Goren

Go'ren Whiteclaw
Title	<The White Wolf of Nagrand>
Gender	Male
Race	Whiteclaw Orc
Class	Warrior
Age	45
Height	7'
Weight	432 lb
Eyes	Brown
Hair	White
Affilliation(s)	The Horde, The Whiteclaw clan,
Occupation	Spirit Companion
Relative(s)	Krona whiteclaw (Sister), Torok Whiteclaw (Brother)
Mentor(s)	Unknown
Student(s)	Torok Whiteclaw
Companion(s)	Torok Whiteclaw
Alignment	None
Status	Deceased

Appearance

A veteran of decades riddled with war, Go'ren brandishes a collection of scars strewn across his person. Layered over these scars come strands of long, pure-white hair which, in unison with two claws tattooed upon his shoulders, act as a memoriam to his kin who had been slaughtered years ago.

Through the course of his adulthood, Go’ren consistently acted as the guardian of his younger kin. In death this image persists as the spirit makes an effort to clad himself in a firm layer of plate and leather which is well paired with a sizable shield. For a choice of weapon Go’ren makes use of a simple hatchet of an axe, easy enough to both carry and brandish in a time of need.

Personality

Defensive is a key term when it comes to defining Go’ren. Ever since he was a mere pup he spent a good deal of his time tending to both of his younger kin. Through the years it would come to be fostered- not delayed- by a burning rage. For every way he could be thought as aloof and detached he was just so equally protective, defensive of his two younger kin- who would be the only remnants of the peaceful days once spent in Nagrand.

Since his death, Go’ren has adapted an inkling of wisdom to his ways, though not in such great amounts that it overpowers the ferocity of combat or the self-sacrifice of defense. Instead he uses his incorporeal state wholly to his his advantage, often putting himself out as an abusable shield which needs only a few day’s rest before returning just as before.

History

Born upon the vibrant fields of Nagrand, Go'ren was the first conceived son of a Whiteclaw clan family. His father, Krin Feralheart ,was a well known shaman amongst the tribesmen, and was revered for his level-headed wisdom amongst even the toughest of times. Often in his works, Krin was accompanied by his mate, Rema Mendpaw, who played the role of a medicine woman when she was not out and about in search of herbs to use for her potions and salves. While Go'ren was still but a pup, by the age of three he had two other siblings; A sister named Krona as well as the youngest being his brother, Torok. The Whiteclaw Clan has had quite the history amongst the Orcs, being one of the oldest clans upon the planet of Draenor. Despite the clan's rather massive size, they still provided a tight-knit community amongst it's villages. Not only did the adults interact often, but so did the children. The trio of Krin's children played about with the other pups of the clan, usually telling stories or playing about with a leather ball provided by one of the older children, who was of-age to take an apprenticeship as a leatherworker.

When his time was not spent playing, the young orcling was often taken by his father off to the secluded beauty of Nagrand's fields. Ever since Go'ren was born, his father expected him to follow in his footsteps, and to one day surpass his father as the village's shaman. At this time Go'ren happily accepted this fate, and by the age of twelve he had begun his apprenticeship under his father's caring gaze. From here on out, they would often go out on walks, yet not always to the secluded areas of Nagrand, instead they went off and paid visits to the nearby Frostwolf towns, who were close friends with the Whiteclaws, or even on a rarer occasion they would head off to a trading post, which were set up for the clans to mingle with their Draenei neighbors. Go'ren enjoyed these visits, especially to the trading posts as the Draenei there often had an interesting toy or trinket that they would happily pass in trade for a fine fur or silk.

Months later, there was a grand celebration held amongst the family. Go'ren had reached ten years of age and it also was considered the first full year of his apprenticeship. As a gift, his father presented him with a worg pup that had a short coat of dark brown hair. For the time, nothing seemed wrong in the world yet not was all as it appeared. It was easily noted that the trips to the trading posts had halted altogether, and at clan meetings he could sneak along the outside of the tent to hear the elders whisper and mutter about a massacre going about. While there was no denying to himself as to what he heard, his father denied all claims with a nervous shake of his head.

Within five year's time, it would all come to fruit, a scene which could never be forgotten, never be forgiven. At early dawn he awoke, stumbling out of his tent to look for a spot to briefly meditate, yet as he stepped forth from the safety of his blankets, we was greeted with an unfamiliar sight. Men were up in arms, women were so the same. Perched high upon watchtowers were sentries ready with bow in-hand, and far off could be heard the trampling of a raiding patrol's paws. Within seconds his father approached, a pale look of terror spread about what was normally a calm and collected expression. With haste he brought his eldest son out behind the tent, handing him reins to the family's swiftest worg and a simple instruction: To take his siblings and leave. Go'ren hadn’t any time to ponder why as his father ushered him quickly along. For a few moments Go’ren stood, staring blankly as he watched both mother and father scatter about, collecting their finest arms and trappings, but with a quick bark of his father he was back on track. In the matter of a few minutes, the children were awake and poised to leave, all three piled upon the back of a dark-furred worg along with a few rations. On their flank was the matured pup that Go’ren had tended to since he was himself just a toddler, the beast now old enough to run along side as they three made their escape. Not a second more was wasted as they fled from the village, though unknowingly to never return once more.

By high noon, the traveling party reached a peak of one of Nagrand's many hills. As they turned about, there were only horrors they could witness. It the course of the day, a massive force had marched on into the village and began a ruthless slaughter. Even from so far away, the sights of burned buildings and charred corpses were easy to see amassed into piles and burned by the invading forces yet, there was something odd. Go'ren squinted his eyes, peering deeper to see that these were no normal warriors or grunts, but instead demons, an entire legion of demons. Fel hounds, felguards, doomguards, infernals all lead about as if on a leash held by their dark binders: warlocks.

Go'ren felt his heart sink, his mind blank, his breathing stop as what called home was laid to waste, and all he loved, laid to rest. Never the less, he had to flee, flee for the sake of his siblings, and for the sake of himself. That night the children slept amongst the chilled swamps of Zangarmarsh, each of them weeping themselves into respite.

In their travels, the trio of Whiteclaw refugees joined a band of Frostwolves, who were lucky enough to evade the full fury of the Fel Horde, as it was called, and instead escape into a world beyond the dark portal.

The three children were taken with skepticism none the less, as expected. The forces which had decimated the Whiteclaw and chased the Frostwolves out were not some foreign invader but instead a legion composed of their fellow orcish clans, whose leaders took in the demons and their tainted blood, transforming the once noble race into blood-crazed savages. While in the midst of tragedy the trio were simply grateful to be alive, and hence treated their foster mother with a great reverence.

Mochla, as she was called, would be the great catalyst to their upbringing. While she taught Krona and Torok the values of shamanism, she did not see such a possibility in him despite what upbringing he may have had. Instead she saw an imbalance of emotion and an overflowing rage. Instead of treating him with the serenity of the spirits, he was tasked to brawl with the defenders of the Frostwolf clan, with hopes that they would harness his anger into a warrior’s tool.

In the course of many years, these children grew and grew, locked away from the outside world. The Frostwolves would eventually become a full-fledged family to the three, and likewise each would find their own responsibility. Go'ren filled in a position as one of the many frostwolf guards that thrive day and night to protect the elder Chieftain Drek'thar. The middle child, Krona took did not take too well after the spirits as initially thought. While she struggled with her studies she came to spend a good lot of time tending to simple duties, whether it be to clean the feast halls or wash out the stables. Torok, the youngest, took to the trainings of the shaman under the guide of Mochla.

At the age of thirty four- Eighteen years since the fall of his clan- Go'ren finally stumbled upon a chance to make something of his life. While he thirsted for vengeance, he was not blind to the other opportunities presented to him. At the pinnacle of these eighteen years an Orc who had been staying with the tribe suddenly called to arms. Thrall, he was named, and with him he brought the legendary chieftain Doomhammer. The two riled up forces from all clans, banding them all together to destroy the horrifying war camps that riddled northern Lordearon. Go'ren was quick to join the war band, and within the month they were stalking through the thick forests with the human internment camps in their sights.

The battles rang out all across the lands. Camp after camp would topple under the Orcish might of a unified Horde, not one of fel and demons, but instead one that follows the path of shamanism, just as it once was. Not a pause was given until every Orc in Lordearon found themselves liberated, their lethargy lifted. Once more it was time to start anew.

Ever since he had left the safety of the Frostwolves' home, Go'ren had no contact with any of his kin and for the time he thought that for the better. Instead of returning, he left alongside warchief Thrall and the new Horde in order to venture off to the lands of Kalimdor, looking to forge not only a new life for the Horde, but for himself as well.

Days after hitting shore upon the red sands of what would come to be known as Durotar, Thrall and his advisers lead the collected Horde towards the lands known now as the barrens. Before they left on their search, Thrall had banished the vicious Warsong clan to the northern reaches of Ashenvale in order to collect lumber needed to construct the planned capital city for the New Horde. Amongst the deathly dry lands of the barrens, the trolls and Orcs both happened upon a peculiar sight; camps spread all about, composed of massive tents coupled with temporary wooden structures. As they would soon come to find out, these tents belong to the noble Tauren, or what remained of them at least. While Go'ren rested with the rest of the soldiers, feasting on what rations they had left over, Thrall met with the council of Tauren chieftains, and hence they voiced their woes of the centaur who had slain and enslaved their people for countless years. In the following days the Horde fought with a fury unbridled, repelling attack after attack by the centaur war bands and eventually coming to a counter attack, shattering the centaur's hold over the Tauren people once and for all.

Cairne Bloodhoof, the leader of the tauren, met with Thrall once the centaur were all repelled. He spoke of how his people were all too in debt to the Orcs, and thus they happily joined the new Horde as a sign of honor they hold for their Orcs and their saving acts.

By the end of this campaign, the Warsong orcs had already built up a notable supply of lumber and thus the construction of Orgrimmar had begun. However these Warsongs would also come to accumulate something else; demonic influence. Through the tricking of Mannoroth, the vicious Warsong Orcs drank a well of the pit lord's vile blood, and hence corrupted the warring Orcs into a relentless bloodlust. Go'ren did not have to think a second more after demons were mentioned, and thus in the course of a few day's time, the orcish horde marched upon the forests of Ashenvale. Their target was mainly the warsong Chieftain, Grom Hellscream. Yet in between him and the invading orcs were the Warsong's strongest warriors, who had been bolstered by felblood and demonic reinforcements brought along by Mannoroth. With great pain, the Orc-human alliance descended upon the revolting clan, slaying many of their men and wounding many more, but eventually they would come to subdue the reckless chieftain.

After the conflict was solved by the death of the vicious pit lord Mannoroth, Go'ren found his home in recently-established Orgrimmar serving in the city as a simple grunt, However this Orc would not be allowed to rest.

In the coming months, another call to war had sounded. Mannoroth turned to only have been a prelude to what was coming.

All across the lands of Kalimdor small outcrops began to appear. Where there was once natural peace and prosperity, a demonic taint began to crawl forth. The root of this issue came to be known as the precious world tree far atop Mount Hyjal. Ever since the Warsong Logging Camps had been established, the Kal'dorei and the Warsong orcs have been at one anther's throats, waging a fierce war between each other for control of such a valuable resource, yet now they would be forced to worth in unison with one another.

Human walls lined the first of many encampments placed upon the path of destruction, Orcish grunts manned the front lines, troll witchdoctors shambled and shook as they concocted their voodoo magics, Kal'dorei Bowmen lined the walls, tauren chieftains called upon the ancestor's wrath. This war would be one to end all conflicts, as it threatened every person from Thrall and his advisers to the lowest peon working on a hog farm. For such a conflict, ever soldier was needed, and Go'ren had no exemption. At the ripening age of thirty-nine, the grizzled veteran would once more be shipped off to war, though this would come to be the last time.

Not even weeks later the simple warrior born from simple roots would be thrust into the most hellish landscape he had ever bore witness to. Camps, warbands, armies toppled like mere children before the might of the Burning Legion. The Horde Encampment would come to be all that lays between the World Tree and ravaging destruction. The battle there lasted for hours, wave upon wave of undead and demons making siege upon and surging against Orcish shields and Tauren totems. For a time all was well and the assault was rebuffed, but there was only so much the Horde could do. Azgalor, a Pit Lord with a fearsome reputation, approached the camp with an endless storm of minions on each wing. The warriors of the Horde, battered and bruised, dutifully charged forward, however so very few of them would survive to make the retreat. It would be in the defense of the Horde that Go’ren fell beneath the weight of the Pit Lord’s blade, cleaved in twain by a simple strike. Too simple a death in his own eyes.

By nightfall the mortals of Azeroth claimed victory over the Legion, but not without paying a price. Go’ren was but one of many spirits that rose that night. Some were content with their honorable death and passed, but others remained burdened with rage. The death of a handful of demons was not enough to sate the warrior’s bloodlust, nor was his own death by such a simple strike enough for him to claim honor. Instead of finding peace in death, Go’ren grew only further restless.

For years the spirit wandered, lost, drifting between the realm of the dead and the realm of the living. So far he would wander that he returned to the home of his birth and waited with the company of those slain so similarly so many years ago.