For those that want to ask, there will still be no set schedule for these updates. Just know that they will be more common than the previously.

…Which, to be honest, isn't actually hard to beat on my part. Truly, I am a paragon of procrastination.

The sun bled startlingly over the cloudless sky, bringing a sweltering morning that felt able to burn stone. Kowler wordlessly compared the canyon his pack called home to an oven, and wished he were not here.

Alas, he had no choice in the matter.

"You fight, yes yes!" Mowler said, one of his many half-brothers. Kowler only knew this Mowler because he'd been born to the matriarch of the pack, a female only a scant few inches smaller than Yowler himself. Kowler had counted over twenty gnoll's named Mowler outside of this one, but gave up when the next litter produced two more males that were given the name. Gnolls did not name well, and Yowler seemed to be even worse with names than the rest.

Kowler bore his fangs with a vicious snarl, palming the butcher's knife that had been lain at his side strongly. He'd been relaxing a meal away, a pig he'd stolen from a Lakeshire farmer in the dead of the previous night, and hoped to have the day to himself, spent baking alongside the stone. But he should have known, there was no relaxing for the gnolls. No rest for the wicked.

Kowler was now a year old, and looked older. Gnolls took to their hyena counterparts heavily and grew quickly, and he was no exception. Certainly, he was smarter than they were, leading him to grow even quicker. Where his pack gathered food during poorly planned hunting trips and skirmished attacks on human and orc settlers, Kowler had taken to raiding Lakeshire the moment he was no longer required to drink from his mother's milk. Always alone and ever unwilling to teach the pack his tricks, he took crops and livestock and supplies from the locals without an ounce of shame. None of the humans expected a gnoll to not be loud and slaughter happy, and so his thievery was blamed on the Blackrock orcs that were stationed nearby. Which made it even easier to steal, since they were looking to the east for their would-be-thief, instead of the west where his pack lay.

His capacity to steal with little worry of being caught and his ability to eat without risking constant death brought him to a larger frame than many of his still growing siblings. While there was no measuring device to use, Kowler estimated that he stood an even 4'0. Not an exceptional height when compared to Yowler's over six-foot frame, but it was notable for only being a year old.

Notable enough for his siblings to grow weary for their place in the tribal order, even the older ones. Older gnolls such as Mowler, who was also big for his age, standing almost five-and-a-half feet tall at. The standard gnoll was somewhere around 5'0, meaning Mowler was a prime brute and would eventually be a noted contender for Yowler's position as alpha.

But Mowler worried for the pace that Kowler grew and made to do something about it before it became an issue. And worse, Mowler was not alone in his statement. Boredom had settled upon the pack, and to a gnoll, the only thing that could stave boredom away was to fuck or fight, and Yowler had killed off any males that would make to fuck his many females. Leaving only one option. They closed into a tight circle from Mowler's proclamation, and in just a matter of moments any chance for escape was lost.

"No fight." Kowler stated lowly, using the halted, broken dialect of Common that most gnolls understood. He wished that he did not need to do so. "Rest."

"Rest bad," Mowler denied, shaking his head. A badly rusted battle axe was strewn over his back. The rest of the pack nodded along with his denial, chittering nonsense. "Fight."

"Rest good," Kowler countered, his free hand palming a handful of pebbled gravel. "Rest."

"Fight!" Mowler declared, charging with abandon. He held his axe aloft, almost as large as he was, and made a downward slice towards Kowler still lain floor.

Kowler quickly rolled to the left, grunting as the heavily chipped blade sunk into his spot. With a roar, he threw the pebbles he'd collected at Mowler, the gnoll whining as the small rocks pecked at his face. Dumbly, he let go of his axe and tried to remove the dust they brought from his eye.

Kowler allowed this, for it meant he could retaliate. And he did. With a quick movement, Kowler lunged at Mowler, knocking his older sibling to the dirt. Then, he straddled the older gnoll, and made to stab him. Only, blinded though Mowler was, he was not helpless, and his experience made up for his weakness. Strength beyond what Kowler had predicted rolled out from Mowler, and Kowler was bodily thrown from his older sibling's fallen form.

Mowler stood swiftly, his eyes bloodshot but clear enough to see out of, and he grabbed his axe. A new game began, one in which Kowler acted the mouse and Mowler the cat. Mowler would swing, Kowler would dodge, and then while the momentum was at his advantage, he would stab at Mowler, only to be pushed away. The game continued over and over again, until Mowler finally caught on and grabbed Kowler's hand when he made to stab, squeezing tight enough to pop knuckles, forcing his younger sibling to drop the small weapon.

Injured though he was, Kowler took advantage. The benefit of being raised by savages was the instinctual willingness to play dirty. With a heave, he forced his foot in between Mowler's legs.

Howling, Mowler released Kowler and dropped to the floor. But pained though he was, he was not totally out of his wits. Mowler grabbed at Kowler's knife that had fallen to the floor and held it against his body, just as he did with his own axe. Without those, Kowler was weaponless and would be unable to fight back properly. Once Mowler recovered, he would end his younger, threatening sibling.

But Kowler was not weaponless. So long as he breathed, he could never be without a weapon. Exhaling slowly, he willed the world to be his sword, a silent plea for aid that was answered with an equal amount of silence. Rocks and stone and sand and dirt shifted from all around, circling Kowler's body as a worried mother might, the nameless spirits of Earth heeding his call.

It was then that Mowler remembered why Kowler was not a threat for the position of alpha. Quick to grow though he was, he was not a brute of physicality. He was a mystic. A spirit speaker.

A shaman.

The earth itself rushed at Mowler in a wave of righteous rage, unbidden by his position. They piled onto him, their staggered weight forcing him to the ground where he dropped his weapons, and Kowler swiftly joined the rocks.

Digging for his knife from beneath the rubble, Kowler grimaced at it. It had chipped badly, bending an awkward angle that looked almost sickle-like. With a scowl, he twisted his knife into a reverse grip, and while Mowler blindly continued to struggle against the weight that had come over him, Kowler stabbed into his uncovered skull. A quick, jerking movement finally brought about the end of his foe.

Standing, Kowler looked to his pack. Their muzzles were twisted into garish looking smiles, and they chittered their approval at his midmorning entertainment.

"Kowler rest," he spat. "You eat. Leave Kowler 'lone."

The nods were unanimous. He backed away, the circle opening for him, and the moment he left, the frenzy began. He shuddered as the sounds of violence took place from behind, and kept his bloody dagger palmed as a precaution.

The brutality of the gnolls still astounded Kowler at times, though he should have been over it by now. At first, when the fights began in smaller numbers, he'd tried to avoid them. Still did, but back then he would not fight back, thinking that it was just a bout brotherly bullying and that they'd grow bored eventually. But he learned quickly. Gnolls did not stop fighting until their foe was dead, and they always considered their opponents their foes. Fights were almost always to the death. It was only luck that he was still considered a youngling and his initial oppressors showed a semblance of mercy. He'd only been beaten and bruised and scarred. Many others did not have that luck. Towler and Fowler had both been offed in such a manner, in fights of proving strength to none but themselves, leaving Kowler as the last living pup from his litter.

Worse, once killed, regardless of the foe being a boar or wolf or human or even another gnoll, the remains were to be eaten. Food was sparse for the pack, mainly because they had little understanding of anything but violence, meaning nothing could go to waste. Kowler might have been able to understand the necessity of such a cultural mindset, had they not thought gnoll meat to be especially tasty and went out of their way to eat one another. Only the combined efforts of their mystics and more learned elders halted attempts at over-culling. But it was still an issue to deal with.

He refused to eat anything humanoid, refused to play cannibal. There would be no gnoll or human or orc in his diet. And he did not need to; he'd hidden stores of food all around Redridge, enough to keep him content for a time.

But he would have been killed off months ago, murdered for sport just as Towler and Fowler had been, had he not taken to magical means

It was still an astounding thing to him. That magic was a real, tangible force on this world. That Azeroth was not built of science and written rubrics, but of a power that by its very nature could not be fully understood. There were rules to magic, but few could hope to master them all. Those few that did were among the most cunning, most dangerous peoples to exist, bending reality to their leisure. Such was the power of magic.

Kowler wished many times over that he was not born a gnoll so that he could study magic properly. Almost anything else would have been better. Even ogre's possessed knowledge of the arcane– the true gem of magic, the power that brought all things to order. But the gnolls knew nothing of order. Without a teacher and without an understanding of the rules of magic, he was forced to use alternative means.

Luckily, shamanism was not a matter of rules, meaning he needed no teacher. To be a shaman was to commune with nature, to aid its growth and ask for aid from the very world itself in return, the elemental entities that made up the foundations of this planet. There was no right or wrong way to go about being a shaman, all that was required was a strong will and a clear mind. Even the gnolls, known for their poor intellect and brutish ways, were able to tap into the powers of the elements. Though, only a handful could do this, and most could not do anything more than fling fire.

It was, admittedly, not easy to forge a connection with the world in that manner. It required a certain frame of mind, a willingness to both ask for aid coupled with the conviction that ones words were worth listening to and heeding.

Luckily, in Kowler's case at the very least, due to his having lived a previous life in an entirely different world, it was safe to say that his mind was open to whatever possibilities there were. Including the reality that nature could not only talk back but fight back too.

Hobbling in pain from his fight, suckling at his aching fingers, Kowler made away, past where the pack had been camped since he'd been reborn. There were a handful of hastily built huts strewn around the canyon floor, the largest and most ostentatious one being home to Yowler. Sewn of boiled leather from various animals and even humanoids such as orcs and humans and kobolds, the huts were strong and sturdy despite their hurried assembly.

Kowler did not own a hut. Being honest, he did not own much. Few gnolls did. Of the things he did own, he hid with his food stores, away from prying eyes. The rest of his belongings were simple things: his knife, a pair of leather pants, a handful of belts, a ratty cloak much too large for him, and a rotted chest hiding his books and papers and scrolls.

It was pure luck that Common was the equivalent of the American English dialect. And it was also decidedly lucky that he lived next to a Common speaking settlement. Almost lucky enough to offset the fact that he was born a gnoll. Kowler would have rather been born a gnome than a gnoll, but his control over this matter was nonexistent and there was no further use in worrying about such.

The written scripts he'd taken to finding and stealing from Lakeshire when offered the chance were of a random sort. One was a fiction of romance; one was a half-burned dictionary. Most were relatively useless to Kowler, but he did not care. To read was a comfort to him, one of only two he'd been able to find in this life.

And as he approached his haunt of choice, a stone alcove dug into a canyon wall, slightly overlooking the camp, where a small stream of water cut a thin pass through the canyon, the place he stored his books and foodstuffs and took shelter from the world, he gave in to his other comfort.

Eyes closed, Kowler slumped into the water, stretching his senses. To call this meditating would be an understatement, for if meditating was the mastery of one's own personage, then what Kowler was doing was mastering the very world around him.

The flow of the stream fell to a slow halt and instead seeped into his body, past his fur, through his pores, over his scars. Visibly, Kowler's wounds knit together, raw red skin turning pale, leaving only a soothing feeling along with the loss of energy.

Opening his eyes, Kowler took in the being before him. The stream coalesced into something that was both solid and not, forming into an elemental of water, liquid bubbling into a bulky yet fragile frame. Astreamor, the elemental was called. His oldest and only friend in this second life.

"You… Were… In-Jured," said Astreamor. Though it was able to speak, its words were garbled and difficult to fully comprehend. "…Why?"

Kowler still considered it to be miles above what any other gnoll might hope to accomplish.

"One of my kin attacked, and the rest did not allow me to escape." Kowler answered. His voice was rough now, high with youth yet gravely from underuse. Gnolls were not a people of conversation, and his patience was not great enough to try and bring them to his level. In this second life, he'd only had the ability to fully converse with three entities now, and this was one of them.

The water elemental kept silent, as silent as it could despite the rushing currents that kept its form somewhat stable. Astreamor was always quiet, really. Kowler had truly been lucky to have gained its acquaintanceship, for without Astreamor, he feared he would have bled out long ago.

Whilst his companion was silent, Kowler looked to his own appearance, using the elemental as a mirror.

His fur was a light brown, dotted all over with dark brown spots. His eyes were large yellow things, with slit pupils that added to his animalistic, hyena-like visage. With his ripped pants and thick cloak, he looked a common, proper gnoll. Perhaps that only thing that differentiated him from his race was his forced habit of standing up straight. Almost all gnolls had an extremely hunched back, and while Kowler was no exception to the hunch, he did not fall into complacency and give in to his stature. Just as the orcs could be straight-backed with discipline, so too would he.

"Need… More… Pro-Tec-Tion…" his companion declared.

"You are my protection," Kowler said. "You all are. My ever-present companions."

"Not… Al-Ways… At… Wa-Ter…" Astreamor complained. It approached and encircled Kowler in an embrace, locking his arms at his sides. "Keep… To… Earth… Too… Much…"

Kowler shuddered. Not only were the elements living things in this second life, but they were jealous, grasping creatures as well. A constant state of competition begot their being, water and earth and air and fire always wishing to one-up all that they were not, leading them to be especially possessive of those that made to commune with them.

A shaman was not just a mortal that used the elements for combative reasons. Shamans were mediators by design. Their duty was balance, moderating the eternal struggle of Azeroth's primal forces. In doing so, they built relationships with the elements. The stronger the relationship, the more aid they would be willing to give.

Some elements were more dangerous than others. Fire was the most destructive, wind the most conniving. Compared to them, the stubbornness of earth and the randomness of water were benign, though no less dangerous when roused, and without any experience with other magical forces, Kowler thought it best to stick with the less temperamental powers of the world before experimenting with their less-than gentle cousins. He'd seen a packmate be consumed by a fire elemental for no apparent reason once when flinging a fireball, and it behooved him to not fall into a similar situation.

More than once, Kowler wished he hadn't needed to resort to shamanism to use magic. It was too chaotic, too random. The moment he reaped magic that did not try to tear him apart by its very nature, a power that would give him the strength he yearned for, he would drop his current approach to life.

But that was for the future. This was now, and the now took precedence above all.

"There is not always water," Kowler calmly stated. The water tightened around him, near to the point of causing pain, but he did not allow his tone to stray. He needed to stay cool.

"Stay… Here…" the elemental pled. A tendril of seaweed rubbed against his face, an emulation of a seductive caress. He shivered at the strange feeling it begot.

"I cannot." Kowler said. This water elemental in particular was a lonely thing, its home being a small creek that few visited and even fewer could glean. Kowler wouldn't doubt that he was the first person to talk to this elemental.

"…Stay." There was no more pleading in Astreamor's voice. Now, it was a demand. The water thickened, constricting tightly, slowly bringing Kowler down into its depths. Were this water elemental wrought from a deeper source, Kowler did not doubt he would have started to drown in its tightfistedness. As it was, the stream was only knee deep. And yet, it was still dangerous.

Unmoving, he did not allow his calm to leave. To do so was to guarantee his end, friend or not. Controlling the elements required control of one's self; to use their power, Kowler had to remain collected, even when he wished to panic and scream.

"I cannot," he repeated. The water twisted tighter around his frame. "But if you truly wish to protect me, there is another option."

"…What?" Perhaps for the first time, Astreamor appeared confused. As in, physically confused, its torrented form rushing a random rivulet. To lose control of its form, even for a moment, meant more than it showed. The coiling water that was dragging Kowler down the stream loosened for just a moment. He did not doubt that, if his answer was unsatisfactory, that the trapping would return with a vengeance.

"Allow me a portion of your power, a sliver of your essence, so that I may carve a totem around it."

Totems were perhaps the greatest tools that a shaman could possess. Crafted from the power of an elemental, they were the physical symbol of a relationship with the world. In less auspicious terms, the carving of a totem was the signing of a contract. The shaman in question would use the power their totem gave them, and the elemental in question would take in their nature from wherever they were summoned to further increase their own power. Doing this would not only increase the power the elemental held, but also allow the shaman to bend nature to their will with a more likely grip.

Sensibly, it was fair to assume that a shaman would strive to make multiple contracts with as many elementals as they could.

But this was not so.

"…I …Will …Not …Share." Astreamor stated. "No… O-Ther… Wa-Ter…"

The elements were greedy, covetous creatures, and Astreamor was no exception. Water elementals were not only competing with the spirits of earth and air and fire, but also with one another. All elementals did this, without exemption. It was in their nature.

To an elemental, the gaining of power is all that matters; their struggle for dominion an ever-present thing. From the smallest to the strongest, this did not end. The only exceptions to this being the Elemental Lords, those who govern the totality of Azeroth. Neptulon was the ocean itself, just as Therazane was Azeroth's crust, Ragnaros was Azeroth's core, and Al'akir was the sky. They shared their dominions with their lessers, but that was all, and because their power was so great and their conflict unending, they were sealed into pocket spaces known as the Elemental Planes, crafted by the titan keepers to better balance this planet.

However, while the Elemental Lords were bound to their planes, minor spirits were bound to their bodies of origin, Astreamor's stream or the small rocks Kowler had used to kill Mowler being fair examples. It was a rare thing that they could naturally become larger and stronger without aid, and so shamans were of vital importance to the elements. A give and take relationship that kept the world secure.

Due to this cycle of growth, a shaman could only be contracted to one water elemental at a time. If they did not, then the elementals in questions would be more likely to kill one another and the shaman in question before listening to orders. Most folk settled for spirits that could not even speak, born of puddles and wells, and progressively increased their power. Kowler likely would have done the same, had he not come across Astreamor.

"I would never ask you to share," Kowler specified. "In fact, I would rather raise you above your kin than I would replace you."

Astreamor was weak when compared to many other water elementals, yes. A minor spirit whose power was more oriented to the cleansing properties of water as opposed to the combative side of the state. But Astreamor was still strong enough to manifest and speak, which Kowler took to mean that there was room to grow further. And should he make Astreamor stronger, it was likely that Astreamor would be especially loyal in return, meaning Kowler could ask more of the elemental. Possibly even loyal enough to allow more water elementals to contract with the gnoll.

Added to the willingness that the elemental held towards Kowler's position and the opportunities made possible through their hypothetical union, and there was no reason to not forge a contract with Astreamor.

"…Ag-Reed…"

Astreamor dispersed then, an immediate departure that caused the waters halting the stream to return with a rapid wake. Kowler stumbled as he was released, fumbling to regain his balance amidst the current's forcefulness.

As he stood, righting himself, a small, glowing sliver stood out amongst the clear water. He dipped his hand into the clear flow and picked it up, holding it between his darkly clawed nails, and inspected the unique thing.

Kowler had poor words to describe it. Certainly, the taste of magic could be felt from the item, and it looked special. A pearl, perhaps, or a well-polished white stone, pulsing a light hue as if bound by a heartbeat.

He palmed it and held it tightly, taking pleasure in the gentle thrum that it let out, and laughed.

Well… That was an interesting thing to write.

Fun, to be certain. But tricky. Gnolls don't have much lore going for them, and I've never been good at building on other people's established detailings. The main problem I came across wasn't focused on the gnolls (or at least not entirely), but on the fact that there was no detailing regarding the starting focus of shamans. I know how the class is played and the vaguely spiritualistic/religious holdings that shamans give to the elements, but Blizzard has done this annoying thing and hasn't ever discussed how to get started. Basically had to make it up.

Which, y'know, I shouldn't complain about. The whole point of writing is to make shit up for the sake of entertainment. Still, I'm a millennial, so I'll just fall into our stereotype and whine a bit. Existentialism topped with world building and magic and spiritualism race hate. A fun mix to be certain.

Hopefully I did this chapter justice.

If you liked this, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!