Coming up in the journal we have a proper pictorial overview of Orgrimmar, but first I wanted to devote a little space to some terribly amusing people who don’t get a lot of credit in print: the Burning Blade. These guys are hilarious, although I suppose to be fair, I should say that they’re not trying to be.

They’re just adorable, though. They think they’re a secret cult that’s infiltrated the city, when in fact the other orcs are happy to have them around because it means there’s always someone whose face you can pummel on a boring Dursday night when nothing is doing.

Check out their secret hideout! It’s totally unsuspicious, right, and clearly invisible to all but the initiated.

The Burning Blade are composed of orcs who weren’t so big on the whole freedom thing. When Warchief Thrall and Orgrim Doomhammer shattered the hold of the Legion over the minds of the orcs, most people thought that was pretty neat. It reduced drooling and accidental cannibalism by up to 70 percent among the Horde, and made it possible to do things like building cities and not just setting fire to them.

“It’s not a city!”

I’m sorry, what’s that, Raudi?

“Look, it’s like– if I shtick some birthday candlesh in a cow… inna cow-patty and say I baked you a … a cake. They just found a … canyon and shtuck some logs in it! That’sh not building a city!”

Raudona, hush. You’re drunk, and an elf. You know how to practice law but you can’t hold your beer and your knowledge of architecture is sub-prime. Besides you’re going to get the both of us kicked out of here, and with limbs missing.

“We built Shilvermoon, which is a proper schity, not just… rocks with some tarpaulins over them.”

What my friend means by this, I explain to the other patrons as I’m hurrying him out the door, is that the elves enslaved some sick gnomes and elementals and had them build Silvermoon while they sat around drinking lemonade. But that’s okay, I guess. Hey, everyone has their own style.

Yes, so, anyway: the Burning Blade. Some orcs enjoyed drooling and not having to plan for the future, I guess. But not many of them, and not exactly the best examples of orc-kind, if you catch my drift. So they still worship demons in the hopes that the Legion will take note of them and come back.

Probably the funniest part of rampaging through their lair, which as I mentioned is a leisure activity in Orgrimmar, is when you reach its heart and realize that the demon they’re worshipping is just, like, a dude.

He’s basically a Legion grunt, maybe the equivalent of a private first-class, who was lucky enough to stumble upon a bunch of people even dumber than he was, and who mistook him for a Doomguard or something much more impressive. Targaman’s wants are simple: for stupid people to admire him; to eat steak three times a day; and to not be pummelled by the roving bands of half-drunk adventurers from the city above who go carousing through Ragefire.

And you know, when you have three desires in life, getting two out of three ain’t bad. Although it’s pretty embarrassing when the orcs send their pimply teenagers through Ragefire for gym class, and you can’t put a scratch on any of them. Not even “Tubby” L’ogar, who looks like a green marshmallow.

“Yesh, they are… they’re totally not as shmart as the fellow who.. who deshined the buildings up in Orggi—in Ogrim… up top, there. ‘HOI I HAVE AN IDEAR IN WHICH WE WILL PUT TWO ROCKS ON TOP OF ANOTHER ROCK AND CALL IT A HOUSE, WOT’.”

Cairne’s drums, shut up, Raudona.

Honestly, I can’t take him anywhere.

image of Targaman from Wowhead (see link in the footer)

Next: The Real Guide to Orgrimmar »