(This story is set very shortly after the Siege of Lordaeron.)

Vaknosh Blackwolf didn’t care much for having to hobble around. In fact, he didn’t care for being in these casts at all. However, such was the state he was in that they remained on. For now, at least, until his wounds mended. So, for now, he had to hobble about with his leg cast when trying to get anywhere.

And tonight, he was hobbling, slowly but surely, towards a small cave on his property.

It wasn’t much of a cave. It did not go deep into the ground nor far into the hills his estate rested on, right on the Ashenvale-Northern Barrens border. It was a soft, gentle slope into the earth, just long enough to block out all external light from the Barrens, even on the brightest days, and all noise as well, giving it a serene quiet. The air was always warmer in here, as well, which Vaknosh – an orc who grew up inside an active volcano – always appreciated it.

As the somewhat shambling orc entered the cave, torches came alive with his presence. It was a small trick, just a tiny bit of elemental magic. The orc smiled and spoke a brief thanks to the elements in kalimag.

On the alternate Draenor, separated from the Kor’kron Legion on their suicide mission into the Dark Portal, he had met an older orc named Rarlko, a friendly Burning Blade Blademaster and blacksmith who had been exiled for speaking out against the Iron Horde’s extremist ways and tainting of his clan’s culture and ideals. In the months that followed, Vaknosh had begun on the path of the Blademaster under Rarlko. By the end, he had become the most familiar with the elementals of fire, naturally. But his knowledge was incomplete – Vaknosh was no shaman, not a proper one anyway, and most of what he knew about calling upon the elements and spirits tied directly into battle, lightening his steps with the spirits of air or empowering his weapon strikes with fire.

Finally reaching the main and only chamber, the remaining torches came alive, giving the inner chamber a soft, bright glow and a warmth that Vaknosh always found comforting.

In the middle of the cave chamber was a small pillar of stone that had been carved away by the orc so that its surface was relatively flat. This acted as a small altar, with various offerings placed upon it as a means to honor and please the ancestral spirits that watched over all orcs and the primordial and powerful but ever-fickle elemental forces of Azeroth.

Vaknosh placed his waraxe Ruvok’s Rage alongside the altar – he rarely went anywhere without it, even in his own home. And from a pouch, he took some incense and herbs and placed them in a small bowl on the altar. He held a hand towards one of the torches, and embers from the flame flowed off it towards the orc, who guided the small fire into the bowl, igniting these ingredients.

After a few moments, as smoke began to pour into the cave chamber, the orc kneeled to the ground and breathed the smoke in deeply. This was meant to ease his mind, open it to greater awareness, and allow him to do what he came here to do: see beyond the veil of reality and death, to see what visions were offered by ancestors and speak with those who wished to honor him with their presence.

Vaknosh did this rarely, and he could count the number of times on one hand. But recent events – this war, his torture, a new mate, a child on the way – had now left him looking for… something. Something personal and important to him. He wasn’t exactly sure what he needed, yet he knew he sought something to help him spiritually, something to perhaps ease his mind and set him on the course again.

So, he now turned to shamanism and to the ancestors and the elements. He knew they could offer wisdom and guidance he sought, something beyond what mere words fellow shaman or farseers could offer him. Something far deeper to help heal his hurting soul.

And so, Vaknosh Blackwolf bowed his head.

Ancestors, heed my call. I come before you, humble, weary, and in need of guidance. I… I seek… something to ease my heart and mind, to give me clarity. A blessing… a vision… know not what I truly need… but I know I am in need. And so, ancestors, I call upon you to… aid me in my troubles.

The effect wasn’t immediate. It never was. Vaknosh did not repeat his prayer, this first one came from his heart, so it was his truest thoughts. Anything else would be lesser.

The orc began to feel himself slipping away, almost like sleep was upon him. Until he closed his eyes slowly and heavily, and reopened them to a vision granted by the ancestors.

Suddenly, it felt like the earth was rumbling. But there was… something familiar to this.

Opening his eyes, he understood why, he stood – at least in a spectral form – before the Blackrock Mountain. The rumbling of the earth was the great volcano spewing forth lava, it’s molten core alive and well. He could feel the hearts and bodies dwelling within the ancient halls deep above and below the inner workings of the volcano.

Blackrock Mountain was alive in many ways. He could feel the heat of this place all around him, even it’s sulphuric smell was familiar and nearly pleasant to him. But as Vaknosh walked forward to a molten river bank, something this place felt so… dead, as well.

Once, this had been his home. Claimed by the Blackrock Clan and the Dark Horde, it had been his home as a boy growing up during the wars and afterward, as well.

But now it was… nothing. Whatever remained of the Blackrocks were shadows of shadows of their former glory. Many had left to with Malkorok to join Hellscream’s Horde. And those left behind now were clinging on to a past that mattered little, surviving desperately and pitifully in a world that had long since moved past them.

There was no one here to help him. There was no Chieftain to guide him. No elder to sate his longings for guidance.

Something had drawn him here though. His gaze returned to the top of the mountain, taking in the view as lava flowed from the many cracks in its surface. He made a mental ‘push’ to the ancestors that had brought his spirit here to see this place… but they revealed nothing more.

He looked back down, kneeling to the ground, and placing a hand on the surface of the volcanic rock that made up the soil of the Burning Steppes. It was hot – very hot – to the touch. Something about that was comforting, at least. Perhaps the ancestors had brought him here because it was important to him. A small bit of something once familiar, and though distant and different… comforting all the same.

He gazed towards the entrance of the mountain, the bridge and old Dark Iron gates that led to the Molten Span within.

One day, he thought, I will return to this place and help make things right here.

It was a fleeting thought, but one that felt… good to think, even if he doubted the truth of it. Vaknosh then closed his eyes and felt himself pulled back by the spirits and, opening them once more just a mere moment later, he was back within his cave.

Within the cave, it was quiet save for the flickers of flame. He frowned. So far this experience had offered him little but nostalgia and wishful thinking. None of which was particularly useful for him at this time. The ancestors, of course, meant well. And more than likely, they had shown him something he had needed to see even if he didn’t quite know now how to interpret it. However… it left him with more questions than answers, and he felt even more

The orc sighed. His body felt heavier and sweat gathered at his brow. Visions were physically taxing, no matter how simple the visions presented were. He wiped away at his brow before settling himself physically and mentally back down again.

If the ancestors would not offer him what he needed… perhaps the elements would. They were fickle, yes, but they also connected to the very fabric of Azeroth, as well. This gave them the power to aid those who called upon them and bestow gifts or knowledge to one who they felt worthy of it… and making short work of those who were not.

Spirits of the earth, the wind, the water, and the flame… I call upon you. I seek-

Suddenly and without warning, the flames of torches within the chambers seemed to erupt into near out of control fires for just a shocking but brief moment, the unexpected light and heat startling the orc and causing him to instinctively reach for his axe before stopping.

Vaknosh recognized the power he was feeling as he settled back into his prayer to the elements. This was the element he was most familiar with: fire. However, the strength of the power that flowed in the room was not just a few lesser elementals making themselves known. It was more as if the Firelands itself had a message it had been waiting to send… but no one had asked.

Until now.

Suddenly the orc felt something surge into the room, before realizing it was the spiritual essence of a growing number of fire elementals. They did not physically manifest, but they made themselves known to him. And there was an alarming number of them. The orc opened his mouth to speak to them, but suddenly they reacted as one, piercing at his mind, forcefully imposing upon him their own vision. Fire elementals were not known for their gentleness. His mind reeled at the intrusion, but he quickly relented to this, allowing whatever it was they wanted him to see…

Rahuna. His love. His mate.

The vision showed her standing before him. It was like he standing only a few feet from her, but she was difficult to discern… as though a storm of smoke raged around them. He even felt intense heat. As his eyes adjusted in the vision, he recognized something was wrong about her. She was… different. Pale, sickly so. However, her stance and demeanor showed no sign of illness but instead of power and… arrogance.

She was casting a spell – a very powerful one at that. Something he recognized as a shaman’s ability to call forth an elemental.

Except “call” wasn’t the right word.

Vaknosh’s eyes widened. No… she was enslaving the elemental. He could feel it now, void magic ripping at the both of them. He “felt” the lash of the volatile energy of shadows, knocking him to his feet within the vision.

When he stood up again, he looked at the woman he called his wife. She looked… she looked cruel. An expression on her face he had never seen before, one that made his heart sink and his stomach twist in knots.

This was dark shamanism. This was not just a taboo in orcish society, this was the very antithesis of what it meant to be a shaman. You did not commune with the spirits, you broke them to your will. You cast shackles upon them, twisting them. It was a violation of their very essence as the act was destructive to the spirit itself, breaking them down, poisoning them, and driving them to madness.

Knowing it was a vision, Vaknosh wished to deny it. But the elemental spirits seemed to whisper in his mind that this vision was the truth, and try as he might… he knew in his heart it was.

Continuing to watch, the fire elemental took full form as the cold energy of the void infused it. But it wasn’t truly a fire elemental. The orc looked at it with pity… it was deformed, more like… the ashes of what remained of a being that was once, if not noble, then at least… undeserving of this fate.

The elemental seemed to continue to grow in size, and even Rahuna seemed to loom over him, not physically but in presence and power. As the shattered husk of the ash elemental grew, so too did the storm around them.

A storm of ashes and heat too unbearable, even for him. He tried to push forward towards Rahuna but his legs would not respond. He tried to speak, but the howling of the storm silenced him. He tried to breathe, but the ashes filled his lungs.

And then it was over.

Still kneeling in prayer, the orc opened his eyes. The intensity of the vision of the was still with him, causing a sense of panic and confusion. But physically… he was fine. There were no ashes in his lungs. No ash elemental. No Rahuna.

Just him, in his cave, nauseated and sweating from the mental exertion of two powerful visions in a row… and what he had just seen. He knew this had been Rahuna at some point in time. A vision of her past self, one likely in service to Garrosh Hellscream’s dark shaman. The vision was not a warning, not exactly.

A past she had never spoken about. Vaknosh slumped as he thought, his mind racing.

Does she… not trust me? Then… why become my mate? Why not… tell me this?

The pain of this revelation hurt not only because she had not told him… but it hurt most because he shared his own crimes under Hellscream. The destruction of the Vale of Eternal Blossoms in particular. While the act caused him to finally betray the mad Warchief and break his oath to serve him… all survivors within the Kor’kron Legion who had rebelled against Hellscream and were allowed back into the Horde were marked as former traitors and True Horde. The sigil of Hellscream’s Kor’kron had been branded onto his right hand. Forever a symbol of his crimes and of having chosen to serve a Warchief over the Horde itself. Such a thing was shame… incredibly shameful… but he had shared it regardless with Rahuna.

So why did she not show me the respect and tell me this part of her past? Vaknosh thought to himself bitterly, angrily. He had made himself utterly vulnerable to her… and while she had opened to him… she still held something back. Even now. Even after all this.

He breathed in, holding that breath for as long as he could, before exhaling. He would get answers from her soon enough.

Vaknosh could still feel lingering presence and power of the fire elementals who had shown him this vision – and, reaching out to them, he could feel their emotions. And they were furious. Even by their standards. Rahuna had not just hurt one of their own. She had broken one of them, corrupted it and tainted its very essence. Though only a handful of spirits from the Firelands remained as they dissipated out now that they felt their job was done, he knew they were unanimous in their thoughts: they hated her for what she had done. That sense of bitter rage stuck with him until they finally were gone… leaving him alone with his own emotions to contend with now.

The orc shook his head. He could not blame them. Nor did he expect anything else either. The spirits of fire were, naturally, extremely passionate. And they held bitter, long-burning grudges. Part of Vaknosh wanted to defend her to them, to argue for her changed ways… but that would be her fight, not his. He was angry with her for hiding this… but he did not hate her. Shame was a powerful thing. And it made many act in foolish ways. He needed to speak with her.

This business, however, was not over yet though. Vaknosh would not let these vague and dark visions be what he ended on – nothing had yet been solved. He had not received the guidance nor answers he felt he needed. An unanswering vision of Blackrock Mountain from the spirits, and a furious vision from the spirits of flame that rejected his new mate completely out of past injustices.

None of this, however, was what he had come for. And despite feeling exhausted, he resolved to press. There was still yet one more thing he could try, and he was hellbent on getting… some sort of answers from someone.

And so, he resolved to call forth the spirit of the one orc Vaknosh looked up to and trusted more than anything or anyone: Ruvok. The orc had long since passed, but once the two had spoken despite him resting beyond the veil. It was Ruvok’s words that had inspired Vaknosh to take up his waraxe and seek out the Kor’kron Legion, beginning him on the path that led to… today.

But he felt, he knew, in his heart of hearts, that only Ruvok could provide for him what he needed. Answers, guidance, solace… something or anything that would inspire him to continue doing what was right; something that would keep Vaknosh living up to the orc’s name he was calling upon now for aid. And so, once more, he set his heart and mind to prayer.

Ancestors, heed my call once more! I seek the spirit of Ruvok Blackwolf! Grandfather, come forth, so that we may commune with one another once more… so that I can have the guidance from an honored orc of my own blood… I am in need of your blessings and answers…

Again, the answers did not come immediately. But he was so tired from the recent events, and his head and heart so tumultuous after these visions, he pushed on, starting another prayer to them, less pleading and more demanding. The ancestors nor the elemental spirits would appreciate this, but it was a far cry from… from the arts of dark shamanism… like those he had seen just now.

Who had not prayed before out of fear, pain, or anger?

And so, once more, Vaknosh made his call to the powers beyond for them to send him the one orc he knew could make this right.

Ancestors! I repeat myself! Heed me! I seek the spirit of my grandfather Ruvok Blackwolf! Let him come before me… to speak… so that we may…

Suddenly, the flames of the torches in the cave went out with a burst of cold air. Vaknosh was left in darkness… but not for long, as the flames slowly returned to life… but cold and blue now, a different magic now fueling them.

“You should to be careful with communing with the dead,” said the specter of Ruvok as he walked towards Vaknosh, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand, “Some are less dead than others, boy.”

And with that, Ruvok Blackwolf emerged from the realm of the dead into the physical plane.

But what stood before Vaknosh was not his grandfather as he knew him, but something horribly wrong. A twisted mockery of the great orc he once knew. Grey-green skin had turned ashen white, bright red veins visible. No longer did the orc possess keen, intelligent red eyes – in their place were now glowing, blue orbs of magic. His right arm was… more like a great beastial thing with exposed sinew and bone ending in more of a claw than a proper hand. Everything about him was just wrong, and the spirits and elements reacted accordingly, shrieking into Vaknosh’s mind

“You are not Ruvok Blackwolf!” The younger orc shouted, grabbing his waraxe and moving back, readying himself for a fight.

“No, I am not. Not any longer,” replied the orc in an echoing, bone-chilling voice. However, the voice was still recognizably Ruvok’s, complete with his ever-disapproving tone that Vaknosh had known so well as a child.

“I am Thricedamned; Death Knight and Herald of Blood for the Lich King,” A deep frown crossed the orc’s face, “And you have so foolishly disturbed me, boy.” The orc waved a hand and suddenly the air seemed to become even colder. The elements and spirits went silent. Everything was silent. It was like the world around and outside of them just vanished and died.

The young Blackwolf asked, “What… has become of you?” He shivered, as much from the cold as the sight before him, “I have spoken with your spirit before and-”

“Silence, boy.” Hissed the angered Death Knight. And with that… Vaknosh was silenced and locked into place, every muscle and bone in his body locked down by the dominating will and dark magic of an orc once known as Ruvok.

The elder orc circled around Vaknosh, examining him until he finally just gave his characteristic judgment of, “Hmph.” Finally, after moments that seemed like forever, the thing spoke, “You’ve… changed in many ways since you were a boy I left beaten at the Blackrock Mountain… too stupid then to realize the Dark Horde for what it was…”

“And in many ways, you are yet the same,” Ruvok remarked, “My Kor’kron… brought to shame and ruin by the foolish son of the foolish Hellscream…” The orc was suddenly in front of Vaknosh, face-to-face, “And… you. You learn your lessons too slowly, boy.”

With a blink of Vaknosh’s eyes, the death knight went back to circling him, examining him, judging him, “The power of the elements comes to you. The strength of flame. A Blademaster.” He stopped dead in his tracks, “And yet… that’s it. You leave this path half-walked, half-accomplished. Disappointing… but expected.”

“Hmm… I could speak of your foolishness forever,” Said the undead orc bitterly, “But you sought me because of this…” Ruvok extended a claw to Vaknosh’s chest, tapping where his heart was. Vaknosh felt like this nightmare of a beast before him wanted desperately to drain the very blood out of him, to feed upon him.

The undead orc leaned in close, his face inches from grandson’s, “Because of… a mate… and a child.”

And for the first time in this encounter between them, Vaknosh Blackwolf was able to resist the supposedly indomitable will of Ruvok Blackwolf, his body trembling as if fighting physical bonds. The death knight raised an eyebrow before grinning at Vaknosh, “Struck a nerve with that one, hm?”

Suddenly, the magic gave away. Vaknosh lurched forward, but having expected this, he took the momentum with him and swung his axe out towards Ruvok… who did not dodge it. Instead, his body became incorporeal and ghostly, allowing both Vaknosh and the waraxe to harmlessly go through him.

“A worthy effort,” observed Ruvok as Vaknosh fell to his ass, “but futile.”

The death knight became corporeal once more as Vaknosh picked himself up. He didn’t attack again, instead choosing to stand tall. Ruvok simply nodded, a small gesture of approval that Vaknosh knew when he was outclassed… and knew to face death with dignity.

“I had a choice with this fate,” the elder orc said. Vaknosh raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond as he continued, “The Lich King asked me. And I was willing.”

“Why?” Asked Vaknosh, hoarsely, find it all so… unbelievable that things had transpired this way. That his grandfather’s spirit would choose to allow himself to become this aberration.

“Because I have always been a monster, boy,” Ruvok said bluntly, as though it was obvious, “The day I took the fel into my veins; when I drank from the cup so deeply. The day I murdered my mate at Shattrath in a frenzy of madness caused by the fel… and my own rage. The days I watched, sometimes uncaringly, as one-by-one, my children died in pointless wars and battles started by beings that hated us and used us. All nine. Including your father.”

Vaknosh bristled at the mention of his father Narlash, “Yes… him. I watched your father take up the mantle of warlock… and then I killed him at Doomhammer’s command when his name was one of those listed as part of the Shadow Council. And I relished in it. Because I followed my Warchief’s orders like a good mindless beast. Because my damnation ran deep then… as it does now. And in the end, in my cowardice and shame of all I had done, I fled all these sins of mine and more, exiling myself. Until called upon for battle again by the Horde, where I could distract myself with war and bloodshed and never have to face my crimes.”

Ruvok held up the monstrous claw, looking at it, “I chose this fate because I was already damned and there is dark work to be done to watch over this world. I am no hero. I never was. You hold on to an ideal of me that is not true.”

The younger orc went to speak, but the cutting glance the death knight gave him was enough to silence him, “You have erred, you have done a great many stupid and wrongs things, some terrible… but you are not beyond redemption. And you have done what I could not: you have faced your sins.”

A death gate opened and Ruvok became a specter once more. Still no discernable expression, no warmth, but his next words struck Vaknosh like a hammer in the chest, “Boy…” Ruvok paused and restarted, “Vaknosh Blackwolf… you wished to speak because you wanted my blessing. I am here to tell you: you do not need my blessing. You need no one’s blessing. Judge for yourself your worthiness, your honor, your choices. And make your own fate and future for yourself, your family, your clan, and this world.”

And with that, the death knight Thricedamned, once Ruvok Blackwolf, was gone. The warmth of the Barrens returned. The thin layer ice that had formed in the cavern almost immediately melted. The spirits and elements returned, confused and angered. And the lit torches returned to a normal, warm fiery glow.

Vaknosh stood there, trying to take this all in. He moved back to the altar, slumping to the ground before it, his axe falling to his side. He was exhausted. It felt like it was never-ending. His capture, the torture, not… this. Visions of the Blackrock Clan wasting away, visions of Rahuna as a cruel mercenary and dark shaman, and then his grandfather Ruvok appearing, having been twisted into something horrible… and the words the orc had left him.

Make your own fate and future.

He looked down at the waraxe. Ruvok’s Rage. It had been left at Ruvok’s gravesite, and when Vaknosh had learned of his grandfather’s death, he had traveled to Nagrand. There, he had his first interaction with Ruvok’s ghost – one very different from this one – and had taken up the weapon for himself.

And he had used it well in Ruvok’s name. A name he was constantly trying to live up to. To honor. To be worthy of.

But the words Ruvok had imparted stuck in his mind, replaying over and over.

Vaknosh gripped the handle of the axe tightly as he stared down at it. He felt his anger and his fear rising. He felt emotionally and spiritually hurt and mentally exhausted. Everything about this was so wrong. The world was in chaos. Teldrassil burned and Lordaeron festered. Alliance shed Horde blood, and Horde shed Alliance blood. Azeroth itself was bleeding out. He had a mate to protect. A mate who had never told him about the darker parts of her past. And… he had a child on its way. It was overwhelming.

He felt himself breathing quickly, hyperventilating. His mind raced and raced, and then suddenly in all his pain, his fury, and in his panic, he took the great axe and swung it down at the altar with all his strength and suffering. The objects on the altar were destroyed or were sent scattered across the cave room, the altar itself gave way to the axe.

And the axe itself gave away to the force of the blow and the stone. The blades warped and broke apart embedding itself firmly into the altar, the wooden and metal haft splintered and exploded into pieces, the elemental flame that blessed the weapon burst into a bright flash of embers… and then… nothing.

Ruvok’s Rage was destroyed.

All that was left in the room Vaknosh Blackwolf, breathing heavily, was left holding what remained – the surviving half parts of the haft, the grip, and pommel.

He looked upon the destruction and fell to his knees. The axe was gone. Guilt immediately flooded him… but also… relief.

Make your own fate and future.

For his whole life, Vaknosh had lived with the burden of Ruvok’s story, his history, his actions upon him. All his glories and titles and power. He was constantly seeking his grandfather’s approval, even after the orc’s death. Vaknosh lived in the overbearing, all-encompassing shadow of Horde hero.

But he didn’t need to. His life was his own. His destiny was of his own making. He limits only what he thought there were.

And Ruvok’s Rage had been a symbol of that.

He touched the broken end of the waraxe he still held. He felt guilty and heartbroken the weapon and heirloom was destroyed – this time for good. He did not wish to dishonor the memory of his grandfather, nor was he ashamed of him. The death knight was not completely right – Ruvok had still been the one who raised him, who had taught him, who had tried to instill what it meant to be a good man, an honorable warrior, and valuable member of his clan and the Horde. There were still ideals to about Ruvok to hold on to… but it did a disservice to Vaknosh, Ruvok, and all orcs to not acknowledge his grandfather’s failures and misdeeds. But there had been a good orc under it all.

But the relief was still there, as well. Relief that it was okay to step out of Ruvok’s shadow. To want something more than just to make one orc proud or to put his legacy over Vaknosh’s own. To want something more of life… to want to be your own man and fight for your own destiny. Relief that he finally recognized Ruvok was the imperfect being that he was. And he still loved his father figure with all his heart, but it was now time to move past him. Ruvok could be an inspiration, but he didn’t have to shackle down Vaknosh’s fate.

Make your own fate and future.

And so the question was now: what was the fate and future of Vaknosh Blackwolf?

He didn’t have an answer to that… and, for once… that felt alright. He would just have to make his own answers that question.

The orc slowly turned, beginning his way out of the cave. A voice, however, called to him like a whisper on the wind, and he slowed his steps, looking back at the altar. He knew the voice, for it was his ancestor Rak Blackwolf. His spirit had been bound willingly to Ruvok’s Rage by Vaknosh as part his final steps to becoming a Blademaster. In times of trouble and need, Rak’s spirit had appeared or spoken to him. This time, his voice was distant and fleeting, and Vaknosh knew it meant his ancestor’s spirit was likely drifting on, no longer bound to the mortal realm. Vaknosh thought it was best… and bitterly wished Ruvok’s spirit had also remained in whatever fate lay beyond death.

Ah, ah, ah… Young Wolf… this, all of this, is just another trouble to work through. All these dark times and hard choices… but… you’ll do well. Ruvok… he is right in his own way… time to move past all this, hm? You’ll walk a hard road… but your heart means well. And, you do not walk it alone.  So… walk it surely, Young Wolf. Set yourself upon the path you deem honorable and sure of… and stay steady upon it.

As always, wise words from a wise ancestor, and the orc felt the spirit depart to parts unknown. It helped cool Vaknosh’s anger a bit, and settle his soul some. Yes, things were different now. He was different. The Horde was different. Rahuna was different. Much had happened in such a short time after the Burning Legion’s demise, yet it felt like a lifetime since the battle on Argus… or even the battle in Lordaeron.

The orc began his way out of the cave once more. There were things to discuss, and things to do – now and in the future. But Vaknosh would see it all through, and he was determined to do it right. For himself. And for his mate and his soon-to-be expanding Blackwolf family. But… still, also for Ruvok. He would leave his grandfather’s shadow, but the memories of the old orc could still inspire him in this new quest to find his own fate.

So, Vaknosh emerged back into the night, in a land that felt both familiar and strange to him, setting upon the path home.

There was much to discuss and much change to come in the aftermath of these visions and events.