|Class||Initiate in the ways of Shamanism|
|Age||33 (seen), 38 (biological)|
|Height||1,82 m (0.92)|
Grazmot was born in Draenor before the land had been ripped apart by the fel energies that had then begun to consume it slowly. He never got to know his father and his mother, a young female, raised him until he was able to chew the scarce bits of meat she was able to find. Unable to sustain her child, and in a foolish attempt to buy both of them a better life, the mother sold her child to a warlock, one who had once lived closely with the elements of Draenor and the spirits of the ancestors, and who still retained some influence from the old days. Her last words were but a measly request: for the warlock to call her son Grazmot.
The warlock, a middle-aged orc who instilled fear and respect in the hearts of his clansmen, did a good job of taking care of the infant. In spite of this, as he later on told Grazmot, he had never had a child or a mate of his own, a consequence of his zealous dedication to shamanism, which had been abruptly cut short due to being abandoned by the elements and the spirits.
As much as the warlock tried to avoid it, a high ranking member of his clan found out about Grazmot while he was still a toddler. Bewildered by the waste of resources being channelled into his young mouth, the high ranking clansman demanded that the warlock forced the youngster to age using his dark magic, or, otherwise, he would execute Grazmot on the spot. Devoid of any other options, the warlock sucked the youth’s childhood, reluctantly taking it for himself.
For a good while, Grazmot was confused by the sudden changes in his body and mind. The warlock managed to save him from further troubles by making him his official apprentice, although in practise he never taught Grazmot anything about his horrible profession. For some time they were untroubled by the doings of the Horde, and the warlock used that period to tell Grazmot about the old days, back when the land was completely healthy and the orcs good, traditional people.
Grazmot was not fully convinced by this tale. His partner of mischief, a young orc about his age who, in the words of Grazmot’s mentor, “had it easy for being born in the right family”, constantly bragged about “how cool” warrior training was and how “awesome” the older warriors, especially his older brother, were in battle. Tricked by the action-filled tales, Grazmot decided to slip away from the warlock’s house, where he spent most of his time, guarded from the malice of the outside world. Certainly, the Horde was a lot better than what his mentor foretold; maybe, in fact, he was just trying to make Grazmot miss out on all the fun he had when he was away from home.
Alone, the young orc sneaked his way to the training grounds, and watched several scenes unfold in front of his golden eyes. Young orcs, some his age, some a bit younger, fought against each other. They did not look happy, unlike his playtime partner: many bore wounds and scars; others had their bodies out of proportions, with limbs longer than others, for one; some looked utterly confused and stopped fighting all together, to then be spanked by the older orcs in charge; and many, many other ugly things that his innocent mind had trouble comprehending.
When Grazmot thought things could not get worse than that, an orcish warrior with a malicious gaze in his eyes laughed at one of the youngsters, calling him a wimp who could not even use his axe to kill a fly. Others joined in, calling the mistreated orc a stream of other hideous names, and eventually some got overly excited and started beating him to a bloody pulp.
Disgusted, Grazmot had time to notice one last thing before turning his eyes away. Next to the older orc that had started it all, stood his friend, laughing and cursing just as much as the others. In fact, Grazmot noticed that his friend and the warrior shared similar features, much like brothers in blood.
Grazmot returned to his mentor’s house. The warlock asked him why he had not eaten dinner that night, but all Grazmot said was that he was alright and then he went to bed.
From that day forth, Grazmot avoided contact with the warlock’s clansmen as much as he could, and gained huge interest in the tales of the days of old. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was still hope that the golden age of the orcs would come to be once more.
One day, it all changed. When Grazmot’s body had unnaturally aged little more than a decade, the Dark Portal was opened and the Horde rushed to invade the new fertile lands beyond. Grazmot's master was urged to follow the first wave, and thus he brought his slave with him to a new land.
Knowing that the Horde would hurry to find battle and exhaust the resources on the way, the warlock went against the wave and he and his slave settled by the sea, to the East, where they rarely saw any orc wandering. Most of the orcs marched to the North or West, attacking a race of pink skinned humanoids who called themselves humans.
Finally at peace and with plenty of food and water, the master freed his slave, leaving one night without Grazmot noticing. The young orc was now liberated from his master who, despite all the evil about his craft, wanted him to live well, all because he was a youngster who could embrace the orcish heritage, which the warlock missed so much.
With his brute strength and cunning, Grazmot survived with only the necessary, hunting beasts, drinking the swamps' water and munching some herbs when sick.
Rarely did Grazmot find any orc, especially after the fall of the human capital, Stormwind. Still, he managed to occasionally converse with one or two orcs, and the major news managed to reach his ears. Five years after the fall of Stormwind, the orcs set sail to the North, searching for more humans to slay and lands to conquer.
Grazmot stayed, however. Glory and honour seemed not to be the main reason behind the genocides caused by the orcs, not when compared to the tales Grazmot's old master used to share. Besides, Grazmot knew well how far some of them were willing to go for a chance to spill blood. No, he would stay and wait. Perhaps the orcs of the bloodthirsty, corrupted Horde would find reason in the memories of the peaceful times that a few still held in their hearts, even if it took them a thousand years.
Not too long after the departure of most of his people, Grazmot noticed that orcs and humans alike began to wander more and more often on the swamps he now called home. He got to know that the orcs had been defeated and that they were being pulled back to the Dark Portal. Grazmot still did nothing to help his murderous peers, and, instead, he hid well, not bothering at all to know that he and a few scattered clans were stuck in Azeroth. At least there would be some peace in the world.
Aware that the humans now occasionally patrolled the swamps and killed any orc at first sight, Grazmot simply kept on hiding in the most remote corner of the swamps and for years he knew nothing concerning what was going on Azeroth.
Close to twenty years after his arrival at the swamps, Grazmot was astonished to see another orc wandering on his domains. However, the stranger was not one who babbled of the taste of blood and the betrayal of the warlocks, but one who made lightning kneel before him. Grazmot recognized him as a shaman from his old master's tales. He saw that as good omen and left the relative safety of his hideout, decided to communicate with the outsider.
Grazmot's brain almost exploded with so much information to absorb and analyse. The shaman told him that, a few years ago, the orcs had been ultimately defeated by the humans and the remnants in Azeroth were being kept as prisoners. Apparently, the first orc of the recent wave of shamans was now leading a new Horde. That Warchief had freed the orcs from the camps where they were held prisoners and now they were rebuilding the Horde, but not the bloodthirsty Horde Grazmot had known. Instead, the orcs now focused on recovering the old traditions, from years past when they were spiritual beings who believe in shamanism and honour.
Finally, the shaman said he had been sent to scout the land, looking for hermits like Grazmot, and offered the self-exiled orc shelter among the new Horde. Grazmot hesitated at first, but eventually accepted, mesmerized to know that his prayers had been heard.
Grazmot had a hard time blending in with the rest of civilization after so many years of solitude, but eventually he got used to it. He passed most of that period honing his battle skills and defending the weaker orcs from the attacks of humans and other threats.
After a few months, the orcs were on the move yet again. They were setting sail to a land called Kalimdor. It was said that it was there that the Horde could find and fulfil its destiny. Grazmot eagerly joined and, although the voyage was no easy one, he was grateful to be part of it.
When they arrived, Grazmot was a bit disappointed to see that Kalimdor was all but a desert. Still, unlike Draenor, it had not been touched by corruption, and perhaps other bits of Kalimdor were more verdant and lush.
As the orcs advanced they found the Tauren, half-humanoid, half-bovine beings. The Tauren spoke of the fabled Stonetalon Peak, where the Horde could find the destiny it sought after. As such, they moved in the Peak's direction and, along the way, several outposts were made. Grazmot's party was left behind to defend one that would today be known as The Crossroads.
The orcs at the outpost lived in relative peace, only having to do occasional patrols to kill quillboars, harpies and centaurs molesting their hunters. Only several months after did they hear about the battle against the Burning Legion and, like what happened to all the outposts at Kalimdor, aid was requested from the frontlines.
Grazmot and his companions rode swiftly, but when they arrived the battle was already over. However, there were still many things to do, as the genocide left many orcs, humans and night elves wounded and even more of them were dead. Pyres burned for days in an attempt to stop possible diseases from spreading from the corpses. The wounded were tended by healers and warriors alike.
Weeks after those events the orcs were once again on a new land, the ragged Durotar, but this time they were there to stay. While Orgrimmar was being built, Grazmot had the opportunity to participate in the Om'riggor, the orcs' rite of passage to adulthood, despite his age. From the trials he earned the surname Windseeker, for his efforts against a particularly windy day.
Subsequent to his showdown at Om'riggor, Grazmot was invited to train as a shaman. Some saw his success against the hurricane and thought of it as an omen of the elements. From that day on Grazmot started to train the ways of the shaman, an endeavour he keeps on to this day, as he finds it hard to grasp even the most basic of concepts.
Recently, Grazmot decided to leave the safety of Orgrimmar and venture through the scarred world of Azeroth, seeking to attain understanding with the help of the elements and the spirits, a most daunting task due to the recent Cataclysm that shook the world and its components.
Smaller when compared to the average orc, it's not uncommon for Grazmot to stand shoulder to shoulder with a human male, although he is far bulkier than them. His hair is a wild mane that covers all of his head, which stands proud and not all hunched over unlike what the model might suggest.
Grazmot usually uses simple outfits made of leather and/or fur. When going to the battle scene, he is likely to use leather armour with some mail pieces for protection, and an axe as weapon. Grazmot almost always carries a large, tan and leathery sack with him, where he places his belongings.
Due to all the years he spent in solitude, Grazmot is capable of introspection; unfortunately, his eagerness to handle situations right away makes it hard for him to think before acting when there is something that needs to be done. Furthermore, the orc is essentially pragmatic, preferring to solve problems with actions rather than words.
An enthusiast of the possibilities of shamanism, Grazmot really wants to learn more about it, but lacks the focus required to learn. Nevertheless, as stubborn as a rock, the orc keeps ramming his head against the odds, although this same characteristic also makes him a living nightmare for any teacher who has not asked the Earth to lend them infinite amounts of patience.
In the end, what he wants is for the Horde to go back to its roots, when Nature and ancient traditions were valued above all else. Grazmot may enjoy a good fight; however, his belief that petty wars will not solve things stands strong. Nevertheless, he will fight for the safety of his people until the glorious day in which the orcish race gets to hunt in verdant plains once more comes to be.
Skills and Abilities
Although an admirer of shamanism, the pragmatic Grazmot finds the elements complicated to deal with, especially when there are blows to dodge and foes to chop, and so usually resorts to his own strength in battle, preferably with the aid of an axe.
Hopefully, and despite the troubles he has in wrapping his head around the theory he needs to learn, Grazmot will be able to become a shaman worth the name.