Dec 09
24
Christmas present: Qieth’s Story
Since I started writing my blog, I have had a certain creativity wake up within me. It seems that simply writing has pushed my mind on to even more writing. I find that it is very enjoyable to do, and that I am at least somewhat capable of writing things that others would like to read.
I have always thought of writing a book, but I have never really gotten around to giving it a shot – usually, I just have a general idea of who the main character is going to be, and how the story will end, but everything else is missing. So when I got the idea for this story – the whole story – I simply knew that I had to follow through. This is not going to be a book, but it is certainly going to be quite long, if I manage to finish it. This is a test, to see if I can write something that other people will really sit down and read, and to see if I can actually survive the ordeal of writing a whole story.
This story, is set in World of Warcraft. I wanted to try and write a story about a raid, as it would be if we followed actual people in a real world, as we would when reading a book. What raid, which people, and what they will see, is a secret for now. What I share with you here is merely the introduction, the very beginning of the book. Once I have a few chapters, I will start posting it on official boards, and if it turns out that people actually enjoy reading this, we will see the finished product.
Please click below to read the beginning of the story, and please, do leave feedback. It will be greatly appreciated! Happy holidays!
Unnamed
The call came with the wind like a gentle sigh. Qieth Brambleheart looked up from the branches of the the gnarleyroot bush he had been searching and held his breath, listening. As the call was heard by sentries across the lands, they sprung to action and added to the bellow. The deep hum of the horns, started merely minutes earlier in the lush north, increased in volume and rolled across the plains. Qieth sighed. There was no mistaking that sound. Only twice in his life had had he heard the Horns, and he knew what they meant: War.
He crawled out from the overhang and stood exposed in the sun, listening as the sound passed him to continue its travels further south. Peeking into the tattered leather bag in his hands, he counted eight seeds, some of them barely ripe, and let out another sigh from deep within his guts. He had spent two days of hard travel to reach the canyons of Thousand Needles, hoping to return with large quantities of ingrediants for his remidies, but he could not stay. The call had sounded, and he had to answer.
The horns would bellow every hour for five days, he knew, crying out to the horde to return home, to answer the call. As he trekked through the dry, hot desert, seldom shielded by the towering pillars, he contemplated what this meant. He had fought before. When he had first heard the call, he had been but a calf, too young to even carry a mace, to short to use a staff. But he had seen the look of horror on his mothers face, and the solemn tear in his fathers eye as he said his goodbyes and went to war. The first war had been the Massing of the Gnolls, and his father had died a hero on the battlefield, they said, taking no less than thirtyeight of the beasts with him to the grave.
The second call came years later when news that the united forces of of humans, gnomes and dwarves was preparing to lay siege on Orgrimmar. Qieth, a caring druid by heart, had tended to the wounded during the four month war that had followed. It had been a grusome battle, fuelled by generations of hatred and prejustice, and when he had stood on the ramparts of Orgrimmar, his eyes had taken in the sight of his fallen friends on the field, unable to help them, unable to cope with reality of the events unfolding before his eyes. It had been a terrible loss for The Horde, but in the end they had depleted the resources of The Alliance.
He climbed a peak halfway up the canyon wall and studied the sun. Midday had passed. He sat down in the sliver of shade provided by the overhang above and began ruminating his breakfast, and as he let the cool wall work on his strained muscles, his mind drifted to the strange folk of the east. He had heard the stories of people of The Alliance; Evil folk, intent on slaugheting anyone blue or green, or with more hair that they deemed sanitary. He had been taught hostility towards these evil men, who had killed thousands of his brethren, and who would do so again, he was told, were they given the chance. But who was he to judge anothers character? Should the deer hate the hunter who wishes to feed his family, and should the plant fear the herbalist looking to cure an infected child? The Alliance and The Horde had been upholding the armistice written down years before, after all, which ensured a truce between their people as long as no foul deeds were done to the other faction. He had been living a peaceful life since the war, and had not had any contact with the alliance. Well, no contact with any, except for Bob.
Bob wasn’t his real name, ofcourse. No selfrespecting dwarven parents would name their heir something as simple as that. But Bobarnicus Nickelskin loathed his name, and his name was publicly shortened with every headbutt he had given and any barfight started over it. He had been fetching water when he first met Bob, a wiry looking little man, with light grey skin true to his name. They had been oblivious to the others existance, until they turned a rock and stood no more than a few feet apart. Bob was clad in heavy plate armor, a battle axe strapped to his back so huge that the shaft poked above his head and the blade barely clearing the ground. Scars covered his face and his wild hair and untamed beard poked out from his helmet. Bob was a warrior-adventurer-monsterkiller, by his own account, and had been traveling to a cave in Dustwallow Marsh said to hold not only great treasure but a giant dragon as well, and had taken a detour to refill his waterskin. In turns, their eyes went from the other to the water, and they slowly inched their way towards the bank. As they sat in silence, a good distance apart, the dwarf began to grunt and shuffle his feet.
“Aight, are we gunna do this or what? I’d reckon I’d like me axe in me hands ‘efore we start, if ye catch me drift. Can’t feel good ’bout a fight if the fights not fair, ye know?” said the dwarf, eyeing the tauren three times his size. Still, he didn’t rise to make a move. Qieth looked at the stubby little man with a passive demeanor. “If you wish to fight me, dwarf, then go ahead. But it will be a sorry fight, that, as my staff is no match for the likes of you.”. “Damn straight!”, grunted the dwarf and drained his skin. Since then they had met many times, swapping stories of their adventures well into the night, sharing drinks from harsh dwarven ale to tauren potatowine. Bob was well traveled, and always seemed to have a little too much energy than what was good for him, or anyone else around him, but as his eyes glaced over as he retold the story of the Ice Caverns for the 10th time, Qieth would settle himself and enjoy the evening with his friend. Qieth didn’t mind to hear the stories again. He figured that Bob was probably the closest any tauren had ever gotten to a dwarven friend, and took the experience in stride.
No, he decided as he continued his climb, not all of The Alliance are bad. Find a common ground, be it a waterhole or trading routes, and they could learn to live in peace. Some day, perhaps, their people could live, if not side by side, then at least in a tolerated society, but until then he would protect his tribe and those it joined. He had to do what he had to do, and if this was to be another great battle between The Alliance and The Horde, he would take his place amung his people. As he climbed over the last edge, many feet above the bottom of the canyon, his face was set with determination. War had called, and he was going to answer.
