After some rest, the shaman took me to a powerful orc shaman who could open a portal for me and return me to my rightful place. It took a couple of tries till finally, it opened in front of me, "remember everything I taught you," he said. I nodded and rushed through the portal. I was back in the forest. I stood above the camp, it was quiet for now and seemed to be unchanged. I walked the paths the orcs had worn into the soft ground. Any orc who walked past me only watched me in silence. The tusks of my grandparents sat proudly on my neck, I lifted my gaze high. As I got deeper into the camp I found, Grommash, Durotan and Orgrim gathered around the fire. They were all shocked to see me again, "Ruk?" Durotan said and rose, I ripped the tusks from my neck and threw them at the orc's feet.

"A runt survived the trials of our ancestors!" Orgrim exclaimed, his face dropped.

"The first one too," Grommash said. They were shocked.

"Welcome back to the clan little one," Durotan said and embraced me. The others followed suit, finally accepting me. We heard thudding footsteps, I turned and Blackhand stomped towards me he was about to grab me till Durotan stood in my way. He picked up the tusks off the ground and showed him. "She has fought with her ancestors and survived." He laughed heartily.

"No runt has ever succeeded she probably broke those tusks off a boar," he chuckled.

"Show her some respect," Orgrim chimed in.

"She has no place here," he spat.

"You're not the one to decide that anymore," I growled. Blackhand squared up to me and knelt down to meet my face.

"We'll see if you survive the next battle," he spat and walked away. We stood in silence watching him leave.

"Don't take it to heart," Orgrim said and rested his hand on my shoulder. That evening a small ritual consisting of the Warsong and Frostwolf clan I became an orc, with incense burning around us. Red, green, blue and white beads decorated my braids. Durotan painted the white war paint on my face, and Grommash painted the clans sigil on my shoulders. My old broken and chipped axe was now one of a warrior, and one I could lift with ease. Each and every orc blessed me with honour each one by one placed their hands on my shoulders.

Grommash was the last one. He was the one who also tattooed the Frostwolf and Warsongs sigil onto my back, he was gentle and quick. Durotan watched over me, a proud smile decorating his face. After a few moments, I was helped off the ground and the two clans cheered, loud enough for it to be proud but not so loud that we would draw attention to the ritual. As the evening drew on the orcs left till only a few of us remained by the fire. "You have done very well for a runt," Durotan said and kissed my head gently.