We were not always like this.
We did not always hide in the shadows.
We used to be strong.
I wanted to return to that strength.
I wanted pride to be on the minds of each Thundereater Orc as they slept at night.
But pride, just like power, must be earned with a suitable sacrifice.
---
On Ragnarok, following Gorrok's betrayal...
---
The Hellfire Club offered shelter for a decent amount of time. Knowing their terms with SMILE, Gorrok knew Warsman would never make a move against them on a business standpoint. However, this was not why Gorrok hid among them.
He stood proud with the Hellfire Club, and only disappeared quietly because of Mister Oh's deceptively sneaky nature. The replacement strategy with Mister Oh taking the seat of Red Bishop only existed as a temporary setback in Gorrok's plan. Not even Warsman could predict what the Orc could do with his back against the wall, and right now, he had nowhere else to run.
"Restore him. None of these augmentations for the arena,"
At first, the gesture seemed gentle enough. But undoing thick scar tissue and resewing thick muscle resulted in a process that grated on the last of Gorrok's pain tolerance, an ability he prided himself on. Not even the detail of his eye was left untouched. Long ago, it would have been an honor to tear it out to see his own death. He knew of his death, and did not fear what the Regent of Ragnarok could do to him. This was not his fate. The tender optical nerves twisted back into his skull, finding their way into his brain and reattaching accordingly. To have undone years of built-up scar tissue, replacing entirely shut nerve endings, ripping that plate of skin and flesh open again...it hurt worse than actually tearing out the eye in the first place.
Warsman must have enjoyed this.
Even with his stoic expression and silent facade, he must have been beaming on the inside.
One of the two people to know about the Iron Dawn plans, and his betrayal now brought to justice. How fitting.
But he was not done yet. With a gesture of his hand, the procedure stopped. Gorrok held his weight from falling on two quivering arms, and caught a fleeting glimpse of himself in the encarmine puddle staring back at him. Even the eye color...a perfect icy blue! Long had he worked to try and replicate the technology of Ragnarok, and he could see he was still generations away from mastering any aspect of it.
"A savage. Your kind has always been savages. I allow you to stay in my organization, and you run. You run from my gifts. And now you shall know only pain,"
His words haunted Gorrok everywhere he went. Forced back to his feet by an unseen hand, Gorrok staggered and would have fallen if not for his own steely determination. He siphoned what he could learn from the foundries of Ragnarok. He found a way to save his people, and he took it. The dark magics that bound them still to the marshlands and misery of Skellbrieg could be broken. He swore it long ago.
Kicked and thrown around, Gorrok coughed and sputtered. Kidney blows. Liver blows. His rib cage shook with the turmoil, and he met a faceful of sand as his reward for enduring it.
"Stand and face your enemies. These are your last obstacle, for there must be a price for freedom,"
Gorrok already knew what he was about to do. Though an axe was thrown at his feet, he did not take it immediately. Instead, he glared not at his opponents, but at Warsman who sat on his throne in the arena, smug and invincible.
"One hundred lives. That is the price that your god demands. Spill their blood, and you will be able to return to Earth,"
The orc took a long look at the faces of his foes. He grimaced as he recognized every single one. Prisoners, slaves, warriors and soldiers of fortune imprisoned to be gladiators for the rest of their lives. His thick fingers wrapped around the axe handle carefully. The battle would be joined at any second.
"Kill,"
With a swift motion, the first gush of blood splashed on the sand. Gorrok grunted in a heaving effort, and dug his fist into his stomach, freshly carved wide for all to see. What he removed, Warsman had to stand to believe.
A boom tube.
"One final gift, from the Hellfire Club to me. And now, to these slaves,"
It took one broad sweep of his hand to activate the canister, and a portal to Earth opened. The gladiators Gorrok was forced to kill instead dropped their weapons and hurried for the new land. But the primarch of the Thundereater Clan was not finished. Metademons were encroaching, and many felt the sting of the axe he wielded with unmatched proficiency, proficiency that was focused in one last insult to the God of Evil.
"I will return someday, Warsman. And your empire will fall,"
Before taking his own steps into the boom tube, Gorrok hefted his axe with such power that with the resulting toss, the catastrophic power behind the arcing motion shattered the weapon against the psionic shield Warsman had made to deflect it.
"SO SWEARS THIS OLD WOLF!"
One last hurrah.
Warsman actually smiled, beyond the blood oozing from his scalp. Blood that was not his own, but the gesture could not be clearer.
The Iron Dawn would come later than planned. For now, there were plans to be made. Chess pieces to be reacclimated. Strategies to be changed.
---
Gorrok returned to the Hellfire Club to regain his title as Red Bishop, finding the seat abnormally unoccupied due to Mister Oh's bizarre absence. Perhaps he had to be reassigned elsewhere. Gorrok's actions on Ragnarok were troubling, to say the least, and SMILE would have to reorganize to Warsman's discreet whims. For now, however, the Thundereater Clan would be safe.
The tundra of Canada seemed suitable enough for them to readjust to their new lives. Adopting shamans instead of warlocks, and wolves instead of demons, the Thundereater Clan returned to the roots of what made them strong. They returned to family, and strength through brotherhood, not augmentation. Though they were weaker than ever now, they would become unstoppable out here, where they could be what they were always meant to be.
Pure, and wild.
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