Not more than a few weeks had gone by since Feren had felt the pain and the burden of being the last male of the Longstrider clan placed upon him. Somewhere, his sister still roamed the plains of Azeroth, but it had been ages since he last saw her. All that there was before that was his father, and now he too had passed beyond the veil. Feren hadn't spoken of the passing to anyone. Not his friends, not those he called family within Ishnu Por Ah, no one. He kept it to himself, quiet, and too stubborn to let tears be seen on the face of a warrior.
It's not as though the relationship Feren shared with his father had been spectacular. He respected his Elder, valuing his way with the Spirits of the world, but they scarcely spoke. When they did, it often ended in shouting matches and bruised egos. His father said that he respected Feren's choice to follow the Warrior's path, but it was obvious this was far from the truth. Always questioning how he could manage not to see the Spirits, or hear them. Glad at least that still spoke with the Earth Mother, though that had often been out of tradition, rather than need.
His father's passing had stirred him to speak to Her more, but that was just it, it was TO her, not with her. Feren never felt or heard Her answer back. He had felt even less connected to her and Nature ever since, as though his father was the last link he had to the Spirit of the world. His sleep had been failing as well. Fitful, dark, unsettling darkness seemed to set in. Often the solitude of it was so overwhelming that he awoke his his own screams, or worse yet to a feeling that he had stopped breathing. There was hardly a time when he awoke not covered in sweat, stomach twisted, and nearly sick.
More and more he tried to keep himself awake. Feren would hunt until he was ready to collapse on the spot, often doing just that. He even tried that foul Coffee, in hopes it would keep him awake just a little longer, out of the dark. The poor panda in his care could scarcely keep up, sleeping any time he stood still for more than a moment. His best company, had in fact been Tic, the small, mechanical squirrel, that had been given as a gift. More and more, Feren would find the small machine to be a comfort to him, it's strange mimicry of Nature fascinating him.
So much so did this fascination with the mechanical occupy his mind, that Feren sought out more such devices. He tried to work out how they were made, what made then work. The ease that working his mind so provided was more than he had found in some time working the trades of his people; skinning and leather working. They had become a chore to him, almost. He scarcely thanked the Earth Mother for her gifts in the hunt, and he rarely felt the need to find time to craft anything with the leather, opting often to simply sell it to those who needed it. He was starting to wonder how his heart had grown so cold toward the Earth Mother, her gifts, and the animals of the land.
He awoke one night to find himself in a cave somewhere in Mulgore, the scent of the land outside drifting in smelled most certainly like home. How Feren had gotten there was another matter, last he remembered he was nodding off at the Inn in Ogrimmar. Perched on his chest, almost as though keeping watch, Tic sat, clutching a small bolt in his tiny, metal paws. His eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom of the cave, finally seeing bright flecks of copper and tin in the walls around him. A cool, calm feeling filled him; it was quiet here, both around him and in his mind. The wind sighed past the opening of the cave, almost sounding as though a voice spoke; 'I am here as well my child'. The last time Feren could recall hearing the Earth Mother so clearly, so directly, was as a calf, in Bloodhoof, with his family, his father talking about the ways of the Spirits and the world.
That very day Feren turned down the road of the Engineer and of the Miner. Digging in the earth, in the soil and rock, he felt close again to the Earth Mother. Deep within mountains, caves, and grottos, often alone he again felt peace; he felt close to Her again. Engineering was equally helpful to him. It allowed him to keep his mind busy, his thoughts away from the troubles of the world, of his life lately, of his father's passing. It kept his mind busy; learning schematics, studying the tiny machines, building what few things he had learned to. He was finally able to again tire himself so fully that he slept soundly as he ever had, his mind too tired to conjure up dreams or nightmares.
The peace was short lived for Feren, as peace seems to be for everyone in these tense times of near war. Slowly, the pace grew familiar to him, he grew used to times he kept, the tasks he undertook, and again, his mind started to wander while he slept. Dreams became fitful, strange things; some terrifying, some dazzling, but rarely making sense. It seemed again that no matter how much he slept, he never felt rested, or at rest. Often, when deep within caves, or inside of the mountains and hills of Kalimdor, he would find sleep, literally passing out where he stood. He would wake, almost panicked, whispered voices fading into his memories. Never could he hear them clearly, or recall what they said, but he could always feel something there.
Little by little, Feren's sleep lessened, and it was taking its toll on him. He would frequently nod off right where he was, often in the middle of conversations, or while running form place to place. More often than not, he awoke to find some wild creature of the land trying to take advantage of his dormant state. The plains of the Barrens are not the best place to nap indeed. Between getting little sleep, and what little he was getting being so poor, Feren was wearing himself thin, fraying at the edges. It was evident, he was sure, to those who knew him most, and he began to question whether he should indeed be the leader of Ishnu Por Ah any longer.
As he was heading toward the Great Lift, on a task within Thousand Needles, his body failed him again. He had left from Crossroads, and was not yet to Razorfen Downs, when the episode happened. The last thing he saw before his vision faded was a road marker. He felt the sharp crack of his head on the ground, the heat of his blood trickling from the cut, and then nothing. There was no light here, so oppressive was the darkness that it felt as though he would suffocate. Panic filled him, swelled through every ounce of his being; he tried to struggle, but in the dream state, no amount of physical strength would aid him.
Quietly, gently, his father's voice filled his mind; calming, concerned for his son. Worried about the troubles he was fighting with; fighting alone, instead of turning to his friends, his family. He spoke to Feren of his passing, of being closer to the Earth Mother, the spirits of the land. He spoke of being among them, and being happy, calm, and at peace. He spoke to Feren about the path he was on, his restlessness, his exhaustion, how he was literally killing himself a little at a time. His father pleaded with him, one last time, to open his mind to the world. To open his eyes, for the first time really, and to see all that the Earth Mother was trying to show him. To open his heart, letting it beat freely, rather than trying to stifle the feelings there for fear of being seen as weak. To stop being so stubborn, so brash; to relax, to really relax, and see all that was around him.
As his father's voice left his mind, after what seemed like ages, one final thought came to Feren from him:
"My son, the road you are the last of my line. A line that has spoken with the Spirits of the world for ages past. Your strides on the road of the Warrior, though noble, does not seem to be what your heart wants. I know you fought, you fight, to show your independence, your strength, but know that there is no weakness in following my path. It is part of who you, who we, are. You have always felt them, the Spirits of the land, often you have heard them, and Her. She is calling on you again, loudly, do you not think there is a reason for it?"
"Ultimately, my son, the path you take is yours to choose, but ask yourself, are you fulfilled now? Are you at peace? Are you happy? Or are you found lacking, sorrowful, and hurt? Despite all I've shown you, all I've told you, you have tried to turn away from the Earth Mother, consciously or not. I have one last thing to show you, and I pray to Her, that this will be enough."
He awoke to smells familiar, yet strange, blinking quickly to clear the haze from his eyes. He half expected to be staring at a charging Thunder Lizard, or worse yet, the serene face of the Spirit Healer. Instead he found himself surrounded by stone, mortar, and firelight. In the distance he could hear Ogrimmar, the sounds of the city echoing down the stone corridor to the throne room, and across from him, Thrall. There sat the leader of the Horde, the Warchief who led the Orcs to freedom from enslavement, both demonic and human, and he was chuckling.
"Young Tauren, I cannot begin to guess the ways of your Earth Mother any better than you, but know that She has more in store for you than throwing yourself into battle headlong."
They spoke at length, Thrall retelling much of his life's story to Feren. A story that Feren had been told before, but one he had not really ever listened to, not how he should have anyhow. A tale of a lost child, of a slave, of a Warrior. The tale of a Warrior, freed from his bonds by cunning, not strength. A tale of finding one's people, and one's purpose. It was the story of a Warrior, who not only found his people, but also the Spirits of the land. It was the tale of a Shaman, who once was a warrior... Finally, so much of the past several weeks began to fall in place for Feren.
He had been brash, stubborn, flat out unwilling to simple see what had always been there. To listen to the voices that he heard, to pay attention to what was around him. With a new resolve, Feren thanked Thrall, for taking the time to speak with him, to share his life and his knowledge. He thanked the Earth Mother too, for Her persistence, Her willingness to show him the way he should follow. He thanked his father also, wherever his Spirit may be, for trying one last time to open his eyes, so tightly closed for so very long.
He returned to Bloodhoof, where we grew up, like so many Tauren, and further still to Camp Narache. Feren sought out those who could show him more clearly the path he was now to take. The path of those who could see the Spirits of the land, and understand them. The path of those who would find comfort wherever the Earth Mother's presence could be seen or felt; be it the vast plains of Mulgore, or the tiniest creature, struggling to survive within the city walls of Ogrimmar. To be a Shaman, Feren would forget all he had learned; he would unlearn the life of a Warrior, his life until then. He would reforge himself as She saw fit to guide him.
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