Work Text:
Journal entry, Mist extrinsic (primary temporal rail extrinsic - Iron Horde exigency) 13/07 17:45 Draenor time
Tired.
Draenor windup inexecrable. Unsure if bureaucratic, military, or reconstructionist in source; outcome same in any case. Sick of lacking progress, useless meetings, flawed plans failing predictably. Orcs argue in tone that causes migraines unlike those since Jinyu debate camp. Cannot see way to successful outcome without unacceptably drastic action.
Appear to be more despondent than usual. Will consider.
—-
Ambre puts down her journal. She tries to be forthright and objective in it, for what’s the use to future generations of a record that’s dishonest? The idea offends her scientific sensibilities, so there’s nothing for it - she’s going to have to figure out why she’s feeling so bad now, after two years working at it.
Two years is a long time, but she’s worked on longer projects than this, and projects with less tangible results. True, the Draenor campaign had started out well, with the expected tug of war; wins and losses in unequal measure, and even the losses had their gains. Gorgrond had brought the Laughing Skull to their side, and taught them much of Blackrock tactics.
The tempo had slowed as weeks became months, and all too soon they’d been raining fire on the gates of Hellfire Citadel, and the Iron Horde had been defeated, officially if not entirely in practise. Another pawful of months and that had been resolved, too.
Assault has turned to cleanup, then to recovery, and that was when the last of their momentum surrendered to static friction, the mire of internal orc politics entangled with the different opinions of the Azeroth forces slowly splintering apart any progress as they tried to work their way clear, and home through portals at last. That was a year ago.
After a few months she’d excused herself - she had no official standing, not really - and had trekked around Draenor once more, this time with more care now that she wasn’t being attacked. She’d performed more experiments, practised sketching landscapes, and tested the soils of the various regions, finally returning to Shattrath City four months of local time later, heartened to see the progress with the reconstruction work from the outside.
She’d quickly discovered that the city walls were the extent of progress, however. The Shadowmoon had resisted seeding their fallow land to render it arable, and the Warsong had rescinded their previously agreed refugee intake, demanding the other clans take in Laughing Skull refugees instead. The Draenei had offered concessions, but the Orcs were not willing to offer anything of their own, retreating into the fiefdoms of their clans and protecting their own interests. It was, to put it mildly, the opposite of progress.
She sat back in her chair, sighing as she rapped her paw against the armrest. The Draenei has allowed her to claim one of the rooms of Shattrath as her own, and had become accustomed to its coziness as she’d spent more and more time here. At first she’d had a number of visitors, but even that had-
Her nose crinkles. What is that smell?
She turns in her chair towards the doorway. Garlic, and… cinnamon? And pumpkin? No.Disbelieving, she pulls herself upright and pads out of the room. Sunset was an hour ago, and the halls are otherwise quiet, leaving the scent easy enough to follow. She turns left, and walks the Circumferential Hall past two, three rooms before she finds it.
It’s one of the dormitories, repurposed a year ago for use by visiting delegations, but to her surprise there’s a half dozen Pandaren inside. I know the Pandaren on this expedition. None of them are in town. In the centre of the room sits the source of the smell - a large cauldron sits over some crystals, the soup within simmering slowly, and a wire grill suspended across as a lid, supporting slabs of garlic bread.
The other Pandaren welcome her in, she thinks - something isn’t right, and her thought processes are off kilter, she notes in a detached kind of way - and she takes the offered seat and bowl of soup. Reaching for the bread, she realises what this reminds her of.
—
Anah, teaching her. Try again, she says. Concentrate. Hear the spirit. Calling. Call in return. Bring it forth. She tries, closing her eyes. The whisper of wind on fur. The forest air, fresh and crisp. A gentle, subtle whisper, tantalisingly close. She reaches for it, a silent entreaty. Come, she implores. Come, she wills. She feels the elemental respond, somewhere deep. She feels it stir at her calling. She feels it come near, her fur standing on end as if from static. The air smells of-
- of Pumpkin Cinnamon Soup, and the moment is lost, the elemental retreating.
Anah gives her a wry look, and pats her on the shoulder. Time for dinner, she says. Good try. You were close.
Ambre is proud, and smiles for Anah. Clambering to her feet, she skips across the grass and inside. She knows there will be fresh baked bread with it too, and learning shaman work has given her a hunger.
—
It has been many years since she had thought about her days with Anah, in the Valley of the Four Winds. She thinks about it while she eats, and it isn’t until one of the other Pandaren ask her if everything is alright that she realises she is crying.
Embarrassed, she makes her excuses. It is fine. She listens with half an ear to their conversation, learning they had only recently come from Azeroth, thinking that their fellow Pandaren may want some supplies from home. She spends more time with them than she intends, thinking and eating the soup. It is very nearly as good as she remembers.
They talk of the changes brought by trade with Alliance and Horde both, back home. A new dock has been constructed along the northern Kun-Lai coastline, and construction of neutral trade ships, Pandaren owned, have been entering use. The Vale of Eternal Blossoms has very nearly been returned to its pristine state, after years of works and effort, and she cannot help but feel a pang of regret that she cannot say the same for here. It’s beautiful to visit, they say. The golden leaves carpet the ground once more, and the new Golden Pagoda is nearly complete. The twin colossi have been torn down, a memorial in their place for all who stood and fought to save us from the Sha, of all race and allegiance. For the Protectors who gave everything. She asks about the Four Winds, offhandedly. The Valley bustles with activity. Halfhill has become a sprawling marketplace, noisy with sales, bartering, and a celebratory drink. The hills are as green as they’ve ever been and The Heartland filled to bursting with crops as demand increases. The brew has been particularly good since the Sha were defeated, better than the pair from Stoneplow can ever remember having. She ladles more soup as they talk, trying to hide the trembling of her hands.
Ambre returns to her room, promising to come back in the morning for breakfast when they insist, wanting to hear her stories of Draenor, and it is poor repayment in her eyes but simple enough to make all the same. She picks up her journal, and, closing her eyes, she tries to hold back another outpouring of tears before she stains the page. She knows the answer now. She knows the truth of it, and what’s the use of a record that’s dishonest?
Taking a steadying breath, she writes.
I need to go home.