The Blacktooth Grin is a vicious Horde clan with a long and storied history. For over a decade, our mission has been unchanging: we bring the fight to the Alliance, whenever and wherever they show themselves.
The Blacktooth Grin was created in 2006 on The Venture Co., six days after the server opened. Since that time, the Grin has been working to define RP and world PvP.
We are a heavy-RP guild, organized along military guidelines as an orcish clan that splintered off after the Second War. That’s what we’re about, and we don’t do exceptions, so if you don’t RP – no hard feelings – but we aren’t for you. Don’t worry if you’ve never roleplayed before; all we care about is that you’re willing to try.
We have a strong focus on PvP, particularly world PvP. This also means that much of our progression primarily focuses around gearing ourselves for such battles. We do a lot of premade BGs, arenas, training sessions, and other things aimed at making us better at what we do. However, PvE is valuable for story progression and gear, and we enjoy a good dungeon run as much as the next guild.
More than anything else, though, we’re just a bunch of fun-loving folks who came to this server looking to write good stories with like-minded people. If you feel the same way, and are looking for a good home in a close-knit group of friends, then we’d love to have you.
You hear the distant drums, beating like dying hearts in the gray-green fog of the Black Morass; or, what remains of it. Stretched out between you and the distant sea, this bone-strewn Swamp of Sorrows holds many secrets. A narrow mountain pass, littered with sun-bleached skeletons, crawls down into that hungry fog. Spiders skitter and scrape their hacksaw kneecaps in the vine-wrapped Cyprus groves, and serpents coil and slither in the muck. You descend along the road, the lifeless gray of Deadwind Pass behind you, into the Sorrowmurk.
The fog inches up your leg, thick as a dying breath in Winterspring, and the drums rage on in the distance. Honor beats and the rattle of axes on shields sound out in that din. Cries of pain and rage, and frenzied roars of laughter echo through the murk, and bog beasts slog at the edge of your vision! What madness calls this home?! What madness rejects the strength and safety of Orgrimmar? Your journey here began with a sickening, jolting voyage over the ocean from Kalimdor, with plague and panic gripping the crew and cargo, leaving you stranded in the goblin port city of the far south.
Weak with fever, you fought your way north; through the lands of the cannibal trolls, wading along the river banks, far from the roads and roaming bands of Human and Kal’dorei. Into the claustrophobic nightmare of the Duskwood, scouts and sentries harried you at every crossing, until you lost yourself in those blue-gray hills. Then, the lifeless void of Deadwind Pass, the rock bridges and barren granite cliffs, exposed to the skies above, and to the gryphon riders of neighboring Darkshire. What madness wrought this place? Darkshire at your back, and to the north, the humble town of Lakeshire stands. At the South, Nethergarde Keep stands, and the boundless sea to the East. Hemmed in at every turn by the human armies. Surrounded in this mire, the Orcs you seek must surely be deranged. Or fanatics.
The fog eats into your armor and clothing, fills your nose with the stink of wet bones. Your saddle and harness begin to creak, and your Frostwolf mount, a gift from Thrall’s clan in Alterac, grows restless as you urge it along.
The drums grow louder now… The cries and roars more crisp. There! Two sentries, standing just off the road; weapons drawn. One, a troll, staring at you down the shaft of a burning, oil-tipped arrow, has ugly runes and scars carved into his face; burned sigils glow and smoke along his tusks. A third warrior runs up the path. You try to remain calm.
“Looks real enough ta’ me,” the troll sentry says. “Go on, ‘den. Up ‘da path, an’ be quick abou’ it. Grot, take ‘dis one to ‘da gates.” The second sentry, a hungry looking orc, nods and begins running down the path, beckoning you to follow. Quietly, you comply. Down the trail, past a row of mud-slicked holes in the ground, with ragged blankets and muddy armor in each of them.
A bruised and bloodied young elf is near the end of them on his knees, his back laced with fresh bleeding welts. Clawing a new hole into the mud and roots with his bare hands, his face is set in iron determination. You hear a throaty chuckle from your guide. Before you, on either side of the trail, hang the partially butchered corpses of unidentified beasts. A lone goblin stands smiling, standing under one of the beasts with a long sharp knife. His hair and face slick with gore, you note with horror a pile of what look to be Frostwolf saddles nearby, and scrapings of white fur. The hungry looking orc guide eyes you, then your mount, in turn. He says nothing and leaves you at the gates, where two battle-scarred sentries hold torches. He turns back into the fog.
As you pass through the gates of the wooden palisade, the roars of laughter coming from inside the small fortified camp grow clear and intense. Before you is a sweating crowd, gathered in torchlight. Mostly orcs, trolls and goblins, but also some rough looking elves, and Shu’halo – the massive Kalimdorian Minotaur. The crowd, clad in a variety of brutal looking armors and savage but intricate robes are standing in a circle around a muddy pit. In the center of the pit, a rail thin goblin has crawled up onto the back of one of the massive tauren, holding onto his horns with both hands. Legs wrapped in a vice under the shaggy monster’s chin, his teeth sunk all the way to the skull at the base of one of the Shu’halo’s bloody ears. The Tauren flails, swinging a rusted shovel uselessly over his head as the goblin rips and begins to tear off the flesh of the ear from the rest of its skull. Howls of laughter resound throughout the encircling crowd, and many of the orcs and trolls scoop up fistfuls of mud and sand, and the occasional stone which they hurl at the two fighting in the middle. The helpless tauren bellows in rage and starts swinging his head violently back and forth until the goblin loses grip of its horns and begins swinging around, jaw still clamped on the bleeding ear. Then, with the horrifying grisly sound of ripping flesh, the goblin flies, limbs flailing, ear still clamped in its teeth, over the heads of the crowd and into the base of a tree. It lands in the mud amidst the sound of cracking bones and spits the ear out into its hand, then holds the prize above its head to the roar and applause of those gathered.
The Tauren, blind with rage, charges through the gathered throng of onlookers and toward the goblin, horns swinging wildly, the rusted shovel still clamped in his meaty fist. Onlookers dodge and leap to the ground to avoid being impaled. The goblin gawks at its rushing bulk, eyes wide, and scampers up the base of the tree, the bleeding ear clamped, once more, firmly in its mouth. More laughter, as the tauren stands at the base of the massive cypress, bellowing in rage, hooves scraping uselessly at the bark as it tries and fails to clamber up the trunk after the little ear-thief.
“You want this back, you shaggy clod, you gots ta pay!!” The goblin dangles the ear out over a branch, just beyond the reach of the tauren and his rusty shovel. “Gimme the grot shovel or I’ll chew off the other one when you sleep, and then we’ll have to start looking for other souvenirs, you useless oaf.”
The tauren stares for a moment at the shovel, then back up the tree at his ruined ear, and his shoulders sag. He holds up the shovel, and fast as the plague, that goblin swings down and grabs onto the shovel with his feet, simultaneously dropping the ear. The tauren kneels down and picks it out of the mud, a chewed up bloodied mess. The goblin sneers back down the trunk at him. “You’re gonna need surgery, pal. I can sew that thing back on again, but it’ll cost ya.” The crowd roars again, and some begin to shuffle off into the torchlit fog, the excitement ended and money changing hands as people settle their wagers. Except one, a grisly looking orc with a short gray beard, apparently as old as some of the nearby trees, and just about as ugly, with pitch-black war runes carved into his face above and below his eye sockets, walks over to you through the dispersing crowd, eyeing you with suspicion. He looks down at your white-furred mount, then back at you for a moment.
“You’re not from here, stranger. What business do you have with the Blacktooth Grin?”
–Excerpt from the Blacktooth Grin Player’s Guide, written by Margar, Faquarl, Louzzik, and Gorfrunch.