Remember

The herbs and dust descended into the crackling fire. A fizz and a crackle erupted as the offerings were burnt to ash, a plume of white smoke dancing skyward. The beach by Zoram'gar outpost at this time of night, would make a fine place to commune.

Krogon collected his thoughts, sitting himself cross legged, despite the protests of his maimed and exhausted body. The last two months had driven him to the edge of insanity and agony, but he still breathed, just. Through black ringed and bloodshot eyes he watched his own hands take his prayer beads from around his neck and place them by his feet in the sand.

The Spirits be praised, and offerings given, this humble servant asks for your wisdom.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his head, Thoughts swirling and twisting in his sleep deprived mind. It was a struggle to remain focused, His body had been pushed as far as it could and then further. Bruise addled arms, a criss-cross stitched torso, shredded feet. Even the calm peace of a cup of tea offered him no reprieve, his body only demanded one thing now. Sleep.

The Spirits be praised, and offerings given, this humble servant asks for your wisdom.
His mind turned to worry, did the spirits no longer favour him? had he offended them? Or perhaps the pain and exhaustion impaired him too much.

A gentle, ethereal cough was heard. The clearing of a throat, announcing someone's presence. Krogon turned his eyes upward, squinting. Through the plume of smoke he could make out the shape of a spirit sat cross legged, on the other side of the fire.

Thank you spirits.

Krogon leant forward, bowing his head low with the due expected reverence.

"Forgive me honoured spirit, I did not see you--" Krogon stopped himself, he knew this spirit. That long red beard, those iconic cloth clad shoulders, that Wolf mask. His eyes blinked and narrowed in focus, an expression fob lank incomprehension covering his face.

Sharptongue?

" Well, call me Kraag an' spank me thrice..." Spoke the spirit of Sadok Sharptongue, grinning widely.

" ...The spirits like to play their jokes on me, it seems" Krogon grumbled. He had not expected a Red blade spirit to answer his call, he was exiled after all.

"Wha' be the meanin' o'all this, eh?" Wearily muttered the deceased High blade, his ghostly shape shimmering beyond the smoke.

Show respect, do not waste his time.

"Hrm, I sought the wisdom of the honoured dead, for guidance. I was not expecting a Red blade ancestor to heed my plea" Asked the Blademaster, sitting himself cross legged once more.

"Y'wanted wisdom o'the honoured dead - well, what be it, eh? I be Wise, I be honoured, I be passed" Spoke Sadok coolly, only glancing down at his own ethereal arm for a moment.

Krogon took a deep breath to steady himself. Recalling how he had learned of his former pack brothers demise, weeks after it occurred.

"I said prayers, when I heard you had passed. As for guidance honoured High Blade--

"A shame our last words were so fraught wi'tumult" Spoke the spirit with an irreverent smirk.

Krogon grumbled, it was true, their last words had been heated and scornful.

"I must know, What more can I do? I have broken bones, starved, laboured, tricked, fought, killed, stolen. Murdered for this horde. What more can I do?" Krogon spoke, his voice flagging with doubt and rasping exhaustion.

The spirit grunted, shaking his head gently, as if in his now all knowing state he thought the question but a mundane and humble one. An obvious answer apparent.

"Ghrmph. It be simple, in me humble but deceased opinion, Devilstep." The spirit nodded sagely.

Krogon leaned forward, desperately straining to hear what he could.

"The tide be turnin'. More an' more turn against what be comin' from Orgrimmar - even those that ain't exiled still be in rebellion within 'em hearts an' souls." Echoed Sharptongue, the dancing fire and rising smoke masking his visage as it spoke. " Y'can only work fer so long in the shadows, can only hide an' plot fer so long... Plant yer banner. Make yer stand. P'raps no-one will come, an' all will be fer naught. But p'raps many will emerge from hidin', emerge from their oppression an' flock t'the cause. There be a time fer everythin', an' y'must do what y'know t'be right. Y'may be able t'lurk in the shadows, but only by emergin' from 'em can y'-strike-. Y'yerself know this all too well." He finished, looking down to his ghostly arm with a bleak grunt of discomfort. "I still be sore o'er that Tournament o'the Blades free-fer-all".

Krogon swayed as he took the words in, the wisdom washing over his mind. Sharptongue was right, the time had come. his eyes narrowed and relaxed as he struggled to focus his vision on the spirit.

"Ghrm, I be sore everywhere" Muttered the Blademaster, gesturing to his ruined and bloodied feet, too damaged to even wear sandals now.

"Nothin' worth havin' were e'er easy. That includes liberty. Fel, it be that very same cause that be why I'm talkin' t'y'from across worlds" Came the honest reply, with ghostly nod.

"I Hear your words, and I heed them. My banner shall be planted... and my banner--" Krogon whispered, forcing himself to stand. His hands clasped at his Red Waist-wrap, pulling it away from his hips and allowing it to unfurl on the night breeze. A Horde banner was revealed, blood red and darkest black of night.

"--Is a Banner for all" He finished, swaying on his feet, the wave of red cloth fluttering in his hand in all its glory. The spirit tilted its head curiously just as the Blademasters finally gave way.

Krogon propped himself on all fours, grasping at the fine grains of beach sand with his hands. It was all becoming clear now, even if his body had thrown the towel in, his spirit and that of the Horde never would.

"Hrm. Then we shall see who flocks t'the banner, who hears the call" Sadok spoke, his voice wavering, his time on this plane no doubt near an end.
Krogon continued to prop himself on all fours, his mind turning in dizzy spells. "Thankyou for your words, and your reminder honoure--" he stopped himself, paused.

No, More than that.

"--Old pack Brother" he whispered, before finally collapsing into the sand, embraced by it.

The spirits shimmering shape, fading as the smoke died away smirked.

"Get yerself a grom-damn shirt, Devilstep. Yer puffy areolas sicken me" Sadok grinned.

Krogon smiled, as he felt sleep washing over him. A strange sense of peace and an affirmation of his duty warming him as he fell into the embrace of sleep.

Sadok smiled, standing. His ghostly shape finnaly fading with the rising of the sun and the death of the fire.

"Y'can exile an orc from a place or a tribe, but y'cannot exile his heart from an idea or a cause. Yer heart be that o'a Red Blade no matter wha' may 'appen" He spoke, one final time before returning to the ghostly plane from where he came.