| rdfs:comment | - This land was a strange one indeed. At first glance, it appeared similar to Mulgore – wide, open grasslands with clear blue skies and large, deep, dignified lakes dotting the landscape. To a shaman's eye, though, things were different. The relative peace and acoustic serenity brought by the plains of Nagrand to mundane ears were in stark contrast to what those of us with spiritual predispositions could feel. This was not, however, any excuse to balk or say, "I cannot". Which was why I hesitated, but did not refuse, when they asked an unusual task of me.
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| abstract | - This land was a strange one indeed. At first glance, it appeared similar to Mulgore – wide, open grasslands with clear blue skies and large, deep, dignified lakes dotting the landscape. To a shaman's eye, though, things were different. The relative peace and acoustic serenity brought by the plains of Nagrand to mundane ears were in stark contrast to what those of us with spiritual predispositions could feel. It had been a few days since I had arrived here with my mate. Gulgrim had been hurt horribly by the actions of some Shadow Council warlocks almost a week ago now; still recovering from his surgery, he had travelled here for the opposite reasons to the ones I had. His aim was rest and recuperation. Mine was restoration. That was the premise I had been sent on, at least. In truth, as I stood here listening to the Mag'har and Broken shamans, I felt a little out of my depth. They had been doing this – soothing the Elements, calming and communing with the spirits, fixing things that were wrong – even before my parents had stepped through that awful door between worlds. I was truly a pup in their presence. They spoke to each other in strange different languages, and spoke to me in fluent modern Orcish. They spoke of things I had never seen because they had ended before I was born. They spoke of things that I had still yet to learn about, but they had the patience to teach. Some of them were old. Some of them were not old, as such – but still older than me (say, my Chieftain's age). All of them were wise: wiser than me, wiser than Gulgrim, wiser than we possibly could have had time to become at our age. I had a lot to learn from them, that was true. The Elements here were different. It had taken me this long to even be able to hold a conversation with them here, let alone call on them for help as I usually did. I needed to get comfortable with this juxtaposition between the relatively calm Azerothian Elements and the raging, wronged Elements of the Outlands. That would take a while yet – it was happening, but slowly. This was not, however, any excuse to balk or say, "I cannot". Which was why I hesitated, but did not refuse, when they asked an unusual task of me. "To the south," spoke a woman whose voice cracked like her skin when she spoke and eyes sparked like flames in the night, "there is an arena. We need somebody to represent us today." I knew that their usual pitfighters were hunting for food today, and that some of their other proficients were supervising an Om'riggor. I would have trouble in the arena – it was an entirely different type of fight to the one I was used to, and I would be alone. There would be no environment to hide behind and no companion to take the brunt of any particularly vicious assault. There was a very high chance that I would be utterly decimated and that it would suddenly be Gulgrim caring for me, as opposed to vice-versa. But I nodded in mute acceptance. This woman was old, yes, but with that age came all due respect that I had seen her fellow Mag'har grace her with. I wished to serve these people, and not just out of duty to follow my orders from Orgrimmar. "You are Dagger and Totem," she added, nodding to my tabard. "Your people have served us well before." She left it at that. She made no other outspoken comment, but bowed and gestured me to the door. I was expecting some sort of warning not to let my clan down, or some misplaced yet forthright trust that I would perform this task to the same proficiency that my clanmates had in the past. But no. I took my borrowed windrider up to the floating island where Gulgrim and I had been staying. He was sleeping in the shade of the single tree under the early afternoon sun. Lunch was curled up by his side, purring under his hand. Good. Both of them needed their rest. I reached over my quietly snoring mate for my pack, then tugged it out from beside the tree. I began preparing: reducing the weight on my belt; checking I had the right number of potions; ensuring I had some bandages; adjusting and changing my clothes for armour; and taking the hammer off my belt. I had held Harg's hammer at my hip for most of the day. It served very well as a ceremonial weapon, but I had not yet learnt to use it. Such would come with time, practice, strength and training – but I had none of those things today. Today needed something that I reliably knew how to use. I needed sharp blades as well as a head just heavy enough to give force (yet not heavy enough to impede my movements). I tugged my axe out of my bag and removed its coverings. All things considered, it was a good weapon. Ryzarhn called it light and shabby, but one thing set it apart from other weapons: I could actually yield it with some competence, and it was not a staff. I lifted the axe and examined the blade. Still sharp and clean from its last maintenance. I nodded and strapped the handle to my belt before whistling. Mounting the windrider that appeared in response, then pulling my wolf-mask down over my eyes, I dug my heels into the side of the animal and we took off south.
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