The time was now, and what a time it was. I did not know much, but what I did know was that a great beast struck our borrowed home, that even the barren land we Orcs called home was ruined by the mere stretch of its wings. I also knew that now was my coming of age, and that today I truly joined the horde, no longer young and wet, now a strong young blood. Soon all would know the name of Myrdo Reargut the Rogue, son of Tarn Reargut.
So I struck out to the North, to find the Valley of Trials. There I hoped to put to the test the axiom of my father, That any situation could be solved with the proper application of a blade to a spine. Of course Pa always said it as "Wrench guts, win lots". A practical man my Pa, a trait that won him the nicest grave in town.
As I trekked the Valley to its center, I crossed the discarded shells of the spoils of others. Spent men, empty carcases. I did not see another Orc there in those fields, but it was obviously many trampled the ground in front of me. So I continued on.
There in the center of the Valley I found my mentor, a small and angry man, prone to repeating himself in identical blood thirsty yells. He seemed keen to make a man of me, and it seemed the best way to do so was to dull my blade against the backs of many beast. Very many beast. First were the boars, doing the work of some peon who looked on in slack toothed glee as I slaughtered his pigs by the dozen. When this was enough, I moved to Scorpids, a beast that before I only killed for desperate meals. Now I made a feast of them, and a river of their venom.
When I found my brow wet with sweat and my stiletto slick with gore, I was finally given a true task. Thazz'rill, or Old Thazzy as he was so often called, told me of a secret. The humans, who we so recently made peace with, were in our lands again. There were scouts from Northwatch scattered across the Valley of Trials, and I was to introduce them all to my Pa's particular creed. The sun set early on many men, some carrying boxes, some carrying boxes with big crosses on them, and others shooting faulty guns, yet each found their death before my blade. Though they cut into me as well, some with blades, some with lead, I found myself invigorated by the exercise. Every time the battle found its climax, so did my being, and I was renewed.
I was not alone though, and I do not think I could have finished the trials without friends both old and new. Old Zigglez Strumdoom, or just Zigg for short, a true shot who could calm any beast. Witrig Shadeheart, a frightening warlock whose introduction to the hordes forces fell on the same day. Then finally Mahou, or Little Miss Mahou as she preferred to be called, an enigma of a caster, driven yet queer.
Together we flew across the red landscape I called home, and slay anything with a back to prove our worth. At the end Old Thazzy gave me a letter, a recruitment letter to join the Hordes forces defending the barrens. That was a place I knew by name, yet not by sight. Its reputation proceeded it by miles, and my body quaked in fear, while my blade quivered in anticipation.