Originally posted on July 28th, 2017 on my blog
An Eternal Struggle []
| “ | We all struggle with the monster inside... | ” |
NIGHT BEGAN TO FALL on Thunder Bluff; the steady, calm drumbeats from the giant totem upon the central rise echoed over the windswept bluffs to signal the end of the day and that wall was well. Naharak knew a horn would sound to signal An’she’s dipping below the horizon and that the day was officially coming to an end.
He walked on the bridge between the Low and Spirit Rise. Every step he took was filled with the quiet whine of the wood under his hooves and the clinking of the mail of his armor or the small totems on his belt. He walked with purpose, each long stride taken to get him to his residence on the Spirit Rise so that he could connect with that which he chained.
The ritual was complex in nature, which every step taken after opening the flap to his home needed to be deliberate. Stepping into his abode, he began to unstrap his armor to put it away on an awaiting armor stand. Once he stripped down to a mere loincloth, he approached a trough and wet his fur to clear off the dust and old paints he had applied that morning.
His thoughts were clouded by the ritual that needed to be understand; a regular, personal ceremony done at the end of every month. Once he was clean, he took up the ashen-white paints -- reapplying it to his face, arms, legs, and body. The spirals around his arms and legs were particular, leading to spiraling circles over each of his pecs and continuing up his neck and to his face. The process was quick to him, taking no longer than five minutes to apply the paints in the way it needed to be.
Naharak approached a brazier, placing tinder and kindling into the handcrafted, metal basin, then arranging it into a square with fire-starting material in the middle. He rubbed his white-stained fingers together, mumbling words of power to produce sparks; Brother Fire responded in kind, lighting the flames naturally on the awaiting pieces of wood. With an open hand, Naharak stoked it with a gentle breeze and added larger pieces of wood.
The wood cracked and charred, filling the air with smoke, and rising up out of his residence. Naharak worked fast -- he gripped the pine needles he had collected the day before in one hand and a bag of broken down minerals and herbs in the other. He closed his eyes, beginning to murmur ancient words of power -- calling the spirits to his side.
The wind gently flowed around him, swirling over his legs as he tossed the bag into the fire. The flames began to change colors rapidly -- from yellow to orange to red to green and then finally to blue. Quickly, he threw the pine needles into the fire. As they were engulfed in the flames a great deal of smoke was created of which, Naharak inhaled deeply.
The smoke filled his lungs; it was far more aggressive than ever before. He opened his eyes wide, the moss-green iris becoming hidden behind a glow of pure white. Everything around Naharak seemed to disappear from sight and was replaced. Where his tent was on the Spirit Rise was instead a small patch of earth where once molten lava had flowed. The sweltering heat battered Naharak’s frame as he was transported, seemingly, into another plane.
He looked around, standing up and walking forward until his quarry was near. Between two posts stood chained another Tauren: his jet-black fur was damaged by the continuous heat, the red warpaint that identified him as a Grimtotem was slowly chipping off from not being properly maintained. His downward gaze looked defeated, yet the chains on the two posts looked as if they were weakening…
As Naharak approached, the Grimtotem looked up -- a blood-red gaze in those iris’ screaming their hate. The fallen Shu’halo snarled and tried to lash out at Naharak, but the Flameherald was out of reach, the chains snapping tightly. The runes on said chains began to glow and hum to keep them from being destroyed by the strength of this Grimtotem.
Naharak gave the Grimtotem a look of apathy, shaking his head. “Still you try,” he said, coming closer. “And yet, you shall never be released… never again shall you roam Azeroth and lay waste to those you hate.” The Flameherald held up a hand, mumbling words of power as he called the wind to push against the Grimtotem. “You are too weak… and the power that holds you here is too strong.”
The Grimtotem held no power here beyond his strength -- he paled in comparison to the elemental energy. He was pushed several steps backward, breathing hard; trying to fight against the wind, yet failing. “It once was that I roamed free… and will do so again, Naharak,” he spat, saying the name with venom. “These bindings, these chains, this place you’ve constructed for me… it is only temporary. I will be released.”
Earthen constructs were formed with a few more words of power and a wave of Naharak’s hands. “You may try, Kashu’ake,” he said quietly as he reaffirmed the bindings, strengthening them for another month. “You may gnaw at my consciousness and make my blood grow hot in the face of my enemies, but you shall never have a place in my mind. You are but a beast; my beast that I created, but you shall remain chained… forever.” The chains were strengthened, the runes remade; Naharak dismissed the constructs and stepped back, observing his careful work.
“Monsters must be killed or they grow more and more powerful with each passing day,” Kashu’ake warned. “When you have lost everything, when you are in dire need… that is the day you wish you had me; that is the day I shall be set free once more.” He lowered his head, returning to the defeated look.
Naharak’s prison for the beast that resided within him slowly faded. The sweltering heat of the lava gave way to the gentle, cool night of Mulgore, the earthen crust to the rug of his hut. He buckled under his duress, breathing heavily as the ritual was completely.
He closed his eyes. Another month… and my monster is kept at bay.