Deep Thoughts

"Give them blood and thunder Marauders" Grim shouted, as the raiding party rode off, dust kicking up from the hooves and claws of their mounts.

It felt odd not riding with them. It felt unnatural, felt cowardly even. He had only recently received his new rank of Warcaller, only recently been confirmed in this position of power, he worried not taking every opportunity to fight alongside the troops made them think less of him.
Grim sighed, placing his hand on the hilt of Vengeance, his sword and strode back into the inn, taking his usual seat.
He knew he was not staying behind from cowardice, he knew it was not through fear, or laziness, but he still did not like it.

It was at times like this he thought of the past, of words said to him and of advice given to him. What was it Drek had said to him?
"A shaman is not a mere warrior Stonepaw. Anyone can fight, anyone can fight well. A shaman is more than that - a shaman helps, heals and advises."

Grim had always hung on every word uttered by his mentor, some rang more true than others, including these words on a shaman's role. Grim did understand the truth in these words, he offered his services to all who required them. He was the Chieftain's shaman! The chief Farseer of the warband, the head shaman of the Marauders! He had risen far and fast and his words were listened to respectfully, with even Thrakha seeking him out.
There was more to this than fighting. He had proven his mettle in battle with the Marauders countless times, he had not once run from a fight, not once backed down in front of an enemy. Now was the time for more though, now was the time to prove himself worthy of the rank and place he had reached. He must study, he must listen to his teachers and he must learn more.
With knowledge he could help the warband more than with weapons alone. This was why he had passed operational command of the Circle to the Stormseer Sylphi Searingheart, he had other things to concentrate on.

Grim mused on this... The warband was an entity in itself, the Chieftain was its mind. The mind must be preserved at all costs, the mind is the seat of the soul and without it, the soul dies. He would protect this mind at all costs, he would advise it, he would confront it when it did wrong and would keep it safe as far as he could.
He grinned suddenly, remembering how close he had come to fighting the Red Blade when their members failed to show the Chieftain the proper respect owed to her. He knew he had irritated her, but so be it. He was her hound, her loyal guardian, whether she liked it or not.

She rode to war now, leading the warband as she should. Grim hated the thought of not being there by her side, hated the thought of not being there to watch over her. He gritted his teeth in irritation. As true as Drek's words had been, it did not sit right to stay behind when war was brewing.

Perhaps it was a mix? Drek had never shied away from war, had always been ready with his greataxe to fight when required. Another lesson to take in? Why had Drek never spoken of war and the necessity of it, the necessity to always prove one's courage and honour?
Grim slapped himself on the forehead.
Because he had never needed to. This was obvious! Every orc should understand this. War was necessary, to defend the Horde and to prove yourself. Life was a competition, life was a struggle and only the fittest would survive.
But... then why should he counsel the weak?
He thought of Amezia....
Injured and tortured in the service of the warband and abandoned by them, even by Thrakha.
By rights she should have died, been killed to purge the warband of the weak. But... he had saved her, he had risked his place in the warband to help her. He had, indirectly, chased off one his greatest friends in doing so...
Grim nodded. Drek would have understood.
The weak can learn to be strong. If there were no shamans, the weak would die and their lives would be wasted. With shamans to guide and counsel them they could learn and grow.

He thought further... The warband was on the way to war. To battle against the foul dwarves in Mulgore, to battle in aid of their new allies there. He was sat here, preparing his totems and herbs to commune with the spirits.
With a groan Grim stood up. He was confused. He wanted to ride after them, to fight with them, to protect Thrakha and to share the strife the warband were placing themselves in. But, he wanted to help them more than just through war, he wanted to learn from the spirits, from the elements, to better help the warband.

He growled and turned, walking to the back of the inn. He found Hikka's bunk, there, by the side of the bed was a bottle. He flipped the cork from the bottle and sniffed deeply. Strong, alcoholic and cheap. Much like Hikka herself.
He dropped a gold coin where the bottle had been and strode outside, taking a deep swig.

"Fuck it." he thought, "I am going to get drunk and kill some pirates. Much easier than thinking."

All is well

There was only darkness. Explosions burst around them, fire crackled and hissed, the smell of burning was rank on the air.
Another explosion, quieter this time. Warm, wet fluid splattered Grim's face and armour. It tasted like blood, it was blood.
The goblin-creature had blinded them all somehow. It was a creature of power and darkness, it had nullified the spells of the Marauder warlocks...
Grim breathed deeply, tasting smoke and blood and hearing the goblin-creature cackling madly. His face hurt, he had taken a nasty slash down his face earlier, it was still bleeding. His head was swimming, he had been drinking heavily.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Drinking before a battle was something he had preached against, and yet here was was, drunk in a battle.
He took another deep breath, forcing the drunkeness down, forcing the pain from his wound down. Deep breaths, stay calm. Not being able to see was not the end of the world. He had other senses.
Beneath the sounds of fighting, of explosions he could hear... the Marauders breathing, casting spells, panicking. Underneath those sounds he could hear the goblin-creature cackling.
He stepped forwards, sword outstretched.

A shrill female voice shouted, "In the name of the Holy Light I renounce you demon!".
Grim felt the floor shake, felt the floor heat up. The goblin's cackling became shrieking. He could smell burning flesh.
Grim smiled, still padding forwards sword outstretched. The paladin Azuliana had done it, she had shown some initiative and consecrated the ground the goblin-demon stood on.

Grim followed the shrieking as it changed from panic and pain to panting and growls. The goblin-demon's voice changed pitch. It was in pain but it was preparing a counter-attack, a counter-spell.
He was close now, close enough to.... strike. He lanced his sword forwards, feeling flesh part and the goblin-demon's chanting change to gurgling.

Minutes later the darkness disipated. The Marauders stood blinking in the sunlight, the ground beneath their feet cracked and burnt, golden light spilling through.
They looked, they saw a female blood elven paladin kneeling, blood seeping from a stomach wound, sword stabbed blade-first into the ground. Light poured from the paladin still. They looked further ahead and saw Grim, sword-arm outstretched, blade dripping blood. The goblin lay beneath him, its throat a red ruin, its skin broken and burnt.

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Back in the inn Grim sat at his desk. He grinned through the pain in his face. He was still a warleader, still a Warcaller.
For all his doubts, he could still lead the Marauders to war, still fight with all the skill and fury expected of him.

It was not all bad, he mused, reaching for his bottle. He flicked the cork off and took a deep swig.
Milk was lovely, but whenever he drank it he felt odd. He had always had a vague disconcerting feeling that drinking milk around tauren was somehow an insult to them...