Balgarn's Writings

[Grakor456]

Introduction

We have journeyed far already, and still have much further to go on our journey. I have decided to write down the events I have experienced, so that they will not be forgotten again. More, though, I will write them down so that the story of one that I have grown more fond of than life itself will be recorded, so he will be remembered as more than a killer with metal fist. I write this for him.

However, I must first introduce myself. I am Balgarn Bloodscribe, son of Kortok Anvilmourn, one of the last sons of the annihilated Thunderlord clan. I was a warrior once. My memories of my past are fragmented, but that I can remember with clarity. I was a grunt, raised in the camps and then trained to fight for the Horde. Following the Third War, I met another of the Thunderlords that was trying to collect together the scattered warriors. More, this man, Kretol Earthshaker, held to the pact made at Hyjal. We fought against the enemies of the world, against demons and undead. I was brash and arrogant at the time, but I thought it was cause worth fighting for. I thought it was a cause worth dying for. In the end, that is exactly what happened.

To this day, I still don't know what was in that message that we were carrying. All I know is that we were ambushed by undead in the Plaguelands while on our way to Light's Hope. I shouted at my companion to flee, and then I charged forth. I didn't see his fate. What I felt was my own demise. For all of the memories that were stolen from me, my own death was one that was never removed. What happened when I was raised as a death knight I do not wish to record or recall. I only hope that the spirits will eventually forgive me.

Following the battle that set me free, I wandered the land for a long while. Perhaps I lost my taste for bloodshed, even though now my very existence depended on it. I could have been a soldier again, and in a way I did continue that path. However, it was my writing, my drawing, and my cartography that I buried myself in. Once a hobby, now it was a reminder that I was, and prayed could still be, more than just a murderer. Though I had returned to the man that had once given me purpose, I soon found myself leaving again. Something felt missing, and if I was hoping for absolution, it would not be found there.

So, I wandered. I looked for purpose. I looked for a reason to live. I looked for a way so that I could be forgiven by others, and even myself. I had despaired for a long time. I still fought, now against the undead that had defiled me, and again against the enemies of the Horde. Yet, I found no relief from that. I felt unwanted. I was a protector without anyone to protect. So instead I took to correcting maps following the Shattering, to keep myself busy and give myself some shred of meaning or purpose.

Then, I met him.

I can only imagine what he thought of me when he saw me for that first time, seeing a corpse in blood-stained armor.

[Grakor456]

One: The Orc with the Iron Hand

I first met him in Orgrimmar, the orc with the iron hand. He was hard to miss...tall, rivaling my own height, with a strong build and features. Yet...haggard and worn, like a weary woodsman that had seen too much in his years. A bloody sack was flung over one broad shoulder as he walked. He'd caught my attention, and out of curiosity I asked him what he was carrying. He didn't stop, though he did humor my queries and allowed me to follow behind him. Speaking in hindsight, I think that he welcomed any company, lonely as he was.

As it turned out, he was an assassin of a sort, and the sack contained a head, a trophy of his latest kill. However, it was not with pride that he gazed at the line of heads on his shelf. He introduced himself to me as Gurvok Wolfbite, but even as he spoke to me he didn't stop with his routine. He was not just an assassin, but a breeder of worgs. He took me to his pen, where he showed me the wolves. They did not take kindly to me, but he loved them, feeding them now that he was back home. One caught especial interest, an older worg that he named Lak'tuk. She was the mother of the worgs he had raised, though sadly aged and lethargic.

We talked for a time, and I questioned him idly on his life, his work, and what else he did. He was not the sort for free time, and made that clear. As I left him that day, he said that I should come around again, that the worgs did not get many visitors. I suspect he was talking more for himself.

I did visit him again. He was lonely and was not openly looking down upon me for what I was. Perhaps that was simply his desperation at the time, but the result was the same. I checked on him, in his home and at his pen, frequently in the days that followed. He brightened a little each time I came to see him. However, it was also because of this that I saw the rapidly declining health of Lak'tuk. Worse, I saw how this affected her master, who loved the worg he had practically grown up with so much that he went to extreme lengths to try to keep her well. Every day he would come to force-feed her food and medicine, even though her protective children nearly tore him apart every time he did so. What could I have done? He refused my aid, and so all I could do was helplessly watch as he seemed intent on going down with her, torn apart by the worgs he had raised. He was bloodied and faint, but still he pushed on, accepting nothing but the certainty that he would nurse her back to health. I questioned him, but the hardened, determined gaze he gave me made it clear that he wouldn't accept anything else.

Gurvok's mother kept to herself during this. She was the one that cared for the worgs when her son was gone. She didn't speak to me, never approached either of us when I was in the pen. She simply shut herself off in her hut. I didn't think much on it at the time, though I believe she didn't care for my presence near her son.

I was there when he found out that Lak'tuk finally died. He walked up to her, stared at her with a long, sorrowful gaze. It lasted for several long moments. I thought that he might have cried right then, but that sadness soon turned to anger. With a fury I had not seen in him prior, he marched up to his mother's hut, blaming her for Lak'tuk's death, that she had killed her. The berserker's blood flowed in Gurvok's veins, and so consumed by rage I had to knock him out before he did anything that he'd regret. He did try to carry Lak'tuk's body with him on his exit when he awoke outside, though once more he was attacked. It is thanks to his mother, with her rifle, that he did not die. He still shouted at her, that he'd kill her.

She was the cause of it all, in the end. Gurvok finally explained that Lak'tuk's death was not due to age, but due to poison. He'd been scrambling to find an antidote, but without knowing the actual poison, he could only watch helplessly. To this day, I cannot explain why she did it. Perhaps she felt sorry for the worg's declining health, in some capacity, and wanted to hasten her rest. Or, perhaps it was some twisted revenge on her son. I can't say, though I can no longer find myself surprised that she'd stoop to such depths.

A veteran of the wars, even a worg, deserves a pyre. Gurvok invited me to see. One so determined and guarded in his emotions during those weeks of her declining health, I finally saw him break down. He sang, he cried, and he spoke with such conviction that he kept my attention without a chance for straying. For a man who had buried himself in his work, it was rare to see him so.

I recall him looking at me once during that, eyes brown like wet earth, staring at me intently as if he had just truly seen me for the first time. Perhaps, looking back, he had.

[Grakor456]

Two: The Most Striking Thing

Gurvok had an impressive number of worgs within his pen. Most had the pure, snow-white fur of their mother, and each with near perfect obedience (attacking Gurvok to protect their mother discounted.) I have to admit how impressed I was with how well he had them all trained. The exception to these would be the two gray worgs that lurked in the pen, who were much more vocal and excitable than their siblings. I once asked Gurvok about them, and he mentioned that during the time of the camps he wasn't there to be more selective with Lak'tuk's breeding. He had them trained, of course, but I believe he thought they would turn out failures.

He ended up having all of the worgs moved to a different pen, away from his mother. I don't think he trusted her near them anymore. He mentioned getting a deal to get the use of a new pen. I didn't ask more at the time. I wish I had.

When I saw Gurvok next after the pyre, he encouraged me to try riding one of his worgs. He'd already picked successors for his worg, and became intent on having me atop one of the two. He spoke as a businessman, speaking of how proud he'd be to proclaim that he had worgs so obedient that they'd allow even a death knight to ride them. Those worgs didn't like me at the time. I believe they could smell the death on me and feel the unnatural cold of my body. I hadn't wanted to do so, but the disappointment on his face was compelling, and so I finally agreed to try. This resulted in a number of instances of the worg trying to throw me off and running about uncontrollably, much to my dismay. The laughs and grins from Gurvok, however, were pleasant to see, so something good came from it all.

He told me that I'd have to come around often to ensure that the worgs would come around, to let them get acclimated and used to me. He later, rather sheepishly, admitted that while he believed that, it was mostly a ploy to keep me returning. He'd noticed that I'd been looking out for him, bandaging him when he was hurt and doing my best to keep him safe during the weeks that I'd known him. Now, he wanted to ensure that I wouldn't leave so I could continue that vigil. I was happy to.

Perhaps it was because of Lak'tuk's death that Gurvok's superiors decided that he needed a vacation. The news was not well-received. For a man whose work was his life, vacations gave too much empty space. I believe it gave him too much time to think.

In the end we were both men tormented by our pasts. I remember what I had done under the Lich King, and he remembered the wars under the blood curse. Perhaps that was part of the reason we clung to each other so tightly.

It was with great reluctance that Gurvok decided he'd set off on a vacation with the two weeks he was given. However, he wouldn't be going alone. The last vacation he'd gone on was to Draenor, and he told me that he felt alone there, and I think he was overwhelmed with his guilt when he walked there. This time, he insisted taking me along with him, as well as the two worgs he had chosen. After a short debate, he decided he wanted to go to the snowy lands of Winterspring. Fitting, given his winter-furred wolves and his own inclination to wear all white.

I'd always preferred the warmer lands over the colder ones, and I suspect Gurvok felt the opposite, though I didn't know at the time why. For myself, it would be impossible to exactly describe into words if you have not felt it yourself. Being undead has left me feeling constantly...chilled, or at least noticeably lacking in warmth. I can still feel the difference between hot and cold, even if neither bother me so much. Yet, I've found myself drawn to heat before, trying to ward away that constant chill. Perhaps, I was merely trying to seek something that made me feel alive again.

We took a flight to Everlook, taking the worgs with us. We talked some on the way, of the lands we'd been to and enjoyed. I had travelled all over Kalimdor at one point or another due to my job in cartography, and so much of it I'd seen with my own eyes over the years. Winterspring, despite not a location I would normally go for its temperature, was a location he accepted by my suggestion. It is a beautiful land, with the snow that reflects the light of the sun stretching out for miles before your gaze. I called it striking, and I remember Gurvok being a little surprised, and perhaps amused, that I'd ever use the word.

We settled in at Everlook. Gurvok didn't like it much, with the machines and the insistence of the innkeeper to not allow the worgs inside the inn. He hated tying them up outside. They were the most precious things in his life, and he'd have let them stay near him all the time if he could.

We took the occasional walk in that snowy land, though. I think what I remember most was how he looked in that land. With his long coat, white as the clothing he usually wore, he blended in with the snow around him almost perfectly. I recall, with some amusement, that he almost looked like a floating head and hand at times, walking in that land. Yet, there was something else I realized as we walked in that snow-covered land: for as worn as he looked, he was the most striking thing in that snowy land to my eyes.