Desolace's Edge

a story of strixus

She sat on the rocky outcrop just beyond the edge of Shadowprey village, the salt spray filling her muzzles with the smell of the sea. The Veiled Sea, beyond which was unkown. And at her back was the thin green verge of life which clung to the land, the blighted dusty land of Desolace to the east. She had crossed that land, the fleet paws of her ghost wolf form devouring the miles she traveled, and found herself here in a small green paradice where no life had seemed possible to be found. She had been many places now, many since the time when she had first left Mulgore and struck out on her training as a Shaman. Now, now she knew much, had learned much, had tamed the elements, learned to call on them at whim. She grew more powerful by the day.
But that new power came with a price, paid in blood, paid in suffering. New scars covered her hide, crossing in lines, blemishing fur. She had faced demons, centaurs, great birds and snakes, even fought and killed mighty hydra and naga. She had fought Alliance incursions, and taken the fight to their own cities, and her mace had taisted Elven blood.
All she wanted, though, was to live in peace. Somewhere quiet, untouched and untained by all the foulness in the world. Somewhere where the earthmother's wispers were loud in her ears and the water sweet from the ground. A house, a hut, built from timbers and kodo hide, as her anscestors had always built, with a kodo skin on the floor and a centaur skin by the fire. And this would be where she would grow old and grey, to live her long golden years. But for now, no such place was hers to be found. She had obligations, a guild to care for, a lover, a professon, all these things and more which she must do before she could rest at long last.
But for now, this moment of peace, the smell of the sea, it was enough to sustain her. Strixus picked up her mace and shield from the rocky ground, running her thick fingers through the fine fringe of green grass as she did, then stood. Soon enough, but not now.

Shifting

a story of rojhana

I stand, my tail flicking nervously at the backs of my legs. The world before me. Waiting for me. I should not leave home, but I must. My blood calls. I can feel the spirit moving within me, guiding me forward. I am so scared. Terror pulses through me, and I can smell my own fear. But I know, deep within my heart, this is what I must do.
The change comes to me with only the slightest effort. Thick fingers become paws, hooves become claws, and a muzzle full of dull, herbivore teeth become wicked fangs. It extends from me, overlaps me, grows from me from every poor and hair. This is what I am, wild and free.
Druid of the claw, master of the bear spirit. The road flies beneath the thick pads of my paws. Shaggy coat, snarling grin, horns which no spirit form can hide - with a roar of passion, I set out. The world is mine.

Inside a Tin Can

a story of strixus

The wind wispers, its voices slowly pealing back the darkness which had enveloped me. At first, there was nothing, only those voices again, calling to me softly, their soundless words touching the soft fur of my ears like gentile fingers. Soothing me, comforting me. And then the world broke apart again, and pain seared through every inch of my body, and I lost the voices in an agonized scream, though I know no sound left my throat. Every inch of my hide felt scoured, every bit of fur seemed to scream in pain against the harsh grit of the wind. And mingled with the pain was an aching dullness of clotted over cuts and scratches, and the bitter smell of blood caked with earth was all I knew.
Hours passed, perhaps a day, perhaps two, and then at last the world begain to become coherant again. Still the smell, now with the added stench of decaying blood layered over it, and still the pain, but my mind could now block out those feelings. I curled in on myself and focused, and called up all my strength to stand. One hoof tried to slide out from under me, but I found at last my feet beneath me, touching earth. Fighting away a wave of nausia, I called the spirits, and felt the wave of healing flow through my flesh. Wounds which were caked with dirt expelled their filth and healed, fur returned where it had been seared away, and I felt my head begin to clear at last.
The Barrens. I had crossed them before, heading to Duotar and to Ogrimar, and I had though nothing of them. The roads had been easy beneith my hooves, the land passing me by as I ran. Now I knew different. I had through Duotar a hell, until I had truly come to know The Barrens. Centaurs, with their poisoned spears. Raptors with claws as big as my horns. Wild plainstriders whoes kick could break ribs. And so many other foul creatures without count. Some, I reminded myself, had their places in nature, while others were simply struggling to survive against the odds. But not what had done this to me.
I had never seen a night elf before, only heard of them in stories from the elders. Wild and beautiful, creatures of the deep forests, born to the hunt just as the Tauren were. I had thought them like me, perhaps, dispite the fact they sided with the Aliance, and not the Horde. How wrong I had been.
I remembered the savegry of the attack, and yet at the same time the beauty of the attacker. Silver hair, skin the color of silverleaf blossoms, and those wild burning eyes. The great paws of her wild cat mount as they slashed at me, her wicked blade cutting into my flesh as I tried to run. I had been no match for her, none at all. I had only survived because of her haste - she left to slay others once I fell to the ground, bleeding and broken but not dead. I crawled into a ditch and lay down beneith the thornbushes, knowing only that death might be welcome.
But I had lived, and now I understood. The fight between Horde and Aliance was one of fury and blood, not of reason. I would fight when my time came. And I would do it proudly.

Spirit Speaker

a story of strixus

The dust has settled into the sweat on my cannons, matting the short brown fur which terminates above the hard black surface of my hoves. Red dust. This land is so different from my home, so strange, yet here I stand, my hooves planted in its earth, and I can still hear the voices speaking to me.
In the wind, they are calling my name, in the small pools of bitter water they sing softly, even in the waves of heat on the horizon they dance, beckoning me forwards. From the time I had sense enough as a calf to know what words were, I have heard them. Spirit Speaker, they said, and there was a Path for me to walk.
Another stone bites painfully into the soft bottom of one of my feet, sending pain shooting through my leg again and I stumble, catching myself on my walking stick. The corium is bruised deeply, but I cannot stop, cannot rest for any longer than it takes me to drink from a brakish pool or to grab a thorny mouthfull of plant from a passing shrub. Those voices will not stop until I reach my goal. I grunt with pain, bear the weight onto my stick, and keep walking. A dust devil gibbers at me insanely as it whirls by.
I miss my home. I miss the green fields of Mulgore, where the wind was sweet with Peaceblossom and cedar, and the dust was soft and brown. Where there were no sharp stones in the soil, and where the grass was sweet to the taist. And where other Tauren roam, where the kodo are hunted, where life is good and green. Home. Village. Family. Elders. Not here, searching for some mad troll and his mountian shrine.
But this is my path. I have to find him. The village Shaman told me when I was a calf that one day I must do this, I grew up knowing one day I would cross The Barrens and enter this land of Orcs and Trolls and find my way to the Troll Shaman and his shrine here.
Another scorpion looms out of the rocks in front of me, and it is all I can do to smash its brains in with the end of my staff before it stings me. They are huge creatures, the size of small dogs, big enough even a Kodo could die from their stings. Worse even than the Rapters which haunt the rocks and box canoyons or the crocodiles in the river which bounded this red hell. Durotar. Hell.
But the voices in the hot wind wisper in my ears when the flies are not buzzing in them. Shaman. Young Shaman. The Fire calls you. The Earth speaks to you. The Wind wispers to you. The Water dances for you. Follow us, we will show you the way. And I do. I follow their voices, empty and calling, to the foot of the mountians. My hooves are bleeding, and I have had no water for a day. My fur is the color of the dried clotted blood on my hooves, though it is a deep glossy black beneith the dust. But here is the marker stone, and the narrow path. Leading up.
Climb. The wind wispers to me. We will hold you up.
Climb. The earth comforts me. I am beneith your hooves.
I wrap my thick fingers around the first outcroping of rock and pull myself up. I start the climb. And the spirits wisper to me. Shaman.