09-18-2012, 07:21 PM
The Light Falls on a Cold Wind
Is this the Light’s purpose for me? A proud dwarf who has served his people through two great centuries of hardship and toil now reduced to nothing but an old man who can barely lift his own grandson off the ground. My strength is diminished. I am weak. It hurts to breath. The hardiness of the Coldwinds once ran through my veins, but does it still? Did it wash with my death? I do not know if I ask this question expecting an answer, or if I merely am trying to find reason in something that seems a crime against my own pride. Perhaps it is merely my old pride’s wound that now speaks. Perhaps.
An elderly dwarf sat at his table, awaiting news. Would the news come? He knew not, but he persisted. He had told himself, nay, sworn to himself, that he would never set a single foot outside of the glorious city of Shattrath until word of his brother’s life or death came to his ears. Some time ago, he had been told his younger brother, the brave Dalin, may yet be alive. He was given this news just prior to his death. But resurrected now, he had a new purpose. This purpose was a good thing, and Grenalin knew it. He knew in his heart that his brother was alive. He just did. And he waited silently for the time to come when he would see his brother again, and embrace the dwarf he had missed so much for twenty years.
But what would become of him? Grenalin had died, and his death had brought him weakness; he needed braces on his arms to lift just about anything, even so close as to the weight of a full mug made his arms quake. His legs were weak too; he could not run or sprint as he had been able to. His breathing was difficult, ragged, but that would improve in time. Volcanic ash would not defeat a proud dwarf of Ironforge. Nothing could. The stubbornness alone could kill a man.
A dwarf, however, was made with a stout heart, and their build was one for battle. So what would a dwarf be if he had no arm strength to lift a hammer? No legs to kick an opponent down? These things Grenalin pondered greatly as he sat at his table, staring blankly with light blue eyes at an empty surface. He had sent Brek Copperbeard, his trusted second-hand in the Coldwind Expeditions, to seek out information on his brother’s location, and he worked tirelessly to find it. But what would a stubborn dwarf such as Grenalin Coldwind possibly do during the time he has to wait? He would not sit idly, as he had been thinking on the next occurrence for some time now.
The elderly dwarf stood, grayed robes filling out again. He reached out and grabbed hold of his hat, and set the wide-brimmed mass of cloth atop of his head, smirking slightly at the irony of what he was about to do. A Paladin asking the advice of a being made wholly of Light. He began his mighty stride out of the World’s End Tavern in Shattrath City, and for a moment all seemed calm. He observed the folk of the Lower City pass by, and gave each of them waves of recognition. In the time he had spent here, he had grown familiar with many of them. There, Jillianne, was the foster mother of three orphans, making a living from donations. And there, Barsal, was an Arakkoa who preferred solitude, but did not dissuade possible friends.
They all look at him as he passed with nods of respect. The dwarf had shown them kindness and respect, and they did the same in return. There was no prejudice in the Lower City, unless it is between orc and draenei or blood elf and human. And even then, there were still friends. The Lower City was a land of allies. Each of them were together in poverty, and each of them did not regret what they thrived in. Shattrath, City of Light, was the pinnacle of their salvation from the wilderness.
Still the elderly dwarf walked, and as he reached the roughest part of his journey, the Arakkoa Barsal stepped forward and aided him down the rubble steps. So kindness was traded with kindness in the world of the Lower City, and the elder nodded in simple thanks to the bird-creature before they both went separate ways. The Light does not forget anyone, only its servants can possibly be responsible of such a failure. The elder continued his stride, and as he neared the great rise to the Terrace of Light, he saw Jonru, an aged Draenei vindicator. The vindicator met eyes with the elder dwarf, and bowed his head in greeting. The two did not need to exchange words for the glances told enough. The vindicator courteously extended an arm down for the dwarf to hold as they both strode up the steep incline.
Once he reached the top of the ramp, the vindicator and elder nodded to each other and went their ways. Am I even worthy of such an audience? The dwarf passed under the intricate archway that led into the great house of A’dal. He was humbled merely by the glance he caught of A’dal in the center of the house before he turned towards his real objective. An audience with A’dal was not worthy of him. He would seek another.
Before the dwarf could think surprise, he heard a graceful and chiming voice enter his mind. The voice sounded so grand, worthy of the worship of thousands. It was peace incarnate in his mind, and it spoke to him. I have watched, and seen, and heard of you, Grenalin Coldwind. I have asked your history, and been given it. Dwarves are remarkable creatures, many I have met. But you; you are a different case, elder. You are weakened, and any can see it with eyes even blind. But are all strengths not weaknesses overcome? My name is V’eru.
The elder dwarf stopped in his tracks, and could not believe his ears – or mind – or whatever it was he was hearing V’eru with. A Naaru was actually speaking to him. If I may so humbly beg your pardon, V’eru, I come to the Terrace for a simple discussion, and I doubt it would be of any importance to you, as I’m sure you have more important things to tend to. The dwarf looked to the nearby ramp, and with a grunt of dwarven stoutheartedness, he stepped up the ramp one foot after the other, braving such a steep incline to find the being he spoke to.
Before him, shining in a solemn blue radiance was the collection of almost purely carved crystalline things that made up the Naaru that was V’eru. The graceful chiming continued. Please speak, Sir Coldwind. You are no burden on my time.
The old dwarf cleared his throat softly and then moved over to sit himself down in a small indent in the wall. Long have I served the Light, V’eru. Long have I served my brethren. I held mace and shield as a battle-cleric of old, a symbol of dwarven pride. I took up hammer and grace as a Paladin, a symbol of my servitude and ultimate respect of the Light’s gifts. But now, I am weak. I can no longer bear my armor, let alone wrap fingers around the shaft of my hammer. I am a warrior at heart, so how do I serve the Light as I have without my arms?
V’eru’s response was both humbling and a lesson to a dwarf who thought himself wise at times. Not all warriors must serve with arms. Is a Paladin that does not bear a hammer not but an armored priest? Is a Paladin not effective without their weapon? Without their armor? Each man and woman has a path that they may choose to follow. These paths go up and they go down, and today I look upon a dwarf that is proud of his heritage and his brethren. You are a Paladin without a hammer, but is a fighter not still capable of using his fists as weapons?
The elder dwarf reached up and gently stroked his chin, nodding as he thought by the words of the graceful and chiming voice of V’eru. How could he have been so blind, to not see this alternative? I thought the Light’s purpose for me was for I to serve as a Paladin and cleric. What is the Light’s purpose for me, V’eru? I hear your words, and they are wisdom, but I still must ask.
If I told you, you might not comprehend it, Sir Coldwind. For today, I can tell you this; the Light wishes for you to serve it. It does not ask you to take up hammer, shield, or armor in its name. It asks that you serve. And service can take many forms, from the humblest of waiters to the greatest of kings. Each serves in their own way.
The old dwarf’s wrinkled cheeks stretched into a smile at the words. What would the Light have me do, V’eru?
V’eru’s answer was dumbfounding. Carve your own path in the stone length that is your destined purpose. I give advice in this, Sir Coldwind. Take it, and hold it close to your heart. Go now, with the blessing of I and all Naaru. May your strength someday return, if not in this year, but in centuries to come. May you ever stand as a proud symbol of your family and race, Grenalin Coldwind, Cleric of Ironforge.
The elder dwarf pulled himself hardly to a stand, and looked at V’eru’s bright form for one last moment. He gave the Naaru a low bow of respect, and from his lips was uttered a short prayer for the Naaru’s well-being. His journey reversed itself, to the table of the World’s End Tavern at which he had begun. He sat and pondered what he had been told.
You are a Paladin without a hammer, but is a fighter not still capable of using his fists as weapons? This especially was entrapped in his thoughts. A dwarf without a weapon, but serving the Light? It was like asking an orc not to cut down a tree while they held an axe and were bellowed at to do it. But he was trained as a Paladin and a cleric, not a priest. How would he-? He would do as V’eru said. Carve his own path. He would search and find a way. He would serve the Light still, and he would not be ashamed to stand beside brethren while bearing no hammer. He needed no arm strength to heal wounds and bless the morale of his brothers in arms. This was a new day for the dwarf of the Cold Wind. He would not disappoint.