The Filthy Animal : Part 1

It never rained in Dalaran.

Weather the city floated too high for the clouds to reach it, or the mages kept the rain away, nobody but their kind knew.

Today, however, was an exception.

The thick, black clouds boiled down from the peaks of storm, remarkable in and of itself because they came from the north instead of wafting over the bloody battlefield that was Lake Wintergrasp. But, natural or not, come it did, rolling down off the peaks, crackling lighting over the violet spires of the great city of mages.

As the sky hummed with energy a lone figure, shoulders bent, horned head hung low, could be seen passing by the Horde banners. Hooves on the cobblestones even threw sparks, so charged was the air. All of Dalaran seemed to wait, a heavy hand clutching hearts, for the storm to break.

The lone figure didn’t quite make it to shelter before the sky opened up to let down her rain. Because of this, when weary hooves led Tigerfeet to the warm embrace of The Filthy Animal there was a shaman in a corner, wreathed in the smoke from cooking and pipes, who stiffened her back and sniffed. A slow sneer wandered across her face as the orc turned an icy blue eye to the entrance to see…

Shilouetted against the darkening sky stood a truly ancient druid. One horn snapped, her fur, once black, gone grey with age. Her armor, finely crafted of living wood, blooming from the rain with vines twining around, gave the lie to her defeated and weary posture.

The young shaman would have done well to respect what was obviously an elder who deserved reverence. Instead she rolled her head languidly to one side and called out, “Barkeep! I know ye call this The Filthy Animal, but I didn’t know ye actually let them sup here!”

The druid’s head snapped up, a dangerously feral glint in her eye. “Insolent, knock-kneed calf!” she growled.

The barkeep, eyes going round in alarm, scrambled around the bar counter and rushed to the Druid’s side. “She mean no disrespect mon. Here, I’ll be drawin’ ye up a bath! We get all dat bad mojo offa ya dah?”

Tigerfeet spared a look for her matted fur, caked with oil, singed in places, and now wet from the rain. She sighed, “That sounds wonderful Misensi, please.”

As the troll led the druid away they were followed by two hard blue eyes. The young shaman reached for another slice of pork carved from the great feast on the table and wondered, who was this druid to command special treatment from the Dalaran inkeepers. She looked old enough, but age was never indicative of greatness.

The slice of roasted pork fell back to the plate, uneaten, as the young orc stood and followed, now determined to measure this elder’s worth.

…… to be continued. Part 2

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  • Comments (4)
  1. Moar! That was awesome. I really love your RP posts.

  2. Woo! I love these.

    I may also start calling you Stinky Tiger.

  3. The shaman clearly is not one who spends much time as a Ghost Wolf 🙂

    Looking forward to reading more!

  4. Nice job! I am looking forward to the next installment.

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