Art by  bohsar

Cyrakken drew a deep breath, drinking in the sweet scent of thousands of blades of grass stirred by the gentle breeze. For a moment he allowed himself to forget, forget how his family's ancestral mace was held by the leader of the Wolf Wrench Raiders, forget what he had to do to satisfy the gang. For a brief moment, he was his own bull again.
"Crak!" Tork's voice echoed in his head. The tauren clenched his eyes shut, trying to block the mage's intrusion. "You can't keep me away," the orc's voice laughed. "Now get back to the garage, I feel like riding that ass of yours tonight. You have one hour to get back here, or it's disenchantment time for that mace of yours."
Cyrakken grunted as he stood up and strode over to his own bike. "How did it come to this?" he asked himself as he mounted his hog.