What happens when Orcs get hit by falling rocks. Hard.

A low rumbling like the rolling of thunder resonated through the grounds of the Argent Tournament, but Gulgrim was the only one to feel it. The earth roared with fury as plague bit deeply into the foundation of the world, Undead footfalls wearing a beaten path across the land in defiance. Undead were surely the most abhorrent creatures to the Elements of creation for they broke the cycle of life, death and rebirth. You certainly got that impression as the psychic barrage continued to assault Gulgrim’s dulled senses. This wasn’t like the dull moaning or typical fury of the Elements of Northrend, this was almost as if the whole of Icecrown was preparing to rebel against its inhabitants yet was diminished in its ability to do anything. It brought tears to the young Shaman’s eyes as he slowly dragged his heavy carcass out of bed. The pain, on a spiritual level, was unbearable. To the Shaman, it was as if his most revered liege were dragged naked in front of him and brought to the brink of agonising death through torturous methods. This pained Gulgrim more than if the same were to happen to his Chieftain, or even his Warchief.
The world seemed slightly out of focus and the world beneath his feet would not sit still. Gulgrim did not even check the bedding belonging to his companions, the thought did not even enter his head as he half walked half staggered out into the night. Moonlight spilled through dark clouds, gifting each ominous nimbus a silver lining in turn. The light bathed the stands and stables, the tents and fields. An Argent Charger whinnied nervously and kicked at the stable door, the sound of which resonated into the otherwise still night. Spirits of the wind were silent, still even. In Icecrown the winds usually howled soullessly or sat deathly still. There was no feeling to the currents, with no direction or purpose. There was only blindness, rage and death. It stole away your breath, whether moving or still. The air was much thinner up here at the pinnacle of the world than any heights Gulgrim had ever scaled before. When all these things combined with the issue of the squirming, screaming earth it caused the Orc’s trauma addled brain to focus once more and continue onward. Checking his belt absently, Gulgrim was pleased to find his vicious club still hanging from its leather binding.
Snow was falling across the grounds, leaving in its wake a crisp layer which crunched underfoot. It was a satisfying noise to Gulgrim, almost pacifying. Snow was such a peaceful thing, even in the most harrowing of landscapes all it often took was a light dusting of frozen particles and dim lighting to sooth and pacify the soul. Serenity descended gently upon Gulgrim as the Orc made his way into the stands and rested there a moment, looking out to the field where Champions competed for their city and for the right to join Fordring’s cohort to face the Lich King, Arthas. The Clan had more imminent concerns, though. Frost Wyrms, and hundreds of them too if the Cult of the Damned had anything to do with it. They had seen almost firsthand the strange rituals which, Gulgrim supposed, were the core of this whole manufacture of Whelps to Wyrms in an exponentially increased rate of growth. Arthas and his army of the dead would be enough for Fordring and his Champions to deal with without a flock of Frost Wyrms assaulting their flanks. Despite their victories that day, Gulgrim couldn’t help but think that worse was coming.
It had started in Dragonblight, when they had managed to pillage the Azure Dragonshrine of a strange object. The Chieftain had immediately had it brought to Wyrmrest temple, where it had been attuned to his personal resonance, turning both red and blue in equal amounts. They had told him that the bauble was capable of simulating something known as a ‘Call’ which would remind dragons (including Undead ones it was theorised) of their homeland and who they truly were. Allegedly it was an instinctual reaction, as opposed to a rationalised thought. This call was to be something that would break the hold of outside influence and restore these terrible flying beasts to their natural state of mind. Gulgrim was sceptical of this, especially seeing the strange seizure that Gremkarc had suffered thanks to the object, but after watching it in action he was now a true believer. Just the day before the Chieftain had wielded it in a desperate situation, saving the lives of not only the Clan but a contingent of the Sunfire Vanguard, successfully turning a whole host of Frost Wyrms against their Kal’dorei Death Knight master. Gulgrim’s heart swelled with pride for his Chieftain at the time, but concern was not far behind.
You see, imminently afterwards the Death Knight dragged the Chieftain of Dagger and Totem into a deadly embrace through his foul powers, whilst fighting off Frost Wyrms. Gulgrim couldn’t help but feel a strange respect for this foe, capable of fighting against such odds. It did not stop him from being the first to charge out of Sindragosa’s Fall, weapons flashing and bellows of rage tearing from his heaving lungs. The worst wasn’t over for the Chieftain, though, who was caught with a nasty strike from the Death Knight’s blade and sent tumbling back into the chasm, along with Qyenn who had climbed directly up the ice wall to assist his leader. It deified quantification though, Gulgrim thought to himself as he stood in the stands amongst the shower of snow. Gremkarc didn’t even seem to put up much of a fight at all. It made Gulgrim think back to Ursala’s words, the things they spoke of before this campaign began. It had been playing on the Shaman’s mind more and more lately, always warily watching his Chieftain for any signs of what he was waiting for - a sign that would indicate that the Elements disproved of the actions of Gremkarc. Or, rather, the means to the end of Gremkarc’s chosen path.
It was Watrus who Gulgrim had found council with first, her flamboyant nature making her easy to approach with such an issue. He asked her straight whether or not the Chieftain had been acting strangely the past few months. It seemed a strange question to Watrus, who didn’t seem to comprehend the life of a Shaman. How servitude was paramount and how continued miss-steps would lead to the loss of the Element’s mutual respect. Loss of their respect which would, ultimately, see them never answer any request for assistance again no matter how well worded. It was probably because Gulgrim had felt this trauma himself, albeit briefly for a few months of his life, and not to any true extent. It had been a test as much as a wavering of respect. Gulgrim, most of all, couldn’t bear the thought of the clan relying on Gremkarc, when his powers could waver at any moment thanks to actions outside of the paradigm of true Shamanism. Strange though, he still hadn’t seen what Ursala saw firsthand. Gremkarc had caught Gulgrim and Watrus talking, but they had both seemingly played it off as something less than it was, satiating the Chieftain’s curiosity. Remembering the experience still caused Gulgrim’s heart to race though. If the Chieftain knew what he planned, it could and likely would be seen as a coup.
Strange though, Gulgrim thought as he walked around the tournament grounds, the cold wasn’t even biting at his flesh as it had been only that evening. The landscape still appeared slightly blurred, probably a result of his concussion earlier that evening, but his head also didn’t throb with pain as it had been doing before he fell to rest. The Shaman’s eyes roamed the edges of the grounds, until he came to rest upon a solitary figure. The figure was sheathed in ebon armour and lacked a solitary limb, his sword arm, the very same arm that one of the warriors of The Sunfire Vanguard had cleft from the Kal’dorei Death Knight earlier that day. It wore a grin on its pallid features, teeth sharper than any knife Gulgrim had ever seen. It was a mutated form that the Shaman saw here, it was definitely different somehow to the one they had done battle with. A proud Orc never shied away from a battle though, and slightly against his better judgement Gulgrim unhooked his club in preparation to elicit the judgements from this Kal’dorei’s hide that he had been promising all this time. It said nothing, the creature merely stared back at Gulgrim as he broke into a charge.
“Lok’tar Ogar!”
It felt like running through the tar pits of the Un’Goro Crater. Each footfall was heavier than the last and felt even slower. It seemed exceptionally tiring and overall debilitating. Gulgrim willed his body to move faster, to work harder, but it was to no avail. He willed molten magma to spew from his weapon, coating it in searing rock, but the elements were oddly silent. Neither earth nor fire even felt present, never mind listening. The Shaman couldn’t let this deter him and so instead swung his club as hard as he could muster at the armour clad elf. The club floated through the air much like an inflated balloon, swinging harmlessly in what was essentially underwater combat. The Death Knight disappeared once the club lightly brushed his armour, vanishing in a silent whisper of motion. When Gulgrim turned, the Elf was there once more standing in the middle of the jousting field, its one arm outstretched towards the Orc. With one clockwise rotation of his wrist, tendrils of pure darkness exploded from the ground where the Death Knight stood and hurtled towards Gulgrim. There was no time to dodge, even if he could in his current condition. Instead the tendrils each gripped a part of the Orc Shaman’s body, wrestling him savagely into the air.
Bracing himself to be dragged towards the Death Knight, Gulgrim was harrowed to find that instead his body was hoisted high into the air. A sick smirk played across the Elf’s features as Gulgrim began to feel extreme pressure being placed on his right arm. After a couple of seconds the pain had escalated to the point of extreme pain. Cartilage and joints popped as bones splintered and gave way. It must have only taken about twenty seconds in total but the Orc felt the pain as a dull ache over a period of many more moments. The limb came easily away, but the blood came out in strange black globules as opposed to the expected crimson gout in time to each heartbeat. Confused beyond all measure, Gulgrim stared at his black-bleeding wound in awe even as the Kal’dorei began attaching the Orc’s own arm to the ruined stump of his once proud sword arm. The Elf placed wound to wound and Gulgrim watched as they knitted together in a winking of darkness.
“The time of the living comes to a close, mortal.”
As Gulgrim was staring into those cold, lifeless eyes, he woke with a start. Immediately, his head began to throb and blood was running out of his re-opened wound. At first, he couldn’t feel his arm but realised all too quickly that he’d been lying on top of it whilst wearing metal armour. Bile rose in the young Orc’s throat, causing him to retch several times until he vomited into a nearby chamber pot. A dream, that was all it was. Gulgrim almost instinctively knew better though. No dream contained such subject matter without secretly harbouring a warning of some variety. Shaman should get used to the occasional flashes of things that could be, their foresight and wisdom often meeting inside the subconscious mind at inopportune moments. Wiping the fluids from his lips, Gulgrim hauled himself out of bed in time to see the sun’s gleam caressing the tips of the peaks of Icecrown. The Orc clutched at his weeping wound once more and winced at his terrible headache. At least he wasn’t delirious anymore though. Gulgrim put his boots back on and went to find his Chieftain. Perhaps he’d have more colourful insights into this dream.
Addled and Concust.