Orgrimmar On Ice

((This is a non-canon story for and about members of GLORIOUS GUILD Dagger and Totem, and featuring cameos from Big Chingo and Rensvind. I imagine it'll get quite long by the end, containing a few in-jokes, and at least one building getting blown up. Enjoy!))
For all his captor was a shaman, he chose to interrogate in an awfully morbid room. There were no windows to let in light, but even if there were, the sunshine would have a difficult job in making the place look lively – drab brown paint caked the walls, put there by someone who couldn’t care less.
The ceiling was low, and the only furnishing in the entire room was a rug in the form of a dead centaur. It stank. But then again, everyone in this room stank. Copious amounts of sweat and blood must have been shed because Chingo could take in all kinds of stomach-churning scents. He didn’t even try and hide his abject disgust.
And for the fourth time in as many minutes…
‘We should kill them,’ said Rensvind.
The dwarf was sitting next to him, far too close to comfort. They had been tied together, and then to the floor, with the kind of rope that only orcs could make. It was, and Chingo had discovered this after two hours of being tangled in it, really quite uncomfortable, but it served its practical purpose: to keep the gnome and dwarf from getting up and escaping.
‘No Renners,’ said Chingo. ‘We shouldn’t kill ‘em. We’d be killed by their mates on the spot.’
‘I think their mates might be at home leading unhappy lives, Chingo.’
‘I meant their bloody friends, yer git.’
They had, at least, been treated like prisoners that no one wanted to injure. The rope might have been stiff, but Chingo guessed that this was the most diplomatic option available in Orgrimmar. Outside, he’d seen chains of cobalt ready to be used, but the guards hadn’t touched those.
They hadn’t been blindfolded either. Rensvind had been told to keep his head down only once, and that was because he was giving a Tauren a provocative look. The dwarf had suddenly become extremely patriotic to jingoistic lengths since the two had been found and apprehended in Warsong Hold. On the zeppelin ride over to Orgrimmar, he had even seen fit to belt out the Ironforge national anthem. It had actually been tolerated.
Chingo, however, was a little less rebellious. He had kept quiet, which was very unusual for him. Rensvind kept asking him if he had a plan. Chingo kept saying no. It was partly this polite approach to becoming a prisoner a war that had allowed the wizard to keep his pointy hat on, though one of the more “comedic” Orgrimmar grunts had seen fit to squash it slightly with his hand.
‘We’re being left to stew, Chingo.’
‘I know, Renners. They’ll be here any minute now.’
‘I told you not to kill that Nerubian.’
Chingo blinked in the shrouded darkness. He gave his friend an astonished look. ‘It was trying to press down on the trigger, Renners. If that dynamite had went off, we’d be toast, Warsong Hold would be toast, and the Lich King would hold a toast for the Nerubians.’
‘I know all about explosives. The trigger was too stiff for a little one like that to shift.’
‘No Renners, what yer got is a damned creepy troll friend who writes letters to yer in worse Common than I do. That doesn’t make yer an expert.’
‘He sends me guidebooks,’ retorted Rensvind, keeping himself very still. Apart from his hands. They were fidgeting with the rope.
‘Guidebooks written in Troll.’
‘Informative pictures,’ said Rensvind. ‘Plus, the covers are worth it for the collector’s value alone.’ Rensvind scowled inside of his helm, and then gave a heavy breath. ‘What’s your diplomatic line going to be tonight, anyway?’
‘Gonna tell the truth.’
‘They won’t buy it.’
‘They will.’
‘They won’t.’
‘I bet yer a fiver they will.’
‘You’re on.’ 
----
Being at the end of a line of Daggers and Totems on the move was a bit like placing both hands firmly on the tail of a rattlesnake. It was an ordeal destined to be unpredictable, exciting in the bad sense, and something that one had very little say or influence over. Oh sure, there were phrases to shout like “Not so fast!” and “Change direction!” but these were suggestions unlikely to be taken seriously. The real power belonged to those up front: The Chieftain, the Den Mother, and the Sergeants (one of whom had a cobra, which was almost a rattlesnake, but not quite).
Corporal Hodges, on the other hand, was flanked by Grunts Naudiz and Rowka, and whilst these two were very good examples of Grunts, between them they had all the willingness to exert authority as a gutted trout.
For example, when it was time to move from the Crossroads to head on their current journey to the Far Watch Post, Hodges had suggested to Rowka that it was time to summon the other grunts back from trying to get Zargh the butcher to reveal all about his relationship with Innkeeper Gryshka. Rowka’s response to this had been to say no. She too, was quite interested. It had therefore been up to Hodges to butt in, partly to commend Zargh on such excellent usage of lion meat, and partly to inform the Daggers under his command that, actually, he could be a butcher too.
The Chieftain just didn’t seem to get it. He seemed to think that Hodges was perfectly capable of leading a whole bunch of Daggers. There was a dozen or so under his direct command right now, and it was ultimately very tiresome.
Wearing his trusty mail coif that had somehow remained in his possession since his death, Hodges kept a loose grip on the reins of his Warhorse. He only held them out of habit. His undead steed was devoid of any mental or physical resistance now, and did not need any coaxing at all. It was eerily peaceful, despite the fact that its bones had been stripped of all skin, and its once vibrant attire had been reduced to mere dull green tatters. Naudiz’s Deathcharger, on the other hand, looked proud to be dead. Hodges was jealous, but jealously had to compete with the rest of his bemusement.
‘Do you think most of Orgrimmar realizes how important that victory was, you two?’ he asked. He lifted his right palm to his forehead to sooth the constant ache that had traveled with him since he had been struck. It was a Dagger and Totem tradition not to get cleaned up or fully healed until after the return to Orgrimmar. And Hodges had obviously honoured this tradition closely, judging by all the mud that had hardened itself upon his spaulders, becoming almost as part of the armour as the plate itself.
‘They never saw the threat,’ said Rowka. ‘So no. They’ll just go on living.’
‘Aw, wanted appreciation, Corporal?’ grinned Naudiz. The Corporal leered at her through ghostly yellow eyes.
‘I’d like some acknowledgement, that’s all. We did just put down an entire fortress of spirits.’
‘But they weren’t Scourge,’ said Rowka. ‘Not Legion. They were just a new enemy who could have become bigger.’
Hodges shrugged. The masked rogue was right, of course. The Forsaken knew from his own decidedly unpleasant experiences that people were reluctant to get worked up about new threats. Whatever they were told, however many told them, the Average Grag was fully prepared to believe that it wouldn’t be any serious danger. “Ah,” they’d say, “but what happened the last time we were warned about kobolds/spirits/bandits/floods and (Hodges’ favourite example) plagues?”
Well, what probably happened, thought Hodges as he sensed in himself a rant coming on, was that the soldiers of Lordaeron, or these days the Horde, got off their backsides and charged into the situation at large, endangering themselves whilst making safe the lives of others.
‘They’d probably be a lot less complacent if Orgrimmar itself was subject to those spirits rampaging around,’ he said, glaring at a skull that had been strategically placed on the roadside. It was centaur, by the looks of things.
‘We can’t let that happen just to prove a point, Corporal,’ said Rowka testily.
‘Oh yes, I know,’ said Hodges, aware that he was sounding rather anti-Horde with his voiced musings. ‘I suppose the Chieftain has something nice lined up for us, in any case.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Naudiz, her blue eyes flashing. ‘Forsaken dancers ready to shake their hips.’
Hodges blinked. ‘Really?’
‘No,’ grinned Naudiz, slapping her riding companion on the shoulder. The corporal grimaced.
‘There’ll be a feast,’ said Rowka, with certainty. It looked like, if her eyes were any indication, she longed for such a reward. ‘With pork.’
‘I don’t eat pork,’ said Hodges.
‘Neither do I,’ said Naudiz.
‘More for the rest of us then,’ said Rowka.
----
Further up the line, deep in the mass of grunts eager to get home, Ciite Stonemane and Awqe were discussing the intricacies of mining.
‘That Truesilver was mine, Awqe,’ stated the Tauren warrior. As ever, she was submerged in layers and layers of heavy armour that she somehow could still walk in. Everything about her attire, from the humungous helm to the boots that looked more like the foundations of temple pillars suggested that no mortal could feasibly fit inside and produce anything more lively than stressing that their spine was going to snap with the weight. But here she was, perched on top of a kodo with hooded eyes.
‘What Truesilver?’ asked Awqe. He looked at her through his battle-goggles.
‘The Truesilver back in Desolace, that you stole from me.’
Awqe shrugged. ‘Oh, dat Truesilver. Dat was Awqe’s, mon. It called outta Awqe.’
‘What?’ asked Ciite.
‘It called out to Awqe, mon. Dere it was, in Awqe’s mind. “Come to me, Awqe, for I got gooood things to be givin’ ya.” Dat’s what it said.’
Ciite rolled her left shoulder, and didn’t remove her gaze from Awqe for a second. ‘I saw it first, Awqe. Then you jumped off your little ledge, and started to hammer away at it. You can’t deny that.’
‘Yah, cannot,’ agreed Awqe, nodding. ‘But dat Truesilver mon, dat didn’t want to be mined by just anybody! It be wanting a real hero! It wanted Awqe!’
‘Garbage.’
‘Naw, dat be da truth, Cee-tah. Yah could ask it, but Awqe don’t think ya attuned.’
‘What do you mean, attuned?’
‘Well mon,’ muttered Awqe, and there was something ultimately very solemn and sorrowful about his voice. ‘Ya be one a dose t’ings.’
‘One of what, Awqe?’ asked Ciite, leaning towards the troll. She glared, but she have really known by this point that glaring had absolutely no effect on the Cook of Dagger and Totem. She glanced away, up and down the mounted line, and caught sight of Gulgrim s!%#*#*ing – something that stopped as soon as they met eyes.
The troll, for his part, straightened up in his raptor’s saddle. He shook his head, and focused on the gravel path ahead. ‘Can’t say, mon. Would break ya heart.’
‘Awqe, I’ll do more than break your heart if you don’t tell me.’
‘I be taking in your threat, Cee-tah. Awqe be crestfallen dat ya should fall to such levels, mon. Awqe only try’na help.’
Ciite sighed. Sometimes she really didn’t understand the troll rogue/assassin/thief/cook that had been in the clan since she had joined. He was practically family. They had, over the years, been on lots of “wacky adventures”, in which the troll had provided the catalysts for ever more dangerous situations, with seemingly invisible rewards. He had the very special knack for saying things that would annoy others. To his Chieftain, he professed to being a shaman, to his Den Mother, he gave her no end of compliments, and to his former Stone Guard, he spoke in riddles.
‘I’m sure I can take it, Awqe. Now, out with it.’
Awqe seemed to consider things, before shrugging. ‘Ya be a blacksmith, mon,’ said the rogue shortly. ‘Dere. Awqe said it.’
‘That’s it?’ Ciite asked. ‘You seriously expect me to believe this… Truesilver “called” to you and not to me because I’m a blacksmith and you’re… an engineer?’
‘Ya, dat’s it, mon,’ nodded Awqe. Ciite’s dubious look commanded him to explain himself. ‘Well mon, it’s like dis. Dat Truesilver which is now in Awqe’s bag… dat wants great t’ings outta itself! It wants to be King! It wants to give dis world hope, an’ dreams, and all sorts of cool stuff. Dat’s possible with engineering, mon. Dat ain’t so possible wit’ blacksmithing.’
‘If I had have got it, it could have went to armour and weapons!’ replied Ciite hotly.
‘Pff! Da Truesilver ain’t interested in dat, mon. Da Truesilver is interested in being a ‘copter! Or a hand-mounted rocket launcher, mon! Or an affordable, classy repair bot! Dat’s stuff dat yah blacksmiths can’t provide. Da Truesilver ain’t fooled!’
It was just luck, thought Ciite, that fighting alongside the clan was rare. Normally, she would be in Icecrown, within the Citadel itself, waiting impatiently for the next chance to strike at the very highest agents of the Lich King. But Desolace had required her attention – it was Thunder Bluff land, or so the Tauren state claimed. The uprising of spirits had been brutal, but thankfully to the efforts of the Daggers, relatively brief. Once the day was over, and the celebrations done with, she’d be back on the zeppelin for Warsong Hold, and would then fly back into the breach. She owed that to the Horde.
----
Four shamans, all mounted upon brooding wolves further down the line, had been watching the exchange between Ciite and Awqe with interest. They all privately wondered when the Tauren would lose her patience and pummel Awqe’s head into a fine mash, but it appeared that Ciite had fallen silent, not prepared to feed the troll. This had ended the entertainment on the way to the Far Watch Post, and had allowed the group some valuable thinking time.
He may have been old, but Harg Mountainborn was desperate for that not to define him in the eyes if his clan-mates. It was true that he had a wrinkled face, which these days looked rather fragile. He would openly admit that his green body was thin and wiry where once it had been muscled and taut. There was no point in trying to shrug off the elderly edge to his voice, either. No. He was old.
The only badge of honour he had about being at a venerable age was the grey beard that, more than his wrinkles, his body, and his voice, confirmed that this orc was old indeed. But he wore it defiantly, as if it was a great scar upon his chin. To shamans, a beard such as the one that Harg had was a point of pride indeed – a way to inform others than they’d been weathered by the elements, remaining wild and full of life.
Gulgrim, his younger counterpart, had a less impressive beard, but at least it wasn’t grey. Harg didn’t know his comrade’s age, but he guessed at him being around twenty five. He was already accomplished, of course, but there was something about him that Harg found naïve. It wasn’t the kind of naivety to be frowned upon, but the kind that came from never having done callous, immoral, evil things.
Once, Gulgrim had told Harg, in confidence, about his shame when the elements left him when he tried to use their powers to finish off a Draenei Shaman in the Barrens. Harg had appeared to take this completely seriously, but inside he scoffed at how crestfallen Gulgrim was about the experience. He went on as if it was the end of the world – which it certainly was not. There were far, far, far worse things than the elements refusing to answer your calls for a while.
Harg cast his gaze at a hill to his left. His tongue stuck out between his tusks, and his throat went somewhat dry. Because there, in his mind’s eye, was a worse thing – where the Barrens had been, there was now the Hand of Gul’dan, gushing out its green fel, like the very worst of venoms. He hadn’t seen that image for years. Even when he went to the homeworld, he hadn’t gone looking for it; always staying away, always picking his battles elsewhere. He wondered if he would have to confront it, one day.
As reality returned, he set his eyes upon Ursala. If Gulgrim was naïve, then this one was ignorant. Again, this was not a criticism. The young shaman – and she really was young – was blossoming into something promising. True enough, the transition was slow, but this was the kind of promising that stilled the tongue of elder trainers and fooled peers into thinking their comrade would not amount to anything. Ursala clearly did have a lot to learn, and she was still, basically, a pup. She hadn’t quite grasped that trying to lecture her Chieftain on things was about as useful, or necessary, as stabbing her own toe with a kodo horn, but Harg supposed that that little eyebrow-raiser would soon be encouraged out of her. Or beaten. Whatever worked best.
What she knew, she knew well. What she was bad at, she was bad at emphatically. And while these failures to, say, take part in the noble field of cartography were glaring, they were glaring in the sense that she flagged herself up as a definite candidate for being replaced. Others would bumble along doing only half-competent jobs, and the results would therefore be underwhelming. It was a strange logic, thought Harg, but Ursala embodied it.
And then, of course, there was Cerk. That shaman had in his grasp a different breed of communion with the elements. Cerk’s shamanism was hard to nail down. It was just different. It was both demanding and referential – he would shout and he would murmur, as if he was engaged in a battle of wits and wills with the elements themselves.
His old age was different, too. Cerk was a lot less timid in his twilight years than Harg. There was more of the impatient old troll about him, more of the wizened geriatric who had a fair idea of how the world should go, and the drive to be the one to make it so. Where Harg’s old age was about reflection, Cerk’s was about conviction.
Harg had been lucky to meet these three. He’d been lucky to meet the clan as a whole, too. With them, he had an opportunity to finally fight for the good things. And with time running out, he had to take that chance with both hands. He was no longer being compelled to massacre, to cull man, woman and child alike. With the clan he had made the journey to the homeworld he would never forget. He had righted wrongs that he himself had played a part in committing. His old transgressions were still to be seen on the tortured lands of Hellfire and Netherstorm, but they had never felt so far away as he did when he battled the orcs who, for some strange, incomprehensible reason, still gave their lives to the Legion.
And that was what separated him from Gulgrim, and even from his Chieftain. They saw traitorous enemies when they set their eyes on the surviving members of the Shadow Council. But Harg saw something even worse…
‘He’s speaking, but she isn’t responding,’ said Gulgrim.
‘Dat’s da tactic,’ nodded Cerk, lifting a hand up to scratch at his tusk. It was itchy.
‘You should try that with me, Harg,’ said Ursala, nodding her head at her elder. Her black bunches of hair jiggled up and down. ‘Harg?’
‘Hmm?’ grunted the shaman. Ursala slapped him lightly on the shoulder, bringing him out of his ruminations. He stared at her for a moment. ‘Ah, just… enjoying the scenery.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Gulgrim, ‘I love quilboar vines. They add so much culture,’ said Gulgrim, sulking at the distant sight of a hostile settlement, latched on to a hillside. He shrugged his broad shoulders bitterly.
‘Can ya imagin’ whut’d be like if dey weren’t dere?’ asked Cerk, glancing at Gulgrim.
Gulgrim momentarily looked like the dumbest orc alive, a sure fire winner for the Peon of the Year competition. ‘It’d look nicer?’
‘Dere a part of da Barrens like yooo, mon,’ said Cerk. ‘Dey got their place.’
‘Well yes, Cerk,’ nodded Gulgrim. ‘Under my boot.’
Cerk snorted with laughter. ‘Ya mon. But doon’t go wishin’ dat da vines wan’t dere.’
Ursala was watching Harg intently. The older shaman gave her a bright smile. When Harg smiled, his whole face lit up, and he suddenly looked as if he’d been the recipient of an exceptionally powerful Healing Wave. ‘I was just thinking, Ursala. No need to worry.’
‘Good,’ Ursala said, giving a smile of her own. ‘I think we’ll be at the Far Watch Post soon. Then it’s into Durotar.’
‘Yah. Den it’s only annada twenty miles,’ said Cerk. Sarcasm could be read even through the most inaccessible of languages.
‘We’ll stop at Razor Hill,’ said Ursala.
‘We won’t,’ said Cerk. ‘Ya heard what da Cheeeftan wus sayin’.’
‘Yes,’ said Harg. ‘Back before dark, for the painting of the mural.’
‘Can you keep still during those?’ asked Gulgrim. ‘I can’t.’
‘Be as still as the Earth, brother,’ said Harg.
‘That’s bad advice,’ said Gulgrim. ‘Have you seen my Earth Elemental when it gets going?’
Harg blinked. The memory of Gulgrim’s rocky companion picking up a centaur, and performing something he could only do justice to by calling a powerbomb flashed in his mind’s eye.
Somehow, even the Hand of Gul’dan had been a fair mirage compared to that. 
----
Back in Orgrimmar, the door that Rensvind had been focusing on for the past twenty minutes finally opened. There was the briefest glimpse of the warrior city outside, before the newcomer pushed the wooden entrance back into place. Chingo fought with his burning retinas to get a good first look at their captor. Blue, red and black voids in his vision gradually wore away, to reveal the figure of an old shaman, with all the trimmings of a long life.
Humble brown garments and a braided beard were not enough to trick Chingo into thinking that this orc was soft, however. His face spoke for much on this issue. It reminded Chingo of his own.
‘Greetings, guests,’ he said in perfect Common, though with that heavy Orcish accent that visually repulsed Rensvind.
‘That language shouldn’t lower itself to the likes of orcs,’ the dwarf opined. A set of angry eyes were immediately cast upon him. Chingo’s.
‘Shut up, yer git,’ said the wizard.
‘We can communicate in Orcish, if that is wished for,’ ventured the orc, eyeing Rensvind with a far more amiable glance than that of his Gnomish friend.
‘Renners only knows bits and bobs of Orcish,’ said Chingo, elbowing the warrior he was tied to.
‘Stop giving away vital intel Chingo,’ muttered Rensvind, not sure who to glare at. It was a very hard choice.
For his part, the orc produced a curved dagger that the dwarf knew had been forged from Adamantite. He wasn’t as sure about where the glowing green coating that shimmered around the blade came from, but it was quite clear just by sniffing that it wasn’t Fel.
‘Don’t be fooled by the Earthliving,’ the shaman said, before starting to cut at the ropes imprisoning the dwarf and gnome. ‘There will be no combat today,’ he continued, in a tone neither pleasant nor threatening. ‘You can be on a zeppelin back to the Eastern Kingdoms tonight, if you cooperate.’
‘Yer say that as if yer dain’t expect us to,’ said Chingo, waving his hands about to get rid of the numb sensation that was gripping both his arms.
‘It’s not you I am worried about, Big Chingo,’ said the orc, giving the gnome a nod that was almost a bow. ‘It’s your friend.’
Rensvind gave a “who, me?” look. ‘I only kill your kind when I need to,’ he said shortly, before looking at the floor. ‘Mostly.’
‘Alterac Valley is hardly a necessity any more, friend, yet your Stormpike allies still seem to harass it day in and day out.’ The shaman grunted, and slapped a fist to his chest. ‘Nevertheless, you have my word that you’re safe for your stay here. No harm will come to either of you, and I hope that you might see battling the Horde as less of a priority once you get back to Stormwind, Rensvind.’
‘Ironforge,’ said Rensvind.
‘Ironforge, then,’ grunted the shaman. ‘In any case, I am Gremkarg of Durotar, shaman of restoration. Since we are all being honest, let me te─’
Chingo interrupted, a flummoxed expression having taken over his face. ‘Yer’ve aged bloody badly, since the last time I saw yer.’
‘That’s Gremkarc of Orgrimmar, friend. I am not he.’
‘Any relation?’ asked Chingo.
‘That’s not for me to say,’ the orc replied. It was clear from his tone that that was to be the end of that mystery. ‘Now, I am here to discover from you what you were doing in a Horde stronghold uninvited.’
‘Yer expect us to wait for an invitation to save yer arses?’ asked Chingo looking and sounding incredulous.
‘I am still not aware of what we were being saved from, friend. Do you wish to share?’
‘There were… blue dragons in the area,’ said Rensvind. ‘Angry ones.’
‘Inside Warsong Hold?’ asked Gremkarg, tilting his head.
Rensvind nodded. ‘Inside the Hold. In your excuse of a quarry. In your towers. They’d found a way in.’
‘Can yer guess why we didn’t wanna inform the Warsong Offensive about this?’ asked Chingo, who was using the voice of a simpleton to get his point across. He knew what the orc understood exactly what he meant.
‘With Saurfang away, the moron will play,’ said Rensvind. ‘I kill a dozen Scourge a week, but even I know the rules about tipping off the other side.’
‘Hellscream dain’t,’ nodded Chingo. ‘He dain’t have a clue. He’d treat us dead suspicious like.’
Gremkarg grunted bitterly. He clearly harboured much resentment for the Horde’s man in Borean Tundra. ‘Point made, friends. So, captured for assisting the Horde. I apologise profusely. If you want here, I’ll organize a zeppelin ride with the goblins right now.’
‘Er,’ said Rensvind, as the orc started to turn back towards the door. ‘Don’t you think you should send some of those grunt things in to get rid of the Blues, then?’
The orc turned back, and his face suddenly turned quite grave. ‘You mean to say that you didn’t kill them?’
‘We killed one,’ said Rensvind.
‘Two,’ said Chingo.
‘We’ve been other this, Chingo,’ replied the dwarf. ‘That one into a nerubian web. We didn’t kill him.’
‘He’s still dead, yer git.’
‘How many do you think are left?’ asked Gremkarg cautiously.
Chingo sniffed in an awfully non-committal fashion. ‘About twenty, I reckon.’
‘Twenty?’ asked Gremkarg.
‘We’d have killed ‘em all,’ the gnome protested, ‘but yer lovely gits stopped it, an’ hauled us off.’
‘Tell him what they said about dwarves, Chingo,’ said Rensvind. He had been waiting to play the repressed one. He rarely got to do that in the Alliance these days. Back during the First War, maybe he’d get a few gags about his height, but with the introduction of night-elves and latterly Draenei in the Alliance, there was fresh, fertile ground to be made in the discrimination department. Dwarves were just part of the crowd now.
‘One of ‘em said, in perfect Common, that he ain’t had sex with King Magni’s daughter.’
The orc looked confused. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘He was implying that it was rare to find someone who hadn’t…’
‘…given one to…’ offered Chingo.
‘…the princess,’ finished Rensvind. If looks could have killed, Chingo would have been a charred corpse with all its loot taken for disenchantment.
‘We’ll have that grunt disciplined, if you can identify him,’ said Gremkarg. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well, one of them made a joke about Varian’s Dead Wife…’ said Rensvind, who sounded much less concerned about this.
‘Aye, well. I gotta admit, I chuckled at that one,’ said Chingo, before adding, in very serious tones, ‘Dead immature, like.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t clamp down on that,’ said Gremkarg. ‘Now, I’ll arrange transport.’ He turned away, and headed for the door.
It was during this short period of time that Chingo felt the very telling signs of magic in the air. To his experienced wizard brain, it was very, very hard to ignore. And he didn’t want to ignore it, because he knew it meant trouble. Someone, in the city, was casting a powerful spell, and they were not doing it for the purposes of goodwill.
It was the sort of magic that Chingo had grown accustomed to around Coldarra, that cesspit of the blue dragons in Borean Tundra. And there was one place in particular, deep within Coldarra, within the Nexus itself, that he had experienced this sort of magic before…
Quick reactions were needed. He darted at Rensvind, and grabbed onto his taller, bulkier friend’s legs. He could feel the orc turn around at this sudden commotion, but it was too late for him. Somehow, the infiltrators at Warsong Hold had found a much more lucrative spot to launch a magical disturbance – Orgrimmar itself. For Orgrimmar too, it was too late.
The gnome conjured a solid, unyielding block of ice that frozen over both he and Rensvind. The dwarf didn’t even have a chance to respond either through words or actions. But within their icy shield, they could both hear the sound of the “pop”, and they both saw the baffled shaman in front of them suddenly cease moving, as if he had been turned to stone.
The sounds of popping started to intensify – some of them were distant, whilst some were dangerously near. Chingo desperately held up his own Ice Block, knowing that his life depended on it. He had to hold out for as long as possible, but it was the Blue Dragonflight he was trying to outlast.
Thoughts of who to blame rushed through his head. Bugger Malygos! Bugger the Warsong Offensive! Bugger Gremkarg of Durotar, and bugger his obvious son for good measure! Bugger Rensvind! Bugger Big Chingo!
The internal ranting helped him to focus his spell. It kept his mana flowing through his body. Through the blue veil of ice he could see that indeed, the other occupant of the room had not been spared. They were in a block of ice too, but one that they had no control over. He tried to open his mouth to gasp, but it was stuck in place.
The pops had gone – the spell had obviously been completed. Cautiously, wearily, and still with surprise bubbling inside his head, Chingo dismissed his protective block.
Rensvind looked at him.
‘Chingo?’ he asked, almost lost for words.
‘Renners.’
‘Those Blues followed us, right?’
‘Aye, Renners. Those Blues followed us.’
‘And they’ve frozen the whole city.’
‘Aye.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Aye.’ 
((On going))