Blizzard's Folklore is Woefully Lacking
And I took that personally.
Folklore and mythology are as key to worldbuilding as art, music, language, and economy. Who does the farmer give thanks to for a bountiful harvest – and how does his village celebrate that bounty? What do people blame or attempt to placate when a child falls ill? All of these things – or a notable lack thereof in strongly secular cultures – are key to making a culture feel more full and developed.
To that end, let’s look at druids in WoW. Kaldorei druids have mountains of lore. They and the Wild Gods that they venerate are important to and deeply ingrained in Kaldorei culture. But then we come to Worgen druids and get… a three-paragraph entry about Harvest Witches restoring the crops of Gilneas during a famine, then eventually learning true druidism from the Kaldorei when Gilneas fell to the combination of the Worgen Curse and the Forsaken invasion.
Lordaeron has... no druids? At all? No Harvest Witches, no Thornspeakers, no... Greenfriends, nothing. Gilneas was never a part of Lordaeron, Kul Tiras was never a part of Lordaeron, but they were NEIGHBORS. The cultural OVERLAP! Arathor? Alterac? You're telling me the HILLFOLK and the MOUNTAIN PEOPLE don't have gods and spirits, or Skalds, Druids, and Seers somewhere in their histry?
I call bullshit.
ALSO, so many of the Amani and Gurubashi Loa have SINGLE PARAGRAPHS of lore surrounding them. HOW? ARE YOU THIS SLOPPY? BLIZZARD? Even the most AMATEUR worldbuilders know that you don't just give a give a god a name and a shape and SLAP IT ON THE BOARD! What are their tenets? How do they interact with their followers? Do they HAVE many followers?
So anyway, I've made it my problem, and I'm working on some fanon lore for the Eastern Kingdoms. It's a massive undertaking, I am QUITE DAUNTED, and I've slowed down just a little bit already, but I am determined to succeed.
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Something I wonder about...
The rest of the Horde as a whole has to have had serious opinions about the Forsaken just blighting healthy land all willy-nilly during Cataclysm, right?
I don't just mean a general outrage at plaguing the land and fucking up nature either. So much of the 'practical' motivations for the Horde's part in the war is a desire for land, food, and lumber. Plenty of potential for that in Lordaeron. Silverpine is, I think, partially plagued from the Scourge, but not enough that it couldn't be healed like the Western Plaguelands (another place of opportunity where they just blighted an already healed farm, Felstone Field), Tirisfal is still clinging to life if I recall correctly, but the Scarlet Crusade seem to be able to farm there. Gilneas and Hillsbrad were completely clean before use of the blight.
It just feels like it goes completely against the greater Horde's interests and we never eally see that taken into consideration. I know the Forsaken are mostly left to their own devices in Lordaeron, but that's also something I find kind of strange when part of the reason the were brought in to the Horde was to give it a foothold in the Eastern Kingdoms.
Like, the Horde's whole lumber thing is the main justification for why they keep going after Ashenvale, even after having basically brought Azshara under their control. The Bilgewater Cartel started a harvesting operation in freakin' Felwood of all places to get lumber. There are plenty of trees in Lordaeron and I can't recall ever seeing it considered as an option.
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How To Make A Birch | Part 3
It was the birds that woke him. Something about their lilting, morning song jostled him awake, as if his ears had somehow already grown unaccustomed to the sound. It took a moment for it to register, half caught between the waking world and the one of dreams - nightmares, in his case. Were it not for the blow to his head, it is unlikely he would have slept so soundly. But trailing in the wake of hearing the distant, colliding melodies of the birds welcoming in the new day, was the sudden ache at the back of his head that only unconsciousness had numbed. If he wasn't awake before, that throbbing pain brought him fully into the present. Eyelids flew open as he sat up, alarm still fresh in his mind from the night prior. But even before he could gain his bearings, he felt the touch of a gentle hand on his shoulder, easing him back down. Blurred vision focused to his right, settling on the owner of said hand.
Jet black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that pulled at the subtle lines that age had drawn at the edges of her dull-brown eyes. Though her brow was knit tightly, Burrich immediately had the sense that it was out of concern for him - even before she spoke.
"Easy, love.. don't rush yourself now.. " She urged him gently in a soft, almost motherly voice. "You're safe now. Far away from the horrors of yesterday."
The young man's hand rose to touch the back of his head, only to find that his crown had been wrapped with linen bandages. Despite her gentle instruction and her hand on his shoulder, he did not lay back. A sharp breath escaped him as his hand abandoned the back of his head in favor of rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Where am I?" He asked, the question laced with a dull groan, as his gaze turned toward the surrounding area. A small encampment, nestled beneath the boughs of a small grove of trees that had overrun what appeared to be some very old ruins surrounded by a quiet countryside.
The woman smiled softly, "On our way to Hearthglen. Do you have a name?"
Ignoring her question, he replied with one of his own as his hand dragged over his youthful features, "What happened?
Her voice was still gentle, "We had to pull you out. Your head took quite a hit from your fall." Finally, her hand fell from his shoulder to rest in her lap as she looked him over. "Are you alone?"
A subtle crease formed in his brow at her question and as he answered, his tone was a touch defensive. "I don't know yet."
Her gaze fell slightly, sympathy written plainly across her features, "Poor dear.. " A small sigh punctuated the words before she went quiet for a moment. Finally breaking the silence, she added with what he would later know as a very characteristic softness, "I'm Reece."
Burrich's youthful, green eyes - no longer bloodshot - glanced up at her again to search her features for any reason at all to distrust her. Finding none, he offered, "It's Burrich," which brought an immediate, though faint, smile to the middle-aged woman's face.
"Burrich." She repeated quietly as her head tilted and she offered a grateful smile, kind eyes settling on his young face. She opened her mouth to say something more, but was interrupted by a harsh voice, that of a man, that made the woman flinch just slightly.
"Reece! Enough chit-chat. If the little shit's awake, get him up on his feet. We've been put out enough as is. And Light help me, I'm not wastin' another minute on his account."
She replied with a quiet, chastising, "Collin.. "
Burrich turned to look for the source of the voice, eyes widening with surprise when he found that the voice, and the name, belonged to none other than the bitter, horse-faced man who had stopped him at the dock gate. Their eyes met only briefly before Collin scowled, rolled his eyes, and stalked away to continue securing a pack to the back of a rather large pinto, its brown fur splotched with large patches of white, "Your damned Light is going to be the death of us, woman."
Young, wary eyes followed the man as he stalked off, his brow knit tightly until he felt the woman's gentle touch on his hand, pulling his attention back to her. She whispered to him, "It's best that we get moving, love. I'm sorry to rush you, but do you think you can walk?" Reece offered a sincerely apologetic smile, her small hand giving his an almost pleading squeeze.
"I think so," he replied with a nod, his eyes searching hers for a moment before he mustered the energy to push himself to his feet with her help. She offered him his cloak, which still reeked of smoke and ash - the smell drawing his mind immediately back to the city and the nightmare he found there. Throwing the cloak around his shoulders, he secured the clasp over his chest and looked to her, signaling his readiness with a single, shallow nod.
Smiling appreciatively, she said, "Come along then," and turned to follow Collin who had already begun down the road out of the grove, leading the horse by hand. The young blonde watched her leave and turned to look around the quiet grove, birds still singing their peaceful song as if nothing was wrong in the world at all. Their ignorance did not escape him. Hesitation seemed to grip him for a moment, his hand lifting to rub at his forehead. But one quiet huff of air later, Burrich was jogging down the road to catch up to the pair, leaving the calm of the grove for the unknown of the road ahead.
At least, he was not alone.
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