Shaman’s Records

Twentieth of November, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War

Shaman Koroc the Singer of Clan Glacierheart recording

It has been more than a month since I last spoke with another person, orc or human. After Shaman Initiate Mul the Feisty underwent her awakening, the changes that reshaped her mind and body, and became Shaman Mul the Silent, I have wandered her hidden valley and the woods and hills beyond. I wanted to contemplate things away from all others. I had to spend time on my own with only the wilds to keep me company. I could have hunkered down in a cave to hibernate the winter away, but even in the depths of the wilds the Westmarch War has enough impact to reach out and touch me. There was an echo of a sound from far down the Westmarch valley, a rolling detonation shook the sky.

So I have returned. Not unmarked, perhaps, but with a deeper understanding of the wilds. They sung to me, and I to them. I look upon the new walls and rooves of the Clan Glacierheart settlements as a mixed blessing. They are far better than any we had before, and that is a blessing indeed when the winter winds come howling down from the snow-capped peaks. But in this growth of industry, in the ever-greater forging of metals, of new tools and weapons, something is perhaps lost. Not the sleepy innocence of peace, for we orc were never a peaceful race. What we are losing touch with is the wilds themselves. We now build towns, not encampments. We have set our roots down into the bedrock stones of these Glacierheart Mountains, laying claim to them, seeking to dominate them.

We gained this from the humans who now shelter in our midst. They were never as strong as we orcs, never as tough. They could not stand the same cold or heat that we can by raw endurance, so they had to use their cunning and wisdom to find new solutions to old problems. Thay have passed this questioning mindset onto those orc who are willing to think and learn. For all the loss of what we were that I mourn, we have gained much in return from the humans.

But perhaps we need not lose it all. We are orcs, not humans. We cannot mirror them, nor should we attempt to do so. We have already formed a single clan, and now a single nation. We must now also forge the identity of that nation, and a part of that identity should be a remembrance of where we came from, who we were. Not just of our greatness, like some of the eldest Clan-songs, but also of our faults and failings. We should remember the wilds, even as we move away from them. The Shamans have always been a part of our people’s hearts and souls, and it has always fallen to us to be the keepers of our people’s past. I will speak with Shaman Elder Wolfbite on this matter, as he is at the heart of our new nation’s spirit. The Record-keepers of Ironbark wanted to learn of our Clan-songs and grow a similar tradition in their own ranks. We should do the same, re-establish the clan-songs anew, and keep the danger close to our hearts so that we will never forget it no matter how far from the wilds we become.

Shaman’s Records

Twentieth of November, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War

Shaman Elder Wolfbite Glacierheart recording

I spoke with Shaman Koroc the Singer as the sun set over the Glacierhearts. We looked out over the Westmarch valley, at the smoke coming from the chimneys of the fort and the southern outposts, and spoke of times past. As we spoke, I recall Mul’s valley, the night I spent watching the stars and marveling at their expanse. The sense of the infinite patience of the world, the deep power of the wilds.

Shaman Koroc the Singer is correct. Even as we modernize, moving from Clan Glacierheart to Glacierheart the Nation, we cannot afford to lose track of what was. The threat of outsiders, humans, is what drew us together back in June of this year. It has only been half a year since that united, hungry roar of fury swept us up in its arms and carried us forward onto our shared destiny. But here we are with humans as welcomed members of our community. Gone is the old disdain for non-pure orcs, the half-human and the half-other. It was sent spiraling into the grave when the humans of Westmarch and Ironbark offered to stand with us if we would stand with them.

As when that happened, we moved from a minor power tucked away in a mountain range to an actor acting upon the vast stage of the world. We are now a player in the great game of international politics, and must conduct ourselves as such. We must modernize, learn the secrets of metals, of building, of farming and war known to the others on that stage and in that game. But we cannot forget who we are, as individuals and as a people, or we will be scattered across the stage and subjugated by others in the game.

We have a past full of glory and sorrow, of the sweet sadness that comes with good days gone by. As with the freedom of the wilds, these should not be forgotten. There will be many funeral songs to sing this winter, but come the spring we must sing of a new dawn.

Perhaps sometimes Darkness is needed so that we can see the Light.

Shaman Mul the Silent’s Journal

Twentieth of November, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War

This war is shaping me into what I need to be if I am to survive it. And for that, I am grateful. But I also regret its necessity. Even if my mind had never been Awakened, if I had never found my Patron from Beyond the Shroud, this war would be the death of who I was. I can never go back to the way I was, to the peace and the quiet of a sedentary life, knowing what this war has taught me of myself.

That is not to say that I live for the carnage and slaughter to be found in battle. It is just that I have always wondered what was over the next hill, beyond the next mountain peak. I wanted to be a Shaman to learn more of the world and its secrets. I found my valley while wandering, seeking a place to pour over things in solitude. When I made my Pact, I saw the world spinning alone in the void, so vast and yet so small. I weep that I will never have a chance to walk across the stars, but I revel in that I will have a chance to walk across the whole of this world and explore its hidden places.

But the Glacierheart Mountains are my home for now, and I cannot leave them to stand alone. I will see this war onto its end because I must. After that? I am not sure. I feel no call to bind myself to any place or people. I feel a need to seek, to learn, to know. I cannot do that here.

Am I sane? I ask this question over and over again, and never have I found a satisfactory answer. Am I Insane? Again, I have found no answer that satisfies me. Is there a firm line between the two, or is it only what others are willing to accept? Where is the border of the Twisted Kingdom of madness, if it even has one? I recall entering it under the unshrouded moon and walking out its gates scarred by its thorns. Perhaps there is no line between the sane and the mad in my mind anymore, and it only exists for me as a standard set by those around me.

Come the end of this war, I will simply walk away. Perhaps I will make one last entry in the Shaman’s Records before I go, so that my story will not be forgotten. Perhaps not, as there are some things that sane mortal minds cannot hold. I think I will take a metaphorical page from the Logs of Innoch, and leave an entry in the Old Tongue ringed round with warnings. It will be there for any who want to read it, but safely shrouded so that the casual eye will not lead to another mind being shattered the same way mine was. And if a mind is broken, then the mind in question will have walked into such a state with its eyes wide open.

Aris Cretu’s Journal

Twentieth of November, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War

There are storm clouds on the horizon. The wind bites with teeth of ice. Flurries coat the ground and the streams are edged in ice. We need to break the deadlock soon, or both sides will be forced to hunker down to hibernate until the thaw. But can either side afford to? We need to win a decisive victory, or have the weather do so on our behalf. But that isn’t possible while the Army of the Jeweled Cities has enough food in Fort Westmarch. So obviously this needs to change, but I do not know what that change might be or how to bring it about. Obviously a task for older and wiser heads than mine. I just hope that we can complete whatever needs doing before the snow really starts to fly.

Ah! But at least living on the edge of a pike in the middle of what bids fair to be a winter war isn’t boring!

I've had a life that's full / Everyone's been good to me / So fire up that fiddle, boy…[3]