The large peace tent hadn’t changed at all since the last time Ulresh was inside. The Shaman held the flap open for him and the orckin entered first. The speckled leather that made up the walls was exactly how he remembered. Materials for a fire were already laid in the stone lined pit and the Shaman squatted next to it, getting out his firestarter. Ulresh watched with interest, settling himself cross legged on the floor opposite him.

“What you bring this time?” The Shaman asked in his broken common.

“You have heard about the Rift?”

“Yes yes. Dangermaking, that.”

“Really?” Ulresh scratched his bearded chin as he considered. “I feel as though it has at least taken as much danger as it has left us with. The Empire of Azmael stands no more on Charan.”

The Shaman hmmed as the fire began producing a thick white smoke. “Is so. But leave dangermaking still. Wild is Wild, is so?”

Ulresh drew a deep breath of the smoke, holding it in his lungs for a long moment as the purifying smoke cleansed the worry from him. “The Wild Weaves where the Rift is have stabilized. Enough that we have built a fortress around it to prevent unknowing travel through the rift.”

Again the Shaman hmmed, taking his own deep breath and releasing it before he spoke again. “Wild is larger north.”

The orckin’s eyes narrowed against the smoke. “How do you mean?”

“Weaves move, is so?”

“True, but it’s never very much.”

“Is more now. Wild is Wild.”

Ulresh tried to reach for calm, taking a few deep breaths and letting the smoke wash through him. “I know you understand that, Garthu, care to explain it to the unenlightened?”

The Shaman blew a sharp breath out of his nose in response before shaking his head. “Wild Weaves is Wild for reason.” The Shaman began, swirling one hand through the smoke, creating patterns and swirls deep within. “You want answers? Go to Hymaera.”

Ulresh’s laugh was deep and booming, bouncing off the leather walls and rebounding in an echo. The Shaman just looked at him, brilliant green eyes serious. The laugh died. “You’re serious.”

“Someone must.”

For a moment, High Commander Ulresh Blackfist felt a slick dread settle in his stomach. Brave the Outlands? To Hymaera? He shook his head, his heart aching in his chest as he denied the claim. “It will not be me, friend. This was my last campaign. I have retired my commission. I am too old for such adventures.”

The Shaman’s piercing eyes studied Ulresh for a long moment in absolute silence. Only the crackle of the fire made any sound in the tent. Red-brown eyes met green, both searching for something in the other’s gaze. Finally the Shaman broke the silence. “No, not you. Your rest earned. No more dangerseeking for you.”

Ulresh drew a deep breath, the fist that he had felt around his heart eased. His stomach still rolled with turmoil. “Someone must.”

The Shaman nodded. “Your soldiers?”

“Those two? Only if they volunteer. I will take this knowledge back to the capital. They could send a team of elites.”

A snort from the other side of the campfire dismissed that notion. “Will ask farspeaker warriors. First, puremaking.”

Ulresh nodded, closing his eyes and breathing deep. “Would you go?” He asked at length.

“No. Old.” The Shaman admitted. “Journey is for younglings, is so.”

The high commander chuckled without much humor. “We had our adventures, old man. Now it is time to pass that on to the next generation.”

“Many burdens pass.”

“Blessings too, right?”

“Is so. Perhaps, is enough.”