Part 8 of Thunderhoof
This is the last part of the story. It is, as it happens, somewhat unfinished; sorry if anyone was hoping for some sort of closure. I may or may not work on it more later, but... for now, who knows.
--
Beaux shifted his weight uncomfortably on his new bed, a pile of thick moss laid atop a roughly flat stone compartment in the cave wall. His cot back home hadn’t been much, but at least it wasn’t made out of moss, of all things…
A soft snore came from across the room where his mistress was sleeping. She’d been working him hard for the past few days, barely leaving him a moment to sit and think between chores, exercises and inscrutable lessons on practically everything Beaux could think of except rune magic. She rolled over as he watched, her breasts standing out beneath her thin nightdress in the hint of moonlight filtering down into the cave. He turned away gruffly, ignoring the spark of excitement in his loins; she’d done nothing at all to encourage him other than have strange ideas about how acceptable it was to wander around nude, but he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. Before the centaurs came, he had been thinking about asking Meri Brokenhorn, an old friend of his, if she’d consider courting… but she hadn’t had anywhere near as much an effect on his mind as his mysterious mistress.
Hard as it was, he managed to put the matter out of his mind. He needed to get some sleep, anyway… no doubt she would want him up and ready to work soon after daybreak, anyway. He was becoming much better at cooking and tending her small, strange garden than he’d ever thought he would; Beaux had always assumed that if he didn’t find a new trade that suited him, he could simply follow in his father’s hoofprints as a hunter. Gardening and cooking didn’t really fall under that purview.
The thought of his father brought back a slew of memories, both good and bad. He had never quite seen eye to eye with his father, and although it had never prompted a real fight or a contest of wills, the years of avoidance and mutual irritation with one another had taken their toll. Tarok wasn’t a very emotional man, and Beaux had always assumed he found it rather difficult to share his feelings with his family, even when he felt ready to burst. On top of that, Tarok disapproved of his freewheeling son, more interested in laying around, exploring the wilderness and wrestling with friends than learning a trade or chasing a wife. Beaux learned to deal with him by simply ignoring him most of the time and occasionally doing him a small service, just so that his father wouldn’t need to complain that he never did anything of use.
At the same time, Beaux found that he missed him terribly. He’d never taken the opportunity to patch things up and have any kind of meaningful relationship, and now that road was closed to him. It had always been a reprieve of sorts whenever his father left on yet another long hunting expedition… but he wasn’t coming back from this one. Beaux still wasn’t sure how to handle that hole in his heart, even with the help of the shaman’s blessing.
His mother was a different story. The first few nights, even thinking her name brought him close to tears, but over time, those feelings abated. At this point, remembering her still brought him a well of sadness, but he was beginning to come to a kind of understanding of his grief. It helped that he had a number of warm memories of her that he could cling to; even though he knew he'd never hear her gentle voice again - or even the annoyed voice of command he’d so dreaded as a young boy - it was enough to hold onto the memories.
Memories of his sister filled him more with anger than grief. He hadn’t always gotten along with her, but she had probably been his closest friend growing up, as embarrassing as that was to admit to himself. Hate and anger flowed freely through him whenever his thoughts crossed either her memory or the existence of centaurs. The depth of the feeling scared him; he’d never exactly been a pacifist, but this gripping bloodlust was something alien and disturbing. Ordinarily, he would’ve assumed he could control his heart, but an emotion this powerful might be able to take control of him instead, as his grief had in the camp the morning after the attack.
Beaux grumbled and pushed the dark thoughts away. He’d been spending entirely too much time ruminating lately. His mistress wasn’t giving him much else to do, however; his schedule involved tending the garden, sweeping the cave, and doing seemingly random martial art practice. Beaux couldn’t even begin to imagine what being able to punch someone had to do with runes, but he was forced to throw himself into training with his whole heart… if for no other reason than to stop his mistress from beating him silly every time she decided he needed to practice. He was getting better, certainly; all he’d ever really trained with back home was a spear, on rare days when his father was both willing to interact with him for any length of time and also not busy doing something more important. Beaux had always known that he wasn’t necessarily quite as strong as some of the other bulls his age, all blacksmith’s boys and woodcutters; he wasn’t even in the same league as walking slabs of muscle that they’d turned out to be. However, when he realized that his mistress, barely a slip of a girl, was flat out stronger than him, Beaux got serious about training.
The other major thing she trained him in was history: random segments out of dry, dusty scrolls and tomes that looked like they hadn’t been opened in years. On random, unexpected days, she’d collar him and drag him into the study, a little-used cavern filled with books, scrolls and mysterious shelves. The knowledge she made him commit to memory was mostly apocryphal legends about the creation of the world, the work of the mysterious godlike Titans, and the later demonic struggles that ensued.
She also made him pore over maps of Kalimdor and Azeroth marked with inscrutable squiggles. They were a little bit like runes, but on a grand, stretched out scale; when she was in a talkative mood, she explained that these were natural ley lines, radiant channels of spiritual power flowing from the Well of Eternity, the great source of magic that attracted the demonic hordes to the world during the Great War. Beaux would’ve been impressed if not for the near-impossibility of memorizing the layout of the lines; the closer he looked, the more they forked and diverged, splitting into ever smaller lines and whorls, sometimes down to the level of but a single chain of runes. And, to make matters worse, he swore that the lines themselves changed overnight; after memorizing a given map, he’d come back a day, a week, or a month later, whenever his mistress randomly decided he needed a study period again, and discover the map to be completely different than the one he’d committed to memory.
But even in all this, his mistress had spoken scarcely a word to him about actual rune magic. She used the powers herself time and again, and occasionally Beaux would watch her absentmindedly empower one of the elaborate runes chiseled into the walls. He’d managed to get pretty good at activating some of the simpler ones, but she did not appreciate him trying. She’d given him a good tongue-lashing the last time she’d caught him trying to practice on his own.
He sighed to himself; it seems that no matter where his thoughts landed tonight, they ran in a track he didn’t much like. He rolled over again, staring up at the rough-hewn stone above him, wondering what in the world he was doing with his life… and he was asleep before he knew it.
* * *
There was a bright fire burning in the Grimtotem chief’s tent, although the place was anything but cozy; the tent was the most spartan Tauren dwelling Misha had ever seen. No one was in the central chamber, despite the pleasant fire, so she and Karrath stepped quietly inside. Soft snores came from one of the side-rooms, though who they belonged to was unknown. Karrath took Misha’s arm quietly.
“No one would leave a fire like this unattended,” he whispered. “Not unless they wanted to burn to death as they slept…”
Misha nodded, taking another glance around. “I’m guessing that whoever built it is either in the side rooms there or stepped out for a little. You want to hide and wait for him to come back?”
Karrath nodded, then slipped away and crouched behind a large clay pot.
--
Beaux shifted his weight uncomfortably on his new bed, a pile of thick moss laid atop a roughly flat stone compartment in the cave wall. His cot back home hadn’t been much, but at least it wasn’t made out of moss, of all things…
A soft snore came from across the room where his mistress was sleeping. She’d been working him hard for the past few days, barely leaving him a moment to sit and think between chores, exercises and inscrutable lessons on practically everything Beaux could think of except rune magic. She rolled over as he watched, her breasts standing out beneath her thin nightdress in the hint of moonlight filtering down into the cave. He turned away gruffly, ignoring the spark of excitement in his loins; she’d done nothing at all to encourage him other than have strange ideas about how acceptable it was to wander around nude, but he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. Before the centaurs came, he had been thinking about asking Meri Brokenhorn, an old friend of his, if she’d consider courting… but she hadn’t had anywhere near as much an effect on his mind as his mysterious mistress.
Hard as it was, he managed to put the matter out of his mind. He needed to get some sleep, anyway… no doubt she would want him up and ready to work soon after daybreak, anyway. He was becoming much better at cooking and tending her small, strange garden than he’d ever thought he would; Beaux had always assumed that if he didn’t find a new trade that suited him, he could simply follow in his father’s hoofprints as a hunter. Gardening and cooking didn’t really fall under that purview.
The thought of his father brought back a slew of memories, both good and bad. He had never quite seen eye to eye with his father, and although it had never prompted a real fight or a contest of wills, the years of avoidance and mutual irritation with one another had taken their toll. Tarok wasn’t a very emotional man, and Beaux had always assumed he found it rather difficult to share his feelings with his family, even when he felt ready to burst. On top of that, Tarok disapproved of his freewheeling son, more interested in laying around, exploring the wilderness and wrestling with friends than learning a trade or chasing a wife. Beaux learned to deal with him by simply ignoring him most of the time and occasionally doing him a small service, just so that his father wouldn’t need to complain that he never did anything of use.
At the same time, Beaux found that he missed him terribly. He’d never taken the opportunity to patch things up and have any kind of meaningful relationship, and now that road was closed to him. It had always been a reprieve of sorts whenever his father left on yet another long hunting expedition… but he wasn’t coming back from this one. Beaux still wasn’t sure how to handle that hole in his heart, even with the help of the shaman’s blessing.
His mother was a different story. The first few nights, even thinking her name brought him close to tears, but over time, those feelings abated. At this point, remembering her still brought him a well of sadness, but he was beginning to come to a kind of understanding of his grief. It helped that he had a number of warm memories of her that he could cling to; even though he knew he'd never hear her gentle voice again - or even the annoyed voice of command he’d so dreaded as a young boy - it was enough to hold onto the memories.
Memories of his sister filled him more with anger than grief. He hadn’t always gotten along with her, but she had probably been his closest friend growing up, as embarrassing as that was to admit to himself. Hate and anger flowed freely through him whenever his thoughts crossed either her memory or the existence of centaurs. The depth of the feeling scared him; he’d never exactly been a pacifist, but this gripping bloodlust was something alien and disturbing. Ordinarily, he would’ve assumed he could control his heart, but an emotion this powerful might be able to take control of him instead, as his grief had in the camp the morning after the attack.
Beaux grumbled and pushed the dark thoughts away. He’d been spending entirely too much time ruminating lately. His mistress wasn’t giving him much else to do, however; his schedule involved tending the garden, sweeping the cave, and doing seemingly random martial art practice. Beaux couldn’t even begin to imagine what being able to punch someone had to do with runes, but he was forced to throw himself into training with his whole heart… if for no other reason than to stop his mistress from beating him silly every time she decided he needed to practice. He was getting better, certainly; all he’d ever really trained with back home was a spear, on rare days when his father was both willing to interact with him for any length of time and also not busy doing something more important. Beaux had always known that he wasn’t necessarily quite as strong as some of the other bulls his age, all blacksmith’s boys and woodcutters; he wasn’t even in the same league as walking slabs of muscle that they’d turned out to be. However, when he realized that his mistress, barely a slip of a girl, was flat out stronger than him, Beaux got serious about training.
The other major thing she trained him in was history: random segments out of dry, dusty scrolls and tomes that looked like they hadn’t been opened in years. On random, unexpected days, she’d collar him and drag him into the study, a little-used cavern filled with books, scrolls and mysterious shelves. The knowledge she made him commit to memory was mostly apocryphal legends about the creation of the world, the work of the mysterious godlike Titans, and the later demonic struggles that ensued.
She also made him pore over maps of Kalimdor and Azeroth marked with inscrutable squiggles. They were a little bit like runes, but on a grand, stretched out scale; when she was in a talkative mood, she explained that these were natural ley lines, radiant channels of spiritual power flowing from the Well of Eternity, the great source of magic that attracted the demonic hordes to the world during the Great War. Beaux would’ve been impressed if not for the near-impossibility of memorizing the layout of the lines; the closer he looked, the more they forked and diverged, splitting into ever smaller lines and whorls, sometimes down to the level of but a single chain of runes. And, to make matters worse, he swore that the lines themselves changed overnight; after memorizing a given map, he’d come back a day, a week, or a month later, whenever his mistress randomly decided he needed a study period again, and discover the map to be completely different than the one he’d committed to memory.
But even in all this, his mistress had spoken scarcely a word to him about actual rune magic. She used the powers herself time and again, and occasionally Beaux would watch her absentmindedly empower one of the elaborate runes chiseled into the walls. He’d managed to get pretty good at activating some of the simpler ones, but she did not appreciate him trying. She’d given him a good tongue-lashing the last time she’d caught him trying to practice on his own.
He sighed to himself; it seems that no matter where his thoughts landed tonight, they ran in a track he didn’t much like. He rolled over again, staring up at the rough-hewn stone above him, wondering what in the world he was doing with his life… and he was asleep before he knew it.
* * *
There was a bright fire burning in the Grimtotem chief’s tent, although the place was anything but cozy; the tent was the most spartan Tauren dwelling Misha had ever seen. No one was in the central chamber, despite the pleasant fire, so she and Karrath stepped quietly inside. Soft snores came from one of the side-rooms, though who they belonged to was unknown. Karrath took Misha’s arm quietly.
“No one would leave a fire like this unattended,” he whispered. “Not unless they wanted to burn to death as they slept…”
Misha nodded, taking another glance around. “I’m guessing that whoever built it is either in the side rooms there or stepped out for a little. You want to hide and wait for him to come back?”
Karrath nodded, then slipped away and crouched behind a large clay pot.