Earthwielder: Nagrand

This piece of fiction was written during user:P3a's final summer absense from the game in 2010. It features some characters that do not belong to her as well as the narrator (who does).
==The Elders of Garadar==
This land was a strange one indeed. At first glance, it appeared similar to Mulgore – wide, open grasslands with clear blue skies and large, deep, dignified lakes dotting the landscape. To a shaman's eye, though, things were different. The relative peace and acoustic serenity brought by the plains of Nagrand to mundane ears were in stark contrast to what those of us with spiritual predispositions could feel.
It had been a few days since I had arrived here with my mate. Gulgrim had been hurt horribly by the actions of some Shadow Council warlocks almost a week ago now; still recovering from his surgery, he had travelled here for the opposite reasons to the ones I had. His aim was rest and recuperation. Mine was restoration.
That was the premise I had been sent on, at least. In truth, as I stood here listening to the Mag'har and Broken shamans, I felt a little out of my depth. They had been doing this – soothing the Elements, calming and communing with the spirits, fixing things that were wrong – even before my parents had stepped through that awful door between worlds.
I was truly a pup in their presence. They spoke to each other in strange different languages, and spoke to me in fluent modern Orcish. They spoke of things I had never seen because they had ended before I was born. They spoke of things that I had still yet to learn about, but they had the patience to teach. Some of them were old. Some of them were not old, as such – but still older than me (say, my Chieftain's age). All of them were wise: wiser than me, wiser than Gulgrim, wiser than we possibly could have had time to become at our age.
I had a lot to learn from them, that was true. The Elements here were different. It had taken me this long to even be able to hold a conversation with them here, let alone call on them for help as I usually did. I needed to get comfortable with this juxtaposition between the relatively calm Azerothian Elements and the raging, wronged Elements of the Outlands. That would take a while yet – it was happening, but slowly.
This was not, however, any excuse to balk or say, "I cannot". Which was why I hesitated, but did not refuse, when they asked an unusual task of me.
"To the south," spoke a woman whose voice cracked like her skin when she spoke and eyes sparked like flames in the night, "there is an arena. We need somebody to represent us today."
I knew that their usual pitfighters were hunting for food today, and that some of their other proficients were supervising an Om'riggor. I would have trouble in the arena – it was an entirely different type of fight to the one I was used to, and I would be alone. There would be no environment to hide behind and no companion to take the brunt of any particularly vicious assault. There was a very high chance that I would be utterly decimated and that it would suddenly be Gulgrim caring for me, as opposed to vice-versa.
But I nodded in mute acceptance. This woman was old, yes, but with that age came all due respect that I had seen her fellow Mag'har grace her with. I wished to serve these people, and not just out of duty to follow my orders from Orgrimmar.
"You are Dagger and Totem," she added, nodding to my tabard. "Your people have served us well before."
She left it at that. She made no other outspoken comment, but bowed and gestured me to the door. I was expecting some sort of warning not to let my clan down, or some misplaced yet forthright trust that I would perform this task to the same proficiency that my clanmates had in the past. But no.
I took my borrowed windrider up to the floating island where Gulgrim and I had been staying. He was sleeping in the shade of the single tree under the early afternoon sun. Lunch was curled up by his side, purring under his hand. Good. Both of them needed their rest.
I reached over my quietly snoring mate for my pack, then tugged it out from beside the tree. I began preparing: reducing the weight on my belt; checking I had the right number of potions; ensuring I had some bandages; adjusting and changing my clothes for armour; and taking the hammer off my belt.
I had held Harg's hammer at my hip for most of the day. It served very well as a ceremonial weapon, but I had not yet learnt to use it. Such would come with time, practice, strength and training – but I had none of those things today. Today needed something that I reliably knew how to use. I needed sharp blades as well as a head just heavy enough to give force (yet not heavy enough to impede my movements).
I tugged my axe out of my bag and removed its coverings. All things considered, it was a good weapon. Ryzarhn called it light and shabby, but one thing set it apart from other weapons: I could actually yield it with some competence, and it was not a staff. I lifted the axe and examined the blade. Still sharp and clean from its last maintenance.
I nodded and strapped the handle to my belt before whistling. Mounting the windrider that appeared in response, then pulling my wolf-mask down over my eyes, I dug my heels into the side of the animal and we took off south.
==The Ogres of Nagrand==
It was a relatively quiet day at the Ring of Trials in Nagrand. It was fight day, yes, but it was a small venue these days. There were a handful of spectators from each place that was being represented – some Telaari draenei, a handful of assorted vagabonds from Shattrath, a few supporters from the largely broken Ogre clans, and several Mag'har orcs from Garadar. These matches were not to the death – fighting was stopped once one of the competitors was unable to stand for more than fifteen seconds – and so even those low on numbers could afford to compete. It was an afternoon's entertainment, and one that was seeing a resurgence in popularity recently – even if the goblin-run Ring of Blood in the north was still taking business.
Leaning back in his seat, Elder Gralg Stoneweaver set his eyes on the arena floor. This was the second match of five that would take place today, and Elder Stoneweaver was interested in all of them. He was here because his grandson was in the next match, but Garadar was still being represented in four out of the five overall, and he wished to see what stock was representing the Mag'har these days. They were a small people – they still had not recovered their numbers from the decimations of Sunspring, Bleeding Hollow and Laughing Skull – and so outsiders were often asked to represent in the arena. The species of the representative could be a field for betting on just as frequently as the outcome of the match.
Elder Stoneweaver found himself looking this time upon a rather scrawny greenskin orc. She had light armour on – mail, yes, but it was thin. Her buckler was small, wooden, and thick; her axe was very light, and not well-crafted. It was chained to her wrist, but she did not even look as if she could put much power behind blows with it. He even might go so far as to call her runtish. If he was honest, Elder Stoneweaver did not much reckon her chances. She was wearing a wolf mask, though, and she carried the blessing of Water about her. Maybe there was more. He only hoped she would utilise it.
Opposite her stood the Boulderfist challenger. He was an ogre with what Elder Stoneweaver supposed would account for good breeding, if such a thing could be so from such a frankly dim-witted race. He had two heads – the right head wore a helmet and carried an axe in its hand, whilst the left head wore robes and carried no weapon. Both sides of the body were covered in equal parts muscle and fat. Such things were difficult to fight against, and Elder Stoneweaver knew this – he had done so himself when he was much younger. Cutting fat didn't kill them and they were strong enough to overpower you with ease. Their unintelligence could lead opponents to underestimate their true capabilities.
The fight started. The ogre made the first move, charging towards the orc before making a slow downwards cleave with his axe. She practically stepped out of the way – she was light, and had pre-empted the move. She immediately then began to try widening the gap, but to little avail. The ogre began to make more and more cuts in her direction with the vicious-edged axe. She used her shield to deflect and redirect blow after blow from the serrated weapon. It was difficult for her – Elder Stoneweaver could almost hear the grunts as she took the strikes. Her reactions were slow, too. One swing was not met with the wooden defence, but instead glanced off her shoulder-armour; a second, similar swing was taken by her chain vest. As narrowly as she was succeeding, the larger creature was still not getting through with his current line of attack.
As Elder Stoneweaver noted this, the ogre changed tactic. He allowed the orc to grow the distance as she wished. He was casting a spell now, but the orc seemed not to have noticed this so far. At the last moment, she raised a hand – Elder Stoneweaver raised an eyebrow, but then nodded deeply. Wind had come to the greenskin's call, shearing close to the ogre's mage-head and stealing away his words of magic. It was the shaman's turn to cast now – she muttered incoherent syllables whilst grabbing nothing from the Air, coalescing it into sparking light before hurling it towards her ogre enemy. It hit the ogre's left arm. Elder Stoneweaver allowed himself a small, cautious smile – perhaps she was getting into the swing of things now. Besides, it always reassured him to see their greenskin cousins embraced by the Elements. It allayed fears of a return to their Fel-driven rampaging.
The blow of electricity seemed to infuriate the ogre more than anything, though. The flesh on his arm was burnt and warped, but it didn't seem to bother him very much. The female orc began to cast again, but the ogre was closing the distance, and she was promptly interrupted by the brute's axe. Elder Stoneweaver grunted. The axe only struck her with the flat, but she was sent sprawling nonetheless – he was strong and she was light. She was dazed for a few moments, wolf-ears flat against her head in frustrated indignation as she started to sit up. The ogre wasn't about to allow that, though. As she looked up at him from her position on the ground, he raised his axe high in the air for a showy finish.
Elder Stoneweaver sighed. The countdown had started. The shaman would have to stand up and move in the next few moments if she were to avoid death, let alone her opponent winning the match. There was a sudden burst of movement, though, as the underdog rolled to the side away from the ogre, tucking her knee up towards her chest. As soon as she was on her front again, she used her momentum to push herself upright. So that was why she was wearing such light armour. A loud, strong Earthshock rumbled its way up from the ground to the ogre, its echoes booming around the arena and stunning the ogre for just long enough that she could regain her balance on her feet. She looked at her opponent, tapped her axe twice, then charged.
She nearly missed. The axe caught the ogre's left side. At first, this seemed as though it had not done much, but the ogre quickly realised what had happened. Flames suddenly began to lick and feed from his robes, working their way greedily up towards his head. The Flametongue on her axe cackled merrily as she pulled back from her opponent. The ogre began to flail in a mad effort to extinguish the flames, eliciting a laugh from the Mag'har side of the crowd. Even Elder Stoneweaver gave a chuckle. Fire had always had a sense of humour like that.
It bought her comparatively little time, however, and she still had not caused her adversary much damage. The now infuriated ogre gave another charge, this time catching her with an upwards blow of the axe before she could get her shield up to defend. A few cheers went up from the ogre crowd as blood was drawn. Her wolf mask clung tenaciously to her head as it was whipped backwards. She staggered, but was not given much time to recover. Within moments she had her shield up to defend from the renewed barrage of blows. One particularly strong thrust embedded the axe into her shield. She snarled and made an attempt at disarming the ogre.
Had she been stronger, as most orcs were, this endeavour might have been successful. Instead, the ogre wrenched the shield from her hand. She cried out – a gesture like that probably almost dislocated her shoulder, noted Elder Stoneweaver. The ogre brought his other fist up to connect with the side of her head. There was an audible crack. The brute discarded her shield from his axe. The orc wobbled.
But – and neither Elder Stoneweaver, nor anybody else present, knew this – she had been struck in the head in many places before. She, and her body and – most importantly – her wolf mask, were used to this. And so as the stars cleared from her vision, she had the good sense to take a controlled fall: one which moved her out of the way of the ogre's once-again relentless axe.
She rolled and stood once more as she had done before, spitting blood. She was breathing heavily. The ogre wasn't. In fact, the ogre seemed to show very little concern for its injuries. This was turning into a good fight, at least, thought Elder Stoneweaver, even if it was not one that the Mag'har side were bound to win. The greenskin runt was putting up more of a struggle in her opponent's grasp than he had thought she would, or could. He had seen this a few times before. Most runts were drowned by their fathers not long after their birth in Mag'har society, but the few that were accepted by their parents grew to develop either a defeatist attitude where they assumed failure as a default (and thus made little effort to make it otherwise), or they slowly gained in power and confidence, eventually risking arrogance and recklessness. If anything, this one seemed to fit into the latter category, but was handling it in an entertaining manner, even if it was not one that might get her to win.
Cheers from his fellow Mag'har brought him out of his ruminations. Looking back at the arena floor, he could see that the young shaman appeared to have turned the tables – although she appeared to have taken a couple more blows. She was bleeding heavily from more than one wound, but something in her mind had clicked, and she now had her opponent at a wide distance. He was being bound in place by thick tendrils of root that were almost solid but just translucent enough to betray their nature – a totem with a bright, clear, crackling aura stood pulsating stoically just out of the ogre's reach. And the shaman began her own barrage – something had transcended, shown by the way her gaze had changed. Here came the lightning. It came from her hands in irregular bursts, but she was almost always casting. Sometimes it would visibly leap from limb to limb and head to head, other times there would be smaller bolts that fired in quick succession to each other. Elder Stoneweaver sat back again. He had no idea where this had come from, but it was changing her chances of winning dramatically. Why had she not pulled this ace out of her sleeve earlier?
The Earthbinding lost its total grip on the ogre and he began to move towards her, progress slowed by ghostly whips of leaf and root – but the damage was already done. He managed one last fire spell, aimed safely at her stomach, before he succumbed to his own burns and slowly fell over backwards. The smell of one's own charred flesh could do that, knew Elder Stoneweaver, as the countdown was ultimately issued and medics flooded the arena floor.
---
It was evening.
"What is your name, stranger?"
The female grunted, then looked at the sky, adjusting her jaw a little. It had only been set earlier in the day, after all. Elder Stoneweaver waited for her to speak. He was patient.
"Ursala Earthwielder." A pause in which she considered something. "Of Dagger and Totem."
"And you are a shaman."
"Of restoration."
Elder Stoneweaver raised an eyebrow. "You say so?"
The Earthwielder woman took a mental step back. Now she had her wolf mask hanging at her belt instead of on her head, her face – whilst not expressive, per se – was easier to read. Eventually, she settled for, "is what I have always been named as, yes?"
"All things change." Elder Stoneweaver grunted. "Do you know my name?"
Again, that reluctant hesitation. She knew she was on fragile ground. "No."
"Well, I am called Elder Gralg Stoneweaver." He snorted slightly, tipping his head back.
She bowed. Finally, some manners. "Throm'ka, Elder Stoneweaver."
"You fought... tenaciously in the arena today."
It was Ursala's turn to snort. "I am a medic, Elder. I am not built for combat."
"We'll see about that." He examined her expression carefully. It was esasperated – she was expecting bad things from him, then. Interesting.
"Have you ever been to Clan Watch?"
"Once," she said. "I went with my clan to watch the stars and grass and lake."
Elder Stoneweaver smiled. Ursala didn't seem to see the humour in what she had said. Elder Stoneweaver sighed with tedium, then continued.
"I want you to go there tomorrow and see about some talbuk meat for the village. There are a number of large herds around there. You should have no trouble."
There was no protest, though. That was a mild surprise. "Swobu, Elder."
Another voice sounded from behind him. "Grandfather?"
"Ah, Takan. Throm'ka." Elder Stoneweaver turned to examine his grandson. He was a young, healthy man, with broad muscles and full plate armour as well as two proud axes on his back. He had his helmet off, showing his healthy brown skin. He was well-trained, and Elder Stoneweaver was proud of him. "Ready to travel to Garadar?"
"Yes, Grandfather." He nodded, then paused and looked at Ursala. "Who's that?"
"Her name is Ursala Earthwielder. She fought the match before yours."
Takan looked at Ursala closely, examining her strange green features. She blushed. He snorted. Elder Stoneweaver, overseeing this, grunted.
"Let us take our leave, Takan."
"Ha! Very well." Takan turned to fetch their two riding-talbuk from where they were tethered.
Elder Stoneweaver turned back to Ursala. "Good luck tomorrow."
She nodded deeply. "Thank-you."
"Earth be at your feet, then, shaman."
They exchanged bows, then went their separate ways.
Category:Story