Chapter 77 - My SI Stash #77 - World of Whatcraft by Umodin (Warcraft)

-Same author as that SI PKMN fic "Y'Know Nothing Jon Snow"

*SI as a Gnoll in Warcraft~ MC that'll do anything to get powerful. This fic was in hiatus but the author seem to be getting back on it, hopefully

ヽ(・∀・)

Sypnosis: Life is a funny thing. Sometimes it does right by you, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it throws you such a ridiculous curve ball that you wake up as a baby trash mob in a land where honest conversation is something the locals think to be a food group. Why must life be so cruel? OC-Self Insert

Rated: T

Words: 21K

Posted on: fanfiction.net/s/12152244/1/World-of-Whatcraft (Umodin)

PS: If you're not able to copy/paste the link, you have everything in here to find it, by simply searching the author and the story title. It sucks that you can't copy links on mobile (*´ー｀*)

-I'll be putting the chapter ones of all the fanfics mentioned, to give you guys a sample if you wan't more please do go to the website and support the author! (And maybe even convince them to start uploading chapters in here as well!)

Chapter 1

For those that want to read the original variation of this story, it is in a new thread titles "Umodin's Penitentiary of Warcraft Plotbunnies!" It will also be used to, as the title suggests, put other ideas. There's already a new, never-before seen Warcraft story up there!

And yes, yes the name is stupid. And no, I won't change it.

Anywho, on with the show!

At first, he couldn't understand what was going on.

In those first few days and weeks, or however much time truly passed, the world was nothing more than a confusing blend of colors and noise. Green and tan ups, blue and black downs, brown and grey blurs and cackles of insidious laughter. His mind refused to function properly, sifting to and fro as if he was in a fevered dream; those few thoughts that were fully formed were pulled into a jumbled mess of gibberish that followed neither rhyme nor reason.

This was not to say that it would have done much good had he been able to think properly. The body and mind were one in this regard, and he could not stay awake long enough for it to matter in any case. Consciousness was a fleeting thing, coming and going like a moonless tide. Sometimes, he would start to rouse, his mind on the brink of truly waking up, only to fade back into a slumbered embrace before he could comprehend anything. Most times, he just slept. A perpetual cycle of nothingness and bare existence.

Then one day, random and ordinary all the same, he awoke to that which made no sense.

He was lain in a pile of twigs and grass, with a smattering of n.a.k.e.d, infant animals for company. They looked ugly, almost identical to baby squirrels, save for the longer limbs and the fuller backs. Above them stood one gigantic and monstrous looking figure, staring at them with fevered eyes whilst a puddle drool welled from its muzzle.

No… Monstrous was the incorrect word to describe this thing, though it felt close. It stood on two legs yet had claws and paws instead of hands and feet. Its body was top-heavy, with a hunched back, a mane of mottled brown fur with black stripes, and a jittery head. And what a head it was, hosting a pair of beady black eyes and a savage, lupine muzzle. This was not a monstrosity; this was a predator– no matter how alien its appearance seemed.

The predator stuck out its tongue and licked the razors it called teeth, slurping as it did so. A paw struck down, grabbing one of the babies, a runty thing that was pale white with red eyes– Albino. Without warning the predator bit into the runt, blood splattering all around that drowned out the fatal shriek from behind those red-dyed canines. The predator cackled and, after swallowing the runt, reached for another.

Dream or reality or whatever this was, he knew that escape was all that mattered after seeing that. His limbs were weak and horribly uncoordinated, but they followed the panic of his mind and attempted to get away. He crawled for the equivalent of two or three steps when another ugly chomp brought about the dead shriek of one of the infants– his siblings, his pack.

Five more steps, clumsy and loud, until a clawed paw lifted him into the air. The action made him squeal in terror, a high-pitched sound that seemed to echo throughout their location. He was turned in the paw, until he was face-to-face with an open, bloodied mouth. There were bits of his infant kin scattered throughout the gumlines of those razor-sharp canines, guts and skin and even a mangled leg.

The predator cackled, laughing up a storm. Its beady eyes were lit, twinkling in a maddened form of jubilation.

"You run! You strong! Live, live, live, yes!" it proclaimed in a broken and strangled tone, almost as if it wasn't used to speaking. Then it started to snuffle and cackle once more. "Yowler me! Me yowl! You yowl too! Too much Yowler, though." It scratched its chin with its free paw, scrunching up its nose in a pointedly confused manner. Then it snapped its fingers, letting out one more snuffle. "No new Yowler, no, no! You Kowler, yes, yes!"

The predator then put the newly named Kowler down, patted his head like a dog, and once more grabbed another baby.

Kowler sat, stunned by what had just occurred. He had no clue as to how to process what he witnessed, what just occurred. And so, he turned to the only comfort he could grasp in his infantile state.

Sleep.

\ v /

/ ^ \

Yowler was his father.

Yowler was his father.

More than that, Yowler wasn't being horrible (well, he was). He was doing his actual job. He was sifting through one of his many nests of children, searching for pups with something wrong. The albino had been albino and was likely to have a slew of defects growing. Those other pups from Kowlers own nest had defects ranging from missing limbs to blindness. One wasn't even alive, it was a stillborn.

Of the seven pups that came from his specific nest, there were now only three. Including Kowler himself, the other two were thusly named Towler and Fowler respectively.

Originality was not one of his new sire's strong suits, it seemed.

His mother, nameless a beast that looked near identical to Yowler save for her being spotted whilst his father was striped, and her fur was grey instead of brown, was chuffing and feeding Towler from one of her six teets. She was also a little over a foot smaller than Yowler was.

But originality and brutality aside, what Yowler was, what Kowler now was, represented something… dire.

They were Gnolls.

More specifically, they were gnolls of the Redridge Pack, located in the western portion of the Redridge Mountains on the continent of the Eastern Kingdoms.

On the planet of Azeroth.

Call him slow, call him stupid or call him whatever you want, but Kowler knew Azeroth. It was, after all, where he'd dumped over a decade's worth of his former life into. Azeroth was the main point of interest in the World of Warcraft, literally taking on the World portion of that title. And the newly named Kowler knew Azeroth quite well.

Its land and lore, the people that played and the peoples that were made… he'd loved it all. It had been a game in which friends were cultivated, relationsh.i.p.s that lasted the whole of his life were formed, and it was the medium in which he was introduced to different peoples and cultures that expanded his understanding of Earth and humanity as a whole.

But those details mattered little. What did it matter that he knew about cultures and people? Those cultures did not exist, not in this second life. And people? Humanity? He was no longer a human, no longer was he Rick from Florida. Now, he was a Gnoll, he was Kowler, and while he knew plenty about the human characters in the game, this was not a game anymore. If it were, Yowler would have been a pixilated looking fool, not a ferocious beast with the slightest semblance of intelligence.

And so, as days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, as Kowler's new body grew and he slowly gained a modic.u.m of bodily independence, as the customs and beliefs of the gnolls and the genuine reality of his situation started to take root, a horribly nagging state of thought dragged at his mind.

The Gnoll race he now called kin were creatures made of filler content, existing solely so that the human adventurers and their Alliance counterparts could grow in strength. Only a select few gnolls were of any reputable worth in the lore of Warcraft, and only Hogger garnered any real traction, even if that traction was more of a joke than anything.

And sadly, it was not unfair to note the gnolls as such. They were savages, barely able to live in a cohesive unit. They listened to one thing and one thing only.

Strength.

This was the only reason that gnolls such as Yowler and Hogger were the dominant forces of their packs. Their brutality and carnal joy brought them heads above their kin, and to the gnolls, that meant they were worth following. To a gnoll, strength brought about security and survival, and thus only the strongest could lead.

Kowler understood. His newfound people were savages, true, but they were also simple. In order to survive, to thrive in a manner that suited them, they needed strength. He needed strength.

And the strength he yearned for could be learned by just anybody.

He wanted, needed to be unique, for his strength to eclipse anything Yowler or Hogger, anything that the gnolls could hope to attain. For his strength to equal or even go beyond even the heroes and villains of Azeroth. The name Kowler would join theirs, he decided. He would be as renowned, as beloved, as feared, as theirs were.

And then the thought changed into a question. How would he do such a thing?

He could follow the same paths that some of the heroes of Warcraft followed and-… No. Though he admired them and their like and was greatly inspired by their accomplishments, the heroes of Warcraft followed paths that he could not tread. Their backgrounds were rife with trials and tribulations beyond his ken, and their power was the result of years of toil and study and loss. Thrall had been a slave before he became warchief and world-shaman, Khadgar had been magically aged into an elderly seniority in a bid to stop his masters machinations, and Malfurion was constantly meditating within the Emerald Dream, ignoring the world around him and the passages of time. And those were only some the more well-known heroes– there were plenty of both better and lesser known ones with similar backgrounds.

No, in order to guarantee the strength that Kowler craved, he could not follow their examples. He needed to gain strength in a similar manner that the antagonists of Azeroth gained theirs.

Arthas had Frostmourne, Illidan had the Skull of Gul'dan, Gul'dan himself had the Burning Legion, Azshara had the Well of Eternity, Deathwing had N'zoth… There were so many enemies in Warcraft, all who attained power through similar means.

Kowler didn't entertain the notion of using any of the powers he'd just listed. They either no longer existed or would lead to madness and death, and they brought about far more pain than they were worth. But those villains, they all had one thing in common: they received their powers from a source that was beyond them, their power was something they did not naturally possess. Regardless as to whether it was power that was gifted or stolen, these villains became as powerful as they were through means that were not their own.

A slow, wicked grin took form on Kowlers muzzle, ideas beginning to take a more definitive shape. Azeroth was home to a… plethora of artifacts. Home to many fonts and peoples of power, all ripe for the taking, so long as one knew where to look. Artifacts and fonts of power that Kowler just so happened to know the locations of; the entirety of the Legion expansion pack was based around such things, after all, and he had been a proud altoholic during that time period.

Yes, that would do. It was better that these powers go to a worthy cause. Better that he take them before somebody misuses them. Kowler knew he wouldn't misuse them. In fact, he'd use them quite well.

He started to laugh. A whiney, chuffing sound that irritated his weak little throat. Then he rushed at his mother, bodily shoving Towler away so that he could take her furry teat to his mouth. It leaked milk, and in a fit of hunger Kowler latched on, greedily drinking his fill and more.

It did not taste good. It was a strong, sour liquid, thick like syrup and stinking like curdled piss. But Kowler did not care. He needed to grow, needed to get stronger. The milk of a mother was always the best, fastest way to grow, and while he was allowed to wean, he would do so.

And so, he drank. He drank and ignored the foul-tasting liquid with thoughts of the future, with thoughts of freedom and conquest. And the milk tasted sweet.

A/N So… I really hate myself sometimes. I just- why can I not keep to a single idea within WoW? I've read some awesome stories that were based around a single character, and I wanted to emulate them, but I keep thinking of different ways a story could go and before I know it I'm using this new idea instead of the actual story.

Well, at least this time I didn't feel too bad. I got stuck on Tharama's setup, and basically I didn't really know how to continue. I don't really do the whole Master/Apprentice shtick very well, I've learned. Or at least I don't do the build up for it well. Food for thought.

So, now we have Kowler, a Gnoll of the Redridge Pack. Born after the events of Warcraft 3, but before the events of World of Warcraft. Best way to describe it is with the beginning of the World of Warcraft cinematic. "Four years have passed." He was born in year one of those four years.

Now, you might ask what I have in store for this. And to that, I say more than I had planned for Tharama. In this case, I have a journey in mind, powers to gain, and other fun things to go off of. And I even known when these things will happen.

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