(2021-03-26) Oranna and the Bandages

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Author:	Athena
Summary:	Two memories of Oranna Stormbreaker's life: Oranna finds a bird trapped by a hunter’s snare. / King Magni addresses his subjects.
Rating:	T for Teen

Oranna Stormbreaker crouched down, readying her legs and bunching her muscles, gathering her power. She exploded with motion, leaping into the air over the edge of the ledge, yelling with the full force of her lungs as she landed, her knees bent to absorb the impact, in the giant puddle.

The water arced up around her in a chaotic circular wave, shimmering in the bright summer sun of Dun Morogh, and Oranna laughed as two drops reached up to her nose and splashed against her face.

The forest was filled with the tiny buzz of insects and the rustling of little creatures gathering the sun ripened berries that covered the brush with a bright red dappled carpet.

Oranna had been out for hours. Her mother had sent her out to run around after Oranna had twice nearly fidgeted off her chair polishing the silver weapons in the arsenal.

"Yer no use to me like this. Get out there and, I dunno, run around or somewhat," her mother had growled, snatching the ancient knife that had belonged to some great great great something or other from Oranna’s hands. "None of yer brothers had trouble sittin' still at age 10, I'll have ye know. Yer not a wee babe any longer. Come back when yer ready to act yer age."

Oranna understood this was not to be taken literally, or otherwise she would never come back.

It was a perfect day to run. So, she had. She went to the edges of the forest an discovered a perfect puddle of melted snow that had remained in the shade of a tree, just next to the ledge of a rock on the most ideal slope for climbing. She had already jumped into the puddle four times when she heard it.

A strange warble, like one her brothers made sometimes when they mocked her for being a chicken when she cringed back in sword practice. But it was wrong. There was something pained in this sound.

She followed the sound deeper into the forest, listening carefully. There came a sound of thrashing in the brush, and the movement was close enough for her to spot it, off to her right. She cautiously crept forward, and pushed aside some low hanging branches.

In the brush, a tiny winged creature was flapping its wings with the desperation of an animal in pain. Oranna peered closely, leaning forward. One of the branches snapped in her hands and the creature whipped its head in her direction, holding still long enough for her to identify it.

"Oh," she said softly. "What are ye doin' out here, lil one, ye're so far from home." It was a very young fleshripper, native to the human kingdom in the south. It was rare to see the scavenger birds so far north. Oranna glanced around the bird. Sure enough, a dead boar, picked nearly clean to the bone, was not far off. With slow movements, Oranna stepped closer to the vulture, looking for why the bird had not already taken back to the skies.

The answer revealed itself as the fleshripper spun with a strange hiss and Oranna caught sight of a rope. The vulture had somehow gotten caught in a hunter’s snare. Oranna frowned. Theoretically, she supposed, someone might eat the bird, but folks were not so desperate to need the meat of a scrawny adolescent like this. She could free it, and no one would be worse off.

Of course, she thought grimly, it would be easier said than done.

"Okay, it's okay, it's all right. I'm no gonna hurt ye," she said, her words slow and soft and calm, as she walked closer to the bird. It flapped in panic, and Oranna set her teeth. She kept up the litany like it was holy magic as she approached. When she was nearly within range, she reached with her right hand behind her to her lower back where the short sword her mother insisted she wear was strapped to her waist. The vulture twisted its head to glare at her with one eye, a clear warning of impending violence. Oranna slowly unwound the safety strap that held the sword tightly closed so it would not fall out unintentionally in play, and pulled it from the sheath in a practiced movement. "It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to get to yer leg." She reached out her left hand to the bird.

It struck with the speed of a viper. The beak pierced her skin and she inhaled sharply at the bright burst of pain.

It took everything she had in her tiny body, but she did not flinch, she did not move, and she did not scream. The fleshripper bit down harder, and the blood began to pool, and then race down her hand to land with no sound on the sun warmed grass and leaves of the forest.

Oranna breathed through her nose slowly, and waited. As though puzzled, the vulture slowly released its grip of its beak. The blood ran faster, and Oranna swallowed hard at the sight, a wash of dizziness poured down from her head like sweat.

"It's okay," she repeated. And once again moved towards the bird. It struck again, but with less force this time, and once again Oranna waited. Three more times they went through this dance, the vulture striking with less and less force, and what felt like near palpable confusion.

Finally, Oranna had her left hand on the bird's legs, which had both been caught in the snare. It had pulled so much there was no hope Oranna could get even a fingernail between the rope and the bird. There was no other option. So she tightened her grip, and very carefully brought the short sword around. The fleshripper pecked at her, but did not draw blood.

With infinitely delicate strokes, she sliced into the rope until it began to fray. Once she was halfway, the bird seemed to realize what was happening. It began to flap wildly. A wing caught Oranna in the face, and a feather poked at her eye, and she lost her grip on the bird.

She went to dive back in, but it was unnecessary. The bird forced its legs apart and the weakened rope unraveled. The bird screeched and Oranna had to cover her face with her arm at the wind from its wings. She braced herself for an attack, but it did not come. The bird flew up and away, and Oranna watched it with a smile.

When she returned home, her hand still bleeding sluggishly from the first strike, her mother had pressed her lips together and raised one eyebrow.

Oranna knew her mother could tell when she lied, so she kept to the truth, in her own way.

"There was a bird. It attacked me. I used my sword."

Irona Stormbreaker stared at the young girl with an assessing eye, and Oranna tried not to tremble.

"Did ye flinch in battle?"

Oranna swallowed. "No," she said honestly.

Irona nodded. "Good. The training is working then. Go get the bandages and we'll patch ye up and get ye in the trainin' yard. A warrior learns how to fight through the pain."

Oranna felt her shoulders sagging. "Yes, mother." She went to get the bandages.

---

With a sharp motion, Oranna Stormbreaker tore through the linen, pulling apart a long strip. Behind her, four dwarves stirred the boiling pots of water filled with linen strips. There were seven other dwarves around her, pulling through more linen at their own pace, creating an oddly harmonious sound as the linen tore. The strips that had been boiled already lay cooling on clean metal racks, waiting for the dwarves and gnomes with nimble fingers to roll them up.

It had been only two days since they had arrived in Ironforge, fleeing from orcs, and they had already run out of all the bandages in the city tending to the wounded. A wealthy tailor had generously opened his shop, donating all his extra undyed linen for use. Those that had any experience in making bandages had been asked to assist. Oranna had not thought herself particularly skilled, but when the call for volunteers went out, there had been very few who had answered it, so she had taken her place.

They didn't speak much as they worked. There did not seem to be space yet to speak. It was as though a thick cloud of silence blanketed the city, and none dared break through the fog except in hushed whispers.

Oranna’s arms had tired quickly, but she pushed through the pain, grateful for the sensation at least. She had felt so numb since she and Topa had staggered through the gates, the guards of Ironforge pressing them forward. There had been a terrible silence after they closed the gates. Every living person had seemed to hold their breath for the minutes that stretched like hours. Oranna had shaken silently with her cousin. Topa's single hand still tight on her arm.

And then it came.

The first ringing clang of wood crashing against the carved stone and metal doors of Ironforge.

The orcs had arrived.

Several people screamed, but most simply flinched from the sound. Then, a dwarf in heavy mail armor had yelled to get back from the gates, and the crowd had erupted into organized chaos as dwarves and gnomes tried to move back from the gates that shuddered with each strike. Tiny bits of pebbles and dust rained from the ceiling.

Oranna had followed the old gnome and her family mechanically. The gnome had a tiny house in an area that had been jokingly called Tinkertown, although it was not truly a town at all, merely an area where some gnomes had gathered to live in the predominantly dwarven city. Perhaps one day they would build a true place in the city, but it was not then. The small home was part of a larger house that other gnomes owned, with a shared kitchen and bathing room. The room Oranna and Topa would share to sleep was barely large enough to fit all 14 of them inside if they lied down on the floor. But she and Topa had no where else to go.

Making bandages, at least, got her out of the house. It was near the center of the massive forge that sent out waves of heat, and Oranna welcomed it. Somehow, ever since she had arrived in the city, no matter how much she wore, she was always cold.

There was a commotion in her peripheral vision and she looked up from her work with a frown. The others paused as well, looking over at the gathering crowd.

"What's all that, then?" A dwarven woman so old her eyebrows obscured her face, with biceps that were four times the size of Oranna’s, asked in a strong voice that carried. Her pile of bandages was nearly taller than she was sitting on the ground, and Oranna’s eyes caught on her dwarven woman's strong hands.

"The king is going to say somethin'," a dwarven man walking by answered, his voice carrying enough for many nearby to hear. Oranna glanced at her first aid colleagues. Without a word, by mutual agreement, they all carefully placed their work down, stood up, and walked towards the rapidly growing crowd.

Oranna had never been tall. It had never particularly bothered her, until she had discovered how desperately inconvenient it was in a crowd. Although she and the others were fairly close to the makeshift dais on the steps, she could only make out glimpses of the king and his brothers. Flashes of bright bronze hair amidst a sea of dwarven heads all swaying slightly as they vied for a better look.

It seemed ages as bodies pressed against her, and two misplaced elbows jammed against her bruised still healing ribs, when finally there was a loud, bight ringing sound of a hammer banging against a metal shield.

"My people!" The king said, his voice projected loudly through the room. "I stand here before you, to tell you truly that it is indeed the orcs the humans warned us about at our gates." A murmur in the crowd began to stir, but Oranna could see King Magni's hands above his head, his palms held in an age old sign to stop.

"They have already conquered much of our land. You see amongst us new faces of our brethren from our citadels and settlements. These orcs have set their eyes on us. They intend to take the city. They will try to break down the doors of Ironforge." He paused dramatically and said in a different voice, "They will try." He paused once more as a cheer went up in the crowd.

"They think us small and weak," he continued. A jeer came from the crowd. "These bastards don't know what nest they've kicked." Another cheer. Oranna’s ears began to ache from the sound. "We are of the stone and earth itself! Let them come to us. We will break them against our doors, and show them the true might of Ironforge!"

A rolling cheer poured out of the crowd. Over the din, the king's brother Muradin stepped forward and yelled into the crowd with a booming voice: "Not one orc will ever step foot in Ironforge!"

The crowd went wild. Oranna was jostled and her ears rang as those around her erupted with fierce joy. She could see though that there were a few like her, who stood unmoving, with solemn faces.

She knew with complete certainty the quiet ones had been those like her, those who had seen the orcs. Those who knew, truly knew, what lay beyond the gate.

With several firm shoves with her sharp elbows against the bodies pressing towards the dais as they chanted "Not one orc!" Oranna made her way out of the crowd, and to get back to her bandages. They would need them in the days to come. She plugged her ears with two tiny strips to block out the crowd that was still cheering and pounding weapons against shields. She clenched her jaw and picked up the linen bolt. Let them cheer while they still could.

She had work to do.