Harg Mountainborn

Harg Mountainborn
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Background

Born on the Red World, in a cold season, Harg was branded a Mountainborn.

Children of Exiled orcs, orcs without honour were banished from their tribe and clan, and sent into the mountains to live out alone, there were a few settlements in the numerous mountains on ancient Draenor, and it was here that Trog and Kimma met, and formed a union. Harg was the result, a child of two exiles, a mountainborn. Blue eyes are a sign of greatness in Orc society, Harg did not possess these, his eyes were brown, brown like his skin.

His young years were mostly spent in the small gathering of tents and huts of the mountains, from a certain plateau not far from the hut Harg and his parents shared with two other familes, one could look at the endless green fields of Farahlorn, this was the only pride Harg could feel. Then came the Deceiver..

The entire orcish race was tricked, when the Deceiver fooled the orcs into slaughtering the Draeneic people, giving false information and lies about the Draeneis plan to destroy the orcish race, Harg did not believe it at first, why would they? They shared towns, and settlements. Healty relations, and they accepted him, even if the orcish society shunned him beacuse of his heritage.

The elements forsake them, and another kind of magic was spread across the lands, the ways of the Warlock. Gul´dan rose as a leader for the raids against the Draeneis, until the massive battle of Shattrath. Harg was part of the Horde, he drove his axe into the bodies of his enemies. Working for the Horde gave him a purpose, and at first - he was fine with the bloodlust, he lied about his heritage and said he was from a distant corner of Farahlorn, until he was discovered by another Mountainborn, a female known as Kora which he had grown up within the settlement.

At first, he despised Kora for letting his secret out, this hatred turned into affection and soon they were mates, Kora and Harg often went out into the wilderness, and held each other.

Then the clans devoured the demonic blood of Mannaroth, Harg gladly followed suit, he did not know better, one might say. The demon magic flowed trough his veins, and when the portal opened to allow the Horde to invade Azeroth, he only said his farewell to Kora, who had refused to drink the blood, this is the last time they ever saw each other.

Into the Black Morass, he went. The damp air reminded him of Zangarmarsh, however the trees and animals were not the same. This did not matter, he was not here to admire the enviroment, he was here to conquer, in the name of the Horde. He marched, as they marched. He killed, as they killed. He lived, while others did not.

In the first failed attempt of crushing the gates of Stormwind, Harg lost not only one of his best friends - Grimm - but nearly his life, the Horde had not expected such resistance due to the weak villages on the way towards the City itself and thus gravely mistook the entire Human race as a weak, and unresolved one. The retreat horns sounded, and the wounded orcs ran. For the first, and for a long time only time the Horde ran. Fleeing like hurt animals chased by Knights on wierd creatures with four legs and hooves.

When the Horde came back to the Black Morass, it was not better. Instead of chased by Knights, they were nearly slaughtered for failing Gul´dan and the Horde, and war amongst the clans was slowly beginning to arise, and thus was the first Warchief born, Blackhand.

A puppet, chosen by Gul´dan to ensure that the clans would follow one person, that another failure like the one at the gates would not be repeated.

Harg followed him, like the others and he saw...changes within the clans, changes in his whole race actually. Their skin were slowly beginning to change from brown to Green, and other colours, the warlocks claimed it was the human world that did this, and Harg did believe this. Uptil the end of the Second war, this was the only reason he could see to why his skin had become green.

Slowly, the Horde licked their wounds and began to move out from the swamps again. This time, decided to crush the gates, and win the war. Harg marched with the Laughing Skull clan, although their main trick of trade was thivery, and assassination, they needed grunts to make sure that they could complete they could do so. His axe was drenched in the blood of man, woman and child alike, Harg could not feel remorse for these creatures, they were pink, like swines. And squeeled just the same. He gave into anger and hatred, and swore to complete this war.

Amongst the burning rubble he stood, they had breached the gates - somehow the gates aswell as the morale of the humans had crumbled from within, there was something here that the Shadow Council did not tell the majority of the Horde, this was nothing to dwell on though. The Pinkskins had fled across the sea, northwards, and this means that there were more humans somewhere.

Blackhand had led the Horde to victory, but as a puppet, and now the Puppet master was not in control anymore, rumours had it that Gul´dan had fallen ill, and did not awake from his sleep. This was a chance some saw, and one orc took it - Ogrim Doomhammer, the Backstabber as some came to call him after his deed. He upsurped Blackhand, and took his place as both chieftain of the Blackrock Clan, aswell as warchief over the Horde. One of his first acts was to destroy the Shadow Council, and when Gul´dan returned to the Horde - he found his entire organization destroyed, and his puppet warchief killed, and so was forced to ally himself with Doomhammer.

The Horde required ships, so wood was cut. There were some who were forced to travel north on foot, trough the high mountains. There the Horde met some extraordinare creatures, small as pinkskin children, although hairy. And with a temper that could match a orc. They were fighters, and the march could´ve ended here if it were not for the sheer number of the Horde. The orcs broke trough and continued the march. Words told of victories on the sea, and that the lands northwards were united under a banner, much like the Horde. Harg hoped for more battle, and to once more drench his axe in the blood of Humans.

Harg lost another friend in this march, Borkrog. He had known him since they were children, he was too a Mountainborn, he deserved a heroes death - but he had not recieved one. He had died a weak death, of cold. Simply freezing to death. The other grunts spat on his grave, saying how weak he was, Harg´s mind slowly cleared from this moment. He had not cared for Grimm´s death until now, but now the two deaths of his closest friends burned in his brain, he realized that they needed retribution, however he did not aim it correctly, and blamed the Human race for their demise, adding fuel to his bloodrage. His skin, now completely green and his eyes, still brown - although burning with demonic magic, like any other grunt in the Horde.

Forest trolls. Tall, slim creatures who ate their own, and used dark magic to fuel their own powers. Harg did not enjoy their company, although their accuracy with ranged weaponry did add power to the Horde warmachine, together with Goblin "engineering", and Ogres. Ogres had now been added into the Horde, both as enforcers, and as Magi´s, Somehow they had been given the gift of Magic, and they wielded it like nothing, the Horde had been reinforced quite well during the march north, and they were now ready to destroy the Humans, once and for all.

There were fires, and screams. Blades drenched in blood and bodies everywhere, yet the retreat was sounded. The Horde could´ve won the day, but they ran once more. Like the charge at Stormwind so many years past, the Horde ran. The Forest Trolls removed themselves from the Horde and fled towards their holdings all over the Northern lands, the Goblins loaded their zeppelins and boats and set off, towards new profits, but Orc and Ogre ran south, towards their holds in Azeroth. Harg ran, his will broken but his resolve intact, he knew he had to live. The Horde was his life, his chance to something else than living in the mountains forever..

A net, capture was not an option in the Horde, but the Humans were not relentless, they also captured their enemies, instead of driving an axe trough their heads. Their merciful act was not appricated by Harg, however this action would save him. For the Horde was utterly destroyed at the Blackrock spire, or so the Humans said. He was sent to work on a castle, a castle he had destroyed.

Durnholde.

His friend Krag died in a failed escape attempt in the first day of the rebuilding of the fort, and there were something, which made everyone of the captured orcs...weak. They began to grow sick, and their minds crumbled into nothing in the following weeks, months, years..

Harg did not know how long he had been here, or if the Horde still existed. all he knew was that his race were rotting in these camps, his bloodlust gone - he knew now that the humans were not the enemies he saught to destroy, but the demons that corrupted him. A relasation that not many orcs came to these days, Harg had been transferred to another camp, in the Arathi Highlands. It´s name did not matter, although here many violent and destructive orcs were kept, or atleast...had been kept. Most of them were dead, and the ones left were broken, just like the ones at Durnholde.

Screams, confusion. The result of the orcish attack on the camp, they were many. Strong willed and tempered from hardships in the wilderness, and Doomhammer. The Warchief was still alive and was leading the Orcs together with a young shaman, one who used the old ways. The knights defending the camp were strong, too strong, although some were able to get out of the camp, Harg fled with another of his friends, his last true friend as he claimed, Grok.

At the sight of the fallen Doomhammer, Grok went into bloodfury and grabbed the hammer of a fallen grunt, and charged into the midst of combat. Harg did not see him after this, believing him to have fallen there.

Following the Young Shaman, relearning the old ways and sailing across the sea towards the West. The young orc, with brown skin and brown eyes who once lived on the Fields of Farahlorn were now old, his beard and hair, white as snow and his eyes tired. Thrall, as the young one was called had spoken words, which touched Harg´s spirit - The name mountainborn did no longer mean shame, the other children from his village were dead. Grimm, Borkrog, Grok and Krag. The five had grown up together, they had all sworn to be friends until the end, and they had, now only Harg remained. The last of their village, he was now set on two things, one to see his mate, Kora again... and to once more see the fields of Farahlorn. This is what kept him alive during the journey west, and the hardships the mortal races faced in Kalimdor. Centaurs, Quillboars, Crazed animals and the Burning Legion.

He survived the Third war, but not on the battlefield with an axe in his hands, but in the camp that would be Orgrimmar, he was too old, and weak to wield an axe like the young grunts, and he accepted this. This gave him time to meditate, and find the elemental spirits. He was now as he had been all those years ago, in tune with the spirits of his world, and at peace...

That is the tale of Harg, the Mountainborn of Farahlorn. Shaman of the Horde.

Dagger and Totem.

Harg is now a part of the clan of Dagger and Totem, serving as a shaman of Restoration and working to aid his clanmates, as well as the Horde as a whole towards their goals, he has full confidence in his Chieftain, and is glad to see such wisdom amongst the younger members of the Clan.

(( More will come, when I´m not lazy. )) ==

See also

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External links

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