The spirit on the wind seemed gentle and comforting, and at its touch Kazimierz felt the chill of fever begin to leave him, the sick heat around the gashes receding. After a few seconds, only the clean pain of damaged flesh remained. Kazimierz practically glowed with relief, and Kun must have noticed, for the big tauren chuckled lightly.
“I have seen that expression before, young one, and it is ever my joy to see it. Come, I will finish mending you,” he said, stepping into the shallow lake.
Kazimierz followed, interested in the ritual as much as the results. Kun closed his eyes and scooped up a handful of water, the liquid not slipping between his fingers but swirling gently above his palm. Kazimierz caught a whisper of power slipping from the white-furred tauren into the water, a slippery energy that he could barely detect. A pale mist breathed out from the shaman’s hands, then spiraled suddenly outwards to surround Kazimierz. It was cool, and smelled faintly of honeysuckle as it wound around him, piecing his body back with an almost imperceptible soothing sensation. After a few moments the mist cleared, revealing Kun standing empty-handed and unmoving, a faint smile on his face.
“The spirits of water and rest are ever a joy to channel, Kazimierz,” sighed the tauren contentedly, and he winked at the orc. “I can teach you if you like, little brother.”
Kazimierz raised an eyebrow, and Kun rumbled a low laugh. “You smell of the spirits, under the blood and sweat of the road. Recently cut lose, perhaps? I doubt many have the fortitude to suffer while they hold the key to their own shackles, as it may be.”
“You are correct, friend,” Kazimierz replied, spreading his hands in concession. “It would be an honor to learn from you, if you are willing. I fear I may not have enough time, however- I must be on my way in the morning.”
Kun nodded understandingly. “I will teach you what I can in the time you have. That is all any of us can hope for. Here, consider the waters around us…”
The moon was high in the sky before Kazimierz slunk to the dim common hall to sleep, his mind still working over the rituals needed to entreat the aid of a water spirit. Unlike the earth spirits, who responded best to bold requests and strong mental calls, water required a gentle, circumspect address; instead of a direct invitation to visit the shaman, water spirits needed a gentle hint that there might, perhaps, be a place for them somewhere nearby. The tauren had taught very differently from Shrikha, using gentle encouragement instead of the orc’s strict, humorless discipline. He was not sure which was more effective; while Kun’s teachings were certainly more pleasant, it did seem that the tauren went on rambling tangents that would never have begun to intrude on the Farseer’s valuable time.
The common hall was where visitors, or at least non-official visitors, were permitted to rest for free. The food was cheap and filling, if not exceptional, and Kazimierz was one among many who sought their rest on the thin mattresses set out on the floor. The fire inside the massive fireplace was banked, glowing softly in the darkness, and the sharp aroma of smoldering mesquite wood was as much a feature of Orgrimmar as the sandstrone cliffs around the city.
Kazimierz had been to Orgrimmar before, shortly after it had been built, shortly after Radzimierz had adopted him in the aftermath of Hyjal. Radzimierz had gone to take his place with the Kor’kron, as many who had fought and survived the ordeal did, and Kazimierz had yet been too young to live amongst the novices in the Valley of Trials. The city was much changed since-many more tauren and trolls wandered the streets, and the scope of the buildings had expanded considerably, but it was still familiar, for the most part.
These ‘Forsaken’, though…they are troubling, he thought, settling in for the night and reveling in the lack of any shooting pain through his arm and chest as he did. There is no reason we should give them anything but a swift, merciful death, and yet the Warchief entertains their leader, gives their soldiers quarter in our home. What could we have to gain from association with them? And yet…they are already acting differently. I’ve never heard of a scourge unit seeking diplomacy, nor of abiding by the rules of hospitality, but here they are.
Kazimierz began to drift off, eyes and mind heavy. Perhaps there is a reason, then…
Morning was bright and clear, like so many other days in the harsh Durotar summer. The flowers and plant growth the brief storm had generated were gone now, eaten by beasts and vermin or simply wilted and dead in the stark heat. Kazimierz was roused by the noise of others in the room stirring, and crept sluggishly to his feet. A few coppers bought him breakfast-bacon and eggs from the farms that littered the countryside south and west of Orgrimmar. The expenditure made him frown-he’d not earned much as a student, and the Farseer had not seen fit to grant him petty-cash for his trip. Still, it was enough for the bed, the meal, and some left over.
The Valley of Honor was busy today-abnormally busy, with many times the amount of passers-by than normal. At the first hoarse, oddly resonant cry, Kazimierz understood: the Forsaken were practicing with the soldiers, giving demonstrations of their curious weapons and styles. He would have liked to watch, but the crowds alone put the idea down, never mind the task still set before him. It took almost the same length of time to get to Emberhammer’s forge today as it had the night before, the throngs of murmuring onlookers replacing geographical ignorance as the primary time-consumer.
The ashen-skinned orc was awake and at work already, sharpening, grinding, and polishing busily. He had somehow gotten a hold of one of the Forsaken’s arms and harness already, with an apprentice promising customers that the ‘secrets of the lich king’s design’ would soon be implemented in the master’s work. Emberforge himself was sharpening a lumber axe as Kazimierz approached him.
“I have returned, master smith. Is it finished?” he asked, searching the various racks of iron and steel items. Valgrim grunted a vague affirmative.
“Axe’s finished. Over there, under the cloth,” the big orc responded, jerking a calloused thumb at a small table set out of the way of those browsing the shop. Kazimierz pulled the cloth back, and the brilliant sight beneath it nearly took his breath away.
The axe was glorious. Every bit of the once-tarnished silverwork shone mirror-like, the old, cracked haft had been replaced with some vibrant red wood that glowed richly in the sunlight, and the jagged edge had been ground smooth and sharp. In a final touch, the insignia of the Horde had been etched into each face of the blade and filled with paint or some sort of sticky dust, showing in stark contrast against the bright steel. Kazimierz felt vaguely unworthy in the presence of such a piece of art, such a piece of craft. He eyed Valgrim with a sidelong glance.
“How much did this cost?” he asked, taking hold of the weapon and swinging it gently. The axe seemed to thirst for speed and power, scything through the air with the promise to shear flesh and bone with equal ease.
“A lot. Don’t worry. Someone else covered it,” Valgrim replied shortly. “Take it to Tojarra Limbsunder. He is at the training fields with some of the undead.”
Wrapping a rag over the impeccably clean blade, Kazimierz bowed in acknowledgement and began the long process of edging close enough to the individual practice rings to see who was fighting. Kazimierz had heard of Tojarra, who had a reputation for his skill and ferocity in battle that had spread quickly since the Horde had made landfall in Kalimdor. His name had come in the initial battles against the centaur, and was a half-horrified honorific from the tauren he had been sent to protect; apparently, Tojarra had gotten in the habit of completely dismembering centaur and building cairns of their legs and arms on the outskirts of villages thought to be under risk of attack. While none could say if the tactic worked, it had made him almost legendary amongst the tauren, accustomed to fighting almost regretfully as they were.
So I suppose he’s the new ambassador now, sent over to these…Forsaken, Kazimierz thought, squeezing between an orc and a tauren engaged in furious gambling over the current sparring match. Don’t envy him that post, standing around with a bunch of rotting corpses. Wonder if he’s made someone angry…
Kazimierz’s musing was interrupted by a sudden cheer from the crowd to his left, and he went to investigate the source of their excitement. He nodded with satisfaction when he saw it was Limbsunder himself entering the ring, long hair wild and a human-style sword in his hands. His Forsaken opponent was equipped with eerie similarity, and they bowed stiffly before the match began.
It was not long before the fight was over, and if the Forsaken valued personal prowess as much as the rest of the Horde, the new Ambassador had made a lasting impact on their opinion of his skills. He had broken both wasters in a savage block, then repeatedly pummeled his opponent with the hilt until he cried for quarter. Grinning the grin of an orc in the midst of a good fight, Tojarra returned to roped-off arming area, and Kazimierz pushed his way through the crowd to meet him there…
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