Mataoka's and Navimie's Beasts of Pandaria Fables: Kafi

Dornaa would not listen. It was unlike her to be so disobedient, and the matron lost all patience. The little Draenei had been playing outside for hours, the first warm spring day in weeks, the first day with real, pure sunshine, and when it grew dark, she pretended not to hear the matron call her in. The streetlamps went on. The merchants pulled in their wares. The beasts in the forest began snarling, and the carousers in the inns began drinking. Nothing was safe now. Still, Dornaa did not come home. Beginning to feel terrified, the matron, Mercy, felt at once anger and despair. When the guards were about to be notified, Dornaa snuck in through the side door, only to find Mercy, arms akimbo, and angry fire in her eyes. She swooped up Dornaa and swatted her backside. She had never struck a child before. The look of betrayal on Dornaa’s face crushed her.

Mercy left the house in order to cool down. The other matrons tucked Dornaa in, even though she smelled  of dirty skin, sweat, and spring air. Dornaa grumbled tough curses under her breath about “How sorry she would be” and the injustice of the spanking. But she hurt, too. The matron was warmth, hugs, love, and stories. She supposed there would be no story tonight, and she didn’t deserve one.

Relieved that she was safe, and guilty over striking the child, Mercy could not sleep unless she checked in on her favorite child. She sat on Dornaa’s bed, and Dornaa rolled over, tear-streaked little face, sniffling, and grabbed Mercy with her whole self. “You scared me, little one. That’s why I got so angry. Please don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I am sorry. I was stubborn and didn’t want to come in.”

“Well, let me tell you of another stubborn little kid, Dornaa.”

When Kafi was a kid, bleating and ramming his horns, he wanted more than anything to be the Father of the Mountain. As it was, his father had ruled over the mountaintop for as long as memory, and goats’ memories are exceptionally long. They remember every insult, challenge, or defeat. But most importantly, they remember victories, and hang onto them with all that they are. The victories were their pride, and pride was everything.

The Father of the Mountain ruled over the herd for so long that even the mountain had grown familiar with his command. Each day he awoke to his crisp blue kingdom of gold and rock on the mountaintop: he knew it was his sovereign right to be there, to defend and protect the nannies and kids from the prowling leopards and ferocious yetis. The yetis could decimate a herd in minutes, ripping through flesh eating goats pelt, horns, and all. He must defend them all, and over time believed he was the most capable, most courage Father of the Mountain the gods had ever chosen to rule.

Zìháo never faltered in his duties, but he never relinquished them either. Many a young buck would challenge him in the spring, vying for his position of power and glory, and would be sent careening off the sides, skittering for purchase with their novice hooves. It was normal and expected that every spring this would happen: it was known that for the good of the herd, if the Father of the Mountain could not protect them, he should fall. This was the way, and the way of his father, and father before him.

When a challenger would shamefully climb down from the mountainside on the easy path, he would tell them:

Someday I’ll give up the mountain

But today is not that day

Someday you’ll be where I am

But for now, get out of my way

One spring, Zìháo surveyed his herd and noticed his youngest son, Kafi, ramming horns with the other bucks. It did not pass his notice, either, that Kafi looked back up at him and did not gaze down quickly. This one—this one didn’t know his place.

Over time, Kafi grew stronger and bolder. Before he was full grown, he asked his mother if he was ready to challenge Zìháo. His mother told him, “There are two paths to the top, Kafi. The easy one and the difficult one: the easy one will never reach your father, but the difficult one will. When you can reach him, you will only be ready to challenge him. It does not mean you will beat him. And my son, it is a long way down.”

Kafi found the easy path up the hill soon enough, and it didn’t seem all the easy to him. Yes, there were many delicious flowers to eat in the nooks of the rocks, and the grass was softer on his hooves, but there were steep bluffs, but over time he scaled them as if he were an bird. He would hate to know what the difficult path looked like. He finally found a spot where the easy path stopped, and he could go no further. Unless he grew wings he would never reach the top this way. He heard his father’s voice just over the edge. An eagle was speaking to him, saying another had stolen his nest, asking for Zìháo’s advice. Kafi was confused. He thought his father just stood on the mountaintop all day, lording over all those beneath him. Zìháo gave the eagle some wise advice, (something about creating a new nest and life for himself) and off the eagle flew. Kafi climbed down.

The next spring, Kafi climbed back up the easy path, thinking he might be able to short cut the path to his father. He came to the same impossible edge, and could go no further. He heard his father speaking to tolai hare, humbly asking for forgiveness because she had eaten all of the silkweed meant for the warren’s supper. Zìháo told her to go and replace as much as she could, and not take another helping until the debt was repaid. Kafi climbed down the mountain.

This year, Kafi was larger, and stronger. He went up the easy path again, and met the same obstacle. A fox kit, wounded from a hunter’s misguided arrow, sought Zìháo for healing advice. Kafi was flummoxed. His father knew about healing, too? The fox kit ate some berries, bound his wound with silkweed, and seemed no worse for wear. He hopped down on the ledge where Kafi stood, looking at him quizzically. “Why are you standing here, when you could be standing next to your father?”

Kafi told the kit he was stuck, and could not figure out another way to seek his father, and ultimately challenge him. The fox told him, “The difficult path is just on the other side; try that way.”

Climbing down the mountain once more, he sought the difficult path. This path railed against all logic: overhangs, steep bluffs, thorns, nettles, and biting beasts. Bitter cold wind sliced his pelt, making him feel like he was held down by the shearer’s blade. Just when he thought he could go no further, the mountain leveled out, and there was a smooth, soft path to his father’s throne.

What Kafi did not know was that Zìháo was ready to relinquish his rule. He had watched his stubborn son grow into a leader. He still wasn’t quite ready yet, and must be tested. He had strength, he had desire, but did he have humility?

“Father, it is time.” Kafi stood his ground.

“So be it. There is grey in my beard, and my hooves aren’t as sharp as they once were. But I can still outrun, out climb, and out maneuver you. Whoever is the last ram standing, until the sun rises on the red flag, will be our herd’s new leader.”

A battle of rams is a terrifying site. The horns clash like thunder and the hooves shred the earth like a thousand mounted soldiers, with bloodlust and rage. Kafi did not realize his father was still so powerful. Each pushed forward with no quarter for the other. But youth began to win out over experience, just an edge, and an edge was all Kafi needed. Blindly he rammed Zìháo once, twice, and again. Zìháo was bleeding, bruised, and broken. The sun rose on the red flag: the battle was finished.

This is not what Kafi wanted. He wanted his father to continue to guide him, provide wisdom.

He bowed to him. Zìháo pulled up short, barely knocking Kafi to the ledge.

“Father, I seek your advice. I want to be a great leader for our people, but I am not sure what is the right path. How do I lead them and keep them safe, as you have done?”

Zìháo knew Kafi did not really need his advice; he was allowing him to save face, to save his dignity. His pride of being the Father of the Mountain gave way to being Kafi’s father.

“Son, you may rule the mountain.”

And with that, Zìháo went down the easy path, and lived the rest of his days with the herd, respected and loved. Kafi still rules the top of the mountain to this day, and if you challenge him, you may think you’ve won, but he’s just allowing you to think so.

The moral of this story is, it is prideful to beat our enemies with all that we have, but worthy of pride to win with dignity.

Dornaa was asleep. Mercy thought to herself, “Yes, that is a tiresome story when you’re young.”

Years later, training as a young shaman in Azuremyst, Dornaa bested every beast, every challenge, and every obstacle with ease. She began to think there was no stopping her, and nothing she couldn’t do. She was mining some ore and slipped down a cliff, not hurt but embarrassed, and she hoped no one saw her fall.

She still had some things to learn.

Writer's Note:

On Tuesday night, I was playing Dornaa, and another player spotted her as a I was about to log off, and seemed absolutely thrilled to see her--she hugged Dornaa, waved, waved some more...she never whispered or anything, but stood jumping in the inn for about five or more minutes. 

It was probably because she recognized Dornaa's name from being a world-famous NPC. Must admit that was kind of fun.

Update: 
Navimie's story about Nitun
Kallixta's story about Ti'Un the Wanderer

Mataoka's and Navimie's Beasts of Pandaria Fables

Dornaa’s tummy rumbled. There just never seemed to be enough food: the forests were filled with beasts and birds, and the rivers teeming with fish, but somehow the plates of hot food never made it to the orphanage. The forests were dangerous, and many hunters didn’t return. The fish were foul and oily. Even the matron looked drawn and tired. But when it was story time, the matron always seemed to magically find a treat—small cup of honeyed tea and a sweet biscuit, and the blanket was always clean, and smelled of crisp wind’s kisses. It was one of those spring days that one would imagine is perfect for future shamans: all kinds of weather paraded through the sidewalks. Dollops of sunshine, wind-torn white flower petals, and flung peaks of obnoxious raindrops. It was the kind of day that made Dornaa think the gods were in a bored mood, and couldn’t make up their minds. She was glad to see the sun at sunset today at least; it was colder than it seemed, and the wind was just getting started.

“Dornaa, are you warm enough?” asked the matron. She slipped her another cookie. Sometimes she worked in the kitchens of the larger inns, and the cooks knew she needed food for the refugees and orphans, and made a little extra. The warchief wouldn’t notice, and certainly not the king. Dornaa was growing like a weed, in spite of the fact there never was enough food. The matron did the best she could, often going without, because she never wanted the children to know they were forgotten. She believed they would be the ones to save the wreck of their world, should such a time come.

And such a time always came.

Once upon a time the gods of creatures made a flying one, called a moth.  The moths were in charge of change, and mystery. They were the creatures of great potential and hope. Oftentimes their hope could be misguided, futile: they contained one fatal flaw, and that was if they saw a light they were bound to fly to it, even if it killed them. They would fly to lanterns, candles, and one even tried to fly to the moon! Sadly, it died in exhaustion, but hope never dies. Moths are exquisite creatures, strong like kites, just as brave, and mixed with moonlight, and sensitive. Moths did not just pop into existence because the gods said so. In order to gain their luminosity, feathery beauty, and elegance of light, they must first go through a metamorphosis, a great change.

It takes a lot of energy to make something so beautiful and hopeful. Like all things of hope, it starts off small. One green morning, a cluster of the tiniest white eggs secured their potential to the underside of a spring leaf. The gods made all the little eggs the same, and hid them under leaves so birds would not eat them. The eggs hatched, and crawled, inching along, eating anything in their paths. This was another reason the gods put the eggs on leaves: they were born on their breakfasts! (Dornaa giggled at this: the thought of waking up on her porridge was funny!) The eggs were now hundreds of caterpillars, each eating to his heart’s content, all day, and all night. They needed all the food they could chew to grow. They ate the leaves, they ate more leaves, and they gnawed, and chewed, and swallowed. And they grew plump and plush. The caterpillars’ force of will drove them forward, and that something spectacular was in their future. Unnamed hope pushed them. Each knew his or her purpose, and that the hunger that never seemed to be satisfied someday would be. They felt like fat promises.

One caterpillar, however, Ka’Wi, was never content. If he saw his brother or sister eating a tasty leaf, he chewed his way over there as fast as he could crawl to snatch it from their mandibles. If he met a friendly ladybug or singing cricket, he growled unnecessarily to ward them away from his food. The ladybug was just looking for aphids (who had problems of their own) and the crickets are omnivorous, so if anyone was in danger it was Ka’Wi. Crickets have other songs to sing, and paid Ka’Wi no attention.

His birth branch stripped bare meant Ka’Wi needed to go look for other food. Green tea leaves, and silkweed were his favorites, but he also loved fool’s cap and rain poppies. Rain poppies made him feel sleepy, so he tried to stay away from them; they just slowed him down. He wanted to stay awake to eat. And eat. And eat some more. Insatiable and Irritable were his two allies. Insatiable kept him eating, and Irritable kept others away from him.

By this time, all his brothers and sisters were covered in their own bodies, attached to branches and twigs, becoming whatever it was they were to become. Ka’Wi couldn’t care less. All he knew was they were not in his way anymore, taking what was rightfully his food, out of his abyss of a maw. What he did not see what that he had grown so large, so ponderous of bulk, he could barely move to the next cabbage patch. He moved so slowly with all the extra weight, so laboriously, he became mired in routine.

One day, he found a golden lotus.  He didn’t so much find it as it rolled over on it. Its sharp leaves and pointy petals belied its glorious beauty, its fragrance, and oh—the taste. He wasted no time but to chew it down. He…he had never tasted anything like this before. His taste buds exploded in ecstasy. His mind soothed, and rapturous joy surrounded every spiracle, into his very soul. He must have more. He lumbered his massive bulk over the meadow, hunkering each segment, as he never had before.

Off in the distance he caught the glimmer of a golden-white flower. Another one! Just as he approached it, a gathering druid swooped down and snatched it. As much as this angered him, he decided he should remain calm, there would be another. A day and a night went by before he found the next one. As he humped over to the lotus, a vermin leapt up and stabbed it with his atrocious front fangs of incisors, laughing hysterically when he saw Ka’Wi begin to scream and sob. Another day, and another night went by, and one more day: Ka’Wi went back to the place where he found the first one, and by that time another had grown! As far as he could see, (which was usually just straight ahead to the next meal), no one was in the skies above, and nothing popped out of a root-hewn hole: it was his!

In the skies above his myopic obsessive bulk, the light of the full moon became hazy and dimmed simultaneously while something shimmered the light and air around him, a lenticular dream-like dance. He went in a trance...the lotus...the lotus was his, nothing or no one was in his way. He did not see above him was one of his many sisters, a transcendent moth. 

“Ka-Wi! What has become of you, my brother?” asked his sister. “You have not changed, except that you are just bigger—we all become what we were meant to be, and fly in the night and dance with the stars. Oh, Ka-Wi, what happened?”

He looked up at his lovely sister, her antennae feathery and graceful, her wings singing to the wind. She landed on the golden lotus, and gently used her long, straw-like tongue to sip its nectar, waiting for Ka’Wi’s response. Infuriated, Ka’Wi lunged toward the flower, barely missing his sister. In horror she escaped to the skies. The story of Ka’Wi’s unremitting greed spread through the whole valley. The gods heard of it, and decided to punish Ka’Wi: they gave him the name “the Gorger,” and made him keep guard forever in one spot. He could not move, nor could he change, or learn to fly with his brothers and sisters. Their lives were shorter than his, but by far more interesting. To remind him of his greed, just out of his reach, forever and a day, they planted a golden lotus on the mountainside, where the sun and the moonlight would strike it day and night, so all he could feast on was the desire.

The moral of the story is:

It is not wrong to wish and want for more in our lives, as long as the more we seek is for more joy, beauty, and hope. 

Dornaa broke her cookie in half and gave it to the matron, with the biggest, sweetest smile. The matron smiled back, then pretended to yawn so the water in her eyes looked like a reaction to sleepiness.

And for more great storytelling, please check out Kallixta's Tale of Skitterer Xi'a.
Navimie's Tale: Dos-Ryga

Mataoka's and Navimie's Beasts of Pandaria: Gorespine

When Dornaa was very small, the matron of the orphanage would read her tales and fables. Many of them were about thick-skulled Orcs and clever Draenei, but one storybook, found among the crates and debris, had wild fables of unimaginable creatures. The landscapes were beautiful, and unlike any description of Draenor or of the sulfurous, desolate, and sharp lands she lived in now. Dornaa loved the illustrations and the stories, even if they were completely unreal; there were talking brown and white, or black and white, bears in them, for Velen’s sake!

One story, in particular, stuck with her. It reminded her of Norbundo…

The Tale of Gorespine

Once upon a time, when the Gods of Beasts and Critters were making the animals of the world, one god, Cuowu, who was trying to make a name for himself, created the rodents. He made a basic shape out of mud, the rubbish tins, and odds and ends off of a dark forest floors. First he made the rat, clever and cunning; next came the raccoon, full of shady dealings and good manners. He made a few mistakes with the platypus when a duck fell in love with a beaver, but that’s a story for another time. His masterpiece was the hedgehog. This hedgehog was superfluously cute. It was so cute, so adorable, that whenever anyone saw it, they wanted to squeeze the very life out of it. In order to protect his most cherished creation, Cuowu gave the little darling hundreds, maybe thousands, of stiff little quills, (he got the idea from looking at a hairbrush, the one his mother used to spank him with when he was a tiny god: that thing hurt!) and off the hedgehog went about his happy, adorable life.

The first time Dornaa heard this story, she stopped and asked the matron,“I thought this was about Gorespine?! The drawing is of a big, ugly creature, matron, not something sweet and cute!” The matron would say, “Be patient, wait, I’m not done yet…”

While working passionately, lovingly on the adorable hedgehog, Cuowu put the leftover, ugly, extra sharp, and too-long quills in the back of a mud lump that he didn’t know what to do with. He had already created the rat, the raccoon, and the hedgehog. It seemed enough. This lump of mud and forest floor droppings was the collection of all the leftover bits from his portfolio of critters. What Cuowu didn’t know was that the lump was alive, and every time he put another quill in its back, like it was just a pincushion for a cruel seamstress, it felt a sharp pain. The creature finally shouted, “ENOUGH!” which startled Cuowu so, that he jabbed the rest of the quills in the back of the mud creature and yelled at him to leave his sight, and never enter the realm of the Gods of Beasts and Critters again. With a kiss and a blessing, he sent the hedgehog off into the world, full of grubs and bugs, and other delicious morsels. For the creature, which Cuowu called a ‘porcupine,’ because it was like a pig made of pine cones, he gave him bark and other nasty, bitter food. The porcupine left cursed.

The quills punctured his back, with drops of blood welling in the wounds: he took the name Gorespine.

Gorespine wandered the world, but not in an adventurous way, like the braver lions or the soaring eagles, but in a desperate need to find the next hole, the next tree limb, or the hidden places. If he encountered another of the gods’ creations, they mocked him for his ugliness and, well, for his rudeness. They knew the gods blessed each of them with either strength, or flight, or even webbed feet for faster swimming, but this thing—what was it, anyway? All they knew it wasn’t nearly as cute as a hedgehog. Mostly, they just left it alone. Taunting it only produced the same result: Gorespine insulted them with barbed retorts, and was just the same old, cantankerous creature.

But Gorespine was desperately lonely. He was miserable. It wasn't his fault Cuowu screwed up, was it? It was all Cuowu’s fault. It was the other animals’ entire fault. He chewed some bitter bark, thinking about how wrong everyone else was, how much everyone else was the cause of his pain and problems. He didn’t see that the hedgehog had quills, too, and was being his cute self. He didn’t see that the raccoon was getting a bad reputation all on his own for thievery (and obsessive hand-washing), and the rat was chased by brooms by the big, booming animals every time he showed a whisker.

Meanwhile, Cuowu felt regret. Well, he wouldn’t have, except that the Gods of Beautiful Birds found out about the banishment, and openly chastised him for not taking more care in his creations. Every animal, beast, bird or fish has a place: from the plain brown wren to the showy peacock, they told him, and he had better set things right, or this outcast would cause great harm.

In his misery, Gorespine thought he would hatch a plan of revenge. Every scenario he would throw his quills like arrows to all of those who hurt him, and blind Cuowu. One day, while shuffling through the forest, he came across a little dung beetle, happily rolling some scat. Gorespine asked him, “What do you have to be so happy about? What did you do to make the gods mad that this is your task?” The dung beetle laughed and said, “Are you joking? Mad? No! The gods blessed me! I have one of the most important jobs of all! I make sure things are kept clean for all of you other creatures…oh, and I’d do it for free! But I’ll say this anyway: You’re welcome.”

Gorespine did not expect that response. He was certain all animals were better off than he was, and if not, then they would certainly be just as miserable or cursed.

He then came upon an ant, toiling with a leaf ten times his size. He also asked the ant if the gods had cursed him, and the ant laughed and said, “Oh no! I am blessed! I get to help my entire family, all 10,988 of them, in our colony, and I live to serve the Queen (whom he thought was the kindest, most intelligent Queen he had ever known in his short ant life), and I am so strong! Just look at me! Now, I am busy, but you have a lovely day! Oh, and your quills are magnificent by the way.”

Gorespine felt his mood lifting. It was uncomfortable, like being un-tethered from the only anchor he had. But he did feel something happening.

Finally he came upon a snake warming itself on a rock in the sun. Gorespine felt the most sympathy for this snake. He asked him, “Snake, are you not afraid an eagle will snatch you up and eat you, and you without feet to run away, or wings to fly?” The snake hissed a laugh and said, “Oh noooo, noooo, not me, ssssseeee! I am fast as a lightning bolt and have all I need in my sssspine to move me and my mouth to eat. You’re lucky you have those quillsssss to protect you though. Sstay with me a while: the ssssun feelssss sssso warm, and it’ssss good to be alive, even for a few momentsss….” And sure enough, an owl swooped down and grabbed the snake for its evening snack. But Gorespine could swear he heard the snake say, “I have no regretssssss!”

The gods were watching Gorespine, waiting to hear his thoughts, and see if he was ready for his gift. Gorespine thought to himself that indeed he could go on as he had, feeling anger toward those he felt to blame, but now he knew he had a terrible thing, worse than quills, worse than ugliness: he had a choice.

Now, he could never completely give up being cantankerous. That was also a gift from the gods. If he did want to be alone, and think his own thoughts, he could. But if he wanted to enjoy others, and enjoy the day, or the night, or the crook of a tree limb, or the big, sharp, quills (the hedgehogs only had puny ones: like pooping hairbrushes! Silly things, thought Gorespine) he had his strength and size.

And no one would mess with him, unless he wanted to be messed with. The gods witnessed his transformation, and Cuowu created a beautiful porcupine mate for him, with the sweetest little pink nose and the sharpest of quills. To this day, you can see descendants of Gorespine rolling, grumbling, and sometimes laughing, on top of the hill far away.

The moral of the story is: sometimes the gods put blessings in the wrappings of curses.

Click for Navi's tale of the week: Lucky-Yi