Below are the 18 most recent journal entries recorded in thark's LiveJournal:

Monday, August 5th, 2019
8:44 pm	My journey begins This journal is a travellogue of my journey through the lands of my home, Azeroth. My name is Thark, and I am an Orc from Durotar. My goal on this journey is to visit every one of the various lands of Azeroth, and to meet all the various peoples here and talk to every windrider master in all the lands. Many people have tried to discourage me. Traveling Azeroth can be very dangerous, and many of the lands here are inhospitable and difficult to venture through for people like me who are very low level. However, I believe that my journey can help to increase understanding between all the people who live in Azeroth. I am hoping that, through my journeys, we can all learn a little bit about each other, and see that we all share many things in common. Orc or human, troll or furlbog, we are all the same beneath the skin, and I feel that a little compassion and a little understanding may do much to heal our hurts. Perhaps if we can get away from our histories and the emotions of our past, we can all learn to live together in peace. I plan to document my journey, and to put pictures here of the people I meet and the things I see. I am a student of history, so I will be interested in seeing firsthand the places I've read so much about. I'm fascinated by architecture and anthropology, and I hope to meet many interesting folks on my travels. Perhaps I can one day see the streets of Stormwind and visit the lush jungles of Feralas! I hope you enjoy my journey. I've made this post the first thing new visitors to my journal will see, to help give you a sense of what I'm trying to do. Wish me luck! --Thark Current Mood: Hopeful (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, September 11th, 2006
1:23 pm	Death in the desert When the sandstorm finally cleared, I packed up my bags and bid goodbye to Gadgetzan. I had high hopes of making the trek across the desert quickly, and being in Un'Goro Crater by early evening. As it turned out, that was a little optimistic. I turned and took a picture over my shoulder of Gadgetzan as I left the city's sheltering walls behind and trudged out into the barren sand wastes. The desert of Tanaris is largely trackless, sandy waste. The constant wind soon obliterates any trace of passage, and there are no roads to be found. It's also filled with a multitude of dangerous and aggressive predators, who scratch out their livings here by devouring anything that happens by, including travellers who are not sufficiently wary. Heyenas, great birds of prey, basilisks...all of them hungry and fast. I was still within sight of the walls of Gadgetzan when they set upon me. I soon fell into a routine. Take a few steps forward, be slain by hungry beasts, ressurect, take a few more steps forward, be slain again. Given enough exposure, the greatest horror can become mundane. I died many, many times there in the desert. After hours and hours of this, I came upon a rocky formation juting from the sand, and thought I could use it for shelter from the maurading predators. I was wrong. I slogged on, determined, my resolve not to let this desert claim my determination. I would beat this place, no matter what it took. As the day wore on, I strode grimly forward, one foot in front of the other, knowing that with each step, I would soon find myself standing once more over my lifeless body. The march became y entire existence, each footstep a tribute to sheer force of will. I forgot everything--my goal, my purpose, even my own name--in that endless battle to put one foot in front of the other, over and over and over again. I lost track of time there in the desert, and may well have lost my mind had the landmark I'd been searching for, the great stone pillar marking the path to Un'Goro Crater, unexpectedly appeared in front of me. With that sight, I felt suddenly wiser and more experienced, and I knew in that moment I had changed, and was now a third level warrior. Kaltunk would be so proud! My goal in sight, I renewed my determined push forward. I was still fated to die before I reached that obelisk, however. The basilisk would not be denied its snack. I resurrected, then made a mad dash for the obelisk and the steep path down into the rich jungle of Un'Goro crater beyond. There I stopped, in the no-man's land between the two places, where the terrain is not hospitable to the wildlife in either place, and made my camp. Tomorrow I will begin the descent into the crater. There is nothing behind me now but death, and no way to go but forward. Wish me well. Current Mood: determined (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 10th, 2006
3:34 pm	Gadgetzan Gadgetzan is an interesting city. It's a testament to sheer determination; the gnomes and goblins here have carved out a city in the most inhospitable desert imaginable. The desert of Tanaris is very different from the desert lands of my home--drier, sandier, hotter, and far more dangerous. The starkness of the landscape is reflected in the architecture: sand-colored buildings of stone, with rounded roofs to resist the weathering of the sandstorms that blow through here from time to time. One of these sandstorms began shortly after I arrived, and lasted all day. The desert is impassable during a sandstorm, and it's almost impossible for an Orc to see his hand in front of his face. I have stayed here much longer than I expected to. I've had an opportunity to talk to many people here during my stay. The hostile environment requires great ingenuity to survive, so it's no wonder Gadgetzan has become renown for its engineers. There are two competing schools of engineering here. The gnomes build all manner of strange devices designed to extend their knowledge of the physical world. The goblins, on the other hand, turn their enginnering to the creation of mechanical fighting suits, bombs, explosives, and weapons of war. Personally, I like the goblins. What's the use of spending time pursuing idle curiousity? Like my father always said, knowing how far away the moon is doesn't help put food in your belly or keep your family safe! A good, stout axe is what you need to get by in this world. The center of Gadgetzan is dominated by an enormous open arena-like cage. I have no idea what it's used for. At sunset this evening, I watched a mighty spellcaster practicing his spells. It was very dramatic. If the weather cooperates, tomorrow I shall be out on my way to Un'goro Crater. I'm told that it's only a few hours away. Current Mood: anticipatory (Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 6th, 2006
1:54 pm	Journey to Gadgetzan I stayed an extra day in the Salt Flats, watching the Goblins and Gnomes pit their bizarre inventions against each other. A surprising number of adventurers travel through here, usually on their way to or from the Goblin city of Gadgetzan, and the racers who have made their home out here seem to keep them busy. The races seem to have created their own miniature economy, with the Goblins and Gnomes constantly seeking new materials and devices to give their creations a competitive edge. I spoke at length to a Goblin "pit crew" member. I asked him why he was called a "pit crew," and he said it's because working out here under the hot sun is the pits. I'm not sure if he was serious or not. When I told him about my journeys, he laughed and told me that I was as stubborn as a Dwarf, only less intoxicated, and then went off on a long, rambling, and mostly incoherent tale about his cousin who married a Dwarf, and travelled to the Dwarven capital city of Ironforge, and crept into the ancient and forbidden parts of the city "right under the nose of the King of Ironforge himself," and something about a god who liked to work iron, and then a Tauren hunter came by and gave him a drink of something and he passed out. Strange people, Goblins. Anyway, I soon decided I'd had my fill of salt and salt and more salt, and ventured on my way toward Gadgetzan, over the ridge of mountains that mark the edge of the ancient lake bed. The trip was uneventful; hard salt underfoot, relentless sun, and not much else. By the time the strange little town built by the Gnomes and Goblins out here had disappeared behind me, I'd had more than enough of walking across fossilized lake beds to keep me happy for at least two lifetimes. The edge of the mountains is home to many six-legged basilisks, who (I'm told) are not above eating the occasional traveller who doesn't travel quite quickly enough. I didn't see any, though I did see many adventurers out hunting them; apparently, the Goblins pay money for their hides or something. By midafternoon, I'd found the foot of the narrow mountain pass that leads out of the lake bed, and begun my ascent. The climb was relatively easy; many feet have passed through here before me, and the path is well-marked and smooth. I reached the top of the pass in less than an hour, and began my descent into the desert of Tanaris beyond. Soon afterward, the walled city of Gadgetzan appeared before me. Because Gadgetzan is a neutral city, it serves everyone, both Horde and Alliance. The Windrider Master's station is outside the city; the Goblins are willing to let Horde and Alliance flight paths near, but do not permit the Windriders to land within the city itself. I spoke to the Windrider Master before venturing through the gates. Now I can fly almost anywhere! The Windrider Master here has a low opinion, it seems, of all things Goblin. He told me that Gadgetzan is a wretched hive of scum and villainy, and told me to be careful. I thanked him politely for his advice, and then entered the city. Gadgetzan is like Crossroads writ large. People everywhere, in all kinds of shapes and sizes; it is not uncommon to find Humans, Gnomes, Orcs, and the Forsaken dining together in the inn and shopping together in the auction house. Everywhere is a constant din of commerce, in half a dozen languages or more. The Goblins take a very equal-opportunity approach to business; they're more than happy to accept your money no matter what race you are or where your political affiliations lie. Armed Goblin soldiers with huge maces keep order, and prevent anyone from getting too out of hand. I love the Goblin cities. The Goblins have much to teach us about politics; they've turned neutrality into an art form. I plan soon to visit the Human capital city of Stormwind, where I look forward to putting the diplomatic skills I've learned from the Goblins to the test. But that journey will wait. Tomorrow, i set off across the desert of Tanaris westward toward Un'goro Crater, and from there on to Silithus, to visit the Cenarion stronghold, the front line in the war against the Silithid. Perhaps I will even find a way to do my part! (Comment on this)
Tuesday, August 29th, 2006
2:15 pm	Surprises in the Salt Flats I spent much more time in Freewind Post than I intended to. Partly, I think, it was a reaction to the friendliness of the Tauren, such a stark contrast to the unfriendly reception I got at Brackenwall Village; and partly because I needed the time to recover from my experiences in that awful swamp. Still, it's good to know the worst part of my trip is behind me. It's hard to imagine there is anything this land offers that is worse than that miserable muck. It still haunts my nightmares. The innkeeper at Freewind Post told me something I didn't know; if I make that place my home, I can instantly return from anywhere in the world, at a moment's notice. She offered me her inn as a safe haven on my journey, should I ever get into trouble,a nd I thanked her and took her up on her offer to make this place my home. I don't think I've ever felt so welcomed as I did here. After a late breakfast and fond goodbyes, I set out on my way east and south, toward the city of Gadgetzan. Gadgetzan is another neutral city, welcoming people of all races, and I could hardly wait to see it. The road east of Freewind Posts winds through the chaotic terrain of Thousand Needles in unexpected and surprising ways, and is prowled by giant hunting cats skilled at using the terrain for camouflage. They have very sharp claws and very strong jaws, and several times they set upon me before I even knew they were there. I died many times on the road, which brought back unpleasant memories of my experiences with the crocolisks in Dustwallow Marsh.Several times, I thought about abandining my journey and returning to the comfort of the inn, but I scraped up that dogged determinism that the detractors of the Orcs sometimes mistake for "stubbornness," and travelled on. Late in the afternoon, I reached the edge of the canyon, which opened up before me into the Great Salt Flat--the salt-encrusted remains of an ancient lake, now long-forgotten. At the edge of this vast stretch of salt flat is a tiny Orc outpost, which I ran toward with enthusiasm. Such enthusiasm, in fact, that I neglected to notice a stalking cat lying in wait. The beast mauled me within yards of the soldiers stationed at the camp, who refused even to lift a finger to help me. So much for the brotherhood of Orcs. After I rejoined my body, the soldiers--all war party veterans, by the look of them--refused to speak to me except to grumble about their assignment. In that moment, I felt bitterness for the first time. Thrall, our leader, freed us from bondage and built the mighty city of Orgrimmar because he was able to make us see the value in working together; when the day comes that one Orc will not come to the aid of another, I fear for our future. The warriors here believe they are serving the Horde, but if the Horde will not help its own, then what does that mean? I left them behind without a word, glad to be out of their presence, and set out across the salt flat. White crystals crunched under my feet as I walked, and soon the salt was in my clothing, my boots, my beard, everywhere. My eyes stung and burned, and my feet itched. My passage went unobserved save for some gigantic tortoises, who blinked at me and stared uncomprehending from beneath their shells, and some six-legged basalisks that offered a halfhearted pursuit. I evaded them (or, more accurately, ran away from them) whenever they came near. The sun had long set and the air was becoming quite cold--the deep, bonebiting cold of the desert--when i neared the center of the salt flat. I despaired of finding a place to sleep, and had resigned myself to trudging through the night, running from various creatures, when the most amazing sight struck my eye. There, in the most unlikely of places: a small Goblin city, low buildings huddled together in the vast emptiness. And bleachers. And, carved out of the salt, a track of some kind. As I approached the building, a strange vehicle came screaming at high speed past me. I watched in amazement as it pulled into the compound and sputtered to a stop. Curious, I followed it, and spoke to its goblin driver. He explained to me that Goblins and Gnomes, who have long held a friendly (and at times not-so-friendly) rivalry over who possesses the greatest engineering skill, had carved out a race track in this place, and they pit their prowess against one another by designing, building, and racing strange vehicles. That, at least, explains the many craters and the occasional odd pile of rubble I passed as I walked. The Goblin listened with amusement as I told him my own tale, shaking his head as I recounted my poor treatment by the Orcs of Dustwallow Marsh and the Orcish war party, and laughing uproriously as I told him of the solitary gnome attacking the guards at Crossroads. "Well, them's Orcs for ya," he said, "surly bad-tempered lot. Present company excluded, of course. Still, nobody, not even a Goblin with a hangover, can out-surly the Forsaken!" We chatted until long into the evening, and he offered me a place to spend the night with his pit crew. At least I think that's what he called them; it might have been "dit crew," I don't know. Some Goblin term, I suppose. He told me that Gadgetzan is a short distance away--"right over them hills thataway," was how he put it--and that if I left at sunup I would be there well before lunch. That news lifted my heart. Tomorrow I shall be in Gadgetzan. From there, my journey to Silithus should be easy. Current Mood: exhausted (Comment on this)
Friday, August 25th, 2006
8:28 pm	Out of the Swamp: Chaotic Terrain I am very pleased to be rid of the miserable, wretched, rainy, dank, smelly bog of Dustwallow Marsh. I set out from the cold and filthy cave where I spent the night, and if I never return, it will be too soon. On my travel back to the Barrens, I was beset by gigantic spiders who can shoot venom over great distances, and I died many times. I am becoming more cautious and, perhaps, more fearful; as I left the swamp and came again into the Barrens, I saw this beautiful tree, but truth to tell, paid more attention to the hyena lurking beneath it. I would in my more inexperienced days have run over to investigate the tree, but instead I gave it a wide berth and continued my journey south along the Gold Road. The Gold Road leads finally to the Great Lift, a marvel of Tauren engineering at the cliffs marking the terminus of the Barrens. The sheer cliff falls many hundreds of feet, and the Tauren have constructed there an enormous, towering elevator that takes travellors down safely to the great canyon that known as Thousand Needles. The elevators themselves are made of wood, and (in typical Tauren style) have no walls or even rails; they are not recommended for anyone with a fear of heights, a fear the Tauren seem genetically immune to. A ramp of wood juts out over the edge of the cliff to meet the elevator; in the distance, the totems of the Grimtotem Clan, a renegade tribe of Tauren, can just be seen. I rode the elevator down to the canyon floor with the wind whistling through my hair, and wondered for a brief instant if my journey was really worth it. The view from the elevator is stunning, the sweep of Thousand Needles spread out below me, but I huddled in the center of the elevator away from the edges and could not bring myself to take any pictures. Thousand Needles is an excellent example of what geologists call "chaotic terrain." Sculpted over millennia by wind and water, the canyon is a twisted, haphazard landscape of jutting buttes and winding canyons. I especially liked this formation, a butte surrounded by the needles that give the land its name. Freewind Post, the Tauren settlement here, is atop one such butte. I stuck to the road, resisting the temptation to explore, the memory of my repeated death in the horrible marsh still fresh in my mind, and within only a few hours had made it to the foot of the mesa that is home to the city. An elevator identical in design to the Great Lift, and just as dangerous, bore me to the top. My first view of Freewind Post from the elevator shows the many totems that characterize Tauren architecture, and the long wooden ramp jutting out into open air. The windrider master here is much more polite than the one in that Godforsaken swamp, and we spoke for quite some time. She was quite delighted to hear my tale, and I now have another flight path! The wind never stops blowing here; I can hear it whistling all around the roof of the inn as I type this. The Tauren may be comfortable living on such perches, but I'm not. Tomorrow I shall depart early. The Goblin city of Gadgetzan is a half-day's travel from here, and I anticipate no trouble. After that, a day's trek across the desert of Tanaris and another day's journey through the wetlands of Un'goro Crater, and I should make it to Cenarion Hold in the center of the land known as Silithus, one of the last truly untamed places in the world, and the center of an epic struggle between the peoples of Azeroth and the strange beings called the Silithid. It sounds very exciting--I can hardly wait! Current Mood: excited (Comment on this)
Sunday, August 20th, 2006
11:15 am	Death and despair in the swamp This harmless-seeming signpost started it all. When I departed Camp Taurajo, I took the Gold Road south, expecting to be at the border of Thousand Needles by the end of the day. This part of the Gold Road is not easy travelling. There are many huge, strange beasts in the scrubland of the southern Barrens who have evolved an ability to catch their prey unique in these lands; they can create from within their bodies a tremendous bolt of lightning which can stun or kill small animals. This electrical shock is not lethal to a healthy Orc, but it is quite painful, and I made sure to keep moving at a rapid pace. That way, the beasts could not close on me and attack me. After several hours of dodging these strange creatures, though, I became weary, and the bolts of lightning made my teeth hurt. So when I came across this signpost pointing the way into the land called Dustwallow Marsh, I chose to deviate from my plan and make a quick jaunt to the town of Brackenwall Village. I figured I could be there in an hour or so, and take my rest in the village before continuing south to Thousand Needles. No sooner had I turned east along the road when I was set upon by a strange, winged lizard that attacked me without provocation or warning. Almost before I knew what was happening, I found myself standing over my lifeless body. I re-entered my body and continued on, only to be set upon by a wild hyena fifty yards further down the road. I rose again, and continued on, desperate to find some place of safety. Soon the border of Dustwallow Marsh was in sight, and a sign advertised an inn where I might stay and rest for a while. My spirits rose, and I ran on, encouraged by the thought of reaching the safety of the inn. Twenty minutes of running, and the inn finally came into view. Words can not express the dismay and hopelessness that overwhelmed me when I arrived and discovered, to my horror, that nothing remained but a burned-out shell. With nothing behind me but hyenas and winged beings, and with my closest refuge now deep in the heart of the swamp, I felt no choice but to continue. Dustwallow Marsh is a miserable, Godforsaken morass of swampland, whose tangled trees conceal all manner of dangerous lurking beasts. And the smell--oh, dear God, the smell. Even keeping to the road did not protect me from the horrors lurking in the swamp. Gigantic spiders twice as high as a full-grown Orc, six-legged crocodiles with jaws that can crush steel armor-these are just a few of the things Dustwallow has to offer the weary traveller. I soon lost count of the number of times I found myself hovering over my own body. The painful shock of re-entering my lifeless corpse, that first ragged gasp of breath...these things I will never get used to. Finally, after a long, miserable, mad dash through the jungle, the town of Brackenwall Village came into view. Even this offered no solice, however, for I ran into town with a six-legged crocodile hard on my heels, and died within the sheltering walls of the village itself. As I came back to the world of the living, my axe, the gift from my friend Kaltunk, splintered into uselessness, and I lack the coppers to have it repaired. To add insult to injuru, the heavens opened and a bitter cold rain began to fall. The windrider master in Brackenwall seemed unimplressed by my journey, and refused even to speak to me. The only welcoming faces in this wretched little village belonged, strangely enough, to a group of ogres who had taken refuge from their own village far to the south. I slept in a cave where one of the ogres lived. Tomorrow I shall leave this miserable mudhole and make the journey back to the Barrens, and from there go to Thousand Needles, as I should have done to begin with. No place in all this world can possibly be more wretched than this miserable swamp. Current Mood: depressed (Comment on this)
Friday, August 18th, 2006
9:07 pm	Setting out again, and disaster I enjoyed my stay in Thunder Bluff, talking to the Tauren and examining the architecture, but after a couple of days I found myself restless and eager to resume my journey. As it turned out, my impulse was not a good one. I packed my few belongings when i woke the third day and headed on the path southward, away from Thunder Bluff and back toward the Barrens. My goal was to reach Camp Taurajo, spend a day there, and then set out south into the lands called Thousand Needles, there to speak to the Windrider Master at Freewind Post. I should have stuck to that plan. My late afternoon I had travelled to Bloodhoof Village, to pick up the road back to Camp Taurajo. Bloodhoof Village is a quintessentially Tauren village in architecture and in culture, with the classic Tauren features that define their style of building The practical infrastructure of the town bears the hallmarks of Tauren art and architecture, like this bridge spanning the river outside the town: Even the wind-powered mills the Tauren use to grind grain are built and ornamented in their characteristic signature style. In Bloodhoof Village, I turned on the path westward toward the Barrens. The walk was uneventful, and I easily made Camp Taurajo in time for dinner. Some kind of commotion was going on when I arrived; apparently, the captive Bristlebark had given someone some information about his political adversaries among the quillboar, and as a result several of the leaders of the group of quillboar threatening the camp had been assassinated...I didn't really follow all of it, but the Tauren guards seemed very pleased. I ate with several Tauren (and believe me, even an Orcish war veteran coming off a three-day fast can not eat like a Tauren!) and slept in a hammock at the inn, then bid my farewell to my hosts and left with the rising sun on my way down the Gold Road toward Thousand Needles. I still wish I had kept to my plan. But I do not care to write of what happened next right now. The memory is still too fresh. Current Mood: traumatized (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 17th, 2006
12:16 pm	Journey to Thunder Bluff I set off on the road eastward out of Camp Taurajo into the mountain-ringed valley of Mulgore, toward Thunder Bluff. The land of Mulgore is a lush, richly carpeted expanse of green, surrounded on all sides by tall, jagged mountains. The grass underfoot was soft and springy, and felt decidedly unnatural beneath my feet, accustomed as they were to hard-packed desert clay. Even the air itself smells different--not unpleasant, exactly, but not what I'm used to. In the desert, the air is dry and odors travel a very long way; a skilled Orc hunter can sense his prey with his nose alone, and battle-hardened Orc veterans can gauge the size and distance of an enemy force just by sniffing the wind. In Mulgore, all one can smell is grass and trees; I felt like an entire army of dwarves could be following a half-dozen steps behind me and I wouldn't be able to tell under the smell of green growing things. It was quite disconcerting, and I was nervous and jittery for the first several hours of my trip. As the day wore on and no army of dwarves leapt out to ambush me, I began to relax a little, and after a time I found I could actually enjoy the landscape, alien as it was. At one point, I felt the ground beneath my feet begin to shudder and shake, and I dove for cover before I realized it was nothing more than a placid family of kodos wandering across the path. I travelled east through the tiny town of Bloodhoof Village, where I rested for a time before I turned north on the road to Thunder Bluff. I walked until sunset, then bedded down for the night beneath a tall pine tree; the sound of the wind through the branches of the tree soon sent me into a deep slumber. When i woke the next morning, I continued north, and before the afternoon had arrived, I found myself at the base of the tall mesa upon which the main rise of Thunder Bluff had been built. The Tauren love high, open spaces; Thunder Bluff is a city built atop a series of mesas, each connected with narrow rope bridges. A tall elevator takes the visitor from the valley floor up to the main rise--an arrangement, I'm told, that offers many strategic advantages. Upon ascending the elevator, I found the main rise of Thunder Bluff spread out before me. I wandered for a time in awe, staying away from the edges of the mesa; the Tauren have an alarming habit of building their buildings right on the edge of the cliff, and think nothing of bridging a perilous span with a shaky, slender rope bridge that sways distressingly beneath one's feet. It was many hours before I could bring myself to brave those slender bridges and explore the other rises of the city. The view of the main rise from the other rises is quite breathtaking--once you get your breath back from crossing that wobbly bridge. The Thunder Bluff Windrider Master occupies the highest point in the city, atop the enormous totem that dominates the main rise. He clearly is not afraid of heights, even by Tauren standards. And not including the flight path from Booty Bay, I now have five flight paths! I'm finding this journey to be quite simple, really. At this rate, I'll have every flight path in Azeroth in mere weeks! Since this journey is turning out to be so easy, I plan to stay here for a few days before venturing on. Next stop, the magnificent land of Thousand Needles, and beyond it, the goblin city of Gadgetzan. If all goes well, I will be in Silithus in a few days' time. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 16th, 2006
7:05 pm	Down the Gold Road... I dreamt of ships and pirates and talking parrots all night last night, and woke this morning in a cold sweat. I still feel shaky. If I never set foot on a ship again for the rest of my life, it will be too soon; I can't imagine a worse experience. I decided to forego breakfast this morning, as my stomach was still a bit queasy, and I packed up and headed south from Crossroads down the Gold Road, the main north-south roadway that passes through the Barrens. I walked all morning and afternoon, and saw nary a single soul--nothing save for gazelle and plainstriders. In times past, the Gold Road was thronging with traffic, day and night--traders, warriors, and adventurers all used it to travel the Barrens. The innkeeper in Crossroads says that all changed when a new Windrider Master took up residence in Camp Taurajo, a Tauren village almost two days' journey south. This Windrider Master is my destination. Today, the Gold Road is little more than a long, dusty expanse of hard-packed dirt, worn smooth and flat by the passage of feet that travel it no longer. My only companion for the entire morning and afternoon was my own shadow. I stopped a couple of times to rest and to eat, as I had recovered (finally) from the awful experience of travelling by ship, and continued my journey until nightfall. I made camp just off the side of the road, under the watchful eyes of a couple of passing plainstriders, and slept beneath the stars. In the morning, I resumed my southward journey, and by early afternoon I was in Camp Taurajo. The camp is little more than a tiny collection of impermanent-looking buildings and a handful of Tauren warriors; the Windrider seemed distracted, preoccupied perhaps with the prisoner (a Quillboar) who had recently been brought there. I was forbidden to take pictures because of the presence of the prisoner, but spoke to the Windrider Master (I now have another flight path!) and made ready to journey into the Tauren homeland of Mulgore, on my way to Thunder Bluff, the great Tauren city and one of the mightiest cities in the world. I plan to spend a few days in Thunder Bluff, looking at the architecture and talking to the Tauren. I know little of them, though they are among the closest allies of the Orcs, and have helped us immensely in the past, in dark times when we needed it most. Perhaps I will be able to express my appreciation personally for the things they have done for us. Current Mood: tired (Comment on this)
Sunday, August 13th, 2006
7:50 pm	Making progress! I rested and ate lunch in Ratchet, then spoke to a Goblin named Dizzywig about travelling by ship to another Goblin city across the ocean. Goblin names are very strange. We Orcs have simple, practical names--Devrok, Kaltunk, Thrall. Practical names that come easily to the mind and the tongue. The people here in Ratchet have strange names that I find difficult to remember. It's interesting how it's the little things that sometimes really let you know when you are in a strange place. The ship that travels between Ratchet and Booty Bay is easy to board, though I will admit I was quite nervous. I've never been on a ship before, much less travelled to such a distant place. I was almost shaking as I stepped aboard. The sea is very odd. I could not quite seem to keep my balance, and the smells of water and the sound of the waves seemed foreign and uncomfortable. I can not believe that Orcs were ever meant to travel in such a way. As we left the harbor, the ship passed by a series of small islands with excellent examples of old Trollish architecture on them. I wished I could get closer; one day, perhaps I should see if there is a way out to those islands. I spent the rest of the afternoon and night hanging over the side of the ship, puking roasted boar meat into the sea. The motion of the ship never stops, and I don't understand how anyone can travel this way without being ill. Truly, a floating vessel travelling over water is no way to journey! All that was forgotten, though, when we made port in Booty Bay. I have heard of the city, a Goblin town built by former pirates in a sheltered cove on the sea; but it was nothing like what I expected. Many of the buildings are actually built on pilings directly over the water! This is strange and baffling to me; the constant noise of the sea, the smell of salt water, the lapping of the waves...it all made me long for the familiar deserts of my home. The Windrider Master here is just above the inn, which is located in the hull of a wrecked ship that has been turned into a building. It didn't exactly inspire confidence about my return voyage! I spoke to him and said goodbye, and was on the ship for my return to Ratchet as fast as my legs could carry me. This time, I stayed in the cabin for the entire day's journey, and vowed never again to set foot on a boat. It's just...not natural. On reaching Ratchet, I headed back along the dusty path to Crossroads. By sunset, I had returned, with two more flight paths cleared. I can not tell you how happy I was to see the inn in Crossroads. I am very pleased with my progress so far, despite the discomforts of two days aboard a boat. I feel that this endeavor may be even easier than I thought it would be. Current Mood: accomplished (Comment on this)
Saturday, August 12th, 2006
6:41 pm	Setting out from Crossroads I left the inn this morning and spoke to Devrak, the Windrider Master at Crossroads. His is one of the busiest posts in the world; the stories he's heard from travellers passing through here, of dragons and giant insects and great wars and marauding undead striking from floating cities, are sometimes difficult for a simple Orc to believe. After speaking to him, I now have my first flight path! I can travel from here to Orgrimmar and back, soaring through the air on a flying beast. I have a wonderful sense of freedom; it's hard to describe how liberating this is. (Well, it would be if I had any coin in my pocket, anyway. Windrider Masters charge a fee for their services to pay for the food and care of their mounts, and I do not yet have two coppers to rub together.) He showed me the flight path I am now authorized to take, though, and it's very exciting! Soon I shall have many, many flight paths, all criscrossing the map, and be able to travel at will to the four corners of the world. After a simple breakfast of boar meat and spring water, I seout east toward the nearby Goblin city of Ratchet. The Goblins are an interesting race, known far and wide for their prowess in the engineering arts. The trip to Ratchet was quick and uneventful, and by lunchtime I was in the city. The city is very different from anything I've ever seen before. The architecture is an amalgam of styles from all over the globe--the square, boxy buildings of the Humans, built of wood like the Trolls do, with architectural flair and detailing unique to Goblins...it all seemed strange and different to my eyes. On the road leading into Ratchet, I met a travelling salesman--a Goblin, travelling with an Ogre companion. The Goblins have long maintained their official stance of neutrality in political matters, and as a result, they have good relations with almost all the various races. Indeed, the Goblin Windrider Master in Ratchet maintains flight paths for all peoples, and has mounts that he makes available to any traveller with enough coin in his pocket. The examples of the Goblins is inspirational; if they can get along with everyone, even those like Gnomes and Humans who look very strange, perhaps we can too. I think we can all learn from the examples of the Goblins. Current Mood: hopeful (Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 9th, 2006
8:20 pm	Day 4: Crossroads When i woke up, I resolved that I would indeed take the shortcut I thought about yesterday. The path in green that my friends in the tavern suggested--the one that kept me on the roads--looked significantly longer than necessary. I did not reckon on how fast a raptor can run. The area south and west of Orgrimmar is crawling with raptors--swift, dangerous predators with jaws of steel. Barely half a day out, well before the banks of the Southfury River, and I had already died. And died. And died again. I do not think I will ever get used to that. It took me until midafternoon to reach the bank of the river. I forded the river easily; the Southfury is wide but slow, and not very deep. I paused beneath the wide branches of a tree to eat and to sleep for a bit, escaping the heat of the desert sun beneath the overhanging canopy. By late in the afternoon I had reached Far Watch Post, a watchtower erected at the bridge that crosses the Southfury. From the top of the tower, I took this picture of the great bridge itself. The tower is a marvel, taller than the highest point in the Den where I grew up. I felt almost as though I could reach up and touch the dome of the sky from its dizzying height. The patrolling Tauren soldiers below looked like insects from such a lofty vantage point. I travelled west for about half an hour before coming to the Gold Road, the mighty north-south roadway through the Barrens. I turned south and travelled, mile after mile of its dusty expanse, as the sun sank lower. Nighttime can come very quickly in the desert, and I wanted to reach Crossroads before dark. Finally, in early evening, I caught my first glimpse of the inn at Crossroads. Just that one sighting, and instantly I felt wiser, more experienced, as if my travels had already changed me, made me somehow more than I had been before. Ah, Crossroads, the city that I'd heard so many tales of, that far-off place that is written so large in our tales and our history. I soon heard the sounds of battle, and saw, to my surprise, the guards of Crossroads locked in fierce combat with a Gnome of the Alliance! I do not know who struck first, or what they were fighting about. Perhaps he had provoked the guards, or made a threatening move. Times are very tense right now, and it is easy for an accidental slip or a misunderstood gesture to ignite hostility and violence. He retreated quickly, and when the guards resumed their duties, he sat in the road and ate. I sat down with him, and we broke bread together. I would like to think this simple act helped heal the hurts between our people. He let me take his picture. His manner of dress, so exotic and ornamented, seemed very strange to my eyes, and he was somehow much smaller than i could have imagined. He was scarcely larger than one of our children not five seasons old, but at the same time, he seemed almost...ancient, somehow, like he has seen far more than many people even know there is to see. Perhaps he returned home to his faraway land with a little more understanding of us and our ways. I hope so. Crossroads itself was like something from a wild vision. The city is strategically important, sitting as it does at the center of two major roads, but more importantly, at the center of virtually every Windrider flight path on this continent. The Crossroads sees a constant stream of travelers, day and night, arriving from or departing toward distant lands; at all times, it is a hive of activity, filled with sights and sounds and smells that hint of travel to places a simple Orc can scarcely even imagine. Every kind of person one can imagine could be seen here--Orcs, Trolls, Tauren, even some of the Forsaken from across the world. Crossroads is exciting--indeed almost overwhelming. My heart lifted as I imagined myself like the people who pass through here every day--a world traveller, adventuring in distant places and bringing back news and experience from far away. Tomorrow I shall speak to the Windrider Master, and then set off on the next leg of my journey. There is something inspiring about this place. I can hardly wait! Current Mood: excited (Comment on this)
Tuesday, August 8th, 2006
7:01 pm	The Great Gates of Orgrimmar After my experience with the harpies, I didn't deviate from the road north through the canyon at all. The landscape of Durotar never ceases to amaze; it's breathtaking in its variety and complexity. But nothing could have prepared me for my first glimpse of the great gates of Orgrimmar. It's hard for anyone who isn't an Orc to really appreciate the emotions I had when I saw the mighty stone wall of Orgrimmar for the first time. We Orcs have had a turbulent and painful history; we don't belong here, and were first brought to this place in bondage, slaves dragged from our original home. Orgrimmar is our city, the new home we have fought for and built with our blood and our tears. It is a tangible symbol of our determination and our strength. We do not belong in this place, yet we have made a home here, something that nobody can ever take away from us. It is as much a living tribute of our will to live as it is a city, and I don't know if anyone who is not an Orc can ever really appreciate what that means to us. As the mighty gate came into my sight, I felt tears in my eyes. The gate itself is enormous--far larger than I had imagined it to be. The portcullis alone weighs many hundreds of tons, and is raised and lowered by mighty chains wider than my fist. The gate is wide enough to allow many Orcs on mounts to pass through side by side, and opens into a tunnel that twists and turns, concealing what lies ahead from any invader who might breach the portcullis, until it finally opens into a series of valleys deep in the mountain where the warchief Thrall built this incredible city. Once past the gate, the city spread out before me, dominated in its center by the tall Skytower upon which the Windrider Master stands, directing his flying mounts. Each major city has a Windrider Master, and by speaking to such a master and paying a few coin, one can fly on the back of a Windrider from one city to another. Each Windrider Master requires that you speak with him before you can fly into his city, and that is the goal of my journey--to visit every Windrider Master in Azeroth. I took a picture of myself with the Orgrimmar Windrider Master. Each Windrider Master is an elite veteran of many battles; the coveted position does not come easily, and must be earned. After speaking to him and gaining permission to fly into the city, I stopped at a tavern near the gates of Orgrimmar. i can not yet fly anywhere, because I have yet to speak to any other Windrider Masters, but as I do, I will now be able to fly from each of those places back into Orgrimmar. Inn the inn, I made some new friends. I told them of my journeys, and of my intention to leave tomorrow morning and seek the Windrider Master in a city called Crossroads, a couple of days' travel west of here. They suggested I take the road south from here back through the canyon, and then from there take the road west toward Far Watch post, where I could easily find the road to Crossroads. However, that will take me almost all the way back to Razor Hill, and add at least a day to my journey. I think that I may instead wake up early tomorrow and head overland from Orgrimmar straight toward Far Watch Post, crossing the Southfury River. By taking this direct route, I hope to be in Crossroads two days hence. Current Mood: elated (Comment on this)
Monday, August 7th, 2006
9:24 pm	Day 3: An encounter I woke up early this morning and made ready to depart Razor Hill, hoping to make Orgrimmar by late afternoon or early evening. Before I left, I got a picture of me posing with a Razor Hill grunt stationed by the northern gate. An Orcish warrior has a very special relationship with his axe. It is a tool, it is a weapon, it protects him and finds him food and defends him. A veteran Orc knows that he must be able to trust his life to his axe. It's a personal relationship more intimate than any relationship with friend or lover. Orcish blacksmiths sometimes specialize in making axes, and can forge axes of legendary keenness and power. My own axe was a parting gift from Kaltunk. It's nothing special, yet I may still one day count on it to save my life. As I left, the grunt told me to stick to the road as I travelled through the canyon, and warned me against exploring any of the side canyons. He said Orcish travellers have been attacked by harpies. A part of me wonders, though, if the attacks are really unprovoked; for many years, the harpies have been pushed back, into smaller and smaller territories, and today they have scarcely a thing to their names. Is it really surprising they have come to resent us? The road north from Razor Hill to Orgrimmar winds along the bottom of a deep canyon. Red sandstone walls rose sharply above me and spread out over my head; in parts of the canyon, I was almost completely underground. After about four hours' travel, I came to a side opening in the sheer rock wall. Curious, I ventured forth, and found a nest of harpies, a scant few hundred yards from the main roadway. I slung my axe over my back to show them I meant them no harm, and ventured toward the nest, hand outstretched in greeting. It is possible they misunderstood my intention, for they attacked me immediately. I attempted to flee, but they were far faster than I, and it did not take long before I felt the stab of claws in my back. Then, a moment of disorientation, and the sky turned strange. I had a dreamy vision, and a voice in my head telling me it was not yet my time. Something compelled me to run, more quickly than the wind, back along unfamiliar paths and into the canyon again. There I confronted the strangest thing I have ever seen: my own body, lying on the canyon floor. I felt myself drawn into my body by some strange force, and in an instant, I was standing where I once had lain. I do not think I will ever get used to that sensation. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, August 6th, 2006
5:23 pm	Day 2: Razor Hill At sunup, I bid farewell to the Trolls at Sen'jin Village and took the road north. The day passed quickly; I think I'm getting used to walking. The roads in this part of Durotar are not well-travelled, and I passed hardly a soul all morning and into the afternoon. By midafternoon, I came across a couple of wolfriders who patrol the road between Razor Hill and the Den. I knew them in passing; they were long-time friends of Kaltunk. I've always dreamed of one day riding a dire wolf myself, like the veterans in all the stories I've heard. Late in the afternoon, the high walls of Razor Hill appeared in front of me. The high chimney of the local inn was a welcome sight. The architecture of the lands of Durotar is distinctive, and unlike the architecture anywhere else. Many a weary Orc has had his step lightened and his heart lifted by the sight of the smoke drifting from the tall chimneys of a welcoming inn in Durotar, believe me! At the inn, I found food and good conversation. Charred boar meat and refreshing spring water is a simple meal, perhaps, to those accustomed to more exotic fare, but after a day on the road it's a feast. The innkeeper told me that the road to Orgrimmar, another day's journey to the north, has been clear lately, and I should see the gates of Orgrimmar by tomorrow afternoon. I can hardly wait! I had the innkeeper take a picture of me in Razor Hill before I turned in for the evening. Only a couple days into my journey, and already it seems that the land is speaking to me. I can feel myself changing. I really think I've made the right decision. I've longed to see the great Orgrimmar since I was a young child; it's still hard to believe that by this time tomorrow I will be writing from inside its mighty walls. Current Mood: uplifted (Comment on this)
9:17 am	Leaving everything behind After I said my goodbyes, I slung my axe over my shoulder and headed down the road away from the Den and everything I know. I could not resist the urge to turn back one last time and take a picture of my home. This picture is taken from the road looking out toward the Valley of Trials. The memory of red sandstone of the Durotar desert and the feel of the dusty clay road beneath my feet will always be with me, no matter how far I travel and what I may find. I walked for several hours down the road. By early morning, I had come to the great wall separating the Den from the rest of Durotar. This wall was built across the road to the Den many years ago, during time of war, and has remained ever since. In some ways, it's poignant thing, because it reminds us that we live in a world that still needs walls and boundaries, even though we are now technically at peace. The wall is still patrolled by guards, who are charged with defending the Den against any hostile invaders who may come to kill us. This is as far from my home as I have ever travelled, so the wall here is psychological as well as physical. I sat in the road to take my morning repast; I felt it was appropriate to eat in the shadow of the wall and gather my strength for the journey beyond. After eating, I bid farewell to my old life, took a deep breath, and travelled for the first time beyond the wall and into Durotar. The guards ignored me; they are accusomed, Ithink, to seeing people, including no doubt many low-level Orcs like me, journey past them seeking fame and riches. People come and go, but the job of the guards is always the same. Past the wall is the vast desert of Durotar. Just on the other side, growing near this road, I saw this splendid specimin of rhamnus alopias, or the shark-toothed thorn tree. It takes its common name from the rows of triangular thorns that grow along the top sides of its branches. These thorns resemble shark's teeth and are very sharp; trolls sometimes tip their spears with the thorns of shark-tooth trees. And speaking of trolls... I walked along the road for many hours in the desert sun, and by late afternoon I knew I was nearing the Troll town called Sen'jin Village, built several years ago on the edge of the water. Sen'jin Village is a good example of modern Trollish architecture, so different from the heavy stone of ancient Trollish buildings. The Trolls have become almost a nomadic people; the Darkspear Trolls of Sen'jin Village came here to Durotar by ship when they fled the civil war in far-away Stranglethorn Vale. The architecture of the Troll towns is practical and easy to build; stone, which requires great effort to quarry and move, has been replaced with airy, spacious buildings of wood, linked by long, spiralling stairways. The Trolls are a generous and hospitable people. I didn't have any money, but they let me stay free in a guest hostel on the edge of the village. The accomodations weren't special, but after a long walk I was happy to have a roof over my head to shelter me from the late afternoon sun and a sleeping mat below me. My room faced toward the bonfire in the center of the village, which kept me warm during the cold desert night. I was so weary from my walk I decided to go to bed long before the sun went down. By tomorrow evening, I plan to be in Razor Hill, which is nearly a day's walk from here. Current Mood: accomplished (Comment on this)
Saturday, August 5th, 2006
9:54 pm	Day 1: Starting Out The first day of my journey is harder than I thought it would be. I'm saying goodbye to the Den--the only home I've ever known. I'm also saying goodbye, at least for a time, to all the people who have been like a family to me. I've never seen anything beyond this valley, so the idea of leaving my home is kind of scary to me. I had a passing Horde guard take a picture of me with Kaltunk, who has been like a father to me: That's me on the left, and Kaltunk on the right. He tried, in his patient way, to discourage me from going. "Thark, listen to me," he said. "The world is no place for a Level 1 Orc. At least wait until you have more experience before you go!" But of course we all must make our own destiny, and I think he is wise enough to understand that. I packed my things and went to go. I'll always remember his parting words to me: "May your blades never dull." Among my people, that's a traditional wishing of goodwill when we part ways. I think one day I will return to the Den, but I wonder if I'll be the same Orc. I hope my path brings me back here, but who can tell how my experiences will change me? There's a Trollish saying, you can never step foot in the same river twice, because when you return, both you and the river will have changed. My life is waiting for me somewhere out there, and I know I won't find it until I leave everything familiar behind. Current Mood: Melancholy (4 Comments |Comment on this)