Kazimierz was far from the most hardened orc in the Horde, but he still had endurance born of a lifetime of hard work and running. It was nearly midnight when he stopped to rest, bathed in sweat and dust. By the shape of the hills to the southeast, it would be an easy journey when he awoke; only a few miles still separated him from the valley pass. Even from here, he could smell a little of the smoke from the valley-sharp mesquite, mostly, with the slight tang of Ashenvale charcoal from a forge hidden somewhere nearby. The stillness was nearly absolute-this far from the coast, there was no sound of crashing waves or fluttering gulls to disturb the night, and what creatures did stir were not of a raucous nature. It was peaceful, and the foes of the Horde were unlikely to walk this particular stretch of road-in short, a good enough night to spend outside of home and hearth. Kazimierz laid down his light traveling pack to make a serviceable pillow and fell into exhausted sleep, images of glory flitting in his mind.
Morning was uneventful; the first pale shades of light brought the slumbering orc awake. Though the fervor of yesterday had been banked a little by time, it still burned in Kazimierz’s soul, and he wasted no time on such trivialities as sitting down for breakfast-he ate the dried meat and fruit that made up his trail rations as he ran. The scent of cookfires from the valley had intensified, overlaid with hints of bacon and cactus-no doubt the apprentices were having their own meal now.
This time of day, the Farseer will be near the Den, Kazimierz thought, mentally plotting his course as the valley gates loomed up over him. The small squad of guards, well-tested by the fires of battle, waved him through-they had seen him grow up under their watch. She will be training the newest acolytes, teaching them the most basic of rituals and callings with a stern gaze and a heavy staff.
The Den was the official residence of all the young ones until such time as they were chosen by a master to take more dedicated instruction. Many stayed until their trial was complete, learning from experience and from the trainers as a whole, content in the mix of different techniques and styles. It was a homey sort of place, for orcs-a cave, dug from the earth, with its many rooms lined by beds and buttressed with the everpresent orange sandstone. The Den’s subterranean construction meant it stayed relatively cool even in the punishing heat of summer, and many childhood friendships had been made in its comfortable depths.
Just outside the Den, however, were the grounds used for training, and the particular placement of local geography meant they almost always lacked for wind. The boar and great scorpions that wandered the area were frequently used for lessons: withstanding pain, finding weak points in armor, defeating an enemy that did not care it was dying until the last of its life withdrew. Numerous were the trinkets of death the trainers required: claws and stingers, tusks and heads and tails. They were proof of a student’s progress, and frequently thrown away in great batches, leading to dire confusion on travelers who found themselves kicking a giant pile of boar tails. It had not been so very long ago that Kazimierz had been hunting the creatures himself, only his staff and the tenuous lessons of shamanism to aid him.
Now, however, things were different. As he had passed his trial, this was not his home-home would be wherever he managed to forge a place in the world for him and his. Already, a few younglings had passed him, short and gangly yet. On their faces was awe; a far more diluted kind than that the great heroes of the Horde could generate, but awe at Kazimierz’s stature and armaments nonetheless, awe at the thought that he had done all they were struggling with and succeeded. He walked up to one of the passers-by, a short female orc whose hide clothing and worn bow marked her as a hunter, and nodded in greeting.
“I seek Farseer Shrikha, young one. Is she yet at the practice field?” he asked evenly, and the hunter nodded.
“She is, wanderer-she will be for some time. You..are her student, yes? I think I saw you practicing with her before,” she said, eyes glittering with recognition. “Kazi-Kazimierz, isn’t that you? Do you remember me?”
Kazimierz tilted his head, trying to place the hunter’s face in his mind, and finally coming up with it:
“Pelagia...? From the Warsong Clan? Honored ancestors, it’s been a long time…”
And it had indeed be a long time: Pelagia had been one of the other children from the camps in Arathi, a vague face from a dark time. They had played together with the other children, alternately trying to avoid garnering too much attention from the guards and actively antagonizing them as a form of entertainment. She had grown greatly since then, her arms sinewy and strong, her shoulders broad, her eyes sharp and attentive. They were blue-Blue for a great destiny, favored by the spirits, Kazimierz remembered, though that was a point of some contention amongst the shaman. It had certainly applied to the Warchief, but there were many blue-eyed orcs who failed…and many brown- and red-eyed who’d made their mark in history.
He realized he was staring, and bowed hastily. “Throm-ka, friend. I take it you are still undergoing your Trials?” he managed to say without stumbling over the words too much.
Pelagia nodded, lifting the bow in her hand. “I’ve gotten to be a good shot, but something’s made First Sergeant Sian’dur irritable lately, and she won’t admit I’m ready to pass. What about you?”
Kazimierz shrugged, grinning widely. “I completed my last trial a few days ago. Just returning now from Orgrimmar-the Farseer set me to a few tasks up there.”
“
Orgrimmar…are the rumors true?” Pelagia asked, looking sidewise at him. “Are there undead there, talking with the Warchief? I’ve heard it filter through the messengers, but no one has firsthand news.”
“It is true. Perhaps fourscore of them for an honor guard, and their emissary,” Kazimierz replied, nodding soberly. “She toured the city with the Warchief, then they went into Grommash Hold to talk. They call themselves the Forsaken.”
Pelagia’s eyes widened. “What were they like? Like the Scourge?”
Kazimierz shook his head. “Not like them in manner, though they looked alike in form. They were careful, mindful of our ways-they even took to the arena to demonstrate their skill. Cunning fighters, most of them,” he said, then threw back his shoulders a bit, adding “I got to watch Limbsunder fight one. Broke the wasters and dropped it with the pommel, but it held its own for a while.”
She blinked at that, then grinned sharply. “It sounds like they’d be quite an ally, if the talks go well…I suppose it’s worth overlooking their deformity, huh?”
Kazimierz had no quick response for that, and took a moment to compose his thoughts before speaking. “They…are unnatural. I fear no good can come of alliance with these ‘Forsaken’-their spirits have been warped and twisted to remain in their bodies, and the elements themselves seem to crawl from their presence. I do not doubt they are able warriors, but the price…it may not be worth paying.”
Pelagia blinked a few times, surprise on her face. “That’s ill news, Kazimierz. We will need all the help we can muster soon,” she said, and at Kazimierz’s raised eyebrow plunged ahead. “My father says the kal’dorei,”-and she all but spat the word-“are growing bolder, attacking the roads, sometimes the mills directly. He says they see more and more of their Alliance show up every day to fight beside the scum-humans from Stormwind, dwarves from Ironforge, gnomes from whatever hellhole they hail from. We need allies, Kazi.”
Kazimierz opened his mouth to speak, but the little hunter kept talking, getting louder and faster.
“They outnumber us many times, you know. Our skill and ferocity level the playing field, but my father says if they keep coming like this we’re going to lose a lot of ground. Are these Forsaken really so abhorrent that we can risk rejecting them?”
With a sigh, Kazimierz shrugged, his face torn. “I..cannot say. The spirits despise them, but we…we as mortals may require their aid, if the Outriders have truth in their tales.”
Pelagia nodded, and they stood silent a moment until Kazimierz looked towards the practice yard.
“I must go, Pelagia, but you have given me a great deal to think over. Perhaps we will meet again?” he said, and at her nod he turned away, walking towards the practice fields.
The Farseer was there, steadily laying down the early lessons to group of new youngsters just coming into their teens. At Kazimierz’s approach, she glanced at him, then gave the trainees the task of calling an earth spirit into the ubiquitous wooden clubs they carried.
“You return with your task completed, Kazimierz, and I hope more thought in your mind than when you left,” she began, then noticed his unbandaged arm with a frown. “Hah. It seems you have found a way to weasel out of the rest of your punishment. Well enough, then-you’ll be better-suited to a combat post anyway.”
Kazimierz stood-respectfully, of course, eyes downcast and body language submissive, but on his feet as his new title permitted-and bowed before the Farseer.
“I will go as you command, Farseer. But I beg a boon of you,” he said, and she sighed wearily, waving her hand to bid him go on. “I believe I found a human scout yesterday, near Razor Hill. I would request permission to take a few trainees near the end of their trials, or those recently past them, and scour the area properly to see if there are more, and if we might catch them.”
Shrikha nodded immediately, the irritation vanishing from her features. “I watched your little encounter, and amusing as it was, it cannot be permitted for humans to have the run of our nation. I applaud your initiative in pursuing this matter,” she stated, then slipped a small metal rectangle out of her pocked. “Here. Give this to the trainers, any of them, and tell them you need a student. They will assist you in doing honor to the Horde.”
Kazimierz took the token, ready to go…
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