#muroco

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18 months later...

In the dark forests of Darkshore, a massive tauren stalked through its trees and vales, his hooves crushing the early spring grass as he walked.

Muroco Rockhoof sat on a fallen tree trunk, eating strips of jerky from his belt. No campfire illuminated his surroundings, save for the enchantments that glittered on the surface of his tower shield; the effects of the mystical essences he had worked for while in the service of his former elven compatriots in the Dawnspire. It had been months since the Phoenix Wars had ended and the invading Alliance forces fled from Quel’thalas’ shores. A tinge of sorrow went through the tauren’s heart; many of his former comrades were gone from this world, and he sometimes wondered if he’d ever see the rest of them ever again.

He stood up and began to walk, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a bundle of medallions strung together on a thick cord. It felt like a lifetime ago since he was back in this dying land, and many of the younger, inexperienced soldiers he had been assigned to help had never gotten the chance to see family and home again. Now honorably discharged from his oath, and with much less responsibility, Muroco had opted to come back, believing he owed it to them to make sure they weren’t totally gone and forgotten.

There is so much lumpy shit on forest floors!

Silvermoon is flat, flat, flat.

I don’t understand how Pathfinder Grandma and Stevenie walk so smoothly without their magicks.

I don’t understand how everyone else tracks shit out here either. It all looks the same.

He never actually gave us a direction or anything on these ‘Channelers’ besides that they’re around and needed to be rid of.

I don’t even know how to kill a troll - don’t they re-juv-erenate? Am I supposed to like, rub my knife in someone’s shit and stab them?

I shouldn’t have gone alone.

Shoulda asked Stevenie to come along.

She’d be good at this. Probably.

Better than me.

I don’t even know how long I’ve been in here.

At least I got water.

Red leather. Red leather. Druidy stuff. Troll.

I don’t know what druids look like.

I’m gonna assume they look like witch-hermits.

Previous I asked greatfather more about this legendary battle, and he seemed eager to tell me, as if the vigour of his youth was revitalizing his ancient bones.

Muroco and his retinue had arrived just in time to see the Alliance surround the blood elves’ war camp. Ranks upon ranks of night elven warriors filled the fields. Some carried bows and glaives, yet others were atop massive, muscular war sabers capable of leaping great distances. They had brought flying beasts to swoop down upon their enemies, and the earth trembled as furious treants lumbered towards the camp walls.

Yet the one thing they had in common were their black, pitless eyes, glaring out in fury from the artificial night they had created to conceal their movements.

Beyond their lines, more and more humans were coming to accompany their allies. The kingdoms of Stormwind and Kul Tiras had sent the might of their armies to crush the Sunguard in one final sweep.

“The blood elves,” greatfather said, “were vastly outnumbered. I could remember the looks on their faces as they viewed the enemy forces - they spanned as far as the eye could see. Everything had been staked on this battle…”

--

Muroco had taken command of the camp’s eastern defenses. Despite his penchant for simply doing whatever he was commanded of him, Muroco had developed an uncanny knack for leading groups into battle. Among his comprised forces, Lirelle Dawnbrook, Maaike Oureille, Jonathan McCallun, and Ashendrae Morrowmourn were there. Within the camp as a whole, Muroco heard mutterings of finality and last-moment embraces as defenders made their peace with their gods and said their final farewells, as if this would be the end.

He didn’t share their sentiment, for he knew that a true warrior always has their pride and must be brave until the very end.

From the base of the hill, Muroco could see hundreds of pairs of pitch black eyes staring back at him. The night elves were furious; enraged by the loss of their families, their friends, their homes, their precious giant tree. For a species that, apparently, controlled the entirety of Azeroth at one point, they had become a shadow of that former glory. They had become cornered animals in the bloody hedge maze of Azeroth’s history, and that made them all the more dangerous and all the more reckless.

It gave him an idea.

“Lirelle will man the ballistae,” Muroco stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “I will lure the enemy in. Maaike will shoot down any oversized birds the night elves try to send over the wall. Jon and Ashendrae, wait for the enemy to focus on me, then flank them.”

Everyone got into position. He could hear the unified shouts of the night elves as they advanced up the hill. Muroco stood before the gate, his axe in one hand, Mammoth in the other. “If anyone rests while Muroco Rockhoof still fights,” he bellowed, “then they may consider themselves dead.”

The night elves began their assault. Muroco raised his shield, blocking several arrows from piercing his face. Their battle cries became mixed with screams of agony as Lirelle fired the ballista upon them, her face a look of cold, calculated precision as ranks of night elves were slaughtered by the explosive shots. Hippogryphs and their riders dropped to the earth like flies as Maaike shot them clean from the sky. The sentinels that survived the onslaught made contact with Muroco. Jon appeared behind one and plunged his daggers into her back, her screams turning into gurgles as her glaive clattered to the ground. Ashendrae leaped into battle and beheaded another sentinel with her greatsword.

--

The battle dragged on for hours. The Alliance had taken so many casualties on all sides but were only slowed. The well-ordered camp had descended into controlled chaos as each defending side did all they could to prevent the camp from being overrun. The eastern gate had been closed as reinforcements from Stormwind had arrived. Muroco bounded towards the gate and used his might to hold it shut as the masses of soldiers outside attempted to break through. The tauren’s black-furred muscles bulged as the gate groaned and creaked, its iron bearings stretching and groaning from the pressure.

They eventually broke through, and a sea of night elves and human footmen rushed towards him. Muroco unsheathed his flail and bashed one footman in the head, the latter crumpling to the ground in agony. He gored another upon his horns. Raising his shield high, he battered through their advancing ranks, only to meet a half-dozen lances…

--

The old tauren hung his head. His elbows rested on the arms of his wicker chair as he held his hands up, searching for words, and I could tell what he was going to relate stirred mixed emotions. The battle,” he finally spoke, “was catastrophic, child. It was perhaps the greatest I had ever seen, and I would daresay that it was one of the greatest this world has ever known. The verdant grass had run red with the blood of the armies. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers lay dead upon the plains. Truly, the bodies were countless.” ”But...you were victorious in the end, right?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Perhaps it was not so much of a victory for us but a crippling upset for the Alliance. They had to mobilize great, slow-moving ranks of soldiers up a steep hill. Every step inflicted casualties. They had to march over the mangled corpses of their friends to meet our blades. They would have beaten us out, had it not been for reinforcements from Silvermoon. An army is at its most vulnerable when it is besieging, after all.”

“And what of Muroco?” I asked.

“When I found him on the battlefield, he had fallen near the gate, a great ring of dead humans and night elves around him. I approached him to help deliver his soul unto the Earth Mother.”

“And that is why you know so much of him,” I offered. “You vowed to carry on his legacy.”

Greatfather looked at me and snorted again. “What? Of course not! You haven’t been paying attention to your lessons again, I see.” The edges of his mouth curled into something of a smile. “I thought him dead, but he simply recovered consciousness, got up, complained about a pain in his axe arm and walked away to be treated. I think that enchanted shield of his made him difficult to defeat.” He sighed. “He fought again and helped defeat the Alliance for good, but events from then on would be far more complicated.”

Greatfather got up from his seat and went into his lodge. He returned with the helmet in his hand, sat down, and looked at it, remaining silent for a long time.

“A human trophy,” he finally said. He took his free hand, lifted up the visor, and slammed it down with an audible clank. For such old armor, he kept it in surprisingly good condition. “I think the man was from Stormwind. I’ve kept the armor since then to remind me…”

“Remind you of what?” I inquired. He gestured for me to come closer.

“The sounds of battle. The scents of fire, the ozone of magical spells being discharged, and death. The way the other dreadnaughts and I would charge into battle alongside Muroco. The looks of fear upon our enemies as we crashed into them with our axes and maces. The way it felt to stand triumphant over seemingly impossible odds. I keep it to remind me that sometimes…”

He looked at me dead in the face. I could see the echoes of long-lost bloodlust returning in the corners of his eyes.

“Do you know where you are?”

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.”

Entry 78

I had to do night watch duty tonight. It’s not a hard job, but it can be dull. At times, I wished the enemy would attack us in the middle of the night so it would give me something to do. Then again, most of these dainty elves need their beauty sleep lest they get more ornery than a Plainstrider in heat.

It was a full moon, and the stars were out so I didn’t need a torch; too much light can ruin your night vision, you know. As I strode along the perimeter, I heard the crunching of boots behind me. I gripped my axe in anticipation, then whirled around to meet my follower. A Forsaken wearing black robes and a black brimmed hat looked up at me, his rheumy, undead eyes beaming.

“Well hello there,” he said in a raspy baritone, “my ostentatious oxen. Are you burning the midnight oil as well?”

“Braun,” I replied, pushing down the urge to pulp his skull like a ripe melon, “you should know better to sneak up on me like that. It will be your death sentence some day.” Despite my response, I knew that “Professor” Braun Bratosus was a dangerous sorcerer, even though he acted like an idiot most of the time. In the past, before joining the Sunspears, I had done odd jobs for him, collecting dangerous reagents for fruitless experiments. At least he paid well.

The undead rubbed his metallic jaw in thought. “I suppose. Guess they’d just have to stitch me up again. Try not to damage anything important when you kill me, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Braun.” I rolled my eyes.

“It’s a serious request, Muroco. I still have many experiments to conduct.” Braun tapped the butt of his staff on the ground. “Say, that reminds me, I had a question for you, one that is likely impertinent.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“What are you going to do when this is all over?” Braun paused. “Well, assuming that the Legion doesn’t triumph, enslave us all, and turn our dear planet into a ball of molten fel.”

“What do you mean what am I going to do? Fighting is a full time job. Even after the Legion’s defeat, there will be plenty of enemies to kill. Bank on it.”

“Ah, but my boisterous bovine,” Braun said, crooking a bony finger towards the camp, “even most of our elven compatriots have lives of their own. Some of them have families, some of them are craftspeople, and others have to lord over their lands. They don’t fight all the time.”

“I’m a Grimtotem exile,” I said, “fighting is the only thing I’m good at.” It was the only thing I was taught to do, even from a young age. The Grimtotems are never developed self-sufficiency, and only truly survive by raiding, pillaging, and killing everyone and everything that isn’t them. As such, the vast majority of Grimtotems are expected to know how to fight. A Grimtotem that wants to open up a general store is viewed the same way a street-goer might view an organ grinder’s monkey.

Braun and I continued our conversation, but I don’t think he understood my point of view. I don’t think anyone can.

-

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Entry 104

I went to my “peaceful spot” today. It didn’t turn out to be so peaceful.

When I was still an Initiate, I found this pasture several miles south of the Dawnspire. It is nice and quiet; miles of plain with rolling hills and some trees. Silvermoon City is cramped, and sometimes I need to get away to stretch out.

While I sit underneath a tree on a hilltop and meditate, I sometimes see a little girl, about six or seven winters old, named Verina. She has a black cat named Olive, and I’ve helped her pull her kite out of the tree a few times. Despite her youth, she speaks to me without fear or hesitation - more that can be said about a lot of people I’ve met.

I made a stupid mistake today. My guard was down, and I didn’t hear my attackers sneak up on me. A robed man - some elf - approached me when my eyes were closed and cast a binding spell. As I stood up to attack him, I felt coils of fel energy ensnare my wrists and hold my legs in place. Struggle as I might, I couldn’t break free. I heard him snicker to himself as shimmering forms behind him coalesced into being. A felguard and a shivarra wielding wicked looking scimitars appeared, advancing on me. As they got closer, I could hear Verina’s high-pitched voice shouting, “Leave him alone!”

The cultist turned, saw her clumsy attempts at striking him with her fists, and kicked her to the ground.

I could feel the binding spells weaken as his attention was turned elsewhere...but something snapped in me. Something about seeing that girl being hurt drove me into a rage I hadn’t felt in years. Rage can be a powerful weapon; the dirtiest, flea-bitten peasant can be pushed into feats of heroism if everything they hold dear is threatened. With a roar, I shattered the cultist’s spells and rescued my axe from the ground. I beheaded the felguard with one chop, then turned my attention to the shivarra. Her blades nicked and grazed me, but I was too angry to care. I severed her, limb from useless limb, until she collapsed to the ground.

I turned my attention to the cultist next. He attempted to cast a spell at me, but squawked in protest as my plated fist landed square in his face, snapping his beak-like nose and knocking out most of his teeth. I grabbed him by the neck, ignoring his pleas for mercy as I slammed his head into the tree’s trunk. I bashed his skull in repeatedly, even after he was dead, his head nothing more than a bloody stump.

I only stopped when I heard crying.

I turned around and saw Verina cowering.

She wasn’t afraid of the corpses of the demons. She was afraid of me.

Before I could say anything, she turned and fled, her legs carrying her as fast as they could as she screamed in terror. With a sigh, I ripped the cloak off the cultist’s mangled corpse and heaved myself to the pond residing at the hill’s base. As I cleaned the grime off me, I looked at my distorted reflection on the pond’s surface. I wasn’t wearing my helmet, so blood had spattered on me.

I looked just as I did when I was still a Brave in the Grimtotem tribe, raiding orcish, night elf and tauren settlements with little care of who was in the way.

For once in my life, I felt disgusted with myself.

-

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Entry 105

I decided to stay the night in the countryside. The sun was setting when the cultist attacked me, and I didn’t feel like marching back.

A warrior learns to sleep lightly while outside, and this time I was not about to make the same mistake twice. As the sun began to rise, I heard someone moving towards me. I grabbed my axe and rose, preparing to cut down the intruder.

I paused as the man in front of me yelped in surprise and jumped back, his hands held up in supplication. He wore rough hewn clothes, and his tanned skin look weathered from time in the sun. A farmer.

“I, ah,” the man stammered, “thought I might find you here.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You saved my daughter yesterday,” the man said, his eyes glancing cautiously the edge of my axe.

I set my weapon down upon the grass and sat down on a nearby tree stump overlooking the pond. “It was nothing. You don’t owe me anything. What’s your name?”

“Gaeril. And it wasn’t ‘nothing’. My daughter is the most precious thing in the world to me. I am not a warrior like you, and I shudder to think what might have happened if you weren’t here.”

I rested my head in my hand. I wasn’t accustomed to praise like this. “I scared her off, you know. Horrified her with what I did. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I just don’t fit in with,” I furrowed my brow in consternation, “With…”

“With whom?”

“Elves. Especially ones that don’t fight. No offense.”

Gaeril frowned, taking a seat on another tree stump near me. “Then why are you here, if I might ask? Don’t you have a family? A tribe?”

“Not anymore. I’m exiled. I left Kalimdor to continue my pursuit to become one of the greatest warriors of the Horde.” I looked up at the sky and saw the towering parapets of the Dawnspire in the horizon. “Sunguard let me in because I’m useful for killing things. Doubt they did it out of charity. Otherwise, I’d just be another wandering mercenary, looking for fights.”

The farmer nodded. “Then perhaps, tauren, the Sunguard is your new tribe. Whether you want to admit it or not, I am sure many of them appreciate your combat prowess - they can come home to their families each day because you’re there to watch their backs. You may be...savage, as you claim, but you’re a hero to many in ways you don’t realize.”

I remained silent after that. I couldn’t think of anything to say. A simple farmer had just laid out the truth to me, an epiphany that no seer or sage could ever manage to elucidate in their best efforts.

“Maybe so,” I said at last, “maybe so.”

-

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The Defense of Thalassian Pass

Muroco stood near at the front of the Sunguard’s lines, gazing at the advancing Legion forces. The pass connected the borders between the Eastern Plaguelands and Quel’thalas. A fel reaver thundered at the vanguard of the invading force, flanked by eredar, felhounds, felguards, and other demonic aberrations. The tauren lowered the visor of his helmet. If the demons made it through their defenses, they would pour into Quel’thalas, leaving a trail of death and destruction in their wake.

Muroco nodded to himself as the demons closed the gap. Let them come. Let them try. When he was younger, he strived to find every fight he could. As he got older, however, he understood that the best fights would come to him eventually. Being in the Sunguard would provide him the fights he craved.

The warrior jogged forward, his battle-axe in both hands, eventually breaking into a charge. He raised his weapon to strike as his bounding hooves brought him closer to the Legion. The elves might be an odd bunch, but they were his elves. His tribe.

In the Dawnspire, pamphlets could be seen scattered throughout its winding halls. Its text was plain, and looked as if it was written by someone who prefers to hold a weapon rather than a quill. Nevertheless, the message was direct:

To all Pathfinders, Suncasters, and Dawnmenders, 

During my time in the Grimtotem Tribe, one of the harshest lessons I learned was this: To defeat your enemy, you must first understand your enemy. When the tribe and I fought against the Horde in the Stonetalon Mountains, we assumed that the orcs and Bloodhoof tauren would take up the front line, while you blood elves would stand in the back with your bows and magic. We assumed falsely. I personally witnessed your spearmen hold the flanks while your spellbreakers and swordsmen weaved through our front line, cutting through our strongest warriors like chaff before a farmer’s scythe. Our failure stemmed from underestimating our opponents.

Today, as we face against the Burning Legion, the principle still applies. The Grimtotem may be cruel, but the Feltotem tribes of Highmountain are far treacherous. They are sadistic, heartless, aggressive, and can make the bravest warrior seem like a simpering gnome. They will kill your people because their Legion masters command it, and they will do so gleefully.

This is why I write to you today. The Sentinel has commanded us to seek you out. Our challenge is to duel our fellow Oathsworn in one-on-one combat in order to better ourselves. With practice, you may better yourself if you ever catch yourself in a skirmish with the enemy.

I challenge you - ALL OF YOU - to come and face me. If you can face a Grimtotem, I guarantee that you can face a Feltotem. Together, we will send the Feltotem tribe back to their Legion masters with their tails between their legs.

Signed,

Lightward Muroco Rockhoof

(P.S. Please bring food)

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Divine Purpose is absolutely hilarious in PvP right now, so I decided to get off my ass and pound out 100 ranked 3v3 wins. I hit my peak at 1785 with a frost mage and a resto druid.

Since war rams are delicate creatures, Nulric decided to name her Blossom.

And since vicious mounts are account-wide now, I have the raptor on Horde.