Something that occurs to me, is that we’ve had years of exposure to the various racial faiths.
Orcs actually relearned Shamanism from the Tauren, and the Darkspear revived their own Shamanistic faith (more Animist, but that’s a different topic) with Tauren guidance.
Tauren have both been the original Druids, and re-learned that path under the guidance of Cenarius and the Kaldorei Druids.
Gnomes learned to harness the power of the Light and the Void from Human, Dwarven and Draenei Priests.
We’re soon to get Shamans for all races, Paladins for all races, and Druids for all races.
How deep is this spiritual cross-contamination going to go? Most Druids require the interference of Wild Gods or similar entities to achieve their Shape-changing abilities, while their spellcasting is more ‘normally’ accessible, ala the Gilnean hedge-witches prior to becoming Worgen, and the crude druidism of the Gnolls of Kalimdor, evidenced by some of their spellcasters using Druidic spells to attack others.
The Light answers to anyone whose will is strong enough. The Void is forever seeking minds strong enough to bear the burden of its infinitely branching futures. But Druidism and Shamanism are a lot more murky in the how’s and why’s. Shamanism, you are either born with the gift, or the Elements/Ancestor Spirits/Loa alter something within you to allow you to access Spirit Energy and through that, you either ask (or bargain with) the Elements for power, or the Ancestor Spirits/Loa intercede on your behalf and get you the necessary mojo to cast the spells.
Druidism appears to draw directly from the natural plants and animals around you, as well as the Emerald Dream in some way we’re never exactly going to have explained to us, but the Shape-Changing appears to derive solely from the Wild Gods and the Loa. You can’t turn into a cat unless you’re somehow connected to the Totem of the Druids of the Claw, or a Loa whose nature is that of a large cat agrees to lend you the power of that form (although in the case of Gonk, he intercedes on behalf of his Druids to allow them to draw from multiple Loa).
And something we’ve found is that our Gods … are kind of lacking. The Light might be benevolent, but it may yet be a tyrant regardless. The Void is certainly not nice, kind or gentle, but it may have a point. The Titans are just straight up monsters who have simply had bigger fish to fry and we were amendable pawns to their short-term goals, and the Fel?
Yeah, no, that is never going to be on anybody’s side.
By Wild Gods? Loa? They’re real, they’re close enough to touch, they preach lessons that Mortals can more easily connect with and ideology that appeals to the many and varied races that currently inhabit Azeroth.
The Horde has long had connections here, first through the Tauren, then the Darkspear, then the Zandalari Empire, and the Horde has both fought for and against Loa of all kinds, from small, humble Loa who are worshipped by families and clans, to the mighty King of the Loa himself before his tragic death at the hand of Zul’s cultists.
The Alliance is more complicated in this regard, with the Kaldorei being intimately familiar with the Wild Gods, but their standoffish attitude and the secluded nature of the Cenarion Circle prevented wide-spread introduction, along with the inherent racism and specism that gave the Scarlet Crusade such a strong footing amongst the Humans for so long. With the arrival of the Worgen, knowledge that there were powerful entities beholden to neither the Light, which had failed Men, Elves and Dwarves countless times, nor the Void, a dark and foul thing anti-ethical to the Virtues of the Light, at least to the common folk of the realms. With the return of the Kul’tirans and the end of the cultural animosity between the Kul’tirans and the ‘Mainlanders’, that’s a huge shift in how the Alliance’s common people may come to see such beings.
Wrote this on the spur of the moment.
Imagine a sailor, overhearing one of these Zandalari boasting of great hauls of fish because she offers prayers and tithe to some Shark God, and despairing of the depleted stocks of fish he is catching, decides to make a crude shark idol and awkwardly makes an offering of their blood and a fish to it, stutters and asks for enough fish to keep their family from starving, and casts the nets, binding their cut thumb and feeling both nervous and foolish … until he starts to reel in his net and grunts in surprise, straining as the nets come up slowly.
Its not a massive haul, but there’s several big fish there that will sell for a princely sum, and enough of the more common fish that his family can salt and smoke them and have enough food for a month!
And it is only when he’s reaching into the water to reach for the next handful of net that he spots the eye, huge, black, cold and frighteningly intelligent, belonging to a shark of monstrous size, big enough to swallow his little ship whole, and most distressing, not moving like a shark should.
It is watching him. And in that moment of blind fear, as his mind begs for something, anything to spare him, and the certain knowledge that he is dead and there’s nothing he can do, a cold voice, as crushing and pitiless as the depths of the ocean itself, fills his mind.
You called, little land-walker, and Gral has answered. Honor the sea, grant me offerings of fealty and loyalty, take only what you need, and her bounty shall ever be yours
And with that, the great Shark God, this ‘Gral’, smoothly dives back beneath the waters, that massive body disappearing with barely a ripple, as the fisherman gapes, then shivering from fear and adrenaline, pulls all of his nets in and sails back home.
His partner and children don’t understand his stammering, merely delighted to have such a bountiful haul. The merchants don’t care for his ‘wild stories’, only that the catch is fresh, healthy and can be sold for a premium.
And as the fisherman works up the courage to go back out the next day for his job, he looks at the idol, swallows, and raises his worn old whittling knife to his thumb again, and this time his prayer for bounty and protection has a name attached to it.
His catch will never be as bountiful as the first one, but his family never goes hungry, even if they do complain about their meals always being fish. But as the months roll by, his boat is repaired and refitted to be more stable, and modestly engraved with a shark’s head at the prow. Despite the urging of his friends and fellow fishermen, the fisherman never joins them when all the smaller boats gather to cast longer nets between them to try and catch bigger hauls, he fishes alone and urges them to not take so much.
As the man’s children grow older, he takes them aside and tells them of the ‘King of the Sharks’, and how they should never take more than they need, else their nets will be empty and their lives may be in danger. Over ale and counter meals at the tavern, his closest friends and confidants are introduced to his strange rituals, and ideas, and while many snort and laugh or call him mad, a few look at him, nod their heads and listen.
The next week, more shark idols are whittled in the quiet hours of the nights. Drops of blood are dropped on the idols, and whispered prayers for guidance, protection and bounty are given.
Some fishermen come back to shore early, white-faced and refusing to speak, moving inland and refusing to ever return to the ocean. Others, equally grim and startled, come back with nets full of a modest bounty of fish, and the original fisherman gives them an understanding look, and takes them to the tavern to buy them a drink to steady their nerves … and re-bandage their hands where a shaky cut of the knife may have cut too deep.
Months later, the fisherman’s daughter greets him at the docks, a strange look in her eyes. As he kneels down to ask her what is wrong, she reaches for his hand, for the thumb that is raw and infected from daily cuts and squeezes for blood, and wraps her small hands around it.
Pale green-blue light, barely visible in the afternoon sun, flows weakly in the spaces between her fingers, and the fisherman blinks, looking down to see his thumb healed and no longer swollen with infection, and then looks at his little girl, who is beaming up at him with a gap-toothed smile of innocent joy.
“Gral said you don’t have to do that every time.”
As he opens his mouth to ask questions, to cry out in alarm, there is a splash behind him, and holding his daughter to him, imagining he’s unwittingly led his friends and family to the worship of some devil of the sea, that he’s damned them all in his drive to keep his family fed and housed, the fisherman turns around … to see a strange staff, made of weathered, salt-encrusted driftwood, wrapped in kelp and festooned with barnacles and shark’s teeth, clattering onto the small, humble dock.
A gift, for your daughter. She has strong ties to the ocean. Honor her as you honor the sea, and your people will never need to fear hunger again.
Swallowing, the fisherman staggers over and gingerly picks up the staff, finding it curiously warm and heavy in his hands despite the cold sea-water and kelp under his hands, and lets his daughter hold it, telling himself he does not see the glowing bioluminescence in the kelp and barnacles, or at least not until he’s had a fortifying beer or seven at the tavern, and carries his daughter inside with her new prize, and a nervous feeling of hope in his heart.
Would the appeal of a God that actually answers you, that exists in the same world as you, that can commiserate with you, understand your troubles and your woes and offer you guidance that makes sense rather than maddenning images and dreams or impossible standards to uphold? Or would the compulsion to remain with the herd, the traditional ways and values of their people and the risk of social ostracism or worse keep the worship or approachment of such beings limited to the bizarre creatures we call Adventurers and Champions, rather than the common folk of the Horde and Alliance?