Chapter 71: The Whispering Steppes

　　The Barrens, with its vast, sun-scorched plains, began to subtly change. The golden grass grew taller, interspersed with hardy, purple-flowered shrubs that released a faint, herbal scent when crushed underhoof. The air, still dry, carried a cooler, thinner quality, hinting at a higher altitude. Kaelen had reached the borderlands of Mulgore, the ancestral home of the tauren. He was not heading towards Thunder Bluff; his path skirted the great mesa, drawn instead by the whispers of a different kind of history.

　　This was a land of rolling, emerald hills, untouched by the axes of the Horde or the machinations of the Alliance. Herds of great kodo beasts grazed peacefully in the distance, their massive forms moving with a slow, timeless grace. The sky was an immense, cloudless blue, and the silence was profound, broken only by the sigh of the wind and the distant, lowing calls of the kodo. It was a vision of peace, a glimpse of what Kalimdor might have been before the scars of war were etched upon its face.

　　He followed a narrow game trail that wound through the hills, leading him to a place where the land dipped into a secluded, circular valley. In its center stood a ring of ancient, weathered stones, much like the one he had seen in the Barrens, but larger, more imposing. These stones were not merely placed; they seemed to have grown from the earth itself, their surfaces carved with runes so old they were nearly smoothed away by wind and rain. This was a Kosh'arg, a meeting place of the tauren tribes from a time before memory.

　　As he approached, he saw that the circle was not empty. An elderly tauren sat cross-legged in the very center, his back to Kaelen. His fur was the color of snow, and his horns, immense and intricately spiraled, were inlaid with chips of turquoise and obsidian. He was not a shaman humming with elemental power, nor a chieftain exuding authority. He was simply… present. A pipe smoldered gently beside him, its smoke carrying a sweet, earthy fragrance that blended with the scent of the grass.

　　Kaelen stopped at the edge of the stone circle. He did not wish to intrude, but the pull of the place was magnetic.

　　The old tauren did not turn. "The earth speaks of your approach, walker of many paths," he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the ground itself. It was a voice worn smooth by time, like the stones around them. "It says you carry the dust of deserts and the salt of distant seas. It says you have listened to the whispers of stone and the screams of the corrupted."

　　Kaelen remained silent, a respectful observer.

　　Finally, the tauren turned his head. His eyes were not the fiery orbs of a warrior or the glowing pools of a shaman. They were deep, dark, and held a calm so profound it was like looking into a still, bottomless lake. There was no judgment in them, only a vast, accepting wisdom.

　　"You seek not a tribe, but an understanding," the elder stated. It was not a question. "You have seen the battles that rage at the edges of the world. You have felt the great wounds. But have you felt the world's heartbeat?" He gestured to the ground. "Sit. Listen."

　　Hesitantly, Kaelen entered the circle and settled onto the soft grass. The earth was warm beneath him.

　　"Close your eyes," the elder instructed softly.

　　Kaelen complied. At first, there was only the sound of the wind. But as he focused, as he allowed the silence to seep into him, he began to feel it. A deep, slow, resonant thrum that was not a sound heard by the ears, but a vibration felt through the bones. It was the pulse of the world, a rhythm impossibly slow and immense, the heartbeat of the very continent upon which they sat. It was the foundation upon which all other sounds—the clash of steel, the roar of demons, the weeping of ghosts—were mere fleeting noises.

　　The elder's voice came again, a gentle murmur beside the immense silence. "This is the first story. The story of the earth. Before orcs or humans, before the Legion or the Old Gods, this was. And this will be, long after the last battle is fought and forgotten. The wars you witness… they are like storms on the surface of a great ocean. They are violent, they are real, but they do not change the depth of the sea."

　　Kaelen sat for a long time, immersed in that primordial rhythm. The anxieties of his journey, the weight of the sorrows he had witnessed, began to feel smaller, put into perspective by this immense, patient presence. He was not just a chronicler of conflict; he was a witness to the enduring reality beneath the conflict.

　　Finally, he opened his eyes. The elder was watching him, a faint smile on his aged face. "You see now. You carry a heavy burden, little brother. But remember that you walk upon the back of a great being who is patient beyond our understanding. Your task is not to stop the storms. Your task is to remember the ocean."

　　The elder picked up his pipe and took a slow draw. "Your path will take you to darker places. You will see the world tear itself apart. But when the noise becomes too loud, come back to this silence. Remember the heartbeat."

　　Kaelen rose to his hooves. He dipped his head in a gesture of deep gratitude, a respect that went beyond words. The elder simply nodded and turned back to face the center of the circle, returning to his meditation.

　　Leaving the stone circle, Kaelen felt a profound shift within himself. The encounter had not given him new information, but a new context. He carried the memory of that deep, abiding peace within him now, a internal compass that would guide him through the chaos to come. He was not just walking across the world; he was walking upon a living, breathing entity. The chronicle was not just a record of events; it was a record of a timeless presence experiencing temporary, violent fluctuations. He continued his journey eastward, towards the rising sun and the unknown lands beyond, the steady, silent heartbeat of Azeroth a constant, reassuring echo in his soul.