Cat Princess and Human Knight

Chapter 40 The Tragedy of the Noble

Durotan lifted the tent flap and looked at the lively campfire. He was a Norwegian Forest Cat, sixty centimeters tall, which was quite large for a Norwegian Forest Cat among the large cats.

His face had a rosy glow from years of cold winds, light golden pupils, and long, light gray hair with dark gray stripes. He had a crescent-shaped scar on his right cheek from childhood frostbite.

He had a sturdy, muscular build, with broad, powerful shoulders and back, and his hands gripped hand guards sewn from leopard skin.

Behind him, a much larger cat was earnestly trying to persuade him.

It was a Siberian forest cat, covered in long fur all over its body, with even a thick collar of fur around its neck, and it was a full seventy centimeters tall.

"Durotan, at the upcoming council of chieftains, you must learn to control your emotions. As the chieftain of the Frostfang Clan, you should consider more than just indulge your temper."

Durotan turned to the persuader and said frankly.

"Orgrimmar, this doesn't sound like you. My impression of Orgrimmar is that of a noble warrior who deeply respects tradition and refuses any compromise."

Orgrimmar shook his head.

"I respect tradition, but that doesn't mean I'm blind to reality. The wisdom of survival tells me that only by living can we have a future, and only by living can we talk about respecting tradition."

"Durotan, last year's White Plague caused devastating losses to all the clans. Warchief Blackhand has gained the support of all the clan chiefs. If you persist in your course of action, you will only bring about your own destruction."

Durotan scoffed.

"Therefore, a noble warrior willingly degenerated and voluntarily became a lobbyist for the Black Hand."

Am I right, Blackhand's lieutenant, the second-in-command of the Black-Eyed Clan, my old friend Orgrimmar?

Orgrimmar sighed.

"When the snow falls and the cold wind blows, the lone cat dies, while the cats that gather together live."

Weakness is never an obstacle to survival; arrogance is. You are too arrogant, Durotan.

You should be well aware of the Blackhand Chieftain's fear of you. Look at your appearance; you have the blood of the Frostwhisper royal family. Your kin sit on the Frozen Throne, the great King of the Frozen Snowfield.

You are different from us. You have a way out, but we don't. Nomadic cats have no way out.

Durotan's eyes sharpened.

"I am the chieftain of the Frostfang Clan. I was born on the Boundless Plateau and grew up in the clan. I am a member of the nomadic cat pack. Any attempt to exclude me is a despicable conspiracy."

"Orgrimmar, based on what you just said, I can launch a Mak'Gora attack on you and reclaim my honor."

Orgrimmar shook his head.

"You understand what I mean. I have no ill intentions. You are different from us, like an eagle mixed in with a flock of pheasants."

The tradition of nomadic cats is to worship the noble breed. Clan chiefs desperately try to prove that they are of noble breed, but you alone do not need to prove it; you are noble breed by nature.

Look at your mount, that's a Snow Leopard Rider, the unique mount of the Northern Ice Scar Knights. You can't sever your blood ties with the Frostwhisper royal family.

The Black Hand Chieftain is wary of you because you are of the true nobility, so you need to be even more careful with your words and actions, my old friend.

I know you harbor resentment, believing that Ner'zhul is manipulating things behind the scenes, and that Blackhand is merely his puppet.

But you must admit, the Blackeye clan is the most powerful clan among the nomadic cats, and according to the traditions you value most, Blackhand, Blackeye is fully qualified to be the chieftain.

Respecting the High Chief is respecting our traditions, my old friend.

Durotan took a deep breath.

"I admit, I'm somewhat convinced by you, Orgrimmar."

Okay, I will try to respect our Great Chief, as long as his behavior is in accordance with our traditions.

Also, remember, I am Durotan of the Frostfang Clan, not a noble of the Frostwhisper Royal Family.

I am a descendant of illegitimate children; I have no need to bask in the glory of royalty. I live only for myself and only for my clan.

Orgrimmar smiled.

"As you wish, my old friend, but I'm willing to think so, though they may not."

Orgrimmar pointed to the chieftains' tents pitched around the campfire and stated a helpless truth.

No matter how much Durotan resists, all the chieftains will see his bloodline as a threat.

Just like the middle class who emulate the nobility, no matter how much money they spend on luxury goods or how hard they try to memorize and learn aristocratic etiquette, they cannot remain calm and composed in front of true nobles.

True aristocrats don't need luxury goods or to follow cumbersome etiquette, because noble blood flows in their veins. Even if they wear flip-flops and tank tops, they are still aristocrats, without needing to prove it.

This is a kind of helpless situation, like being trapped in a walled city; the cats outside want to get in, and the cats inside want to get out.

No matter how much Durotan adhered to the traditions of the nomadic cat pack, in the eyes of the nomadic cat pack chiefs, he was still an outcast, an outcast called the true noble.

The nomadic cat population has a strong culture of worshipping nobles, and Durotan, the true noble, even if he is unwilling to admit it, will cause all the chieftains to feel a great sense of insecurity.

---

Ner'zhul. Shadowmoon slowly descended from the altar. It was hard to imagine that this hairless cat, covered in wrinkles, could be Regent Ragnaros, a cat of the same bloodline as Shadowmoon, the Persian cat.

Over the long years since they separated from the nomadic cats, the Shadowmoon lineage has changed their appearance and bloodline, and everything about themselves, through countless lies, assassinations, and marriages.

The only thing that cannot be changed is the mockery in the eyes of the nobles, the ridicule hidden behind their backs. No matter how much the lowly struggle or how much effort they put in, the cat, born into nobility, will always be a lowly cat.

"Looking at the black cat judge Darkclaw with murmured Ner'zhul, the Sphinx cat shaman."

"Go back, go back and tell Grand Duke Shadowmoon that his plan is a pipe dream."

The nomadic cat population needs enough food to compensate for the losses from the white plague and to get through this difficult spring.

Only the Starfall Plains can provide us with enough food; the Rocky Hills will never be the nomadic cats' primary target, and that will never change.

Darkclaw looked at Ner'zhul and said.

"Because of your behind-the-scenes manipulation, Black Hand became the chieftain of the Nomadic Cats, and you have enough influence over him."

Ner'zhul chuckled.

"Are you saying that Black Hand is my puppet?"

You're wrong. Proud clan warriors won't be manipulated by cats. Blackhand is willing to listen to some of my advice only because he trusts my wisdom.

If my guidance leads the nomadic cat pack to its doom, he will never listen to me; instead, he will distance himself from me and may even kill me.

The blood ties of the Shadowmoon Clan cannot change this reality; Grand Duke Shadowmoon cannot persuade the Shadowmoon Clan, much less the Nomadic Cat Pack.

Darkclaw gazed at the campfire in front of the altar. The chieftains had emerged from their tents, and a chieftains' council was about to convene.

"Ner'zhul, as the most senior shaman of the nomadic cats, the bond between the clan and the Mother Goddess, how long has it been since you received a response from the Earth Mother?"

Ner'zhul's murky eyes suddenly brightened and sharpened, piercing straight into Dark Claw.

"How did you know?"

Dark Claw raised its paw, revealing the pads of its paws, and the power of the Dark God surged within.

"I don't know, but my God knows."