Great for Blocking

    Hjota Stonehoof walked with a limp. It had been that way when he patrolled the high mesas of Thunder Bluff, it had been that way when he travelled the plains, and it was that way now, walking south along the great road from the Crossroads to Camp Taurajo. It frustrated him with every step across the dry and dusty paths.
    

    The memories of how he got it were as clear as the cloudless skies above.

-

    Years ago, when he had heard a small gathering of quilboar had made residence at Red Rocks, an ancestral burial ground east of Thunder Bluff, he was the first to volunteer. Alongside a small party of fellow tauren, he was quickly dispatched to remove the threat.
    

    Hjota welcomed the challenge. Early in his days as a Bluffwatcher, he was eager to test his mettle and serve the city with more than providing directions to the inn and the wyverns. He was young. Brash. Ready for battle and brimming with arrogance.
    

    And foolish. So, so foolish.
    

    So much so that he carried a staff into battle; a thin piece of wood, to fight aggressive quilboar. A staff. For ages he would regret that decision. “Great for walking, not for blocking,” one of the warriors had told him. Oh, but he was a shaman, and the elements would come to his side, and the strength and power of the Earth Mother would rattle the bones of all but his ancestors at Red Rocks, and none of the enemy would ever reach his young, windswept hide!

    Foolish. So, so foolish.

    His party fought well. The spatterings of quilboar were put down quickly, only a few daring to stand against the concerted might of the tauren. Most simply fled, but not all. When young Hjota spotted a straggler, he was desperate to try his hand at summoning the will of the elements in single combat to banish one who would dare defile such a sacred place. Call upon lightning! Make thunder ring in the enemy’s ears!

    Fool, fool, fool, fool.

    Breaking from the group, he charged the lone quilboar, flinging bolts of lightning and blasting it with fire. It squealed, its bristles set alight, maddened by the sudden rush of pain. It ran towards him, driven mad with pain, its high-pitched cry so loud as to wake the sacred dead beneath their feet. Another bolt of lightning ripped from his fingertips, and he squared himself to brace for the coming impact.

    The final bolt killed the creature, but not in time. It barreled into him, sending Hjota toppling into the high Mulgore grass, the calming blue sky incongruous with the sudden pain he felt.

    As they tumbled, he landed on the unfortunate creature, and one of its razor-sharp quills embedded itself deep in his backside. He patted at the wound, his leather pierced. Without a second thought he called upon the Earth Mother to heal his injuries - realizing only afterwards that while he had sealed where the quill had pierced, he had trapped it within his hide.

    The old warrior who had warned him about the foolishness of staves stood between the sun and Hjota. He smacked his shield with the heavy mace he carried. “Great for blocking,” he said with a chuckle. “A staff,” he mumbled with a shake of his mane.

-

    Patting his backside, he could still feel the quill so many years later. The long, thin, endlessly painful piece was with him always, and along with it came two things. First, an appreciation for the shield he now lifted above his head to block the hot Barrens sun, a lightweight piece of wood adorned with the azure and white feathers of the harpies of Mulgore. Second, a deep and abiding hatred for quilboar.

    Now, upon hearing that the leadership of Camp Taurajo had demanded the skulls of three quilboar along the cliffsides of the southern Barrens, he was quick to answer the call. They would pay, he thought. He winced, his steps bringing another sharp pain. They would pay dearly.

    He was well into their territory now, walking in the shadow of the massive brambles that grew haphazardly amongst the mountain edges of the Barrens. Great spikes and thorns jutted against the gentle skyline, demarcating a territory few tauren would dare enter. Even the reckless orcs shunned it for the dangers the region posed.

    But Hjota cared little. He had his shield.

    Nestled in the hills and just out of sight, he checked the parchment that held his mission. Kuz, Nak and Lok; three quilboar to be slaughtered for the safety of the camp. He scratched his head - and his backside. The quill made itself known as he took a knee in the dirt, wondering how he would know one quilboar from the next. He scanned the horizon, small waves of heat emanating off the surface of the dry dirt. The creatures milled about in the shade of the massive thorns, makeshift camps the closest thing they had to residences. Fortunately, the three were not tough to spot after all. The more notable quilboar were showered with food, petty trinkets, and any number of other ways to curry favour.

    Hjota pushed himself up, grimacing as his resident quill reminded him of its presence. Someday, he hoped, he would have the shamanistic power to turn into the famed ghost wolf, the mark of an experienced master of the craft. Perhaps when he changed shape, the quill would come free. He rubbed the spot, still solid underneath his fur. That couldn’t come soon enough.

    Red Rocks was long ago, and the quilboar that stood in his way proved little challenge when matched with his time and experience fighting the threats that surrounded Thunder Bluff. Some tried sneaking forward with tiny daggers, fancying themselves rogues like the undead who had become their allies. It was almost charming, the way they believed they could be the hero and slay the mighty tauren. It wasn’t long before Hjota had a small collection of daggers, picked from the hands of charred and lightning-struck would-be assassins.

    They could never reach beyond his shield, after all. “Great for blocking,” he whispered to himself.

    Kuz and Nak weren’t much better. Quaint, their spellcasting. Primitive beasts playing at powerful mages. The strength of the earth stunned them as they fumbled their spells; it was a miracle their language could produce magic at all. Truly, the greatest challenge for Hjota was not defeating his enemy, but how he could manage to retrieve just their “skull,” as was the request. Unpleasant work, he thought, considering how to strip the flesh away. But then he’d feel the pain in his backside, and it suddenly came easy.

    With a sufficient stash of daggers, a handful of silly little wands, and the polished skulls of Kuz and Nak as proof of his deeds - clearing the skin and bristles efficiently, if foully, through shamanistic fire - he looked now towards their chieftain.

    And there, like a shining beacon, catching the light and drawing him in like a fish to a lure, he saw it. It was astounding. It was wondrous. The guards of their leader, Lok, carried the most gorgeous shields he had ever seen. How dare they defile them with their hands? Such magnificent craftsmanship, such beauty, such purpose, wasted upon the quilboar!

    Roaring a challenge, he charged into the fray, leading with the power of his weight and his mighty horns. Fire and lightning flew from his fingertips, scorching, shocking, brutalizing. They didn’t deserve the beautiful objects in their hands. Such things were beyond their understanding, and it would only be right for them to be his.

    Agile for a tauren, he ducked beneath their swinging blows, his counterattacks careful not to scratch what he viewed as priceless pieces. Battle rage and shield-lust made short work of the guards. When both lay broken at his feet, he ripped a shield free and held it to the light. It was his, and it was beautiful.

    And it was held aloft.

    Not low. Not at the ready. High in the air, and ineffective.
    
    Fool, fool, fool again.

    So when Lok charged from his camp and tackled the unwary tauren at full speed, they both went tumbling down the hillside, rolling, twisting, pummeling each other as they went. Enmeshed in battle, they flew from a ledge and fell several feet to the hard earth below. Much to Hjota’s good fortune, his fall was broken by something soft. He had landed squarely on the leader’s head, and his massive weight did the desired job as well as his lightning ever had.

    He stood and brushed himself off, the orange dust finding every nook and cranny of his hide. When he patted his backside to clean himself off, he found that old familiar quill, just as it always was. And then, on the other cheek, another. His eyes went wide. They had done it again.

    But Hjota smiled. He could handle another quill until his talents allowed him to transform, hopefully freeing him of both. All that mattered was what lay up on that hill.

    He had a new shield, and it was beautiful.

A Call to Adventure

When most pandaren wished for a place to unwind, they’d prefer the open, stunning vistas of the Jade Forest. The sights of the towering castles, the view from high upon the peaks, the breeze from the ocean cascading across their fur. But not her. Veronicka was different. She felt the sun beat too hot, the training warriors were too noisy, and the beautiful views were too distracting for her to nap. Her home was in the quieter, humble Krasarang Wilds. The dew from the wetter clime made the undergrowth soft to sit on, and the darker tones of the earth and the tree-cover could let her sleep for hours unimpeded, even in the middle of the day. 

There, leaning against a tree, was where she found herself. She stretched out her weary legs, sore from endless travelling, reached her paws to the sky, calloused as they were from pulling back her bow, and pushed her shoulders back, stiff from so much of the weight of the world resting down upon them. It still didn’t feel real, returning from the land of the dead. There was something about it that touched her mentally, and she found it difficult to step back, to move on from it. It left an indelible mark, like she could never quite feel again, even in the balmy Pandaria sunshine. 

Perhaps there wouldn’t be that rest she sought today. There wasn’t much yesterday, either.

Her manasaber companion, Genie, as true a friend if ever there was one, rubbed up against her side. She tossed a fish cake a short distance away, watching her bound through the tall Krasarang grass until she found her prize. The great cat was playful still, even though she fought much harder in the Maw than Veronicka had. The strong but stumbling pandaren was more of the kind to sit at the back and watch her spirited friend do most of the work, certainly content to watch from the sidelines rather than engage up front herself. The patch of burnt fur from Sire Denathrius’ blade had done little to slow her down, nor the missing tooth she picked up from a few reckless moments in the arenas in Maldraxxus. 

Genie might have boundless energy still, but Veronicka didn’t. She never did, really. She was not of the kind to train all day, unless training consisted of music or snacking. So, trying to fulfil what she saw as her greatest goal, she closed her eyes and tried once more to find that pleasant nap amongst the trees. But fate was not having it.

“Thought I’d find you here!”

Vernoicka leapt up with a start, rolling unceremoniously down the small hill beside her, reaching for her bow but missing it as her cat jumped into action with much more agility than her. Jumped, as it was, right into the arms of the newcomer to the scene.

“Pendus!” She ran up to the big-bellied shaman healer, giving him such a powerful hug it almost sent them both rolling down the other side of the hill. 

“Hope I didn’t wake you, Veronicka,” he said with the wide, welcoming smile she had grown to love. 

“No! No, not at all. I… haven’t been getting the rest I was hoping for, truly.” She rubbed at a few old wounds. “Sometimes it’s not as easy to get comfortable as it used to be.” She perked up and changed the topic. “How’ve you been?” Where’ve you been?”

Pendus put his hands out wide. “I wander. Wander Pandaria, wander Kalimdor, wander all of Azeroth. Take in the sights, travel on the winds and the waters and wherever the elements will me to go.”

“Easier now that things have settled.”

“Hmpf. Easier indeed. Can finally sit and enjoy a brew.”

“Or some shade,” Veronicka agreed. 

“But…” His face grew softer. Hesitant. “I’ve been travelling alone for some time now. It would be a much better journey if I had a companion.”

She nodded, scratching the ears of Genie as she nuzzled up alongside her. “You’ve got to go fixing things again, don’t you?”

“Truly, if I were born again, I’d be a gnome,” he said with a laugh. “Always fixing. Not sure if I could carry the same belly though,” Pendus said as he slapped both hands on his rotund form. Veronicka chuckled, but not as she used to. She could sense where he was going long before he said it. “There’s a new land. The talk is all over Orgrimmar. I’m sure it’s reached here, too.” She didn’t say anything, didn’t so much as turn his way, so he continued. “The Dragon Isles have revealed themselves, and it seems half the world is travelling to see them.”

“And half the world’s army,” Veronicka added.

“That may be so. But it’s my duty to help. The elements have blessed me with a gift,” he said with his paws up. She had seen him work incredible wonders, saving her and Genie time and time again with his healing magic. ‘Splashing’, she’d call it, on account of the healing coming from the watery realm of shamanistic cures. A deluge from nowhere, and suddenly she felt right as rain. She never understood it, but she certainly welcomed it. Genie did too, even if she looked rather ridiculous with fur matted to her sides, drenched to the bone after a battle. “There’s always someone in the world who needs our help.”

“Always someone,” Veronicka agreed. “But why does it have to be us to help? Have we not done enough already?”

He took a deep breath in and a slow one out, and reached for one of the fish cakes. She slapped his hand aside playfully, only for him to pick it up again and pop it in his mouth before she had a second shot at it. He smiled, swallowing the fish and rubbing his enormous belly. They sat for a moment, looking out at the quiet and the calm of Krasarang. “The Shadowlands were… difficult, weren’t they?”

She looked closer now, at the very hands he held up. A handful of deep red marks lay underneath the fur. “Hard on all of us,” she agreed. “You’ve earned your rest, don’t you think?”

“As have you.”

They looked out together, Genie crawling across them both, surprisingly light, as they leaned down against the tree at their side. They watched a single leaf drift lazily from the branches above, and Pendus used his elemental gifts to ask the wind to send it back up again whenever it neared the ground.

“The Dragon Isles,” he said softly. “It’s not like the Shadowlands. From all I’ve heard, it’s not all that different from here. Wide, sweeping plains, the wind coursing through our fur, the thrill of adventure again… it’s not all darkness. And they need shamen.”

“The elements are restless there, then,“ Veronicka said. Pendus nodded in agreement. “And you know I want to help.” Pendus nodded again. She was still the kind of hunter that would speak a small prayer of thanks over the animals she’d hunt, appreciating the bounty they provided, never wishing any undue pain upon them. She rested a paw on his.

“I know you do,” he said.

They looked out at the scenery before them, quelled now after having been beset by conflict for so long. It was amazing just how quiet it was. All remnants of battle seemed to have melted away, save for a few chopped down trees to fuel the war machines, and the occasional scattering of scorched grasses that have already mostly been covered by new growth. 

“Plenty of fish there,” Pendus mumbled. He smirked as he saw a single, slight twitch of her ear. He knew her well enough to know what that meant. She was not only listening, but suddenly listening rather intently. “Whole heaps of ‘em. Snacks from centaur, tuskarr, and I assume dragons have picked up a thing or two about cooking over their time. Probably know how to barbecue…”

“Bet they could heat up food quickly.”

“Sure can.”

Veronicka shifted in her seat along the tree. She couldn’t tell if she had to keep shifting because she was growing restless, or if it was a longstanding injury she hardly noticed was there anymore. It mattered little. She stared into the blue eyes of her fellow pandaren, blue as the waters he healed with, and saw that he spoke the truth. It wasn’t a place of pain and anguish, but one of exploration and adventure. The pain from the Maw, from Maldraxxus, from the Jailer, from all that was dark and dreadful in the realm beyond this one, still cut deep. But nevertheless, her fingers had curled around the shaft of the bow without her realising. She trusted Pendus, and Pendus trusted her. Together, they could take on the world.

“Genie!” she called to her cat, who ran up beside her at once, pushing her head into her side and hoping for a scratch behind the ears. “Let’s go exploring!”

Trust the Spirits

Every part of him - his wrists, his ankles, his nose, his ears - were covered in bones. It made him a rogue you could hear before you saw, rattling and tapping with every step, his near constant whispered conversations with spirits he claimed were always at his side a clear demonstration that the troll was unlike any the Barrens had ever seen. If he had any fear of the dangers the harsh land of the Barrens possessed, he showed it not in the slightest. He strutted along the main road from the Crossroads to Ratchet, eschewing any concept of stealth in spite of his abilities, and jangling with every step.  His supreme confidence came from the belief - in his mind, the knowledge - that if he were to pass to the spirit world, his ancestors would give him warning well in advance. It paid to have friends on the other side.

Mebok Mizzyrix, one of Ratchet’s many inhabitants attempting yet another get-rich-quick scheme, knew him more by reputation than anything else. Ratchet was a town of trade, and knowledge was its own currency. Knowing about Saancha the rogue was worth its weight in gold, as long as you knew two aspects of his character; first, that he was reliable, and second, that he was surely mad. That made him the perfect rogue to task with collecting what he was searching for, and if he succeeded he’d gladly look past the incongruous voodoo mask and countless bones worn by the enigmatic rogue.

“Space them out?” Saancha muttered to himself when approaching Mebok, looking off from one side to the next as he took the deepmoss spider eggs out of his pack. “Why? I just be needin’ to… okay, okay.” Fifteen in all, exactly as Mizzyrix had asked for. The goblins of Booty Bay would pay handsomely for spider egg omelettes, and the pittance he paid for the long travel into Stonetalon Mountains and the dangerous collection of the eggs would be a fraction of what he’d get in return. He smiled wide with yellowed goblin teeth and a handful of gold replacing the ones that had rotted away.

Yet no matter how great the riches were, there could always be more. He looked in the troll’s pack. Deep amongst a number of bones and strange, seemingly pointless objects, lay a few extra eggs. Mebok was not one to miss an opportunity, no matter how strange and disconcerting the adventurer was. “Hey, pal, I know I said fifteen, but I’ve got an extra couple silver in it for ya if you want to part with the last couple!” he asked enthusiastically, hoping his attitude would rub off on the strange troll. 

Saancha looked back at him through the mask, two deep, intense red eyes staring into him. Through him, maybe. He twirled one of the bones that hung from his earlobes. Mebok could have sworn the mask took on an expression of its own, the painted wood seeming to shift slightly. Then, in a moment and a puff of dark grey smoke, the troll was gone. 

Silence, save for the lapping waves on the wharf and the call of goblin traders bartering over the prices down to a single copper. A strange troll indeed, but one that delivered on the goods - and therefore, in Mebok’s mind, the best kind of adventurer. With a shrug of his shoulders he began collecting the eggs. 

Suddenly, just as he lost himself in his thoughts of wild splendour and wealth from his upcoming trip to Booty Bay, a voice whispered behind him. “The other eggs be mine,” it said. He was startled enough to leap the height of the troll that was now suddenly a foot behind him. “I’ll be needin’ them. The old one. The young one. They tell me so. I put my faith in them.”

With that, the troll was off again, muttering to himself. Mebok could only shake his head.

—

Saancha arranged the harpy talons all around the feet of Darsok Swiftdagger before collecting them all and doing so again. The orc stood and waited, pleased at the destruction of so much of the harpy menace, but frustrated at the actions of the bewildering rogue who delivered them. Had it not been a returning soldier of the Horde leaving the proof of his completed mission, he would have given a swift boot to the chest and sent him tumbling off the watchtower.

Aggravated, he reached down to collect one of the talons, only to have his hand slapped away - a dangerous thing to do to an orc, and an especially dangerous thing to do to Darsok Swiftdagger. “Fine,” he growled at the troll. “Have it your way. Now return to the place of their hovels, and bring me the rings of their lieutenants. They’ll be-”

“No,” the troll mumbled. Saancha looked to his right side at nothing in particular, nodded, and collected the talons again. “Spirits don’t ask for dat.”

“Spirits? The Horde asks for the rings, not-” 

“Nah, mon. Listen. The spirits don’t need dem.” He held up a single talon. “I’m keepin’ this one.”

The orc ran a large hand over his face, wondering if the heat of the Barrens sun, inescapable in the watchtower at the Crossroads, was causing him to see things. “What use would you have in a single harpy’s talon?”

“Hah! Not for me to know.” A puff of smoke, and the troll was gone.

—

Throw the hearts on the ground. Drain the blood. Soak the whole of the Barrens with it. Crush, pound… 

Calm. He be needin’ only to show he has them. 

Darkthorn asked for hooves, and she's given hearts - ha! Hah!

The blood of the animals will suffice. Show the madness. The madness of the spirits, the madness of us! 

Hah! Only one of us is mad, and it isn’t the crone!

Both of you, calm yourselves. Segra Darkthorn comes. Place two of the hearts on the ground, child. To your right and to your left. Hold two more in your hands as she approaches. Press the two into your mask, letting it drain, cover it fully in blood. They must be fearin’ you!

They be thinkin’ he lost his mind!

The coming darkness will take us. Stomp the other hearts. Sacrifice! 

“Segra Darkthorn,” Saancha said as the orc hunter approached him. “I have come with proof of the successful hunt of the zhevra. I have collected their-”

“I asked for hooves, troll.”

“Yes, you did. The spirits did not.”

“What spirits?”

Ha! Should we tell her we’re right beside her? My tusks be close enough to lock with hers!

Let him speak without our interference. Saacha - you must do as we be tellin’ ya.

Saacha looked to the old troll spirit, standing matronly and strong at his side. She was the spirit he trusted most, although he followed all three explicitly. Aged but still tall, she carried herself with the regal bearing of a queen. The others, both young, were anxious and mocking, respectively - but their warnings and demands were no less real. 

Go, child. Do it now.

Holding the two zhevra hearts in hand, he pushed them against the top of his voodoo mask. The blood ran in thin rivers down the painted white, covering it fully in ichor. He then crushed the other two under foot, ensuring that the steps that he would leave behind were marked in blood. 

Did not think he’d do it! Steppin’ on a heart! Hah! Squash! Haha!

…blood begets blood begets blood begets blood…

“Hear me now, orc. I be goin’ alone.” He lifted up his voodoo mask to reveal his face painted ghostly white, the colour of bone, his earrings, his necklaces, his jewellery, bone. “I speak with da spirits. Don’t be followin’ me unless you wish to join ‘em.”

Orcs were never one to take well to threats, but Segra Darkthorn hefted her axe up upon her shoulder and nodded. There was no sense arguing nor reasoning with the mad, and if he wished to leave the Crossroads alone, she wasn’t interested in stopping him. In a cloud of black he disappeared, leaving bloody footprints heading to the west. 

She called out to the Crossroads guards shortly after, instructing them to keep their patrols to the east for the day. When asked why, she wasn’t sure what to tell them. Something deep in her heart told her not to follow the troll. When she had looked into his eyes, she could only shiver in spite of the heat.

—

Why ya be so glum? Did ya get too much blood in that long hair of yours? 

A deed done in blood. They need not know. Lead them away. Far away. Far away!

They be wanting to stay away from a madman. Crushin’ hearts was my job back when, but not like that! Hah!

Focus, both of you. All three of you. The first of the party lies ahead. Saancha, it is your time.

The spirits had led Saancha out to the west of the Crossroads, past the forward burrow on the route to Stonetalon Mountains and just south of the Forgotten Pools to the northwest. What ‘party’ she meant was beyond him, but he hoped whatever was to come was to happen quickly. The Barrens sun pounded down upon him, long since drying the blood on his mask to a dull, rusty brown, and leaving him desperate to visit the nearby oasis. But if the spirits said to travel this way, they would not let him pass into the next realm so unceremoniously as this. There was a purpose here. He had faith.

And he could hear it before he could see it. The distant stomping, the wind-carried battlecry.

He had spoken to tauren that had described the pounding hooves of a centaur war party. They would say it was like the sound of rolling thunder across the plains of Mulgore, distant and foreboding until it washed over you with a terrible and sudden ferocity. But the centaur tribes have been culled strongly enough for massed, cohesive attacks to be rare.

        Rare - but not eliminated. 

He could not see the war party yet. Atop a hill in the distance, obscured as it was by the waves of heat emanating off the dusty Barrens ground, was a lone centaur scout. Beyond him would be the patrol party accompanying him, and further beyond that, the whole of the centaur raid. Even the forward barracks and the distant sight of the watchtower at the Crossroads may not provide enough advance warning. This was dire indeed. 

There he stands. The first drop in the sea of doom!

Plenty of flies around that one. 

Listen carefully, Saancha. You must not kill him. Not yet.

Are ya hearin’ this? Don’t kill him? Hah!

Slit his throat, let the Barrens soak the blood! Just as the zhevra fell!

Draw him to you, the spirit of the old troll woman said. Draw them out.

Against his nature, he walked with his back to the oasis and straight towards the centaur, no semblance of stealth troubling him. It wasn’t long before the centaur saw him, conspicuous against the mostly empty landscape. The horn his enemy blew rang out far, signalling the other centaur to follow him and trample the first of their Horde prey. They came for him now, and they came with the speed of their equine forms carrying them swiftly across the savanna. 

Ya done it now! And here I be thinkin’ you were a rogue! 

Draw them out, draw their blood… 

Good, Saancha, the old one said. But this is not your place to battle. Flee, into the oasis! With haste!

He did not have to be told twice. As quickly as he could, he bounded towards the oasis, five of them in total now after the scout called his brethren. The centaur saw him from a distance, and Saancha was quick. He reached the oasis far faster, allowing himself a place to set an ambush. The bloody footprints left from the stomped hearts would lead them right to him. Now, however, it was an environment better suited to stealth and trickery rather than speed. Here, he suddenly found himself to be at an advantage. 

The centaur scout was quick, obviously younger and far more eager to prove himself than the others. He bounded in first with reckless abandon, slow to recognize the inherent advantage of tree cover and enclosed areas that greatly benefited one who specialised in sneak attacks and slipping in and out of combat. He was just about to blow his horn again, signifying a hunt through the oasis’ heavy foliage, when the knife found his throat. He collapsed with the horn still in hand. 

The next four were not so foolish. They found the body, snorting and communicating in a halting, harsh language in which he couldn’t understand. It wasn’t long before they split off to search for their prey, moving in teams of two and circling the perimeter of the oasis. 

The waters will run red with centaur blood! 

Hah! They may! Whose blood, now that is yet to be seen! We may be needin’ to find another one to haunt if this goes bad. 

Steady, Saancha. Move towards one of the parties. We will guide you.

“What am I doing here, spirits?” Saancha whispered. “Why must I fight them alone? Why can I not rally the Horde?”

Keep your faith, young one. Do as we say.

Two had branched off towards the water. One held a simple bow, the other a staff. The latter was female, a thin white bandana covering her face and signifying her as one of the centaur clans’ mages. 

Open your pack, young one. Saancha did so without questioning. He always did, regardless of how strange or bewildering the order was. The eggs, Saancha.

The centaur with the bow, the larger of the two, turned in his direction. The jingling of the bones on his necklace and wrists made his presence known, and an arrow thumped into the tree just beside his head. 

The eggs!

A crackling bolt of lightning from the mage blasted into an adjacent tree, leaving a smouldering, burnt-out hole in the trunk. Another arrow whizzed by. Not knowing what other interpretation he could have chosen, Saancha used what the spirits had given him. He threw the eggs, one at each of the centaur. The one at the mage found its mark, bursting along her side and spreading a great number of tiny deepmoss spiders crawling across her flank and biting into her skin in their own panic. She screamed and swatted at them, giving him a moment’s reprieve. The other egg landed just shy, but as the centaur nocked an arrow and prepared to fire, the spiders crawled up his leg and bit at his arms. The poison began to numb the limb, leaving him unable to pull the bowstring back in full. 

The distraction was more than enough time to close the distance. It wasn’t long before the two centaur were down.

Woulda preferred an omelette.

Chaos and blood, spiders and death, poison and pain. Blood begets blood. Direct the blood away. Away!

Two remain, Saancha. Go. Swiftly. Before they retreat and tell the others what happened.

And so he did. He moved swiftly and carefully through the foliage, taking greater care to conceal the sound of the bones that lay upon his wrists and chest. It wasn’t long before he found them; the final two centaur, one mage and one warrior wielding a massive club. 

The caster, first. 

Don’t want a shock, do ya?

Bleed the magic from her!

The caster fell to the dagger the way so many of its kind have. Cloth was never the best protective armour against a blade. There was still the matter of the larger, more powerful centaur, however, and this one proved to be rather upset at the loss of his companions. Smashing the club against the ground in rage, he charged through the grass and branches at the troll.

Do not strike at him! Make him swing at ya! the younger male spirit demanded. 

The club came in strong, but the rogue was nimble. Using the dense foliage of the oasis as cover, he dipped and dodged around the wild swings. A few came close, but none connected. Soon enough, the centaur began to tire, struggling to lift the club let alone send it his way with any true intent. 

Hah! Well, I didn’t think ya be listening. I was mostly kidding about not striking him down…

Blood! Blood! A new oasis, just of blood!

One final dodge and three swift strikes, and the final centaur fell. Covered in blood, some from the zhevra’s hearts but most from the centaur, the spirits gave him little reprieve. It was the elder troll spirit that spoke first, and when she spoke, he listened.

Time is short. Take the harpy claws and dig deep into the flesh of the centaur. Mark them everywhere. Mark them across your dagger strikes to appear as if it were harpy claws instead of your blades. Do so. Now! Quickly!

—

Saancha came back along the same path from which he left the Crossroads. Passing by the forward burrow, he heard the orc sentries yelling in harsh, panicked voices. “Centaur war parties - far to the west! I can smell them on the wind already! We must alert…” He paused, as Saancha listened in from beneath the burrow. “Hold.”

“Hmm?” the other orc grunted.

“They’re… shifting. They’re moving to the north.”

“That’s harpy territory.”

“Harpy territory,” the orc said in agreement. 

Both grabbed their weapons instinctively at the sound of hysterical laughing coming from underneath them. However, they relaxed when they saw it was a strangely attired, bone-laden troll, covered in dried blood and looking parched from the beating sun. “What’s your business here?” the larger of the two demanded. 

“Oh, just savin’ your hides!” Saancha returned. With a puff of smoke he disappeared, finding his way into the burrow and appearing right beside the two of them. “Just gotta trust the spirits, mon.”