"The Prophet is ready to see you now." said Restalaan.

He is an Elder, was the first thing Durotan thought as his eyes met those of Prophet Velen.

Seeing the other draenei up close had been startling enough. To behold Velen was something else again.

The Draenei Prophet was half a head taller than the tallest of the city guards Durotan had seen, but not as powerful-seeming physically. His body, clad in soft, swirling, light tan robes, seemed less muscular than theirs. And his skin! It was a warm alabaster hue. His eyes, deep set and wise, glowed a brilliant blue, and were encircled by deeply etched wrinkles, speaking of one who was not just an Elder, but possibly even ancient. His silver hair did not flow down his back, as was the case with the others, but was ornately braided and looped, exposing his pale skull. His beard flowed like a silver wave almost to his waist.

Not Elder. Not even ancient, Durotan thought as those intense blue, glowing eyes settled upon him and seemed to bore into his very soul. Almost . . . outside of time altogether.

He thought about Restalaan's comment, diat he himself was over two hundred summers.

Velen was a good deal older than that.

"Welcome," Velen said in a mellow voice as he rose and inclined his head. The braids danced with the movement. "I am Velen. I am glad that my people found you today, though I doubt not that in a few years you would be more than capable of handling an ogre and even a gronn or two by yourselves."

Again, Durotan did not know how he knew this, but this was no idle compliment. Orgrim sensed it too, for he stood up even straightcr and met the draenei's eyes evenly. Velen waved them to sit and they did so. Durotan felt awkward and ungainly, sitting at the lavish tabic in the ornately carved chairs. When the food came out, he relaxed inwardly. Haunch of talbuk, roasted whitefcathers, large rounds of bread, and plates heaped high with vegetables—this was food he knew and understood. Somehow, he had expected something entirely different. But why? Their buildings and way of life might be vastly different from that of the orcs,but like the orcs,the draenei lived off what the land could provide. The preparation was slighdy unusual—the ores tended to cither boil dicir food or cook over an open flame, when they cooked at all; frequendy flesh was eaten raw—but overall, food was food, and this food was delicious.

Velen was an excellent host. He asked questions and seemed genuinely interested in the responses: How old would the boys be before they could hunt ogres? Choose a mate? What was their favorite thing to cat? Their favorite weapon? Orgrim. even more than Durotan, warmed to the conversation and began talking of his prowess. To his credit, he did not need to embellish his stories.

"When my father passes, I will inherit the Doomhammcr." Orgrim said proudly. "It is an old and honorable weapon, passed down from father to eldest child."

"You will swing it well. Orgrim," said Velen. "But I trust that it will be many years before you take on the name of Doomhammer."

The fact that his father would have to die before he

would become Orgrim Doomhammer seemed to have momentarily escaped the young ore. and he abruptly grew solemn. Velen smiled, with. Durotan thought, a hint of sorrow. At the movement, fine cracks appeared in Velen's face, the subtlest of spidcrwebs on that smooth white surface.

"But describe this hammer to me. It must be a mighty weapon."

Orgrim brightened again. "It is enormous! The stone is black and blunt and powerful, and the shaft is made of carefully crafted wood. Over the years, the shaft has had to be replaced, but the stone itself has not a chip on it. It is called the Doomhammer because when its owner takes it into battle, it spells doom for the enemy."

"I sec," said Velen, still smiling.

Orgrim was warming to his task. "But there is also another prophecy," he continued. "It is said that the last of the Doomhammer line will use it to bring first salvation and then doom to the orc people. Then it will pass into the hands of one who is not of the Blackrock clan, all will change again, and it will once again be used in the cause of justice."

"That is a powerful prophecy," said Velen. He said no more, but Durotan felt a shiver. This man was dubbed "Prophet" by his people. Did he know if the Doomhammer prophecy would come true? Did Durotan dare to ask?

Orgrim continued, describing the Doomhammer in loving detail. Durotan, who had seen the weapon in question, ceased listening to Orgrim's chatter and focused on Velen, Why was this being so interested in them?

Durotan was a sensitive youth, he knew. He had overheard some snippets of conversation from his parents, who were worried about such sensitivity, and from Mother Kashur. who scoffed at them and told them to worry about important things and to "leave the boy to his fate." Durotan knew fcigncd interest when he saw it. and felt that he'd recognize it even in a draenei. But Velen's brilliant blue eyes were bright and focused, his kind if ugly face open, his questions sincere. He wanted to hear about the ores. And the more he heard, the sadder he seemed to become.

/ wish Mother Kashur could be here instead of me, Durotan thought suddenly. She would appreciate this opportunity more than Orgrim or I could.

When Orgrim had finished describing the Doomhammer. Durotan asked, "Can you tell us of your people. Prophet? We know so litdc. In the last few hours I have learned more than any of my people have over the last hundred years, I think."

Velen turned glowing blue eyes to Durotan. Durotan wanted to quail from that gaze, not because he was afraid of it. but because he had never before felt so...seen.

"The draenei have never withheld information, young Durotan. But... I believe you may be the first who has ever asked. What do you wish to know?"

Everything, Durotan wanted to stay, but instead focused his question. "The ores had never met the draenei until two hundred summers past. Restalaan said you came here in a great vessel that can travel the skies. Tell me more of this."

Velen took a sip of the beverage that tasted like summer to Durotan and smiled. "To begin with, 'draenei' is not our true name. It is a term that means ... 'exiled ones.

Durotan gaped.

"We disagreed with others in our world. We chose not to sell our people into slavery, and for that we were exiled. We have spent much time finding a suitable place to dwell—a place to call our own. We fell in love with this land, and We call it Dracnor."

Durotan nodded. He had heard the term before. He liked how it sat on his tongue when he spoke it, and the ores did not have a name for this place other than "world."

"It is our term, We have not the arrogance to think the ores would use it as well. But such We have dubbed it, and We love Dracnor deeply. It is a beautiful world, and We have seen many,"

Orgrim gasped. "You have seen other worlds?"

"Indeed We have. And We have met many people."

"People like the ores?"

Velen smiled gently. "There is no one like the ores," he said, respect resonant in his voice. "You are unique in our travels." Durotan and Orgrim looked at each other and sat up a little straightcr in their chairs.

"But yes, we had been traveling for some time before we found this land. Here we are. and here we will stay."

Durotan burned to ask more—to ask how long they had been traveling, what their homeland had been like, why they had left it. But there was something in Velen's timeless face that told him that although he had been invited to inquire, the draenei leader would not tell him that particular talc.

So instead he asked about how they had tamed the nature of their weapons and magic. "Our magic comes from the earth." Durotan said. "From the shaman and the ancestors."