Suul grew weary of the world’s problems.
How many Alliance had he slain? How many times had Azeroth been threatened by some unrelenting force he met with his horns?
For the first time, his rage gave way to reason.
It was the first time he ever questioned his purpose, his place.
He never cared for the Gods nor kings and queens, their drama. Their foolishness. In a moment of shoulder-falling realization, he also knew he had never truly cared about his own destiny, either.
He had just raised his blade and killed what needed dyin’.
The future had no advice; any purpose or path he sought did not paint itself in gold on the ground.
With nothing to challenge his strength, he turned to a mighty mountain peak. He commanded Honorwing, his Drake of the West Wind to hunt and be free for a time. This mountain he would climb on his own. If he died on the ascent, so be it.
A village was rumored to be on top, one of the few places he’d never explored. Why not?
It took a week. And nearly all his strength. His every muscle shuddering on the brink of failure, he finally pulled himself to the sculpted high-peak Camp Tunka’lo. The hardened travelers there only puzzled briefly at the tauren who lay collapsed on the ground for a while. Why the hell hadn’t he just taken a windrider?
Parched, he stumbled into the inn and quaffed three full flasks of rich cold-brewed stout in short order. He tossed some coins on the counter and collapsed for two days on a bed besides a smoldering fire.
Rubbing his eyes at the bright dawn, Suul emerged and wandered around the tiny camp. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the old Tauren – oddly, not a Taunka – standing in the doorway to a building, his arms crossed and a wry smile across his face.
“Suul, you finally made it.”
“To the shittiest vacation spot in Azeroth?” Suul replied with a squint.
“No, to your destiny,” said the mysterious stranger. “I am Xarantaur. Come in…”
Suul walked into the dusty library and paused while his eyes adjusted to the low light compared to the snow-blind of the Storm Peaks. All around him were books and artifacts, a seemingly unkempt yet an ancient organization of knowledge. He felt oddly calm.
“Well met,” Suul said cautiously.
Xarantaur chortled, “Sit, scarred veteran.”
He reached for a thick book from a high shelf, then sat across from Suul, a stone rune-carved table between them.
“You may find this hard to believe, but I have written of you, here…” and as he spoke he dropped an aging tome upon the table, opening to a page titled “Warriors of Warsong.”
Suul read the pages telling the tales of his former glories, his decade-long battles in Warsong Gulch still clogging his mind with painful and glorious memories. He grinned at the conquests and scowled at the defeats, wondering if it would ever truly end.
“Well, I hope you can sell this for good coin, but not too many are that interested in the stories of an old blade like mine,” Suul spoke softly with a bit of wistful nostalgia in his voice.
“I wrote it because it is true, Suul. I wrote it because I am the Witness. And I have seen you fight with passion and with purpose that has shaken the collar of the apathetic, the will-less. You inspire others, young one.”
“Young? Ha!,” the sinewy and strong old warrior guffawed.
“I am ten thousand years on this plane, son.” And his eyes spoke the truth.
For once in his life, Suul decided to discard his gruff exterior, his gut-level ignore-or-kill mentality. He relaxed and spoke openly, “I don’t know why I came here, but I am honored to know you who has seen so much. Can you tell me of the future? Or even the present? What should I do? Where should I go?”
Xarantaur smiled widely, saying “I didn’t quite expect you to be humbled so quickly.”
But his smile faded when he saw how Suul’s face was without joy, without much reaction… to anything.
“My strong one, know this, your journey for a purpose has ended. I am here for you now, and I will guide you henceforth. All the answers you seek, I will give. All the quests you crave, I will reveal. All the triumphs you yet know, I shall share in your glory.”
Suul raised up in his seat a bit, yet he remained silent.
“What do you know of the Way of the Druid, the Way of Balance?” Xarantaur asked.
“Fucking Night elves,” Suul practically spat.
“Think not of them, think only of Cenarius, not an elf nor an elk, not mortal or immortal, not good nor evil. You will be pleased to know the Night Elves don’t have some kind of monopoly on the knowledge of the workings of Nature and of Balance.”
Again, Suul felt something for the first time he had never felt – the possibility that a path other than the Warrior could be possible. Could it be that this Tauren held more druidic secrets than the oldest elf in Darnassus? His heart opened. His mind began to race.
“It is only the truth that I seek. Thus far, the truth of Might has been determined by my blade and my will. Is there more to that in nature, really? The strongest survive,” Suul reasoned.
“There is weakness in strength, darkness in light, and power in the meek. I ask you to be my disciple, the first in 5,000 years. Choose freely, and we will begin.”
He did not hesitate.
“You called me, master. I have come.”
Suul kneeled, and his new future was born.