Khal’kha - The Fire Dance (Part 1)
The early mornings in the Valley of the Four Winds were always quiet, its soft light both a guide and a blindfold. It did not try to make something of the silence, did not pester Merada for a remedy, interrogate her for answers she did not have, or expect a power she had once possessed. Instead, it was a cool, comforting blanket. It allowed her to meditate and do her needlework without judgment or interruption while taking in the bright spring green fields, the watercolor sky, and the farmers starting their day's toil. Well, not entirely without interruption. More often than not, her morning would be chaperoned by the shadow of a mountain. It would pass behind her, sometimes tending the forge in preparation for the day's tasks, sometimes it would come with breakfast and tea, sometimes to take her back to bed, and sometimes it would linger in the doorway out of sight, watching her, thoughts inscrutable until she asked. She didn't mind it. After all, she had taken to staying in his house. "You can come sit with me, Dorant. This is your home, after all." She called out to him as she finished a stitch. The man grunted and stepped out from his hiding place to sit beside her. "I told you that you could stay as long as you'd like, but it doesn't mean I am entitled to your time." She licked her lips with a wry smile, "One could argue you took a very different position last night." From behind, a pair of hands, one calloused and weathered, the other cool and metallic, pinched her side, causing her to jump and giggle. She reached over and tugged his long red beard in retaliation. Not enough to pull any hair out, but enough to make the warrior grin. "It is important never to let your opponent know what you are thinking," He teased her. "A confused enemy is a dead enemy?" "Precisely." Merada resumed her task, finishing the fur fringe on a skirt and top she intended to wear. "So we are enemies now, is that what I am to understand? If that is so, then am I being kept prisoner here? Should I spring some kind of escape?" Dorant grumbled, caught in the trap of his own making. Instead of directly answering her, he wrapped his metal prosthetic arm around her waist and changed the subject, "What are you making?" "Something to dance in, spirits willing...the next Kosh'harg will be soon, and during my last one, I heard talk that some of my kin are planning to bring back the Khal’kha." "The Fire Dance? I have not heard of it." "It is a Warsong tradition, done to pay homage to the elements during the spiritual transition of spring to summer, and summer into fall. It is part celebration, part ritual, to strengthen the tribe and the shamans' connection to the elements." "Hm." He nodded, understandingly. While Dorant was unfamiliar with the specific customs of specific tribes, he knew enough of Merada to see why this would interest her. Ever since the Expedition’s run-in with the entity known as Vaer Ming and her cursed realm of shadow and nightmare, Merada had confessed to him that she had felt her tempest diminished, stifled in a way, and that this had happened once before when her mother was slain. Broken faith in oneself was the doom of any warrior, and the elements were particularly sensitive to it. They respected strength and would continue to be unwieldy, or not answer the shaman at all, until she reestablished confidence and control in herself. "Are you planning on going?" She paused mid-stitch. Of course, she was planning on going! She wouldn't have spent so much time hunting, skinning, and preparing the leather to be worn, or haggling with the traders in Halfhill for the right thread, or spent months' worth of mornings at daybreak working on this if she wasn't going to go and wear it. But she knew what he was truly asking her: Do you want to go and see them? Planning to go wasn't the same as following through. She hadn't seen any of her Mag'har orc brethren from Garadar for almost a year, during the last autumn Kosh'harg, when the spirits had told her to seek out Bazhrok Firestep. That fateful time led her to the present day. She hadn't stopped to say goodbye and hadn't seen any of them since. There wasn't any guarantee that any of them would be there. But there wasn't any guarantee they wouldn't be either. "...I would like to. To dance is a great honor. I would watch my mother dance when I was little, and practice with her all the time, but when I was of age, I never participated." "At the Kosh'harg, all clans are welcome, so long as they keep the peace. If Garadar plans to dance there, it would have to be welcome to all." Merada looked down at her work. It was basic for now, but by the time she added the ornamentations and beadwork, it would be a testament to orcish heritage and tradition. It would be ready in time if she kept her current pace. But the hard work would not be worth it without someone to appreciate it. "Would you come with me?" The edge of Dorant's tusk brushed her temple as he lowered his head to kiss her forehead. "All you had to do was ask." "In that case, I would commission your anvil to make something for me. A dancer can not dance Khal’kha without bangles. I have none of my own." "I will begin work at once."
A few months later…
Durotar, and Orgrimmar by extension, reminded Merada most of Hellfire Peninsula back in Outland, with its dry earth baked red by the sun and fierce razor-winds that were powerful enough to tear apart a roof if it wasn't properly constructed. There was a lack of demons, but the land traded that massive improvement for a littering of cacti and scorpids. Rather than the fel-taint the Great Beyond blew across, Durotar’s air had a salty kiss from the Great Sea on the eastern coast, and a cooler bite due to the Southfury River that separated the land from the rest of Kalimdor. She could see them both from the top of the Gates of Orgrimmar, and in the distance, Razor Hill, where the Kosh'harg had been held for the past three years since its revival. Carts were making a steady trickle in that direction, carrying enough supplies for an army. Preparations would have already begun in the settlement, along with some early celebrating. The heavy footsteps of Dorant and the force of something heavier dumping onto the ground announced his presence behind her. “Having second thoughts? You do not have to force this upon yourself.” Merada shrugged, looking one last time at the view before turning her attention towards him, “We have come all this way. It would be a shame to turn back.” She tried to walk past him but found her way blocked by his body. Ember eyes bore into hers, stoic yet serious. Merada raised her chin proudly. He snorted, accepting her stubbornness as it was. Picking up his bundle, which looked like their dismantled tent wrapped around his travel pack, he led them down from the ramparts into the Valley of Strength. The area was bustling, with shops hurriedly making sales to close early, while customers—orcish and otherwise—raced to buy what they needed. A line of tauren moved toward the Drag, their supplies lashed to kodos. Goblin hawkers waved colorful banners, promising last-minute festival trinkets at “honorable prices,” and travelers coordinated caravans for the journey. Dorant followed behind her like a shadow on a mountainside. He had never been one for crowds or gatherings, but since they arrived, instinct had placed him slightly behind her every step of the way. His voice was low enough that only she could hear. “Have everything? It will take half the day to reach Razor Hill." She lifted her satchel slightly in demonstration, “Yes,” she said, and then, with a sly smile, “Do you? Looking at you, I am doubting your tendency to pack lightly.” He scoffed, “I would not have us sleeping on the ground if it can be avoided.” “You don’t have us sleeping at all, not at first.” “I thought this time would be an exception,” Dorant replied, though his gravelly tone carried warmth beneath its chiding edge. The words drew a short laugh from her, quickly smothered by the loud environment, but the tension eased between them. It was strange how easily he could draw that from her—but Merada was getting used to it, just like the other things. She looked back at Dorant, expecting him to push his questioning further, but when he didn’t, she pulled her hood lower and let the masses press close. The tightly packed crowd slowed her stride enough that their hands brushed. The contact lingered—barely, just long enough to send a flush of heat through her veins—before he shifted his bundle out of the way of a sleuth of Panderen. A presence stirred along the edges of her understanding, like rushing air that marked the expanding gases being drawn into the flames. It originated from her hip, where she knew the living blade Azier was attached. Azier was a fire elemental of great age who had been infused of his own volition into the weapon for the purposes of healing the then rampant Blood Plague. Merada, along with the Expedition, had found him in the ruins of a Gurubashi Empire stronghold in the jungles of Stranglethorn, and took a liking to Merada, who at the time was a new member and stronger in her power. Azier agreed to be taken from that place, provided she only used his power for the defense and healing of others. He was a battered and rust-rotted obsidian blade then. Now he was an exquisite thing, in and out of the custom sheath; Reinforced with Blackrock ore from time-lost Dreanor, a spherical pommel with vents to channel the elemental fury in ways outside of the blade itself, and cased with grafted solid kodo leather lined with wolf fur. In the center was another treasure, an unspoken secondary token of affection from the smith who had done the work, in the form of a chip of Blackrock ore entrusted to the center, which was surrounded by knitted flames of golden string. Dorant had worked a miracle with it, and with Azier. It was their combined strength which rescued her from the claws of Vaer Ming and her sleeping sickness. Merada gripped the hilt, matching her breathing to the growing thrum of power. The wave crested, then dissipated. She would be able to hear his voice in its fullness soon. They reached outside the gate of Orgrimmar just as a pair of animated voices rose above the flow of traffic. Two figures stood a little way off the road: A man and a woman, orcs of the Old Horde by the look of them, with their fel-touched skin that had long since marked their descendants. “…this will be easy coin! The harpies are flocking out of Drygulch Ravine and into Razorwind Canyon. Gar'Thok will pay well for travelers to avoid trouble.” “This is Kosh'harg, not some goblin scam. We should be offering our services for free.”
The man was the louder presence, leaning against a post with a cool confidence that could only belong to a pup of the Frostwolves. His gear practically announced this fact, as it was a patchwork of hunter’s garb and battlefield spoils, made of thick leathers layered with white fur at the shoulders and bones lashed into place as a display of pride. He had tied his hair back in a crest of dark red and braided the rest long, hiding past scars along his scalp and showing off the ones that clawed across his chin. Shoulders squared, gaze sharp, and a constant smirk like he already knew the outcome of his words would have on the woman across from him; the man certainly wanted to project the appearance of deadly skill. On the other hand, the woman was his foil in every sense of the word, carrying herself with the quiet steadiness of a hunter: A bow slung over her shoulder and a quiver feathered at the ready. Her armor was simple, hide and leather reinforced with scaled plating at the joints, trimmed with tufts of fur to keep out the cold at night. She has painted her face and arms a spring-grass yellow, breaking up her darker skin to make her as much a part of the wild as the terrain itself on the hunt. Her eyes weren’t on her partner as he kept pressing her for an answer. They were on the guards, the wyvern-riders in the sky above, the wagons being prepared by other travelers, and finally, the strangers watching from a distance.
 |
| The bounty hunters, Soarruk and Karka. |
“If you are so sure, then let us ask them.” The huntress nodded in the direction of Merada and Dorant. “Fine then..." When the male’s gaze fell on them, it lingered with the weight of recognition—or opportunity. "Honor, friends! I am Soarruk, and this is Karka. I take it you are on to Kosh'harg? The canyon is overwhelmed with harpies this year; traveling in groups makes you less likely to be prey.” “You should find someone else in need of that protection,” Dorant’s stance shifted at once, shoulders tightening, “We can handle ourselves.” “Then you should join us,” Karka replied bluntly. “We may be fighters, but not everyone is.” Merada looked between the two strangers and Dorant. “You have a plan in mind.” She stated, rather than asked, looking towards the other woman. “I do.” She brushed a wild blonde bang from her face, “Four on foot can move faster than kodos with carts. We can run ahead and ensure the way is clear for others. It means the guards won't have to wander far only to be picked off.” “So you would not charge us, but recruit us? Are you meaning to split the coin you mentioned then?” “No, yes, if it makes your choice faster.” Soarruk cut in, standing straight and approaching them with his hands on his axes, “But Kosh'harg will go on with or without you. What matters is if you want to join the feast in the flesh, or with the honored dead.” Dorant’s eyes narrowed, his posture straightened as Soarruk approached, a warrior's gaze, gauging the threat, “Don’t-“ “We will go with you, but what coin there is to make is yours to keep,” Merada answered. “Let’s go. Some may have already left by now.” She turned on her heel and marched in the direction of the road, leaving Soarruk stunned and Karka chuckling as she began to gather their gear. Her pace was quick, eyes locked on the canyon and the challenge ahead, so she wasn’t sure Dorant had followed her until he spoke. “Why did you agree to join them? We can handle a few harpies.” “You can, and if it were any other time, I would agree. But-“ “You are afraid.” Dorant grabbed her arm to stop her, but said it so soft and quiet that it put her off guard. “The spirits are testing you, Merada. Courage will impress them more than caution.” “It is not caution, it is wisdom. You said it yourself. The elements know the power they hold. They test me to know if I can balance not just them, but myself. Until they return their blessing, I will not gamble with your life.” She responded in a voice barely breaking a whisper. He let her go, but his face remained fixed. Stoic. “I would not gamble with yours either. We do not know these hunters. We can not trust them.” “We can trust that they want to keep their heads. We can trust that it is Kosh'harg. Karka seems to honor tradition. We can use that if Soarruk’s want of gold gets ahead of his judgement.”
Dorant’s hands flexed at his side, whether in pride at her readiness for a fight or displeasure at a potential deception, she couldn’t tell. Reaching out, she took his left hand in hers. They were calloused, but warm. Familiar. Safe. He sighed, “I trust you. That is all.”
“Then it is enough.”
He pulled his hand away just as Karka and Soarruk rejoined them, and the four set off into the canyon; Dorant took point as he always had, Karka and Merada more or less alongside each other while Soarruk fell to the rear. The three at the front found a slow, natural rhythm as the bleeding rust-red walls pressed in, and Dorant said not a word as they moved, the air itself trapped between the stone as hot and thin as it was in their throats. Neither woman seemed bothered by this. Merada caught herself staring at him on more than one occasion. He hadn't worn his heaviest set of plate armor, but he was well protected, and it was a blistering day. She would worry, consider offering him water, then chuckle to herself—what was heat to the Blackrock smith, anyway? He had experienced worse in his profession, if not in his past military career.
Karka, for her part, was too narrowed in on the landscape to strike up a conversation. Her two fingers kept a loose grip on the bow string. If trouble came, her arrow would fly before anything else, but there wasn't much to aim at. Besides their footsteps echoing off the stone, the land was dead quiet. Not oppressive, or dangerous, merely the stillness of sun-baked cliffs and heat shimmering off the faces of the canyon until every sound dulled into sluggish echoes. Perhaps the occasional sound of insect life. The dust even half-muffled their passage as they pushed deeper toward whatever waited in the red folds ahead.
Soarruk, of course, didn’t bother with silence, and quickly got bored.
"I am looking most forward to the drinking," he said, his voice too loud for the canyon. "I have heard that Warpath Ales and Drohn's Distillery have worked together to brew an ale strong enough to knock out a kodo. It will be an honor to be among the first to taste it at its debut."
"If something doesn't taste you first," Karka muttered, regripping her bow without looking at him.
"So you are only going to drink and be paid?" Merada asked, but she kept her voice low.
"No." His grin was wide, hungry. He looked directly at Merada when he said, "There are going to be many fine women there, too."
Merada couldn't stop the face she made. Thankfully, Soarruk didn't see it. He was too busy arguing with Karka's second request for quiet.
When he turned back to her, Soarruk spun the blades of his axes idly, delighting in the way they caught the sun like a boy showing off a trick. "But mostly, I would go and honor my brother, Sokez. Fell to Kul Tiran guns during the war. Some of my best contracts were with him at my back. Now those were hunts. This path? Hah! Not even worth sharpening steel for, as it turns out.”
"Soarruk-" Karka glanced at him only long enough to measure the noise against the landscape before barking her warning.
Merada felt it, too; the air was... wrong. Still. The sound had dampened to a low thrum. The hair on the back of her neck stiffened— a warning from the spirits. A lone vulture hissed and wheeled overhead, wings lazy against the blue. She slowed, frowning at the sun and shading her eyes as she watched it spiral higher into the sky. It was the first bird they had seen all day. That was when the shadow broke apart. Not one bird, but many; not circling, but diving. A new scream split the air, shrill enough to splinter the quiet, and the air filled with talons and feathers as the harpies descended all at once, their cries turning the canyon into a storm.
"Dorant!" She threw down her bag, but the warning came too late.
Dorant’s shield swung up, catching the first strike with a clang that shook the metal in his arm. He shoved forward, his axe biting into the harpy’s wing as he barked, “Form up!”
Soarruk grinned wickedly, his twin axes flashing. “Finally, some sport!” He charged forward recklessly, hacking wildly at the nearest foe. His blades bit into a harpy’s wing, sending her crashing to the ground, but the movement left his flank open. Another harpy darted in, hideous claws raking across his shoulder, tearing flesh. He roared in pain, staggering back.
“Idiot,” Karka hissed. Her arrow loosed, pinning the harpy’s throat before it could finish him.
“Bah, just a scratch!” Soarruk snarled, though blood was already streaming down his arm. The younger orc barreled forward with both axes whirling, a storm of steel and arrogance. He cut one harpy clean from the air, and for a breath it looked almost easy. Then he pushed too far, turned too slow. Claws ripped across his ribs, dragging him to one knee with a snarl of pain.
Merada had gotten a grip on Azier by then. Her lips formed words that came out ragged and rushed. Sparks jumped in the air, flickered, danced from blade to fingers, and then died—the tempest would not answer her. The power stuttered, and she felt that familiar ache that burned up her forearms. Like her bones were being crushed from the inside. Denial. Again. She clenched her jaw, furious.
A shadow fell over her. Dorant saw it first. He threw himself between her and the harpy’s dive, shield locking into place just as talons struck. The impact rattled his arm to the bone, but he held. His axe struck upward, brutal and certain, cutting into the creature until it fell thrashing at his feet. "Merada-"
"-I'm fine!" She snapped, teeth bared. Her hands trembled, sparks of lightning flickering between her fingers before sputtering out. A harpy dove low, her claws outstretched—only for Dorant’s axe to cleave her from the air.
“You’re not,” Dorant said firmly, bracing against another blow. His shield rang like a drum under the harpies’ assault.
Merada gritted her teeth, anger burning in her chest. She could feel the elements all around her, but her grasp slipped every time she reached. So she planted her feet into the ground and reached deeper, feeling the resistance of the earth under her feet press in her mind. The earth trembled, stubbornly resisting her call until it rumbled. Buckled. Cracked. From behind her cover, she stepped forth, hurling a thunderous wave of sound, stone, and soil that shattered the screeching harpies battering the shield.
She bit her lip, drawing blood to withstand the pain as it flared deeper into her bones. Every nerve in her arms felt on fire. Breathing through her teeth, her gaze locked with his in the chaos. He was unharmed, but for the briefest breath, his face was etched with grave concern.
Amidst the fray, Karka’s arrows hissed through the air. Each shot was measured, efficient, singular: a wing clipped, a throat pierced, a chest split. Nothing was wasted, but for every harpy that fell, another swooped screeching from above. Soarruk lunged behind her. Wild with pain and fury, he dragged himself upright, blood staining his side. Still he grinned, lips red, leaning heavier on one axe.
“Still fighting,” he rasped, almost daring anyone to say otherwise.
Karka loosed another arrow, her face expressionless. “For how long?” she asked.
“Takes more than feathers to bring me down,” he growled back at her. “You think birds would best me?”
Karka’s arrow flew past him, another harpy dropping from the sky. She didn’t respond further. Soarruk swung both axes upward in a vicious arc, severing a harpy’s leg before she crashed screaming to the ground. But in his rage, he left himself open once more. Another harpy seized her chance, claws sinking deep into his side. His roar echoed across the canyon as he toppled backward, blood spraying the stone. “Soarruk!” Merada cried out, rushing to his side. Dorant whipped his head to follow her. He charged first, ramming his shield into the harpy that struck Soarruk, followed by a brutal axe stroke that split her in two. He planted himself over the fallen warrior, shield raised high. “You will not have him!” he snarled. More wings. More shrieks. The pack circled above, preparing for another dive. Dust swirled with every beat of their wings. Merada’s hands shook. Lightning sparked weakly across her fingers, sputtering, dying. Dorant’s shield arm shook from the force of another strike. He could not hold them forever. Karka’s calm voice cut through the din. “Breathe, shaman.” Merada blinked, chest heaving. A harpy shrieked as she plummeted, Karka’s arrow piercing through her throat. Another one managed to hook her claws into the wood of the bow, but was beaten off with a wicked slice of a hunting knife. The hot blood splattered on both women. “Breathe!” Karka repeated, her tone sharp. Merada closed her eyes to the chaos. She drew in a ragged breath, then another, reaching deeper, past her fear, past the pain. Tears welled in her eyes. She wanted to stop, she wanted to tear her arms off, but Azier was there. Waiting. And he was not slow to respond. The canyon floor ruptured with a blast of earth and flame, a furnace-like breath that roared upward and tore through the air. The scorching wave threw harpies from the sky, their wings singed as smoke and feathers drifted down. The survivors screeched, scattering upward in a frenzy, their ambush shattered. One, slower than the rest, had its feathers melted by a clawed hand emerging from the ash-spitting tornado that seized her wings and hurled her into the wall across from where they stood. The crunch of a cracked skull echoed through the rocks. A nest-sister who came to defend her fared no better, as a second hand caught her next. The cries were drowned out only by the sputtering fire and shattering rock as she was dragged shrieking into a coffin made of earth and lined with ash. In the silence that followed, the canyon smelled of sulfur and blood. Soarruk rasped, “I had them… right where I wanted them.” Dorant snorted, kneeling to steady him. “On top of you?” Soarruk, still clutching his side, flushed a dark shade beneath his tusks. With his free hand, he gave Dorant a half-hearted shove, more a wounded swat than true force, but enough to make his point. The Blackrock waited till Karka could reinforce the wounded orc before he handed him off. Karka’s expression was unreadable, but her tone was unmistakable towards him. “Try not to get yourself killed next time.” Merada, who had slumped to the ground on her knees, exhausted, closed her eyes in the wake of the power surge that had left her. She whispered a quiet, quick prayer of gratitude. The reply came whispered like old parchment being turned, steady and reassuring. A promise of safety, and an oath fulfilled. When she opened her eyes to the rest of the world, she was met with Dorant standing over her. She managed a weary smile, “I told you I would be fine.” “Now is not then.” His stern expression softened for only a moment as he set his shield aside, “We are fortunate Azier still answers.” She could only nod back; she didn’t know what else to say. This was the toll of her disconnection from the elements- this was the risk she posed not just to herself, but to Dorant, their friends in the Expedition, and even to strangers on the road. She wasn’t useless. She knew that. It did very little against the creeping, crawling feeling in her throat as her mountain helped her to her feet. “Shaman!” Soarruk only made it a few steps before he had to be set down. “Heal me.” The couple looked at each other, asking and answering the same question. Merada reached for her waterskin, reflex dictating that she call upon the healing tide of elemental waters to flow and speed along the recovery. She thought better of it; the pain was only starting to recede for her. The old ways would have to suffice. Examining the worst of the wounds on Soarruk’s side, she immediately narrowed her eyes. A faint, greenish glow clung to the flesh. The edges were a furious red, swelling and recoiling at her slightest touch. “Watch it!” Soarruk barked, but Karka’s hand came down, sharp and decisive, on the back of his head. “-Ow! I… Sorry. Please, help me.”
Merada pressed her hand firmly around the wound, pulling the flesh apart, “This will hurt. Hold him,” was the only warning she gave before she began to carefully scrape away the worst of the necrotic flesh.
Soarruk screamed with every smooth motion, like a carpenter's knife through soft wood, and it took both Dorant and Karka to keep him from hitting her as he tried to jerk free. She worked as fast as she could, and once she was finished, she pressed the blazing flat surface of Azier against the wound. Normally, Merada wouldn’t cauterize a wound of this kind, as flushing it would usually be enough, but given the properties of the poison, burning what was left of the poison would ensure it wouldn’t spread or become infected later on. Besides, Azier was no rusty hot poker. When she pulled away, the wound had improved remarkably. She stressed the wound, poking and pulling at the edges until the blood started to trickle in bright, healthy crimson. “Broxigar’s balls, woman!” Soarruk swore. There was still pallor in his green skin, but it had eased slightly. “Am I healed or not?” “You’ll live.” She replied, satisfied with her work. She reached for the bandages. “I’ll pack this wound, then we may wash the others and dress him.” “Here, let me.” Karka knelt down beside Merada. Together, they passed the roll between them until Soarruk’s chest was correctly bound. Much to the male’s constant complaints and grousing, seemingly directed at Dorant of all people.
Below the babble, Merada whispered, “I am no Farseer, Karka.” “Says the woman who called a tornado of pure fire into existence,” Karka smiled. “That was Azier. The elemental that inhibits my blade. We are oath-bound, in a sense.” Merada ignored the grunt of pain made by her patient while she tied off the bandages. “As long as I use his power wisely, he allows the continued usage of his vessel.” “And how long have you been… relying on his vessel?” The huntress glanced at Dorant somewhere behind Merada. She blushed, “I…I don’t-” Karka shrugged, but didn’t answer; instead, her attention turned to Soarruk. “Stop whining! You are acting like a child.” They washed out his remaining injuries and got him back on his feet; this attempt was far more stable than the previous one. The rest of the journey was uneventful, the party taking turns shouldering the wounded man until a group of farmers caught up with them with a Kodo-drawn cart offered a spot for them to lessen their burdens. Soarruk only grumbled, but the heavy tent made for a comfortable resting place amongst the produce baskets. Arriving at Razor Hill, they were welcomed by a celebration already in full swing. The air vibrated with noise, from musicians echoing the rhythm of marching armies to children giggling as they darted in and out of the crowd. Meanwhile, the warriors, young and old, compared battle scars with a passion for who could tell the better tale - the loser got to throw the first punch. Drink was plentiful, as was food, roasting on the large bonfires meant to burn all day and night. Their smoke carried the heady aroma of sizzling boar fat and charred marrow bones through the whole town. It paired well with the spilled ale that darkened the ground around the large circular tables, which had been set up for the feasting. While not exactly engineered this way, each table was large enough to hold large groups of the same clan comfortably. Indeed, banners for each clan hung near each congregation, and not many of the tables had groups of mixed company, but perhaps it was still early. Participants had only just arrived and hadn’t had time to mingle. Soarruk and Karka departed to seek a healer, leaving Dorant to muscle the tent back onto his massive shoulders. When he caught Merada staring into the sea of people, he asked bluntly, “Do you see them?” Merada, adjusting her own pack, shook her head. “No, I recognize no one at the Warsong or Bleeding Hollow tables…” “Perhaps they are late,” he offered, “Outland is quite a distance, even by portal.” “Perhaps…” The words came out of her quiet. Too quiet. “Perhaps they are late.” “Then we have time. We’ll make camp, rest, and see to food.” She nodded. Merada didn’t know what else to do but follow. Her attention was too consumed with sifting through the crowds. Beyond the main walls, the air settled a little out in the open. Tents dotted the fields in loose clusters—warbands, merchants, and families who’d sleep on furs on the hard ground rather than cram into the already stuffed inn. It was a pocket of calm between revelry and chaos, the festival’s noise fading into a distant hum. They found a patch of ground near the bottom of a shallow incline, close enough to watch the bonfires blaze but far enough away for the decline to provide them with a measure of privacy. The earth there was solid too, good for staking. They dropped their packs and set to work. The tent was made from rough timber supports and heavy hides stitched together with metal clasps. Sturdy but worn. Its seams sagged in places from prolonged use, yet it stood firm against the wind which had calmed outside of the canyon. Flat pieces of stone or bone hung from the hide walls, rattling softly as the air moved. It was practical and capable, precisely as its Blackrock creator intended. By the time the sun was starting its descent into the late afternoon, Dorant was driving the second-to-last stake home with a sure swing of his hammer. “We need water,” Merada called out as she dusted off her hands on her pants. “I will be back.” “Wait.” He exhaled and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. “You carry more than you’ve said. I’ll have the rest of it.” “I don’t-” “You do.” He stated, folding his arms across his chest. “What happens after the Kosh'harg and your Khal’kha? Too many times now you have mentioned that you know, or at least have an idea of how to return the spirit's favor, yet you have always avoided giving me a direct answer. Why? You mentioned that what you had in mind was dangerous enough that you were afraid to ask me. So, it can not be that you think I will not help you. You know I will, I have sworn as much.” Her eyebrows knit together. Both knew she had been caught, not in a lie —she would never lie to him— but in the abstract space that was only created by specifically avoiding a particular topic. Whatever could be said about the warrior who now held her heart, he was not a fool, even if he wasn’t as boisterous as some others. Merada had once remarked that he heard twice as much by speaking half as much; now it seemed her own insight was being turned on her instead. “No, it is not that,” she defended, “I only wished to hear the spirit's wisdom before I proceeded. It would be wasted work otherwise.” “Then what is it that requires their permission?” She cringed at the insuasion, eyes shooting a warning, but unlike before, Dorant didn’t back down. The silence gripped them until he approached, pressing into the space “Merada.” He watched her intently, “I am not criticizing. I only wish to understand.” Silence. She took a deep breath, pushing her shoulders down and the defensiveness out of her voice. “Apologies. I suppose I am still not used to having someone with whom I can share every thought.” He could only scoff humorously. “That I can understand.” His fingers wandered into her hair, restoring the placement of braids that had been disturbed by their encounter with the harpies. Testing the words out loud, she explained, “I wish to complete my Om'gora by finishing my abandoned Om'riggor. I plan to find a way to summon the demon who first slew my mother back to this plane and name him as my prey.” “The Om'gora requires three blessings. The Khal’kha you intend to be the Blessing of the Land, and that the task set to you will be to finish your Om'riggor, thus receiving your Blessing of the Clan. What do you mean to serve as your Blessing from the Ancestors?” “Whatever the spirits decide to reveal, either tonight or after I present the demon's head to the Throne of Elements. This is how I will rebuild a connection with the elements.” Dorant nodded, but something still weighed on his mind. “And the pain, when you force your will on them, is it bearable?” “It gets worse the more I push. But it is bearable, and it fades with rest and time.” She admitted. “Then we do not test the limits.” His hand slipped from her braid, brushing briefly along her jaw before falling back to his side, before muttering, “And you do not carry this alone anymore.” Merada let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “You make it sound like a threat.” He smirked. “Perhaps it is, in its own way.” Before he could take another step, her hand swung and tapped him sharply on the chest. “I’ll hold you to that, Emberscowl.” Dorant chuckled, rubbing the spot she’d struck, watching her silhouette wander off towards the town until she was out of sight. Only then did he turn around to finish driving the last stake into the ground.
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