I used to be a guard. Just your ordinary, average guard standing at the gates of The Den looking out towards Sen’jin Village. Unlike most ordinary, average guards however, I wanted to see what was out there. I’d watch the Outriders patrol on their shaggy wolves and long for my own wolf to ride. I wanted to feel the wind against my face and the surge of blood in my veins as we rode out to hunt. That was what I wanted most… I wanted to hunt. A foolish, useless wish considering my circumstances. Many years ago, as I approached the age where I would be apprenticed to a trainer, all my hopes and dreams had been dashed away forever. A much more experienced orc was bullying some of the young ones and I rashly charged to their defence and challenged the bully to a duel. Unsurprisingly, I was beaten badly and, although most of my wounds healed, my knee had been smashed so badly it proved impossible to heal completely. I was left with a limp and a constant, aching pain; not only in my knee but also in my heart as I knew that nobody would consider me for training now.

The years since that fateful day dragged on in nearly unrelenting boredom and I found myself fighting bitterness as I watched younger, whole and healthy orcs take their first steps in their far more exciting lives. Then something new and interesting happened. An old hunter visiting a young cousin in The Den, disappointed to find that the cousin had already chosen the shaman’s path, happened to discover my interest in hunting. He waved away my injury as unimportant and insisted on teaching me a few of the basics of shooting with a bow and spent many nights regaling me with tales of his adventures in Azeroth. I ate up his words with an enjoyment I had previously reserved only for gobbling down freshly roasted boar meat. And the feel of the bow in my hand, of pulling back that string and seeing the arrow fly straight and true towards my target. I’d never felt anything like it. I loved it. I was immediately addicted to it as I’d always known I would be. And the strangest thing happened - when I was concentrating on aiming at my target, when I’d run out of distance and was forced to turn to my axe for defence, I didn’t notice the ache in my knee. Oh, I still limped and couldn’t leap easily out of the way but the more I practiced, the more I discovered ways to compensate for my injury. That defect that had prevented me from becoming who I truly was for so long gradually faded into the background and became, as the hunter had claimed, utterly unimportant.

Once the Hunter had left I often thought of him but never expected to hear from him again. Many weeks later I was asleep in my bunk, dreaming of hunting of course, when I was startled to wakefulness by the certain knowledge that I was being observed. My hand shot to my axe and I leapt to my feet.

“Good reflexes”, observed the old orc standing before me. On closer inspection I noticed that he wasn’t really so much old as weathered. At his feet was an equally weathered looking wolf, seemingly at ease but even I could see the wariness in his eyes. If my axe had gotten any closer to his master my throat would have been ripped out instantly.

I set my axe down carefully and waited for the stranger to speak again. As a guard I had been trained to never speak unless asked a question or when it was necessary to warn of an impending attack. When it became evident to the stranger that I was not about to speak out of turn he sighed heavily and began the conversation himself.

“Puyan tells me you have the makings of a good hunter.”

I stared dumbly at him. I knew who Puyan was, of course, the hunter who’d been visiting in The Den recently. What I couldn’t wrap my mind around was why he would bother mentioning me to anyone. I was just another faceless guard. I was of only slightly more worth than one of those useless lazy grunts.

The old orc sighed. “Not much of a talker are you? Well then, perhaps I’d better talk for now. Who I am isn’t important. Who you are is. Now, I know you’re called Kazum and you’re one of the Sharpaxe clan. What people call you isn’t important, whether what they’re calling you is your name or an insult. It’s who you really are that’s important. And that’s why I’m here, to find out who you really are and if who you really are is a hunter… well then, if that’s the case I’ll be having a word with Jen’shan and see if she can take up your training. Now… take this bow and these arrows, bring your axe and let’s go find out who you are.” The stranger grinned and strode out without waiting for Kazum, the big wolf padding behind him.

And so I went from the long, boring days of standing at the gates of The Den hoping for some foolhardy Alliance soldier to wander too close, to a life of excitement, a life of adventure and long journeys, a life of both great joy and pain and, surprisingly, also long stretches of boredom. If you’ve ever taken the boat from Ratchet to Booty Bay, you’ll know what I mean there!

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