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Posts: 9
Joined: December 29th, 2014, 3:15 pm


Postby Vilmah » December 29th, 2014, 3:16 pm

The smell of battle was heavy in the air.

It was cold in Frostfire Ridge, and usually cold temperatures helped in ridding the air of the telltale sign of war; rotting meat. The ogres didn't typically bury the dead, or even burn them. They left the corpses of their slaves out to rot as a warning, but orcs were not afraid of death. Especially not the Frostwolves.

Since arriving in Draenor, Vilmah had served this clan as willingly as anyone could. Thrall could have commanded her to do anything, but she felt more than obligation to serve the Frostwolves. They were honorable, they were just, and after having to kill the orc that might have been her father on another world, she felt the need to bury her mind with battle. It did not take long for the Frostwolves eagerly assisted her in this desire. Though more brown that most orcs on Azeroth, she still bore the green twinge of one who's family drank from demon blood. It was difficult, she could see, for them to trust her. Vilmah understood this and remained obedient, until they gave her the chance to aid them in a dire matter. Frostwolves by the dozen had been captured in battle, and now stood in chains and cages in Bladespire Fortress.

For any creature, chains are an insult. To orcs, however, it was more then that. It was an affront to their honor, their clan, their entire race. A chained orc was an orc filthy with dishonor, and these Frostwolves must be freed or die in battle. Vilmah was given the task of not only freeing them, but supplying them with weapons. It was a mission she embraced with both willingness and fervor.

The Fortress was daunting, but it did little to intimidate the orc. Alone, she went inside, leaving a trail of bodies in her path. The ogres here (nor anywhere, really) weren't the type to negotiate, and the sight of an orc, even a green one, led to one thing; conflict. Armed with a two-handed mace, she fed their appetite for battle with very little finesse. A warrior, Vilmah was not known for grace or skill, but for her tenacity. It wasn't much of a talent, she knew, but she was proud all the same of her unwillingness to surrender. Instead of allowing herself to train in smaller weapons, she did what she knew she could do; swing a bludgeoning weapon twice her size at a creature ten-times her size, until it's body was rendered a pile of steaming meat in the snow. The ogres never quite stood a chance against her.

The fights were easy. The ogre would charge her, expecting to swat the small creature like vermin. Instead, Vilmah swung her mace toward their legs, breaking them at the ankle. In agony, the ogre would swing with their giant arms, but her mace would find their arms and break them, too. Down they went, and finally she had a shot at their most vital spot; their skulls. Her mace bit into them like ripe fruit, spraying blood and brains into the ground. This was repeated dozens of times, until she made her way toward the cages with blood caked into her plate armor. Whatever shine it might have had before was long since dulled by the gore.

The sight of her, however, was a rallying cry for the enslaved Frostwolves. A few beckoned her forward with yells of encouragement, their hands reaching forward from their cages and chains, as if they could free themselves by sheer will alone. They had been starved and beaten, but nothing could erase the fire from their eyes.

Vilmah approached their cages with purpose, breaking open the locks with her mace. The enchantment enhancing her weapon kept the bone and metal in pristine condition as she destroyed the metal binding them, leaving bits of broken cages and chains in her wake. In her enchanted backpack, she pulled out weapons; swords and polearms, but mostly axes. The orcs reached happily for these axes, the wood secure in their callused and frost-bitten hands. They thanked Vilmah with a hearty pat on her shoulder, some with tight bone-cracking embraces that one would not think a starved orc capable of. Other simply grabbed the weapons and went running toward the nearest ogre, screaming obscenities as they tore through the pink flesh of their captors.

One orc, however, did not meet Vilmah's gaze. It was a female, around Vilmah's age, with a single long black braid coiled over one shoulder. She wore the destroyed armor of a warrior who had been bested, and little to protect her from the cold. Hunched over in a cage, she stared forward into space as Vilmah approached her.

"Are you alright?" The greener orc asked, before smashing open the lock. Regardless of whether or not the Frostwolf could fight, she would be freed.

"No, I am not," The Frostwolf answered as she crawled through the cage door, reaching immediately for a loose rusted chain on the ground.

Vilmah watched as the orcess marched further into Bladespire Fortress, as if searching for something. She followed her closely, mace at the ready, but saw that the Frostwolf was not simply walking into danger. She was stalking someone. "Can I assist you?"

"Stay close," the former captive grunted quietly, pointing out a group of ogres sitting around an open cask of grog. They drank and laughed, oblivious to the danger stalking them.

The Frostwolf glanced back at Vilmah, a smirk on her dirty face. "You take the middle ones. I have a score to settle with that one with the scar on it's face."

To Vilmah, and most non-ogres, these ogres looked identical. However, the Frostwolf pinpointed this one with the scar for a reason, and Vilmah was not about to argue with her. Comfortable in her usual role of "attention-seeking berzerker", she charged toward the ogres. All three turned their attention to Vilmah, who swung her mace through their soft pink skin and crushed their bones. Two of them, she targeted specifically. The third, she left for the Frostwolf. It did not take long for her to attack.

Though armed only with a chain, this Frostwolf knew how to take down an ogre. She swung the chain around her head once before throwing it toward his skulls, and wrapping it around both necks. Swinging to the ogre's back, she twisted the chain in her hand and planted her feet against his wide torso, pulling backwards, yanking the metal until the ogre choked.

"Remember me?" She grunted, though the ogre was in too much of a panic to effectively recognize his former prisoner. After a few seconds, he stumbled to the ground.

Vilmah was finished pummeling his comrades by then, and searched the corpses for loot. The Frostwolf kicked her victim's skulls, making sure that it was dead.

"Filthy creatures," she grunted, stumbling down his body.

It was then that Vilmah saw how injured the Frostwolf was. Clearly she had been hiding it until she could exact revenge, but she was clearly weak and thin from her time in the cage, and her left forearm appeared purple and swollen.

"Come on," Vilmah said quickly, ducking beneath the Frostwolf's arm and helping her to stand upright. The orcess did not argue, but did not thank her either. Together, they left the fortress' walls, meeting only a few ogres on the way out. Vilmah would gently let down the Frostwolf and charge at these ogres before them, rather then let them engage the two orcs first. It took longer than expected to finally be free of the fortress, where Vilmsh could call upon her wolf to carry both orcs out.

The sight of the gray creature brought tears to the Frostwolf's green eyes. "He is your companion?" She asked, as if shocked that green orcs could also be connected to their wolves.

Vilmah smiled and pat Edmund's head. Though long removed from his puppy phase, the wolf was still overly affectionate and sniffed curiously at the Frostwolf. "He is. This is Edmund, and I'm Vilmah Bloodborne. Please, let us take you back to the Frostwolf garrison."

"Thank you, Vilmah Bloodborne. I am Kaggia Iceblade, warrior of the Frostwolves. My group was ambushed by those damned ogres, weeks ago. Had it not been for you, I likely would have died there. I thank you for aiding me in killing the one who put me in chains. Honor demanded his destruction."

"It was my honor to help you," Vilmah replied dutifully.

The Frostwolf nodded, satisfied with this. She mounted Edmund, who walked slowly beside Vilmah on their way back. "Bloodborne," the Frostwolf repeated. "I do not know this name. To what clan do you belong?"

The green orcess shook her head, unable to shake the embarrassment. "I... I have no clan. Not really."

It was the truth, but it wasn't the entire truth. Her father had survived the prison camp, only to remain there, trapped within his own memories and hatred. Gor'mul of the Blackrock, once a proud warrior, too full of rage to accept his surviving daughter. He died before the Cataclysm, at the hands of an Alliance invasion. More recently, Vilmah met a younger version of Gor'mul. An unrepentant Blackrock who sought to invade Azeroth with his brothers, Vilmah had been forced to kill him. Two fathers, in a way, now dead. Both Blackrock. Her grandmother, also Blackrock, was now a Mag'har and somehow remained in Outland. None of it made much sense, so Vilmah attempted to make it simple.

"My mother and father both died in Azeroth. I.. did not know their clan."

"Your people come from a strange land," Kaggia considered. "For a clan not to raise one if it's children."

Vilmah cleared her throat. "Our people.. they were scattered. Our clans were broken. The place where I was born, it was liberated by Thrall. He is the green orc who came to your people, to the Frostwolves. Anyway, there were so few of us, rather than unite as clans we united as a single Horde. I was raised by the Horde army to be a warrior."

"I see..." Kaggia muttered thoughtfully. "This is a strange story you tell me, but they must have trained you well to be able to kill so many ogres. I am impressed."

Vilmah smiled a little. "Thank you."

As they approached the Frostwolf garrison, Vilmah saw that the rest of the liberated Frostwolves had made it back safely. Leaning on each other for support, they were cheered and fed by their brothers and sisters. Kaggia dismounted Edmund and gave him an affectionate pat.

"This is a good wolf," she said kindly.

Another orc approached them both, this one male. He stood a full two heads taller than both Vilmah and Kaggia, whom Vilmah suddenly noticed was nearly as short as she was.

"Kaggia," he grunted, placing both hands on her shoulders. "My mate. How my blood boils to see you in this way. I trust you killed your captors?"

"This one here aided me," Kaggia said, pointing toward Vilmah. "One of the green ones, from Azeroth. Vilmah Bloodborne, this is Garr'kash, my mate."

"I thank you, Vilmah Bloodborne," he said loudly, grasping Vilmah's hand to thank her. The two shook wrists firmly. Garr'krash, however, did not release her immediately. Instead he peered carefully at Vilmah's brown eyes, as if recognizing something. "..forgive me, Vilmah Bloodborne," he said quickly. "Let us celebrate this victory! We will drink, and tomorrow, we will destroy those ogre bastards. Never again with they enslave a Frostwolf."

Vilmah nodded, and watched as Kaggia embraced Garr'krash. Her mate pushed the disheveled hair and grime from her face, exposing what he had seen within Vilmah's.

The same round features, the same nose, the same mouth. Kaggia's green eyes were large, but they did not bear the color of an orc who's veins were tainted with demon's blood.

Vilmah's stomach sank with sudden realization. Kaggia, here in Draenor, was the shadow of her mother who never left Draenor. But Garr'grash, huge and brown, his hair red as the sunrise, was not her father. He never would have been.

Here in Draenor, Vilmah never would have existed.

Posts: 9
Joined: December 29th, 2014, 3:15 pm

Re: Legacy

Postby Vilmah » December 30th, 2014, 2:37 pm

"Live by these words: lok'tar ogar. Victory... or death."

"Grommashar. He is there."

Vilmah overheard Thrall say this, but she nearly couldn't believe it. Garrosh Hellscream, son of Grom and former Warchief of the Horde, led the Warsong clan on Draenor from Grommashar.


“Nagrand,” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone else. Though this was not the Nagrand that welcomed her, where she met her grandmother and discovered that orcs could have a different future. This was the Nagrand of the past.

Thrall seemed conflicted with their decision, but that was not the case for those speaking with him. They were planning an assault that would silence the former warchief, something that clearly weighed heavily on Thrall’s heart. The guilt he felt for bringing Garrosh into their lives was obvious, and Vilmah still harbored both love and deep respect for the Warchief that liberated her. That anyone could betray him, or their people, still angered her more than she was willing to admit. Vol’jin may have led the Horde, but no one could replace Thrall.

The difference between them was that Thrall’s desire to put an end to Garrosh was not vengeance; it was necessity. Given the chance, Garrosh would have destroyed everything that Thrall had built between the Horde and the Alliance, but his hatred was felt by more than the humans he despised. Trolls, Sin’dorei, they were all the same in his eyes and unwelcome. He could not be trusted to live, and Thrall understood this.

Vilmah felt differently. True, his death was a necessity, but that wasn’t the only thing that the orcess desired. What truly fed Vilmah’s desire to travel to Grommashar, and help put an end to Garrosh’s life, was the desire to make him suffer. There would be no peace in her heart until he felt the same pain and humiliation that he gave her, three years ago.


The first thing that they smelled was smoke. It was a distraction, obviously, as the Sanctuary guild hall was not completely engulfed in flames. This would have been an easy feat, but the Kor’kron did not simply want to incinerate the guild. They wanted to cause them pain.

Standing outside of the Sanctuary guild hall, they burned banners of purple and gold. One of the orcs kicked open the front doors and called out for those inside; “Come out, little mice!” He laughed, walking inside.

He was disappointed to see that it was mostly empty.

“Can I help you, sir?”

He wasn’t quite what the Kor’kron was expecting. An Undead male, wearing no armor and holding several books tucked under one arm. Steinburg smiled graciously, as he had been trained to do back in the bank of Daleran when dealing with an unkind customer.

“Why yes,” the orc chuckled, grabbing Steinburg by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The undead was nearly weightless in his grasp. “You can tell your traitorous ilk that the time has come for them to say goodbye.”

“Put him down.”

Several other Kor’kron entered through the destroyed doors as Vilmah walked down the stairs. She wore armor dented and damaged from battle, a familiar axe on her back. Though made larger by the armor, she still stood smaller than the other orcs, her youth obvious.

The Kor’kron let Steinburg fall to the floor unceremoniously. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Vilmah Bloodborne, and this is my guild,” she stated, approaching the Kor’kron. “We are proud members of the Horde and you have no business here.”

The other orcs laughed. Steinburg scrambled to his feet and ran for another door as the banners burned outside. “We have business indeed, orcling. The Warchief has decreed that no traitors shall be allowed within these walls. You, and all your merchant weaklings are no longer welcome in Orgimmar, or with the Horde. The Warchief has commanded that we should place you under arrest, and have you put to work with the other peons, but I do so hope you try to fight back. Orgrimmar has plenty of peons, and I’d love to see that purple tabard of yours turned red.”

Vilmah took a deep breath and reached for her axe. Pacifism was something taught to her by many people throughout Azeroth, and peace was a virtue that she wholeheartedly believed.

“Pick up your axe,” she grunted, reaching back to slide the visor down on her helmet. “I am no one’s peon.”

The Kor’kron laughed, but he stepped forward anyway. A swing toward Vilmah’s body was blocked by her axe, and as the two clashed, the rest of the Kor’kron made their way through the guild hall. One of them threw open the door Steinburg ran into and found what was left of his office; papers and books had been strewn about hastily, and an open window signaled the undead’s escape. Cursing, the Kor’kron ran with the others upstairs, and finding nothing living, ran back toward their leader as he fought the diminutive orcess.

“Sergeant, they’re gone! Someone must have warned them!”

The Sergeant shouted toward Vilmah’s face as he swung at her with his axe. She raised her own in response, her blocks growing weaker with each attack.

“Burn it!!” He shouted. “Burn this place to the ground!”

The helmet hid a look of rage in Vilmah’s face. Orgimmar was her home, and regardless of her differences with the orcs here, it was never hostile toward Sanctuary’s goals. This was different. This Sergeant had been sent to destroy them, her especially, and everything that she had built to create a safe haven.

A heavy slam of axe against axe sent Vilmah to the floor. The Sergeant reared back and swung his axe down toward her torso, but the smaller orc was faster. She rolled out from under his attack and had just enough time to swing her own weapon at his legs. The Sergeant howled with pain and rage as blood gushed from his Achilles tendons.

“Kill her!!” He shouted, though the other Kor’kron had already rushed to Vilmah with swords drawn.

Fighting in such close quarters put her at a disadvantage, especially when they were twice her size. The young orc looked for an escape, but finding little to help her, ran toward the danger instead with faith that her armor could withstand a few blows.

The axes and swords dented the plate mail, bruising her flesh underneath. A few bit through the joints of her armor, tearing a few new scars into her skin, but it was nothing she couldn’t bandage later. Her height finally an advantage, she managed to run through the Kor’kron as they swung their weapons, directly through the main doors and into the blazing fire they set outside. The Sergeant yelled in fury, ordering them to follow her, but it was too late. Vilmah’s windrider had been waiting for her call, and before the other orcs had a chance to run through the fire themselves, she was gone.

The sun was rising over Sen’jin Village as Vilmah approached. She could see the Echo Isles in the distance, looking almost peaceful as the sky changed from purple to red. Down in the village, Master Gadrin stood with a large group, chanting over a small fire. Vilmah landed her windrider and ran for the group, immediately counting their numbers.

“Vilmah!” Steinburg said with obvious relief. “You were right. They came immediately after you sent out the warning. Everyone was able to get out on time, but many of the animals were scattered.”

She clasped the undead’s shoulder. “That’s alright. Is Nojinbu—“

“Gone,” Ninorra said, her red eyes glancing in the direction of Orgrimmar. “He took Rosette. Don’t worry, they’re both fine. He said that he would meet you tonight, but, he didn’t say where.”

“I know where, thank you,” Vilmah sighed, looking at the group around her. They weren’t many, and they weren’t prepared to fight an entire Horde, but they were alive. “Thank you all. It looks like we’re in very big trouble.”

Sanctuary looked upon one another with a sense of foreboding.

“…does this mean we’re all criminals?” Asked one of the elves, a death knight female.

“Yes, Catalinetta,” Vilmah answered sadly. “Which means that the safest thing to do is for us to split up, or Garrosh and his cronies will hunt us down. I know that we all have things to protect. Be it family, or a home… I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect us better.”

“Think nothing of it,” Ninorra said brightly. “This is not the end, Vilmah. This is only a pause. Perhaps we shall all return someday, and give that orc a taste of his own medicine.”

The other guild members nodded, agreeing. Vilmah saw that not all members of Sanctuary were present, and held her hearthstone.

“The safest thing now,” she said sadly. “Is that we not contact each other. At least, not for a while. If absolutely necessary, we can communicate through go-betweens. Stranglethorn Exports. But these,” she held up her hearthstone. “We have to destroy them.”

Pulling each of their stones forward, Sanctuary placed them in a pile in the middle of their circle. Vilmah waited until she was last, and held the stone close to her mouth.

“If you can hear me,” she said through their secret channel. “Please, listen. Don’t come looking for us. Find a place where you can be safe, and if you must fight, do it under another banner. The Horde wants us dead, but we will not die. Sanctuary will not go quietly into the dark. We may not have our hall, or our banners, but we will not lose our goal. We will fight.”

The other members nodded solemnly.

“Goodbye, my friends,” she said one last time, and placed her stone in the pile.

Ninorra rubbed her hands together, and murmured something under her breath. The warlock’s red eyes glowed brighter as fel fire rose from the ground and enveloped the stones. Together, they crumbled, and returned to the earth.

Posts: 9
Joined: December 29th, 2014, 3:15 pm

Re: Legacy

Postby Vilmah » January 7th, 2015, 12:20 pm

((SPOILER ALERT: If you have not yet done the quest, "And Justice for Thrall", and you don't want to be spoiled, don't read!))

As a member of the war party selected to attack Grommashar, Vilmah did not expect to be in the front. She had no qualms about simply aiding the Frostwolves in their attempt to kill Garrosh, but could not deny that having a personal hand in his death was a deep desire. The thought of bleeding him with her axe was a fantasy enjoyed for several cold years. Still, she obeyed orders. Thrall requested that her group follow close behind as they cut their way through the Warsong, who fired arrows and intercepted them with waves of wolves and warriors.

By now, Vilmah was fully prepared. The weapons and armor found on Draenor, enchanted by the abundance of magic found on her people’s home world, gave her a strength that she never would have expected. The Warsong’s arrows bounced off of her plate mail, a few leaving dents, but not doing enough damage to thwart her ascent. With her, the Frostwolves fought with a ferocity that made her heart pound fast and hard. The wolves of the Warsong nipped at her heels, but they too were slaughtered by both her axe and her own companion, Edmund. The timber wolf, long since past his puppy phase, followed his rider with a muzzle covered in Warsong blood.

Eventually, they made it through the gauntlet and came to a stop on a hill. In front of Vilmah, a crowd had gathered. There were many others with whom Thrall had entrusted this mission, warriors of the Horde who each took turns fighting Garrosh. The orc was enormous, but he would not be bested, not even by the Horde’s greatest fighters. Thrall, however, was not yet there. Vilmah felt a panic in her chest when she realized that Garrosh may yet fight his way through them all, many of them far stronger than herself, who Garrosh put out of commission as quickly as they arrived. What would happen when he destroyed them all, she wondered? Would he run? No. He would not escape.

There was no order in this melee. As soon as Vilmah saw an opening, and another member of the Horde fell to Garrosh’s axe, she screamed and charged.

He was enormous. Far larger than Thrall, wielding the same style of axe that she had taken pride in for so long; Gorehowl. How she loved that axe, despite knowing that it was not the real thing. Now, in the hands of this monster, she knew how it handled. If Garrosh recognized the small orcess, he did not say. They traded blows, his large and sweeping, hers small and quick. His bulk made it possible to avoid many of his attacks, but Garrosh was not to be bested. She managed to finally land a blow, her axe biting into one of his legs, before he bested her. An elbow driven directly into the back of her skull.

Another warrior attacked him, as she fell. Vilmah’s vision blurred, and her limbs refused to respond. In the ground, along with so many of her fellow warriors, she knew she had done her duty for the Horde. Yet, in her heart, she felt just the smallest amount of pride. From her axe, Garrosh bled. He may never have known her, or why she hated him so, but she made him bleed. Now, it was Thrall’s turn.

“You must pay for your crimes, Garrosh.”

His voice, so familiar and comforting, made Vilmah want to leap to her feet. Unfortunately, the concussion would not allow her to move from her place in the ground. She struggled to turn her head in the direction of the coming battle, pulse throbbing in her ears. Thrall was much smaller. How could he win?

“All I did, I did for the Horde!”

The statement brought tears to Vilmah’s eyes. How many times had she said the same thing?

“You failed the horde.”

The fight was brutal. Neither warrior held back, despite their former relationship. This worried Vilmah before, but it no longer did. Thrall used his hammer in a way she could never have imagined, so quick despite it’s size that he landed blows on Garrosh’s body that would have broken a lesser orc into a million pieces.

But then…

“You made me Warchief,” Garrosh shouted, laying into Thrall harder than ever. Vilmah groaned with horror as Thrall’s hammer flew from his grasp, landing too far from her Warchief to recover.

“You left me to pick up the pieces,” Garrosh continued in his assault. “YOU failed ME!”

Vilmah’s stomach tightened. “No..” She whispered, her body still shattered, unable to even move from her position let alone bring Thrall aid. “No,” she repeated, as if the orc who liberated her in Hammerfall could hear. “You can’t die, Thrall, please…”

“You never had the strength of a real Warchief...”

The temptation to close her eyes was strong, but Vilmah watched. If Thrall fell now, she could not rest until Garrosh breathed his last. She took a deep breath and gathered her strength, and though it pained her, she put everything that she had left into the only battle shout that had ever mattered.


It was weak, but it was enough to awaken her fellow fallen soldiers. One by one they shouted, broken and injured. Still, they shouted for Thrall, until he could hear the strength of his people.

“I never relied on strength alone, Garrosh,” He said boldly. Thrall reached for the elements, the sound of his Horde swallowed by the sound of thunder and lightning. “My power is all around you.”

The ground opened, and from the earth came a hand that grasped Garrosh’s huge body and held it in a bone crushing grip.

Garrosh struggled. “You made me what I am...”

Vilmah grit her teeth. The hatred she held for Garrosh, deep in her heart, screamed profanities.

“No,” Thrall said, regret deep in his voice. “You chose your own destiny.”

The lightning that hit Garrosh sent shockwaves through the earth. Vilmah and those on the ground felt their bodies tremble with the earth until it passed, leaving Garrosh’s body limp in its grasp. Thrall seemed distraught, silent in his victory, as he rejoined his allies. The Warsong, seeing their leader destroyed, scattered and many attacked what was left of the Frostwolves. It was a short skirmish, as many Warsong scattered to lick their wounds, swearing vengeance. Soon, all was quiet, Vilmah finally felt comfortable enough to close her eyes.

“Bloodborne. Bloodborne, can you hear me?”

She scrunched her face together. The voice in her ear was gentle, but firm.

“Open your eyes, Bloodborne. I will heal you.”

She did not know for how long her eyes had been closed, but it was enough time for the Frostwolf shamans to make their way through the battlefield and heal fallen warriors. She could see some of them limping back to their mounts, but others remained on the ground and did not stir. Hands pulled off Vilmah’s helmet and were placed on her skull, bruised and swollen. Her head throbbed with a dull ache, which seemed to fade into this stranger’s hands until it was gone and the world became clear again.

“You should be able to stand,” the shaman said kindly.

Vilmah found her footing and stood, grabbing her helmet on the way. The back had been dented, but it’s strength had clearly saved her life. Had she not worn it, Garrosh’s blow would have crushed her skull entirely.

“Don’t worry,” the shaman said before moving on to another. “They’ll give you a new one.”

Nodding, Vilmah whistled for Edmund. The timber wolf ran to her heels and nuzzled the backs of her legs, as if happy that the fight was over. She pet him a few times, thankful for his companionship, but watched as Thrall rejoined his allies. Khadgar, Vindicator Yrel, Durotan and the others assured Thrall that he did what had to be done, but the former Warchief remained silent. Vilmah understood his mourning, despite Garrosh’s betrayal, and ached for the chance to give Thrall her support and tell him how much this battle, and he himself, meant to her.

But that was not her place. She was a soldier for his Horde, and would stand behind him always, honored for the chance to serve. For now, she would mount Edmund and return to her garrison. Tomorrow, she would send him a letter, with her thanks.

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