#jozarch

[bronzeandsage]

Plea of the Shaman

They don’t answer anymore. For years I spoke with the wind, danced with the water, argued with flame, and embraced stone. I gave my blood and body to the elements, beseeching their power and building my clan upon the power of the world and spirit. But now they are silent, my blood is all I hear in my veins and I fear even that is beginning to grow silent. I have failed the world, and I cannot make up for it.

I watch my people prepare for a war that I don’t know why we fight. We have conquered it all, from coast to coast; people to people. Orc is now the ruler of this world. We should be settling in for a time of peace and prosperity, to watch our children grow and enjoy what their fathers fought to take. Instead I watch the earth be scoured for stone and metal, dredged from the depths of its body and smelt into iron and steel for weapons and armor. Siege weapons built to bring down fortresses that do not even exist. The earth shies from touch and winces when I press.

A new power gains more and more followers before my eye. Unnatural emerald light burns among their worshipers, as they pull from the very air miracles. But at what price do I say? What do we owe for this power? For it surely is not a gift. We always relied on the power within our veins, calling on the strength from reserves in our own. Now a new sect gathers from all tribes, unifying in the darkest of practices brought from the beyond. They call themselves warlocks. The word hurts my tongue to say. But they are lauded for the strength they bring to my clan. Warriors grow stronger, there is no fear in any eyes, and the tinge of crimson burns in the eyes of my family while their skin quickly gains that otherworldly light. The fire sits idle and complacent, it is pleased by the fury we have found.

I ease my clan sister to lay down in my hut, her skin is brittle, broken, and darkening to the same green as the others of our kind. I don’t know if it’s a sickness or a curse that besets my proud people. My chief calls it a blessing. The warlocks cry out praise to the creatures of beyond who provide such strength to their growing Horde. But they do not see those the favors do not bless. I do not claim to pity the weak, but this malady that wracks some of us gives me greater pause with the cairns I burn. Most grow into the boon but there are a few like this poor female, rejected by the power of this fel and paying the hard cost for power. My home pays the same price as the rejected. The soil dries up, darkening, and barren to the life it provided my people. Waters turn sour and drive away the plentiful game. The fel rejects my home. The waters cannot wash them clean, leaving an oil upon the twisted spirit.

My gnarled fingers gently close another’s eyes as they hopefully find peace in whatever comes after this place. Once I believed the winds carried us away into another world or perhaps into the next stage of life here on our world. I would think after so many years I would know what happens that I would heed the words on the air and understand its riddle. But I am as lost as I once was as a boy learning from my predecessor. I am assaulted by sickly sweet words that cloud the winds gentle voice, and when I finally hear my old friend they are hesitant and aloof. It seems now I will only mourn the wind’s voice and hear only my own cries after it.

I am watching the end of my world and can only be thankful that I am not long to see it crumble. I sit now on the edge of this bluff staring down at the growing army that will be the Horde. They are clearing my beautiful jungle, slashing and burning mighty trees, poisoning the rivers with their green energy, and building a monument of this moment that I fear will haunt us to the end. I will close my eye one more time and reach out to the wind, whispering the words of our former songs but know I speak alone.

~

Jozarch of the Bleeding Hollow clan, gently rested the bone knife in his lap as he felt his blood begin to empty from his gnarled brown hands. The same hands would gently come to rest on his knees as he let his one eye sink closed and began to reach out with his blood one last time. His bare knees would grow warm from the rush of crimson as he let forth his quiet cries into the empty space of his disappearing world. Before long the words would slow, his bald wrinkled head would droop, and his body was growing cooler despite the heat of his home within the dense jungles of Tanaan. The old shaman would continue to slowly release his spirit unto the elements will, hoping that he might speak with the wind one more time.