Meditation [Spirit Champion]

[Krilari]

Meditation - The Tale of an aspiring Spirit Champion

Chapter 1:
In the Mountains

Duron Bloodaxe, of the Warsong

What am I?

Champion of the Goresight Vanguard

Why was I awarded this?

Mate of Lirshar Goresight

Am I even worthy of her?

Warrior of the horde

Am I nothing more than a coward?

The words played from his mouth, the questions from the darkest reaches of his conscious. The experienced orc let out a sigh as he continued on his path, leading nowhere, and coming from nowhere. The forest surrounding, full of life and song coming from the deepest cave to the tallest tree. Within moments the stone path that he was following gave way to beaten grass and an empty clearing formed. At a moment's instant he was surrounded, not by enemies nor by beasts but by memories. Each one took its place in a circle encompassing Duron, some in pairs, others standing alone.

The first vision in front of him was the orc Dagrim. He slowly began to circle the vision, grunting. "Dagrim Blackarrow, the unruly soldier. Kicked down at every chance by every rank. I always wondered if we would consider her more than a peon, heh." Duron smirked as he continued to eye the statue-like figure. "Oh how you've changed. You listen now. You can fight and you won't take shit when you don't have to.” Duron chuckled again as he plucked the string of the bow on Dagrim's back, the vision instantly dissipated into a cloud of smoke.

Standing only a few feet from Dagrim was a tall, muscled Orc covered in black plate and carried with him an axe similar to an Earthshaker's. Duron looked at him with disgust. "Kathorg, our 'warlord'. Where the hell have you gone that your men didn't matter? Did you intend for us to freeze? To sit idle for months on end?" Duron snarled at the memory. "You were a fool, and always will be to us." Duron placed his hand on kathorg's head, the grip tightening until the memory dissipated into dust.

Next was a pair, Farseer Mochla and Gladiator Drumgar Bloodpaw. They both stood with straight backs. Mochla was dressed in her normal brown robes while Drumgar was plated head to toe with the armor of an Arena master. “The most honorable pair I have ever met. Even Drumgar's wisdom surpasses that of most men in their day and age.” He looked over to Mochla. “The Farseer, such a prestigious orc. Taking what would be done in double her age and completing it with a light heart. Now, Bloodpaw, perhaps its best you not tell us of your bite marks.” He Chuckles and bows before the pair and they too became nothing more than air.

The next figure stood in a pose, howling axe drawn in one hand while the other was clenched in a fist. The face shows obvious expressions of war, scarred, torn, and bloody. "Lirshar Goresight, my mate, my love. How we danced around each other for months, lightly tracing our steps. I am proud to be with you, to comfort you. Yet the question still strikes at the back of a head as a nail on wood. Am I worthy to have you? Will I let you down at every turn as Kathorg did or will I persevere? Only time and bonding will tell..." Duron pats Lirshar on the head, smiling weakly as he does so.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The final pair stood tall and proud, one was a tall male orc with less than a hair on his head. In matter of fact he was barely clothed except for a plate-mail set of leg guards, in his hand was an obsidian-headed maul with a shaft made of wood from Ashenvale. Next to the tall Orc was an elderly, frail Orc. Her left arm is missing but the rest of her is covered with an elegant robe of white feathers. "Father, mother. The two spirits that forged my own…I owe you both too much. Not even my thoughts can sum up what I have to share with you father, but perhaps...We will see." He begins to tear, bringing his father into an embrace. He lets out a choked sigh as the next vision fades. He turns and gives his mother the same embrace and her fate the same.

Alone, all alone. Not a soul for you to save, not a soul to save you.

The wind grew violent at a moment's notice, dusts from the memories picked up and formed itself into a being all its own. Monstrosities garbed in torn brown linen, red spikes shooting out from the shoulders. With a wicked grin the beast's words dripped venom. "Death, destruction, woe and sorrow are the seeds you plant in this world! The fruit of your labors...so delicious." Memories begin to surround Duron again, this time by the thousands. Night elves, humans, beasts and Warriors alike appear, faceless. The robed figure finally removed his hood to reveal himself to appear exactly as Duron.

Will I fight the corruption?

The warriors all drew weapons of different size and origins. The robed imitation licked his lips with a forked tongue. “I will take joy, oh so great joy in destroying you from the inside out…” The hood was brought up again by a heavy gust of wind. Not a warrior moved except for Duron who struggled to keep himself up against the gale winds. “Die!”

Or will I feed into it?

They all charged, warrior and woman alike, child and elder all converged on him like a swarm. Biting, slashing, gnawing, carving, bashing.

…And then there were none.

Duron awoke from his meditation covered in a sweat, his body shivering from the breeze. The orange mountains glowed as the first light of dawn broke over the land. He began to rise amongst the small camp in front of him but found he stiff and tired.

Will I live to defend her?

He picks up his hammer with a tired groan, his shoulder and arm producing a ‘crack' sound as he flexed his arm. The subtle sound of unsheathing swords sounded only a few feet back.

I will.

[Krilari]

The dawn's light was greeted by howls of battle and the clash of bloodied steel. Two orcs, both panting for breath as they size each other up for the umpteenth time. Duron, clad in plates which are covered by a tabard was opposed by a small orcish female. Her own person was covered in leather armor with numbers of nooks for weapons from knives to bombs. Their visions were locked on each other's throat for a split second before Duron charged for her. In the assassin's swiftness she rolled aside from the charge, much to his dismay. He fell off of the cliff, landing spine-first on a tree stump. In one swift jump the assassin bounded off of the cliff, her feet were first, followed shortly by her two swords. He tried his best to pick himself from the stump, but found his now destroyed breastplate working against his every motion. In a desperate attempt, he flung both of his boots straight up in the air. The assassin, unable to stop her projected path, flew right into the steel-reinforced boots and was sent launching off deeper into the woods of Stonetalon. He gave chase for hours without end, checking every nook and cranny, under every log and in every cave.

By the cover of night Duron halted his search and returned back to Malaka'jin, the current base for the Goresight Vanguard. Once he managed to pry his ruined chestplate off he quickly retreated to his bed for a good night's rest.

Wake up, Bloodaxe!

The armored orc stirred from his rest, finding himself in the same forest from the previous night. After managing himself to stand he peered around aimlessly, finding only silence in return. “Have you always been so blind, child?” A large, bright green, hand clasped itself on Duron's shoulder from behind him. Duron quickly spun around, drawing his mace, to find that the orc apart from him was his father. Koris was dressed as he was in the last vision, but this time it felt different. This wasn't a memory, it was a spirit.

Duron quickly found himself kneeling before Koris, paying him a sort of homage. “Koris, it's been so lon-” The spirit quickly interjected. “No it hasn't, son. You always think you are alone, that you have bested opponents that only you have seen.” The spirit kneeled down to Duron, knocking his head against the other. “We have been watching, son, and we are pleased.” Soon enough other spirits have joined the forest, not memories or visions, but orcs, both brown and green. “Your bloodline has always sown strength and honor into the hearts of warriors. Now is the time for you to do the same.”

The morning's light flickered over Duron as he awoke from his slumber, only one whisper in his mind did he remember. “Blood of men lost is remembered on this shrine which stands upon it the corpse of a fallen warrior, ever blessing, ever protecting.”

What am I?

The path head was beaten and worn, perhaps even littered with blood from years ago that can't be seen now. “A shrine of warriors past? Hmm.” Duron clasped onto his maul as he continued along the arid path which gave way to the barrens. He sighs. “What am I to do? I can't even -find- the spirits let alone talk with them.” He rubbed the back of his head in thought. “…I need help.” After a travel north the barrens gave way to the green forests of Ashenvale and from the green forests turned orange in the lands of Azshara Crater. He kneeled before the entrance to the crater. “I pray to the spirits now, that the Farseer is in town.” He smirked as he passed two very confused Earthshaker grunts.

I think I'm going to find out…

[Krilari]

Chapter Two:
Red Fields to Golden Plains

Azshara Crater, a land of perpetual autumn. A land of great feats can also be the shadow cowards hide in. Within the crater was a large arena, constructed by the peons of the Earthshaker Clan. As Duron sat there for hours on end, he spoke with orcs of great honor, Karnis the Blackwolf, young Warsongs. Yet, in the mass of friendly faces an odd one cried out. “Warlord?” said a female blood elf. Duron immediately picked up his head. “Warlord? What are you talking about elf?” The elf replies “Warlord Kathorg has returned, look!” She motioned just past the inn to a line of training dummies. Past the dummies is a battle-scared orc covered in dark plates of armor. His hair was back in a greying ponytail. The two talked shortly, exchanging unplesantires. Duron left the arena in a fit of frustration, traveling north until he was confronted by a large wall guarded by broken dragons and elementals. He sat there in patience for only a minuite or so before an ethereal wolf approached his side. “Throm'ka Farseer, it is good to see you again.” The wolf barked once at him before shifting into an eldered orc. “Throm'ka Duron Bloodaxe. What brings you here?”

“Recently I have had visions, if you would listen can I tell?” The Farseer nodded in reply. “Thank You. The first of my visions was one of myself surrounded by old friends and relatives. We exchanged pleasantries, one by one, but something odd happened. The memories quickly faded and converged to form a deformed version of myself…He slew me.” Duron shuddered. “That's one of two.” The Farseer interjected. “And would you share the second?” He let out a deep sigh and nodded. “I do not recall a lot from the second vision but after it a whisper from the wind in the sound of my father's voice ‘Blood of men lost is remembered on this shrine which stands upon it the corpse of a fallen warrior, ever blessing, ever protecting.' “The Farseer quirked a brow at him. “And what do you want from me? An Interpretation? Guidance?” Duron shrugged. “I guess what I want is help. I mean how can I carry out their quests when I cannot call upon the spirits let along consult with them.” “You will know what to do when the time comes. To be chosen by the spirits is no small feat.” “Thank you Mochla, I think I know what I need to do…but first I should probably tell Lirshar about all of this.” The shaman smiled at him as he finished. “She is already here, looking for you.” Duron blinked at Mochla before standing swiftly and bowing. “Aka'magosh Mochla, thank you.” He turned around and began to walk towards the arena.

The rest of the evening was spent with friends and family. Duron was greeted by Lirshar just as Mochla said and was accompanied by the tauren warrior Aki. They stalked amongst themselves, telling of recent adventures about eagles and tattoos. As the hour drew late Duron was forced on his way, leaving the Crater and traveling south to the plains of the barrens. He had traveled all through the night and into the dawn. Duron walked along the cobble road, just a few miles out from the Crossroads outpost. In a moment's notice the wind picked up ever so slightly towards the west. His stride sped up towards the west, heading straight for one of the many mountains that litter the northern Barrens. On the side of the mountain was a low hill that held a path leading further up the mountain. Upon the hill was a shrine covered in chestplates, shoulderguards, weapons, shields, plants and offerings. The main feature of the shrine was the corpse of an orcish warrior that was untouched by rot or age.

Duron kneeled a few feet from the shrine. After observing he muttered a prayer under his breath. “Spirits blessed and honored. Bring your selves in front of you weapon, tell me of wisdoms, find me worthy.” The gust spun around the shrine with an eerie groan. A blue mist gathered above the warrior's corpse. The mist soon materialized into an orc, clad in a set of red and silver armor. “Throm'ka, honored Ancestor.” The spirit looked down from his pedestal and observed Duron. “Lok'tar, Bloodaxe. You have come seeking my wisdom? Then listen. Listen and listen well because I'm not repeating myself…” The spirit's voice dragged on as Duron's vision quickly faded.

When Duron's vision returned he was standing in front of a battle at a massive camp. The land itself was breaking and crumbling, torrents of water and fire filled the buildings. Duron stood amidst it all; in front of him was the spirit who was looked in combat with two humans. The fires ate away at the sky as the order to leave was given by some unseeable commander. The last he could see was the warrior striking both humans down before taking his own leave.

His vision returned to him in the same maner as before. This time, though, Duron found himself floating in the skies of Hyjal. Beneath him was a raging battle between orcs and demons. He could see the different clan banners and the lines of warriors. As both demon and orc fell Duron watched with growing frustration. Azgalor, one of the demonic lieutenants, approached thee orcish encampment with frostwyrms on his back. What drew his attention was the warrior beneath him, it was the spirit. He let out a furious battle cry and led a force of warriors head on into the incoming hell. As the battle began and the screams of horror began, Duron faded once more.

“Go Bloodaxe, venture home. Blades unknown sink into the leather of your kin.”

[Krilari]

In the lower ends of Stonetalon peaks is the outpost of Malaka'jin where the Goresight Vanguard is stationed. Late at night the camp was alive with good tidings. On top of one of the hills in the camp was the pair Duron and Lirshar who seemed to be entangled in their own conversation. “So how's your training going?” Duron looked at Lirshar with a quirked brow “Training, what do you mean?” “Yeah, with all these quests and stuff you got to be training for something. It would be awesome if you became one of those warriors that listen to the spirits; I think they're called spirit champions. I think the Earthshaker Chieftain is even a spirit Champion!” He blinked at Lirshar, in some disbelief. “Huh, I thought that Kretol was a Farseer or something…” “What? No! There's only two farseers in the Crater and she's the best!” Lirshar bragged. The rest of the night was pretty average for the Goresight. Many talks of random topics, shows of strength and wisdom, then eventually rest for all. Duron laid in his bed, next to him was Lirshar resting on her own. After only a few short moments Duron was to at rest.

The warhorns wounded off every second. Orcs, trolls and tauren alike were running though the camp, each finding their respective banner. Duron stood in the middle of it all. He was covered in red plate and carried two basic axes. He spent a moment looking him over in disbelief before being snapped at to get in-line. Duron fell in-line behind the warsong banner, standing near his father. In front of the orc forces were the approaching demons, frostwyrms, pit lords, and ghouls. The Warsong lead the charge. Duron lookd about as he rushed along with his comrades. To his far side he could see the warrior's spirit. Combat ensued as the orcs clashed against the demons. The other forces showed; Frostwolves, Stormreavers, shattered hands, blackrocks, Earthshakers, and even the Leafwinds. Duron's jaw nearly reached the floor as he noticed the Earthshaker chieftain cleaving down the demonic forces. How many friends he would have waved off as nothing in the past. Commander Navren, Draknir Blackeye, Drumgar Bloodpaw, all great warriors. Amongst all of these was Duron, who barely managed to hold his own.

What was I?

Duron downed a fel hunter, more demons taking his place.

“I was weak!”

As the demons fell, even more took their brothers place.

What am I?

He let out a massive roar, felling all the demons in front of him

“I am a warrior of the Horde!”

A pack of frostwyrms appeared on the horizon.

What will I be?

One took sights for the Warsong battalion.

“I will be great.”

The frostwyrm landed on top of the orcish forces, it's weight crushing the men beneath. The warriors left spent little time mulling whether to run or fight. The wyrm arced a wide swipe for the warsong orcs. Duron was left with three large gashes across his chest as he was thrown into one of the mountain walls that cropped up in the area. He gasped for breath before letting out a vicious growl, his eyes flared red and the demon's blood coursed through him. Duron charged for the frostwyrm before being batted away like nothing more as a rag doll. He continued his attempts, each with growing vigor, but at last it was to no avail. Duron was batted away as easily as the first time and landed hard on his head. Blood loss and head injuries drove him into unconsciousness. “Learn to live without regret.” Duron awoke from his past, only to be greeted by the late night. He let out a frustrated sigh as he gently stood from his bed. Again the wind whispered into his ear, this time the voice was unfamiliar.

“You dream of glory, of warfare. Bring your bonehouse to the land of wind and draw no blade nor maul, if you hail us at all.”

[Krilari]

Chapter three - The land of wind

Duron muttered to himself as walked across the red paths of Orgrimmar. He walked and walked, through all the valleys and cliffs until coming upon a set of elves. Oh elves, how he hated to ask their aid, a race so generally dishonorable that it disgusted him. He approached them with a hand on his maul. They talked for only a split moment before a portal to Shattrath was opened. Duron paid off the blood elf and walked through the portal uneasily. After an odd moment Duron opened his eyes and found himself in the center of the ancient city. Duron looked around nervously for a moment before bringing his attention to the bright centerpiece. "…Is that a wind chime?” At an instant he felt and overarching feeling of peace. He shrugged it off and continued to the outside of the building, where he walked around aimlessly for hours on end. As the sun set on Outland, Duron found the gall to ask a guard to fastest way to Nagrand. The guard pointed behind him to a large Cliffside, on it was an odd sort of elevator.

It was about a day's trek, taking the elevator in Shattrath and then traveling a path into eastern Nagrand. Duron left his hammer tucked behind a nearby tree, as promised. After the day's Trek was over he neared the mountain of Oshu'gun. And met at a forked road, one was a formal path down to the mountain, the other led north to various villages. Duron paused for a moment as life played before him. It was a group of general young orcs, most just barely of age, atop brown wolves. Coming along the path was a group of draenei, most unarmed. Combat quickly ensued, the orcs first to attack. Within only a few minutes most of the draenei were detained. Only a few resilient ones were left standing. One particular orc, barely clothed besides cloth pants and a warsong tabard, charged one of the draenei that refused to strike back. He knocked her out almost instantly with the strike. As the final draenei fell, Duron's flashback faded back into current time. He sighed and continued along his way, cursing himself out with every step.

Oshu'gun was in sight. All that stood between him was a plain, decorated by shards of the sacred mountain. The path led down across the wavy, green, hills. By the time Duron has reached the front of the mountain, dawn was about to break over the horizon. Duron took his place in the center of one of the many patterns surrounding the mountain and began to focus on himself, asking the normal questions about himself and trying to find some closure.

“So I see you've finally made your way here, about time.”

[Krilari]

Duron opened his eyes once more to observe a tall, muscled, and armored Mag'hari female. He bowed his head so that it touched his boots. “Throm'ka, honored ancestor.” The Mag'hari let out a hearty chuckle before motioning for Duron to stand. As he stood wearily the spirit began to talk once more. “If you want to become our weapon, then you must steel yourself in the fires of our enemy's hatred.” The spirit pointed her axe towards the bottom of the mountain Oshu'gun and from there he could see around it, darkened ghosts were gathering. “Save them.” The spirit demanded. Duron nodded and took off in a sprint. He grabbed at his back in hopes of drawing his maul, only to remember he left it at the border to Shattrath. The spirit's voice slipped though his mind. “Think Fast.”

Duron lead the charge for the first of the ghosts with his shoulder. Alas it was to no avail. Duron fell right through his target and went shoulder-first into the mud. The ghosts all seemed to have turned at once towards him, surrounding him in a circle. Each bared razor-sharp teeth and fingers that were twisted by shadows. The one in front of him decided to strike first which he tried to match with a held-out metal boot. The ghost phased right through him, clawing at his abdomen. The crimson drops began to mesh with the light brown mud, common to Nagrand. Duron gnashed his teeth and got to his feet. He threw another punch, harder this time. Yet it was to no avail. He threw more and more, each showing growing strength and frustration. Each punch throw was just wasted energy as they phased through the ghosts. In turn they assaulted, clawing and biting. The drops grew into a stream, creating a pool of crimson on the ground. Duron looked past the collection of ghosts and could see the ancient mag'hari ghost, a scowl on her face. The world stood still. Everything passed for Duron in his mind. He went over everything he has learned, every lesson and blessing. He returned to the world with the release of a sigh. A ghost from behind him clawed at the back of his head. A cold wind blew across his head and he ducked swiftly, the hand swiping at air. He snapped back up with vigor. He threw an uppercut, his waning strength renewed. Yet something was different about this attack, he hit.

As the punch connected with the ghost, it actually remained still. His punch went straight through and with it came out a dark mass, its form was a more monstrous and corporeal. “Good, but the battle has just begun.” More shades continued to rise from the now-released spirits and all joined into a single being. The shadow towered over Duron, its very presence brought a sense of despair and agony to the area. The sky darkened and began to weep, stirring the mud around once more. The beast lashed out in anger, clawing and slashing just as it did when it controlled the spirits. Duron's movements slowed under the beasts' aura and fell into its claws easily. The claw marks burned across his flesh and struck his soul. Sounds of combat rang out for hours without end. By the mark of a second hour, Duron's wounds were many though his strength would not wane. He continued his assault unarmed, his own punches clawing away at the monster's form. By the mark of the third hour both were weak and near death. Duron's wounds had only grown greater but in turn the monster's shadowy form grew more and more unstable. Eventually one final cleave, upwards across its entire being, caused it to finally loose its form. In its' death, the monster exploded in a storm of shadows, knocking Duron far back against the mountain Oshu'gun. In the process his armor was destroyed, brought to the point of no repair. He himself had many bruises and gashes, the explosion itself burned part of his right arm and sapped and strength Duron had left. As the world around him faded, the spirit's voice entered his head again. “Impressive, perhaps there –is- something in you after all.”

When the world came back, Duron was back in the pattern he initially sat down at. The sky above him was clear and the grass beneath him was green. Duron would have waved that off as a dream but he noticed something. Where he was clawed by the monster, the mud hardened and seeped into his skin, forming some kind of tattoo. His hair was colored from its normal grey to a dark brown to match the new markings.

[Krilari]

Chapter four – Alms
The return trip was odd. Duron staged along the cobble roads of Nagrand, mulling over his home and his mate. Mulling over how great it will be to see her face once more. Yet, his dream was swiftly broken by reality once more. Up the path was a small cluster of people, each varying in race. Yet what he could make out was a draenei, an orc, as well as a tauren. At any other time he would of passed them without a second thought, yet this time was like no other. There was a small, relatively speaking of course, draenei woman amongst them. She was the one that continued to haunt his memories of Nagrand. Duron swiftly dropped to his knee as he neared the group of bewildered shaman.

There was little time wasted. After introductions and plead for forgiveness, as well as the forgiveness itself, Duron was on his way with renewed vigor. When the sun prepared to duck beneath the western mountains, a cold wind blew on his back. He picked his head up to see in front of him the guarded entrance to Shattrath city. To the side of the glimmering entrance was an old tree, still full of life. He preformed leaps and bounds up to the tree, turning the corner with high hopes only to see them leave. The mace that his mother gifted upon him, once wielded by his father, was gone with little trace to be seen. As he scrambled around the bushes, desperate to find the maul he found laid on the ground the knife that Lirshar had made him. Duron sighed and took the small victory amongst defeat and strapped it along his waist. Duron entered the city with a foul mood and a tense arm, gripping onto the knife as if it were the last thing tying him to the world. Yet, the majestic city have off a warm and calming atmosphere. He walked amongst the Refugees, some of which were more interested with their own devices, but a few that quirked their brow at the sight. At the first moment he could, Duron made head for the Upper spire of Shattrath which housed portals for the public.

Orgrimmar appeared to be nearly the polar opposite of Shattrath. The air was damp, cold, and smelt of sulfur and war. From just standing there he felt rushed to move along. He observed the streets below him in the valley of spirits, where many orcish warriors and militants strode on their way to either the Hall of Legends or the Valley of Wisdom. As Duron made his way out of the hut the sun blared in his eyes, forcing him to shelter them. To the east he could hear the general chatter of the valley of strength. He traveled through the valley and across wide bridges onto the flight tower, and then descended into the valley of Strength. He muscled his way through the busy mid afternoon streets which were bursting with auctions and sales. Eventually he managed his way to the small inn and paid for a bed. The final comment he managed to slip from his tired body was, “…Portal lag sucks…” Soon after he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

The clearing has grown since he last saw it. Where beaten grass once was tall trees now stand. Caves formed from what once were hillsides. Flowers of every kind sprouted in between the stones of the cobble path which was barely seeable under the waves of pure green grass. Everything was peaceful and in order. At the center of this hub of life was a large stone that which height challenged even the trees. Duron climbed the rock to it's peak which he found flat. He took the opportunity and sat on his natural pedestal, taking in a deep breath, and with it the beauty of the grove. Yet as he exhaled fire came from his nostrils. The howling of wolves could be heard far off and the patter of paws on stone soon followed. Beasts with fur dyed red with blood stammered into the grove and began to hunt, killing anything they could for entertainment more than anything. Just as swiftly the brought murder into the grove, they left with nothing more than the breeze to hear. How so ever, there was one wolf left over, it's red eyes of rage quickly gave way to brown beady eyes. It looked upon the rock with curiosity before turning. In it's mouth the wolf took the runt of a jungle cat and brought it back to it's mother who had hid from the onslaught. The wolf hid it's head as it looked to a small pool of water. It sniffed about before making headway into the water. The blood in it's fur quickly dispersed to show the fur was tinged brown. As it exited the pool it was met by growls and threats from the few animals left yet it did not heed their warnings. The wolf sat beneath the rock and looked up once, letting out a howling cry.

[Krilari]

“My training can not be finished yet. My heart remains cold and my feelings swell to overpower me. Perhaps I only feel this way because the spirits deem it so… Or perhaps I am putting too much of myself into them, to the point that I am becoming so lifeless as the weapon I carry at my side.” Duron sighted to himself, looking over the orange peaks of Stonetalon for the first time in what felt like years. The breeze was cool and calming, despite the clashes of steel that rang through out the stone valleys. Duron was only accompanied by the wind in his ears, the fire in his heart, the Earth that covered him from head to toe, and the water that flowed silently though his mind. The moon hid itself amongst sorrowful clouds that soon wept it's tears upon the land. His thoughts began to pulse with the roars of thunder that echoed across the ridges. “Death has become such a common theme in there lands, and yet I find myself it's guardian. Death shall ride upon my wolf and swing my sword as well as he swings his scythe. I try to find peace in their deaths, yet at the end of the day, I am the one who still holds the reins of hounds of war in this corporeal world.” He halted in his speech, looking to the puddles that formed below him. He watched as the impurities of the earth poisoned it until the water drew brown. The gusts howled with rage and the storm picked up in strength. Yet, the fire of his heart found itself calmed. The Earth that covered his body was purged, leaving only the marking from Nagrand to be seen against his green skin. “To take the good with the bad is to live life itself. To accept the highest Elder to the lowest Bastard would b to do the impossible. Conflict must exist, should it be one versus the world, there must always be a battle cry to be sung. Thus the nature of our corporeal existence. I am no shell, no mere axe to be plucked from the racks and swung. I am a warrior and I will see to my pyre that it remains that way.” The rain slowed to a drizzle, but the dark clouds continued to loom over the mountains. His gaze remained on the muddy puddle. Just moments after accomplishing silence did Duron hear a vicious howl nearby. He snapped his head up to see his own ability to see was hazed. He was somewhere, not sure where. Not Stonetalon for sure, but it felt familiar. The drums and sounds of war began to accompany the howls.

He stood at the crossroads of his past. The past of him and his people, from their purified brown skin down to their consumption of demon blood. Each window he saw was an event that struck the orcsh race down another notch. Demon blood, genocide, warlock magic, fear, hiding, the interment camps, yet still more demon blood and the death of innocents. All he learned to defend and love with all his life stood there as well. Birth and learning, War and combat, peace and prosperity, death and defeat, all showed their heads. “You've come far in the past weeks, my boy. Pride swells through my heart.” Koris came up behind Duron from the darkness that seems to now have surrounded them both. He clasped a large, scared hand on Duron's shoulder.”Its time you turned back to your mate and your men. War is hell and it will never end, yes. But you still must be the stone, the one your men can lean on. Prepare yourself, lead the charge of warrior's spirits into combat once more.” The images in front of the father and son dispersed, leaving the darkness and them. Duron bowed his head and began to walk forward into nothing, coming from nothing. “The light of my past are left clear and in the open, but the shroud of night lays over my future and I am the only one to remove it.” The moonlight shined upon Duron's weary eyes. The moon had finally showed itself once the clouds have come and gone, south into Mulgore. He did not know what time it was, nor did her care. His mind was at rest and he was thankful for it, everything was quiet.

…Kind of

Behind him he could hear the goblins finally deciding to call it a night. Their mouths were shut and even the wind gave pause. Behind him, leaves began to rustle and shake, their noise stopped only moments before a feint ‘thud' could be heard. The shady figure crept wearily towards Duron, two short swords drawn in her hands.

“Behind yourself. A rogue poised with two short weapons to your spine.”

Duron's eyes widened as the trace whisper flew through his head, barely auditable. His arms tensed and the adrenaline pumped. Duron picked the long metal sword from his back and jumped to his feetin one foul swoop. His speed saving him by the blink of a second. The attempted assassin stood there, appalled by his action, for a split moment before attempting to drive her boot into Duron's groin. Duron picked his own foot up and back down to crush her leg. As she squawked in pain, Duron clenched an open hand around her neck.

“No mercy for the wicked.”

His grip tightened until a satisfying snap could be heard. Duron took the signet ring as his trophy and left the cadaver to flop against the mountain side.

[Krilari]

The mountains were silent today. Not a cloud in the sky or a threat on the horizon. The nearby elves have been terminated for standing against the might of the Goresight. For once in ages that he could not count, Duron felt at peace. He could feel that there was not a worry in the word or any other world, everything was calm and in-order… and then Duron remembered the reasons that he was here. He looked out from the camp, facing due north. The Blackskull Cabal, a cult of former old horde warlocks hell-bent on returning the new horde to its old demonic ways. He had fought those many times in the past. Back when the warlocks attacked Azshara Crater. He recalled the many fights, releasing Kretol Earthshaker from his dark bindings. Combating the corrupted spirits with Farseer Mochla. Finally then came the assault on Pyregrip's fortress. We claimed his head and Kretol placed it on a pike to be held over the crater. Now, it seemed all for naught. The Blackskulls have returned and they want our heads, so we have come to collet theirs. Peace will not last and nor will the warlocks. In the name of the spirits Duron swore to his men that the Blackskulls would fall. The time has come to deliver that promise.

Duron rubbed the wild beard that has found itself on his chin in the process of his training. He sighed and looked about, taking note of all the men and equipment just lying about. Earthshakers mingled with Warsongs over haunches of meat. All of the men, why they sit idle Duron would never know or care to know. For now his mind was now brought to the possibilities of slaying the new leader of the cabal. Perhaps it would be a fel-sworn, half-orc half-demon, dressed in armor with enough spikes to make Kathorg jealous. This scenario played over in his head for what appeared to be hours on end, and at the end of each it was always the same; the demon-orc's head on a pike. How long Duron would of sat there, no one knows, but the emersion was broken soon enough by the sigh of wind, sounding more as a frustrated sigh than an actual gust of wind.

“Get you head out of the clouds, Bloodaxe. You can't reach them from the hills of your mind, only by the mountains that you climb.” A voice grunted at him, coming from seemingly everywhere.

In the flash of a moment the winds picked up and died down. Before Duron came the vision of his father once more. His person was dressed in a set of full red plate armor. There was a massive wolf mask covering his head.

“Wake up; it is time for your first and final lesson. Pick up your weapon, because without it the warrior is hopeless.” Koris demanded.

Duron spent no time in hesitation. He drew the long sword from his back with due haste. As he drew it, Duron observed the filler of the sword as if he had never seen it before. Along the flat of the blade he could see old orcish runes that were transcribed onto it; “Made for one who has the Wolf Spirit.”

“Enough Gawking, boy. Now listen to me well, I am only going to say this once.” He paused for a nod. “It is time for you to empower your weapon as we empower you. Focus your hate, your rage. Everything you despise in this realm of existence and beyond. Let you emotions flow into the blade.”

Duron looked over Koris with a quirked brow, more curiosity than anything. His mouth was ajar slightly ass he tried to process this. He shook his head, dismissing any doubts from his head. Duron poised the round tip of his blade onto the ground and held the hilt with both hands. He locked his eyes on the runes on the fuller and began to focus in a meditation. He did not push anything though his body, nothing was unbottled and let to over flow. Duron simply meditated, his mind came to rest and soon to follow his body. His tense arms grew loose to the point where his grip nearly fell. In the midst of all this, a small flame began to spread from the counter-balance of the hilt all the way to the tip. As he regained himself from the meditation, he picked up his blade to see it encompassed in a calm fire, not rapidly burning away, but a calm haze of orange and red.

“…No burn?” Duron asked questionably, his entire forearm and sword seemingly encompassed in the flame.

“No burn.” Koris returned with a reassuring voice. “This is the spirits of the world manifesting itself into something tangible that can be used. These blessings can affect your weapon in any way. Fire, water, earth, air, are all properties it could pick up. Some spirits even bless weapons to slay the undead or in turn slay the light-user.”Koris rambled off the lists in such a tone that even he sounded bored with it. He waves his hands. “But that's methods learned in time, for now, focus on the four basic elements. Fire seems to have come easily enough; yet taking all four is harder than it looks.”