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By Rocmar

The wind blew harshly on the rock face, loose stones and rocks fell downward... plummeting to the abyss. But still he climbs, up the frozen mountainside he climbs. His fingers felt numb for a brief moment as some rock gives way beneath his heel, but he would not fall now... he will not fall now. His cold, numbing fingers reached the edges of a plateau which seems no more than a ledge. He grips the edge... pulling himself up with a loud growl. The sound drowned out by the harsh blizzard which seemed to engulf the very mountain. He stands up... to the best of his ability. His vision slowly trails from his snow and mud-drenched boots to the entrance of a cave. He walks toward it covering his face with a forearm, his steps are taken carefully.

He reaches out with his hand touching a large, thick and heavy pelt which serves as a door to the entrance. He pushes his way through...

He shakes off the snow and discards his heavy hide cloak. His harsh features now marked out by a dim firelight. He is Rocmar, champion of the Beastmaw. The silver fur of his wolf mask glistening with the touch of frost and his skin now starting to discard the paleness granted by the frozen climb. His eyes turn to the centre of the cave. He is there...

An orc. Sitting on a seat carved out of the very rock of the cave itself, decorated with battle trophies of old. To his right - an old Frostwolf battle banner, once grand and feared on the battlefield, now torn and ageing, the blue background slowly turning grey and the threads seeming to curl up and unravel. To his left - a battle axe. Mystic orcish runes etched on the blade, the handle and straps decorated with trophies of old enemies. Sitting on this axe is a wolf mask, tribal markings of red and blue beneath the eye holes and on the forehead, the fur of the mask itself is white.

And now his vision moves to the centre. The orc sitting on the seat looks as if the lords of time had preserved him themselves. Unmoving. Completely still. His breath slow and steady. His skin is a deathly shade of green and his body covered in scars, the orc's face is wrinkled and old. Which looks out of place despite his body still having most of its brutish appearance intact. Grey hair is in a pony tail and looks as if it merged with the beard. This orc was a majestic one to say the least.

Rocmar smirked upon seeing the sight and strode forward. Kneeling at the old warrior. To which the old one said - "Who enters my home?" in a deep and ominous voice. "Grandfather." Was all Rocmar said... it was all he needed to say. The older orc smirked, looking straight ahead, for you see - this old orc was blind.

"It is truly an honour to see you again Grandson. I trust this visit isnt just to 'check in' on things." He laughed a little and smiled. "No, I come to pay my respects... the shamans said.... you cant be cured." He frowned. Displeased and somewhat upset about discussing this. "Oh so they have told you have they?" "Yes grandfather, it is--" "It is nothing! I should have died in battle!" said the older orc. Turning his head in the direction of Rocmar's voice. "I have watched over you since the day you were born, Rocmar. You should know better." Rocmar nodded and a sad expression crossed his face. "Well. Since your here. You may aswell tell me...

They talked for hours, old warrior and young shaman. Reunited and their friendship rebuilt anew. He told him everything, from the finding of Gromkar till the insect attacks on Stonetalon. The night passed... and the sun rose at dawn the next day. The mountain-top was quiet... no blizzards... not even a faint breeze. For high upon a pyre there he was - Khaz'ag Foeaxe - Rocmar's grandfather... warrior of the Frostwolf clan.

The reunion and the last salute.

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