World of Warcraft®

Azati had once been a strong hunter, a brave warrior... a wise shaman. She had served her clan well, even after her mortal death. Now, though she walked with her ancestors, she was increasingly worried about her descendants. She could not protect them with blade or shield, by power or speed. She could only give her wisdom.
And that might not be enough.
She paced through the shadowy plane she now called home, a constant eye on her kin. One couldn't be less worried about the future, her mind was lost in the past. Scars that covered her body reached down into her spirit. A broken child. But strong, like her father's mother. Azati often grinned in pride at that one's courage.
The other, a more wary and prudent sort. His mind, too, was afflicted by the past, but he did not dwell there. War had come and gone and now he, and the world, waited with bated breath to see the outcome.
Everywhere, hatred followed them both.

Azati bent low over the image of her son's daughter. Strong, like her, and graceful, the younger shaman battled a huge creature not so unlike the clefthoof Azati had once hunted. Tiny elementals, their voices like children, danced around the legs of this one. Their glee was matched only by the primal joy that curved the dark lips around the hidden tusks.
Once, Azati knew, such a child would have been slaughtered at birth. Once, Azati recalled, they had tried. Her heart grew heavy at the memory of her son's leaving. What he had chosen over clan and kin.
But she watched with pride, now, as the young shaman danced, her blades singing in the Spring-time air. A rippling cry of victory soon followed, one that Azati knew well.
Crouching low, Azati whispered into the ear of her son's daughter. "You bring honor to your ancestors, Za'tari."
Instantly, the younger shaman went rigid, rage appearing in her eyes.
"I have told you not to speak to me!"
Azati cackled. "And why should I listen to you? You, who deny your true ancestors in favor of those who are not your blood and clan! I have wisdom for you, daughter of my son. It would do you well to listen."
"Stop calling me that, you know that is not my name."
"It is, whether you like it or not," Azati scowled. This arguement was growing ever old. "That is the name my son gave you when you were born. Just because you do not remember does not make it any less true. Accept who you are, and you will be at peace."
"You will address me by my chosen name, or I will find a Shadow Hunter to end your eternal rest, mother of my father."
With a resigned sigh, Azati conceded. "Fine. Za'tari-who-is-Ketyru, daughter of my son, flesh of my blood, listen! I know what you intend. I have seen it. Do not do this to yourself. Stay away from the trial of Garrosh Hellscream. Forget Grom's son, and be at peace with your own life."
Ketyru roared with rage, a shriek only those who remembered Draenor had ever heard. Azati smirked at hearing it. The warbled cry that carried so well sounded much like her own.
"Honor my kin and clan the way that boy never could! Show the world that Warsong blood is untainted by foolish pride! Do this, or I will find another to do it for you."
Ketyru spat on the ground. "You have no other living kin, Azati Nighthowl. I am all you have. Your last connection to this world of life. Forsake me, then, and go away. I am not, nor ever have I been, Warsong."
"Wrong," Azari grinned with sadistic pleasure. It was so easy to get a rise out of this one. Her passions and fire to match her brother's patience and grounded calm. "There is another." She rose, leaving Ketyru shocked, kneeling in the bright Pandarian sunlight.
A faint whisper drifted back to her son's daughter. "His name is Za'doran."

It had been a long time since Ketyru had returned home. After Northrend... well, she'd become a traitor. And grief had overwhelmed her so. Still, she would be ever grateful to Vraael for taking her in. And the others, as well.
Her mind drifted back through the years, through her broken memories. The bright, ruddy faces of the three Dwarven brothers she'd come to love as her own brothers. Golden haired Elves whose laughter was louder than the battle cries of their enemies. The wise Human Priestess who had loved her like a daughter. The Forsaken Warrior who had risked life and limb for her at the Wrathgate...and fell there. The Draenei woman whose humor and clever antics had made life bearable again.
She thought of the Kaldorei brothers whose blades sang in the air as they danced through their foes as one. Her hand went to the dagger concealed in her boot. The smooth wood and inlaid silver were still as bright as the day the blade had been crafted. It had been a gift, they said, to teach one so willing and able.
She thought of the Northwatch recruit she'd run afoul of in the Barrens.
She thought of Nani, and how blessed she truly was.
The tears began gathering in her eyes, and her vision distorted, but Ketyru let them fall.

Broxigaar, now large enough to bear her in flight, had curled up in the sunshine nearby. His soft baby fur had given way to a thick, coarse coat. His mane was coming in, a dusky red nearly the same color as her own hair. The wyvern lifted his head, staring as her with amber eyes, an intelligence there few could match.
A brother.
She'd gotten so accustomed to being alone, the last, the only. An Orc among Draenei. A Draenei among Orcs. A freak. An abomination. Alone. Always alone...
The wind picked up, carrying the fresh scents of Mulgore and rain with it. Low clouds had gathered on the far side of Thunder Bluff, their distant thunder soft and comforting. They sounded like home.
Home.
Ketyru laughed bitterly at herself. Raised by a Tauren Shaman, the rolling plains of Mulgore had been the only home she ever knew. That she remembered. But something about the waving grass and lowing of kodo raised older, forgotten memories.
She sensed, more than knew, that Azati Nighthowl, her grandmother, was still watching her. Ever since the cataclysm that had nearly torn Azeroth apart, the Orc woman had been pestering Ketyru with her "wisdoms" and bothersome rants about honor and blood.
Orcs...
Ket looked down at herself. Her armor, specially crafted by her request, gleamed in the fading light. Golden hued chains crisscrossed her body, almost artfully. The firey red runes of enchantment melded into a deeper scarlet glaze, mimicking flames. Black leather pressed snug against her skin, displaying her muscles. A blood-red cloak hung from her shoulders, barely clearing the ground. Her figure spoke of power, and the promise of violence, and the fires of passion.
Her skin, once uniformly brown, had given way to a lighter indigo shade in places. Freckles dusted her from head to toe, obscuring her complexion. Her hair, the scarlet dye fading, was more of a rust color. Her eyes, she knew, were almost yellow, normally, and greener the brighter they glowed. No one would ever mistake her for a true Orc. Nor could anyone confidently call her a Draenei. She was something else. Both, and neither.
Halforcen.
She was happy with herself, for once in her life. Few could best her in a fair fight, and fewer still could match her ease with the elements. Ketyru was more than a mere survivor. She'd come through trial after trial with her held held high.
Brown fingers idled on violet lips, her satisfaction souring. Maybe Azati was right... she wasn't as whole as people often thought. Not yet.
Ketyru bent, tracing her fingers through the dust and ash, a child once more. Here, long ago, she'd stood with her foster family as their wise leader had passed on. His pyre had burned brightly all night long, his children honoring him in song and story. Her father had never gotten such an honor. Neither of them had.
Silently, she cursed the Hellscream name.
But weariness, not rage, threatened to overwhelm her. For so long she had laid blame on the shoulders of Grom and his son. One, for drinking the blood of demons and the other for being a murderous coward.
Too long she had focused on her hatred, on revenge.

Broxigaar wheeled over the Red Rocks one last time before Ketyru spurred him North. She was tired, exhausted down to her bones. The wind stung her reddened eyes as her faithful friend gained altitude, so she shut them and clung to his fur.
It was time to leave the past where it belonged.
There was, however, one piece of advice she would refuse from Azati. Ketyru would not miss the trial of Garrosh Hellscream, when it came. But she would not go out of a need for revenge. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, towards Dustwallow. Towards Theramore.
No. She would go as a symbol of her people. Honorable as the Orcs. Pious as the Draenei. Wise as only a Shaman may be. Her fingers found the raised skin of her left forearm, and she traced the writing embedded there.
Blood of the Horde. Blade of the Alliance.
Never alone.