Post by vendredi on Jun 10, 2006 16:13:18 GMT -5
Vendredi sat before the fire, gazing into the flickering flames. The fire was a large one, hot and bright, that threw a bright yellow glow over the Stranglethorn sands, and danced on the waves that swept up on shore. The fire burned strongly, but not as strongly as the fire in her heart.
They do not know, she seethed, her eyes glowing eerily in the light of the fire. Even I do not know. Am I worthy? Ki'tala seemed to think so. He had always spoken of her destiny, of her strength with the Undying One. But he did not know, either. The Undying One knows. She knows, and this is why I alone of my family stand where I should not.
Yagrek, of the Skyfather. Gifted with visions, granted the very power of the lightning from the Ancient himself. He was worthy.
Demejoraia, her beloved sister. Her god had spoken to her even as a child; She Who Endures granted her the power of the beasts that She held in the bounty of Her embrace. She was worthy.
Salthair. Never would she tell him that his resemblance to her mentor, Ki'tala, was the only thing that had kept her from putting an arrow through his eye when first they met. Now she knew, despite being of her accursed race, he was worthy. The Deep One granted him the power to drown and return the souls of his brethren; he, too, Saw with the Sight his god granted him. He knew the favour of the Deep One.
She glanced down at herself in the firelight. No one knew how she loathed the blue skin that marked her as one of the savages. Meditatively, she gripped her skinning knife, and drew it slowly in a gentle arc across her arm. The blood flowed, red and hot, like the blood of her brothers and sister, but quickly, the wound thinned, closing before her eyes, leaving nothing but the blue skin.
She remembered the Man, the last truly happy times she could recall. He had told her of the savages he had fought, the orcs with their green skin and sense of honour, the tauren with their great strength and surprisingly peaceful ways, the undead, who once were as he was....and the trolls, tribal and warlike, many of whom ate the men they killed. He would not describe them further to her, so she lived in the happy delusion that she, too, was human. The Man had spoken of his brothers in arms, many of whom were different in colour; blue, of course, must be one of them. Then they had come in their boats, come to their happy home, come to kill the Man. He had muttered one word, under his breath, before saying goodbye to her, and standing tall to meet his end. "Trolls," he had said, the smallest of whispers, but her ears heard. She screamed as they killed him, screamed as she realized that she, too, was one of them.
A tear trickled down her cheek, gold in the firelight. She knows, and so I am not one of Her chosen. I thought, once, that it would make no difference, that I would grow to possess the same power and wisdom as my brethren, but it will never be. I am not, and never wish to be, as the savages are; this is why I shall never be a true Hammer. I am an outcast from my own people, but willingly, and this is my penance.
She watched the flames until they began to wane, but no visions were granted her, no wisdom, no direction. The fire burned within her, the fire of rage and resentment, of bitterness and a yearning for vengeance. Her brow darkened, and slowly, deliberately, she raised her arm, holding it above the flames. The pain as her skin charred was worse than any she could remember; it was all she could do not to scream as she held it there. When she could bear it no longer, she lurched back, panting, savoring the agony as her blackened flesh crackled and sizzled like boar meat on a spit. She closed her eyes and prayed to the Undying One, rocking gently back and forth in her anguish.
Tell me what I must do to earn your favour. Show me the path, and I will follow it. Whatever you desire, simply reveal it to me, and I will fight for it with my dying breath. Hours passed, but she saw and heard nothing. The fire died, the flames revealing nothing. Her arm healed, as it always had whenever she had been hurt, but not entirely. She eyed the faint ruckled scar balefully as she rose. Whatever her path might be, her god had turned from it.
Carefully, she packed her things, taking great care with each one. She cleaned her sword, despite its already pristine shine, and oiled her bow. She took a short swim in the ocean's cold embrace, washing the dust from her hide, and meticulously greased her hair until it stood proud and tall. Shouldering her pack, she cast a narrow eye at the rising sun, symbol of the god that had forsaken her.
"I know now what I must do," she said, her jaw set, her eyes burning. "I will kill as many of the savages as I can, until my arm can no longer draw a bow or until they take my dying breath. All the savages, no matter the colour of their skin, shall die by my hand, until You find me worthy, or until I become a savage myself. Perhaps then I, too, shall be one of Your own." She ran a gentle hand over the scar on her arm, and turned toward Grom'gol, and the long bloody road ahead of her.
They do not know, she seethed, her eyes glowing eerily in the light of the fire. Even I do not know. Am I worthy? Ki'tala seemed to think so. He had always spoken of her destiny, of her strength with the Undying One. But he did not know, either. The Undying One knows. She knows, and this is why I alone of my family stand where I should not.
Yagrek, of the Skyfather. Gifted with visions, granted the very power of the lightning from the Ancient himself. He was worthy.
Demejoraia, her beloved sister. Her god had spoken to her even as a child; She Who Endures granted her the power of the beasts that She held in the bounty of Her embrace. She was worthy.
Salthair. Never would she tell him that his resemblance to her mentor, Ki'tala, was the only thing that had kept her from putting an arrow through his eye when first they met. Now she knew, despite being of her accursed race, he was worthy. The Deep One granted him the power to drown and return the souls of his brethren; he, too, Saw with the Sight his god granted him. He knew the favour of the Deep One.
She glanced down at herself in the firelight. No one knew how she loathed the blue skin that marked her as one of the savages. Meditatively, she gripped her skinning knife, and drew it slowly in a gentle arc across her arm. The blood flowed, red and hot, like the blood of her brothers and sister, but quickly, the wound thinned, closing before her eyes, leaving nothing but the blue skin.
She remembered the Man, the last truly happy times she could recall. He had told her of the savages he had fought, the orcs with their green skin and sense of honour, the tauren with their great strength and surprisingly peaceful ways, the undead, who once were as he was....and the trolls, tribal and warlike, many of whom ate the men they killed. He would not describe them further to her, so she lived in the happy delusion that she, too, was human. The Man had spoken of his brothers in arms, many of whom were different in colour; blue, of course, must be one of them. Then they had come in their boats, come to their happy home, come to kill the Man. He had muttered one word, under his breath, before saying goodbye to her, and standing tall to meet his end. "Trolls," he had said, the smallest of whispers, but her ears heard. She screamed as they killed him, screamed as she realized that she, too, was one of them.
A tear trickled down her cheek, gold in the firelight. She knows, and so I am not one of Her chosen. I thought, once, that it would make no difference, that I would grow to possess the same power and wisdom as my brethren, but it will never be. I am not, and never wish to be, as the savages are; this is why I shall never be a true Hammer. I am an outcast from my own people, but willingly, and this is my penance.
She watched the flames until they began to wane, but no visions were granted her, no wisdom, no direction. The fire burned within her, the fire of rage and resentment, of bitterness and a yearning for vengeance. Her brow darkened, and slowly, deliberately, she raised her arm, holding it above the flames. The pain as her skin charred was worse than any she could remember; it was all she could do not to scream as she held it there. When she could bear it no longer, she lurched back, panting, savoring the agony as her blackened flesh crackled and sizzled like boar meat on a spit. She closed her eyes and prayed to the Undying One, rocking gently back and forth in her anguish.
Tell me what I must do to earn your favour. Show me the path, and I will follow it. Whatever you desire, simply reveal it to me, and I will fight for it with my dying breath. Hours passed, but she saw and heard nothing. The fire died, the flames revealing nothing. Her arm healed, as it always had whenever she had been hurt, but not entirely. She eyed the faint ruckled scar balefully as she rose. Whatever her path might be, her god had turned from it.
Carefully, she packed her things, taking great care with each one. She cleaned her sword, despite its already pristine shine, and oiled her bow. She took a short swim in the ocean's cold embrace, washing the dust from her hide, and meticulously greased her hair until it stood proud and tall. Shouldering her pack, she cast a narrow eye at the rising sun, symbol of the god that had forsaken her.
"I know now what I must do," she said, her jaw set, her eyes burning. "I will kill as many of the savages as I can, until my arm can no longer draw a bow or until they take my dying breath. All the savages, no matter the colour of their skin, shall die by my hand, until You find me worthy, or until I become a savage myself. Perhaps then I, too, shall be one of Your own." She ran a gentle hand over the scar on her arm, and turned toward Grom'gol, and the long bloody road ahead of her.