On the outside, self doubt had never been a plague of the Doombite family. Both Drumgar and Lirshar had shown great tenacity and strength as young pups; and as such, were the only two out of five siblings to not drown at birth. Three brothers had all met their fate in the depths of a swift river. They had not met their Father's expectations. They were the failures. But Drumgar and Lirshar? They were meant for greater things. They were meant to carry on the family line. They were meant to succeed where the others had failed. It was this pressure that they dealt with, the burden they carried on their worked shoulders. Two siblings out of five. Two hearts beating for the rest.
Lirshar was twenty-six years old. She wasn't a pup any longer, or at least not in her own eyes. She had earned her name fighting repeatedly against Veterans of the Honorguard, refusing to back down when they continuously engaged her with challenges. She took blow after blow to the face, and finally the fight ended with three Warsong on the ground. They were bloody and bruised, and Lirshar herself had at least one black eye and a broken nose. Those had been the days of youthful vigor and an invincible fighting spirit. And when still referenced as “pup†at this age, Lirshar was apt to challenge and argue for the use of her earned name. It was her badge of honor, her bit of pride that she had earned on her journey.
But where was she now? Still twenty-six, and the pressure was bearing down on her more than ever. She was mateless again, childless; and when compared to her older Brother, rather unsuccessful in terms of strength and title. Gladiator Drumgar Bloodpaw, Arena Master and Champion of the Earthshaker Clan. He was her hero to admire, her hero to look up to. He alone stood as the exemplary target for her admiration, and the focus for her drive, but he was also a source of her insecurity. She was always second and standing in his shadow, always haunted and reminded of her failures. His presence, as inspiring as it could be, always forced her self-doubt to surface. There it meandered about her consciousness and spread like some hidden disease. First it would claim her mental well-being, then the physical. Hesitation, racing thoughts, sweaty palms; these would become the symptoms of a fatal epidemic that raced through the undercurrent of Doombite blood.
The zeppelin ride back from the Blackskull Cabal prison island was invigorating. With adrenaline still pumping through her veins, Lirshar felt like an animal ready to pounce. She was a wild thing, and united with her younger self. The self that had not been stifled by her experiences in Northrend, or frightened by close encounters with death. She sat alone up on the deck of the flying ship, carefully penning some of her thoughts. Her revitalized self rather enjoyed the surge of wind upon her face, and she steadied her hand with deep breaths.
Spoiler:
Someday you will know these thoughts. Someday, we will stand side by side in battle. Maybe back to back. You will shout to me. Maybe something like “Gol'Kosh bin mog g'thazag cha!†will come out of your mouth. I don't need protection, really. I am a capable Warrior, even more so when I've got my worg by my side. But I think I just like the thought of our partnership meaning something deeper. Both of us are willing to give our lives to protect the other at a moment's notice. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever fight about who gets to die for who. Do we have that kind of relationship, you and I? Will we share some tragic and romantic end? Will we die the sort of deaths that are worthy of a Lok'vadnod?
What are we to one another? Who am I to you? I'm not really sure I know the answers to these questions. I wish I could read your mind at times like these. I love watching you smile after we've proven ourselves victorious on the field, though. It's funny, because you seem happiest during the fight. When we're not working or being productive, you always seem so glum. I suppose I will just have to make it my priority to make you smile more. I hate the fact that this plan so often backfires. Ahh…terrible irony.
When I am close to death, when I can see my life blood spilling before my eyes, I am reminded of all the things I have never said. All the things I wish to say, all the things I should say. I am not sure why my lips are so hesitant. Perhaps it is because I have made so many mistakes, and continue to make so many mistakes. That has to be it. I don't want this to be another one. I want these words to come at the right time, in the right moment. I don't want to fail you or disappoint you. Maybe here and there I will drop bits and pieces of my unspoken gratitude, but it will never be enough. In all these casual conversations and greetings, there is never enough power with my words.
I have spent so much time ignoring these feelings, or doubting them because of the path I ended up taking with my life. I cannot carry on this way forever. Someday, before the end, I will just have to show you how I feel…unless you show me first.
How I love you. How I try to deny it. How I continuously fail at it.
The zeppelin starts to descend, and the note is crumpled up and shoved into a crowded satchel of belongings.
By the large stone wall in Azshara Crater, the one that was topped by the spirits of the Wind and Storm; Lirshar sat with Farseer Stormcaller, the mate of her older Brother. She began to inhale mouthfuls of the smoke from the Farseer's pipe, breathing deeply and closing her one good eye. She needed to concentrate on relaxing. How silly an idea that was. Concentrate on relaxing, think about it until your mind is spinning and you're beating yourself up because you can't relax. It was like when she struggled to fall asleep at night. Thinking about sleeping prevented you from sleeping at all, so all you could do was toss and turn and hope for some reprieve from your own mind.
The Farseer must have known that this was an inevitable pattern of thought and confusion. Perhaps, this was why she made the request for peace and serenity before causing the Warriors to think and dream of visions most vivid and terrible. Was it to stir the mind and create a state of vulnerable unrest?
Lirshar smiled as she looked around her. She could see all the members of the Vanguard, slamming their weapons against their shields, letting loose their battle cries as they looked out across a field of enemies. They all charged together, moving slowly in this dreamy haze that promised honor and glory. Enemies fell before their blades and arrows, their fierce faces contorted in the wrathful spirit of War.
But the dream did not stay this way. Soon, Lirshar found herself lost and separate from her soldiers. Too many enemies cut her off from them. They were all isolated, surrounded, and alone. First she saw Dagrim, on a hilltop sending out arrow after arrow as the wave of foes began to climb for her. They climbed and swarmed down upon the defiant she-Orc, taking her to the ground as she struggled to hold them back. Duron was next, with two demons jumping up to latch onto his back as he roared and tried to press on as they skewered him with their claws. Lirshar tightened her grip around her own axe, trying to force her way towards her men. The cries of pain and death echoed across a vast and darkened plain, a field of scarlet grass, darkened by the blood of a hundred honorable souls.
And no matter how hard she fought, there were only more enemies to take the place of those that were slain beneath her axe. One by one the Vanguard met their deaths at the hands of these demonic foes. Bloodlust overcame her then, pure and passionate fire taking charge of her heart. She screamed and tilted her head back to let loose her howl to the unforgiving clouds.
“It wasn't supposed to…to end like this!†She bellowed, but her words were met with silence. The field was still, and there she was standing amongst a population of corpses. No enemies stood, no friends, no family. Everything was dead.
She roared again in desperation.
And again, there was only silence to contrast her tears and yells.
But that was not all Lirshar was to see. As she aimlessly drifted in this sea of the dead, she came across a child. A child that looked remarkably like herself. A child that held an axe similar to the one she clutched for protection. Oh how it cried as it looked up at her with pleading, begging eyes.
“Why momma? Why?†It whispered.
Lirshar screamed again, dropping her weapon to clutch at her head.
And then there were her soldiers, gripped by some dark magics as they began to get up and walk around again, staring at her with questioning eyes.
“You were supposed to lead us to victory, not ruin!†Duron yelled.
“Wot' de fock were you tinkin'?†Snarled Mokaku.
“You suck!†Dagrim taunted.
They began to surround her, slowly closing in on their former leader until she choked on her own breath, tears clouding her vision. She shook her head from side to side, begging forgiveness from the Ancestors as she came back to reality, still sitting before the Farseer who gave her an appraising nod.
“Why Mochla, why? Why w-would you show me this?†Lirshar doubled over, gasping as she desperately clutched at the grass.
The Farseer leaned back, a stoic and stern expression permanently etched across her aging features.
“Why do you think I showed this to you?â€Â
“D-damnit! I don't want to hear that! There has to be a real and certain purpose to this. Why would you show such terrible things?â€Â
“I have not shown this to you. This is the product of your mind and your own self doubt. Will you take a hold of yourself? Or will you live with regret and continue to suffer needlessly in silence?â€Â
Lirshar opened her mouth, and then promptly closed it. Her hands were shaking as she tried to calm herself down.
“Forgive me, Farseer, but I must think on this.â€Â
“Very well.â€Â
Lirshar got to her feet with a frown, hurrying off for refreshment at the arena bar. A few drinks were all she needed to settle her nerves. Drinks, friends, advice and time. Time, and a damn good fight with Jurek Bladetongue.
In Lirshar's mind, nothing bad had ever come from disobedience. It was obedience and a lack of will to stand up and fight that was the source of cowardice and evil.
“Relent.â€Â
It didn't matter who the word was coming from. This young Warsong only knew that she didn't like the tone, or the request. In the arena of Azshara Crater, the pit where her own brother had fought and spilled blood in honor of his family and Clan, Lirshar was not about to stay on the ground. Battles and unexpected skirmishes over the course of the week had left her without shoes, without armor, and without any more than a dagger to fight off a highly skilled opponent wielding two swords. She had no doubt that the Eldest Bladetongue would have even more weapons scattered across his person. The Bladetongues were notorious for being well prepared for a variety of situations and encounters. Despite this lack of equipment, however, Lirshar Goresight had gone ahead and issued the challenge to face the silent and mysterious Jurek in the arena. She pushed herself off the ground with trembling knees, wiping her face with her forearm as she grunted.
“N-no. I will not,†she said in reply.
The demand was repeated, as he stood there waiting for her attempted assault.
“Relent,†his statue-like visage commanded. It wasn't a malicious demand, nor one that hinted towards any particular sense of superiority. It was just stated. Flat. Intimidating in its bland security.
“I will not!†Lirshar protested again; and again she was the recipient of a mouthful of dirt as she moved forward and tried to kick, punch, and grab Jurek Bladetongue. They continued this one sided dance until Lirshar was unconscious and no longer able to stand. Her body was covered in bruises and welts from where he had smacked at her exposed skin with the flat sides of his blades. She had been fortunate that he was so skilled. Without a weapon to parry with, she could have easily been cut apart as she tried to stand her ground.
The middle of battle is no place to self reflect. This is what many are led to believe. Thinking has no place in the heat of a moment; instinct alone should drive one forth to victory. Yet even with a mouthful of dirt, and a bruised and beaten body, the young often stop to question: Why am I doing this? What do I have to gain? What do I want here?
There was no time to answer the questions, only pose them. Dreamless sleep was sweet and welcoming after bearing the burden of the previous day's visions and conflicts.
Spoiler:
I hope you saw me out there today. I know it is wrong to want to impress you, but I look up to you and respect you. Your approval means much to me, and with it I am able to accomplish so much more than I can on my own. I guess that is what makes us excellent partners. Excellent soldiers. Excellent friends. We've been spending a lot of time together lately, and I have to say that this makes me happy. Maybe I have been wrong to doubt myself if someone like you is so willing to follow me. If –anyone- is willing to follow me.
I should respect you all enough to know that if you thought I would lead you astray, that you would not follow at all. Your respect is not so easily given. It is earned through blood, sweat, and companionship. We are all growing here, in these times. During these days. Perhaps we can look back and identify this as a turning point towards greater destiny. What is our destiny I wonder? I wish I had some clear path that was laid out before me, some idea of what I was supposed to be, or what I was supposed to become. It is so much easier to think that there are already established answers waiting.
I lost that fight something terrible in the arena today, and yet Drumgar told me he was proud. Getting up when you know you cannot win, he said, is the greatest measure of honor and courage. It was poetic, for my Brother. I am left wondering what it would be like if I could become as skilled as Reka's older Brother Jurek. -Could- I become something like that? Do I have the potential? The drive?
I would like to believe that I could do anything I wanted, maybe. I don't want to be too unrealistic with it. Sometimes I dreamed of becoming a Kor'kron. Sometimes I dreamed of being with you. Never once did I dream of becoming as skilled with a blade as Jurek Bladetongue. It is frustrating that when things start to balance out and become clear, that they change at the last minute and leave me asking questions again.
Who do I want to be? Where should I go?
For now, I will be myself. A battle won without honor, is no victory. Let me be guided by my friends and the spirits to whatever end I am to meet. The journey will be the ultimate prize.
“Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The Valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should
fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.â€Â
--“Julius Caesar†by William Shakespeare: Act II, Scene ii
It was not long before the assailant struck again, feeding into Lirshar's fury and rage of the last defeat. Was she so simple a creature with such trite and vengeful motivations? Was she a raging, blood-lusting Orc that cared for nothing but the strength of the arm that wielded her large axe? Or were these the wrong questions? The simple questions with the most obvious answers; the answers that were to be expected of her role in the world. It was her station, her birthright. But Lirshar never was one for following the maps of others. The stubborn Warsong had always been a trailblazer, no matter how difficult or how frustrating it was to cut through years of confusion and turmoil presented by mental or physical challenge.
Challenge was what defined the depths of her soul, she was certain. Conflict and the desire to press on were her legacy to leave behind. Who cared if it was redundant? Who cared if others claimed the same? This was her road, and by the Ancestors, no one would make it any less worthy.
By the time Lirshar had reported to Garin Elfcleaver in the Stonetalon Mountains where the newest conflict between the Night Elves and Orcs had erupted near Malaka'jin Village, there was little time for rest. One evening, while sitting upon a path and enjoying a relatively peaceful conversation by the fire, the silent figure jumped down from a nearby cliff, swords ready.
“What, right now? You want to fight right now?†Lirshar demanded of the familiar foe.
“You must always be prepared to fight. Anywhere. Anyplace,†was the stern reply. That was all he said, however. That was the only sort of thing he ever said. His voice need not say anything, when his swords and their taunting gestures spoke volumes. Perhaps it was his own type of sign language, his own view of bonding and perfection. Language was an art, and instead of the written or spoken word, this man excelled in the presentation of blade and blood.
This time she faced Jurek Bladetongue with her large axe gripped tight in both hands. It was an improvement to the last two attempts at battle, but he would once more prove to be superior in quickness and precision. Lirshar hoisted her axe high, attempting to swing it down at him; only to watch him move off to the side.
“Slow,†came the taunt again.
The only adequate reply was determination and another swing from the massive weapon. Jurek stepped back, allowing her weapon to crash against the ground before he promptly jumped on it to keep it pinned down.
“Slow, huh? I'll show you slow!†Lirshar cried, now trying to charge forward to tackle the Orcish male into the ground.
They pushed against one another, locked in a show of strength before Jurek quickly stepped back and let her drop down onto the dirt due to her own forward momentum. She grabbed onto his leg, yanking him forward towards her to pull him off balance right before his other foot came up to connect squarely with her face. She fell flat on her back, blood oozing from her nose as her head hit the ground.
What was this, round three? Every time he had managed to beat her with relative ease in a different and quickly insulting manner. But it was not shame her heart was left with, it was fire. The desire to do better, to grow stronger, quicker, more controlled...it consumed her. What were his tricks? How did he do it? How did he learn to do it? How could she learn to do it?
Her definition was founded in the word victory; it was the root of her essence. No matter how long it took, no matter what she had to do…she would find a way.
The first problem to address, she knew, would be speed. She was a muscular combatant, used to wielding heavy weapons in close quarters melee; but against someone like Jurek, it just wouldn't do. She couldn't keep up. The only question was how to go about this problem. Less armor for more mobility? Lighter weapons for more finesse based assaults? She would have to think on it; for she had a feeling that Jurek himself would never say anything. He would leave her to her own devices, she imagined, and that was just the way she liked it.
Surprise attacks in the middle of nowhere or not, Lirshar Goresight would be prepared for the next encounter; and oh how her weapon hands twitched in excitement and anticipation. Her time would come when it would come. She wouldn't hide from this challenge; she would embrace it with open arms and courage.
![[Image: Lirshar_zpscaa814f0.png]](http://i289.photobucket.com/albums/ll212/Max_ch2/Lirshar_zpscaa814f0.png)
