The warblade’s personality is split–it is a union between a sword and an axe.  It can be brutal and wielded with savagery.  It can be delicate and wielded with finesse.  It is a two-faced weapon, the tool of a warrior who needs to wear both masks.  The glaive is a bridge between madness and calm.
-Garikhan’s Creed

Ashenvale Forest
Netherbane Site of Lessons
Present Day

The old orcish blademaster and the even older night elven demon hunter once again found themselves sitting across a fire from one another.  Although he was thousands of years younger than the tall elf in front of him, Garikhan Fireblade looked to be decades older–the long white hair braided behind his head and hanging loosely from his jaw gave him the appearance of a sage.

Such as it is, he thought, staring at the blindfolded kaldorei from across a burning fire.  Such is the way for a people with a fraction of the lifespan of these once-immortals.

The demon hunter, in turn, stared back–his eyeless gaze unradable in the fire-cast moonlight.  He did not speak.  This silence had become custom during these lessons because Tharion Greyseer preferred to keep his words sparse and spoke only when prudent.  He allowed the orc to tell his stories uninterrupted.

Garikhan nodded his head and looked down at the weapon that sat across his lap.  Unlike his old axe, this weapon did not speak of darkness and killing.  Its metal was colored lightly, not black.  Its shaft, much longer than most swords, was wrapped in a pattern of red cloth and leather.  Its blade was wide and sharpened down on one side, and clearly crafted for war.  Upon the flat of the metal were bright orange markings that glowed faintly.

“And so, this evening, we learn about the Path of the Warblade.”

***
Orc Internment Camp
During Thrall’s Liberation Campaign

He was free once again.  Garikhan Fireblade had been awakened by the roar of the earth beneath his feet, a sign he knew meant that the one known as ‘Thrall’ had finally come for his camp.  Now Garikhan found himself running through the shattered wooden pikes that once formed the weak wall of the encampment and out into the open field.

He felt a surge of excitement, a rush of life that he had not experienced since he had been caged and dumped amongst the other captured orcs from the war.  The sounds of battle reminded him of his time as part of the old Horde, his time fighting with the madness and savagery of any warrior from the Burning Blade clan.  Screams of orc and human alike told him that there was some resistance, and the thought sent a surge of adrenaline through his limbs.

Garikhan skidded to a halt and spun around to assess the situation around him.  The orcs were obviously in control of this battle, but a small group of human knights was putting up a stubborn resistance.  Garikhan grinned widely and ran towards a fallen orc, snatching up the bladed weapon from the green corpse and arcing it upwards in the beginnings of a strike.

A human warrior stood in front of him, sword and shield at the ready, but courage not.  The human took a few fumbling paces backwards as the screaming form of Garikhan Fireblade ran towards him with the massive warblade in hand.  Garikhan was wearing little save for the tattered cloth pants provided to him by the internment camp.  He had long ago discarded his shirt, instead choosing to let the elements and humans do what they wished to his exposed torso.  He had cared little if anyone saw the rough wounds across his chest, scars from the lashings given by human keepers.

The spatter of the human’s blood warmed Garikhan’s skin as the knight fell beneath the strong blow.  Garikhan’s unearthed strength had guided the edge of the blade between the knight’s gorget and pauldron and down into the flesh at the base of the human’s neck.

Another human knight approached Garikhan from the right, this one obviously more prepared to face an armed but unarmored orc.  Garikhan turned and roared at the human, who grimaced at the sight but did not back down.  The human tried to strike first, swinging from the inside with his longsword.  Garikhan parried the swiping blade, the force of the blow causing both combatants to take a bracing step backwards.  In response, the orc used the momentum of the ricochet to bring his weapon around for another heavy strike.  The human blocked it handily with his raven-adorned shield, causing Garikhan’s grip to loosen for just an instant.

The knight took the advantage and thrust his longsword forward.  Garikhan tried to sidestep, but his movement was too slow.  The sword pierced his side painfully, striking a rib and glancing away from any vitral organs.  Garikhan screamed in pain and brought his massive blade around in another powerful swing.  This time he caught the knight unaware, crushing the hastily raised shield and knocking it from the human’s hand.  Another swing knocked the longsword from his hands.

Garikhan clasped his free hand to his bleeding side, and he felt the warm blood flow down his abdomen and onto his tattered canvas pants.  He bit back the pain of the wound, knowing it would heal in time.

“RETREAT!” came the shout of a nearby orc.  “RETREAT!”

Garikhan looked slightly puzzled at the command.  They were doing well against these humans, why was there a need to withdraw from the battlefield?  If an orc like Garikhan was able to tap into that which brought him back to action, surely the other orcs could.

“RETREAT!” came the voice again, closer this time.  Garikhan saw the shouting orc now, and finally understood.  Amongst the throng of running orcs stood a lone shaman.  He was well-built, and he had a look of authority about him.  But the noticeable part of him were his eyes.  His blue eyes.

This orc was not one who had succumbed to the blood haze, as Garikhan had years ago.  This one was clean.  He stood with command, and his orders came not from cowardice, but from a desire to save his people from needless violence.

Garikhan turned back to the disarmed human warrior kneeling on the soil in front of him.  The human was staring at Garikhan with hard eyes, eyes that spoke of an acceptance of death.  This human did not expect to live to see the end of the day, and his expression told Garikhan that he expected the orc to end it.  The knight was willing to accept his fate.

Garikhan saluted the human, bringing his fist to breast in a sign of respect.  He spoke out a single word of common, forming the sound clumsily.

“Honor.”

With that, Garikhan turned and joined the rest of his retreating brethren, leaving a stunned human warrior in the mud behind him.

***