#66
The writing is in a different hand - it’s thicker, neater than Eishona’s usual scrawl.
This is an account of Eishona’s dreams, as told to me, Elder Wooshy Skyhorn, at her request at this late hour. I found her, after receiving her letter, in the Broken Tusk. She was babbling, her mind fogged with abundant drink, but unable to find rest or peace. For a moment, the doe did not recognise who I was, but welcomed me all the same as is her custom. She is an extremely friendly, bright example of our people.
We spoke briefly before she gave up and planted her face in to her arms. I stayed with her as she sat, passed out and sleeping the fitful sleep of those with a troubled spirit. For that is what she has, a troubled spirit - brought on by the use of an herb, she told me later. It is an herb we, as tauren, have adopted from the trolls who favor it much. Eishona evidently imbibed too freely and suffered a dream from her youth. The plant is useful in easing the spirits of the troubled, and awakening the spirit to travel - not unlike our own saptas and potions in vision quests. To you, Eishona, the herb is called ganja, by the trolls. Taken in abundance, it is not uncommon to see visions or develop a paranoia.
As a shaman, and a spirit walker, I am able to help ease troubled spirits, but only if the bearer of that spirit is ready - this one is not ready. I fear the ordeal would break this one, as innocent as she is. Her spirit I sense is strong, but unfocused. Her path has yet to open before her. Read this, young doe, and know you have a path to travel before you may visit the realm of the spirits and seek your name, your totem.
We managed to walk to a quiet space in the Valley of the Spirits, where some of our own people reside. I bought space for us for the night, and set myself to tending this troubled doe. She was eager to speak, but was so out of her head for lack of sleep. She lost coherency several times.
Now. Her dream, which I transcribe as she sleeps here in a hammock- finally at rest from a sleeping draught. So troubled was she during this telling I dosed her gently, bringing sleep on gradually so as to allow a more natural sleep take her. She shook, shivered and cried in her telling.
She is in the Barrens, the lands of her youth. It is evening hour. She and her brother - she cringes at mentioning his name - Weylo - are minding evening chores for their home. Rather no, she says she does the work while he watches. He carries a stick to poke and smack at her as she works. She is a stripling, no older than twelve by the way the years are counted. She is hungry, so hungry. He feeds her every few days, dried meat and water. Maybe some herbs, maybe an egg. He eats roasted meats, cheese and other such foods. The sort a growing young doe should be allowed to take part in. I look at her even now, and see she is underweight. How long did she endure this? She explains she has been away from his ways for a year, and struggles to put on weight despite access to the foods of our great cities and people. She confides that she has heard does who are too skinny cannot keep a calf to term or begin one at all. I feel such pain for her.
Her chores this night, she explains are to sweep out the cave and sort her brother’s latest finds from his trips out of the cave. he hovers over her, using harsh words and a heavy hand to guide her. He is drunk tonight, angrier than normal. She drops something, a jar of dried herbs - it breaks and he loses it. He kicks her hooves from under her and starts to beat her. The stick she says, makes a terrible sound as it hits her body, but worse is when he uses his fist or hoof. He rubs her face in the broken mess before dragging her by her mane outside, tossing her in their refuse heap. He beats her again, lashing her back with the stick until it breaks. Always he screams ‘Stupid!’ and ‘Useless!’.
Her brother leaves her there, retiring for the night. The doe says she lay there all night, afraid to move. At this point in the telling, I dosed her again and held her as she cried. It is at this moment she confesses she resolves to leave, but is unable to do so for some years. She works on being good and doing as he says, though a growing sense of wrongness dwells in her heart. He has beaten her before this, but never so badly. She endures many other such beatings, the bull lost in some rage she cannot explain. One moment happy, the next beating her. I have seen other afflicted in this way - I wonder that they are connected? For some, the ganja herb from the trolls assists, or tinctures. Others know no relief, and eventually take their own lives from their despair and anger. Or they die as a result of rash, impulsive actions.
She suffers from her malnutrition and the beatings, even now. A doe her age should stand a foot taller, and bear a bigger bow. Her friendly nature, somehow, she has I think as a defense - likely to avoid more beatings or negative confrontations. But she is strong, I saw it on Argus, and I see it now. She fell asleep after this moment, and I left her to that. Shifting her to a pallet for the night.
I am of the notion this doe should remain estranged from this brother, this Weylo. The spirits guide her, this one should have had a happier life. The Earthmother set her a hard path, I can only hope she finds a way to happiness. When we first met, the doe and I, it was on Argus. Even then her cheery attitude brightened the dreary camps. She deserves that cheeriness to flourish. With luck, Eishona you will read this and find comfort in the words that I will be waiting for you when you are ready to seek your name and totem. Rest a while in Orgrimmar before you go home to your Highmountain, allow your spirit to rest, your mind to relax. Speak to the trolls here of their use in the herb - most will gladly guide you in appropriate useage.
-Wooshy Skyhorn
This is an account of Eishona’s dreams, as told to me, Elder Wooshy Skyhorn, at her request at this late hour. I found her, after receiving her letter, in the Broken Tusk. She was babbling, her mind fogged with abundant drink, but unable to find rest or peace. For a moment, the doe did not recognise who I was, but welcomed me all the same as is her custom. She is an extremely friendly, bright example of our people.
We spoke briefly before she gave up and planted her face in to her arms. I stayed with her as she sat, passed out and sleeping the fitful sleep of those with a troubled spirit. For that is what she has, a troubled spirit - brought on by the use of an herb, she told me later. It is an herb we, as tauren, have adopted from the trolls who favor it much. Eishona evidently imbibed too freely and suffered a dream from her youth. The plant is useful in easing the spirits of the troubled, and awakening the spirit to travel - not unlike our own saptas and potions in vision quests. To you, Eishona, the herb is called ganja, by the trolls. Taken in abundance, it is not uncommon to see visions or develop a paranoia.
As a shaman, and a spirit walker, I am able to help ease troubled spirits, but only if the bearer of that spirit is ready - this one is not ready. I fear the ordeal would break this one, as innocent as she is. Her spirit I sense is strong, but unfocused. Her path has yet to open before her. Read this, young doe, and know you have a path to travel before you may visit the realm of the spirits and seek your name, your totem.
We managed to walk to a quiet space in the Valley of the Spirits, where some of our own people reside. I bought space for us for the night, and set myself to tending this troubled doe. She was eager to speak, but was so out of her head for lack of sleep. She lost coherency several times.
Now. Her dream, which I transcribe as she sleeps here in a hammock- finally at rest from a sleeping draught. So troubled was she during this telling I dosed her gently, bringing sleep on gradually so as to allow a more natural sleep take her. She shook, shivered and cried in her telling.
She is in the Barrens, the lands of her youth. It is evening hour. She and her brother - she cringes at mentioning his name - Weylo - are minding evening chores for their home. Rather no, she says she does the work while he watches. He carries a stick to poke and smack at her as she works. She is a stripling, no older than twelve by the way the years are counted. She is hungry, so hungry. He feeds her every few days, dried meat and water. Maybe some herbs, maybe an egg. He eats roasted meats, cheese and other such foods. The sort a growing young doe should be allowed to take part in. I look at her even now, and see she is underweight. How long did she endure this? She explains she has been away from his ways for a year, and struggles to put on weight despite access to the foods of our great cities and people. She confides that she has heard does who are too skinny cannot keep a calf to term or begin one at all. I feel such pain for her.
Her chores this night, she explains are to sweep out the cave and sort her brother’s latest finds from his trips out of the cave. he hovers over her, using harsh words and a heavy hand to guide her. He is drunk tonight, angrier than normal. She drops something, a jar of dried herbs - it breaks and he loses it. He kicks her hooves from under her and starts to beat her. The stick she says, makes a terrible sound as it hits her body, but worse is when he uses his fist or hoof. He rubs her face in the broken mess before dragging her by her mane outside, tossing her in their refuse heap. He beats her again, lashing her back with the stick until it breaks. Always he screams ‘Stupid!’ and ‘Useless!’.
Her brother leaves her there, retiring for the night. The doe says she lay there all night, afraid to move. At this point in the telling, I dosed her again and held her as she cried. It is at this moment she confesses she resolves to leave, but is unable to do so for some years. She works on being good and doing as he says, though a growing sense of wrongness dwells in her heart. He has beaten her before this, but never so badly. She endures many other such beatings, the bull lost in some rage she cannot explain. One moment happy, the next beating her. I have seen other afflicted in this way - I wonder that they are connected? For some, the ganja herb from the trolls assists, or tinctures. Others know no relief, and eventually take their own lives from their despair and anger. Or they die as a result of rash, impulsive actions.
She suffers from her malnutrition and the beatings, even now. A doe her age should stand a foot taller, and bear a bigger bow. Her friendly nature, somehow, she has I think as a defense - likely to avoid more beatings or negative confrontations. But she is strong, I saw it on Argus, and I see it now. She fell asleep after this moment, and I left her to that. Shifting her to a pallet for the night.
I am of the notion this doe should remain estranged from this brother, this Weylo. The spirits guide her, this one should have had a happier life. The Earthmother set her a hard path, I can only hope she finds a way to happiness. When we first met, the doe and I, it was on Argus. Even then her cheery attitude brightened the dreary camps. She deserves that cheeriness to flourish. With luck, Eishona you will read this and find comfort in the words that I will be waiting for you when you are ready to seek your name and totem. Rest a while in Orgrimmar before you go home to your Highmountain, allow your spirit to rest, your mind to relax. Speak to the trolls here of their use in the herb - most will gladly guide you in appropriate useage.
-Wooshy Skyhorn
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