Wut happened tu latz hair?”

[zilog]

A tall, proud, troll strides over. Centurian Chrysalia greats the warrior Zilog “Wut happened tu latz hair?”

Zi strokes her bald head and smiles sheepishly. “Me shave it. Dis marks me as a warrior.”

Zilog and the Zoram Guard

The sun beat down on the sands at Zoram Strand. Gulls cawed in the distance as waves broke on the shore. A loud wood-against-wood thud is heard and a crowd of orcs jeer in response. Two combatants are faced off and shuffling in positon through uneven sandy footing.

“Knock off her head!” shouts an orc. “Put da panzy down, mon.” says a troll.

Jarmuul, a troll with exceptional size, swings at his opponent with his weapon—a former pine tree, complete with branches and needles. His target is a small, female orc outfitted with a short straight staff.

“Zilog go sleep nuw!” Jarmuul says, as he takes a wide swing at the orc. Once again his attack is deftly avoided and countered.

Captain Krange, accompanied by Corporal Gash, strides up to watch the match. He wanted to observe what he deemed to be his most peculiar recruit.

“Kum on, pushdog troll, end dis ting!” the crowd was impatient having watched this match go no where for so long.

“Dis lik watchin a crow fite a kodo.” The crowd laughed.

Just then, Zilog ducks under a swipe, rolls, and severs a branch from the log. Duel wielding the branch and the staff, Zilog pummels the troll’s hands, disarming him and with a quick blow to his head, sends him down to the sand.

The crowd begins cheering, but is soon silenced by the look on Krange’s face.

“Wut dis?” bellows Krange. “Dis liddul panzy orc, dishonors us!” He waves corporal Gash over. “Flog her til me say stop.”

“Mark my wurds, everyash.

DUB PAWS ASH SPLITT’R!

Zilog, confused, is hauled away to the flogging post.

Part II

Krange, captain and chief of the Zoram Guard, ruled the secluded Zoram Gar outpost. His face criss-crossed with scars from 20 seasons of service. Although established by Thrall, the outpost neither received nor expected any support from Orgrimmar over the long years. Members of the Guard were born and raised at the outpost. At the Zoram Gar, Krange’s word was law.

Being on the edge of elflands, Zoram Gar was forever plagued by elven onslaughts. Defense against them was the outpost’s top priority. Krange’s contempt of the elves grew steadily over his 20 years. His hate of the elves began to shape all his policies over time. Looking out over the battlements, year after year, Krange would observe and compensate for what he saw and hated. Whatever an elf did, Krange hated.

Elves wore bright colored clothing—then the guard would coat theirs with soot. They had long flowing hair—then the guard would forever shave their heads. Even the use of bows, necessary, for the lack of guns at the outpost, were deemed an insult to the orc made to use them.

Krange observed that elves often dual wield their weapons. Hence his command, his slogan, his phrase which sums up all his philosophy.

DUB PAWS ASH SPLITT’R!

PART III

(Days later, following a hard-fought battle with an invading force of elves and a narrow victory.)

Bloody, beaten, gear torn from the recent battle, Zilog again finds herself strapped to the flogging post awaiting punishment.

“Wat me do nuw? Me dun get why me always getting punished all da time.

Corporal Gash leans over, momentarily alone with the young warrior. “latz got lotz ta lurn.”

Zilog looks up at Gash questioningly.

“We be orks, dem ova on da udder side, dem is elbs. Dem gotz long hairs.” Gash pauses and looks at Zilog’s long brown hair. “Dem is skinny agh dey’s rogues put a weapon in each paw.”

Zilog interupts “Latz saw da fight, yub me used dub swords, bu wen me jumped frum dat tree, dey wuz confused, dey dun know wut ta do, we beat dem back, we won da fight! Agh nuw me get flogged, why?

“Nub,” Gash continues, “Dat nub da point. We be orks. Orks use da big axe. Wut dey do, we hates. If lat keep luukin like dem, nevermind dese floggins, Krange will take yur head!”

The lashes began. The young ork bit her lip. She understood finally but winced at the unfairness. Crack went the whip. She winced. Crack. Tears came but not from the pain of the lash but from the humiliation. Crack. Suddenly she realized that it was mental and that the lashes were NOT hurting. Crack. A smile grew on her tear-streaked face. Crack. She got it. Crack. Like in battle, something welled up in her. Crack. A kind of rage. Euphoria, power, welled up from the onslaught of pain. The warrior’s gift.

From then on she would seek out this feeling. Battling, provoking any conflict, anywhere as long as she received punishment, she would gain power. A warrior and an addict was born.

The flogging ended. The warrior walked slowly away. She picked up a knife and made her way to the shore. In the lapping waves she shaved her head and let the hair fall in the ocean. She did this partly to appease Krange, to stop appearing elf-like, preventing her murder at the hands of her warchief and also to mark this occasion of becoming a warrior of the horde, and to leave her old self behind.