The river stretched across the Barrens, its murky waters slowly winding through the golden plains. Orange clouds hung low, casting shadows over the cracked barren earth. An orc crouched at edge of the steep riverbank, muscles taut beneath his weathered, green skin. His name was Gromar Ironfang, hunter by trade and solitary wanderer by choice. His fishing pole rested in his large, lightly scarred hands, the line drifting lazily in the water. Beads of sweat trickled down his temple, but Gromar didn’t stir. The art of patience was something he had mastered long ago.
Beside him, a sleek grey wolf named Ashra shifted on her haunches, ears pricked. Her golden eyes swept the horizon. She was ever watchful, even in moments of peace. The line jerked suddenly, snapping Gromar from his thoughts. He reeled the catch in quickly—a fat, silvery fish wriggled violently in the air. It thrashed once, twice, before finally stilling in his firm grasp. Gromar studied it with a calm satisfaction.
"Strong one," he muttered to Ashra, who barked in response. He slipped the fish into a leather satchel at his hip.
A low growl rumbled from the tall grass nearby. Gromar’s eyes narrowed. He set the fishing pole down and rose slowly, reaching for his bow. His fingers brushed against the taut string as his gaze scanned the dense undergrowth around him. The sound of rustling leaves grew louder. A flash of amber eyes. Then, from the shadows, stepped a lynx with russet fur streaked with grey and white. Its lean, sinewy form was tense with caution, but it didn’t attack yet.The lynx stared at Gromar, unblinking. Gromar’s muscles coiled instinctively. He had encountered wild predators before—he knew the language of beasts, the difference between fear and aggression. This one wasn’t hostile.
"Easy," Gromar said, his voice a low rumble. Slowly, he knelt and extended a hand. "No need for blood today."
The lynx didn’t move. Its ribs showed beneath its fur, and the hunger in its eyes mirrored something Gromar had once known in himself. From his satchel, he pulled a small strip of dried meat and laid it on the ground between them.It hesitated, then padded forward. One cautious step at a time, until it stood over the offering. It sniffed the meat, then tore into it ravenously.
"You’ll need more than that, won’t you?" Gromar murmured. His hand brushed over the lynx’s scarred ears, and though it tensed, it didn’t pull away.
Ashra stepped forward, her tail high. The wolf sniffed at the lynx, who returned the gesture without a sound. The two beasts circled each other for a few moments before settling into a wary truce.
"Ember," Gromar decided aloud. "That’s what I’ll call you."
The lynx’s eyes gleamed, as if it recognized its new name.
Night fell quickly in the Barrens. Stars dotted the sky, their light reflected in the still waters of the river. Gromar sat between Ashra and Ember, his bow resting across his lap. The wildlands would be dangerous tomorrow, but for tonight, there was peace.
In the quiet, Gromar Ironfang allowed himself a rare smile. Alone, but never lonely—not with his beasts by his side. The night deepened, and the stars above seemed to pulse with ancient light. Gromar shifted slightly against a rock, adjusting his weight. The chill of the Barrens at night was a sharp contrast to its brutal daytime heat. Ashra’s steady breathing at his side provided a small comfort, and Ember curled up a short distance away, his amber eyes glinting even as they began to close.
Gromar kept his senses sharp despite the peace. The wilds of Azeroth were unpredictable. He had learned that lesson long ago during his youth, when a peaceful campfire had been interrupted by a pack of angry quillboars. That memory had never left him. His scars never let him forget. The moon reached its peak before his mind began to drift. Not to the wars of the past, nor to Orgrimmar’s bustling streets. Instead, his thoughts wandered to his old tribe—small, nomadic, and long since scattered across Azeroth. His people had valued strength above all else, and when Gromar chose the path of solitude and beasts, rather than glory and conquest, they had considered him strange. Weak, even.
They were wrong. The hunter took a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill his lungs. He glanced at Ashra, his ever-loyal wolf, and Ember, the newly tamed lynx, and felt the quiet pride of a life lived on his terms. But peace never lasted for long. The distant cry of a bird of prey split the night—a piercing screech that shattered the stillness. Gromar shot to his feet, bow in hand, scanning the darkness.Ashra growled low in her throat, her hackles rising. Ember, though still new to Gromar’s pack, mirrored the wolf’s tension. The cry came again, closer now. This time, Gromar caught sight of a shadow against the moon—a great bird circling overhead.
“Windroc,” he muttered softly under his breath. The massive bird-beasts were native to the arid regions of Nagrand, but a few had made their way to the Barrens. They were powerful hunters, fierce and relentless- and it had already spotted them.
Without warning, the windroc dove, its sharp talons extended. The air screamed with a fury as the beast plummeted toward them. Gromar moved on instinct. His fingers flew over his bowstring, nocking an arrow in one smooth motion. He fired, the arrow streaking toward the windroc’s chest. It struck true, but the beast didn’t fall. It only screeched in a heightened fury, banking hard to avoid a second arrow. Ashra darted forward, her powerful legs propelling her toward the bird’s shadow. Ember followed close behind, the lynx’s lean form cutting through the grass like a blade.
“Stay sharp!” Gromar barked loudly.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
It swooped low, raking its talons through the air as it passed. Ashra dodged narrowly, but Ember wasn’t so lucky. The lynx yowled in pain as a talon grazed his side, leaving a shallow cut. Gromar’s blood burned at the sight. He drew another arrow, aiming for the windroc’s wings. He needed to ground it before it could strike again. The arrow flew true. It tore through the bird’s left wing, sending it spiraling toward the earth. The windroc crashed into the riverbank with a thunderous splash, its cries now ragged with pain and fury. Ashra and Ember circled the downed beast, growling low and ready to strike. Gromar approached slowly, his bow still trained on the windroc.
“Enough,” he said, his voice calm but firm. The beasts obeyed, stepping back but remaining on high alert.
The windroc thrashed weakly in the clear shallow water. Its wing hung at an awkward angle, broken beyond use. Gromar studied it for a long moment. He could end it here—one more arrow would be all it took.But something stopped him. Perhaps it was the same instinct that had led him to tame Ashra and Ember. The windroc was no monster—it was a hunter, like him. A creature of the wilds, fierce and free.
Slowly, Gromar lowered his bow. He knelt beside the bird, watching its labored breathing. “I’ll give you a choice,” he said quietly. “Fight and die, or follow me.”
The windroc’s golden eyes met his red ones. There was defiance there, but also understanding. Gromar extended his hand, as he had with Ember. The great bird hesitated. Then, with a soft, pained cry, it lowered its head.
“Good.” Gromar smiled. “Your name will be Skyrend.”
Ashra barked in approval. Ember, despite his injury, padded closer, curious.Together, the three beasts and their hunter moved back to camp. Gromar worked swiftly to tend to Skyrend’s wounds, his rough hands surprisingly gentle. When the bird was finally settled, he leaned back and sighed. Another life added to his strange, ever-growing family. Another bond forged in the wilds. Tomorrow, the hunt would begin again. But tonight, under the stars of Azeroth, Gromar Ironfang rested—content, complete.
The next day dawn broke over the Barrens with a golden-red hue, stretching long shadows across the dry earth. Gromar Ironfang stood just outside his camp, Ashra by his side. The morning was quiet but alive with potential. Today wasn’t a day for hunting. Today was a day for forging. His forge was a simple, portable setup—a small anvil, a stone hearth built from nearby river rocks, and a bundle of well-used hand crafted tools. The fire crackled to life as Gromar carefully fed it dried driftwood and coal. Once it burned hot, he set to work. His first task was the spear. Gromar had always favored the bow in battle, but a hunter needed versatility, especially when dealing with more formidable foes and prey up close.
He began by heating a long iron rod until it glowed a brilliant orange. The rhythmic clang of his hammer echoed across the camp as he shaped the tip into a vicious, leaf-shaped blade. Sparks danced with each strike, illuminating his green skin and sweat-slicked brow. Once the blade was honed to a razor edge, he tempered it in the river’s cool water, the hiss of steam rising like a feral beast’s breath. The shaft was crafted from ironwood—tough and flexible enough to endure even the most brutal hunts. Gromar lashed the spearhead to the wood using braided leather straps, ensuring it was tight and secure. When it was finished, he tested the weapon with a series of swift thrusts and spins. The spear felt right in his hands—a perfect blend of strength and precision. Next, he turned to his armor. His old leather jerkin had served him well, but it bore too many scars and tears from years of battles. It was time for something new.
He laid out thick hides of clefthoof and plainstrider—tough yet pliable, ideal for armor that could withstand both claw and blade. Using a bone needle and sinew thread, he stitched each piece together with meticulous care. He reinforced the chest with overlapping plates of treated leather, creating a natural breastplate. The pauldrons were adorned with small spikes, a subtle nod to orcish tradition. Finally, he added a padded collar to protect his neck without sacrificing mobility. Ashra watched with keen interest, her ears twitching each time Gromar muttered under his breath or inspected a seam for flaws. When the armor was finished, he donned it. The fit was snug, but it allowed him to move with ease. As a larger one of his tribe, he had an impressive figure-one that was both lithe and strong as a Hunter of Azeroth. The smell of fresh leather mixed with the lingering scent of the forge’s embers.
With his new gear complete, Gromar turned his attention to Ashra, Ember, and Skyrend. Taming a beast was only the first step in their bond. To truly fight as one, beast and master needed trust, discipline, and instinct. They began with Ashra. The old wolf was already a seasoned hunter, but Gromar wanted to hone her reflexes. He strung up a crude training dummy made of straw and twine and set it swinging on a low tree branch. Ashra charged at it on command, her jaws snapping shut around the straw effigy with deadly precision. Gromar praised her, offering her a dried fish as a reward.
Next was Ember. The lynx was still adjusting to life in the wilds, and his injury from the windroc fight had made him cautious. Gromar coaxed him through a series of jumps and sprints, using bits of raw meat as encouragement. Slowly, Ember’s confidence returned, and by the end of the session, he was moving with the same fluid grace as before. Skyrend was the most challenging. The windroc was a creature of the skies, proud and fierce. Gromar spent hours teaching the bird to respond to hand signals and whistles. There were many setbacks—Skyrend was quick to lash out if frustrated—but by dusk, the windroc had learned to dive and circle on command.
Training was more than just drills—it was about pushing boundaries. Gromar knew that if his beasts were to thrive, they needed experience in the wild. He led them into the Barrens’ heart, where the land was harsh and the prey was strong.They hunted together, each kill bringing them closer as a unit. Ashra brought down a towering thunder lizard with a powerful leap, her jaws locking onto its throat. Ember darted through tall grass to ambush a pack of raptors, his claws flashing in the dim light. Skyrend swooped from the sky like a bolt of lightning, scattering a group of prowlers that had been foolish enough to approach their camp.Gromar fought alongside them, his new spear slicing through thick hides and sinews. Every battle strengthened their bond, every victory sharpening their instincts.
By the time the moon rose again, Gromar and his beasts stood victorious atop a small hill. Their breaths were heavy, but their spirits soared. The Barrens stretched out before them, vast and untamed. Gromar felt the same satisfaction he had known when taming Ashra all those years ago. He had chosen this life of solitude, of forging his own path. And though it was filled with challenges, it was a life worth living.With the stars as their witnesses, Gromar Ironfang and his pack settled down for the night—stronger, sharper, and ready for whatever Azeroth would throw at them next.