The High Shaman paused, the silver wire wrapped around his tusks trembling as he spoke the name that had been forbidden from the stone halls for twenty years:
"He came to find Baelok," Grom stated with absolute finality. "The Red Hand."
The reaction was violent, and deafening.
The entire Great Hall seized as if struck by a lightning bolt.
Heavy clay tankards were slammed onto the timber tables, splitting the wood with wet, splintering cracks.
The rhythmic, respectful stillness of the warriors collapsed into an explosive cacophony of scraping iron as dozens of veteran guards drew their broadswords and hooked halberds half an inch from their scabbards, their knuckles turning white, their tusks fully bared in venomous, unrestrained fury.
"A curse upon that name!" an elder with three broken horns roared from the lower bench, spitting a glob of dark blood onto the floor. "He has no clan! His name was burned from the skin of our drums!"
