The Feathered Helmet

[Maggrak]

This takes place during the brief stay in Orgrimmar after the tribe pulled out of Splintertree Post.

1/3

I peer down in to the horn. My gaze is chained by the dark brew it contains. The liquid swirls around lazily, stirred by the subtle movements of my hand. It sits deep, far down in to the tip of the horn, and I look in to it as if the brew itself holds all the wisdom required to grant answers to my inquiries. I do not know what I am sampling. Neither does the drudger working the kegs, most likely. I inhale deeply, the brew’s aroma wafting towards my nose. It does not matter. It smells like it should: strong and rich. As I bring the horn to my lips I realise I would not have given a damn if I was treated on a serving of boar piss. I am inside, and the stool I am seated on is so heavily lined and draped with furs that I barely feel my cracked ribs. As long I keep still the wounds slumber. The orc seated behind me who has been telling tall tales to his comrade in too loud a voice ever since they walked in to the hut, suddenly stands up, nudging me in my back, my brew sloshing perilously close to the edge of the horn and my side radiating a wave of sharp pain that courses through my body. I silently grunt the agony away, breathing heavily through my nose. Fucking Warsong. As subtle as a kodo in heat. I throw an annoyed glance at the shape disappearing through the door, in to the sharp light of the Durotar sun. A growl rumbles in my throat as I turn my gaze back to the crude dark wooden table and the horn I hold aloft above it. Warsong. The image of the typical boisterous orc with a bellowing cry races through my head. It still leaves an unpleasant feeling in my gut, but that is all. No longer a seething anger; a fiery hate. No intent to have their blood on my lips and their bitches’ laments on the winds. I have changed. Separation from clan and the company of others has done that to me. My view on the world has broadened. Disgusting. A nauseous sensation courses through me. The roots that make me what I am are being severed. I hastily bring the horn to my lips, taking a swig of the brew. It tastes like it smells, my throat coated with a warm lingering sensation. It drives away the nausea, but not the uncertainty. I am still Hollow by name. Not only by past, but by blood. By how I feel and what I care for. The red haze still seeps in to my eyes when I taste the blood of my quarry. The red madness still surges through my veins when their blood meets mine. The red spirits still demand my undivided worship until their thirst is sated. I am still theirs. But the quarry, the quarry no longer is. It is that of the tribe. This wanton company of orcs. Of clans far and wide. Even the fucking warsong. Not that the red spirits care. All they care about is that I am there once battle is joined and that they get their share… Their share. They had more than their share. They had my death. An odd thing to claim since I am sitting here, downing a brew while shaded from the blistering sun, and undeniably breathing and very much alive. But just as undeniable was the knowledge that I had died. I am sure of it. I felt that deep cold creeping through my veins. The darkness rising up from behind my eyes. My last breath passing between my lips as I was desperately trying to hold on to life. The body had caved, the spirit had not. But infernals do not give a fuck about your spirit. It had slammed me in to the palisade and my body had gone to pieces like a talbuk herd in a wildfire. Death. A glorious death, fighting a demon. My end had come, and by my ancestors, it was glorious. But I was pulled back. A strange and unfamiliar but warm light had parted the cold darkness. It had not been my ancestors to guide me to our jungle grounds, but a pair of glowing blue eyes in a head that was as strange as it was orcish. The half-orc had granted me life, had pulled me away from eternal glory in the afterlife. Fucking blue ones. No doubt it was that side of her that disdained me so much that she had deigned to pull me away from my ancestors. Still… Life. I am here now. Is that so bad? Perhaps not. Besides, she is half Mag’hari and she has strength in her bones. Not painful on the eyes either. No hooves. No tail. Something to consider. No Bleeding Hollow, but no Warsong either. Suddenly a hot, sharp wave of pain shoots up through my body, the veins in my neck bulging as I grimace away a wordless cry of agony. The edge of the table presses heavily in my battered side, pushed out of its place by one of two orcs sitting in front of me. Fucking Warsong! No. Not Warsong. I push the table back into its original position as my gaze lingers on the white paintings on his shoulder blades and the bundles of feathers strapped around his arms. He hisses angrily at his companion before slamming his fist on the table and marching off through the doorway my gaze had seen the Warsong disappear through mere moments ago. Bleeding Hollow. Without doubt. If his appearance was not enough to convince me of his origin the thickly accentuated Z’s in his speech would have. The other one is still seated, taking a gulp of whatever is in the wooden bowl in his hands. As he lowers the thing, showing his facial features, another sensation races through my body. This time it is not pain, and I do not curse the Warsong. It is recognition of a comrade. The eyes that meet mine betray the same sense of familiarity. We both rise from our seats, albeit I do more slowly due to my condition. We clasp arms in greeting. His lips part. ‘Brother’.