#shak'tul

Typically, it would have; the events of the last few weeks had placed a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. The large Troll had not been present for the War of Thorns; a choice he made between the battlefield and his adopted clan, choosing to remain with the whelps and the mate he had taken, rather then part from them for a war that he felt would succeed without him. He had not been there... but he had heard whispers. Rumours, talk of what had happened until he had the chance to see it for himself. An atrocity of the highest sort, was the destruction of Teldrassil; was what had happened an accident? Perhaps ... it was easier to swallow then the cold, stinging horror that had nestled in his gut, that the Warchief of the Horde had decided for honourless butchery rather then glorious conquest. He did not like thinking about it, or even fathoming the possibility. Instead, amber eyes closed as a large hand took hold of the thick-roped netting that draped along the sides of the airborne vehicle. The wind felt nice, the sea breeze pleasant; it reminded him of the jungles, of simplicity and the weight of a Troll’s mojo under the eyes of loa, peer and Horde alike. The dull rustling of plate, leather and ringmail faded into the back of his mind, joining the clanking and rattling of Goblin engineering. Focusing instead on the journey. To fight for the Horde. HIS Horde. The Horde that he knew was worth fighting for.