A statue sat over the edge Thunder Bluff, on an outcropping
of wood and reed. It was an effigy of
resilience and potency, a visage of measured power rendered into the form of a
long-horned Tauren brave. Its unmoving
gaze watched over Bloodhoof Village and the hardworking people toiling there,
promising protection and vengeance without a whisper of a word. The people of Mulgore spoke of the statue in
hushed and respectful tones, calling it “Bloodhorn”, its profile and appearance
synonymous with the dichotomous relationship the Tauren had with war. In one light, it could be noble, unyielding,
and courageous. In another, it could be
titanic, thunderous, and destructive.
And because of the respect and fear such a thing engendered, because it
was an avatar of the inner Tauren soul, it remained alone, over the edge. Ready to fall, and never giving in.
Beyond the statue, Chieftain Bloodhoof approached the
outcropping. His bladed-mace rested easily in
his massive hand, and the paired totems on his back added to his imposing
frame. Only his soft, careworn eyes
belied the warmth of the soul beneath his slabs of scarred muscle and ornate
leatherwork armor. He walked out over the
edge, not showing the slightest hesitancy in the face of the fall. He stopped next to the statue and surveyed
its line of sight, taking in the moment of blessed peace come to his people in
their land. He spared neither glance nor
touch to Bloodhorn, for he knew it better than most. He had been there when the statue was raised. He had been there when the statue took its
place. He had been there when the
statue’s crafter died.
“I can see the appeal up here,” he said to the statue. “Moments of serenity are hard to come by
now.”
A gust of wind came up from beneath him, fluttering the
fetishes of his armor and making his braided hair whip against his powerful
chest. For the briefest of moments, the
gust also touched the stone-grey eyes of the statue before racing out to join
the rest of the atmosphere.
In response, the statue blinked.
It shifted and moved, given sudden animation as a person
might wake from the deepest of dreams.
The statue rolled its bared shoulders and flexed its hands, popping
knuckles and engaging muscles that had not moved for some time. The statue turned its face to the Chieftain
and bowed its head with the respect of a subordinate and the familiarity of a
trusted friend.
“My chieftain,” the statue intoned with the voice of someone
who did not spare many words.
At last, Baine touched the statue, slapping a hand against
its shoulder.
“Kelraxus,” Baine said in acknowledgement. “It’s good to have you back. I was going to ask why you didn’t come
straight to see me, but I understand.”
Baine tossed his horned head out toward the view.
“Yes,” Kelraxus said.
“As you say, hard to come by.”
“I’m not the only one that’s glad you’re back,” Baine said.
“So, they’re back?” Kelraxus asked, turning to Baine in his
interest.
“They were,” Baine said, qualifying. “But you know how they are. Restless and eager.”
Rather than show his disappointment, Kelraxus turned back
out to Bloodhoof.
“Should I consider it a favor or a curse that only three
welcome me back here?” Kelraxus asked.
Baine grunted in annoyance and said “Many don’t even have
that. Spare me your mood.”
“Apologies, chieftain,” Kelraxus said with genuine feeling.
“If you’re up here to mope, I have a better use of your
time,” Baine said.
Kelraxus raised an eyebrow and turned back to the
chieftain. After a moment, realization
dawned.
“I see,” Kelraxus said.
“I don’t report in, so you come find me.
Personally. Something has
happened.”
“Azeroth kept spinning while you were away,” Baine
replied. “There is no rest for the good
or the wicked.”
One last time, Kelraxus turned to the view.
“I suppose I could pay an emissary from Silvermoon to paint
this for you,” Baine said when Kelraxus did not respond.
“No,” came the reply after a long moment. “Memory will do.”
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