http://tyledres.blogspot.com/2013/12/furtive-father-winter-gift.html
Codex
By Mataoka
Nothing came easy for her, nothing. Never did,
never will, Vaunt reckoned. She stared at the giant Orc’s bushy, black-bearded
face.
Deep in a protected
grove of Silverpine Forest rested a small farm owned by a human family. The
patriarch of the family gave her father Borbchek his first job, years ago. “Job”
is too kind of a word, for he was an indentured servant, working off a debt, and
they took him in not out of kindness or charity, but because they recognized
cheap, crafty labor. Some say the family had ties to the Proudmoores, but the
lady of the house started these rumors. Borbchek kept his mouth shut, and big,
green pointy ears open.
The Second War
Goblins were notorious financial mercenaries, and would sell their own
grandmother if enough gold were involved. Many did. In the case of Borbchek,
his father drowned in a crossing, and his mother’s unscrupulous morals and
addiction to nogginfogger elixir trumped her motherly instincts, as feral as
they were, and she packed off Borbchek to the highest bidder, never giving him
a second thought.
From bits and pieces,
odds and ends he found in the tool shed, Borbchek crafted a mechanical device
designed to dig up rocks, clear debris and scrubby pines, pulverize each stone
and boulder to get to the rich soil. His tinkering and engineering
contributions to the family are what created their prosperity, and yet they did
not reward him or allow him to share in the riches. So, he stole what he
needed, or felt he deserved: they seemed none the wiser. A piece of silver cutlery
here, or an ivory button there, made no difference. His mechanical cleverness,
however, did not carry over to his rapacity skills, and one of the other house
goblins tattled on his thievery. He had stolen more than a kiss from her, and
she was disgusted in his lack of honor in claiming paternity rights to the
green bun in her oven. So, pregnant with his bastard daughter, she told the
mistress of the house about his thievery, and his loss would be replaced by the
baby’s future labor. He hanged in Gallows’ Corner the next full moon.
The snitching maid
raised her daughter, Vaunt, in the household without incident. Her mother
wanted to name her something that sounded close to ‘vault,’ to remind herself
that she was a secret treasure. Or perhaps her spelling wasn’t too accurate. In
any case, Vaunt joined the human household and as soon as she could walk and
carry a bucket, began her life of servitude.
Vaunt inherited
little of her father’s mechanical skills, so she served the family in the
dairy, milking cows and goats. She had a knack for delicious cheeses and
butter, and an odd manner or talent with the livestock. Every chicken, barn cat
or field mouse would do her bidding: she discovered this talent one pathetic
winter morning: slicing snow and sleet caused the milk bucket to freeze up, so
she commanded the poor cow to heat up her milk, and squirt faster. The cow
obliged. Though she didn’t speak cow, chicken, or goat, somehow she knew their
thoughts, and they hers.
Then came the Third
War: slaughtered by the Scourge, the family members arose, reborn from death, one
by one to serve the Lady. Even in death they reigned supreme, chartered by the
sensual Sylvanas. Vaunt looked at her own knobby, bowlegged posture, her overly
large hands, calloused from milking and churning, and felt that deep acknowledgment
that her destiny would never fit in with this beautiful, lost-souls of a clan.
Her mother felt dissatisfied too, with serving the ghoulish lot who were
ungrateful at best, and damn near elitist puffery at worst. So in the middle of
the night, they packed up their things, helping themselves to the family
silverware and guild gold, and headed for the sunnier, warmer side of the
world: Orgrimmar.
Farming, dirt, and
stink were no strangers to the canyon compound of Orgrimmar. It was quite a
contrast from the moon-soaked grass and the hushed, haunted pines of the forest
she left behind. Homesickness shook her to her core. Her mother found
employment as a hostess and barmaid in a local tavern, and barely noticed her
daughter’s comings and goings. To get some different air than the burnt-oil
grease fires on the walls of the city, Vaunt followed her nose to an
underground, shadowy place, aptly named the Cleft of Shadow. It smelled
refreshing to her big green nose: like burnt ink and toads’ kisses, more like
home than any other place in Orgrimmar. She tried to stay as inconspicuous as
possible while she slunk down the long, rough-hewn corridor. A master warlock
trainer, Zevrost, smelled the cow dung and spoiled milk on her clothing, and
grabbed her by the nape of her neck, holding her prone to get a good look at
her. She pursed her lips in fear, afraid that her big mouth would get her into
further trouble: this Orc meant business, growling, “What are you doing down here,
little runt?”
Vaunt had had enough:
the homesickness, the loss, the solitude, and the stink. She shouted back at
the Orc’s angry face, “How the hell should I know! Your breath stinks, this
place smells like pig’s ass on a hot day, and you can all go straight to hell
and Draenor for all I give a rat’s nipple!”
No one had ever
spoken to Zevrost in this way. Not even that barmaid…no, never mind, a story
for another time. His Voidwalker, Zekkor, even seemed flummoxed. Zevrost looked
in the girl goblin’s burning red eyes, with the ring of deep purple around the
green-black pupils, and saw who she would become.
Years later, a
powerful warlock in her own right, she found a book.
Or the book found
her.
