The windroc’s golden eyes met his red ones. There was defiance there, but also understanding. Grom extended his hand, as he had with Ember. The great bird hesitated. Then, with a soft, pained cry, it lowered its head.
“Good.” Grom 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. Grom 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, Grom Ironfang rested—content, complete.
The next day dawn broke over the Barrens with a golden-red hue, stretching long shadows across the dry earth. Grom 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 handcrafted tools. The fire crackled to life as Grom carefully fed it dried driftwood and coal. Once it burned hot, he set to work. His first task was the spear. Grom 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. Grom 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 Grom 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.
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With his new gear complete, Grom 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 Grom 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. Grom 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. Grom 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. Grom 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. Grom 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.
Grom 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, Grom 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. Grom 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, Grom Ironfang and his pack settled down for the night—stronger, sharper, and ready for whatever Azeroth would throw at them next.
