"So how about another flask of port my friend? You still look thirsty, and I'm still buying."
"Har har har!! Eff ey wasunt so drunk eyd be guessin dat yer up to sometin yeu old dawg... har har har... wut did yeu say yer name wus agin?"
"My name is Orkimedes, and I'm not up to anything my friend, I just have never been to Orgrimmar before, and I heard you were the Orc to talk to for information." I say with a wide grin.
"Yar!! dat is dah truef. Evry wone knows dat Sarok is dah best Orc een all of Orgrimmar fer helpin out.. Fer dah rite price dat is. Har har har!!!"
Sarok was as vile as Orcs come. He had none of the proud honor that the Orcs of Nagrand lived and died by. Instead, he seemed to live his life for the next drink.
As if on silent que, the barkeep brought over another bottle of port for Sarok, and a bottle of water disguised as alcohol for me. It's clear that he has seen this game played before.
As the drunken fool swills down the strong brew, I lean in close and whisper to him.
"So Sarak, tell me more about the warlocks that make their home in the Cleft of Shadows here in Orgrimmar."
It's clear by the sudden serious expression on his face that I asked the wrong question. He stares at me for a moment.
"Wut do ya be wantin wif dos Orcs for? Nobudy messes wif dah Or'locks and lives long ta talk about eet." he finally says with a drawn out slur in his voice.
"Oh no my friend" I reply cautiously "You are mistaken. I'm not looking for any trouble with the warlocks."
He continues to stare at me suspiciously for a long moment.
"Listin strangr." he says with a sneer "Eets pretie cleer yer not frum oround eer. Een fact ye talk funne like dose Orcs frum Outland. But, ey wooldunt be askin about stuf dats not yer biznuss. Dem or'locks ar too powerfool ta be mesed wif. Heck, evn Thrall isunt brave enuff ta cross dem. Dats why dey is still allowd in Orgrimmar!"
I shift uncomfortably for a moment. On Draenor the Warlocks held absolute power. Their mastery of demonic energies nearly destroyed my people and my world. I remember the horrific fervor that my clan fell into. That fervor that I nearly lost myself to. That is, until I returned to shamanism and found myself again.
"Rellok!!" Sarok stands up and yells.
From outside the inn a small little Orc child runs in carrying a set of bulging saddle bags. The boy looks beat up and abused. He has scratches and dried blood all over his arms and face. Like he had been fighting.
"Git mah worg ya yusless litul runt." Sarok commands the child as he starts for the door.
"Sarok, wait!" I say "is that child yours?"
The stumbling drunkard turns around like he is expecting a fight.
"Wuts eet ta yu Orki... wutever yer name ees?"
"No, he looks like a fine boy, very strong for his age." I say with smile
"Oh.. naw ea aint mah kid. Ea wus givin tah me as mah grunt'lin fer 'elpin out wiff dah Argunt Ternamint. Ees suppozd tah do as Ey sayz, but eez a lazy peon."
I frown in disappointment at Sarok, but I resist the urge to punch him in the mouth.
"Yeaa, evry un dat 'elped wiff dah Argunt 'umans git a grunt'lin." he says as he turns to stumble out the door and into the dusty streets of Orgrimmar.
I sit in quiet contemplation for a moment. Perhaps my suspicion that the warlocks may be sacrificing children to their dark masters is wrong. Maybe something is going on with these Gruntlings. Poor little Rellok looked like he had been fighting, and he is much too young to be allowed into the arena.
With renewed purpose I rise from the crappy little drinking establishment and make my way out into the crowded streets. Maybe my big brother can help me.
