Raging Tauren part eight

Raging Tauren - Chapter Two

Brighde and Lara sat at a small table in the front room of her family home that overlooked the mystic ward. Brighde had been there many times for training during her days as a young paladin. Now the house was all to empty – devoid of the family that had once made it a place of such warmth. The pounding of the Great Forge through the halls of Ironforge formed a lovely counterpoint to the pounding in Brighde’s head. The melodious strains of pain where not the only rhythms that filled the morning air. The early morning bustle of people going back to their jobs, carts rolling by on their way to open shops, and gnomes already shouting so all of the breakfast crowd could hear of the marvels of the freshly backed and picked wares. In fact it was the shouting of one particular gnome that set off the pain afresh, which had at least begun to subside.

A gnome in a red dress, over which she wore a white apron stuck her head in the front doorway. This being ironforge, the typical dwelling did not have a front door. Her hair was as red as her dress. She bore loaves of bread in her arms stacked nearly as high as the hair that was piled up on top of her head.

“Loaf of fresh baked bread this morning sir?” the gnome said with a bright smile.

“No, not today thankyou.”

“What about you Lara?” she said looking just beyond Brighde’s head, which she now held in both of her hands, to the dwarf who just entered the room.

“Not today thank you Farthing.”

“Right you are sir. See ya later,” the gnome Farthing replied brightly and set off in the direction of the commons.

“Here let me fill up your mug again,” Lara said as she tipping the contents of an aging metal container, the bottom of which was scorched by flame, into a large wooden mug that sat abandoned in front of Brighde. The black steaming contents oozed into the mug with a plop.

Brighde looked up at Lara and then stared at the contents of the mug in front of her as she spoke.

“This has got to be the worst coffee I have ever tasted. It tastes like it was run off of my dog’s butt.”

“You don’t have a dog,” said Lara.

“If I had a dog this is coffee is what it would taste like if it was run off his butt.”

“How do you know what coffee tastes like when it is run off of anyone’s butt? said Lara curtly. Have you ever had coffee that has been run off of a butt?


Brighde moaned again. Looked up at Lara with a pained expression on her face which she promptly buried in her arms on the table.

“It is way too early for this nonsense” she moaned.

“Shut up er’ drink up ye drunken sot. What would the rest o’ members o’ the Silver Hand say if they saw one of their paladins like this?”

Lara’s curt reply was answered only by a groan. Lara poured another cup of the ooze that passed for her coffee and Brighde’s head hit the table with an audible thump.

“Lucky thin’ fer ye that the table was there tae break yer fall eh? I have picked ye up off the floor enough fer one day. Next time ye go out drinkin’ like that I’ll nae be there tae pour ye back into yer bed.”

“What do you mean ‘drinking like that’? came Brighde’s objection. You were there drinking same as I was!”

“Like I said, came Lara’s reply, drinkin’ like that – its no the drinkin’ itself I mind so much as yer inability tae handle the drink in the first place. What kind o’ a dwarf are ye? Me wee sister could drink ye under the table.”

“Don’t be absurd, Yer sister is only 12 years old” groaned Brighde.

“Aye, came the reply, an’ still she kin’ drink ye under the table. An’ so ye are a double disgrace – a disgrace fer not bein’ able tae handle the drink and a disgrace tae our order fer getting’ drunk in the first place.”

The was a long pause as Brighde thought for a moment in silence, her thoughts struggling to pierce the veil of her hangover.

“…OUR order?” she said, puzzlement filled her face as she looked up at her friend bleary eyed.

“aye, you heard what I said. That time ye where shot at with an arrow that nicked yer left ear and narrowly missed turnin’ ye into dwarf shish kabob – who pulled ye out o’ the way?”

“You did, Lara,” came the reply.

“That time ye were chasin’ a kobold across the Swamp of Sorrows an’ ye fell into the bog who pulled ye’ out when ye were nearly a gonner?”

“You did, Lara”

“An’ that time ye’ stopped in to a bar in Ratchet on yer way to the Crossroads, a bar full o’ Taurens I might add, and started yelling “Moo” who pulled ye out o’ the way?”

“Wait a min’, said Brighde bleary eyed, that wasn’t you. I was hit o’er the back o’ the head wi’ a bottle. I woke up in an’ ally.”

“An, just who was it ye’ think hit ya’ in the back o’ the head an’ dragged yer fat carcass out o’ there afore ye were killed dead?”

“Yoo hit me o’er the head wi’ a bottle! Yelled Brighde. Ye dirty….I woke up in an ally. What is wrong wi’ ye?’

“Well if ye’ where a bit more thankful now n’ then, perhaps ye’ would have woken up in the inn instead o’ the ally.”

An angered look crossed Brighde’s face and she rose quickly intending to take what she considered a well deserved swing at her “friend” Lara – only to find herself forced back to her seat just as suddenly but the pain which slammed into her head like a sledgehammer the moment she rose.

“Ye may as well sit down afore ye fall down, said Lara. An’ have another ‘slice’ o’ me coffee, she replied with a smile.”

With that Lara began pouring the strong coffee into the mug in front of Brighde. It was a potent brew that has also been known to take rust off iron swords, deforest small areas of ground of shrubbery, and – as in this case – cure a bad hangover quicker n’ any other remedy known to man or dwarf. It was always a contention amongst the, usually unwilling, recipients of the hangover cure, that most individuals got over the hangover just so they wouldn’t have to continuing imbibing a potion that could otherwise have been used as a slow and particularly cruel form of torture.

“An’ now that ye have finally invited me into yer family home, after all these years, although I can’t say as I was actually invited as ye’ were out cold when I dragged her fat tookas over here from the pub, I can’t say as I admire yer family’s particularly gruesome taste in wall hangins’ either.”

“What? Brighde said looking up hat her friend once again, barely able to lift her head. What the devil are ye talkin’ aboot?”

“That, said Lara pointing with the coffeepot up to an animal head mounted above the nearby fireplace. The druid ye whose ‘ead ye got stuffed n’ mounted up there.”

“Are ye’ daft? exclaimed Brighde in as aggravated a tone as she could manage through the pain. It’s jus’ the head of a lion.”

“A lion eh? Have ye’ no e’er wondered why yer ‘lion’ has horns like that?’

“ I suppose, said Brighde looking up at the mounted head above the fireplace now. On tother hand, who would think it would have fangs like that either. Look at the things. It looks like that thing could eat a ham sandwich through a picket fence.”

“Have ye’ been livin’ under a rock all yer life long,” said Lara?

“Well ya’ said Brighde. We are dwarves an’ this IS Ironforge is it not? O’ course I spent a lot of time livin’ under a rock.”

“An jus’ where did yer ‘lion’ come from me friend?”

“It be somethin’ ma ordered before she died. It came jus’ after I got ‘ere. She wrote me aboot it. Came from some troll or other in Ratchet. She ordered it.”

“well me dear, that no be any lion. THAT be a druid in cat form. Wot is more, that be a Tauren druid.”

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The sea breeze blew across the small village of Revantusk, in the Azerothian Hinterlands. The breeze carried on it a scent of salt and the feint rhythms of steel drums. In the distance Dr. Rashan danced, his feet pounding against the wooden floor of his shanty, not far from the beach where Zola sat, her feet dangling over the edge of the small dock. The gentle breeze blew threw her long red locks, and she kicked her feet absent mindedly in the air as she cast her fishing line once again.

The lure at the end of the line whipped through the air and landed in the midst of a distant school of fish – cast with an accuracy that could have plucked a gnat from a horse’s ear at 30 yards. The same early afternoon sun that gleamed off Zola’s blue troll skin, turned the tiny waves of the ocean into thousands of small lights. Yet it was not difficult for her experienced eyes to pick the bobber out the peaks of the many tiny waves. This time in the afternoon was one of Zola’s favorite.

Not many of the dwarves and humans who came out of the nearby dwarf settlement on Aerie Peak even knew this village was here. The only land passage was down a narrow rock strewn ledge partly hidden in the bracken strewn across the top of the cliff that formed a wall around three sides of the small outcropping of land on which the troll village of Revantusk was located.

Yes, Zola loved this time of the afternoon – the cool ocean breezes. The rhythm of her native music and the peaceful feeling that settled over the village about this time each day. Her eyes, intent on watching the bobber for the telltales signs of a fish nibbling at her line, were distracted by a movement in the distance. A large sea turtle surfaced for a moment, then disappeared once again beneath the waves. A few minutes passed and it surfaced once again with a fish in its mouth…

…which it promptly lost, as well as its head, as the crack of a rifle shot pierced the calm afternoon air.

“You be doin’ the whole thing the ‘ard way” came a familiar voice from behind her.

A smile crossed Zola’s face. Without turning she merely said, “Well there was the whole idea of actually havin’ a fish left after the fishin’ was done.”

“Ya, well it wasn’t the fish I was after anyway, it was the turtle. Ya’ do know how I be lovin’ turtle soup. Nothin’ like it.”

A grimace crossed Zola’s face as she turned to see her oldest friend, Erzuli.

“Well that be the truth, said Zola said. And the whole village is more the fortunate for it!”

Erzuli sat down next to Zola, her back against a crate at one side of the dock. Dust covered the green scales of her leather armor which creaked a bit shifted and made herself comfortable. Like Zola, was red, but was done up in a large Mohawk that seemed to keep its shape, despite the breeze.

“So, Zola said turning back to her attention back to the bobber at the end of the line, where have ya’ been all this time?”

“Just out doin’ a bit of huntin’ is all,” came the offhanded reply.

“Tha’ I can see from the state of yer’ clothes. But ya’ have been gone an awful long time fer a short huntin’ trip.”

Erzuli was about to reply when a sudden wave came washing over the dock. Zola, dressed in shorts and a loose cloth blouse didn’t have much to get wet in the first place. Erzuli, however was soaked but didn’t seem to mind, it taking the whole thing in stride. When the wave subsided, there, in the middle of the deck, stood a scarred boar. Its pink skin contrasting against the armor plates on its back and legs, upon which red symbols had been painted. The armor was dented in many places, looking as if it had seen a lot of use. It’s long tusks where gleaming and sharp, as if they too had seen a lot of use – a lot of very successful use. In it’s mouth was the mangled remains of a very large fish. It looked at Erzuli with a large smile on its face, if indeed boars can be said to smile. This one, most obviously did.

Erzuli simply stared at the boar.

The boar, seemed to realize it had done something wrong and dejectedly let the fish flop onto the wooden deck.

Staring straight at the boar Erzuli spoke to it.

“Did I or did I not tell ya’ we were here fer the turtles an’ not the fish? Did I or did I not tell ya’ ahead of time we were havin’ turtle soup for dinner?”

As oddly anthropomorphic as it seemed, the boar seemed to understand Erzuli. Quickly turning, she jumped off the end of the dock, once again spraying water all over Erzuli and Zola. Zola broke the silence first.

“Ya’ know that never stops bein’ amazin’. I am not sure whether that is creepy or not. Yer’ boar seems ta’ know exactly what you ar’ sayin’ ta her.”

“Well she may understand, said Erzuli, and she may be as tough as old shoe leather, but she is not as smart as they come.”

“Be that as it may, all I am sayin’ is ya certainly do have a way with animals.”

“Ya’ she has been a good friend and companion these many years, and those sharp tusk of hers have saved my own hide many times.”

Zola was about to reply when she was distracted by the sound of something heavy being dragged across the wooden deck behind them. Turning, both woman saw Erzuli’s boar dragging the carcass of a turtle, several times her size across the deck. She dropped it and a big grin crossed her face once again.

“That’s my girl, smiled Erzuli. Good girl.”

The boar started to wiggle her but so hard it appeared as if it would come off. She was obviously delighted to have earned her master’s approval.

“Well, said Erzuli standing up, it seems as if dinner is served. I will see ya’ a bit later.”

With that she slung her rifle across her shoulder. The rifle, unlike her clothes was well polished, its pristine surfaces gleaming in the sun. Erzuli waved and turned away from her friend. As she did the ever present tassel which always hung from the stock of her rifle slapped against the leather of her clothes. Unlike the pristine rifle, the tassel seemed old and worn.

“Why do ya’ keep that smelly old thing around?” Zola called after Erzuli, who stopped and turned back to her.

“Now that’s now way ta’ be talkin’ about me dear pet boar.”

“Not your boar, that thing ya’ got hangin’ from your rifle….that smelly old lion tail.”