In the Valley of Trials

A resounding crash of thunder mixed with the sharp sound of wood meeting flesh, and the demon screeched its last, thick blood leeching from its crushed skull into the dusty orange soil. A rough greenish hand reached down and yanked a small golden medallion from the creature’s ruined neck, discharging a spark into the gore-stained metal. Kazimierz wiped it clean, gazing upon the symbol imprinted on it with a satisfied grunt. Heedless of the punishing sun on his back, the orc slipped the insignia into the rough boarhide bag he wore on his belt and began a loping run back to his taskmistress with his prize.

The eight years since his first real taste of battle on the slopes of Hyjal had been transforming; once gangly and on the scrawny side, the harsh demands of carving a nation from a savage wilderness had combined with the natural effects of growth to make Kazimierz swift, agile, and strong. After much deliberation, he had chosen to devote himself to the spirits-partially out of respect for the newfound traditions of his kind, and partially out of somewhat more selfish reasons.

Perhaps with this task done Shrikha will teach me...if she doesn’t know who I want to contact, maybe…

Kazimierz’s thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice, high-pitched and scratchy as only a goblin could manage.

“Kazi! Buddy! Tell me you’re hurrying to deliver those barrels you said you’d finish for me!” the goblin said, gesticulating wildly as he stepped in the young orc’s path. Sweat gleamed on his face, mirroring the shine on his perpetual toothy grin.
Kazimierz snorted, cheered a little as always by his sometime mentor’s enthusiasm.

“No, Vicks. I have had more pressing responsibilities today,” he replied, waving his bloodstained quarterstaff as evidence. “But I have reamed them, and I will finish cutting the rifling when I have finished Farseer Stormeye’s tasks.”

Vicks eyed the gory trophy with clear distaste, heaving a theatrical sigh. “You’re breaking my heart, Kazi! You know who wants those rifles, yeah?”
With an sudden scoop, Kazimierz lifted the squawking goblin onto his shoulder and set off for the Farseer’s hut once more.

“Who’s that, Vicks? Another tauren chief trying to outfit his braves? They’ve enough guns that a few more or less won’t make a difference.”
After a few sputtered and perfunctory complaints about the indignity of the situation, Vicks settled down. “Sian’dur, that’s who!” he said, and continued in disbelief at Kazimierz’s blank stare. “You know, that svelte little troll who teaches archery in Orgrimmar? Come on, Kazi, get with it. My future’s at stake here!”

Laughing out loud now, Kazimierz waved off the goblin’s pleas. “I am sorry, but the Farseer’s tasks come first. She has a free hand with her staff if I’m tardy, you know” Suppressing his mirth for a moment, he continued. “ I don’t think the good hunter’s tastes run to goblins, in any case. Rest assured I’ll have the barrels to you as soon as I am able, though…assuming you have more blasting powder for me?”
Vicks seemed to wilt dejectedly. “ Yeah, I have the powder…you really thi-“

A sudden thunderclap cut Vicks off, and the sharp scent of ozone overwhelmed the dusty smell of sandstone. Immediately, Kazimierz dropped to a knee, all but flinging the goblin from his shoulder as an imperious voice boomed over him.

“Neophyte. You disappoint me again,” intoned Shrikha Stormeye, lightning crackling like tearing silk in her outstretched hand. “Leave us, goblin. This orc has important things to be attending to.”
Vicks scuttled off, for once speechless, leaving Kazimierz to grope for words.

“Farseer Stormeye, I-“ he began.

“-have obtained the medallion I required, yes,” she said, and her imposing countenance softened for a fraction of a second. “My title is, indeed, more than a mere formality.” She eyed him up and down, the gusty winds of Durotar whipping her bone-white hair out of its tie. “You spend too much time with that goblin and others of his ilk, Kazimierz. I sometimes doubt your commitment to the path you say you have chosen.”

Kazimierz remained mostly still, but a close observer might have noticed the suddenly crushing grip he had on the rocky soil. “The spirits do not reject me, Farseer, and I remain as loyal and focused as any of your other students,” he said, managing to avoid any overt aggression in his voice.
Stormeye circled slowly around the kneeling orc, her weathered face unreadable. “Why, then, do you waste your time with tinkering? Do you doubt the power of the elements?”

Kazimierz shook his head vehemently. “No, Farseer. I need no further demonstrations,” he said, focusing on the solid, calming earth beneath him. “I find the arts of engineering intriguing. For all it seems to be mere ‘tinkering’, the goblins derive great advantages from their knowledge. I seek to serve the Horde in as many capabilities as possible, Farseer-would you deny me this chance to learn?”

“There are things that are unwise to learn, young one,” she muttered, but shook her head anyway. “So be it. I will allow you to learn the goblin’s teachings, so long as your training here does not suffer for it. Rise,” she said, and gestured to a small table with a clay bottle on it. “If the spirits accept you, you will learn a great deal about the mighty earth today…”

Kazimierz took the bottle and smelled the contents-alcohol, the tang of copper, and the cool scent of deep earth. He took a drink, and the world changed...