Gren Dremmel

'Grenadine:'
'Grenadine' his mother had always called him. Tart, but sweet. Gren and his mother had always gotten along famously in inner city. She had always dragged him along on various trips to the market, she rarely bought much however. The death of her husband and Gren's father, Harrin Dremmel, during the Second War had dwindled her income to meager pittances. She worked odd jobs here and there to make enough to support her son, meanwhile, young Gren would pilfer the occasional fruit, bread, or if he was lucky a fish or slab of meat. It took several run-ins with the local law, and the embarrassing dragging back to his mother, before Gren managed to get away with it. After several years, Gren had grown into quite the young thief, his mother never asked where he got the food, but she knew, and Gren knew that.

It was around the time Gren turned eighteen that he started getting sloppy, too greedy for his own good. He was in and out of jail almost on a weekly basis. He began fighting in the back allies, and basements of certain establishments for a bit of coin. It wasn't long before it eventually came back to his mother, a disgruntled better who had lost money betting on Gren's opponent sent some hired help to Gren's home, where he lived with his mother. The thugs trashed the place, taking anything of value, including a commendation badge given to Gren's father during the war. Before the goons departed, they threatened the aging woman, warning her that if her son ever crossed their boss again, she would pay for it. When Gren eventually arrived home, jingling a small sack of coins as he walked through the door, he stopped dead. His mother was in tears, huddled into a corner amidst the chaos of their meager possessions.

Gren changed his ways, he stopped his brawling, got hired on to a moderately sized fishing boat as a deck hand. He brought home a decent pay for his mother, as well as some fish if he could smuggle it off the ship unnoticed. They slowly began to replace what had been stolen, or damaged. Though, the one item that always nagged at the young man's mind was his father's commendation badge. It was the only thing that had been left of his father, and his mother's most cherished memento. The guilt ate at him constantly, it was his fault it was gone, his fault that his mother had to experience that. The years drudged by in relative peace, they moved from near poverty to a middling income.

It was shortly before the worgen infection hit that a close friend of Gren's informed him of a small silver badge some thug had been around, trying to get soldiers benefits and discounts. Gren's friend described the man with a fair bit of clarity, enough that Gren recalled seeing the man a number of times around the fighting pits. Gren worried about his mother's safety if he managed to steal the badge back, but he had to retrieve it. For his mother, for himself. It would close the book on the era of his life.

It rained the night that Gren tracked the thug back to his boss's place. A small, three story building done up like an apartment. All the man's goons bunked there, it was going to be difficult to get inside. For hours he scouted the building, every window, every ledge and lip of the building were logged away in his mind. He eventually found his way in. A small window on the second floor was unlatched, and opened to the night air. There was no light coming from within, whoever the roomed belonged to was either out, or asleep. Good news for him.

The climb to the second floor was difficult in the rain. Several times Gren very nearly slipped from his hand holds, his breath would catch in his throat as he dangled above the pave stone. Eventually, he slipped in through the window, sopping wet, and shivering from the cold. The room was empty, a shoddy mess of clothes and linens, it must belong to one of the night guards, Gren mused. He peeked out the door and down the hall, his ears straining to hear more than just the smattering of rain outside. Nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief, and pull a bandana out of his satchel. No sense risking face being recognized. As he tied the bit of cloth around his nose and mouth he heard footsteps plodding up the stairs.

He quickly ducked back into the room and frantically searched for a place to hide. No armoire, no large chests to squeeze into. His mind raced, the footsteps drew closer. The bed. It would have to do, it was his only choice outside of retreating back through the window. He shimmied underneath the aged mattress and pressed himself against the wall. The footsteps stopped outside, fumbled with a keyhole on the door before realizing it was already open. The door swung wide and bounced, noisily, off the wall. A man reeking of alcohol and tobacco stumbled through grumbling at the sound. The good plopped himself onto his bed, the wood buckled and groaned in protest. Gren exhaled slowly, silently, as the mattress supports now dug into his chest.

The drunken man undid his boots and let them drop sloppily to the floorboards. He slid his socks off and tossed them at the wall behind him. They were wet from the rain, making a slapping sound as they hit the wall and slid down between the bed and the wall. One of the pair landed on Gren's face, even through the bandana he could smell the unwashed linen, it nearly made him gag. It reeked of sweat and pipe smoke, with a hint of fungus. He shut his eyes tight and prayed for this torment to end. The drunkard flopped over backwards with a heavy sigh onto his bed, the weight shifted, allowing Gren a bit more room to breathe.

Gren wouldn't have to wait long before the thug, plastered as he was, fell asleep. His loud snoring practically rattling Gren's skull. He waited a time more to make sure the man was fully entwined with sleep before worming his way out. He pushed out the door and inhaled deeply. The moderately fresh air of the building was a blessing after the man's footwear. He made his way around the building, picking locks and peeking in dark rooms for his quarry. He had no luck on the middle floor, and made his way down to the first, figuring the top floor was reserved for the more respected thugs and enforcers.

The first floor was far more dangerous than the second. The ease of access meant the drunks would loiter around a while before making their way upstairs. Several times he was forced to huddle in unlit corners, or in a nearby room. It took close to half and hour before the young man found his prize. Sitting open, on a chest of drawers, easy pickings. He was in and out in a flash. He practically skipped his way back to the upper floor, back into the drunkard's room and out the still open window. The badge safely tucked away in his pouch, he started the descent down the building. He was a little under a fourth of the way down when the wood lip he had a hold on crumbled into splinters under his fingers. His other hand was looking for purchase elsewhere, giving him no time to react. He tumbled the storey and a half to the wet flag stone. His body met the ground with an audible thud and the splattering of rain water.

The night guards called out from the front of the building, boots splashed against the stone. His body was sore, his chest was in severe pain. He had likely broken a rib or two on impact, breathing hurt, but he had to run. And run he did, as far and as fast as he could. Tears, masked by the downpour, flooded his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Years it had been since they had stolen from and threatened his mother. Now it could all be forgotten, he could forgive himself. He could make things right. He coul--

His thoughts were interrupted by a large black object barreling into from the rooftops. It knocked him to the ground, his already broken ribs shot a jolt of pain through his body. He heard guards shouting, saw a torch bouncing through the rain. Then he felt the pain, the black object sank razor sharp daggers in both sides of his arm and his back. He cried out, a shot cracked through the night. The beast howled and fled. The guards came, but Gren forced himself up, and into the alley. He had to get home, nobody would stop him from making it all better.

He barreled through the front door, a mess of sweat, blood and rainwater. He collapsed in a heap, half in and out of the building. His mother screamed and came running. Gren felt dizzy, everything was spinning even though he was laying down. He shifted, pulling the badge from his satchel, lifting it weakly up to his mother. Her crying was the last thing he heard as he faded to black.

He had no idea how much time passed. Days maybe? Weeks? He wasn't sure. He felt off, maybe it hadn't been long since he blacked out. His body felt heavy, his eyesight felt strange as well. His mind tugged at him from all different sides. Instincts, urges, desires flooded his every neuron. He heard voices, he couldn't understand them. His body moved, but he didn't will it. His eyes moved of their own accord. A voice that wasn't his own responded.

"Lorgraemir." It growled.

More voices he couldn't understand.

"I'm fine." He didn't know how he knew this voice, but he knew it was his, and yet not his. His made his head hurt thinking about it.

The sounds of tumblers click, and a lock opening. His eyesight raised, well above the two humans nearby. Humans? He thought, why did he think of them like that. They were people. He was distracted when his body began moving. He tried to speak to the humans... The people. Nothing happened. Maybe he wasn't quite all there. He tried again, still nothing.

"I'll do it." He felt his vocal cords move. That wasn't what he tried to say.

As the days passed, Gren began to give up hope of regaining his body. He was a spectator now, watching a play act out through looking glasses. It felt like he was watching his old self, the brawler, the fighter. Whatever controlled his body reveled in going hand to hand with strange bloated flesh creatures, and gangly, boney zombies.

Eventually his body met with others, standing head height with him. Giant beasts of fur and teeth. Wolf-men of some sort. His body worked alongside them, saving people, killing others. Always fighting, it never seemed to rest. Gren started to lose interest, he began to let his mind, if it was even his anymore, drift. His consciousness faded, he saw nothing, heard nothing. He remembered his mother, he wondered if she was okay. He wondered if his body would visit her.

Gren felt a tugging at the edges of what remained of his mind. It pulled at him, a light shone in his face. He squinted, air rushed in his lungs as he gasped. He spoke.

HE spoke. His mind trilled. It was HIS voice. Light raced to his eyes. Greys, browns, blues. Figures, people, animals. Elves. Humans. Beast men. The men who were there when he first regained consciousness. He rushed to them, nearly falling at their feet and begged them.

"My mother, is she alright?" He asked. Several pairs of eyes turned away.

One of the men spoke up.

"When we found you, you devouring an old woman. You had destroyed the house, there was blood everywhere. You knew this, Lorgraemir."

That name again. It brought back floods of images, feelings of fighting. A spark at the back of his mind tugged at him.

"My name is Gren, Gren Dremmel. I don't... I'm not Lorgraemir." The feeling at the back of his mind raged.

"I knew your mother, boy." Another voice in the crowd spoke up.

"What you did to her. You should have been killed on the spot!" Gren recoiled.

Nobody would answer him further about her. They were being ushered out, he slipped away in the confusion. He checked his body over. He was clothed, he was unharmed. He had to go and see.

He made his way through the Gilnean countryside, back to the central city, back to home. He found it, the door still smashed open from the night he came home. The smell, however, nearly made him sick. He shouldn't be able to smell that well, something had changed. He could smell dried blood. Blackened and cracked. Rotting meat. He steeled himself and stepped inside.

The house was a mess. He was instantly reminded of the burglary, though this was far worse. Furniture broken and splintered. Glass and pottery littered the floor, crunching under his boots. Blood splatters caked the floors, ran down the walls, and even clung to the ceiling. In the midst of all the gore and mess was a crumpled heap. Torn cloth, stained with aged blood. Dull white practically shone in the mid-day light. Flies buzzed about, landing, eating and taking off again. Every muscle in his body turned to liquid. He dropped to his knees, his arms hanging limp at his sides. His mouth agape in silent horror.

His mind tried to process the idea for the better part of ten minutes. The birds chirped outside, the sun shone down and warmed the house. The breeze rustled the trees, and scattered dead leaves to the wind. Dead. The back of his mind tugged at him. Sympathy. Regret. Sorrow. That beast had killed his mother. He had brought it right to her doorstep. He pushed the thought from his mind. He pushed the blame onto this 'Lorgraemir'. The tugging at his mind howled. Anger. Indignation.

The tears began. His eyes stung and were warm. His body shook with sobs, he leaned forward, putting one hand to the hardwood to steady himself. It touched something cold, metal. He opened his eyes, still blurry from the emotions. It took him a few seconds to recognize the object. It was the commendation badge that belonged to his father. A few smatterings of blood stained its surface. He grabbed it and drew it in close to his chest, hugging it like a comforting toy. He bowed his head, pressing his chin to the cold metal. Gren stood slowly, wobbling to his feet, his body still shaking from the crying.

He left the house.

He left Gilneas.

He left it all behind.

He sat in a tavern in Stormwind, and ordered a light drink. The bartender brought him his mug. Gren stopped the man as he turned away.

"Some grenadine too, if you don't mind."