A Raven's Tale

28. SOUTHSHORE

Soaring high, I made my way ever north. As I flew up through Dun Morogh and over the snow-covered landscape, my mind began to cogitate over what the Tauren cultist had said. He firmly believed I was something, or someone other than a mere raven. 

Ravens, after all, did not cast frost bolts or any other form of magic as far as my avian mind gathered. That, combined with the dreams I was experiencing made Muattai's ideology seem remarkably plausible.

So who, or what was I? 

My dreams were becoming more vivid and both the wet-eyed woman and the man with silver hair were prominent figures. I had felt some thread of connection with this man; an empathy, an understanding, an emotional bond. But who 'he' actually was, remained a mystery.

My logic told me that while humans sometimes dreamed of being animals, it was not assumed so the other way around. I, a raven, could not, therefore, be simply fantasising about being a humanoid. These subconscious images had to be...memories. Surely!

I firmly believed that whatever pulled me to the north, was somehow the keystone to discovering my real identity. 

Another thought crossed my mind; if I was a shape-shifter, then why could I not shift back? What prevented me from doing so?

I scanned the ground below. I had passed over the snow-covered hills of Dun Morogh and now crossed over marshland. A variety of creatures roamed the landscape - Ravasaurs, reptiles similar to the Diemetradons of Searing Gorge, but these ran on powerful hind legs, their front ones being too small to reach the ground or support their weight. They roamed the upper plains, hunting small prey and protecting their nests from thieving Orcs.

Along the winding rivers and streams, fresh-water crocolisks lay in wait in the shallows for their prey; some hapless deer or wild stallion in need of a drink. 

Coastal murlocs slip- slapped their way over the sandy beaches pillaging from the odd wrecks lying just offshore. Their throaty gurgles travelled easily on the warm air as they went about their daily thievery. 

Having flown too far west while enjoying views of the land below, I bore to the north again, up over Thandol Span; the once-massive bridge constructed by the Dwarves. Sadly it was another casualty of the scourge attacks during the Third War, but it was still an impressive example of Dwarven engineering. 

The crossing took me into Arathi Highlands. I flew over the area now paying little attention to the land, for I felt whatever was luring me onwards, was almost within my reach.

My stomach, however, informed me I had to eat. I sensed I was close to where I needed to be, but I was hungry. The aroma of nature's offerings by way of the sea wafted up on the warm draughts and enveloped me. It was too good to refuse. 

By the position of the sun it was now close to mid-morning, perhaps nearer noon. I turned west, passing over Dun Garok, an old Dwarven fortress which nestled in the south-eastern reaches of Hillsbrad Foothills. I then headed for the coastal town of Southshore.

I felt a touch of melancholy settle over me as I flew down to the old wooden pier. When I landed, another odd sensation flowed through me. I could only define it as ... nostalgia.

This was once a quaint and thriving little town in days gone by. It had been an invaluable source of supplies for those affiliated with the Alliance, in particular during the years when Lordaeron was predominantly a human realm and Capital City was under the rule of King Terenas Menethil.

Those days, however, were long gone, and the land had suffered not only at the hands of the scourge but also from the Forsaken blight during the cataclysmic rise of Deathwing the Destroyer.

The township now lay in ruins, its main inhabitants plague-ridden, gelatinous globules; a foul source of some new, highly volatile and fatal substance which needed to be extracted and stored within specially designed vials.

While I espoused all this information - knowledge, astuteness, whatever you want to call it, I felt like a weight lift from me.

It was as if threads to my real identity were knitting together with the aid of whatever memories or former knowledge my brain processed. At that moment I fully believed when I had been here before, albeit many years ago, it was as someone or something else.

My true form.

Logic once more thrust to the fore as I decided I could only be one of two things; a Night Elf or a human. Admittedly, humans could not ordinarily shape-shift as the Elves could, but the dreams I had been having strongly suggested I was of the latter species.

I looked to the north-west. There was something over those hills which sang to me, enticed me, seduced me. Perhaps it would reveal all.