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.