A Grumble of Discontent

The cat's claws fastened to the bark of the tree and it pulled itself up swiftly, climbing to the highest branches that could support its weight. A slight shift, and the branch creaked under the bulk of the Tauren now sitting upon it, his back against the trunk of the tree.

He pulled out his jeweler's kit and took out his new pipe, fashioned of draenei bone collected by one of the grots. Loading it with an aromatic blend of herbs from one of his pouches, he produces a lighter set with numerous small and mostly worthless gems, puffing the mixture alight. Closing his eyes, he begins to release the stress and tension he has felt since the orc, Yagyu, took over as Warchief. Breaks did not come often in the war, and this had been needed for so very long.

Deep in his meditative trance, his mind expanded and he entered a sort of half-sleep, seeing that which most would consider not there at all. The hidden connections between things revealed themselves to him, the minor gods of the swamp and the spirits of the ancestors whispering to each other, unaware that they were being heard by the living.

He listened to their words of wisdom and anger, drawing their boundless, patient rage into himself. The effect was a strange one, at once calming his own inner fires, yet laying within them a firm groundwork, so that nothing could put them out. He could call on the feral wrath at any time, and yet if he chose to leave be for a long time, it would be there when he returned to it.

These voices answered questions he had, but also left him with so many more. Such was the way with gods and spirits, a thousand different answers were revealed only to leave one more puzzled than before. Wisdom required much time spent sifting through the chaff to find that little piece of what was truly sought. It was no small wonder that few chose this path, and that many who did were driven insane by their choice. The time when the druid questioned his own sanity had long since passed.

And so the druid roused himself, the sun now setting over the swamp, his pipe having burned out hours ago. Returning it to its box, he shifted and leaped down from the tree, four paws landing gently in the mulch of the swamp. Padding quietly into the Inn, cloaking himself in shadows so he was not observed, the horned lion moved to its room to ponder the mysteries he had witnessed.

The hardest question was still unanswered.

After the conflict with the paladin and subsequent talk with Herra, the Druid once again found it necessary to delve into the realm of the spirits. Doing so this soon after the last quest was dangerous, as there was always the chance one could lose themselves and become trapped in question after question, never finding their way out of the maze. Too many seekers after wisdom fell into this trap. The Grin had played host to a few of them.

Passing through the crowded and noisy city of Shattrath, the Druid made his way as far from the swamp as he could get. His purpose was not to avoid the Grin or the implications of his fight with the paladin, but simply to get closer to the ancestors of his people. A spirit could wander far, but their wisdom ran deepest, like veins of pure gold, through the plains of Kalimdor.

As he passed through the portal, his awareness shifted. The warm, sweet fall air of Thunder Bluff passed through his nostrils and he smiled despite himself. This place was so very familiar. Nodding to those friendly faces that recognized him, he took a lift down and shifted. The cat sprinted through the fields of Mulgore, revelling in the feel of raw nature, before finally coming to a place far from any sign of civilization. These wild places were becoming more scarce, but they could be found if one let their civilized will go.

Shifting, he settled down with his back against the bark of a tree, secure in the knowledge that nothing here could harm him. He pulled out his pipe and began murmuring the ritual, and only moments passed before he heard their voices around him. They greeted him as old friends and family should, for Kalimdor's spirits were quite familiar with those who tread their realms, knew how to recognize them, and knew how best to answer the questions of their own descendants. The taint of the arcane, while hidden deep from the time before the history of his people, was not as strong as on the eastern land.

He listened and spoke only rarely, accepting the advice of his ancestors. For a time it seemed that he was lost in the endless stream of questions. Days passed as the druid's mind swam in the trance state.

When he resurfaced, he had changed. His figure was lean and his mane was matted and greasy, yet he felt assured he had found the answer he sought. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he made his way back to Shattrath, head down and mixing with the crowds.

As he stepped back in to the humid swamp that was his home, his breath ragged from exhaustion and the pollution endemic to Outland, he looked at the war camp. His resolve wavered only slightly. Though doubt had been driven entirely from his mind, the body could only be denied rest for so long. Leaning heavily on his maul, the druid made his way into the Inn. He did not even lift his head to see who was present before he wearily climbed the stairs into his room and fell into his bed to sleep as he had not slept before.

The Grin had brought him to this point in his life. He had pledged his life to it. Despite any doubts he may have had, he was first and foremost a warrior. He had fought beside these warriors in countless battles. They had kept him alive when he would have fallen, and he had rushed to their defense when he had been called. Honor demanded he ignore his doubt and obey his pledge. He would bring the thunder of his hooves when he was called. He would shed his blood until he had none left to shed. For the Grin.