Visions of Blood
Brameth, October 6, 2006
Brameth snorted softly. The air was thick with the scent of night
flowers, and the moon lit the grassy plains for miles. In the
tent at his back, his mate and child slept soundly. And yet,
something was not quite right. He sent a quiet prayer to the
Earthmother that it was just anxiousness from the premature birth
of his child.
Thunder bluff lay another days trek from the border of the
Barrens, and he had hoped to make it to the capital before the
birth, but the Earthmother had seen fit to bestow his child
early. The Strayhoof clan hadn't been able to give up their
nomadic ways, even with the rise of the Tauren capital. They're
numbers were extremely small, and the impending birth had been
great news to an otherwise fading clan. Brameth had hoped to
bring the clan to Thunder Bluff and establish themselves there,
at least for a little while. Perhaps some of the other young
Tauren could woo some mates in the capital and revitalize their
Troubling reports of Alliance skirmishes had followed them all
the way from Desolace. Brameth was confident in his small company
of braves, but impending fatherhood had put him on edge. If there
was an enemy out there, he doubted they would make an attack on
his group. He could not see them in the moonlight, but he knew at
least two Druids of the Claw prowled the surrounding area, alert
for any trouble. His own druidic training was elementary at best,
put on hold with the death of his father, thrusting care of the
clan into his hands. Harnessing the Spirit of the Bear and Cat
came naturally, but he found the path of the Restorer most
appealing, although he would not have to commit to a path for
His nostrils twitched again. There was something barely present
in the air, just below the smell of the flowers, but he could not
quite figure it out. He drew in a deep breath, clearing his mind,
concentrating on the smell... blood. Brameth leapt to his feet
with a deafening bellow of warning. The tall grass aside the camp
boiled with activity as stealthy figures darted in. They were
bent low, but they would be tall standing, and their ears were
long and pointy. Elves.
He knew it was a battle they could not win. Even as he battered a
foolish elf to the side with his great maul, he counted enough
elves to outnumber his warriors three to one. Although great in
strength and wisdom, the majority of his people were not
accustomed to battle. Perhaps if he could lead them away, surely
the elves would not murder the innocent and weak. Summoning the
Spirit of the Bear to him, he transformed and charged into their
midst with a great roar, surely enough to gather their undivided
Pain wracked his body as elvish blades struck home, but none of
them struck deep enough to cause serious damage to his thickened
hide. Great paws broke limbs and crushed skulls in a growing
rage. Blood matted the grass as he drew off from the camp.
Several elves closed in pursuit as he attempted to create some
distance from the camp. Leaving the Spirit of the Bear behind, he
threw himself into the deep grasses, hoping to create enough time
to call forth Starfire to strike pursuers down from a distance.
The broad side of a sword connected with his temple. Brameth
struggled to regain focus as a blade struck home, piercing his
chest. Blood stung his eyes as a pair of soft boots passed his
vision as he lie on the ground. He felt the blade wrenched free
from his body as everything faded to black.
Morning dew dripped across his snout as he regained
consciousness. The Earthmother had blessed him with the ability
to cast a last second rejuvenation as he had fallen. His chest
ached where the spell had sealed his wounds and kept him from
bleeding dry. It was quiet, for not even the birds sang. After
several tense moments, Brameth summoned the will to stand.
Warily, he advanced back towards his camp, fearing the worst.
Nothing stirred as Brameth crept nearer, the grass all around had
been matted by the blood and feet of many. The scene made little
sense. The tents were burnt and smoldering, and blood had been
spilled by the gallons, yet there were no bodies, Tauren or Elf,
to be seen. Panic beyond anything he had ever felt welled up
inside him till he wanted to scream. Then he felt the blade on
his throat. It was not a smooth elven blade, made to cut cleanly,
but a barbed and jagged blade. And in one swift motion, it was
drawn across, ripping cruelly as blood sprayed into the air.
Brameth clutched his throat desperately to no avail as his blood
soaked into the ground,
There was no light, no sound; Brameth could not feel his own
body. A voice echoed to him. His clan was gone. His mate. His
child. The Earthmother felt his pain, was his pain, focused his
pain. A great chalice entered his vision, filled with blood. The
Alliance bled into this chalice. A great Elemental Lord, a Blood
God, The Scarab Wall, The Broodmother and the Black Dragonflight,
a fiercesome Lich. The chalice would swallow them all. A final
drop of blood falls from Brameth himself and the chalice
overflows. Vengeance, and a tithe of blood. Yes.
Brameth's eyes opened slowly. He was alive, just barely.
Everything was hazy, but the visions burned brightly in his mind.
The Earthmother had spurned his spirit, and he knew he could not
have peace till the tasks placed before him were complete.
Bitterness and hatred. Vengeance. He would give the Earthmother
her Blood Tithe.
Tales of Old.