I’ve consolidated my stories of Azeroth into one blog.
Cheers, Dean
Aylora
Hunter, Night Elf, female, savior … All these words describe she who saved me from certain doom when my clan was massacred by the quillboar many ages ago. To track anyone (or anything) in the wide world of Azeroth was difficult enough, but to track someone who was Alliance, almost impossible. As much money as I have spent on bribes to find her, many of the reports I received about her could not be verified. Reportedly a member of a small Alliance guild Obliterati, tales of her adventures were like whispers in the wind. It is said that the Obliterati, comprising a seasoned hodge-podge of Alliance classes and races, were a tight knit group, whose origins descended from a long-dead, and almost mythical, coven known as only as “C.O.T.D.”. Given the strained and uneasy relationship between the Horde and the Alliance, it is almost a certainty that I would never get the chance to meet with my savior again, or know if she continues to roam through lands that I would never see. Perhaps one day, and I pray this to be so, Horde and Alliance can live in true peace and harmony, that the true nature of “humanity” can be fully valued.
Kudos to Kodos
Azeroth is vast – even with the addition of the Orc nation and the Undead Forsaken to its original inhabitants, some zones on its two known continents are virtually devoid of civilization. Of course, flight paths link most of the major cities and towns, but for the more remote areas, it is a long and tedious run to get to your destination. For a hunter with Aspect of the Cheetah, these long runs are less tedious – but any adventurer worth his own salt knows that for true speed, a mount is a necessity.
There are different types of mounts, of course – most are restricted to specific classes and/or races – the demon “horse” for warlocks, wolf-riders for Orcs, and raptors for Trolls. The mount of choice for a Tauren is the kodo, commonly found in the Barrens, Desolace and a few other places. This massive animal, weighing in at more than 1 tonne, is, of course, strong – it needs to be to carry the massive frame of a Tauren – but it is also surprisingly fast.
Most kodo are not suited as mounts – not because of they lack strength, but because of it. A kodo run amok in a stable, well … 1 tonne of pure muscle mass thrashing about in a confined space would not be very good, to say the least. Not to mention the devastation it would cause running around in the city.
As such, kodos selected for taming must have the right temperament … and for mounts, a spark of intelligence as well. Weeding out the kodos from the kodos (so to speak) is the job of the Harb Clawhoof, the Tauren mount trainer. His partner (in crime, some people say, because they have a monopoly on the business), Kar Stormringer had the responsibility to train the rider in how to handle the mounts – bad handling can lead to … well broken bones would be the least of your worries if you mishandled a kodo.
Strangely enough, some goblins in Desolace have “perfected” a technique to tame the kodo as beasts of burden. I did not believe this when I heard of it and traveled all the way to see this truth for myself. I even escorted one of their kodo trains through the treacherous Mannoroc Coven. Amazing – I just hope that when the day comes for them to bring their technique out into the world, they remember my service to them, so that I get the chance to carry my “bank” with me everywhere I go.
Mounts are not cheap, and neither were the riding lessons. It took almost forever to get the 90g needed for both – no job was too small, so long as it brought in some money. Cooking, making bandages, working on leather armor and kits, fishing – you name, I did it. By the time I hit my 40th season, I had saved enough … and was itching to get back on the road. Where would I go? What wondrous lands and incredible sights would I see, now that I have a better and faster means of transport?
Buoyed by the opportunities presented to me, I readily parted with my hard-earned money and began training. Like a hunter’s pet, you didn’t simply buy a mount and start riding straight away. Developing the trust and kinship to the animal was a necessity – more so for a kodo, unless you wanted to get trampled on. Under the stern and demanding eye of Kar, I learned to read my mounts’ “mood”, while she, mine. We learned “simple” tricks together, like jumping over obstacles, running up a slope, and down it (without breaking our necks), walking backwards (which for a 4-legged creature, can be quite difficult).
Finally, our “day of release” arrived, and with a joyful gallop through the city (which caused quite a ruckus, I was later told), I set forth to seek my fortune.
Crossing the path of a black cat
The old wives’ tale about bad luck befalling you if you cross the path of a black cat is well known to everyone. For the case of this hunter, that old tale led to an interesting encounter in the Barrens.
The Crossroads in the Barrens really lives up to its name as the melting pot of Kalimdor. The ebb and flow of travelers into the town keep the wyvern master and his pets busy day and night. Orc, Troll, Tauren and Undead, congregate in this home-away-from-home, bringing tales of high adventure, lucky escapes, and as often as not, misadventures with sad endings.
It was a typical Barrens-cool evening when I flew in from Thunderbluff, having just visited the expert leatherworker there, upgrading my skills. As usual, I started my rounds of the traders – some unusual items made their way here, (indicative) of the travelers that made this place their base of operations.
A commotion by the east gate caught my attention – the guards were half carrying, half dragging an Orc into the relative shade of the inn. Using my larger body frame to good advantage, I jostled my way to the front, bandages at the ready.
The young Orc was badly wounded, his body covered in bloody, gaping wounds. Fannorn, as my memory dragged up his name … was either very lucky, or was tougher then he looked. The claw marks on his body were massive – if I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought a bear made them (there were no wild bears in the Barrens … were there?). The bite that had ripped through his thigh, though, had the characteristic pattern of a cat bite, but what cat? The fang marks were deeper and wider apart than that of the normal savannah cat.
A priest was called for, to further tend his wounds. In the mean time, we questioned him on his state, and listened with a mixture of disbelief and sympathy as his tale unfolded. He had been hunting the Zehvra runners and tallstriders just east of the Crossroads, near Ratchet, when he was pounced upon what he called the blackest devil he had ever seen. Built like the Savannah Patriarchs, this “black devil” was twice their size, and ran faster and hit harder then any he had ever seen. Many of the “long-time” residents of the Barrens scoffed at this. After all, the Orcs and Goblins regularly cleared the well-traveled road between here and Ratchet – the Goblins in particular, who ran Ratchet, were diligent about this – it was bad for business if travelers and caravans were attacked too often. Besides, most of the “dangerous” animals were in the deep south, where hordes of quillboar still ran rampant.
As the disbelieving began wandering off to find other amusements, several observations left me doubtful if Fannorn was making this tale up. The wounds were on Fannorn were certainly real …. and while he was a relatively young Orc warrior (to my mind) to be out adventuring on his own in this unforgiving place, he had, to my knowledge, sense enough to know what he could tackle and what to leave alone.
A priest finally arrived and took charge of the situation, shooing people away and demanding quiet as he set up his healing spells. While Fannorn recovered, I decided to do a bit of snooping around at the place he described where the attack occurred.
The trail Fannorn had left behind was easy enough to follow, even in the fading light. Heading due out of Crossroads, towards the cliffs that surrounded Ratchet. It was easy enough to find the spot where Fann had been attacked too …. at the edge of a pride of Savannah Patriarchs and Matriarchs and their cubs. Could any of these cats been the attacker? None of these could have caused those wounds on Fann, I was sure … and the tracks around the struggle proved to be so …. paw marks larger than any I’d ever seen in the Barrens – a kind of Patriarch overlord, perhaps?
Selecting a spot near the prides’ tree, I hunkered down to keep watch – if my theory was right, eventually, this “pride-lord” would come a-calling, and I would see for myself this “black devil”.
As the night melted into morning, there was still with no sign of the strange cat. I scouted the surrounding terrain – true, that this place was part of a well-traveled road, but not so true was the fact that patrols seldom reached this area. The pride I was observing was relatively unafraid of me, lazing about in the shade of the tree that dominated this area. And then, within the range of my senses …. Fannorn. What was he doing here?
I watched silently as he warily approached my camp, careful to avoid the cats I’d been watching. “Morkrah!” he greeted me as he approached. “I see you have taken it upon yourself to see if this beast exists? So.”
“I will help you stand watch, eh? Even though my wounds are healed, I will need many days of rest to fully recover. Besides, I do not think that the others believe me and I must prove myself. Perhaps with your help, eh?”
A week passed without incident – Fannorn got stronger with each passing day, and he took to patrolling the area, either with me, or sometimes alone. It was during one of his forays alone that the beast reappeared. I awoke my half-doze by a roaring call that echoed through the nearby hills. I scanned the horizon while strapping on my armor, seeing a dust cloud from the north, where I knew Fann had gone on patrol. I hurried in that direction, and heaved a sigh of relief when he came into view, obviously unhurt, but running like the devil himself was after him. And indeed, maybe it was, for scant feet behind him, emerging from the dust cloud behind him, a lithe, black lion was hot on his heels.
It was a good thing we had discussed what to do in such a situation; quickly setting a frost trap in a clear area, I whistled to Fann, waving him over to my direction. As he jumped over the trap, the black lion set off the trap with a bang, and was encased in a cone of ice. Training whip at the ready, it was just a matter of time before I subdued the beast.
With the beast under control, we could then take the measure of the beast – and what a beast it was … larger than the largest lions we’ve ever seen, black as night, with fangs the length of my forearm, and claws the length of my fingers. Not massively built, but well muscled, this cat was built for speed … both in the chase and attack, as Fann almost found out, again.
Grinning from ear to ear, Fann was jubilant that he would be vindicating himself to his nay-sayers, while I … well, I would have the distinction of having an unusual and very lethal pet in my stable.
So, who said crossing the path of a black cat was bad luck?
Footnote: I dragged up an old tome from the archives in Origrimmar that attempted to “decipher” cat speech. “Rrhee-iow” was apparently the feline “word” for black, which I shortened, and christened my new pet.
The taming of Shard
I walked into the firelight, my leathers worn with wear from the 6 months of journeying in the wilds. Tala looked up and raised a questioning eyebrow at my haggard and ragged state. With a bellow of triumph that brought all the villagers out of their tents, I summoned my pet to my side. The hushed awe from the assembled Tauren that followed the appearance of Shard, my newfound companion, was worth the toll of the last few months.
I had lost Rover, my faithful wolf stalker of 5 seasons, in a campaign against to the marauding quillboar in the Barrens. Blasted pigs!!! They had been more cunning and numerous then I had anticipated, and it had only been through Rover’s self-sacrifice that I had managed to escape with my hide intact. I was morose for days after, languishing in self-pity at my lack of judgment that had cost my faithful pet his life.
Then I caught wind of a tale, a tale about an animal, stronger and more ferocious then any animal seen in the plains. Where … and what … was this animal, I had asked? The few stories I heard seemed to be more fable and myth then truth. Some claimed it had been seen it in the north of Kalimdor, others in the central part of the Eastern Kingdoms. All of them, however, attested to its ferocity and strength, and the fact that it was as white as newly fallen snow.
I traced the source of these stories as best could, moving from storyteller to storyteller, seeking clues to the whereabouts of this seemingly mythical creature. One other clue that seemed to be common in many of the stories was the fact that the animal seemed to in constant conflict with short, mountain men. It struck me that these were not men at all but dwarves, which led to the logical deduction that the bear was to be found wherever these dwarves were. This information proved to be easier to find, which led me on my journey to find the lofty peaks of Dun Morogh.
The trek had taken many weeks, through many treacherous lands – the lawless Arathi Highlands, where camps of men, known as the Syndicate, held sway; the swampy Wetlands, with waterways filled with swamp demons; and finally, through several cleverly conceived tunnels through the mountains (controlled by dwarves, but contested by renegade Orcs), to the snowy highlands, known as Dun Morogh.
Difficult as the journey was to get here, my skill at tracking and evasion to avoid the numerous patrols in Dun Morogh was stretched to its limit. Trudging through the snow that frequently came up to my waist, I cursed the cold … a cold so intense it penetrated my fur-lined leathers, chilling me to the bone. After many weeks of foraging off the land, tracking the animals of these mountains, I longed for the warm, humid, rolling plains of Mulgore and wondered at the insanity that had led me here.
Even in this mountainous, snow-white terrain, there were many creatures, some, not unlike those found the plains – troggs, snow cats, wolves and even a snow-white rat-like creature that scampered among the tree roots. The cats and wolves were obviously not the creature of the stories – strong and fierce, like Rover of old, for sure, but nothing … special. I was beginning to think that I would have had more luck in trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack, when fate took a hand in my search.
I was being chased by a dwarven patrol, which chanced upon me as I stumbled, unglamorously, down a slope. I managed to wound one of them before running away, but that left 2 others hot on my heals, on terrain they knew better then me. Heedless of where I was going, I had charged down a valley, rolling as I fell over some loose rocks … and came face to face with a white … something. All I could see at this point were what seemed to be an endless row of teeth. Fortunately for me, the dwarves, in the haste to capture me, also barreled down the slope, right into the creature before me. The fight that ensued was short and furious – the 3 dwarves (the third had limped his way to join the fight) now lay dead in the snow; but the cost to the creature was not trivial. The creature … the bear, as I came to realise … had one eye blinded by blood oozing freely from a deep gash on the left ear, its right fore leg was bent awry, crushed by a dwarven hammer.
I quickly brought my training stick to bear (pun intended) on the creature. In the contest of wills that ensued, uncertainty gripped me. Even so wounded, it was clear to me that the bear’s physical strength, and more surprisingly the underlying intelligence, was formidable. Would my will be able strong enough to tame it? The struggle, which seemed to last for hours, sapped both our resources to the limit. Even as my strength began to fade, it occurred to me that this creature, alone in this desolate landscape, had probably never encountered anything but conflict and strife. It would rather have died than be subdued. This inherent strength was what I was looking for in my companion, and yet … here I was trying to break the very spirit that made it unique. Breaking off our contest for a moment, but still wary of its strength, I did what would have been unthinkable … I cast a healing spell on the bear. The bear paused as the spell took hold, the bleeding from it numerous wounds stopped – the leg would require more work, but what I had essentially done was putting MY life in the hands … well, paws … of the beast.
Exhausted, I moved to the side and knelt in the snow, offering the bear a clear path to freedom, and the opportunity to disembowel me in the process. Curious at the turn of events, it paused, uncertainty evident in its stance. Moving slowly, I extended my arms, allowing it to sniff me and get used to my smell and presence. Encouraged by its aquiescence, I reached out and gently stroked its muzzle, and eventually, its head. Reaching for the pouch on my belt, I took a piece of meat prepared specially for this purpose, and hand fed it to the bear.
Acceptance!!!
Our bond of friendship took longer than normal to develop and strengthen fully, but then again, home, and the celebration that certainly awaited my return, was many weeks away.
Training as a hunter
Today was a special day, one that I had been looking forward to, with some measure dread, for last year. Today I would complete my initiation as a full-fledged Hunter.
My night had been a tormented one, as always; in times of stress, the dream would come to me. As always, I had awakened in the pre-dawn light, sweating and gasping. Unable to sleep again, I dressed carefully in my hunting leathers that hid most of the physical scars of my childhood trauma. The mental traumas, those were another story – they waxed and waned depending on their “mood” (or mine). With a silent greeting to the watcher of the tribal fire, I knelt, breathing deeply to calm myself, both mentally and physically. For today, I would require all my faculties to be at their peak. Today, I would complete my training by showing my prowess at taming the three most common animals in Mulgore … the swift plainstrider, the vicious swoop, and the faithful wolf stalker.
While in my meditative mood, I reviewed what my Hunter trainer, Tala Ironhide, had taught me – the trick to taming a beast is knowing its nature: the plainstrider, a bird that had lost its ability to fly, had developed enormously powerful legs with which to outrun its enemies. If cornered, the sharp talons and beak of this tough bird could rip its attacker apart. The swoops were vicious birds of prey, one of the top predators of the air. Safe in its mastery of the air, it had few enemies, using its aerial advantage to prey on the hapless animals of the plains, striking the deathblow swiftly from above with its massive talons. The wolf stalker, a cunning animal that has the ability to hunt down its prey in long distance chases, delivering its killing blow with strong jaws and an impressive array of teeth.
It was my intention to first master the strider, to show my skill at approaching this wary animal. The second beast I hoped to tame was the swoop, to show my cunning at luring the king of the skies to where it was weakest – the ground. And finally the wolf stalker, which, if … no, when … I passed my initiation, would be my pet of choice as I roamed the plains.
As my conviction and confidence at passing the final test of my skill strengthened, a sense of calm flowed over me. At this point, as if by magic, Tala was by my side, dressed in her usual garb of black leathers. A Tauren of few words, she noted my now relaxed posture and looked me in the eye, and nodding once at me in satisfaction, handed me the taming stick I would use to complete my trials. Nodding in acknowledgement, I took the stick from her, and headed out from the camp … and toward my destiny.
The Dream
I am running … the wind is cool and fresh in the dawn’s early light, blowing through my mane as I pound the soft earth beneath my hooves, stopping only at the crest of one of the low, rolling hills. Breathing deeply from my run, I inhale deeply the distinct smell of the plains – the sweet scent of the rich, green grass, mingled with the loamy, earthly richness of the fertile soil. The expense of long grass, swaying in rhythmic waves as the day brightens, extends as far my eyes could see.
Suddenly, I hear a shrill squeal behind me, and the ground around me erupts in twisting and entangling roots. As my quillboar enemies fall upon me, I draw my weapons, slashing and parrying blows, all the while straining to get my legs free from the deadly embrace of the roots. Slashing left and dodging right, I break free, barreling into the quillboar blocking my path. I run … this time in fear of my life … dodging and slashing at the endless stream of quillboars that seem to sprout from the ground. I feel my strength ebbing fast, and I know … it was only a matter of time … before … I stumble …
… and awake, sweating, heart pounding and gasping for breath, in my bed.
The dream … no, the nightmare … it is always the same. The same one I have had since I was a young calf, orphaned by the war with the quillboars. I had been left for dead, indeed, would have died, if not for the wandering Hunter. She had been tracking the marauding quillboar for days, in an attempt to kill their leader, known only as Sharptusk, for the bounty on his head (actually, his tusks, as I was to learn later on, which were of a distinct shape and sharpness).
Who knows why she stopped to help a hapless and half-dead young Tauren? I only know, from the stories told to me by my adoptive clan, that she coolly walked into their camp the next night, her pet cat by her side, startling the warriors *not* on sentry duty, and risking certain death from the assembled Tauren. Placing my bandaged, and barely alive body at the foot of the chief of the village, she unwrapped the bag on her other shoulder to and tossed the de-tusked head of Sharptusk next me. Once satisfied that her message was understood – that she had nothing to do with the death of my tribe, and had in fact avenged it, and saved me, she turned her back to the campfire and, as silently as she had come, disappeared into the night. The pandemonium that must have ensued after her departure was something I could not describe … suffice to say, many heads were cuffed that night for the fiasco of letting the intruder penetrate so deeply into the camp ….
…. Oh, did I forget to mention that the Hunter I owed my life to was a Night Elf?
