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[Tahara Beastgrin]

Character voices is one of the first things I have to figure out before I can properly rp a character, so this is ez

Tahara Beastgrin
Having grown up amongst slaves and ogres, Tahara's vocabulary is severely limited. She's been slowly acquiring new words, but still uses the basic ones when speaking herself. So not "ruminated" but "thought", not "gazed" but "looked". On top of that, Tahara's speech is a little slow, almost appearing lazy or sleepy, except when something so exciting is happening, that her nervous nature speeds everything up.
Another downside of her upbringing is that the experiments conducted on her mind in early childhood led to what was essentially excessive torture at a young age - and a lot of screaming. As such, Tahara's voice is a little rough, even for orcish standards, sounding permanently hoarse (or "smoky", if you're into that sort of thing).

The biggest inspiration for Tahara's voice was Aggralan, Thrall's mate.

Hey folks,

I'm sure half of you are just about done with the topic that's been, like Nakobu reminded us all, going on for the past 6 months, some are just getting started and others have absolutely no idea what's going on.

The officers equally mentioned that the venting of feelings is still very welcome, which I'm glad to know because since this entire thing started, there hasn't been much of an opportunity to do that for me.

I work full time from 9 to 6, with a break sometime around lunch, and as long as I'm working I'm forbidden from accessing my phone (not a bad rule, knowing my poor willpower). So it's been a (sadly) regular occurrence that I checked my phone after a stressful day dealing with stuck up clients, a lot of money and demanding trainers only to see pages upon pages of discussion about what I and my character have been doing wrong, insinuating that I am in some way responsible for a decline in activity, that I'm part of an inherent problem, that people feel depressed, frustrated, unwelcome - because of me.

The discussion has usually either been quelled or the officers already given warning to any that want to continue by the time I have a moment to catch up, so I've rather often had to grit my teeth, grin and bear it and make an effort to use my limited free time in-between Saturday shifts, tourist conventions and a plethora of health and stress issues to try and roleplay with the very people who have already decided my guilt.

Perhaps that gives people a rough idea that "we", this elusive, tight-knit, well established inner circle have a hard time understanding anyone feeling more unwelcome, more frustrated, more stressed and depressed than, well… "us".

In the past weeks I've watched my friends cry, suffer from stress-induced migraines, get close to quitting not just the guild but roleplay in general and in my own case suffer from panic attacks. I've watched stories and plots that people had put their heart and soul into go down the drain, because what's the point? It's "us". People are tired of “us”, anyways.

In my case, it's been especially confusing to hear about all the preferential treatment I had apparently gotten, how the entire guild listened to my wishes and whims and how my character was the constant centre of attention.

The preferential treatment is primarily an accusation of befriending long-established guild members and thus being "carried" to success and relevance. Because my own social skills, my roleplay, my creativity, the hours upon hours I put into my character, her story, her progression within the guild simply don't matter.

The guild listens to my wishes specifically, naturally. It is not because I contact officers at every turn, not because I scheduled my campaign months in advance, not because of my engagement DMing for other people's campaigns, with providing ideas and feedback on a regular basis, or that if I really want something, I talk to the officer team and I schedule whatever I need with them. It can't be any of that.

The last matter is also unquestioningly true, even though my character has not had a central role in any event since the campaign that I wrote, organized and DM'd myself (albeit with the wonderful support of the officers, which again, I explicitly asked for, on more than one occasion). My character, who has ties to two varog'gor and thusly on occasion does stand in proximity of them, must still somehow be leeching attention away from everyone else.

If I sound snide, it's because this has been my personal frustration as of late. It's not so much that my character is these days only mentioned as "that one who hates my character", the special snowflake, or in charming jokes and jabs about how she's a failure of a character and by proxy, her player is a failure too.

No, the main accusation that has pushed me into a low that almost resulted in me bursting into tears at work with a client on the phone, is that all that stuff I mentioned - the hours of work, of putting my heart and soul into not just my character but the guild, into spirit lore, into fun little emojis, into feedback, overcoming my own anxiety to DM and host and help - all of that didn't mean anything. I had everything handed to me. I just made the right friends. I'm just lucky.

The reason I've been able to deal with this at all is because of the support of officers and of friends, many of which also feel similarly undermined, drained and just so very tired - and because I very well know what it feels like to be looking in from the outside.

When I started out to RP I was a ball of anxiety. I shrunk away at the tiniest criticism, the smallest good natured joke. I felt on edge, I was frozen in place during events, unable to approach people on my own, too worried I wasn't good enough, too worried my character wasn't likeable.

It took months of trying to overcome this. Months of taking a deep breath and looking at criticism objectively. Months of rping and speaking to people, even the ones I was convinced didn't like me or my character. It took months of trying, failing and trying again until I finally felt like part of a team. Until I felt safe in my skills and my character. It wasn't 100% perfect, but more often than not I found that I was suddenly able to not just rp with people I thought I didn't like, but chat with them and have fun.

Then my guild unfortunately broke apart and suddenly I was back at square one. In fact, I felt even worse. I had gotten so used to my character being well known, to people coming to me for rp, to being a well-established, central part of a community that when I applied for a new guild, I was incredibly frustrated I wasn't immediately exactly where I wanted to be.

People didn't seem to care, didn't seem to be invested in my character like my old guild had been. My character was no longer on her way to becoming Lieutenant, but knocked back to recruit. I felt like an outsider worse than ever, looking at all these players and characters that already knew each other, already were involved with each other. The stories going on that I was not a part of. The word "clique-ish" was already firmly in my mind and I was ready to ask the officers for help. And then I didn't. And I tried again.

I contacted officers but not to dump my sorrows on them, but to offer an idea. Io and behold it took less than a day and I was suddenly involved in the next big campaign. I had material to work with. I took a few risks, approached people I usually wouldn't have. And it didn't take long before I was having fun again.

I didn't get to get as "comfy" in this mysterious other guild, but that was because I ended up having to make a choice between two characters, due to time restraints. I quit a character who has been my absolute favourite, a steady comfort for over 7 years now, because I felt there was a guild I loved even more, that I wanted to play with, to have fun with, write and create for and commit what free time I have to them fully.

So I left them and returned to ORB "full time".

I think two weeks after that the accusations got in full swing.

I hope that people can read this message and understand how it is intended, not as a guilt trip for how you feel - I get it, I truly do - but more a little insight into what's been going on in this secret, special VIP club so many of you desperately wish to be a part of.

I wouldn't mind trading my spot as of late.

He considered diving after her, for a moment or two.

If he wasn’t used to this by now, sitting out in the evening sun and watching the bubbles on the surface disappear as Tahara dipped under the waves in pursuit of more shiny treasures, he might have. There still was a moment, the seconds of complete silence after her shadow drifted past his view where it tempted him to drag her back up himself - but if Kyra’s little exercise had proven anything, then that maybe, just maybe he had to have a little faith once in a while.

As if the resolution was to be rewarded, the shadow under the surface grew until Tahara broke through the surface with a triumphant, excited grin and another clam in her hands. “Got one!”

Tagrok sighed, forcing himself to clap in a well-meant but ultimately unenthusiastic expression of approval. He couldn’t wait to get out of here, well past the point of worrying into what shade of purple the sun had grilled the back of his neck today.

Tahara hefted herself up the ruined wall that once marked an ancient troll temple, or some such, turning on it and grabbing the knife at her belt to shuck her latest find. “Come oooon…”, he heard her muttering to herself… only to let out a disappointed sigh as she opened the clam to find, again, no pearls. Tahara flopped backwards, sighing dramatically. “I give up.”

Tagrok couldn’t keep a snort out of his voice. “What, already? We’ve only been here all day.” He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, where the sun was dipping behind the horizon line.

He had no real idea why she suddenly cared about anything shiny, or valuable. And it wasn’t that he didn’t bother to care - Tahara was an oddball, but he had found that spending time and paying attention, she often made more sense than most people he’d met in his life. That didn’t mean she was without any excentricities and he was willing to bet good money this was one of them.

Tahara scowled at him as she wrapped up the clams in the cloth she had prepared, to use as a bag, all tied up. “I wanted to find just one pearl…”, she whined, looking about as sad as a lost kitten in heavy rainfall. Just… tougher and orcish. “We can probably find you one ridiculously overpriced in Booty Bay.”, he countered, with no small part of exhaustion in his own voice. He would be happier as soon as they were back on solid ground, even if it was fun and… oddly enough filling him with a bit of pride watching her put her heart and soul into this pursuit of hers. Not that the sad look on his…. mate? lover? partner’s…? On Tahara’s face didn’t bother him. He nudged her shoulder playfully. “Come on. Kyra’s probably eaten dinner by herself by now.”, he said, hopping back into the water, all too eager to get back to shore. He could see Tahara sighing and hesitating, clearly not wanting the day to end on such a disappointment. He didn’t have a pearl, or amber, or anything else “shiny” that she so desperately wanted to find on this trip… but he had one way to get that frown off her face. “Alright…”, he grunted, making a big show of the serious expression on his face and immediately watched her notice, following his motions attentively with suspicion clear on her face. “If you won’t come willingly…”

She had a second to utter: “Wh-” before he grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her into the water.

Tagrok didn’t remember the next part as clearly. All he would be able to recall the next morning, was that somehow, he ended up with his back on the sand, laughing and sputtering out salt water, still tussling with Tahara who had somehow managed to get the upper hand. His vision was still blurred from saltwater as he fought off her swatting arms, hearing her laughing above him and for a moment forget about war and void and the blood on his dagger… until her laughter faded out. He rubbed his eyes, trying to find her face somewhere to the left and above him.

“Hey, you alright?”

She was staring at him. She was rubbing her own face dry, trying to clear up her vision, but had that look on her face, like she was trying really hard to divide 26 by four. Tahara gestured quickly, vaguely and not in any way he could easily understand, the scowl she wore drawing deep lines into her face. “Just - shush!”

For all that he might have tried, his temper flared a little, with a frown of his own. He could hear the voice in his head - the one that was his conscience, not… the other ones - screaming at him that this was no time to ruin the fun and lighthearted mood of five minutes ago. And yet he could feel himself doing exactly that. “What do you mean ‘shush’? If something’s bothering you, you could at lea-”

He scowled at the hand that suddenly covered his lips, smothering his protest as Tahara almost growled at him. “Can you just-... shut up and hold still for five seconds?.”

Tagrok might have lost his cool entirely in that moment, if Tahara hadn’t pulled back her hand and replaced it with her lips.

There was a moment there, brief but poignant, where everything just stopped. More than the breath in his lungs, it was his own mind coming to a screeching halt as her lips, warm despite the dip in the ocean, soft despite the salt he could taste, brushed over his. Not that it wasn’t awkward. Tahara was slow and careful and just barely finding the courage to even move. Her breath tickled infernally and her teeth clacked against his twice before he recovered and started returning the kiss like he should have moments before.

He would like to have said that he was a patient man. That he’d fisted a hand in the sand and let her take the moment at her own pace. That he’d controlled himself and not taken that hand and fisted it into her hair instead. That he hadn’t sat up and taken over, almost shoving her off his lap in the process. That he’d been kind and gentle and careful, like he wanted to be.

He would have liked to.

Instead, they were both breathing heavily by the time he had gotten his wits back and remembered who he was, who she was, what they just did and how in the world they’d even-

Tagrok was about to come up with some kind of apology, something, but he barely opened his mouth before he heard:

“Did I do it right?”

Tagrok blinked, Tahara coming into focus, still half sitting in his lap, half hanging off of it, one hand on his chest the other frozen in mid-air likely for the past minute and a half.

“Y-... what?”

“Did I do it right? The… I mean I knew what it looked like and stuff but I didn’t… do people practice? W-was I supposed to… ?” She couldn’t finish the sentence, gesturing even more vaguely, probably not truly understanding her own point.

He just kind of sat there, dumbfounded. It took him a heartbeat to realize that he likely had to thank Kyra’s ridiculous “trial of trust” for… whatever this was. As he watched her face, not the shy nerves of a young woman in love but the cold, persistent undercurrent of fear it finally hit him, that Kyra’s test had banked on them trusting each other with their lives. Maybe that had been the motivation, the courage to try this, but he could see that Tahara was struggling to trust him with something that scared her a deal more than just death.

It then took him another heartbeat to reign in the sarcastic answer that was waiting on the tip of his tongue, replacing it with breathless laughter. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d say s-”

Tagrok had about a second and a half to watch her face melt into a pleased smile before a fish hit him square in the jaw.

“Ya two about finished, den? Dinner ain’t makin’ itself!”

There would come a day, sometime far away in the future, where he was just going to kill Throatrender, Tagrok thought as the fish slid off his face. The varog’gor was grinning with the kind of face a cat had, right before it let go of the half-alive bird it caught, right in your tent. Tahara had jumped up like she heard canon fire, of course, scurrying to a socially acceptable distance with her face redder than the sunset. “N-... coming, sister!”, she yelped as she got to her feet and grabbed the bag of mussels and clams. She reached out a hand, still flustered, to help him up to, as Kyrazha was already sauntering back to the hut, mighty pleased with herself. Grunting he took the offered hand and got up, picking up the offending missile with a sigh. Of course the moment would be ruined. Somehow. If not by Throatrender’s antics, then by himself. “W-we should probably-... I am kinda hungry.”, Tahara muttered, waiting anxiously for him to follow. And still, he couldn’t help keep a smile off his face when he nodded to her.

As they walked back to the hut, he was beyond glad it wasn't in companionable silence as usual. Instead, as he listened to her talk about hunting and swimming and watching her get distracted by any plant or fruit she didn't recognize, Tagrok realized, perhaps for the first time since this all started when he first saw the blood trickling down her jaw and thought "Majestic.", that he could do this perhaps every day for the rest of his life.

She dreams of flying.

There is cool night wind in her hair - or are those wings? Just like any other dream, they are one and the same, a vague semi state of being and not being, shifting every moment and every new realisation makes perfect, unquestioned sense.

She flies in utter silence, a waxing moon above as well as hundreds of thousands of stars. She feels close to them, so close. Close enough to reach out and take one home, for herself, but before she can fly up, the tiniest sound catches her attention.

Tahara's eyes narrow. She slows the beating of her wings, circling over the stretch of savanna. She scans the ground for the noise that gets her blood pumping, the faintest rustling of dry leaves, the shift of sand on the ground and… there!

She's much too far away to tell, she realizes, becoming a little more aware of the dream and its nonsensical nature. Yet, somehow, the tiny speck of lighter brown against darker brown turns into a prairie dog, as clear to her as if it was sitting right in front of her.

She dives.

It's the most invigorating, exciting, fascinating feeling she has ever felt. Her heart sings, she wants to scream and laugh in sheer bliss as her hands - talons? - wrap around the prairie dog. He has no time to fight her, her sharp talons ripping through his chest.

Tahara finds a nearby tree, landing safely in its branches. Her heart still pounds as she turns to the critter, ripping into it with delicious, exhilarated ferocity. It's not so much the flavour that satisfies the hunger she only now realizes she's felt. It is the satisfaction of an instinct, older than the world and carved into her hollow bones. All that came before her hunted like this and all that may come after will feel the blood around their talons and know peace.

She leaves the carcass, picked clean, for whatever buzzard that wants to claim the scraps, wants to feel the pale imitation of what courses through her veins.

She smacks her lips, only slightly aware of the odd noise it makes, like the clicking of a beak. She ruffles her feathers. The blood was not enough to slake her thirst, so she beats her wings again and takes to the skies, a home so infinite and so beautiful that no nest would ever compare.

The savanna sprawls out beneath her. The sounds in the night are a song, a gentle melody to guide her through the afterglow of the hunting haze.

She reaches an oasis in front of a large cave. She gently sinks down to the grass, talons finding soft earth and dips her head into the cool waters. What she does not drink, she uses to clean herself, feeling refreshed and happier than she ever remembers being.

She looks around the oasis, watching a small fly she shouldn't be able to see so clearly in the dark of night. It buzzes merrily, landing on a deep red petal…

… and Tahara flutters backwards as the red petal snaps shut. The fly buzzes, desperate to escape its prison, but stills before long.

Tahara tilts her head. Huh. She didn't remember seeing a plant like that in the Barrens. Her curious nature takes over, picking up one of the smaller stalks. The small bulb is not open or large enough to be a threat, so she rips it out and carries it to the next best home to the skies.

She feels the dream fading, a lonely tower coming into view. Within, she catches the sight of two sleeping orcs that… wait.

Wait…

Tahara's eyes fly open. The rustling of wings had woken her up and roused her from her hunting dream. She sits up straight as a blade of grass, wide awake all of a sudden and watches Feathers fold his wings as he lands, talons shearing the wood of the tower's top level. He lets out a slight call. Calling her.

Tahara steps outside the hut and sinks to her knees in front of him, confused. Her heart beats faster as she sees the green stalk in his talon, complete with a deep red bulb of still closed petals.

She looks at feathers' milky white eyes and sees only her own in the mirror of his soul.

Tahara reaches a hand out, feeling his still wet plumage.

"Wh-... what did we just do…?"

You stay here, Bait.", her mother spoke. She had a scratchy voice, just like her own, but Thirteen… Tahara… Bait remembered that it had always been beautiful to her. Her mother pushed up her skull mask, grinning. "We'll come get you in a second."

Bait nodded. She wasn't scared. Not really. She didn't know these strange ruins with the scary, burnt out circle of runes and she'd heard the ogres' voices behind them - but her mother told her she'd be back and at six years old, Bait couldn't conceive of a world in which people lied.

Nor was she clever enough to hear the snicker in her mother's voice, even as she listened to the man who had to be her father muttering "Hurry up.", barely able to contain his own amusement and combine the two facts to the truth.

No one was coming for her.

Tahara groaned, rubbing her eyes. Their rest in the Barrens was likely to be a short one, but Tahara didn't mind it much. The room atop the tower Tagrok had chosen was small but warm and the furs beneath her were soft. Soft enough that Tahara remained, only half in the waking world and with her mind still caught up in her dream.

She remembered the rest of her stolen memories in bits and pieces. An ogre hand reaching out for her. A stone bench, somewhere dark, her hands and feet tied with leather. The first cuts and slashes into her mind, bright white light erupting behind her eyes, taking away vision as well as comprehension.

And then screams. Her own, she thought. Screaming and screaming and screaming until her voice was as raspy as that of the mother who had left her behind.

Tahara stretched out her spine and collapsed again, sighing.

She should be angry at her. Maybe. Probably. But before she'd had a chance to try, they'd been on their way back to Garadar, idle chatter about Timur that should not have been as eye opening as it was.

“As I said, a runt. Mother wolves, no matter how kind outside the den, don’t tolerate them.”

Tahara didn't remember everything. She remembered everything she was ever going to, some memories scratched out by time, not magic. But she knew she had always been runty, always been weaker than she should have been. Even in the slave pens she had been told she should have been drowned at birth. What if the mother she wanted to hate had simply acted… normal? What was expected of her. What any real orc would do.

The more her memories had come back, the more anger had settled in her stomach. If her parents were blameless, her abusers dead, then it didn't matter what she felt - none of it would have anywhere to go. Anger, hurt and fear would always be simmering under the surface. No outlet, no relief.

So she'd tried ignoring it, digging deeper, trying to find something else beneath the rage… and come up empty. The more Tahara looked for something else to feel, something else to look to, there was simply… nothing. A seemingly endless pit of empty space where Tahara should be and Bait wasn't, not anymore.

That empty space had a name, of course. Given by Lurog and perfected by Barog, who followed him.

Thirteen. A number, not a person. The absence of feeling, of herself, of… anything.

In a way, the shadows of that island had been… better. Instead of nothing, the dark had forced her to feel everything. And without the real targets, with no mother or Barog or Veshok to scream at, the shadows had picked whoever was closest.

Tahara scratched through her hair, head turning to the orc sleeping next to her.

Tagrok was worried about truth. He wasn't wrong, but it wasn't truth meant for him. It was truth twisted and torn and spread out bigger than it should have been.

Still. Her fault. Maybe if she hadn't been so crammed full of hurt and anger, if she had found a way to deal with it all just in time… maybe the shadows couldn't have touched her.

Maybe she wouldn't have been able to hurt Tagrok over something she knew he'd meant as a kindness.

“It does look quite motherly from where I stand.”

Tahara let out a sigh as she watched the first gentle rays of light rise behind the mountains. A shift of weight next to her made her jump, as Sparks' feathers brushed against her leg, the small ravasaur looking to get closer to the creature he knew as "mother". He didn't know that his shy behaviour might have made his real mother leave him behind, too.

All of them. Tahara, Chuckles, Nabbers, Feathers, Sparks. The weak, the scared, the stupid and the broken, all left behind to die.

She ran her fingers through his plumage.

"You know…", she muttered. "I'm not going to be a very good mother, I think. I'll try and make you a good hunter but… even if you don't make it. I'll keep feeding you anyway. You know that, right? You don't have to be good."

Sparks lifted his head, licking her fingers. She didn't know yet what that meant. Not really. But learning his language was something she was looking forward to.

She gave him one final pat before she got up and started to collect armour, quiver and bow as quiet as she could, walking down the plank eyes set on the horizon. The lionesses would be back from the hunt, the prey of the Barrens feeling safe after the terrors of the night. The perfect hour.

Tahara grinned to herself as Chuckles and Spots fell in step beside her, each of them oblivious to the red glint in their eyes.

If there was anger in her, perhaps she could pack some of it into an arrow or two and fire them into dawn.

Her hands are stuck.

Not true, she thinks, as she slowly wraps the bandages around his shoulder, trying not to hear his pulse and trying not to smell the soap he uses and definitely trying not to smell what’s underneath that. Her hands are close enough to his chest that his heartbeat plays at her fingertips.

She knows, in theory, what the colour of his skin means and represents, knows the word fel in her mind, but those are not the images coming to mind.

For someone with no love for the wilds he is the picture of primal. Her heart sees light and shadow flitting over dark green and thinks of Zuldazar and the lush jungles. Where a shoulder and an arm should be she sees leaves and vines, tangled and tempting and filled with life. In the dark of the tent his hair is the same colour as the bloody trails she follows at midnight. She swallows and thinks of hands around her throat and something like fear.

She adjusts the bandages a seventh time, as her eyes look but don’t see, as she thinks as hard as ever but her mind is still blank, somehow.

Green is her favourite colour, but that doesn’t matter.

Her stomach sinks, reminding her of something she knows, so deeply and instinctively as she knows few things in life.

She can’t want. Can’t want the thing that killed - destroyed Masha. She tries to hold on, to keep the memories separate and whole and not let one crush the other but before the heart under her fingers beats a second time the jungle is filled with screams, the blood no longer spilled in a hunt and the feeling in her chest quietly, slowly, steadily turns from something like to fear.

When the jar crashes to the floor she’s grateful, only needing to pick up the shattered pieces of the clay pot - not her own.

She dipped her head beneath the waters.

Ever since she had gotten out of the pens, Tahara had found her peace in cleansing. It was a difficult thing to explain, the slow shift from feeling nothing, no pain, no sorrow, to the slow waking to truth.

Slaves did not feel pain, if they never knew its opposite. She had not felt broken until she had seen what whole looked like. And she had never recognized herself as filthy until she bathed in a clean stream for the first time in Blade’s Edge, watching years of abuse slide off her skin like so much dust.

There had been discomfort first, but now… now Tahara could not imagine anything that could bring her more peace than a simple bar of soap and clear waters beneath her.

As Tahara re-braided her hair at the water’s edge, droplets sliding down her bare skin, she realized that even that was not enough.

“What?”

She stared at Vraxxar, part anger, part frustration part… something she couldn’t put into words. Everything about this call to Feralas feels wrong. But she knew she had a duty to her clan, a duty to her family. She needed a good reason not to go. She knew the truth was risky, but she had been prepared - for his anger, for rejection, for the final stroke that would send her away from the clan and back into her lonely life in the Barrens.

The one thing she hadn’t been prepared for was acceptance.

Vraxxar sighed, shaking his head. “I cannot punish you for rules you broke when you weren’t bound by them.” A technicality. He has to know that, right? Why isn’t he angrier? He’s supposed to be a good person, he’s supposed to condemn what she’s done. What does it make him if he forgives her on the spot?

Tahara stands, dumbfounded and seething in anger beneath the tree atop Razor Hill.

She had killed a child.

He should care more.

Nabbers’ curious “Roo..” brings her back to the here and now, watching the tiny saurid poking his nose into a puddle and coming back up with a tiny crab stuck to him. She can’t suppress the laugh as Nabbers runs in circles trying to rid himself of the pest, until a helpful Chuckles dunks both into the stream with one too-large paw.

The spectacle itself was not enough to make her forget the tree or the roar of flames. It wasn’t enough to pluck the arrow from her mind that she never pulled out of the elven boy’s chest. It did not wash away what she has done and neither could Vraxxar’s forgiveness, unprompted and given without a moment’s hesitation. It wasn’t enough.

Tahara sighed and lowered her right arm. She traced the black veins with her fingers. When she showed Kyra, they had been slowly creeping down her wrist.

Now, they were halfway to her elbow. Tahara didn’t know enough math to take a guess of how much time she had left, but she hoped it was enough to see a final Kosh’harg. She’d make her piece with the rest. Somehow.

As Tahara watched the newest addition to her pack fish her breakfast with deft grace, she smiled. She would, at least, never end up as Vessalia had.

She did not have enough time for that, she mused, as she watched the black veins grow.

She could still die a good person.

The quiet would have been a gift.

Until recently, all she'd loved in the world was the nightly silence, the music of wind rushing through the trees, crickets chirping - a backdrop to the beating of her own heart, the soft rush of her breath leaving her lips.

As Tahara makes her way through an empty, desolate Razor Hill, she finds no such pleasure in the crunch of sand beneath her boots.

Sometimes silence is filling. It is a sound all its own, a song she hears all too rarely.

And sometimes… sometimes silence is just the absence of everything she misses.

Rubbing her arms in the nightly chill of the red desert, she feels the uncomfortable stretch of her marred skin, the dull ache of fresh bruises and not much satisfaction to go with it. Training wasn't going the way she’d imagined it to go. Kyra isn't at fault. She barely plays the roll of the willing training dummy, or would, if Tahara's impotent rage would be enough to make a dent.

It isn't.

Tahara remembers telling Vraxxar in a cave at the edges of Nagrand, that she wanted to see how far she could go. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this is all she'll ever be. A poor excuse for an orc, a woman, a person.

She mistakes Buurb's massive shoulder for a part of the mountainside as she makes her way to her own little cave, right until the mountain moves and waves at her with a big, wide smile.

Tahara tries to return his smile but fails, an awkward grimace all she musters before she sits down on the log next to him and tries to ignore the quiet.

A task made more difficult by her mind, which seems to think the lack of distractions is a good excuse to fill her mind with the thoughts of someone less good than she wants to be.

No matter how hard she tries not to, her mind drifts to Outland, to the time that isn't hers, but someone else's, wishing for things that were never hers, not for a second. Not for a single moment of hope.

She looks up at the large gronnling who seems to be waiting for something. A command, the sound of her voice - some sort of signal of what was next. Dinner, yes? Or playtime. Something? His vacant yet expectant expression would be funny to her any other day.

"You're damn glad you don't have to worry about any of this, you know? You got all the basics down. You don't need anyone else to be fine."

Tahara blows an errant strand of hair out of her face. She's never needed anyone either, but it seems no amount of ale will carve the dent out of her chest she punched into her heart in her own stupidity.

Buurb looks at her, an arm nudging her, questioning in his own primitive way.

She huffs, frustrated, trying to think of a way she could explain something to a creature who will never face her problems.

"It's like…think of it as… you really like crab, right? But imagine it would make you sick. You figured that out long ago when you got a taste of… I don't know. Some other seafood yeah?"

Buurb nods. Whether he actually understands a word she's said, or just reacting to the sound of her voice, is anyone's guess.

"And that's been fine, right? You didn't even want crab. You were pretty damn sure you just didn't feel that way about it, in general, right?

Except… except then you got a taste. Not a lot, nothing real, just… a whiff, I guess. And then you got wondering. You got curious. And before you know it, you're thinking of crab all day and you can't focus on any of the other food you used to like.

And it's bad. You shouldn't. The crab deserves… so much better than you. So you don't say anything and you try to remind yourself that you didn't even want it but you can't stop anymore. It hurts to think about it but you got so used to hurting you feel like you'll miss it.

And now… you didn't get it. And the thing that bothers you isn't that you didn't get that crab, it's that you'll never be able to have any. You'll just never really know what that's like, to be happy. And that was fine before, because you didn't want it.

And the thing that changed is…"

Tahara swallows, rubbing at her face half in anger.

"The thing that changed is knowing what you're missing. You've seen… the crabs… so happy and now you know what it feels like to almost be that happy but you know you never will be. You can't. It's just not possible. You'll always be here, on the outside, watching. And maybe crab isn't even your damn favourite food but knowing you'll never have it makes you want it all the more."

She scowls.

"That made no sense, did it?"

Buurb lets out some sort of noncommittal grunt, shoulders slumping in what might have been sympathy.

Tahara sighs and slides down the log, crumbling on the rough floor and head thumping against the hollow trunk.

She closes her eyes and thinks of light blue ones, like clear water and the warrior who owns them, charging after her, twice, just to cheer her up.

She thinks of the scout with a chip on his shoulder and a log in Sunrock Reatreat, listening as she buries her heart and soul under the waterfall, fingers tracing a charred boar tusk, a scorched reminder of the life he lost and the one she'll never have.

Even if she learns to see more than what she wants to see, hear more than what she wants to hear - even if she doesn't make the same mistake again, if she finds what they all have - she will never be able to grasp it. Never learn how to not run away from something she craves more than she knew she could.

To some, those moments might have been hopeful beginnings, planting the seed for brighter days. To her, they are just two more inches of rope with which to hang herself.

She's always been broken. She knows that. That wasn't a problem until she caught a glimpse of what it would be like not to be.

And now she is stuck on top of broken, chains of a different kind, never truly choking. Just a weight around her legs, keeping her just that little slower, that little more tired, than everyone else.

"You know what the worst part is?", she mumbles, her head resting against Buurb's tree trunk sized arm. He vocalizes, like stones rumbling off a mountain side.

"This whole thing turned me into a complete loser. I mean, seriously. I used to have fun you know?" She scoffs, for the first time in a while a little bit of genuine mirth sneaking in past the bitterness.

"And now all I do is whine. I used to have real problems." Tahara sniffs and rubs at her eyes, letting out a harsh breath and finishes, very very quietly: "Not much of a wonder no one's smiling around me lately, huh?"

The arm she leans on lifts, a heavy hand falling over her shoulders, almost knocking the spine out of her. It takes her a moment, looking up at the gronnling's sad face, to realize that he is trying to comfort her.

And of all the things, that's the one that breaks her. She rubs the beginnings of tears out of her eyes as a mad kind of chuckle bubbles up in her throat.

Maybe she isn't ever going to be happy. Maybe happy isn't for her. Maybe there are other things she could be, other paths that lead further than she's got treading this one, wasting time on stories that aren't hers, endings that are out of her reach.

Tahara gets up and dusts herself off. The aches and pains are still there, but they seem unimportant as she beams up at an increasingly confused Buurb.

"You know what? I feel like killing something. Let's go kill something." The gronnling's face pulls into the kind of smile a child might carry on winter's veil, jumping up from his seat and charging off towards the ocean.

Tahara laughs as he trails after him, the rhythmic thumping of his massive hands breaching the solemn silence of the night.

She does have a real craving for crab, for some reason...

Tahara woke up in pain.

Nothing overly dramatic. Her back hurt, worse than most times but not the worst it had ever hurt. Something had clicked in her spine carrying - ironically - the spine of a raptor, but she had fallen in love with it the minute she saw the buzzards lift off at her approach. It was the perfect final piece.

Something in it all, the labour, the carrying, had reminded her of something and the whole thing was doomed from the start. Thankfully, it didn't seem like anyone had seen her tumble. The last thing she needed was more attention.

"Before I forget, Wildmark wished to have a word with you before long."

Tahara turned to her side, trying to find an angle that didn't make her spine creak in protest and failing miserably.

"Well, I really, really, really don't, though.", she muttered into her furs.

Chuckles' wet snout hit her straight to her ear and she groaned. "I'm up. I'M UP."

The hyena snickered at her, teeth bared and clearly feeling about as moody as she did herself. Tahara squinted outside, where the moon was already high in the sky, the last hours of night approaching. When had they last eaten?

Tahara rubbed her face in annoyance. Chuckles huffed at her and grabbed the last raw gazelle flank for herself in protest. The young orc didn't argue. "Yeah, yeah, I deserve that."

It took three tries before she managed to really stand - maybe she'd thrown out her back worse than she thought - but stretching helped, even if it was painful and before long, she was able to rummage through her things, finding a few strips of dried meat she'd left there. Meagre. But it would do.

Tahara sat down outside on one of the kodo ribs she had yet to arrange. She wasn't on a good vantage point but it was easy to see the walls of Razor Hill from here, the fires. No one was up now, but there still seemed to be more life coming from the town than anywhere else in Durotar. Home. Sort of.

Maybe it wasn't the place that didn't feel like home. Maybe it was her.

She'd been avoiding Vraxxar. She would have avoided Nakobu too, if that had been an option, but if she was going to raise animals here she needed fresh, clean water and not just every week or so. Kyra's company she hadn't minded, nor Atar'ka's really. The latter because she didn't really know what was going on and the former because she knew not to ask questions.

One of her favourite things about Kyra was that she let her handle her own shit. Even if it was weird or concerning, Kyra let her be. She was there for her when Tahara fell, but didn't step in before that point. She felt like she could be whatever she wanted with her sister. Even if that was sad, or angry or broken.

Kyra didn't look at her like she was about to crumble into a thousand pieces. She didn't take pity.

"Something others apparently just can't do…", Tahara muttered into the strips of meat, chewing with more frustration than real anger.

She was being unfair.

And ungrateful. Tell them what you think, see how quickly you're back on your own.

The voice in her head was harsh, but not wrong.

They were concerned. It was a good thing, right? Having people worry, people caring… that was more than she'd had. That's how families were supposed to work, no?

Why then, did it make her feel like crap? Like she was going to choke if she had to answer the question "Are you alright?" one more damn time.

Tahara fisted a hand into her hair and grunted.

"I eat when there's food. That's not your problem.", she'd told him in Nazmir. What she wanted to say was "I'm not your problem."

She was not… used to all of this. When she hurt herself it was her choice, her freedom to make that mistake. When she couldn't afford food, that was too bad. She'd make the money next week or figure out something.

She did. Not Vraxxar, not Nakobu, not Skint - none of them should have ever gotten involved!

You got that right. Nobody wants to be part of this anyways.

"Shut up!", she growled uselessly into the night. Not like anyone would hear her.

The truth was, that Tahara didn't know if she could get better. Whatever Nakobu and Skint saw, when she was… wrong, corrupted, whatever - that had been her. That had just been her. Not some demon taking control of her. It was just how broken she was.

And there was no fixing that. Not truly. Because trying to remove any of it would mean removing her.

Tahara wasn't convinced she existed without the chains. Skint couldn't see them. That was fine. It was fine. It was good enough. It had been good enough for her for years now.

Why wasn't it good enough for anyone else? Why wasn't she good enough?

She clutched her forehead, mind rolling into an entirely different direction that she really couldn't deal with right now. That wasn't her business.

Gingerly, Tahara removed the bandages from her stomach, frowning at the new scars. They stopped itching here in the dry heat of Durotar and seemed to be healing alright.

Somehow, Tahara had expected battle scars to feel a bit more… normal. Right. Orcs were supposed to have them, right? Except there was nothing glorious or exciting about them. Just another reminder of how she'd been too weak to handle her own.

Tahara got up with a sigh, looking around the bones. Her back still hurt… but she wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. She may as well put up those last few ribs. And if she hurt herself doing it, at least there was no one around to see it.

She just needed people to stop looking at her like she was going to fall apart at the next gust of wind. Even if that was true. Tahara had gotten good at pretending.

Why couldn't they?

“Atar’ka really… hammered this… stupid horn… into th-”

With all her might, one foot set against the trunk, Tahara yanked at the talbuk horn, still stuck in the tree from Kosh’harg. Some of the sap had welled up, more or less glueing the damn thing shut.

She heard the sound of Nighthowl sitting down, clearly bored of standing as well as a subtle shift in weight from Vraxxar, as he crossed his arms. Great.

"I can… do this… just…"

"I'm not helping.", Vraxx supplied, a small hint of amusement in his voice.

"Good… because I don't need… hel-WOAH!"

With an almost comical pop the horn finally came free and Tahara fell backwards, landing hard on her backside with a grunt as sap slowly started trickling into the bucket she had thankfully already put in front of it.

"See? I had it.", she groaned as she got up, rubbing her soon-to-be bruises as the bucket slowly filled up.

Her only answer was a chuckle.

The trek to Garadar was a short one but laden with an entire bucket full of tree sap, Tahara was slowed down somewhat. She needed the substance for a few steps in the crafting process, not least of all because the flavour of it repulsed Chuckles and the ever hungry hyena wouldn't be tempted to snack on her ritual garb if she covered the bones in resin.

It was still morning by the time they made it to the settlement and picked out a spot for Vraxxar and the beasts to wait. "Don't make a fire right next to it, it needs to stay like that for now.", she lectured as they relieved both Nighthowl and Chuckles of their bags, the latter immediately sinking to the floor and scratching her back on the rough sand,letting out a satisfied grumbling.

"I won't be touching your things, you just focus on what you have to do.", Vraxxar nodded. He looked at her quiver. "You're sure you have enough arrows?"

Tahara looked down to her belt, shrugging her shoulders with a small smile.

"It's a talbuk. How hard is it gonna be?"



The answer, as it turned out, was very. She'd been tracking for hours, finding the hoofprints and following them for miles on end, not even catching a damn glimpse of talbuk. Or any animal, really, for that matter.

She crouched down near the water hole, frowning at the ground. The water was clear, the weather good, sun burning down on her back. By all rights, this place should have been teeming with life… but all her ears picked up were the wind and the rustling of her own motions.

Her fingers traced the imprints of what could have only been three clefthoofs judging by size alone. All three seemed to be fresh, yet they hadn't left together. One south, one east, one west. And at speed.

Running away from something.

What scared three clefthoofs into leaving a perfectly good water hole?

Tahara combed some hairs out of her face, rubbing her neck as a small sense of dread settled into her heart. There was a tiny chance she was going to fail her task before it got started. That she was about to go down in clan history as not just the worst gosh'kar, but the worst hunter.

She stood back up with a groan, her spine protesting the movement but she ignored it like she always did.

Pacing, she pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "Come on, come on, think…"

If she didn't pick up a real trail fast she wouldn't bag a kill before nightfall. Then, the real predators of Outland would go to catch their dinner and she'd be stalking prey with competition. In the Barrens that thought would never have bothered her - in fact, beating those arrogant lionesses was great fun on occasion -  but for this...

She wasn't a perfect hunter. Nor really all that great at crafting. She'd wanted to make sure she had the time to at least get as close to perfect as someone like her could.

Tahara sighed and put her hands on her hips, ready to pick another talbuk trail at random and pray to Mo’lak to take some damn mercy on her, when she looked up and noticed something in the distance. A bent tree. Northwest.

She turned around, mind working, head tilted to the side. Judging by the angle and the distance of the tracks… she nodded to herself. Yup. Whatever the clefthoofs had been running away from had bent that tree.

This is a waste of time. You're going to fail.

Tahara fought down the small, panicked voice in her head. If she wanted to find the herd, she needed to know what had scattered it in the first place.

The tree, she found as she approached, was bent out of shape, but not by wind. The only thing she could really think of that could have easily scared a herd of talbuks and three clefthoofs was a gronn - but the tree was only cracked in a small, localized spot on the trunk. A gronn would have flattened the area. Elekk weren’t known as particularly aggressive, nor suicidal enough to try and mess with clefthoofs. They also probably would have taken the entire tree down.

Tahara bent her knees, face close to the tree's point of breaking. Very, very weird.

When the trunk had tipped to the side, she noted, a windroc nest had fallen off, lying broken in half behind the tree. Three eggs had shattered entirely, but she was surprised to see one mostly intact, only one large crack marring the outside. Tahara peered around and a trail of feathers and blood answered the question of what happened to the mother.

Tree breaks, she tries to save her babies… broken wing probably? Wolf pack finds an easy meal. Not coming back.

Absentmindedly she touched the egg, frowning as she felt it. Hm.

There were more talbuk tracks leading south this time. A herd, but very, very erratic. Confused. They hadn't been walking as a herd, still chased by whatever cracked the tree trunk. There were no other tracks.

A ghost? Come on, Tahara, that's stupid.

Annoyed at herself and feeling the task slip away from her she shouldered her bow and followed the scattered trail.

She followed it for what must have been another few hours, nervously watching the sun make its journey across the horizon, her shadow growing longer with each passing moment. The tracks split and merged and split again, seemingly at random. Not the pattern of a hunter - two legged, or otherwise. The pack hunters she knew, from Outland’s wolves to the Barren’s hyenas, had tactics. A system. This was nothing. The clefthoof tracks she abandoned the moment she realized them headed for the mountains and Oshu’gun. She was not getting trampled by those giants on a simple task.

Furious at herself with how much she was overcomplicating her one damn job, she almost walked straight into the middle of the herd.

She was a few feet off, tall grass had hid her - thank the spirits - and she just about managed to halt when she spotted the first horn over the horizon line. She was on top of a hill. Tahara looked below her and there they were: perfect, serene, healthy. Five females, three males and two younglings, not yet fully grown but too large to be considered foals, really.

Her heart began to pound in her chest as anticipation and relief combined into a knot somewhere in her stomach. A light tan coat and bushy white tail made her pluck an arrow out of her quiver, breathing speeding up.

She was perfect. Or, near perfect anyways. She could already see the garb in her eyes… as her gaze drifted to the side. Another broken tree.

No. You have a task.

Tahara knocked the arrow. She took a deep breath, feeling the wind and its direction, aiming at the talbuk’s neck. She had a task. The perfect beast for it was right in front of her.

Take the stupid shot.

She could let this go. It wasn’t her problem. Bad things happened in the wilds all the time, didn’t mean it wouldn’t fix itself. Or that she could fix it. She was here to hunt. Just. To. Hunt.

Releasing a breath through her nose she lowered the bow. “Damn it”, she muttered and that was all it took for the gorgeous talbuk to lift her head and in a matter of seconds, they were all galloping away.

Tahara screwed her eyes shut, hand to her forehead.

You’re definitely going to fail now, the voice in her head helpfully supplied.

“Shut up”, she grumbled in reply, trying not to think about the fact that she had reached the point of talking to herself as she followed the trail of desolation.


Making her way down her hill - perfect vantage point, moron - she could still only find talbuk tracks. The trunk was cracked in the same way as before, a small localized point that had been hit or kicked repeatedly. Not a gronn, not an elekk and definitely no wolf.

This time, she kept low, ears twitching to try and pick up sounds. The erratic trail was a lot fresher - if it had chased the herd here, perhaps it was still close by. Tahara couldn’t remember a time where she had been tracking something without knowing what it was. Grass turned to mud as she went on, another hour slipping by and sunset painting the lands around her in a decisively worrying shade of red. She was running out of time, now. Not long before the first packs would get moving. She was about to speed up her pace when she saw him.

There, drinking from a small pond, stood another talbuk.Tahara dipped behind a rock outcropping, eyes peeking out from the side.

He was a colt, still young but strong and healthy looking. Nothing out of the ordinary really. His ruddy coat was not the best she’d seen, his horns were on the smaller side, spines okay… but there was something bothering her.

When Tahara learned to speak with beasts, she learned quickly that sounds were almost useless to her. Chuckles responded to the sound of her voice, not her words, only being able to distinguish a few, very specific trained ones. But the body, that was a language everyone spoke, no matter if they walked on two legs or four. Wolves read different than hyenas, hyenas different than talbuks but she had time and patience and it was no harder to her to learn a new creature’s language than it was to study Nar’thak’s alphabet.

Tahara spoke “talbuk”. And this one was speaking gibberish.

Instead of drinking peacefully at the pond, all alone, the colt was breathing heavily. He took in big gulps of water, tail trying to swipe away flies that were not there and his hooves pawing at the ground like he was frightened… or angry. Very, very angry.

The mok’nathal had taught her of warning signs. All the sickness an animal could carry, where touch alone could spell death for the hunter. She was confident that she knew just about everything a talbuk could have that could be dangerous and not a single thing matched what she saw.

He should be foaming at the mouth and running away from water, not huffing like an angry clefthoof bull and drinking like he’d marched through the desert for a week. Tahara frowned and inched closer. If she could just get a better look at-

She knew was had the moment she felt something beneath her feet that wasn’t mud, a second before the tell-tale snap of a branch revealed her. Cursing, Tahara plucked an arrow as the Talbuk’s head shot up, preparing for his flight…

...only to realize he was not running. He was charging. At her.

Uh oh.

For once, she agreed with the voice in her head.

Her eyes went wide, frantically trying to knock an arrow and get up at the same time as the colt was barely six paces away from her. The shot went wide, embarrassingly wide, Tahara just managing to roll out of the way as hooves thundered past her. Too close! Way too close!

She broke into a run, trying to gain some distance between her and the rampaging colt, to no avail. She had to jump out of the way, knock, draw and fire in a span of a second and it wasn’t working. Every shot missed, either landing in a tree that may as well have stood in Terrokkar, or just grazing the talbuk, small superficial cuts that didn’t seem to do anything except make him even more angry.

Tahara had to change her tactic - and quickly, too - if she didn’t want to return to Garadar in the shape of a pancake. Or not return at all.

She took a deep lungful of air and when the talbuk almost caught up with her stopped and dashed past him. Talbuk were fast, but as fanatically as this one was chasing her, there were a precious few seconds as he had to come to a stop and turn. Precious time in which Tahara got into position, grabbed for an arrow and-

Oh no.

-... grasped only air. Confused, she looked down at her hip staring at the empty quiver with wide eyes as the talbuk once again charged at her. This time, she did not have enough to get away in time.

She had never seen anything like this. Instead of ramming her with his horns, she watched as a furious maw opened and tried to bite her. On her head. Teeth impacted with her forehead just as she tried to leap to the side and Tahra heard a dull thud and felt blood trickling down her face as she collided with the ground, rolling over, not stopping. Not to check her injury, not to look behind her, she just kept running. This wasn’t possible. He wasn’t trying to defend himself, not even to chase her away.

That talbuk was trying to kill her. With more vicious intent than any predator she’d ever met.

Her lungs were on fire and her legs weren’t going to last much longer. The blood from her forehead was starting to trickle into her mouth and Tahara tasted iron. She didn’t have a choice. She threw one quick glance over her shoulder and spotted something glinting in the sunset.

She gritted her teeth. She was either going to nail this, or run for her life.

With what strength she had left, Tahara repeated the maneuver, but this time, she leapt past the talbuk, narrowly avoiding getting slammed by his hindlegs. She dropped into a roll, impacting hard on her shoulder, pain shooting through her like a needle, but she needed the arm to grab what she saw. One of her misfired arrows. One shot.

In an instant she was back on her knees and turned, not bothering to stand up.

Ten paces.

She knocked the arrow.

Eight paces.

She drew back as far as she could. Her shoulder hurt. Her eyesight was blurred from blood. She ignored both and aimed for his heart.

Six paces.

She fired, the arrow singing through the evening breeze.

Four paces.

With a low thunk, the arrow sank into the colt’s heart, almost halfway. He kept running.

Two paces.

Tahara’s bow clattered to the ground, her forearms coming up to protect her head from the charge.

One.

She screwed her eyes shut, bracing for impact...

“Are you listening?”

Tahara blinked, looking upwards and trying to focus on the mok’nathal. He was huge and she had to crane her neck, rain trickling into her eyes as she did so. They’d been lying in wait for what felt like days, even though Tahara knew it was only a few hours. Somehow, she enjoyed this. Her spine was comfortably resting for once, not cramped by iron bars and only good things to wait on, not dreading the stretch of nothing. His hair was covered by his hood, but she could make out his eyes as they stared down at her.

“Y-yes. N-... n-no. I wasn’t. Sorry.”

Instinctively, she winced, bracing for the strike she had yet to learn wouldn’t come.

She heard him sigh above her. “Calm down, I’m not going to whip you.”, he grumbled out.

“S-sorry.” Tahara swallowed, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. Not from cold.

“Stop apologizing.”

“S-... hrm.”

She heard an irritated grunt above her, the closest the mok’nathal got to laughing, she’d learned.

Tahara felt his hand on top of her head, very intensely so now that they had shaved all of her hair off, leaving only a short buzz behind that was struggling to grow back. Not terribly gently he directed her head to see what he was seeing - a lynx, who had just snatched a rodent in his jaw, contentedly dragging it back to his hideout. “See that scratch?”

Tahara squinted her eyes against nightfall. She did see a few scratches on the lynx’ flank. She nodded up at the mok’nathal.

“That cat got stupid. If those scratches get inflamed - well. You know all about that already, don’t you?”

Tahara nodded again, numbly. She remembered the fevers and the dirt in the wounds and the crying. Not hers. “He might die.”

The mok’nathal nodded his head.

“Respect for all. Even the small ones. When they’re scared enough, backed into a corner, even the smallest can do some damage.”

Tahara was not smart, but she knew who was the rodent in his metaphor and who the lynx.

“But the small ones still die.”, she said, looking up at the mok’nathal with uncertainty.

He put his hand on her shoulder.

“Not always. The proud wolf gets trampled by the talbuk. Sometimes, prey turns the tables on predator.”

“You think I could do that?”, she muttered, watching as the lynx deliciously tore into his catch.

“With practice? Yes.”

The mok’nathal nudged her shoulder, the corners of his mouth pulling up in what might have been a tenth of a smile.

“There’s always someone bigger, someone stronger. Even bigger than ogres, you know? But you show respect and stay wary and you will always be a step ahead of them, no matter how big or strong.”

Tahara shouldered the bow he’d given her - a practice one, meant for young mok’nathal. It was still bigger than her and heavy to boot. She frowned, looking at the ground intently and he peered down at her from under heavy brows.

“What?”

“I don’t think I can respect bugs. It’s just… they’re gross. And everywhere. And so gross.”

Another grunt and the mok’nathal got up.

“I think the wilds will forgive you if you step on the occasional spider.” He nodded his head in direction of the lynx. “Come on. You need target practice.”

Tahara kept her eyes closed, breathing heavily, seconds passing her by. When she finally realized the impact wasn’t coming, she opened them.

There in front of her, the talbuk’s muzzle had stopped a hair’s breadth ahead of her knees. His legs crumbled, arrow still sticking out of the centre of his chest, he had died hitting the ground. Tahara fell backwards, laughing.

“WHOO!”

She punched both fists in the air, cackling to herself as the rush of battle was racing through her blood, every limb shaking in excitement and exhaustion all at once. Tahara stayed there, forcing lungfuls of air back into her chest, waiting for her legs to remember how to stand, watching the sun ever so slowly dip behind the horizon line. Sunset turned to dusk when finally her heart slowed down to a comfortable pace and she heaved herself back up, staring at her kill.

Tahara let her hand glide over his coat, fingers finding the arrow that ended his life and pulled it out, wiping the blood off on the grass and returning it to her quiver. She retrieved all other arrows she found, recovering five of her six missed shots. The last, she had no idea where it went. Maybe down the pond. She had no intention to go for a swim to find out, though.

Sighing, she knelt down at the creature’s carcass. She still wanted to know what had happened to him to become… this.  A thought came to mind and Tahara plucked the knife from her belt, directing the tip to the puncture of her fatal arrow and pushed inside. It took some effort and a resounding cracking noise, but she managed to force his ribcage open.

What she saw, she wasn’t prepared for.

Pushing against his ribs, swollen and overgrown, the talbuk’s heart was massive. It didn’t look like any heart she’d ever seen. As big as a kodo’s with ease, and made of more parts than it should have been. It almost looked like… two, melded together.

It took a minute to put the pieces together, but when she realized, she put her least bloody hand to his neck and slowly stroked down, as if trying to comfort the poor beast.

“You were supposed to be twins, but she didn’t make it. You carried her heart with you but it was too much. You knew it was going to fail someday, but you tried to fight. Only you couldn’t… so you ran and fought everything else.”

Caught in a permanent state of sheer panic, a heart that never learned how to slow down, how to calm its own beating, the years of fear had turned prey into predator.

Tahara remembered the mok’nathal whose name she never asked for. She remembered his lessons.

"It's a talbuk. How hard is it gonna be?"

Tahara swallowed down a “sorry” no one was going to hear and sighed. She had worried so much about everything else that she’d lost sight of the one thing that had ever made her a good hunter. This wasn’t the talbuk she wanted, but it was the one she deserved.

She patted his neck one more time and stood up.

“Anybody asks about this story, I won’t make you the villain. Promise.”

It wasn’t easy but with the right technique, even someone as scrawny as Tahara could carry a talbuk. Slung over both shoulders and putting the weight to her hips, she made the slow journey back, but not without stopping one last time on the road.

At the first broken tree she took off her pack and shuffled a few things around, very, very gently setting the windroc egg down inside it. She tied it to her waist so the carcass would not crush the already fragile thing.

It was almost morning by the time she made it back to Garadar, stalking through the mist just before dawn. She found Vraxxar where she left him, seemingly asleep while sitting until one eye opened at the sound of the talbuk hitting the ground.

“Sorry I’m late.”, she muttered, smiling a little sheepishly as she set down her pack as well.

“You’re bleeding.”, was his reply and Tahara blinked confused, already all forgotten about the gash on her forehead.

“Oh that. Didn’t break bone. I’ll wash it off in a minute- why’s there food on my bedroll? … I thought you weren’t helping.”

She nodded to some flat bread, dried meats and fruits in a small woven bowl on her furs.

Vraxxar smirked lightly, crossing his arms behind his head as he leant on the tree trunk.

“Dinner isn’t part of your task.”

She couldn’t help but snort a little at that.

Tahara took out the windroc egg, finding a stick and the bucket of sap she’d left. Using the stick as a brush, she trickled the sap onto the crack and held it close to the fire. Not too close to accidentally make a boiled egg of it, but enough for the resin to slowly harden. She could feel Vraxxar watching her, so she began to explain.

“The others didn’t make it. This one might not either, but… I figure it should get a fair chance. Like I did.”

When it was done, she set the egg back into her packs, hoping the snug environment would at least somewhat mimic its mother’s warm nest.

Tahara washed the blood off her face, indeed only a small gash left on her forehead. It didn’t hurt much, but she cleaned it out carefully just to be safe. When her hands were clean too, she rejoined Vraxxar by the fire. “I’ll butcher it now.”, she said in between shoving bread into her mouth. “So the meat can hang overnight. I’ll clean the bones after I sleep for a bit, then put them in the resin. They only need a couple of hours to harden, so… tomorrow.”

He never turned his head. “Tomorrow what?”

Tahara smiled and as she said it out loud, perhaps for the first time noticing just how important it was to be able to say it. To know that such a place, such people existed for the first time in her life. That even without fanfares and hugs and even so much as a ‘welcome back’, it would be more than she ever had.

“Tomorrow we go home.”

[slave]

She woke up from the poison sometime in the night. At least, it must have been night by her best guess. With the soot and ash making up for most of the area’s lighting, it was tough to tell. Though she reckoned she would have noticed dawn and that ought to be a few hours away.

There was a weight on her back as she shifted, trying to get up and trying to get the ash out of her mouth. And all of that from one stupid knife. Tahara groaned, pushing against whatever was lying on her back and woke up Chuckles, whose annoyed snort cleared up the mystery. She’d been sleeping with her head on her back. Not a trick she’d taught her, but something Chuckles just… started doing, since the first time Tahara had gotten sick, off some bad stew when the dry season had chased off all game and they’d been too poor for a proper meal. The hyena had spent her fever with her head on her chest, so that the minute her chest stopped moving, she’d know. Checking for a heartbeat. Chuckles had always been smarter than her, anyhow. “Buddy, can you just...Thank you.”

Right now she could have done without the fussing as the large animal yawned, finally lifting her head and allowing Tahara to get up and spit out what ash had made it into her mouth.

She wasn’t fond of this place. Not at all.

Tahara staggered to her feet, groaning. The world stopped turning and her skin wasn’t on fire anymore - her sight had returned as well, although still a bit hazy, but more so from sleep and ash than envenomation. Her throat was on fire now. The ash really had gotten everywhere. Blech.

The rest of camp was quiet and yet surrounded by snoozing orcs Tahara didn’t feel like sleeping, much. Not after what she’d dreamed.

She stretched her back and started to walk, trying to find solace in the little aches and pains that always plagued her body. That's how she could always tell the difference between her dreams and her waking hours.

Her sight returned fully after a while, the uncomfortable nightly glare of the Blackrock lighting a path well enough until she found a small hollowed out piece of rock on the outskirts of camp. Not a cave, not like the ones she'd called home, but enough for a bit of cover.

Chuckles ambled after her, the hyena faithfully carrying her supplies. She untied the sleeping mat and rolled it out on the floor, sitting down on the furs and opening her water skin with her teeth.

She didn't want to go back to sleep. She didn't.

The smell of seared fur and lightning in the air, Chuckles' pained yip as the paladin's sacred blade cuts into her. Sharp pain in Tahara's own chest as she watches her stumble and fall. And then… nothing. No sound, no roar of battle, no explosion on the mountain just her and that paladin and the arrow who slips through his armour and punches through his throat. Tahara doesn't feel herself shooting, just watches the arrow and the human and the last breath he ever takes. The laugh that bubbles up in her throat, sheer and unabashed happiness washing over her as the human chokes on his own lifeblood and she keeps laughing…

… But it's not the paladin anymore. It's the boy, the stupid, stupid elven boy who sees her hunting - just a supply run! Not an attack! Please, it's not - but he isn't listening and she's too far into darkshore, she can't run if he sounds an alarm and Tahara doesn't feel herself shooting, she just watches as the arrow flies and punches through his chest. She didn't mean to. She didn't-

The tree lights on fire and the world ends in white.

Tahara shakes her head. It was a nightmare. A stupid, antivenom-induced nightmare.

But it wasn't a lie.

She remembered her last conversation with Kyra, talking about far too many things that she shouldn't have been thinking about in the first place, her words poking at her heart like a dozen small needles.

"Dat's their fault for not seein' the real you."

Tahara wasn't sure she wanted anyone to see the real her. To know of her, to meet her, to-

She laughed, bitterness in her throat, from the ash, she told herself. Nah. She'd rather stay the moron.

When the fever took her down in outland and she'd thought of the invasion she would have traded for a life of slavery she'd wondered, idly, if she was evil.

When Morgkha told her of her ancestors, she'd believed, for a day, that she could be better.

When Gaar'thok had told her of the Laughing Skull, of what others would see in the mask, it had shaken her enough to lie to Vraxxar about why she needed to hunt and went behind his back to get permission from someone else.

When she killed that paladin in the barrens and felt her face split into a wide grin, enjoying every second of his agonizing end, she knew.

Tahara pulled the mask from the top of her head, staring at the face of the man she’d murdured to claim her heritage. Fun hadn’t been part of it that day. She hadn’t enjoyed killing them, neither of them. She had enjoyed not telling anyone less so. She’d liked making the mask, yes, but not for the brutality of the act but because it was the first thing she had, the first thing she was, that wasn’t stupid, or weak, or slave.

She had a heritage. A complicated one, perhaps even a dark one, but she had one. She had a name to cling to and a past beyond chains and Tahara wanted so hard to believe that she could be different. That she could be someone and be good.

The good Laughing Skull.

The memory of the blood spurting from the human’s throat still brought a smile to her face and Tahara realized that there was no such thing.

The truth, she thought, was that if anyone ever saw the real her, they’d turn away.

All of them.

Chuckles shuffled herself closer, the hyena’s head poking out from where she had snuck her way between Tahara’s knees and chest, large brown eyes looking up at her.

Well. Maybe not all of them.

Tahara stared at the mask, Kroz’ dead rictus grin mocking her until her brows furrowed and she snarled, throwing it away, hardened bone connecting with the age old rock and clattering to the ground, unbroken. Tahara had known anger but she had never known the seething rage buried under her chest, hiding, waiting, biding its time.

The man she made her mask of had told her when she was a child, that she would have been drowned at birth in his clan. It was the first time she wished he’d been right.

She sat there for an hour, two maybe, head buried in her hands, pulling at her hair and trying to breather, trying to think about anything else, until she crawled under the furs of the bed roll and prayed to every spirit she’d ever known not to dream.

They didn’t hear her.

The paladin lies on the ground, blood gushing out of his throat and Tahara laughs until, in his final moment, the man’s blade grazes her arm. She stares down at the wound, watches it growing fangs and pulling into a wide smirk, bursting out into laughter and Tahara is terrified, tries to stab the grotesque maw with her own dagger but she only cuts herself again and again and again and each time another smile joins the others, another set of teeth another high pitched laugh until she’s covered in them and she slits her own throat but then she’s choking helplessly and just not dying as the laughter drowns her and her ears ring, her own voice not cutting above the uproarious laughter and no one is coming. No one can help. No one wants to.

She wakes up sometime past noon by her own scream.

Somehow it wasn’t the fire that bothered her most.

It should have been. After what she’d seen, after what they’d done to the tree and the elves up north, it should have been her first thought. And if not that, then the screaming, or the blood or the-

She couldn’t hear any of that. What should have been a moment of panic, of unbridled fear and shock was instead utter silence in her mind, as Tahara looked down at her hands, fel-green like they shouldn’t be, staring at armour that she never had.

This was wrong.

Not morally - of course it was wrong but that was obvious to all of them and not a thought worth repeating. It was wrong. Untrue. This hadn’t happened.

She didn’t realize she’d been left behind until she fell back against the wall of the barracks, her scars flaring up like they had been freshly carved into her back, the cool stone creating an instant relief - and came eye to eye with Vraxxar.

It took her a moment to squeeze something resembling a sentence out of the hazy fog in her skull.

“Did… did we really do this?” Tahara looked up, hoping for a different answer than the one she knew was coming.

Vraxxar replied simply: “Yes.” Not unkind, not pleasant, just honest.

She swallowed, trying to wrap her head around a second question, but she was cut off, gruffer this time.

“Outside. Now.”

If the fire and the screams hadn’t cut through the numbness before, the rough barking of orders finally sunk in like the merciful last arrow she fired at suffering prey. A sensation like her ears popping came over her, the clang of steel and the roar of battle clear as day now. Her body lurched into motion before her head could and she sprinted outside, trying to get back some sense of… what exactly?

As Tahara caught up with the rest of the orcs that didn’t look like they should, she stumbled-

-and fell, face first into the mud.

She felt hands on her back, pulling her back up by the harness that strapped her to the massive rock they were hauling. When she blinked up, face caked in dirt, it was Kroz who righted her, growling.

“Keep up! You’ll get us all whipped.” The older orc growled, a stark contrast to his helping hand. Tahara groaned, feeling every muscle in her back tense.

No one here cared whether it made sense or not, that a little girl couldn’t keep up with the grown men, but that was the only life to be had here. There were a few children helping with the hauling today. A storm had made it to Blade’s Edge - most broke on the mountains before ever reaching the Bloodmaul camps - and the rain was making everything harder.

But Lurog wanted those rocks. The ogres broke them open, like skulls, revealing the crystals inside. Apexis. A hard word, Tahara thought.

Kroz picked up speed for both of them and the other four orcs put their backs into it as well, yanking Tahara along.

“You need to get stronger.”

Tahara whined as something in her back creaked at the sheer pressure on her shoulders. “Try… ing…”, she eeked out in between pulls.

She couldn't say if she liked this better. Her head had been hurting for reasons she couldn't remember, so the not-particularly-fresh air helped somewhat compared to the small tunnels of the apexis mines she'd be crawling through at this hour. Dust in her throat would have likely just made her feel worse. But the strain was doing something to her back that didn't feel right.

At least she wasn't alone. The solitude, she hated the most.

“Grasha says... there's a gate at the end of the world. And if you go through, you're in a green place-”

“LESS YAPPING MORE HAULING!”

Tahara ducked her head at the foreman. She couldn't keep herself from whispering the last few parts to an increasingly disinterested Kroz.

“She says… over there, we are the masters. That-”

There was a shadow and a scream, cut off by deafening silence as one of the logs of lumber for Lurog's new house fell on the first two orcs in the chain. Mud sprayed over the others. And something worse than mud.

Tahara stopped, crashing into Kroz in front of her as they all were forced to a halt.

She barely heard the orders, as the next row of slaves had to lift the log. Underneath, she watched as the broken bodies were pulled away, tossed to a heap on the side. There had already been corpses there. No one had taken them away in the last week since they'd died, both from the dust in their chest, no longer able to breathe.

They were replaced and the chain lurched into motion again.

This time, it was Kroz who spoke up, refusing to look at the child behind him.

“Grasha is an old fool. The real warriors are the ones that went through that gate. Not people like you, or me.”

Tahara looked up at Kroz’ back, the scars of a dozen whippings marking him like they one day would mark hers.

“You want to know what would have happened? If you'd grown up free, with the real clans?”

Tahara nodded, a gesture Kroz couldn't see, but he decided to take what hope she'd had anyways.

“You would have been drowned before your sixth birthday.

This is the only life for us.”

She woke up, dazed and confused. A mixture of dream brew and her heart pounding in her chest. Her back still hurt as she sat up, ribs and spine cracking a few times. The noise woke Chuckles, a final kick with her leg in the air as her hunting dream came to an end. She licked her snout, looking over at Tahara and cooing.

Tahara answered in her language, repeating the noise and bumping her head into that of the hyena's. “Keep sleeping.”, she thought it meant. Or something like that.

Camp was quiet this close before sunrise. She looked up at the dark portal, the gate to a life she'd somehow escaped from.

They hadn't drowned her yet. That had to count for something.

Chuckles put her head in her lap, murring contentedly in her half-awake state, while Tahara scratched her behind the ears.

“You have it so easy, you know? You don't have to think about any of that stuff.”

Tahara didn't know what she was talking about - the dream that wasn't hers, or the one that was - but regardless, Chuckles didn't answer, drifting off to another hunting dream.

She gently picked up her head and put it aside, getting up from her furs and stretching, trying to get to a decent posture for the day ahead.

Her back didn't ache anymore as the last few satisfying pops sounded out.

The fire hadn't bothered her. The screams, the horrors of the dream brew hadn't kept her awake. Not really.

What Tahara felt, was envy. Grasha, Kroz, they'd all known it too. Whatever they've known or hadn't known of the invasion, they had all known something she hadn't.

That no matter what the fel could have done to them, no matter what they could have done to the world, to themselves - it had to be better.

In some dark corner of her mind, Tahara realized she would have rather gone through that gateway and slaughtered innocent people than to have lived her own childhood.

And that scared her.

More than fire and more than wrong and more than so many of the horrors she'd seen.

Tahara nodded to herself, realizing that she was a horrible person, but went outside anyways.

What else was there to do?

[Name:]

Name: Tahara
Alias: Halfwit, slave, ‘Yena and two more none recall
Rank: Gosh’kar

Age: 23 - 26 at an educated guess
Gender: Female
Race: Mag’har
Clan: Laughing Skull
Class: Hunter
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Family: Unknown
Known Friends: Several members of Clan Red Blade, a tauren named Etoya and a goblin named Skeevil
Known Enemies: All slavers, most ogres

Appearance:
Noticeably skinny, lacking an inch or two in height to reach the orcish standard, Tahara is easily recognized as mag’har by her grey skin, clear of any greenish tinges. A youthful face and slim body don’t exactly make her a beauty among her kin, but the greatest offense are her marks. Her body is littered with scars, yet not a single one would fool any veteran to be noble scars earned in battle. The slaver’s whip and a handful of other abuses are carved into her skin. Her hair is a warm brown and her eyes a lighter shade of such, bordering on sandy. She doesn’t appear to own much in the way of clothing that isn’t scavenged on her own, only recently having come into possession of anything resembling armour. She is rarely without weapons and as of late has come into the possession of her own skull mask, as is tradition for her birth clan.

Personality:
Her slow and clumsy speech don’t exactly mark Tahara as a scholar. She can be anything from near childlike wonder to the melancholy of an elder depending on what she’s been thinking about - and how much. She tries hard to learn and improve, realizing she is several years behind most of her age in skill and knowledge. With patience and understanding, Tahara can become a fast friend, naturally cautious of others but always willing to give the benefit of the doubt. She loves all animals, save for insectoids and will try to befriend most, if at all possible. She is quick to frighten, but less so in battle. Hunting and killing are the bread and butter of her life and she can be surprisingly unmerciful - but there are many threats less obvious to others, that she knows just as well. Tahara often behaves as if perpetually hunted, finding true peace only in rare and private moments.

History:

Spoiler: "Beware of spoilers, no meta-gaming past this point!" • show

Much is unknown, to Tahara and every else, about her past. As far as she’s concerned, Tahara woke up one morning, eight or so years old, with no memory other than being who she was - a slave, working in the Apexis mines of the Bloodmaul tribe of ogres. Labouring her entire childhood for the tribe, Tahara made little in the way of friends or meaningful relationships, with the sole exception of Kroz, an older Blackrock orc. He treated Tahara unkindly, but still marginally less cruel than her masters. He would share food, when she looked about to starve and warmth when she looked about to freeze to death. Not exactly a good person, but the best Tahara knew, she stuck to him.

The beasts of the Bloodmaul pens were notoriously savage, the last three keepers mauled to death. Not eager to lose any more of his enforcers, Lurog, the ogre mage in charge of camp, decided to let Tahara care for them. She doesn’t remember all of the conversation. Something about her having “fulfilled her purpose, anyhow” and “being expendable”. Tahara was shoved in the pens with a bucket of meat and terror in her heart.

Miraculously, she survived. Instead of approaching the animals like a cruel master, Tahara was recognized as just another chained beast and the pens’ captives treated her as one of her own. The most brutal of all, a ruthless female raptor named Scythe, covered in hardened spikes and scales took to Tahara in an instant, beginning to clean and warm her like she was one of her hatchlings.

For years Tahara spent her time in the pens, caring for her fellow slaves of a different kind. Scythe was a fighting beast, renowned for her victories and in preparation of a great battle against the neighbouring camp’s champion warpstalker, Scythe was denied all food for days. It was Lurog’s hope the added incentive of panic and sheer survival instinct would give Scythe the fury she needed to win for the Bloodmaul tribe.

But he was wrong. Instead of becoming angry, Scythe just languished in her cage, ready to accept death. Tahara figured out why.

She was pregnant. The lack of food had pushed her past survival instinct into helpless stupor. She couldn’t move and less food was not going to fix her. Unwilling to watch the first creature who treated her with anything resembling kindness die in a pointless matter, Tahara broke her rules and fed Scythe.

She was caught, by none other than Kroz, who dragged her kicking and screaming in front of Lurog. He was fishing for a reward, not caring whatever fate awaited the young girl at the mercy of their slavers. But Lurog had a better idea. Kroz would get his reward - better food, his own cage, fewer hours of toil - if he agreed to be the one to punish Tahara. Kroz was handed a whip and Tahara thrown at his feet, silently pleading. For what it’s worth - conflict raged within the old orc for a good minute, at least, before he nodded his head.

Tahara was strung up by her hands in front of the rest of the slaves. Perhaps Kroz had been planning to go easy on her. Perhaps he’d always wanted to have someone at which to lash out in his frustration, but Kroz went above and beyond the number of lashes set by Lurog. Intoxicated by finally having power again, even if it was just the power to hurt a helpless young girl, he lost himself in the task. By the end of it Tahara was no longer standing, dangling from the strings around her wrists, feet slipping in her own blood.

Once again half a miracle that a perhaps 12, perhaps 14 year old Tahara survived the wounds, the fevers, the inflammation in an environment lacking in any kind of hygiene, she was put back into the mines, where Tahara toiled until late adolescence, resulting in poor health and a condition of her spine. As for Scythe, the useless fighter was slaughtered, the eggs broken and all of it served to the slaves.

Tahara was no part of any glorious uprising, but a slave revolt did happen and when Tahara was the last in her cage, with no ogres or orcish slaves in sight, she eventually left too - fear of dying alone pushing her past the fear of further punishment. The ogres pursued eventually and it was only with the help of a couple of Mok’nathal, that Tahara escaped Blade’s Edge safely. The huntress helped her clean herself for the first time in… ever. The warrior showed her how to fire an arrow. With a spare bow and a quiver full of arrows, they left her in Zangarmarsh, advising her to go to Nagrand.

She did find Garadar and she almost went and joined her kin, until Tahara realized she was no kin at all. Scrawny, weak, barely able to fend for herself she remembered Kroz’ words: “In my clan, you would have been drowned at birth.” Once more ruled by fear,Tahara decided she never wanted to find out if he had been right and wandered aimlessly for months, eventually reaching the very end of Outland - the Dark Portal. She accompanied a tauren, black of fur, who called himself Etoya and followed him all the way to Durotar. Spying the savannah of the Barrens from the top of the gates, Tahara found something that looked a lot more like a fitting home. She bid her farewell to Etoya and moved into the Barrens. She made another “friend”, a goblin named Skeevil who found an easy target to exploit for cash, Tahara selling her hard-earned hides and fur at ridiculously low prices, all the while happy and content, thinking she was making as much as she could.

Eventually, during a particularly rough rain season, Tahara tripped over what looked like a lump of mud. When the mud starting whining and laughing at her, Tahara bent down to pick up an abandoned hyena cub, near death. Confused by its good sense of humour, Tahara picked her up and took care of her, buying milk until the weak little thing was able to eat solid foods. Named Chuckles for her childhood weak laughter sounding more like a mildly entertained chuckle, the hyena outgrew expectations - literally. Growing up to a massive stature, Chuckles is smaller than the clan’s wolves, but of decent size for a rider, making her quite overgrown for a hyena. It’s unclear what caused this effect. Perhaps the magic of friendship, perhaps some other supernatural influence - or maybe just a freak of nature. Regardless, the two became family, the only one either had ever truly known.

Returning one day to drop off furs and other scavenged goods at Skeevil’s trading post at the Crossroads, Tahara came upon two grunts beating the small goblin to a pulp. Not really hearing what it was all about - something something, protection money? - Tahara and Chuckles stepped in. Scared off by the large hyena, the grunts fled the scene. Afterwards, Tahara got a few better deals… marginally so, at least. He got mouths to feed, after all, pal.

Tahara remained in the Barrens during all the world’s great conflict since the opening of the Dark Portal. She was briefly caught and almost enslaved again by the Kor’kron, was it not for Vol’jin’s rebellion and two of his shadow hunters stepping in before she could be forced into labour. Uncaring for politics, Tahara mostly took away that trolls were nice and Garrosh was not, from all that.

It wasn’t until the War of Thorns that Tahara was forcefully conscripted. Put to work as a hunter and gatherer for the army, she helped hunt for the supplies the Horde needed to march north. The fighting troubled her deeply, not understanding the thought behind the attack, having never had any personal quarrel with elves.

During one supply run, Tahara was spotted by a young kaldorei, possibly younger than herself, with barely fitting armour and a saber too young to ride. Realizing that the boy would raise the alarm, spelling out death for Tahara, Chuckles and their compatriots, Tahara chose to shoot the boy in a moment of pure instinct. The decision haunts her to this day, not the first sentient life she took - but the first she couldn’t justify to herself. The saber would have avenged his partner, were it not for Chuckles moving in sync with her, snapping the cat’s neck in one brutal instant.

In the end, Tahara left Darkshore traumatized and afraid. Realizing that she was a member of the Horde, one way or the other, she could be called upon again at any moment. She could die alone, fighting for something she didn’t believe in. She was forced again to move to Lordaeron and fight in Windrunner’s army, where she heard chatter of a clan who sounded different. Perhaps it was time to find out if she would be drowned....

Things you may know about this character:

• Even without Tahara explicitly mentioning it, the tell-tale scars of several dozen whip lashes mark her as a former slave easily.
• She has only recently uncovered her heritage, marked by the Laughing Skull mask she carries with her. She will not say whose face it is, only discussing it with the two members of Clan Red Blade who were present when it was… acquired.
• Tahara seems to have a deep bond with her hyena, the two communicating in almost imperceptible ways. She can also bond easily with most animals she meets, approaching them not as an orc, but one of their kind.
• Tahara seems very, very uneducated - stupid, one might call it. Many basic things are mysteries to her, she cannot read or write (yet) and her thought process seems very simplistic and basic.
• On occasion, Tahara will seem to not feel her wounds, despite being deep, obvious and painful. She seems to have a condition or something of the sort, that creates unique challenges and disabilities.

Things you may not know about this character:

Spoiler: "Beware of spoilers, no meta-gaming past this point!" • show

Morgkha, Gaar’thok and Gashuk have uncovered a secret not too long ago, unbeknownst to Tahara herself. A spell has been found on her mind, insidious yet with an unknown purpose. Concerned, all three sought to find out more about it and subsequently purge it, but chose not to take the final step. Apparently the spell is tied with Tahara’s mind - it would be an easy thing to dispell it and remove it, but at the cost of Tahara’s sanity and possibly her life. Gashuk eventually made a breakthrough, trapping the spell and containing its side-effects. Tahara seems to be feeling better, her mind a little clearer, able to soak in knowledge better and learn at a normal pace. Her headaches and fevers have also lessened significantly.

During particular dreams, Tahara begins to talk in her sleep - in a foreign language. Some may recognize it as ogre.

Memorable Quotes:
“Do you want to talk about it or stoically ride back?”
“So many.”
“Anyone tries that, I’m filling them with arrows.”

[Tahara]

Tahara

Self-view: Broken. Fundamentally, Tahara believes herself to be undeserving of most things. She is physically weaker, suffering several long-lasting health implications due to a spinal condition and is grossly uneducated. Large memory gaps and a complete lack of a real social life has deprived her of any knowledge bar what she’s picked up herself, surviving alone, all in all putting her perhaps slightly below the average peon in terms of orcish worth and usefulness. Most frustrating and even humiliating to her is being seen as a child - an understandable judgement, given her lack of knowledge of many, very basic things - when Tahara is well into adulthood and finding it hard to be acknowledged as such. Discovering more and more of her past, Tahara stares down an unsure future, feeling herself slipping into becoming something even worse than merely useless.

In trauma, hardship and with an absence of real comforts, Tahara has grown a creature of impulse and instinct, ruled by fear, never truly shaking the feeling of being hunted - by who or what, who can say?

Flawed. With her mind mended and memories returning, there have been some harsh moments for the young hunter, but some if not most of the love of her family and companions have gotten through to her by now. She is healthier, fitter and even occasionally happy! She’s still not the sharpest axe in the armory, but has slowly begun to ask for more, even things that seemed entirely out of reach not too long ago.

Spoiler: "Chuckles" • show

A massive hyena from the Barrens and one of the few creatures in any world that she fully and undoubtedly trusts. Found abandoned as a cub, Tahara has fought hard to save her life and Chuckles in turn protects her clan member fiercely. They communicate easily through a mixture of body language, spoken word and trained commands. With no real social skills, it means Chuckles is the only one Tahara can truly talk to without feeling stupid, awkward or embarrassed. To Tahara, the hyena is as much of a person as any orc, often getting confused when others consider Chuckles her pet, and Tahara her master.

Spoiler: "Feathers" • show

A large black windroc from the steppes of Nagrand, whose cracked egg Tahara came across on the hunt for her ritual garb. The clan has exerted many an effort to preserve the struggling hatchling and with some help, the bird has emerged healthy and gifted with the sight - an obtuse blessing that is still unclear to some and only a few select people know by now what the windroc and his orcish companion are capable of. Feathers is a well natured avian, who is calm, mildly curious and… a little creepy. His white, soulless eyes and hundred yard stare don’t make him the most pleasant company out of all of Tahara’s pack.

Spoiler: "Nabbers" • show

Named for his kleptomaniac tendencies, Nabbers is one of the saurid the clan encountered in Zuldazar on their scavenger hunt to unknowingly free Lani, a daughter of the loa of thieves. While no direct relation to the divine, Nabbers is as gifted a cutpurse as an animal can be, stepping lightly and leaving almost no discernible tracks. He seems mildly insane at best, with erratic behaviour and a laugh that doesn’t instill much confidence. It seems for now that only Tahara believes in his good heart.

Spoiler: "Spots" • show

A massive, primordial panther from the titanic playground of Sholazar, she was instrumental in alerting the clan to a mining operation of loyalists to the Banshee Queen and the unfortunate fate of a dark ranger. Tagrok was even more unfortunately introduced to her claws, choosing to present himself as a prime target on top of a tree stump - Spots pushed him off, in an attempt to save him from the archer she only knew as ‘longclaw’, but tore up his back in the process. Aloof and distanced as all cats are, Spots seems to care deeply for the clan and her little pack in her own way, keeping distance and yet watching, guarding. She is also often the first to come and comfort Tahara when she is upset, keeping a comforting presence that shares more love than she often lets on.

Spoiler: "Sparks" • show

Gifted by Vraxxar, who acquired the egg from a zandalari breeder, Sparks is a gorgeous red ravasaur, now in his gangly, awkward teens. Skittish by nature, Sparks would have likely not survived long in the wild, but Tahara is determined to keep him, despite his faults. He spooks easily and often seeks refuge under Tagrok’s cloak - whether he fits, or not - whom he sees as somewhat of a father due to his constant presence in his hatchling months. Sparks has managed to learn how to hunt his own food at least, but much preferes to be spoiled by his family.

Spoiler: "Vraxxar Wildmark" • show

One of the first to treat Tahara with real kindness, despite her awkward behaviour - and the only one so far to have gone out of his way to treat her with respect, a manner Tahara is entirely unaccustomed to.

Tahara nursed an ill-advised crush for some time, but her outlook changed quite significantly since her mind has been mended and the spell lifted. Memories from her childhood, almost 8 years worth of stolen knowledge returned have brought context to her head and heart where it was sorely needed. Tahara finally understands that there are many different kinds of love, her feelings for her sister and her now not-quite-mate Tagrok, speeding up the conclusion significantly.

Tahara understands now, that she was never in love in the first place - that she felt love, a connection - and a deep one at that - but that it does not necessitate romance.

He has, however, still made her more than happy in a unique request to Akashok, finally fulfilled after kosh’harg. To be bound, by blood, but not as mates - but as father and daughter. For one raised without parents, it is more than Tahara’s heart knows how to cope with, but it is learning.

Spoiler: "Rhonya Steelheart" • show

As her former tutor, Tahara is beyond grateful to have been given a chance. To think she may be proud of Tahara means everything to her. The two aren’t particularly close, regardless - in great parts because Tahara idolizes her too much to make an effort.

Spoiler: "Atar’ka" • show

Approaching a trusting relationship, Tahara is most comfortable of all around Atar’ka who counters all her particular odds and ends with infinite patience. She’s glad to have been given the opportunity to work with Atar’ka’s wolf, Rosha, happy for her skills to be recognized, however strange those skills might seem. One of only two people who know more about Tahara’s past as a slave, she feels less awkward and less ashamed in her presence.

Spoiler: "Morgkha" • show

An unlikely relationship, Tahara feels drawn to the strange shadowmoon, despite not always being treated with the most kindness. But perhaps it is especially that, the occasional good-natured mocking or insult, that speaks of a lack of pity. If Morgkha is unkind to Tahara, she still treats her as an equal and an adult. Tahara is more comfortable with that than the kindness of people who see her as little more than an oddity or a child.

Spoiler: "Kyrazha Throatrender" • show

Strangely, of all the orcs, Tahara looks up to Kyra. An odd one out like herself, Kyra is everything she wants to be - confident, strong, loved and respected. She likes approaching her for advice, knowing she will not get the kind of answers one might find in a book to her questions, but an honest opinion. Becoming her sister in blood has only enamored her more. One of the few people who consistently manages to cheer her up and the only one she always wants to see, even when she’s at her lowest point. And for Tahara, that’s a very low low indeed.

Spoiler: "Nar’thak Strongarm" • show

Somewhat uncomfortable around the old orc, but only because she feels like she’s a constant disappointment to him. She tries very hard to learn from him, appreciating his patience, but shrinks a size smaller at every sigh aimed in her direction, only serving to make her feel worse about herself, which in turn causes her focus to drop and her learning process to slow. Regardless, she keeps trying to win his approval, in some form.

Spoiler: "Zi’tani Steelstorm" • show

Since her mind is mended, some if not all of Tahara’s guilt has lifted from her heart and Zi’tani has simply become just another member of the clan. Tahara respects her, but still prefers to keep herself quiet and away, still feeling like she is taking too much time away from the now happy couple. Afterall, they will someday have children of their own and a lingering anxiety that she might get in the way, remains ever present.

Spoiler: "Skint" • show

Another delightful oddball that makes Tahara feel less odd just by being around! Chuckles adores her and really, if Chuckles likes someone, that’s a good enough sign in Tahara’s book that they must be a good person. Tahara feels slightly uncomfortable by how happy the young orc is to labour for others, her own background as a slave giving her none-too-pleasing associations with the matter and trying desperately to get Skint to accept at least a little coin for her troubles. At least once, you know?

Spoiler: "Nakobu" • show

Being entirely disconnected from the events of alternate Draenor, Tahara has a hard time understanding what everyone’s problem seems to be with Nakobu. As far as she’s concerned, he’s about the nicest person she’s ever met. Not the most… fun or interesting perhaps, but nice. He’s only ever been there to heal and help others… why is that a bad thing to so many? Well… aside from trying to lecture Tahara on manners, on occasion. She really doesn’t understand what she keeps doing wrong. Afterall, she is being honest and friendly! What could possibly be wrong with that?

Unfortunately for Nakobu, his face bears resemblance to a figure Tahara would prefer to be part of her lost memories, but decidedly is not.

Spoiler: "Tagrok Valorwind" • show

This story has taken many a strange turn, from simple curiosity to an almost prophetic connection found on an off chance night under a waterfall in sunrock. Never would Tahara have thought of anyone she might want, certainly not someone as cranky and hostile as Tagrok has been in the past.

And yet, on that very first night, Tahara saw a kind and patient man hiding under a guise of hatred, trying to cope with his own trauma. From day one, Tahara has believed in his heart and soul as capable of a great deal of kindness and nobility - and, by proxy, gotten more than a little frustrated with him when he chose to act in anger. Their fights will stay in her memory as clearly as the moments they made up. She’s more than a little grateful on the help from Kyrazha and Vraxxar, to make sure both parties kept trying.

Now, Tahara can’t think of a life without him. A shadow at her back, quiet and cooling and constant, she struggles every day with the intensity of her own feelings. Many of them remain tangled with memories from her time as a slave, twisting love and desire into jealousy and fear. Nightmares and dreams in equal measure, Tahara clings to hope that one day, she can be his mate, in all that entails. A sense of normality and stability that has been absent from her life entirely.

There are a few more things to settle, before she can find peace with her own heart.

Spoiler: "Trakmar Beastbane" • show

Intimidated by him at first, it seems Trakmar has taken a liking to her, from the very first day on the ship back to Durotar. Not at all confused or bothered by Tahara’s relationship to her beasts, Trakmar has been a valuable tutor, but unlike Kogra, not just on the path to becoming a gosh’kar, but in everything else. Tahara models herself after him a great deal… except being of a somewhat gentler nature. Somewhat. For now.

Spoiler: "Kogra Windwatcher" • show

Having taken over most of Tahara’s spiritual training ever since she has become a gosh’kar, Kogra has been a kind, guiding hand from the very beginning, recognizing Tahara’s potential to communicate with the spirits of the wild very early on. Since she has become a proud disciple of Mo’lak, Tahara could not be more grateful to her ever present support, in all matter spiritual and… private.

Spoiler: "Nosh’marak Ironclaw" • show

Tahara struggles a great deal with the ideal of military obedience that Nosh’marak represents as Rrosh-tul. Afterall, in her brief involvement in the war of thorns, Tahara has learned quickly that she is no warrior, for she abhors few things more in life than war. As such, it is strange that she thinks of the man so highly, but Nosh’marak seems not unlike Tagrok in that regard - a tough shell with an oh so soft heart underneath. He’s also the only one in the clan with a decent taste in spirits. Alcohol, that is. Not ghosts.

Spoiler: "Urzoga the Unbroken" • show

Something of a distant figure and a shadow, Tahara doesn’t know much of Urzoga, but recognizes her as someone who struggles, much the same as herself. The few gifts she has received, she treasures.

Chuckles

Self-view: HUNGRY.

View of others:

Spoiler: "Tahara" • show

BIG SISTER IS WEIRD AND HAIRLESS. LOVE HER.

Spoiler: "Vraxxar Wildmark" • show

LET ME LICK FOOD OFF HANDS ONCE. GREAT GUY.

Spoiler: "Atar’ka" • show

BEST SCRITCHES. DON’T TELL BIG SISTER I SAID THAT.

Spoiler: "Rosha" • show

FRIEND SLOW BUT GOOD FRIEND.

Spoiler: "TIMUR" • show

KIND OF DUMB. LOVE.

Spoiler: "Kran" • show

GOOD TREATS.

Spoiler: "Luciouz" • show

WHY HAVE PEOPLE MADE OF BONE WHEN CAN NOT EAT? STUPID.

Spoiler: "Buurb" • show

NO.

Spoiler: "Skint" • show

THE LADY OF BONE HAS COME FROM THE KODO GRAVEYARD TO HERALD THE COMING RAINS AND THE GREAT MIGRATION. MADE MANE PRETTY.

Spoiler: "Tagrok" • show

FUN.

[Name:]

Name: Tahara (Dunestalker in game)
Level: 110

Tell us something about your (role)playing experience:
I've been interested in roleplay since I was a child, jumping from forums and text based rp, but never staying anywhere long enough to actually get much experience. At the end of Legion and after the stress of mythic raiding, I decided to try my hand on Argent Dawn for the first time ca January/February of this year. I was accepted and have been roleplaying happily in a night elf guild since then, but wanted to branch out and am confident that I have the time and stamina to roleplay two characters effectively. I settled on this character and very quickly took note of your guild in the drums of war campaign and got really enchanted by the guild lore. Hence, here I am!

And finally, please write a short story and/or (IC) introduction about your character:

Born on Outland to perhaps uncaring, perhaps foolish parents that may once have been called laughing skull, or burning blade once, Tahara was abandoned at an age so young, the only thing she ever truly learned, was her own name.

It might be called mercy that the ogre who found her decided to take her in rather than kill her, but that was mercy’s end and Tahara grew up not as an adopted orcling, but as a slave. From a young age she learned to do menial tasks, but for the most part was used for her orcish strength to toil in mines. As a result, Tahara was spared her people’s corruption at the hands of the legion, growing up pure and mag’har, but the price she paid was costly in its own way.

Thin and scrappy for an orc - which still makes her fairly fit and imposing for any other races - Tahara carries the marks of slavery on her body, but on her mind too. Uneducated, simple, covered in the lashes of a dozen whips and experienced healers may even detect a slight uneven curve in her spine all make up a mess of a young woman.

When a slave revolt ended her imprisonment, Tahara could not fathom to return to any semblance of an orcish clan - to return to a people that, in her traumatized mind, abandoned her seemed like trading one master’s mercy for another. Instead, she ran. And she never stopped.

Not until her journey took her to a massive portal, that we know of as the dark portal, at a time we know as the burning crusade. Tahara figured, that as far away from the world as possible, would be the safest place for her to be and crossed through the magic gateway into Azeroth. There, she decided to withdraw from society, orcish or otherwise and live on her own. Uneducated as she may be, Tahara became an avid survivalist, and turned out to be quite the savant with a bow, teaching herself all the necessary skills to survive. Azeroth proved a much more comfortable home - relatively speaking at least, when one hails from Outland. She eventually made her way to the home of the Horde and in its hodge podge of races, found a quiet solace amidst the unwanted and the rabble. She began to trade her kills from the wild and while never truly making any money, continued to survive. Living mostly in Durotar and the Barrens, she eventually made an unlikely friendship: that of a young hyena. Scrappy and abandoned much like herself, Tahara couldn’t stand to leave the runt of a litter perish on her own. She took the pup in, called her Chuckles, after the sound she made and cared for her. To everyone’s surprise, where other hyena pups doubled their weight, Chuckles tripled it. Growing into what is already a massive example of a predator, yet still young enough to grow even taller. Ultimately, Tahara remained unimportant, thriving mostly in the shadows. But with an undead on the Warchief’s throne, even someone like her can understand a simple wrong when it is done. Hearing of the deeds in both Darkshore and Tirisfal, the realization sinks in that if Tahara is to survive the coming years, she had best find a pack - and the right one, at that.