The Way of the Tauren
Our Kara run last night was a bit rocky, I didn’t get to seek my bed until midnight, easily. I’m feeling a little sleepy-drunk so today I’ll entertain you all with some meandering Role-Play!
The air lay heavy all about as the sky vaulted endlessly above. A blue so deep you could drown, air so fresh the sweet taste of it licking at your nostrils is enough to make you cry.
This is my home, these rolling plains of Mulgore where the newly-calved can frolic in relative safety, held close in the bosom of nature that we all hold dear. Here, under the vaulted sky, surrounded in gently rolling hills of sweet grasses and all overshadowed by steadfast Thunder Bluff, is where I began my story.
My calf-hood was largely uneventful, save for the laughing jeers of blacksmiths that would sometimes pass through. Never a fellow Tauren, but sometimes a forsaken would call out my name and hold up a dark, crumbly bit of rock. My ears would perk and my head would swivel, alert. Then the laughing would begin.
I was born dark grey, and because of the dusky color of my hide, the elders chose to call me Coal.
Perhaps it was the result of the intermittent teasing, I’m not sure, but as I grew I kept to myself, eschewing the warrior’s path, that of the hunter. I was fascinated by the world around me.
As I grew so did my interest in nature. I began having dreams, dreams of deep forests, thick with verdant growth. As the moons and seasons passed the dreams came more often, became more clear. Finally, one night he forest of my dreams had spawned a creature, small and svelte. She looked like a centaur, but in my dream radiated such an all-encompassing glow of welcome and love that I could do nothing but stare. She smiled at me and whispered one haunting word…. “Mu’sha”
Be they warrior or shaman, every Tauren is connected to nature. We all posses a sense of what is right and what should be. This dream, this… Mu’sha had such a feeling of rightness about it that I couldn’t look away. My days of being an innocent calf were over, I was being called.
Not long after the creature spoke to me of Mu’sha I was visited by Gart Mistrunner. He was an old tauren, weathered with age, black hide gone grey with use. I didn’t know him personally, but knew he was an elder and worthy of my respect.
He caught me one day as I was helping gut the latest plainstrider hunt. He knelt by my side, watching me work, and making me nervous under his scrutiny. Finally, after several moments, he picked a small sprig of silverleaf and pressed it into my confused hand. “Make it grow.”
Without another word he stood and walked off, leaving me in confusion. I looked down at the silverleaf, turned it this way and that. It wasn’t any different from that the herbalists would bring back to camp. Nothing special, no different cutting method. Make it grow?
I put down my knife and cupped the tiny sprig in my hands and closed my eyes. The forest was around me, deep and dark, older even than time itself it seemed. Whispers of Mu’sha echoed and reverberated in my thoughts. Who was this? What was this? I could feel the steady beat of nature, sounding like a deep funeral drum in my heart.
The plains called to me, the grasses sang and the sky smiled. The rivers laughed and, with a start of surprise, I opened my eyes to see the tiny sprig of silverleaf sending forth new, vining shoots to play with my fingers.
I looked up, startled, and saw Gart standing just to the side. His old weathered face smiled and his eyes sparkled. “Welcome to the fold young Coal, it’s nice to have another Druid around.”