An orc-child runs into the tavern; he carries a folded piece of leather and a rolled piece of parchment. He pauses a moment, then darts to Izshara’s side and offers them to her. She takes them, hands him a few silver for the errand, and he runs off again, a backward glance at her shield.
The bustling sounds in the tavern fade into the background as Izshara spreads the leather on the table and unrolls the parchment beside it. The Orcish runes in her warrior’s scrawl look crude in comparison to the elegant script, glyphs, and pictograms on the parchment. The scribe she paid was an Orc, a shaman; she hopes nothing is lost in the translation to the other Horde languages.
Khorshah tells me of the Grim, of your purpose, your exploits, and your Mandate. The word of the Mandate strikes a chord in me, and I would lend the strength of my flesh, my blade, and my shield to your crusade. My honor demands I work toward ensuring not merely the survival of the Horde, but toward its prosperity, and the freedom of its people from the wrongs that the Alliance has committed and continues to perpetrate.
Lok’tar ogar!
Izshara
She rolls the parchment again, and wraps the leather around it. She winds a thin leather thong about it twice, then winds the tail around an ogre knuckle-bone to keep it fastened in place.
The heavy footsteps of a Tauren draw her attention from the letter. “Throm-Ka, Khorshah.”
The death knight nods to her. “Well met.” His gaze moves to the leather-wrapped parchment.
She can’t read his expression any more in this moment than she could in the moment when she first met him. “Will you see this to the appropriate hands within the Grim?”
Khorshah nods and Izshara hands him the letter.
Rolled parchment wrapped in a leather scrap
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