Of Cursed Blood
Dustwallow marsh. A salt-water swamp clinging to the coast of south-east Kalimdor, and likely one of the most forbidding environments on that continent. It was filled with savage, ship-raiding murlocs along the coastline, twenty-foot crocolisks gliding silent and deadly through the murky waters within, territorial black dragonkin along its southern edge, and clouds of blood-thirsty winged insects all throughout. Those who traveled or stayed here were either desperate, highly-skilled, or likely dead in either case before the coming of the next day. Entire well-provisioned groups of travelers have been swallowed up, never to be heard from again, their fate could only imagined, not that many would want to.
Currently, the skies above churned with black and charcoal rain clouds, shutting out what little light from the waning sun of evening could penetrate the canopy and draping of air moss found on the majority of trees gnarled branches. Coming in off of the sea it struck the murlocs first, their bulbous eyes scouring the flashes of lightning for portents from their primal gods, rain pouring off their scaled, fish-like bodies onto the debris-strewn beaches where they made their primitive shanties. Soon the rain surged over the small ridge of hills along the marshes' eastern most edge, sending the insects to shelter and crocolisks, blinking their double-eyelids in mute acknowledgement to the storm's fury, sank smoothly into the calmness of deeper water.
To say the marsh was devoid of any life that walked on two legs and did not breathe water as well as air was not completely true. Forced by wide-spread plague, the remnants of the Alliance had been forced to a small, rocky island on the southern tip of the marsh, making due with the humidity, meager dry land, and the life they had all had to leave behind. Unable to entirely rely on their massive port to bring them everything they needed, the leaders of the city of Theramore began the long and costly, in both materials and man-power, process of setting up a stable road and watch towers along it. Towers and men alike were to be claimed by the swamp before such a thing was accomplished, but when it was, a series of bridges linked the gaps between islands of solid ground, with several stone towers acting as way-points for a garrison of grim-faced soldiers charged with the daunting task of protecting travelers while staying alive themselves. With gloom pervasive in a large portion of the swamp, metal lamp posts has been set deep into the ground along this road, the thick glass lanterns alight eternally with a moderate yellow glow thanks to a minor spell focused on a suspended gem within them all. Still, this was no guarantee of a safe journey, more than a few travelers had left the road following balls of light deep within the swamp, thinking that more lanterns awaited ahead, and most realizing their folly only after it was far too late.
The orcs, too, held a small settlement here, mostly to honor a standing alliance with the ogres found there, and keep an eye on the activities of their human neighbors. Its brutish, thick-skinned inhabitants hunkered down around bonfires and huddled beneath crudely-stitched crocolisk skin cloaks, remembering their sturdy stone homes that they lost when the black dragons decided that they dwelled too close to their lair to be allowed to live. Many died; the large, thick white bones of their fallen still laying where they had been killed, every structure razed to the ground with unnaturally hot fire breath of those who even now prowled around the ruins of Stonemaul village.
Somewhere between where the plains of the Barrens ended and the log-walled hamlet of Brackenwall began, a lone figure trudged. Following the rude path stomped into the soft ground by the passing of many ogres on their way to hunt, the traveler moved carefully and deliberately. To be out in such weather, in such a place, with night quickly descending, spoke of secrets and motivations that even the most canny would be hard-pressed to guess. The figure was large, like an ogre, but walked with a different gait than those lumbering brutes, lacking the usual slabs of fat found around the barrel-chested torsos of the same. The figure traveled light, garbed in dark traveling leathers and a rough-cut cloak which ended around the being's mid-thigh, a second layer of the cloak that was formed into a mantle was drawn up and over the figure's head, a crude hood of sorts. The straps from a drinking gourd, a small rucksack, and some sort of staff wrapped in more leather hung off of broad shoulders and criss-crossed an equally broad chest, the figure's only apparent possessions. Ivory horns, the sharp tips blackened, poked out from the sides of the hooded head and dripped moisture to the already sodden ground, the head inclined so that the moisture did not travel down their length to the figure's head. Whether they were a part of this strange traveler's body, or extended from some sort of helm was not readily apparent.
The slight sucking sound of mud enveloping and then releasing the traveler's feet was drowned out amidst the pattering of rain off of leaves, pools of water, and the large cloak it wore on its back. In and above that, the stirring myriad creatures of the night who added their strange voices to the marshland were interrupted by peals of thunder, and the distant roar of wind-conjured white caps crashing against the none-to-distant shore contested the heavens in sheer volume of noise.
A particularly large crocolisk, over twenty-five feet in length, suddenly erupted from the water beside the figure, not three paces away. Its huge, tooth-filled mouth was open in challenge, its hissing growl warning the intruder that it had come too close, and while if it were hungry it simply would have attacked, there was little doubt the scaly creature would attack to kill if provoked any further. The figure came to an abrupt halt and remained perfectly still, the rain still dripping off the edges of its leather attire and ivory horns. The crocolisk hissed again, tossing its head from side-to-side and gazing at the intruding traveler with whichever yellow eye was facing it at the time. The beast's six short but powerful legs could propel it to the figure in a heart beat, its jaws latching onto unarmored flesh and rending with all the cutting power of the finest goblin lumber saw. The figure remained motionless regarding the agitated animal, and somewhere off in the distance a crow cawed twice.
Slowly closing its jaws the crocolisk regarded the figure intently for a moment longer before slowly sliding back into the water from whence it came, its hooded eyes never leaving the traveler until the large reptile had disappeared beneath the water's surface. Casting a cursory glance over its shoulder, the figure pressed on, making no special attempt to avoid the area that the crocolisk had emerged from. It would not bother him.
In the silence of one with nothing to say and no one to say it to, the lone traveler continued on the muddy path, slogging through the muck with a measured, unhurried stride. Barely a hundred paces from his encounter with the predatory reptile the figure suddenly stopped again, but with no apparent reason to do so. Rain-drenched moments passed one after another until the brush around the traveler suddenly erupted into activity. Men with swords and crossbows drawn, girded in mail armor and wearing the faded and muddied crest of Theramore on their tabards, leapt out, lanterns that were hooded before bursting with light now, illuminating the scene. The figure was surrounded, four men before him, four behind, with but a pace and a half of solid ground on either side of him.
" Hold! We have you surrounded. You trespass on lands under the jurisdiction of the Theramore ruling council, and as such are subject to a search and questioning, " one holding a lantern spoke in a loud but unimpassioned voice, reciting something for the pure sake of doing so rather than an earnest effort to inform. He was big for a human, with a wet but undoubtedly sharp sword sheathed at his side, and a crooked-tooth smile the spoke of a poor upbringing and a few blows to the jaw. Metal clattered lightly, barely noticeable above the other noises present as the men behind the large traveler advanced a step, sights of their crossbows still squarely focused on the back of the figure they had ambushed. They were a fair ways away from where they were supposed to patrol, deliberately lying in wait for some unfortunate to come along the path leading to the Horde village, but there was no need for the trapped figure to know this.
After a long pause the traveler deigned to speak, his voice (as there was no doubting gender after that point) deep and low, like a slow rumbling of the thunder overhead, yet completely without malice…or seemingly any other emotion.
" I seek Brackenwall village. My business is my own, and I have nothing that you cannot already see. "
The humans to the fore of the figure looked to one another and exchanged knowing grins, eyes glittering with an unwholesome light.
" Brackenwall heh? Have business with the ogres, or their slime-skinned orc friends? You're too big for an orc, one of those primitive cow-men I'd wager then, " the man spat, sending the glob of phlegm and saliva inches in front of the tauren's mud-caked hooves.
The figure did not start or make any sound, instead reaching up with deliberate slowness to his hood and removing the protective covering so that his bovine head could be seen by all. The leader of the patrol snorted at the sight, his suspicion confirmed.
Eyes black like oil reflected the clouds over head as they gazed at the human directly, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, almost nonchalant. When he spoke a second time, his voice was flat and matter-of-facty, his words carrying no inflection, nothing but the basic sounds needed to form the words.
" Let me pass, or blood will coat the ground so thick even the rain will not be able to wash it away. "
It was impossible not to hear the threat in the words, yet they were spoken so mechanically that it took a moment for their meaning to register with the men arranged around the bull man. Frowns formed on the soldier's brows, crossbows raised into firing position. The tauren continued to look into the leader's eyes, as he had looked into the eyes of the Bloodsail raiders whom had sought to rob him as he traveled to Booty Bay, as he looked into the eyes of the goblin captain who had tried to charge him more than he had agreed upon, barring his way to Ratchet with a wall of goblin crewmen wielding sabers and rifles, or the eyes of any of the hundreds that had thrown themselves before him, not knowing what they faced.
" Flight-of-Hawks he will be known as, a fine name for such a fine healthy babe! " the village elder roared with unrestrained joy and relief. The delivery had been a difficult one, the mother nearly spent after a long and torturous labor. Those present cheered, from the young attendants ready to fetch anything the elder might need to help with the birthing process, to the mid-wives who let the expecting mother sip cooling draughts of water to wet a mouth gone dry from deep breathing and cries of pain. The cheering died down as the usual sounds of a newborn wailing against the sudden light and noise was absent. The elder frowned and quickly checked the newborn still slick with the fluids of the womb who was cradled in doe-skin in the arms of one of the mid-wives.
" My-my child, he still breathes? " the frazzled and distraught mother asked, trying to prop herself up to see what was happening. The elder did not respond for a time, merely looking at the child, then slowly shaking his graying head, his expression more puzzled and intrigued that concerned.
" Yes, he still breathes, strong and steady, but no crying, and his eyes, they look at me even now, unafraid of the light. There is something special about this young one, of that I am certain. He will do great things. "
" If only his father were here to witness this, " the mother whispered sorrowfully, easing herself back into the specially made bed she had occupied since the first signs the baby was coming.
Flight-of-Hawks never did know his father, or what effects one long dead would have on him, but with the communal effort of raising children present amongst all the tauren tribes made this absence barely noticed. Glossy black from hoof to head the child possessed bone-white horns and an irregularly shaped patch of white on his forehead, with a strong, well-structured face considered handsome by many besides Flight-of-Hawk's mother. With the elder's proclamation on his day of birth, the whole tribe eagerly awaited to see what the child would grow up to become. Those were the days of uncertainty, of bold centaur attacks on the semi-nomadic tauren, where the birth of another child was a blessing measured against the number of braves who never returned from the hunts or sorties against the marauding horse-people. As such when the young one was old enough, he began walking the path of a warrior. His life had been one of quiet and calm, never getting frightened by shadows or scary tales, nor even when one of his young caretakers choked to death on a poorly-chewed piece of kodo meat and had left him alone with the corpse for over an hour before someone came to check on them. " I thought she was sleeping, " the wide-eyed child replied when asked why he did not call for aid sooner.
The training for a warrior was harsh, but so was the life of one, and after learning the fundamentals of holding and using weapons, and endurance training, the young braves were allowed to spar, supervised and instructed by seasoned warriors who stood outside a ring formed of cheering students. Flight-of-Hawks was only an average student, lacking aggression but doing well at his exercises, growing to be one of the largest of the young warriors-in-training. The white patch on his forehead had grown with him too, now covering the upper half of his face. Some whispered that its eventual shape would foretell what future the young tauren would have, white fur a mark of the spirits. They dueled with thin, polished branches of wood the length of a short spear, no thicker than the smallest of a young tauren's three fingers, the goal to touch at vital spots rather than inflict any but the most superficial injury.
The duel started as many had, with cheers of support for both combatants as they began to circle and size one another up. After a few explorative taps of wood on wood the other student, named Wolfchaser, suddenly struck Flight-of-Hawks spear to the side, lunging in for a strike to the chest. Flight-of-Hawks compensated the sharp blow easily, bringing the narrow point of the spear back before him to defend…only to have the tip of the wooden shaft enter through the orbit of Wolfchaser's right eye, the momentum the other possessed driving the shaft deep into his brain. The cheers quickly died down to complete silence as the students gaped in horror at the event, the student twitching twice and sinking down to the ground. Flight-of-Hawks released the spear as if it were something alive, his mouth half-open in surprise. A fraction of a moment later one of the instructors burst through the ring of training warriors, kneeling down beside the still form of the fallen student. It was far too late, the youth dead before he had hit the ground. The instructor looked hard at Flight-of-Hawks, but there was no fault to be found, no malice in the other's eyes. It was simply a freak accident, something that happened only once in an aged tauren's entire lifetime.
Flight-of-Hawks did not attend the funerary rites for the slain young Wolfchaser, the looks the family and friends gave him unsettled him, even though the elders had declared him blameless. Instead he was asked to tend to an ancient female who was just recovering from an extended illness, the usual caretakers all attending the ceremony. The ancestors called to the venerable tauren that day as well, the ceremony only half-completed before a distraught Flight-of-Hawks ran up to some on the periphery of the massed tauren and explained that after glancing at him suddenly and emitting a strangled cry, she had slumped forward and become unresponsive. Those that rushed to the wigwam where the venerable one had been staying found her stone dead, her age finally catching up with her, apparently. Still, after that the two incidents the villagers began to avoid Flight-of-Hawks, speaking in hushed tones after he had passed by. His training was completed by sparring with the instructors only, no student no matter how much they were convinced willing to face off against him.
As time passed and the young brave was nearing the end of his training, the quiet, almost brooding youth had developed into a fine-looking male, his broad frame packed with sleek muscle and strong face as talked about as his supposed "curse". One female about Flight-of-Hawks' age had taken a great liking to the usually silent brave, and after dismissing her friend's attempted to warn her away with superstitious nonsense, she asked if she may take a walk with him by Stonebull Lake, where the village was set up to weather the winter months. Nudged by his family to take this rare opportunity, Flight-of-Hawks agreed with barely a nod, the pair left into the cool autumn air with a sigh of relief from the young male's family, glad that the incidents of his past would not keep him from finding companionship with a female. Summerwind was her name, and after awkwardly accepting her warm hand, they walked to the outskirts of the village, towards the placid waters of Stonebull Lake.
The two talked, well, mostly Summerwind talked, looking out across the clear waters colored the hues of the nearby tree leaves, all shades of yellow, orange, and brown. After a time they sat down near the water's edge, hands still interlocked, relishing the simple thrill of touching. A crow called loudly from somewhere nearby, Flight-of-Hawks taking his gaze off the lake to search for it. It sat in a tree nearly devoid of all leaves, which few there were stirring in the slight wind. They looked like small bits of bloodied cloth torn from some stained garments, those leaves did, if one was inclined to view them in such a way.
Flight-of-Hawks felt Summerwind shudder as if from cold just after the crow cawed again, the young male not so insensitive to think she would not be chilled by the season despite the sensible garb they both wore. Looking back to her he saw her mouth slightly agape, eyes wide and glazed as they looked out on the lake. Her hand began to slip from his as Flight-of-Hawks belatedly noticed the three arrow shafts that had blossomed from her chest. She pitched forward into the lake, her life's blood coursing from her body into the cold waters like a great billowing cloud of crimson. High-pitched war cries and the thundering of hooves heralded the approach of centaur raiders, Flight-of-Hawks staring mutely at the floating corpse as he heard the villagers rousing themselves for battle. His training was over, it was time to become a warrior. He felt empty and sad after what had happened to Summerwind, but found he had no tears to shed, nor felt the fiery rage that was said to instill warriors charging into battle to avenge fallen loved ones. There was only a sense of what had to be done, and how to do it.
Calmly picking up a spear and slipping a poncho of shaped and fashioned bone strips over his head for armor Flight-of-Hawks took his place along the line of village defenders while the women and children were ushered to the safety of the great wooden longhouse in the middle of the village. Battle orders were given, and those had trained alongside Flight-of-Hawks stood tense, adjusting their grips on their spears to try and remember the best possible angle for attack. The dark-furred youth did none of this, standing as if a wooden carving, spear at the ready. " Where is Summerwind, did you see her to safety? " a nearby brave anxiously asked him.
" She is dead. " Flight-of-Hawks replied solemnly, forcing the nearby brave, her brother, to take his eyes off the approaching centaur for a moment to gape at him.
" What happened, why did you not… " he began to ask, but never finished his question as a salvo of arrows dropped several of the defenders, the brother included.
One centaur, a large, seasoned one by the look of his many scars and tattoos, charged at the fore, a great spear held up, ready to throw or stab. His blood-thirsty gaze fixed on Flight-of-Hawks, screaming again in anticipation of the kill. A hole, fashioned by the small mammals that burrowed all along the grasslands of Mulgore, suddenly swallowed up his left foreleg to the knee joint, the terrible momentum of the charging horse man forcing the limb to snap off with a sickening noise at the joint, the battle cry quickly dissolving into a wail of unimaginable agony. The injured centaur toppled, sliding to a halt just before the defensive line of tauren, flailing and spraying blood from his ruined limb. Flight-of-Hawks reversed his grip on his spear and lanced the injured centaur through the throat, ending his life with a final, gurgling gasp. Thusly, the battle was joined.
The fight was as brutal as any tauren living had seen, the death toll high on both sides as weapons found the most vulnerable spots and opened up horrific wounds from which there was no chance of recovering. Blood soaked the earth where the tribe would conduct the spring festival after the passing of winter, spattered against cured leather destined to become colorful dresses for young females, and dripped from the horns of those who had but minutes previous never taken a life. In the end, it was the tauren who were stronger, the centaur wanting nothing more than to inflict as much destruction as possible and leave, and with a third of their number laying dead on the ground, they retreated, occasionally shooting their bows to discourage pursuit. The tauren were too tired and too injured to give chase anyways, content hey had paid the invaders back in blood and defended their homes and families.
Flight-of-Hawks stood surrounded by the bodies of both sides of the conflict, his dark hide matted with blood that was mostly not his own. He sported injuries of course, not a defender stood untouched, but they were all shallow, all glancing blows and strikes parried aside at the last moment to avoid a more serious injury. No one could find fault with his performance that day, even though he had been thought previous as only a mediocre warrior. While others chanted songs of reverence to their ancestors for allowing them to live to fight another day, or songs of mourning for those who had fallen, Flight-of-Hawks had begun the process of sorting the dead, even retrieving the sodden body of Summerwind from the lake, laying her still form beside the warriors who had been slain. As he worked there was a great well of sorrow behind his eyes, yet still tears refused to form, no emotion choking his mouth as did many of the others who viewed the aftermath of the battle. It was as if he was not allowed to grieve like the others. Many attributed it to shock, but even in the depths of night when he remembered her face, her scent, her soft and gentle touch, his eyes were as dry as a long abandoned well.
The death toll from that day climbed, however, as wounds thought clean and bandaged suddenly developed infections, as those more grievously injured suddenly died despite the best healing magicks the shamans could conjure. Many spoke of foul poisons being used by the centaur's weapons, while others still said that it was their death-priests attacking the spirit of the warriors through the rents in their skin. Some, in the most private of conversations in the most secret of places, spoke of Flight-of-Hawks as the source, his injuries healing normally.
Those young warriors who survived, not many in number, were given honors as full-blooded warriors, taking that important mantle of responsibility upon themselves. Each was given a spear and a set of the bone armor, Flight-of-Hawks receiving that honor with a slight bow of his now mostly white head. He was given a small tent separate from his family and was afforded all the respect of one who stood stone-still in the face of death itself.
There was but one more test to be passed, one more rite for him and others his age to pass before becoming an adult. The Rite of Vision. Each was given a potent mixture of herbs mashed into a paste, and left alone in darkness to see what the spirits would reveal to them. Based on their visions they would set out and find the places they has seen, or thought they had seen in their minds, and it was from their experiences there and back that they would be forged into full members of the tribe.
As the days past and the young ones packed up and with fond farewells, set out to seek their visions meaning. Flight-of-Hawks was the last to leave, emerging from his tent looking shaken but resolute. When asked about his quest and where he was to travel, he only said " My father… " before pausing and continuing to pack his belongings. Most of the shamans nodded in understanding, the spirit of his father calling to guide him on the path his life would take. Without another word, the spirit-touched young brave set out.
The journey was oddly uneventful for the warrior, as if living things were turned away from crossing his path. His nights of sleep were fitful and uninterrupted, though occasionally a crow would alight on a nearby tree or rock and caw what could be construed as encouragement…or a warning.
At last, when many miles had passed beneath his hooves Flight-of-Hawks came across the hillock he had seen in his vision. It seemed unremarkable, though it afforded a view of the surroundings quite well, which would have made it a good campsite for a nomadic tribe had one come by this way. After pacing around the top of the hill for awhile Flight-of-Hawks found himself without direction, the vision leading him here, but there was no indication of its significance. He was about to leave, disheartened, when his hoof scraped against something smooth buried just below the soil. Pausing to look down, the tauren scraped at the dirt with his hoof, showing the top of some sort of smooth white stone…no! It was no stone. Kneeling and working with his hands the young warrior uncovered more of the object, until a gleaming white skull leered out of the ground at him. There was the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from the brow of the skull, and judging by its size it had belonged to either a female or a young male. Sitting on his knees mutely Flight-of-Hawks pondered this development, wondering what to make of it. Was his father buried here as well? What had become of him? His mother had told him he had fallen to a centaur arrow just after emerging from his tent one night upon hearing the call of alarm outside, and that was far from here.
Loud enough to sound like the bird was perched on his very shoulder a crow cawed, raucous and demanding. Flight-of-Hawks twisted around, seeking the avian, but what he instead saw send him spinning around and landing on his rump, eyes as wide as they could be and the very first chill of fear he had ever felt seizing his spine. There were crows, but each bird, looking for all the world like a normal member of its kind, sat perched on the shoulder of a ruined ghostly body of a tauren, all of whom were looking at him with bloodshot eyes, the only color their spirit bodies had. Flight-of-Hawks sat gaping, shaking his head slightly at the sight and the unfamiliar sensation of fear pricking the back of his neck.
" Son of Hawkarrow, you have come at last, " one of the spirits said, a young female with a voice sounding as sweet and innocent as if she were alive, juxtaposed by her left arm hanging on by a few shreds of tissue, and her skull caved in on the left side.
" The debt can be repaid, the mark finalized, the curse completed, " an old elder said next, his voice kindly yet the sinister words that he spoke made his tone all the more terrible to hear. The elder had died from several spears stuck through his unprotected back, the bloodied tips poking through the front, and the simple robes he wore there.
"W-what do you want of me? What of my father? What does this mean! " Flight-of-Hawks demanded, voice cracking with terror, the apparitions slowly drifting towards him. A young pretty female, clad in only a loincloth stepped forward next, her throat sliced from horn-to-horn, the entire front of her naked torso drenched in her own vital fluids.
" Son of Hawkarrow, his blood is your blood, the fate he escaped is now your fate. Hear my words and know truly what your father was. "
The crow atop her shoulder cocked its head and eyed Flight-of-Hawks as if he were a potential meal, an apt appraisal considering the unlikelihood of his escape from this place.
" Our tribe, like all of our kind, was constantly on the move, following the kodo herds and fresh water. Hawkarrow was a young hunter among our numbers, untested but eager to prove himself, to earn a place in my heart, " the young female began, the first sign of emotion crossing her face as she spoke these words, a pang of regret and sorrow that was quickly erased as she continued her tale.
" We had settled on this mesa for the season, looking forward to a plentiful summer of meat and hide, fruits and fish from the surroundings. There were signs of a large number of centaur in the area, though, and we kept our comings and goings discreet, to avoid contact with them and not to invite their wrath. I remember how I shivered thinking about what damage the centaur could do to our small tribe, our warriors too few to stave off all but the smallest raid, and confessed my fears to Hawkarrow. He comforted me, and vowed that his arrows would fell any centaur who came within a hundred paces of me. I appreciated his words, but sincerely wished never to have a centaur within sight. "
" I thought once that what happened next was partially my fault, that if I had been stronger Hawkarrow never would have done something so foolish, " she admitted, looking to the ground, a sympathetic look passing from the horridly mutilated spirits to her. " But it was not my pride that killed everyone, it was not my foolishness that keeps us trapped here! " she roared suddenly, fixing Flight-of-Hawks once again with her blood-red eyes. The prone tauren could only wince at her fury, fixed in his spot by her penetrating gaze.
" One night he snuck away from the camp, seeking out the centaur. To be fair he was cunning and quiet, sneaking past their sentries and coming across their central fire pit. Notching an arrow he aimed high and let loose, the shaft sailing up into the moonless night and landing before the khan's front hooves. The settlement was in an uproar, Hawkarrow slipping away in the confusion, back to our tribe's camp. He was aglow with success, so much so he did not take pains to conceal his trail. "
" The attack came just when the horizon was grey with the first rays of light, just enough light for an arrow to find its mark. There were panicked cries and the whistling sound of so many arrows in flight. I scarcely noticed the small note by my bedside as I awoke to this, on it the words; You will not have to fear the centaur, for I have put fear in them, and it was signed 'H' ".
" Confused by the note and overcome with concern for my family I hastened from my bed and threw aside the tarp covering the door. Outside… " she trailed off, her fists clenched from a mixture of potent emotions. " Outside the slaughter had already begun. Young and old, unarmed or not, we were shown no mercy, given no quarter. I watched as my mother was stabbed from behind by a centaur lance, and then her dying body crushed beneath many hooves. I wanted to run to her, but paused when I realized there was nothing I nor anyone with us could do. I saw centaur everywhere, thrice our number, and warriors all. They were well within a hundred paces of me, yet no protecting arrows slew them, " she spat bitterly. " As a matter of fact, none of the distinctive hawk-fletched arrows flew that day, for it was Hawkarrow alone, the consequence of his folly horrifyingly apparent to him now, who used his skill and stealth to run while our dying screams echoed in his ears. My death was silent, a blade as long as my forearm through my throat from behind. My spirit screamed though, in betrayal and anguish, in rage towards the fool who doomed us all and could not muster the courage to die for his actions, and my spirit has not stopped screaming since that day, none of ours have, " she finished coldly, gesturing to the assembled shades. " When the crows came to feast on our bodies, our hate and passion for revenge passed through the flesh and blood they consumed, and they too have become players in our plans for retribution. "
" We sought your father for over a year, sending our crow eyes far and wide, and it was with another tribe that we found him, found him with a place of honor as a skilled hunter, and comforted by the arms of another female, hiding the shame and dishonor of his past from all. We had barely begun to focus our energies to effect a curse on Hawkarrow when by a twist of fate a centaur attack by the same clan as before occurred, your father slain by a chance shot as he emerged from his tent. He was denied looking his slayer in the eyes as a warrior should, and all he had built up had been taken from him, but death was much too merciful for one such as he. The wave of our hate and potent energy sought him out even as his life expired, and instead found someone who shared his blood, a tiny life buried within the womb of his mate…you. "
Flight-of-Hawks had listened to this whole tale with an ever-growing sense of dread, until it all but consumed his mind. His father was a coward and a liar, responsible for so much wrong which went unpunished. It was not fair that he bear the brunt of his father's wrongs, but there would be no reasoning with these dire spirits, no mercy shown on a hill where none was shown before. Finished with talking the spirits all glared at him, slowly, fluidly advancing on him, arms reaching, seeking…. Flight-of-Hawks screamed in terror for the first and last time of his life as he disappeared beneath the wave of shades.
Death. No, death was too simple. Death was escape, death was the escape of his father had taken, fleeing past the hungering claws of the dead souls. There would be no death for Flight-of-Hawks, yet he would be surrounded by it always, its grisly touch destroying everything he loved, everything he cherished, and no matter how grievous the loss, he would never be capable of shedding a tear even if his eyes would fairly burst with them.
This terrible knowledge became his as the icy touch of the shades ripped at his soul, altering it, fraying it until it stood as tattered and ugly as they themselves had become. No love, no peace and no rest would comfort that damaged soul now, only a capacity for regret, remorse, and fear.
It was a ragged and weary tauren who stumbled into the camp of his birth tribe days later, heading directly for the longhouse of the elders. He was battered and beaten, his flesh torn and pecked as if by hundreds of small claws and beaks, his eyes distant and glassy. The young warrior collapsed to his knees in the middle of the chamber, his breathing labored and harsh. Some rose to help him, but were stilled by his words.
" Touch me not! None of you, lest you become consumed by what I am. I have come only to say to you that I am leaving, unable to bear the thought of causing any more death to you. I bear the weight of my father's sins, whose actions resulted in the death of his entire tribe, and who dishonored their horrible ends by never speaking of it, " the young brave explained, his voice loud yet sounding emotionally dead.
The news struck those assembled like a blow, flooring some of those more sensitive than others. To Flight-of-Hawk's mother, though, the sudden anguish and grief clutched her heart and stilled it forever, her last sight the cursed son who she had unwittingly given life. Flight-of-Hawk's great destiny had been made apparent to all, only his eyes and nose their original black, everything else the white of a clean skull that his head now resembled. The tormented young warrior was not allowed to linger, however, a loud cawing coming from outside the longhouse beckoning him. Taking one last, hopeless look at the remainder of his tribe he climbed stiffly to his hooves and began to walk.
Those that followed him out, at a distance of course, saw the roofs and drying racks of the village covered with glossy black crows which flapped their wings and called as Flight-of-Hawks emerged from the wooden structure. Taking up a simple walking stick, a water gourd, and a traveling cloak, the injured tauren left the village, never looking back, and never to return. The crows took to the air, forming a great black cloud over the lone figure. It was from this day on he was known as Feast-of-Crows, and shunned by all who knew his name, death and destruction following in footsteps.
After years of bleak hopelessness the black-furred tauren with the skull-markings began to try and end his accursed state, seeking out artifacts of great power to try and slough off the curse, but was disappointed and surrounded by the bodies of those who had tried to stop him each and every time. One such item, a double-ended spear of polished black wood, mithril blades and fel magicks dubbed the Hands of Death by its insane creator, stayed with him, bonded to his death energies as strongly as the horns set into his skull. He wanders the known world to his very day, always seeking release but always sowing death and ruin instead.
" Is that a fact? Well, I think that counts as a violent refusal to cooperate, and we know what to do when that happens, don't we boys? " the human leader sneered, drawing his blade. Feast-of-Crows reached back for the staff across his shoulders as the first bolts took to the air, a slight turn of his body sending two into a chest and throat of two ahead of him instead of his own flesh.
" What are you shooting at you fools! Use your blades! " the commander roared in disbelief and anger as the two slumped to the muddy ground. The humans charged from both sides, the wrappings from around the tauren's weapon falling to the ground as the first blade was swung. Feast-of-Crows had learned that even the sight of his weapon had driven men into a frenzy before, and kept it wrapped to try and lessen the effects of his curse on those around him. To attack him was to die, as these unfortunates were about to find out.
The taruen barely had to parry the first swing, the position of his spear deflecting the worst of it and a slight twist sending the man past him, only to slip in the deep mud and fall on his own sword, the reddened blade jutting up through his ruptured back towards the stormy skies. Another drew back his sword swiftly for a vicious swing forward, but cutting open the throat of a comrade behind him instead. Taking a step back from his position two more slashed at nothing, their blades instead carving deep cuts into each other's faces, blinding them with pain and their own blood. Another sword bit into the tauren's shoulder, drawing a line of blood, but Feast-of-Crows batted away a second strike, the force of his parry sending the attacker staggering off the path and into the water. He surged sputtering out of the brackish water only to be dragged back under a moment later, the bones of his torso crushed and flesh rent by the massive crocolisk jaws that became fastened there. Swinging blindly the two with injured faces managed only to inflict more wounds on their fellows, hearing the screams of the dying around them and panicking.
"Stop swinging, you idiots! You're hitting your own! " the leader shouted, eyes wide in disbelief how his men had dissolved into such chaos in such a short period of time. It was this cow-man, he did it, with some sort of demon-spawned magic. He had barely had to move and already half his attackers were dead. If he was able to get that fine looking weapon out of his grip, they might have a chance, even if he had to cut his hands off to do it.
Feast-of-Crows parried another strike, the reverse blade on his spear driving deep into the gut of a man coming up behind him with the same motion. A misfired crossbow bolt through the left eye dropped another soldier, and at last a fatal wound as inflicted on one of the two blinded humans, dropping them to the ground, doubled over in pain from the sword thrust there. A flaw in a sword's manufacture caused it to shatter as it stuck one of the mithril heads of Hands of Death, sending a razor fragment of metal down the man's throat and out the back of his neck. All that was left was a blinded human, lying on his back in the mud, calling for his comrades who could no longer hear him while clutching his ruined face, and the patrol's leader. Feast-of-Crows turned his back to the leader, grimly positioning his spear over the heart of the prone human and thrusting down, ending his pain. Footfalls splashing the last member of the patrol charged, sword raised above his head for a brutal downward chop, intent on cleaving the tauren's head in twain.
Just as his blade began to descend Feast-of-Crows whirled to the side with surprising grace for one whose frame was so large, letting the human impale himself on the angled end of Hands of Death, still stuck into the body of the patrolman. The blade parted mail and flesh with equal ease, stopping only when the gory tip poked through the other side. The human choked and shuddered, the shock and the pain distorting his features into an almost comical mask of disbelief and denial. As his blood coursed down the ebony shaft Feast-of-Crows stepped before him, looking him directly in the eyes, eyes which could never weep. Dropping his weapon to the ground, the human's gaze followed it, the small pools formed by the patrol's footfalls now filled with their blood, so much of it coating the area that it looked as if it rained blood and not water. The tauren's words had become truth. Somewhere, a crow cawed, and a fluttering of many wings could be heard above the droning noise of the rain. Feast-of-Crows cocked his head to the side, looking over his shoulders and for the first time in the encounter, showed an emotion; fear. " They are hungry tonight, " he said to the human, who could no longer hear him, his life spent. Gingerly removing the weapon from both victims the rain quickly washed away the blood on it, leaving it glittering and deadly before it was once again wrapped in shielding leather. The lone figure flipped the hood of his cloak back up, slung his weapon across his shoulders, and continued his journey along the path as the first crows began to land on the feast that had been prepared for them.