Master alpha/beta tester extraordinaire.

"We’re going to go see an old friend of mine from the war on Dragonblight," Mosur responded to her question about where they were headed. He hefted her onto his shoulder, wrapping his arm around her legs to keep her steady. It was much warmer in Grizzly Hills and the pair had shed some of the heavy winter clothes they had worn in Dragonblight.

There were very few individuals she ever heard him refer to as friend, but something warmed her a little to hear that he did have those he considered such. She noticed the more somber tone in his voice as he’d spoken but let it go as just being somber thoughts of the war.

The trek didn’t seem far at all when he’d stopped to let her down. “We’re here,” he said and lifted her setting her hooves on the pine straw coated floor. She looked around seeing no signs of life. No wisps of light or otherwise, her empty gaze turned to Mosur in question.

Mosur looked down at Saaska, a swirl of sadness and guilt spiraled in his stomach. It was a few moments before he spoke to her, “We’re visiting a grave Saaska.” His words were quiet and subdued.

Saaska inhaled, pressed her lips tight together at Mosur’s words and dropped her wavering gaze. She suddenly felt bad, felt sorry for him, she felt like she should comfort him but he was so distant.

Mosur knelt at the grave and began cleaning away the leaves and pine needles.

Saaska shifted as he got down to clear the grave off, her hoof bumped into rock.

"Gravestone," Mosur muttered. The makeshift gravestone still stood, draenei words carved into it. His gaze graced the stone once before continuing his task.

Saashenka knelt beside the stone and let her fingers see it. It only took her a moment to recognize the symbols and words carved into the stone. No doubt the carvings were done by Mosur’s skillful hands. It read: Merrik Shrewsbury, Friend & Savior. Her lips pursed again and she looked from the stone toward Mosur’s essence again.

The shaman’s brow furrowed as he finished cleaning the grave off, something was odd. There was no grass covering the whole grave, it had been nearly a year the ground almost looked as though it had been disturbed. He pressed against the earth above the grave, it gave a little his hand leaving an imprint in the dirt. Shifting he attempted this again beside the grave, but the earth held firm, packed.

A sense of urgency gripped Mosur an explosion of worry and concern that shocked the young priestess. The sound of dirt falling came to her ears and she watched his form work. As this went on longer the sounds of grunting joined in. He was digging up the grave.

“Mosur, what are you doing?” she asked surprised and knelt next to the gravestone.

“Something’s not right here,” he commented and continued to dig. Already his linens were stained with dirt and mud but he continued to dig. His finger cut through the earth and mud beneath him with ease pushing and pulling the dirt out of the hole to pile beside the grave.

He continued unwavering until his fingers raked across a wooden board, only then did he slow. By now the whole front of his cream colored robes were stained with reddish brown earth. It took him a while longer to clear the dirt from the surface of the makeshift coffin. He could suddenly feel his heart pounding against his chest and the blood rushing in his ears. Hesitation held him still in the silence of the mountains. Breaking free of his worry he reached forward and with effort lifted the lid of the man’s coffin.

Nothing had changed, there was nothing disturbed. The man lay in the coffin as Mosur had placed him a year ago, he didn’t even look as though he had decomposed any. Strange, Mosur thought. 

“Mosur..?” Saaska spoke drawing his attention to her. She still huddled by the gravestone and watched him dig up the grave, “Is everything okay?”

Mosur looked from Saashenka back to the body of Shrewsbury and breathed out. He nodded then spoke realizing his silence, “Yes, it appears that everything is just fine.” A sparkle drew his eye to the death knight’s chest where a long stemmed pipe lay. Something told him to take it. He reached inside the coffin and retrieved out the pipe. He expected there to be the smell of death lingering about the instrument, but it only smelled of the earth and the cedarwood that comprised the coffin.

Mosur closed the coffin back and filled in the grave. The pair traveled back to the inn, at least only one of them was tired and dirty.

Author Mosur
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