The sun edged its way across the sky, early afternoon light filtering through the windows of Thrall's personal quarters. The ever-present red dust of Durotar floated lazily through the sunbeams as the Warchief set a small altar out in front of him, five objects that represented each element placed lovingly upon its aged, wooden surface.

He was having an odd day of sorts. His appointments, generally scheduled in order of request, were so few that day that he was finished just before the sun reached its zenith; a rarity in its entirety. Situations such as these occurred only a handful of times a year and Thrall always took great care to use them wisely.

He had read and written replies to at least a dozen reports that had been left to accumulate on his desk, the most notable of which was one from Razor Hill addressing the ongoing drought dilemma that has been cutting sharply into the region's economy, Orgrimmar included. A report from the Crossroads corroborated the story, indicating that the problem was spreading. Though concerned, Thrall was also aware that this region had endured far worse in the recent past. Rains from the north in Ashenvale kept the Southfury well fed, and as such there was still access to clean fresh water throughout the region.

He was aware that this plan was not entirely sustainable, but in reaching out to the spirits of water they felt fit to ignore his inquiry. Much to his agitation, they almost pointedly turned away from his gentle plea, as if giving him some strange, ambiguous sign. For though it is often in the nature of the elements to be vague and foreboding, to receive no reply at all was somewhat disconcerting. Having sequestered half a day's free time to himself he had set out to try again today, hopefully without interruption.

The most important aspect of Shamanism, Drek'thar had taught him, was of humility. Thrall, thusly, had divested himself of his armor and now sat barefoot and cross-legged on the sandstone floor of his quarters. Flexing toes and feet so unused to being free, Thrall began to remove all ornamentation on his person. The lip ring went first, as it was the most difficult-needing to be bent to be removed- the various cuffs and studs that marked his ears followed. Chuckling to himself, he wiggled his septum ring free and placed it in the clay basin with its kin.

Grom had given him that one; said "no 'boy' his age should have skin that naked. People will talk," he had added, digging into his pride for persuasion. Grom had pushed the needle through himself, laughing that sharp bark of his when Thrall sneezed and then grimaced at the odd pain it caused, the thin curved quill still punched through the middle, string of knotted thread hanging from one end. As he pulled the first of the knots through, he lamented that it would be wrong of him to mark his skin with ink.

'Tattoos are wasted on Frostwolves like yourself. They wear so many furs in that frozen place that no one will see them. We Warsong are people of the sun; our lands were once green and prosperous. And while I'm supposed to tell you that we mark ourselves to strike fear in our enemies and draw pride from our victories, you must also know they'll never once lead you away from the bed of a female."

Grom had grinned at him then, eerie fiery eyes alighting with mischief. But that mischief soon turned to concern when Thrall did not laugh along but looked at him in confusion and embarrassment.

The reality of what Thrall didn't know washed over Grom and he thought that was just hilarious, chest shaking with barely contained chuckles that erupted into unrestrained doubled-over laughter. Thrall was sure Grom said 'What the fuck' nearly five times before he calmed down enough to speak, but he remembered most of all how indignant he felt. The phrase, 'What's so funny, you fucking asshole,' came readily to mind.

"Don't humans teach their young anything?" He managed, "No wonder you fled like a spooked deer when Tharka tried to get you alone. There are, ah, some things you need to be made aware of, boy."

What followed was easily one of the most mortifying conversations in all of Thrall's life, but in the remaining few months of his stay with the Warsong it had proved useful. And it hadn't occurred to him until meeting Garrosh in Nagrand, nose yet unpierced and skin yet unmarked, that a moment like that was traditionally shared between father and son.

Thrall reached for the leather stay that secured his hair atop his head.

So much of his identity was wrapped up in how he presented himself. Most orcs preferred their hair short or shaved, save a high topknot or ponytail; it was a utilitarian measure to ward against bothersome problems in battle but increasingly to counteract the boiling summers of Durotar.

The length of his hair fell around his shoulders and he indulged himself a bit, scratching at the tired scalp with his fingers.

As a boy it was cut severely short, so as to never need to be combed and, he thought humorlessly, so lice wouldn't be as inclined to take residence. Sergeant usually had the chore of seeing to it, hacking at it unevenly until it was deemed 'good enough' and wouldn't get in his eyes. That had changed when he was about to be thrust into the arena. Blackmoore concluded that he looked more like an orc pretending to appear human rather than the bloodthirsty savage the betting crowd was expecting. The tyrants that toppled Stormwind didn't look like some boy who'd stolen his mother's scissors. They wore braids and mohawks; they let their long hair free to tangle and snare in the wind as they ran down peasants and screamed through a line of knights.

Sergeant did as he was told and let him grow it out but he thought the idea was positively stupid. He had shown up at his cell once in the middle of the night, drunker than he'd seen anyone to date (a great feat, truly) and told him so. He'd relieved the night guard of their duty, telling them some bullshit about 'Blackmoore's orders' and 'giving them the night off for a job well done'. Apparently the woman he was seeing had locked him out and he was too embarrassed to pass out in the barracks in front of his subordinates. With no one to hear, he was open with his many criticisms and it was the first time Thrall understood that Blackmoore was not all-knowing.

"He's got it all wrong, boy. He wants you to look like some kind of restrained savage; calculating and confident, but like you're only a razors edge away from howling your head off like a madman. You're a good fighter as you are; it's not like you aren't gonna win him anything. Hair like that is a liability. It gets caught in shit, obstructs your vision. And absolutely nobody looks big and intimidating when they're getting their hair pulled like a little girl."

That was the essence of what he'd said, anyway. Sergeant had slurred and repeated his words many times before finally falling asleep with a deafening snore. It had been early spring, winter's chill still holding a tenuous grip over the Foothills, and the servants hadn't yet deprived him of his winter bedding. Thrall, whose then-unnamed heritage often spared him the discomfort of cold, awkwardly pushed his second blanket through the bars to cover the man that had trained him.

Despite the circumstance of his upbringing, Thrall still owed much of what he knows to him. He often wondered what became of Sergeant and the others after Durnholde fell, but he was reluctant to check the census records of Old Lordaeron. Perhaps he was a coward in that regard, but he feared only pain and guilt lay in knowing.

He worked apart the knots that secured the heavy braids at his chest.

It had been amusing to him that both Doomhammer and Hellscream did indeed wear their hair long: Orgrim- the calculating and collected Warchief, Grom- the razor's edge berserker that 'howled like a madman.' As much as he was loathe to admit it, Blackmoore had been right.

Grom was positively terrifying, long hair whipping behind him in a knotted black banner, eyes burning so bright in rage that you could almost feel him looking at you. Orgrim was unlike Grom in many ways. He stood more upright than most, though that wasn't true when he had initially met him. His long, aging hair was groomed into two braids that fell down his chest. Clear grey eyes were seated in sockets lined with crow's feet and frown lines, even though he smiled often. He carried himself like Thrall had imagined a human king would, even though the title of Warchief had long been traded for Wandering Hermit.

He had asked Orgrim once why he wore his hair in braids. It was somewhat unusual and Thrall had a hard time reconciling it with Sergeant's lessons.

Orgrim had laughed, it wasn't often someone asked the old orc about something so innocuous.

"It's kind of traditional, favored by shamans and others of high standing, but that's not why I wear it so. Armorers on Draenor hadn't much experience in the way of making a full suit of armor; it wasn't something that was needed in the old times. And because of that, the damn thing pinches and snags anything you sling on your back and I'm losing my hair fast enough as it is!"

He tapped his balding scalp for emphasis, laughing in good humor at his own expense.

Thrall smiled, pulling the last of the ties free. That was how he liked to remember Orgrim- joking and smiling as though he'd known him his whole life. It was much preferable to dwelling on the dent in his breastplate as he puts it on every morning.

Thrall placed the weighted rings and red leather next to the basin and put his hair behind his shoulders. The stays of his fraying linen shirt were opened, offering a small relief from the oppressive heat of Durotar's midday sun, and he pulled the necklaces that dangled there over his head.

Against his palm they looked so small, Taretha's sliver of moon and Jaina's translucent rune.

Thrall often wondered what Taretha would've thought of Jaina.

Kindhearted and warm, he knew she would welcome her with open arms. But would she be intimidated by her station, or even his own, having been told for so many years that she was inferior, unfit for marriage and the presence of nobility. Or, conversely, would she tell embarrassing stories from his infancy that he could never prepare himself for?

Would she be able to peek past his platonic veneers and see his affections for Jaina as they were? Would she quirk her eyebrow at him with a knowing smile?

(Would she tease him about it in private?)

A sigh left him, puncturing the silence of the room, stalling that line of thought.. He would become lost in 'what-ifs' if he was not careful.

He had called many times upon her spirit for guidance, and never had she answered. Perhaps it was best that way; perhaps she knows he must find his answers himself.

Thrall placed the necklaces in the basin and meditated for a moment on the significance of seeing everything together.

They served as a visual reminder of how much others have contributed to his life; how even the smallest of gestures, of words could have lifelong consequences. The spirits were known to appreciate this ideology. No man ever grows alone, not truly, and it is from a center of wealth that the departed are able to dispense their wisdom upon those who seek.

But the Elements could only be appeased by an Essential Self, someone who was willing to temporarily relieve themselves of their hubris to commune for mutual benefit, to walk free of mind to a solution.

It felt good to shed his identity, to bare himself to the elements unacumulated by what the world has heaped upon him, to look forward with clear eyes and unburdened shoulders, to see the world and its natural problems as a solitary man rather than the figurehead of something greater.

Steam began to rise from a teapot set upon a nearby dish of coals, so he set about making the tea and ointment he would use for his ritual.

First he emptied three small sacks of different dried flowers into a jug of cold water to steep. Their fragrance was known to be pleasant to all but Fire and Wilds, who were indifferent to such gestures.

Next, he scooped out three heaping spoonfuls of an herbal mixture into a mortar and pestle to be ground into a fine powder. This would be made into a tea that was known for its ability to aid the mind in farseeing. His work was mechanical, meditative; the grind of the herbs needing to be fine so that most of their healing and spiritual properties can pass into the water. He made more than he needed for one use, should he have to try again later in the evening. He separated the mixture into two parts and put one share aside.

Thrall put the herbs into his cup and poured the hot water over it, watching the steam billow upwards into the dry air. Drek'thar once said that one could divine futures and pasts in the patterns of steam, but that it was usually something to keep young apprentices still and focused if they could not yet meditate properly. The elder shaman did not hold much stock in things that could not be felt in the soul, and surely had disparaging things to say of his own colleagues who relied too heavily on what their eyes could perceive.

Thrall waved away the last thought of his mentor with a grin; he would need to focus if he were to be successful.

He cleared his mind's eye of his past, breathing deeply of the grassy scent of the tea. As it steeped he reached for the pitcher of water he had prepared earlier and began to pour it over his head and neck in a cleansing ritual, rubbing it in with his hands so that none of his exposed skin is missed. The aroma was intense but not unpleasant, floral and almost overwhelming so potent had he made it. The water stung at his skin but at least provided much relief by cooling his body.

The steam swirled violently in his movements and he wondered, amusedly, if a storm was in his future.

The tea was thick and leafy, made of a variety of herbs meant to broaden the scope of one's mind and consciousness. Despite its bitter grassy taste its effects were gentle on the body, leaving one clear to speak to the elements and the spirits alike. It was not popular with those who would abuse such things, but still he knew of shamans who augmented the brew with other herbs for recreational use.

The effect was not immediate but after several minutes his perception shifted, his shoulders relaxed, his body lulled into a state of relative calm. He drew a deep breath into his lungs and exhaled over several seconds to center himself mentally for the journey to come.

With closed eyes he expanded his consciousness, becoming aware of the spiritual presences around him. The guards posted near the door to his personal chambers were chatting but vigilant in their watch. Further out he felt the life forces of the denizens of Orgrimmar, milling about and slumbering, as was the custom during noontime on such a day. Out farther, past the great gates and the boar farms he felt the spirits of the Earth rumble and crack under the blistering sun.

He drew in a great breath and exhaled, preparing for himself for contact.

Immediately his presence was noticed and Thrall was bombarded with a cacophonous roar – not one of anger or fear- but as if the Earth itself had moved lips to speak.

'We are thirsty.' Earth spoke, the sound of their speech nearly deafening, 'Bring us water. Bring us rain. The life that takes root within us withers and cries out in pain. Lend us your aid, Shaman, so that our bounties may nurture and the cycle continue.'

Thrall brought his focus upward towards the sky and appealed to the Wind.

'Do you not hear the Earth cry out? Do you not hear it suffer?' He said, words almost inaudible inside his head.

Even in the safety of his quarters he felt Wind rake sand across his skin through the open window. Distantly, he heard the paperwork on his desk fly everywhere.

'Of course we hear it! How are we to give the Earth water when there is none? Ask Water if you are so concerned, Shaman! Ask the seas to provide and you'll receive your answer!'

Thrall angled his focus out farther to where the red shores of Durotar met the salt sea. Before he could even speak, Water came forward.

'Wind has sent you. We will tell you as we've told them. There is nothing we can do for Earth. Rain does not fall even at our farthest reaches. We are not the whole sea, just as Wind is not the whole sky. We cannot see the whole of this world, Shaman. Even if there were storms, it is not we that could convince them to fall upon these shores. You must appeal to Wind for that, for all we can afford Earth is the salting of their fields, their gullies, their canyons. The river nearby cannot provide what they need, for even in its springtime fury it is only so large.'

It was a lot to take in, and he knew he was getting the runaround.

'What are you asking of me, Water? I do not understand.'

'The Earth is pained, yes, but they know much of patience. The opportunity for aid will come if only you wait for it.'

The sentence was spoken with certain finality, and further prodding would only beget anger.

Thrall considered inquiring to Fire and Wilds for their counsel but it would have been in vain. How could fire help bring drought relief? How could Wilds? It was an unnecessary move that would only agitate these elements.

He pulled his consciousness inward with a deep intake of breath and opened his eyes.

The angle of the sun had changed sharply since he had ventured out; it must've been at least an hour or so- the shadows having grown longer and the sunlight taking on a richer hue.

The papers previously on his desk now lay scattered across the floor, fluttering playfully in the breeze. His eyes cast downward at the altar. The feather that represented Wind was missing, likely hiding in some crevice along the walls. The pebble for Earth had rolled onto the floor and Water's cup rolled precariously on its side.

Thrall sighed. He needed to span a greater distance to amend this situation.

It would be unwise of him to attempt another trek so soon, as his mind was not yet settled from the previous encounter, so he got to his feet and browsed the itinerary on his desk, looking for a time to try again in the coming week if he were unsuccessful after a second attempt tonight. His eyes couldn't help but notice the red circle around today's date, marking the beginning of Theramore's Founding Festival. Thrall wondered how Jaina was doing. She mentioned that she wasn't a fan of formal parties but he hoped that she would at least find some enjoyment out of the festivities. A laugh found him then; he had declined her invitation despite having the day free anyway! He would've much rather spent it at her side than be berated by the elements.

There were few gaps in his schedule where he could spare time over the next few days, but he made notes where there was room, should a few meetings be shuffled. He would have to wait until morning to discuss the changes with the parties involved, so he occupied his time now by organizing the things Wind had scattered about, stooping down to gather the pages in heap to be sorted.

Askew lay a report from Brackenwall- who, as always, stated that their only difficulties lay with the dragonkin roosted nearby-, a trade missive from Ratchet boasting a recent sales spike due to high Alliance travel in the area, and a bundle of Jaina's letters.

Wait.

Thrall knew those letters weren't on his desk. He kept those tucked away securely on his shelf, away from prying eyes that might draw (admittedly, correct) conclusions about his sentimentality towards the one who penned them. His eyes scanned the bookshelf for other wayward objects and found nothing amiss.

Could it be that Wind was telling him to look south?

Did the rains his land desired lie near Theramore's border? Each paper in his hands was related to the port town in some way and he couldn't help but think that it was more than coincidence, that some force was guiding this line of thought. Weather patterns being as large as they are, it made sense to reach past his own lands for aid. He could augment the tea to cast his consciousness out farther to bargain with the elements there, potentially saving Jaina a downpour on her celebration.

His heart panged oddly at that, at using his farsight to look over her from this distance. It wasn't right. It was an abuse of his power, not only as shaman but as Warchief of the Horde. It would be a breach of the Non-Aggression Pact and several treaties they had worked so hard to make a reality. And, Spirits Deny, if he were found out…who knows what malady would befall their peace.

Yet still he considered it.

His eyes gazed out his window, sun crawling towards the horizon and bathing the already red landscape in an amber light, long and cool shadows reaching ever eastward.

Perhaps.

Perhaps if he was quick he would not be noticed.