"I'm not sure," Fhenrir remembered himself saying to her as they walked out of the arena together. His mind had only half been there - the adrenaline was pumping, the doubts were returning with the combat over, and beyond all that, he didn't really know what she -should- do. "You could try something as part of a team?" he'd thought to suggest later that night. Xara had always been particularly adept at challenges that required flawless teamwork.
A couple days later, Fhenrir found himself briefly stopping by the "office hours" for any Grims with questions. He had one in his head he wouldn't openly admit to: 'I don't want to write a report. Is there an easy way out of the second trial?'
Instead, he'd gathered a better understanding of what was expected of him for this trial; get to know the Grim. With the ample experience he'd had with them over the years, he wondered if he couldn't simply take the chance to reflect on what being Grim was to him and those he'd already spoken to and observed.
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<A letter addressed to Syreena of the Grim eventually finds its way to her.>
"Resolve is a fascinating choice of words for the trial we face second; I feel it's aptly named. One of the most striking things I've noticed is that no matter which Grim I interact with, they all have overflowing, nearly staggering, levels of resolve. The conclusion I've reached is that this trial of resolve isn't named for the endurance of the supplicant, but for the commitment each and every Grim is expected to hold within themselves.
This is expressed differently by every one of us. Take, for example, Leyujin. One of two I've ever called 'brother', and without a doubt the superior candidate. His resolve takes the form of a willingness to engage in any and every battle he is needed in. He recognizes that battle is a necessity we must face, so that our children, our weak, our timid, need not. He always knows where he and his comrades are best suited, and that often leads him to a well-deserved position at the front of clashes.
I watched the reactions of both you and Elanderik closely when we went 'hunting' previously. His resolve took the form of a stone cold and unwavering determination. You, meanwhile, found every encounter a rush. A thrill. A laugh. Yet your strikes were no less true and your resolve was no less profound. And there was a giggle, or a cackle, after every serious threat. "That's a big goblin," you observed very matter-of-factly not long after we'd triumphed over the monstrosity, nearly dying in the process.
I have, at many points in my life, attempted to maintain a similar composure to that which I spied in Elanderik that evening. But I am not that manner of warrior.
I am a beast on the battlefield, a fact I have willfully ignored or suppressed many times before today. I lose myself to rage, to the desire for vengeance, justice, simply proving myself superior. I get a rush from winning. I get a rush from being better.
That, is the manner of warrior I am.
My resolve, as the Grim has helped me articulate, is in how I direct my desire for battle. I hurl myself as a troll would an axe into any situation I feel needs my desire for battle. I offer myself willingly to causes I find just. I -am- a tool, a weapon, and I will point myself at anything and everything that would harm me, my loved ones, or my Horde.
"Any challenge," Elanderik said to me, when I asked what our hunt meant as Grims. A succinct and apt conclusion, one I would agree with in very similar wording.
The Grim is unceasing in its objectives. In the face of any threat, any opposition, we will rise to it and conquer it.
We, as Grim, will not falter. We will hold our resolve.
- Fhenrir Phoenix."
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A few hours prior to the letter's delivery, Fhenrir found himself having a drink in Silvermoon City. The bar here wasn't too busy these days, with most folks looking for a drink choosing Orgrimmar or Pandaria. Across from him at the table, with an untouched glass of red wine, was a blood elf with striking red hair and a lithe figure.
Fhenrir's eyes scanned the paper, taking in every word. He then set it face down with a long, exasperated sigh. "That's your best?"
The elf sighed right back. "You'll have to forgive my inadequacies when it comes to flawlessly imitating a big angry cow-man."
Fhenrir stared him down. "This is draft 5."
"I'm afraid I simply cannot get a closer impression of you via the written word, my friend. Unless you sought to write it from scratch, yourself, this IS my best work."
Fhenrir watched the elf for a moment, then picked up the paper and read it over again, more closely.
"You didn't want to write it yourself. We went over every. Minute. Detail. So that I could write a convincing summarization of your state of mind for you. We've spent the better part of the day now-"
"Stop." Fhenrir said forcefully, eyes still on the page. The elf complied.
Fhenrir sat, reading, looking at the paper. "This flowery language at the beginning is going to be a dead giveaway."
"You explained to me quite explicitly that they informed you another could be hired to pen the piece in your place," the elf responded.
"That's not the point."
"Pray tell, then, what IS the point?"
Fhenrir paused and set the paper back down. The elf watched, the answer becoming clear to him, and a smirk spread across his face.
"You're mortified. Simply devastated that an elf could pen a better article on the subject, on your OWN thoughts even, than you could have," the elf observed.
"No," Fhenrir dismissed.
"Yes you are," the elf teased. "Just accept it. You'll be more content with yourself."
"I'm plenty content."
"Of course. Will that be all, Mister Phoenix?"
Fhenrir slid a pouch of gold across the table. "Get out of here, Zuffid. And not a word of this to anyone."
"Not a soul," the elf said, taking a slow drink of the wine beside him, then standing and offering an insincere, playfully deep bow to the tauren. "Take care of yourself, and say hello to the Captain for me."
Fhenrir said nothing else to the elf before he left, simply going back and forth on sending the letter before deciding that it really did represent his thoughts clearly enough.
More importantly, he wasn't a writer. He didn't want to write anything. If this wasn't sufficient, he suspected more information would be requested in the near future and he could go from there.
