Walf Stormbinder

Black Tooth Grin Clan (Formerly)

**Walf Stormbinder** is an orc shaman known for his eerie calm. A role model to many, his unbreakable nature under duress has inspired many young shamans to follow in his footsteps. He lives his life in recovery from Gul'dan's corruption, cautious of the green tinge in his skin and the blood frenzy it once represented.

## Life Begins at the Portal

Whoever Walf was before the First War- a soft hand to beat against a drum, a bellowing laugh to cheer his children, a set of eyes tracking the horizon for the first sign of those black, anvil-shaped storm clouds... he had to forget. Prayed he would forget. Prayed his children would forget, so they would not know the nightmare made real that whirled across the battlefield, stopping human hearts with a hardly more than the jab of an accusing finger and thoughts of thunder.

He raced across the thin membrane of poisoned green magic with a thousand other sets of horned boots beside him, an axe in one hand and static collecting in the palm of another. This was more than duty- a pact had been made, sorcery was at work, and his blood ran hot with cruel impetus.

He would come to hate all that he had become, but in the moment, his heart hammered with a vigor he hadn't known in decades, and the storms came to his call, dragged from one world to the next.

It amused him that the humans came rushing on clad head to toe in metal. The scent of ozone stung the nostrils as lightning leapt from his open hand and into their breastplates, angry static popping in a way that reminded him of insects falling into the cookfire as it bounced through all their fine Dwarven girding, searing their skin until only a smoking husk remained.

It amused him until he realized he saw it every night, every time he closed his eyes and chanced to dream.

## The Storm Undone

They got him. Somehow they got him, and that was more disturbing than if they had killed him. He fumed over his sorry circumstances as he put a wooden spoon into watery porridge, refusing to meet the eye of any other orc in that tumbledown prison camp. Every last one of them felt the sting of wounded pride, but they were younger, meaner- that pride would come surging back in riot and fire, the only question was *when.*

Would it come back for him, though? Day and night went by listlessly as he wondered. Doubt crept in with an enthusiasm he would not have expected, slowly convincing him that he was a done old creature who had bit off more than he could chew.

It wasn't until he saw Moragg- slow-witted, belly-laughing, strong-backed Moragg, with his blunted little tusks and gleaming bald head, that he made a decision about what kind of orc he really was. Moragg was with his sister Harma, they had survived together- crossed the portal against their father's bidding, he was disappointed to see, but survived nonetheless- and had a look about them that made his chest fill with a father's pride.

It was Harma who barked orders in that whisper-voice of hers, her shiny eyes missing nothing, calculating against everything, and Moragg who served as her long arm, exacting her will on the guards. A bag of tools stolen here, extra food gathered there, the occasional human removed without a fuss- the guards had a way of underestimating Moragg's good nature. Harma would instruct him to get close to them, make them laugh, and then hug them- and squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze, until their spine gave way under the affection.

Walf found himself grinning to hear of it all, and if his children would show no fear and strike out so boldly, then so would he. The time was nearly ripe.

## Rain or Shine

Durnholde passed in much the same way a hurricane passes- violently, unpredictably, and with little regard for the world around it. But it did pass, and on came the bright sun and the glittering ocean, and freedom. Walf found himself cheering that single fantastic word over and over, and every time it passed his lips, it meant something different-

"Freedom!"

*Freedom from Durnholde, from the humans, from their strange and terrible lands.*

"Freedom!"

*Freedom from Gul'dan, and from his war, and from the sickly magic that drove him to carnage.*

**"Freedom!"**

*Freedom to be a family again, to hold council with the elders, to smoke his pipe and listen to the songs.*

He looked down at his hands- green, once brown- and exhaled a long, quiet breath. In that breath he let go of his battle rage, his hatreds, and the war. He felt the battle drums in his heart finally quiet to an elder's slow, ritual beat.

Durotar was on the horizon, and a column of gray clouds towered over the mesas, lightning leaping from side to side, lazy, serpentine, taking its time crossing from sky to land.

Taking its time, as it leapt from place to place.

Taking its time... maybe he should take his time, too.