Drugor Battlerage

### Title(s)

Warmaster of the World Eaters, Commander of the Skulltakers, Master Rogue of Ravenholdt

### Affiliation(s)

The Horde, The World Eaters, The Disciples of Ravenholdt, Shattered Hand

### Former affiliation(s)

The Sythegore Arm, The Blackrock Clan, Blackhand's Horde

## Biographical Information

### Birth date

32 Years before the Dark Portal (Aged 59)

### Known relatives

Dura Battlerage (Ancestor)(Deceased)Ra'ka (Son)(Unknown)

## Physical Description

### Notable scar(s)

Round keloids cover his shoulders, arms, and torso

### Weapon(s) of choice

Daggers

**Drugor Battlerage** is an Orc Rogue who was born in the arid lands of Gorgrond thirty-two years before the opening of the dark portal. In his early-adulthood Drugor served as a raider of the Sythegore Arm, a divison of mounted warriors loyal to the Blackrock Clan. As Drugor matured, he displayed an inclination in the use of more subtle & disciplined combat techniques. As an aged-adult he served Blackhand as an assassin, eliminating threats from the shadows. For years this was his way; he dealt only in death. The death continued as he ventured through the Dark Portal with Warchief Blackhand the Destroyer, taking part in the First War. At the climax of the Second War he banded together with a small group of kin. Despite how tired he and the others grew, they traversed the Eastern Kingdoms laying in wait for their opportunity. Years later he took part in the liberation of the Orcs, and the formation of the New Horde. Drugor served his people in the Third War, embracing the young Thrall's leadership and his new ideals. Now at the age of fifty-eight, Drugor seeks to secure the Horde's future on Azeroth.

## History

### **Battlerage**

##### *( by Taranto )*

Summer had come and gone, and the autumn festivals neared. The day for young Blackrock-born Drugor to prove his worth to his clan was upon him. The Om’riggor ceremony was a rite of passage into adulthood practiced amongst all the Orcish clans. It demanded that an Orc youth must attain their first kill alone and with a single weapon. It was common practice for a youths first kill to be a matured Talbuk, but this would not be the case for Drugor. Being a direct descendant of the line of Battlerage meant that his ceremony of adulthood was unique. It was Drugor’s destiny to overcome the ferocity of an alpha dire wolf or die trying.

The generational tradition began with Dura Battlerage, first of her name. It was during her first Kosh'harg that a merciless beast terrorized the roads of Nagrand, killing unsuspecting travelers headed for the festival. Hordes of warriors from various clans faced the wolf head on, attempting to slay the murderous foe. Though none were able to overcome the unrelenting rage-filled attacks of the beast. Its maw was unforgiving – ripping limbs from those that dared to come within range. The Elders believed the dire wolf to be possessed by an angered spirit, and thus the dire wolf patriarch became known as *Rage.*

The beast could be defeated – anything could be killed, even a maddened spirit; Dura knew that to be the way the world worked. Unlike most of her kin, she was keen
on sitting back and being subtle in her methods. As a child she learned the art of being quick and silent, often tackling her much-older brother from the shadows. Oh, how he hated that. Though that taught her that with prowess and patience, even the biggest of foes could be defeated.

Alone and with a single dagger, she headed for the patriarch's rocky dwelling in the dead of night. She climbed and climbed until she reached the den of the Alpha. Just inside, she saw it. The beast slept atop a staggering pile of his victims broken bones, and from his blood-stained maw protruded two unforgiving fangs. She understood that she had one opportunity to strike true, or she would we be joining the spirits on this night. She gripped her blade tightly and moved forward quickly, it was now or never. She leapt, raising her fangtooth blade over her head, and then brought it down with all the strength she could muster. She pierced the beast, and it let out a long exhale as the blade sank into its heart. It was over in an instant.

This kill was her first, and it was a mighty one. With a heart full of pride and the bloodied pelt upon her head she returned to her Elders. The clans named her Battlerage on that day for her heroic deeds.

It was a story Drugor heard throughout his early youth. Elders told the tale often to children as they huddled around the evening bonfire. The other children often *oohed* and *aahed* at the marvelous and miraculous tale, but Drugor sat in thoughtful silence. The responsibility to maintain Dura’s honor and glory for the next generation was his alone.

Drugor was eager to follow the path of the Great Dura Battlerage. He looked outwards over the rolling lush plains that were Nagrand. This place was nothing like his mountainous home Gorgrond. He sat just outside his camp, watching the sun retreat from the sky. Its light now only touched the towering mountain of spirits, Oshu’gun. He was sure Dura’s spirit was there on this first night of Kosh’harg, but he wondered if she knew of him, and if she would be there with him during his trial.

It was time. Without pause he set off into the blackness of night, and like Dura he
trekked toward the den of the beast with a lone dagger. As he passed through the tallgrass it flowed peacefully as the cool night breeze pushed its way by. Atop a tree a Sparrowhawk sat perched. It remained entirely undisturbed by his passing by. He moved with a light and steady tread, doing his best to remain hidden from hungry predators that might lurk. The face of the mountain was visible just ahead, and high above the land the den towered, overlooking the plains.

Drugor reached outward and ran his palm along the jagged cliffside. *My ancestors are with me on this night.* With a fistful of stone, he lifted himself upward. Carefully and with patience he climbed that fateful mountainside; his heart racing as the ground below him seemed to disappear into the night. On this night he would either be joining his ancestors or returning to his Elders an adult. *Almost there,* he thought as the ledge closed in on him*.* With one long reach he grasped the ledge and pulled himself up and over as quietly as he could. The two moons overhead shone a pale light, over the ledge, a stark contrast to the void black that seemed to emanate from the beast’s lair.

Drugor carefully slid into the shadows, entering the den of legend*.* Carefully he planned each step forward; for the ground was littered with shattered bones of the alpha’s prey. The veil of shadow was his only ally – the rest was up to him. It neared, now. His ears perked at the sound of the beast’s heavy breathing – it was asleep. Its size was staggering and was much larger than any Orc he’d ever seen. Dirty and matted, the brown furred dire wolf rested on a bed of bones, much like the legend told to children. Exhaling a calming breath, Drugor gripped his blade a little more tightly. Little by little he crept toward the grand descendant of *Rage*.

*“Patience… patience…"*

It shifted in its sleep with an abrupt twitch, sending a burst of adrenaline
through him. *It’s dreaming,* he internally exclaimed. Sweat began to run down his brow as he neared, and his heart pounded in his ears like war-drums. He was within striking range now. He drew back his dagger and went for the kill. Forcefully he plunged the cool steel into its rib-cage. but it jerked away from him, reeling in pain. The beast let loose a piercing howl, and Drugor froze. Left and right it thrashed, nipping at the dagger that protruded from its side, but it could not extract the foreign object. It turned to Drugor and whined in a painful anger. *No... no…* The beast started towards Drugor, who stood with arms raised defensively. He looked to the floor with a glance, searching for any tool that might lend him aid in this fight, but there was nothing. The beast was weakened, but it was too proud to succumb without giving his attacker a fight.

Bones crunched into fine powder beneath the weight of the beast with each encroaching step. It was coming, and he had only one idea. Drugor eyed the dagger in its hide, his only chance. He just had to wait for the right - *Now!* Helunged; his fingers stretched outward in the direction of his blade desperately. The familiar Blackrock steel pommel entered his palm, and without hesitation he closed his fist around it. Violently he withdrew it, sending blood flying through the air. The beast turned to retaliate as its eyes glowed red in the darkness. *Now or never.* The alpha sprung forth toward Drugor it’s fangs at-the-ready, but it abruptly was halted by a piercingly sharp pain in its collar. With a flick of his wrist he twisted the dagger, cutting deeper into the
thick hide. Drugor stood with his mouth agape and his brow furrowed; the look of determination. The beast buckled, slowly lowering itself to the ground in bloody submission.

He could not help but feel pity for the dying creature that lay before him. Finally, he reclaimed his dagger for good, yanking it from the wolf’s flesh and muscle. He raised it above his head, and with vigor he brought the blade down, slicing the beast’s neck, ending its suffering.

*“One of us was destined to die on this fateful night.”*

Drugor knelt beside his first kill and inspected the wound he first inflicted. It was clear that he missed its heart by quite a large margin. But nonetheless he overcame the beast, and it was time to claim his birthright: The pelt of his first kill. Meticulously he skinned his kill. This headdress would be his for life, until the day he fell in honorable combat.

With a heart full of pride, Drugor descended the mountain to return to his Elders. The fresh pelt of the patriarch sat upon his head, while its blood coated his face. He ran his hands over the lush grass, coating his skin in their fresh morning dew. He basked in the rising of the early morning sun just outside his camp, soaking in the peaceful landscape that was Nagrand. The spirits were present here, and very much alive. He dipped his head in respect to them and their grandeur, closing his eyes. A breeze ran through him gently like a whisper, and he heard them.

*“Aka’magosh, Battlerage.”*

## **Notes**

### ***You may know Drugor if...***

* ***You were born into the Blackrock Clan before the opening of the Dark Portal.***
* ***You attended any Kosh'harg festival before the opening of the Dark Portal.***
* ***You went through the Dark Portal, and took place in the First War.***
* ***You are a member of the <World Eaters>.***
* You are a ***<Disciple of Ravenholdt>*** rogue.

## Contact Me

Discord:  Drugor#6364

Battle.net:  Drugor#1922