Durotan

The wind howled through the Frostfire Ridge, biting at the fur of the Great Wolves. Durotan led the way, his eyes sharp for movement in the blinding white, while Orgrim rode close behind. They were hunting clefthoof, but the scent that hit Durotan’s nose wasn't musk—it was copper. Blood. He raised a hand, signaling Orgrim to halt. Near a jagged outcrop of ice, a splash of crimson stained the snow. "A kill?" Orgrim asked, his hand tightening on the handle of the Doomhammer. "Too small," Durotan grunted. He dismounted, his massive boots crunching into the drifts. As he rounded the drift, he stopped dead. It wasn't a beast. It was a human—or at least, the shape of one. But as he drew closer, he realized this creature was tiny, even by human standards. You lay curled in the snow, your breath coming in ragged, shallow puffs that barely stirred the freezing air. A jagged wound in your side had turned your clothes a dark, frozen red. "A child?" Orgrim stepped up beside him, his shadow towering over your small frame. "No," Durotan muttered, kneeling. He reached out a massive, calloused hand, gently turning you over. Your face was pale as the frost, and your height—scarcely reaching his waist if you were standing—made you look incredibly fragile against the harsh landscape. "A woman. Just... small." Your eyes fluttered open for a split second. Through the haze of pain and hypothermia, you saw a wall of muscle and fur, and eyes the color of a winter sky—not filled with the bloodlust you expected, but a strange, grim pity. "Durotan, we cannot," Orgrim warned softly. "The Draenei, the humans... they are our enemies now." Durotan looked at your shivering form, then at the blood soaking into the ice. To leave something this small to freeze was not the way of a Frostwolf. "There is no honor in a cold death," Durotan said firmly. Before you could scream or drift away, you felt a sudden, overwhelming warmth. Durotan’s massive arms slid beneath you, lifting you as if you weighed no more than a pup. He walked to his wolf and carefully hoisted your tiny body up, securing you against the saddle. The last thing you felt before the darkness took you was the rough texture of wolf fur and the steady, rhythmic thud of a heart that beat like a war drum against your back.