The restless crowd gathers in a huddled mass as the cold wind of Icecrown chills them to their bones. On the jousting field, two combatants stand like frozen statues, facing each other across the icy ground of the Argent Tournament.
One is a proud and noble human in shining armor, wearing the tabard of the Argent Crusade. The other, a savage looking Orc dressed in strange mail armor that seems to smolder and smoke without catching fire. Both opponents hold a towering lance and sit a top an anxious mount. A horse for the human, and a vicious worg for the orc.
"Champions, you may commence with the joust!!" Squire Cavin calls from atop a nearby box serving as podium overseeing the challenge field.
Suddenly, the two jousters break into a run towards one another. Tension rises to a crescendo as they lower their lances in anticipation of the collision.
With a sickening crash they plow into one another, their lances skittering off each others shields. Neither are knocked off their mounts. They pass one another and wheel about at opposite ends of the field. Then, with a sharp shout they charge once again.
This time as the pair collide, splinters are sent flying in all directions as the orcs lance shatters on the shield of the human. The pair pass once again without knocking one another off their respective mounts.
As they wheel about at opposite ends of the field, the fight is paused momentarily while a squire runs out to give the orc a new lance. Meanwhile the pair survey one another again, like a pair of bulls preparing to square off, looking for signs of weakness or fear.
Suddenly, as if by some mysterious, unseen signal, the pair charge each other with ferocious tenacity. The beating of the horse's hooves and the worg's paws builds the climatic tension as they hurtle towards one another.
With a loud crash they collide, their lances held firm. With a loud roar of the crowd, the human loses his grip on his shield, and wobbles in the saddle. As he struggles to right himself, his mount comes to an abrupt halt at the end of the field and he falls off, landing hard on the frozen ground. Meanwhile, the orc brings his worg around, ready for another pass to finish his fallen foe.
"Victory to Orkimedes of Orgrimmar!!" shouts Squire Cavin.
A look of shocked confusion crosses the orc's face as crowd cheers and shouts at the quick conclusion of the fight.
It is clear to anyone watching that the fervor of joy or hatred over a victory seems to depend on the victor, and what faction he belongs to. While the Horde cheers wildly, the many of the Alliance in the crowd shout curses and obscenities at the orc champion.
As the human stands up on the field and brushes himself off, the orc approaches slowly on his worg with his lance held high in the air.
"Well done shaman, you proved yourself to be a champion today. For a novice, you joust very well!" the human shouts with a smile as he walks forward with his hand held out in friendship.
The Orc remains stoic, not returning the humans act of friendship.
"If this was Draenor I would kill you now human." he responds in thickly accented and broken common, the language of the humans.
Undaunted, the human champion smiles broadly at the orc as he walks forward to pet the muzzle of his worg mount. With a sudden growl, the worg snaps at the man, nearly biting his armored hand.
"Come now.. Orkimedes is it? This is a game, to challenge our skill at arms and to prepare us for the fight against Arthas" the human says as he wearily steps back away from the orc and his ferocious worg.
"Killing is not a game human!" the orc barks back, loud enough for everyone to hear "Somehow I doubt that Arthas will be fighting you with sticks." As he says that he throws his lance to the ground in disgust.
The crowd goes quiet at the Shaman's harsh words. The human's smile goes to an angry frown as he lowers his hand in friendship.
"Shaman, you won dah fight, eets time fer celebration not angry werds" a burly orc yells from the crowd.
Orkimedes looks up at the crowd and snorts as he turns his worg around and departs from the jousting field.
"Champion, you are to report to Justicar Mariel Trueheart, our venerated Seneschal of the Argent Tournament for your reward!" Squire Cavin shouts across the murmuring of the crowd.
The orc rides his worg slowly to the stables and dismounts. He then begins to walk towards a large pavilion at the far west end of the grounds.
"Aye, I saw yer fight Shaman." the burly orc who shouted from the crowd approaches with his hand held out in friendship and a wide smile on this face. He looks like one of the goblins of Orgrimmar that try to talk you into buying something you don't really want.
Orkimedes does not return the gesture, instead he walks past the stranger with a scowl on his face.
"Hey brovfer, I gots ta talk wif you about sometin ween yer done talkin ta da umie about yer Gruntlin." the orc says as he turns to follow the shaman.
Suddenly Orkimedes stops and wheels about. "I'm not your brother stranger, and why are you interested in my business?" he says with a sneer.
The orc stops in his tracks and recoils from the elder shaman like he was expecting to be backhanded.
"Uh... naw you mistunderstanded me Elda Orkimedes, Ay'm not in yer biznuss. Yah see I was sent here bah dah Warchief tah recruit champiuns fer a project." he says with a stammer.
"A project? What kind of project?"
"Ahh, eets a secret but dah warchief haz a plan tah toughen up dah little gruntlins. Ey'll tell yous all about it whin ya get your gruntlin."
"Toughen them up?" Orkimedes says, his anxiety and anger suddenly coming to the surface. "You say Thrall sent you here to recruit people for this project?"
"Har har har, naw not Thrall, Garrosh. Come hav a drink wit me and we'll talk all about eet."
Without saying a thing the shaman turns and continues his walk to the massive Argent Pavilion. As he approaches, he sees a human woman wearing glittering armor and sitting on an armored steed in the doorway.
"Elder Orkimedes of Orgrimmar." she calls out as he approaches. "You have proven yourself a champion of your people this day and worthy to be called a valiant of the Argent Tournament."
As the aged shaman approaches he gives a slight bow. However, it is clear by the expression on his face that he is not honored or impressed by this title or this game.
"Orkimedes, please take this Orc child as your reward. Train him in the ways of honor and strength."
The woman gestures and a small orc boy, no older than a dozen winters is brought from inside the pavilion. He wears simple clothes, no shoes and the tabard of the Argent Crusade. On his back is a bulky backpack loaded down with various equipment needed for traveling. It's clear that the boy can barely shoulder the weight.
He walks forward and bows deeply before the shaman. Not looking up at him, instead staring at the ground as if he is embarrassed, ashamed, or frightened.
"Ey am at yer servis Master Orkymedes."
The shaman looks down at the pathetic gruntling before him. His face goes from an angry scowl to a deep frown of sadness.
"Justicar, may I ask you a question?" the elderly shaman says in a deep voice.
"Of course" she says with a nod
"I am honored by your gift of this gruntling. But, how did you come into possession of an orc child?"
The justicar looks surprised, and smiles at the shaman for a moment before answering.
"Thrall has the ablest of orphans from his land volunteer to become squires for our champions. This is done to give these warriors an investment in the future of their people. Also, service to the Tournament ensures that only the most noble and honorable soldiers are selected to be rolemodels for these orphans." she replies.
Orkimedes stands before the woman in silence for a long moment before turning around and leaving without saying a word. The confused and timid gruntling stands in the snow for a moment. He looks at the Justicar and then back at the Shaman before finally starting off after him with tears in his eyes.
The pair walk through the snow for a bit, headed towards the Sunstrider Pavilion. The freezing wind biting at them as they make their way through the crowds. Meanwhile, the clash and clamor of more jousting games continues in the tournament grounds. As they approach the massive Sunstrider Pavilion the smell of warm food draws their attention to a nearby troll cooking food over a fire.
"Are you hungry?" Orkimedes says as he turns to the shivering Gruntling. The young child looks terrified as he stares in the distance towards the Sunstrider Pavilion. His mouth hangs open and tears stream down his green face.
The confused shaman looks over his shoulder at what the child is looking at, and sees that burly orc from earlier standing at the entryway of the pavilion and smiling broadly. He waves at Orkimedes in the vile and friendly fashion of a salesman.
"Child, what is wrong with you?" he says as he kneels down to look him square in the eyes.
The gruntling stares blankly for a moment before looking in the face of the shaman. "Master, pweese dont make me fight in dah aweena wiff de uddr Gruntlings. I'll do anyfing for you just don't make me do dat." he finally says with a pleading look on his face
Orkimedes gets a horrified look on his face as tears begin to well up in his own eyes.
"By the Ancestors child, what makes you think I'm gonna do that?" he says
The Gruntling looks deep into the shaman's eyes once again before looking over his shoulder at the orc standing in the doorway beyond.
"All dah Oarphans know dat orc we'kwoots champiuns tah fight dere Gruntlings in Orgwimmar. No one will beweeve us."
As the boy speaks the realization of this truth washes over Orkimedes like a bad dream. This is the secret horror that the ancestors sent him to Azeroth to find.
"Fear not young one." the elderly shaman says with a grim look on his face. "I believe you, and I swear on my bones we will put an end to this." the shaman says as he turns and waves at the orc with a smile.
"But first, let us find out who is at the bottom of this."
