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Good ol' Bluetusk.
#1
Hail, tribesmen and women of the Ironsong. Though my name given to me through parentage is long lost, Bluetusk is a name of jest given to me by a befriended member of the forsaken, Yherrie. I am an old, old warrior, this I know because of my relative appearance to the younger pups I see roaming Thrall's capital city, the one named from Orgrim Doomhammer, and only because of that. From my research, I've learned I was an adolescent in an internment camp, much like one Warchief Thrall was prisoner in a few years before, except rather than prisoner, I was raised and nurtured by a descendant of the knights of lore from the antiquated human city of Dalaran. During the raids on the internment camps to free prisoners, and I suppose myself alike, my keeper was slain by a human guard for trying to protect me in the confusion. By the same breed that tried to protect me, I was brutally mauled and rendered unconscious, evident by my scars. This is the furthest back I am able to remember, though the lessons taught to me by my keeper lay intact. I awoke in the middle of what I discovered to be called Durotar, next to a campfire built and utilized by my forsaken cohort, Yherrie. He was much younger than I, however he had a glint in his eye that reminded me of wisdom I'd seen in my deceased keeper. He seemed somewhat different though, he had a darkness about him that I couldn't figure out, besides of course the obvious lack of much flesh on his visible bones. I'd never seen a being like him before, though I'd heard tales, so I was not surprised, and eventually I mustered the strength to ask, "What am I doing here, and furthermore, who are you?" He seemed surprised by my vocal abilities, I assume he figured I wouldn't be much for words, though he responded calmly and darkly,<br> "I am Yherrie, sworn servitor of the forsaken. You have survived some sort of vicious attack, and I found you taking your little extended nap over there in the east, among some vile little harpies I was... de-winging. I figured I might have a little snack on an orcish corpse until you moaned and I noticed you were still breathing. You should consider yourself lucky, you managed to escape being my lunch by scaring a rogue. You know, not many people can attest to frightening one who walks the shadows." A rogue, this creature was a rogue. I'd heard of them, nothing but lies and deceit, but since I'd never met one, I decided to give him a chance before readying my hammer. <br>"So why did you keep me alive then? I'm sure you considered cutting my throat and emptying my pockets. Why didn't you?"<br> "Hm, I saw your axe and mail vestments and figured you were one of those brute strength orcs. You might have been useful to help me clean up these harpies, but looking at you know I figure you'd hardly be able to de-wing a parrot." I put my hand on my axe's hilt, looked him straight in his dead black eyes and told him, <br>"Rogue, I've got more pep in my right arm than you've seen in your... existence." <br>"Bah, inssssolent blue skinned tusken fool, I think I will cut your throat now, after all." And with that, he was gone. I couldn't see him, though he was there merely moments before. I gave a great yell of battle, brandished my axe and grabbed the nearest thing similar to a shield I could, a chunk of plank I ripped from a nearby destroyed wagon and prepared myself to cleave this runt in half. My yell, however must have alerted more of those harpies to my presence, from my left and right side two were flying at me, and i noticed another behind me on a cliff's edge preparing to cast some sort of spell. The rogue would have to wait, I charged to my left and removed the nearest harpy's arm in a single blow and turned to face the other, shield ready, when a sudden bolt of lightning sharp pain consumed me. It must have been the caster's spell, and I was left vulnerable to a vicious attack by the nearing winged beast. I stood my ground and fought axe to claw with the creature until it was finally slain, and another sharp bolt of pain. I was nearly killed, I could hardly move, and I stared at the winged caster ready to accept my honorable death in battle, when it suddenly stopped moving, and its own blood erupted from its chest. Yherrie had slain it just in time, he must have been watching me fight the other two to that point, and he grinned at me. At that point I knew he would have lost himself in that battle were I not there, and I the same. He came next to me, nodded his thanks and said, "Come on, Blue. There's a city north of here we can rest in." <br> So we marched north to Orgrimmar, along the way he came up with my current name, the two most obvious features of my physique, Blueskinned, Tusken warrior, Bluetusk for short. Once in Orgrimmar, we rested a day, and we both went our ways in the city. I made my way to the first aid trainer to learn to apply bandages in battle, which I mastered quickly, and then met the Blacksmithy's. Their precision, dedication, and the beauty of their armor immediately had me hypnotized, and since I've trained myself to be a master in armorcrafting. Every so often, Yherrie will deliver me a package of ores he mines and I will sit to myself, crafting new plates and chain to hone my skills and distribute among my bretheren. After a day or so of apprenticeship with the smiths, Yherrie and I met a trio of interesting individuals. Grizzwolf, the sharp-of-tongue hunter, Kua, healer of wounds, and Luro, master of shadow and flame. Together us five and a few others created the Dead Tree Cult, an association of good friends and merriment, and I've been among them ever since. To my dismay, as of late, many of the good friends I've had in the Cult of the Dead Tree have long since parted ways, and I feel my personal advancement could only be attained through discovering my own path. During my travels, I have heard much of the Ironsong tribe, especially from a furious tauren warrior I befriended a long time ago in the Steemwheedle Cartel town of Gadgetzan. Umu was his name, and both of us repeatedly tested our mettle against each other in training. I was immediately impressed at the precision and rapidity of his strikes, and likewise, he always flinched whenever I came across his shoulder with a counter-attack. Ever since we've been good friends, and recently after my return from a long hiatus, we've begun speaking again, and the advancement in his skills as well as the height of which he speaks of the tribe he belongs to has me doubly interested in collaboration with those of the Ironsong.<br><br> Ever since my brutal beating, my combat alongside yherrie, and through the many adventures with the Cult of the Dead Tree, my ultimate desire is not only to make, but to wear the finest plate in Azeroth, and to use it. I wish to use my plate, my shield, and my wield to protect those fighting alongside me from that which would harm them. I have no greater thrill than engaging a foe head on and trading blows with him, hit for hit, keeping his eyes locked only on me while others, such as my friend yherrie, sneak behind our foe and rip him to shreds. Currently, my goal is to stand face to face with the hell-bent elemental Ragnaros. I have heard of his foul deeds, his betrayal and destruction, and would consider it my honor to one day have him try his power against a more suitable foe, myself. This use of myself in fighting, as some have come to call it "Tanking" is where I find myself truly in tune with the world around me, and is the most enjoyable task I can be endeavored with.<br><br> This is the story of myself, my adventures, my combat, my friends and my goals. I have studied the ways you conduct yourselves, and am more than willing to uphold to your standards. I write this to you hoping you will accept me, however if I am not in your best interests, I hope my tale has at least touched you in some way.
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