((Name inspired by Leena's old Ogres of Feralas tale. Other than that? Deep writings about my character on a Sunday afternoon. Hope you enjoy! Some blood and guts in there, too!))

He was, he knew, depriving her of some honour, but these ogres were many in number, and tough, and made their home on a precarious island where demise, not necessarily death, was just a slip of the foot away. What with everything else that he knew would be screaming in her head, demanding that they alone should get the attention only she could offer, he decided that it would be safe, for her life and his mind, were he to help with the situation somewhat.

And so the bulk of fat that was the ogre on bridge duty was not expecting such an accomplished shaman of the Horde approach to stalk of a fallen mushroom, a stalk which now served as a walkway over a chasm that led into space, and the aforementioned demise. It was the only way to get to the Ango’rosh Stronghold by land, and so the ogre’s two eyes (not four, for this was not one of the cleverer magi) took care to analyse the approaching form, taking assured and determined steps towards its goal. A grey wolf helm obscured his face from vision, though it wasn’t low enough to hide the scowl which cried havoc on his face. Both of his hands were buried within strange, seemingly wooden objects. The ogre had never seen a bear, so did not know what one looked like, but if he had, he’d have said that these two weapons looked like the open jaws of such an ursine creature.

He thought briefly about what he should do about the greenskin approaching him. The vast majority of these orcs tended to be hostile, and give a hard time to the ogres, but since the many hard fights between them when the armies of the Horde had focused themselves upon Outland (something the tribe had just came out alive from), actual battles had virtually depleted. Their mushroom cutting industry had diminished as a result of the same diminishment of population, and so they didn’t draw to themselves half the ire that they had once before.

Considering all this, the ogre turned around to eye the island he was guarding. It was probably best to at least warn th-

A horrible nasal sound presented itself in the region of the ogre’s belly. He turned back, and looked down at the shaman who had made a very quick pace in the last few seconds. The orc looked up, to meet the ogre’s own inquisitive stare. Wordlessly, he summed up all his malice in one lick of his left tusk, and drove his right fist into his victim’s stomach. There was an effusion of blood, and outpouring of guts, and there was the last sound the ogre would ever hear: the weapon skewering out his insides. He fell backwards, with a heavy thud – his death’s exclamation mark.

Gremkarc of Orgrimmar, Chieftain of Dagger and Totem, was on a mission. The Horde had not sent him, though they would probably approve whilst wondering why he was out in Zangarmarsh, and not Icecrown. The elements already had an agent here, and it was for her that he was here. Guilt washed over his body as, its guard dead, the makeshift bridge lay open to him. Makeshift, but steady. He wondered, for a second, whether he simply did not trust Shazula’s ability to fight. He wondered whether he was being a bad companion by getting here and taking most of these damn ogres out before she could do the job herself. Or was it just the need to do things for her, that she might not even want? That kind of thinking had led him to Stormwind that time, when he did exactly the same for the Warchief. Was this different? Was this duty?

As he came to the end of the mushroom stalk, a crude but sturdy walkway, he came to his own crude but sturdy thought. He just wanted to make sure that she was safe. That the only marks upon her, would be ones that he himself had given her. He wanted her to be fully his, just as he wanted himself to be fully hers. The thought of these ogres besting her brewed frantic and dark thoughts within the male shaman. It was a similar feeling to when, during the war against the Silithid (a conflict which seemed a decade old, yet was only a few months ago), the Alliance had beaten Tritha. He had been in a quiet rage then, but he knew that should the same happen here, his mood would be anything but quiet. He would unleash a wolf’s fury – the beast inside him.

Not that the beast wasn’t out already. He stomped into the cavern in front of him like it was his own unwanted property, and the Ango’rosh inside were his to kill. To the first ogre that noticed his passage he thundered both of his primal weapons up towards the Mauler’s chin. He was devastated by the simultaneous blow. His head snapped back, and like his ally before him he fell to the ground. Bones crunched in their place as he hit his stony resting place.

The sight of another kill could only be matched by the stench of warlock magic. Gremkarc grunted. His task here was not totally without other reasons, then. He followed the smell, as one self-trained in tracking the influence of fel does, and yes, came across a two-headed shadowmage.

Gremkarc was not particularly interested in the conversation the two heads seemed to be having, and demonstrated this indifference by calling for a Frost Shock. An immediate reaction came from the two minds in one body, as they found themselves frozen in place by an intruder’s attack. Their own spell would have been a shadowbolt, but they were interrupted in this endeavour as Gremkarc took a running leap, hampered somewhat by his mail armour. His intended headbutt to the cyclops face did not come, but he plunged his right fist into the ogre's bare chest in any case. He held his weapon inside the wound, as two heads cried out in many pains. He snarled, happy with his work, and, in a left hook, jabbed mercilessly into the ogre's side. But Greed was greedy. It would not let go of its clutch upon this warlock. Again, Pride jabbed, the ogre's insides being rattled about by the blows of heavy, enchanted wood. Gremkarc's face lit up in an amused grin, finding this display satisfying. One more blow was all that was needed to dislodge the teeth of Greed from the now silent ogre's internal organs. The body slumped against the cavern wall, completely done for.

The temporary punching bag now finished with, Gremkarc settled back into thought as ogre blood dripped from Pride and Greed. Even the thought of such a creature taking away his happiness, and hurt someone as innocent to the world as Shazula was enough to enrage him. It was as though the ogres had an express desire to do kill her. More than anything, he wanted the hunt that they both went on to continue, to continue for as long as it could. The knowledge of what he saw at the graveyard of the Caverns of Time soothed him slightly. As did the feel of the sweat dribbling down his forehead, a forehead which had been recently marked. He’d have to remember not to take his helm off in public for a while – it’d cause blood-elves to scoff, he supposed.

He grinned wolfishly. He didn’t know if what he was doing was right, or even if she’d appreciate it. But he felt the need to do it, and not doing it would just make him unfocused, and constantly nip at his mind. Not the back of his mind, not where thoughts sometimes festered. But at the front, where thoughts always danced.

He began to hear the stomping of many fat feet deeper in, coming ever closer. The closed his eyes, and in his blackened vision (for you close your eyelids, not your eyes), he saw two wolves come to assist him – denizens of the spirit world. His eyelids rose, and these wolves were not with him, by his side, as real on his realm as he was himself. They did not have names – or rather no names that he had given them. They were too feral, too spiritual, too fleeting to suffer names. To seek a name for things, Gremkarc knew, was to categorise them. And you could not do that, to the spirits, nor the elements.

He set off at a run, the wolves hunting with him. Round a few corners they met the trio of ogres coming to investigate. They all leapt. This time, Gremkarc’s headbutt did not miss.

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