Reflections of the Warmistress

Kil'gora lifted her eyes to the sky, rising an arm to protect them from the scorching sun that rose above her in the cloudless sky. It was midday, nice and hot, the thick stone walls of the Orcish city steaming with heat. Yet the she-orc Warmistress stood naked, droplets of water spraying from the adjacent waterfall and moistening her well-built frame. The bridge joining Orgrimmar's western exit with the Barrens was a few dozen yards above the river that ran beneath it.

The Southfury River. Its water came from the bowels of Kalimdor, from high up the Winterspring mountains, running the dephts of the earth under Azshara, Felwood, and finally surfacing at Ashenvale, squeezed between the Barrens and Durotar, only to mingle with the salt waters of the Great Sea at Ratchet's harbor. "This river has seen much," her mother used to say, "and could tell us the history of the world... if we simply learn to listen to the voices of the spirits."

Where else could she cleanse and soothe her wounded, exhausted body if not in the Southfury, from which the earth of her Home eased its thirst?

Taznar shook his moist body, wildly spraying water onto the she-orc. Interrupting her thoughts, she laughed, turning her eyes to the worg, stripped from his armor and now soaking wet. Her arms came about the animal's neck and gave it a few firm, friendly pats. Taznar had been raised by her father, and the worg had taken her to battle as fiercely and courageously as any good orc. In her moments of solitude, she found no better companion than this large, loving canine.

His tongue ran over her face; he was in a good mood today and sought nothing but to cheer her up. It worked and she gave him a wide, black-fanged grin. From her backpack she took out a bar of soap, purchased from the goblins down south at discount price. But it was worth it. For all the days that she spent on the battlefield, it was refreshing to take a day or two a week to thoroughly bathe and cleanse the body from the ooze, sweat, blood and dirt that lodged on the flesh.

And Taznar loved soap and water. Her hands ran over the worg's black mane, lathering soap onto him and fiercely massaging his sore muscles while at it. The canine's constant movements to nuzzle onto and lick at the orc made it so, eventually, she was soaked with water and covered with soap. But that was exactly the idea, and she lathered her body and hair with it while she was at it. She led him under the waterfall, carefully stepping over the mossy rocks to stand beneath the water. It quickly cooled the hotness of her dark olive skin, and her soap covered hands rubbed off the dirt, revealing a lighter color to the flesh.

Kil'gora sat down and simply allowed the water to run over her body for a while, its weight tendering the muscles along her shoulders and back. Hunched foward, eyes closed, her short, bluish-black hair stuck to her cheek and neck. Taznar got the idea and padded away, laying down on a rock to dry himself under the warm sun. Leaving her to her thoughts. The refreshing liquid ran over her ample chest, between her breasts, and trickled along the muscular lines of her abs and her thighs. With one leg stretched out, the other bent, her elbow at her knee and her forehead supported upon the palm of her hand, it was a comfortable position.

Her blue eyes half opened. She stared out at the river as it flowed between the two banks; blood through the veins of the earth. She reflected on everything...

Jinree, her husband. Where was he when she needed him? She recalled the weeks of passion that they shared together. Those seemed so distant now, dulled by the duty of leadership and the stress of battle. She saw herself slowly turning into what she told herself she'd never be: in all aspects, a Warmistress. Often, she lied to others, to herself about it. But with every day, she saw her sympathy growing thin. And Jinree, supposedly her guide and comfort, could not stand by her side now, with the dangers that she faced...

The Bloodfury is her life. The tabard she wears, torn and stained with blood, dirt and sweat, had become, more than ever, what she lived and fought for. The whelps, scouts, grunts of the Bloodfury were her brothers and sisters in arms, though for long she'd wanted it to be something more. But what is an orc to do, when battle is your calling and life is nothing without bringing death upon their enemies?

For long she'd told herself that she should not forget the people that they fight for. Their families, their race. Orgrimmar, Durotar, and all that the orcs had come to call their home. But she recalled her conversation with Lukar. This new generation knew not the peace of Draenor. Only the bloodlust of the Horde, the constant battle for life, for glory and honor. It was a battle that would never end... The enemies of the Horde - Scourge, Alliance, Legion, and others - were too many, and the orcs' will to survive and conquer, too fierce. What is an orc to do, when you fight to the death so your children don't have to?

But there was another worry in her mind as well. The Trolls of the Shadowtusk Clan... How litle had she seen of them lately, and how tasteless their encounters had been, when indeed they encountered one another. She could understand Kiiluway's concern. The trolls seek to preserve their traditions, and fight their own battles. Not others'. Much as she respected that, what was the Vanguard to do if the trolls and the orcs have each a different enemy?

What brought them together then? Friendship? Kiiluway hadn't been seen in nigh over a week. Ryayukou had somehow caught a curse that prevented her from speaking Orcish, though it had recently, miraculously, been lifted. Niknab hid in the shadows, stalking rather than coming up to speak, as was more closely related to the Orc custom.

As she was told by one of the trolls some time ago... the trolls fight for themselves. They are young, rash, proud, and would rather regain their own glory than join in the battle of the orcs. The orcs fought in the North to fend off the Lich King and the Scourge, and to protect Orgrimmar from another attack such as the one that was launched upon them some time back. They had known slavery in the form of the Blood Haze, cast upon them by the Legion. They would not subdue to any master now.

All these, however, were only a small part of the trolls' concerns, for it was in the Alliance that they saw their true enemy; those who had ripped their lives and homes from them. The Horde was no better. The orcs had always shunned the voodooistic traditions and religion of the trolls. They had accepted Forsaken but, furthermore, Elves into their midst. Hence Zul'jin's rage, and though Darkspear, the Shadowtusk were, in her mind, sympathetic.

All these things now set them apart, and Kil'gora saw the Bloodfury now, more than ever, fending for itself. After all, they had their own race to uphold.

Lastly, her father... Brought back as yet another one of those damned Death Knights of the Lich King. She recalled his roar of fury as he damned Arthas and the Scourge for turning him into the very thing he despised. How could she turn down her own father, the mighty Dal'rok "Dreadscar"? And in fact, how could she turn down the souls of those still honorable who, although damned to undeath by the Lich King, still sought glory and honor for the Horde as well as vengeance upon him?

But closer to heart... how could she do what fell to her mother to do? To ease her father's spirit the way she had, and guide him from his damned form towards redemption and vengeance? As a Warmistress, perhaps, this was possible. But where was the father she knew as a child, that would train her, albeit harshly, but always showed his love? In the face of his loss - her brother's and mother's deaths - and now his unnatural awakening, it seemed to her he did not realize that she was still there, and still was the daughter he'd always loved. But in this she knew that he needed time and space to mourn and find his place and path in the world once again.

So much troubled her heart, though... but, at least, she knew where she stood. Bringing herself to her feet, she moved to her backpack, withdrew a cloth and dryed herself. Taznar watched, lifting his snout as he saw her back up. She let her mind become clear from these troubles as she dislodged the dirt and blood from her leather armor as well as Taznar's, washing either in the river.

[i]Spirits, guide me...]/i] she thought, and immediately feel soothed by the prayer. Lying beside her worg, she glanced at the sky as high clouds gave the blue background of the sky white streaks. The sun, having leaned down towards the west some, now gave off a pleasant warmth that radiated into her body. She breathed the fresh breeze, made crisp by the running of water nearby. The Spirits were with her, all right. Amidst the chaos of war, it was they that brought her own spirit a measure of peace.

"Up boy." she spoke to the worg as she stood, and so did he in turn. A sleeveless white shirt went underneath the red-brown leather armor. Adjusting her boots and gloves, before strapping on the belt, she pulled on her tabard: the sole piece of clothing that she never washed, for she was proud of the blood that stained it - the blood of her enemies.

"Another day, another battle. Right Taznar?" She let out a light chuckle as the worg's tongue found her face once again. Adjusting the armor onto the trained worg, she brought herself onto the saddle.

"Let's go boy! The Bloodfury await!" And thus she rode off, back again to meet with the destiny the Spirits set before her. Every enemy, every challenge she faced, she'd do so the way she rode: head-on, head held high, and the battlecry flowing from her throat in a loud roar;
"FOR THE BLOODFURY! FOR THE HORDE! LOK'TAR!"