Name: Rosh (Roshtargan) Wolfshadow
I have experience with table-top role-playing games, both as a player and a game master. I have also been an active role-player over the course of WoW's history, from Classic to Mists of Pandaria. I also have some experience as an officer of a few role-playing guilds.
“I am Rosh Wolfshadow of the Iceblood Band, line of the Frostwolf Clan.
My father’s name was Kosh’thar, and his father before him, Naz’gosh. Both were Shamans, and so were several of their brothers. My mother’s name was Rokhthaa; her father was called Kronnosh, and her mother, Galthraka. My father’s father was killed by an Orc of the Laughing Skull when I was too young to grasp, and my father’s mother died soon after of hunger. My father spoke of it only once, telling me that she refused to eat after the death of her mate...
I was born on Azeroth, on the Eastern banks the Wildpaw river, near Frostwolf Village. My mother was alone in the woods along the river, gathering kindling for fire, and it was then that my time came. I was born under the Moon of the Icebark during the winter when Durotan was betrayed, and it was said by my mother that a single wolf bore witness to her solitary pangs. Silent and vigilant until I had come, this lone wolf carried both my mother and I back to the village, and were it not for his warmth, my mother thought that the blizzard would have claimed me.
When I came of age to join the hunt with my clan, I was charged with the sacred trial of Om’riggor. I went into the wild world of pines, beasts, and winter crags... where there is nothing but the spirit of all things. The world of the fanged hunt and the blooded wild struck me as the real world that was behind or beyond the other world of villages and cities, clans and chieftains, and sometimes it is as though everything I see outside of the hunt is something like a shadow to my eyes.
As I sought a worthy beast for my first solo kill, I discovered the tracks of a lone wolf in the snow. Some wolves have the gift of seldom being seen; they keep to the edge of vision and beyond, loping in and out of cover in the frozen highlands. And at night, when the whole world belongs to them, they sing to the skies, their voices of power filling the dreams of other creatures. They are an old council of fangs, and they are wisely heeded by their Orcish brothers of the hunt. I was to become their brother. The day of my Om'riggor, I think the wolf let me spot him, for he danced in the snow as though he were taunting me. I rushed toward him, chasing him with exhilaration into the forest. The wolf had led me toward a rough and forbidding slope populated with jagged stones, whereupon he had vanished as though in a dream. I saw then the fresh tracks of a mountain ram leading up the slope. The terrain was unforgiving, and more than once during my ascent I came near to death by falling. I believed that I could see the shelf where the ram made its bed in the distance, and I had learned from my elders that the rams of the mountains were more curious than scared when approached from above. So I confronted the treacherous climb and positioned myself to descend upon the beast’s lair as soon as night had fallen. The moon above granted me a pale light, and I moved as silently as I was able.
I braced myself against my stone brothers to make the shot with my bow, and I let sing the arrow of slaying. But my footing had been betrayed by the warmth of my feet, so long had I stood to regard the mountain ram before shooting. I swore then as I slipped and tumbled, that should I survive my fall I would never again hesitate in the killing moment. I plummeted to the rocky shelf, landing a few paces from the dead ram. My shot had been true, though my feet had failed me. My leg throbbed with great pain, but I painted the blood of the mountain ram upon my face in the symbol of a wolf paw, honoring the frost wolf that had led me to the mountain ram’s den.
I made camp with my prey on the rocky shelf. And I dreamt that I was running through the snowy pines of my homeland with a white wolf, and then I rode upon this wolf, and the wolf and I were one. One as well were the trees and the stones of the mountainsides. Nothing was hard or unmoving. And the wolf and I seemed to float like the great wind roc as we raced through the snow. My wolf-brother was standing still, and yet it danced around like a wolf made only of shadow, dancing as the shadows of the great bonfires dance.
When I returned to the village, the Shaman Dra’morg Icefang tasted the blood from my kill, and asked me to speak of my trial. I told him of my hunt and my dream as he mended my leg. And it was then that the name of Wolfshadow was given to me. I was, Dra’morg said, as the shadow of a wolf, following the sacred Tor’mul. I asked him what was the meaning of the word “Tor’mul” and Dra’morg told me that it was a word of a very ancient Orcish origin, linked with wolves, meaning to "rush headlong, to be inspired or to have a sense of creative thought," and even to take a flight of instinct. He said that the Frostwolf Raiders spoke of it in a maxim: “the look in the eye of a wolf that is racing where it wants to go, no matter what the Raider wants." That, he said, is Tor’mul. Follow that, and you cannot go astray.
And as he prepared to depart, he told me what his mentor, my grandfather Naz’gosh, had once told him:
“The only true wisdom lives far from the clans, Rosh Wolfshadow, far from the crowds of warriors, out in the great loneliness, and it can only be reached through suffering. Privation and suffering alone can open the mind of an Orc to all that is hidden to others.”
And then he left. I returned home to Iceblood Garrison to prepare for the ritual ceremony that would make of me a full member of my clan. It was then that I learned what had happened in my absence. My father’s right leg had been broken the night before; the night of my hunt. The combat which had wounded him was called the Battle of the Hundred Echoes, deep in the Wildpaw Caverns. From that wound, the gift of a Gnoll, he limped until the day he died, which was near the time, many years later, when I had journeyed off on the quest to liberate the camps of internment. When I returned home, I learned from my mother that my father had perished. We burned him upon a pyre of pine wood in the hills near Iceblood Garrison, the drumming and chants of Dra'morg causing the mountainsides to thunder and mist with furious snow. It was an omen, said the Shaman. Among the ashes of my father I found a wolf claw captured within a piece of charred sap, still clinging to a burnt piece of tree bark. And I vowed to wear this claw token around my neck when the time at last comes for me to pass through the fires...
I have thought much over the years of the Gnolls who had given this slow death to my father. I thought of the long years he suffered from the ice in his leg, and suffered even more from his absence from the hunt. My father remained what he was until the day of his death. But when the ice in his leg kept him from the running with wolves, his body and spirit withered. Such a bitter death was worthy of the dirge which my mother did sing for him. And then, I departed to follow Warchief Thrall to the lands beyond the sea. Many years later, I learned of my mother’s eventual fate. After the death of my father, she too refused her meat, and withered away...
Over the years I have fought many battles and seen many Orcs die. I have heard the tales of the Shu’halo on barren plains rife with war. I have kept my distance from the shifting faces of Orgrimmar, and made for my home the always changing frontier, anywhere the game is still good... anywhere the camaraderie and trials are still worthy. I have returned to Frostwolf Village and left it again so many times that the aged Dra’morg no longer recognizes my face, or so he says, with a sly grin. I have claimed bounties on the enemies of the Horde, culling bones, scalps, ears, and grisly talismans from my foes to garner the brotherhood of the Shattered Hand. I have bled for the dreams of my Warchief and come to see those dreams squandered... And in my bitterness, I have learned that without a destiny to share with true kin, I may yet wither away as my forebears did; within the abyss of their own resentment...
And so I returned again to the valleys of my clan, where the undying Frostwolf defiance had perhaps brought my people into ill favor with Warchief Hellscream. In such times as these, defiance may yet prove the path of honor, when to obey would mean betrayal of that path... I do not know, but will trust in my clan and those like us... and if that fail me, Tor'mul take me!
My Frostwolf kin told me of the Red Blade tribe, exiles whose heads Warchief Hellscream has placed bounties upon. Far-ranging Frostwolf scouts, while seeking to raid supply caravans to the Stormpike Dwarves, encountered the trails of these Red Blade exiles. And if Warchief Hellscream’s fury could be visited on the Red Blade tribe, how long will it be before the same fate befell my own clan...?
I spoke of this to Dra’morg, who counseled me with furrowed brow to seek out the Red Blade tribe, to offer them my aid if the Tor’mul did demand it of me. But he bid me beware, for Kor’kron agents had been streaming out from the bowels of the Undercity; out on the hunt for the Orcs of the Red Blade.
Lok’tar, thought I, for there at last is a contest of the hunt, a worthy trial...
Let the hunter become the hunted."