You wonder if you will ever be so big, and strong, as they. But you doubt it. Like all fathers, yours are titanic figures when you are so young, striding across the world in mere steps, capable of smashing mountains and turning aside mortal blows. In your case, this is less of an exaggeration than it otherwise would be. Tuur’Nog, known amongst the Gordunni ogres as Tuur’Nog Heart-Eater, is mighty even by ogre standards. They were one of those ultimately rare ogres who was born with the Twofold - a one in a thousand mutation, and a sign of great destiny. And one to which he lived up, in most eyes. Tuur’s keen eyes were like those of a hunting Rylak, and his club arm was as strong as any warrior’s. Nog’s cyclopean focus extended into his capacity for the old rune magics, and his capacity to conjure and cast matched descriptions of the heroes of old, from grand days of High-Maul, when the orcs were still young and soft, and their spines had not hardened under their oppression. When the Old Horde began assembling, they led much of the Gordunni host in war against the fickle birdmen, and the blue-skins who had invaded and haunted their world. When Gul’Dan was selecting students, Tuur’Nog was recommended by the grand warlock Cho’Gall himself. Everyone knew they were destined for greatness - perhaps, even more greatness than Cho’Gall. As they stood on the deck of the Juggernaught, the other ogres howled their loyalty to him, and he rewarded it with a display of the power that so inspired them.
The Felguard he had summoned to the deck was taller than they; and had been so bound with muscle that it was not difficult to imagine that if it had caught Tuur’Nog with a swipe of the demonic axe, it might have cut them clean through. Yet they had stepped back from that blow, Tuur’s fist cranking back to deliver a swift, sharp stunning blow to the demon’s face, and Nog’s fingers curling to elicit sparks of green Fel energy to capture and bind the Felguard’s limbs, dragging it to its knees, and folding it roaring into a reverse arch. To glorious approval, they plied the clawed nails of both hands to the demon’s chest, twisted open its black bone ribcage with a gristly snap, wrenched free its spasming, green-lit heart from its wicked carcass and devoured it in one messy bite to each head. They seemed like a god to them, and they gave them their praise.
This, of course, was before the Battle of Hillsbrad, where his legend would be truncated with such brutality as to empty his legacy of value for all time.
“Glory to the Conquerers!”, roared Tuur.
“And shame to them that die here, on alien soil, without the blood of ten warriors on his fists!”, declared Nog.
Thus, the die was cast. Glory to those who conquered. Shame on those who died without reaping their toll of ten.
The crew gets back to sailing, full of vigor and barking brags and promises for the war coming. Your fathers return to the aftcastle, where your mother stands in her veils and twinkling golden ornaments. She is no slouch in combat herself, but for this journey across the span between the human islands, she plays her part as Tuur’Nog’s wife, desirable and prized. Indeed, she is most desirable - for she has bred true to Tuur’Nog’s Twofold, a thousand-in-one chance after another thousand in one, making Mor’Lag one… or rather, two in a million. Henceforth, the birth of such ogres would become far more common - one in ten - but it was their parent’s blood that was strong, not the strange, invasive magics of the orcs.
Your fathers come to you, and kneel beside you; and pointing over your shoulder, indicates the distant, cloudy grey shapes on the horizon. You can hear the grin in their voices, as they egg you on with doting bloodlust.
“
Do you see, girls? This is the land of many kings.
Here, we will carve a legend in the blood of those kings,
and their horses,
and their sons and daughters.
Tell me, Mor’Lag - when you are older, and you have your magics, and you can fight -
what will you do, to make your name even greater than ours?”