The shaman wiped the mixture of rusted dust and sweat from her brow. She
filled her healing totem from the filthy, swampy river, choked with flesh and
weapons. Bodies of dragonkin and Onyxia’s children were already infested with joyous
maggots: the living cleaning up the dead, wasting no time, wasting no flesh. The
water tasted metallic and sharp, reminding her of the bitter raspberry-colored water
around Bloodmyst Isle, infused with bad magic and salts. But it would have to
do. The small fissure in her totem leaked almost more water than it held, and
stained the infused-light surface with misleading pink streaks: its festive
appearance was macabre.
When the first explosions shredded Theramore, Mataoka was on the wrong
side of the lines. She was near Dustwallow, near the Orc and Tauren
encampments, helping her cousin gather herbs. Why her cousin was there in that
too-small naval town was obvious, although incredibly reckless: love for the
lieutenant kept her there, against her nature and better sense. Mataoka lost
Ceniza, the sounds of the shrapnel and bombs singing a hell’s choir in her
head. The ground between them had been ripped, Ceniza on the Alliance lines,
and Mataoka on the Horde.
It was not as if Mataoka didn’t know a storm was coming, but lately, her
inner instrumentation had been off by huge margins. She had all the instincts
but none of the logical guidance to defend herself. The beauty of Theramore was
deceiving as well. One could not have asked for a more beautiful morning than
this morning.
The fighting drifted closer to Theramore’s port. She was disoriented
from the explosions, but heard the distinct sound of canon fire from the ships,
and deceptive sounds: some voices that were miles away, carried by the odd
acoustics of the sea, went right to her ears, while other sounds closer to her
were faint. She barely heard the groan of the young Orc male, but she caught a
whiff of his pungent blood.
Filthy, dirty things, Orcs. He smelled. He had soiled himself, and there
was another smell, too. His blood reeked like the fel-fields of Outland: sharp,
sulfurous, and bitter. Some of the ancient eredar had this smell, too. It was
pervasive in the Black Temple. It overpowered the musty grassy smell of
Dustwallow, it overpowered the smell of gunpowder and foul breath of screams.
It overpowered all, and forever would be in the front of her memories.
He wore a stolen Alliance uniform, though it must not have fooled the
humans or Draenei long with his green skin, which was covered in black-red
blood soon enough. In Outland, we are all taller. We are all stronger. We are
survivors. But in this human place, we are weak. We break. She was not aware of
these thoughts; they became a subconscious rhythm, like breathing. We are weak. We break. The human world
was always a brittle one at best.
He was crying. His shame was palatable. He knew he was dying, and he was
not ready. No one is.
Her robes, woven with the tendons and tiny bones of protective spirit
animals, were streaked with shit-brown bloodstains from her own wounds and
fear, and it was as if the animals’ blood had found a voice from the grave. “So
this is what it’s like to go insane?” she thought to herself, “This is when I
don’t come back.”
She did not belong here. She did
not belong here. She wanted to go home. She—blood seeping through bandages—she
belonged to--the emerald green grass and lavender haze through Azuremyst
bachelor pines, so named because the female species’ seeds were always leagues
away. The pines were fertilized by the efforts of birds and animal spoor: it
had taken generations after the devastation of her ancestors for these trees to
grow again in the strange lands. They were just as invasive and unwelcome as
her people were, but had found a home in Azuremyst.
But she was a
fighter, and she was a healer. What others would consider high treason, she
considered her duty. He needed comfort and reassurance. Her healing instincts
and sound judgments won out over her fears. She brought him water. She tried to
stop the bleeding as best she could. She washed his face, and cradled his head
in her lap, all the while him mumbling in Orcish: she managed to understand a
few words. Like most dying soldiers, it’s always the same song: Tell her I love
her. Tell her I died a hero. Tell her I am sorry. Tell her I will see her on
the other side. She didn’t have to speak Orc to know.
His light was
nearly extinguished. Mataoka turned when she heard a thundering Tauren
triumvirate headed towards them: in the lead was a female Tauren, a druid by
her markings and trappings: the two males, warriors, grabbed Mataoka by her
arms, dragging her away from the Orc, her hooves finding no purchase in the
spongy ground, while the Tauren druid knelt by the Orc to try to save him with
green leafy-infused winds and prayers. One warrior held a dagger to her throat,
and the other twisted her arms back. They could kill her in a heartbeat, and
would be within their rights. War breeds death.
The Orc passed. The
Tauren looked at Mataoka, and Mataoka saw her rich, emerald green eyes. Green
eyes the color of Azuremyst hills. Green eyes the color of life. With a gentle
nod of her head, the warriors released Mataoka, pointing the way back to
medics near the Alliance lines in Theramore. But she did not run the instant
she was released: she bowed deeply and in humility and respect to the Tauren. The
Tauren bowed in return. They knew the language of mothers, of healers, and would care for each other's wounded, the sons and daughters of all. They bowed to one another as shaman and druid, not
Tauren and Draenei.
They each walked back to their sides of the rift.
Let the Drummer Kick/Citizen
Cope
Writer's Note: This vignette has been kicking around in my head for some time. I had promised Navi a story, and was inspired by her generosity of spirit months ago. I am so honored to know her. I admit that I find it somewhat superficial that 'in game,' we have to take sides. It's not in my nature, nor do I think it's inherently in her nature either. We are real humans navigating a real world, and its dangers and disasters. I believe, as much as I trust anything, that my friendship with Navi supersedes all barriers--I mean think about it!? How cool do I get to have a virtual pen-pal a world away, and still feel connected and befriended?
But--it is a game of war after all. And in war, there are sides. But I know the healers in the world are the ones who mend up the rends, and steer us back to peace and life.
As far as Bear's challenge of being able to self-critic my writing, I think some of the parts that can either be edited, revised, or embellished may include the mention of why Mataoka is there in the first place: seems like a bit of a thin premise to be helping Ceniza. Ceniza was just lonely, the lieutenant being otherwise preoccupied with deserting soldiers and protecting Jaina. Ceniza has her own story to tell, but this was not hers.
And my own litmus test when I'm writing: if I make myself laugh or in this case, cry, I know it's done.
