Whispers

**Whispers** is an aged orc shaman who, against all odds, has never forgotten his noble roots. Born in the steppes of Gorgrond as a member of the Blackrock Clan, he followed Orgrim with the rest of the old Horde, but he was ever wary of the sorcerer Gul'dan. Years later, when interred at Durnholde, he witnessed the rising Warchief Thrall, and knew that it was his destiny to bridge the old ways with the new Horde. He swore a sacred blood oath to be Thrall's weapon and founded a band of equally dedicated assassins and spies to guide and protect the growing Horde. No living soul recalls his old name, and he prefers it that way. He is the conduit through which the secrets of the Horde—and the brotherhood of the  Harbingers—flow. Ever lurking, always quiet, and yet more powerful than any spoken word.

## Physical Description

### Tattoo(s)

Lightning-shaped tattoo invoking air elementals

## History

Many decades ago, the one they would call Whispers was born in a small orc village near the southern reaches of Gorgrond. He showed remarkable aptitude from a young age in communicating with the furies of the land, particularly those that guided the winds and lightning. The elder shaman of his tribe taught him well, not just in the shamanic arts but in the art of life. Listen fast, and speak slowly. Balance oneself before pushing others. Trust in leaders, but beware power.

Years later, when he had taken up his master's mantle, he was summoned with the rest of his clan to a meeting of the warlords in the once-luscious tangles of the Tanaan. The chieftain Orgrim had called the clever shaman to his side alongside other venerable shamans, in hopes of being his advisors. And when they arrived, he had only one word to speak: "Run."

There was no jungle left before him. A war machine had been assembled in its corpse, atop the smaller corpses of thousands of Draenei slaves. There were no clans in the ranks. There was only a mass, what the silvertongued Stormreaver chieftain called "The Horde". Where the old Warchief was, the shaman did not know. But he knew that the furies had ceased to talk to him, and the sight before him chilled him to the bone.

Some among the orcs had even then called the new Warchief a "shaman", but the unnamed shaman knew even before the damnable pact that Gul'dan had become something far more profane. He trusted Orgrim, and he *feared* Gul'dan.

But his chieftain did not listen. Orgrim accepted his advisor's suggestion and said he would stay wary of the Stormreavers, but he would also hear them out.

All who live within Azeroth know then the fated meeting in the Black Morass, and the wars that would follow. The shaman knew he could not leave without his chieftain, but he would not succumb to rage. The furies were testing him, and he would need to maintain his balance at all costs. When the warlock brought Mannoroth's blood to his lips, he drank, for he had no other choice. The chill became a raging inferno. His muscles rippled, and his mind raced. He could scarcely form any other thought but "Resist."

For years he repeated the mantra, often more infrequently than he would have wished, for every second he lost his control was a second he lost himself. Gul'dan's Horde raged across Azeroth, razing everything in its path, and the shaman, for all his training, still reveled in the war.

When the Lordaeron Alliance rebuffed their advance, he was shackled and placed in Durnholde Keep. Soon the fits of anger that consumed his waking moments turned into bouts of nothingness, so deep and vast that he barely thought at all. But the fire in his eyes smoldered, daring against all fate to stay awake. He mustered what strength remained to seek out other orcs in the camp that had not fallen entirely to lethargy, and he found five.

The fifth was his beacon. A young and tenacious orc whom some claimed had been born on Azeroth, for he had no telltale signs of Mannoroth's curse. He stood no taller than any other orc, yet towered above them all.

And then he vanished in the night. And the shaman, having lost even his own name to despair, withdrew from the world.

In the year 17, the young champion returned with an army at his call. The fire sparked again within the shaman: there before him was a Warchief truly worthy of his trust. An orc who held aloft the token of his long-lost chieftain. There was a slave reborn, the one called Thrall. And the shaman would follow in his stead.

He drew his four confidants to his side. They, like he, had begun to remember the fight. Nithalik, Ardods, Shaego, and Goma: they would be his weapons, and he would be Thrall's. The five orcs approached the Warchief and prepared to pledge their lives. And the aged shaman had taken up a new title at his allies' behest. He would be the Whispers of the Horde.

Once, he had made a blood pact, and it had taken from him his home, his chief, and even his mind. Now Whispers brought a blade upon his palm and swore to Thrall the ancient Ogar'Regar, a new blood pact not of power but of honor. An allegiance of true fealty and courage unto death.

His four companions followed suit. They would be the thralls of Thrall, bringing future victory and disaster in the same strike. The Harbingers.

In the years that followed, Whispers directed his ever-growing fraternity of assassins and warriors, assisting quietly in every major victory of the Horde. He felt the pulse of the nation with his ear on the ground. And as the elements of Azeroth once again began to speak to the orc who regained his honor, he forged onward. His was the duty and the glory to give his life for the Horde. His was the old way, yet with it he would see a new day.

## Current Events

The tales of tomorrow have yet to unfold. Return at a later time, wayward adventurer, to hear of Whisper's deeds indeed!

## Personality

Whispers is a contemplative and secretive orc. He keeps his thoughts largely unknown to anyone not within his guild's ranks and ponders daily the best recourse to bring victory to the new Horde. A tactical mastermind, he is behind every major action the Harbingers undergo.

To those that know him, he is a friendly, if reserved, individual. But he is also stern to a fault and does not tolerate failure. In his mind, if he has given one of his subordinates a task, that is because he truly believes they are capable of completing it, so their shortcoming is little more than a personal unwillingness to live up to their potential and to fulfill their sacred duty to Thrall. Above all else he wants fully realized potential in every member of his brotherhood. A victory for the guild is a victory for the Horde.

## Appearance

Whispers is outwardly aged and hunched over. He still has shocks of black hair, but his skin has begun to wrinkle, and his eyes are, at first glance, sullen. But a keen observer would notice a twinkle in those eyes, and a rippling might beneath that wrinkled brow. Though his body is not as brawny as it had been during the First War, he still maintains an active training regimen to keep himself as spry as an orc twenty years his junior.

Hidden beneath his shamanic robes is a criss-cross of deep whip scars, which he had suffered at the hands of Blackmoore's guards, and he has a tattoo inscribed in his left shoulder that vaguely looks like a thunderstorm. To those who ask, he says it is not a conduit but a reminder of the elements that had once abandoned him, and the sacrifice he made to regain their favor.

## Trivia

* Whispers once visited the Frostwolf Clan in Alterac Valley and engaged in a recreation they called "snowgliding." He contends it is the funnest moment he had in thirty-six years (when he wrestled a grown elekk to the ground with his bare hands) and would very much like to snowglide again if he gets the chance.