It would have been easy to forget what she was there for. She could slip into her cat paws, make her way up one of the ancient trees and lie down, drinking in the sound of crickets and the winking of fire bugs until she fell asleep, and wake up in the morning like nothing had changed and nothing ever would.

But the scene before her was a scar on her little daydream; or a festering wound, threatening to burst. She adjusted her gloves out of unease more than anything, and stepped into the grove.

Several bodies had been strung up, as far as she could tell, by their entrails. Some of them had simply fallen apart under the strain, leaving piles of mangled and mutilated corpses at the bases of trees bent in mourning. Some had been cut nearly clean through, probably by a greatsword or an axe. Others had been gored, some were so pulverized she could only assume they'd been beaten to death.

They were all silent, swaying, dripping. The smell was almost too much to bear, but she closed her nose and locked away her disgust to the deepest part of her mind. Druid. She was a druid, and a healer. She'd seen it before. These weren't even her people. Besides, she was looking for someone, and that came first.

The movement in one of the trees nearby surprised her, and she instinctively hunched down, ready to run. A pair of cool eyes fixated on her, so bright in the darkness it made the rest of him hard to see. She saw his head tilt to one side, hands bigger than her head wrapped around the branch beneath him.

He was loaded like a spring, ready to strike.

Tiombi held her hands up and offered a small wave, trying her best to exude confidence in the circle of carnage around her. Unfamiliar death knights were dangerous. She was hoping this one remembered she was familiar.

The branch beneath him sighed in relief as he swung to the ground, landing lighter than a troll his size had any right to. Tiombi hadn't noticed the sword propped up against the tree until then, but he didn't touch it, and stepped out of the shadow of the forest into warm, forgiving moonlight.

“Mahuak?” She smiled, reaching out to him, to the metal tusks bolted to his head. To the death mask helmet, the collection of bones that rattled on his armour, the patchwork skin, the layer of blood that covered him like a fresh coat of paint.

“Are you Tiombi?” He smiled up at her. “Must be. No one else comes here anymore.”

“And you are?”

“Jack.” He reached out to shake her hand, unreturned. “Jack Tar.”

Tiombi brushed past him to the dock, the thick soles of her feet numb and protesting. “I wouldn’t expect a human to speak Orcish.” He hurried up behind her. “I thought you were an orc.”

“Not too many orcs in the crusade, miss.” He stepped up to the dock before her, offering her a hand up. “No paladins, and it’s mostly just them up here now.”

The dock was no relief from the cold. It was covered in a thin layer of ice, and Tiombi found herself struggling to walk without slipping. Still, she had no interest in losing her composure around a human, and her steps were slow and careful in spite of it. The boat she had rented bobbed alongside, smaller than she thought, and with peeling paint along the bow and something in the common tongue she couldn’t read.

“Dis it it?” A question that didn’t need an answer. Only the Vrykul sailed this far north, between the mainland and the islands.

“This is it.” The sailor hopped inside and bade her do the same, gesturing to a seat in the back corner. “Just gonna need you to hang onto this after we get out in the water, alright? I’ll deal with the sails, you drive.”

Tiombi slid into the seat, past the sailor and the thing he wanted her to hang onto. A sanded piece of wood, no more than two feet long and inlaid with mother of pearl, connected her to the rudder. She’d never driven anything before. The veil of unease she felt at the gates of Icecrown crept into her chest and she shivered, not from the cold.

She could barely see the island in the distance; a short expanse of snow and ice skirted by rocky cliffs, no lights, no buildings, nothing. Only a darkness that seemed to linger at the edge of the world, blotting out the sun and stars.

Whitecaps in the distance. It was windy at the shore, and always worse on the water. “Is dis safe?” She asked, watching him unhitch them from the dock.

Behind it were a couple of cutters, their names obscured.  Sailboats dressed in flags for people with money.  Two small sails and silly names like Reel Gone, Lazy Daze, Hydro Therapy, Sunrise Surprise.  Goblin girls lying flat on their stomachs along the bow.  No sailing on a day like that.

Tiombi shielded her eyes from the sun, watching the boats bob from side to side.  Ezzran had told her, years ago now, that there was a language in the flags.  If you could read it and speak it, you could talk to boats and sailors without ever making a sound.  She never found out where he learned it, and he didn’t teach her.

Crimson and gold, that one was obvious.  A pair of elves were sharing champagne on the deck of their little boat and laughing. Deep green with a yellow anchor. She didn’t recognize that one, but it looked worse for wear and empty.  The Steamwheedle Cartel had their flags all over Booty Bay.  Hard to miss that one.  Gold with a design she couldn’t make out, and the bright sunlight of midday behind it.  She didn’t recognize that one either.

What language could it possibly be?  Were they nations?  Tribes? Did every flag have its own letter?

Tiombi kicked her legs over the side of the dock and dropped her hand back into her lap.  It had been ages since they all came to the bay together. Ezzran had taken her up to a rocky outcrop deep within the jungle.  He held a firm hand on her waist when she leaned over the edge for a better view. Trolls lined the stairs and loft like birds on a rope, drinks in hand, Juzmik smiling and passing them over the bar one after the other.  And Yarbo had been there, asleep in his armor, slumped down with his mask over his face.

It was no good getting caught up in nostalgia.  It was a new day and a new warband.  Hardly anyone she knew at the start remained, save Rasek and Juzmik a short while later. The Forsaken woman with the bad jaw, maybe.  It was all done behind closed doors now, and through paperwork.  Rasek delivered orders from Orgrimmar when their staff sergeant remembered they existed.  Juzmik was where the old warchief always wanted him to be; at the helm of everything despite his age, working like he was twice as old.  Taz’jin, would-be shadow hunter, taking their burdens on his shoulders whenever they could.  The new Zul with his new troops.  New tabards for everyone.  New, new, new.

Tiombi sighed, shoulders slumped forward.  Everything was rushing by her so quickly these days, gaining momentum in places she never thought it would.  Faces, names, and ranks eluded her.  They still called upon her; favors from the Loa and so on, but that was it.  No knight at her back this time.

“Ezzran…”  Perhaps if everything slowed down, he’d be able to meet them in the bay when he was ready.  Testing his balance and his strength, feeling everything for the first time again and again and again.  He stepped on and off the same step over and over until he was satisfied with how it felt on his feet and ignored her, caught up in his own little world.

Maybe if everything slowed down, he could come sit on the docks with her like he used to, listening to the bells on the masts and watching the sunset.  If it slowed down, he could take her back to the ruins, where a fountain carved in stone with open-mouth snakes that still poured water into the basin.  Where the vines were deep, and she could see the stir of memory behind his bright blue eyes. Maybe they could spend the night together in an overstuffed bed on the top floor.  Maybe they could share a drink on a Saturday night, oblivious to the commotion around them until it came to a fight.  Maybe they could walk together.  Maybe they could pick which fish they liked best.  Maybe they could stand with one another by Damballah’s colors and promise to never leave the other behind, no matter what.

He heard them thumping against the door like drums, boom boom boom, a rhythm that never ended. There was a wardrobe against it, and an overturned bedframe, and a nightstand that had once been filled with books. The books lie smoldering in the middle of the room; the only light in his makeshift shelter.

From the corner, the corpse of his friend stood watch.

He was the superior druid of the two. He knew the landscape of the Dream, and was only supposed to take them out to a checkpoint about a day’s walk from the portal. But the twisting of the landscape caught his curiosity, and he kept swearing he saw a woman, a night elf like himself, darting in between the trees. They followed her for another day before grass beneath them was thick and red, and the trees bowed to meet them with reach arms and bony fingers.

And the things that rose from the ground were charred and black and had no mercy.

“Two days.” The guide promised, one hand in the air. A burst of solar energy erupted from his fingertips, shooting up into the sky above the canopy that threatened to swallow them whole. “Two days, and they should be here.”

“Who?” The Gilnean asked, nursing a gash in his arm.

“Help.”

The door splintered. Something hissed outside and bored at the wood, wedging itself in behind the dresser. The Gilnean put his hands over his ears, eyes shut tight, head between his knees. Was it possible they didn’t see the solar flare? Was it possible the scouts sent to get them were killed, or got lost, or tricked like they had? His friend in the corner, slumped over, hollow pits where his eyes used to be.

Wood scraping against wood as the dresser was inched out of the way, the nightstang clattering against the floor. The vines stank like rot, whipping back and forth in search of their prey. The Gilnean had seen what those thorns could do, engorged on blood and thirsting for more. His own wound still bubbled and stung, resilient against his grandmother’s magic.

There would be more. He could hear it creeping closer and pressed himself against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest as high as they could go. This was the end. He had nowhere to go, no strength to fight. No one was coming. The corpse against the wall slumped over, snatched up by the vine, leaving a smear of congealed blood behind as it was dragged back toward the door.

I’m sorry. The Gilnean begged. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please help me, please someone come, please, I swear I’ll do better, I’ll go home, I’ll visit my mom, I’m sorry, I never meant to run off, please come, please help me. Please help me. Please. I don’t want to die.

A piercing shriek caught him by surprise. The nightmare vine reeled back, thrashing against the door as light began to pour in around it. The Gilnean shied away, eyes half closed, shielding himself with his good arm.

Thorns embedded themselves in the door, the corpse of his friend forgotten, as the vine fought with whatever caught it outside the door. He heard a low roar beneath the cacophony of the nightmare, deep and throaty and wild.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a minute. The vine hit the wooden floor with a thump, one last shrill cry escaping its fleshy center before it curled up on itself and was still. The Gilnean leaned forward, his eyes adjusting to the light even as a figure stepped through the door.

She was tall, taller than any girl he’d known, and wrapped in leather robes that hugged her hips and chest and cut a generous silhouette. Green skin, golden eyes, tusks like pearls pushing at her lower lip.

“Who are you?” The Gilnean choked, his voice near lost and cracking.

The troll leaned forward, one hand outstretched to him, a smile curling around her tusks. She spoke in fluid Darnassian; sweet wine and molasses.

“It’s alright,” she cooed, pulling him into her arms. “I’m here now, little one.”

The Gilnean collapsed into her, his head buried in her chest, tears hot on his skin. He felt his shoulders shake and his hands curl into balls, clenching and unclenching like a child.

He spoke to her from far away, somewhere she couldn’t reach. Somewhere down the black road. He spoke to her like he spoke to himself, rambling, smiling, nodding, touching everything within reach. He tried the same stairs over and over again, delighted by the feel of wood against his feet. He was beyond childish, lost in a fog that clouded his eyes and his mind and his hands, until even the way he touched her was something she no longer recognized. Ezzran was gone.

But it was temporary, wasn’t it? She’d find a way to fix it, just like she promised. People kept away from his hut the way they kept away from her old warchief, perched in a chair at the top of the inn, seeing and hearing nothing but his own world. That wouldn’t happen to Ezzran. She wouldn’t let him stay that way. Even if it meant—

Tiombi blinked, one hand raised to the side of her head. The roar of the ocean was louder than before, closer than it should be. She turned her gaze to the ocean to watch, the tide coming faster than it should. Foam clung to sand, to rock, to grass and trees and didn’t stop growing. Pearls spilled over waves, glittering shells and fish scales catching the moonlight like mirrors; a welcoming carpet for their lady.

She came from the waves in a net of pearls and gold and woven silver, the blue of her skin streaked with salt and sand from far away shores. She looked at Tiombi with red eyes, heavy lidded and hidden by thick lashes, and rode a wave to the top of the cliffs like it was a part of her.

“Again?” Tiombi blinked and took a step back, her bear oddly unmoved and unconcerned with the woman before him. Her hair was pinned with seashells and plaited high above her head, trailing down to the waves to mingle with them and make them her own.

“Mama Erzulie—“

“I don’t want to hear ya excuses, woman.” The Loa dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “I tell you not to waste my gifts, and I find ya here, lookin olda den eva.”

Tiombi stuck out her lower lip, a blush creeping up her neck. She felt small before Erzulie, childish and plain. Her grip on the bear’s reigns tightened and she waited, saying nothing in her defense. What could she say? She could feel those red eyes boring into her, judging her, taking her in for what she was worth. The veve painted on her chest years ago burned between her breasts.

“I know what you are tinkin, girl.” The Loa stepped off her wave, foam gathering around her feet. “Dat boy is neva coming back.” She smiled, full lips around silver-capped tusks. “And would dat bother me? Not at all. I can always use more strong boys like him at my side.”

Tiombi’s eyes flicked to the distant hut, dark except for the dim glow of a lantern sprawled out on the rotten wood.

“And I will take him. Ya know dis. Girls in my service always give someting when dey must, and if ya can’t put what I give ya to good use, well. My gifts don’t come free.”

She stepped back, her hair the bounty of her husband coiled around her feet. “Figure it out, or dere won’t be anyting dere to come back to. Undastood?”

Tiombi nodded, her mouth a grim line. By the time she answered, the Loa was gone. The ground before her was dry, the ocean calm, the land untouched by the outstretched hand of the lord of the sea. The moon danced upon his splendor from the horizon to the shore and bathed her in a pale light that held no warmth.

She took a deep breath and tugged at the reins of her bear, guiding him away from the mouth of the cliffs. Erzulie asked a lot of her and was impatient, but what choice did she have? Ezzran was her only bargaining chip, and if she lost he’d be taken from her to join the consorts of her Erzulie in the halls of her husband beneath the sea.

But there was no one, and the sneers and judgement weighed upon her by the generals left her thinking they wanted it that way.  It hadn’t been so bad, had it?  Ezzran wasn’t that cruel.  Yarbo was a good man.  Right?

Tiombi rolled onto her back. Those two only ever listened to her because they liked the way she looked.  Juzmik was only kind to her now because he’d seen and felt her legs and hips, and run his hands over her shoulders like new moss and kissed the back of her neck.  That was all, and it didn’t work anymore.  She’d have to start wearing fuller robes soon.  They’d start calling her grandmamma.  Great.

A flash caught the corner of her eye; a bright reflection in the water as the sun found its way through the leaves.  She rolled back on her side and looked over the ledge, leaning over as far as she could. The more she watched, the bigger the reflection grew and the brighter it got.  The ripples in the water were ribbons of pale pink and blue and green, shifting colors before her eyes as their bright companion stretched out before her.

A snake.  Each scale was a ribbon, and each ribbon a rainbow.  It curled around the temple at least once, never stopping, always changing. But Hethiss in Zul’Gurub had no priests left here, and when he came it was as one of the speckled snakes that lie waiting in every tree.  But there were no other Loa like that.  None except—

Damballah.

“Look at you, woman!” Tiombi sat up, eyes unfocused and blinking against the brilliance of the snake.  She could barely make out the form of a troll with wide hips and long tusks wrapped in beads of gold and pink quartz.  Her hair was long and twisted, flowing out behind her to blend with the body of her husband.

“Look at you, feelin sorry for yaself.”  She stepped onto the ledge and the snake carried on beneath her.  “Is dis how ya gonna spend de rest of ya days?”

“Mama Erzulie…” Tiombi squinted and shielded her eyes from the unearthly glow of the Loa.  This one was tall, taller than she was, and strong.  Her body dripped with golden thread and studded earrings, fingers and toes covered in rings.  Even her long white tusks were capped with gold.  Heavily lids and long lashes over deep red eyes, and the web of black hair that spread out behind her seemed as night in the jungle’s midday.  “What are you doin here?”

Erzulie threw her shoulders back.  “What am I doin here, ya ask!  What do you tink, woman?  Why not I ask ya dis: What’s got ya so upset?”

Tiombi dipped her head, already feeling a blush growing in her cheeks.  She instinctively moved her hand to her chest, reaching for the clasp of a robe that wasn’t there.  Traded it for lighter gear as soon as they’d reached the jungle.  “It’s nuttin really.  Just worried dat, um…”  It sounded childish when she said it.  “Just dat… I want… I want dem to listen to me again.”

“You want dem to do dat and more.  I know you. Ya tink I don’t?  Come.”  The Loa leaned over, tusks scraping Tiombi’s skin, lips on the side of her neck.  A warmth grew there that eclipsed the heat of Stranglethorn but didn’t burn, and left the druid with her eyes closed and shaking.

It was some time before she managed to open her eyes again, but Erzulie was still there, looking away at the snake that coiled around the temple in the water below them.

“Mama takes good care of girls she looks after.  You know dis as much as anyone.”  Her body shifted, a glimmer of pale blue trapped behind a web of gold.  “Long ago ya left my veve on ya chest and asked for my blessing.  Ya tink ya not get it?”

Tiombi shook her her, unable to speak.  Skinny legs and big ears had grown into generous hips and pouting lips, wrapped around two little pearls of tusks that seemed more decoration than anything. But that had been so long ago. Almost twenty years.

“Do not take my gifts lightly, Tiombi.  I do not give dem out so often, and I do not like to see dem go to waste.  I have been kind to let ya keep it despite lookin at de udda Loa as ya do, and you repay me by sulking about it all by yaself in de middle of dis old place.  Ha!”

Erzulie waved her hand and turned back towards the water, dark hair coiled around her feet like her husband around the island.  “Get ahold of yaself.  As long as ya love me most of all, dese fears will be nuttin but ash at de bottom of a good fire.”

She was gone in a brilliant flash, sliding back onto the snake that became the ripples in the water, the reflection of the sun against the rocks, the cloak of bright petals that danced along the surface and spiraled off towards another waterfall.

Tiombi rubbed her eyes. Nothing but a dream, perhaps, but her cheeks and neck were still flush with blood, and a strange calm had rooted itself in the city that was all too often walked by restless spirits.  No birds.  No bugs.  Just the water and her own skin moving against the rock.

Tiombi shifted in her seat, beads of sweat snaking down her neck.  “Dey are not my people.”  She tapped her hands against her legs.  Green. Amani.  She’d told him already.

The dwarf stroked his mustache.  “I’ve heard a few stories here and there from some of the captives, if it pleases you. Maybe one or two might actually help.”

He sat up straight and set his shoulders back, nearly reaching her chest at his full sitting height. He cleared his throat and shot her a quick glance, painfully aware of honeyed eyes leveled on his own.  He set his rifle by his feet, and when he spoke again his voice was low and deep, enchanting and pleasant, though the words were never meant for dwarven lips.

“The Blood Lord was a mighty thing, Of him the old gods would make king: Of sandstone walls and spirits sing The glory wrought through suffering.

His spear was long, his armor shone, Red as blood and white as bone. And more of that he piled still, From little trolls bent to his will.

From Bethekk’s temple to the walls The Blood Lord filled the Gurub halls With Zandalari heads on pikes: Invaders, friend and foe alike.

And still they came without an end Roaches burrowed in his den. They laid him out with spear abreast, His soul they thought was sent to rest.

But darker voodoo lives on still, In roots beneath the greeny hills, And from the sap ‘round temple boughs The Blood Lord’s strength to grow.

Broad of chest and strong of limb A beating heart was brought to him. He tore his throat with curses far: Dedication to the god Hakkar.

To crumbling walls he rode away With promise of the coming day: Zul’Gurub, the shining star! A challenge to his foes afar!”

The dwarf sat in silence for a moment after, his head hung low.  If it weren’t for the rapid heave of his chest, Tiombi would have thought he fell asleep.  But he smiled at her after a time, and set his rifle back across his knees.

“Is dat it?”  She asked.

“Aye, as far as I heard it, anyway.”  He dabbed at his forehead with an old rag.  “This was ‘fore the place was proper raided again, and we were pulling trolls from all over that wandered too close to camp.  That one sang like a bird til one of the lads put an arrow through his neck.  Proud lot, those trolls, but none too bright.”

Still, it was what she’d been after.  Evidence that Mandokir had died and come back to Azeroth again, pulled from the Baron’s plane and into their own.  She wondered, for a moment, if his body had been constructed like the ghouls from Acherus. How fitting it would be, to stitch Ezzran back together like one of the wretched abominations he kept by his side.

A smile crept across her face as she tapped the painted helmet by her side, oddly cool in the jungle’s veil.

“If ye don’t mind, I’ve got a croc to gut now.”  The dwarf jerked his thumb over his shoulder and rolled to his feet; a great venture in the mid-afternoon.  

Tiombi nodded and climbed to her feet, thanking him as sweetly as she could, brushing his arm with her hand, lips curled around pearly tusks.  The helmet went back under her arm.  The Bloodscalp camp was just to the west, in the ruins of Zul’Kunda.  She’d been through the jungle enough to go without a guide, which was for the best.

“I’m de fastest guy ya know.”  And she smiled, knowing she was faster and humoring him just the same.

Tiombi closed her eyes, a chill creeping across her bare shoulders as the sun dipped lower on the horizon.  Day birds were sending out their last calls before nesting, and before long bats would spread out across the tranquil wood like a cloak, their leathery wings soft and quiet beneath the starry sky.

Her ears twitched. Ezzran’s careless laughter was gone; the clatter of his armor absent.  Tiombi opened her eyes and became aware of a curious feeling on the back of her neck; a prickle of her hair.  She instinctively hunched forward and turned her head.

An elf, slight and tall, with golden hair to her waist and a basket balanced on her hip, had stopped to watch her.  Tiombi slowly rose to her feet as the elf took a step back, green eyes wide in their sockets.

“It is alright.”  She spoke, her voice low and calm.  “I am Horde.  I won’t hurt you.”

The elf shook her head and took another step back.  She was shoeless in the grass.  The hem of her dress was tied up in a knot around her knees.  Tiombi’s eyes flicked to the village not far behind them as a bell sounded.  Not an alarm, but a reminder.  It was late, and Amani warbands traveled in the darkness.

“No.”  The elf looked to the vacant space where Ezzran had been. “I recognize you.  I know you.”

Tiombi took a deep breath as her chest tightened.  She blinked once and did not move, carefully weighing her options.  Perhaps she recognized her from before, when the warband regularly patrolled Silvermoon city.  Perhaps she was mistaking her for another troll, though she was tall, and her golden eyes and green skin set her apart from the Darkspear.  She couldn’t recognize Ezzran, not as he was.  Though the helmet… the helmet was the same.

“You were in the forest with another troll and the dead woman. I know you.  My son—“  Fear gripped Tiombi.  The elf dropped her basket.  “My son was killed.  Six months ago.  I remember you asking about it.  I remember—“

Tiombi followed the elf’s eyes as they flicked to her village, to safety.  If she made it there, that bell would become an alarm indeed. The Farstriders were never far off here, and if any trouble came of it, Ezzran would be the first to jump in.

She couldn’t let that happen, not again.

The elf gathered her skirts and turned on her heel, eyes still on Tiombi as she broke for home.  I am always faster.  The druid broke into a run, the soles of her feet becoming pads, her fingers turned to claws before she had a chance to think.  

She overtook the elf before she’d gotten more than a few meters, claws on her back, the weight of her body slamming her into the dirt.  The elf let out a winded cry, fingers clawing at the grass as she felt a pair of knees and hands digging into her.

Tiombi had her hammer in her hand before her transformation back was even complete.  There was no time to lose, no mercy to be had.  The elf turned to her as best she could with tears in her eyes, a Thalassian plea lost on Amani ears.

Her hammer was heavy in her grip.  It was too big for her, Ezzran had said.  Unlike her to walk around armed as she was.  She raised it above her head, eyes wide, teeth bared.  The elf made one last attempt to break free, one last cry, before steel met bone and her head became a wet patch of blood and thick blonde hair in the grass.

Tiombi stood shaking knees, her breath ragged in her chest and in her throat.  Her hammer at her side dripped with elf, white knuckles on the grip.  The body before her didn’t move.

“Thought ya said we wasn’t gonna kill any elfies dis time.”  Ezzran’s voice next to her was deep, low, filled with laughter.  She closed her eyes from him, his easy swagger, his hands upon his knees, but as much as she tried she couldn’t close her ears from the icy laughter that echoed through his helmet and poisoned the air around them.