Grim Views

The sickening *slurck* of blade to flesh rang like music in his ears. He pulled the serrated sword back, spilling viscera to the ground. Rearing his head back causing his braided mane to whip about his imposing visage, he sought his next foe.

Gundnir breathed in deeply; the acrid stench of burning wood and charred skin filled his lungs and ignited his blood. Behind him an archer turret fell with a thunderous clamour. The elegant banner of Stormwind, singed and torn to a ragged flag, fluttered gently to his feet. Gundnir grinned from behind massive tusks, picking up the banner and wrapping it around his hand, a symbol of ultimate defiance and hatred.

But....Gundnir did not have massive tusks. Nor did he wield swords. The Orc looked around and took in his surroundings - the sounds of battle, of Orcs and Trolls breaking storming the Human bastion, the smells of blood and sweat and fire.

Gundnir did not fight at Stormwind. He was part of the invasion, but his Clan did not make it that far, generally held for garrison duty and supply-line guard. He became suddenly startled and dropped the swords

His hands were different: more worn and and a lighter shade of green. His hair was braided wildly, not the tight single braid he preferred. Even the strength of the elements was sadly lacking in his body.

He was not Gundnir.

The Shaman awoke with a start. Gundnir fell from his hammock, suspended a few feet above the stone floor below. A series of Orcish curses ruptured from his lips, more familiar now and gladly tusk-less. He had claimed a small cave as his own, worn into the cliff wall along the Eastern beaches of Durotar, a walk up from Sen'jin. The constant ocean breeze and chaotic pattern of waves was oddly comforting to him. It was a simple abode: his weapons and armor hung on the cavern wall shaped by his own hand, he slept on a swaying hammock suspended above various furs and skins that kept the floor from getting too cold at night. A host of trophies - skulls, bones, ancient weapons, woodcarvings and several shiny trinkets- lined the wall in the back.

The Orc regathered himself. A spark from snapped fingers set a torch sconch ablaze and he reached for a waterskin.

It had been more than a decade since the spirits and souls of his ancestors directly spoke to him, and they decided to give him a vision now?

Most Shaman welcomed these visions, as they gave insight on difficult times or glimpses into the glorious past lives of their ancestors. Gundnir, on the other hand, had not experienced this for too long. The shock of becoming aware during the vision, of experiencing the shock of being someone else, was a bit much for him to handle right now.

He needed rest. He needed to talk to someone who had more experience with this kind of thing to assist him in sorting out what it was trying to tell him

But most of all, he needed a drink.

Gundnir stumbled out of his "house"and nearly tripped over Fangs-First. Some bloody guard dog he was, Gundnir remarked to himself, the wolf barely stirred at the commotion. In the dead of the night, he walked to the Pub of Orgrimmar

The aging Orc examined his boy, turning his head this way and that with gruff fingers. Drune eyed Gungnir up and down, then up again. Then Drune slapped him squarely across the jaw with a backhand

"Feel better?"

Gungnir spat to the side.

"Aye, actually." He took a stand. "But there's somethin' more." Gungnir looked at his father. Drune was old, and it was a wonder he was still walking with such vigor. The elder walked around Durotar mostly these days, and many thought him to be insane, constantly talking to "spirits" and "ancestors."

But Drune was the most experienced Shaman Gungnir knew.

Son handed father a flagon of ale, and both drank deeply. The rustle of waves flowing against the sand in the background was comforting for some reason.

"I have tha dreams every night now," Gungnir began. "Sometimes I watch 'em, sometimes I become them.

"I thnk ya drink too much, boy," Drune muttered ironically from a heavy gulp.

"His blood flows through me veins, tho. I can feel 'im. One from our past," Gungnir drank more absently as he thought. His father seemed uninterested. The younger tugged at his braided beard in thought. "It's been so long since they'ze talked ta me. Hard ta keep up wit' it. Maybe they'll go away, aye?"

"A dream such as this is nothin' ta balk at. Just because ya can't hear 'em doesn't mean they'ze not talkin' ta ya, boy." Drune eyed his son over the flagon. "Ya come from some of tha finest blood in Blackwolf. They'ze tryin' ta tell ya somethin'."

"Bah, if they wanted ta help me, they'de give me their wisdom ta brew a better ale, aye?" Gundnir stifled his sarcastic laughter with his drink.

But Gundnir was cut off abruptly as Drune brought the gnarled wooden staff he used to walk across his son's skull. The elder still had great strength, it seemed. Gungnir crumpled to the animal skins lining the cold stone floor of his cave-abode, eyes rolled back and his ale toppled to the ground.

"Yer gettin' a vision, a callin', boy." Drune stood slowly, using his staff for support. "If ya can't handle it.....well, ya never really had what it takes." The elder rummaged through his gray robes, finally producing a pouch of silvery dust. Slowly the drawstrings were pulled loose, and the glittering powder was sprinkled methodically over the "slumbering" Gundnir's face.

"Weakling," Drune rolled his pale blue eyes. "I'll show ya how it's done....."