A/N: This was my submission to Blizz's writing contest that ran... wow, almost a year ago now. It didn't win, but I'm rather fond of it. Bloodscry is long finished posting and I felt like resurfacing here for a bit, so I'm adding this to Days even though it doesn't strictly involve any of my main characters. Girsha does in fact make a brief appearance in one of my stories, however, and although she isn't named, she does have a few lines of dialogue. Hint: her taste runs to trolls on occasion.
As for other projects, namely the In a Dark Place rewrite, I honestly haven't had a smidgen of time to write more than a few lines on it since the baby was born. For those who are disappointed I apologize, and please know that I would love love love to get back to it eventually. I'm still holding out hope so you should too.
A pale gold sunset washed thin by the nether-light, and then Girsha watched Draenor plunge into night. Still she sat motionless and let the small chirps and rustles of Nagrand's night noises rise around her. Her orcish eyes could pick out the dark shapes of birds darting in the grove nearby. The long grass bent in a breeze just risen from the Halaani Basin, whispering past her ears and slowly cooling the boulder she'd chosen for her seat.
Night here told a story that Girsha didn't fully understand, but she listened all the more intently for that. It told her, in fragments, of when Draenor was unbroken and her people unbowed. She had grown fond of coming here, to her favorite spot, to hear a little more of that story every night she could.
Only the brightest stars could compete with the nether, and she watched as they swung higher in a countercurrent to the flow of the sky's wild energy. It was beautiful, a sight she'd grown to love and find familiar, but it was also a reminder of what had happened here. So unlike Azeroth's clean, starry sky with its double moons. She wondered if Draenor's sky had once looked that way, or if it had had more stars, or fewer. Sometimes she envied the older Mag'har for their memories, although many of them seemed to think of the memories as a curse. Some had grown very bitter with the knowledge of what they had lost. But there were a few who would talk to her, and she'd soon learned which ones.
Greatmother Geyah was one of those. Girsha had been afraid to approach her at first, intimidated by the woman's wisdom and age, the respect she commanded among all orcs. Even the illness had been intimidating; Girsha hadn't believed herself worthy to waste what little time might be left to the old woman. But the Greatmother had seen the shifty, sheepish eagerness in the girl's eyes and had soon gotten the whole story out of her. Greatmother Geyah had a way of making people tell exactly what they were about. And to Girsha's delight, Geyah had returned the favor.
It had been the Greatmother's initial suggestion, months ago, that Girsha head into the wilds near sunset and now listen to what the land, instead of its people, could tell her about Draenor's past. Girsha had been incredulous. She was a warrior by training, had never shown any interest in or inclination for the magic arts. What could someone not skilled in the ways of a shaman or a druid learn by listening to the land? Yet she couldn't do anything but take the suggestion. The Greatmother had been listening to Draenor's voice her whole life; who was Girsha, some scruffy Azeroth whelp, to question?
So she had come here, a place found by lucky chance, near the edge of the basin west of Garadar. Tonight the town's fires were a distant flicker of orange, barely visible on the rise to the east, and no competition with the wild, unrestrained river of milky light above her. Girsha laid back on her rock and pressed her palms against the sun-warmed surface, imagining what a shaman might feel here. The air sighing around her, the distant rush of the water far below, all the life that stirred at night, and then the steady, beating rumble of the earth…
With her stomach leaping, she shot upright. For a wild moment she believed she had actually felt it, the earth beneath her, but then the seasoned warrior in her sternly grabbed hold of a runaway fancy and revealed the truth – she'd heard hoof beats approaching down the narrow path that ran nearby. With the silence of a tiger, Girsha slipped off the boulder and crouched in its shadow.
The hooves belonged to a horse, and the horse belonged to a human, obviously a man. He rounded the grove at a canter and then pulled to a halt to look out over the empty, dark air of the basin and the nether-washed hills beyond. Girsha could hardly blame him, since she'd just been admiring the view herself, but she hissed to herself in annoyance and sent a plea to the ancestors that he wouldn't decide the boulder would make an even better vantage point.
Apparently the thought had crossed his mind, however. The human took a careful look around, still missing the orc hovering motionless in the shadows, and then swung himself down from his horse. To Girsha's horror, he led the animal to a nearby bush and tied it there, saw to its water, and then began untying a pack and a bedroll from the saddle. He obviously planned on doing more than simply pausing a moment for the view.
At least the horse hadn't smelled her; she was still downwind. Humans were notoriously bad sniffers, and not always particularly observant. Maybe he was tired. Maybe she could just melt away toward the nearby copse of trees once he was occupied making his camp, and then she could make the usual hike back to Garadar. He wouldn't notice a thing, as long as she was quiet…
Girsha, however, had never put much stock in moving quietly, as most warriors didn't. Even in only simple leather clothing she was not particularly light of foot. As soon as the man's back was turned and she moved from behind the shelter of the boulder, her feet crunched deafeningly in the long grass and the human whirled with a blade in hand. She froze, hands raised before her and empty. All she'd carried tonight was a small hunting knife at her belt, a decision for which she now cursed herself. So close to Garadar in a place she knew well, she hadn't anticipated a complication such as this.
*
Night had fallen fast; so fast he'd barely realized until it was upon him. Even the sunset had failed to register in his mind, wrapped as he was in his thoughts of that day and the day before. It had been a bit of a shock when Sandor Lesham had finally realized where he was and just how close was the Horde town of Garadar. A less than ideal condition under which to camp for the night, but riding in the dark would only be worse. He would stop now and be up before dawn to move on safely.
The air was already cooling as he turned his gelding off the main road to a thin, little-used trail that meandered toward the basin. No one would come here in the dark, so close to the edge, he reckoned. As he reached the cliff, the mysterious beauty of the night held his eyes and he stopped motionless to take in the view of the basin and the sky. It was remarkable, he thought, the way parts of this world still managed to hold onto their identity, while other parts seemed to have been blasted apart and twisted until there was nothing left of what they had been. This view of Nagrand must have looked much the same a thousand years ago, except for the restless magic in the sky. But there was no ignoring the difference the nether made – it threw its shifting cast on everything and glazed the whole night in eerie light Nagrand never would have seen otherwise. Sandor shivered as he dismounted and started his preparations for the night's supper and sleep.
It was another moment before he realized he wasn't alone on the cliff's edge. The soft rustle of a boot in grass followed by an almost imperceptible drawing of breath like a gasp, and Sandor spun around with a dagger raised. His eyes met the dark eyes of an orc woman standing no more than ten paces away, frozen in the act of creeping from behind the nearby boulder. For a few heartbeats, they both simply stared in the way of two predators surprised by an unexpected encounter in some dark hunting ground. She raised her hands very slowly and he saw that she was unarmed, not even dressed for combat. His eyes darted over the ground near them with new purpose, and now he also saw that there were no signs of a camp or even a mount. Likely she had walked here from Garadar, come, perhaps, for the beauty of the view. An innocent purpose, then. Relaxing very slightly but still watching with a wary eye, Sandor lowered his dagger.
The human hadn't sprung to the attack as Girsha had been prepared for, her experience of them telling her that they were rather hasty beings, but she still didn't believe she would get far if she turned her back to walk away. She let her hands fall to her sides and slid a foot backward to begin a slow retreat toward the safety of the trees.
"I came for meditation and I am leaving now," she said softly, not believing he would understand her, but simply because it sounded civil and might give her a better chance of getting away without a fight.
As expected, her words drew a blank look, but he replied something in Common. She could match none of it with the tiny catalogue of words she knew in his language, but the gesture he made next was unmistakable. He pointed at her, then swept a hand around to encompass the coruscating sky and the dappled darkness of the cleft below and the fields beyond. The human at least understood what would draw her out here. Something about that raised her curiosity. Girsha nodded cautiously and her feet paused their backward shuffle.
Very slowly, the knife snicked back into its sheath at his belt. "Don't leave on my account," he said with a shrug and no small measure of irony. Of course she would. But he'd disturbed her, and he felt a little guilty for that. Clearly it was a spot she was familiar with, if she came here with such confidence that she would meet no one else. He paused as he carefully lowered one of his bundles to the ground. Should he leave now? No doubt she would return to Garadar, might even come back better armed and with friends. His eyes flicked back to her and he realized she had stopped. Instead of slipping away as quickly as possible, she was now watching him closely. Perhaps she still meant to try something on her own, even unarmed as she was. The thought only filled Sandor with weariness and he shook his head.
"Don't try it," he sighed. "I might look tired, but between the two of us, I'm still the one with the blades. I wouldn't like to have to kill you for no real reason."
She surprised him again, though. In a mirror of his own motion from a moment before, she pointed at him, then swept her hand around at the view. He smiled tightly and nodded, then mimed sleep as well. She pointed at the flat rock. He raised his eyebrows, thinking that a convenient, visible pedestal was the last place he'd choose to sleep out here. No, he would stick with the high grass, thank you, Madam Orc.
That reminded him. Since they'd gotten this far without killing each other, they might as well make introductions. "Sandor," he said, placing a hand on his chest.
An interesting step, to reveal his name. Girsha's eyes narrowed as she debated the prudence of reciprocating the gesture. What harm could it do, though? She pointed to herself. "Girsha."
They stared another moment, awkwardly, two people normally enemies plunged into an odd encounter that seemed too mundane to warrant any hostility. Then the human hefted the pack he'd just dropped and Girsha saw he meant to leave. She held up her hands and shook her head.
"No sense leaving now, human. I'm going. Sleep instead."
His eyes glimmered with faint recognition and he repeated in Orcish, "Sleep." He smiled grimly.
"Yes, sleep," Girsha said, surprised. But she caught the flicker of his glance toward the distant lights of Garadar and then she realized what the problem was. He was likely afraid she'd return with backup, now she knew where he'd be all night. She sighed. So much distrust here, and nothing either one of them had done even warranted it. It was exactly the way she would have thought, though, had their positions been reversed.
She might still reassure him, though. Pointing at the distant fires, she said, "Garadar. Girsha sleep." She mimed the rest of it and looked at him expectantly. To her delight, the human nodded. He understood what she said, but did he believe her? "Going back there to sleep," she said slowly. "Not fight." With a gesture toward his daggers, she shook her head adamantly and held her hands away, palms facing him, in mock horror.
"Ah, I see," Sandor said. Why did he persist in talking to her when she couldn't understand a word? He knew his brother would have been quick to point out the absurdity, but somehow it still seemed like the civilized thing to do. There was an orderliness of thinking that came with speech, that staved off the animal and savage. "You are going to Garadar, but you plan on sleeping just as I do. I suppose I'm to take it that means you have no plans to organize a hunting party."
She was still staring, and he wondered why she hadn't left yet. The thought crossed his mind that she might well be curious about him. He had invaded her private sunset-viewing spot, after all. Perhaps he owed her something; rent for the night, as it were. A smile quirked his lips and he let the bag back down to the ground.
"Alright, then. A parting gift because you didn't ambush me and put that tiny knife through my heart before I knew you were here."
Girsha watched him with mild trepidation as he reached inside the pack at his feet. His movements were slow and deliberate, unthreatening, so she held her ground with only the slightest unconscious baring of her tusks to indicate her unease. The human, Sandor, drew out something that flashed in the nether-light, but not in the way of a blade.
Sandor didn't even have to rummage; the thing he wanted was right at the top of his pack. He picked it out and slowly, carefully, held it at arm's length, inviting her to take it. It was a gold armband, crudely but still quite beautifully etched in twining vines across the surface. Undoubtedly it was worth something, but Sandor had no need of the gold. He would be more than a little glad to get it out of his possession, in fact. All the better to give it to someone who would appreciate it, as he thought this orc woman would.
Cautiously, Girsha stepped forward a few paces. It was some sort of ornamental bauble, which she ordinarily had no use for, but in this case she appreciated the gesture as one of… not friendship, but at least truce and maybe respect. They had reached an understanding, the human was saying, and there was no harm meant on either side.
As she came closer, however, her nose caught something odd. For a moment she couldn't place the smell – an acrid tang that seemed familiar and unwelcome, and although it was faint, the human was definitely the source. Where had she smelled it…?
And then her mind abruptly called up the right images. She was standing at the Dark Portal, just arrived from Azeroth. The Peninsula's fel-scorched wind swirled around her and whispered of a world twisted apart at the seams. Then later, in Shadowmoon Valley, ducking desperately for cover with the thud and hiss of infernal stones falling around her. What she smelled now was the same taint that sometimes, when the wind was blowing just so, wafted upward from the Cleft of Shadow in Orgrimmar.
"Warlock," Girsha hissed, and Sandor had no trouble understanding that word. He'd heard it a thousand times in perhaps a dozen languages, spat in just the same tone of revulsion.
His arm dropped to his side, the gold band forgotten. He looked at her for a moment with her pale green face twisted in fear and disgust, and then he nodded curtly. Yes, it was true, much though he usually tried to hide it out of courtesy for others and, sometimes, fear for his own safety. She must have smelled it on him, as he'd found the races with more sensitive noses often did. He wondered if now she would reconsider her decision not to return with a posse seeking his blood.
"No harm," he said distinctly and then backed away toward his horse, which by this time was snorting softly in sleep. He'd have to wake the poor animal and move on for a while now until he'd found another safe spot. But the orc had now turned away, keeping one disgusted and fearful eye on him, and he saw that she at last truly meant to leave.
"I'm sorry," he sighed. And he really was. Over the years he'd grown used to violent reactions from some who discovered his secret identity immediately, but the sting was always far worse when the rejection came from someone he'd spoken with amiably at first. There'd been people before, good acquaintances who might have grown into friends, who one day for whatever ill-fated reason had discovered his secret and then had suddenly turned cold and never spoken to him again. He'd grown used to it and had even begun to expect it. Here was just another example of the curse that followed him around.
With the gelding saddled and his bags repacked, Sandor set off again to skirt the cliff in the nether-washed night. As he sent a last look toward the faint orange blur of Garadar on the horizon, he spied a distant dark figure crossing the last field.
"Goodbye, Girsha," he said quietly.
*
There'd been a distinct feeling of reluctance to return to the spot the next evening, but Girsha had shoved it aside a little angrily. It was her spot. No warlock, or the mere memory of that odd encounter, could take it from her.
But she'd set out a little later than usual, perhaps because of the reluctance, or maybe because of an irrational fear that he'd still be there if she went too early. Ridiculous, of course; he'd most likely moved on last night after she'd left, afraid she'd break her word and come back with her blade. As it happened, she'd gone straight to bed upon her return and had told no one about him, not even the Greatmother the next day. A warlock would think she'd break her word, of course; faithless, destructive creatures, bent only on the suffering of others and the enslavement of any spirit they came across…
He hadn't been like that, though. She hadn't even realized he was a warlock until she'd smelled the fel taint on him, and then it had been faint. He'd been respectful and polite. Honorable. These were words her mind never would have ascribed to one of his kind if she hadn't seen it for herself.
As she topped the low rise that led up to the cliff's edge and wove her way through the grove, sunset was bleeding gold across the horizon. Slowly the nether-light began exerting its dominance over Nagrand's watercolor hills and fields, turning everything blue and silver and purple. The air whispered with the first night breeze. Girsha strode the last paces to her rock. Only the grass and the darting birds moved; only the wind and the insects called to her. The land was at peace again with no taint of the warlock to trouble this place.
A glint caught her eye, though, as she boosted herself to the warm seat of the boulder, and with an odd leaping feeling in her stomach she reached down to a cleft in the tumble of smaller boulders piled beside her. Her fingers closed around cool metal. For a while she stared at the gold band with the ivy leaves, a peace offering rejected at first but nonetheless left carefully for her to find. The nether flashed on the engraved surface and for a moment she considered hurling it away over the cliff. But he'd smiled and he'd talked to her even though she couldn't understand; he could easily have hurt or killed her, especially in his initial startlement, but he hadn't. He could have used his foul magic against her, but she'd never felt a glimmer of it. The night around her moved on as usual and the land's voice still spoke pure in her heart. The human, Sandor, had left no imprint of evil on this sacred place. Girsha slid the band around her wrist and laid back to gaze up at the river of light above her.