Chapter 4: Friends, Foes, and Feralas

"I ask you to judge me by the enemies I have made."
― Franklin D. Roosevelt

Rin surveyed the lush forest as they followed a small winding path deeper into the woods.

He'd always thought of Feralas as a treasure trove: in some ways, it had retained some of that rare, fierce wilderness of Azeroth's primordial forests. It bore the mark of great power, of creation itself, as it was the home of one of the Great Trees leading to the Emerald Dream. The region still possessed an ethereal air about it, in the way the light glowed over the hills and valleys. Still, it had not escaped corruption: Gordunni ogres, naga warlords, Grimtotem were just a few of the less desirable inhabitants of the area. Not to mention the gaping pits of corruption that several ancient Elven ruins, such as Dire Maul and Isildien, had become. Demons lurked in them, teeming with fel magic, clashing with restless specters, Satyr, and Shen'dralar cultists. On top of that, when not fighting those particular menaces, Alliance and Horde forces spent much of their time and energy trouncing each other in a bid for the area's bountiful resources.

After flying out of Gadget, Rin'Seyi had met up with Sahar late in the day, about a mile out of Thalanaar, beyond the mostly symbolic patrol of the handful of Alliance soldiers defending the tiny camp. They still had plenty of ground to cover before reaching their host. Were he alone, he would've simply flown to his destination, bypassing any lurking dangers along the road. But he was most definitely NOT alone. Regrettably so. His head was reeling from Sahar's incessant chatter since they'd met up. Almost as bad as her incessant prattling was how she did not offer him a chance to get a word in edgewise.

"It's quite beautiful despite everything, isn't it?" She looked about, admiring the brilliant green canopy. "It really is. I am sorry that we belong to opposite factions—if that weren't the case, we would be able to seek shelter for the night at Camp Mojache, wouldn't we? Most definitely. It really is such a shame, because the camp is so close by, and yet, here we are, trying to avoid it, aren't we? I do apologize for the inconvenience. I appreciate your bringing me along, despite everything. What is Camp Mojache like? Have you ever been? I would imagine you have. I have always heard that the tauren are resourceful and are experts at reusing—"

"Sahar, if ya keep talkin', ya will soon get da tour of a tauren jail," he scolded her. "And dere be precious little I will be able to do to guarantee ya safety."

She took this bit of information in as tall painted totem poles came into sight as they crested a hill. Under the sobering light of day, the previous night's impulsive invitation for Sahar to join him seemed less and less suave and heroic and more and more like a terrible idea fueled by piss-poor ale. When he'd awoken that morning in Gadget, he'd thought he had behaved rather foolishly the night before. He just couldn't trust himself when he was coming off the high of a good tourney. He'd held on to the tenuous hope that perhaps—just maybe—Sahar wouldn't show she had been there on time, ready to accompany him. They had traveled separately, and while soaring over Tanaris, he'd had ample time to contemplate his brashness.

Once they had put a comfortable distance between themselves and Camp Mojache, she started up her exasperating blabbering again—albeit in a quieter tone.

"Rin'Seyi, do you think we evaded the camp's sentinels?" she whispered loudly. He pursed his lips in irritation.

"I tink so—but we should still be on our guard. While it's unlikely we be runnin' into a sentinel here, we might be runnin' into a section or even a platoon of Horde soldiers coming back from an incursion against da Grimtotem or da Gordunni."

Far from quieting her, his announcement had only inflamed her curiosity.

"Can you explain something to me? I never understood the animosity between the Grimtotem and the Horde. I mean, aren't they tauren, too? Why are they fighting their own allies? It's perplexing." Before he could answer, she continued. "Speaking of perplexing, what is the difference between a section and a platoon? What about a squad? All these military units can be so confusing, don't you agree? I think so. And the Gordunni—"

"Sahar," he began in a low, strained voice.

"—should they be referred to as a clan? A tribe? Is there really a difference?"

"Sahar…" he repeated, a warning edge in his voice.

"Do you think it has something to do with being nomadic? Maybe at some point they used to wander—"

"Ya be drivin' me out of my mind!" he growled. "If ya gonna be talking, den talk about somethin' relevant to da mission!" He pushed through a cluster of bushes, stepping off the path. They would have to make camp that night in the wilderness.

"All right." She fell silent and Rin thought he would at last be allowed to focus on finding them a quiet and fairly safe place to pitch a tent.

They wandered further into the woods, leaving the trail far behind them.

"So! Are you married?" she asked suddenly. He turned to her in surprise.

He turned to her in surprise.

"Did I not make myself clear? Do I need to draw ya a picture?"

"This is a question relevant to the mission!" she argued. "Maybe I should be the one drawing the pictures for you!"

Feisty, he thought, trying to glare ahead, catching the agitated swish of her tail out of the corner of his eyes.

"How's a question like dat relevant to da mission? This I wanna hear!" he challenged her, dropping his pack down in a small clearing.

"Well…It's a question about you," she began slowly. "And you are leading the mission. Hence, it is totally a mission-related question!"

Feisty…an' a wiseass.

"We camp here tonight. Did ya bring a tent?" he asked, pulling a tightly rolled bundle from the top of his pack.

"No. I don't have one. But I don't mind sleeping in the open air."

"That be a bad idea in this place. Ya need a tent. We can share for tonight."

As he went over each step to piece together the small tent, he realized that perhaps all her chatter was because her nervousness hadn't dissipated yet. He watched her surreptitiously as she knelt on the ground and began to dig out a shallow fire pit. Something in him relented. She was as green as they came and had ventured off with someone from an enemy faction—a troll, no less. She wasn't acting half as cagey as some initiates he'd met. And he had intimidated her badly after first meeting her. It was a small miracle she hadn't clammed up or even resented him for it.

"No," he retorted curtly, tugging at the tent canvas.

She looked up from the small mound of kindling she had amassed.

"I'm not married," he clarified.

"Huh. That's interesting." She blinked slowly and returned to her task. "Then do you keep, like, a harem?"

He dropped the tent flap he'd been fussing with and reeled around to face her.

"A… harem? What ya be takin' me for?" he scolded. "Where ya be gettin' such an idea?"

She brushed some of her dark hair off her face.

"I meant no offense! It's just that I've never had the chance to really talk or spend time with a troll and I had always heard that trolls had many wives.."

"Ok: careful," he warned her. "There be trolls and then there be Darkspear. Each tribe can be very different from da other, and we don't like bein' lumped into one big cliché."

"I'm sorry," she quickly offered.

Why had that irritated him so much? He wondered about it as he inspected the tent he'd just pitched, making sure it would hold up during the night. He thought of his grandmother, the old seer, who should have been sitting back and resting during her golden years but was instead burdened with raising her sons' children. No, the Darkspear did not subjugate women like other troll tribes, they proudly boasted. They were more enlightened, they claimed. But they were a far cry from all that idealistic talk about being equal. No. No wives, he thought of his father, Sen'Beng, a warrior, cocky and indifferent; he was a troll whom he'd only met a few times and deeply disliked. Not one wife, even, that he would settle down with to raise properly all the children he'd fathered. Rin was lost in unpleasant memories of Sen'Beng during one of his rare visits to his grandmother's compound when he was younger. He'd arrived accompanied by his uncle, Zin'Jal, and the two men had joked noxiously as the children played in the yard.

"I don't even know which ones be mine and which ones be yours!" he'd roared with laughter.

Some great warrior, Rin thought, growing agitated by the memory. Anyone who can get his dick up can sire a whelp; it takes a man, tho', to be a real father, he concluded.

"So, in that case, it's probably not true that you're a cannibal?" Sahar interrupted.

His eyes narrowed and he was about to unleash a furious tirade upon her when he noticed the impish gleam in her eyes. She was teasing him. Her lips finally parted in a smile. He turned around again and huffed lightly. Cannibal…So ridiculous. He shook his head, a faint grin insinuating itself on his lips.

"How 'bout yaself? Ya have a husband?" he asked, unfurling his bedroll.

Her smile grew even broader.

"No. Not yet… But I have a boyfriend," she confided with ill-concealed delight.

"Oh? Is that so?" He began to slide the bedroll into the tent.

"Yes. He's a merchant on the Exodar. His name is Drannord and we've known each other for a long time. He's very handsome: he's very tall, and very strong, and he is so very funny, and he dances so very well, and—"

Aah, shit! Spare me, he groaned inwardly.

"Sounds real nice, Sahar. And does he know he is ya boyfriend?" he teased.

The smile on her face faded and was replaced by a furrowed brow.

"Not funny."

He chuckled as she sniffed indignantly, focusing on starting their campfire.

They sat around the fire finishing some of their rations. All around them, the forest teemed with sound. It was a good sign, he thought.

"It's when it be quiet that ya should worry," he explained between mouthfuls.

"It's actually pretty here." She stared up at the sky. It was a clear night and sorcerous ripples of green flashed across the sky overhead making the sky brighter. In the distance, they could hear drums reverberating through the valley. "Sounds like Camp Mojache is a lively place!"

He brushed his hands together, scattering some crumbs before reaching for his pack and searching one of the pockets for his pipe.

"That's not Camp Mojache; that be da Grimtotem. And those aren't celebratory drums: those be war drums."

Her silvery eyes widened. He couldn't help grinning as he filled his pipe's bowl with a fragrant blend of dried dreaming glory and fadeleaf.

"Don't worry, though; Grimtotem be always at war. I tink they'd be fightin' their own shadow if given da chance."

Sahar braced her knees tightly.

"This is rather new to me," she admitted.

"Which part?" he leaned back and rested on his elbows.

"Oh. All of it. I don't normally get to travel this far out…into contested territories."

He exhaled a cloud of thick smoke through his nose, contemplating her with hooded eyes.

"So ya tellin' me ya learned how to brawl like that in ya backyard? I had no idea Azuremyst was such a rough place…" He searched her face for a reaction. "Ya have power, Sahar. Why ya goin' about wearing initiates' clothes and signing up for prize fights?"

She looked away from him sullenly.

If only I had known dat to get some peace an' quiet all I had to do was ask her about her training…

"Does da Earthen Ring have ya trainin' with an—"

"The Earthen Ring has very little to do with me. I'm stuck training mainly with my draenei elders."

"They know ya toss ya hat into da fightin' ring like that?" he persisted.

"That's my business," she snapped.

"I see."

He sucked on his pipe and the top of the bowl glowed brightly.

"I used to be fightin' in da Thunderdrome when I was an apprentice," he offered. "I did it for da money."

She said nothing.

"Why ya do it, is ya business. I was just curious. Ya don't fight like no Alliance I've ever met."

Her head snapped up.

"And have you 'met' many Alliance fighters?"

He shrugged, enveloped in a cloud of smoke, obviously enjoying his pipe.

"Ya fight like an orc shaman, is all I meant."

She stared at him for a few moments in silence.

"You never answered my question: how many Alliance fighters have you 'met'?"

That was bound to be a very uncomfortable conversation.

He would make sure of it.

"Let's just say they only have da pleasure of makin' my fine acquaintance if they try to be blockin' my way."

"I thought you druids held a reverence for life and creation," she provoked.

"Oh, but I DO!" He began to blow large rings of smoke in her direction. She waved her hand in the air, trying to disperse the smoke. "Especially MY life, ya see. I don't go out seekin' trouble with no one, but if trouble finds me, then I be known' how to greet it properly."

"Have you ever 'met' any draenei?"

Yes. Definitely an unpleasant chat.

"Only when their weapons or spell castin' tried to meet me first."

"You are being intentionally obtuse."

"Hardly. For example, look at us—we be gettin' to know each other, right? It's been enlightenin'."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. I used to tink that the draenei were a loud, tiring, talkative people," he began. More smoke flowed out of his long, large nose.

"I changed that perception?" She tilted her head.

"Mmm…" He nodded, savoring the tingly rush he was getting from his pipe. "Now I no longer tink dat: now I be sure of it."

At her look of surprised dismay, a chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

"Oh, come on—it not be fair of ya to ask me a question like dat. Anyone with some experience in da field has had to fight for their lives at one point or anotha. Ya can't blame someone for actin' in self-defense."

"You should know that before I put down my name on that list I gave my superiors, there were only two other names from the Earthen Ring on it. You know what that means, right?"

He lay down on the soft grass, one arm folded behind his head—his pipe dangling from his mouth.

"It means that my people don't want to support cross-faction initiatives. Because the Horde is too bloodthirsty," she revealed.

"Naaah!" He waved dismissively. "It only means that da Earthen Ring's vettin' procedure and security be lax if they be sending novices out to conduct their business."

Her gaze hardened.

"I may be a novice in formal rank, but I can fight. Just because I don't do things the way they want me to doesn't mean I don't know how to do anything. I will show them!"

He turned to face her, interested.

"Ah…So dis is what it be all about…Ya bein' a rebellious initiate?"

She blinked nervously.

"Ya know, da secret to mastering your skills isn't just havin' power. Power is just part of it. In fact, too much power without discipline can be dangerous. Ya be doin' yaself a favor learning to bend a bit to da will of ya teachers."

"I didn't ask you for advice." She rested her chin on her knees.

This is a sore subject. And now I have some answers. I have brought a very powerful and very undisciplined shaman on a sensitive mission. He stared up into the vast night sky, pinpoints of silver emerging in the firmament. He thought of his grandmother, casting his fortune for him before he left home, her knobby hand brushing over the glassy surface of her cowrie shells.

"Ya path be cloudy to da augurs, my doudou," she had revealed, calling him by the nickname she dispensed affectionately to all her grandchildren "— ya know what dat means."

"It means ya probably shouldn't be drinkin' before tryin' to divine da future," he'd teased her. She'd cackled, her eyes rheumy.

"Ya go to Cenarion, but don't ya forget where ya come from. Ya be a son of da crossroads. Ya be like da tricky Loa who rules ya head." She dared not utter the Loa's name, lest he take it as an invitation. "Ya will walk between worlds, ya will go down through paths unknown, even to ya Elders, and ya will invite great peril to yaself."

"Eeeh! Why can't ya ever just give me some lucky numbers for da bettin' game at Sen'Jin instead, old witch!" He had joked about it back then, but the truth was that her premonition had unnerved him.

He couldn't have "invited peril" more in that mission than if he'd printed it out on fussy card stock and mailed it.

"Ya didn't ask for advice, but I'm not givin' ya any. Dis is a fact: ya have to be knowin' da rules before ya go off breakin' them,' he reminded her.

"I will not be forced into being something I am not," was all she offered him.

He exhaled tiredly. This is not my problem.

"Then I hope ya enjoy wearing that apron." He jutted his pointy chin towards her dowdy uniform.

"What I wear hardly represents what I can truly do."

"It does represent what ya can't do." Why was he needling her so? Being feisty and a wiseass was fine—it was her stubborn pride that would be a problem in the long run. Or perhaps the fact that she wouldn't acknowledge that she didn't know what she didn't know.

"You have 'met' your share of Alliance…and I have 'met' my share of Horde." Her eyes shone back at him, cool and silvery. "I can hold my ground. I can take on a challenger."

He pressed his lips, no longer feeling as serene and relaxed. It was a pity, because he was almost out of the herb blend for his pipe.

"I don't be doubting it for a minute. I'm sure they all drop cold after all ya talkin' and boastin'." He gracefully rose to his knees, dumping the contents of his pipe into the fire pit. "I'll be goin' to bed now." When he looked at her, he caught her eyes lingering over his bare shoulders. Was she sizing him up? Perhaps plotting a backstabbing attack? He hesitated before getting up, a wave of uneasiness washing over him before she turned her gaze away, flustered that he'd caught her gawking.

"I should probably turn in, too."

He held up the tent flap for her after they'd put out the fire in an uncomfortable silence. He let her crawl into the tent first, catching a glimpse of her tail as she crouched down.
"I will lie in da opposite direction," he offered, trying to appease any misgivings she might've been harboring over sharing the tight space with him for the night. Who knew what nonsense she'd been hearing about the Horde from some more hawkish wings of the Alliance? He crept in, their lantern casting just enough light to reveal that she had hunkered down beneath her coarse blanket with only her head peering out. He tossed his pillow down so that he was facing her hooves. The moment he tugged off his ankle wraps, though, he saw her grimace.

"I would really rather not sleep with your feet close to my face."

He tossed the wraps in the corner.

"Ya know, I was doin' that for ya benefit. Didn't want ya to feel uncomfortable sharin' da tent with a stranger."

"I'm not worried; I can hold my own if anyone were to try anything," she warned him.

He reached toward the tent flap to tie it down. "All right, then." He grabbed the small pillow and placed it beside hers. "I hope you don't try anythin' on me, then. Unlike yaself, I can't do lightning," he teased slyly.

She rolled away from him, letting out a little exasperated grunt. Before he lay down, he ran his hands over the floor of the tent. He closed his eyes and began to whisper a spell, energy flowing from his fingertips into the dark earth beneath the light canvas. He could sense Sahar stirring, probably wondering what he was doing. Moments after he began casting, a low, rustling sound unfurled all around them, snaking slowly over the surface of the tent.

"What is that?" Sahar whispered.

Rin opened his eyes.

"I cast a spell so that vines and brambles grow over and around da tent, helpin' to conceal and shelter us. To anyone passin' by, da tent will look like a large bush. And larger animals won't bother with all da thorny brambles."

She ran her fingers over the canvas, feeling for the thick, rope-like vine outlines tangling over and around the tent.

"You did that with such ease," she finally said, with just a hint of admiration.

"It's a simple spell." He turned down the lamp until he'd extinguished the small flame. He settled into his bedroll, exhaustion weighing down his limbs at last.

"So the entire tent is covered?" she marveled in the dark.

"Yah." He rolled away, eyes shut, trying to move as far away from her as physically possible in the confines of a tiny tent.

"So, if I told you I needed to go outside to relieve myself, it would probably be a hassle, right?"

His eyes shot open and he sat up.

"Ya gotta be shittin' me, Sahar! After I gone and done all dat?" he cried.

His answer was her mischievous laughter. It grew louder when he dropped back down heavily into his bedroll, his back squarely turned to her.

Rin awoke at the exact moment night turned into dawn. It was as if his blood quickened once the energy in the wilderness shifted and changed, causing his own power to ebb and flow. The transition always awoke him, no matter where he was. It was simply one of the side-effects of being so attuned to nature, to the energies and forces coursing though the wilderness. He'd awaken briefly, barely, acknowledging it, and then drift back into sleep. That morning, however, he awoke to something soft brushing up against his neck. He felt warm skin nestled against his bare back, a clandestine arm braced tightly over his abdomen, holding him close. It took him a moment to remember where he was…and with whom. The realization jolted him awake as Sahar breathed softly against the nape of his neck, still in a deep slumber. He tried to move her arm away gingerly, but his attempt to remove it caused her to groan in protest and curl in closer to him. When her warm breath tickled his ear and she uttered a faint, breathy moan, he realized she was stirring up all kinds of pleasant sensations and making him hard. It was a very…intimately compromising position…Besides, he hadn't been with a woman in a long time…All of two weeks, he snorted. She squeezed him tighter and when he tried to extricate himself from her hold, she buried her face in his neck.

She probably be dreamin' she's with her lug of a boyfriend.

I can hold my own, she had threatened the night before.

But I'm not your own to hold, he thought peevishly.

"Sahar," he called out softly. Maybe if he just woke her enough…"Sahar," he insisted, turning his head slightly. He pat her arm persistently. She drew a deep breath and he felt her arm slide away and the bedroll shift somewhat as she turned restlessly, finally rolling onto the other side.

Good, he thought, closing his eyes, feeling his pulse slow down. That went better than I thought it would.

"I'm sorry," she offered sleepily.

"No harm done. Happens all da time," he joked.

"You're very warm," she sighed. "It was just so nice…"

" I don't think Drannord would appreciate that." He chuckled.

"Who?" she mumbled still in a stupor.

Oh, blazin' blazes—she was that gone.

"Ya boyfriend. Isn't that his name?"

She did not reply immediately.

"Oh, yes…He's very…very, " she agreed hazily. She said nothing else though, drifting back to sleep.

He willed himself back to sleep as well, even as the scent of mageroyal lingered on his skin.