[old story] Seeking Counsel
There is something about Thunder Bluff that soothes the soul. Perhaps its the thin, clean air; perhaps the bright yet simple patterns that decorate every building; perhaps its height makes it seem detached from the troubled world below. Whatever the reason it seems this is the place many Horde think of first when they must seek counsel for a troubled heart.
This is why the warlock has come.
There is no demon slinking along at his heels today, nor does his form exude the nauseating aura of wrongness that betrays his fel armour, but the Bluffwatchers now what this elf is. His stride is graceful and sure, his clothing casual (in relative terms), even if those bright-glowing eyes squint against the afternoon sun - yes, the shu'halo guards know who he is, what he is, and despite the respect they may hold for the service he's done their people, the Prophet Slayer's presence makes them shift from hoof to hoof and grip their weapons just a little more tightly.
He notices. Make no mistake. The gentle smile he gives them as he passes towards the Elder Rise does little to quell their unease, and he knows it, and the knot in his stomach grows all the larger. Months ago he could have told himself that lurch was merely vertigo: the bridges connecting the city's rises never look or feel as sturdy as they are. Even knowing that each line is capable of withstanding several kodos' passage, the groan of a plank under the elf's meagre weight sends a trickle of ice up his spine.
He takes a moment to breathe on the far side of the bridge, once there's firm ground under his feet once more. A voice, gravelly but still distinctly female, catches his ear: Magatha Grimtotem sits in counsel nearby, as her guards, massive Cor and towering Gorm, stand watch over her lodge. There had been a time when he would have sought her wisdom as well, but lessons carved in flesh learned in the dizzying peaks of Thousand Needles, the rocky canyons of the Stonetalons, and wild Feralas...these have taught Oriseus that the Grimtotem cannot be given his trust.
But perhaps another here can.
Growls ring out from the druids' lodge. Some of these sounds are part of the shu'halo tongue; many are not. They have felt him coming, smelled the fel in him from the moment he set foot in their city. The conversations held in those walls stop the moment he arrives, and he pauses, thin shoulders shrinking as if the silence was a fist raised against him. A pair of tauren fresh from their first rites of vision stare at the warlock. One bares her teeth (unable yet to take on a beast's shape but still of the spirit to snarl like one); the other's eyes narrow in comingled disgust and pity. The man who bends doomguards to his will cannot meet their gaze.
"Come, Courier."
Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem's voice is distant thunder. Even knowing that he's likely been alive decades longer than this tauren, the warlock can feel the age of that voice and those still-keen eyes. Those who were glaring look away or make some effort to reestablish conversation, albeit in hushed tones. The elf slinks forward with the whole of his body language oozing submission - if not cringing, then humble at least. He bows to the old shu'halo and greets him formally.
"Sin'dorei-su bal'el dash, quel'shan'do," he murmurs, eyes lowered in respect and hands held to either side with palms upturned.
The druid might not understand the words but he knows the form. "Ish-ne-alo por-ah," he rumbles in response. "You do not come here often, demoncaller."
Oriseus flinches. Straight to business then. "No, quel'shan'do, n-not as much as I'd like."
"Speak, then, Courier." Hamuul nods slowly, causing the feathers and beads braided into his mane to chime quietly. "You seem troubled."
"I am," the elf mutters. A hand strays into a belt pouch to fetch a single seed, which he toys with as he speaks. "There is...s-something that's been on my mind a lot, lately, and...I don't know who would know better than you what to make of it." The warlock's motions - furtive enough to seem little else but a fidget - do not go unnoticed. Druids are a watchful sort and there in a felmancer's fingers dances a spark of latent life: he has their interest now. Once again the archdruid nods, and Ori continues:
"Th-there was a time when...when I c-cultivated certain talents, as well as cultivating plants," he explains. A grin flashes across his lips, swift, nervous. "I was good at it, I'd l-like to think. Ev-even after the Betrayal, I...helped things grow, to help us survive."
One of the younger druids spits what sounds like an invective, but Runetotem silences the mutterings of those assembled with a simple, sweeping gesture. All the same he watches the blood elf with a certain hardness to his gaze. "And now?"
"And now...." The warlock gestures helplessly. "Something changed. I c-c-can show you...to ma-make it clearer than trying to explain ever could."
"Show me then." Again mutters rise and druids stir; again their eldest uses a simple gesture - a stamp of his staff against the ground - to quiet them down.
With some trepidation, Oriseus lowers himself to his knees. There is no floor here but the earth tamped down by countless feet and paws and hooves. It's cool between his fingers, moist, ready for roots and life. He makes a furrow for the seed and pats the dirt back on top of it. The task is swift and thoughtless, running on muscle memory alone to leave his mind free to race down darker pathways. The elf shakes his head, though, and concentrates...and the tauren creep closer to watch.
He feels the life sleeping within the seed.
He feels the life sleeping within the earth.
He reaches out to both, and grasps them, and forms a channel of arcane power to connect and rouse them.
For a moment there is nothing. Then - the cheerful green of a sprout bursts through the mound, stretching up and splitting into leaves - weeks worth of growth surging forth in a bare few seconds.
The druids gasp. At first it's in wonderment: a mana-sick demoncaller guiding life in such a way! The ghost of a smile touches his lips, though, as he knows even before it happens that the initial reaction will soon be replaced by revulsion. Horror. Anger. He does not look up when their whispers become growls; no, he watches the ground still. For the more that seedling grows, the blacker and more parched and barren the earth surrounding it becomes...as if everything had been leeched from it at once and left it dead.
His words are barely audible: "Shindu felome."
A moment hangs in which no one speaks. Slowly the elf lifts his head to meet the archdruid's eyes. The weight of it bears down on the warlock till he fears he might collapse under it, so grave is Hamuul's expression. Yet he manages to whisper, wincing: "What's wrong with me?"
There is an outcry then. One of the shu'halo takes the form of a bear and brandishes claws as long as daggers from where she stands; others become panthers, crouched low to the ground. Hamuul does not raise his voice but it still rings clear through the lodge: "You must leave."
Oriseus frowns as he stands, takes a few faltering steps towards the doorway; behind him now is an outraged crowd of spirit-warriors held in check only by the archdruid's silent command. He runs, and continues running, until he reaches the Pools of Vision. At the very back of the caverns he can take solace in the gentle light of the water; there the Forsaken will do no more than tilt heads at him as he passes by. He remains there for some time by the water's edge, staring at his own reflection. There is something about Thunder Bluff that soothes the soul, yes...but it cannot quell his questions.
There are never any answers.
* * *
As the warlock sits in contemplation, a pitch-black lion slinks into a smaller lodge of the Elder Rise - then rears up and becomes shu'halo. "Elder, I must speak with you," he grunts with head held low. "I have information you may find useful."
"Come, then, and tell me what you have learned." Magatha Grimtotem beckons him in.