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freddy-hughes · 5 years ago

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Trials and Tribulations: Black Horns

Freddy dreamt peacefully. He saw himself within the forest, the soft morning light bathing everything in a warm glow as he walked slowly amidst the foliage. He made it to a creek, the babbling of the water tranquil as he walked along its bank. He could remember this place, this serene little meadow, as he and Lydia had come here often to have lunch. They would always bring a blanket, a little basket with fruits, and sit together in the dying light with soft smiles, and tender laughter.

It was beautiful. A kind dream. The kind he never wanted to awaken from. If this was the place that would claim him, he would be none the happier. This would be a good place to lay a stone, a memorial to the man he once was. A place to visit, to remember, to dream. He liked this place. He did.

Freddy sat beside the stream, legs curled in beneath him as he leaned back on his arms to feel the warm breeze upon his face. His eyes closed, lungs pulling in a deep breath, and slowly exhaled it. Though the Church spoke of the Light, and the Elves of their Moon Goddess, there was no heaven quite like the forest. If there were to ever be an eternal afterlife, Freddy hoped it would be this creek, this meadow, and this forest. He would happily rest here for the rest of his days, untroubled by the machinations of the Coven, and unburdened by the weight of the flesh. This would be his place, where he could wait for Lydia to find him again, and they could sit, and listen to the creek together again.

“Ye who wanders, and searches, lost amid the grass,”

A voice whispers on the breeze, the sound so feather light Freddy hardly heard it.

“What ye seek, ye shall not find. Stay, and rest a while.”

Freddy looked around the clearing. He saw the birds in the branches, the butterflies fluttering, heard the mice scuttling within the grass, but he did not see the source of the voice.

“Lovest thyself the forest? The trees? Sanctuary ye shall find. Rest thy weary head, layest thyself back, and sleep.”

The voice was soft, smooth, and inviting. Freddy felt his eyes begin to grow heavy, the warmth of the sun on his back lulling him towards slumber.

“Yes, ye small, and troubled one. Layest thyself down. Close thy weary eyes. Sleep. Sleep.”

Freddy felt himself beginning to lay back, his weight growing heavier, and heavier. ‘Just a moment,’ he thought to himself. ‘Just a quick nap…’

“Long hast thou wandered, searching. Yet lo, ye have yet to find thy query. Why doest thou searcheth for that which hast comest before ye? Ye are but one man. A small, and lowly thing. Lay thyself down, and rest.”

Freddy felt the warmth of the grass against his back as it pillowed his weight. He smiled softly to himself, listening to the birds chirp overhead. This place was a sanctuary, a haven, a wonderful slice of calm after all this chaos. Around him the sun began to set, unnaturally early. What was once early morn, now slowly descended into the tender hours of dusk. Brilliant reds, and oranges gave way to vast blues, and purples as the moon chased the sun from the sky. The once serene meadow was cast in an eerie light, but still Freddy rested.

“Thoust liveth in constant struggle. It is thine birth rite, mortal. Long hast ye struggled, and in vain against thine foe. Yet, not a trace of them to be found. Ye dog their steps, o beast of the woods, yet in thy haste, fell from thine grace, and plummeted down.”

Freddy saw flashes of images, dancing behind heavy eyelids. They were a myriad of things, wicker beasts wandering the woods, woman hunched over cauldrons bubbling, bones hung to bleach in the sun, pigs heads stitched to branches in fetishes hung behind doors. He saw them, cackling among themselves, breathing life into a wicker doll, the contents of it stuffed with leaves, mushrooms, and other foliage. He saw the stags skull attached to padded shoulders, trinkets tied from leather strips from the prongs. He watched as they breathed life into it, the monstrosity jerking to life slowly, it’s movements foreign, and stilted.

“Dost thou thinkest to undo that which hast been done? Thou art one man, and flesh is easily corruptible. Malleable. Changeable. What dost thou thinkest to change in thy hunt?”

“Do I not owe it to the forest, the place which has given me home, to try? Do I not owe it to the family that took me in, accepted me? If not for the coven, Lydia would not live in fear, and her mother would still walk beside her.”

Freddy heard his voice answer, but he knew his lips did not move. He heard the voice hum in the back of its throat, a sound of contemplation, consideration.

“Thoust has struggled, long, and arduously. Ursine paws may wrap about thine heart, but what hast the bear donest to help? What boons hast it granted you?”

Freddy saw himself, in the midst of his training. He had taken on the bear, bent himself low at the statue, and laid himself out for the idol. He remembered the first transformation, the feeling of power in his thick arms, the warmth of his fur over his body. He could see himself meandering through the forest, birds perched on his back, the rabbits, and mice skittering about his feet. He felt protected. He felt at home.

“The bear is the ultimate guardian. He is sure footed in times of need, courageous, and powerful. The bear is wise. It brings protection, and healing. What belongs to it, it will defend mercilessly, but is not cruel. I was tasked with protecting these lands, my family, my people. The bear is within me.”

Again, the voice merely hummed.

“Then why doest thou shy away from thy creator. Thy guardian. Long have I watched thee, mortal. Few, and far between, hast thou taken thine ursine form. Dost thou fearist the beast within thee?”

Freddy saw himself outside the cottage, stalking back, and forth. He had ventured so deep into the woods that he had forgotten how to shift back. The well worn cloak of the bear had weighed so snugly on his shoulders that he had grown accustomed to it. He remembered the cottage though, and he had given Lydia quite a fright when he meandered upon the porch. She laughed, finding his predicament funny, and with gentle coaxing managed to get him to remember how to shift. He remembered the mask on his face. He remembered how she asked him to remove it. He didn’t remember ever finding it. He didn’t remember how he had it.

“My heart breaks for thee, mortal. With thine small memories, and corruptible minds. Thine feeble mind dost not even remember how you got here. Dost thou not remember that which sits upon thy face? Hast thou forgotten thine own name?”

“No, I’m...I’m Freddy. Fredrick. I remember. I was chasing down the Coven...and there was a stump, in a clearing. Atop it was the mask. It called to me. I heard the bear whisper to me...but then I was running. They were chasing me. The monsters...I met the Owl...I remember…”

Freddy saw flashes of memories, long dormant, and forgotten. He was chasing down the Coven, their red cloaks flapping as they ran away from him. He was hot on their heels, yelling for them to stop, that he would catch them, yet deeper, and deeper they moved him into the woods. He made it to a clearing, an ancient glade long forgotten by men, and clearly had not been touched in centuries.

A fallen tree laid in the center, the trunk covered in moss, mushrooms, and slowly being reclaimed by the earth. Yet the stump, moss covered, surrounded by flowers, and fungi, was illuminated by the dying sun. A single ray had punctured the canopy overhead, shining down on the broken, jagged, water filled stump. There, upon it, hung by a single leather strap, was a mask. It was carved from wood, swirling rings made up the right side of the face, and bark on the left. Vague ears poked out from the cut of it, a nose hewn from the wood to give it a ursine visage. It whispered to him, calling his name. He knew the voice like he knew his own: it was the Bear. His guardian, his god, his patron. Bewitched by the whispering of the mask, Freddy stopped his chase. Instead, he walked towards it. Tentative hands reached for it, felt the wood which hummed with magic beneath his fingertips.

“Thou hast found this auger; a totem of thy guardian. Yet, in thy trust, ye did not see it for what it was. Thou hast fallen into their hands. Trapped here, unable to leave.”

Freddy remembered pulling the mask to his face, feet taking him closer to the stump. What he did not realize, was the ring of mushrooms that surrounded it. As Freddy crossed the ring, magic whomped beneath him, the force of it rustling the grass, and knocking back the foliage that had been haphazardly placed over the mushrooms to obscure them. Though the mask had no eye slits, the moment it rested on his face, Freddy felt as though he could see. Everything was vivid, a new spectrum of colors, and light assailing his eyes. He looked around, curious, body feeling strange, and foreign. However, before he could investigate further, the wicker dogs burst from the woods to chase him.

“Didst thou not thinkest to wonder where thy was? Hast thou thought, perhaps, thou hast never truly left that glade?”

Freddy saw himself there within that very place, body emaciated, and pale. He was propped up against the trunk, mask attached to his face, and head bent low as though asleep, or dead. His legs were lifeless beneath him, mushrooms, grass, and flowers growing around him as the earth attempted to reclaim him. He was still there. Stuck. Yet, if his body was there, where was he? Freddy. As he is now?

“Thy guardian hast abandoned ye. Left thyself lost within the woods. Ye are forgotten to it, as the bear forgets the birds. Yet, oh mortal, ye have not been forgotten to me. If thou wishith to leave this place, ye must forsake thine ursine god, and giveth thyself to me.”

“The bear is with me. I am one with the forest, and the forest is me. I cannot go back on the oath I have taken. I cannot forsake my teacher, and my guardian...I can’t…”

The vision of his body in the glade morphed, and changed. Now he saw himself standing before a burning cottage, the inferno raging as the building sagged against its own weight. The wood splintered, cracked, charred, and broke beneath its assault. The roof caved in, and the foundation fell away. The cottage was a hair's breadth from collapsing in on itself, yet it did not hold his attention. Instead, it was the woman tied to the pillars in the center of the building. She was screaming, and crying. She was calling out to him, begging him to save her, yelling at the men who suddenly materialized around the house with torches in their hands. She was screaming, voice hoarse from the pain, and the fires licking up her legs. She kept calling out his name, screaming at him to save her, yet his feet could not move.

“What dost thou think will happen, if thou cannot exit the woods? Ye who hath claimed thy guardian as thyself, cannot even protect thy own pack. Ye are lost, little mortal. Would the bear help stop this? Could ye see thyself running into the fire, and fighting against the flames, to save thy love? How can ye, when ye are lost? Abandon thy guardian, and this I shall grant ye -”

Freddy was swept away from the burning cottage, and instead set before a new one. This one was dilapidated, the front door kicked in, and blood pooling around the jam, only to smear further in. With great trepidation, Freddy walked to the door, and looked within. A member of the coven was dismembered there within the house, her blood seeping into the floorboards, and lifeless eyes staring directly at him. Above her stood something, something he couldn’t quite explain. It stood on two legs, like a man, yet cloven hooves were where feet should be. A darkened, bare chest heaved with the effort of its attack, a goats head breathing plumes of smoke as it tried to catch its breath. Two massive horns, covered in gore, and blood, protruded from its head, while two others came to frame the sides of the face. Fur covered its shoulders, arms, and head. It was a strange amalgamation of man, and goat. Slowly, it looked to the door, and saw Freddy there, and the two were one, and the same. He knew this creature was him, and the creature knew who was at the door.

“Power, I shall grant thee. The way out, I will show thee. When thy feet set back upon familiar grass, ye shall finally finish thy hunt. Ye will know the taste of thy querrys blood. You will see their last breaths fall. What the bear promised, thou did not receive, yet I will grant ye what thy heart desires. Lay thyself down before me, write thy name within my book, and it shall be.”

Freddy awoke at the creek, eyes going wide, and chest heaving. He fumbled to a sitting position, arms flailing, and looked frantically around the clearing. No one was there. However, night had long began to ascend the sky, the dying light obscuring anything further than his immediate area. “Hello?” He calls out, still looking around. “Who is there?”

“Dost thou want to leave this forest? Dost thou want the hunt to end? See the book before thee, write thy name, and what I have shown, I will grant thee.”

Freddy looked down to his feet, and where once there was grass, now a large tome rested. It was opened, the page blank, but a charcoal pencil sat within the spine. He felt a pull to it, a kind of magnetism he couldn’t explain. He had seen the cottage burned, had been helpless to stop them attacking his home, Lydia’s home, their home. They had tied her to the house, and set it aflame. He could do nothing, but watch.

All his life, Lydia had always come to his rescue. It was how they met. She was always their strength, and sure in her conviction. Freddy had always been passive, and meek. He had taken the bear to teach himself confidence, and to try to break free of his timid nature. Yet he was always afraid of the power. He was afraid of the bear. He didn’t want to be some brute in the woods. He didn’t want to be something people feared. He just wanted to help.

Yet the visions had shown him what his passiveness could bring. The voice was right: he had chased them, and for what? What had that search, that hunt, brought him? He was more lost than ever. He was a plaything to the spider, a curiosity to the owl, and a mild annoyance to the fox. He was only getting more, and more lost. All he would have to do is sign his name, and he could finally go home.

He could exit that glade, return to his life, and hold those he loved in his arms. He wouldn’t have to suffer from the dreams that leave aches so deep they cut. No longer would he wake from visions so sweet they left tears in his eyes. His weary bones could finally rest. He could finally be free.

At what cost?

The amalgamated goat man was powerful in the visions. Though corrupted, and malformed, it had hunted down the witch, and killed her. It had done what he wasn’t able to do. The voice had promised him that. It was tempting. Very tempting. He could finally rid the forest of their corruption, set it straight, and shed himself of that weight. He could finally settle down, have a family, and grow old.

“All that and more, I can offer ye. Sign thy name, bend thyself low before me, and it shall be yours.”

Freddy felt his fingers reach out, and touch the page of the book. It was worn, old, and soft, the canvas long having gone yellow from its time in the sun. Just his name is all it wanted. What’s in a name? What would it matter if Fredrick Hughes signed his name in this book. He was likely already dead. The spider had promised him as much. He was a long forgotten memory of a childhood love. A stone left abandoned in the woods. A name remembered, and then forgotten. So what did it matter, in the end? If he went back after signing, what would even be left for him? It was a mercy to die in the woods. It was a mercy to be forgotten.

He could have revenge. Right here, right now. He could finally get what he wanted. Get what drove him into the grave, and what would it matter to his soul. He was forgotten. Abandoned. Left to die. None had remembered him: not his mother, not his father, not Lydia, not the bear. He was nothing to them, not anymore. So what did he have to lose? What did he have to offer when he came back to a world that had long since buried him. If he could kill the Coven, then he had something to be proud of.

Freddy picked up the pencil, and felt it against his knuckles. He rolled it a few times, contemplating.

Even if he was buried in the woods, a stone long forgotten, did he not owe it to those who knew him to try and return? Unscathed, unchanged. Did he not owe it to his mother to see her baby boy as he had always been: soft, and gentle, and perfectly human. Did he not owe it to Lydia, the woman he loved, to try and return to her the man who left? Did he want to be that creature in the visions: brutal, and bloodthirsty? Did he want to abandon the last vestiges he had of himself for petty revenge?

“No,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I have too many people waiting for me. Me. Freddy. If I can take one thing from my time here, it’s that I came of my own hubris, and left of my own determination. I can’t sign.”

Darkness had since long been cast overhead. A twig snapped to the left, and Freddy looked to it. Nothing was there. Yet when he turned back to the book, five golden eyes were staring at him. Two where they should be, with two below those, and the third sat at the center of the forehead sideways.

The thing was huge, even hunched down before him. It’s goat head was massive, the horns atop it more so, and all five eyes blinked at once. The beard beneath its chin was messy, gnarled, and blood seemed caked to its forehead, and cheeks. It’s torso was barren, a mans chest with golden chains around its thick neck. It had human arms, and hands, with gold and silver rings upon each finger, and the wrists jingling with bangles and bracelets. It opened its mouth to reveal human teeth, and an unnaturally long tongue that pulled out to lap at the dried blood around its mouth.

“Thou hast thought it in thine own mind: what is waiting for you? What doest thou think is out there, for you? If you are but a stone, why not return as ye have always wanted: strong.”

Freddy looked up at the goat before him, seeing his reflection in all five elongated pupils. He regarded the goat quietly, thinking on his answer, and then slowly sat up straighter.

“There was an old saying my teacher once told me: ‘while my paws have claws, I can protect you, but with claw tipped paws, I cannot embrace you.’ Though I can hope the woods were merciful, and claimed me, I cannot sell myself on the chance they are waiting for me. They’ve waited a long time for me to come home, so, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go home.”

Two of the eyes blinked, the goats head twitching slightly as it watched him keenly. Thin hands, emaciated, with blackened fingertips reached out to gently run those fingers through his hair. All the way to the back of his skull, and then raked their way forward, before two pressed against the center of his forehead. Freddy suddenly became vividly aware that he was wearing that very mask he found, even here within this strange, and fae touched land.

“Think on this a moment longer, ye mortal. I offer this once, and only once. What dost the land of the living have waiting for you? What good hast thou done here? Did thou not think it thyself? Mercy hath begot you. What the forest claims, belongs to it. Write thy name, little one. Write thy name, and return the bear thou hast always wished to be.”

Freddy thought about it a moment, reached a hand up to feel at the wood that rested against his face. He looked at the Goat, tilted his head to one side, and then his gaze fell down to the book.

“I already came back a bear, once.”

He says softly, the memory replaying his mind vividly. He had been gone one summer in his youth, off with the Thornspeakers to learn, and hadn’t seen Lydia, or her mom in quite a while. When he went to visit, they had both stood in shock. Gone was the lanky, awkward, grew too fast for his own good Freddy, and instead stood a stocky, filled out, bear of a man. Growth has always come easily to Freddy, having jumped a few feet over a short period of time, and all it took was a little hard work to get the rest of him to follow. Lydia had been so shocked, cheeks colored a rosy hue, that not even a witty remark could pass her lips as she just stared at him. He made the quip for her: ‘Guess I did come back a bear, huh?’

Freddy looked up at the goat, determination falling over his face. He twirled the pencil between his knuckles, contemplating. “How about this, horned one,” He starts, “I will make you a deal. If you show me the way out, and everything is as I’ve been told it is, I’ll sign my name. If it isn’t? Then I’m free, and that’s the gamble.”

The goat hums in the back of his throat, all five eyes blinking simultaneously. It’s head tilted to the side, tongue still lapping at the dried blood around it’s cheeks. Blackened fingertips left his forehead, and instead tangled themselves in the gnarled beard beneath its chin.

“A gamble? What dost thou thinkst to achieve in games? Ye are but a fly to me. What dost thou wish to think I do with this offer?”

Freddy smiled, and shrugged his shoulder. “What do I have to lose at this point? The way I see it, you show me the way out, and I go home. Where everyone has been waiting for me. If they aren’t there? Then what more do I have to sign? I have nothing to return to. Might as well see what it would be like.”

The goat smiled with its rows of human teeth, all five pupils blowing wide as it licked its teeth.

“Mmm. I would be remiss to withhold such temptations to thee. Very well, ye mortal. Sign but part of thy name. A partial offering. I will show thee the way, and once you see that it is, as has been foretold, then the rest of thy name ye shall sign. Good faith, as ye mortals say, hmm? Sign but part of thy name. Then sweet dreams, I shall offer thee.”

Freddy rolled the pencil, looked down at the book before his lap, and then leaned forward. He pressed the lead to the page, and wrote one name upon the page: Hughes. His surname, sure, but a name attached to him all the same. He could not offer his first name, because to so many that was the name they knew him by. He was Freddy. He couldn’t write that name within the pages, couldn’t lose that part of him to this place. He would gladly give up Hughes - a name given to him by an uncaring, strict, cruel, and inattentive Father. That name held no meaning to him, no weight was held behind it. Hughes he could lose, but he couldn’t lose Freddy.

The great black goat before him raised its arms high above its head. Blackened fingers twisted together like the gnarled branches of a tree, it’s massive horns touched the dirt beneath its tail, as its back arched in apparent bliss. Its massive mouth opened, teeth glinting in the moonlight, tongue lolling out as an inhumane howl left its throat. A mixture between voices screaming, and a goat bleating, the sound was so loud Freddy feared his ear drums would rupture. The goat stilled in this position for a moment, head rolling in a slow circle, until it came to fall and pin Freddy in its golden gaze.

“As above, so below. What is within this forest, so too is it in others. Mirrored images, opposite, yet the same. Where thy feet left thine mortal plane, there too shall they return. Yet, the way hast been lost to thee. Continue thy way forward. Fetid worms, and ivory tusks stand in thy way. The great guardian sleeps. What thy seek succumbs to the earth. Fungus claims that which was flesh, and leaves but bones in its wake. Continue thy way forward. Sleep to awaken. Awaken to sleep.”

Freddy suddenly awoke back in the clearing where he had fallen after his fight with the Spider. Vines, thorns, thistles, flowers, and fungus had grown all around his body, the flora attempting to reclaim him into the earth. He felt Haskell upon his chest, the tiny fox asleep as he rested atop him. Slowly, Freddy began to sit up, disturbing Haskell from his sleep. The vines broke, pulled up the earth he disturbed, and fell around him in a heap as he looked around the clearing. Thorns, and thistles cut into his arms, drinking deep of his life force, only to wither away. Like a log that had been felled long ago, only to be moved, the indentation where he laid was deep.

The mask on Freddy’s face felt heavy. His hands came up to feel at the wood, fingers tracing the bark on the left, and the rings on the right. He sat there for a moment, looking down at his only companion to have made it this far with him, and without being able to stop it, Freddy wept bitterly.

( @drustvar-dragonfly for mentions )

#Freddy Hughes #| Trials and Tribulations |#my writing

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solliium · 5 years ago

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ragni and eydis' mother had once been part of the lost ones. she met their father when young, before she had the talent to transform herself into the monstrosities the ursine tribe is known for, where she found him trespassing on the ursine's hunting grounds. the rest of the story is forgotten.

ragni inherited the power of the storm from his mother. he's unfamiliar with the ursine tribe and holds them in a similar regard to the rest of the winter's claw, but he is aware of his heritage. most of it is still a mystery but ragni isn't much of one for dwelling on a past that has nothing to do with him.

#c. ( ragni ) —#hc. ( ragni ) —#c. ( eydis ) —#hc. ( eydis ) —#group. ( ragni & eydis ) —

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sekhisadventures · 2 years ago

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The Singing Sands

Ardenweald, during the Mawsworn Attack

All across the weald, the sounds of battle echoed. Hooves clattered upon pathways of petrified wood as hunters charged down monstrosities of twisted metal and shadows as their faerie companions pelted them from above with blasts of concentrated anima energy.

A trio of them broke off from the rest and rushed towards the Forest’s Heart only to be greeted by a roar as a glowing blue tiger charged them down, leaping into the air as it transformed into a furious pandaren in midair, Jaie’s fist raised in a punch that ended with the middle Mawsworn’s head flying free of its shoulders back down the path.

As it did the monster’s fellows turned towards the monk, then one jerked suddenly as a blast of purple light erupted from inside it before it crumpled, the force animating it pulled screaming into the Void as Samantha Montebank stood behind where it was, daggers raised and glowing with the power given to her by Annulus.

The third slowly backed away, but found its path blocked by another ursine. Unlike Jaie this one walked on four legs, and was far bigger, and didn’t wait for the mawsworn to ready itself. A single swipe of it’s paw scattered the armor, the metal crashing and clattering across the field like so many empty cans.

Jaie stood at the top of the path, still in a fighting stance, as her head snapped around, surveying the battlefield ahead of them. “I can see them opening portals further down. They’re bringing reinforcements straight from Torghast!” she growled.

“Yeah, Annulus says that Sylvannas is trying to find the Queen, but the other fae are posing as her. Some sort of glamour trick I think.” replied the void elf as one of her hair tentacles wiggled, “Okay okay, so definitely a glamour trick.” she added, rolling her eyes.

Shalandrae however just ignored them and rushed down the path to join the fray, snarling as she did. Sekhi had helped her reconcile with the Horde, but the Mawsworn had been the ones torturing the souls of those who died in Teldrassil in Torghast under the orders of Sylvannas and Zovaal and her fury at them burned as brightly as Tyrandae’s did even without the power of a moon goddess in her.

Jaie watched her go, then shrugged, “Better just let her, we can hang back and handle any that get past Herne and the others.” she nodded, glancing back towards the Heart of the Forest… and at who else was there.

Sekhi was in a bad way, the shamaness huddled next to the great tree that housed the Forest’s Heart. She was practically curled into a ball and shaking, pawing weakly at her ears. As soon as the invasion had begun the ‘Song’ of Ardenweald had ended for her, the musical shamaness unable to hear the land’s voice now… and like that dark day in Orgrimmar, she was not taking it well at all.

Jaie gave her a worried look, but they couldn’t really do much to help their friend right now. A battlefield was not the pace for a group hug and therapy talk. They just had to hope they could stop any opportunistic Mawsworn from coming for her.

As they stood there however, they heard several sets of footsteps come rushing up behind them. They turned to see Nelen, Nitika, and Grimo jogging over to them, the latter huffing a bit as he did.

“Jaie. The others are down there in the battlefield, whats the situation?” asked the worgen mage, still in his human form but ready to shapeshift at a moment’s notice as he nodded to his pandaren friend.

“They’re everywhere Nelen. Their sorcerers are bringing more in constantly.” she replied, nodding to the battlefield. From up there the magus could easily see the telltale swirls of twisted anima that made up the holes in reality leading to their hellish realm. “Herne and the others can hold them back for now, but we need to stop Sylvannas before she finds the queen.”

“Not just Sylvannas.” rumbled Nitika, her eyes narrowing as the others turned to look at her. “Anduin is out of the Maw… and…” she sighed, shaking her head, then told them of what had occurred in Bastion.

By the end of the explanation Nelen’s expression was one of shock, Jaie looking like she might be sick, and Grimo simply sucking on a cigar thoughtfully. Sam looked disturbed, but her lips were moving as if she was muttering under her breath… or having a conversation with someone nobody else could see.

Nelen took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, “Gordrinn’s fangs… and it was Shalamayne he was wielding?” he asked, the worgen knew of the sword. A blessed blade, elf forged, and a heirloom of Anduin’s late father.

Nitika nodded solemnly, “Yes. Zovaal reforged it. It looks like Frostmourne did now, and he seems able to completely dominate Anduin’s will even from the Maw.”

“… but, if we could stop him, get the sword away from him somehow…” started Jaie as Nitika shook her head.

“Its not that simple, Anduin is wielding Zovaal’s full power. He was able to overpower the Archon and all her Paragons in a single attack. We wouldn’t stand a chance unless we took them by complete surprise.” explained the taureness.

Grimo nodded at that, “Yeah, I heard stories ‘bout ol’ Arthas from Mola. If Anduin has even half that power, we’d be toast just tryin’ ta get close to ‘im.” interjected the goblin. “Best thing we can hope for is that he don’t fuckin’ show..." he started, then paused as a loud beeping sound came from his goggles. The goblin flipped them down over his eyes and pressed several buttons on his gauntlet. “Hold th’ fuckin’ phone guys. Somethin’s happening…” he growled… then suddenly cursed and jumped back, unholstering his gun in one move as his two robotic dogs snarled in a mechanical voice.

The portals all flared at once, and in the distance a massive one began to swirl with energy. “Shit! Guys, NME Meter just went completely bonkers! They’re pullin’ out the big guns!” he barked.

The group turned towards the portal as Nelen snarled, the figurative sound becoming a very loud and guttural real snarl as fur erupted along his body and he swelled against his robes into his worgen form. Jaie turning to face the portal as Nitika gripped her eagle staff and Sam drew her daggers…

Out of the swirling mass of maw-energies came a gigantic hulk of a beast, a monstrous giant of twisted metal and tortured souls, and just infront of it was a tall elven woman.

Nelen growled again, his eyes narrowing. “Sylvannas…” he spat, flexing his claws as he fought down his bestial side. He was more in control these days, but the sight of the Banshee Queen made his blood boil.

As the beast rose out of the portal it let loose an unearthly roar that was suddenly cut off. It’s body tensed, its head jerking upwards, and then it pitched forward and landed face-first on the ground with a tremendous crash! On the dying monster’s back was another elf, but unlike Sylvannas this one had deep purple skin and inky black eyes. Those eyes were focused on Windrunner, and there was murder in them.

With a loud cry she dove towards the banshee, glaves shining in the eternal moonlight of Ardenweald, the weapon crashing into the banshee’s bow as she brought it up to block.

Grimo zoomed in using his goggles, then said, “Hey, found Tyrandae.” as he confirmed the identity of Sylvannas’ assailant.

Nitika frowned, “You don’t say…” she muttered, giving the goblin a look as she straightened up, then Sylvannas yelled something and suddenly the air was full of the clatter of boots on soil!

The four of them tensed as they saw the mass of Mawsworn turn towards the Forest’s Heart, then as one surge forward! Sylvannas had been too far away for them to hear, but it was clear the intent. The sudden appearance of the Night Warrior jeopardized their assault, it was all or nothing now! While she kept Tyrandae occupied the Mawsworn would swarm the Wild Hunt’s hall!

“SHIT!” snarled Grimo, reaching into his bag and pulling out a grenade as his robots snarled and barked in their artificial voice. “I got some bombs, but not that many!” he spat.

Nitika and Sam looked around, giving each other a meaningful, worried nod. Nitika kept mum about her darker half, unlike Sam (Annulus’ presence had come out when asked what exactly had caused Samantha to, well, BE Samantha,) but one who is touched by the Void knows another when they see them… and both of them could see a bit into the infinite futures because of the Void’s touch… and if there was one word to describe the majority of those futures, it was ‘short.’

Nelen channeled energies into his body, ready to direct and unleash them, but even then there were simply too many! It was the five of them against a whole army!

However… as the Mawsworn drew close… a small voice spoke up.

“… give it back…”

The four dared a glance behind them to see Sekhi stumbling forward, the vulpera’s eyes wide and wild, her ears flat against her head and teeth chattering.

“S-sekhi?” asked Jaie, turning to the shamaness. Something seemed off…

“… the song… its too quiet… t-too quiet…” she chattered, stumbling through them towards the oncoming army, “Give it back… g-go away… so the song will come back…” she hissed angrily not entirely unlike a mongoose might.

Nitika reached for the vulpera as she passed through the group, planning on grabbing her and fleeing, but before she could a hand grabbed her wrist. Grimo looked up at her, shaking his head meaningfully.

“Grimo, what the..." she started but the goblin shook his head again.

“Jus’ watch, had a feelin’ this might happen sooner or later.” he said.

The other four looked at him like he’d gone insane… then assessed his normal mental state and looked at him as if he’d gone more insane.

“Trust me.” he smirked.

Nitika was about to retort, but the Mawsworn forces had almost reached them and Sekhi stood alone before them, the vulpera’s eyes like huge saucers and wet with tears from the sensory deprivation the silence was causing her.

“Give it back…” she hissed, reaching into her pouch and pulling out her flute.

“Give it back…” she added, taking a smaller pouch from her belt and weighing it in her free hand.

“GIVE IT BACK! GO AWAY 'N LET IT COME BACK!” she screamed as she threw the pouch above her as it burst open in a spray of sand, coarse desert sand from her homeland of Vol’dun. As the sand flew into the sky she put the flute to her muzzle, took a deep breath, and began to play with a force and energy that made Nelen, Jaie, and Nitika’s fur stand on end.

The sand swirled above her as, all through the weald, the trees began to creak and rustle as a massive gale roared towards the vulpera. It hit the sand with the force of a cannon blast and the sand erupted into the sky, the wind catching the grains and spinning them around her now as it became a tornado of sand and wind with the vulpera in the center.

A huge tornado, tall enough to almost reach the branches of the great tree at the Forest's Heart, far more sand than the little pouch could have possibly contained... and yet it seemed to be getting bigger! As the others stared they realized they could see shapes in the sand. Faces. Vulpine faces.

Then, feeling the shape of the spell Nelen cried out, “TAKE COVER!”

The five of them hit the ground as the sandstorm exploded outwards in all directions, covering their faces with their hands and trying to keep from breathing in too much as the sand whipped over and around them, and in the wind they could hear angry cries and screams in the vulpera tongue. Soon those were joined by screams of pain from the Mawsworn army.

Jaie raised her head, one hand shading her vision as much as she could and risked a glance. Through barely open eyes she could see the vulpera in the center of the sandstorm, moving like a woman possessed. She twirled and danced, her feet hammering out a beat, and through it all the flute never left her lips.

The fae and their other allies had run for cover at the sudden explosion of sand and wind and fury, the Mawsworn however had nowhere to run, and the sandstorm seemed to scour their armor to pieces! It tore chunks off their helmets, their pauldrons, and then Jaie’s eyes made sense of what she was seeing.

It wasn’t the sand, it was what was in it…

“Vulpera… ghosts?” she whispered.

All throughout the sand, barely visible as shapes in the swirling mass, were vulpera spirits. The spectral fox-folk attacked the Mawsworn with fang and claw, ripping into them with a ferocity that even Shalandrae wouldn’t be able to match, tearing Zovaal’s forces limb from limb until the survivors were forced to flee to their portals and escape to the Maw or risk destruction at the hands of the shamaness.

The wind roared through the weald, the sand swirled and scoured clean everything it touched, and through it all Sekhi kept playing!

Until, finally, the remaining Mawsworn had fled, the battlefield empty save for the defenders, those who had managed to take cover before the spell began. Somewhere off in the distance they could see a burst of black smoke rising into the sky. Even Sylvannas was fleeing the battlefield.

Slowly the winds grew weaker, then ceased entirely, and the sand seemed to vanish. Sekhi stood there, the pouch of sand next to her on the ground and the flute in her hands as she stared up into the sky…

“… the song… is back…” she whispered, sounding relieved, and then she slowly pitched forward and passed out where she stood, landing flat on her face.

Nitika stared at her diminutive friend, her jaw agape, then turned to Grimo. “You had a feeling THAT might happen?!” she demanded.

Grimo coughed, wiping sand and dust off himself as he stood, “Well, maybe not THAT specifically… but… look Nitts, ya do realize that I wouldn’ta hired her unless I had a feelin’ it’d be worth it even with ya twistin’ my godsdamn ear.” he replied.

“I told ya when we hired her she was on probation right? Then after a couple months she wasn’t no more.” he coughed again, taking out a cigar, “Well, look… I worked with ol’ Krag’thar, we all did… so I know a bit about how Shamanism works, right? She told us durin’ the interview that she hears the Elements as a sorta music, but its all the time. Like it never stops right?” he said.

Nitika glanced at Sekhi, then nodded at Grimo as the others listened on.

“Well, that got me thinkin’… ‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘That ain’t normal for shammys, right?’” he smirked, “So after we signed her on I got in touch with some of my buddies in the Earthen Ring, Goldmine ‘n them… and I asked ‘em. Turns out yeah, NO shaman hears the elements non-stop. None of ‘em, not even Thrall apparently.”

Nitika blinked, then looked back at Sekhi as if she’d never seen her before. “Wait… what? Even Thrall?” she asked, sounding shocked.

“Yeah, Sekhi is something else.” smirked Grimo, “They told me the closer a Shaman is to th’ elements, the stronger they can get, ‘cause they’re just the conductor. The elementals is the real power. Sekhi is a freakin’ dynamo, a livin’ superconductor of elemental power. Thing is, I don’t think she KNOWS she is. If she gets enough experience with this sorta shit... we could be talkin’ next World Shaman.” he grinned, “And she’s on MY payroll.”

At that last statement there was a sound like several tree branches snapping at once… Nitika was giving Grimo a meaningful look and cracking her knuckles, slowly.

The goblin swallowed, then quickly added, “What I’m sayin’ is she needs someone watchin’ her back while she reaches that potential! That’s us! Savage United is her team!” he blurted out, eager to avoid the tauren getting angry at him.

“… right…” growled Nitika, though she seemed content to leave that be for now… the tauren walking to the still-unconscious vulpera and picking her up in her arms very gently.

“… w-well, powerful or not, is she okay? I mean, that must have taken a lot…” asked Jaie, looking at the tauren with a worried expression.

Nitika gestured over Sekhi’s body, her hands glowing with a faint aura of sunlight, then nodded with a relieved smile. “Just unconscious, she must’ve exhausted herself pulling that stunt. I doubt she’d be able to do it again for a while.” she sighed in relief… then suddenly there was a crash from inside the Forest’s Heart!

All their heads turned towards the great tree, then Nelen’s ears perked up as he sniffed the air. “That’s Anduin’s scent! He’s here!” he barked as Grimo muttered something under his breath with a sneer, the group rushing towards the entrance as the worgen fell to all fours, charging ahead only to be stopped by a near-solid wall of Maw-corrupted Anima!

Inside the tree stood Anduin Wrynn, wearing the corrupted stygian armor of the Maw, his father’s warped blade in his hand as he looked towards the giant seed that was the heart of Ardenweald.

“ANDUIN!” shouted Jaie, catching up and slamming her fists into the barrier. “Fight him! Don’t let Zovaal control you!”

The king paused, turning to look at them through the swirling smoke, and Jaie felt a chill through her body.

His eyes were an unearthly blue, glowing with the same light as the runes on his sword and armor. His face had no expression, no emotion in it. Anduin’s body was here, but his mind and soul? Not a flicker, not even a hint.

Jaie growled, then slammed her fists into the barrier again, kicking it as hard as she could manage, and she could kick hard enough to make a Drust’s ribs shoot out through their back if needed. “COME ON! It’s a barrier but it can’t be indestructible!” she snapped.

The others looked between themselves… then Nelen stood and began to channel a burst of arcane energies as Nitika cradled Sekhi in one arm, flexing her free hand as it began to glow like the noonday sun. They both unleashed their attacks at once, glowing near-white light mixing with incandescent purple energies in a blast of brilliance… and not even leaving a tiny hole.

Nelen gasped for breath as Nitika sagged, they had put a lot of energy into that attack, “No good, that’s as powerful as I can cast.” growled the mage. “It would have reduced one of those Mawsworn to ashes!”

Nitika nodded to him, taking a deep breath and standing up… then pausing as Sam walked past. “One side.” she frowned, taking her daggers off her belt.

The daggers weren’t normal ones, instead of metal they were crafted out of some strange purple crystal. After her ‘makeover,’ Annulus had showed her how to create such things.

They weren’t just daggers… they were void crystals. Solidified chunks of the energies of the Void itself.

Sam raised one, holding it backhand with the blade down, and focused as her hair tentacles began to writhe around, the blade seeming to grow darker and darker until it was less a crystal and more a hole in the air, then with a cry she slammed it home into the barrier as the others stumbled back, the air racing towards where Sam struck! The barrier trembled, the energies flickering wildly, but after several moments Sam cried out and yanked her dagger free, stumbling backwards. “Shit… even that?!” she gasped.

Inside the tree however, Anduin seemed to find what his master sought. He raised the corrupted blade, pointing it at the heart, and the tree shuddered as the heart began to wither and sink in on itself, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, the sigil of Ardenweald emerged from the seed-like heart and floated towards the dominated king as the heart grew black and dead…

He looked back at the group again, smirking in an expression that looked entirely unlike Anduin, and then he spoke… but it wasn’t his voice.

“Struggle all you like mortals. Soon I will have all I need and your world will end.” sneered Zovaal through Anduin’s body as a portal appeared next to him, the boy king striding towards it as the barrier keeping them out wavered, then slowly faded.

Jaie roared and charged forward, her limbs practically glowing with Chi as she raised one leg and slammed it down so hard the floor around it cracked, a wave of blue anima shooting out infront of her towards Anduin… but he passed through the portal before it could reach him and by the time it did it had already closed, cutting off the path.

Jaie gritted her teeth, then shook her head. She closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath, forcing herself to calm down. She may have grown up on the Wandering Isle, free of the threat of the Sha, but even then all Pandaren were taught from childhood to control and balance their emotions… still, when she opened her eyes again they were full of sadness.

She respected King Anduin and his late Father, they had welcomed her people into the Alliance with open arms despite their kin joining the Horde as well… but it seemed like no matter how hard she fought their enemies were always one step ahead. First in Boralus, now here… Even worse, Zovaal’s words told her that the Jailer could see what she felt and was enjoying the show.

#warcraft #warcraft roleplay #adventures in azeroth #fanfiction #shadowlands

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beeswritinghive · 7 years ago

Text

The Price of Failure

Two blades met on a field of scarred rock. There was no dance or finesse as they charged, the earth drank deep as they collided and fell. The vultures were soon to follow, emboldened by the scent of gore. For any warrior it would have been a fitting end. Perhaps not a glorious one, but fitting. Delirium set in from the loss of blood swiftly, and the world rolled in tumbling until darkness swallowed sight. She was not dead. It was the first thought that drifted through her pounding skull. The Pandaren tried to move, tried to think. The effort only brought sharp, searing flame across her side, her limbs shuddered and found pressure locking them down. Her maw stretched wide and her ursine roots expelled her agony. There was darkness all around. It was unclear if her eyes were open or shut, not like the outcome would matter much either way. Through the searing hurt and aching skull she managed to pick up a few scarce observations. The air was exceptionally dry, the immediate space reeked of smoke and herbs. Something like wind occasionally breezed outside her darkness and kicked up what she imagined was dust, or ash. It also jingled a strange clattering, something hanging nearby. Of what she did know was that she was alone. Bound tightly in some sort of cocoon, no quiet breathing or occasional twitching to give away some hovering body. She was trapped in a tomb made from her own failure, too weak to struggle free and too prideful to call for answers. Meditation as a practice generally came about much easier in better circumstances. Being locked at the limbs and stretched out prevent her preferred posture. The aching pain and searing heat didn't make focus unattainable so much as it required an intense understanding to compartmentalize. Understanding failure was a bitter thing to choke down. The process of reaching any sort of zen required breaking down the memories she had and what she could feel in the present. Flashes of cracked, red earth, the sun high in a dusty sky, some large monstrosity between her and the road. Her journey was halted regardless at this point, there was no meaning in holding bitter regret and anger. She let them simmer on the edge of her consciousness. Her skin was raw in several places. Particularly her knees, her elbows and paws. The only notable wound though was along her right side. Where it started and ended was tough to guess, but the pain clawed deep into her gut and her whole body howled with the recognition of it's hurt. Worse than being large, it had gouged deep. That she was alive was some sort of miracle perhaps, moreover though it left only questions. She accepted her pain and the discomfort of her prison, it boiled in joining the edge of her senses. Meditation was a gift as much as it was a curse, at least as far as the Pandaren was concerned. Her mastery of spiritual endeavors was spotty at best, and best utilized as an extension of her blade. Much that she understood reflection was a necessary part of empowerment, that did not mean her meditation was so flawless she could hear a pin drop a mile past. Such it was that her focus didn't snap, no matter how many minutes or hours it was, until a sudden roughness was peeling open her cocoon. With a particularly primal gurgle, she attempted some weak growl as the pressure released her arms. both hands were merely swatted aside as the body looming over her grunted and tugged at the bandages around her gut. "Be still. Your dressing requires changing." The command caught the Pandaren off guard. For several reasons. Most notably the fact it took her a moment to recall that she understood the common tongue. Grudgingly she went still as the crusty, pungent bindings were pulled away. "Let us see what's left of the damage." With a snap there was a brief illumination, a tiny flickering flame in the center of a massive jade palm. The Pandaren didn't bother glancing down as the other huffed and hummed, rolling the flame as they inspected the matter fur and stitched flesh. Discoloured and crusty from a mix of blood and poultices. The hand receded but the flame did not, it danced over the skin with an oddly comforting warmth, causing the shadows around to dance and twist. Half shaded, thick tusks jutted up between rough green lips, pursed as much as they could be into a pensive expression and the calloused hands returned, wringing a damp cloth over the wounded flesh. She was busy glancing around the single sized tent, trying to determine what sorts of hides made up the siding. She hissed at the starkly chill water that dripped over her wound, it earned her a hushing grunt from her tender. The looming figure was oddly meticulous despite it's hulking shadow in the flickering dimness, brushing through the fur that did remain, carefully cleaning the wound, reapplying the poultice, nudging the heavy set bear to shift her and wind bandages again. It was a largely quiet thing, the Pandaren largely obedient, if pained and huffing with every twitch and prod. The Orc appeared content to complete the task without any need to direct the aching woman. Then the task was done, the hides wrapped back tightly leaving the Pandaren locked away in her soft prison. "How long?" The Pandaren asked, straining to tilt her head enough as the figure turned to leave. There was no pause as blinding light flared, the tent pulled open for the Orc to depart. "As long as it takes." Was his reply.

"We will start easy. Your name." The Orc sat, legs crossed and posture as straight as the low hanging tent would allow.

"Suyo of the Blade." The Pandaren rasped, barely managing to sit up herself and still surrounded by the hides of her bedding. The Orc grunted, rubbing a hand over his chin before slapping a palm over his bare chest.

"Vrash of the Frostwolves."

"I owe you a debt, Vrash of Frostwolves. But I must ask why you have healed me." Suyo groaned, reaching down and lifting the skin to her maw. As much as the water trickling into her throat washed down the dust, it was the chill that soothed her flesh much more.

"It was a... Difficult decision. We decided that bringing our warrior back, wounded as he was, was worth keeping you alive to gain answers. Or collect justice." The words seemed like the sort that should be grave, the Orc though merely chuckled in his gruff tone.

"Your warrior... We clashed..." The Pandaren coughed, Vrash was ready and picked up as she took another drink.

"You faced Moxra of the Burning Blade... Long diluted of that blood." There was a harsh snort in pause. "He lives too. Though his healing has been slower, he refuses to settle and lengthens the process. His word is what keeps you a guest rather than prisoner." Suyo frowned a moment, processing slowly before shifting despite the stabbing pain to bow low over her knees. "Don't rip those stitches! Ancestors damned if I have to replace them before the sun's rise... Easy to see why you two carried each other here." An exasperated sigh rippled out from the Orc as his palm scrubbed over his face.

"We... Carried each other...?" Her focus was torn from the Orc's tone as she rose and set into a perplexed stare. Her confusion only doubled when Vrash erupted into a full sort of heartfelt laughter.

"That you did. You each had one hand around the other's guts, holding them in as you wobbled on those knives across the rock. Collapsed on the edge of camp in quite the mess, the vultures were licking your blood trail up before you hit the ground."

Suyo couldn't quite comprehend what of the situation was so humorous, but at least there was some context to her arrival. The memories were still hazy, more clues might piece it together if meditation did not first. Vrash caught the uncertainty in her features, though his assumption was not in the same line.

"Honor demanded we fix the pair of you. As much as the Horde needs every body we have left after the last few years, the Valley isn't the most secure location yet. Moxra tells it that you purged the Quillboar on the southern bluff. Those were his task. But that is his problem, and what it meant was that perhaps you could be an ally for us here... You are an ally, yes?"

Suyo did not hesitate with her reply, as steely as she could manage with lungs full of fire and dust.

"So long as I have honor in me, I am indebted for the life you have spared. Beyond that, so long as your "Horde" shows honor... I can be considered their Blade."

Vrash clapped his hands together with a laugh. "A little wordy, but acceptable. Glad I don't have to send you out to the pit. Haven't seen a bear like you in some time... Big guy came through once, they say he was something else. Love a challenge, but just as well, always glad to have another pair of hands." The Pandaren merely remained as perplexed and pensive in expression as she began, though at least the Orc's enthusiasm was vaguely encouraging. It was the most emotion she'd seen in the days following her first waking. She tried to dip in another bow but a sudden sharp growl from Vrash cut that in it's tracks. Seemed some seriousness was left in the big guy. The burning question remained of course.

"When do I start?"

Vrash's grin was wide as he responded. "Whenever you have healed."

It was exhilarating to feel adrenaline in her veins again. Not like trying to walk for the first time in days. Not just swinging her sword for the first time in weeks. Real combat. Life or death combat. Her opponent wasn't the most glorious challenge. A snap forward and she barely stumbled back from the sharp pincer, Scorpid clattering and hissing in rage as it skittered about and tried to impale with it's poison dripping stinger. Her wrist flicked and she knocked the strike aside with her blade, the very motion caused her side to erupt in agony, but it was a fight between life and death, there was no room for comfort. It wasn't the most graceful dance, but for the first time in weeks she was dancing the blade again. The beast surged and snapped, and she had to match step to keep her limbs in tact. The mere stretch and stress on her muscles, all of them, was an exercise in fortitude as much as rehabilitation. Pain clawed across the whole of her form, her fur was slick with sweat and matted down across her body. Her breathing was heavy and rough, her posture was slouched and stance pitiful. In all she was a mess, covered only in tight bindings over her torso and a ragged cloth hanging from her waist. But by the gods, Suyo knew she was alive.

"Stop dancing with it and kill the damn bug!"

Her colleague was not so patient. The perpetual scowl on his face caused by the sharp rend in his lip was only deepened by an actual scowl as her glowered from across the field.

"Do not bark at me just because you can not walk without a crutch." Her retort was sharp and swift, and clear by the reddening to Moxra's face that it stung true. She allowed that amusement to curl her lips in a smirk. He was not wrong though, there wasn't enough time in the day to dance with scorpids and meet with the Shaman. Plus whatever task he may have been storing to keep them earning place. With a swift stab she pierced the chitin and scrambled the bug's brain, taking care to back away from it's dying lashes before offering it a gentle dip in bowing. Not the most appropriate but she couldn't manage proper form if her life depended on it, which it luckily did not quite.

Not that proper form meant much where she had landed. If she had learned one thing in her few weeks in the Valley of Trials, as the Orcs had taken to calling it apparently, it was that structure was incredibly lax. The sort of inspired chaos was breath taking, in it's own right. Orders came down from on high but the nature of how anything really got done or the order to rank and file was jumbled and without law. Groups of peons were tasked by overseers, actual 'Seers' were some sort of mystics but it was a term she'd learned was both somehow at once and not synonymous with the other Shaman. Raiders had wolves, but there didn't seem to be a great deal of raiding to be done which made for an incredibly vague position to hold. There were grunts, there were taskmasters, there were overlords. The only real constant she'd learned is that any higher order was to be treated as such, and superseded the lower ones. Not that she was always quite sure who's title was more weighted than the other's. What she did know though was that her keeper was the one relaying most of her objectives, and that was enough direction to start.

Moxra had been paired to her as soon as she was fit to walk again. Initially of course there was tension, even still the young grunt wasn't particularly proud of his position or his shameful return to camp. Part of him clearly despised her swift recovery, every opportunity she took to stretch her limbs he tried to double the act and stay ahead. Each time he'd get pulled aside to have his stitches checked, fussed at by the Shaman, or gradually beat down by his own flagging body until he had to stop and lean aside something stable.

The walk to the rise where Vrash sat in meditation was a long and fairly vertical one around the valley's edge. As per the usual he seemed to know they were there long before they spoke. As the pair rounded the corner they were met with a drenching blast, water spraying across their faces and dripping down their bodies as the good natured keeper chuckled. Fire and rocks circled the air around his head as he motioned them forward over his shoulder.

"The day boils. I figured you two could use the refreshment."

The other Orc merely grunted at the humour, brushing himself off and leaning against the cliff face at his side. Suyo took stance toward the other and stared over the Valley and it's small sea of tents.

"It is good to see you're faring well Pandaren. Although I heard your feet dancing in the dust. We expect tasks to get completed, not toyed with." Suyo's head dipped at the Shaman's words, frowning to herself as she exhaled in a frustrated sigh. "And you in the back. Don't think I can't smell the blood on you. You tried your own hand at one of the bugs thinking to take the Pandaren's task?" Moxra's scowl deepened, if such a thing were possible, the gruff sort keeping whatever dour opinion to himself as his own head briefly bowed to their overseer. The accusation and sharpness of tone didn't last long. The Shaman rose with a reserved chuckle, hands clapping together as the elements dispersed around him and the earth clunked back to the ground it came from. "It will do the pair of you some good to be reminded of humility. As well as accept some cooperation into your pride. The majority of peons are busy carving out the rock that will serve as home. You two will carry rocks for the front gate while they are busy."

Moxra immediately erupted with fury, barking and snarling in Orcish as he stomped forward without the support of his crutch. Vrash turned about with an oddly calm posture, but his tone snapped into a steely and commanding sort. Or so Suyo had to imagine given how guttural the Orcish tongue was on it's own. Back and forth they went. Moxra would stomp and throw an arm, the Shaman would snort and bark something curt in return. Vrash crossed arms at his chest, the younger Orc snarled and postured as if contemplating a strike. From the tales she'd been told, Suyo was surprised when the two merely turned backs to each other. The younger, arrogant body hobbled his way down the cliff in pain and anger, the Shaman simply drifted back to his meditative stance with a rumbling hum under his breath.

"What... Was the nature of that argument?" The Pandaren inquired.

"Hrmph? Oh. You are still here. Go on, off with you, there is work that needs to be done. If you want to know what the source of Moxra the Arrogant's issues are-" The elder shaman barked a laugh. "-Then you may consider it an optional addition to your task to coax him to explain."

It was not a process of hours, but weeks their allotted task required to complete. Not simply for the nature of a large gate needing manpower and time. Morning after morning the Pandaren and her rival would trudge across the valley to the cave quarry and begin hefting slabs of rock and chiseled blocks onto an awaiting cart. Then as a pair they pushed it across the valley, unloading by the pass where peons would take them up and slot them unto the growing wall. Then the process would repeat, one load after the next, one rock after another. Moxra continued his attempts to one up the healthier woman, throwing around chunks nearly his own size, huffing and snarling through his bleeding gut as he refused to slow or pause. Suyo did not need to exert to outdo him, his body always flagged and fell long before the day's end even if he himself refused to quit. She took up the slack, with great chagrin and gritting of teeth under the stress, but she held.

One day, under the scorching sun, they struggled with a slab beyond their combined strength even to throw, barking and shouting back and forth before the Pandaren had to roll aside to avoid the crushing weight. Moxra dropped his end with a gasp and near collapsed, red earth drinking deep his trickling blood. Be it the heat or the Orc's arrogance, Suyo's patience snapped and she stomped forward with fangs bared.

"What kind of pitiful warrior are you? What childish death wish do you have that you are going to kill us both? Your pride?"

The Orc did not suffer the scathing well, already beyond irritated and infuriated. He tried to rise but failed, stumbling to a knee and coughing up a splatter of blood as he barked through the gurgling. "What do you know of pride, bear? What do you know of honor and humiliation? I will regain my standing, if it kills me, you, or anyone in my way!"

"Tch. Honor? Dying under a heavy rock? Do you listen to yourself or am I expected to use your skull next to break these stones down? There's no honor in falling to a boulder!"

"I know!"

The pair of them gradually fell to the ground, rumbling in the dust as they caught their breath and fumed. "There's no honor in this... Or killing bugs... Or fetching water. They're peon tasks." Moxra snorted sharply, slamming a fist into the cracked earth. The Pandaren pushed herself up enough to prop onto her shoulders, spitting dust from her maw as she grunted.

"... What is the matter? It is work that must be done. Hard work at that. These peons need direction and handling, you do not. Should this not prove-"

"No." The Orc's retort was snappy and snarled. "Peon work is for peons. Or the infirm. The weak. The weak work, or they die, the Horde has no place for cowards and failures... I failed. So this is my punishment. My humiliation. In the eyes of my Horde I am worthless."

The Pandaren considered this in silence as the Orc slumped. For a moment. Moxra was not to wallow in his angst, pushing his battered body from the dust and turning back to the stone and heaving will all his withered strength to little avail. Suyo wasn't fully sure how to continue for a time, so she waited and stormed her brain. No matter how she approached it, there was at least a few constants. The work had to get done, it was her task as well and she would also not be some drain on these new benefactors. The Orc was to be her partner until they were healed regardless, Vrash had been clear on these instructions and for all his ignorance Moxra at least was pushing her to her own limitations and growth. There was only one practical solution it seemed.

Rising out of the dust with a degree of renewed determination she focused intently on carefully placed motions. She squared up with the Orc at her side to continue the task at hand, and with a great heave the massive slab ripped from the earth and rose over her head. Moxra balked, he could feel the great lack of pressure on his palms, the sudden surge of power confused him, and the sense of inferiority left him oddly humbled rather than enraged. He simply couldn't comprehend what the Pandaren had that he lacked.

"We have a great deal of stone to carry. Come. I will need your help." That was all she spoke, motioning for him to follow.

Most days followed a similar sort of archetype, for many weeks. They would labour under the sun and stone. Some days were smooth, others they would get heated and bark back and forth. Never again did they drop a single stone though. Suyo refused to. Though she made sure that every massive rock and slab she carried, the Orc was hanging on, step for step.

It was a strange thing to be a part of another people, as temporary as it was to be. Some evenings around the fires, she would listen to the tales of great hunts and strange beasts from a far off world. Some days it was games of strength, wrestling arms or bodies, challenges of throwing axes or lifting stones. Mornings, the few that were not explicitly regimented for work or meditation and exercise, were much different. She'd watch tanners and their hides, the smiths with their grindstones. Children were an incredible rarity, but a handful still roamed the valley though they were a treat when she saw them. She had assumed it was the nature of their raising, one day she found one of the older girls wrestling boar sows to the encouraging cheers of her mother. She had asked why the child would be allowed such risk, rather than training with a blade or hefting boards. The response had something to do with their nature as a culture of warbands and hunters, the very notion was as foreign as it was dangerous to the Pandaren but when she expressed concern the huntress of an Orc merely laughed and waved it off as their ways. The lack of children though was not the danger in their upbringing, as oft as she saw the young toying with rock spiders and chasing lizards. It was something with their past an their exodus, though it seemed prudent not to inquire too deeply from the looks on faces whenever she danced around the subject.

She meditated with the Shaman, Vrash as well as others. She carried tools and stones, cleared pests and hunted meat. It was a serene sort of daily chaos, something different every few days at the least. As her body strengthened, her tasks grew more intensive. From stones she moved up into hunting, from hunting, she was directed to the raiders for patrols. Every opportunity she shifted up, Moxra was not far behind. He swelled and postured under all the dubious gazes and glares, though his recovery had been slower his strength returned in pieces all the same even if it was taxing to keep pace with the Pandaren. Their status became known, and though there were but a few skirmishes with Quillboar, Centaur and the like, their combat prowess vastly outshone both their enemies and the grunts that directed them. It was a crawling, clawing process to regain respect, but it was a humbling journey. Mostly. Moxra never lost his fire and demand for ever bigger threats, stronger opponents, and heavier tasks, but the Pandaren's composure gradually rubbed off in some ways and even he learned how to keep his tongue checked just so.

But two wanderers were not meant to confine to a valley. Noble though the hard work may have been, it was a waste to keep them where they could not do the most. Vrash gathered them to discuss their options and the three meditated on the ridge to the valley for a full evening considering the best use of their skills. Early in the following morning though a terrible screech echoed across the valley from the pass. From their ridge they rose and looked to the east, a lone rider with a plumed wooden mask tore into the valley on the back of a tall creature with sharp teeth and wicked claws. The Shaman chuckled, waving a hand across. "Ask, and the earth will provide."

"Ya ain' seen da kid?" The runner gave a long, rasping sort of sigh, feathered mask rustling as the Troll's head shook.

"Just the other day? You are certain? I can gather the watch but I felt nothing in the earth and we heard no call of riders or otherwise." Vrash rumbled, serious and perplexed as he rubbed a thumb over his chin. The Pandaren and Burning Blade stood a few feet back, joined by the Grunts of the pass, all mostly quiet if hovering inquisitively.

"I believe ya. He not our best runna, figured he could at least stick to da road. Supposed to tell ya, be needin' hands if ya have spare... Might be havin' to ask ya help find him too." The paired warriors glanced to each other with the same thought, frowning quietly in the background as the Shaman continued his humming and consideration.

"How many? What ails our brothers?"

"Barring poor runnas, got sometin' waylaying caravans up da road. Raiders be coming to fix dat, but we need some big kills if we gonna make up da losses. 'Less ya got the spare resources, gotta ask if you got some bodies ta spare."

Vrash's usual grin slowly returned around his stubby tusks as he turned. "I think we just might."

By the evening the runner was gone, raptor dashing through the gate with a parting cry and troll whooping from it's back. Suyo and Moxra set out the following morning with packs bursting of hide and smoked meats. Their objective was simple. They were to venture off the road and sweep the red dunes in passage to Sen'jin, hopefully finding the missing runner and at worst arriving to deliver the goods before cutting back across south by the ocean to complete the search grid. Were it so easy, of course, but it was a start.

A slow start though. Near fit as they were, neither had committed to long marches yet and it was indeed a march. Their feet padded over rock and soil one step by the next. Climbing dunes, cresting hills, circling the outcroppings of jagged rock. They sat time and time again in the shade of the mountains or beneath the boughs of gnarled trees and their spiny branches. Familiar scavengers soared about between the occasional cloud, lizards and beetles skittered from behind rocks and out of crevices as they passed. Moxra retained his ever permanent scowl, the expression twitching every time a wrong step pulled his weak muscles or sore gut, eyes forward only and never scanning beyond the immediate sight. Suyo was somewhat more attentive, albeit in a relaxed fashion. It was good to move again, not just walk but wander and explore. Hers was the gaze that picked up the shift in every breeze and the texture of each rock. While Moxra set his pace and took point, the Blademistress remained a step behind to observe what she had traded her life at home for.

For the moment, it was mostly dust and rocks. But it held it's own sort of charm. A challenge of survival, and she loved a good challenge.

Unsurprisingly they did not find any large tracks or clues as to where the missing messenger may have been pulled from. In the distance the road looked largely unperturbed and tranquil, as much as it could through the warping heat and dust clouds. The sun rose and fell through the sky, from orange to bright and back as it crept toward the horizon and threatened it's departure. It was staring into the sky Suyo caught the same harbingers of her own death, circling some ridged trench. She'd seen them time and time again over the course of the day and hadn't realized their disappearances weren't past clouds or into the plains, it was dives into and from the trench. With a grunt she pointed them out to the Orc, the pair of them watching with narrow gazes. The Burning Blade immediately waved it off as average carrion, unworthy of the attention. Their primary objective, as he saw, was to deliver meat to the weak not carry the corpse of a failure home. The Blademistress disagreed. They argued on it for a time, marching all the while. It was a subtle victory it took the Orc some time to notice, but when he did he bristled and grumbled the rest of their trip.

She'd quietly stepped to nudge him closer to the vultures, keeping wide to his side and inching in and ahead to distract his steps on his need to be at point.

When they reached a point, a soft warbling echoed into their ears. At times it was low and abrupt, others it was like a long croaking. The pair were perplexed by the unknown sound, one that even the Orc had to admit he had not come across in Durotar yet. Occasionally, suddenly, it was broken by a sharp cry, hoarse and shrill accompanied by the scavengers ascending back to circle denied or spooked from their claim. Strange as it was, fear was not the sort of emotion that a warrior of cold steel emulated, so they marched around the rock and found a cut into the ridge to stumble through in casual approach. The worst, they expected, was some wild or dying beast drowning in it's own blood. When they stomped into the wide basin of the ridge, they found that they were half right, and half wrong. Immediately a pair of bloodshot eyes snapped to them, the spindly thing scrambling over a mound in the shadow of the ridge, scraping it closer to the dark with a streak of crimson stretching under the motion. Moxra must have known what he was looking at, Suyo was still trying to piece it together.

She did not get any help from the Orc as he growled some particularly harsh phrases in the Orcish tongue. The context she did not know, but what she had learned to differentiate, narrowly, was tone. Even if the majority of Orcish tone was bellowing or grunting. Fringes of brick red hair and rounded tusks poked out of the dark, there was a brief sniffling before a raspy retort in the guttural tongue. Suyo saw a pair of fingers gripping tightly at scaled flesh, they shuddered and twitched as the Orc barked back. She stood frowning, something wasn't adding up in her head, or perhaps it was just the context that was lacking. With a soft grunt, she nudged the Orc, disregarding the continued babble from the shadows.

"What does he say?" The Pandaren inquired.

"Coward claims he was ambushed. Raptor fought off whatever tried, died fighting. Doesn't have a scratch on him, he must have hid or run." The Orc spit on the ground as he explained in the Common tongue. The male in the dark flinched, visibly receding and continuing his warbling in half-choked tones. Suyo frowned even deeper. Something was missing.

"Do you speak Common?" The Blademistress stepped forward as she spoke. There was a long pause.

"... Yah."

"What is your name?" She continued with a cordial tone. Not soft, but without aggression. There was another long pause.

"Jimbda of tha Darkspear."

"Hail, Jimbda of the Darkspear. I am Suyo of the Blade. This, Moxra of the Burning Blade. You are the messenger lost?"

"That me, yah." The Troll sniffled again, trying and failing to catch his breath and steady his frayed nerves. "I tell ya friend, they come out o' da dust. Surrounded Shar'ran. She cut dem good but she was one, dey was many..."

"And why is your spear not stained in blood, Coward?" Moxra snapped up, arms crossed and muscles tensed. Playing to his strengths, and terrifying the poor troll.

"I ain' got a spear! I run, das my job, I good at it. Shar'ran she run good too, she be my spear when we hunt, but this..." The Troll tried to muster some sort of courage or composure, but it fell flat and he collapsed atop the dead beast, shuddering and weeping as before. "... It all my fault mon. I try to cut across the dunes... I was sure we be too fast but... Cut us off... Had blades and we had nothing... She tossed me and she gave 'em hell. Bloody before I even got out tha dust. All I saw was she take a sword right through the heart. Had to go right back down or..." Jimbda continued in his mourning, sputtering between breaths as he caressed and clung to his passed companion. The Orc fumed and stepped forward, directly into the Blademistress's hand as she turned and shoved him back a step.

"He is not a warrior. His cowardice is not damning. Leave him be." She set her foot down with a tone of cold steel, Moxra only trembled with seething fury.

"His honor is stained, he fled from combat, abandoned his blade-sister to her death! We should be bringing back his -head-! The Horde has no place for cowards and parasites, the children learn early or they get left behind." The Orc snarled particularly sharp with that. Suyo glanced back to the Troll a moment as it finally dawned to her. With renewed viciousness she suddenly slammed her gut into the Orc's, forcing him to stumble back as she stretched her spine full.

"A -child-!? This is how you treat the young!? He is not a spear dancer, he is a gods damned messenger. Outnumbered and out armed, his beast chose his life over her own. As a good -warrior- sacrifices. You would dishonor the warrior's rite? I'll cut you apart where you stand if I hear you yell at this child one, more, time." The ursine roots of her genes showed as her teeth gnashed between words, tone heaving with breaths as she growled and roared each word. Silence fell over the trench for a moment, even the mighty Moxra was taken aback and unsure how to react, his stance softened and he just barely shrunk under the woman's aura despite their equal stature. With a huff she turned from him in disregard, approaching the Troll and kneeling down aside the fallen beast. "Jimbda of the Darkspear... We were sent to find you, and bolster the stock of your people. Vengeance will come to the monsters who took your beast's life from you, but you must-"

"I can not do dat." Jimbda raised his gaze to match the Pandaren's, Suyo blinked at the shocking resolve with which he spoke.

"... Can not?"

"Nah. Big one dere is right... My honor be stained... Shar'ron grant me her power if I give her the justice she deserve... I failed her, Suyo of da Blade. She haunt me if I don't make it right, and she be right to do so. I ain't da best at no thing, they make me run because running the only thing that don't require thinking. I failed dat too. I gotta make up for it, or I go back and they just turn me away like ya big one there... It da price... Of failure."

The Pandaren took each word in and carefully considered. Even in the back, Moxra held a contemplative frown, but after a moment he was the first to huff and point out a simple flaw. "What tracks? What scent? We have nothing to follow."

The Troll shook his head. "That where ya wrong." He strained and huffed, hunching and pushing with all his might to roll the raptor over out of the dark. Deep gouges were carved in her flank and a wicked rend displayed the shattered bone of her ribs and ruptured heart. That though was not the unexpected. The unexpected was the figure impaled on her claws, equally lifeless and bloodied around the holes in it's own chest. Wrapped in dark leathers, a black bandanna concealing the jaw and leaving only grey, lifeless eyes and short chopped muddy brown hair exposed. Suyo was again not well versed, but Moxra whipped forward to inspect the corpse before howling in rage.

"HUMANS? In -our- home? They dare to brazenly abandon peace, I'll collect their lying tongues and drown them in their own blood!"

Suyo rolled her eyes at his incredibly sudden enthusiasm to help poor Jimbda claim his vengeance. "They're likely opportunists. Look. It lacks a crest, no colours or standard... Where are the nearest humans on Kalimdor? Or they could be pirates."

"What they will be is -dead-." The Orc snorted.

"So ya be helping me? We kill 'em good, den head home as... Well you two be heroes maybe.. I just be a disappointment." The outcome of his fate did not seem to faze the Troll much. There was a weary resignation somewhere in those eyes, but his voice held the first glimmer of hope he'd had in a day. Suyo of the Blade gave him a nod.

"On our honor... We will restore yours."

They made camp in the sheltered den, striking a small fire near the center and sticking Jimbda on first watch at the only sizeable entrance. The Pandaren and the Orc set to stretching a hide over some sticks. Not the best tent, but serviceable enough for one evening. They took the time to dip into the mest from their packs and even stomped a few skittering lizards to rotate over the soft flame. Moxra took the second shift as the Troll surprised the pair of them, butchering the remains of his companion and cleaning the bones. Suyo was the only one who declined to feast of the raptor flesh, despite reassurances from the Troll that it was quite common practice among his people. Eventually they shifted to the cramped tent, Pandaren setting her blade against a rock on the exterior while Jimbda collected up the raptor skull and tucked it tight to his chest while he slept. The crackling of fire and soft whisper of dust on the eind took over. It was an oddly peaceful thing.

Then like shadows under the moon, three figures crawled over the rocky ridge and carefully crept down to settle on the basin floor. Daggers in hand they split and stalked on painstakingly silent steps to ambush the sleeping party and their vigilant watcher. Who would have expected such dexterity and cunning?

The answer was, evidently, exactly these three misfits.

The assumption was that the Troll was not a fighter and that with stealth they would have the advantage, three against two. The assumption was not incorrect, of course, but the advantage they did not have.

Moxra was well aware of the two shadows across his back, their bodies blocked the flame and set a chill across his spine. Both hands gripped the hilt of his massive sword as he knelt in barely patient anticipation. He waited until the shadows crossed the threshold of no escape. Then with a roar, he wheeled about and bounded across to strike.

When the cry went up, Suyo snapped into action herself. The brief distraction stayed the blade inching toward her neck, gave her just the opportunity to twist and grab the extended arm. She pulled the would be assassin down and slammed an open palm into his face, a sickening crunch confirming the blow. With the man disoriented she threw him overhead, propelling him into the rock with a kick before rolling herself up with his weapon now in her hand.

And just like that it was over.

Towering over the lithe body, Suyo could only heave in constrained, adrenaline fueled breaths. The human was writhing in pain, clutching his masked face with soft moans and wriggling up against the ridged wall with pathetic whimpers. She couldn't take such a weak life. There was no honor in it. To her side Jimbda had awoken slowly, equally terrified and clutching the raptor skull as if some divine protection would leak from it. The Pandaren pursed her lips in a frown, rumbling as she considered.

Moxra stomped to them some time later, carrying the pair of heads by their hair with his bloodied blade over his shoulder. Immediately he spat to the earth, barking at the Pandaren in disgust.

"Why do you delay? Kill this wretch. Be done with it."

Suyo glanced over the trembling human before shaking her head. "There is no honor in it."

The Orc snorted hefting the blade up and stomping forward to do the deed himself. The Pandaren stepped aside for him, tongue clicking under her breath. "Stain your own then." The weapon hovered just off his shoulder for a few moments, eventually Moxra snarled and brought it slamming down. The tip bit deeply into the earth and sunk further when he leaned over it's hilt to sneer.

"Run little coward. Come back to me with a blade in your hand... Otherwise for every pink skin I see in our lands again, I will collect their skulls, and bury you in your failure. Now leave. GO!"

The harsh shout caused the defeated man to stumble as he rolled and scrambled around the tent, huffing and whimpering under his breath as he scattered into the dark. That was that.

They returned to their rest, Suyo took up the next watch, the moon passed through the stars until daylight seeped over the horizon and shadowed the ridge once more. Together they collected what little needed to be and set to finding the road. In this Jimbda at least had helpful directions, recognizing seemingly indistinguishably normal trees from others, or the vague curve of one ridge from the next. Before midday they had arrived on the edge of Sen'jin and a rider had hustled out to meet them around the border. He seemed visibly relieved at first, whether for the meats that would feed the village or for their safety was undetermined.

They recounted their tale to the forerunner, whom grew quite agitated not only with Jimbda's failure and the loss of a strong raptor but also the news humans had dared to cross Durotar. In the end the two Blademasters were welcomed into the village and greeted warmly. They were offered fresh water and strange brews to refresh themselves, Moxra was more than content to accept such offerings. Suyo however went seeking the fate of their young charge, wandering the collection of fairly open huts and navigating the many hanging chimes and charms with a degree of trepidation. Eventually she found a small collective of brightly garbed Trolls surrounding the lone child. Their tongue was far beyond her comprehension but she watched as the young one flinched and twitched at the odd bark and harsh, guttural tone. One of the older looking stepped forward, tusks chipped and mask bleached in age. He dipped a thumb into gourd hanging around his neck, swiping across the young ones head and leaving a bright red streak. The collective grunted and spat to the earth before turning and loping back to the village.

Jimbda merely scuttled off and pulled himself up atop a rock, cradling the raptor skull he'd refused to set down and hunching over with gentle sighing. He didn't hear the Pandaren approach before she set down aside him and grunted in greeting.

"O-oh! Suyo o' da Blade. I ah... Just resting mah feet before I face da elders..."

"You lie. I saw them surround you. What is that mark?" Her retort was swift, if not quite gentle. The Troll merely sighed.

"... Spirit brand. Da ancestors be seeing I a failure. Now mah flesh brothers do too. Won't wash off, da skin stain and scar over time. It a permanent sign of shame... Not gonna be welcome among many of my blood for a long time." His expression slumped right back into that huddled, defensive tone.

"So what is your plan?" She didn't seem particularly empathetic, her tone wasn't seeping with any particular warmth or sympathy. Her gaze did shift just enough to give the Troll her full attention. Evidently Jimda did not have one. He hummed and mumbled under his breath for a time, seeming to wait out until the Pandaren inquired again before grudgingly replying.

"... Don' have one. I walk off into da dust. Hope I learn enough to catch meat, live like da lizards do."

"Unacceptable." Suyo's tone was much more firm this time, the Troll flinched at first assuming it was reprimand. "... Where from I come, abundance is shared regardless of worth and standing. The noble and the wise ate aside the fools and the maids. It was an understanding that each body, no matter how infirm or weak, had their place and responsibilities." Jimbda shifted just slightly as he listened, softly brushing a thumb along the snout of his raptor's skull. "On the Isle whence I learned the way of the warrior, I too learned about the delicate balance... A warrior's duty is to live, and die, in blood and honor. Are you an honorable sort, Jimbda of..." The Pandaren frowned at her immediate misstep, but the Troll merely gave a wry chuckle and waved one hand off before returning to his token.

"I just be Jimbda now... Jimbda da Exile... Exile or no, I be wearing what little honor I have left. I ain' about to give up on being a better Troll just 'cause mah people don' think I have what it takes."

Suyo gave a slow nod. "That is what I expected... The way of a warrior is to die bloody and screaming into the night. Moxra is a warrior, the Orcs are warriors, your people seem to think themselves warriors... But there is a fatal flaw in your cultures."

The Troll barked a sort of laugh at that, his eyes spoke volumes of his doubt even in his detached state. "What flaw dat be?"

"You can not all be warriors." The Pandaren spoke flatly. Assured, as if common sense. "They told me, in the Valley, that an Orc was a warrior and a hunter before all other things. Do you know what I noticed about the wall the peons built while I healed?" As expected, the Troll merely shook his head. "It is a mess." She said, again flat as if obviously apparent. "It will last exactly as long as it needs to until anything heavy comes to push it over. Because the peons were directed, treated like slaves, beaten to keep working and most importantly... Not an Overseer there would match to an engineer from the Isle. They make walls second... Their axes come 'first'. So instead of being masters in their field, they are mediocre at both."

"You speak bold words Suyo o' da Blade. What your point be though? I ain' a warrior, I ain' a runner, I ain' good at no thing."

"No. You merely have not found what you are prepared to master. You do not make a master out of the student who gives up, and you do not make a master out of the student you refuse to teach. I will not teach you to be a blade. You may, however, come with me on my travel. Perhaps you will find something that you can master, or a teacher who will take you. I can not, on my honor, leave a child and an exile to his own. Not when I accepted his charge, even if his people have revoked that task. The honor of it is not chosen by leathery hides and long beards, the honor is in the act. Would you act in honor to earn your place in this world?"

Jimda shifted to slide from his rock but hesitated as he ambled to his feet. Though it could well be the last opportunity, doubt plagued his thoughts. What if he failed this strange, ursine guardian? Could he really regain his honor or would the stain remain? Shuffling aside he brought himself to his knees before the Pandaren, taking a pair of steadying breaths before lifting the raptor bone above his head cupped in both hands.

"Shar'ron as mah last witness and loa, I do what you need to da best o' mah skill, until mah honor be redeemed or ya decide it be my time to go."

"Your little oaths are cute. You understand that such things are not to be trifled hmm? I'll not have my honor blighted because you two soft skins can't heft the weight of your words."

The pair turned at the Blademaster approached, cleft lip curled into the faintest semblance of a smirk rather than it's perpetual scowl. Something about his tone seemed an attempt to mask what one assumed was his humour, though the Pandaren merely scoffed.

"I assumed your honor would have you return to the Valley. This task is done, should you not seek another?" Suyo crossed arms, the Troll scrambled up to his feet and tried to maintain some sort of dignified posture. It wasn't exceptionally effective, half hunched and standing in tattered shreds of old cloth. He was largely disregarded as the Orc focused on the Pandaren.

"I owe you an honor debt."

"You killed two humans, and we carried each other bloody to heal. That seems even to me."

"Even, yes. But even is not enough. I must surpass you, it is my rite of Blademastery to shadow you as the inferior warrior." Jimbda quietly glanced back and forth between the pair as the squared off, tense but a moment before the pair chuckled.

"I see... The Troll comes along all the same. I call the direction, until I ask for expertise. Are we all clear?" She found no challenge to the claim, Moxra scoffing and shrugging as Jimbda bobbed his head in excited, eager anticipation to be of any use. "Good. Then we go north."

"Why north?" The Troll inquired, immediately flinching as the Panaren turned to respond.

"We go to the larger hold they build. Orgrimmar. They will have challenges for even mighty Blademasters. That is our purpose, and for now, it is your purpose to make sure we get to and from these challenges. Clear?"

"Ya." An eloquent response, but at least it seemed fitting from the simple boy of a Troll.

So they went north. They crossed the red dunes and cracked plains and braved the endlessly buzzing hive of Orcish homeland. They spoke with many, bartered little, argued some. Those tales though were minor in the Pandaren's story. A long story though it is, but like the road of a thousand tiles, the lesson of failure was merely one of more to come. Another time.

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