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.
