A lost past.

[Saerok]

The scene by the fire was a familiar one, all the village had gathered under the full moon to watch. The Chieftain went, one by one, to each of the young Tauren gathered for the ceremony. As he reached each one he would whisper a few words and move on. Reaching the end of the line, he stepped in front of an exceptionally large young male, his jet black fur and matching mane rippling lightly in the evening breeze. Leaning in he whispers “No longer a child, I give your name. You shall be known as Ragehoof, and I task you with representing our people in the lands of the Sin’dorei. You will travel to Silvermoon, share our ways, and learn of theirs. You will grow into the voice of our people.“ He stops speaking briefly to study the young warrior. “Ask your question, I can see it upon your face.”
A short pause and the young Tauren speaks, “I do not understand. War,” he pronounces the word with reverence, as though he had spoken the name of the Earthmother, “is in my blood. You send me to be a diplomat?” The look on his face is pain tinged with anger, his face turned a livid red with outrage.
Knowing that he would receive such a reaction didn’t serve to lessen the Chieftain’s disappointment, he had such hopes for the young warrior. “I see a rage inside you child, one like this village has rarely seen. It boils and churns, and though it can be a great boon, it can be a curse as well. If you cannot control your gift it will control you, it will be your doom. You will do as you are told, and you will learn control and temperance.”


Sunlight peaking through the worn drapes of the inn wakes Saerok. He sits quietly for some time, trying to piece the dream back together, attempting to make sense of what little he can remember.
Having eaten what passed for breakfast in the small inn where he had sheltered from the evening’s chill weather, Saerok mounts his deathcharger and begins the trek from Northrend to Mulgore. “They must know me” he whispers, “they will tell me who I am.”


Peering down from a bluff, Saerok can see Tauren of all ages moving about their daily business in the village. Young one’s laugh and play, Mothers and Greatmothers wash and tend the young, the hunters are stringing bows and sharpening spears, and the warriors practice combat in a dusty training circle. Breathing a ragged sigh, he turns his steed and begins to descend into the small valley.
As he enters the valley a horn sounds and three leather clad warriors begin to approach from the village. Nearing, they ready their weapons and call him to a halt. Their leader lifts a heavy bladed pole and demands his business, “What do you want here? There is nothing for your kind among us.” Saerok removes his helm and waits for some sign of recognition, none comes.
“I seek an audience with your chieftain. I would know my past and I believe he can share it with me.”
The warrior looks at Saerok dubiously and snorts his derision. “No thing like you ever came out of this village, BE GONE!” He levels the polearm at the Deathknight’s throat and gestures his intent to kill if his orders are not followed. Quickly the other two warriors take up their poles and follow suit.
Shaking his head, Saerok says, ”This is not what I have come for, you do not understand.” Turning his mount the Deathknigh rides a short distance back up the path and before the warriors can stop him he has dismounted a drawn a heavy bladed axe. “You only complicate things. I only wanted to speak to your chieftain…”


Stepping over the bodies of three unconscious (hopefully) warriors, Saerok makes his way to the village on foot. He is greeted by even more warriors, all with death in their hearts, and a savage look that he knows is a desire to see his blood spilled across the grass. A clear, commanding voice, obviously the Chief, has ordered them to stay their hands. None will disobey, no matter their lust for his head. Peering around, he can see recognition on none of their faces, almost. His gaze settles on an elderly heifer, he can see it in her eyes. She knows, he’s sure of it. With his attention locked upon the heifer, he doesn’t even notice the Chief has walked up next to him. Clasping him on the shoulder, the chief take his attention, “Did I not tell you the Rage would be your downfall?” Shocked into silence by the familiarity that the chief shows with him, the chief leads him off.
The chieftain’s hut is larger than any in the village, but is by no means a palace. The only piece of furniture is the chieftain’s bed, no more than a stack of furs. A fire pit is carved into the center of the dirt floored wigwam. Saerok has a brief flash, sitting in a similar albeit smaller hut, listening to stories told to him in the voice of a woman. As he tries to bring the memory into focus it fades as smoke in a breeze. Looking around he settles his attention on the chieftain. “I knew you would return one day, but this I did not expect. I thought, no, knew you would be a great warrior. All you needed was control. But Tainted, fallen to His will?”


Riding away from the village, he pondered what the chief had shared with him. A name, given at the end of his Passage, a symbol among his people that he was his own bull, he was to be called Ragehoof. Very few outside the tribe would learn his childhood name, and only those very close to him would be allowed to use it. Chief Hawkwind said that when he found one not of the tribe who could speak the name allowed he would have found his past. “Start in Silvermoon” he said. And so, Saerok rode for Silvermoon.

[Warburn]

... Ragehoof ...
WILL redeem himself!

[Saerok]

Wardrums rumble in the distance, Thunderbluff teems with activity, the Horde marches to War. Hearing the drums echoing from the cliffs of Thunderbluff, Saerok turns his mount and answers their call. Arriving in Thunderbluff he sees several members of Tribe Nyx. A series of lightning fast raids leave Exodar, Darnasus, and several Alliance towns in ruins. The war party retires to Thunderbluff victorious. As evening settles in, Saerok is approached by the elf, Dalabrac.
“So, anyone look familiar?” the elf asks, as though he knew something Saerok didn’t. Peering around the crowd, Saerok points out a couple individuals that seem vaguely familiar, shadows of memory he can’t quite make out, and then he motions to Dalabrac.
“Mostly you though.” A brief pause before Saerok goes on, “I think you know more than you let on.”
A wry smile crosses Dalabrac’s face momentarily. “Perhaps. Tell me, what brings you here?”
Saerok recounts his encounter at the village. Dalabrac listens patiently and then responds, “I shall tell you what I know, in time. For now, I must take my leave, I am called elsewhere.” And with that, the elf is gone. Saerok sets out for Silvermoon once more.

Arriving in Silvermoon, Saerok begins to make inquiries. Diplomats, he is told, serve in several areas the Sin’dorei count as their lands, to include the Ghostlands. Saerok takes what knowledge he has and begins his search. Traveling the breadth of the Elven lands until he has come to the Ghostlands, Saerok finds whispered memories of Ragehoof everywhere he turns, but no clues as to where he went. In Tranquillien and the Farstrider Enclave he gets reports of a Tauren named Ragehoof who did battle in all the scourge infested places of the Ghostlands. Ragehoof, who had slain countless scourge in Deatholme, and returned to Tranquillien in the company of several members of the guild Knights of the Dawn. When last he was seen it was in their colors. And so Saerok began his quest to find the Knights of the Dawn.


((not as good as i had hoped, but it seems i've hit a bit of a block and wanted to get something down here to continue his story. more to come ))