#dret

Another normal day-- head to the market, pick up supplies for the weekly worship, return home. Except, the evening time had already come. He was late. Slept in, little rascal. Hopefully Gonk would not be angered with him.

The lanky troll quickly weaved his way through the dimming crowd, the dim light of market torches flickering, almost with a held breath. The flames seemed to lick close to one another, whispering secrets as the young troll passed by them. Anticipating something…

Dret’kol would grunt, grimacing nervously as he’d bump into others and push them aside with gentle force, beckoning a few angry glares and growls his direction. It didn’t bother him. He was already used to the disrespect due to his mixed heritage. But he could not waste anymore time. Sharp teeth would chew on his lower lip in dismay for the situation. Why had he waited so long? Foolish. He cursed at himself under his breath. Something was wrong. This, was wrong. His parents would be upset, no doubt.

A quick turn to the street where his home was, the short claws of his feet scratching the stone pave-way underneath each hurried step. The stairs were up ahead a short distance. Tall, but he’d climbed them hundreds of times. Almost there. Almost there.

Toned legs leaped over a few at a time, a swift sprint breaking out from the troll after he got into the rhythm of the steps. He held the burlap bag close to him with both arms. It had everything needed for worship inside.

Dret’kol slowed to a fast paced walk once he’d reached the top. He could see his neighborhood in the distance. A relieved smile pulled at his lips, his tusks dry from his anxious ridden labored breathing. Another swift turn on the heel and he was down the street that led to his own.

His heart began to pound. Goosebumps pricked at his thin fur. A cold sweat. Dret’kol clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth side to side. It was just Gonk’s presence. Disappointed.

A blue hand reached out from the unseen corner of a building and grabbed ahold of one of his tusks, dragging him back to whomever owned the arm. He yelped out in surprise, dropping the supplies and struggling to remove the hand from his tusk in instinct.

A massive Zandalari man, covered in scars and stories of battle and pain untold. He stood about a foot taller than the already height-worthy Dret’kol, his grip sturdy and unrelenting. The man studied him, a tongue running over his tusks as his cracked lips pulled into a malicious grin. One of satisfaction, of euphoria, even.

He made a noise akin to a low, rumbling purr in his throat, gently turning the younger troll’s head to the side as he studied him, his free arm placed over a dagger sheathed on his belt. “Oh, you gonna make a fine soul for Him. So ripe n’ young. Bwonsamdi gonna thank me for you, boy.”

Dret’kol’s lip trembled, blue eyes wide in disbelief. His whole body shook as he saw the man’s intentions now. He couldn't die yet, no. He was far too young. It was not his time. He stopped fighting against the man’s grip, a paralyzing fear controlling every movement, every muscle.

“W-wait, hold on now-” He cried out weakly, but it was too late. The glimmer of the golden blade disoriented him. He felt a warm liquid drip down his own bare neck, gurgling out one final plea for his life. Once clear vision slipped to black, the very essence of his life escaping from the cut in his throat. He slowly lost the tension in his muscles, slumping down onto the ground after the man let go of his tusk. Dimming blue eyes looked up, his final sight of his killer smirking and walking away stained his memory as he slept.

                                                          …

Dret’kol awoke midwalk. This place was so… unfamiliar. So cold, but so warm all at once. Dark and ethereal, dozens of others followed his pace. All spirits. He looked down to his own hands. Clear, only traceable by a faint, haunted blue that outlined his form, a color akin to Bwonsamdi’s magic.

He realized now where he was. The temple of spirits. Bwonsamdi’s temple.

The echoing murmur of other confused spirits and chattering children and the mournful, quiet sobs of others filled the slow ambiance of the air around him. All the spirits walked together down the path that lead to the temple’s entrance itself. Once reading the ledge, their feet would gently arise and their souls would hover to the crossing into the spirit realm, a swirling vortex that kept itself in the air above where Bwonsamdi watched over each and every soul’s journey.

A rush of anger fell over Dret’kol, causing his energy to distort. Such anger, such volatile anger. It had not been his time. His fists clenched themselves as he hurried his pace. His decision was made. Bwonsamdi would be confronted.

Once reaching the ledge, the fiery troll made a swift turn to walk down the steps. A few other spirits watched him in disbelief, their judgemental and curious whispers hissing in his head.

“Foolish boy. What does he think he is doing?”

He ignored their warnings. This was unfair. And Bwonsamdi would listen.

Dret’kol grinded his teeth as he arrived at the massive doors after a short walk. They loomed over him, a menacing welcome. Or perhaps, a challenge. He’d wait for a moment, one final decision.

“Bwonsamdi! I request ya presence!” His voice was strong, although audibly young. A tone of immense anger rang with every syllable.

Nothing. Perhaps the Loa of Death saw his time unfit to deal with this.

“Grant me access to kneel before ya, O Bwonsamdi!” His shout was met with more silence. Dret’kol looked down to the floor beneath him. He felt discouraged, but not defeated. No, he would not go so easily.

The spirit was silent for a few moments before standing tall, chin raised to the sky in defiance and confidence. He inhaled sharply, the yell that would escape his throat thunderous and loud.  

“Bwala’zun!”

A plea of a cheated death. Only those bold, or stupid, called for a bwala’zun in front of the Death Loa.

A rumbling, taunting laugh was heard inside the temple’s doors as they opened slowly. Dret’kol suddenly felt a rush of dread. Was he going to regret this? The temple beckoned him in, and he made slow, fragile steps until he arrived at Bwonsamdi’s altar. The young spirit immediately fell to the floor in worship, arms extended outwards towards the empty abyss from which Bwonsamdi’s realm lay access to.

“O great Loa of Ending, I call for ya council.” When the troll looked up, he’d see the massive figure squatting next to him, resting his chin bemusedly on his palm. He swallowed hard, such a presence next to him made him feel… empowered. Frightened, but strong. Strong, but small.

“Oho! Little boy, what ya be doin’ makin’ pleas so bold, eh?” The Loa would stand and go to the other side of the tiny spirit in playful movements, a flicker in his glowing eyes. “Mm, but’cha be havin’ a miiighty fine soul. Yes, you do.” Bwonsamdi would chuckle. “Go, go. Stand up.”

Dret’kol was hesitant. Was this a trick to be played on him? He waited few moments.

“I said stand up boy!” Dret’kol scurried to his feet, standing as tall and proud as his nervousness would let him. Bwonsamdi could smell it.

“Now, now. What’s dis ting ya claimed at me door?” The Loa would stand intimidatingly, then suddenly appear in front of the spirit, his face uncomfortably close to Dret’s. “Somethin’ about a Cheated Death…?” Even in undeath could Dret’kol feel the chilling presence of Bwonsamdi, his breath causing a slight shiver.

“You will not unfairly claim my soul.” He spoke strongly still, making eye contact with Death himself. The Loa seemed surprised, although perhaps more so amused.

“Ha! Ya tink ya got any say in ya death, boy?” Bwonsamdi’s head tilted, studying him. “Well go on. Defend yaself. I’ll listen.”

Dret’kol chewed on the inside of his cheek, not breaking eye contact with the Loa. “It not be my time yet, an’ you know it to. Ya be takin’ my soul like a cheat if I cross over.”

Bwonsamdi let out a boisterous laugh, one that shook the very temple. A few ancient, loose stones fell from the walls and ceiling.

“Oho! What a fiery little ting ya are.” The Loa would float in the air as though he were laying on his stomach, chin propped on his palms and feet kicking up behind him, like an amused child. “I had no decision in ya death. A deal’s a deal’s a deal…” He paused, clicking his tongue. “Ya death be caused from a deal. Ya sure ya want ta be makin’ one?”

The young troll swallowed once more before continuing, a frown plastered on his brow. His fear was replaced with anger once more. “I come ‘ere to make a deal with ya, Bwonsamdi, and I gonna do just dat. Ya set my soul back in my body, an’ I serve ya unconditionally. No questions asked.”

Death tilted his head once more, humming in thought and narrowing his eyes. There was silence for a long time. “Hmm… but I feel da presence of Gonk witcha’. He gonna be real angry wit’ you.”

Dret’kol felt his words. He knew that. He knew he would lose any connections with druidism and Gonk forever.

“Do ya accept me offer or not?” He looked straight through the eyes of Death once more, a glare gleaming within them.

Bwonsamdi seemed to admire the boldness of this young troll. Not often was he challenged with such a fiery spirit. Another amused cackle, and Bwonsamdi was sitting next to him. “Tell ya what. Ju show me ya can take back what ya deserve, and I let ya live for a while. Kill da one who killed you.” The Loa paused. “...But ol’ Bwonsamdi gonna pluck ya from da realm of da livin’ anytime he see fit…” He patted the spirit’s shoulder with a massive skeletal hand, channeling a pale blue energy into him.

“I see ya soon, little Dret’kol…”

The temple disappeared. The Loa disappeared. Instead, everything around him was a maelstrom of Bwonsamdi’s magic. He felt peace, a sense of euphoria and breath in his lungs as he was transported through the realm once more. A spiritual wind blew strongly, and he closed his eyes. Warmth. He felt warm again.

Awakening with a jolt, Dret’kol coughed and sat up shakily. He did not feel the same. But he was alive.

A rumbling purr broke through his racing thoughts, a voice not his own.