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…

On Black, Silent Paws (OOC)

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

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?”

T

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

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

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)

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!