Normally, Velen explained, he lived in a beautiful place called the Temple of Karabor. There were other draenei towns, but the largest was to the north, a place called Shattrath.
At last, the meal was over. Velen sighed, and his eyes rested on his empty plate, but Durotan felt certain the Prophet did not see it.
“You will excuse me.” Velen said, rising. “It has been a long day, and I must meditate before I sleep. It has been an honor to meet you, Durotan of the Frostwolf clan, and Orgrim, of the Blackrock clan. I trust you will sleep well and deeply, safe within these walls, where none of your people has been before.” Durotan and Orgrim rose with the others and bowed. Velen smiled with, Durotan thought, a hint of that strange sorrow he had glimpsed in the draenei leader earlier.
“We will meet again, young ones. Good night.” The two orcs left shortly afterward. They were escorted to their rooms and indeed slept well, though Durotan had a dream of an old orc sitting quietly by his side, and wondered what it meant.
“Bring him,” the old orc said to Mother Kashur.
Mother Kashur, the eldest shaman of the Frostwolf clan, slept deeply. Because of her high position of honor, her tent was second in lavishness only to that of Garad, the clan leader. Thick rugs of clefthoof fur kept her old bones from the cold of the earth, and a loyal and loving granddaughter tended to her needs, cooking and cleaning and keeping the fire stoked on cold days for the clan’s “mother.” Mother Kashur’s duty was to listen to the wind and water and fire and grass, and drink the bitter herbal beverage each night that opened her mind to visits from the ancestors. She gathered information for her clan the way the others gathered fruits and firewood, and this gift nourished them as deeply.
The old orc was not present, and yet she knew he was real. He was in her dream, and that was enough for her. In this dream state, she was young and vibrant, could see her ruddy skin glowing with health, knew her form to be sleek and knotted with muscle. The old orc was the age at which he had died, the age at which his wisdom had been at its height. His name had been Tal’kraa in life, but now, although he was many generations distant from her, she called him only Grandfather.
“You received the message,” Grandfather told the young, vibrant dream-Kashur. She nodded, her dark hair flowing with the movement.
“He and the Blackrock boy are with the draenei,” she said. “They will be safe. I can feel it.”
Grandfather Tal’kraa nodded, his thick jowls shaking with the movement. His tusks were yellowed with age and one had been broken off in a battle long since forgotten.
“Yes, they are safe. Bring him.”
It was the second time he had said this, and Kashur was not certain as to what he meant.
“He will come to the mountain in a few months, when the trees shed their leaves to sleep,” she said. “So yes, I will bring him.”
Tal’kraa shook his head fiercely, his brown eyes narrowed in annoyance, Kashur smothered a smile; of all the spirits that honored her with their presence. Grandfather Tal’kraa was one of the least patient.
“No, no,” Tal’kraa growled. “Bring him to us. Bring him to the caverns of Oshu’gun. I would look upon him there.”
Kashur inhaled swiftly. “You … wish me to take him to meet the ancestors?”
“Is that not what I just said? Foolish girl! What has happened to the shaman these days?”
It was a rant he went on frequently and it troubled Kashur not in the slightest. She was too stunned by the import of what he had just said. Sometimes the ancestors had wanted to see a child before; it was infrequent, but it had occurred. Usually it meant that the child in question was destined for the shamanic path. She had not thought Durotan’s feet would walk that road; it was rare that a shaman led a clan. There would be too much pulling him in each direction for him to be an effective leader. To both listen to and honor the spirits and to guide one’s people well were more than most orcs could manage. One who could do both would be a remarkable orc indeed.
When Kashur did not reply. Grandfather growled and slammed his staff on the ground. Kashur jumped slightly.
“I will bring him on his initiation day,” Kashur assured her ancestor.
“At last, you understand,” Tal’kraa said, shaking his staff at her. “And if you fail me, I will take my staff to your head instead of the innocent earth.”
He could not completely hide a smile as he said it, and Kashur smiled back as her dream-self closed her eyes. For all his bluster and short temper, Tal’kraa was wise and kind and loved her deeply. She wished she had known him when he was alive, but he had died almost a hundred years ago.
Kashur’s eyelids fluttered open, and she sighed as her spirit returned to her current, real body … as old as Tal’kraa had been when he died, hands and feet curled up with joint pain, body weak, hair stark white. She knew in her heart that the time would soon come when she would be able to leave this body, this shell, for the final time and be with the ancestors in the sacred mountain. Drek’Thar, her apprentice, would then be the advisor to Garad and the rest of the Frostwolf clan. She had every confidence in him, and actually looked forward to the day when she would be pure spiritual energy.
Although, she mused as the sunlight trickled in and the birdsong caressed her ears, she would miss the things that being alive granted her, the simple things like birdsong and hot food and the loving touch of her granddaughter.
Bring him, Grandfather had said.
And so she would.
4
Last night, with the moon full overhead and the stars gleaming as if in approval, a young male was initiated into adulthood. It was the first time I have had the chance to be part of this ritual, the Om’riggor. In my earlier years, I was cut off from the rites and traditions of my people; and truth be told, all orcs had been cut off from such rites for too long. And once I had set my feet on my destiny’s path, I had become embroiled in battle. War consumed me. Ironically, the need to protect my people from the Burning Legion and to give them a place where our traditions could again flourish took me far away from these things.
But now, Durotar and Orgrimmar are established. Now, there is a peace, tenuous though it might be. Now there are shaman reclaiming the ancient ways, young males and females coming of age who, if the spirits will it, may never know the ashy taste of war.
Last night, I participated in a timeless ritual that had been denied an entire generation.
Last night, my heart was filled with joy and the sense of connection for which I had always longed.
Durotan’s heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the talbuk. It was a mighty beast, worthy prey, its horns not for mere decoration but sharp and dangerous. Durotan had seen at least one warrior gored to death, impaled upon the twelve prongs as surely as if upon a spear.
And he was to take it down with only a single weapon and no armor.
There had been the whispers, of course. Any mature talbuk will do to satisfy the needs of the ritual, he had heard someone murmur in his ear as he sat blindfolded in the waiting tent. They are all fierce fighters, but at this season, the males have shed their horns.
Other whispers: You may only carry one weapon, Durotan, son of Garad; but you could hide armor in the wilderness where no one would know.