So comforting, the lies we tell ourselves.
We like to believe that the dead rest peacefully, you know? That they reside, no longer within this red and desperate world of treachery and anguish and bloodshed, but within the warm and loving womb of eternity, in the Lands of Summer and Rain.
The truth? The truth is that the dead are cold -- cold and lonely, adrift within a starless sea that stretches far beyond the furthest reaches of our petty, artless imaginings. Trust me, I know.
I'm sorry, but there is no such place as the Land of Summer and Rain; there is no warm and loving womb of eternity. There is only longing -- longing, and the Hunger. So if you truly wish to honour your ancestors at Kosh'harg -- if you truly wish to bring them some measure of solace and happiness and hope, however brief and fleeting they may be in that colourless world of nothing and no one, then do so not with ferocity and combat ...
No. If that is what you desire, then do so with your drums and dreams and stories; such are the food and drink of the spirit-world. The dead can smell our music on the winds that howl through their world. When we dream, they can escape into our world, if only for an instant. And believe me when I tell you that they can feel our stories and our drums, welling up from inside their hollow forms like water, filling up a jar.
Come.
Come and fill their jars with water. Honour the dead who have fallen before you ... who bled the untamed lands of Kalimdor red, so that you can live free beneath an open sky and the ages-old banners of your Clans and your Warchief.
Come. Tell your stories and dream your dreams.
You owe them that much.
We like to believe that the dead rest peacefully, you know? That they reside, no longer within this red and desperate world of treachery and anguish and bloodshed, but within the warm and loving womb of eternity, in the Lands of Summer and Rain.
The truth? The truth is that the dead are cold -- cold and lonely, adrift within a starless sea that stretches far beyond the furthest reaches of our petty, artless imaginings. Trust me, I know.
I'm sorry, but there is no such place as the Land of Summer and Rain; there is no warm and loving womb of eternity. There is only longing -- longing, and the Hunger. So if you truly wish to honour your ancestors at Kosh'harg -- if you truly wish to bring them some measure of solace and happiness and hope, however brief and fleeting they may be in that colourless world of nothing and no one, then do so not with ferocity and combat ...
No. If that is what you desire, then do so with your drums and dreams and stories; such are the food and drink of the spirit-world. The dead can smell our music on the winds that howl through their world. When we dream, they can escape into our world, if only for an instant. And believe me when I tell you that they can feel our stories and our drums, welling up from inside their hollow forms like water, filling up a jar.
Come.
Come and fill their jars with water. Honour the dead who have fallen before you ... who bled the untamed lands of Kalimdor red, so that you can live free beneath an open sky and the ages-old banners of your Clans and your Warchief.
Come. Tell your stories and dream your dreams.
You owe them that much.
