Author's note: This was buried in my huge WoW document, and it's so short that I went back and forth on whether or not I should bother posting it. But in the end, I think it's cute enough.
Voices in the Snow
When he was ten years old, Dor'ash heard them clearly for the first time. They had always been there, but he had never made out the words until then.
He really tried not to let anyone notice, but the whispers were so fascinating that he lost himself in weak moments. In the early frosty mornings, or late at night, when he was sleepy, he often faltered and sat still or laid awake, listening. They spoke about rushing above the land and through the tree tops in silvery, invisible rivulets, toying with snow and rain and leaves. Of running down slopes and rocks in merry splashes and mighty rivers, or spreading a cold, sleepy blanket over the landscape. Of being the landscape.
When caught, he always muttered something about hearing a bird. It didn't hold water for very long.
But he had to try. He only had vague memories of what had been, of the warmth and the never ending green hills. Here in this snowy, harsh but not unfriendly environment, there was little warmth and no islands floating through the air. That was not what he remembered. He recalled the foul taste in the air, the stench of the green fire and the fear and disgust in everyone's eyes.
He knew it was all over the day he heard heavy steps in the snow and looked up to find master Drek'Thar towering above him. Gaze stuck on the ground he obediently followed the blind shaman as he lead the way to his own hut. It felt as if everyone along the way stared at the two of them, but Dor'ash didn't dare looking up to make sure.
The great Farseer of the Frostwolf clan didn't need any light, so he was unconcerned when he let the orc child in and closed the door, obscuring the entire room in darkness. Still he waited for a few moments while Dor'ash blinked, eyes going from the bright white outside to what little illumination the embers in the fireplace offered.
As soon as his sight began to clear, Dor'ash was asked to place a couple of new logs on the glowing remains of the last fire. He obeyed, gripping the hard pieces of wood so hard that a couple of splinters pierced his skin. It hardly bothered him at all. But then he had to let go of that imaginary life line.
Drek'Thar remained silent while Dor'ash nervously poked at the embers with smaller sticks until the fire crackled to life. It made it easier still to see, casting warm, flickering light over everything. Nothing sinister about the dancing shadows, Dor'ash thought with some detached surprise. It would have felt more appropriate had they dug into Drek'Thar's aged face and made hollows of his milky eyes.
"Sit down," Drek'Thar said as he himself sunk down comfortably on one of the rugs by the fire.
Dor'ash obeyed in the same way as he had followed the shaman inside and fetched the logs. He stared down at his hands, curled by his crossing ankles. His fingers were still so small then, although as thick as a human child's wrist.
"Your parents tell me that you sit and listen to nothing," Drek'Thar softly said.
There was no use lying, he knew that.
"Yes, master Drek'Thar."
"What are you listening to?"
"Whispering voices."
He still didn't look up. The blind shaman probably knew that, too.
"And what are these voices saying, Dor'ash?" Drek'Thar asked.
"A lot of things." He grit his teeth, knowing he had to continue or it would be an act of disloyalty. "It's… hard to explain. Maybe I'm just insane."
He said the last bit far too quickly. Hopeful.
"Why would you think like that about such a gift?" the shaman asked, a sharp tone in his voice.
"I don't want to be a warlock, master Drek'Thar."
In the silence, Dor'ash wondered if he would receive a blow for that. He imagined that he would feel it for days to come, well aware how strong Drek'Thar was. But it never happened.
"I see," the shaman said, and this time the sharpness was gone. Dor'ash looked up to see a faint smile curve around the adult orc's tusks. "You shouldn't have kept it a secret, but I respect your reasoning. No, you will not have to become a warlock. No one here ever will."
Not ever again.
Dor'ash would never be sure whether Drek'Thar had found him silly back then, or endearing.
