The Winglet Writer

I’m not a warrior. I don’t like fighting.

I’m definitely not a warlock. I’ve got fel allergies. 

There’s not a magical bone to be found in my body.

But I know mounts. And you know why I know mounts?

Because of the Horde.

When I washed up in Kalimdor, I didn’t know squat. I hadn’t even seen a kodo or a wolf or a talbuk. But the trainers in Mulgore, they took me in, they fed me, they taught me what they knew, and they gave me a chance to find where I fit. 

And when you look at these trainers, they don’t look anything like me. We got a taunka, tauren, blood elf, troll, orcs. We all have the same job and we all do our part, cause if we don’t, there’s no food at our campfire that night.

I may not fight for your glorious cause. But I’ll train for you the best damn mount you ever rode, and she will bring you home.

I’m Aimin Stungun. I’m a goblin.

And I am Horde.

I came out of the ashes of the Dead Scar. The Scourge took my family, my home, everything but me.

And so I left Eversong Woods and joined the Army.

The Horde put a shield on my arm and a blade in my hand. They taught me to fight and gave me a reason to live again, to protect people from ever feeling helpless like I did.

I was there when we marched upon Icecrown and watched my comrades being torn limb from limb. I have lost more brothers in arms than I can easily name, though I light candles for them each year, on the anniversary of when we brought Arthas down.

I helped rescue survivors in the wake of Deathwing.

I stormed the beach of Pandaria.

Even today, I’ve not turned my back. I accepted a lesser post so I could see to the needs of an orcish friend, a comrade I’m not willing to lose.

The Barrens are my home and I will defend its inhabitants with my life.

I am Isrienn Farlight. I am Sin’dorei.

And I am Horde.

I never really had a home. Bounced from place to place, never belonging. Finally ran away, half-starved, barely two coppers in my pocket, and I came to Orgrimmar.

I learned to be more than just a little piece of nothing living in the back room of a shop.

I made friends who believed I could take on anything, even when I didn’t believe it.

I have faced down bullies in Orgrimmar and I have won.

I have seen death on the fields of Tanaan and I have told it, “Not this time.” I have healed and I have helped bring children into the world.

I’m Kizelle Keepitcheap. I’m a goblin.

And I am Horde.

In the wake of what seems like an increasing amount of racial hostility and prejudice among the Horde lately, I’ve been mulling over a little series I like to call “I Am Horde.” Really more like commercials, but enjoy.

The big, burly taunka stooped over the campfire, trying to focus on scrambling plainstrider eggs. This wasn’t a task that required a great deal of concentration. Normally.

Normally, the other members of his mount training team were quietly awakening at this time of the morning, maybe folding up their bedrolls or lumbering towards the fire. 

Not. Humming.

Nassir... hated... humming.

With a rumble and snort, he darted his dark eyes across the ring of bedrolls, to the smallest one. The empty one. His thoughts of murderous strangulation were cut short as he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Eggs are burning,” the blood elf woman murmured, hair still disheveled from sleep.

Nassir grunted and turned back to the frying pan and shoved his spatula at the eggs roughly.

The blood elf woman flickered a smile as she sat down. “He’s doing it again, isn’t he?”

Nassir just snorted, like a disgruntled clefthoof.

She smiled wider and gave a quiet laugh. Leaning back, she could see the goblin sitting on the nearby fence, his dangling legs swaying with some unheard beat. In fact, his whole body seemed to be getting into a song no one could hear, save the intermittent bouts of humming.

“He’s... humming, Encari,” Nassir muttered, dropping scrambled eggs on a plate.