|Guild||Alea Iacta Est|
Ragthalla was born following the times of the great horde. Some would surmise he had seen a moon or two less than the great Warchief Thrall. Ragthalla was born, not in slavery, but under the caress of the blue sky and with the gentle song of the morning rain. His clan was both lucky and cursed in that they were never taken to the concentration camps and herded like mindless sheep. His brave forefathers and mothers struggled to keep his clan safe and secreted away in the mountains. This is where he grew to age and learned of the ways of the shaman under the tutelage of their tribal elders. It was as good a life as any orc could wish, then... On the eve of his coming of age, Ragthalla was tasked with a unique quest to recover a lost treasure the tribal elders mourned on a daily basis. All he knew was that the mystery he sought bore the name of Vrekdal and lay hidden away in the snow-capped peaks of the Alterac Mountains. Ragthalla accepted his duty and began his long, arduous journey to t he mountains. After much time of travel and more adventures than can be told here, Ragthalla came to the foot of the mountains. He stared up at their imposing heights and felt admiration and respect for the ancient spirits that dwelt within. Three days of searching yielded no fruit, and Ragthalla began to become discouraged. He whispered a soft request to the noble giant of the mountains, and the answer rang out like a shot. Ragthalla ducked aside, instinctively, and spun about to see where the bullet had come from. Before he could gain sight of his attacker, three more shots rang out and peppered the land around him. Ragthalla slid his hands into his knuckle-borne weapons and cleared his mind of all but the battle at hand. Reaching out with heart and mind, Ragthalla called upon the lightning to surge at the point of origin, and the hillside erupted as piercing white light shattered the rock beneath the snow-blanketed surface. Three more shots from his left told him his opponent moved more swiftly than he surmised, and Ragthalla called upon the elements to tune his senses tighter. There, nestled betwixt a knot of trees, Ragthalla spied a tuft of silver-white hair blowing with the breeze. As Ragthalla called the power of the earth to his hands, he was thrust to the ground, burried beneath the fur-clad weight of a large arctic wolf. Ragthalla's back no sooner touched the ground than he found himself encased in a cocoon of ice. He'd fallen for a simple trap. Soon, a time-worn orc stood over him, ragged silver hair blowing in the wind. The wizened orc leaned heavily on his rifle and bent to look Raghtalla in the eye. "No one comes to my mountain, tromping like a forsaken Elekk, and expects to get the drop on ol' Vrekdal. Your a few decades and a few wars to green for that whelp." He helped Ragthalla to his feet and took him to his camp. Vrekdal explained that he had been tracking Ragthalla since he entered the mountains and had recognized the mark of the Frost Fang clan to which they both belonged. Vrekdal had been a hero in the wars and had served under Orgrim Doomhammer himself in some of the more climactic battles. He started as a bowman, but had take up the fire arms stolen from the dwarves in the region and soon showed them a few pointers on how to use their own weapons. In the years that followed the war, Vrekdal found that he could not stomach the lethargy that overcame many of the other orcs, and he had no taste for raising whelps in a camp. Instead, he took to the mountains and lived his life off the land and his gun. He was a great tactician in his time, and he explained that, if the elders had sent Ragthalla to find him, it meant only one thing... the clan was going to war. He had agreed to return should the clan ever need his aide, and it seemed that day had come. The two packed their things and proceeded to travel the long road home. When they at last came to rest in the rocky, arid clime of the badlands, they found themselves standing amidst the rubble of their clan's home. Huts had been burned, crops destroyed, and the bodies of his brothers and sisters lay about him like so much offal. Pain tore through Ragthalla as he cried out with such fury that the beasts of the burning legion cowered in fear. He had failed them... perhaps a few days earlier and he could have been there. Vrekdal took Ragthalla by the shoulder and helped him to his feet, he had not realized he had fallen to his knees. "Whelp, we go to Orgrimmar. Hope you like to travel." These calm words seemed completely out of place to Ragthalla, but the pain behind Vrekdal's eyes was unmistakable. He knew not what lied in Orgrimmar for him, but if this old orc could lead him to avenge his clan, so be it. In the years that followed, Ragthalla and Vrekdal were separated. He knows not what happened to the wizened orc, but the last time he laid eyes on him, he had the barrel of his gun pointed in the eye of a frost giant as he clung to it's head while Snowfang tearing at it's throat before the behemoth fell off a cliff. Ragthalla never saw Vrekdal again, but he swore he would not rest while the Frost Fang went unavenged.