Branbera was making her way through Winterspring, enjoying the cold air on her face, when she saw black billowing clouds of smoke off in the distance. Wondering who might need aid, she made her way towards them.
It was all the shaman had hoped it wouldn't be. There were the remains of a homestead, smoldering in ruins, and tracks of furbolgs all about the place. Her keen tauren ears picked up a small sound in the back, heard despite the crackle of flames, blowing wind, and crumbling embers. She carefully picked her way through the wreckage to where the sounds were coming from, and found two small children, gnome by the size of them, huddled in what looked to be a very orcish built bolt hole.
"Peace little ones, I will get you to safety, warmth, and food." She carefully removed the fallen rubble and timbers until she could extract the small ones safely. Once she got them out, she could indeed see that they were a boy and girl, both gnomes. From what she could tell, the whole place had been built by orcs. What were they doing here?
"Momma said stay put. We can't leave till she gets back!" wailed the girl.
"The monsters must have taken her. She won't come back, and neither will Poppy." The boy looked mad, scared, and mutinous all at once. The shaman had to bite back a smile. How many times had she seen the same look on the children in Thunderbluff? Of course, the situations were never this dire, but children are children no matter what the circumstances may be.
"How would you like me to go find Momma and Poppy for you?" Branbera sat down and pulled the children into the shelter of her cloak. She looked both of them straight in their smudged little faces. "I will take you into a big strong town nearby. You will be warm, safe, and fed. My friends will take care of you until I can bring your parents to you. Does that sound alright to you two?"
"Will they be back in time for Winterveil?" The little girl had eyes the color of the lake violets near Bloodhoof.
"I don't know, but I will try." The girl smiled, and she was almost as pretty as a tauren calf. The boy's face still looked like a thundercloud, but then, boys were always less hopeful than girls, in her experience. It made it easier to surprise and please them,in the end.
Once she had them safely ensconced at the inn in Everlook, she went back to the ruins to track the furbolgs responsible. The tracks did not head off to any of the expected camps she knew. The puzzle seemed to grow more convoluted, but she was a patient shaman, and she had untangled worse fishlines than this before now. As the early Winterspring evening fell, Branbera spotted campfires twinkling through the thick firs. It looked almost peaceful, until the sounds of the furbolg revelry met her ears.
From her vantage point, Bran could see the whole disgusting pageantry unfold in all its gruesome glory. There were the sacrifices, nicely bundled so that no vain attempts at escape could ruin the festivities planned for them, there the priests and shamans of the tribe, resplendent in their bloodstained regalia, and there the entire tribe, ready for the show, between her and the prisoners.
Well, she'd seen worse odds. But she'd had some help then, and then she heard the chimera...a massive wicked grin filled her face. Branbera moved so that she could see the chimera, her three pups, and her mate. If possible, her grin got even wider.
Every shaman carries a special preparation that allows them to survive massive trauma. They can't do it often, but you'd be surprised the number of times a shaman thought dead could get up and turn the tide of battle. So, she prepared herself, gathering all the courage she could muster, because she was about to start a rip roaring fight she knew she wasn't going to survive, at first.
You can imagine the surprise she felt then, when there came a tap on her shoulder. Taurens usually don't jump that high. She turned to see what another orc would assure her was a kindly old face with a long flowing white beard. The ancient figure was wearing robes of holley berry red.
"Your idea might work, youngling, but it won't solve the basic problem." The solemn tones of his voice rumbled deep in his chest; she felt them more than heard them. The vast reaches of knowledge in his eyes glowed like starlight. Branbera knew she stood before an emissary of ages long past, and of ages yet to come.
"What would you have me do, Ancient One?" He touched her forehead, and she felt fireflies of energy ripple through her, stirring her hair, and electrifying her soul.
"Sing to them, and the very rocks at their feet will dance to your tune. No need to disturb the chimera's winterveil night. They will do your bidding another, more oppertune, time."
She closed her eyes as she felt even more energy sweep through her, and when she opened them, the old orc was gone. A side effect of having that much power swishing about your brain is that stray thoughts keep breaking loose and swooping about. For one, a conversation with the Timbermaw kept colliding with one she'd had with a dorf who'd been investigating the changed ones. She shook her head to clear it, and saw a green glow out the corner of one eye. She followed the glow, and found its source.
It was a path, beside a sluggish green stream, leading her up a steep mountainous path. She followed it up quickly, because she could hear the furbolg festivities kicking it up a notch. She was quite sure they hadn't started the sacrifices, because she could still hear the High priests caterwauling benedictions and appeals to their corrupted gods of mayhem. They did seem to be winding down, so she had to pick up the pace.
At the top, she found an entire lake of that disgusting green goo, and the spot where it seeped out into the stream, and rearing its ugly head, the monster that the powers floating about in her head told her was responsible for that awful mess.
"Now." said those voices, and she started to sing. It was a song no shaman trainer or druid had ever taught her, it was a song no person living had ever heard; but it was a song the rocks at her feet knew, and they danced. They danced right down on top of the monster; they danced right down into the streambed; and they danced right down on top of the Furbolgs' celebrations, flattening them, literally.
She made her way down to the remains of the furbolgs' camp, and found, to her everlasting relief, that the prison camp was untouched. The surviving guards saw her coming, and ran. She wondered what they had seen to make them so afraid of her. Even the prisoners were cowering in the corner.
Of course, watching a tauren sing a mountain down could have an effect on someone.
Branbera searched among the prisoners, and found no gnomes. Every other race seemed to be there, but no gnomes. "Who amongst you claim two small children, a boy and girl, of gnomish descent?" Her words still sounded funny, hollow and echoish. She thought perhaps her ears might still be ringing.
Two orcs stepped forward. Branbera raised an eyebrow. "We claim them, ancient one. H-how.. how do they fare?" Ancient one? She had to smile at that.
"They wait for you in Everlook, safe at the inn." Perhaps once this power about her wore off, she could get their story. It sounded fit for one of the history tabards on Elder Rise. Orcs raising gnomes? How interesting.
"Peace to you, this Winterveil Eve." She could feel another song welling up within her, so she sang it. She watched the winds whisk all the prisoners away, presumably to their homes. Branbera didn't know. She just sang until the power ran out, and left her at an empty camp, alone.
Except for one more ditty. ... "Jingle bell, Jingle bell, Jingle bell rock..."