Withered Branches

"The soul is as a Tree. It needs nourishment and tender care lest it wither and fall to decay and ruin."

Breathe out.

Though the trunk and upper branches remained untouched, the upper canopy on one side had become neglected. Dead leaves rotting on dried twigs made for a sad sight, a lack of attention and sustenance was the cause so only immediate attention and nourishment would be the cure.

Memory, Ideas and Protocol. The three core branches of the tree attached to the trunk. Each had a purpose, each held up everything above it, each supported by the trunk below. A mind tree was an inventive way to organise your thoughts, but it was also taxing. Regular meditation alongside discipline ensured the tree grew healthy, organised and strong. The benefits spoke for themselves.

Breathe in.

His eyes opened to the late afternoon glare of the sun, pupils shrinking to adjust to the light while he felt his heartbeat return to a steady pace. His meditative perch in the rocky outcrops above the valleys of Orgrimmar allowed for suitable solitude along with a commanding view of Durotar to the south. A small scrap of peace sat precariously above a rising ocean of chaos.

Krogon sighed, his head turning from left to right so his piercing green eyes could survey the scene. Sat crossed legged from this boulder he could see the whole mess in front of Orgrimmar’s main gate. Darkspear siege weapons, Barricades, an Alliance Gunship, craters from west to east with hundreds of figures striding, walking and camped between. Trolls, Tauren, Elves of both variety, humans and the rest had come to fight, to kill, and to die. The last part he knew all too well thanks to his nostrils, the bitter scent of charred flesh and wood from the hundreds of pyres, the pillars of black smoke rising from the cremation pits an unmistakeable clue.

How had it all come to this?

The Darkspear and Tauren were diligent and unwavering in their respect for the dead. He could see them from this perch plain as day, meticulously wrapping the dead in cloth while shaman or priests of the respective race called their blessings before the body would be placed in as yet half filled trench among timbers. Once full, and only when full, the bodies would be doused in oil and set to flame so their spirits could be set free of the woes of mortality.

Spirits Guide them...

It was a woeful view. The Horde brought so low after such a blood drenched and laborious rise. What had started at Hyjal as a noble revival had become a black hearted endeavour the likes of the first and second wars. Everything Thrall had dragged together from scraps had been thrown into mayhem and oblivion by Hellscream and his infuriating pride. Though he could not hear them like a shaman, he could ‘feel’ the spirits, and they wept tears that could threaten a storm. The recklessness of the Warchief and the Kor’kron had brought destruction the very gates of their home. It made his blood boil like molten fire.

Patience, calm, discipline.

He reminded himself with a slow deep breath. Too often of late had his youthful fire given rise to foolish ideas and rash words. The need for a mind tree only became more important with each vexing encounter, his patience being slowly chipped away as the campaign dragged on.

When this is all over I’ll spend a whole week in solitude... time to think and reflect...

Though it was hard to focus now. A thought had crept into his mind, and festered into an idea. It ate away at his conscience and weathered his fortitude until that infestation had manifested as a simple question...

How much of this is my fault?

Not the rebellion. That had been inevitable. But the scale of killing. Nearly 9 months ago he’d been persuading others to take up arms, to unite and fight back against tyranny. He’d distributed those posters that openly challenged the Kor’kron, He’d summoned a great army to Zoram’gar that had smashed its way through Azshara, Ashenvale and now the city. There were also the skirmishes with the warlocks, the shattered hand... How many had died on either side because of his actions? Family’s split in half, fathers fighting sons? Allies become enemies? It all amounted to a feeling that sat heavy on his already burdened shoulders... guilt.

How many because of my actions, how many have fallen?

He snorted, shaking his head to shrug off the mood while an armoured hand scratched his bearded chin. He was a Blademaster of the Horde, he had to strive forwards with conviction, not shudder in fear. To take action when needed and serve the horde was his purpose, and he’d done both as best he knew how.

Rolling his shoulders with a stretch of his back he settled and closed his eyes once more.

Breathe out.

His mind focused and the image of the great tree sprouted into view, its mountainous trunk supporting enormous boughs towering high above. He could already feel his heart rate slow to a relaxed rhythm.

Breathe in.

The eyes of his mind scanned the tallest reaches and branches, eyeing the decaying leaves. All things could be fixed, mended and healed in time. He knew it would take time, patience and above all dedication. As he considered this, a new notion entered his mind and in an instant his view rushed upwards along a surface of bark to the tip of a young branch. In an instant a new leaf formed and into it the idea was place for safe keeping, a mantra to be spoken and lived by.

No cause is ever lost as long as there is hope.

Fucking tree huggers.

Cerik Ironforge wrote:Fucking tree huggers.

<3