Post by Maurick on Nov 21, 2010 0:50:30 GMT -5
The Roothoof Tribe were not the average Tauren that one would come to expect. They had no warriors, only hunters. They had no tools of war, only tools of the earth. They were not nomads, but instead chose to settle into the canyons of the lush Ashenvale Forest. It was there, in an old Night Elf Druid's Hollow that they created the Roothoof village. Their people were mostly pacifistic, refusing the ways of war and only killing for the hunt. Within the canyon walls, they were isolated and protected.
Their people studied the ways of the Druid of the Claw, observing the Emerald Sleepers within their 'tomb'. The language was different, the species were different, though the fascination never faded. Maurick in particular felt a strong attraction to the Night Elves. They were such a fascinating race among the species of Azeroth. Those that could commune with Nature, even slumber and dream within the realm of Ysera, a place untouched by the hands of man and orc. Fascination. Fascination and envy. The Night Elves had such a vast history, books and structures that had existed for centuries. Even as their people slept for hundreds of thousands of years, their culture still persisted.
Inevitably, all good things must come to an end. Not long ago, the Burning Legion descended upon Azeroth from the heavens, destroying all in it's wake. The Roothoof were not spared. Their canyon was scorched, it's inhabitants burned where they stood. Many chose not to fight, others ran for their lives. Those that chose to take a stand were made an example of, their bones still found among the rubble to this day. Merely a few survived, whether it by sheer luck or cowardice. Maurick had been a part of the hunting party, tasked with bringing food and herbs back to the tribe during the time of the attack. Arriving hours too late, he and his companions had no chance of aiding their people.
Since then, Maurick has spent his life wandering; much as his people always have. It has not been easy for an outcast of the Tauren to survive in the wilderness of the Barrens, though. The Grimtotem and Bloodhoof tribes looked down on the Roothoof, claiming they had forsaken the ways of the Tauren in favor of the lifestyle of the Elves. They were branded 'Softhooves', as they preferred the trees and earth to that of war.
Many years after his initial escape from the wilds of Ashenvale Forest, he was set upon by a Horde expedition party. Upon the discovery of his tribe, he was stripped of his clothing and beaten by the orc and Tauren soldiers. Humiliated, soiled, bloodied and bruised, they would hold him to the ground and brand the symbol of the Horde to his chest, marking him for life with that which he could never become a part of. A sense of irony he was told. Since then, he has tried his best to keep his distance from those of the Horde, keeping to neutral settlements if possible or sneaking in the shadows of the Horde cities.
Their people studied the ways of the Druid of the Claw, observing the Emerald Sleepers within their 'tomb'. The language was different, the species were different, though the fascination never faded. Maurick in particular felt a strong attraction to the Night Elves. They were such a fascinating race among the species of Azeroth. Those that could commune with Nature, even slumber and dream within the realm of Ysera, a place untouched by the hands of man and orc. Fascination. Fascination and envy. The Night Elves had such a vast history, books and structures that had existed for centuries. Even as their people slept for hundreds of thousands of years, their culture still persisted.
Inevitably, all good things must come to an end. Not long ago, the Burning Legion descended upon Azeroth from the heavens, destroying all in it's wake. The Roothoof were not spared. Their canyon was scorched, it's inhabitants burned where they stood. Many chose not to fight, others ran for their lives. Those that chose to take a stand were made an example of, their bones still found among the rubble to this day. Merely a few survived, whether it by sheer luck or cowardice. Maurick had been a part of the hunting party, tasked with bringing food and herbs back to the tribe during the time of the attack. Arriving hours too late, he and his companions had no chance of aiding their people.
Since then, Maurick has spent his life wandering; much as his people always have. It has not been easy for an outcast of the Tauren to survive in the wilderness of the Barrens, though. The Grimtotem and Bloodhoof tribes looked down on the Roothoof, claiming they had forsaken the ways of the Tauren in favor of the lifestyle of the Elves. They were branded 'Softhooves', as they preferred the trees and earth to that of war.
Many years after his initial escape from the wilds of Ashenvale Forest, he was set upon by a Horde expedition party. Upon the discovery of his tribe, he was stripped of his clothing and beaten by the orc and Tauren soldiers. Humiliated, soiled, bloodied and bruised, they would hold him to the ground and brand the symbol of the Horde to his chest, marking him for life with that which he could never become a part of. A sense of irony he was told. Since then, he has tried his best to keep his distance from those of the Horde, keeping to neutral settlements if possible or sneaking in the shadows of the Horde cities.