- "Because the sun has not yet risen on the day when Bashkuga, born out of the pit of Hellfire Peninsula, will face death graciously. I will kick and claw and bite and scratch and spit my last breath in its face, and as long as you are with me, you will do the same, is that clear?"
Bashkuga Hellfire is a formidable Orc Warrior and a Blood Champion of the Horde. Born a standard orc grunt, Bashkuga was in the front lines of the Horde as they went through the Dark Portal to arrive in the world of Azeroth.
Born in a time of war, in a place of war, Bashkuga drank the blood of of Mannoroth the Destructor with his mother's milk. From the day he could hold an axe, he was bred to be a Warrior, a soldier to take the world of man for his people. He had never known the beauty of Draenor before it's corruption by the demons, and before coming to Azeroth, had only seen the greens of the wild from his incredibly rare glimpses of Terrokar. Rock and ash were his trees and grass, battle-crys and the blood rage were his lullaby and dreams. His life was for the war waged on the other side of the great stone pillars, groomed by his commander to take battle as his way of life.
His parents were never known to him from the last time he was fed by his mother, and never to be known again. The Horde was his family, each soldier his brother, Blackhand his father and that was all he needed. The day they would step through the portal was the closest thing to a celebration he'd ever known, and when the day came, the excitement nearly overwhelmed him. Greater then any sparring, or brawl he entered in to with his brothers, even more so then the pleasure he received from tracking and killing those that would betray and flee the Horde to worm out an existence in Nagrand. Although he was not greeted with the glorious struggle he so yearned for once he arrived on the other side of the portal, there was plenty to do. Much of which involved tracking and killing, although in a way he was not used to.
Arrival on Azeroth
The green plants, and thick water were nothing but a hindrance, and a place for his prey to hide. Great black beasts, with fur and claws, almost like wolves, but with much squatter snouts, and thin, serpent like tails. Massive spiders with coarse, rigid fur all over each of their massive eight legs with dripping fangs of venom. Finally, his favorite, the great stout reptiles with jaws that could snap an Orc's arm in two, with hide thick enough to withstand any arrow that wasn't flung with the proper strength. Clad in natural armor, and born with weapons that could fell an opponent much larger then itself, Bashkuga took the greatest pleasure in challenging these great beasts. Each brought food and bounty to his brothers the likes of which he'd never seen in his life, and had only heard about in years passed from the older warriors.
After a few days of trenching out their new found hunting grounds, more and more orcs ever slowly poured out of the great portal into the wet, stinking marsh, and eventually Bashkuga estimated that almost a full quarter of their forces were now knee deep in this new world. They were here far more as a hunting party, and he knew it. They were here for war. It was soon after that the young orc met the enemy for the first time. They were small, about the size of a female orc, pink skinned and often clad themselves in so much armor one could scarcely tell if they were flesh and blood. A few swings of the axe, though, and one knew for certain just how much blood they had. He was somewhat disappointed, as most of the time he had gotten more of a thrill out of killing the great lizards then these women sized enemies.
- "Think of it this way, either it's the end of it all, or you'll have a magnificent tale to tell your children."
That was until one late night. A youngling of the pink skins race had somehow managed to wander into their territory. A survivor of one of the attacks on the pink skins caravans? A hunter looking for food in this dense wetland? Maybe a thief thinking that the Orcs were just savages, and trying to make off with some of their goods? He doubted the boy was any of these, as when confronted, he managed to blast one of Bashkuga's comrades with a bolt of power the likes of which he'd only seen come from Warlocks. It was moments after this that a second human, far from being a runt, or a boy, appeared, and with power that made Bashkuga's muscles twitch under every inch of green flesh, made short work of a warlock that moved to confront him.
So these humans may well turn out to be a great struggle to defeat after all. Even with his lust for battle, and the blood of Mannoroth in his veins, the young Orc had no desire to come face to face with the tall man whom he had just seen leave with his ward. It was not so much fear that caused his hand to stay an axe, but knowledge of the fact that it would no doubt be meaningless to such a being, and some manner of respect he held for such a great power. Bashkuga was not a brilliant scholar, or a great sage, but he knew raw power when he was near it, and when he was out matched. To die in battle was one of the greatest hopes his kind could have, to end their lives fighting for something, but to be snuffed out in a scuffle with a being that thought of him as no more then a gnat, for no more reason other then his own ego was not something he wished for.
The First War
- "Why is it every time someone yells 'For the Horde!' stupid people start doing stupid things?"
As time went on, the Horde's presence became more well known, and the humans began to respond accordingly. This was what was known as the First War.
As the years after the war slowly dragged on, more and more Orcs were forced into labor camps. Camps very often built by those that were meant to be imprisoned in them. At first, many put up resistance, expecting their brothers and sisters to rush in and free them from their human captors, but as time went on and their numbers began to swell, Bashkuga saw the light fade from the eyes of many of his kin. Once proud warriors who lived for freedom, and strength, were now pitiful prisoners, trapped in both body and mid, who were weak, and wallowed in the mud and filth of their self-built prisons. This fate was something that all, almost all, of the orcs fell prey to. Bashkuga would have sooner taken his own life then allow himself such a fate, and attempted to once or twice by trying to force the guards to kill him as he attempted to escape. Instead, all he received were beatings, and imprisonment, locked in a pit for days on end. The humans would rather break his spirit then end his suffering. These were not the proud and honorable pink skins he faced in battle, these were no more then cowards, dishonorable and treacherous.
As the years came and went, Bashkuga's resolve changed. He was not to die in this pit of filth, and he was not to become some mindless live stock to be treated as such. He was a warrior, and would live to one day see beyond these walls, even if that day was only because these walls became so old that they crumbled to dust, he would live to see it. That was the steel of his resolve.
There was work to be done, and some days the soldiers felt that the Orcs were meant to pull their own weight, using them to replace their own men, or at times, their own beasts. Stone were broken to make roads to and from the prison camps. Buckets of water and slop hauled to the orcs each day, stagnant water not fit to bathe a toad in, and food that was more bone and hair then anything digestible. Some days soil needed to be reaped, and the guards took great pleasure in locking a harness upon an Orc as if they were a horse to be whipped. Each of these chores meant to be humiliating and degrading Bashkuga took, and from it he received no thanks from the humans, and from some of the more resolved Orcs, looks of disgust and scorn. But there was a method to this work he did.
Each day, with each job, he pushed the boundaries of what was expected. Each time he pushed his body to the extremes, to the edge. He would often rip stones out of the ground with his bare hands rather then use a shovel to pry them free, then shatter them into smaller ones. He would carry twice, sometimes thrice, the load of dirty water and slop to his fellow prisoners, burning his back and legs with the weight of the load. He would pull the plow with as much speed and force as he could muster, tearing through the soil faster then even the stoutest of work horses, faster then his guard's whip could reach him. When his antics upset his guards particularly well, and they threw him in the hold, he would grip the bars that worked as the lid of his stony, subterranean cave, and lift himself up, and down, over and over, from when the night's moon raise to when the sun began to finally peak it's white head over the tops of the trees.
He would force his body to match his spirit's resolve until his day to see the outside walls came. It kept his body strong, and his mind sharp, whenever he could he studied the guards who would train with each other in use of their small, light swords. When the guards would beat him, or another Orc, for some often fictional transgression, it provided simply another chance to learn their body language and gauge the strength of their strikes and blows. Even though his plans to escape had not presented themselves, it was all an attempt to keep his mind sharp, to not allow himself to dull, to remember what he had been trained for, and what he lived for. War, to fight, and to win. But something happened to change his plans...
There had been a female Orc, one who had been captured more recently then the others, and it wasn't until her third month in the camp that it was realized she was with child. Something the guards cared little for, it simply meant another green abomination to watch, and this one an infant of all things. The food and water she consumed was not something to raise an unborn child on, and as the months rolled by, her body withered and her strength left her. Was it not for her powerful will to see her child live, she would have died months before she was prepared to give labor, but she did not, and the child was born. The last of her strength sapped, she died, leaving the child to fend for itself, a small squeal resounding from one of the hollowed out shacks that the Orcs had been locked in. Hours passed before the guards took it upon themselves to find out why the child's mother had not silenced it.
Upon finding the deceased mother the guards saw this as an ample opportunity to send a message to the rest of the camp's inmates. Taking the child from the shack, he carried as one would a baby animal, holding it up for all the imprisoned Orcs to see. "This...thing...is a spawn created by two of your race, and it will not be tolerated any more then you. Let it's fate be an example of what would befall all of your offspring that would fill this camp." As he dropped the child to the muddied floor, the guard drew his blade, and lifted it back over his shoulder in preparation to end the child's cries once and for all.
At the moment the blade began to fall, a stone the size of a man's skull struck the plated shoulder of the guard, shattering upon impact, such was the force of the throw. Both the plate armor of the shoulder guard, and the man himself, crumpled under the impact. Bashkuga stood mute as the guard screamed for his compatriots to dispatch the infuriated Orc, and in the struggle, he had swept up the child, and scaled the wall near the pile of stones he had been transporting from the quarry site. Vanishing into the woods with his package in tow, the Orc was now not only a fugitive twice over, but made a commitment to a child in what was supposed to be his leap to freedom.
It was several days before the Orcish Warrior relaxed enough to cease his meticulous covering of his tracks. Most days after his escape, he would only travel a few miles, as he was slowed by ensuring that he left no foot prints, broken twigs or even bent grass to show which way he had gone. It was agonizingly slow, but with his new baggage in tow, he felt it was the most reasonable way to ensure they both remained undetected. Finally, almost two full weeks later, Bashkuga escaped into the forests of Silverpine, leaving the peaks of Alterac and the rolling lands of Hillsbrad in his dust. Little did he know he'd traded the threat of human capture for something much worse, and far less predictable.
Although he'd been raised a Warrior meant to cleave limb from foe, Bashkuga was not inept in the ways of the hunt. He'd enjoyed the bounty of Silverpine, from the meat of the Bear, to the bounty of the large lake that sat nestled in it's center. He'd spent months there, scavenging for shelter from day to day, never staying in one place long enough to think of it as anything more then a camp, ever making his way North, farther and father away from the territories of the human encampments. The Orc had never come across anything much more threatening then a larger then average bear in those woods, save for a close encounter with a particularly nasty Murloc.
The vile thing had decided that it was curious enough about the bundle that the Orc had left on shore to make a mad dash for it, probably thinking it was food or some particularly shiny trinket. Bashkuga was only a yard or two away, but he was knee deep in water with a crude fishing spear in his hands. He knew the water would slow him down enough for the Fish-man to make it's way to the infant long before he had even reached the shore. In that instant, the warrior in him took over and he flung the spear, which had already impaled one fish that day, which caught the Murloc dead in the throat. There was twitching and spurting of blood, but that night, Bashkuga had his first taste of Murloc Meat. The infant had a new harness made from Murloc leather, which he was always in whenever Bashkuga was spear fishing and was strapped securely to the Warrior's chest each time.
For a long while, life was good. The Orc hunted, he lived and he was free. It was as close as he'd ever felt to the old ways, as the more senior warriors had spoken of them. Even so, he knew he was not exactly like his ancestors. Every night, when all he could feel was the surging of his blood like the march of an army and the pounding of his heart like a great war drum, he knew that he thirsted for battle. Not with beast, but with a warrior. One clad in armor, that fought on more then just instinct and the need to survive. One that would test his wits as well as his strength. As far as he had come, he knew he had never fully escaped what he was built to be.
Soon the Orc would realize, there were others to fight beyond man and beast. There was a terrible union. As he and his charge traveled farther and farther north, game became more scarce and even the Murlocs whose settlements dotted the lakeside like kelp washed on the shore began to lessen. The only thing that increased was the number of markings on the trees, as if made by a great bear to warn others of where they tread. But they were not wide enough to be made by a bear. As the Orc placed his hand upon one of the wounded trees, he couldn't help but think that the claws were just the right size to have been made be a five fingered hand.
Built like a tall and powerful Orc warrior should be, he has a deep green flesh tone, and red eyes. His tusks are short and sharp. Just below his tusks sprout a pair of 'saw blade' styled beard strands which matches the same style and color of hair atop his head.
Aside from numerous scars along his arms, neck and torso that he wears as badges of honor, the Orc has a crude black tattoo burned into the flesh of his right shoulder, like a brand. One particularly deep scar runs across the front of his neck in a single, clean cut.
Bone Crusher - Originally Bashkuga's only know style of combat was that of the Bone Crusher. This style of combat focuses on raw power and unstoppable momentum, becoming a juggernaut through nothing but sheer force of will and muscle. Most often this style involves the use of crushing or cleaving weapons, or short of that, hand to hand combat. The use of armor in this combat style is often minimal, but when it is used, it augments his already natural flesh armor to near supernatural levels of endurance. This style most often uses two weapons if any.
Physical attacks and techniques
The Double Deuce - Swinging both fists down upon his opponent, Bashkuga can disarm them by wrenching their shoulders, or at times, even dislocating them. This move can be augmented with a pair of axes, which can make the move much more effective...and messy.
- Saronite War Axe (No longer used.)
- Throwing Axes. (Four.)
- Warsong Howling Axe.
Personality and traits
Bashkuga holds great respect for those that show great physical strength and prowess, but tends to look down upon Rogues, thinking of them as sneaky backstabbers, who shy away from a real fight and care only for themselves. He also has a strong dislike for Warlocks, due to how much they corrupted his people, and Mages, feeling they are not much better then Warlocks. Cowards that hide behind the true Warriors, and throw spells from a safe distance.
He has respect for those that work as healers, and the most respect for those that would wade into the midst of battle and fight side by side those they choose to heal, such as Druids and Shaman. His opinion of Paladin tends to be on a case by case basis, finding that most Alliance Paladin are strong, and worthy of respect, but that Sin'dorei Paladin are whiny, self absorbed and over dramatic.
Although he appreciates fine weaponry, he rarely strays from the use of axes, or fists, in fights. At times he will grudgingly accept the use of armor, but when he does, he still refuses to cover his upper armors or chest, feeling that it restricts his movements, as well as dishonors the spirits that watch over him. His hide has become thick enough to act as a natural armor, and his faith in the spirits protection augments even that.
Endurance. The life of a Bone Crusher is an intense one. His existence is purely to master the physical, to become a living weapon and to become unstoppable. A Bone Crusher can run at full speed through a platoon of armored opponents, crushing them under toe or throwing them into the air. They have the stamina to charge for hours without needing to stop or slow. Their hides can deflect attacks that would pierce the flesh of most mortals.
Temper. Bashkuga's temper can overwhelm his better nature and more intelligent persona, even moreso then that of other Orcs. When the Blood Fury rises up within Bashkuga, his mind falls back to a less intelligent and more beastial state, even his speech and mannerisms becoming far simpler. Such a state does not reverse itself as soon as the source of the fury is over, but takes a great deal of concentration most often achieved through meditation, or a loss of conciousness (either from force or from sleep).
He has limited to no understanding of the use of fel or divine magics. His lack of armor leaves him vulnerable to poisons and extreme changes in temperatures. His skill with ranged weaponry is modest at best, and while he does possess some Shamanstic abilities, they require more concentration to use then most.