Starting on the Offensive ((Cahoot, plus any others))

[Gortuk]

The hot sun caressed the jagged cliffs of Durotar between Orgrimmar and Razor Hill, and despite their height even the cracked earth threatened to scald Gortuk’s bare paws. There was no wind that day, other than the wind he made for himself, and he welcomed it as the froth from his fur built up around his shoulders and mane. He didn’t need that wind though, or the water that the goblin at the beginning of the pass was peddling. Such comforting things were for weaker bodies and weaker wills, those that didn’t have the strength to carry along on their own.

With a howl he had entered the canyon, racing past the nooks and crannies where the harpies lived like rabbits hiding in a lion’s den. They weren’t his concern, so long as they stayed in their rabbit holes. His focus was the task at hand and no other should cause him to stray from it; the soldier’s first rule. He’d leave the miscreants of the canyon for those who were still in training.

Gortuk’s paws clicked and clacked as he ran through, causing small rocks to shift and fall from their place on the ledges bordering the road. They created a sharp and crisp sound, like that of swords at a nervous Orc’s hip clanging against those next to him in a phalanx. It reminded him of the war, of marching up those man-made roads towards the tall stone walls, towards his prey, towards victory and glory for the Horde. It reminded him of his soldiers, the boys that were his to care for. It reminded him of the pride he felt when their axes sliced through human flesh and folded steal. It reminded him of the pride he felt when they pressed on bloodied and broken, only kept alive by the spirits that healed through him. It reminded him of the pride he felt when they fell, tangled in the legs of knight’s horses, refusing to go down without at least one more foe to lead the way to the afterlife. It reminded him of the pride that wasn’t his, but was his blood’s; the result of his people’s curse. Gortuk continued down the road, choosing to not be reminded anymore.

When he smelled the sulfur of the working forge, Gortuk knew he was close to Razor Hill. He ran into town and looked to his right at the forgemaster’s workplace, with Orcs working hard to keep the flames burning and keep the metal clanging. Oraias wouldn’t have been there, he knew, but that didn’t stop him from thinking about the warrior smithy. Oraias was the reason he had even come out here, and Gortuk hoped it was a good enough reason to have made the journey. There were plenty of young Orcs and Trolls in the Conclave of Orgrimmar that he had authority over. He could have used one of them for this task. But no, at first mention of the mission Oraias insisted that he seek out a new trainee instead. A young and untrained child will be more of a liability than a help, Gortuk had told him, but Oraias maintained that trip would be worth it, even if it didn’t seem that way at first. Gortuk could remember when he had sent Oraias, a bent over and broken shell of an Orc, to the hills to train, his crude axe dragging behind him. He had transformed so much since that day, reverted back to his former self, and even surpassed himself. Gortuk was proud of him, and he knew that this pride was his own. Chuckling at the thought of having to whip another Orc back into shape, Gortuk turned and head into the village’s main hut where he knew he would find the trainers. He had an appointment to keep.

Howling again at the hot sun, Gortuk called on the spirits to return his physical form to him then stepped into the shade of the hut.

[Vilmah]

It had been a very long time since she'd come to Razor Hill.

Today, she was busy paying another visit to the Darkspear Tribe's small village on the coast. She went there periodically for riding lessons, hoping that someday she'd have their approval, and the skill to ride a raptor the way they did. While she was proud of her heritage, and more proud of her talbuk than anything else she owned, the idea of being looked at with respect in the eyes of the Darkspear was something she'd always wanted.

It was an unusually hot day, something she usually enjoyed. However she hadn't planned ahead, and found herself thirsting for something other than hot Durotar air. Dismounting from Shiny, her silver talbuk, Vilmah went inside of one of the buildings in Razor Hill, where she knew they sold cheap rations for trainees. The smell of meat was harsh in the air, and she forced down dry heaves while asking for a waterskin.

[Cahoot]

The burn felt good. Cahoot's muscles ached with the repetitions, but she bit down against the fatigue and finished the set.

Her legs were splayed out shoulder width apart in the sands of the training circle. Slightly bent over forward, a stone dumbell in each hand she drew the weights straight up to her ample chest, then slowly lowered them. Next upward pull she brought her arms out to the sides in a butterfly spread, then slowly controlled the downward return. The muscles of her bare back and neck rippled with each pump, her tendons taught as steel wire showing through her olive skin. Dressed in only a set of linen shorts and a very skimpy tank top, she was attracting a small crowd of male rubberneckers. They were gathered in a cluster behind her, whispering and chuckling amongst themselves as they watched her workout. Every now and then she caught some snippet of their talk, confirming her suspicions they were not discussing the weather.

Cahoot shut them out of her mind, concentrating on her exercises. Tarshaw had told her that there would be days like this.

"Men will be men and boys will be boys. But more than that warriors will be warriors. A Warrior is born with Three Things:

A Body, A Mind, and A Spirit.

The Body is born with speed, dexterity and reflexes. Skills can be learned, but the gifts of a warrior born are rare. Battle is where we exercise out gifts.

The Mind is born with creativity, ingenuity and common sense. We hone each as the Mind is perhaps the greatest weapon a warrior born wields. We make mistakes, and we learn from the mistakes, building wisdom.

The Spirit is born with Honor, Truth and Integrity. While battles can be foought and won with the Body, and wars can be fought and won with the Mind, it is the Spirit that tests the personal mettle of the Warrior born. Spirit that only you can train.

Warriors live on the edge. We live fast and hard, for tomorrow we may die. To outsiders we may seem crass and crude at times. They do not understand. They are not warriors."

Cahoot was starting to understand what he meant. Yes, the men behind her were being lewd, yes they commented on her physique. But yes, to a man they would fight back to back with her without a seconds hesitation. Warriors all, they would practice their three gifts.

Besides, she had to admit she felt a tiny bit of selfish satisfaction that she seemed to illicit the comments. She never got that at home, more often than not she was ridiculed for her lazy eye.

As she finished the last few repetitions she heard the growling voice of Tarshaw resonate through the training hall.

" You there! Are all the quillboars driven from the lands that you have time to gawk at a fellow trainee? Off with you! Or shall I find something more challenging than the boar people to occupy your free time? "

A brief and hasty shuffle of feet behind her as the small group disintegrated and left the hall to venture out into the hot Durotar sun.

" Cahoot! There is someone here to see you.. "

[Taknar]

Gortuk paced back and forth, his cloak gathering up the dusk around him and working the rock beneath him to a crude sort of polish. The cloak was red, with furred black trim running down along the sides. It sat heavy on his mail shoulder pad. He hated the thing, as it looked completely unnecessary. To him and any other Orc, it was unnecessary. The Forsaken of the Conclave expected him to wear it though on any business of the facility, of which this was. For three years he had lead that Conclave of researchers and carried the burden which the cloak signified. Even after passing off the title of Lead Researcher to Vicktor Ulgaf, a Forsaken sent by the RAS, they insisted he keep the cloak in his new position of Orgrimmar Representative. There was no one in the hut judge him for it though, and in the small town Gortuk doubted any would even recognize the significance of it. With a chuckle he threw it off his back and kicked it along the ground near some hanging meat. There, Gortuk thought to himself with a smirk. I finally found a rack that that cloak deserves.

He sat down in the hut's central circle, placing down four wooden totems as he did so. He didn't know how far Tarshaw had to head to get his student, but Gortuk figured he had enough time for a little meditation. His initial meeting with the man had been quick and directly to the point. Gortuk asked the usual questions about the child: Was she skilled? How much training had she had? How many battles? How naturally did she take to the fighting? Tarshaw had assured him that Cahoot was up to whatever task it was that he had for her. Naturally, Gortuk was impressed in the trust that the trainer had in his student, but Tarshaw didn't know what task Gortuk had planned for the two of them. He started to wonder if he had made the right choice in coming down to Razor Hill when his thought was interrupted by the sound of plated feet walking on the stone of the hut. He raised his eye to the other traveler in the room, but she was still eagerly scarfing down the rations that she had purchased minutes before. That could mean only one thing; the child had arrived.

Gortuk quickly stood and collected his totems up, smiling as the refreshing connection to the spirits energized his soul. He looked to the door where Cahoot and Tarshaw were entering, and as soon as he looked upon the child's face his grin got even larger; a farmgirl. Oraias had sent him to a farmgirl, likely a child wanting to run away from responsibility or some such. He hoped he was right in his appraisal as he saluted the young warrior before him. Hanging around a bit with a rebel would do him some good.

"I am Gortuk Spiritcaller," he called out towards Cahoot in a loud and directed voice, trying to catch her off guard. "You have been summoned. Have you come to serve the Horde?"

[Gortuk]

((Whoops, that was me. If you need more info about Gortuk, just ask))

[Cahoot]

As Tarshaw led her towards one of the large training huts Cahoot’s mind swirled with possibilities and doubt. Who could be asking for her? Inside she half dreaded that it was her Pa, who had tracked her down and was now demanding her return to the farm, and to her arranged marriage.

No! I will not go back. He can’t make me.

She was initially relieved to see that it wasn’t Pa, but still her apprehension remained as she came face to face with a silvery haired orc of considerable size. His skin was a vibrant green, his brown eyes piercing. Clad in mail and standing in the training circle he made an imposing figure.

He saluted, and Cahoot returned the salute as she had been taught. Excused himself leaving her alone with the man. No, not alone. In the corner she could make out the silhouette of a woman clad in plate mail. Something about her was familiar, but in the darkness she couldn’t be sure.

Glancing around she saw that the circle was lined with several totems, the purpose of which Cahoot had no idea. She never paid much attention to the spiritual doings of the shaman in her community.

Her attention was brought back to the orc as he spoke.

"I am Gortuk Spiritcaller," he said in a loud and direct voice. "You have been summoned. Have you come to serve the Horde?"

Cahoot nodded. She hadn’t thought of it that way before, but she knew she was serving Thrall, and Thrall meant the Horde.

“ I am.. I mean, I have. “ she said. She was suddenly self conscious of the fact she was still in her exercise clothes and didn’t look at all the warrior she was training to become. She drew herself up straight, shoulders back, feet together and raised her chin. She meant to show this orc she was brave, and strong, regardless of her appearance.

“ I am Cahoot Stonehammer. Warrior in training and servant of Thrall.” She said, trying to keep any hint of nerves out of her voice.

“ You asked to see me Sir? “