Swifthoof dropped the fresh hide of the crocolisk in the brine vat in front of him. He had been tanning and fashioning leather into armor now for countless years, so much so that his huge hands were almost as cured by his mixtures, as any of the armor he made.
The hide would sit in the salt mixture for a month. In that time the salt would remove the moisture in the hide and kill any life that remained, so the skin would not get eaten away, or rot.
He looked over the top of the vat into pleasant Pandaren countryside. He had rented this small cabin and camp from one of the locals. He had needed somewhere to work. No one should have known where he was, but the warlock had found him. He sat on his dreadsteed, about fifty yards away, slightly hunched in the saddle, just watching.
Swifthoof went over to the next vat. This one had clean water, and was used to soak the salted skins and remove as much of the salt as possible. He would soak the salted hides for five days, each day making the water fresh.
The warlock was new to The Grim, he had said his name was Malanath. Wanted to know his story; how Swifthoof had come to be... well whatever it was that Swifthoof had become. Swifthoof had told him to go away, like he had told twenty other new Grim. So the warlock had ridden out there about fifty yards, turned around and sat there watching him.
Swifthoof moved over to the next vat, a tannin mixture this one, oils from the barks of trees and a few ingredients of his own. All designed to make the leather supple yet strong, proof against arrows, swords and harmful magic. This vat was large. The leather was stretched on frames and scraped clean, before it went into it, and the sides of the vat were notched, so that they formed a rack for the frames to slot into.
The warlock had been there for three days. That was the problem with the undead. They didn't eat, didn't sleep. The horse wasn't natural either. Swifthoof repressed a shudder. The Earthmother only knew where that thing had come from.
He tried to put the thought of the warlock out of his mind and moved onto the area where the racks were dried once they had come out of the tannin vat. Here they would be oiled and then cut and decorated, before being sown into pieces of armor. To be sold at the auction house or taken to The Grim's own armory.
Swifthoof worked on his hides for a while. There was always something to do. He liked to keep busy. When he was busy he didn't have to think. Filling the vats with the correct mixture, scraping the hides, taking them on and off the frames and then fashioning the armor, all took concentration. And while he was concentrating, he didn't have to think. Trouble was, with the warlock watching, his mind wandered, the leatherwork didn't help, and he thought.
With a sigh and barely another look at the slight figure fifty yards away, he raised a hand and beckoned the warlock in. It was time. He would tell his tale once; from then on, he would just send the new Grim to the Warlock. Let him tell them, or send them away, either way they would be no more trouble to him and he wouldn't have to think.
The warlock came into the camp and Swifthoof gestured to a rail that stood by the cabin, and then went over to where a lone tent stood some distance away from the building, and the hides. He didn't sleep in the small timber cabin, he couldn't get used to sleeping under a solid roof.
The warlock twisted his face into a different shape (Was that what passed as a smile for the undead?), took the thing he was sitting on, and left it by the rail. Then it vanished. Swifthoof grimaced, the cursed thing wasn't an animal, it was something summoned from another plane, unnatural.
The undead approached and Swifthoof turned and went into the tent, before he could say anything. The inside was surprisingly roomy. Skins and furs lay on the floor. Two flaps high up let in breeze and light. Books and bags sat in a corner, a lantern hung from where the poles met above his head. The warlock followed him in.
"Sit" said Swifthoof, and then as the other opened his mouth to say something, "No! Just listen, no talking, this isn't a conversation."
Swifthoof paused for a second, and then began.
"My story starts on a day in Bloodhoof Village, some fifty summers after I was born. I was in a tent much the same as this one, in a camp similar to this one, with vats laid out for my tanning, same as this one."
"My place, my job and my life in that village, was to teach my trade to the young ones and to craft armor for them. I took pleasure in my work. Watching the young grow and learn. Seeing the fruits of my labor put to good use. It was rewarding. From time to time, the ones I had helped would bring me back hides or leather from their travels, by way of thank you."
"I had a wife, but we had no young ones. There was time we said. No hurry, she told me. 'We have the young Tauren that pass through here, to keep us busy. We will wait."
"The day my life began, that changed."
"Alliance came. I don't know who they were, or what tribe, clan or company for whom they fought. I don't know if they had a purpose, or if they just hated us because we were Horde, but they attacked, and it was a slaughter. I had no real skill at fighting. I just flailed about with a scudding knife, don't think I hit much; maybe I scared a few of them. "
"My wife was the other side of the village. I found her... after." Swifthoof paused.
"I thought they had killed me. Couple of humans in metal stuck their swords in me, and I was dead; hoped I was dead. I heard the screams, no one was getting away, why should I live when everyone else was dying?"
"Then she came to me. Some people call her Earthmother; so that's what I will call her. She healed me, or brought me back to life, I don't know which."
"She was kind and she was beautiful and I screamed at her, cried at her, begged her to raise my love as well, but she said she couldn't, and I hated her for it. Couldn't or wouldn't, what is the difference? Why raise only half of a whole. That is not living. I hated her for making me live, and not my mate."
"The Earthmother gave me power and she gave me purpose, but I hate her to this day. I hate her for making me who I am, and what I am. I do her bidding and I am her devoted servant, but only because if I serve her faithfully, I hope one day she will let me die, so that I can end this, and perhaps find my love in whatever existence comes after death. I hate her as much as any of the ones that would torture me in chains if they caught me, because nothing they could do to me could hurt any worse."
"You ask me my history warlock. There is no other history. The attack lasted less time than it takes the sun to move a hand's-breadth. The Earthmother took but a heartbeat to make me, and after that time, everything else that follows, you can make up or guess, it is of no great importance to me. Anything before that is my own, and I choose to not share it with anyone."
"So, I fight who the Earthmother bids me fight, and I kill Alliance for fun, and to stop them making more Tauren like me, because no one should suffer as I do. You wanted to know my story, then that is it. I am deader than you are."
Swifthoof bowed his head, "You can go now."
The warlock got up and turned to say something. Swifthoof cut him off.
"Don't!" said Swifthoof, and then more softly, "Peace through Annihilation!"
"Peace through Annihilation!" repeated the warlock. Then his face did that twisting again, "That much we share," he said.