Muroco lifted his head from the earth and looked at his surroundings, his mind befuddled. He was laying in the outskirts of Oma’s Watch, yet his surroundings were covered in gray, swirling mists and shadows. He recalled battling his brother and his fel-infused followers, defending the village’s tribe and ultimately killing Okonto.
Yes. He remembered now. He fought Okonto with everything he had, defied all odds, ignored the pain of his spells as he ripped himself free to kill him. Everything went dark, and he felt pain no more. Muroco sat up and saw an elderly tauren woman in simple robes standing before him.
“Dead,” he said at last, “but I did what I needed to do.”
The woman’s unblinking gaze bore into Muroco. “It was that simple, wasn’t it? You’d find your brother, kill him, and avenge him for the wrong he caused you so long ago? And the cost was, what, your life?” She shook her head with exasperated amusement. “The simplicity of youth.”
The gears in Muroco’s head were starting to turn. “You aren’t complaining that I helped save a village from death.”
Her features were starting to soften. “It soothes my soul,” she mused, “to see that my son Behu has continued to uphold tribal tradition, even years after my passing. I thank you for saving them.”
“So are you here to ease me into the afterlife, or what?”
“The opposite,” Oma said, “I will return your spirit to your body.”
“How is that possible?” Muroco asked. “I’m dead.”
“Death is just a transition. The boundary between life and death can be crossed if one has the strength and power of will. There is still more that you must do, more that need your help; your allies in The Sunguard, for example.”
“I don’t do it for them,” Muroco retorted, “I do it to become one of the greatest warriors in history.”
“Spare me the bluster.” Oma said. “If you truly and solely did it for yourself, then why do you charge first into battle? Why do you raise that shield of yours to save them? Why do you risk your safety in order to carry the wounded away from battle? Even when your brother offered you greater power, you resisted.”
“I was tempted.” Muroco admitted.
“And such temptations are common among mortals. A woman you loved once said to you, “you can never know bravery and strength until you’ve understood fear and defeat. Everyone knows fear, but it takes a real warrior to master it. Until you truly understand that, your belief that fear is a weakness is mere bluster.” I believe you now know the meaning of that test.”
Muroco nodded as Oma raised her hands. A spell of sapphire blue color raced around her hands, cutting through the gray of the spirit world. “You may think,” she said as she cast her spell, “that you don’t understand why I’m helping you, but the truth of the matter is this: when the world pushed you, you pushed back. The Horde needs that type of people, now more than ever.”
-
It was not long after that Behu and the tauren of Oma’s Watch rebuilt their damaged community, restoring what they lost. The dead were burnt and mourned, and the few Feltotem minions that managed to escape were never seen or heard of again.
Weeks later, Muroco returned to the sunny spires of Quel’thalas to prepare for his next battles. As he sat on his favorite stump and sharpened his axe, he looked to the setting sun, knowing that, come what may, this was his home now.
...And so ends the final chapter in my story, with ‘good’ vanquishing ‘evil’ once more. As for myself, the dreadlord Nahatazzar, I was BANISHED BACK TO THE TWISTING NETHER, forced to ENDURE the pain of defeat the Burning Legion faced. IT IS HERE THAT I LANGUISH ETERNALLY, TORMENTED by the FAILURE of my disciple, WAITING FOR THE DAY I MAY ESCAPE TO EXACT MY REVENGE.
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Okay so firstly highmountain Tauren should just be able to play warlocks, that's a fact, that should be a thing.
Secondly a group of feltotem warlocks in order to gain the trust of the highmountain and such befriend the illidari and help them not only track down the rest of the feltotem, selling them out, but also the illidari offer to train some feltotem warlocks to be Tauren Demon Hunters as a result
“Why are you here? Haven’t you and your type given us enough trouble?”
These questions were posed to Muroco Rockhoof when he arrived at the village of Oma’s Watch, nestled within the southern hills of Feralas. Here and there, Muroco spotted the signs of battle - tents were seared from fire and shallow graves had been dug for defenders. Muroco’s suspicions had proven true; his brother and his pillagers had raided the area, but the villagefolk were nothing if not keen. They had been able to determine Muroco’s Grimtotem heritage almost immediately. As he argued with them, the village’s chief, Behu, intervened and invited Muroco to his tent.
“My mother, Oma, was a powerful spiritwalker,” Behu said as he took a drink of tea. “She established this village - our home - as a haven to become closer with the earth. We’ve fought off centaurs, harpies, ogres and other threats, but these pillagers fight with unrelenting ferocity.”
“Help me defeat them,” said Muroco.
Behu arched a brow. “That is why you’re here, is it? How straightforward.”
“Their leader needs to die.”
“A notion I agree with,” Behu replied, “but why would a Grimtotem seek to kill one of his own?”
Muroco snorted. “They commit murder all the time.”
Behu sighed. “Even with your aid, I doubt we can withstand another assault. We are a peaceful community, not a band of bloodthirsty warriors like your…” He caught himself before he misspoke. “Like these fel-infused Grimtotems.”
“Then your village will perish,” said Muroco.
“We can evacuate to Camp Mojache.”
“They’ll run you down in the forest. Even if you flee, I will fight them myself if I have to.”
Behu shook his head. “Brave but foolish. May my mother’s spirit and the Earth Mother watch over us.”
#
Muroco stood at the entrance of Oma’s Watch as night fell over Feralas. He held his axe in one hand and Mammoth in the other, his eyes scanning the forest’s edge. The village’s remaining defenders stood guard, clutching spears, totems and other armaments. Their stances spoke of anxiety as they anticipated the battle to come. Muroco could not blame them; for many, the calm before the storm was the worst part of the battle.
The sounds of war horns blared in the distance, followed by the bellowing charge of warriors. A voice cried out in alarm as a fel firebolt hurdled from the trees and crashed into a nearby tent. The screams of men, women and children rose from the village as fire began to spread.
The Feltotems came after that.
Like Muroco, they possessed power, warrior physiques and black fur. Bright green tattoos and runes glittered upon the surfaces of their horns and skin as they barreled from the forest and crashed into the village’s defenders.
Muroco caught a sword swing against his shield and shoved, catching his attacker off-balance. He brought his axe down, beheading the fel tauren. Muroco whirled around and bashed Mammoth against another, her head snapping back as she crumpled to the forest floor. The battle-raged around him, and he took pleasure in killing his former tribesfolk.
Muroco glanced up and saw Okonto advancing towards him. He had changed significantly since the last time he saw him. He was no longer the sickly, anemic shaman cowering in his tent. His muscles had swollen with strength and vigor, and he carried Muroco’s former halberd with ease.
Okonto raised his weapon and shouted, summoning fire that snaked towards Muroco. The latter tauren raised his shield to block the spell; he felt the magic slam into the metal, its heat washing over him, but he held fast. Muroco rushed forward as his brother lowered his halberd in a charge.
He had waited years for this moment.
He had no more time to think as he fought for his life.
#
Behu brought his war totem down, bashing another Feltotem’s skull into a pulp.
He risked sparing a moment to glance at his surroundings. Everywhere he looked, his people fought with everything they had just to hold their ground. The Feltotems fought with maddened glee, the desire to burn and slaughter spurring them past the wounds they received. Fire had spread throughout the village. Tribesfolk were forced to flee their burning homes to fight in last ditch efforts or to put out the flames.
Behu spotted Muroco and the Feltotem leader locked in a vicious duel. They circled each other like lions, their bodies and weapons moving with lightning speed. He wondered if Muroco would be strong enough to defeat him.
He offered up one final prayer as he met his next opponent.
#
Muroco felt Okonto’s halberd rebound from his shield. His axe went for his brother’s neck, but the fel shaman feinted and swept for the legs. Both combatants had scored hits on each other, but neither tauren was too wounded to cease their attacks. Muroco was forced to concede that his brother had become powerful, more powerful than he had ever seen him prior. Fel magic made him stronger, faster, and more reactive, yet he lacked the martial prowess with his halberd.
He waited for the right moment to strike, permitting himself to go on the defensive. He pivoted at the right moment as Okonto lunged and brought his axe down, shearing through the halberd’s wooden shaft and breaking the weapon in two. Mammoth flashed out and struck Okonto the face, blood flying from his nose and mouth as he staggered backwards.
The fel green of Okonto’s eyes intensified as he slammed his fists in to the earth, causing a tremor to knock Muroco off his feet. As he recovered, Okonto summoned burning magical chains that surged forward and wrapped themselves around his brother’s arms. Muroco bellowed in pain as they burned through his armor and fur. He struggled to break free but found himself stuck in place.
“You cannot win,” Okonto’s eyes focused on him, “why do you continue to fight? Why do you resist?”
“If you think,” Muroco growled, “that I will ever relent to you, then you are mistaken.”
“A shame you weren’t there to see our village,” siad Okonto. “I turned it into a smoking husk, just as I will put Oma’s Watch to the flame.” He inclined his head. “Join me.”
Muroco groaned in agony as he dropped his shield and axe. “Join a coward who relies on fel magic to be strong? Never.”
“My eyes have been opened to the truth. Azeroth must be cleansed. Think, Muroco! How many civilizations have fallen to pointless squabbling? How many more have died between the Alliance and Horde? They fight over dwindling resources like jackals over a carcass! Azeroth is but a speck of a speck in the grand scheme of things. I have seen visions of greater beings lurking on the edge of reality, waiting to devour.” Okonto held his hand out. “Join us. Join me.”
For a moment, Muroco wavered.
“No.”
“Then you will burn and die with the rest.” Okonto gripped his hands together in his incantation, augmenting the strength of his spell. Muroco screamed in pain as the chains continued to burn through his flesh. In his blurred vision he could see the Feltotems gaining ground. They would cut through and slaughter everyone, and Muroco would die here and be forgotten.
He would not give up. He thrashed his arms, attempting to break the spell. Eery movement inflicted further pain on him. It felt as if a thousand burning swords had perforated his body. Only his rage, his fury at his brother, kept him going. He did not come this far just to die here.
With a final pull, the magical chains around his arms strained and snapped, releasing him. With a stumbling charge, Muroco unsheathed the flail from coiled at his belt. Okonto’s eyes widened in alarm as he summoned a dome of fel energy, like a shell, to protect himself. Muroco swung once, the flail’s head rebounding off the surface with a crack. He swung twice, and then a third time. His grunts turned into roaring, followed by howls of rage. His swings became less focused and more wild as he swung, again and again, each blow putting cracks in the protective shell.
On the final strike, the barrier shattered. Muroco swing low, knocking Okonto from his hooves. He reached down and retrieved the haft of his former halberd and, with a roar, plunged the shaft through his brother’s heart, pinning him to the ground.
The fight was over.
Disheartened by the death of their leader, the tauren who promised them death and glory, the Feltotems fled in all directions, pursued by the vengeful denizens of Oma’s Watch. Muroco looked down at his dying brother’s body, his chest rising and falling.
“It’s done.”
Okonto looked up at his brother. Blood was trickling from the corners of his mouth, and the fel energy was beginning to flicker from his eyes. “Is it? This is just another battle for you, you barbaric wretch. I’m just another body in the long trail of corpses you have left behind you.”
Muroco was beginning to feel woozy. “You’re a coward who murdered our father in his sleep, and you’ll die like one.”
“I did what I did to survive!” Okonto rasped, “you could never understand, because nothing is ever too difficult for you, the mighty Muroco Grimtotem.” He spat out the last two words with venom and crooked a finger at Muroco’s tabard. “It doesn’t matter if you wear the war paint of the Grimtotem, or the finery of those magic-sucking elves you call your friends, you will always be a killer! It’s all you’ve ever known, and all you’ll ever be. And when you die,” Okonto croaked as his eyes widened. “I’ll be waiting for you. Your death will look much like mine. When your elven ‘friends’ decide you’ve outlived your usefulness, your days will be numbered. When you die...I’ll be…”
Okonto’s eyes glazed over as he let out a ragged, terminal breath. Muroco remained silent as he looked at the lifeless body of his younger brother. Even in death, there were emotions in Okonto’s eyes - fear, terror, anger, hatred. For years, Muroco visualised what it would be like to finally kill him. It was a moment he played out in his head, over and over. Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, he waited patiently for this moment, a moment of retribution.
If Okonto had never murdered their father, Muroco would have never been exiled, and he would have never met his allies in The Sunguard. The only friends he ever truly had.
He looked at his younger brother’s face, and it looked as it was when they were children.
Muroco wondered what he would have been like if they had not hated each other so much. He thought he would enjoy his triumph, but it only left him empty.
As Muroco turned around to return to Oma’s Watch, he stumbled and fell to the ground with a resounding thud. With the rage and adrenaline gone, his wounds caught up to him. He could not rise, try as he might. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open.
The last thing he heard were the shouts of tauren coming closer.
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