Trial's end, road's beginning

There was no great ceremony for an orc who had completed his trials. Once the instructor felt the student sufficiently prepared for the world outside the valley, the student was informed of this, a utilitarian gift was given, and they were shown to the gates. The precise nature by which a teacher determined readiness varied, but usually it was a feat of strength or a milestone in their development-the few sanctioned warlocks, for example, were typically deemed ready for the hostility of the world at large after they managed to successfully bind a demon to them, while warriors had their own complex hierarchy of duels and kill tallies that would mark them prepared.

For Kazimierz, it was the correct use of a spirit totem that would mark his entry into adulthood as a shaman proper. Anticipation woke him as the first glow of dawn broke the hillside above Vicks’ workshop, and with a slight smile he noted the goblin, collapsed at his drawing desk. Wasting no time, he stepped into the still-cool air and began a measured run towards the Farseer’s camp. The storm had brought temporary life to the desert, and many small, red flowers had taken hold in the swiftly-drying ground.

Wait…what if I can’t show her? What if I fail again?

The sudden doubt halted Kazimierz mid-stride, and he nearly tumbled to the ground, fighting back a surge of panic. Almost frantically, he closed his eyes and reached through the totem to the spirits of earth, seeking a handhold from which he could metaphorically pull forth a stream of energy.

Nothing happened.

Again and again he reached for the spirit-threads, but they slipped away a little faster each time until Kazimierz could try no more, howling his desperation into the still morning air. As the echoes came back to him, he sat stiffly down and sought to clear his head.

It was almost an hour before he mustered the will to try again. Now mostly calm, he slowly twined the earth-spirits into the shape he had seen before, weaving and folding until something seemed to snap into place. Immediately, a surge of near-numbness washed over him, and the comforting glow of the totem manifesting itself broke the shadows. Tapping experimentally against one arm proved the totem’s effects: he felt almost nothing until he struck a hard blow, which seemed faint and weak. Heartened, Kazimierz cut the threads at their base, watching the light fade away before weaving again, then a third time-each summons faster than the one before it.
It is as she said, Kazimierz thought, heaving a sigh of relief. With practice comes ease…

His footsteps steady again, Kazimierz picked his way through the broken sandstone of the valley wall, in time coming to a small path, carefully cleared of loose rubble. At its base, the path was marked with a simple cairn, itself serving as the stand to a banner of the Horde that had clearly seen better days.

It hasn’t changed in seven years…same pile of stone, same tattered banner, he thought. He had been here once before, to be presented to the Farseer as a candidate for training. Though he had grown greatly in knowledge and stature since that day, Kazimierz still felt a little apprehension at the path that had once been a door to an uncertain future. However, the eyes of a shaman hardened in the Durotar desert saw more deeply than those of a child. That flag, it is familiar…

The treacherous seas of memory parted, and as if in a vision Kazimierz remembered a face from Hyjal: a blademaster, the scion of the finest warriors of Draenor. Scarred, bald, and broken-tusked, he had nevertheless moved like a summer whirlwind across the battlefield.

That banner was his, Kazimierz realized. He bore it on his back. Is this his grave? I have not seen him since…

Kazimierz’s hair stood on end, and the smell of ozone wafted down the path. Startled, Kazimierz turned to see Farseer Stormeye gently rolling a small orb of lightning around in her palm.

“I trust you are not here to try again, neophyte,” Shrikha drawled lazily, seemingly engrossed in the play of lightning across her skin. “Speak your purpose, or you will find a more urgent one.”

Kazimierz bowed as low as he could, given his still-painful ribs. The events of the previous day rested only lightly in his mind-the past was past, after all. “I have come to give proof of my skill and devotion, Farseer,” he spoke solemnly. The old orc raised an eyebrow and crushed the lightning orb in a fist, her eyes briefly mirroring the flash of electricity.

“Do it, then,” she commanded, face neutral and voice bland. “Show me what you deem fit to present.”

Kazimierz forced his mind to be still and smooth, and called up the totem with only a modicum of mental shakiness while Shrikha watched expressionlessly.
“Explain, neophyte, what you have done,” she said as he finished, slowly inspecting his work from all angles. Her face was still devoid of emotion, and Kazimierz began to feel the chill of nervousness eating away at his gut.

“I have called on the spirit with which I contacted, and from which I received my focus, Farseer. While it manifests, myself and those I choose are graced with a fraction of the earth’s resilience,” he replied. Shrikha stared at him for several long moments as his heart pounded.

“Aka’magosh, shaman,” she said suddenly, and her lined face broke into a smile. “It is time you found your path on your own two feet.”
The Farseer pulled Kazimierz to his feet and beckoned him to follow her as she strode lightly up the steep trail to her home. He followed, keeping silent as she spoke.

“You have skill enough in the ways of battle to not embarrass me too much, son of Ro’al, and enough knowledge to learn of the spirits without the crutch of constant guidance,” she said with grudging approval. “I have more to teach, and I will do so, when the time is right. Meanwhile, you can begin paying back the debt you owe to the Horde.”

Kazimierz nodded seriously. “I will not shirk my duties, Farseer. Tell me where I am needed!”

By now, they had come to the stout wooden door of Shrikha’s hut, perched high on the valley wall. She opened it and nodded for Kazimierz to enter behind her. The room inside was small: a bedroll on the ground and a small collection of partially-filled bottles the only features of note. From behind the door, Shrikha hefted a two-handed axe-made splendidly and well decorated with Alterec silver, but old and worn.

“Normally, I would give you something like this and point you in the direction of our enemies, but you’ve given me a conundrum. You are in no fit shape to fight, and I cannot heal you without breaking an oath…so you’ll be a runner until you’re hale again,” she said, grinning in a manner which some might describe as unpleasant. “Are you ready to begin, shaman?” she asked, with a slight emphasis on Kazimierz’s new title. He nodded.

“Good. Take the axe,” she instructed. “There is a man called Valgrim Emberhammer in the Valley of Honor. Tell him I sent this to be given to the new ambassador-he’ll know what to do, both with it and with you.”

Kazimierz waited for a moment until Shrikha tapped him with her walking-staff. “Go! You’re a runner now. Run along!”

Trying not to breathe too deeply, Kazimierz seized the once-glorious weapon high on its haft and started the long jog to the city.

The way to Orgimmar was not an easy one. Lacking the experienced stonemasons of the dwarves or the humans, the roads were often crude, simple affairs of flattened stone and dirt, and many regions had no roads at all. Portions of the road wove their way through canyons, offering some shelter from the sun at the expense of attracting the fearsome giant scorpions native to Kalimdor. These threats, however, were known and embraced by the orcs of the Horde. Though some young died from their stings every year, more were stung repeatedly through childhood accidents and adolescent bravado until they developed a fair resistance to their venom. More threatening were the natives who had already sworn blood against the greenskinned newcomers: the filthy bird-women whose nests lined the sandstone crags, and the quilled pig-men that encroached ever closer from the wastes of the barrens. Kazimierz had seen them as a child, but the scattered bands of the past had given way to much larger, more organized groups which threatened even the might of the Horde. The winding canyon on the last leg of the trip to Orgrimmar was the home to one of the great flocks of so-called ‘harpies’: the Dustwing, an eternal thorn in the side of travelers from Razor Hill or points further south. It was late afternoon that found Kazimierz at the entrance to Dustwing canyon, eying the sheer walls and dark corners of the rock with unease.

Not a soul wanting to travel north today. Just my luck, he thought bitterly. Knowing no fear is easier when you’ve a cadre of warriors at your side and both arms working.

Kazimierz had made Razor Hill the previous night, the fortified town that served as a hub for travel coming from the Barrens and far Mulgore. It had been shocking to see tauren again, so tall and fearsome on their kodo, though seeing guns with Vicks’ mark on them in their hands had forced a smile.

Didn’t know he had so many customers…guess that’s why he took me in. I’m sure he could use the help, and I’m damn sure he knows I’m trying to learn more. Wonder why he lets me…

Vicks had given him a last gift before his departure: a large satchel full of explosives, ready for use against any marauders who might threaten him. A gun was not to be considered; Kazimierz had his pride as a shaman, for one, and perhaps more importantly he had proven an exceptionally poor hand at the noisy weapons. After the toe incident, Vicks had kept him confined to explosives, the dangers of which were learned by goblins in their cradles for all Kazimierz knew.

No sense delaying the inevitable.

With far more bravado than he felt, Kazimierz strode confidently into the gloom of the canyon road…