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……….