Old Friends, New Allies

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)

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

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

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…