An Unlikely Meeting

The breeze came down the shore of Lake Elune'ara. Mograg caught the scent of the dark elf before he saw his approach. The green-haired elf was dour. His expression conveyed grief, his posture was of one broken. His appearance was well kept, but decidedly of earthen tones. If it were not for the dim glow of yellow eyes or the long ears, he might be mistaken for a short tree. The elf barely gave the bull a glance as he slowly shuffled toward him.

Mograg, big bull that he was, was hardly a threatening sight to behold. He'd gotten up early and dressed for the occasion. Loosely threaded clothing, the sturdiest rod he owned in hand, and his lucky fishing hat completed the look and gave warning to the world that the bull was here to relax and he intended to see it through. His ever-docile wolf companion sunning himself on the shoreline only reiterated this notion.

Only when they were well within striking distance did they give acknowledgment of the other's presence. The elf, Velton, raised his hand, hailing the bull. Keeping an eye on his already cast line, the bull nodded to the elf. Mograg started to smile, stopping short when he saw the expression on Velton's face. He gave a small bow, then squared his shoulders up again to watch his line. "Ishnu'alah," said the elf, breaking the silence.

"Hello, elf," returned the bull in his native Taurahe. The bull didn't expect the dark elf to understand, of course, but it seemed polite to him to speak a greeting. He had met enough of the dark elves to know that he was being greeted, and kindly at that.

Deep below the surface of the water, the salmon had been tending to its own business, unaware of the encounter happening on the shore. Its mind was preoccupied with eating and the urge to spawn. One desire, it seemed, would be soon satisfied as the morsel danced tantalizingly in the water before its large eyes. He circled around twice before sucking in the meal.

The strike of the line snapped Mograg's attention back to the task at hand. He jerked the pole upwards, setting the cold, barbed steel of the hook through the lip of the salmon. He began to reel the fish in, cranking slowly as it fought against him. He could tell by the struggle that this one would be sizable. The salmon did not stop resisting the tug at its mouth until the very end.

As the bull hefted it out of the water and onto the shore, the elf's eyes grew a bit brighter and a slight smile crossed his lips. He watched as the bull removed the hook, holding the fish by its lower jaw. As Mograg ran the stringer through the salmon, Velton dug his rod and reel from his pack. By the time the salmon, now tethered and anchored to the shore, was back in the water the elf had his line cast. Grinning, Mograg followed suit.

The pair fished for hours in near silence, keeping only the most suitable of their catches, releasing the others to the water. When the bull had accidentally injured one beyond what would heal readily, the elf waved his hand over it. Green energy seemed to concentrate around first the elven hand, and then the body of the fish. The wound was repaired. "Handy. A druid, mmm?" asked the bull.

Velton had understood the word for druid in Taurahe and responded affirmatively, "Anu'dora." He watched as the bull released the catch and it swam off into the depths of the lake.

Their fills caught, Mograg took out his flint and steel and placed it on the ground. The druid nodded to him. Smiling, the bull stalked off into the surrounding woodland to gather fallen limbs. While he was gone, Velton began cleaning the fish. By the time the fire was built and ready for cooking, their catch was prepared.

After the meal was eaten, the druid took out a flask from an inner pocket. He took a swig from it and handed it to Mograg. "You have no idea, hunter, what I say to you. I know this, and still I speak," the Kaldorei said in the Darnassian dialect. The bull accepted the offered flask and drank from it, his face twisting a bit in distaste. "I have not left the Moonglade since I found out she was dead, bull. I cannot bring myself to do so. It was hard enough when our children were killed, and then she..." he trailed off. "If only I had been there for her." The druid sighed heavily.

Mograg watched after the druid with a head slightly tilted. He offered the flask back to him, and found it accepted quickly. "A ovak kee," the bull's voice rumbled. He rested a hand on the druid's shoulder after patting it twice. "A mani a eche ni hale awa." The message did not get through to the elf, but the tone of sympathy in the bull's voice brought him comfort.

Velton produced a small book and opened it. He took little time in finding the right page and holding it to the bull for his inspection. Upon it was a sketch in charcoal of a young human girl. Pretty, Mograg supposed, by human standards. The druid pointed to the picture of the girl, then toward the barrow den in the distance. Mograg nodded his understanding and again clasped the dark elf's shoulder.

Velton smiled weakly and closed the book. He stowed it away. "I hope for your sake, bull, that your life is happier than mine." The hunter regarded him with a brief, puzzled shrug. "Either way, I shall let you return to it." He took another swig from the flask before offering it one last time to Mograg.

The dark elf stood before the bull, having been returned the flask. He bowed to Mograg, deeply and graciously. "Elune'adore," he said. The bull knew enough to understand this as words of departure.

"Zhi anohe nechi awa," Mograg said as he bowed in return. Velton turned and walked up the shore from whence he came. The bull lingered a little longer, ensuring that no trace of their presence marred the shore. He activated his hearthstone and he and his wolf companion were carried away by its magic to the other world.

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Vigil, Part V

Before midday Mograg convinced himself that continuing to search the island of tallstriders would yield no better result. With a heavy heart he took wing once more, leaving behind him the last hope he held for finding Slyvos.

He passed over the wastelands and ruins. He passed through Terokkar Forest. He flew into Shattrath City. He tarried there long enough to make two purchases, one from the tavern and one from a baker. He stepped through the portal and was carried back to his home world in a single beat of his heart. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the cavern. He walked out, crossed the bridge to the main rise of Thunder Bluff, and made his way toward the teepee in which the bankers were entrusted with valuables. Chesmu, with a pretty smile and no question, retrieved for him his ceremonial clothing as he requested of her.

Mograg and his wolf companion Gunnar walked out from the bankers' teepee and across the Low Rise to the lifts. They rode down to the plains of Mulgore. There Mograg continued the preparations.

He had first seen the ritual as a very young calf and had practiced it more times than he cared to think. He gathered from the earth the plants, their berries, and the clay. He gathered the modest amount of fallen wood he would need. He gathered the dried moss. He found the bark. He gathered the water. He gathered the brush.

When all was gathered Mograg and Gunnar walked together across the plains to Red Rocks. The quillboar were nearby again. The bull was still in his full battle gear. They saw him, dressed in bright red, from a good distance. His Surestrike Goggles let him see them from even further. By the time he and Gunnar were in plain view the quillboar had scattered. He knew he would not need fear their interruption.

Gunnar found a spot for himself nearby in the grass. The bull stripped down from his battle gear and carefully placed it just far enough away so he might continue unhindered. He began the chanting of a mourning song. First, he would light the fire in the old way. He shunned the bundled wood in his pack, as well as the steel and striking-stone. He constructed his fire instead from the small twigs and fallen branches he found on the plains, though few and far between they had been that day. He gathered the wood together, forming the teepee shape. Most of the moss went in as the floor to this teepee of firewood.

His hands were out of practice in lighting the fire in the old way. They moved quickly back and forth as they traveled down the stick between them. The stick drilled through the remaining moss and into the wood below. In a moment of frustration, he recalled with slight bitterness how he had just told the story of how Shu'halo were taught by Wolf to get fire from Wood. He considered briefly asking Gunnar to do this work in his stead. He persevered and eventually coaxed Wood to give to him the spark of fire. The smoke of the moss grew to flame as he pursed his lips and blew his wind onto it. He added the now lit moss to the moss at the bottom of his stacked wood. Soon, the fire was burning under An'she's watch.

He began to chant a prayer-song of purification. He gathered together in a bundle the brush he had collected. One end he lit in the fire. The smell of the burning brush was a bittersweet comfort to him. Still chanting, he performed the purification dance. As he danced, he waved the brush through the air to drive away the evil spirits. They, like the quillboar, would now let him complete the ritual unfettered. When the dance was complete, what remained of the brush was tossed into the fire to purify the path to the ancestors.

Mograg then took up a small motar made of kodo bone. Still chanting, he purified it with some small amount of the water he carried up from Stonebull Lake. With a pestle of the same bone, he began to grind together some of the plants, their berries, and the clay into a bright red paint. He emptied the motar onto the dried bark and began to mix a dark blue paint. When enough of it was made, he put motar and pestle aside. Using the bark as an artist would a palette and his fingers as brushes, he began to paint his body as the spirits moved his hand. An'she dried it quickly to his fur.

A prayer-song for ancestral guidance came next from his lips. He donned his ceremonial loincloth. He fastened the leather belt that held to him his ceremonial axe of kodo bone, sinew, and wood. He pulled on his ankle wraps, his harness, cloak, bracers, and leather gloves. Each piece reminded him of the gravity of the ritual, and why he must perform it to the best of his ability.

He took from his pack the bagels and bourbon he had purchased in Shattrath. He placed them near the burning fire, but not so close the flames would come to harm them. He placed in front of them the purple hat that he recovered at the end of Slyvos' trail. These things he would send to Slyvos, in the land of their ancestors.

Mograg chanted a new prayer-song. This was not to the ancestors, nor a song of mourning, nor for purification or even to the Earthmother. This prayer-song was the song in his spirit, a song he made now for Slyvos. He danced around the fire as he sang. His song was joyous at times, recounting when they walked together. His song was sorrowful at times, lamenting when they did not walk together. His song was both at times, speaking of his friend walking among the spirits of the ancestors and not knowing either the pains or pleasures of mortal life. His song at other times was not of words at all, but of the sounds and uluations that the spirits of the ancestors called forth from him.

As this prayer-song ended, his dance brought him to the fire where what he would send to Slyvos waited for him. The bagels and bourbon that his friend had loved in life were added to the fire. Slyvos' hat was the last to be added. In a moment of morbid humor, Mograg thought to himself as he watched the hat burn how mortified Slyvos would be should he have walked up just as Mograg tossed the hat onto the flame.

Mograg watched by the fire, chanting now more softly. He spoke a prayer-song to the Earthmother, asking she bring peace to all spirits. Mograg watched until the very last ember turned to cold ash. He gathered up that which he had brought with him. An'she would leave the sky soon. It was time he returned to Thunder Bluff.

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Vigil, Part IV

The first search, made while still heavily influenced by drink, yielded nothing. The largest of plainstriders, the tallstriders, were apparent to him even through his blurred vision. His windrider had set down among them, a fair enough distance that he only aroused their suspicion without tempting their attack. It was the sense of self-preservation of the windrider that brought him to such a place.

The bull looked around, his legs wobbling after dismounting the windrider. The subtle changes in the pitch and yaw of the island, disconnected from the rest of Outland and floating in the void, coupled with the strong drink kept Mograg off balance. The ground seemed to fall away from him and rise up to meet him at different times. He grasped his polearm in both hands as if to wield it, but found more often he used it to prop himself up.

In this manner, Mograg stumbled about the island, searching through the fog of drink for any sign of Slyvos. Twice a tallstrider took offense at his presence. The first of these attacks he managed to deal with, though not without difficulty. He was very fortunate not to draw attention of other tallstriders as he hurled curses at it, yelling his hatred and demanding to be brought to his druid friend immediately.

On the occasion of the second attack, he faired quite a bit more poorly. He was taken by surprise. A tallstrider charged out at him from behind a tree. The beast had little trouble getting past the polearm, used less by Mograg for offense or defense and more for support. The strong drink in his body finally overcame him and in the middle of battle caused him to collapse. Though his judgment and faculties were severely impaired, the second nature of his long years of training took over. To all outward observation, he had fallen over dead. The tallstrider, unwilling to eat meat and lacking proper utensils even if it had such a desire, quickly became bored with the alleged corpse and returned to its previous occupation.

He was told later that when he appeared in Garadar he was fast asleep. According to the note they had found on his person, a hunting party had found him and activated his hearthstone. He had slept in the inn well into the late morning.

He had always enjoyed watching the orcish children play their chasing games, their shouts of "No, you're the ogre!" heard easily throughout the village. He had never previously felt his head throb as it did.

Most of his day was spent in quiet, very quiet, contemplation. He kept to himself when he could. When others threatened to find him, he took the form of a fish and found a still, quiet place in one of the many streams. The water soothed his head.

By the time An'she's last light was leaving the sky and Mu'sha would soon appear, he was more himself. His head did not throb, and his mind had calmed. He sought out the clan, who would gather that night for songs and tales. Where he had been this past day was not a tale he would share.

Tomorrow. He would search the island again tomorrow. This time would be without the counsel of the pink elekks.

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Vigil, Part III

Bourbon. Dakormaar had offered Mograg some earlier that evening. He had accepted it, and the taste had not left his mouth since. When the last of the gathering finally parted and Mograg was left on his own, the taste still tugged at his mind. Resolutely, he made his way to Stonebreaker after procuring all the alcohol he would need.

He emptied the small keg. The pink elekk seemed to smile to Mograg as the bull tried to pat its head, his hand passing through it. One of the orcs nearby shook his head sadly at the drunken bull. To the orc, Mograg was talking to and patting affectionately nothing more than the empty air.

Mograg had not come to this place since he had brought Thalleia here. They, among others, had been drinking in Booty Bay that evening in celebration of the wedding ceremony of Issaela and Eisali. He wished to know if the orc huntress would see the pink elekks as he had. He returned this time alone, seeking out the pink elekks one more time.

When Slyvos had first told Mograg of the pink elekks Mograg had assumed it was Slyvos' failing sanity speaking. He had long known that the mind of the older bull was not well. It had been apparent upon their first meeting, long ago.

Seeing the pink elekks for himself and now knowing that Thalleia saw them as well made Mograg reconsider everything Slyvos had said to him. Perhaps his sanity had not been failing after all. It explained some things, and those explanations made Mograg more uncomfortable than before.

He had found Slyvos' purple hat, one of the many hats Slyvos sought to protect from the plainstriders. He had found the hat and plainstrider feathers at the end of the trail, where Slyvos had disappeared. He saw with his own eyes the signs of the struggle that had ensued. He knew the plainstriders had left of their own volition, in apparent victory.

Mograg found all of this many weeks ago. Too many. Mograg had watched the places where he expected to see Slyvos. He had hunted for any sign of him. He had hired people to keep watch for him. At the close of the festival of the undead, Mograg knew that the time was upon him where he would need to consider that he would not see his friend again.

In recent times, Slyvos had been unable to recall the story that he had told Mograg when first they met. Mograg recounted it faithfully to Thalleia when they had come here. This time, Mograg spoke it only to the pink elekk.

"The plainshtridersh, you shee, wanted hish hat because it ish magic. It revealed to Shlyvos the path to the cave in Thunder Bluff filled with gold! Now, that shounds crazy to you, sure, but I can shee you," he said to the pink elekk with a grin. "Sheeing you shounded crazy to me when he told me about you. And I have a helmet which letsh me see ghoshtsh!" Mograg hiccupped. "Sho, why not a hat that letsh you shee a path to a cave filled with gold in Thunder Bluff?" He wobbled where he stood. "And what would the plainshtridersh want with gold, you ashk? Well, I've sheen more than one raptor hoarding coin for itshelf. They like shiny objectsh. And they're shmart! They have a whole shociety and everything! Why not plainshtridersh, too?" The pink elekk swatted through Mograg with its trunk. "Why not, I ashk you..."

Taking a swig from a large jug of bourbon, Mograg considered that his own sanity was failing.

The burn of the bourbon in his throat was all too well known to him. Slyvos had seen to it some time ago that Mograg became familiar with the more potent spirits. The alcohol emboldened Mograg. After another swig, he called for his windrider. Taking wing, Mograg nearly lying forward on the beast, they headed southwest. He would fly across to the floating islands where the largest of plainstriders could be found. He had not searched for him at this place yet, knowing that to do so would be to believe all that Slyvos had told him. Now, it was the only hope he had left for finding his friend.

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Vigil, Part II

From his perch in the ruins of Lordaeron, Mograg watched. A footbridge crossed the river of green. It was this place he hoped to find the one he sought. Many would come here, during the celebration of the undead. He had a good view of the ruins. Should his quarry pass through, he would see it.

This place made him uneasy. It was a dead place, and haunted. He had never seen it previous to its ruination. Stories were told to him of it. From the other human cities he had seen, he thought he had a decent idea of how it must have appeared.

Spirits lingered here. Few of them if any were happy about it. When he had passed through this place with shamans, he could see the toll they took on them. Though his eyes could not, at least without the aid of magic, see into the spirit realm, the fur on his forearms stood up. They were there and he knew it.

Steeling his resolve, the bull waited.

More than a day had passed. Though people of interest crossed the footbridge several times the one he sought did not. The bull was tired. The spirits of the ruins continued to keep him uneasy. It was time to clear his head and abandon his hunt, if for just a few minutes.

Crossing the ruins and ascending staircase opposite the one he had just come down, he strode toward the orb that by touching it would carry him to Silvermoon City. As he walked, two began to speak over the stones. Vandrian sought to speak with Issaela. She informed him she was in the city. When he inquired as to which city that was, she replied that she was in "-The- City."

Mograg stopped mid-stride. The assumption was easy enough to make that, as a pale elf speaking to another pale elf, she meant Silvermoon. Mograg hesitated as more plans were made. He was tired and had little use for being social. Issalea suggested they meet by the fountain.

In his weariness, the beast was given voice. "-The- fountain?" asked Mograg across the stones, eliciting a round of chuckles from others listening.

He thought perhaps he would get past the fountain before they would meet there.

Mograg placed his hand on the red orb. No more than a heartbeat later his eyes took in his new surroundings. He had been carried far to the north, to Silvermoon City. The pale elf home was one of luxury and fineries. They were wealthy and they spared no expense showing it.

He walked out of one building, between the columns of guards along the walkway, and down toward the aforementioned fountain. Issaela was already present. She smiled as he passed and he waved to her without breaking stride.

He took a tour of the city and the grounds immediately nearby. Outside, he refilled water skins in a stream and hunted small game for a meal. He would not eat or drink anything from the area near the ruined city of Lordaeron. The parts of the city the pale elves kept, for all that was wrong with it, was at the very least healthy.

Inside, distrusting and judgmental eyes followed him wherever he walked. When he took occasion to speak to some of the pale elves he was rarely greeted kindly. Most times he was told, "Your gold is welcome here." The implication was obvious to the bull. He would not tarry long.

He sat on a bench and watched a broom. It swept up and down the cobblestones autonomously. He drank of the fresh water. Heavy eyelids closed of their own volition.

He woke with a start. In a dream, he had found the one he sought. It was neither here in the pale elf city, nor in the ruined city of the undead. In fact, he seemed to have been nowhere in particular. Whether it was a vision granted him or nothing more than an ordinary dream, the bull decided to change his tactics. He would remain watchful, but let the wind carry him where it would.

He went past the fountain once more, nodding to Issaela and Vandrian as he passed. Through the columns of guards, transported by the orbs, and down the steps into the ruins once more. He checked the ground one last time for the tracks of his quarry. Finding none, he let his hearthstone carry him home.

Mograg slept.

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