Totems and Technology

Moving!

2010-04-09T12:50:00.003-04:00

Just a brief note here: we are moving to our very, very shiny new site at Wordpress! This site will now be inactive, but all my posts will remain if you want to see them in their native lands.

www.totemtech.co.cc is the new URL...see you there!

Totems 101: Restoration (OOC)

2010-04-06T16:17:00.002-04:00

Now continuing my little guides for low-level shaman, we come to Restoration, the healing tree. If you enjoy instancing a lot and prefer to either not quest or struggle through them (in a vain, pitiful fashion reminiscent of, perhaps, a concussed kitten chasing a dragonfly), Restoration is likely for you. If you're shopping between different healing classes and specs, here's a rundown of what Resto is usually good at from a healer's perspective:

Purging Status Effects
With Tremor Totem and Cleansing Totem, the talented spell Cleanse Spirit, and use of the ranged, threat-reducing interrupt Wind Shear, a Resto shaman is capable of nigh-effortlessly keeping his party clean of everything but Magic debuffs and can act to prevent spell damage from occurring. This is a /very/ large advantage for certain areas, such as Heroic Halls of Reflection, where the many crowd control/poison/curses and painful spells require much more attention or simply healing through on other healing classes.
Balanced Healing
Back in the Burning Crusade, Chain Heal ruled the AOE healing charts. Now, we're not quite so masterful on AOE, with holy priests and resto druids able to beat shaman on the higher raid tiers, but shaman now posses a varied and useful set of healing effects; Riptide for a instant-cast heal with a HoT effect attached, Lesser Healing Wave for quick, mana-efficient heals, Chain Heal for AOE, and Healing Wave for big or (with cooldowns) emergency heals, and Earth Shield for passive, threatless healing.
Group Support
With all the usual shaman buffs and the group-affecting Mana Tide totem, a restoration shaman brings many buffs to a raid or group, particularly for long, healing-intensive fights in which multiple healers may go OOM.

So if you decide this sounds like something you'd enjoy, read on. :)

The early levels (1-40s)
Early questing is exactly the same as any other shaman-you hit things, they die, heal yourself, etc. Once you start getting stats on your gear, you should aim for spellpower, intellect, crit, and MP5...avoid spirit and hit, as they're useless for you, and physical stats like agility and strength are completely worthless.

Until level twenty, you have exactly one healing spell in your arsenal: Healing Wave. It's slow, but it heals a big chuck of health. Talenting for reduced cast time will be /very/ useful. Once you do hit twenty, you get your Water totem, and the much faster-casting Lesser Healing Wave, as well as Water Shield. This suite of abilities will /greatly/ improve your ability to heal, as your mana will regenerate much faster, and you have cheap, passive heals to supplement your more mana-efficient LHW spell. At 30, you get a handy boost to your heals with the Earthliving Weapon imbue, which should be active at all times. You will receive no major changes to your healing spells until level 40.

Middle Levels

At the aforementioned level 40, you gain Chain Heal, which is one of the more unique spells in your arsenal-it jumps to other targets near your initial target. Glyphing for CH is highly advised if you're regularly healing large groups, as it'll let you heal an additional target. It's tempting to spam CH, and in some circumstances that is the ideal solution, but save it for when your group is A: Clustered and B: taking steady AOE damage. If the tank's the only one getting damaged to any serious extant, then LHW is still your best bet-Healing Stream totem is very handy for patching up group damage.

At level 50, you pick up Earth Shield, which should always be placed on the tank. The healing from Earth Shield gives no threat, and procs every few seconds in a serious fight. Keep it refreshed when it drops to one or two stacks, and it'll help a great deal. This is the last ability you learn until your level 60 talent, which gives you Riptide. Riptide is an instant-cast heal with a HoT component, and interacts with your other spells in beneficial ways. After casting Riptide, your next two Healing Wave/LHW spells are buffed: HW with a massive haste boost, and LHW with a 25% crit increase. Additionally, the healing from Chain Heal is increased dramatically on the Riptide target while the HoT is active. It's thus generally preferable to use Riptide frequently and on targets requiring a great deal of healing.

Discussing addons...I personally use Healbot to simply matters, but something like Grid or another unit-frame addon and mouseover macros will help a /lot/, and can help free your attention to focus on things like the void zones spawning under your feet or that painful spell the mob is about to cast. There are a lot of things to keep track of in groups and raids, and anything that frees your attention will be of great use.

Shaman healing is, in my experience, quite fun and rewarding. Best of luck in the randoms!

Totems 101: Enhancement (OOC)

2010-03-22T18:28:00.002-04:00

Well, my lovely and talented Faeldray has written up something interesting, and based on that and the shaman I had the...dubious honor of grouping with on my alliance rogue, I think it's time I wrote a little something on my favorite class. This is meant primarily as an overview and introduction to the class for new players, or players who are new to shaman. So please, pencil and paper only, and there will be many tests on the subject as you level. :)

First, there are the talent trees: Elemental, Enhancement, and Restoration. These three trees encompass spell dps, melee dps, and healing, respectively. If you are just starting to put talent points together, think carefully about what you want to do in the game, and how you want to do it. This post will cover Enhancement; I'll go through the other specs in later posts.

Enhancement is my primary spec on Kazimierz, my personal favorite to play, and the best for those who like to solo and quest their way up the levels. This tree favors melee combat, and allows a number of powerful group buffs that aid those with similar talents: 20% melee haste, 10% increased attack power, and the highest strength/agility buff in the game. If you enjoy getting up close and personal with your opponents, this tree is ideal.

Given this focus, you want to maximize melee DPS. As a shaman, you gain 1 AP per point of STR and one AP per point of AGI. Since AGI adds crit chance as well, it is the clear winner. Low-level enhancement shaman should try to gear for agility, crit, attack power, and some hit if they find it. Strength isn't bad, per se, but agility gives you much more. Gear with intellect isn't particularly useful at this time, and spirit should never be considered for any flavor of shaman, as it gives nothing beyond its underwhelming passive, out-of-combat regeneration.

As far as weapons go...from 1-39, you'll want to grab whatever two-hander you can use and has the highest base DPS. Agility is nice, of course, but base weapon damage counts a lot more. You should imbue this with Flametongue or Rockbiter; whichever one you've trained a new rank in most recently is generally a good bet. Both improve damage on hit; flametongue also buffs your spell damage (but not healing). Both are inferior to Windfury, which you train at level 30-this should /always/ be on your weapon once you have it, as it gives a chance to effectively hit three times with buffed damage. Unless you PVP regularly, Frostbrand isn't going to do a lot of good, and brings very low DPS compared to the other options. In this level range, you will typically be using totems sparingly, but they are very handy for tough fights or mob-heavy areas where you won't move a lot. Use Earth Shock, auto-attack, and keep Water Shield up: it'll keep you in mana (and thus health) for no cost.

Now, at 40, you will gain the ability to dual-wield, if you talent for it. Scratch that, you will talent for dual-wield; it's a massive boost in both DPS and smoothness over the two-handers. Combined with the ability to wear mail, this means a very big jump in your ability to kill quickly and without taking a huge amount of damage. This ability to dual-wield means you have to think about what kind of one-handers you use, however, and the answer is based on your Windfury Weapon. Every time WF triggers, a hidden 3-second timer counts down, during which no more windfury procs can be generated. This, combined with the other useful talents Stormstrike and Lava Lash, means that the slowest possible weapons are advantageous. Additionally, you should imbue your offhand with Flametongue; the WF timer does not discriminate between weapons, and the extra attacks will be much weaker if they're from your offhand.

As you advance from there, your combat priority changes: start with Stormstrike, then use your Earth Shock to profit from the nature damage boost, using magma/searing totem and Fire Nova as your mana allows. Mental Dexterity means you can profit from Intellect on your gear, so don't discount it anymore, and at 50, you gain access to the wonders of Shamanistic Rage: 15 seconds of damage reduction and mana generation. Proper use of shamanistic rage and Improved Stormstrike will make it much easier to keep your mana up, allowing you to drop totems as a matter of course. The best are generally Strength of Earth, Magma, and Windfury; healing stream or cleansing are both solid choices depending on how toxic the region you're fighting in may be. As you obtain Lava Lash, add it after Earth Shock in your priority.

As I mentioned your priority, I should say a little more about it. You do not, as an enhancement shaman, have a rotation. You have a priority, and at any given moment of free global cooldown, you want to use the highest available skill on the list. Thus, for you 50ish shaman, it's Stormstrike/Earth Shock/Lava Lash, with Fire Nova on either side of Earth Shock depending on if it's a solo mob or a group. Learning to prioritize with each new skill should be a goal while you level, as you have rather a lot of them by the end-game. It's not too important as you level, of course, but if you want to maximize your damage output, it's something to practice.

As you approach 60, one of the most valuable talents becomes available: Maelstrom Weapon, which, when capped, will give you a 20% cast time reduction per stack on any lightning or healing spell. At the 5-stack maximum, this gives you instant-casts on some very useful spells. Soloing, you will find great use in Healing Wave to quickly patch yourself up mid-fight, while in groups, use of lightning bolt or chain lightning will up your damage dealt considerably. For optimum DPS, using a 5-stack of Maelstrom to cast Lightning Bolt is the highest priority of all your damage-dealing skills.

Your capstone talent in the Enhancement tree is Feral Spirit, and it summons a pair of wolves that make you into a tiny god for 40 seconds. They attack, they taunt, they give you faster movespeed, they break snares, and they heal you for the damage they deal-it's an amazing talent, and combined with shamanistic rage and maelstrom procs, you will be able to solo a great deal of the group quests in Outlands.

Grouping as an enhancement shaman is slightly different from soloing; the mobs aren't hitting you anymore (hopefully), and you don't have to worry about healing. First, the basics of DPS apply as always: watch your threat, target what the tank is targeting, and don't pull before the tank does. After these, you have a few more considerations beyond soloing.

First, you want to attack from behind whenever possible. While you have no Backstab-style skills, rear attacks are not subject to the enemy's full block/parry/dodge chance, meaning more damage and more chances for useful procs. Positioning like this also helps give the tank a chance to build threat, which is useful due to the sometimes-bursty nature of your DPS.

Second, you need to watch your totems, both to ensure they're giving the proper buffs and to make sure they aren't left in the path of a patrol. Familiarize yourself with your totems and what buffs they grant; death knights can duplicate your Strength of Earth effect, and allow you to drop Stoneskin instead; they can also duplicate your Windfury totem's melee haste enhancement and allow you to drop Wrath of Air for the healers. Knowing the mobs in the instance (or paying attention, if you've never been) will let you know when it's a good time to swap to Cleansing totem, or the ever-useful Tremor to strip fears and mind control. Proper use of these two totems will almost guarantee the healer's love in certain encounters. :)

Third (for higher-level shaman): use your cooldowns wisely. Shamanistic Rage lasts for 15 seconds, so if you're running low on mana, try to conserve until a relatively big or tough pull. Use your spirit wolves on every boss, and if there's a long time between them, don't be afraid to pull them out for trash. And Reincarnate wisely! It can be the difference between a bevy of corpse-runs or resurrection, or it can be the difference between a wipe and victory. You're low on health and mana when you come back, so take a moment to look around before you hit the button-AOE or void zones in your vicinity will be immediately fatal when you return.

The enhancement tree makes for a very entertaining and self-reliant shaman, combining good DPS with useful tools, potential off-heals, and flashy, powerful cooldowns. Look carefully at everything you can do, and you'll be amazed at the situations that you'll be able to get through.

Worst. Tank. Ever.

2010-03-03T11:11:00.005-05:00

I realize the title sounds like hyperbole, and I suppose it is, but...I'm pretty sure this one is up there on the global scale of tanks-that-should-not-be. So here's the setup: I queue as healer/vain hope *coughs* I mean healer/DPS on Kazi to grab my frost emblems today. Get into HHOS, and check out the group. Ended up with a pally tank with 26k HP-not bad, probably new, but even new pally tanks aren't bad to heal, right?

Well, right about as I finish casting Earth Shield the first problem happens. A mage gets a little close to the wandering 3-dwarf patrol that lurks near the beginning and body-pulls them. No problem, right? Avenger's Shield, Consecrate, Hammer of the Righteous, any of them would pull all three to the tank with almost no effort. I'm not concerned.

Until the tank runs around, doing approximately nothing. And I do mean nothing, the mage goes down before I see the pally draw her weapons to auto-attack. Once the rest of the DPS notice, the mobs start dying, but she never gets threat on anything. I check it out, she *does* at least have Righteous Fury up, so I figure she wasn't ready.

...how wrong I was. The first group she pulls, she loses *instantly*. Same with the second, and the third, and then the three groups combined after that. /Never/ did I see this tank ever get more than orange-level threat on something for more than a second. I finally mouse over recount, and, well...I'll show it to you (names withheld to protect the innocent. And the guilty).

Yes, the tank is the one in pink from Nazgrel. Yes, that *is* Hand of Reckoning as her top DPS ability. No, Consecrate, Hammer of the Righteous, any Judgment, or any other tanking ability are not present. And yes, that is Seal of Command being used, helping her generate the amazing 360 DPS sufficient to tank, I don't know, maybe level 60 instances? Oh yeah, remember, this was Heroic Halls of Stone, and she somehow had enough gear for 26k HP-more than you can get with a fresh 80.

I'm normally willing to put up with new players or less-than-skilled players, but this? Combined with her silence and the fact I could barely keep everyone alive on the easiest trash pulls...I bailed. I left group, and so help me I don't feel bad at /all/.

Except for the poor DPS who have to requeue, they're definitely worse off.

So...give me your stories of the worst tanks you've ever played with, and if you can top that...I pity you. ;)

brushes off dust

2010-02-26T12:15:00.005-05:00

So I know I've been neglecting my blog for a while, with little explanation as to why. Well, as you may have read on Faeldray's excellent site, the two of us have been spending as close to every waking moment together as possible for the past three and a half months now. She, wonderful woman she is, captured my heart and mind, and my motivation to write kind of faded as I valued time with her much more than writing...or sleep, or food, although those last two got me in a little bit of trouble...However, gentle prodding indicates I should probably start writing again, so here we are. Hopefully, I won't have another long absence like that.

No promises. <.<
Anyway, my incredibly sweet Faeldray has sent me a marvelous gift: a custom portrait of Kazi, kitted out in his Argent Dawn RP gear, Gorehowl in his hand. It's a beautiful piece, and I'm paranoid to expose it to damage, so it's going to remain mostly boxed until I can get a proper frame for it. :)
...yes, I am weighting down the corners with stacks of blank CDs. They may or may not also be the ones I use as a mirror when I want to shave at my desk.

...don't look at me like that. >.>

In any case, as you can see, it's a wonderful piece of art from a wonderful lady, and I wanted to share it with everyone. I understand this was made by our guildie Snugglekins, who I have not yet had the chance to compliment in person. You do excellent work. :)

I'll try to get back to writing now...hope to share more with you soon!

A gift

2010-01-15T23:09:00.004-05:00

This is a belated birthday gift for Faeldray at Petaholics Anonymous, who it has been my very great privilege to know and call friend. Qouth Wowwiki:

"A lok'vadnod is a prestigious song composed for a specific individual. It is commonly seen as the greatest honor the orcs can grant to an individual."

While usually the subject of a lok'vadnod is dead, Niqora's still very much alive. Happy Birthday!

Lok’vadnod for Niqora Wildstride

Harken, spirits, and heed my calling

That I may speak with sageful truth

Of the tranquil towering hunter

Of the mighty Wildstride

Born to warring plains and peoples

‘Twixt hateful hooves and twisting thorns

Dwelled her kind in cruel-edged battle

Dwelled the staid Shu’halo

In bitter strife did Wildstride strengthen

Sharp of wit and bright of soul

With her aim she warded elders

With the land she made her bond

Battered from the battles many

Bleeding stood the Shu’halo

Defiant through their doomed resistance

Defiant through their people’s night

Roamed Wildstride the barren badlands

Seeking shelter for her tribe

Ever stalking safer havens

Ever charting unknown lands

And as the Horde made hasty landfall

Wildstride wandered wide and long

To the woodland deep and looming

To the depths of Feralas

There, beneath the boughs of emerald

Found Wildstride a wolf of worth

Her hide of sable hue and luster

Her eyes of brilliant topaz gleam

Patient as the peaks above her

Stalked the woods did Wildstride

With skillful eyes she tracked the wolfling

With silent stillness she bode her time

And as the wolf loped lightly near her

Near the trap the tauren set

Readied her the rhyme of ancients

Readied her to sinter souls

Whispering her heart-wish swiftly

Before the snared and snarling wolf

Niqora formed her fastest friendship

Niqora to the beast was bound

Through slogging moor and icy mountain

Wandered Wildstride again

Always seeking, ever finding

Always Blacky by her side

Across the Plagueland’s fallow fields

And through the burning Blackrock mount

There was no shoreline shunned to travel

There was no stranger she’d not aid

With canny aim and cunning prowess

They ranged to regions strange and far

None may know their deeds for number

None could call their quests in vain

And as the Horde in heated battle

Sounded summons to the fray

Ready with her wolf she answered

Ready Wildstride marched to war

Amidst the spilling soldier’s lifeblood

Skirmished swiftly Wildstride

Gentle as she mapped and scouted

Gentle as she slew her foes

Never born to blood or thunder

Still Niqora knew their ways

Without fear she served her Chieftain

Without rage she earned her due

On her war-wolf swiftly riding

With her heart-bound at her side

Feared she made her name amongst them

Feared is Wildstride by our foes

And when honor’s hold was loosened

To savage southern dusts she strode

Seeking once more sights of wonder

Seeking secrets long unheard

In the bleached and bone-strewn desert

Stirred a strange forgotten foe

Driven by the voice of madness

Driven by the Old God’s gaze

Countless came the might of mortals

To face the fearsome threat again

Many stood and fought with fury

Many died to breach the gates

Yet Wildstride would not be among them

And though the thought was naught but desperate

Went she with the band of heroes

Went she to the Old God’s lair

None know aught of all they found there

Or of the wrathful ruin wrought

By the forty fearless mortals

By those who dared defy a god

Thought the toll was cruel and costly

Stood she with those who survived

Bow your heads and give her honor

Bow to Niqora, Old God’s Bane

Not content with quiet respite

Again she dared walk distant lands

Wandered with her wolf and weapons

Wandered to a broken world

Onward through the Outland wastelands

Wildstride wandered, Blacky near

‘Cross the crumbling crust of Hellfire

‘Cross the lakes of Zangarmarsh

Through Terokkar’s tainted woodlands

Across the nascent Netherstorm

Niqora ranged with green eyes watching

Niqora to the Mag’har came

On the gale-swept ground she battled

In service to our long-sought kin

Ogre’s blood she spilled in rivers

Ogre’s fear Nagrand now knows

With honor over those in waiting

Wildstride went to serve again

To the place we formed our folly

To the blackened Shadowmoon

Through the damned of Draenor’s darkness

Niqora watched and warred and won

Stood she at the black-built temple

Stood she at the Warden’s side

Amongst the needles born of nether

Those of shackled scales she found

Abandoned by black-hearted breeders

Abandoned once, but now no more

Disdaining doomed assault and slaughter

With beguiling guise she crept

Among the slavers, sly and slinking

Among their victims, breaking bonds

And with her cunning, canny luring

A sentry’s knell Niqora knew

Free was sable-scaled Saraku

Free again to aid his kind

Made them masquerade together

Foiling fel-orcs from within

Standing steady near the slavers

Standing, soon to pounce and strike

At last, the long deception dwindled

Before Betrayer’s blinded eyes
Away they fled on flows of nether

Away, in friendship forged of flame

And through her deeds so wide and wondrous

Her chieftain’s heart had with hers held

Together with her mighty Mysthowl

Together in bliss they would dwell

Yet peace was sparse and soon abated

As the Lich-King’s languor fled

Again with gun and gentle grimness

Again went Wildstride to the fray

To Northrend went Niqora freely

Not for only honor’s sake

Fought she for the fates of many

Fought the fallen, for their souls

At Angrathar she marched with honor

With the vanguard’s vengeful charge

Watched her Saurfang’s final challenge

Watched her Putress betray us all

And when the Warchief, ever watchful

With Sylvanus purged the halls

Niqora with the Kor’kron sallied

Niqora close beside them fought

Always seeking strange new visions

Through northern wilds Niqora strode

Finding friends to aid in battle

Finding sights of beauty deep

And when her clan with calm-set faces

Marched to slay the Lich-King’s pawn

With them Wildstride was stalking

With her, they felled dark Kel’thuzad

Bathed in honor bright and shining

She was granted duty great

Ambassador, of all our peoples

Ambassador to the Crusade’s call

Rose Wildstride through all aspiring

Skilled with lance and shield and bow

Until the Crusade called her sister

Until a Champion she was named

Now new terror haunts the northlands

Sibling spawn of dread C’thun

Dauntless, Wildstride advances

Dauntless delves to Ulduar

Hunts she now the ancient evil

Leading those who call her friend

Seeking through the Titan’s prison

Seeking dreadful Yogg-Saron

All who call her captain honor

Brave and valiant Wildstride

Always with her black-furred packmate

Always patient, always strong

Harken, spirits, and heed my calling

That I may swear with solemn vows

Of the truth of all I’ve spoken

Of the tale of Wildstride

A failure of spark (OOC)

2009-11-13T02:17:00.003-05:00

So you may have noticed I'm several days behind here. <.<

I still plan to make the attempt, but I'm going to try marshaling inspiration instead of the daily grind. *crosses fingers*

Anyway, even if I don't make the Nanowrimo completely, I still intend to post a great deal of Kazimierz's adventures and the like.

A shaman's duty

2009-11-10T17:08:00.004-05:00

Blinking back his surprise, Kazimierz clambered to his feet and bowed to his mentor in acceptance. To earn a surname was a mark of distinction, though the precise status gained depended heavily on what you did to get it. Marzena Brightaxe had earned hers through her flashy weapons style and nearly compulsive attention to her equipment-if she wasn’t intending to creep about, there was no piece of metal on her person that you couldn’t use for a mirror, and when combined with the oddly graceful spinning cuts that were a staple of her repertoire she was dazzling in the Durotar sun. Limbsunder’s namesake show of force has already been mentioned, and rumor had it Kazimierz’s adoptive father had become known as Ironfang after a particularly close-quarter and savage battle.

The Farseer beckoned him to walk with her, and they left the still coolness of the healer’s pavilion. Some distance outside, three bodies were laid out neatly: the remains of Marzena’s squad. Shrikha watched Kazimierz’s reaction carefully, but there was little to gauge-the shaman merely gazed wordlessly upon the corpses.

“I have taught you what you must do, Bloodhand. You were there when these warriors died…their souls still cling to you. There is none better suited,” Shrikha said, more softly than her usual rough-edged tone. “Give them the final honors.”

Kazimierz knelt beside the nearest of the fallen, picking up the strange charm of bone and feathers that the troll had carried with him. It still glowed lambently in his mind’s eye, a whisper and an echo of the warrior whose soul it had been entwined with. He called on the words he had been taught, speaking slowly and carefully in a tongue that had been ancient long before the demons came to Draenor.

The earth reclaims your body; let your spirit rise beyond it.

The fire of your heart is quenched; let your soul burn anew and unbound.

The water of life has left your veins; let your spirit flow unhindered.

The air of your breath is stilled; let the winds carry you to the Nether.

The ties of duty are broken; by your honor dwell amongst the Ancestors forevermore.

As he whispered, a ghostly glow rose in thin tearing sheets from the body, glittering at the edges of his sight. The weary presence of the warrior’s spirit brightened, then lifted entirely as the luminance faded away, but it did not fade from the shaman’s memory. The span of the troll’s life flickered and danced at the edges of memory, and Kazimierz knew the very essence of the one called Viljami. Once more, then a third time he repeated the ritual, and the deep echoes of two orcs joined the troll. Finally done with his task, he stood gazing into the dying glitter of spiritflame, overcome by the intensity of the remnants within him.

Shrikha gently patted his shoulder, her features approving and sympathetic. “You have done well, young one. They will find their way to the Twisting Nether, and the Ancestors will welcome them.”

Kazimierz responded with only a shallow nod, which the Farseer seemed to accept as sufficient. “They will fade from your soul, with time,” she continued, looking blankly into the distance. “It will not be so…overwhelming, eventually. But they will be with you forever, a shadow of their spirits.”

The farseer seemed almost hollow now, no more bluster or authority in her tone or stance. “It is the burden we bear, Kazimierz, to remember the dead in a way no one else is able. It is why we must be of stronger will than any other in the Horde, to remain able and ready to serve even with the weight of the fallen upon our shoulders.”

She left without further words, leaving Kazimierz to stare into the empty desert.

It was hours later when Kazimierz returned, still subdued. The others had awoken as well, and they were celebrating their victory with drink and food. The scent of spice-laden boar was tempting, but he had no desire for the rough companionship of the warriors. The young shaman walked instead towards the sheer valley wall where Shrikha’s hut stood, seeking answers.

The Farseer was sitting alone, meditating in the tiny stone room that she called home. She rose calmly at Kazimierz’s approach, turning to face him.

“You seem more at ease now. The spirits rest more lightly upon you?” she asked, beckoning for him to sit.

Kazimierz complied, nodding uncertainly. “It…was too much, at first. I could not separate myself from them. Will it always be so hard?” he asked haltingly.

Shrikha shook her head. “You will learn to stay aloof, at least well enough to function afterwards. It is similar in many ways to the hard-headedness required to deal with the greater spirits-a learned skill, not something you must be born with.”

Kazimierz sighed with relief, visibly relaxing. “It is good…I feared for my future, if this is what I must deal with,” he said, then paused for a moment, considering his next words. The Farseer raised an eyebrow.

“Speak, Bloodhand. You have grown into your role; you understand what I have tried to prepare you for. I have no further need of harshness.”

“The last fight, which you lauded my deeds? I cannot remember it, not coherently-only flashes of images, and the glorious rage…” Kazimierz trailed off.

“It fits with my own visions, then. I believe you caught the attention of a fury spirit, called it to you unconsciously. It is a gift, or great fortune, that you were able to do so while so inexperienced-I doubt you would have survived without its strength behind your own. Do not fear corruption, child. They are natural enough, though they take a dear toll on the body.”

“But…I have called spirits before, and always I have recalled my actions. Are you certain?” he pressed, the dark suspicion building in his mind. “I have talked with the old veterans...this bloodlust sounds too similar to their tales of the blood of Mannoroth.”

The Farseer’s eyes narrowed, but she responded in an even tone. “That one is dead and burned, Kazimierz. We are free from his influence forever. Do not forget this!” she admonished, then sighed. “If you had been possessed, you would have four more ghosts to deal with. Demonic bloodlust is…indiscriminate.”

“But then why-“ Kazimierz began, and the grey-haired Farseer interrupted him.

“You were almost lost to the mere echoes of three mortals sharing space in your soul, boy! Fury spirits are very rare, and very strong. It is no real surprise that you couldn’t hold on to your senses,” she snapped. “Enough of this. If you feel guilt, let it go; you fought fiercely and honorably.”

Sighing deeply, Kazimierz nodded. “I have another question, Farseer, if I am permitted to ask,” he said, and Shrikha nodded her assent. “The humans channeled some strange power against us; searing bolts of light, mostly. It felt…strange, neither the smooth rightness of the spirits nor the bloody pain of demons. Do you know what it might be?”

Shrikha pursed her lips irritably. “Yes. The humans called it the ‘Holy Light”, and their champions draw upon its power to heal and harm, much as we do the spirits. As to their source…I am not sure. It is not from this world, nor from Draenor-the Draenai brought the tradition of Light-worship with them when they arrived so long ago,” she said, eyes distant in recollection. “I do not trust the Light, nor the ones who wield it-it demands worship, not respect, so much like the Legion’s cults. Like shamanism, the Light can be used to heal or harm, but it is typically more focused-I have seen their paladins shield themselves or another all but totally against harm, yet to the others in need around them goes nothing. It is a power which should be respected, but held at arm’s length-I have seen many such alien powers and their followers, and they seem ever unstable.” She snorted scornfully, twirling a stick between her fingers in an unconscious gesture Kazimierz had not witnessed before. “I have heard word that the Lich-King, vile perversion that he is, was found and resurrected by one of these ‘paladins’. Do not become tangled in their affairs!”

Kazimierz bowed his head. “I thank you for your wisdom, Farseer. It is good to know what I face. If it is not impertinent, may I ask your opinion on our new allies?”

“They are…difficult to read,” Shrikha responded after a brief contemplation. “I have watched over them for some time now, and they do seem to be distinct from the scourge-they clashed bitterly over the ruins of Lordaeron’s capitol until the Forsaken drove them further east. But their intentions…I am unsure. There are rumors and whispers of terrible things in their ‘Undercity’, foul perversions of life stitched from dozens of corpses, concoctions of poison and disease. Yet these are only rumor-I have heard nothing substantial, and the rumormongers may simply be afraid of them.

“We need them, I think. We are still weak from the battles before Hyjal, and after the betrayals of the Second War, we have never regained sufficient numbers to challenge our foes directly. Even if the unsavory rumors are true, we must accept them as allies,” she pontificated, then laughed with a tinge of bitterness. “Besides, if our cries of redemption are to be believed, who are we to deny the opportunity to them? Our situations were not so different…we merely have the advantage of still living and breathing after our escape.”

Kazimierz took this in slowly, watching the smoke from the small cooking fire escape up the chimney.

That…is true, he thought, mulling over the Farseer’s words. Maybe they sought us out for that reason, knowing our history…

His mind worked over all the information Shrikha had shared, and Kazimierz was too deep in thought to realize the imprint of the dead warriors no longer troubled him.

The Raid, Part II

2009-11-10T03:23:00.003-05:00

Immediately, it became apparent that these were a different grade of warrior altogether, for they reacted almost instantly to the appearance of foes. There were nine of them all together, grim-looking, bearing heavy armor and two-handed swords, the blue anchor of the Proodmoore fleet emblazoned on their tabards. One of them, older by Kazimierz’s unfamiliar eye, raised a hand to the air. A rush of alien power tingled and shivered in the air, and Marzena yelped in pain and surprise as searing light bathed her armor. The young warrior leaped across the table, swinging her blood-drenched glaive.

Kazimierz couldn’t tell exactly what happened next, as another of the armor-clad humans had picked him out as a threat and began swinging his oversized sword with arm-jarring vigor. It was a little unnerving to feel such a powerful hit from a foe so small and weak-looking, and Kazimierz struck back with all the speed and strength he was able to muster. The human parried it forcefully, and the shaman began to have a sinking feeling that he might have found his match. The human shouted something in his incomprehensible language, and with a single stroke broke Kazimierz’s axehaft into kindling. The sheer outrage of being disarmed in such a way was like a blow, infuriating beyond measure, and the shaman roared deafeningly as he batted away another strike with the remnant of his blade. Reaching savagely for the power of the spirits, Kazimierz’s vision flooded red, the screams and percussion of battle drowned out by a howling wind in his ears.

The spirits twisted and sang, and the shaman knew only glory for a moment of eternity.

The rush of air receded, his sight cleared. A sudden intense wave of pain and fatigue washed over him, and Kazimierz stumbled to his kness, dully noting the wash of blood over the flagstones. Around the room lay bodies, crumpled and unmoving-one of the trolls whose name Kazimierz had never caught, his body seared and scorched by the unnatural radiance; the humans, some nearly hacked apart, some pierced with arrows, and a number that appeared have had their throats torn out; slumped down on top of the human commander was Marzna, leaning on the glaive embedded in his heart. In a corner Meshak was wrapping bandages around another of the orc’s leg, sporting his own bloody rags over his stomach. The last few of the squad were nowhere to be seen.

Steadying himself with a hand, Kazimierz almost slipped and fell, his sight registering at last his own hands: fingers broken, and covered in gore nearly to the elbow. He started a catalogue of his hurts, and abandoned it quickly-‘battered’ was too mild a word to describe the shaman’s condition, but he was alive. Stumbling, he made it to Marzena’s still form. She, too, had suffered many wounds-a deep stab to the chest, perhaps half a dozen cuts through her bracers on her forearms, and a terrible burn on her cheek-but still she breathed, if shallowly and irregularly. Blood flowed weakly even as Kazimierz watched, and he rummaged with shaking hands for a skin, a bucket, any sort of water.

Finally, his hands closed painfully on the remnants of a pitcher, broken but still holding a half-cup or so of the precious fluid. Holding it gently over Marzena’s paling form, he slid his mind through the slippery calling of the water spirits, and the pale soothing mists flowed gently from the vessel. The stench of blood and bile in the room cleared, and the warrior inhaled deeply, jerking upright again as Kazimierz’s world slowly went black.

He awoke swathed in bandages-clean bandages, smelling of soothing peacebloom and silverleaf. The blood was gone from him, and what was left of his clothing had been replaced. Turning his head, Kazimierz could see other wounded on similar rough beds to either side of him, still sleeping soundly. He rolled upright, feeling unexpectedly hale, and a troll’s voice broke the silence.

“Easy there, boyo. You were more’n half dead when they brought you in here, hey?” Kadir admonished. “That shaman woman came in here and called some spirits up to help, but you can’t go expecting the spirits to do all the work themselves.”

Nodding, Kazimierz merely shifted to lean his back against the wall rather than try his luck with his feet.

“Who came back?” he asked bluntly, and the troll waved his hand to the other filled beds in the infirmary as he recited the names.

“Sergeant Marzena. Meshak. Rakul. Sha’val. No one else,” Kadir said, frowning slightly. “Way they were talking, you’ve been seein’ some nasty fights, boyo. Was it worth it?”

In his mind’s eye, Kazimierz saw once again the human captain, staring glassily at the ceiling. He chuckled darkly. “I have done my part for the Horde, and earned the scars to prove it. What more can I ask of life?”

Kadir’s laughter was interrupted by the sound of a staff thudding against the wooden floorboards, and he bowed respectfully as Farseer Shrikha came into the room. She cocked her head, looking approvingly upon Kazimierz’s bandages.

"You lived. Very good,” she said, moving in close to inspect the closing scars on his chest and face. “Your squad has spoken glowingly of your deeds, Kazimierz, foolhardy as your venture was.”

He nodded, and she seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“They said they could almost feel your fury as you fought. That you fought three paladins of Lordaeron and tore open their necks with your bare hands. Is this true?” Shrikha asked, peering into his eyes.

Kazimierz shrugged, hissing a little at the pain the movement caused him. “There is much of the fight I cannot recall, Farseer. I do not know the truth.”

Shrikha nodded absently, stepping back to the foot of the bed. “There is little doubt you did, Kazimierz, and I agree with those I have discussed the matter with that it is a deed worthy of remembrance.” The shaman held an arm out in front of her, slowly tapping her chest in salute. “Rise up, Bloodhand. Your deeds have brought victory and honor to the Horde. Let all who speak your name recall them.”

Short Post (OOC)

2009-11-09T03:19:00.002-05:00

So I'm too tired to go on tonight, and I've got a job opportunity to go after in the morning, so...looks like tonight I come up short. Gotta make that up tomorrow or Tuesday, I suppose.

Also, you can blame Naxx and leveling Basia's tradeskills for most of this. But we cleared all of Naxx tonight and Basia is now 300 tailoring/300 enchanting, so it's not a total wash.

Extra story posts tomorrow to make up for this. :P

The Raid

2009-11-09T03:18:00.000-05:00

The first moments of the fight were completely one-sided, and nearly the entire group of humans were cut down by axe and glaive and arrow before they could reach for the weapons that lay at their sides. One managed to bring a sword to bear against Marzena long enough to parry, and Kazimierz swung savagely at his undefended flank. The spirit-infused waraxe bit deeply into the human’s flesh, and Kazimierz wrenched it loose from the gaping wound, splattering blood across his face and arms as the man twisted to the ground. Meshak’s bowstring hissed, and the last human collapsed from her sprint, an arrow protruding from her back.

The noise had alerted the sentries, and now there were shouts around them. Hurriedly, they worked, throwing bottles of volatile oil on stacks of wood and setting them alight before fleeing back into the darkness, arrows from the half-completed tower whispering past them in the gloom. Thirty yards, another fire with a cluster of workers and soldiers around it stood, its defenders scrambling into armor. They would not be so easily dispatched, and the fear in their eyes stirred a mixture of contempt and glee in hearts of their attackers. Very few orcs feared death, particularly death in combat-to be in battle was almost euphoric, a blaze of glory in the soul that was difficult to quench while its owner still lived. The demonic curse of Mannoroth had inflamed it to unreasonable levels, but even without its influence there was a perverse joy that lurked in their hearts.

They charged forward again, Kazimierz weaving the form of a protective totem as they made the last yards. Five of the humans at this camp were clearly soldiers, bearing shields and whatever piecemeal armor they had managed to secure before their foes were upon them, and they made a rough shield-line in front of the lightly-armed workers behind them.

Marzena short-hafted her glaive, using it to deflect the soldier’s swing upward as she bore him back and downward, rolling over his shield behind him as they hit the ground. She untangled the glaive and finished the soldier with a practiced thrust, then sprang lightly to her feet to meet the incoming workers.

Kazimierz was entangled with another of the guards, whose now-dented shield had held before his first swing. Momentum on his side, he grabbed the human’s swordarm with his left hand and spun around him, feeling tendons popping as he moved. The human yelled in anguish, and one of the trolls behind Kazimierz brought his own axe down on the guardsman’s head. The wild backstroke of one of the other swordsmen caught Kazimierz in the back of the head, and stumbled briefly from the impact. The wound bled profusely, but it was superficial, and Kazimierz righted himself to continue the fray.

A few more bloody moments and the rest of the humans went down, gasping their last as the raiders torched the nearby supplies. The sounds of alarm were great now-bells rang, men yelled, horns sounded; a great cacophony of warning that was accompanied by an ever-increasing number of torches being lit against the concealing night.

“Time to go?” asked Kazimierz as the raiders slipped once again into the deep shadows thrown by the burning buildings.

“

No! There is more to do,” Marzena hissed. She led them through a winding route, ducking against walls and stacks of building materials until at last they were at the rear of the partially-completed keep.

“The dogs will falter without their captain. He will be here, in his fortress, and we can strike a deathblow to this incursion here and now!” she continued in a hushed tone, waiting for a small group of soldiers to pass them.

Held in the twin grips of bloodlust and discipline, no one questioned her-Marzena was their leader here and now, and they would go wherever she commanded. They followed her up the cramped stairwell, hacking down a startled watchman as they reached the top. The keep was nearly empty-most of its soldiers were outside fighting fires or searching for the intruders, and what guards remained within were unprepared for the savage bursts of violence visited upon them. Smashing aside a pair of heavy double doors, Marzena and her raiders beheld the great table of the governor, laden with maps and surrounded by astonished soldiers. Fearless, Marzena charged, and the fight began in earnest.

A taste of blood

2009-11-08T03:37:00.002-05:00

First Sergeant Sian’dur was not pleased, and unlike the dark hissing moods of the Farseer, she chose to express her discontent very loudly. Kazimierz found her on a clear, flat region of the valley, overseeing a gaggle of young orcs and trolls as they tried their various hands at archery.

“No! Wrong! The bow is to be held straight!” she barked, without a whisper of the heavy accent typical of the Darkspear. She wore heavy leathers despite the heat, and seemed not to suffer for it; the toweringly tall troll still slipped between the lines of archers like an angry, corrective tornado. At a burly orc who seemed better suited to the front line than the skirmishers, she violently readjusted his fingering on the arrow; at one of her darker-skinned kin, she all but kicked his legs to adjust his stance.

“Feet in a line to the target! Are you all deaf?” she bellowed, performing the same correction to another nearly-trembling orc. “Next one of you vulture-snacks that doesn’t maintain proper stance is my sparring partner for a week, understand me?”

A rough chorus of “Yes, First Sergeant!” erupted nervously from the assembled archers. As Kazimierz approached, Sian’dur whirled around, fury etched in every line of her harsh-drawn face.

“YOU! You are late,” she shouted, and her eyes took a maniacal glee as she looked the orc over. “No equipment! Spirits around us, you are a stupid one, aren’t you? Well, I-“

Kazimierz gritted his teeth and interrupted her. “First Sergeant, I am not your ward!” he yelled, and a part of him that he didn’t like to admit existed reveled in the troll’s shock. “First Sergeant, I am recruiting any students you may spare for a tracking run around Razor Hill,” he hastily continued, displaying Shrikha’s badge and wary of the bubbling rage in the hunter’s eyes.

“Very well!” Sian’dur snapped, and eyed the silent row of aspiring marksmen evilly. “You!” she barked, and pointed at the hulking orc she had corrected before. “Get over here, worthless. This shaman owns you until you get back, understand?”

The big orc nodded, and Sian’dur shoved him towards Kazimierz. “Bring him back with all of his limbs, and you can tell Shrikha we’re square. Now get out of my sight!”

Kazimierz and the aspiring hunter saluted and fled, not stopping until they were an order of magnitude past the normal ‘out of earshot’ range.

“Your instructor seems…volatile,” Kazimierz ventured, motioning his new comrade to follow as he set out towards the valley gates. The big orc snorted.

“’Volatile’? She’s gone fiendish on us for the last few days, all hot temper and shouting. Hits a lot harder now, too-last ‘sparring partner’ she had is still lying in the medic’s tent,” he replied in a dark voice. “Word is she got rejected for promotion over some personal issue, and she’s been taking it out on us. ‘Course, no one here has been stupid enough to say that anywhere she could hear.” The hunter crossed his arm over his chest in salute. “Meschak, of the Bladewind clan. Suppose I’m at your service.”

Kazimierz returned the gesture. “Kazimierz, son of Ro’al. My blood is of the Lightning's Blade.”

Meschak nodded. “So what do you command, shaman? My bow is yours, it appears.”

“I spotted a spy, a human, near Razor Hill. Stoneguard Har’kel bid me to handle it-his soldiers are spread too thin, he says,” Kazimierz replied, kicking their pace up to a loping run. Meschak followed with no hint of complaint. “Do you know where the First Sergeant came from, Meschak? She does not sound or act like a Darkspear.”

Meschak shrugged, heavy feet thudding dully against the orange dust of the road. “I think she was a Frostwolf fosterling-she said something about it a while ago. Before she went crazy, ‘course. Seems they picked up a few refugees from the Second War and brought them along with them when Doomhammer and the Warchief reunited the clans.”

Kazimierz nodded, his idle curiosity sated for the moment. They made their way to Razor Hill quickly, and it was not yet noon when they could pick out its looming silhouette on the horizon. They swung wide to the east of the town, and Meschak began scanning the sands for signs that would indicate an intruder. It was slow work, and Kazimierz felt a little useless as the hunter stepped forward and scanned across a patch of ground, repeating endlessly.

“There! Someone’s been laying here,” Meschak finally said, his voice breaking the rush of the desert winds. “They’ve been careless…yes, there’s a trail, heading east of here.”

Kazimierz grinned unpleasantly, pulling his axe from his back. “Let’s follow it.”

The hunter nodded, and they followed the trail. The spy, or scout, or whatever it was had not been entirely clumsy-the trail wound its way across a number of bare rocks and other obstacles. Each such measure took a little time to overcome, but Meschak’s skills at tracking were well-honed, and by sunset they had followed the trail all the way to the coast. In the distance, smooth stone gleamed, quite out of place amongst the sandstone of Durotar-granite imported from Stormwind or Lordaeron, no doubt.

“They’re crazy,” breathed Meshak. “Building a fortress in our land? They know we will not let them go unchallenged.”

Kazimierz nodded, growling under his breath. The humans were hard at work even now, hoisting blocks and mixing mortar. It would not take them long to complete the walls, and then they would have a formidable beachhead. As his trainers had taught him, Kazimierz began to get a rough count and categorization of the enemy. It was a grim sum-the humans had scores of workers, hundreds of infantry, and they would be extraordinarily difficult to dislodge once they settled.

“Can you lead us back to this location, Meshak? We cannot allow these rats to dig in on our soil!” Kazimierz asked, and the hunter nodded confidently.

“I can do that. Ready to go?”

The two orcs hustled back to Razor Hill, blood in their thoughts.

Stoneguard Har’kel had problems now. The sighting of human spies, once so comfortably unlikely, was now confirmed-confirmed and with the added bonus of a main force digging in at the coast. The situation of his soldiers had not, however, changed substantially-there were still quillboar pushing at the western borders, still centaur running rampant throughout the lands westward. However, there was an option now: a small patrol, come back from Sen’jin…a night raid would, if not outright solve the problem, at least delay the humans until a proper counteroffensive could be launched. Six against several hundred was poor odds, of course, but sneaking around and causing trouble was an orcish tradition, albeit one that many would like buried.

They’ll have the two scouts besides, Har’kel considered. It should be enough for some sabotage and perhaps a special message…

Kazimierz and Meshak stood in the darkness, waiting for their reinforcements to show up. They had exchanged small talk, and minor family histories: the Bladewind and Lightning’s Blade clan had been fairly close before the demonic influence arrived on Draenor, and they had discovered a few common relatives.

Their chatting was interrupted by the heavy tread of armored boots and jingling mail, and a familiar face appeared out of the darkness.

“Kazimierz. Good to see you again, friend,” said Marzena Brightaxe, and she saluted crisply, banging a fist on her soot-blackened armor. “My squad is ready to move. Are you?”

Kazimierz nodded, unsurprised to see Marzena in a leadership role. As the daughter of a Kor’kron, she had been taught more and faster than most of her peers, and the notched polearm she carried so lightly was rightly feared by the enemies of the Horde.

“Throm-ka, Brightaxe. We are ready.”

Marzena’s face twisted into a savage grin. “Show us the way." They set out on a quick march, covering the ground much more rapidly now without the burden of tracking.

“I’ve never fought a human before,” Marzena mentioned casually, killing time as they walked. “Think they’ll be better than centaur?”

Kazimierz made an indistinct noise, a sort of verbal shrug. “Maybe. They’re quite a lot smaller, but that would make them harder to hit. Must be something to them, though-they did fight back the Old Horde in the Second War.

“Petty, stupid rivalries defeated the Horde then, Kazimierz. Warlock scheming and backstabbing, all of it. We will not lose in such a manner again,” she declared, garnering murmurs of assent from her companions, who were fanned out behind them: orcs and Darkspear all, armor-clad and toting a variety of well-used weapons.

Kazimierz was in no mood to argue history, so he grunted his assent and concentrated on running. Soon, the lights of the human’s fires appeared, dim and distant at first but soon showing as beacons in the night. Marzena raised a fist, calling silently for a halt.

“They sit and watch the fires dance,” she said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. “They’ll not see us until we’re upon them. Walk softly until we are near. Understand?”

The soldiers softly muttered affirmatives, unsheathing and otherwise readying their arms. Marzena waited a moment…another…and then motioned forward with her free arm. They crept towards the nearest fire, where a dozen humans talked and ate and drank, until there were a mere ten yards from them, with adrenaline burning in their veins. Marzena suddenly straightened from her crouch and charged, braid flying behind her. Kazimierz rushed in behind her, axe thrumming with the might of the earth, and they came upon the humans as a blood-mad reaper, the ancient battlecry of the orcs echoing from their lips:

“Lok’tar ogar!”

Victory or death…

Old Friends, New Allies

2009-11-07T05:35:00.003-05:00

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…

Of Spirits and Demons (OOC)

2009-11-06T14:05:00.004-05:00

So my good friend Niqora posted about our experiences leveling together; her on Zulrea the elemental shaman and myself with Basia the affliction warlock. And affliction she will stay until endgame, methinks-a brief experiment with Destruction proved far, far less efficient, and more importantly, less fun to play. Sure, the single-target DPS was a bit better, but then the game degenerated into single, careful pulls, which is entirely what I experienced when I leveled Kazi enhancement...and alone. I haven't tried to calculate if we get better speed from round-ups or single kills, given the proportionally longer aftermaths of healing and the like, but I will say I've had more fun leveling Basia with Zulrea than any other character.

In any case, my main contribution to the story is the result of a single maniacal pull in the dear old pirate base on the Tanaris Coast:

A few of them got away from an initial rather large pull, leading to the result shown. Not in picture: vastly depleted health/mana pools, blown cooldowns, and the horrific stench of nearly twenty hellfire-charred drunken pirates.

I do so love being OP. ;)

A Heart for Battle

2009-11-06T04:01:00.003-05:00

Kazimierz slipped under the ropes into the arming ring, intercepting Tojarra as he walked off the field. The warrior was still glowing with the thrill of victory, and Kazimierz hoped that would make him slightly more approachable. Holding the axe in both hands, blade downwards, he approached Tojarra as the fighter finished stripping off the arena armor, kneeling a few feet away.

“Ambassador, I bring a gift to you from Farseer Shrikha Stormeye, in congratulations upon your new appointment,” Kazimierz said, eyes on the ground as he hefted the axe for the warrior to inspect.

Tojarra lifted the shining weapon out of Kazimierz’s hands with careless ease, inspecting it with eyes and careful swings. Finally, he grunted approvingly.

“This is a fine weapon, messenger. I will not ask how the Farseer knew of my new position, and you will in turn not spread the news of it until it is officially announced. Is this understood?” he intoned, paying no apparent heed to the still-kneeling orc beside him.

Kazimierz bowed his head. “As you command, Am-Bloodguard,” he hastily corrected himself, and Tojarra nodded.

“Very good, messenger. Relay my thanks to your mistress. Dismissed!”

Kazimierz stood and nearly fled the ring, the sheer presence of the warrior overpowering. It was perhaps a factor of his reputation, but merely standing next to Tojarra Limbsunder felt as though there was a battle brewing. It was not necessarily a bad thing-Kazimierz had heard of the awing might of other great heroes before, and how they could inspire a band of soldiers. Everywhere Tojarra went, those who had heard of his deeds and skill gave way to him, showed great respect. To Kazimierz, it was a moment of inspiration.

Someday…someday I will have that honor. The crowds will part for me, and I will give my Warchief the stacked trophies of a thousand victories…

The thought gave him a new, strange energy, one that demanded immediate action. Kazimierz set out towards the Valley and the Farseer, moving with determination and no small amount of haste.

An irresistible hand caught him before he could make it to the next district, and Kazimierz whirled to see the staid face of Vargrim Emberhammer standing over him.

“Hold on. I have something for you,” the smith said, and handed Kazimierz a cloth-wrapped item, long and heavy.

“The Farseer told me you’d need proper arms before you left the city.”

Kazimierz unwrapped the axe-a plain axe, built on the Warsong pattern: a heavy, symmetrical crescent of steel for the blade, capped at both end with steel. It felt right in his hands, and he called the earth into the weapon with a flicker of will.It seemed to take well to its new home-a valid concern, for the spirits were on occasion picky sorts.

“Thank you, master smith,” Kazimierz said, bowing before his benefactor. “This axe suits me well-it will help me do my part for the Horde.”

Vargrim merely grunted and walked back to his shop, leaving Kazimierz to begin his journey southward again.

No longer injured and possessing a waraxe in place of a walking-staff, Kazimierz regarded the harpy-infested canyon very differently indeed. He practically invited attack, eager to test his skills against those who would threaten his people. This time, there was no sound of battle to draw him, however. The harpies were not interested in one who sought glory at the edge of a blade, and they kept to their dark corners as he ran steadily through the gloom.

The brightness at the edge of the canyons was as overwhelming as it had been before, and it took a few moments for Kazimierz to adjust as he broke into the glare of daylight once again. The town of Razor Hill loomed above him, bristling with the spiked barricades so emblematic of Horde military architecture. Still restless with ambition, Kazimierz threw himself into a sprint towards the gates, kicking up a trail of red dust behind him. A glint of metal to the east caught his eye, and he slid to a stop, eyeing the desert warily.

There seemed to be nothing there, which was troubling-there must be something for the sun to flare from, after all. The field was as typical as any other open region of Durotar-red sand, the occasional broken boulder, cactus, scrubby brush. A particular clump of brush near a fallen boulder seemed out of place, and Kazimierz stalked up to it, axe held in eager hands.

He had approached to within perhaps a dozen yards when a figure swathed in dust-colored rags rolled to its feet and began to sprint eastward, away from the road. The figure’s slim, short body marked it as human, even beneath its concealing robes, and that was enough-Kazimierz took chase, bellowing a wordless cry.

Most of the fragile treaties made up before the great battle at Mount Hyjal had long since been dissolved or ignored-Kazimierz was not sure which. Regardless, only the humans under Jaina Proudmoore’s banners retained privileges in Durotar, and only while under watch at that. The rest…they had proven untrustworthy. The dusky elves of the northern forests were as xenocidal as ever, and with the threat to their world defeated they had reverted to their ceaseless feinting attacks. The greater alliance of humans, dwarves, and the highborne elves of the east refused to recognize the fledgling nation, declaring them raiders and bandits, outside the law. The Warchief took their scorn in stride-perhaps too well, from the rumbles of some-but he would not tolerate spies or assassins operating inside his people’s borders. Kazimierz knew this, and so he made no attempt to squelch the whispers of bloodlust that smoldered like ancient embers in his soul. Far from it-he embraced it, truly glorying in the thought of battle in a way few not born of orcish blood could understand. The thought of cleaving flesh, of spilling hot blood over his axe enthralled him, drove him further from what a sensible person would call his ‘right mind’.

It was thus enormously frustrating when the human, relatively fresh and rested compared to the already half-winded shaman, ran like a jackrabbit and vanished into a warren of broken stone. After an hour of fruitless searching, Kazimierz’s incoherent rage had cooled sufficiently for him to think, and for the sun to dip close to the horizon.

The human is gone now, but he was watching. He must have left some trail that a tracker might follow…I must report this to the garrison.

To say Stoneguard Har’kel was skeptical would be a severe understatement. The breathless tale of a youth barely into adulthood, influenced by a profession which revolved around things no-one else could see and no doubt a dash of wishful thinking, was not terribly persuasive. Even if it had been, there were other issues to deal with-issues that came with corpses and burnt buildings, not half-seen memories. Still, his demeanor was one of restraint-it did not do well to offend one who had the ear of the spirit world, after all, even if it had been for so short a time as this youngster had been alive.

“Shaman, I understand. You believe a you have seen a threat, and reporting it reflects well on you. However, I have only so many warriors. See here!” he growled, and he tapped a map savagely. “North of us, harpies, always willing to take a chance on attacking a caravan. West of us, quillboar, ready to purge anything with green skin from their ‘promised land’. South of us, centaur tribes ready to move against our allies in the Echo Isles. And all of it is delegated to my battalion. I’ve barely enough soldiers left inside the walls to call it manned, and I will not leave Razor Hill any more vulnerable than I must.”

Kazimierz bit back an angry response-what good would it do to argue? The stoneguard had his duties to the Horde, and pushing him would only serve to hurt Kazimierz’s position.

“Then with your permission, I will seek aid amongst the civilians. I am sure there are trackers that might aid me,” he said, arms folded irritably across his chest.

The Stoneguard nodded, mail jingling softly as he moved. “Do what you will. I cannot spare soldiers to assist you,” he said, and laughed coarsely. “Of course, if we can find a proper solution to some of our problems, I could send some aid. Doubtful, though. These creatures, the centaur and the quillboar, they are determined enemies, always ready to catch a blade with their gut if they think it’ll help their cause.”

Bowing perfunctorily, Kazimierz left the map-bedecked command hall and the Stoneguard’s personal troop behind him, winding his way through the warrenlike keep that was the center of the Horde’s military presence on Razor Hill.

I’ve no time to pursue this now…the farseer will be furious if I delay any more¸ he thought agitatedly. A runner…hah! Perhaps I will have a better assignment when I return hale and hearty, axe in hand. I will be her petty servant no more.

It was a comforting thought, and when mixed with the more certain threat of Shrikha’s displeasure drove him back to the road, where the first stars of evening began to shine.

I’ll take my rest on the roadside, then. Let her watch my dedication, so ‘well-informed’ as she is. I’ll not be seen slacking!

Determined and proud, Kazimierz set his feet to walk the lonely southern road once more.

A day in Orgrimmar

2009-11-05T03:04:00.004-05:00

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…

On Black, Silent Paws (OOC)

2009-11-04T15:31:00.005-05:00

Just a brief post, since I'm running off for the afternoon/evening: Kazi has a Black War Wolf now! The long hours of battlegrounds are over, though due to the aid of Velinix, Velathia, Jorgath, and a few others they went more amiably than it might otherwise have been.

This is another mount I've eyed for a while, much like the netherwing drake. Unlike the drake, it required copious amounts of PVP to obtain, which (after I had finished the horrific grind required to get my epic axes, way back at the end of the Burning Crusade) I had zero interest in. However, I've slowly been coaxed out of my shell, with the realization that healing battlegrounds is a lot more fun than trying to DPS them as enhancement, I've come to enjoy them somewhat. :)

Except for you, Warsong Gulch. You go back into the corner right now.

Strange Allies

2009-11-04T01:24:00.007-05:00

There were dozens of the festering undead, some mounted on skeletal steeds, most following behind on foot. They marched in mechanical synchronization under the banner of a broken mask, arms held at port with rigid precision. Even from his position a hundred yards away, Kazimierz could smell the reek of rotting flesh, hear the scrape of metal against bone as they walked unhindered through the gates of Ogrimmar. That there was no hue and cry or smoke to speak of was disturbing-had their vile necromancers used some horrific spell to silence the might of the Horde? The thought was inconceivable, but all the evidence Kazimierz needed was before him.

The city has fallen. I must bring word of this back to Razor Hill! he thought, but hesitated. Still…perhaps there is information to be gained first? Knowledge is power, as Vicks says…

He watched and waited until the line of corpses vanished behind the gates, then dashed as quickly as he was able for the gates, feeling the gouges on his shoulder . Creeping along the wall, Kazimierz made his way towards through the switchback turns of the city’s gate, edging along until he reached the last edge. From there, he could hear the marching suddenly diminish, as if most of the corps had halted. Summoning a burst of courage, Kazimierz peeked around the corner.

The red armor of a Kor’kron guard filled his vision, and the great battle-scarred orc that wore it swung his head around to stare at him in surprise.

“What’re you doing there, boy?” the guard demanded irately, flashing a quick look towards the center of the city and snapping back to attention. “Put that weapon away, you’re going to spook them!”

Shocked, Kazimierz complied with the hissed command. He could see now the undead company standing at attention in the great open plaza of Orgrimmar, surrounded by Kor’kron who held their weapons as if they were an escort, not a standoff. Even now, a small delegation of the undead came to a halt in front of a towering black-armored figure, and Kazimierz watched in astonishment as his warchief traded respectful bows with a reanimated high elf.

“Wha-what’s happening?” he stuttered, and the guardsman grunted, sounding a little less perturbed with his intrusion.

“Word is the scourge has some defectors. Looks like the Warchief believes them,” he growled in reply, head and eyes unmoving. “Call themselves the Forsaken, got some line about how they ‘broke free’ from the Lich King’s control. We’d have all their heads on pikes by now, but we were ordered to stand and watch instead.” He didn’t exactly spit the words, but there was an unpleasant edge to them all the same, underscored by the orc’s twitching fingers on his axe.

Eyes wide, Kazimierz watched as the undead elf and the warchief began walking through the city, each with only a pair of honor guards moving with them. There were ugly murmurs echoing from the shops and buildings, but the presence of the Warchief’s Own damped the rising anger of the populace. The Forsaken still stood in formation, paying no apparent heed to the movement around them. The Kor’kron did not make to yield them the field, however, and the two groups watched each other in wary concentration.

The guard next to Kazimierz snorted and dropped to parade rest, jerking his head sidewise.

“You need in, get moving. Doesn’t look like this lot is going anywhere soon,” he grumbled. Kazimierz slipped by him, axe held as non-aggressively as a bare blade could. He gave the Forsaken contingent a wide berth, but he was still close enough to pick out the individual details in their decaying faces-scars, birthmarks, stitches, and the occasional jaw replaced with an iron replica. They were in every detail save their banner and attitude the brethren of the scourge invaders that Kazimierz had helped fight on Hyjal, their shriveled eyes or empty sockets glowing with a cold light. There was something distinctly unnatural about them-they stood absolutely still, never fidgeting or adjusting their balance. That, combined with the reek of dead flesh, made them as abhorrent as any creature Kazimierz had heard of, and he all but scurried past them towards the forges in the rear of the city. One of them evidently noticed his discomfort, for he turned his head to look, flashing a twisted grin and a dark chuckle before resuming attention. Kazimierz recoiled in disgust.

Abominations…why does the Warchief wish to talk to them? Surely we must slay them, and bring peace to their twisted spirits.

Orgrimmar was abuzz with talk of the strange visitors, and theories on their intent were thrown around nearly as often as statements detailing the speaker’s desire to crush them. Kazimierz remained mostly silent, partially out of shyness and partially due to the rapidly worsening sick heat around the gashes in his shoulder. However, he was almost upon the forges now, and completing the Farseer’s task was first and foremost in his mind.

The forges were positioned in the valley of Honor, where the warriors trained and the armories were kept. While not as grand as those tended by the dwarves in their mountain homes, they were sufficient to keep the Horde’s soldiers in steel and iron. They were unfortunately unorganized; there were perhaps a half-dozen forges scattered around the area, each operated by one or two master smiths and their apprentices. It was thus well past dusk that Kazimierz found Valgrim Emberhammer-not that this was an unusual time for a blacksmith to be about his business, for the work of the forge was often undertaken in darkness. Kazimierz had asked Vicks about this habit once, and through the rambling, chattering lecture that followed he had learned that the dim light allowed a skilled eye to determine the temperature of the metal, often very precisely. At the moment, though, Emberhammer was grinding, the constant labor of his two apprentices at the grindstone sending faint showers of sparks from the forming blade of a long dagger. Valgrim was big, even for an orc, and his skin was a curious dark hue that Kazimierz had not seen amongst his kin. The thick braids of the smith’s hair were tied back for his work, and his great hands moved the blade across the stone with gentle smoothness.

“Hail, Emberhammer-I have work for you,” Kazimierz stated, and he inclined his head towards the tarnished silver axe across his shoulders. “Farseer Stormeye sends this weapon for you to refurbish…a gift for the new ambassador?”

Valgrim did not answer, and indeed did not flinch at the voice behind him until he finished the last pass of the knife against the stone. He inspected it carefully in the light of the torches before turning to Kazimierz, oblivious to the stinging smoke of the charcoal nearby.

“Yes. She sent word of her request,” he said in a slow, rumbling voice. “Give me the axe.”

Kazimierz unslung the axe with a wince, handing it haft-first to the ashenskinned orc. Vargrim looked it over critically, then nodded slightly.

“It will be done. Stay in the city. I will have it ready to deliver by morning,” he half-grunted, lightly kicking one of his apprentices and pointing meaningfully at a crate underneath a nearby awning. His apprentice scrambled for it, returning with a half-juggled armload of clay jars and stained rags.

Vargrim waved dismissively at Kazimierz.“You should go.”

Kazimierz nodded. “Dabu. I will return,” he said, the taciturn blacksmith’s speech habits beginning to affect his own. The burning sensation around his shoulder wound had gotten worse, and he could feel the swelling even with the minimal movements of his sling-bound arm. A quick survey of the guards indicated the shaman of Orgrimmar tended to keep to a small valley off the highly populated areas, around a shallow lake of sorts. Dodging around a kodo team bearing a cart of ore, Kazimierz set off to find them.

The Forsaken and Kor’kron were no longer glaring covertly at each other in the central valley-the undead had set up a double row of tents on the periphery, where only a few still stood silent watch. The Kor’kron, meanwhile, had left the job of guarding them to the regular grunts, returning to their vigil over the Warchief and his staff. Kazimierz took little notice-the infection had gotten worse with astonishing speed during his trek, and his body began to shiver with fever. A climb up a spiral ramp, a right turn near the capitol fortress, and he was finally there. The buildings were of troll design, which surprised Kazimierz-Orgrimmar was first and foremost the new home of the orcs. The lake was smooth and still, reflecting the brilliant stars above, and a lone, white-furred tauren sat in silent contemplation outside. At Kazimierz’s stumbling approach, he turned his great horned head.

“Ish’ne alo, stranger…are you in need of help?” the tauren asked, ponderously rising to his feet. Kazimierz all but gawked at the shaman’s stature-he was literally head and shoulders above the orc, and built like one of the great bluffs themselves. Wordlessly, he presented his shoulder, swollen and turning an ugly yellow-orange around the edges of the torn skin.

The tauren frowned, running his odd two-fingered hand lightly over the wound. “What caused this? It is badly infected.”

Kazimierz hissed in pain, trying not to jump as the shaman poked and prodded. “A harpy. Wretched bird-thing came upon me in the canyons south of here.”

“They are unclean creatures,” the taruen rumbled. “And they have little respect for the life or land of others. You 'rre lucky, I think, to have escaped so relatively unscathed as you are. A little burn and a gash are light payment for your life, to be sure.”

He inspected Kazimierz’s broken arm and chuckled softly. “You are twice lucky today, it seems. The spirits will not distinguish one hurt from another, and so I think you will miss out on the greater part of your punishment.”

Kazimierz grinned wryly. “Some good came of this journey, then. It’s been difficult to do my duties one-handed.” He bowed as well as he could while his arm was being held. “Kazimierz, son of Ro’al. May I ask your name?”

he tauren nodded calmly. “Kun Sunfur, I am called. Be still now-I must cleanse the disease before the wound will heal properly.”

Kazimierz felt a soothing wind swirl lazily up around him, and sensed a peaceful presence within it…

Travels

2009-11-03T04:07:00.007-05:00

The fierce heat of the Durotar sun faded almost immediately as Kazimierz walked between the shear canyon walls. So too did the steady wind of the desert, leaving the silence undisturbed save for the steady crunch of boots on gravel. The shadowed trail was stark contrast to the blazing light outside, and for a few paralyzing moments the new shaman stood blindly in the gloom.

Little comfort this axe is, Kazimierz silently complained, waiting for shapes to appear from the darkness. Just bandit-bait with all this silverwork, and I’m no hero fit to swing this beast one-handed.

At last, his eyes had adapted well enough to see his footing, and Kazimierz began to walk again. He chose a swaggering, cocky gait, the axe resting on his shoulder as he’d seen the camp guards do on their patrols.

Best to at least look like I know what I’m about, he decided. No fear…

Despite his worry, there was little to disturb Kazimierz as he made his way through the canyon. The ubiquitous scorpions were content to leave him be, and there was little sign of the bird-women beyond empty, scorched nests.

Perhaps we have defeated them, he thought hopefully. Perhaps the Kor’kron have finally rooted out their leader and left their bones to bleach in the sun.

Emboldened, Kazimierz put on a faster pace, thinking to reach the north end of the canyons by sunset. The path in the canyon network wasn’t difficult to follow; the many forks and side trails were clearly less traveled than the slightly rutted main road. It was fairly easy going, and Kazimierz marched with little distraction until the stench of burning wood and a chorus of distant shouts filtered out of one of the winding trails away from the path. He slowed uncertainly.

Damn it. This is a bad idea…

His doubts were washed away by the rising thrill of an imminent fight, however, and he carefully tucked the tarnished axe beneath a fallen of sandstone. With his now-freed left hand, he drew the fire-polished club from its place on his belt and began to quickly, quietly move towards the commotion.

As he rounded the last bend, Kazimierz beheld a tableau of battle: a trio of trolls, knives and swords working furiously against a great fluttering mass of harpies, who screeched and clawed bloody furrows into the troll’s teal flesh with their filthy talons. One of the harpies held her arms aloft, and shafts of flame began darting towards the besieged and now-scattering trolls, filling the air with the choking stench of sulfur. The two with swords broke ranks to run, leaving the last troll, a youthful female bearing a bow, vulnerable to the onrushing press of reeking feathers and claws.

A flamecaller! Better and better.

Now totally oblivious to the pain of his previous wounds, Kazimierz rushed the last ten yards towards the melee, the strands of earthern power twisting to his will as he ran. His spirit-imbued club caught a harpy square in the back a moment after the reassuring glow of the totem appeared beside him. It was a satisfying hit-he could feel bones shatter, and a moment later the harpy dropped writhing to the ground. The tallest of the trolls gave Kazimierz a wolfish smile in welcome as he spun around to protect the bowman once more.

“Lok’tar ogar, friends! Fight on!” Kazimierz roared, adrenaline and bloodlust surging through his veins. A talon caught the shoulder of his injured arm, prompting a retaliatory strike that crushed one of the harpy’s wings. It fell shrieking to the ground, allowing one of the trolls to lithely dart in and put a dagger through its eye.

An abrupt searing pain erupted in Kazimierz’s back as one of the flamecaller’s bolts found its mark. The orc wheeled about, flinging his club up to strike down the airborne harpy. The bird-women dodged the ineffective projectile, but it was enough to break her focus and end the fiery barrage. The troll with the bow shouted something Kazimierz couldn’t understand, followed by a well-aimed shot to the throat that silenced the flamecaller for good.

A deafening explosion rocked the narrow cleft as Kazimierz threw the first of Vicks’ blasting charges into the midst of the remaining harpies. Confused and demoralized, most of them leaped skywards, trying in vain to escape the wrath of their onetime prey before they too were picked off by the troll’s marksmanship. The shortest troll, who wielded bloody knives, casually began finishing off the wounded harpies as the archer and swordsman picked their way through the bodies to Kazimierz.

“Throm-ka, orc,” the archer said, saluting as to an equal. “You are a welcome surprise in this unwelcoming place.”

Kazimierz returned the gesture left-handed, his breaths coming shorter again as the thrill of battle left him. The archer smiled lopsidedly, unstringing her bow with lazy ease. “I’m Ra’kil, and these are my good-for-nothing brothers Rha’zin and Kel’raz. What business brings wounded into this rough country, eh?”

Kazimierz shrugged lightly. “I’m running a delivery to Orgrimmar from the valley. I do what I am able,” he said, then started as he remembered his manners. “Kazimierz, son of Ro’al,” he stated, then bowed formally. Ra’kil chuckled at the gesture.

“Oh, I’m not someone ta be bowin’ to, orc. Nothing but greed took us here, though it had a bit ‘a help from these idiots,” she said lightly, and the sword-wielding troll snorted indignantly. “Thought we’d find a bit of treasure hidden away here, but aside from a couple of cheap copper medallions there’s nothing of value in this blight-damned place.”

She tossed Kazimierz what was presumably one of the medallions they had taken, then started winding bandages over some of the deeper gashes in her arms and shoulders.

“S’all yours, orc. Thanks for the hand…think we might even have been overmatched without ya. We’ll buy you a drink if we see you around again, eh?”

Somewhat confused by the troll’s nonchalant attitude, Kazimierz inspected the medallion as they finished binding their wounds and began heading back to the path. It was, as Ra’kil had said, a simple copper piece, made none too finely and engraved roughly with a pair of flaming swords or long knives. Bemused, he pocketed the piece, scanning the body-strewn ground for his club. Rha’zin and his brother had been thorough-every fallen harpy now sported a bloody wound through their skull, and it was difficult to locate his weapon in the carnage.

No chance these wretches will live to fight another day. Not so tough after all-couldn’t even take a hit or two without dropping.

On closer inspection, the battlefield had once been an old camp-there were blackened spots on the stone where fires had burned, and the rotting ruins of tents scattered here and there.

Aside from the emblem in his hand, there was no hint as to the identity or purpose of the ones who had once lived here.

Probably bandits, trying to prey on supply caravans. Lots of places to hide in this stretch of road…suppose there’s nothing more to be done here.

Kazimierz walked stiffly back to the road, turning north again once he had retrieved the axe from beneath the rubble, breathing silent thanks that the treasure-hunters had not found and claimed it as they passed. Now that the almost euphoric thrill of fighting was gone, he could feel his injuries complaining loudly and at length about the troubles they had gone through. He ignored it, as best he could-there was nothing he could do on the road except pray for a clean closure. That was unlikely, given the filth harpies seemed to accumulate on their claws. Kazimierz had once seen a warrior gouged by a harpy lay in a sickroom for almost a week, burning with fever and swelling with infection. Though he had no desire to share a similar fate, he would have to deal with the injuries until he arrived in Orgrimmar-he had no supplies of herbs to stave off infection, nor the skill to find substitutes on the road. Of more concern to the young shaman was his mental state.

By the Honored Ancestors, it felt good to fight. Too good, I think…it sounds like the way some of the old ones described the demon’s affliction, only soothed by spilling blood. Perhaps we are not so free as we thought, he reflected. Perhaps Stormeye or one of the shaman in Orgrimmar can tell me why we still revel so in battle.

Distracted, Kazimierz did not notice he had come to the end of the winding canyons until he stepped into blinding daylight again, though it was now a deep crimson-the last rays of the sun breaking through the clouds and silhouetting the great cacti black against its glory. Only a few miles ahead, the gates and banners of Orgrimmar were visible, and Kazimierz felt a surge of pride at the sight of the great city.

Only a few years we have been here, and already we have made such a settlement. What wonders will we build in the years to come?

He jogged the last stretch, trying not to notice the steadily-increasing burning in his gashed shoulders, or the aching of his chest. His fit of temper could scarcely have come at a worse time-here he was expected to be productive and useful, and the only skill he could reliably demonstrate at the moment was walking.

Still…I did get wounded in the field. They’ll not ask questions about the break, surely. Perhaps I’ll find a healer there?

Kazimierz’s thoughts slammed to a halt as he reached the gates. Ahead of him was a scene out of his nightmares: a column of Scourge, their rotting bodies reeking and armored, marching into Orgrimmar. Wildly, he looked for defenders, but there were none-had the Plague come here as well?

Gritting his teeth, Kazimierz reached for his club…

Trial's end, road's beginning

2009-11-02T04:22:00.001-05:00

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…

Incoming! (OOC)

2009-11-01T02:24:00.002-05:00

I have decided to attempt the NaNoWriMo challenge-to create a 50,000 word story across the month of November. This is 1,667 words a day. Since this has been my venue thus far, I'm going to be posting each chunk here, roughly every day.

1,667 words is on the long side, so beware incoming walls o' text!

A Storm

2009-10-30T03:59:00.007-04:00

Kazimierz awoke to the crack of thunder and the dull roar of torrential rain. He rose muzzily up to a seated position, dimly aware that he wasn’t being soaked-someone must have moved him to shelter. Given the sounds of the tempest, they’d saved him a great deal of trouble.

The storms in Durotar are always so furious, he thought, rubbing the grit from his eyes. The spirits are stronger here than in Arathi…

Unbidden, Kazimierz’s thoughts turned to the land of his birth. The internment camps, shoddily and quickly built, their borders closely guarded by hard-eyed soldiers; the perpetually overcast skies above, with barely a wisp of muggy wind in the summers to carry the pungent scent of kingsblood into the camps; even in memory, the highlands of Arathi had little to endear them to Kazimierz. The people, though-they had been the grimmest part of childhood.

Lethargic, all of them-too defeated even to fight amongst themselves. Haunted with guilt and shame, only clinging to life to avoid the final dishonor of suicide…what did they do to bring such despair to themselves?

Kazimierz had heard the histories, of course-the tale of the demonic pact on Draenor, of the rise of the warlocks and the assault through the Dark Portal. But they never explicitly spelled out the atrocities of the demon-cursed Horde, only hinted and intimated with hollow eyes.

If they mentioned anything at all, that is. Most of the old warriors won’t talk about anything that happened before the Warchief liberated us. They must have done terrible things…

His musings were interrupted by a loud bang, quite unrelated to the thunder. This was followed by a litany of high-pitched curses in a number of languages, only a few familiar to the shaman. With a pained grunt, Kazimierz stood and slipped towards the source of the noise, where a familiar, tiny figure poked out of a battered metal cylinder, larger than a human’s coffin. Inside, a wild mishmash of gears and chains smoked furiously as Vicks worked.

“Did the rocket fuel volatilize again, Vicks?” Kazimiez asked, coughing painfully on the stench of burning oil. “I thought you had that problem worked out.”

The goblin paused in his rummaging and withdrew from the innards of the machine. “Kazi! You’re finally awake, yeah? I found you outside when I was on my way back here. You looked kinda beat up.”

Kazimierz bowed as deeply as he was able. “I thank you for your care, Vicks. I had a frank exchange of opinions with the Farseer. Her argument had more impact than mine, I fear,” he said wryly, finding a patch of ground a reasonably safe distance away from the goblin’s turbine to rest on.

Vicks laughed, the screechy sound cutting sharply above the dull sound of the storm outside. “Good one! I tell ya, Kazi, you orc types sure seem to like beating on each other,” he said. Vicks looked at the smoking mechanism and shook his head sorrowfully. “This, though, this is bad. I was trying to modify it to fix a little sand-intake problem-it kept exploding every time they tried to start the engine in the salt flats-and then I decided the acceleration curves were too flat and I might as well fix them while I had it open, which of course meant I had to install the Shinespark Mk. IV injectors instead of the Gazzlebolt Extra Stables, and that…”

Kazimierz let the goblin keep up his breathless rant until it ran its course-no doubt Vicks had been unable to resist adding more power to the machine while adding the dust screens. The engine, being of goblin make, had already been well beyond the safe limits of its construction.

They test the limits of every device until it fails completely, only to start anew. They are more punishing to their creations than our teachers are to us. By the nether, I hope never to be a goblin’s test case! There’d be nothing left to go to the healers with.

While the vast majority of orcs (and truth to tell of sapients of the world in general) found goblins to be irritating, finicky creatures with voices that shaved sheets of patience away with every syllable, Kazimierz had always enjoyed learning the tricks of engineering with Vicks. The goblin’s home didn’t hurt; safely tucked away in a naturally ventilated cave, the workshop was always dry and cool regardless of the weather outside. Still, it was hardly the only reason. Vicks and his brethren were inexhaustibly optimistic, looking firmly to the future and all the glorious possibilities it held, though mostly they saw potential for profits. His almost maniacal obsession with tinkering and experimentation seemed firmly at odds with the reverence for the past the orcs possessed, but the materials he worked with resonated with the spirits in a way that few other professions could claim.

Even this…turbine, I think he called it, some piece in their great competition with the gnomes, channels the powers of flame and wind to propel it. They’ve a way to extract the echoes of the firelords from the stone of the deep mines, condensing it into blasting powder. Then they've found ways to use its power, however reduced from its elemental form, in a thousand different ways. What other secrets might they keep?

Vicks continued to rattle out the details of the problem, oblivious to his guest’s pondering. The air had cleared from the fire now, leaving only the sharp odor of engine grease and the omnipresent tang of blasting powder evident. They were familiar smells, comforting in the same way the scent of kingsblood was agitating. Sitting at ease, Kazimierz could feel the earth stretch out below him-almost as if he had taken the sapta again, though certainly not so blatantly. The earth totem in his pack called to his senses, and like a child investigating a spider’s web he drew a thread of power from it, twisting it in his mind’s hands.

Kazimierz’s trance was interrupted by another explosion from the engine, and a surprised yelp from Vicks-surprised, but not pained. He opened his eyes to see the goblin inspecting his arms with intense interest

“What the nether…did you do this, Kazi? I should be bleedin’ from that one!” Vicks exclaimed, then started suddenly. “Is that what’s doing it?”
Kazimierz followed the goblin’s gaze to the source of a dull green luminance in the gloom of the workshop-a chunk of unworked stone, standing upright as though thrust from the ground. On it were symbols Kazimierz knew very well-the ancient scripts used in honor to the earth spirits. He stared at the manifestation with growing realization, a wide grin splitting his face as his hurts were, for the moment, forgotten.

“It is a binding of earth, little friend. I have called an earth spirit, and it has replied!” he said, his voice building in a crescendo. “We must celebrate. This…this is a milestone. This marks the end of my Trial, Vicks! I will be allowed into the world to make my mark!”

Vicks clapped him on the back-a gesture he used as frequently as he was able, given the relative rarity the orc’s back was anywhere near his arms-and nodded excitedly. “That…is…incredible! Hey, how long d’ya think you can keep that up?” He paused a moment, breaking into a thoughtful smile as he reached for a bottle he kept on a high shelf. “Toughens up the skin..think you can do that to dead skin? Or maybe metal, even?”
Vicks poured two glasses of some amber spirit, supposedly from the far lands of Kharanos, and they drank together. “I tell you Kazi, this…what is that thing, anyway?” Vicks asked, gesturing pointedly with his now half-empty glass.

“A totem,” Kazimierz supplied. Vicks nodded energetically.

“This 'totem' is going to be really useful. And profitable, too-you know what people would pay for protective gear they don’t need to put on? Tell me what else you think it can do…”

The storm had abated and it was very late indeed before the orc and the goblin ceased their discussion and surrendered to sleep.

His Name is Karyus (OOC)

2009-10-28T14:22:00.006-04:00

Kazimierz has liberated the Netherwing Flight at long last!

I first started the Netherwing chain during the end of Burning Crusade-I was mostly just trying to raise some money. I wiped repeatedly on the Zuluhed the Whacked quest (and really, what kind of surname is The Whacked? That always bothered me...) and so I left it alone for a while...until I got invited to a group for it, and found that if you stand inside the building, the archers can't shoot you! Novel concept, to be sure. After that, I decided to shoot for the drake. I got a fair ways in..Honored, I believe, and then the twin forces of an upcoming expansion and total boredom with the terribly grindy quests (40 ore? 30 crystals from kills? Ugh!) conspired to stop my progress dead.

It was after I had hit 80 and began looking for things to do (since this was still sometime before I had figured out how awesome the people at Bloodriver were) that I decided to try again-there were no mounts in Northrend that both looked as good as the netherwing drake and I thought I had the remotest shot at (Twilight Drake, I'm looking at you). This time I hit revered before stopping, as I started doing heroics and beginning to raid semi-regularly. RL also got a little more hectic, so I stopped having quite as much time alone while I was logged in. The last nail in the coffin was my acquisition of the Engineering profession, whose flying mount I thought would be the last one I desired.

Finally, I decided that enough was enough with the procrastinating, in no small part because of Niqora's excellent post on the acquisition of her own drake (and later paladin alt, but that's not my story to tell). So the last week, I've been doing the dailies, hunting the eggs, and failing again and again at the flying races. I never did end up beating Mulveric, but I finally got to finish the job I started so long ago.

So say hi to Karyus, Kazi's constant companion throughout the wilds of Outlands, Northrend, and whenever I get to fly in Azeroth proper. :)

A healer's hands

2009-10-27T19:10:00.000-04:00

“Training accidents” were not uncommon in the Valley of Trials. Though the curse of bloodlust had been lifted by Hellscream’s valor, the orcs were never what could be described as a peaceful people. Training often inflamed already volatile tempers, and small-scale fights were considered a good chance to show the young how much they had to learn. Injuries inflicted as disciplinary measures were treated differently from those suffered in the normal course of duty-they were healed only enough to cause no lasting damage, then left to heal naturally. Typically, the afflicted learned a measure of patience during their convalescence…or learned to dodge better the next time they picked a fight. This fact was not unknown to Kazimierz as he staggered his way to the healer’s pavilion and the glowering medic within. Deciding not to draw things out, he presented his injuries and their cause forthrightly:
“Medic! My arm’s broken, my ribs too. Took a fall chasing a scorpion,” he said as brusquely as he could manage.
“You’ve gone and made Stormeye mad, haven’t ya?” the blueskinned troll asked, chuckling all but malevolently as he pointed at a line of darkening text in the flesh of Kazimierz’s forearm. “She’s stamped her mark in your arm, boyo. Don’t think I can’t tell what a fall looks like, neither. You aren’t the first to think Kadir’s easy to fool.”
The troll grabbed Kazimierz’s arm with his strange three-fingered hands and pulled hard, setting the break as Kazimierz fought back an undignified scream. The explosion of pain, however, forced the compromise of an angry yell, which Kadir promptly ignored in favor of roughly binding his arm.
“Oh, quit your cryn’, orc. You’ll get worse in your time, ‘less ya scrub out so hard ya land in with the peons,” Kadir said, weaving the wrappings around the orc’s shoulder to fashion a sling. “There. Don’t be trying to use that arm for a week or two, or you’ll have to come see me again.”
Reeling, Kazimierz checked what range of motion was left in his damaged right arm-not too much, but better than he had hoped, and after the agony of setting the pain had diminished substantially.
“What about the ribs?” he asked, hoping for something similarly helpful. “It’s hard to breathe.”
Kadir only chuckled and shook his head. “Cracked rib-bones gotta heal themselves, boyo. Nothing me or anyone else can do about it. ‘Less you get some help from a shaman or druid, ha? But that’s not happening for ya, now is it?”
Kazimierz’s look of despair must have been enough to stir pity in the troll’s heart, because he sighed and gestured the orc over.
“All right, come ‘ere. Have a drink of this. It won’t cure ya, but you won’t care so much,” Kadir said, offering a small clay bottle. Fumbling with his off hand, Kazimierz took a swig. The fire of the Darkspear’s favorite ginger liquor spread instantly into his stomach, but the over-potent drink did seem to numb the pain somewhat.
“Th-thanks,” Kazimierz coughed, trying to hand the bottle back without spilling the rest of the contents. His head was already swimming-what did they put in their drink?
Kadir chuckled and nodded, then motioned for the orc to go. “Don’t mention it. I mean that, boyo. I could be in trouble for helping a troublemaker through his learning, ha?”
“Dabu,” Kazimierz mumbled, complying with a little difficulty. He staggered away from the pavilion a little way before losing his footing on the suddenly very unstable ground. Ignoring the raucous laughter behind him and all but oblivious to the pain of landing, Kazimierz decided to rest his eyes, just for a little while…

A Lesson

2009-10-24T04:47:00.002-04:00

Kazimierz found the Farseer sitting serenely in front of a small fire, set at the last switchback before the path let out into the valley. Wordlessly, he held the spirit’s stone aloft, fighting to keep a triumphant grin from disturbing his appropriately restrained visage.

“So. Perhaps I have misjudged you, son of Ro’al,” said the elder shaman, inclining her head ever so slightly in apology and waving a hand towards a small setting of food and water. “Sit, refresh yourself. I will show you how to use the stone to call on the great spirit’s power when you are done.”
Famished, Kazimierz dug into the food-boar meat with cactus apples and the sharp, pungent spices native to Durotar. As he ate, Shrikha began to explain the basics of using a totem as a focus.

“The totem you have received is a physical manifestation of your bond with the great spirit,” she said, watching her student eat with the ghost of a smile. “You must maintain the totem’s power with periodic rituals, but in return it will allow you to quickly and easily call upon the earthen one’s powers…power the spirit will share with anyone nearby you deem worthy.”

Shrikha’s teachings went on well past the first light of dawn. The first fiery rays that broke the eastern ridge of the valley found teacher and student in intense concentration…and no small quantity of irritation.
“You are not focused! The spirit world will not listen to an indistinct call,” Shrikha admonished her charge, the now-worn phrase tinged with impatience.
Growling under his breath, Kazimierz stood with building fury, hefting his staff .

“Enough! I do the best I am able!” he snarled, calling the spirit into his weapons.
The elder Farseer curled her lips into an amused smile. “You will never have the skill to challenge me, whelp,” she said condescendingly, then turned to walk away as the rage boiled inside him.

She didn’t look behind her as he closed the few steps between them, nor when he raised the staff to strike down the source of his aggravation. She did, however, catch the staff on the downstroke, twist like a mongoose, and deliver a breath-destroying kick to his chest. As Kazimierz scrambled to his feet, she shook her head disapprovingly.

“Foolish child. That cannot go unanswered,” Shrikha hissed, kicking her walking-staff from the ground into her hand. Bloodlust singing in his veins, Kazimierz swung fast-high, low, then whirling into a thrust that Shrikha slapped out of the way. She raised a hand to the air, and Kazimierz could feel a surge of spiritual presence a mere moment before the pain began. The wind howled furiously as the Farseer spun impossibly fast, her staff blurring as it struck. With an agonizing crack, Kazimierz felt bones break-first in his forearm as he attempted to ward off the blow, followed by a number of ribs as the staff came around again. A last sweep brought him to the ground, where he lay trying to avoid screaming in pain. The Farseer turned wordlessly away, leaving him defeated on the valley floor.

Shrikha walked calmly back to her dwelling, showing no sign of agitation or inner turmoil. Two important lessons today, she thought. One of patience…and one of discretion. Best to pick your battles with care, after all…

A goal achieved! (OOC)

2009-10-22T04:33:00.000-04:00

Just a brief note, since it's pushing 4:30 here: finally finished up Seeker!

Get my 1000th daily quest tomorrow, and I've pretty much put the quest achievements to bed. *grin*