WarcraftPets Forum

Winter lingers. Just the other day we had snowfall where we usually do not. Spring, though approaching faster in Arizona than in other locals, still alludes us. What to do to pass the time filled with inclement weather?

Tell stories of course.

I do not raid or run dungeons (usually) and while I try to be pleasant in guild chat, I'm sometimes very much in need of down time so do not interact. But I do love coming up with fun and creative guild events so, rather than challenging you to just tell a story, I'm turning it into a contest. The Once Upon a Time Contest! = )

What do you do? Tell the story of how your character (any character you play) acquired *their* pet. Don't just sketch it out, as in, "My character was out on a mission and stumbled across an injured worg pup. After being attacked by some bad guys and beating them, she took the pup with her. The end." Even if you don't think you are very good at writing, give it a try.

Take the rest of the winter and the first few days of spring to work on your story, post it by midnight, April 5th. One lucky person will be randomly chosen to receive their very own Gusting Grimoire.

It probably goes without saying but: No erotica, appropriate language (appropriate to the forums not the story =D), anything else I should list?

My hope is, even after the contest, people will continue to post pet stories here.

To get you in the mood, here's Thralla's story.

Author's note: Thralla's story is not cuddly-wuddly. She's an orc.

Pupsong

Thralla slid along the ground, her leather tunic and leggings picking up a thick layer of the dark volcanic soil that covered this region. Though she was nowhere near the lava vents, their heat hung oppressively in the still, afternoon air, the stench of hot rocks and dragon mingling in her flaring nostrils.

She carried a small but powerful crossbow, its leather thong looped around her glove allowing the orc to drop the bow when necessary, then, with a practiced flip of her wrist, quickly reclaim it. An axe, its blade darkened, rested at her side and a throwing axe was inserted into several bands wrapped around her upper thigh. Apart from the pouch on her belt, she carried little else on this solo trek unterdaken to track a small crew of mercenaries. Not suited for stealthy work, Garmak, her monstrous Silithid companion, was resting under the watchful eye of the stablemaster in the small outpost she had left a few hours ago.

As she eased her way down a shallow ravine, Thralla paused, encountering a new scent. Blood. She lay still, face lifted slightly, head tilted, as she listened. Silence. Her blue eyes scanned her surroundings. From the smell, it was a recent kill and not far away.

More cautiously now, the orc advanced with slow and patient movements. At last she rounded a craggy boulder and saw a she-wolf, throat slashed, rust-colored fur matted against the blood saturated ground. Thralla remained stationary, senses open, observing. There was, in the ravine wall, a primitive cave, its mouth hidden partially by an old rock-slide and scraggily brambles. Beyond the cave, the entrance to the cul-de-sac was a miasma of tracks. She would have to move closer to read them.

She lingered, waiting. Nothing moved on the rocks rising above her to the mountain’s face. Taking her time, she felt out each direction, searching not only with eyes, nose and ears, but with the innate and indescribable sense that guided her in such situations.

She had just decided to ease forward when a movement near the cave’s mouth caught her attention. She shifted the grip on her bow, and relaxed her body to slide through her surroundings in such a way that she seemed part of them. As she neared the cave, she tensed, ready for action. Two swift strides brought her to the opening where she halted. A small, coal-black wolf-pup, cowered there, glaring up at Thralla. She deftly picked it up, avoiding the half-hearted movement of its jaws. Its back leg was twisted slightly.

The pup securely tucked against her side, she studied the tracks, moving farther out of this side alley into the ravine proper. She suspected an orc from the Blackrock clan, or two, had come through and killed the mother to take the just weaned pups to raise as battle worgs. What she saw was evidence of more activity than a simple raid. The tracks showed that there had been a fight, ranging up and down before the entry to the side ravine. The mother wolf then may have been drawn out by the commotion and was slain in the midst of the conflict, her pups taken as an afterthought.

Amongst the scuffs on the ground, she saw a small set of footprints that were clearly fighting beside two sets of medium –sized feet and against two much larger opponents. She hadn’t gone far when she found copious amounts of blood near a small group of boulders and behind them a body.

She set the wolf-pup down on a ledge protruding above the corpse and rolled it over. It was one of the mercenaries she had been tracking. A human, his skull cracked and its torso gutted. Beside him was several packs and a small overcoat. She picked the coat up and found a patch displaying a crossed wrench and driver sewn onto the sleeve, the insignia of the goblin Shlizricks Vicegrip, the object of her hunt. Of the other human, the third member of Vicegrip’s crew and of the goblin himself, there was no sign. She worked quickly to open the packs, looking for the particular object she had been tasked to recover.

She had just begun searching the second pack when a small growl from the pup caught her attention. Its hair was standing on end as it looked past her and off to her right. Curling its lip back from its miniature fangs, it gave a fierce cry with its young voice.

Before the pup had barely begun singing out, Thralla had thrust herself backwards, and doing so saved her own skull. The blow of a club caught her on the shoulder, knocking her sideways. She managed to turn the movement to her favor, bringing herself upright, with her back to the ravine wall. Pushing the pain in her shoulder out of her mind, she snapped her wrist, grasping the stock of the bow as it snapped up to her palm. Her attacker, a Blackrock orc, roaring his rage, had recovered quickly from his missed strike and followed close behind. Thralla’s shot went wide, the bolt passing the massive orc and landing on the far side of the path.

In her opponent’s eyes she saw the crazed look of an orc caught in the grip of blood lust. To stand her ground would mean death, so the she-orc dove past her attacker, the breath leaving her in a grunt as the already battered shoulder bore the impact as she tucked her head to land in a roll. One hand had reached into a pouch at her side as she dove, and, as she began to roll, she dropped several metal objects to the ground. The orc of the Dark Horde, anger twisting his face, turned to follow her, stepping on one of the caltrops as he did so. He, like she, was wearing dragonhide boots, and the caltrop pierced only far enough into the sole of the boot to stick and be an annoyance. He compensated for the change in his footing and charged after his quarry.

Thralla allowed him to close the gap between them and as he neared, she flung her hand out, releasing the ashy soil she had picked up. It scattered through the air and spread into his face. The caltrop and the sediment worked together, causing him to miscalculate his step. Thralla slid under his axe arm as he faltered and, with a backhanded motion, buried her small axe into his upper hamstring. Running several steps away, she whirled, bolt slotted in the barrel of her bow. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself still and calm. Time itself seemed to slow as she brought the bow up with a smooth, graceful motion, and pulled the trigger. The bolt leapt forward and pierced the throat of the great orc.

His face remained contorted in anger as he sank to his knees, clutching futilely at the arrow’s shaft. He had not yet lost his life, when Thralla heard a bellow above her. She had stooped to retrieve the bolt that had previously failed to wound the orc now dying. Looking up, she saw a younger and larger orc, two massive axes in his hands, plummeting through the air towards her, having leapt off a ledge some several yards above.

Thralla’s eyes narrowed, and her lip curled. Without moving, she shot upwards into her oncoming opponent. By sheer skill or luck or mixture of the two, the bolt burrowed itself beneath the breastbone of the falling orc’s heart, and, perhaps, the orc was dead before he ever landed. She hadn’t waited to see, but dropping the bow as the bolt traveled through the air, she unlatched her larger, double-bladed axe, braced her muscular legs, and swung the axe underhand, growling as she did so, to take advantage of the oncoming orc’s momentum. The axe followed the divide of the orc’s legs, biting deep into his lower abdomen. By the glazing of his eyes, Thralla saw that the extra measure had not been necessary.

Behind her, she heard her initial attacker slump forward onto the ground.

Working quickly, she retrieved her small axe and her crossbow bolts as well as anything of value on the bodies. After ascertaining the second pack did indeed contain the slim parchment tube housing a roll of parchment intended for Orgrimar, she packed them and lifted them up. One pack fit on her back and the other, with longer straps, slung well across her torso, hanging by her hip. Into this pack, she set the wolf-pup.

Stretching her throbbing shoulder, she took a long sip from her canteen, holding the water in her mouth for a time as she began the trip back. Once she was up above the ravine and several miles in the direction back to safety, she stopped to rest briefly. She chewed a strip of dried bird-flesh, offering the last bite to the pup who eagerly took it from her hand.

The heat still hung in the air, though the sun was now setting. The slight wind carried no warning scents or sounds. She should return to the relative safety of the outpost just after dark. Patting the pup, she smiled, her nose ring flashing in the waning light.

“I shall call you Loktra, little one,” she said. Her deep, rich voice caused the wolf-pup’s ears to swivel. “In my tongue that is our ‘Song Before Battle.’” And she smiled again.

Great story very well written. I'm working on one myself. Umm. How long would be too long? I find myself going quite the opposite of, "I went here, found this pet, the end."

Thanks so much Bloodyfields. Pupsong was 1500 words. I'd shoot to go no more than 2,000, 2,200 in a pinch, for readability.

The Warrior and the Runt.

Bloodyfields had been trekking for days up from the frozen wasteland of Borean Tundra. At his side his faithful companion Gruesome, the little Lashtail he rescued from the clutches of Lord Mandokir, so named for his penchant for scavenging the corpses of Bloody's kills. As Bloody made his way through the pass he immediately felt the change in the air as the steamy heat rose from the basin below. He marveled at the site before him of the lush rain forest as he breathed deeply of the warm moist air and began to shake off the cold.

He sat at the foot of the path to rest and get his bearings before trekking further. He remembered a familiar landscape similar to this one in Un'goro, which also seemed so out of place in the sere wastes of southern Kalimdor as this in the frozen climes of Northrend. As he rested his mind began to wander, reminiscing of his journeys through these lands.

From the time he landed in Howling Fjord it was plain that the scourge had a firm grip on these lands as he battled the giant vrykul and minions of the ruthless Lich King. What struck him most was how the land itself reminded him of his own Kalimdor. As did the indigenous tribes of the gentle, fisher folk the Tuskarr and his long lost and distant cousins the Taunka'le.

Speaking with their Great Mother, her gentle voice full of wisdom, brought rushing back the memories of his own Mother Runa Spiritwalker of the Skychaser tribe. It was she who taught him, as a youngblood, the spiritual ways and traditions of his Tauren peoples. His father Garruk Thunderhoof of the Ragetotems taught him the ways of the hunter and his skills as a warrior. Then he was known as Garron son of Garruk and was given his adult name of Bloodyfields on the day of his Great Hunt by Blaine Bloodhoof the tribal chieftain. Soon after he was sent to train as a warrior at Bloodhoof Village.

It was this meeting with the Taunka Great Mother that awakened in him the realization of how far he had strayed from these teachings while in service to the Warlord Garrosh. As if somehow his own spirit had been tainted by the scourge. After their meeting his heart was once again filled with peace at his spiritual rebirth.

It was Gruesome's impatient nudging which roused him from his reverie as he became aware of the tears streaming down his face. He knew his little friend was hungry just as did the gnawing in his own belly remind him it had been sometime since they'd eaten.

As he rose he wiped his face, secured his maces across his broad back and began a slow trot eastward following the well worn path down into the basin. Each step taking him deeper into the dense undergrowth, huge trees towering over him, the warm, moist air closing in around him. The jungle rich with the sounds of creatures but as yet he had seen none. Soon enough his path lead to a clearing alongside a small river filled with long necked grazers. While they would fill his belly they were not the sort of beasts worthy of a great Tauren warrior. The Earth Mother would not approve.

He trekked on past hives of great wasps when he spotted a great, black lion with three strange little creatures poking at it with sharpened sticks. At last a beast worthy and a fine meal it would make. Without further thought he leaped powerfully through the air, while grabbing his huge, bone grinding, maces which came crashing down upon the beast's head killing it instantly. He knelt over his kill to make the ritual apology and to thank the spirit of this fine beast for the sustenance it would provide. As he was dressing out the lion out he heard the mutterings of the three odd little creatures as they poked at his hardened battle plate. He could understand them well enough to know they were not pleased with him taking their quarry and they were taking him captive to serve as their slave. He rose towering over these little creatures laughing quietly to himself. This was the path the Earth Mother had laid before him, he decided to play along. He shouldered the lion and followed them to their village.

In the days that followed he learned they were the Frenzyheart, considered themselves great hunters and sworn enemies of the “Big Tongues” the Oracles. True to their name they were very frenzied yet mindless, spiritless hunters. He remained with them only because they did provide a safe haven in this wild land as he learned more about it.

While out hunting he came across an injured creature. From the descriptions of the Frenzyheart he knew this must be one of the “Big Tongues.” He dressed it's wounds and helped it to it's feet. While not fully understanding he could sense the gratitude at the rescue and it was bidding Bloody to follow. They trotted off through marshy lowlands filled with crocolisks and large cobras. Then up a slight rise and into a village. Young Oracles frolicked about and Bloody could feel a peacefulness, a quietude quite unlike that of the Frenzyheart village. He was taken to whom he presumed to be the tribal chieftain and was welcomed warmly. At their behest he decided to stay. He was, after all, tasked by the Archmage to discover all he could and what, if anything, could be done to stem the flow of the scourge.

More and more he learned of this lost land of the Titans as he regularly escorted young Lafoo while he foraged for shinies as offerings at their great shrine, along with other tasks he did for the great Oracle speakers. It was during one of these forays he came upon the camp of Hemet Nesingwary. He knew this brash, little dwarf all too well having hunted for him in Nagrand. There was no honor in this work as it was strictly for trophies with no regard for the spirits of the great beasts.

It was shortly after leaving Nesingwary's camp as he trekked north he came upon the corpse of a large female shardhorn with her horns cut away. It's young calf milling about his mother's body. Obviously the work of one of Nesingwary's hunters. The calf seeing Bloody's movement came running over to him. Bloody knelt and petted the young beast trying to comfort him not knowing what else could be done. As he rose and began to walk away the critter followed after him. How in the name of the Great Mother could he possibly care for this poor little guy who apparently had adopted him? Then it dawned on him. Bloody rummaged through his bags and found a suitable vessel, walked back to the shardhorn mother and began milking what remained in her udders. This would suffice short term anyway. Gruesome watched curiously then began to eat from the shardhorns lifeless body. Bloody vowed that someday he would make that dwarf pay for his mindless acts of brutality on the great beasts of Azeroth, but that was for another day. They trekked onward as Bloody had a mission to complete and the little runt followed closely on his heels.

Over the next few days he completed his research for the Archmage, discovered the damage to the great Lifeblood pillar and did what he could to repair it. He had gotten his little shardhorn eating on his own but it was quite apparent he would never reach the size of his elders so he decided to name him Stubbs. Word had reached him that he was needed elsewhere and it was time to leave the basin.

He said his goodbyes to all the Oracle elders and and his now dear little friend Lafoo. With Gruesome and Stubbs in tow he began his trek over the hills and on into Icecrown. There were many scourge undead to kill there and he was just the warrior to kill them.

(Don't necessarily want the pet, just had to enter cause it was a writing contest! Also not sure how I missed this before! Just wrote this as soon as I saw the contest, so its a bit brief!)

“Go here and do this, he says.” Rolling her eyes, Eclectic muttered under her breath as she tossed another twisted piece of metal over her shoulder into the growing pile. “Go there and do that, he says.” She wasn’t being fair to the fishing master, she knew she wasn’t. But, honestly, he knew she was a druid. Which meant, at least in her mind, he should know that sending her over to the Goblin Slums ways a way of torturing her. “Fish up some Toxic Puddlefish, he says.” Eclectic might have been a Guardian Druid, and thus more prone to violence than healing, but she couldn’t stand how the Slums sad little pond looked when she visited. Heaving on a particularly stubborn piece of litter that had been stuck in the muck at the edge of said pond, she stumbled back a step and stared at…

Wait, what *was* that?

Frowning, Eclectic turned the odd item this way and that, ignoring how the sludge covering the item was dripping onto her white hide, trailing down her arms, and dripping onto her hooves. “What are you, I wonder.” Leaning down, totally distracted from the loud noise of the district now, she used what little clean water resided near the top of the pond to wash off the object. “Some Goblin tinker toy, maybe, hmm?” Raising it back up again, she saw… yellow?

“Hey, Eclectic!” A finger poked her thigh to get her attention, and when she finally did glance down she took no offense. Goblins were very short in comparison to Taurens, her thigh is about all the other woman had been able to reach without straining herself. “Whatcha got there?”

Shrugging, because she honestly had no idea, she handed the object gently to Gorja. “Dunno, I think it’s something good though.”

Snorting, the Goblin poked and tapped and prodded the device. “Something good? In the pond?” Rolling her eyes, because Gorja really shouldn’t be surprised, Eclectic was… well, a bit eclectic. Finding a catch, she pressed and pulled accordingly, blinking in surprise when she saw a lightbulb come to life right in front of her eyes. “A lightbulb?”

“Bunny!” Eclectic’s happy cry startled her friend, causing her to fumble the object, not that it had any chance to fall, Eclectic’s hands were there in an instant. “Oh, look, its adorable!”

Gorja slapped a hand to her forehead as she saw that the Tauren had already wiped the thing off with her cloak and was cuddling it fondly. Attached, she was already attached, done deal. It really *was* a bunny though, or the Mechanical version of it, anyway. “What are you going to name it?”

Since the little thing looked just as thrilled with her friend as she was with it, its lightbulb-tail brighter as it nuzzled her, it was a valid question. “Lightbulb, just like you said.”

Since Gorja thought that slapping herself on the forehead a second time sounded too much like self abuse, she sighed as she turned to walk away, instead just adding, “You’re standing in knee high Slum muck.”

The startled shriek of ‘ew!’ was totally worth what teeth marks that little mech bunny was likely to put on the guild bank.

Oh shoot I completely forgot about this

Using www.random.org to pick the winner, I can say: Congrats to Bloodyfields. You are the winner of a brand new, never been read before Gusting Grimoire.

Thanks to both Bloody and Eclectic for participating.

Just because the contest is over doesn't mean you should stop writing. Tell us your character/pet stories. Yes, this means even you Tiz. =D

Once I hit 85 and get into ZG, I will totally have another story to write. I will have my baby back!

I think it would be awesome to do a guild run of ZG, 4 of us with our lashtails out and you going to rescue your old friend. Mandokir must die. Loktar O'gar.