For months, the mood was depressed. No-one laughed, children wouldnât play. Often you would hear people huddled in corners, crying, enraged, in despair. Few families were left intact. Everyone had lost someone. I felt that loss keenly. Soon, the mood lightened. People talked to each other, and laughter could be heard again. Though it would ebb for a time when our people - the Eredar, that is, caught up to us. As always, we narrowly escaped. And the mood would lighten again.
I never laughed. I spoke to few people, and only when necessary. I hid myself away in a corner of the Exodar, and worked hard in the Eye when I had a shift.
We named ourselves Draenei. "Exiled Ones." I sometimes wondered whether it would have been best to simply give in to the will of the others, and learned all this Sargeras had to offer us. Then images of Doraam lying dead, killed by his own father, would run through my mind, and I ceased to wonder.
My desire to be a Vindicator died. In its place was a dull, empty aching. I felt the Light had betrayed us all, left us outcast refugees, running from our own people. Not even the presence of the Naaru persuaded me otherwise.
The Naaru. Bah. Each of my Exiled brethren had visited a Naaru at least once. And once they felt the Naaruâs warmth, that was when the mood lightened. The Naaru had buoyed their spirits. I had not seen one. I cared not to. Until a day aboard the Eye forced me.
The crystals are hot. The smell of the air stale as the walls themselves glow with power. I was beneath a panel, replacing several crystals, when I sat up abruptly, and bashed my head against the top of the panel access.
"Agh!" I exclaimed, and rubbed my head. I pulled my hand away from my tentacle and saw blue blood trickling down my hand. Cursing myself, I made my way down the corridors to an infirmary, where I walked inside.
Behind a desk sat a Draenei woman, harried and frazzled. I walked up to her and waited patiently. She gave me and my horn a quick glance, and frowned. "Name," she said.
"Celuur," I replied. From the corner of my eye I noticed a man turn quickly at the sound of my name, but I paid no heed. "If you could fix me up quickly so I can get back to work?"
"Take a seat in an empty bed. If you can find one." She returned her eyes to her work. I sighed and pushed past, and found an empty bed and pulled the curtain around it. No sooner than I had sat down upon the bed did the curtain open again and in walked an old Draenei. Very old, with long, flowing robes of the brightest colour, and a beard that came far down from his face. I gaped openly at him.
"Ah, Celuur, yes... I see you have a problem with your horn, there. Allow me to help." As he spoke, he raised his hands above my head and a bright light shone from them. I felt the wound close, as the Light passed through me. It was an intoxicating feeling, having been willfully absent from the Light for so long. I bowed my head deeply in reverence to the man before me.
"I thank you, Prophet Velen."
Velen chuckled, and sat down beside me on the bed. "No need, my son." I cast my head, seeming unable to look the Prophet in the eyes. Velen continued, "I have watched you recently. You have been quiet, reserved. Kept to yourself." I scoffed.
"Why would you watch me?" I asked.
"There are so few of us now that I watch all the Draenei closely. And you refuse to heal. Why have you not visited O'ros?"
"Is that his name?" I said sarcastically. "I donât need to visit a Naaru. The Light holds no comfort for me, now." Velen appraised me with an even eye.
"If you would do anything, Celuur, do this. Visit O'ros, and pour your grief to him." I looked at Velen, and considered refusing. It is hard to refuse anything to the savior of your people, though, and so I nodded, quietly. He smiled gently, and patted me on the arm, before leaving me behind to sit and think.
Once I left the confines of the medical bay I wandered the halls of the Exodar for a while, not returning to work, but replaying that encounter with Velen. My hooves took me to the base of the Exodar, where I heard the chimes of O'ros. I hesitated, unsure of myself, but the chiming drew me ever closer. As I approached, I felt the Light radiating from him, and I turned towards the Naaru. I laid eyes upon this creature of magnificence for the first time in my life, and I dropped to my knees. I heard the voice of O'ros inside my head, the soothing warmth of this benevolent power coating my being.
Right there, and then, I openly weeped, ignoring the Hand of Argus guards around his chamber, and all of the frustration I had felt, all of the despair, was lifted from me. I felt renewed with purpose, and given reason for life. To honor the memory of Doraam, and not spite the sacrifice my brother made for me by ignoring life around me. I swore, then, I would devote myself to the service of the Light once more. But this time, I did it without innocence, and in the names of of my fallen family.
Some time later, our vessel, Oshu'gun, came to arrive on a world that it seemed would hide us from the twisted Man'ari. We landed in a place the natives called Nagrand, and we named the world "Draenor." Orcs, of course, were the natives. How trusting we were, how foolish! The orcs were a people of peace when we arrived - shamans, to be sure, without anything really to do with the Light, but peaceful they were, and we tried to establish a friendship.
Then the Eredar found us. It is ironic that our people, once corrupted, became the corrupters themselves.
"I can do it! I can, I have shown you!"
"You have, Celuur, you can wield the powers of the Light. Bravo! So can many of our people. We just do not have the time to train you as a Vindicator now." I sighed in frustration. The Triumvir was surrounded by Vindicators running to and fro, gearing for battle, and gathering themselves in the centre of Shattrath City, waiting to be deployed. And he was refusing me admittance to the Hand of Argus. I had been trying for years.
"Then let me fight! You need every one that you can have!" I glared at him with resolve. He laughed at me.
"Yes, we do, but not as a Vindicator." He paused, and really looked at me for the first time.
"Iâm sorry, Celuur. I know you have the noblest of intentions. But we are at war. Orcs attack us daily. And if we were to admit you, we would want keep you safe, being untrained. And that would distract us from our duty. Do you understand?"
I looked away. "Very well, Vindicator. I understand. May the Naaru bless you in battle." My voice was bitter. If the Triumvir had noticed, he didnât mention it. He just smiled benevolently and turned away, barking orders at his troops.
To be a Vindicator one requires a strength of faith completely unshakable. I had lost so much of my faith after the exodus that I spent many years on Draenor in prayer, meditation, and service to the Naaru, trying to rebuild. And then, as I felt ready to train again, the orcs were transformed. Their shamanistic ways turned to those of the warlock, corrupted by our own people.
I was pulled out of my musings by a terrible clang from the east of the city, followed by the terrified screams of children in the lower city. I looked over, and saw a dark red cloud spreading across the horizon, with orcs leading the charge. I could hear their warcries, and in that instant they came. They stormed through the city as though it were paper. I charged forward, intending to meet them with my Draenei brethren in battle. Though, in moments I had fallen beneath falling rubble, not getting the chance to test my blade against them. As I fell, I saw the red cloud covering the air, making it thick. Choking, I passed out. When I awoke, I found more than the city destroyed by the orc's bloodlust.~ ~ ~Is it by cruel design that the Draenei must suffer tragedy time after time, never able to rest when the threat of corruption lingers around each corner? I imagined many things would lead to the downfall of the Draenei. Sargeras himself, or the Eredar returned to claim us. I never imagined that the orcs would be the instrument of the Eredar against us.
They fell so quickly to the Eredar! The bloodlust was all consuming, their thirst for evil immeasurable. The orcs ripped Draenor apart with their reckless sorcery. Their demonic portals spawned across the world. Shadowmoon Valley suffered the worst of it. There, Gul'dan raised volcanoes that exploded Fel lava, and demons roamed freely. Netherstorm was in pieces, the Tempest Keep left abandoned and suspended. Nagrand was untouched, but unsafe. The Draenei made their way into the deepest parts of the Zangarmarsh, and built Telredor. Many of our people who were struck down in Shattrath by that red cloud found themselves changed. Some of us mutated and devolved into creatures of ugliness. And all of them infected with demonic energies, severing their connection to the Light.
Never had our people been cut off from the Light like this before. We are so infused with Light that its sudden absence drove many insane. The Draenei who escaped this fate feared these new creatures, hated them. Never mind they had no choice! They were kept apart, and those who did not die from the madness formed their own shelters, lost, unwelcomed by their own brethren. Kroâkul, they were called. Broken.
Most were either Broken or not but a few escaped the full extent of the damage. Some of us retained our physical forms, and even the call of the Light, to a degree. Useless, nonetheless. I was one of these. Broken, but not Broken enough to belong to them. Caught between the Draenei and Kroâkul.
I helped a Draenei woman hobbling towards the Telredor lift. She got on with her gathered food, and sagged back into my arms. I noticed the deep gash in her leg. A sporebat bite. She looked back at me, and noticed the battered Vindicator emblem on my arm. She smiled.
"A Vindicator! Will you heal me, sir?" she asked, breathlessly, pleading for help. I looked at her with wide eyes. Since Shattrath I had been asked to bandage, to mend, but never to heal. Not to use the Light. I counted myself lucky that no-one had asked me of it. Until now, of course. It was only a matter of time.
"I, well. I was in training.. perhaps we should wait to get a trained medic to see you -" she cut me off quickly.
"Oh please, sir," she said, "I canât wait, they are so overwhelmed.. anything you could do.." By this point we had dallied so long on the lift that it began to descend again. I clucked at myself, laid her gently on the floor of the lift, and put my hands over her leg. And I called to the Light.
Nothing happened. My hands did not glow the yellow-white of healing, nor did her leg miraculously mend. Nothing. She looked at me, peculiarly. I scrunched my face up, and prayed hard to the Naaru. I called them by name, and begged for aid. After tremendous effort, a small glow spread through my hands and the woman's leg. The wound closed, but a nasty scar remained. I sagged back against the floor of the lift, breathless and my energy expended. She rose with a limp, and looked at me with accusing eyes.
"You do not belong here," she said, "you should leave! Kroâkul!" If her words could have they would have thrown me clear of Telredor to the ground below, for all the vehement hate in them. She glared at me for a moment, before looking at her leg. Her gaze softened a little, and she sighed. "Iâll keep this to myself. But youâll be discovered as a charlatan sooner or later!" With that, she ripped the Vindicator's emblem from my arm, and threw it clear over the side. She walked off the lift, and I remained behind, weeping to myself.~ ~ ~Years passed. I took upon myself the role of gatherer, and left healing to my unBroken brethren. My hope was lost. Even though I prayed to the Light each day, only remnants of their magic sparked in me. One of the few Broken who resided in Telredor told me that it was a testament to my faith that I managed even that. I told him it was pure luck that I had not been totally Broken like he was. I think he resented me for my connection to the Light. If anything, I resented him for his clarity of station. He knew what he was, where he belonged. I belonged nowhere.
I heard rumours, through others, about a broken man who had taken up the mantle of Shaman, much like the orcs. They spoke of him with derision. Shamanism is for savages, they said! Itâs an affront to the Naaru! Yet, I was intrigued. I had nowhere else to go, so I sought him out.
Farseer Nobundo resided in a small hut on the edge of the Marsh, near the border of Nagrand.