Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls

Unbeknownst to most races, Tauren are very clean creatures. You don’t go through thousands of years of evolution with a combination of complete body fur and an enhanced sense of smell and not have a desire to be clean.

That said, Tauren, for the most part, are very particular about their water. With the notable exception of druids, most Tauren hate any type of dampness that they cannot control when they will be dry again. Rain is the epitome of this, followed closely by Serpentshrine Cavern.

“We have to gather together once he does what?!”

The druid babbled on, dismissive of Negathle’s look of repulsion as she described what was known about the giant Morogrim Tidewalker. Beside her, Aeris hissed their shared displeasure.

“He will call for his murloc minions – unless you want to get picked off by one of those amphibious wretches, you’ll return to the group after the teleportation.”

“The waterfalls, you’re sure he teleports us to the waterfalls.”

The druid nodded as she sorted through her reagents, preparing to bless the group with the strengths of nature. “That’s where the mages see the magic ley lines converge."

Neg exhaled forcefully, looking over at the murky pools of water gathering under the torrents that fell from the broken ceiling. Other Tauren appeared equally as apprehensive about the experience. If there was to be any motivation to defeat the giant quickly, it would not be to finally confront Lady Vashj, but to be clean again. Each and every non-druid Tauren in the party were looking through their bags for a particular item and securing it for immediate use.

The hunter thought longingly of the pond spring at Thunder Bluff. The sole source of municipal water in the city, it was conjured on the mesa by the leading shaman tribes upon the city’s founding; Neg’s own paternal grandmother assisted. The water was eternally clear and fresh, constantly replenished by the elemental magicks that supplied it.

No matter the time of day, there would always be somebody in the pond bathing or cleaning. Modesty is not known in Tauren culture, and the sight of a large number of naked Tauren of all ages bathing together in a community pond may be shocking at first to visitors. The elders would lounge the shallows, carefully lathering themselves with Mageroyal soap. The plate and mail wearers would be in the deeps, grateful to be shed of their heavy armor, and busy themselves by scrubbing tenderly where their armor rubbed against flesh. Children of all ages would run about, either in hopes of avoiding their parents’ itchy Briarthorn Shampoo or challenging each other to jump into the deep end. Bathing with a sacred community time, and Neg had fond memories of such family bonding. One of her earliest memories was running out of the crystal-clear waters of the Lushwater Oasis into the waiting mageweave towel provided by her mother, the scent of Peacebloom soap dominating her young senses.

If there was a household item more sacred to Tauren culture than the towel, Neg didn’t know what it was. It was a must-have for any Tauren that valued their cleanliness, and she knew for a fact that her own grandmother kept two cabinets full of mageweave and runecloth towels. Rumstag Proudstrider had a booming business in the trade, and Neg could see in her mind’s eye his extensive selection of soft, absorbent towels.

But presently, the Tauren hunter was sticky from the great humidity that perforated the cavern, filthy from sorting through the murloc lieutenants they had slayed earlier, and now extremely annoyed at the thought of being soaked by the magically-polluted waters of the Coilfang Reservoir, then having to group together again to deal with the murlocs rushing to aid Tidewalker. She wrinkled her nose in preparation for the smell. Orcs were not known to bathe frequently, and there was nothing worse than smell of the wet, rotting flesh of the Forsaken.

A long, low whistle flitted through the air. The paladin leading the charge raised his sword for attention. Last minute sorting of potions and magical infusions of power rustled through the raid as everyone prepared for battle. Neg notched an arrow in her bow, ready to cast the distracting spell to the tanking paladin. She was ready. She knew where here towel was.

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This is what I do when I have a research paper due in two days. Sigh... And one of these days, I will finish Tinea's story.