The Gamon story

Who is Gamon

--real stuff here--

Gamon was originally part of the rogue quest "the shattered hand part 2" in which hes described as a drunk and the assistant of Tazan, a troll who traded with the pirates near Ratchet and who possessed information wanted by the Shattered Hand. Since you needed to pick pocket him for the quest he was attackable and killed quiet frequently.

In wrath He was involved in the deathknight entrance quest in which he would run up and attack new deathknights if they got to close.

In cata he was made a level 85 eleite and made to hit like a truck and was thus no longer killed for fun.

In mist he participates in the Siege of Orgrimar and helps you kill general nazgrim.

And thats pretty much it.

Gamons official story is pretty unsubstantial so I thought it would be fun to make up an appropriate backstory for him.

--made up story--

(Gamon floating in the water or something, just 1 image for the whole story)

How did I end up like this. I asked my self, already knowing the answer to that question. But the very act of articulating those words allowed me to reflect upon my existence in a more concise manner. As if asking myself questions about things that have already happened somehow tricks my brain into thinking about them from a different perspective, as if they're not actually happening to me but someone else. What is real? There is no way to really answer that question. Are we all nothing more than players in a game? If so I don't think I want to be real. I'm quiet fine with being fake, in fact being fake is of more value than the real thing. In the deliberate attempt to be real one becomes more real than the real thing.

"I was born on Kalimador in the small valley of mulgore. My father was a poor merchant in debt to a wealthy and respected grimtotem known to us as Lanathar. When I was very young I was told it would be a great honor to serve him as part of our servitude to the Horde. I was forced from my home and acted as Lanathar's body for years, I don't remember how long. One day a group of renegade orcs broke into the place, looking for guns, precious gems, anything to sell. Of course there was nothing of value, the grimtotem usually do not keep such items on display in their personal homes."

 "They killed my master and I was grateful, so grateful. Lanathar had never mistreated me, had never been anything less then kind and polite... but I hated him. One of the orcs brought me along as a pet of sorts. I learned how to survive. Be quick on my feet and resourceful. They taught me how to use basic weapons, but only enough to keep me alive during our confrontations."

I became good friends with one of the orcs. He was resourceful, brave, and confident in his abilities. It was only a matter of time before he became the leader of out renegade band. Under him we were successful and well off. After a few years of leading the band Nazgrim left one day to help with the hordes campaign on northrend. With Nazgrims departure we decided to run things as they always had been as a group effort with no leaders. Everyone had a say. As a group we decided to do a risky job and try and take an alliance ship passing by ratchet. In the dead of night we invaded but they knew we were coming. They were well prepared and had lookouts posted 24/7, looking back on it, it seems obvious, but we didn't know. Our whole gang was wiped out and I barely survived and drifted ashore a few days later.

I was filled with nothing but pain and trepidation. I decided to lose myself in the drink. Spending years on end in that bar, suffering torment and humiliation one after another but I did not care. As long as I could continue to drink away my sorrows I was content with being just a meat bag taking up space. I spent a few years down at ratchet doing odd favors for a troll named tazan before I ended up settling in orgrimar.  How does one truly know they're happy I asked myself. The only time I felt alive was during the brief space of time with that renegade leader. I wonder what became of him? Would I ever see him again? The thought of that stirred something inside me like I had never felt before. For the first time in years I had a reason to wake up in the morning. Existence seemed to be slightly less tedious.

I worked on myself, building up strength and stamina with my axe until I was a force to be reckoned with. Nazgrim would be proud.

It was around this time that my environment started changing. Orgrimar was becoming increasingly segregated. Trolls were kicked out of the orcish parts and forced into slums. People who opposed the new laws went missing in the night. The air of unease was palpable as the days dragged along. Despite the years of torment by the citizens I tried helping these people, but I was no match for the kor'kron.

I was tortured for who knows how long. I was ready to die at any moment when I was rescued. A band of misfit rebels of all races had broken through the front gate and killed all the guards up to my stay. They handed me my axe and asked for my help in navigating the casims below.

there were no live, beating hearts in that place. Just fire emptiness and blood. I swallowed a mouthful of fear and flexed my fingers around the hilt as I looked upon the hanging bodies of the former warlock trainers. Each one with a sign hanging from there necks stating that all traitors must die. This is where I could be rebuilt, not repaired, no never fixed, the pieces would not fit together after a shattering of such devastating proportions.

As we worked our way through waves of kor'kron guards we approached the entrance to the secret underground chamber garrosh had been working on over the past year.

And there, at the last line of defense was Nazgrim.

I tried reasoning with him. The Nazgrim I knew would never conform to such atrocious ways. But he would not waver in his conviction. No more a helpless child,  I would be as cold and unfeeling as space itself, my heart a void and my hands steady as I killed.

With the death of Nazgrim, a part of me died as well. And now I find myself, floating in the river of despair. Thinking of the nature of reality and weather or not the idea of being fake is actually better than being real.

The Old Woman and the log cabin

Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees, while inside, the old woman's fire was nearly out.

The old woman was at the cabin by herself. Her grandchildren no longer visit. Its been years since shes heard the voice of another human being. The shutters from the attic bang loudly on the window still. The bristling of the trees is getting louder and more violent.

"A storm is coming"

She said aloud to herself in this damp lifeless room. As if the mere utterance of words could somehow make this bleak exsitance less drule. There use to be a cat name regenald. But he disappeared years ago. And with him the last hope of contact from another living thing. The cat very much reminded her of her love. The one guy she loved, the days spent by the river bend. The long walks. The tears. The laughing.

"Things would have turned out differently if only he didn't have to go off and fight".

Thats what she began telling herself. But it was just willful thinking at this point. Her life was over and she had nothing to show for it. Life as far as she was concerned was over.

**bubububub**

The first sound of thunder.

"well I'd better go close the back door"

As she got up and wobbled towards the door a flash of light illuminated the whole dark house and what looked light the siloute of a mans shadow flashed across the wall.

"No one lives around here anymore"

She told herself. as if saying it would help her realize that what she saw was nothing. Her eyes were going bad along with the rest of the wretched body.

**bububub**

Another flash of light. This time the siloute was closer to her and there was no denying it this time. What she saw was a person and could be nothing else. She did a quick glance around the room. The cabin only had a living room and stairs leading to 2 bedrooms upstairs. she should be able to see everything from where shes standing but theres no-one there. Its not quiet dark outside yet so she decides to take a look out the window after shutting the door.

The wind still races outside. The bristling of leaves is the most audible noise which seems werid considering the banding of the attic shutters.

"why am i focusing on the leaves?"

She thought to herself. It seemed queer to single out the most unimportant thing out of the series of events taking place. But shes been in stressful situations before and remembers this feeling. The way the mind focuses on things that makes no sense. Maybe its just a way for the brain to rationalize an irrational situation.

Upon glancing outside of the window there was nothing there. Just the same oak trees as always. The old rust bucket in the dirt driveway that never gets used anymore. and the leaves. The dead autumn leaves bristling past everything. The air is starting to smell of moisture. The storm was getting close, she could feel her bones starting to ache due to the change on pressure.

"Maybe it really was nothing"

she thought to herself. just then a full figure appeared in front of her. It was just an instant because she turned away immediately. but when she looked back it was gone. The figure looked like a man. But clearly wasn't. He had pale skin, a black shirt, stringy hair. And cold white lifeless eyes. If it was a person it was one shed only ever seen in movies that had dead bodies.

"but that can't be"

she tried telling herself. Suddenly she was very scared. And with that the starting signs of panic started kicking in. Her first thought was to get her bible from the coffee table. But then she thought that maybe franks old gun might be a better choice. With this she steeled herself and went for the stairs.

These old stairs made quiet the noise going up. Even with the rick rack of the stairs and her hurried steps, the leaves outside were still very noisy.

"why the leaves?"

She asked herself as if the answer to that question would solve all her problems. Once she reached the top of the stairs she made a break for the door on the left, half expecting the thing to come back at any moment.

upon oping the door the lighting flashed without any precedence of thunder and there was Mark. Her first love. The one she wished could could have lived her life with but ultimately had to chose frank. He looked just like he did at 17, in the same uniform he was deployed in. but only for that instance with the bright white light filling the room. and then he was gone just as quick as he appeared.

She dropped to her knees and noticed the tears on her cheeks. "how long have I been crying?" she wondered.  only because she thought she should ask the question and not because she wanted an answer. Afterall there was no one there to answer her questions.

He had died in the pacific. His body was never found. Most likley his body is rotting at the bottom of the ocean. She had dreams of it before. Always nightmares of how he died. In every dream he was standing on the deck of the ship. holding a picture of her, staring off in the sunset when a plain flys over and drops a bomb that blows it to smithereens. Then hes gently sinking in the ocean under the inferno and wreckage above. His eyes wide open as the picture floats peacefully up top.

The room starts getting blacker. The wind is still raging outside. The leaves have gone quiet though. She tries to stand back up but is unable too. The room starts spinning and swirling. Swirling until the darkness is complete and she falls over. Never to get up again.