Zorgarlog, the Warchief.

Zorgarlog, the Warchief.

A Story by Vaporvision

The tale of Orcish Warchief Zorgarlog. Based on World of Warcraft.


                His name was Zorgarlog, a large chested fighter in charge of the Orc’s main export: War. The Warchief, he was called among many… A weakling, he was called by few… or none, depending on whether or not they need be alive. The honour of himself among his people relied solely on his ability to command, and especially to kill. The orc is a race of bloodlust, and Zorgarlog has just that. When I say just that, I mean only that. All other emotion had left his body, after he was forced to slaughter his own drunken father, after he erupted in a fit of seething rage. When Zorgarlog realized he would be the next Warchief, was when he felt nothing. The pain of his father leaving him was far overtaken by the satisfaction of taking the blood of man for his own. As a mere teen, he was numbed of emotion, numbed of sight… but perhaps, on some other level, he understood more. More than any human or elf could ever understand. Bloodlust does not consume the Orcish; the Orcish consume the blood, make it part of them, and become stronger in heart and mind.


There came a day though, that killing one man at a time wasn’t enough any longer. The humans were invading Zorgarlog’s residing town, Orgrimmar, which is also home to many of the Orcish, Bloodelves, and undead alike. The reason behind this? The Stormwind Monarchy had put a large bounty on the head of the Warchief. All of the human peons, lower tier fighters and supposed “warriors” were lined up at the gates of Orgrimmar. The hundreds of men seemed puny in comparison to the gate that held them off. Cowering in fear, the Human army stood no chance against even the Warchief alone, but the power of greed was stronger than the wisdom in fear. Zorgarlog decided to play a game with the humans. On top of the sky tower in the centre of Orgrimmar, he let out a bellowing growl that brought the trembling humans to their knees out of pure vibratory force. He then yelled above the cries of all the people, “YOU ARE NOT WARRIORS. YOU ARE COWARDS, IN NEED OF MONEY SO DESPERATELY THAT YOU HAVE COME HERE. IF YOU ARE NOT A FOOL, YOU WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE AND BE GRATEFUL FOR YOUR LIVES. THOSE WHO CHOOSE TO STAY WILL FACE ME AND MY AXE ALONE.” The gate was lowered. There were 3 men alone, standing in formation with their shields facing outwards. Little did they know, that their decision had given themselves worse than a glorious fate in the heat of battle. A wind rider of the horde flew out of the gate, and picked them up. They were then brought into darkness, known only as the Cleft of Shadow. The rest of their days would be spent toiling for the warlocks that resided there.

© 2017 Vaporvision

Author's Note

A short story, but I could make more based on this universe. Should I?

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register

Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Added on March 3, 2017
Last Updated on March 3, 2017
Tags: world, of, warcraft, world of warcraft, orc, orcish, fantasy, human, war, feud, kill, slave, windrider, monarchy



Burnaby, Canada

My name is Noah, and I'm 18 years old. I write when I am inspired as a hobby of sorts. A classic romantic, looking for love in places it doesn't belong. I aspire to be a voice actor. more..