Gurghula
Red Blade
Cub
Posts: 1
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« on: November 11, 2011, 06:41:30 PM » |
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Name:
Gurghula Bloodcaller
Class:
Shaman
Level:
40
Tell us something about your (role)playing experience:
I’ve been roleplaying for about five years now, all on WoW. I started out on the Moonglade server where I did Alliance RP, mostly. Almost a year ago I decided I wanted to try out Horde RP and I decided that I would roll a Troll. After doing some research on the WoW official forum I bumped on SGE, which I joined as a Troll druid called Vradu (my current main). I think roleplay is the most fun aspect of the game, but I dabble in some PvE and PvP as well.
And finally, please write a short story and/or IC introduction about your character:
A warm wind was stirring the dust of Durotar. Two stern eyes were peering from under a hood, studying the patterns of the clouds. Gurghula emitted an almost inaudible grunt as she stood up from the earth and patted the orange dirt off of her leather pants. The sweat was running down her face to her chin, where it gathered and dripped off onto the fur she wore as a scarf. The Orc narrowed her eyes against the intensity of the sun before casting one last gaze at the untouchable blue. She snickered and began the journey back home, there was food to prepare… A grim thought invaded her mind, what if she’d come back to a dead family? Gurghula grunted once more and shook her head vigorously, as if to shake the thought away. She had grown used to thoughts like these, being a pessimist by heart. There would never come a day where she didn’t imagine the worst scenario’s to become a reality.
After a short walk Gurghula opened the sturdy, wooden door to her hut. A careful smirk spread across her lips as her hopes didn’t let her down. Her young child was sleeping in it’s straw bed, clutching it’s precious scorpid rattle. With a silent tread she walked over to the fireplace and lit it. She took her trusty kettle and some raggedy vegetables she had been able to grow in the dry ground and went outside to make a soup. While the young Orc mother was cutting the vegetables a familiar sound made it’s way to her ears. “Child,” it spoke, “It is time for you to bring offering to your ancestors once more.” Gurghula looked up with a heartfelt sigh. “Not now!” she snapped, “I have work to do, I will bring offering later!” Much to her surprise the voice stopped immediately. Her eyebrows curled into an insecure frown. Unusual…
The soup was boiling over the fire and it was time for Gurghula to finally bring offering. Her family, like most Orcs, had a long tradition of honouring their ancestors. And so she took the ancient wooden carving of the Bloodcaller Wolf and started paying her respects. She expressed her respect in the form of words and ritualistic gifts as the blazing sun pierced through her clothing into her back. Once again sweat was starting to escape her pores, her chanting brought her into a deep trance. She inherited the ability to lose herself in spirituality from her long dead mother, who was a shaman. Despite her efforts she had never been able to fully develop herself, due to not being able to find a teacher. Gurghula opened her stern eyes and took a deep breath of dusty air. Her deed was done and now she would return to her cooking. But unlike other times there a sense of longing lingered from the ritual. A longing to become like her mother? Or maybe even more?
The female Orc’s ladle hit the bottom of the bowl with a thud. Gurghula filled the clay bowl with her not-so-nutritious soup and handed it to her only daughter, her precious. A sour smile appeared on her cracked lips as she realised that her daughter’s strong facial features reminded her of her deceased husband. Yes… Time and travel have gifted her life, but also death. Gurghula, despite her pessimistic state of mind, had learned to accept all aspects of life. Besides, who would be there to take care of her valuable child if she would lose herself in grief? No one would. Hrmpf, maybe the Orphanage would, but Gurghula knew that she would rather take her daughter’s life than face the humiliation of having to bring her baby to such a place. “There’s no ancestral honour in having your child being raised by others, unless they’re family.” said Gurghula’s mother. And so was Gurghula’s truth.
Days turned into weeks, but the longing lingered. It a subtle longing. Gurghula did her chores and work before returning home to take care of her child, teaching her the things her own mother taught her when she was young. One day they went out into the darkness of the night, they had only candles to see where they were, but that was enough. The Orc mother would teach the young how to pay respect the their ancestors with playful games, singing and dancing. They would howl to the moon in respect of the clan beast. Naturally the night time posed danger, but so did the daytime. At least her precious daughter would not have to stand the blistering heat at the time that the moon shines. Several animal furs were enough to keep her warm from the desert’s frost. And so traditions were passed.
One day, when Gurghula was feeding her child, a green fist slammed on the door. Gurghula snorted angrily as she put down the clay feeding bowl and stood up the answer it. The knock was urgent and threatening in a way, as if it would bring a change. And it did. The sturdy wooden door opened with an ominous creaking, yielding the figure of a broad, strong Orc. It was her dead husband’s brother and he was coming for his niece. Furious words were exchanged and even some cutlery was thrown, but in the end Gurghula was parted with the being that she valued most of all. The only memory to her love and her new love combined. All gone.
The next week was a blur of anger and grief. Every breath of air made the Orc feel like she was inhaling ashes. Ashes that caused pain to her lungs, incurable damage. She scoured the lands and took out her anger on any living creature that crossed her path. Her rage made her strong. Her rage made her skilful. Gurghula was a strong Orc before. Work on the field and in the distant village’s tannery had strengthened her muscles. But ever since her rage overtook her it seemed like her physical strength had grown. To all things come an end though. After five days of uncorked fury Gurghula finally collapsed into the red dirt. She wept. Her sweat and tears hit the ground, forming tiny puddles of mud alongside her cheek. The Orc’s claws clutched the orange dust around her. It was like this female was trying to grab onto the earth. Or maybe she was trying to grab onto a reason to exist. A final sob escaped the depths of her soul before a presence visited her.
It was the presence that came to her every time to encourage her to pay her respects. The presence of her mother whispered into her ears once more. “Child, it is time to move on now. It is time to fulfil the toll that the blood asks of us. Your duty is to become a shaman and serve the race of the Orcs like I should have, but could not. You’ve got to go and get moving, I can’t do that for you, but I will impart on you one last tip: Seek the Orcs of the Red Blade. With them you may find guidance.”
And so Gurghula returned to her hut. She grabbed the items she thought she might need and went to never return.
She left to seek the Red Blade tribe.
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