Awohali: Stories from the Road
((Premise: A decent chunk of time has passed since the Horde and Alliance landed in Pandaria. If someone new were to be traveling through now, what would they actually see and hear? I'm playing through the 85-90 experience as someone who's exploring and interviewing folks to hear what has already happened, so this entry/series is just me extrapolating from that. Obviously, this isn't from Ephe's POV. :P))
Well, here I am. Land of mist and brews.
Real pretty, just like she said it'd be. Real mess too, but the fighting ain't so bad here. Not anymore. But you don’t need to be a shaman to see what was left behind. Like a bad wound, the kind of war those soldiers fought here can't help but leave a big, ugly scar behind. Bamboo exploded in blackened splinters. Animals driven beyond feral, but by what no one'll say. Debris washed up on shore, sticking out of riverbanks, red and blue all tangled up so bad you can't even see where it starts or ends - and that's when you make out the colors. And then there's the ditches. Oh Mother, those ditches are worse than the piles of bodies in northern wars. You know why? 'cause we set fire to those piles as a rule, and when everything around you is ice, you ain't afraid to light 'em up. Here, though, the whole region's a forest. You know, real pretty until you need burn something big. I reckon cooler heads jumped in and convinced someone or another not to burn bodies here or else there wouldn't be a forest still, but gods above and below, the white powder they dumped in these ditches did something real weird to these bodies. They don't smell like you'd expect, but at least the ones that ain't been covered with dirt are filled with bodies all wrung dry, like mummies if you unravel 'em. No, no, don't ask where I've seen that.
The point is, it’s a real mess here. Shame, that.
Worse, the locals gave me the stink-eye when I rode into one of their towns. Sounds like they got a raw deal the last time they had strangers staying over at the inn. Lady I spoke to didn't mention which side, but I reckon she didn’t care - both sides brought the gods-damned fight right through the front door. Over the owner's objections, like they do. Who started it? Who the hell cares.
Poor fellow, that owner. He's done a good job cleaning up the place, but I can still see the scuffs and scratches on the floorboards. He's still got a pile of smashed benches in the corner, partly covered with a blanket like he ain't too sure what to do with 'em now. I only notice because the owner looks there quick-like while he's trying to explain why he's real sorry, but I can't spend the night there. Those black marks around his eyes make it hard to get a read on the owner, but his voice is soft, polite. Maybe a little too polite. Anyway, I ain't here to cause trouble, so I tell him I'm just looking for a meal and then I'll be out of his fur. He points to a stool at the bar and so there I am, sitting with a plate of steaming dumplings, chatting with the fellow about his life, his food, his family. They're still alive, but he's quick to remind me that they're some of the lucky ones. The food's delicious, and the beer...I ask him what his secret is, and he says a true master pours his heart and soul into his work. Brewing's no different.
If that's the owner's soul, then I reckon he's a paragon of virtue.
Eventually, conversation turns to the outsiders, to strangers who came before me. He's real careful to tell me how much we’ve helped with their problems. Would they have wanted our help if they knew the price they’d be paying? I ask him if there's anything I can do to help.
"Stranger, it's very kind of you to offer, but your people have done much for us already. We must learn to stand on our own feet."
Translation: go away and leave us in peace. Can't say I blame him for that. On my way out I ask if I can buy some parchment, and he points me to another town not too far away.
I got in late and ain't seen much yet, but the scroll I bought has been mighty fine work so far. And the inks -- well, I'll save that for another day.
Well, here I am. Land of mist and brews.
Real pretty, just like she said it'd be. Real mess too, but the fighting ain't so bad here. Not anymore. But you don’t need to be a shaman to see what was left behind. Like a bad wound, the kind of war those soldiers fought here can't help but leave a big, ugly scar behind. Bamboo exploded in blackened splinters. Animals driven beyond feral, but by what no one'll say. Debris washed up on shore, sticking out of riverbanks, red and blue all tangled up so bad you can't even see where it starts or ends - and that's when you make out the colors. And then there's the ditches. Oh Mother, those ditches are worse than the piles of bodies in northern wars. You know why? 'cause we set fire to those piles as a rule, and when everything around you is ice, you ain't afraid to light 'em up. Here, though, the whole region's a forest. You know, real pretty until you need burn something big. I reckon cooler heads jumped in and convinced someone or another not to burn bodies here or else there wouldn't be a forest still, but gods above and below, the white powder they dumped in these ditches did something real weird to these bodies. They don't smell like you'd expect, but at least the ones that ain't been covered with dirt are filled with bodies all wrung dry, like mummies if you unravel 'em. No, no, don't ask where I've seen that.
The point is, it’s a real mess here. Shame, that.
Worse, the locals gave me the stink-eye when I rode into one of their towns. Sounds like they got a raw deal the last time they had strangers staying over at the inn. Lady I spoke to didn't mention which side, but I reckon she didn’t care - both sides brought the gods-damned fight right through the front door. Over the owner's objections, like they do. Who started it? Who the hell cares.
Poor fellow, that owner. He's done a good job cleaning up the place, but I can still see the scuffs and scratches on the floorboards. He's still got a pile of smashed benches in the corner, partly covered with a blanket like he ain't too sure what to do with 'em now. I only notice because the owner looks there quick-like while he's trying to explain why he's real sorry, but I can't spend the night there. Those black marks around his eyes make it hard to get a read on the owner, but his voice is soft, polite. Maybe a little too polite. Anyway, I ain't here to cause trouble, so I tell him I'm just looking for a meal and then I'll be out of his fur. He points to a stool at the bar and so there I am, sitting with a plate of steaming dumplings, chatting with the fellow about his life, his food, his family. They're still alive, but he's quick to remind me that they're some of the lucky ones. The food's delicious, and the beer...I ask him what his secret is, and he says a true master pours his heart and soul into his work. Brewing's no different.
If that's the owner's soul, then I reckon he's a paragon of virtue.
Eventually, conversation turns to the outsiders, to strangers who came before me. He's real careful to tell me how much we’ve helped with their problems. Would they have wanted our help if they knew the price they’d be paying? I ask him if there's anything I can do to help.
"Stranger, it's very kind of you to offer, but your people have done much for us already. We must learn to stand on our own feet."
Translation: go away and leave us in peace. Can't say I blame him for that. On my way out I ask if I can buy some parchment, and he points me to another town not too far away.
I got in late and ain't seen much yet, but the scroll I bought has been mighty fine work so far. And the inks -- well, I'll save that for another day.