Traditions

 ((I thank Bazrokh’s player for his time and patience as I learn orc rp fresh off a pseudo-hiatus!))

“Take your time, Merada. We begin when you are ready.” One of the village elders, an old orc woman by the name of Ulga, touched Merada’s arm before returning to the rest of the group.

The young orc, barely on the cusp of womanhood, nodded but did not turn around to acknowledge the gesture. They were sad now, but only a few weeks ago Merada knew that they were whispering behind her back. About her, about her mother, her father-

“Mera, child, come closer. We don’t have much time.”

Eyes full of tears, she looked up at her mother. Merika was always so warm, so full of life, but the Fel which infected her wounds was eating away that strength by the minute. Why the demons had gotten so untethered, so bold in their aggression was unknown, but it didn’t matter. There was not much time, but Mera refused to accept this. She willed- begged- pleaded- forced the power of the elements to purge the infection; Wind to call for help, earth to bear the pain, fire to cleanse the wound, and water to soothe the ache. But it was all for naught. Her mother would die soon. The ancestors were already preparing the feast… but they would have to wait a little longer.

“No, I can do this, mother, I can-” She turned back to her work, but her mother’s voice pulled her back to Merika’s eyes. “You taught me how, I just need to-”

“Shush, and listen to me. I am proud of you, my daughter. As your father would be.” Merika reached for the blood-soaked necklace around her neck, one that had never left her till now. She pressed it weakly into her daughter’s hands, though her hands pushed back on the gesture. “He never forgot you, forgot us. Know that. Know that we are with you, always. Do not be afraid.”

That was easier said than done. She had no one to defend her going forward, fight for her, for the clan had even less reason to accept her after this. They would never let her forget what she was. Mon’kthal were dumber, slower, not fit to join the pack of the Warsong, or of the Mag’har. Her place would be harder to win and easily lost now. She looked down. The horn was clean now, still the beautiful and enviable thing it was when she was a babe, but it felt so heavy in her hands. Like her heart. Like the words she knew she must now speak to the gathering. 

It will all be over soon, she thought, as she pulled the wolf skin over her head to hide the tears, and turned to face the clan. “Elders, warriors, children of Clan Warsong, of the Mag’har, we are called together in the sight of our ancestors to honor my mother, Merika, daughter of Makthar Lonestorm. She was a great warrior, shaman, and healer of our people. Who will speak for her?”

“Warden Bullrok speaks for Merika.” The older orc male stepped forward, removing his helmet. “She was never one to run from battle. She defended this clan with her blood, and has saved many kin, who continue her work in her absence.”

“Kera G'ochar speaks for Merika.” A woman, the same age as Merada, spoke next. “She held watch over the birth of my son Kold when my bleeding was great and the spirits sent him to us early, while his heart was still weak. Both of us would have died that night if not for her wisdom.”

Merada glanced down at Kold, who held his mother’s hand tightly, though his eyes gave away his confusion and boredom at the events unfolding around him. Merika was not alone that night, for the only reason both survived the ordeal was because in truth Mera was also there, tending to the newborn baby. It was she who kept him warm by the fire while his mother’s life was saved. Not that the clan would ever acknowledge that fact.

“Geyah speaks for Merika.” Merada felt her back straighten at the voice of the Greatmother Geyah. She had not expected the matron to be here, as she was of great age and meant to be resting in her tent. “Merika was a student of mine. She took to the ways of the elements like a bird to the air. Some of you I know counted her as wild, untameable, disrespectful of our traditions. Yet here is her daughter, barely a woman, sending her to greet the Ancestors like a shaman three times her age. She honors us, and we must do all we can to be worthy of it.”

Many in attendance were shocked by the Greatmother’s words. Some did well in hiding it, while others waited till no one was watching to glower at Merada. Merada didn’t mind it. If the Greatmother Geyah was willing to stand in this moment, maybe there was hope for her place after all. Or not. The Greatmother was old. When she passed, would Merada be put right back into this position? Fears for another time.

“Thank you, Greatmother, Kera, and Warden Bullrok. We now give her body to the fire, so that her ashes may mix with the air, and the water and earth guide her path to join the ancestors.”

The four of them reached for torches, already lit by the brazier between them and Merada, and one by one added them to the pyre. The wood was dry, caught easily, and burned bright and hot. The warmth was its own comfort, like an embrace. In the dancing flames, the daughter could almost see her mother, reveling in glory with her ancestors, being welcomed into her long-deserved place of honor and rest. Maybe she would reunite with her mate there. Maybe she left that task to her only child.

Know that we are with you, always. Do not be afraid.

“I will try, mother. I will try.”

Tradition dictated she stayed and tended the flame till the feasting songs coming from the village ended and the last ember of the funeral pyre faded. 

Merada, left alone, stayed long after that. 

---

Several Years Later...

Merada had never seen green before. This might have seemed odd, given that she had lived in Nagrand all her life, the only solidly green part of the broken husk of what was once Draenor, now known as Outland. But compared to her home, the Jade Forest was almost alien. This was green, she realized with some shakiness. Verdant and colorful and rich, alive with a veracity that made home seem... tired now, in retrospect. She pushed the feeling aside. Now was not the time to be missing a place that did not miss her.

One thing she would not discount was how blessedly flat Nagrand was, as she willed her sore feet up the final steep, winding hill to the place she had only just come to learn was called the Tian Monastery. The complex was larger than she would have guessed, but it was simple enough to ascertain which building was meant for visitors; her brief time in Orgrimmar after the Kosh’harg festival taught her that flags on the front of a building often meant 'official', and thus helpful. 

Cautiously entering, she gave a courteous bow she had seen other of these Pandaren make, and asked, "Greetings, Elder. I am looking for... an orc, like me, but green-skinned, and older?"

“I am not that old, but what manners! And in one so young!” The Pandearen laughed, stroking his red beard in thought. “I thank you though. You must mean Bazrokh? He is usually found under the peach trees this early in the morning, teaching those Greenwood thieves a lesson! Take the path down and to the left, past the big bell, and to the left again- Oh, and take this tea with you. It is unusually cold today.”

This early in the morning? It was practically the afternoon! At least now she knew the name of the one she was meant to find.

The porcelain container was practically forced into her hands, but Merada did not protest too much. Another lesson already learned was that it was easier to accept the hospitality offered in this land rather than argue against it, or else one somehow leaves with more food than was initially offered. Instead, she followed the directions to the letter, and soon enough came face to face, or rather face to back, with an old orc warrior. He appeared to be taking in the view of the temple in the distance. 

Suddenly unsure of herself, it took her longer than it should to get out the words, “...Elder Bazrokh? I...I come seeking your guidance.”

Bazrokh breathed in the peaceful forest air, the chronic chest pains were barely noticeable today, even after spending the morning beating the Greenwood thieves back to their holes with the bamboo staff that now rested beside him. Some young Prandren monk had made it for him, mainly as a walking stick for the old orc to support himself. 

But it was solid and made for quite the blunt weapon when needing to punish little thieves or other things that would bother him during his new morning routine. He sighed. 

Retirement. Yes, there it was at last, not some months ago he had been enjoying solitary hunting in the Azure Span, one last adventure into the wilds before old age caught up to him, tracking, patrolling the wilds, slaying marauding bands of Gnolls and trading with the local Tuskarr. Good times, but he knew all this would happen eventually, sadly it seemed to have come sooner than the old orc would have liked. Still, all things must end...His left ear twitched, a movement behind him. Someone was approaching. He almost reached for the bamboo staff next to him. The orc was old, but he was still wiley, and even today he would not be easy to kill. The footsteps he heard were heavy, but approaching at a steady pace. Whoever this was either didn't have hostile intent or wasn't looking to make a stealthy approach. 

The scent the wind brought to his nose was strange but almost familiar, like a forgotten memory but also not, it was subtle, but what he did know was that it was orcish. That he had no doubt. He didn't move to turn, he simply continued to watch over the temple from the hill he sat on, under one of the peach trees. He heard the voice behind him. Young, strong, and full of life, that much he could already tell. 

"You've come a long way for guidance, young one." he chuckled.

An unsteady breath as the one behind him as the stranger battled her nerves, but she pressed on, getting closer to stand at his side. She was indeed young, but there was a weight on her that seemed to drag behind every word. Tradition, ancient and embedded, that was its name. It hung heavy on her from how she braided her hair, to the style of her robes, to how she addressed him. Like she had stepped straight out of the portal from the old days, before the Fel, and right into this garden. Surely she had, for her earthen skin and gold eyes were free from any taint. "I have, Elder. I meant to speak with you during the Kosh’harg, but...well, I am here now, ancestors willing, and I have tea from the innkeeper that I would be honored if you shared with me."

Bazrokh Firestep, now an old orc.

The old orc was sitting on an old tree stump covered in grass and moss, he turned to his side and looked up at the younger orc woman. He regarded and studied her for a moment. Tall, earthen skinned, of yes, definitely Mag'har, but more so much so. Her fashion and clothing were of an older style but familiar to him, it nearly had the older orc's mind return to the olden days of his youth for but a moment... "Well, if we must be formal, I would be honored to share tea with a daughter of the Mok'nathal." Bazrokh's tone indicated no mockery or taunt in the statement, but in fact respect with a mix of curiosity. His deep-set eyes surrounded by wrinkled skin had seen their fair share in the eighty summers of his life, so her lineage would be obvious to him. "But please, make your name known to the young one and take a seat. It seems you are familiar with my name, so I would honor you with the same." He said, gesturing for her to sit next to him. "You've traveled far just to find me. So you have my curiosity." 

The old hunter's demeanor was calm, much reflecting the atmosphere of the surrounding mountains and forest, well in view in this elevated position. The peach tree looming above-provided plenty of shade from the passing afternoon sun.

She visibly flinched at the name, afraid to her core that the truth had been so easily found out, and expecting some abuse to follow. Hearing none, and seeing no malice, she settled down on the ground to set out the tea. “I am sorry, I was not sure how you would react. I thought formal would be best, just in case.” She admitted, smiling through the awkwardness. “I am Merada, daughter of Merika, of the Warsong tribe… and the Mok'nathal, it is true. I wasn’t raised with them, just my mother in Garadar- I mean in Outland. I have lived there all my life, until now.” She offered the cup of tea with both hands, gentle as freshly tilled soil.

Bazrokh regarded her a moment before a warm smile curved around his one unbroken tusk. He accepted the offered cup with both hands before nodding to her. "Throm'ka Merada, daughter of Merika, child of the honored Warsong Clan." He chuckled a bit before taking a short sip of the tea. It was good, of course. If anything could be easily enjoyed in Pandaria it was food and drink. Everyone in the world agreed on that, at least to him. "Hmm, your formality is unsurprising seeing where you are from. I see the elders of Garadar are still stuck in their ways..." He paused a moment, seeming to disapprove, as he regarded her again. "And in their views on certain things.." he sighed. "Trouble yourself not. I've spent as much of my life among a variety of different people along with our own. Your lineage does not make you any less an orc than I. Our history is simply different. It doesn't make it any less of a good story. Nor do our bloodline determine our deeds and choices in life." he lost his smile a moment. "For all their pride in being "uncorrupted", a few of those in Garadar seem to think stagnation an honorable path..." he groaned, as old people often do when complaining at the passing clouds. "Traditions are important to preserve, even more so for -our- people, as you saw at the Kosh'harg, but it doesn't mean one must be completely closed off to change that comes naturally with time. Such Isolation, it breeds strife where none is needed." He drank another sip of tea, realizing he was monologuing again. Ancestors he hated being old. He started to wonder if he was going to bore this young one to death. She'd hardly be the first, he mused. He couldn't help but chuckle again. "But please, tell me, what brings you here, to this peaceful place?"

Merada chuckled and began to relax with the tea in her hands. "My mother would often say the same thing, but it is a comfort to have her wisdom echoed again." She took a sip, letting him monologue as long as he willed while listening to it with intense focus; she was no stranger to it where she was from, but she was far from bored. "You bring me here, Eld- I mean Bazrokh." She smiled back with a little too much tusk and teeth, but it was genuine. "The spirits told me to come. So, I followed their guidance. I can not hear them, as well as Mother could, but they were so insistent it would have been easier to wrestle a full-grown clefthoof to the ground than to ignore them." She laughed, then added sadly, "I think... I think they know I need the help. My mother is dead, I do not know my father, and I am a child of the tribe no longer. I'm not sure I ever was, to be honest."

It may have been considered uncouth to compare the spirits to a wild clefthoof bull on a mating rut, but in Merada’s defense, those were the best words she had to describe the sensation she felt that day. She remembered it as chaotic in all senses of the word at the festival. There were a lot of firsts that day; the first time she had left Nagrand, the first time to use a portal, the first time in Orgrimmar, much less a whole other world in Azeroth, and the first time she had been exposed to the other clans and that many orcs. But the first that stuck out to her the most was the first time she had felt such a presence overtake her. 

She was aiding in the assembly of the Ancestor’s Feast with the other younglings looking to participate in the Om'gora, to be recognized as an adult by her people, when an unseen, metaphorical ogron fist wrapped around her spine with an iron grip and ordered her to LOOK. Of course, she had heard the elements back home, but they were a whisper compared to what this voice was commanding her to do. So Merada turned in the direction of the prompting, and there, among the other elders, was an orc of green skin and white hair. She didn’t even know his name, much less his deeds or his clan, but the next prompting to SPEAK with the elder warrior came with just as much force as the first one had. She nearly choked on the word, the grip shifting to grasp her throat rather than her spine.

She did her best, but in the previously mentioned chaos of the festival, Bazrokh slipped away, and ever since then the order to FOLLOW  had put an urgency in her step all the way to this very moment.

The warm smile remained on the old one's face. He envied her. Though no doubt she had struggled with much and still did, it was plain for him to see. She was full of life, and instinct told him she had a well of determination within her. She was looking for her path. "Strange for the spirits to guide you to meet with a dying old wolf in one of the most peaceful places in the world. But then again they always have their reasons, don't they? I am no shaman myself mind you, but it is clear to me your mother had great skills in communing with them. You may not have the same level of skill for now, but like anything, it just needs time, growth, and discipline to become sharper. I think you honor her by doing so, all the while finding your own path." he said, one hand stroking his long snowy white beard. "The quest to find one's path in the world never comes with a clear answer, but I will provide you with any wisdom you require. It will be up to you to decide if that wisdom is good enough...or you can call me a senile old talbuk and be off." He said with a laugh.

"You would have to be one of the Draenei first before I could call you a senile old talbuk. You are missing the required goat feet." She teased but thought over his words with an expressive telling face. Unsure of where to start, she removed an ornate necklace from under her direwolf cloak. It was made with love, with many leather cords for beads and talismans, among which were unmistakable first fangs from a wolf. It all ended in a Clefthoof horn, which had been cleanly split in half, capped in iron, and etched with designs according to the traditions of the clan. Turning it over, more in thought than to show him, she revealed the engraving within the hollowed portion; 'So that no matter how far apart, we are never separated'.

"I know you do not know me. But I believe that old wolves are old for a reason, and I need to understand that strength I think. I...I learned them all, every traditional song, dance, medicine, and ritual so that my mother would be happy. So I could not be denied a place when she passed. Only now I have to decide if it is a place of honor after all. You know our history, our real history, not the old tales that I've heard repeated time and time again. Was I right? Is it better to stray from the pack that has protected me, runt as I am, if the pack would see me barely a step from starvation at their fire? They have given me everything, but... I am still angry, in my own way. There are so few left, yet I want no part of them."

Bazrokh listened intently to her words. He looked at the traditional and ornate necklace, clearly made with love and care and obvious significance. He nodded after she had spoken. "Our history is a long and bloody one. I cannot say I did not take part in those darker years, but we all had our reasons for doing the things we did. We only learned too late that very little of it was justified. One lesson I can teach you from that is never to let others determine your path for you. If where you are now and where you were before has left you scarred and angered, then perhaps staying only for loyalty is the wrong reason. I would say your mother raised you the only way she knew how, and there is no doubt she loved you. But she is gone and you are not beholden to her fate or the others in Garadar. Home is where your heart is, not where others tell you it is. Yes, you were raised among them, but you were also treated lesser because of your blood. Is staying within that really where your heart is? If you wish only to add to preserving old traditions in Garadar out of loyalty then you should, if that leaves you content. But I think we both know that is not truly the case deep down." 

The old orc gestured to the horizon. "There is so much more to see outside the confines of Outland. Places to explore, to witness, people to meet. I think the spirits are encouraging a bit of wanderlust within you. I've traveled more roads than many can count. I have fought, killed, commanded armies, adventured from one end of Azeroth to another and beyond. I have seen kingdoms and warchiefs rise and fall. I have lived peace time and I have seen the depths of horror. It's been a full life, full of strife...but also many blessings. There is comfort in staying in the familiar, but in doing so, imagine all the things you'd be missing out on. And you'll not learn much just sitting around, knitting baskets with the old folks in Garadar. No offense, but there is so much more to life than what that village can provide. They live a dream of a time long passed. A past we cannot change or return to. We can only change ourselves. The old road is paved behind us, there is no turning back, heh, some have tried, trust me. Uncertainty always lies ahead, but that doesn't mean it is terrible all the time. You will find pain, loss, and turmoil along the way, but that just gives value to the good things you'll find there too; Friends, compatriots, and family. Perhaps that is what your heart desires, or maybe it's personal honor, glory, a name for yourself. Whatever it may be, moving forward would not dishonor where you're from, you take what you learned with you and you tread your own path. In the end, it's a choice only you can make." he finished. "All it takes is one step forward. You can look back behind you. But don't let it be a rock that holds you in place."

Merada gripped the horn tightly. "You speak the words my heart wants to hear, Elder. Yet... I do not know. I reason that the loss is still fresh, the wound still raw, and so I cling to what I know so that something of my mother remains with me. I do not fault her for it. She was strong and willful and free like the wind, but she fought like a den mother to ensure I was part of the clan, yet I have had to fight harder to ensure I could remain, and I am already so tired. Am I not dishonoring her by giving up? Then again, she is the one that blazed the trail to begin with, mating with my father. Is it more honorable to follow that example, Elder? By your words, I mean to understand the answer is yes."

Bazrokh shook his head, kindness and patience evident in his aged features. "I cannot say what is more "honorable." That depends on who you ask. And you'll often find it differs much from one elder to another." He chuckled "But from what I see, you are not your mother, you are yourself. She raised you, loved you, and provided for you, but I very much doubt she would want her death to hold you in place. Grieve as you must, that cannot be rushed, but do not forget in the meantime, you have strength, Merada, all your own. You were raised a fighter. The world...the world needs new blood. Those who came before you, we fought so we could pass on to you young pups. The world always needs those willing to fight for what they hold dear, but that doesn't mean sacrificing your freedom to uphold traditions you do not feel have honored you, or if you feel it a different call, honor those traditions you were raised with by carrying them with you, wherever you may venture. You'll always find a cause or people to fight for, that is our nature as orcs. But our people were not made to be idle. You'll find very few are. You carry your mother's love with you. You carry her teachings, but those were never made to be your chains, they are gifts, inherited from her. You honor her already by doing that. Now you must choose what to do with them." he said with a shrug, looking back at the horizon again.

Merada sighed. That was an answer enough.

"Not an easy choice eh?" the old Orc chuckled, taking another sip of tea. "And even with what you know, the world might just teach you some new lessons. Don't feel at fault for questioning everything. To question is to be wise, trust me on that, heh." he said, the tone was full of implications.

She chuckled, the pause allowing her to drink her tea, though it was cold. Taking time to refill both their cups, she mused, "Honor that which honors you. Hm. I had not considered that. It is taught that to lose the clan is to lose everything but... then again, what has the clan truly given me? They did not let me starve and die to the cold, yet neither was I praised or shown gratitude. More an unwanted guest than a child. And haven't the clans lost everything once before? Several times over, in fact? Yet here we are, generations apart, enjoying tea in peace while in a foreign land. Still the same, just elsewhere. Maybe that's why my father. He was her elsewhere. Now I must find mine..." Mera blinked, realizing she had been thinking out loud herself. She was not embarrassed though, more relieved. "Sorry, this is the first time I have been allowed to admit to any of this. Yes, to question is good. I just have to get used to it, don't I?" She smiled.

Bazrokh returned her smile, agreeing with her words. "You will get more used to it in time. We're never really done learning. Speak your mind as you need it. You came for guidance after all. But you must be honest with yourself first, before listening to the prattle of some old orc." He chuckled before sighing a moment, seemingly to think. The wind was gentle here. "When it comes to clans, our people have struggled with preserving our way of life. You'll find here on Azeroth, that a clan is more of an ancestral tie, an homage to a lineage that was lost in the chaos of corruption and war. We orcs found it easier to come together, rather than return to our more...divided ways. Not without struggle."

The young woman’s face turned sour with confusion. Bazrokh raised his hand for her to wait.

"Let me tell you a story if you'll allow me...I was born under the shadow of the frozen mountains of Frostfire Ridge. Thunderlord Clan, hunters of Ogres, beast breakers, and Gronnstalkers." he said with a tone of amusement as if to emphasize what all those things used to mean a long time ago. "We were close to the spirits of the land. Our skills as scouts and trackers were renowned. But when the dark times came, we joined in the frenzy all the same. Some embraced darker powers and committed unspeakable acts against our world and everyone on it. Things none of us had done before. And we were hardly the only clan too. Did you know the Warsong were the first to drink the demon blood? What we traded back then can never be taken back. But, that was long ago. It does not make orcs who they are today, especially those not born of those times. The sins of our people will die with the oldest of us. It's time for you young ones to write your own story...and make your own mistakes. Just as you are not beholden to those who cling to what is lost. Especially if they cannot accept you as you are."

"I recall hearing a different version of that story, but... I never believed it. The times were dark indeed. Our world was dying beneath our feet. What could be done? Not that I pardon what happened after but... I understand. Growing up at the end of that story, I can not blame you, the elders, for making the choices you did with the knowledge you had in the beginning. Not entirely, anyway. Each action is one's own, but every choice is a result of the choices before it. The only reason my ancestors were not among those who drank the blood was because they were sick with the red pox. If they were not ill, would I have been born? My mother did not leave with those who followed Hellscream, though she was young and fit and a worthy warrior, but I know the stories he was raised on. I feel the weight of his actions just looking at this land..... I do not think that our 'uncorrupted' blood makes the Mag'har- those of us still in Outland, I mean- any better or worse. Then again I would say that, as a mok'nathal... but the argument is the same there, isn't it? They did not choose to be born, and they made themselves a home outside of the clans because the clans would not accept them. Yet some still fought for the survival of our people, and now for the Horde." She took a sip of tea, a realization slipping out before her mind could catch it. "Just like I want to."

Bazrokh remained silent for a moment, letting her realization settle in. He couldn't hold back a smirk. He simply drank a sip of tea and nodded. "Our path is always our own to make. We can't change the past, but you have everything you need to start finding your future." A bell could be heard tolling from the monastery; the afternoon meal was being served. The first of two. Bazrokh didn't seem to mind it, if anything the sound was gentle, almost adding to the serenity of the forest.

The silence continued for some time while Mera thought things through, but it was a comfortable one. There was plenty to fill the air till she spoke again, and when she did, she sounded a more confident woman. "Elder, you wouldn't happen to know a...direction, I could start looking in, for my future?"

The old orc chuckled a bit. "That is something I think I can help you with...it's not much, but it's a direction and a good one at that." he reached into a small pack that had been lying on the other side of him. He rummaged through it, mumbling a few curses under his breath as he did. "Ah!...here it is." What he had found he now presented to Merada, it was some kind of metallic stone, jet black in color. It was not obsidian but something more akin to metal. It was a lump of Blackrock Ore, something that was nearly non-existent in Outland anymore. Something from an older time, when it was still Draenor. On it was etched a single letter, the first letter of the elder's name. "Take this. And show it to a Blackrock orc named Dorant Emberscowl. He is a former protege of mine from a different...version of the Draenor than the one we know. He is the leader of a group of adventurers, the Emberheart Expeditions. Dorant served me as a soldier and student for many years, he's a good young fellow who commands much respect among his peers. His group is filled with a variety of people from all over Azeroth. From what I hear it's quite the mix of people seeking to make little paths of their own. You will find them at their home here in Pandaria. Go to Halfhill in the Valley of Four Winds. Tell Dorant I sent you. He will make a place for you among them, that much I assure you. And Ancestors willing, it'll help build your path too." he said with a kind smile.

She nodded, taking the ore with both hands and turning it over in her hands. Her eyes lit up as she felt the rough texture, a look of recognition. Closing her grip, smashing it in her palms, her eyebrows knit together, she began to shape the rock, first into a star, then a cube, and finally a perfect sphere, which she tossed into the air absentmindedly before she palmed it one last time, returning it to the shape it was when Bazrokh first handed it to her. Merada held it close to her chest, like a pet. “You…this is a great honor, Bazrokh. Thank you. I will see that your student receives this, though I have another request. I will go, but I-I would like to return and stay here with you and hear more of your stories. Learn more about this world I am set to explore. Besides, it is not right that you are alone so before you go and join our ancestors. That is one tradition I would see honored, Elder.” She saluted him, this time as was customary for their people.

Bazrokh chuckle lightly, before placing his right hand over his heart, a costumery gesture to honor and show gratitude. "Oh, you needn't worry about me. Solitude is nice from time to time. But I welcome any visitors that come. I fear you're hardly the only one who will be floating around this old carcass before my end. So noisy!" The old orc said, feigning some kind of grumpy old man temperament before winking. "The ore is a gift, and It will let Dorant know I vouch for you myself. May your adventures be fruitful and teach you many lessons, young Merada. And uh, don't be afraid to try new things. Pandaria for example is a very welcoming place. Travel, wander, learn more about your craft. Speak to the earthen ring at the Maelstrom. The world is yours to see, maybe along the way you'll find what you've always been searching for." The old orc sighed before looking over the horizon again. "I know I did..." he said with a peaceful smile.

She nodded in acknowledgment but was not fooled by the performance. "The world is mine to see, that may be so, but if I am to learn, I want to learn all there is. Including that which has already been learned." She grinned, twisting his words back on him. "Given I am in no rush now. The spirits here are... different from home." Gripping the ore in her hand tight, she continued, "If Pandaria is the stronghold of this Emberheart Expedition, then I would like to learn how to communicate with them before I offer myself to them."

Bazrokh laughed. "Well played young one. Well played indeed. But aye, Pandaria is a strange land even by my standards. It's much more peaceful than it was after we first landed here. There was a time when raw emotion would manifest into dark beings named the Sha, courtesy of the heart of an old god entombed here. The governing spirits here, called the celestials, taught the Pandaren to control their emotions through training and discipline. Let's just say when the warring Horde and Alliance landed here...we made quite a mess. And many were lost to their hatred, doubts, violence...and pride." The old orc shook his head as he remembered those days. "They have temples in the various regions here. The elemental spirits are intertwined with them in their unique way from what I am told. The Sha are no more thankfully, when Garrosh Hellscream tore the heart from the land, nearly destroying it in the process...along with the Horde."

Merada’s bright smile clouded with sorrow. So she did know some of what had transpired on this side of the Dark Portal. Good. That was not a story Bazrokh wanted to tell if he didn’t have to.

"Nowadays though, harmony exists, with its little comings and goings." The Orc pointed to a distant ruin far to the north. "I nearly died there, consumed by a long and heavy hatred I carried for many years. The Pandaren saved my life and I fell in love with this land." he said, reminiscing.

The impulse to ask about that time was strong, for she had heard much but only spoken in whispers, but Mera bit her tongue. “I have already had some experience there. The river spirits here are far more mischievous than anywhere I have been.” She grimaced, “But to have one's own emotions made real like that… I am glad to have missed that time, truly… Is it true there really is a forest of gold west of here, where the trees bloom like it is the height of spring forever?” 

Bazrokh nodded "The Vale of Eternal Blossoms. It is considered the most sacred place in Pandaria. For a long time, its hallowed gates were closed off, it is the source of Pandaria's life-giving waters that feed plenty of the valleys below. The place is beautiful and how you describe it is true...for the most part. It still bears not only the scars of Garrosh's folly, but also the invasion of another old god during the last war. Everyone there is hard at work trying to rebuild those sacred grounds." he explained. He didn't seem to mind the questions, in fact, the old orc seemed accustomed to storytelling. As was perhaps expected of elders like him.

"I heard there was another war, in Orgrimmar... I heard in Orgrimmar that there was another war." She corrected. "Do... do you think that it will happen again? Another war like that, I mean. From what I could gather this 'new' Horde, though different from the old Fel one...still has some grudges. Grudges that could fester and boil over like before."

Bazrokh sighed "I do not think I can answer that with certainty. What I do know is that many of the old hatreds are slowly being laid to rest. Grudges are one thing, but...vengeance and blood feuds have cost enough lives. And I say this knowing I was a willing participant in such events. It is my hope, like many, that the younger generations learn to live on passed such things. The world is always under siege by some force or another and in those times, more often than not, Both Horde and Alliance have fought side by side more often than against each other. Will it happen again? There will always be a war at some point, as that is often the price of peace, but I do not think they will lean on the old hatreds of a bunch of people who are already dead or too old and tired to carry on the quarrels of the past. Living with the ghosts of such times is a burden enough and I have buried too many young warriors encouraged by old grudges they were never meant to learn from or carry." he said, the old orc had a haunted expression before shaking himself, a fit of coughs escaping him. He gripped his chest a moment as his breath returned, clearing his throat. "Better to learn from the past than try to live it again."

Merada jumped to her feet, summoning the water from her drink skin and putting it into action to soothe the old orc's pain. She nodded along, hurried with his words, and quietly chastised herself for her line of questioning. “I will learn, Bazrokh. I promise….I promise.”

Bazrokh chuckled gently. "I'm fine young one, I am fine. Such is the burden of old age," he said after taking a drink of water. "Thank you, Merada. But I am not worried, you will learn, the world has many lessons to teach and I still have a few more stories left in me. The dark moments of the past are simply one part of the tapestry of a life long-lived. I made peace with that some time ago. Do not worry about me. I have enough people nursing over me." he recounted with a gruff but weak smile.

"Maybe, but I am here and they are not." She continued to heal him, ignoring his protests. ".....How will I know this Dorant? Tell me about him, so that I may know him when I see him."

"Fine..fine" complained the old Orc. "You are truly born a Warsong to be so darn stubborn," he said with humor. "Anyhow...yes, Dorant...you will recognize him easily. He is a young Blackrock Orc, tall, muscular, and jet black skin. Eyes bright as flame. Has a mechanical forged element-infused prosthetic to replace the left arm he lost in battle with a void entity some months ago. All to save a friend. He is every bit the soldier, been one all his life. Dour, impassive, stoic as it gets. Annoyingly so at times. Hmph, stubborn as a rock too. But he has a good heart, keeps his friends close, and treats people well. He's a bit naive at times, as he's surprisingly trusting. But...there isn't anything he wouldn't do for those he calls friend. I suspect that is why he is so loved and respected by those who follow him. He doesn't dream of glory or becoming famous like most orcs his age. He has sometimes a rather practical view of the world. Emberheart is a rather humble group but they work hard. Dorant knows his way around a forge too. Knows how to infuse elemental energies and discarded cores into weapons and armor. Old Blackrock craftworks so I am told." The old orc relaxed as the natural healing energies did their work, he seemed to breathe more easily now. "Ask around the village in Halfhill, he's quite well known there. He fell in love with this land almost as much as I did, even took a Pandaren woman as a mate," he said, taking another long breath before continuing. "He's one of the few orcs you will see in Pandaren other than myself and a few others, so you really can't miss him."

Mera smiled at the complaint turned compliment. “They used to say the same of my mother. I thank you for the praise.” She nodded along while he described the orc she would eventually set off to find, committing the details to memory. “He must be a powerful warrior to fend off a creature of the void. I will be honored to meet him.”

Bazrokh scoffed. "That would be good if he was actually good at taking praise. He'd likely say ‘It was a group effort. we were victorious because we stood together as friends upon the battlefield.’ Blegh!" the old orc said in an almost mocking tone. "Always too damned humble. Not a trait common among our people." He sighed "He's a good fighter and a noble warrior. I think a few of our people could learn from him. Though he tends to be a bit reckless at times." He added with a grunt, before contouring a little more kindly, "I am sure you'll realize that once you've gotten to know him. As for the rest, I sense you'll do your people and your mother proud young Merada. Your adventures have only just begun." 

Seeing that most of the pain had passed, Merada stopped her healing and stepped back to allow him space, packing up the tea so it wouldn’t get smashed. “So you keep saying. I’ve received your wisdom, Elder. I may be Warsong and Mok'nathal, but my skull is not that thick that I need constant reminders.” She teased, before continuing. “ I would also be honored if you would show me around the Monastery. I would like a place to rest before I continue my 'adventures'. I did not know that a place could have so many stairs.”

Bazrokh chuckled and nodded. "Aye, the Pandaren do like their stairs. Best get used to that if you're going to venture around here. Pandaria is a great place for walking holidays. Unless you'd prefer to climb the steep mountain paths of Kin-Lai summit with grummels for companions." he said with an amused tone. The old orc rose from his seat, wincing a bit as his knees made a subtle cracking sound. The elder stretched, taking a moment to steady himself with the help of his bamboo staff. "Well come along then... second-afternoon meal should be served here in a bit, I hope you're hungry!" he said as he stepped towards the stair that led from the peach tree-covered hills back up into the Monastery grounds.

“There are mountains taller than these?” She whined, dramatically like a goblin would when they were shorted out of a good deal, but she was at his side in a heartbeat. She let him walk on his own, but was there in case something happened. “And they aren’t floating? I will have to see them for myself then! Now, I have heard of these hideous things called Murlocs, that possess these hideous bulbous bodies, and large mouths lined with rows of sharp fangs. Are they real?”

The older orc regarded Merada, letting out a guttural laugh both at her whining and her fanciful description of murlocs. The wonder of youth, he thought. It filled his ancient heart with joy. Though she had struggled to prove herself in Garadar, he at least was glad she was spared the horrors that led to Draenor's transformation into Outland. She deserved, like all young orcs, a chance at a future not forged by demonic influence or the will of power-hungry warlocks...the old orc grew somber at those memories, but it was for but a moment before he returned to his cheerful self. "Well, it's about as good a description of murlocs as I have heard, if slightly more...grandiose. They are not as terrifying when you fight them but they are quite real and best you dispatch them quickly, they are always hungry for flesh and they are not choosy about their prey. You'll find them along many coastlines on Azeroth." he said. Their discussions would trail off into various subjects, Bazrokh happy to teach what he knew of the wide world as they entered the flowery and paved courtyards of the Tian Monastery.