#umcha

Stranglethorn Jungle July 20 Sunset The troll tore through the jungle, nimbly leaping boulders, ducking branches and leaping small clefts and streams.  He moved with the easy grace of one well versed in traversing this terrain, but his features were grim, and tight with fear. Something was chasing him, something terrible, and he had to put distance between himself and it, he had to run, had to run, had to run, had 

to— He hit the ground hard and clutching the small axe that had embedded itself in his knee. He pushed back, dragging his injured leg behind him as he tried to crawl away from the thing pursuing him. He screamed, in far more terror than pain, as the creature materialized in front of him. It had the shape and gait of a troll, if a smaller one, but was twisted somehow, terrifying—the face was twisted and wrong, the tusks protruding from tortured angles, and the eyes—the eyes burned. They burn, they burn, they burn— was the troll’s last thought before the creature descended on him, and there was only darkness.

Jaguaro Isle June 13 Night

The island—what Taz thought of as his island--again. Huddled near a fire, again. Mourning a loss…again. How much more could life throw at him? How much more could he take?

Not very fucking much, Taz. Not very fucking much.

He sighed, stretching out on the comfortably hard mix of grass and dirt that defined the island.

Umcha was gone. Had been gone for far too long. And Juzmik, in his fucking blindness, had sent Sarjen of all fucking people to find him. He’d have sent me, if I’d been there. He should have sent me.

But no. He had been busy helping others. Helping elves. And because of that, Umcha was still lost, and the worst person Taz knew was going after him. The battle against the demon had left Taz so drained he didn’t even have the energy or the will to try and follow them now, no matter how hard he wished to.

That demon… He took everything from me. My friend. The Warband’s trust.  My faith. The things I love… He shuddered, trying to picture himself swimming, or perched above the water as he loved—used to love—or swinging carelessly through the rigging of a boat’s sails. Never again. Never again.

He rolled over, unable to make himself close his eyes, and stared into the jungle. A sudden chill enveloped him as watched the darkness, as if his fire had been quenched. He shivered, but didn’t sit up or turn around to see what had happened. This was a familiar chill, one he was rapidly coming to recognize. “What else could you possibly ask from me now?”

This is how a would-be Shadow Hunter greets his patron? Be wise and mind your tongue.

Taz grit his teeth and his fists clenched. But he refused to roll over and face the thing, let alone look it in the eye. “It’s how I greet one I trusted with my whole heart.  That rewarded my service with betrayal, and abandoned me to torture when I needed him most.”

The loa’s laughter echoed in his mind, but to Taz’s surprise, though the sound caused his skin to break out in goose bumps, it was…almost warm. Certainly more amused than derisive.

You’re a child, Darkspear. All your prayers, all your training, and you’ve not learned to trust what I offer, over what your small mind and cowardly heart wish for.

That caused Taz to bolt to his feet, and whirl on the spirit in fury. “Do you have any idea what it was like?” he hissed, words seething with rage, “how it felt? Drowning and not dying? To have you come to me, just to tell me you were helpless?” Taz spat at his feet, finally meeting the loa’s ember-like eyes. “If Bwonsamdi is too weak to overcome a Warlock’s spell—maybe I’ve wasted my time.”

A child, Bwonsamdi repeated, eyeing the furious troll. Do you not understand the gift he gave you—that I allowed you to receive? Are you truly so short sighted that you can’t see past your own temporary suffering? If this is what you wish to tell me… The spirit stepped forward, suddenly towering over Taz though the troll couldn’t have pointed to a moment where his size actually increased. Perhaps it is I who have wasted my time.

Taz fell to his knees, instantly cowed without consciously becoming afraid. “Papa I—that’s not—I meant—”

I know what you meant, Taz’jin Darkspear. And I tell you once more what you refused to hear before: your enemy forced you to walk the path between our worlds. And I allowed you to stay, that you may know me better. Do you know me better now, troll? Or did I waste my time?

Taz shuddered as the words, and the raw, primal power of their speaker, bludgeoned him. “I—I learn—” His mind raced, desperate to pull something, anything, from that horrifying experience that might appease the loa. “I learned that…you aren’t the cruel and terrible spirit so many people describe. That you bring peace, and mercy, along with pain and suffering. I know this, because I wished desperately for the mercy of death while I was in that pool. I longed the peace you offer.”

He glanced up quickly, to see that the loa had returned to what seemed to be normal size. Do you understand, then, why a petty amount of suffering means nothing next to what you have gained thereby?

Taz nodded, without looking up. “Yes Papa. I think—well. I am starting to understand.”

Satisfaction radiated from the great spirit. Then we have an understanding between us, Taz’jin Darkspear. Stand, and learn more about what my gift has granted you. The troll stood, and followed at the spirit’s beckon. There is one whose fate you question. See now through his eyes. The world flashed white, and Taz was suddenly completely disoriented. Disoriented and…covered in fur? Drakkari? No—Shrivallah—no—Umcha.The young troll’s name came to him as he recognized—from the inside, a strange sensation indeed—the soft, cublike fur of the druid’s cat form.  

Taz’s disorientation wasn’t helped by the cat’s odd eyesight, or the fact that he was so low to the ground. His sense of smell was distractingly acute—Darkshore, his mind told him instantly, as the distinct smell of pine and sea salt combined in his nostrils. Blood. Prey. 

He blinked—though oddly the cat didn’t, yet another strange experience. He wasn’t in control of the body at all, though he felt the cat—felt Umcha’s—Exhaustion. And—fear? It was hard to tell if it was fear or adrenaline. Perhaps both. And he was limping; his right arm was entirely numb, and barely supporting the weight he put on it. And he was afraid. No hiding that now. He was afraid.

Umcha! Kid! What happened to you! What—! His own panic seemed to snap him out of the vision, and the sudden return to his own body and senses sent him falling to his hands and knees. Umcha! Samdi, thank you, thank you! I have to get to him! Have to get to Darkshore! Have to--! His mind raced as he pushed himself back to his feet, and began spiriting through the forest as fast as he could run. 

Have to get to Darkshore. …Won’t make it in time. The last thought stopped him dead in his tracks. But I have to. I have to make it in time. But I’m not close enough. But I have to. But no one’s close enough. No one but—

No one but Sarjen. 

Taz’s heart instinctively rebelled against the idea of leading the dead thing right to Umcha—especially if the boy was vulnerable, and alone. The things he might do to him—the convenient “accidents” that might occur…But it was a chance. Maybe Umcha’s only chance. And wasn’t that chance worth taking? At least he knew Sarjen would find him. At least he could let the bastard know he was watching, let him know he was waiting for the boy’s safe return.

Revantusk Village Late night

Taz grinned as he walked back towards camp, shaking the briny ocean water from his hair. Truth be told, he hadn’t really stopped grinning since Gor’Watha had arrived in Revantusk. It wasn’t the lush, wet jungle he called home, but the air was clean here, honest and natural, and the peculiar combination of sea salt and pine on the breeze was rapidly growing on him. His only real complaint was that it got much colder at night than he would prefer, especially after a swim. The warm fire waiting for him made it almost worth the chilly trek from the shore to the—

His subconscious picked it up before his nose did, and he was already frozen silently in place, crouched in the shadows, before his mind registered the scent of rot, and death, and…wrongness that suddenly permeated the air, along with an unnatural, but all too familiar, chill. He blinked, and the warm green grass beneath his feet became an icy Northrend glacier, and the eyes of the thing seated at his fire glowed blue with the supernatural  frozen light of a soul snatched from Bwonsamdi and—and—

Taz blinked again, hard, and willed his breathing to slow from the silent gasp it was to a more reasonable, or at least less panicked, pace. The thing at the fire did stink of undeath and frost, and its’ eyes did glow with the Lich King’s evil voodoo. But this one was no threat, not anymore. It was only Sarjen.

Sarjen. And Juzmik. Taz’s lips curled back in involuntary disgust as his General smiled up at the dead thing in a way that made Taz’s stomach lurch. He was about to come out of the shadows and join them, when  higher pitched voice, raised in protest, pricked his ears forward, and made him crack a smile.Umcha.

And so it was. The lanky young troll was perched atop the large wall by the fire, frowning down at the other two. “De only ting my ma ever tell me about my dad was dat he was REAL tall. Dunno where he be from doe. I nevah met ‘im. Ma said 'e had a real pretty necklace, and dat was all she wanted from 'im. I don’ tink she even learned 'is name. She traded ‘im fer de necklace, be how she got it.”

Taz’s brow furrowed. As much as he disliked eavesdropping—well, eavesdropping out of purse curiosity anyway—this was the first time he had ever heard the kid mention his family, at least in that level of detail. Approaching now would surely break whatever moment was occurring here. And Taz wasn’t about to do it that.

“Your mother was a prostitute?” Sarjen asked.

“Uh. Not exactly.”

“Den what?” Juzmik jumped in, grinning up at the boy with the obnoxious sort of look that had gotten Taz thrown out of more than one bar… when I was his age. He’s not much older than Umcha, really. General in name, but a boy in all the ways that really matter.

Umcha continued. “ She uh. Well, she traded de sex fa tings she wanted or needed, not fa gold. I dunno if dat still counts.”

“So she was a hooka.” Juzmik bobbed his head knowingly.  

Umcha shrugged. “Ma traded fa a necklace an’ got me on top’a it.”

“She made out pretty good den.” Juzmik smiled up at the younger troll, and in that instant, Taz would have been willing to forgive the general for almost anything the quick-tongued boy had ever said. This is why you’re going to be a great leader one day, Juz. Because of moments like this.

Umcha  grinned bashfully. “She din’ tink so, Juz. But tank ya.”

“Well, ya mom’s shit den, Umcha.”

Something about the frankness of Umcha’s admission, and the equal frankness of Juzmik’s assessment, made Taz’s heart ache in a way it hadn’t in…in a very long time. They were so very much like the fresh faced, eager boys he had led into battle first in Outland, then in Northrend—Northrend—

He gasped silently again as Sarjen’s precise, otherworldly voice cut through the night. “How many people in this Warband have good mothers?”

“Uh.” Juzmik paused, apparently as confused by the rather odd question as Taz was. “…Rasek, n’ Yarbo n’…not Kirkal…or me…or…you…”  He paused again, and shrugged. “Taz’jin, prolly.”

Taz could see Sarjen’s amused snort of chilled air from across the Revantusk courtyard. “He seems like a family man.”

Taz felt the impact of those words as surely as a fist to his stomach. They didn’t know. Well of course they don’t KNOW, jackass. You’ve never told them.Never told them he had no family; that he and his sister were orphans, and that even his sister had stopped speaking to him when he had signed up with the wrong crowds in Booty Bay. Twenty years since he had heard from her at least, if not more. And Sarjen though he was a ‘family man?’

He laughed, silently and bitterly, but the chuckle caught in his throat as he watched Umcha shift into his cat—well, cub—form, and clamber down off the wall to lay down next to Juzmik. The general patted him absently, and then Taz could almost see the others sitting around the fire with them: Tiombi and Rasek, Janzo, Zinki (especially Zinki), even Immy—they were all there in his mind, laughing, drinking, smoking, talking, fighting. Almost like—

Almost like a family.

But not almost, he realized in that moment. Exactly like. Isn’t that what he always told the new recruits? That the Warband was a family? Weren't Juz and Ras an Umcha, all of them really, his ‘little bruddahs and sistahs,’ even if he knew better than to call them that to their faces?

It was true. A family. A family he was a part of, not because he had been born to it, but because they cared about him. And because he cared about them fiercely in return. Better than blood is the family that’s chosen—and Gor’Watha had chosen him.

These thoughts, as well as the sight of Juzmik gently stroking Umcha’s fur, was enough to nearly make Taz burst out of the shadows with joy, and crush every single one of them in a huge bear hug. Fel, he was so happy he’d even hug Sarjen!

By the time he looked again, Juzmik was gone—retired to bed, most likely, and Umcha was back to looking like himself and staring moodily into the fire. Taz smiled a little in sympathy. Oh, to be eighteen again, and to believe the world has reached its limit in complexity.

“He seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Taz was jerked out of his reverie by Sarjen’s silky voice, and the crack of the ice on his armor as he shifted positions. Umcha was apparently just as startled, and jumped at the Death Knight’s words. “Who? Juz?  Ya tink so?”

“I do.”

Taz’s blood ran cold as his eyes flitted to the Death Knight’s face, and for once it wasn’t the instinctive cringe that so many veterans of the Northrend campaign shared. There was something in Sarjen’s face Taz had never seen before—he knew the look well enough, but he had never, ever seen such raw…emotion  on the face of a Death Knight before. It was only there for a split second, and would have been utterly unnoticeable if Taz hadn’t been looking at him at that precise moment…but there was no denying it.

It was impossible. But Sarjen…was jealous.

Taz’s perception of the scene before him shifted suddenly, almost violently. This wasn’t his friend Umcha, and an undead warrior, sitting around the fire. It was a young boy, and an old man. An old man threatened by the other’s affection for his lover.

Why in the name of all the holy and unholy loa do I get dragged in to this kind of shit?!

It had been a rhetorical snarl to himself, and so Taz was quite shocked—enough to nearly fall out of the foliage he was crouched in—when an answer echoed through his mind. Because you can change it.

Taz’s eyes narrowed, and he felt the silent growl of a predator in his throat as he slid deeper into the shadows, watching and listening with a new clarity of purpose and instinct.

“It isn’t subtle,” Sarjen continued dismissively. “You curled right up against him when you were a cat.”

“What’s dat got ta do wid anytin’?”

The head of Sarjen’s axe slammed down between the two suddenly, and Taz coiled himself for a leap at Sarjen’s throat—but it was merely for effect as the Death Knight answered, “Nothing,” with admittedly impressive nonchalance. “I’m glad you’re making friends, Umcha.  Juzmik is a good person to make friends with.” Sarjen shouldered his axe abruptly, and fixed the boy with an overly-amused gaze. “Would you say you’re an affectionate person, Umcha?”

“I dunno.” Scared. Nervous. Not hiding it well. “Not really.”

“Does sitting close to people bother you?”

“Uh. It ain’ sometin’ I’m used ta.”

“But you do it so easily with the Major General.”

“Dat’s differen’.”

"Oh?” Sarjen’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, close. Too close. “How?”

“It’s jus’—” Panic. Fear. Hold it together, kid, let him dig his own grave.

The boy shuddered, knocking himself off balance just enough to put out a hand, knocking his elbow against the Death Knight’s knee. Sarjen’s hand shot out, grabbing Umcha’s arm…quite unnecessarily.

“Careful.”

“Sorry. I—uh. Sorry…”

Sarjen’s grip tightened for the briefest moment, before releasing the boy. “Not a problem.” The boy’s arm was red, and Taz couldn’t help but white-knuckle the hilt of his dagger as Sarjen spoke again. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What?”

“Why is it different?”

“I dunno. It jus’ is.”

“I see.” An amused smile played on the snow-white lips as he added, “Regardless, I encourage it.  He is a good friend to have.”

Umcha’s head jerked up, and he met Sarjen’s eyes, confused. “But ya jus’…”

“What?” Sarjen cocked his head, unsmiling, eyes never leaving the boy’s.

“Nevah min’.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Did I make you nervous?”

“No, uh. I’m fine.”

Sarjen peered a few seconds more, then sat back, and gazed into the fire. “Juzmik had a friend about your age, maybe two years ago. He was a good boy.  Got himself mixed up in some terrible business. Juzmik stuck up for him; got him off the hook.  He was very kind. Nervous.  Young.” Sarjen sighed, and glanced over at Umcha. “The point is, Juzmik easily befriends people like you.”

“What ya tryin’ ta say, den?”

“I was just curious.”

“Is dere anytin’ else ya were trying ta say?”

“No.”

“Ya wan’ me an’ Juzmik ta be uh. Friends?”

“Yes.”

“An’, uh. Sorry I got all nervous. Ya don’ scare me, promise. …I just was tinkin’ I saw sometin’ I didn’.”

“I see.”

“Ya ain’ mad a’ me, righ’?”

“No.”

Liar, Taz thought. You can fool boys, you old corpse, but I see through you. I know you now.

His stomach twisted again at the thought of this…thing…crawling into bed next to Juzmik.  Next to his little brother. His teeth ground involuntarily, and he was torn between the need to end the life of the dead creature that dared assume it had a claim on Juzmik, and the need to wash himself, vigorously, after being in proximity to such filth.

Sarjen had threatened Umcha. He had threatened him. Umcha might have misunderstood it, or denied it, but a predator knows a predator—and Sarjen was as dangerous a one as Taz had ever seen.

And he threatens my family.

Taz allowed himself to breathe again once the courtyard was empty, and he carefully made his way out of the shadows, and back down towards the water. It had been years, many, many years, since he had killed outside of war—killed in a way that covered his tracks. That left no suspicion. But his skills were still sharp, and his will was sharper still, now. And the Warband—well…Juzmik—would never understand. So they could never know. They could never know what he had done. What he was going to do. If they found out—it would probably be his life. Or worse, they would turn their backs on him. But even if the worst happened, and it came to that—he could live with that outcome. As long as Sarjen was gone, he could live with it. Because—

believer by american authors

ain’t it fun by paramore

trouble by imagine dragons (?)

you don’t love me (defunk remix) by caro emerald (?)

lights by ellie goulding (?)

breaking down by florence and the machine (?)

seventeen by marina and the diamonds

one foot by fun.

have you got it in you? by imogen heap

jessie’s girl cover by mary lambert

skinny love by birdy

get home by bastille