I have been through a tumult of late, every day it would seem. As my magical skills had not advanced significantly since learning the hallowed Ghost Wolf form, I eventually swapped my pitted & scarred stave for something I never would have dreamed I would wield. 1118 More Words
I have been through a tumult of late, every day it would seem.
As my magical skills had not advanced significantly since learning the hallowed Ghost Wolf form, I eventually swapped my pitted & scarred stave for something I never would have dreamed I would wield. A massive bearded axe, weighing more than any mace or shield combination & sending a chilling message to all who cast a glance over my battle worn, bloodstained & mud marred armors. This along with graduating from leathers to proper maile armors paints my weary form in a new light.
No longer am I the sheltered child I had been. No longer have I time for the wistful hours spent turning the pages of works of lighthearted fiction. No longer do enemies bare down upon me like simple prey. Nay, instead I am a force from the nightmares of children. Four hundred pounds of disappointment, garbed in the pilfered regalia of the dead and the damned. Their pleas for mercy silenced by the knell of my sweeping blade, this hewer of hopes and dreams of any whom would turn toward me & strike me as with even an air of disrespect.
I am a tool. My name is Cog. I writhe in unison with the other instruments of aggression I have come to know as comrades alongside me in the great Warchief's precious Horde. I am directed seemingly on whim; my commanders need merely point me in a direction and I am unleashed. A hell of burning lightning & crushing earth, searing flame & wild rivers. The wind pushes my arms forward without consultation of my consent, the elements coming together to show whatever unfortunate creature that has found itself beneath me the frozen screaming silence of death.
I am a butcher. Not a soldier. For the Forsaken, I slaughtered farmers & hands in their fields. Then I poisoned their dog & it went wild & killed its former owner. For the Darkspear, I as Shu'halo marched into their ancestral home to murder Stonesplitter trolls. Retrieving what I suspect were religious trinkets as proof.
That sounds an awful lot like genocide, to me. Like stories of the orcs and humans, tauren and centaur, to me.
For my own people, plain old shu'halo, amidst the biting wind atop a spire in Thousand Needles I entered an average tauren settlement in every way. Except it was populated with Grimtotem, so I, as ordered, ruthlessly splattered their blood in haste, my totems staring on in deafening silence, as if struck dumb by the horror if not already silent in their passive vanguard.
Why does the Earthmother still assist me as I brutalize my brothers and sisters? Still I wake & breathe & An'she warms my face with light and love. Amidst her grace, the iridescent vibrations of life abound throughout my waking conscious senses. Yet such horrific sin do I offer in faith? How could a wretch as me remain so favored? Earthmother, I would think it naive to suggest you simply have abundant need of topsoil fertilizer. Surely there is more?
How can the wrong of the Horde remain right?
I look to my brethren in the Forsaken. Despite what I might've just written, in truth few I've met seem as malicious as those masterminding atrocities in Hillsbrad. Most are dour, even genuinely sad, but generally we seem to understand one and other. They are the angry dead. Focused like the finest beam of light through the canopy toward their seemingly sole goals of fighting back the Lich King & fighting for their right to exist. The individual Forsaken vary widely in their personal ambitions I find, however. In this manner they resemble humans. Orcs, shu'halo, even trolls, we are far more societally & socially committed to duty and honour before, or at best alongside personal ambition. Not that I would consider this trait of our departed comrades negative. Just different.
The Forsaken remind me of myself, I suppose. Of the vision of me I only share with your pages. Both at once proud and ashamed of what we have become. A glaring cacophony of a paradox. Acting out the worst nightmare-like works as if a game of parody. Instead we live parity.
Rambling off topic as I am, journal, at this climactic hour, I am reminded of a friend I made. A friend, yes! I know I should have written but, I'm so busy and I keep leaving you at the bank for extra space in my bags...
Bah. Nonetheless, her name is Lerain. She is associated with those erm, The Counters folk. She is a member of the Forsaken & yet wields the magic of the pure Light of An'she despite the pain it causes her in undeath. She exhorts faith in every way in that. Even in her modesty when I mentioned as much.
Do you remember how I don't have time to read, anymore? Well, I don't. Except, like, a little. I found some old molding books when I was in Tarren Mill. Human books, in Common. So I saved them, & I sent them to miss Lerain to see if she could translate them for me. I'm so excited! I hope they're stories. It's a little sad how often I'm daydreaming about whatever strange & interesting things humans write about.
Probably how much they hate us. That would make sense. I couldn't blame them.
Anyway, I also received a handwritten work from a consort of demons & her companion. Moxie & Zehevere gifted me a work-in-progress of theirs. They are attempting to compile a brief history of Zehevere's people, called syaad. I didn't know demons had racial history, or even personalities, but Zee conversed with me in fine Orcish with manners a far cry more delicate than most of my Horde compatriots. The pair of them fancy themselves a romantic duo. Though I question the legitimacy of a relationship based on magically bound servitude, it is best to let sleeping dogs lie. Nevertheless the pair seem enthralled with one and other in a similar manner to most young couples, so time will tell if their union is to last. Outside of that, their relationship is no business of mine - I wish the best for them, the poor estranged lovers. Anyway, it is also in Common & I gave it to Lerain for translation as well for the time being.
I'll admit, journal, the way they were together, even simply holding hands; the thought makes me quietly pign for something of the sort of my own. A comfort, a port in a st-...
I've been interrupted & informed just now, after having just come off the evening watch here in Feralas to come write & sleep, that my relief has just taken an arrow, & I'll need to cover their post until morning.
Good night journal, have a good rest here in my hammock without me. At least one of us will rest before sunrise.