((This is part four of an ongoing story, continuing the "Spirit Rock" installment from yesterday.))
Warlord Gro’mar was making his way to the Wyvern Tail Inn. Warchief Garrosh had impressed on his troop leaders that certain areas of Kalimdor had to become Horde strongholds. Now. Gro’mar knew there was one small problem – after years of fighting, there just weren’t enough able bodies left.
The recent alliance with the Bilgewater Cartel brought welcome reprieve. But for the moment, the goblins were only good at supplying war machines and weapons. It would be a while before there were entire battle-ready units of goblin warriors. Laying their lives on the line for the good of the Horde still went against their selfish disposition.
Gro’mar could always find an enthusiastic peon with a battle axe to bolster his ranks. What he really needed was experience and field support: someone who could fix a gashed up arm or a broken leg, and keep the losses manageable.
There was one veteran who had just retired the previous year. They had fought side by side in many battles. The shaman was older and slower now, but Gro’mar had great faith in the healer’s abilities. Even an old healer was better than no healer at all.
Gro’mar was quite certain that he would find his friend at the Wyvern Tail Inn. Still, when he spotted the shaman hunched over by the counter, he was stunned. Rongar looked like he had aged ten years since their last meeting. Gro’mar was beginning to question if this was such a good idea, but given the current situation he really did not have a choice.
He sat down next to the shaman and ordered a drink. Rongar looked over and a faint smile of recognition began to show on his face. “Lok’tar, my friend.”
“Lok’tar, Rongar,” responded the warlord. “I had a feeling you might be here.”
“Got nowhere else to be,” said the old shaman, looking back at his half-finished bitter cactus cider. “What do you want?”
Gro’mar was a bit surprised by the sharpness of the question, but he chalked it up to the cactus cider and recent events. “I wanted to check on you. And this is also a recruitment visit.”
Rongar shrugged dismissively. “How so?”
“We need you, Rongar. We need a battlefield healer. Our lines were already stretched thin and you know we lost a lot of warriors during the fires.” Gro’mar took a deep breath before continuing, “The Horde needs you, my friend.”
Rongar shook his head. He felt all of his 71 years in that moment.
“I know what you are thinking,” added Gro’mar quietly, “but I am asking you as a friend.”
Rongar sighed, “You think that I will refuse because of my age. That is not the case. You know I will keep fighting until my body gives out.”
Gro’mar studied the old shaman. “Then what it is?”
Rongar didn’t respond.
“I understand you need time after what happened to Orda,” said Gro’mar, “but sitting here won’t bring her back. Come to Ashenvale with me.”
Rongar sighed. He still wasn’t sure what good he could do back in the field, but turning down a request from a ranking officer and friend would be a sign of great dishonor. And perhaps he needed to get out of the city. Too much of it reminded him of his wife. He realized, the last thing Orda would want was for him to mope about and feel sorry for himself.
“Alright.”
Gro’mar nodded. “Good. Report to Crossroads by tomorrow morning. I’ll have someone waiting to accompany you to our outpost in Ashenvale.” With that, Gro’mar left the Wyvern Tail Inn.
The old shaman shook his head. “Better stock up on bandages and potions...”
Warlord Gro’mar was making his way to the Wyvern Tail Inn. Warchief Garrosh had impressed on his troop leaders that certain areas of Kalimdor had to become Horde strongholds. Now. Gro’mar knew there was one small problem – after years of fighting, there just weren’t enough able bodies left.
The recent alliance with the Bilgewater Cartel brought welcome reprieve. But for the moment, the goblins were only good at supplying war machines and weapons. It would be a while before there were entire battle-ready units of goblin warriors. Laying their lives on the line for the good of the Horde still went against their selfish disposition.
Gro’mar could always find an enthusiastic peon with a battle axe to bolster his ranks. What he really needed was experience and field support: someone who could fix a gashed up arm or a broken leg, and keep the losses manageable.
There was one veteran who had just retired the previous year. They had fought side by side in many battles. The shaman was older and slower now, but Gro’mar had great faith in the healer’s abilities. Even an old healer was better than no healer at all.
Gro’mar was quite certain that he would find his friend at the Wyvern Tail Inn. Still, when he spotted the shaman hunched over by the counter, he was stunned. Rongar looked like he had aged ten years since their last meeting. Gro’mar was beginning to question if this was such a good idea, but given the current situation he really did not have a choice.
He sat down next to the shaman and ordered a drink. Rongar looked over and a faint smile of recognition began to show on his face. “Lok’tar, my friend.”
“Lok’tar, Rongar,” responded the warlord. “I had a feeling you might be here.”
“Got nowhere else to be,” said the old shaman, looking back at his half-finished bitter cactus cider. “What do you want?”
Gro’mar was a bit surprised by the sharpness of the question, but he chalked it up to the cactus cider and recent events. “I wanted to check on you. And this is also a recruitment visit.”
Rongar shrugged dismissively. “How so?”
“We need you, Rongar. We need a battlefield healer. Our lines were already stretched thin and you know we lost a lot of warriors during the fires.” Gro’mar took a deep breath before continuing, “The Horde needs you, my friend.”
Rongar shook his head. He felt all of his 71 years in that moment.
“I know what you are thinking,” added Gro’mar quietly, “but I am asking you as a friend.”
Rongar sighed, “You think that I will refuse because of my age. That is not the case. You know I will keep fighting until my body gives out.”
Gro’mar studied the old shaman. “Then what it is?”
Rongar didn’t respond.
“I understand you need time after what happened to Orda,” said Gro’mar, “but sitting here won’t bring her back. Come to Ashenvale with me.”
Rongar sighed. He still wasn’t sure what good he could do back in the field, but turning down a request from a ranking officer and friend would be a sign of great dishonor. And perhaps he needed to get out of the city. Too much of it reminded him of his wife. He realized, the last thing Orda would want was for him to mope about and feel sorry for himself.
“Alright.”
Gro’mar nodded. “Good. Report to Crossroads by tomorrow morning. I’ll have someone waiting to accompany you to our outpost in Ashenvale.” With that, Gro’mar left the Wyvern Tail Inn.
The old shaman shook his head. “Better stock up on bandages and potions...”
Edited by Rongar on 4/8/2011 2:34 PM PDT
