The drums rumble, beating the rhythm of the heartbeat, luring the young orcs to sleep; Durotan of the Frostwolf Clan couldn't sleep. He lay with the others on the dirty, hard floor of the tent, with a pile of straw and a thick cracked hoof cowhide underneath him to keep out the bone-chilling cold of the ground. Even so, he could still feel the tremor of the drums reaching his body through the earth, the ancient sound of the drums soothing his ears. How he wished he could get out of the tent and join them!

Durotan would have another summer before he could attend the Omureg, the rite of passage. Until then, he still had to endure being stuffed into a big tent with the other children, left aside by the adults; And the adults, they sat around the fire, discussing something that was undoubtedly mysterious and important.

He sighed and twisted on the cowhide. It's not fair.

Orcs have never had civil wars, but they are also not very sociable. Each clan is closed, with its own traditions, its own customs, its own costumes, its own stories and, of course, its own shamans. There are several clans whose dialects are so different that they can't understand each other, and the orcs of these clans have to speak Mandarin when they meet. They were as strange to each other as the blue-skinned, mystical Draenei. Only twice a year, once in spring and once in autumn, do all the clans gather to celebrate the day when the day and night are equal. And now, it's holiday time.

For several days, the orcs came here one after another; The festivities officially begin at moonrise the night before. They gathered at the foot of the 'Mountain of Souls' Voshugu in the land they called Nagrand, the 'Land of the Winds'. The festival of Koshhag is held every year in this holy place, and no one can say how long this tradition has been. In the midst of the festival. Challenges and duels are naturally nothing new. But a truly angry brawl never broke out here. If someone does lose their temper - so many people gathered together. This does happen from time to time - the shamans will persuade the people concerned to settle the matter peacefully, and if this is not possible, they will be ordered to leave the holy place.

The land is lush, vibrant, and offers a sense of endless peace. Durotan sometimes wondered if it was because the orcs wanted peace that made the land so peaceful, or if the tranquility of the land gave the orcs a desire for peace? Because he had never heard anyone say such a strange idea.

Durontan sighed, his mind racing and his heart beating to the beat of the drum outside. The night just now was perfect, and Durotan couldn't calm down for a long time. When the pale lady climbed to the treetops, although it was a lack of moon, it did not diminish her shocking beauty in the slightest; She casts a bright moonlight, and the snow reflects a dazzling light. As soon as she appeared, thousands of orcs shouted at the same time—wise elders, warriors in their prime, and even children in their mother's strong arms. Those wolves. The orc's companions and mounts echoed with joyful howls. The harmony went straight to Durotan's marrow. Just like the drums now; It was a deep, primal roar, a tribute to the white celestial body that ruled the night sky. Durotan looked around, and as far as the eye could see, there was a sea of orcs, their strong brown arms dyed silver by the moonlight, all of them lifted up to the sky, pointing at the Pale Lady. If any stupid ogre dared to attack at that time, it would have fallen in an instant under the weapons of these warriors who had joined forces in unison.

Then, the feast began. Dozens of animals have been slaughtered, dried and made into bacon earlier in the season in preparation for the feast. The bonfire was lit, the warm light of the fire mingled wonderfully with the silvery moonlight, and the drums beat and did not stop until now.

He, like the other children—lying on the leather of the split-hoof, Durotan snorted in displeasure at the word 'child'—was ordered to go to bed after he had eaten and drunk and the shamans had left. It is also a tradition that when the first feast is over, the shamans of each clan leave to climb the sacred mountain of Washugu, which watches over their pleasure, and enter the cave to receive the teachings of the elemental spirits and the spirits of the ancestors.

Even from a distance, Voshugu is spectacular. Unlike other irregularly shaped and rough peaks, Voshugu rises from the ground with perfect shape and sharp peaks like spear tips. It looked like a giant crystal embedded in the earth, and its outline was so vivid that it reflected dazzling brilliance in both the daylight and the moonlight. Some legends say that it fell from the sky hundreds of years ago. Durotan thought that these stories might be true, after all, the mountain was so bizarre.

As amusing as Waschugu was, Durotan always felt that it was a bit unfair that the shamans were there for the entire Koshhag festival. Poor shamans, he thought, missed out on all the fun. But then again, it's the same with kids.

During the day, they hunt, play games, and relive the heroic deeds of their ancestors. Each clan has its own story, so in addition to the big stories that Durotan heard from a young age, he also heard more fresh and exciting stories.

These activities were very interesting, and Durotan had a lot of fun. But he couldn't help but wonder what the well-fed adults were talking about while the children slept peacefully in their tents.

He couldn't hold back any longer. Durotan sat up quietly, listening to the sound of anyone being awakened. There was no sound. After a long minute, he stood up and crept towards the exit.

In a pitch black tent, this is no easy task. Children of all sizes lie in their tents, one wrong step that could wake them up. His heart pounded with excitement at his guts. Durotan carefully slipped through the vague forms, each step of Bigfoot as graceful as a long-legged swamp bird.

When Durotan finally reached the curtain, it seemed like a lifetime had passed. He stood there, trying to breathe steadily, and reached out—

Came across a tall, smooth-skinned body and stood right in front of him. He immediately withdrew his hand and shushed in surprise.

'What are you doing?' Durontan whispered.

'What are you doing?' The other orc replied. Durotan suddenly laughed: the two of them sounded stupid.

'Like you,' Durotan replied, his voice still soft. Next to them, a large group of centaurs were still asleep. 'Shall we stand and discuss, or shall we do it?'

Judging from the vaguely discernible figure in front of him, the other orc was a tall male, probably about the same age as Durotan. He hadn't heard the man's accent, and it seemed that the man was definitely not from the Frostwolf Clan. What a bold thing to do - to sneak out of the tent without permission and join the orcs of another clan!

The other orc hesitated, no doubt thinking the same thing. 'Well,' he said at last, 'let's do it.' ‘

Durotan reached out again in the darkness, his fingers touching the skin on the curtain and grasping its edge. Two young orcs opened the curtain and stepped into the frosty night.

Durotan turned to look at his companion. The orc was stronger than him, and a little taller than him. Durotan was the tallest of his peers in his clan, and he wasn't used to being taller than him. It's kind of unsettling. His mischievous allies turned to look at him, and Durotan felt that the other was weighing his weight. The other party nodded, obviously satisfied with him.

They didn't venture to speak. Durotan pointed to a large tree next to the tent, and the two men silently walked towards it. For a while, they walked in a clearing, and any adult who happened to turn his head at that moment could see them...... Thankfully, they weren't discovered. The moonlight reflected on the snow, so bright, that Durotan felt as if he was exposed to the sun, and the creaking sound of the snow beneath their feet must have been as loud as the roar of an ogre...... Finally, they went under the tree and sat down behind it. Durotan let out a long breath, forming a string of white mist in the cold air. The other orc turned to him and grinned.

'I am Orgrim of the Blackstone Clan, son of the Hammer of Terka?ruin. The young man whispered proudly.

Durotan was attracted to him. Although the hammer of destruction is not the surname of the clan leader, this surname is prestigious and respected.

'I am Durotan of the Frostwolf Clan, son of Garrad. Durotan replied. Now it was Orgrim's turn to be attracted: it turned out that sitting next to him was the heir of a clan. He nodded approvingly.

For a moment, the two of them sat still, intoxicated by their gorgeous courage. Durotan felt the hem of his thick fur cloak get wet, and a gust of cold air rushed up, and he quickly stood up. And he pointed to the place where the adults gathered. Orgrim nodded. The two of them stuck their heads out from behind the tree, looked cautiously, and pricked up their ears to listen. Now they can surely hear the long-awaited secret. The sound of conversation came with the crackling of the campfire and the rumble of the drums. (To be continued......)