The vote isn't actually closed yet, but is now on a timer. Demonsword was leading anyway though and I had already been thinking about writing stuff for it, so here is part of the next chapter.
The valley of the Demonsword was remarkably warm, you thought as you approached the summit of the road. The settlement was hidden high in the mountains, past jagged defiles and blind bends where any number of enemies could be held back with smaller numbers. Demonsword guides attended your journey, and hastened it to a single week, rather than the months it would take an army to attack the seat of Haomarush.
When you reached the valley though you found a verdant vale, indeed, it was much alike to the valley of the Frostwolves, now you came to think of it. You saw many buildings set out all through the valley, a square, a training ground with pells and targets, and a larger building where you felt the spirits of beasts. There were mostly orcs there, but you could still see a few trolls and ogres.
Haomarush had sent an attendant, clearly thinking it somewhat inelegant to meet you himself.
You handed your wargs to another attendant, following the first, Mazath, an orc who bore a long blade, but not the banner of an actual Blademaster, and who looked with interest at your own banner and that of Sesk's besides you.
"Now this reminds me of the old days!" Sesk remarked happily.
And indeed, you saw that the Demonsword were a far more militant clan than those you'd previously seen. Though your people were warlike, Orgrimmar, save perhaps the quarters of the Blackrock, was a peaceful city. Here though you felt an almost palpable scent of repressed violence, the feeling of a spring or concealed sinew ready to leap.
"I understand that you studied under Akinos Steelclaw?" Mazath said as you walked up the side of the valley on a wide track toward a study series of dwellings.
"I did, he taught me much, both of the sword, and how to use it." you replied. You had long ago dealt with the spectre of your master. It was a wound perhaps, but one scarred over, and that you knew Akinos would be proud of what you'd achieved was a balm indeed.
"I too have studied such matters, under Master Haomarush. It was my great desire to join your war against the Scourge, for they slew my father."
You looked at Mazri'ath, "Your father was the Blademaster, Mazrigos?" you asked. You had heard of such a warrior, but assumed he'd died some time ago. Apparently in Alterac rather than in the Second War itself. "Well," you continued, "we are kin then, for your father was of the Burning Blade, rather than of Blackrock stock."
Mazath nodded eagerly, "I was grieved that my master didn't allow me to join you, but here you are now in any case!"
You talked of small things as you climbed, but it wasn't a long trip, and soon you and your companions found yourself at Haomarush's compound. A sense of anticipation hung in the air, but you calmed your heart, surveying the area. The dwelling stood nestled in a crook of the mountain's arm, the blocky stonework of the buildings a stark contrast to the jagged landscape that surrounded it. Its design reflected a conservative yet elegant style, one favoured by the southern cultures of Draenor. It showed strength, a certain brutality perhaps, and almost completely forsook the naturalisms of other styles like those of the Frostwolves, who favoured curves or stone made to appear as bones. Some orcish clans build their houses to resemble great skulls, or the ribs of beasts, and a few clans even lived in the ancient remains of collosals, but that was far away on Draenor, and clearly Haomarush did not hold with such styles.
The Blademaster's compound was small enough. There was a courtyard, several dwellings where you saw women and children looking through shutters at you, and what was clearly the personal training ground of the Blademaster, with many standing stones etched with the marks of swordblows. Haomarush's house itself though was the largest building, a large square one with a low roof, weathered by time and the trials it had witnessed. You couldn't help but appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into its construction, recognizing the attention to detail and the pride Haomarush took in his home, indeed, you could feel the Blademaster's hand in it's working, through the history passed to you by the earth.
It was strange, it seemed the place was a place of consequence and import, despite the structures not being more than a generation old, or so you thought. You shrugged though, meeting a fine looking matron at the door who ushered you in.
Haomarush was sitting on a pile of furs in a central chamber, his sword, runes glowing fel-green, sat on a rack behind him, and you could see fresh bandages around his torso and shoulder where you'd wounded him. He rose, somewhat stiffly if you were any judge, and bowed formally. It was deeply respectful, and you returned it with the proper courtesies, falling into the Old Tongue to do so, even as you shared hospitality from perhaps the most fel-tainted orc you'd ever seen.
While some of the Warsong who'd drunk Mannoroth's blood in Ashenvale still possessed horns or large tusks, their features were somewhat faded over time. For Haomarush however, you saw that clearly he had drunk deeply and often of the Fel. His condition was unchanged since your duel, his horns grew prodigiously, curving like a beasts, and his tusks were sharp, the scales covering parts of his form hard and flinty in the light.
"May the Spirits of my home welcome you." the Blademaster said, gesturing for you and your party to sit.
"May our visit honour the Spirits of your home." you replied, completing the formula.
You grinned as you saw that Haomarush had prepared racks for yours and Sesk's blades, and you took advantage of them, the other Blademaster smiling also, happily abandoning his weapon and throwing himself down on the furs that surrounded a low table in the middle of the room.
Your party lounged around, Vark here with one leg up, leaning on his arm, Kartha there with a hand down as she removed her weapons to lay them beside her. Gol'dir the Frostwolf and a few others were also there, Sorek had attended you as your own apprentice, and he sat slightly behind you, afforded less honour than you, Vark and Sesk, who had the greatest rank.
It was clear that Haomarush wished to leave a lasting impression on you, his esteemed guest, showcasing the strength and unity of the Demonsword Clan, yet also his own courtesy. It was working, but you couldn't help but feel a sense of curiosity about both the Blademaster and his clan.
As the formalities of introduction passed, the gathering of orcs engaged in a series of polite remarks and pleasantries. The atmosphere was charged with a blend of respect and curiosity, each participant carefully choosing their words to maintain a harmonious and welcoming environment. Indeed, you'd instructed them all on that before the journey. Topics ranged from minor news and stories to Vark's attempts at Warsong jokes, which only seem to confuse Haomarush. You spoke of your battles against the Scourge and the Demonsword orcs made all the right noises of approval.
Haomarush ensured that everyone felt included in the conversation, in what you regarded as a skilful display of diplomacy, indeed it inspired you to do the same, enquiring further regarding Mazath's father, or the particular others who sat with you. Both you and Haomarush were at pains to display your mutual understanding of tradition and history, and following your example he declaimed poetry of the ancient odes of Draenor. You recognised each one, your father had taught you well.
"Your speech is worthy indeed, Haomarush." you said at length following one particularly melancholy verse. "If only such culture was still present in our race. In the nights of Orgrimmar the lok'vadnod are still sung, but few remembered the older stories and tellings."
"Much was the thoughts of my master, Jubei'thos, before his fall." Haomarush said heavily. "He secured our clan here, but he would often fall into black depression, or wander in the mountains to meditate."
"It is a malady that affects many Blademasters." you agreed, "Master Saruk spoke of it to me, and Akinos too. It is my hope that my father might continue to bring them together in war, and in doing so preserve our traditions."
"Your father may," Sesk said, "but his works are a holding action at best. No, if it is any which revive the Burning Blade it will be you."
You were silent at that. Your people were not ones for false modesty, and indeed it was probably true, and was a task you had set yourself previously in any case. You were the youngest Blademaster in a generation, just as Thrall had been the youngest shaman in many years.
It was a heavy duty, but one you accepted. For now though, you turned the conversation to different matters, and as the conversation flowed, Haomarush took a moment to provide a brief account of the history of the Demonsword Clan. He spoke of their origins within the ranks of the Blackrock Orcs, their settlement in Alterac, and their rise to prominence under the leadership of Jubei'thos. There was old alliance between Burning Blade and Blackrock, that you knew, and further you knew many Blademasters had been lent as generals to the more numerous Blackrock. Jubei'thos was perhaps the foremost of them, and it seemed had gained great authority and a strong hegemony over the orcs of northern Lordaeron in the years after the Second War. There had been talks between him and Grommash Hellscream, one of the only other chiefs to remain free and in command of a large force following Doomhammer's capture at the gates of Lordaeron's capital. Haomarush emphasized the challenges the Demonsword had faced, and the subsequent trials that had tested their mettle.
You listened intently. You listened as Haomarush narrated his tale. The Blackrock orcs under Jubei'thos had settled in this valley relatively late, they'd wandered for several years after the Second War, apparently their leader unable to decide whether to make across Khaz Modan to Blackrock Mountain or to try and stay in Alterac, allied in some fashion with the humans who would go onto form the Syndicate. Eventually, Jubei'thos had discovered a hidden mountain valley blessed with natural hot springs, a place of both beauty and danger.
Settling in this secluded valley, the Demonsword found themselves surrounded by unique geological formations influenced by the hot springs. The orcs encountered native yetis that used the springs as a source of warmth and sustenance, but apparently had slaughtered them all, ultimately claiming the hot springs as their own and building their settlement around the spring and its warmth, allowing them to cultivate crops stolen from human granaries.
While Jubei'thos' command was a military unit, his orcs preserved some of the traditions of the Blackrock, and with their connection to the spirits they compelled the earth to bring forth metals, and harnessed the energies of the earth for other things. While not as skilled as their brethren in the main Blackrock clan, the orcs of Alterac managed to uncover valuable resources, though with less proficiency and finesse.
"It is easy to bargain and compel the Elementals of this place." Haomarush said, drawing his finger in a circle, "You see, the Earthblood flows up from deep underground, and carries elementals and minerals both. They are often curious and unused to life beyond the Elemental Planes, we often harness them for a time, and while they break free, they flee for safety, so unused to existence on this Plane. I know you hold a powerful Spirit in your thrall, Grok'mash. Would that we had such a servant, for with it each of my warriors would have warplate, where only my guards do now."
The peaceful days in Alterac were abruptly disrupted during the Scourging of Lordaeron. The Demonsword Clan faced a devastating assault, resulting in the fall of their leader, Jubei'thos. Haomarush had been wounded and awoken to a changes world, his clan barely more than a hundred individuals in the aftermath. After their grief had come determination though, and a determination to rebuild their strength.
With only a few hundred orcs left, Haomarush devised a controversial strategy to replenish their numbers. Utilizing the Fel magic of his warlocks, as well as his own experience, he accelerated the ageing process of orcish children, effectively increasing the population in a short span of time. Five years later, the Demonsword Clan had grown to thousands of orcs, with the original veterans now leading cohorts of artificially aged young orcs.
Discipline became the hallmark of the clan, blending the regimentation of the Blackrock tradition with the unwavering focus of the Burning Blade. The older orc officers, having succumbed to the corruption of Fel magic, became Fel Orcs, while the younger generation remained untainted. Only those who displayed control over their bloodlust and violent impulses were granted the coveted Fel infusion, given elaborate collars and gorgets of steel, set with dark runes and inlaid with fire opals, ripped from the Earth's bosom.
Your people had gone through much adversity in recent years, that you knew well, but to hear of the Demonsword's struggles amazed you. Yes, Blackhand had ordered that every Orc child be aged artificially in such a manner before the invasion of Azeroth, but to grow a population so quickly was astounding.
You listened intently as Haomarush spoke, and for the first time you noticed that each of the attendant women around the room were pregnant. How many children had each of them borne? How old were they? You weren't entirely sure how the process actually worked, for that was a use of the Fel your father had never spoken of. If a hundred Orcs bred five children each, who in turn grew and bore five children themselves, that would get up to the numbers the Demonsword now enjoyed.
There was immense strength here. That much was plain, but you felt once again that bent sinew. The Demonsword was a terrible beast indeed, one so close to springing upon it's prey that you feared it might shatter itself in it's attack. It would be so easy to shatter them, for like a sword with a critical fault, they might only bear a single blow against them, whether the death of Haomarush, or an overindulgence of the Fel, and they would break.
Presently a female approached, her metal marking her as Haomarush's principal wife. She was Ralga, a worthy woman who poured tea gracefully while her comrades, no doubt the Blademaster's other wives, set bone cups at your party's sides. The scent of tea swiftly filled the room, it was pure and pleasant, a mix of mountain flowers and herbs, you judged, and you sipped after Haomarush had brought this own cup to his mouth. While polygamy wasn't unknown, especially among the southern clans in Tanaan Jungle, it was at least unusual in Thrall's New Horde, in which the norms of gender and position had been much changed. You supposed in Haomarush's community, it might be even more common, and you suspected infanticide might also be more prevalent.
The first pot of tea was swiftly expended with yet more polite conversation, Ralga brought another bot. This one steamed, and from his robes Haomarush took a slim vial, removing the stopper, then carefully letting a single drop of green liquid fall into the cup before him. He turned to you, extending the vial.
It was clearly demonblood, or something very like it you suspected. You took the vial, half considering refusing, but then let a drop slip into your cup too, then passed the vial onto Vark and the others.
Haomarush's keen eyes scanned the faces of his guests, noting their reactions while ensuring his own expression remained composed.
The Blademaster had made his addition without subterfuge, and from what you'd seen and what you could feel through the Earth, it was unlikely Mannoroth was hiding in the tea pot, and so you put the cup to your mouth and sipped.
The once delicate and soothing fragrance of the herbs now carried a hint of sinister undertones, a subtle reminder of the fel magic it was infused with. You didn't think it was felblood, but perhaps some derived substance. You had seen such commodities growing up, for your father was Elder Warlock of the Horde after all, but it was still unusual to you, and your taste buds were immediately assailed by a potent mixture of flavours. The herbaceous notes of the tea battled against the metallic tang of the demonblood, creating a peculiar and disconcerting contrast. The result was a concoction that possessed a bitter and slightly acrid quality, leaving a lingering aftertaste that hinted at forbidden power. It was seductive, bringing an unexpected richness to the tea, yet it also carried an undeniable darkness. The stuff left a slight warmth in your mouth and throat as you drank, a sensation that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the chaotic forces from which it originated.
It was an experience that lingered, leaving an indelible impression on the palate, a mingling of herbs and the essence of fel that you would not soon forget.
Haomarush did not mention the vial, you supposed it may seem usual to him, or perhaps knowing your father's occupation perhaps he assumed you were used to such additions, but in any case, during the lull in conversation, the Blademaster casually mentioned his large family, proudly noting that he was expecting his twentieth child. You were somewhat caught off guard by the revelation and felt a momentary lapse in his composure, struggling to do much more than awkwardly congratulate as you raised your eyebrows in a quick look to Vark.
It seemed to go down well though, for several of the wives laughed quietly at your recovery. The awkwardness of the moment dissipated as they recognized the unfamiliarity of orcish customs within different clans. You supposed that if you were to travel more you would have to get used to such things. If you dined with the Chief of the Bonechewers, would you sup upon orcish flesh, as was their custom? Perhaps, but there were limits to courtesy…
Throughout the tea ceremony, you subtly surveyed the interactions within the room. Your gaze occasionally shifted towards Vark, the Mok'Nathal chieftain surveying the Demonsword clan with a piercing gaze, eyes occasionally growing unfocused as your brother considered some deep matter. Vark, you supposed due to his unique situation, sometimes had unorthodox thoughts, and you discreetly observed his demeanour, monitoring his actions and ensuring that he remained respectful towards Haomarush's wives, especially as his eyes moved over them. With a hint of relief, you noted that Vark's gaze remained fixed on his cup, his attention seemingly captivated by the intricate patterns adorning it.
Content that Vark was not causing any unintended offence, you shifted your focus back to the ongoing conversation, allowing himself to become fully engaged in the exchange between Haomarush and the others. It was time to broad one issue more closely perhaps.
"Haomarush," you addressed the chief directly, "How did Jubei'thos come from being dead in Alterac to fighting me in Kalimdor?"
"Grok'mash," Haomarush began, his voice carrying a weight of sombreness, "Jubei'thos, our esteemed former chief, met his end during the Scourging of Lordaeron. The cataclysmic events took their toll, and he fell valiantly in battle, defending our people with unwavering courage."
Haomarush's gaze intensified, his eyes narrowing as he recounted the tale. "Yet, there is a shadow that lingers over his demise. One fateful night, as I stood to watch over Jubei'thos' grave, I witnessed shadowy figures lurking, their intentions unknown. Fuelled by my loyalty and duty, I charged at them, seeking to protect the sanctity of our fallen chief." Haomarush continued, his voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and concern. "Alas, the shadowy figures proved to be formidable adversaries, preventing me from reaching the grave. By the time I managed to overcome their resistance, I discovered that Jubei'thos' body had vanished, leaving behind only questions and a lingering sense of treachery."
You frowned. There was little to go on, but you leant forward, "Shadowy figures, you say? Do you have any insights into their identity?"
Haomarush's expression tightened, his eyes gleaming with a glimmer of determination. "Regrettably, my efforts to uncover their true nature have thus far been fruitless. The truth behind Jubei'thos' fate must be unveiled, for the honor of our clan and the memory of our fallen chief."
You nodded, "This is surely so." you replied, courtesy ruling you once more.
A tour of the settlement followed, you viewed the Oreseekers and the smiths, the warriors at their training, the neat rows of the orchards up in the valley sides, and you sat with Haomarush many a time as he set about the ruling of his clan.
It was, overall, a somewhat awkward experience, but a worthy one. The Blademaster was able enough to steer conversations away from any problematic topic, such as the precise nature of your authority over the Demonsword Clan, and it was clear enough to each of you whenever you found some snag and were forced to fall back on your courtesy.
It was at a unique ceremony where this came to a head, and it was after when you were climbing back down the mountain trails into the human lands when you considered it more.
"A grim spectacle." Gol'dir remarked as you rode, and you nodded.
"A grim folk." Vark replied.
It had indeed been grim, but that was the way of the world you supposed.
In a ceremony of adulthood, the om'riggor ritual common among your people, several adolescents had competed in a show battle for your and Haomarush's viewing. Following this, the victor of the battle, and last one standing, had been offered the Fel. Haomarush's attendant warlock had stepped forward, sending a torrent of green energy into the girl.
Immediately something seemed to go wrong, for when the warlock had finished the child was grossly mutated, and you saw Haomarush curse immediately.
"Control it, girl!" the Blademaster had roared, readying his blade. He sat, ready to spring, but as the smoke cleared the mutant roared, struggling with themselves, clawing at their own flesh and ripping gouges of muscle away.
"Too weak." One of Haomarush's wives had remarked, stroking her belly with one hand, "End it, my chief."
With a snarl the Chief of the Demonsword leapt from his seat, his sword flashing down on the girl in the arena, severing her neck with one precise blow.
You'd drawn your own sword, but as Haomarush ordered the child's body be thrown into the furnaces to give strength to the clan's swords, you'd set your own weapon down, staring at the patch of cracked earth where the young orc had died.
Your people were ruled by custom. You were too. More than that, your people were ruled by honour, but you'd often thought honour was a yoke as well. You were bound by it, just as Haomarush was bound to slay children, perhaps his own even, by the dictates of his community.
The Demonsword were a terrible clan. Harsher, crueller perhaps, than any other you could think of.
But you knew now why they had become so.
