Disclaimer: I don't own the products or services associated with Blizzard; including World of Warcraft – this is merely an exercise with creativity
Author's Note: sort of a mix with apprenticeships and children's week
Summary: she smoothes down your collar and tries to smile/you promise to write/on growing up
You don't remember your parents faces, but you can remember screeches and low rumbling roars – and then the Matron's smiling face. Your family is a vast assortment of mismastched children, an old troll woman and her human assistant. Outside the great warriors visit, sometimes they bring surprises (these are always the best days because the Matron's pinched smile vanishes and there is fresh fruit and maybe spun sugar for a treat, and sometimes, if it's a special day, there are new clothes or bedsheets or wind up toys from the gnome vendors). They always bring stories, always bring daydreams -
You are seven years old when you are found out. The green glow is apparent, the wound on your foster-brother's knee is fading and the Matron has caught you.
But you are not in trouble, not at all, you are swung up in the air and there is laughter and love.
...
She is tall and slender with strange pale skin and even paler hair. One day she finds you in the streets with your friends and follows you home to the Matron, who is taken aside and a quiet conversation is had. The night elf's staff lies against the wall, glimmering with a faint enchantment, and the leather does not creak when she moves. There is talk about a circle and wardens and accidental spell-craft, you scratch under your tusks and frown. Somehow you are in trouble and you do not know why.
The elf takes you outside where her beast is patiently waiting, you won't be gone long she assures you, but you need to have your first lesson. You are familiar with the faint green glow that re-knits torn and bruised tissues and she passes over it to the gold sparks that you toss at your friends.
The golden glow bubbles underneath your hands and heats the place between your heart and your breast bone. This is your wrath, she explains and adjusts your fingers, now fling it at the target.
You do so. The target explodes into ash.
The first lesson is this, she says solemnly. Any spell can cause harm. Always be aware of your words and your actions.
(even now, you can see that burn target in your dreams)
...
Eventually she returns to Zangarmarsh, but there are always letters. Always homework. You are able to identify the druids now, and seek them out to help answer your questions.
You've also started to work too, you and your fellow siblings have noted a harsh reality: only certain types of orphans are adopted, and eventually you'll be too old to stay with the Matron. For now though, while you panic about what your future might be, you and your friends have started to ask for work; anything – sweeping, helping out in the stables, even stocking up supplies for the inn or a couple of shops.
The local herbalist is old and his fingers are getting stiff. He's a huge draenei with a long scar running down his face that's discoloured and still painful-looking. But he's nice enough, pays you well for your work and although both of your accents are thick and confusing, he is more than willing to repeat himself.
(he's a good lad, you hears the old man say to an angry customer, and he's done me no wrong – you leave him be)
...
You come home one day from work, tired and a little bit hungry when you notice the beast dozing peacefully outside. You are one of the last to leave, still scrounging up enough money to buy – and not rent – your own apartment.
But she is back, with her strange pale hair and glowing eyes. There are a number of children at her feet, listening to her tell some story of her own people and they are listening rapturously. The Matron tugs you aside, and tries to smile.
You pack quickly, and your master hands you the magic scroll that binds you to her as a student, it vanishes in strange green-pink flames when you sign it. The Matron smoothes down your collar and sniffles. Behind her, the human girl who always held your hand when you went to the healer's is crying.
You will be back, your master promises.
You promise to write, and you wave.
...
She takes you to the bank one rainy afternoon, so that the accountant can help you sort out your account: a third for your savings, a third for spending and any repairs you will have and the other third being directly deposited into the Matron's account to help with the orphanage's finances. Afterwards, she takes you to an amourer who lectures you on how to properly care for you gear. After that, she takes you to the herbalist you worked for who gives you a bag to collect your very own plants in, a couple of gold coins and a blessing.
The flying taxi master informs you of the rules of the sky, you pat your pocket for your hearthstone and nod nervously. Beside you, your master waits on her patient beast and smiles as you clamber onto the griffin. The master chuckles at you, rearranges a few things and slaps you on the back. (The griffin is an older one, and good for first time fliers.)
It's a sudden jolt and then the ground is far beneath you, the city is growing hazy.
She calls your name and points out towards the sun.
It helps with the nausea.
...
The world is much bigger than the Lower City had taught you.
You are taken to Zangarmarsh, and you meet the other druids, the wardens and the great Ancients. There is wood and water and flickering lights of the marsh-flies, but there are trolls who roll out their consonants and teach you the language you've all but forgotten and there is a lone worgen who you sell your plants to and she teaches you how to make elixirs. The tauren warden who walks the lonely paths in the time between midnight and dawn straightens your left hook out.
Your master takes you into the depths of the marsh, and shows you the many wonders that there is to be had. In quiet spaces her words weave stories and histories and lessons that you drink in like moonberry juice and when you slay your first naga, she rubs your back when you are suddenly sick with the metallic, bitter taste of scale and blood and anger on your tongue.
It is a long hard road, she tells you, to become a guardian. But there are those who would cause harm for their own enjoyment and we must oppose them; there are those who are counting on us to do right by Azeroth. This is no easy task. You will not like some of the things you will be asked to do. You will often make choices that you do not like, that others do not like.
Was it hard for you? You ask, and rock back on your feet.
It is always hard, she replies as she bandages your right arm. But the regrets I have are from the things I did not do.
...
Your letters are cramped for space, your penmanship getting smaller and slanted as you try to make the most out of your parchment.
You can almost see them, all gathered around the Matron's chair as she reads them out loud – the best parts, as if he were a character from an adventure story. You hope it is like this, it was a good way to spend a lazy evening as a child with them all.
But you are leaving the shattered Outland for another continent, another whole world. Your master has been called away and you must follow. Your training has been intense and almost punishable (there are worry lines between her eyes, a fretting that you cannot help) – but you are always spelled and bandaged and potioned into health, always just enough sleep and good food (you are still growing, much to the quartermaster's chagrin). All of the druids are tense, whispered muttering of the mountain sound like great shouts.
Before you leave, the tauren warden takes you aside and passes you a small knife.
It pays to be prepared, he says. Be careful.
...
I have nothing more to teach you, she says simply. The day is bright and beautiful, and Tortolla's children are playing games in the water. You have learned well.
Do I have to leave? You ask.
You can do whatever you want. She replies, and the look in her eyes – while glowing – is what you have learned as "fond".
I think I'll go home, you say. See if I can find someone to help.
She straightens up your tabard, smoothes out the wrinkles on your shoulders. She taps the side of your left tusk with a smile.
Remember to write, she says.
...
Your Matron has retired, spends her days making blankets and rocking the babies. Her old rheumy eyes still see you, and she shakes as she holds you. Her assistant is now Matron, and a spotted Tauren female is her own assistant.
They point out a small girl with dark hair, one who is tending to the flowers in the windowbox.
...
(and the circle is unbroken)