The War-Shaman

On a bright day such as this, it has become all to easy for the illusionists to pull their veil over our heads. Deceit flourishes in this new Horde, encouraged by those that know too little to object. I am writing of shaman. Now, please don’t stare in disbelief, for I know some still retain an ounce of honor, but there is a new breed of shaman. These are the fighters that wield the powers of nature only to slay their sworn enemies, the Alliance. In fact, the title of shaman is taken as lightly as that of a scout, ranger, warrior, or assasin! When I informed a troll earlier today of my shamanic status, he laughed in disbelief. He asked for proof, for me to call down lightning. I was dismayed, of course, for I know there is more to shaman than cheap parlor tricks. The troll himself was a combat shaman, when asked when he last communed with his ancestors, replied only with a blank stare. These shaman keep peace with the elements, I suppose, but are without contact with there ancestors. At what cost does your killing efficiency come? Gah! I will write more when I have cooled down a bit.

‘Hunter’

Recently (through no action of my own) a title has been added to my name. ‘Hunter’. I found it strange, that one who would carry a bow and kept peace with animals would be called such a name, but I will learn to deal with it. I asked those around me this morning, what they thought of the title. My elven friend, pale as the moon with short red hair, thought it to be a demeaning term. One who seeks only blood. A tauren woman by me, young though she may be, had her own views. She argued of how her people took great pride in the hunt, the ultimate test of one’s mind and soul. The reward from the wilds. And yet still, the forsaken among us, a ghastly being with dripping claws, stated that it was only a name, and not a matter to be disputed. At this point I left.

Some time later that day, I was resting atop one of the ‘thousand needles’ that make up the canyon of the same name. The view was beautiful. A female blood elf, soaked in blood, came to sit by me. The stench was appauling. She would draw her blades, wipe them down with a rag, then sheath them back across her soaked back. To think that this woman,  one so blood-crazed, so ferocious, should come to an old orc, and say only “Quite the view, eh?” really gave me something to think about. We spoke for three hours. And as it turns out, the blood she was so proud to display on her armor was her own. She had not reveled in the kill, but in her survival. One of the tauren braves had saved her. Heh, this ‘blood knight’ was quite the hunter……….

The rider and the friend

It is sometimes strange where you find inspiration. It’s stranger still, when something you take for granted surprises you so. I  waited in Orgrimmar this morning, to catch a brisk flight to Thunder Bluff, when a young tauren came up to me. He asked e for money so that he could purchase a wyvern flight. When asked where he was to go, he simply replied “I have no destination, only to free my captured soul”. I was confused by this, to say the least, but he settled my thoughts when he said “The wyverns can free us, you know. They are blessed by wind, so that no matter the problem, they always may travel to the skies.”

  ”This is no blessing,” I replied, “They will never learn until they are forced to live with their problems. I hope you, tauren, could understand that. Fleeing teaches nothing, it does not build character, it doesn’t show strength. Every day I live with the regret that I once fleed from my people. I was scared of what they….we were becoming.” By now the tauren had lost interest in me, and had already mounted his ferry to the skies.

I waited there for a while, and another young one came to me. He didn’t have enough money to pay for a flight. He proceeded to beg everyone around him, not considering for a second how much better it would be for him to just walk to his destination. We spoke for about ten minnutes, and then he commented to me on how much he takes for granted…..and I began to think of Blacktusk. My crocolisk friend, he has accompanied me since I came unto this planet. The wilds have shown him to me. And now he will always stand beside me, taking my food and care in exchange for his protection and company. I think it’s dispicable how often he is reffered to as my ‘pet’. I am a shaman! I am no beast’s captor! And he is my friend. Perhaps I have taken him for granted in recent days, but never again.

The beginning.

I was born back on Draenor to the chieftan of the Spearhoof Clan. Yes, I know the clan sounds a tad like one of tauren culture, but it was named for the spears we fashioned of Clefthoof leg. Anyway, my brother and I were released upon this earth the same day. Err…..’twins’ I think the humans would have called us. Anyway, we were named Donkar and Rakkezai, names which roughly mean ‘Earth’s arm’ and ‘Wind’s soul’ in crude orcish.

  Our clan’s shaman was taken aback by us, for our birth was heralded by various good omens. One of which was a herd of talbuks that came to witness the birth. The elements graced us. I wonder now, if there was ever two sons in the line of chieftan that possesed shamanistic prowess…..A shaman in the line of chieftan is rare enough in its self!