Now those that followed Vancleef were calling themselves the Defias, wearing red masks to hide their identities and instil fear in their victims.

It had been several weeks before Kadmos had found real work again.  He’d made just enough for food and drink by running errands for anyone who could afford it in the city, but it had been a very hard time for him.  When he’d got wind that the Quartermaster job had become available, he jumped at the chance.  Unfortunately, with no prior experience as a smith or with weapons or armor, the Captain of the Guard had not even considered him.  Kadmos then visited an old friend, the head of SI:7 Matthius Shaw, asking him for the favor. 

“I’m sorry, Anateo, but I don’t see what I could possibly do,” Shaw had said, feigning an inability to help.  But Kadmos had known Shaw for too long to know that he was simply trying to get something in return.

“I’m not a fool, Mathias,” Kadmos retorted.  “Your position grants you an influential voice with the royal court, not to mention the Captain of the Guard.  What is it you want in return for this favor?”  Mathias allowed himself a very slight smirk that Kadmos had not only seen through his bluff, but gotten right down to the heart of the matter.  That would save him the time of manoeuvring the conversation to the position where he could state his terms.  Kadmos had caught only the slightest hint of the smirk before Shaw had turned away.

“You will do something for me now,” Shaw had said looking out the window with his back to Kadmos, “and you will do two things for me later.  In exchange, you will work as the Stormwind Quartermaster, at least until I determine that your services are no longer required.”

Kadmos had thought there would be some price involved for asking a favor of Mathias Shaw, but he hadn’t realized that it would be as open-ended as what had been proposed.

“If you wish me to be held on retainer with SI:7 for an undetermined amount of time, Mathias,” Kadmos finally answered, “then I expect to collect pay from SI:7 in addition to that of the Quartermaster.  When my debt for the favor is repaid, you can stop the pay as well.”  Kadmos maintained his outward calm as he awaited for Shaw’s answer.  Even though the Master Spy had his back turned, Kadmos knew that he was still being observed.  He did not wish Shaw to see that his addition to the deal was something that he didn’t need to accept Shaw’s original offer.

“We have a deal, then?” Shaw had asked, turning back towards Kadmos and extending his hand.

“We do,” Kadmos had answered, taking Shaw’s hand firmly.

“Good.  I will speak with the Guard Captain and expect that you will need to report to the quartermaster’s office tomorrow morning.  And as for the thing you will do for me now,” Shaw had continued.  “Each day after your shift is done, you will return here, where you will train with one of my blademasters until they have determined that you are skilled enough to defend yourself.”

“I am no fighter, Mathias,” Kadmos had shouted, instantly becoming enraged at the suggestion.  “You should know that when I left the Stonemasons, I—.”  But Kadmos never finished before Shaw interrupted him.

“I think you are a fighter, Anateo.  Despite your actions with the Stonemasons, you have the will to be a soldier.  I will see to it that you get the training.”

“You are wrong Mathias, I’m not—.”  But Kadmos was unable to finish again.

“It is pointless to argue with me, Anateo.  Despite my influence with either the Guard Captain or the Royal Court, if you cannot fight well enough to defend yourself and the city, the Guard Captain will never agree and the Royal Court will never overrule him.  So long as you want this job, you will need to know how to fight.”  With the curt finish to his argument, Kadmos clamped his mouth shut, seeing that there was no choice.  If he wanted to eat, he needed to work.  If he wanted to work, he’d need to learn how to fight.

“But,” Mathias had added as he showed Kadmos to his door, “the rage that you were able to call up at a moments notice will serve you well if you ever do have to fight.  Remember that, Anateo.”

That had been three years ago.  Kadmos had reported to SI:7’s training grounds everyday after working away in the quartermaster office, and he’d learned the intricacies of every weapon in the armory.  After three years of training, he’d excelled at the technical side of the training, but he was still hesitant to actually commit to winning any sparring match.  He blocked and parried extremely well, but he let openings in his opponents defenses pass without action.  Despite much attempts by his trainers to get him to do otherwise, it was the last bastion of the training that Kadmos wouldn’t accept.

And so each day passed, and Kadmos worked in the quartermaster’s office, diligently supplying each soldier that visited him.  It wasn’t difficult work, but Kadmos enjoyed it nonetheless.  As Kadmos thought about his coming training session for that evening, he heard the door to his office open and turned to see the one person he was hoping he’d never see again.

“Hello Mathias.”

“It is time, Anateo.  Tomorrow, you work exclusively for SI:7.” 

“But what about the quartermaster’s office,” Kadmos argued.

“That is the Guard Captain’s concern, not yours, at least, not anymore.  I will see you at first light tomorrow.”  With that, Shaw turned and walked out of the office, leaving Kadmos dreading the coming day.  ‘It was time,’ Kadmos repeated to himself and shuddered.  Kadmos turned to the snowshoe rabbit that was sitting quietly in the cage next to the window.  He handed the critter some food and speaking absent-mindedly he muttered aloud.

“I should have never made a deal with the devil, for I may live to regret it.”

But the orphans had never been forgotten.  Honor-bound, many warriors, hunters and shaman would visit the orphanage and look after the younglings as they grew older.  Kor had been visited by many such heroes, but two had stood out above the rest.  The first was the Orc shaman, Brakanor.  He was a proud Orc, and an elder of the Horde.  Even during his time at the orphanage, Kor had always known that he was a wise seer.  Kor respected the shaman and over the years, Brak became what Kor saw as the example of the Orcish code of honor and loyalty.

The second hero was a warrior, but he was not an Orc.  It had been a proud and noble Tauren, Nimrock.  For many seasons, Kor had raced through the streets of Orgrimmar when he’d received word that Nimrock would be returning to the great city so that he could greet him at the gates and help him with his armor and wares.  Nimrock had taken a liking to young Orc almost immediately, honoring him by allowing him to assist him.  When Kor had grown old enough to learn, Nimrock even apprenticed him as a blacksmith, teaching him the ways of the forge and the anvil.  To Kor, Nimrock was a strong defender of the Horde.  If Brak was the example of what kind of Orc Kor sought to be, Nimrock was the example of the warrior that Kor aspired to.

Kor had trained with the warriors of Orgrimmar over the last several seasons and he was finally ready to leave the city and venture out into the world to aid the armies of the Horde.

“Mok’gra,” Kor saluted a passing warrior, raising his fist to his chest in respect for the seasoned fighter.  His axe was slung across his back and felt as though it had become a part of him.  He’d already ensured that he had plenty of supplies for the coming week and that he was ready for the long journey.  In his time at the orphanage, the shaman Brakanor had told Kor many stories of the heroes of the Horde.  Kor had always liked the story of Orgrim Doomhammer, whose name had been given to the great Orcish city in honor of his leadership, and of the story of Grom Hellscream, the fearless warrior chieftain of the Warsong Clan.  Since the days of that he’d first heard those stories, Kor had learned that Doomhammer’s clan, the Blackrocks had left the Horde and maintained control over the Blackrock mountain in the southern Eastern Kingdoms.  But the Warsong Clan had remained loyal to the Horde, no doubt in honor of Hellscream’s loyalty to the new Warchief, Thrall.  Kor had long dreamt of journeying into the forests of Ashenvale and joining the Warsong Clan in their battles against the Night Elves.  Now, that was becoming a reality. 

Over the last season of his training, Kor had trained with a single-minded purpose.  He would be ready to lend his axe-arm to the Warsong by the end of that season.  His trainers had noticed his grim determination and had pushed him to train even harder.  Kor had appreciated it and now stood ready to join the Horde forces there.  Brakanor had visited several times and been impressed with the younger Orc’s vigor.   After his first visit, he recommended that Kor travel to southern Durotar and visit the Valley of Trials.  If he believed himself ready to join the forces of the Horde, he would first need to prove himself in the Trials. 

Kor had honored the shaman’s words and after merely two days had surpassed all of the other Orcs in the Valley and completed the Trials.  He had returned to Orgrimmar triumphant and boastful, bragging to Brakanor that he had not needed to undergo the trails.  Brak had listened to him quietly, studying the younger Orc’s face before raising one hand in front of him.  Kor heard the shaman speak, but it was so low that he could not make out the words.  Before he knew it, Kor found himself thrown back into the solid rock walls of the city.  Brak simply stood there, motionless.  Kor’s eyes had grown wide with fury and his blood began to boil at this sudden betrayal by his most respected elder.  Kor had reached behind himself and unslung his axe and he charged towards the elderly shaman, intent on laying him low in the streets.  But Kor’s charge never made it to the shaman.  Brak had once again raised his hand and called upon the elements.  This time lightning itself had shot forth and struck Kor in the chest, causing him to collapse the ground himself.

Brak had walked over to where Kor lay, gasping for breath.  The shaman leaned in close, and this time Kor could hear the soft words that the shaman spoke.

“Great spirit of water, this young pup has been taught a lesson, to learn that arrogance is not the way of our people.  I call upon your soothing touch to restore his strength to him, so that he may learn modesty from his folly.”  Kor had felt ashamed afterwards.  He had failed to learn one important lesson in the Valley of Trials, that of humility.  But once again, he had been grateful to the shaman.  Brak had not betrayed him, but only sought to teach him that despite his feeling of power, he had only accomplished a few simple tasks and that should he not be wary of true power, he would easily be cut down by that which he did understand.

After that day, Kor had redoubled his efforts in his training, but he had learned a valuable lesson from the shaman and never grew overconfident.  Nimrock had also heard that Kor had begun to train as a warrior and soon enough he returned to Orgrimmar to look in on the young orphan he had grown fond of.  The two had sparred, and while Nimrock was still vastly more superior in his skill as a warrior, he was impressed with the progress that young Kor had made.

“I have a gift for you Kor,” the proud Tauren said to him.  “It is an axe.  It was the weapon of a proud Orc who died helping to secure Mulgore in the Centaur Wars.  I have carried it in honor of that Orc’s noble sacrifice, but I think it would be put to much better use in your arms.”

“I am honored, Master Nimrock,” Kor had said, kneeling before the other warrior.

“Rise, Kor, I am not your master,” Nimrock had told him as he placed a large hand upon the orc’s shoulder.  “I looked in on you while you were young because you had no parents, but I have never been one to command you.  You have always been a true son of the Horde and one day soon you will be ready to take your place among its warriors.  On that day, we shall simply be brothers.

“Still, I am honored,” Kor had insisted.  Nimrock bowed his head, accepting the orc’s compliment.  He handed the Orc the axe he’d been holding out and watched as the younger warrior moved it gracefully through the air, gauging its balance and power.  “It is a fine weapon,” Kor had finally said.  The two warriors continued to spar after that.  Kor had used the new weapon and Nimrock had noticed an even greater improvement in his proficiency.

Kor turned towards the main gate of Orgrimmar and set out.  As he passed through the gates, he gave silent thanks to the ancestors, asking for their blessing and protection.  With that, he left the great city and set out into the world.