“Great Prophet,” said Restalaan, his voice soft and weary-sounding. “There has been another attack.”
Slowly, Velen opened his ancient eyes and regarded his friend sorrowfully. “I know,” he said. “I felt it.”
Restalaan ran a thick-fingered hand through his black hair. “What do We do? Each attack seems more violent than the last. Examination of the injuries done to the bodies seems to indicate that they are improving their weapons.”
Velen sighed deeply and shook his head. The white braids swung gently with the movement. “I cannot hear K’ure,” he said quietly. “At least, not as well as I used to. I fear its time is not much longer.”
Restalaan lowered his gaze, pain evident on his face. The Naaru had effectively sacrificed itself for them; all the draenei knew and understood this. Strange and mysterious as the being was, the draenei had grown to care for it. It had been trapped and slowly dying for two centuries. Somehow, Velen had thought it would take longer than that for the being to die … if it did die, as he understood such things.
He rose with purpose, his light tan robes fluttering behind him. “It yet has wisdom to impart to me, but I have not the skill to hear it anymore. I must go to it. Perhaps proximity will help it communicate better.”
“You—you mean to go to the ship?” Restalaan asked.
Velen nodded. “I must.”
“Great Prophet … I do not mean to question your wisdom, but—”
“But you do anyway,” Velen said, laughing, his startling blue eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine good humor. “Continue, my old friend. Your questioning always has value to me.”
Restalaan sighed. “The orcs have adopted the vessel as their sacred mountain,” he said.
“I know this,” Velen replied.
“Then why antagonize them by venturing there?” Restalaan asked. “They would surely see this as an act of aggression at any time, particularly now. You would be giving them a reason to continue their attacks against us.”
Velen nodded. “I have thought of this. Thought long and hard on it. But perhaps it is time to reveal who we are, and what their sacred mountain is. They believe their ancestors dwell there; and they may very well be right. If K’ure does not have much longer, should we not utilize its wisdom and its powers while we can? If anyone or anything can broker peace between the orcs and ourselves, this being, greater far than any of us, has that ability. This may be our only hope. K’ure spoke of finding other races, other beings, to join in its quest for balance and harmony. To stand against Sargeras and this vast, unholy force he has created.”
Velen placed a white hand on his friend’s armor-plated shoulder. “One thing for certain has been revealed to me in my meditations. And that is that things can no longer continue as they used to, orc and draenei can no longer live in distant familiarity with one another. There’s no returning to that, my old friend. There is either war or peace. They will either become our allies or our enemies. And I would never forgive myself if I did not explore every avenue to peace I could. Do you understand now?”
Restalaan searched Velen’s face unhappily, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. But I like it not. At least let me send you with an armored guard, for I know they will attack before they will listen.”
Velen shook his head. “No. No weapons. Nothing to provoke them. In their hearts, they are honorable beings. I was able to glimpse the souls of the two young orcs who stayed with us a few years ago. There is nothing cowardly or evil in there, only caution and now, for some reason, fear. They attacked hunting parties, not civilians.”
“Yes,” Restalaan shot back. “Parties that were greatly outnumbered.”
“We found blood that was not our own spilled at those sites,” Velen reminded him. “They took the bodies back for ritual burning, but there was orcish blood enough on the soil. And with our knowledge, a handful of draenei can easily stand against many orcs. No. I will risk all on this. They will not slay me where I stand, if I state my intentions honorably and I come without the blatant ability to defend myself.”
“I wish I had your confidence, my Prophet,” said Restalaan resignedly, bowing deeply. “I will assemble a small escort party, then. And they will not be armed.”
The Great One, Kil’jaeden, began to visit Ner’zhul with more frequency. First it was only in the dream state, as with the ancestors. He would come in the night while Ner’zhul slept deeply, his body heavy with the drug that opened his mind to Kil’jaeden’s voice, and whisper his praise and congratulations and plans for further orc victory.
Ner’zhul was in ecstasy. Each letter that arrived by bloodhawk from the various clans was read with eagerness and delight. We came across two scouts far from aid, the Shattered Hand clan chieftain wrote. It was ease itself to dispatch them, outnumbered as they were.
The Bleeding Hollow clan is proud to report to the great Ner’zhul that we have obeyed him in all things, said another letter. We have joined with the Laughing Skull clan, more than doubling the number of armed warriors to send against this devious foe. It is our understanding that the Thunderlord clan seeks allies. We will send a courier to them tomorrow.
“Yes.” smiled Kil’jaeden. “Do you see how they are coming together in a just cause? Before, these clans would be challenging one another if they crossed paths. Now, they are sharing knowledge, sharing resources, working as one to overcome a foe who would see you all destroyed.”
Ner’zhul nodded, but he felt a sudden pang. It had been glorious to finally behold this beautiful, powerful entity, despite the fact that he looked so much like the hated draenei, but … he had stopped seeing Rulkan. He found he missed her. He wondered why she was no longer seeking him out.
Hesitantly, he spoke. “Rulkan—”
“Rulkan has done her part in bringing you to me, Ner’zhul.” soothed Kil’jaeden. “You know she is well and happy—you have seen her. We do not need her as an intermediary anymore. Not now that I have been convinced of your worthiness to be my voice among your people.”
And as before, Ner’zhul’s heart flooded with joy. But this time, despite the comforting and exciting words of Kil’jaeden, he felt a sad little jerk in his heart as it beat, and still wished he could speak with his mate.
Ner’zhul was deep in thought when Gul’dan brought the missive to him. The apprentice bowed and handed his master a piece of parchment, stiff with blue liquid.
“What is this?” Ner’zhul asked, taking the parchment.
“It was taken off a draenei approaching from the south,” Gul’dan replied.
“A party?”
“A single courier. No arms, not even a mount. The fool was walking.” Gul’dan’s lips twisted into a smile and he chuckled.
Ner’zhul looked down at the parchment, realizing now that the blue stains were the courier’s blood. What had possessed the idiot, walking alone, unarmed, into the heart of Shadowmoon territory?
He unfolded it carefully, trying not to tear it, and quickly began to read. Even as his brown eyes darted over the words, the room was suddenly filled with radiance and both shaman prostrated themselves.
“Read it aloud, great Ner’zhul,” came Kil’jaeden’s smooth voice. “Share it with me and your loyal apprentice.”
“Yes, please, my master,” said Gul’dan eagerly.
As he read it, for the first time since he had spoken with his beloved Rulkan, Ner’zhul tasted doubt—
Unto Ner’zhul, Shaman, of the Shadowmoon clan, the Prophet Velen of the draenei sends greetings.
Recently, many of our people have come under attack from the orcs. I do not understand why this is. For generations, your people and mine have lived in peace and tolerance, a state that has benefitted us both. We have never lifted a weapon toward an orc, and indeed, once we were instrumental in saving the lives of two young ones who unwittingly placed themselves in danger.