Hope

[Vidarok]

Chapter I: Enslavement

Strike…

The ground beneath the shovel gave way as the cold iron rent yet another hole in the rocky quarry.

Grind…

Thick beads of sweat rolled down Vidarok's brow as he struggled to pull the shovel from the earth. Pain coursed through his weary body, his muscles howling in protest as he strove with the heavy dirt and gravel.

Heave…

His muscles erupted with a collective spasm and, with a grunt, he wrested the shovel from the land's grip. Mud sprayed as he threw the load over his head into the pile behind him. How many times had the cycle repeated itself? He had lost count. In any case, it didn't matter. He would do again, just as he always had.

Yet, for now, he was exhausted. Plunging the spade into the earth, he gasped for air and struggled to hold himself upright. "Surely nobody will notice." he reasoned. Unfortunately, he was not so lucky. Then again, he rarely was.

"Oi! You 'ere! Yes, you brute. No time to lollygag hereabouts! Steel yer filthy self and keep diggin'! This shift idn't over yet!" shouted a nearby overseer, brandishing his whip menacingly.

Vidarok took a deep breath, straightened up, and raised the shovel above his head.

Strike...

Grind...

Heave!

Edited December 13, 2003 by Vidarok

[Vidarok]

Chapter II: Small Comfort

As the sun set, the atomosphere of the internment camp seemed to change in accordance with the skies of Azeroth. The Orcs laid down their axes, picks, and shovels. After a long, hot day of backbreaking labor, a collective sense of peace finally settled across the quarry. Watched carefully by their Human overseers, the Orcs trodded back to their makeshift shelters to take a brief - but welcome - rest. Vidarok was among them, pleased to be free of his wretched duties.

The great crowd of Orcs shuffled obediently towards the shanty town the Humans had permitted them to construct. It consisted of little more than crude shacks, punctuated by the occasional farm. Yet, it was the only home many of them had ever known.

"Move it along now! 'Urry up, we don't have all day. You! Pick it up, come on now!" bellowed a guard.

Vidarok gazed upwards at the human that had shouted, and was relieved to find that he had not been shouting at him. The man continued to bellow from his tower, one of four that adorned the gate to the Orkish quarter. The town was cordoned off from the rest of the internment camp by a log wall, with more guard towers intermittently spaced along it. As he passed under the stone arch, he percieved flickering fires and torches inside. The Humans placed them around during the day so that the Orcs would have some shelter from the cold and darkness of the night. It was a small comfort, but hardly enough. Often, sometimes even on a night-to-night basis, at least one Orc would be brought nigh to death by the harsh elements of the Alterac mountains.

"Home sweet home." grumbled Vidarok as he entered.

Edited December 13, 2003 by Vidarok

[Vidarok]

Chapter III: Rumors

As the hour grew late, rumors flew with the strength of eagles and the stealth of bats. The town was abuzz with activity, and Vidarok sat by a fire pit, listening carefully to the talk of his brethren. A small, stout Orc named Pruk sat at the head of the circle, and was telling tales over his gruel. Pruk had attracted an audience, and many were indeed compelled by his story.

"From what I've heard, Durnholde was taken just a fortnight ago!" Pruk said, his eyes darting about to ensure the attention of his audience.

A large Orc interrupted. From the look of him, Vidarok suspected that he may have served in the Great War. "And Blackmoore? What about him?" the Orc asked warily.

Pruk's eyes danced about gleefully, and he deliberately paused before giving his reply. Even old Bodush, an ancient warlock who served as the de facto town elder, leaned in closer to hear.

"He's dead. Blackmoore's own pet, an Orc named Thrall, put an end to him when the fortress was taken by the Doomhammer." Pruk replied, with supreme authority.

Simultaneously, gasps went up all around the fire pit and more Orcs wandered over to see what the commotion was about. The listeners murmured excitably amongst themselves at the mention of the Doomhammer.

A young Orc raised his hand. "Who's the Doomhammer?" he asked enthusiastically.

Several of the older Orcs at the table, including the one that had inquired about Blackmoore, glanced irritatingly at the younger Orc. Suddenly, old Bodush stirred from his seat and gestured for the other Orcs to calm down and remain seated. They obliged grumpily.

"Who's the Doomhammer?" the old Orc asked rhetorically. "He was...well, is the rightful Warchief of the Horde. If the rumors that Pruk speaks prove true that is."

Pruk frowned indignantly at the suggestion that his "information" might not be totally factual, but kept his peace.

Bodush continued. "The deeds of Orgrim Doomhammer are great and many. Indeed, too many to recount here. Suffice to say young one, he is the hope of our race." he said, placing careful emphasis on each word. "If he is still alive." he added cautiously.

The wizened Orc sat down, and many in the crowd nodded their heads emphatically in agreement with his words. Seeing his opportunity, Pruk seized the chance to draw attention back to himself.

"Aye! And, according to my contacts, the Doomhammer marches still! All of Alterac is ablaze with war!" Pruk said loudly.

Many glanced at him skeptically when presented with this new kernel of knowledge, but still more found themselves entranced. One Orc, a heavily scarred female named Hagar, laughed openly.

"Come now Pruk! You expect us to believe that? Forgive me, but I just can't see the Doomhammer letting you into his private confidence." she said sardonically.

Hagar's remarks drew laughter from the crowd, but Pruk continued on stubbornly.

"Laugh all you like. But let me ask you this: who among you has not seen the anxiousness in the bearing of our captors? They fear us! Something's up, mark my words!" he warned.

Budosh stood up again and commanded the attention of the crowd. "If something is up, I'm sure we will find out for ourselves soon enough. For now, we ought retire. Curfew draws near."

Even as Budosh finished speaking, the sound of the curfew bells echoed on the chill night air, signalling lights-out. Even as they still rang, the Orcs finished their meal, and dispersed to their homes.

Vidarok did not sleep much that night. His thoughts were troubled, and mere sleep could not extinguish the restlessness of his heart.

[Vidarok]

Intermission: Lengthening Days

The days grew short, and soon winter was upon the Alterac mountains. Two weeks had passed since Pruk's news at the fireside, and neither hide nor hair had been heard from the world without since. Life had progressed normally, save only that the days had grown colder and the nights even more so than they had already been. Few now marked the words of Pruk, and no new rumors had reached the camp since that night at the fire pit. The Orcs that had been heartened by the tales of glory and renewal now sat silently, brooding on futures that seemed like to never come. Vidarok, for his part, did not forget Pruk’s tale, but he could feel the bitter taint of cynicism growing in his mind as time passed. Yet, still, when all was quiet and naught but the cries of the crickets could be heard in the hills, he would often dream of proud warriors and great battles. It was foolishness he told himself, yet he was compelled to hearken to visions of riders that never came! Yet, when at the last it seemed he had clung only to a fool's hope, his vigilance and prayer was repaid in full.

Edited February 19, 2004 by Vidarok