<This has been translated from Zandali>

The rain-storms of Zandalar feel like heaven to me. I’m no shaman, but feeling the rain against my skin is a feeling I can’t describe. I could sit out in them for hours, if not for my clothes and my bow and arrows.

I’ve always liked the rain, but the amount in Zandalar seems to make it feel better. I can feel it, smell it, hear it all through the jungle. It is cleansing. I can forget the world outside. Forget what is happening.

Maybe that is what I was born for. Perhaps I never belonged with the others. I promised Ma’da I would join the Horde. I wasn’t Horde when I met Spike. I’ve been closer to Spike than anyone. I felt like I belonged to the Horde until Garrosh

I belong here. On Zandalar. The Zandalari are my people. Different, but the same, mostly. I knelt before my Loa. I could wander these jungles forever. Was this what Ma’da’s life was like? Only difference was we’d stay close to settlements for a little while for my learning. I could only be in a settlement for a day, head out the next. We’d only need supplies we couldn’t get from hunting.

I don’t want to leave Dranka alone. He doesn’t deserve to think all his family is dead or has abandoned him. But I belong here. In the rains.

This is my home. Maybe it can be his too.

But the Horde.