Part 4 of Thunderhoof
There's a ton of this, believe me. 33 pages in a Word doc, which translates to God-only-knows-how-many screen lengths here. But oh well. On we go. (for once, I don't think I have any parenthetical comments to make!)
--
Misha slowly regained consciousness, this time entirely certain that she had indeed died and gone to dwell in the Earthmother’s home. She was lying in a bed of such incredible softness that it simply could not be real; she opened her eyes, taking in her surroundings. The room around her was crafted of dark wood, looking as if it had been grown rather than built. She sat up in the bed, letting the silken sheets slide off. The room contained a pair of other beds and several strange, glowing mystical shrines, dedicated to spirits Misha had never even heard of. Bookshelves and candles lined the walls, softly illuminated by the rising sun coming in through a window. As she stared into the soft shadows cast by the rosy light, she realized two things at once: one, her filthy shift had been taken off, leaving her nude, and two, a broad-shouldered Kaldorei was sitting against the wall, facing her. She blushed and yanked the sheets back up over herself.
The elf smiled at her, as gently as he was able. Even with the soft expression, his craggy face, enormous eyebrows and sharp jaw made his overall affect intense and stern. The fact that his eyes were glowing golden orbs that barely resembled normal creatures’ eyes didn’t help, either.
"Hello, young one," he said in heavily accented Taurahe, yet another surprise. "I’m glad to see you awake." The elf stood, walked over to the window and stared out into the dawn, a soft breeze ruffling his blue-black hair. "You must have questions, but I’m afraid I don’t have many answers for you. My mission is complete, and I have to return to Teldrassil with haste... but leaving someone to the beasts in this vile place is beyond even me. I hope you’re well enough to travel."
Misha realized that she'd fallen into something of a trance as he spoke; though her experience had swiftly changed from a nightmare to a dream, she was still unsure of herself. "I... I think I am," she said, experimentally wiggling her hooves.
"Good," replied the elf, turning to face her. "We’d best get moving. I’ll try to explain things a little later, but for now, just try to stay out of the way."
Misha nodded, blushing again. “I… don’t seem to have any clothes,” she said quietly.
The elf laughed gently. “Yes, I noticed that.” He walked over to a table that held a neat collection of bowls of water, candles and small statues set atop a length of shiny cloth. He grabbed a handful of the drape and whipped it off the table without even stirring the statuettes on top, then tossed it to Misha. “Here, try and make do with this until we can find something better for you to wear.”
Misha wrapped the cloth around herself and slowly swung her body out of the wondrous bed. Though her legs trembled a little as she stood for the first time since she’d been captured, she found that she was still able to walk.
The elf looked her over. “Well, that won’t really do, will it? Let’s go see if we can scrounge up something a little more…” He trailed off, a faint grin coming over the corners of his mouth. “…a little more decent, I suppose. How old are you, anyway?”
Misha stared down at her awkwardly improvised garment, which was too short and constantly threatening to open or slip off entirely. “I’m twenty-eight summers, sir.” It was a lie born of Misha’s growing desire of late to join in with adult society; she had no idea why she’d not told the elf the truth.
The elf blinked, his glowing eyes going dim for a fraction of a second. “Twenty-eight? You’re the youngest twenty-eight I’ve ever met outside of an elf.” He shrugged, turning to face the carved door. “Well, I suppose not everything is as short-lived as an orc, after all… but anyway, follow me.”
Misha followed the mysterious Kaldorei, finding herself in a large hall, constructed in the same graceful style. If that bedroom had been grown of a tree, this one must be a hollow in the entire trunk. Ramps soared gracefully upward, leading to other doors and landings. A large well filled the floor in front of her, illuminating the huge room with rippling light and releasing sparkling motes into the air.
The elf strode forward briskly, and Misha practically had to run to keep up. It was difficult; her knees were still weak after her imprisonment and her improvised dress required a lot of management. The elf suddenly stopped near a large, open archway; distracted as she was, Misha almost ran into him. He turned and spoke several phrases of the odd elvish language to a willowy, scantily clad elf woman who was leaning up against a large bow near the wall. The elf woman murmured a reply, barely even opening her eyes as she spoke; clearly, she was too busy relaxing to give much energy to whatever it was Misha’s new friend had requested.
“She says the only clothes they have to spare are a couple pairs of… well, what she’s wearing,” he said, dryly amused. “I don’t think they’d fit you.”
Misha stared at the elf woman, who was only wearing what appeared to be lightly armored underwear. She noticed Misha’s gaze and stretched languorously, showing off a little more lavender-colored skin. The garments were designed to both accentuate and protect body parts that Misha barely had. She sighed, realizing that even elves, for all their supposed slender frame and thin bodies, were better endowed than she was.
Her guide rambled off a few more phrases in elvish, then walked away as the elf woman laughed cheerfully. Misha hurried to follow him. “I have some leather stashed away in my gear,” he told her, nodding toward a small stack of bags leaned up against the wall. “I think I can slap something together in a moment here that should work.”
Misha watched as he swiftly dug through the bags, pulling out scraps of skins from what looked like at least three different creatures, a ball of thread and a sharp needle. “Please, sir, don’t go to such trouble on my account,” she said, nervously twiddling her fingers.
“Eh, it’s no bother… and I need the practice anyway,” he replied, his fingers darting around as the needle flashed through the leather again and again. A few minutes later, he’d assembled a patchwork blouse and skirt out of the rough hide.
Misha took them reverentially, almost unable to believe how her luck had changed. “T-thank you!” she said.
The elf smiled again. “Certainly. I’d have thrown together some boots, too, but you have perfectly good hooves already.” He stood, glancing at the slowly rising sun through the window. “And, in return, maybe you could use some of that famous Tauren strength and carry some of my things, hmm?”
Misha nodded, pulling on her new garments and laying the decorative cloth down. “I’ll try, sir.”
The elf grinned back, handing her two of the bags. “Looks like waiting for you to wake up was a good idea after all. Let’s get moving,” he finished, strapping on his two satchels and walking toward the archway the elf woman was guarding.
Misha shouldered her two bags and jogged after him, unable to conceive of where life was taking her. Less than a month ago, she’d had no other plans than to learn some trade and be given run of the Red Cloud Mesa with the other journeyman youths… but now fate had dealt her something else entirely.
* * *
The morning sun crept over the high mesas that surrounded the Golden Plains, sending long rays out to announce its coming and soon chasing the deep shadows of evening back to their hiding places for the day. There was little beauty left to illuminate in the ruined Thunderhoof camp, though; dark, scorched marks covered the waving grasses where they hadn’t been burned away entirely, and rusty bloodstains covered the rest of the ground. Limp, broken bodies poked out of ruined tents here and there.
Beaux sat on his knees in a puddle of blood that was slowly soaking into the sandy soil. He’d drawn the bodies of his mother and his father up onto his lap, cradling their heads softly even though both were long dead and gone. He’d found them together, huddled under a scrap of canvas, with a ring of dead centaurs around them. They’d fought hard, and many would say they had died well… but that didn’t mean anything to Beaux. He didn’t care whether or not his parents had died honorable deaths, or if they’d managed to give as well as they’d gotten. He just wanted them to be anything but dead. Somehow he truly, absolutely needed them to have been still clinging to life, against all hope, if only for a chance to say goodbye… but it was not to be. Tarok and Auruna had died as they had lived, united and straightforward. It was more than Beaux could take.
Other Tauren came to the camp shortly after sunrise; Beaux vaguely recognized an aunt and some friends from another tribe, but no names and no feelings came to mind. All he could think about, even as they gently lifted him and carried him away, were the wracking, silent sobs that kept coming and coming, despite his best intentions and strongest efforts to stop. When they told him that there was no sign of his sister, and that centaurs were famous for taking hostages, his grief swelled even more. The only thought that had kept him going the entire night, through the destruction of his shoulder and the strange events at the dwarf camp, was that he might yet have a chance to change what fate had handed him. Now, as his dream fell in shattered pieces, reality stared him in the face as frankly as the glaring sun. It should have been a sobering thought, perhaps depressing at worst… but today, after the events of the night before, he found himself unable to do anything but bawl like an infant.
When the others noticed the strange, still-glowing symbols on his forehead, a murmur passed through the crowd. No one had ever seen anything like that, not even the spirit-walkers and war veterans. It was decided that Beaux should immediately be brought to the wisest shaman in the area, despite her other urgent concerns. Caring for the wounded and preparing the dead for their final journey was one thing, but they figured that Beaux might soon join them if he didn’t get help. They led him to that shaman’s dwelling, a largish cave set into the side of one of the large flat-topped mountains ringing Mulgore.
The shaman, an old woman by the name of Esme Winterhoof, took one look at him and immediately called for a bucket of cold water. Beaux barely had time to protest before she’d upended the bucket over him, chilling him and soaking him to the skin. The cold water stopped the sobbing and granted him some control over his emotions. Maybe a shock really was all he’d needed.
“Now then,” said the elderly Tauren, “maybe we can get some sense out of you. I’m Esme, but you know that, don’t you? I was there when you were born, son, and I knew your parents as well as any of my own children. Believe me, you are not alone in your grief.”
Beaux looked up at her, wiping cold water and tears off of his face. “I… I don’t know what came over me, I just…”
The old woman nodded, sadly. “Your father was the same way. So calm and collected through everything, but when he broke down, it all came out.” She reached out a hand to him, pulling him up with strength that belied her advanced age and seemingly frail body. “Let’s have a look at you, then, and see if all these rumors I hear have any base in fact.”
She brushed back his damp mane from his forehead, peering intently at whatever was there. Beaux had no idea what everyone was so interested in, but the source of the tingly power that still pulsed through him seemed to be on his forehead, like a second heartbeat. Every now and again he caught a glimpse of an orange glimmer above his brow, so he supposed that whatever magic had affected him must have left a mark of some sort.
After a moment’s scrutiny, the old shaman took a step back and shrugged. “Boy, I have never seen anything like this in my century and a half of life, and I’ve seen the inside of the Great War and beyond. Care to tell me what happened to you?”
Beaux slowly recounted the events of the previous night, pointing to the scars on both sides of his shoulder as proof. He skipped a few of the details about the dwarf camp, out of respect for the one dwarf that had helped him and to minimize whatever shame he might take from the fact that the dwarves had managed to catch him.
“Hmm… a strange tale,” said Esme, absentmindedly pulling on one her slate-gray braids. “Maybe if my husband ever manages to heal up, I’ll ask him to look into this dwarf situation. Hell, maybe I’ll just tell Baine Bloodhoof… I’m sure he’ll do something about it, even if that something might just be to hand it off to some youth fresh off of the mesa. Still, that’s not the question. Since your story leaves me with no more information than I started with, I think it may be time to just go to the spirits on this one.”
Beaux nodded; he was beginning to become quite interested in the matter himself, if for no other reason than it was something to take his mind off of more emotional matters. “Will you need to go on a vision quest or something?”
Esme looked at him askance. “Boy, I’m a hundred and sixty-four summers old. If there’s a spirit within a hundred miles that I don’t know by name, I’ll eat my own hoof. They’ll come when I call.” After a moment, she glared around crossly. “They’d better come, if they know what’s good for them.” Beaux felt a slight stirring in the air he hadn’t realized was there before.
After a few seconds of silence, the slight stirring deepened to a tangible presence in the air; Beaux couldn’t even imagine how many spirits it must take to achieve this level of mass, but he was certain it had to be quite a few, to say the least.
The old shaman nodded her head, spoke what seemed to be small murmurs of nonsense, and occasionally took a sip from a bottle filled with multicolored liquid. A moment passed, and then another; finally, an exasperated expression grew on her face. She muttered, “Come on, tell me something that all the rest of you haven’t…” A moment later, she finished off whatever it was in the flask and snorted.
Though he wasn’t entirely sure it was a good time, Beaux was getting impatient as well. “What are they telling you?” he asked, gently scratching his forehead that was supposedly marked by magic.
“Ah, they’re all saying the same things. It’s old, old magic, they say, based on ley lines and Titans and all sorts of technical spirit-talk that I can’t even begin to translate into Taurahe. I’ve got a good idea what it’s doin’ to you, but that doesn’t leave us with anything more to go on what the hell it is.”
The air thinned slowly, until the atmosphere in the cave was practically normal again. Suddenly, Beaux felt a tangible, nearly physical presence caress his forehead. A low rumble sounded from deep in the earth, and the air was filled with the scent of rain and soil. A profound sense of awe spread through him; this was one powerful spirit. If Mrs. Winterhoof could command the respect of a being like this, then her reputation was well founded.
“Oh really?” said Esme, leaning forward intently. “Well, that answers that, I suppose. Thanks for coming, by the way… can’t be a quick journey up here.” Another rumble came from the earth, and she laughed aloud. “Can’t say I blame ya… birthing pains aren’t something anyone sane ever chooses to be around. Can we expect anything upsetting up here?”
After a minute or so of light conversation that no doubt revealed tidbits of prophetic information that lesser shamans would give their eye-teeth to hear, the enormous spirit departed, leaving Beaux and Mrs. Winterhoof alone in the cave. Beaux stared at her in a new light of respect. “I am honored that you would call in such a strong spirit, ma’am.”
“What, old Stonehead? Ah, he comes up every so often anyway just to chat. His lady is giving birth, brand new collection of pebbles for the streambeds, so he doesn’t want to be within a hundred miles of her at the moment. We go way back, you understand,” she said, waving her hand as if referring to an old friend, not an extremely powerful elemental. “Well, it’s been way back for me, at least. Not so much for him, being that he’s pretty much the spirit of this entire mountain,” she explained. “Never asked how old he is, if he was even inclined to tell me.”
Beaux nodded, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t. Instead, she withdrew a long pipe from her belt pouch, stuffed it with pipeleaf of some sort and spent several minutes wrestling with an ember from the fire, trying to get it lit. After watching her try and fail for the third time, Beaux grabbed a likely smoldering stick and lit the pipe in one go.
Mrs. Winterhoof glared at him briefly, but shrugged after a moment, something like laughter hiding behind her eyes. “Ah, well… when you get to be my age, son, see if your eyes and fingers are still as sharp. Betcha won’t do any better than I did.”
“Yes, but… I’m sorry, but what did the great spirit say about me?” he asked, finally giving up the hope that she was going to tell him on her own recognizance.
She looked at him blankly for a moment, and then burst into laughter. “Aw, hell, I forgot to say, didn’t I? He says it’s rune magic, whatever that is. He gave me pretty much the same lowdown I got from the other spirits, but here’s a little kicker for ya: he says that in a cave, out in the northwest of the Barrens, there lives a great master of that art. He’s of the opinion that you might be well benefited by going out and paying that master a visit.”
“I, uh…” Beaux began to speak, but soon trailed off. He couldn’t decide how to react to that, after all. It was a mysteriously appealing prospect, something he had been yearning after for years now. All he’d dreamt of since his twenty-fifth birthday was of getting out of the tribe and exploring the world a bit before he came back and went through the initiation rites at Camp Narache. But, now that it was staring him in the face, he was filled with sudden doubts and the realization that he had no one to come back to if he did leave. Without his parents or even his sister, he was disconnected from the tribe; he had no idea where he’d fit in if he did come back. He might find a wife and make her family his own, but that prospect seemed dull in comparison to the gregarious extended families some of his friends had. Without a family of his own, he was afraid that he might eternally feel like a pretender, someone occupying a post they had no claim to.
“I think I’d like to go,” he said, resolve finally finding that familiar place in his heart. Once he had a goal to follow, Beaux figured he’d be much more capable of dealing with everything. “In fact… at this point, I’d welcome a journey.”
The elderly shaman looked him over, her dark eyes piercing into him and ferreting out all of his secrets. “Child, wherever you go and whenever you come back to us, keep in mind that you will always have a place at our hearth. You’re still our kin, and we would never turn you away. I understand your fears, but do not let them rule you.”
Beaux had to wonder how she’d managed to tell what he was thinking, but that was far from the greatest feat he’d seen lately. “Thank you,” he said quietly, trying to will some force into his convictions. “I think this is something I have to do. I’ve always wanted to see a little more of the world, and… if I stay around here, right now…” He trailed off, swallowing the lump that had grown in his throat. “I have too many memories here to stay, if that makes any sense.”
Mrs. Winterhoof snorted, blowing a puff of sweet-and-sour pipesmoke his way. “That’s a strange rationale. Sounds to me like you’re running from your problems instead of facing them… but, then again, what’s the use in staring down a dragon when all you’ve got is a broken heart?” She paused for a long moment, puffing bluish smoke around the cave.
Finally, she looked up and smiled. “I’m not certain this will be for the best, son, but I’ll give you my blessing to do with as you see fit. Follow your heart and the Earthmother will be waiting for you, right over every hill and around every corner.” The old Tauren stood from her chair, tracing a strange pattern in the air with her pipe, chanting softly in spirit-tongue. Beaux felt the air around him stir and thicken with power. A moment later an enormous, soft feeling of goodwill flowed into him, soothing his frayed nerves and dampening the sorrow still lodged in his heart into a layer of bittersweet memories. The hurts were still there, and he understood he’d still have to work through them in time, but for now this was the greatest gift he could have possibly asked for.
The old shaman sat back down in her chair, leaning back with a soft smile on her face. “Well, boy, I’ve done all I can for you. I think it’s best that you let this old woman get back to her duties - I’ve still got wounds to patch, though I think everyone that’s still with us will be fine in time. Off with ya.”
Beaux stood and bowed low, touching his horn tips to the earth. Mrs. Winterhoof had more than earned his respect, as far as he was concerned. He walked out of the cave, nervous butterflies in his stomach dueling with desire to seek his destiny.
--
Misha slowly regained consciousness, this time entirely certain that she had indeed died and gone to dwell in the Earthmother’s home. She was lying in a bed of such incredible softness that it simply could not be real; she opened her eyes, taking in her surroundings. The room around her was crafted of dark wood, looking as if it had been grown rather than built. She sat up in the bed, letting the silken sheets slide off. The room contained a pair of other beds and several strange, glowing mystical shrines, dedicated to spirits Misha had never even heard of. Bookshelves and candles lined the walls, softly illuminated by the rising sun coming in through a window. As she stared into the soft shadows cast by the rosy light, she realized two things at once: one, her filthy shift had been taken off, leaving her nude, and two, a broad-shouldered Kaldorei was sitting against the wall, facing her. She blushed and yanked the sheets back up over herself.
The elf smiled at her, as gently as he was able. Even with the soft expression, his craggy face, enormous eyebrows and sharp jaw made his overall affect intense and stern. The fact that his eyes were glowing golden orbs that barely resembled normal creatures’ eyes didn’t help, either.
"Hello, young one," he said in heavily accented Taurahe, yet another surprise. "I’m glad to see you awake." The elf stood, walked over to the window and stared out into the dawn, a soft breeze ruffling his blue-black hair. "You must have questions, but I’m afraid I don’t have many answers for you. My mission is complete, and I have to return to Teldrassil with haste... but leaving someone to the beasts in this vile place is beyond even me. I hope you’re well enough to travel."
Misha realized that she'd fallen into something of a trance as he spoke; though her experience had swiftly changed from a nightmare to a dream, she was still unsure of herself. "I... I think I am," she said, experimentally wiggling her hooves.
"Good," replied the elf, turning to face her. "We’d best get moving. I’ll try to explain things a little later, but for now, just try to stay out of the way."
Misha nodded, blushing again. “I… don’t seem to have any clothes,” she said quietly.
The elf laughed gently. “Yes, I noticed that.” He walked over to a table that held a neat collection of bowls of water, candles and small statues set atop a length of shiny cloth. He grabbed a handful of the drape and whipped it off the table without even stirring the statuettes on top, then tossed it to Misha. “Here, try and make do with this until we can find something better for you to wear.”
Misha wrapped the cloth around herself and slowly swung her body out of the wondrous bed. Though her legs trembled a little as she stood for the first time since she’d been captured, she found that she was still able to walk.
The elf looked her over. “Well, that won’t really do, will it? Let’s go see if we can scrounge up something a little more…” He trailed off, a faint grin coming over the corners of his mouth. “…a little more decent, I suppose. How old are you, anyway?”
Misha stared down at her awkwardly improvised garment, which was too short and constantly threatening to open or slip off entirely. “I’m twenty-eight summers, sir.” It was a lie born of Misha’s growing desire of late to join in with adult society; she had no idea why she’d not told the elf the truth.
The elf blinked, his glowing eyes going dim for a fraction of a second. “Twenty-eight? You’re the youngest twenty-eight I’ve ever met outside of an elf.” He shrugged, turning to face the carved door. “Well, I suppose not everything is as short-lived as an orc, after all… but anyway, follow me.”
Misha followed the mysterious Kaldorei, finding herself in a large hall, constructed in the same graceful style. If that bedroom had been grown of a tree, this one must be a hollow in the entire trunk. Ramps soared gracefully upward, leading to other doors and landings. A large well filled the floor in front of her, illuminating the huge room with rippling light and releasing sparkling motes into the air.
The elf strode forward briskly, and Misha practically had to run to keep up. It was difficult; her knees were still weak after her imprisonment and her improvised dress required a lot of management. The elf suddenly stopped near a large, open archway; distracted as she was, Misha almost ran into him. He turned and spoke several phrases of the odd elvish language to a willowy, scantily clad elf woman who was leaning up against a large bow near the wall. The elf woman murmured a reply, barely even opening her eyes as she spoke; clearly, she was too busy relaxing to give much energy to whatever it was Misha’s new friend had requested.
“She says the only clothes they have to spare are a couple pairs of… well, what she’s wearing,” he said, dryly amused. “I don’t think they’d fit you.”
Misha stared at the elf woman, who was only wearing what appeared to be lightly armored underwear. She noticed Misha’s gaze and stretched languorously, showing off a little more lavender-colored skin. The garments were designed to both accentuate and protect body parts that Misha barely had. She sighed, realizing that even elves, for all their supposed slender frame and thin bodies, were better endowed than she was.
Her guide rambled off a few more phrases in elvish, then walked away as the elf woman laughed cheerfully. Misha hurried to follow him. “I have some leather stashed away in my gear,” he told her, nodding toward a small stack of bags leaned up against the wall. “I think I can slap something together in a moment here that should work.”
Misha watched as he swiftly dug through the bags, pulling out scraps of skins from what looked like at least three different creatures, a ball of thread and a sharp needle. “Please, sir, don’t go to such trouble on my account,” she said, nervously twiddling her fingers.
“Eh, it’s no bother… and I need the practice anyway,” he replied, his fingers darting around as the needle flashed through the leather again and again. A few minutes later, he’d assembled a patchwork blouse and skirt out of the rough hide.
Misha took them reverentially, almost unable to believe how her luck had changed. “T-thank you!” she said.
The elf smiled again. “Certainly. I’d have thrown together some boots, too, but you have perfectly good hooves already.” He stood, glancing at the slowly rising sun through the window. “And, in return, maybe you could use some of that famous Tauren strength and carry some of my things, hmm?”
Misha nodded, pulling on her new garments and laying the decorative cloth down. “I’ll try, sir.”
The elf grinned back, handing her two of the bags. “Looks like waiting for you to wake up was a good idea after all. Let’s get moving,” he finished, strapping on his two satchels and walking toward the archway the elf woman was guarding.
Misha shouldered her two bags and jogged after him, unable to conceive of where life was taking her. Less than a month ago, she’d had no other plans than to learn some trade and be given run of the Red Cloud Mesa with the other journeyman youths… but now fate had dealt her something else entirely.
* * *
The morning sun crept over the high mesas that surrounded the Golden Plains, sending long rays out to announce its coming and soon chasing the deep shadows of evening back to their hiding places for the day. There was little beauty left to illuminate in the ruined Thunderhoof camp, though; dark, scorched marks covered the waving grasses where they hadn’t been burned away entirely, and rusty bloodstains covered the rest of the ground. Limp, broken bodies poked out of ruined tents here and there.
Beaux sat on his knees in a puddle of blood that was slowly soaking into the sandy soil. He’d drawn the bodies of his mother and his father up onto his lap, cradling their heads softly even though both were long dead and gone. He’d found them together, huddled under a scrap of canvas, with a ring of dead centaurs around them. They’d fought hard, and many would say they had died well… but that didn’t mean anything to Beaux. He didn’t care whether or not his parents had died honorable deaths, or if they’d managed to give as well as they’d gotten. He just wanted them to be anything but dead. Somehow he truly, absolutely needed them to have been still clinging to life, against all hope, if only for a chance to say goodbye… but it was not to be. Tarok and Auruna had died as they had lived, united and straightforward. It was more than Beaux could take.
Other Tauren came to the camp shortly after sunrise; Beaux vaguely recognized an aunt and some friends from another tribe, but no names and no feelings came to mind. All he could think about, even as they gently lifted him and carried him away, were the wracking, silent sobs that kept coming and coming, despite his best intentions and strongest efforts to stop. When they told him that there was no sign of his sister, and that centaurs were famous for taking hostages, his grief swelled even more. The only thought that had kept him going the entire night, through the destruction of his shoulder and the strange events at the dwarf camp, was that he might yet have a chance to change what fate had handed him. Now, as his dream fell in shattered pieces, reality stared him in the face as frankly as the glaring sun. It should have been a sobering thought, perhaps depressing at worst… but today, after the events of the night before, he found himself unable to do anything but bawl like an infant.
When the others noticed the strange, still-glowing symbols on his forehead, a murmur passed through the crowd. No one had ever seen anything like that, not even the spirit-walkers and war veterans. It was decided that Beaux should immediately be brought to the wisest shaman in the area, despite her other urgent concerns. Caring for the wounded and preparing the dead for their final journey was one thing, but they figured that Beaux might soon join them if he didn’t get help. They led him to that shaman’s dwelling, a largish cave set into the side of one of the large flat-topped mountains ringing Mulgore.
The shaman, an old woman by the name of Esme Winterhoof, took one look at him and immediately called for a bucket of cold water. Beaux barely had time to protest before she’d upended the bucket over him, chilling him and soaking him to the skin. The cold water stopped the sobbing and granted him some control over his emotions. Maybe a shock really was all he’d needed.
“Now then,” said the elderly Tauren, “maybe we can get some sense out of you. I’m Esme, but you know that, don’t you? I was there when you were born, son, and I knew your parents as well as any of my own children. Believe me, you are not alone in your grief.”
Beaux looked up at her, wiping cold water and tears off of his face. “I… I don’t know what came over me, I just…”
The old woman nodded, sadly. “Your father was the same way. So calm and collected through everything, but when he broke down, it all came out.” She reached out a hand to him, pulling him up with strength that belied her advanced age and seemingly frail body. “Let’s have a look at you, then, and see if all these rumors I hear have any base in fact.”
She brushed back his damp mane from his forehead, peering intently at whatever was there. Beaux had no idea what everyone was so interested in, but the source of the tingly power that still pulsed through him seemed to be on his forehead, like a second heartbeat. Every now and again he caught a glimpse of an orange glimmer above his brow, so he supposed that whatever magic had affected him must have left a mark of some sort.
After a moment’s scrutiny, the old shaman took a step back and shrugged. “Boy, I have never seen anything like this in my century and a half of life, and I’ve seen the inside of the Great War and beyond. Care to tell me what happened to you?”
Beaux slowly recounted the events of the previous night, pointing to the scars on both sides of his shoulder as proof. He skipped a few of the details about the dwarf camp, out of respect for the one dwarf that had helped him and to minimize whatever shame he might take from the fact that the dwarves had managed to catch him.
“Hmm… a strange tale,” said Esme, absentmindedly pulling on one her slate-gray braids. “Maybe if my husband ever manages to heal up, I’ll ask him to look into this dwarf situation. Hell, maybe I’ll just tell Baine Bloodhoof… I’m sure he’ll do something about it, even if that something might just be to hand it off to some youth fresh off of the mesa. Still, that’s not the question. Since your story leaves me with no more information than I started with, I think it may be time to just go to the spirits on this one.”
Beaux nodded; he was beginning to become quite interested in the matter himself, if for no other reason than it was something to take his mind off of more emotional matters. “Will you need to go on a vision quest or something?”
Esme looked at him askance. “Boy, I’m a hundred and sixty-four summers old. If there’s a spirit within a hundred miles that I don’t know by name, I’ll eat my own hoof. They’ll come when I call.” After a moment, she glared around crossly. “They’d better come, if they know what’s good for them.” Beaux felt a slight stirring in the air he hadn’t realized was there before.
After a few seconds of silence, the slight stirring deepened to a tangible presence in the air; Beaux couldn’t even imagine how many spirits it must take to achieve this level of mass, but he was certain it had to be quite a few, to say the least.
The old shaman nodded her head, spoke what seemed to be small murmurs of nonsense, and occasionally took a sip from a bottle filled with multicolored liquid. A moment passed, and then another; finally, an exasperated expression grew on her face. She muttered, “Come on, tell me something that all the rest of you haven’t…” A moment later, she finished off whatever it was in the flask and snorted.
Though he wasn’t entirely sure it was a good time, Beaux was getting impatient as well. “What are they telling you?” he asked, gently scratching his forehead that was supposedly marked by magic.
“Ah, they’re all saying the same things. It’s old, old magic, they say, based on ley lines and Titans and all sorts of technical spirit-talk that I can’t even begin to translate into Taurahe. I’ve got a good idea what it’s doin’ to you, but that doesn’t leave us with anything more to go on what the hell it is.”
The air thinned slowly, until the atmosphere in the cave was practically normal again. Suddenly, Beaux felt a tangible, nearly physical presence caress his forehead. A low rumble sounded from deep in the earth, and the air was filled with the scent of rain and soil. A profound sense of awe spread through him; this was one powerful spirit. If Mrs. Winterhoof could command the respect of a being like this, then her reputation was well founded.
“Oh really?” said Esme, leaning forward intently. “Well, that answers that, I suppose. Thanks for coming, by the way… can’t be a quick journey up here.” Another rumble came from the earth, and she laughed aloud. “Can’t say I blame ya… birthing pains aren’t something anyone sane ever chooses to be around. Can we expect anything upsetting up here?”
After a minute or so of light conversation that no doubt revealed tidbits of prophetic information that lesser shamans would give their eye-teeth to hear, the enormous spirit departed, leaving Beaux and Mrs. Winterhoof alone in the cave. Beaux stared at her in a new light of respect. “I am honored that you would call in such a strong spirit, ma’am.”
“What, old Stonehead? Ah, he comes up every so often anyway just to chat. His lady is giving birth, brand new collection of pebbles for the streambeds, so he doesn’t want to be within a hundred miles of her at the moment. We go way back, you understand,” she said, waving her hand as if referring to an old friend, not an extremely powerful elemental. “Well, it’s been way back for me, at least. Not so much for him, being that he’s pretty much the spirit of this entire mountain,” she explained. “Never asked how old he is, if he was even inclined to tell me.”
Beaux nodded, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t. Instead, she withdrew a long pipe from her belt pouch, stuffed it with pipeleaf of some sort and spent several minutes wrestling with an ember from the fire, trying to get it lit. After watching her try and fail for the third time, Beaux grabbed a likely smoldering stick and lit the pipe in one go.
Mrs. Winterhoof glared at him briefly, but shrugged after a moment, something like laughter hiding behind her eyes. “Ah, well… when you get to be my age, son, see if your eyes and fingers are still as sharp. Betcha won’t do any better than I did.”
“Yes, but… I’m sorry, but what did the great spirit say about me?” he asked, finally giving up the hope that she was going to tell him on her own recognizance.
She looked at him blankly for a moment, and then burst into laughter. “Aw, hell, I forgot to say, didn’t I? He says it’s rune magic, whatever that is. He gave me pretty much the same lowdown I got from the other spirits, but here’s a little kicker for ya: he says that in a cave, out in the northwest of the Barrens, there lives a great master of that art. He’s of the opinion that you might be well benefited by going out and paying that master a visit.”
“I, uh…” Beaux began to speak, but soon trailed off. He couldn’t decide how to react to that, after all. It was a mysteriously appealing prospect, something he had been yearning after for years now. All he’d dreamt of since his twenty-fifth birthday was of getting out of the tribe and exploring the world a bit before he came back and went through the initiation rites at Camp Narache. But, now that it was staring him in the face, he was filled with sudden doubts and the realization that he had no one to come back to if he did leave. Without his parents or even his sister, he was disconnected from the tribe; he had no idea where he’d fit in if he did come back. He might find a wife and make her family his own, but that prospect seemed dull in comparison to the gregarious extended families some of his friends had. Without a family of his own, he was afraid that he might eternally feel like a pretender, someone occupying a post they had no claim to.
“I think I’d like to go,” he said, resolve finally finding that familiar place in his heart. Once he had a goal to follow, Beaux figured he’d be much more capable of dealing with everything. “In fact… at this point, I’d welcome a journey.”
The elderly shaman looked him over, her dark eyes piercing into him and ferreting out all of his secrets. “Child, wherever you go and whenever you come back to us, keep in mind that you will always have a place at our hearth. You’re still our kin, and we would never turn you away. I understand your fears, but do not let them rule you.”
Beaux had to wonder how she’d managed to tell what he was thinking, but that was far from the greatest feat he’d seen lately. “Thank you,” he said quietly, trying to will some force into his convictions. “I think this is something I have to do. I’ve always wanted to see a little more of the world, and… if I stay around here, right now…” He trailed off, swallowing the lump that had grown in his throat. “I have too many memories here to stay, if that makes any sense.”
Mrs. Winterhoof snorted, blowing a puff of sweet-and-sour pipesmoke his way. “That’s a strange rationale. Sounds to me like you’re running from your problems instead of facing them… but, then again, what’s the use in staring down a dragon when all you’ve got is a broken heart?” She paused for a long moment, puffing bluish smoke around the cave.
Finally, she looked up and smiled. “I’m not certain this will be for the best, son, but I’ll give you my blessing to do with as you see fit. Follow your heart and the Earthmother will be waiting for you, right over every hill and around every corner.” The old Tauren stood from her chair, tracing a strange pattern in the air with her pipe, chanting softly in spirit-tongue. Beaux felt the air around him stir and thicken with power. A moment later an enormous, soft feeling of goodwill flowed into him, soothing his frayed nerves and dampening the sorrow still lodged in his heart into a layer of bittersweet memories. The hurts were still there, and he understood he’d still have to work through them in time, but for now this was the greatest gift he could have possibly asked for.
The old shaman sat back down in her chair, leaning back with a soft smile on her face. “Well, boy, I’ve done all I can for you. I think it’s best that you let this old woman get back to her duties - I’ve still got wounds to patch, though I think everyone that’s still with us will be fine in time. Off with ya.”
Beaux stood and bowed low, touching his horn tips to the earth. Mrs. Winterhoof had more than earned his respect, as far as he was concerned. He walked out of the cave, nervous butterflies in his stomach dueling with desire to seek his destiny.