A spotted cheetah slows from a sprint to the form of a tauren when it enters the wide gates of Desolation Hold. Under the Barrens’ unrelenting sun, orcs, trolls, blood elves and goblins haul supplies, converse and spar. The tauren druid scans the hold before approaching the stablemaster.

“Stablemaster,” the druid says. “What can you tell me of the spirit beast?”

The stablemaster shoos away a pair of shaggy dire wolves by tossing a slab of dried talbuk in the dirt nearby before speaking. “Look for that tauren cook.” The fat orc’s gruff and gargled voice trails off with the end of each sentence as he catches his breath, sounding irritated. “His spirits usually wander through here late at night searching for food, but I don’t think they even eat.”

The tauren nods. “Thanks, stablemaster.”

The druid, with fresh bandages over an old leg wound, hobbles slowly down the hill and plops himself down near the ever-burning bonfire at the center of Desolation Hold, remembering how much easier it was to take the form of a cat rather than hobble around as a wounded tauren. He begins to unwrap a husk of corn and a satchel of oats, spreading the meal across the unfolded cornhusk. Nimbus, a ghost saber, numbly swats at a hovering white moth without giving up his seat at the fire next to his tauren, who whittles a stick into the fire with a chipped knife crudely engraved with an insignia of the Blacktooth Grin.

“Can I ask a question?” the young tauren says after a few minutes, shuffling on his seat with a mouthful of oat. “Why are only ghosts with you?”

“Ghosts?” Nimbus’ tauren pops open a fresh bag of mixed nuts.

“Yes, the cat or the bird, wolf or even the crab. Why? Who are they?” the young tauren digs into his snack. “I wish to understand the spirit of the beasts that you follow, and if they're the same as nature’s feral spirits that I'm in communion with. And I need to know what spices were used in last night’s meal.”

Nimbus’ tauren offers Leven some mixed nuts from his pouch to add to his meal. “I do not know what I can tell you about these spirits; the druids at Thunder Bluff can not offer guidance? My knowledge is no more than conventional, as are my choice of spice.” The hunter stuffs his face with a handful of mixed nuts before continuing.

“The heart of every tauren must be driven by a cause. Mine is divided between my brethren of the Blacktooth Grin, to whom my actions are devoted, and the spirits of this world, who drive my actions. But they are not ghosts; ghosts often have no purpose but to wander. Nobody knows exactly why the spirits linger with us, where they come from, or why they choose to follow, but there are many theories.” The tauren removes his black haliscan-brimmed hat and places another log on the fire. “It is most often that you do not find the spirits, but rather, they find you. They do not recognize allegiances like Horde or Alliance, Aldor or Scryer, Blacktooth Grin or Knights of Dusk. Only, I think, their own agenda, which I will likely spend the remainder of my days trying to understand.” The tauren nods, tossing the remaining piece of his whittled stick into the fire. “What is your name, young one?”

“Leven.”

“Excellent. It is good to meet you, Leven. You are a druid?” The tauren places his bag of mixed nuts at his side.

“Yes.”

“Ahhh… I sensed in you a feline spirit.” Nimbus’ tauren adjusts his seat and begins to draw in the dirt with a new stick.

“You speak as though you have been expecting me,” Leven says. The hunter looks up, taking his stick from the dirt.

“No… that I have not.” Nimbus shifts aside to allow his tauren space as he begins to trace the outline of the continents of Azeroth in the dirt. Once the outline of Kalimdor takes shape, Nimbus’ tauren hovers the stick over the continent, thinking of a place to begin.

“I believe they are most willing, and able, to speak with us tauren. More than the orc, or the blood elf. Perhaps I am biased.” Nimbus buries his face in his paws, itching his nose before resting on them, listening to his tauren. “There is Arcturis, bear spirit of Grizzly Hills.” The tauren draws the outline of Northrend in the dirt, above the two other continents and near to the fire. “He may appear to you near the Alliance stronghold of Amberpine Lodge, in the same place where some say his corporeal body was slain by another hunter, many years ago when members of the Alliance first made landfall in Northrend and began constructing their lodges. Perhaps even before.” Nimbus’ tauren reaches to his side and tosses some nuts toward the cat, though Nimbus’ attention remains with the hovering white moth. “The incarnation of tenacity, it is said that this grizzly spirit will not move until he finds his home, his purpose.”

Leven picks at the meal laid out before him. “But what about Olm, of Ferelas, or the ghastly jormungar of the Storm Peaks? Are these real spirits?”

Nimbus’ tauren knits his brow, shaking his head. “The spirit Olm is strange. I do not know what causes him to follow, but it does not take a particularly acute affinity for the wilds to convince him to do so. He is much like Nimbus here, but the ghost saber is more difficult to convince once he is finally before you. I do not even know if the spirit of the jormungar is strong enough to wander this plane. Perhaps they are ghosts, after all.”

“Hmm,” Leven orders his thoughts. “And the wolf? The one who walks with a limp, and carries with him every storm of the north?” Leven re-wraps his meal, now more interested than hungry.

“Skoll. Who does indeed seem to carry his high Storm Peaks and the lar’korwi wherever he goes, contrasted by the wily and elusive Ghostcrawler, who can be convinced to leave the deepest of depths, if you are willing to make the journey.”

Leven picks at an oat lodged between two teeth. “This Ghostcrawler doesn’t wish to find a companion to follow?”

“No. I believe the crab spirit is reclusive, like the plainstrider that buries its head in the dirt only to have its body discovered. “But I have found many challenges among the spirits, more so than this,” the tauren continues, munching from the bag at his side while his ghost saber begins to snooze.

“Hmm…” Leven tugs at his bandage, tightening it over his wound.

“The frostsaber spirit, Ankha, his pelt as white as An’she, and Magria, hers dark like Mu’sha, do not respect our armors and weapons. You may find yourself embarrassed and perhaps frightened to appear as you must before them in such a dangerous place before they will agree to follow you.”

“You mean…”

“Yes,” the hunter chuckles with a grin, “it is a good thing my armors and rifle were still in that bush when I returned to them, or I may have needed to slip back into Orgrimmar unnoticed for fear of my own nakedness.” Nimbus growls some; a grin locks up Leven’s face.

“Karoma, the true wolf spirit, oddly has no natural desire to follow a pack, just as Ahab Wheathoof of Mulgore has learned of her corporeal pup. But the wandering wolf spirit will follow, if you show yourself to be nimble enough to lead, and of an inoffensive smell and disposition. I believe he now wanders the Twilight Highlands, far from the plains of Mulgore.” Nimbus’ tauren pauses and sips from a jug to clear his throat. “And Ban’thalos, who needs no pack but who will respect yours, if you can match the wisdom and cunning of such an owl.”

“You mean that owl spirit that flies high above the Sanctuary of Malorne in the Hyjal Mountains, waiting for one to brave the long fall to the ground for companionship? I thought if any spirit, that one is only legend,” Leven says.

“Yes, the very one, and it is no legend. Some say it is the trailing glow of the spirit’s wings that draw the ill-prepared in. Many attempts to commune with this spirit have ended in folly.” Nimbus’ tauren tugs at one of his chin braids and sips from his jug before continuing.

“Perhaps the most interesting story is that of Loque’nahak, mate of the Loa goddess of the Drakkari, who wanders Sholazar Basin as he has since the Drakkari managed to imprison their deity. Har’koa remains trapped, chained to the snows of Zul’Drak, her children now cursed and feral with no sense of pride or purpose.” The tauren sighs deep, placing his jug in the dirt and reaching for his bag of mixed nuts. “The tragedy of this story is that this feline washte pawne now wanders the jungles of Sholazar searching for his lost mate, though he will never find her there.”

“Have you ever attempted to reunite these spirits?” the younger tauren asks.

“Why?” Nimbus lifts an eye with his tauren’s question, who grips his tracing stick tightly and stuffs a handful of mixed nuts in his mouth.

“Uhhh... curiosity?” Leven shifts in his seat.

“Yes, once.” Nimbus nods slightly and sleepily licks at a paw while his tauren finishes his snack. “But neither would recognize the other any longer, and the Loa Har’koa seems resigned to her fate. I thought that perhaps the frostsaber spirit Gondria, who wanders between the alters of Zul’Drak, could somehow be a link to this mystery. But it does not seem so.”

“What about this one. Is he… dead?” the young tauren motions toward Nimbus with his head. The ghost saber lifts an eye to the druid.

“He is very old, this I know, but Nimbus does not tell me why he remains or where exactly his origin lies. But I assume many spirits are of advanced age.” Nimbus lies motionless, drifting in and out of sleep while the low baritone of his companion’s voice drones on. Leven continues to watch the ghost saber, seeing dirt and matted grass shift through the curled body.

“Why, young one, do you suppose most spirits that appear to us are of such advanced age?”

Leven leans back in his seat with a knit on his brow. “Perhaps they appear to us only after all options have been exhausted, and frustration begins to set-in.”

“Hmmm…”

“That, I believe, is all that have so far appeared to the hunter; but I am a cook, not a loremaster,” Nimbus’ tauren says, equally contemplative and with a drying voice. The cook nods to the druid. “The spirits, they will only ask guidance of us on this plane. They do not ask us to command them; this is why I do not believe they seek the druid. We as hunters -- stewards of the wilds -- can only do our best to give sound direction.” The tauren stands, collecting his jug. “Good hunting, young one. I must begin preparing a seafood stew for our dinner tonight. If you have more questions, do not hesitate, druid Leven.” Nimbus’ tauren moves toward the Grin’s food stock followed by the white moth and prowling ghost saber, leaving his bag of mixed nuts at the mat near the fire.

“Thank you,” Leven says. “This gives me much to think about.”