Taz'jin and Friends

So this one is a bit personal to me. Because of that, I’ve written it far more stream of consciousness than I usually do and have proofed it far less. If things seem a little messy, that’s why—but I didn’t and don’t want to dilute it by polishing it too much. We’ll see if that pays off.

Revantusk Village

Taz pushed himself to his feet and wandered away from the tent flap, pointedly ignoring the sobs and torrent of apologies pouring forth from the boy inside. He longed to reassure Juzmik, to comfort him—loa knew that Yarbo wouldn’t be able to. But if the boy was going to be a man, and if that man was the Chief that would lead the Warband through whatever hell the burning Legion had in store for them…then he couldn’t coddle. Juzmik wasn’t his son—he was the Warband’s leader. Their Chief. And while Taz would always stand by him, and be there to advise, and share whatever burdens came to bear…the fact was, there was only one Chief. And the Chief would have to do things far more painful and more difficult than if he was going to be worthy—truly worthy—of the title.  

His resolution waivered the moment the boy walked out of Yarbo’s hut, red-eyed and ashen faced. He rested a hand on Juzmik’s shoulder and said quietly, “you don’t have to go. I can tell them,” as he gazed across the grassy knoll at Rasek’s childhood home.

Taz’s heart leaped with pride as Juzmik shook his head silently, and nodded towards the hut. He knows, Taz thought, taking a deep, steadying breath as he swallowed the sudden and rather large lump in his throat as they began to walk. He doesn’t know. But he knows what has to be done.

He squeezed Juzmik’s shoulder again, before pausing at the door to smooth invisible wrinkles from his unusually impeccably laundered tabard, and to brush off imaginary specs of dust. He glanced at Juzmik and smiled, just a little—the boy had the same idea. “Okay,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “Here we go. Stay with me, Juz.”

He knocked once, and the door was almost immediately opened by an elderly, white-haired woman. From the quick wince and drop of Juzmik’s eyes, it could only be Rasek’s mother. “Juzmik?” she asked, smiling but clearly curious. “And…a friend. I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Nah…” Juzmik began. “Hey, Zoti. Well eh. We were. In the neighborhood. We were here in Revantusk and we…”

“Ma’am. …Could we come in, please?” He tried to smile, couldn’t, and settled for a stiffly professional nod instead.

“OH—of course. Forgive my manners. Come inside and sit. I’ll get you boys a bowl of stew; it’s fresh off the fire.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, ma’am,” Taz said, ducking inside the hut and taking a seat on a bench in front of the hearth fire. Juzmik took the seat beside him, breathing deeply and steadily.

“Don’t be silly. Boys are always hungry, especially ones back from war. You’re here to share your stories and show off your scars I’ll be bound—the Warband’s been doing that in my house since before they were the Warband, you know. Yarbo and Rasek would spend all day outside fighting like little raptor pups, then come inside and brag about who had the biggest cut, whose bruise was darker than whose, which of them had lost the most blood—” She laughed, a high, shrill sound without a hint of true mirth or memory under it. The stew bowl in her hand continued to fill, mechanically, and by now the fishy broth simply sloshed over the top and back into the pot with each ladle full.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was deep, and icy calm. Taz’s head jerked up to meet the eyes of a large Amani troll standing in a bedroom doorway. “Juzmik? Who is this? And why are you here?”

Juzmik swallowed hard, glancing up and giving the man a ghastly smile before dropping his eyes again. “Hey Azibo. We’re just here talking about… Oh, this’s Taz’jin, he’s my—he’s a—the Warband’s General, and…”

Azibo’s eyes narrowed as he eyed the Darkspear, and the reassurance of Taz’s Warband membership didn’t cause him to relax in the slightest. “That’s one question. But I ask again: why are you here? And why are you upsetting my wife?”

“Sir.” Taz stood, giving the man a deep nod and trying very hard not to glance to the side, to the image of Rasek’s mother frozen now over the kettle of fish. “You’re Rasek’s father?”

“Who are you, and why. Are you in. My house.”

Taz opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut as Juzmik spoke. “Azibo…Zoti… Ras…he didn’t make it. Home. From the Shore. Rasek’s d—”

Bowl clattered against pot as it fell to the ground and splintered, hot soup sloshing everywhere. Taz was there in a moment, grabbing Zoti by the shoulders and guiding her away from the burning liquid seeping around the hearth. Azibo was there before he could lead her to a seat, elbowing Taz aside and taking her arm as she wailed, an eerie, quiet sound meant only for herself.

She collapsed onto the floor, immovable in her grief. Azibo simply crouched beside her, rocking gently as she buried her face into his chest, and fixed the two Wathans with his unchanging, frozen glare. “How?”

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so so sorry— The thought flashed quickly through Taz’s head as he look at Juzmik. The boy’s eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was biting his lip; it was taking everything he had to hold himself together. “We…we don’t know, sir. He led the charge out of the boat, we know that. He was separated from us in the melee—”

“Why. Did you let my boy get separated from you?”

Taz swallowed hard.  “…The last reports we know about refer to him fighting a demon—a shivarrah—”

“Why didn’t the person making these reports help him instead of writing it down?”

“He’s been put in for an award. With the Horde itself. And sir, I want to express my deepest—”

“I. Don’t. Care.” The man’s voice remained quiet, barely raised enough to be heard over the screams of his wife as he rocked her and ran a hand down her hair over and over and over. Do you have children, Darkspear?”

Yes, Taz wanted to answer. Yes. Hundreds and hundreds of boys and girls have been my children. I raised them from clumsy, fearful things afraid of their own shadows to fine warriors that stood against the Naga, the Illidari, the scourge and the Lich King himself. I watched dozens of them die with my own eyes. I held their hands as Papa Samdi claimed them, and spoke empty words of comfort as they begged to see parents that were not me. I said the blessings, led the services, I buried them, and every single time I swore it would never happen again. And every single time it was a lie.

But his tongue, because it did not have the language to express what he was feeling in a way that wouldn’t be insulting, simply answered, “No.”

Azibo nodded, almost to himself. “I thought not. I thought not.” His gaze broke from Taz’s for the first time, and he reached out a free hand to touch an old, weathered stick sitting in a shadowed corner, with hook and line tied tightly, but inexpertly, to the end. “Do you know what this is, Darkspear General?” He pulled it from the corner, hand running down the pole almost thoughtfully as he looked back at Taz. “Do you?”

Taz shook his head, and Juzmik’s breath hitched in a silent sob as he looked up, and then away again. “No sir. I don’t.”

“This is his fishing rod. His first. It’s a piece of !@#$, you know; he carved it out when he was five. I let him use my knife to do it. For his birthday, you know. He never caught a damn thing with it; was a piece of junk, but he tried. He tried…” Azibo’s grip on the flimsy stick tightened effortlessly, and there was a sudden SNAP as the pole shattered in half.

Juzmik was on his feet almost instantly, mouth wide with horror as he wiped his eyes. He stepped forward, as if to pick up the pieces and put them back together (somehow), but the firm hand of his General on his shoulder stopped him, and he turned, pleading. “But Taz—Ras’s stick—”

“I know. ...I know. Let it go, Juz. Let it go.”

“But—”

“Please. Chief. Let it go.”

A rub of his face, a small nod, and Juzmik straightened again, and turned around. “The…the Warband will share more with you as soon as we know, and…when the…the body’s been collected…you’ll be the first to…know.”

“Get out.”

“Zebo—”

“I don’t. Care. Out.”

Tuesday August 9 Bladefist Bay 

Taz shuffled aboard the landing craft, shouldering his way to the head of the green and gold tabarded contingent that was this vessel’s vanguard. Three days ago, the thought of being near the ocean—of being on a ship—would have been unspeakably terrifying, but as it was, that was quite low indeed on the list of things that were currently loosening his bowels. 

Perhaps first on the list were the voices and faces behind him—so many, and so many that were so very, very young. And so many that wouldn’t be coming home; that would scream their lives out in agony, begging for their mothers, on the loa-forsaken rock ahead of them.

 He knew that sound well. And he knew hearing it again would break him.

I beg you Papa Samdi, please…if you do nothing else this day, please, please, please, give me no more ghosts to carry today. They’re so heavy, and I can’t bear any more of them.

 He reached above him, snagging a handhold as the vessel crashed through another wave. They must be getting close now. He glanced to his side, and shared a quick smile and nod with an old, long bearded orc beside him. He knows, Taz thought. Her too, seeing the large elderly tauren looming over his other shoulder. In fact, he noted with grim satisfaction, all the soldiers around him were near his age, or even older; all of them had slowly, quietly migrated towards the front of the vessel and stood together in a steadfast, silent agreement: when the ship’s door dropped, and the charge onto the beach began, it would not be the young ones behind them that would take those first initial, deadly volleys.  

 Almost as if the thought had conjured the event, the vessel slammed to a halt. There was a moment of abject, absolute silence, and then light flooded into the troop compartment, and the world exploded. The orc kept pace as Taz drew his glaive and leapt off the ship, bypassing the ramp entirely. He cried out, hitting the ground behind a small berm as a fireball roared by him, singing his arm and nearly causing him to drop his weapon. “GOR’WATHA! BRAH BRAH OI OI OI!”

 And yes! There they were—Juzmik leading the river of green and gold that began flooding out of the ship. There was no plan, no time to communicate, no time even to count heads or mourn the noble, elderly tauren lying at the base of landing craft, fel fire still sizzling where her head had once been. There was only time to run, sprint, to follow the Warchief as he charged forward, and to pray to every loa he knew in the hopes that Vol’jin would spend their lives dearly, and well.

 A shove from behind, and a wild, gesture filled shout from Juzmik, and Taz was charging up the ridgeline, cutting his way through demons and things worse than demons (I didn’t think there could be things worse than demons…) to try and prevent the swarm of fel beings from encircling the Wathans that had moved higher up. He flew between the flanking creatures, stepping through shadows from one to another in a silent dance of steel and loa’s magic.

 “GET BACK! GET BACK GET BACK FALL—“

 An arrow slammed into Taz’s back and he fell to a knee—demon arrow, Horde arrow, Alliance arrow, it didn’t matter. Is this where I stop? he wondered, almost outside of himself. Is this where I can lay down and—

 “Warchief!”

The icy, terrifying voice startled him back into himself, and the word jerked his attention to the top of the ridge. Sylvanas had called for the Warchief. But he wasn’t there. Why wasn’t Vol’jin—

 And then he saw him, half blind, tusk cracked, sprawled limp on the ground—the only father he had ever needed or wanted.

“WARCHIEEEEEEEEF!” the scream tore from his throat, and it burned far brighter than the fire on his arm or the arrow in his back. He started back up the hill without thinking, slashing demons aside, punching, kicking, casting—anything that would make them move move MOVE GET OUT OF MY WAY!

 Sylvanas had him now—she had Vol’jin! She was going to—

Taz stumbled towards them with a roar that was lost in the cacophony of the battle, vaguely intending to—what? Slay the Banshee Queen? Far better than him had tried, but it didn’t matter; all that mattered was Vol’jin, all that mattered was that she had her hands on him—!

A horn pierced the air—a retreat! He whirled wildly, looking for Gor’Watha, looking for his boys—

And Juzmik’s voice cut through his desperation, as the young man screamed across the field. “I GOT DIS! I GOT DEM! GO!”

It was like releasing the chain of a rabid, slavering dog. Taz turned, and sprinted—damn the arrow, damn his arm, damn the Alliance and damn the demons—he sprinted after the horse that had taken his Warchief away. Ghostly things were around him suddenly; terrible, chilling things lifting the bodies of the dead and dying—but he was used to ghosts; he was used to ignoring them. And nothing, no thing dead and no thing living, would stop him from reaching Vol’jin. Nothing.

  ______________________________________________________________

The ride back was a nightmare. He was in the right ship, he knew that much, but the Elite Headhunters wouldn’t let him out of the hold that was carrying the wounded, and no amount of credentials from the Spear would convince them to let him pass. So he waited in the darkness, pacing when pain allowed and lying when it didn’t, listening to the cries and moans of children who wouldn’t live to see the shores of their homeland again.

He was first off the ship when it docked, stumbling down the pier and towards the city. They wouldn’t take the Warchief to the clinic, not the public one; too dangerous; Vol’jin wasn’t stupid and neither was Sylvanas. There was only one impenetrable place in the city, designed to keep out anything and everything that might attempt to breach it—and that was the Hold itself.

He threw on the tabard of Vol’jin’s Spear, the one he wore almost as proudly as Gor’Watha’s; blood soaked through almost instantly, but he was far beyond caring. He joined the throng outside of the Hold, shoving his way through the mob of people clamoring to be let in, clamming to know, clamoring for protection, and just clamoring.

The poor guards trying to sort through the mess never had a chance. Between the blood and his tabard, Taz disappeared—not with shadows or with the loa’s magic this time, but in the way that only a uniformed man in a crowd of uniformed men can. He entered the Hold between two other far more important looking soldiers, and immediately melted into a dark corner, watching, and listening.

Vol’jin was dying.

Taz had seen death enough to know when it would be claiming someone—and Bwonsamdi’s presence permeated the room. Though always fearful, the loa’s presence was secondary; all Taz could do was stare at the Warchief’s face…into Vol’jin’s blind right eye, and shattered tusk.

He’s going to leave us, The thought occurred to him a split second before the Warchief announced it himself, and it was all Taz could do to remain silent and motionless and he lurked in the shadows. He wanted to rage, to scream, to cling to the Warchief’s knee and beg him not to go, to draw his glaive on Bwonsamdi himself if it would buy Vol’jin another hour, another minute, just one more breath. But the loa’s amused laughter, echoing in his head suddenly and with more finality than a thunderclap, quashed such thoughts instantly.

Vol’jin was dying. And there was nothing in this world or the other, no battle, no deal and no sacrifice, that could stop it.

The Warchief’s words washed over him like a warm embrace, and it wasn’t the weakness, or the coughing, or even the words themselves he was really hearing…it was his voice, the voice, the voice of his beloved leader’s son, who had grown into the greatest leader Taz had ever known in his own right; the voice of a troll who, if Taz could be a fraction, just one small piece, of what Vol’jin was, someday, he would enter the spirit world with no regrets left behind him.

And then the spark that was the life of his Warchief went out.

He felt it go, tried to cling to it as it extinguished, as the room around him erupted into chaos. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

"O Warchief! my Warchief! our fearful task is done,

Your Horde has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

Orgrimmar’s near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the zeppelins grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the shore my Warchief lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Warchief! my Warchief! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the streets a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Warchief! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on this shore,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Warchief does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.

Our word it be defended, the battle's closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O Horde, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread

Walk the Broken Shore my Warchief lies,

((This is a…rather different take on the theme of ‘overcoming the odds.’  But I do believe that by the end, you will agree that some pretty severe odds have indeed been overcome!))

The Ghostlands July 5 

Tythanion Sunborne hummed quietly to himself as he cut his way through the brush of the Ghostland’s forest. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was, but this did not concern him greatly. The great towers of Zul’Aman, and the thrum of arcane magic from the direction of Eversong, was all the compass he required. That, and the Light of course; the one thing that would never, ever steer him wrong. 

His ears twitched as a soft chant in an ancient tongue drifted to them across the darkening mist. He could feel the age of those words, and the power in them, as surely as he felt the purity of the prayers he repeated every night without fail. But where his own prayers filled his mind with peace, and Light…these words had the sound of drumbeats in them…bone striking taut leather, and naked feet stomping frantically against dirt and rock. 

The elf swallowed hard, raised his chin, and continued deeper into the forest. 

The chanting grew steadily louder. 

Tythanion continued on. 

By and by the trees thinned, and he came upon a small clearing in the woods. He was no Farstrider, but even Ty’s unpracticed eye could see the remnants of long-overgrown tree stumps--no doubt cut down ages ago to make room for the small temple squatting at the clearing’s center. He stepped lightly now, approaching the sacred place (at least he presumed it was once sacred to someone) as quietly as his heavy boots would allow. 

The chanting grew steadily louder. 

Just on the other side of the wall, now, it was. Ty paused in the stone archway, held his breath as he poked his head gingerly around the— 

A great hand shot out of the deep darkness within, securing itself around Tythanion’s neck before the elf could let out a gasp of surprise, let alone scream. Burning eyes glowered at him from the shadows as he clutched at the arm, battering at it ineffectually with plated fists. A face, features twisted in unnatural, horrible ways, leered at him, offering no hope of respite. 

Light shield me…! 

The thing growled at him in that same primordial language—even if it hadn’t been crushing his throat, Ty wasn’t sure he would have been able to respond to this…thing. 

The thing narrowed its eyes, cocking its head in an almost curious gesture. A blink, and then a free hand pushed up the ritual mask to reveal the face of a middle-aged troll glaring at him. “Wat ya doin’ ‘ere, elfy?” the troll asked, relaxing his grip on Ty’s neck. “Dis ain’ your land.” 

“Well ah. Technically according to the political boundaries established by theeeEEEKKK--!” The rest of the thought remained unsaid, as the troll oh-so-casually cut off his air flow again. 

“I don’ care wat ya maps say, elfy. Dis land be holy ta de loa, an’ dey don’ give a shit about ya ‘boundaries’—an’ neidder do I.” Ty gasped as the troll let go of his neck, fully this time, and allowed him to fall to the ground in what would have been a quite embarrassing heap, if the elf had been focused on appearances rather than breathing. The troll crouched down, nonchalantly balancing a long, thin dagger in his palm as he loomed over the smaller creature. “I gonna ask ya again. An’ dis time ya don’ get a second chance: wat’er ya doin’ ‘ere, elfymon?”

Oh Light, Light, banish from my heart all uncertainty and fear… “I ah…I was seeking…information…” For my faith is a shield though I come before my enemies naked and innocent as newborn babe…

 The troll’s mouth twitched—in amusement or annoyance Ty couldn’t begin to guess. “Dat so? An’ wat infamantion be ya seekin’ in an old Amani temple, eh?”

Trust in the truth and speak without fear… The elf cleared his throat, gingerly pushing himself into a sitting position without taking his eyes off the knife’s blade/ glinting in the dim torchlight. “I was ah…” He shuffled uncomfortably, and took a moment to compose himself since his…captor? Companion? Seemed equally unhurried. “I was attempting to learn about these ‘loa’ you spoke of, actually.” For the path of truth is ever righteous and uncompromising, and shines brightly in the most holy Light. 

The troll blinked again and, incredibly, burst into a loud, hearty peal of laughter that was so unlike the primitive snarl of a few minutes before that Ty could scarcely believe it came from the same being. “Elfy, dat’s too stupid’a answa ta be’a lie.” Still grinning (at least, Ty thought it was a grin), the troll reached down and offered a hand to help the elf to his feet. “Taz’jin Darkspea.” 

Ty accepted the hand, and clambered up, feeling much more himself as he straightened his tabard and began brushing off his armor. “Oh—Light bless you. It is quite dusty in here, isn’t it? I’m very glad I’m not allergic—would you like to go outside, perhaps?”

 “S’my name, elfymon.”

 “Hm? Excuse me?”

 “Taz’jin Darkspea. S’my name.”

 “Your—OH! Oh forgive me, I didn’t mean—that is—erm—I’m not quite, you see, and—and—”

 The troll that called itself Taz’jin let out that deep laugh again, and nearly bowled the elf over with a friendly slap on his armored back. “S’arite elfy. Wat’s ya name, eh?”

Ty’s chest involuntarily puffed as he recited, “Adept Tythanion Sunborne, first heir to House Sunborne and Adept of the Blood Knight order!” He couldn’t help a proud grin and added, “but you can call me Ty.”

 Taz’jin watched the elf, chewing his tusk thoughtfully. “Ty. Righ’. An’ a Blood Knight…so ya say.” His practiced eye took in the armor, the tabard, the sword, the satchel of books. “But de arma fit, an’ de tabard’s tailored. F’ya be a fake, ya be a good one.”

 “I am NOT a fake! A holy paladin of the Light does not lie!”

 Taz’jin almost laughed again, but caught himself as he looked into the fiercely earnest face. “…Righ.’ How old be ya, Ty?”

 The paladin winced for the briefest moment, but drew himself up quickly, and met the troll’s eye to answer, “eighty-two.”

 “Eigh’y two? Das barely a child fa ya mon, eh?” His lips twitched into a small smile, and there was no mistaking the challenge behind it.

 But instead of insult, or even indignation, the elf’s gaze dropped to the study the toes of his impeccably polished boots. “Aye. I am not yet of age.” There was a pregnant pause, and he set his jaw, meeting the troll’s eyes again. “But I have passed my trials, I have earned the right to call myself paladin and Blood Knight, and I serve the most holy Light!”

Taz absorbed this small diatribe, gnawing pensively at his tusk as he eyed the proud boy. (For whatever age he might be in years, there was no mistaking that he was a boy.) “So ya be,” he said finally. “An’ so ya do.”

They stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes, and it was the elf that finally broke the silence between them. “Why do you come to these old ruins, troll? Are you a member of the Reliquary, or…?”

 Taz bit back several indignant and colorful curses that were on the tip of his tongue—boy, he’s just a boy!—but couldn’t  help a sneer. “I done work fa dem in my time, but I got no need ta ‘study’ dis place—or lead anya ya kind ta it.” Off the elf’s absurdly quizzical look, he added, “dis be a sacred place, a place’a worship an’ bargainin.’ Dis be why I come.”

Unexpectedly, the elf’s eyes lit up, shining green and bright in the torchlight. “You are a priest! A troll priest! A priest of your…your…” His teeth clenched as he fought to pull forth the proper word. “…a priest of your spirit creatures!”

Taz almost corrected him, almost began to explain the difference between mere spirits and true loa, between a priest and a shadow hunter…but the elf’s eager face told him that would end in a barrage of more questions than he was prepared to reasonably field at the moment. “…Sure. Sure, I be someting like a priest, ya.”

“And you’re here honoring your tribe’s spirits?”

The troll passed a hand briefly over his face, massaging his temple for a moment. “Close enough, ya.”

“WELL then!” Ty grinned triumphantly, and began unclasping the fasteners of his boots. “Well! It seems that the Light has guided me truly once again! I am not too late!”

Taz cocked his head, eyeing the elf suspiciously as the latter continued to busy himself with removing his footwear. “Too late fa…elfy, why de fel ya takin’ off ya shoes?”

Ty glanced up as he pulled a boot off, and set it neatly outside of the temple’s entryway. “Well. You are not wearing foot coverings. I assume it is customary to remove them before entering your spirit’s holy place?”

“Elfy. Ya ain’ comin’ inta Nalorakk’s temple. ‘Specially not while a shadow hunta be makin’ offerin’s ta ‘im.”

The elf stopped, halfway through the motion of depositing his left boot alongside the right. “But…I mean no offense…”

The plea was so abject in its honestly and confusion that Taz found himself speaking gently, rather than with the mocking tone that the elf’s statement deserved. “Elfy…” he sighed rubbing his face again as he slid down into a confortable crouch in the temple’s entryway, “look elfy. Watcha say ya name be again?”

Ty raised his chin. “Tythanion Sunborne.”

“Tyh—Tithan—Ty. Look Ty. Ya elfies an’ dere troll wars be de reason dis temple be abandoned, an’ why our sacred land—“

“Your people?” Ty snorted. “But you’re hardly one of those Amani savages—you’ve no plants growing on you.”

Taz’s eyes narrowed, and his voice became suddenly very calm, and dangerously precise. “All trolls be bruddas, boy, an’ de loa look afta us all. Jes because Vol’jin be wise, an’ chose ta hona de Darkspea oat’ ta de Horde don’ mean dat Zul’jin’s dream be wrong—or dead. It jes ain’ found de righ’ time yet. …But it will. Do ya undastand wat I be sayin,’ lighty-elfy? Or do dese tusks make it too hard fa dose pretty elfy ears ta really hear wen onea my kind speaks true?”

The elf remained standing during this monologue, frozen in fascination rather than fear. Though the words were twisted and garbled in that awkward trollish accent, still Ty could feel the undercurrent of power—of power and of longing--under them; like some small piece of the ancient words carried on the wind that had drawn him to this site in the first place. “…No,” he said finally. “No, I don’t understand.”

 Taz blinked, the simple and honest answer draining all the righteous indignation from him in a heartbeat. “No, elfy. No ya don.’”

 There was another silence, and again it was the elf that spoke first. “What were you praying for, priest?” he asked. “Why were you appealing to your spirits tonight?”

 “Eh…” Taz shook his head, pushing himself to his feet and stretching as he spoke. “Eh. I was honorin’ Nalorakk. De Great Bear. Askin’ ‘im ta guide a mon I’d see as Chief’a my Warband. Ta grow in’s heart an’ give ‘im de courage ta lead like a Warchief gotta.”

 “A good prayer. A worthy prayer.” He nodded once, almost to himself, as if a decision had been made. “Very well. Troll: I would pray with you.”

 “Ya—eh. …Wat?”

“It is a worthy and honorable prayer you send to your bear spirit. I would pray with you, in the name of the Light, on behalf of your noble supplication.”

“Elfy, I don’ tink de loa an’ de Light—”

“Not in your temple of course. I understand that is not open to those not of your faith, and I respect that. Out here is perfectly suitable.” He gestured to the forest behind him. “Assuming that your spirit animals do not require a temple in order to hear you.”

“Uh…no. No dey don.’ …Elfy…”

“Good. The Light does not either. Though certainly a holy place helps put one in the right frame of mind, the Light is, of course, omnipresent.”

“Righ’…elfy…”

They were walking now, deeper into the forest, until they reached what Ty judged would be a safe and respectful distance from the troll temple. Taz watched, somewhere between awe and utter confusion, as the elf, still barefoot, fell to a knee in the cool grass and reverently removed an old, battered tome from his belt. “Light that shines upon all bel—ah, upon all creatures: hear the prayers of this noble troll on behalf of his fellow, as his troll-spirits hear him. Give his Warband the strength and courage…”

As he prayed, before Taz’s disbelieving eyes, the elf began to glow. Not so brightly that it would have been notable had it not been so dark…and of course the troll had seen more than a few paladins in battle that shone brighter than the sun itself. But a paladin—an elf paladin!—here, outside of Nalorakk’s temple! Shining with the Light as he prayed for some strange troll! It was almost enough to make him think that Jan’alai was playing some kind of trick, trying to drive him mad.

But this ‘vision’ did not fade, and the elf continued to gently glow, and pray. Finally, in wonder, Taz sank to his knees beside the elf, pulling out a small bit of raw meat and an incense burner that was quickly and reverently lit. None of these preparations stopped the soft torrent of prayers from the elf, and very shortly, the sound of deep Zandali chanting rose to mesh with the Orcish in harmonious counterpoint.

Orgimmar

Outside the Cleft of Shadows

Three months after The Cataclysm 

The War.

Never ‘the war’ or even ‘the War.’ Whenever the thought came to him, both letters were always capitalized: The War. Even now, with the city in shambles and what seemed like the world itself falling down around the denizens of Azeroth, this was the thing stuck in the craw of his mind, endlessly chasing its tail in an exhausting and never ending carousel of memories and images that might well have driven him insane if the rest of him hadn’t been too lethargic to care. As it was all those thoughts, memories, faces, and…sounds (the sounds were by far the worst), were simple background noise accompanying the dull, thrumming ache that was the act of day to day existence.   

“S’pa’a c’ppa f’a wr’veh?” he repeated, speaking around the stub of tusk that was only just now beginning to regrow out of the right side of his face. He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, of course; looking up or, god forbid, making eye contact caused people to shy away in horror, usually without leaving a copper in his beggar’s bowl. He hadn’t actually seen his own face since the dragon’s fire had melted half of it, but it didn’t matter—what he could (or couldn’t) feel, and the look on the faces of the passers-by who looked under the hood of his threadbare cloak by happenstance or out of curiosity, told him everything he needed to know. And then some.   

A flash of movement in the corner of his existing eye, and the musk that unmistakably signified the presence of another troll. He glanced up cautiously in spite of himself—careful to keep most of his face cloaked in the shadow of his hood. “S’pa’a c’ppa f’a wr’veh?” he repeated hopefully. 

Instantly, he realized his mistake. This was no ordinary tribal headhunter from the Valley of Spirits. This troll was dressed in immaculate white, freshly pressed green tabard perfectly tailored around him, and worse his long, recently washed hair tied back into a neat braid. Worst of all, he wasn’t alone—a small gaggle of even younger boys, wearing a less-elaborate version of the same green tabard, followed behind. “S’ry,” the beggar said, dropping his head. Those fresh young faces were too much to bear, so many of them at once. So like the boys he had led, who screamed the last moments of their lives out on the snow of a foreign continent, in a hail of plague and dragon’s fire. It was easy, far too easy, for his mind to twist those young, disgusted faces into the familiar ones he would never forget, and who would never forgive him for living when they had not.   

He heard their jeers, felt their jostles, but made no move to look up or respond. Perhaps it was indeed his boys’ spirits, exacting revenge in the only way they could. If that was so, he would bear it patiently, for he had earned every word, every blow he could ever receive at their hands. 

A minute later, perhaps five—time had very little meaning now—another flash of green out of the corner of his eye, going the other way this time. He shrank back again, hoping not to be noticed, but the four toes and green tabard stopped directly and deliberately in front of him. It was the one in white—the leader. Alone. The beggar braced. 

“’Ey,” the troll said, more gently than the beggar would have expected. “Ya really a vet, mon? Of ya are, we talk, but if ya onea dem lyin’ fuckas givin’ our people a bad name…” His right hand came to rest lightly on the hilt of one of his twin daggers.

“A’in ly’n,” the beggar mumbled around his tusk stump. “Nor’end. Fg’t sc’rg.” 

The troll’s eyes narrowed, but it was an attempt to comprehend, not in skepticism. “Ya was in Nort’rend?” 

A nod. 

“Hear dat was a hella’a ting. Must’a been sometin’ else—wish I coulda been dere.” 

The beggar glanced up for the briefest moment, seeing in the boy’s fresh face a reflection of every boy—every child—he had led, and failed, in that loa-forsaken wasteland. Then his eyes fell on the troll’s purse, heavy on the neatly tied leather belt, and he swallowed the grief, and his pride. “Y’ms b’a gr’t fig’ta.”

 A cocky grin broke out across the young troll’s face, and he tossed his braid back behind his head with a careless flick of his neck. “Great fighta? Well. Ya. I’m pretty fuckin’ good. In charge’a some mon now, so movin’ up in de world.” 

A pause. A swallow. The beggar looked up, meeting the young man’s eyes just long enough to say slowly, painfully, “ya…t’ke..car’a…ya…boys. Good. Ya?”

 “Course!” The boy’s expression was still confident. Still jocular. But there was a sudden unease underneath that hadn’t been there a second before. Good, the beggar thought. Good. Maybe someday he’ll understand  “…Anyway,” the boy continued, digging quickly through his purse, “I gotta get backta dem now anyhow. Hope ya heal up an’ get back in fightin’ shape someday, eh?” Coins clattered quickly into the beggar’s bowl, and the boy was gone as quickly as he’d arrived.

((First: spoiler warning. Using some potentially leaked Legion information in this write up, if you care about such things.

Second: this is AU, obviously, for the RP day theme.

Third: I don’t write trolls with accents when they’re speaking Zandali. Cause…it’s their native language. So. Yeah.

Fourth: I’m changing up my style a little, since this is such a different kind of story—ripping a page out of Theenie’s book and trying to write in the active voice. We’ll see how well that works for me.))

________________________________

Broken Isles Eight months post-assault

Exhaustion. That's all he feels, now—all he has felt for…how long? He has long lost track of time. His rations had run out ages ago, and the gnawing hunger pangs have subsided enough by now that such feelings are no longer reliable timekeepers. His feet don’t hurt anymore, either, neither do his sides from running, or his legs from walking until unconsciousness stopped them, then immediately standing to move again.

Taz’jin doesn’t even know where he is, anymore—a cardinal sin for any self-respecting shadow hunter. But none of that matters. The loa have been silent for days, weeks—and it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the Warchief. All that matters is finding Vol’jin.

Because Vol’jin can’t be dead. It isn’t that he refuses to accept such a thing; it is simply that, objectively, Vol’jin could not be dead. Even knowing nothing else, now, Taz’s weary mind knows that much. With utter and complete certainty.

-------------------------------------

Two months post-assault

”But he’s dead, Tazzy,” Umcha says, gnawing his lower lip as the shadow hunter grimly fills a large rucksack with everything he would need for an extended time in the field. “We went to his funeral, remember? You remember that, don’t you?”

Taz glances over at the boy, forcing a smile for his benefit. “They didn’t have a choice. He’s gone yeah, and they had to have closure—there always has to be a Warchief.” He sighs, and shoulders the rucksack. “But I don’t believe he’s dead. Not until I see a body. He deserves that much, after all he’s done for us.”

-----------------------------------------------------------

Strong hands—surprisingly strong, for such a small troll—shove Taz roughly against the hard stone of the Dalaran sewer. “You think you could just sneak off like that?” Juzmik spits, voice raised in anger, eyes betraying the true pain, the betrayal that underscores the accusation. “You think you can just leave us like that? Leave the Warband—and you don’t even have the fucking balls to say goodbye?”

Taz’s hands wrap gently around the younger man’s, and he smiles—ghastly. “It was—it would have been easier, that way. For everyone.”

“You stupid sonofabitch!” Juzmik snarls, and punches him in the chest—but there’s no force behind the blow this time. “I know he’s important to you—@#$%, Taz, he’s important to all of us. But he’s not more important than the Warband!” Taz doesn’t answer, and Juzmik’s mouth falls open a little. “…Is he?”

Taz is still silent, merely removes the young man’s hands from his shoulders, and ruffles the wild blue hair—an old gesture, one that causes both of them to break eye contact suddenly, for fear of what the other might see there.

He turns, and begins walking down the large pipe, towards the city’s secret exit. He pauses at the edge, fingering the glider trigger on his belt—he hates this part.

“The Horde can’t afford to lose two shadow hunters!” Juzmik practically screams at him, in desperation. And it IS desperation, if Juzmik has been reduced to appealing to Taz’s sense of patriotism. “Not now! Not in the middle of a—”

The shadow hunter jumps, without looking back. 

_____________________________________________________

It is the sound of voices that bring him him to, jerking him out of the dream/memory/vision—there is no point in distinguishing between those, now. Not real, he thinks, performing the waking ritual of washing the dirt, mud and crawling things out of the socket of his right eye. No people here. No one to speak…Zandali?

He gasps, dropping his canteen as he realizes he is hearing no dream. The trail he has followed, half asleep and half crazed for the last…it hasn’t been for nothing. I’d know that voice anywhere.

Taz staggers to his feet, moving towards to voice without being consciously aware of his body propelling itself. “Warchief? WARCHIEF!” He can’t see, but he feels the point of a glaive at his neck, and falls to his knees, sobbing in exultation and relief before the great, bearded troll.

The tears finally clear his vision, but the Warchief, oddly, isn’t looking down at him. “What do you make of this one?” Vol’jin asks the tall, upright troll standing across from him.

“A spy?” the Zandalari asks, eyeing the filth covered creature trembling at the Warchief’s knee with doubt.

Vol’jin shakes his head, sheathing his glaive as he squats down to meet Taz’s eye. “A shadow hunter…perhaps.” He notes the ceremonial dagger on the troll’s arm, the one that mirrors his own, and the simple spear tattoo on the other arm. “Did you earn this, Darkspear? Or is it a trophy?”

“Earned, Warchief,” Taz whispers. Vol’jin’s eyes narrow for a moment, skeptical, then he glances up, seemingly at nothing, and his expression softens abruptly as he looks back down.

“You’ve come a long way, Darkspear. For a…very long time.” He blinks, surprised, and looks at the Zandalari, almost questioning. “He’s no threat, I think.” His hand comes to rest on Taz’s shoulder, and Taz’s forehead falls on top of it almost unconsciously. “Just a fool. A very loyal fool.”

The Zandalari shifts his weight from one large foot to the other. “I won’t have a fool knowing of this meeting…who knows how much he heard, before he revealed himself? Besides…even if we sent him back to the city, in this state…”

Vol’jin’s eyes narrow in challenge, and his hand tightens protectively on the troll now leaning against his shoulder. There is a pause, much longer than it should be, as the Warchief’s eyes flit between the two. Then he exhales sharply, and looks to Taz, raising the exhausted troll’s chin and speaking softly. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you Taz’jin Darkspear? Spent a long time looking for me.”

“Yes, Warchief.”

“You’re a loyal mon. And you’ve got a great love for me, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Warchief.”

Vol’jin’s eyes lift to the Zandalari again, for just a moment, and drop back to Taz. “And you’ve served the Spirits faithfully. Never betrayed them. Always honored them. Is that right?”

“I’ve tried, Warchief. Sometimes failed. Always tried.”

“I can see that. Not even a shadow hunter’s expected to be perfect.” Vol’jin chews his tusk contemplatively, and Taz smiles as he watches the gesture he’s unconsciously imitated so many times. “We have a problem, my foolish, loyal friend. I can’t let you go back to the city, seeing what you’ve seen and hearing what you’ve heard…it’s not the proper time. And time, for what is being planned, is very, very important indeed. Do you understand me?”

He nods, eye half-closed, basking in the sound of the so-long-sought voice, the touch of approval from the father he never had, but always wished for. “Yes, Warchief.”

“Bwonsamdi’s coming for you, Taz’jin. Don’t worry—there won’t be any pain.”

Taz struggles against the firm but gentle hand. “It’s not time—Juz—the kids—I gotta—”

“Your responsibilities are discharged, shadow hunter.” There is no pity in the voice, only a simple statement of truth. “It’s time whether you will or no. Do me a last service, and go in peace. Don’t make it difficult.”

Booty Bay August 12 Late night

The night was hot, but clear. Though the lights of the Goblin port burned bright, the stars were still clearly visible from Taz’s perch high above the city. All in all, it was plenty of illumination to see well out onto the bay, at a small figure sitting out on the water, gazing at the nearby island where the goblins were still busy constructing a statue of something or other. Even from here, Taz could see the eerie, icy glow of the thing’s eyes reflecting off of the frozen ice at its feet, and he shuddered. Water, and the Scourge. Whatever loa there be that thinks this combination is fair, I’d like to wring their neck.

He had been stalking the death knight for the better part of a day and a half now, ever since he had learned of the thing’s return to the Bay. This was the closest he had allowed himself to get, in all that time; certainly not close enough to see the thing’s face or—spirits forbid—hear its cracked and twisted voice. Taz’s hand tightened on the hilt of his (still sheathed) dagger as he imagined it, but Juzmik’s words echoing in his head caused him to relax his grip again, as they had done so many times today: It’s not his fault he is what he is. What he needs, right now, is his friend.

And so Taz stood there, on the docks, staring out at the corpse that had once been his friend in a silent standoff that the other didn’t even know he was competing in. It seemed like an eternity before the dead thing grew bored of staring at the water and ice and stood, slowly pacing his way back towards the pier. Though Booty Bay, its denizens, and the constant cacophony of goblin contraptions that filled the air should have made it impossible, Taz would have sworn before Bwonsamdi himself that he heard every crunch, crack, and snap as the water beneath the dead thing’s feet froze and thawed with a terrible, unnatural quickness.

Taz instinctively faded back into the shadows as the thing climbed out of the water and onto the docks, clearly making his way back towards the inn. The dead didn’t sleep, or so Taz had been lead to believe, but some occasionally took comfort in the feel of a chair or bed. He wouldn’t recognize me even if he could see me. Years, it’s been—the things he’s seen—the hate he must feel—maybe it’s better if—

“I know you’re there. Stop hiding in the shadows, and say what you have to say, or do what you have to do. …You sneaky, cowardly chickenshit.”

The thing hadn’t turned around, but Taz could hear the grin in that familiar voice, and the warm memories that flooded back with it seemed to blot out the icy snap of the corpses’ armor as it moved, and drowned out even the awful, hollow echo in its voice. “Stuff it in that rusty can you call a suit of armor, you too-tall sack of raptor dung.”

The death knight whirled on Taz as the smaller troll came tentatively out of the shadows, eyeing him. “Tall enough to be bigger than you still, Darkspear shrimp.”

“At least I still have all my hair, you brainless Gurubashi.”

The two stared at each other, grinning ferociously, for another heartbeat before quickly and simultaneously moving towards each other and embracing tightly. The shock of the frosty armor, and frostier skin of his friend, made Taz shudder, but in that moment—for just that moment—it didn’t matter. Raz’ijo was here again, and whatever that looked like, for now, it was enough.

“I thought you were—” Taz began, faltering as he pulled away from the chill that surrounded his friend.

“I was. Well—obviously I was.” Raz winced, breaking his gaze away from the other troll’s. “I thought you were dead too, you know. At least until I saw your name on the Gor’Watha recruitment poster. I suppose it could have been another Taz Darkspear, but…” Raz gave him an amused shrug. “Although, the Taz I knew wasn’t Taz’jin. And he certainly wasn’t a general. …Sir.”

“I’ll let that insubordination pass for now…meat,”  Taz snarled, before smiling again. “How’d you think I was dead? I haven’t exactly been hiding.”

Raz shrugged. “I heard you were at the Wrathgate. You seemed to kind of disappear after that, at least according to the army. And to be honest, Taz, I haven’t been in any condition to make serious inquiries myself beyond that. So many of my soldiers, my friends, died…I just assumed you were another.”

“I know, brother.” Taz sighed, shaking his head sadly. “Too many. Just…too many.” His gaze was fixed on the death knight’s face, but it was the all-too familiar cadre of ghosts in the corners of his vision that he was really seeing. He knew from experience that a quick flick of his eyes was all it would take to make their grinning, excited and young, so young…dear spirits, they were so young faces disappear…but for once, he didn’t want to. If this was the only way he would ever see these friends again—at least, unless Papa Samdi saw fit to reunite them in his realm—at least he wouldn’t be haunted alone anymore. “You see them too?” Taz asked quietly, seeing the same far-off look in his friend’s face.

“I…” Raz closed his eyes briefly, then simply nodded. “Always.” Taz moved as if to put his arm around the larger troll, but shied away as the cold radiating from Raz’s armor and skin enveloped his bare arm. “…Not just them, either, Taz. There are so many others—so many I—I wish I could—” He paused, letting himself drop into a comfortable squat as he leaned back against a building’s wall. “I wish you had found me, brother. Before that bastard paladin freed my mind. He freed us—” Raz’s steel-clad hand slammed into the building, denting the soggy planks. “Freed us, but let us remember. I remember everything I did while He was in my head, Taz. Everything. Perfectly. And I can’t. Fucking. Forget.”

Taz remained silent, simply taking a seat next to his friend and nodding, grey eyes fixed on frosty blue.

“Our own people, Taz. And noncombatants. Kids. They ran away from me, screaming, terrified, and I—He made me—” Raz’s head hung low, and there was ice caked just under his eyes, building steadily. “I wish you had found me. If becoming this thing is what had to happen, I wish you could have found me. Before they made me remember.”

Taz looked at his friend sharply. “I thank the spirits it didn’t end that way. You have any idea how lonely it’s been, thinking I was the only one of us left? For three fucking years? The Warband, they’re great—they’re wonderful people—but they’re kids too. Same as—” his voice cracked, and he smacked the back of his head into the wall behind him, hard. “So don’t be such a selfish shit, eh? You aren’t the only one fucked up by that spirit-forsaken war.”

“You got no idea what shit you’re talking about,” the bigger troll snarled, his anger genuine this time. “You got a rack of medals coming home, and a hospital bed. Do you know what I got, Taz’jin, when I came back to Orgrimmar for the first time? People panicking in the streets, hurling garbage at me—do you know what it took to not kill them where they stood? What it takes not to kill every fucking living thing I see now where it stands? I can’t even feel the sun on my face anymore, Taz! Half the reason I came to find you was hoping you’d keep your fucking promise after all this time, and let this end!”

Taz snarled right back, seizing each of his friend’s tusks in a hand and forcing his head back against the wall. “Of course I’m not gonna kill you, Raz, you selfish shithead! I don’t care what promise we made, I don’t care what the fel you are—I’m not letting you disappear on me again, and I’m sure as fel not going to be the one to do it!”

Icy hands gripped Taz’s wrists, exerting just enough pressure to let him know that there was plenty more where that came from. “I could snap them like twigs,” Raz said, barely-contained fury in his voice belying the soft volume. “I could break them, carry us both to the edge of the pier, and my armor’d sink us like rocks. All the way to the—”

The genuine, primal scream of terror Taz let out at Raz’s words not only sent the few dockworkers who were about scattering, it so shocked the Gurubashi that he let go entirely. The next time Taz was aware of himself he was huddled behind a tar barrel at the corner of the building, shaking uncontrollably.

“Taz, I…” The Gurubashi came forward carefully. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it—you just—when you grabbed my head like that—I didn’t mean it, brother.”

“Not—you,” Taz managed to spit out, between chattering teeth. “Hate water. Head under—terrifying. Can’t think about.”

Raz blinked. “You shitting me?”

Taz glared, anger steadying his jaw. “Does it look like. I’m shitting you?”

“No. But I mean—”

“Much more recent.” Taz shuddered, offering his friend a small, almost-smile. “Long story.”

Raz stared at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing, and slid into a sitting position next to his friend. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. We’re way too fucked up for this world I think Taz. Way too fucked up.”

Taz echoed his laughter, and the sound of their mirth meshing together, as it had so many times in the past, helped him bring his body fully under his own control again. “Yeah. We really are, brother. But at least we’ll be fucked up together, now. Better than going crazy by yourself anyway.”

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.

Isle of Thunder Dawnseeker Promentory Two years ago

The rain was heavy here on the Isle—but it seemed to bother the less than hearty elven mages far more than it bothered Taz’jin Darkspear. Truth be told, he rather liked it. It rained often enough in Stranglethorn of course, though the violent thunderclaps and blinding flashes of lighting made this particular island far less than homey.

Taz swaggered into the Sunreaver camp, soaked to the bone and covered in mud, blood, and in things that stank far worse than either of the former. He glanced again at the note in his hand, and approached one of the elven sentries—who kept admirable bearing in spite of the troll’s rather shocking appearance. “I be lookin’ for a magic elfy,” Taz informed the sentry. “By de name’a…er…” He squinted at the paper and finally gave up, simply holding the note up for the sentry to read.

The elf nodded sharply, and pointed off to a tent towards the center of camp. “The Senior Magister resides there. You’ll be wise to wait to be asked to ent—”

“Tanks elfymon,” Taz cut him off, nodding dismissively as he lumbered towards the rather opulent (and dry) looking tent. Without pausing, he pulled back the flap, and poked his head in. “’Ey magic-elfy? Be ya—”

A tall but very delicate looking elf let out a brief shriek of surprise and bolted out of his chair, nearly knocking over a table’s worth of books, scrolls and charts. “How DARE you, you oaf—”

“Ya ya, sorry ta bodder ya but de note said righ’ away.” Taz held the small piece of parchment up between his fingers where the elf could see it. “Ya be. Uh. ‘Senior Magee-ster Sin—Sin—Sinalr—Sinaraleralarlrer-alr Sunborne?”

The mage’s eyes flashed, and he folded his arms. “I am Senior Magister Sin’aralalr Sunborne, yes.” He eyed the troll skeptically, not bothering to disguise his distaste. “You’re the assassin I requested?”

“I be Taz’jin Darkspeah, aye.” He shouldered his way into the tent, stooping even more than was characteristic to avoid lifting the thing off the ground. “Ya ordahs say ya want de bes.’ Well ya got ‘im. Congratulations.”

Sin’aralalr smoothed his robes, retaking his seat with as much dignity as he could muster. “I was expecting a fellow elf. Perhaps a goblin. How such a…” stupid  “…large person like yourself is able to remain silent and undetected is of great interest to me.”

Taz smirked, shifting his weight back as if to lean casually against one of the tent poles. He closed his eyes for a split second, and when he opened them again, was standing directly behind the elf, tapping the butt of his dagger on the top of his golden-red head. “I manage arite.”

The poor elf nearly fell out of his seat again, but managed to catch himself this time as he twisted in his chair to look at the troll. “Nothing in your record speaks of you being a mage—and that was no arcane demonstration!”

Taz shook his head, coming out from behind the chair and to the front of the Magister’s desk again. “No. It be a gift’a Bethekk, ta one’a his fait’ful. No chantin’ spells an’ wiggilin’ ya fingers.”

“I regret we do not have more time to speak of these things…” Sin’s eyes glinted an unusually bright shade of green, opened wide in the dim firelight. “I have seen your people use such tric—er, gifts before, but have not yet had the opportunity to speak to one at length who practices this. Art.”

“Ya mebee once de Isle be clear.” Taz waved a vague, unenthusiastic hand, and made a show of leaning over the large map spread over the majority of the table. “Jes’ eh. Le’s talk about de target, an’ where it be.”

“Indeed.” The mage watched him for several more seconds, abject curiosity mingling with the disgust written on his haughty features. Finally he dropped his eyes as well, and tapped a location on the Northern tip of the island. “Indeed. This is the area you’ll be infiltrating. Your target is one of four minor Storm Callers defending the central complex.”

“I assume de udders gonna be accounted for? Dey go down tagedder?”

“Of course. To pave the way for an assault on the main temple. The strike force is assembling as we speak.”

Taz shivered, and this time it wasn’t just from the cold. It was finally happening. Seven months on this loa-forsaken island, and it could all be over—fel, it could all be over as soon as the morning, maybe. Home, maybe, within the week! Or at least back on mainland Pandaria, out of the rain, out of the cold, away from soggy rations and plain water. Just to see the sun again—what he wouldn’t give for that! Of course, he would never put money on a mission as dangerous as a direct strike on the Throne of Thunder succeeding, war was a fickle mistress, but—

“—Jel,” Sin’aralalr was saying, frowning at the clearly distracted troll. “Did you hear a word I said, Captain?”

Taz blinked, jerked out of his pleasant reverie by the elf’s suddenly acerbic tone. He straightened as much as he was able, and shuffled uncomfortably. “Er. No Senior Magis’tr. I was eh. Was—”

“Pay attention this time, troll: the target is maintaining his part of the vortex from a small hut in the northern forest. We know he’s a Zandalari, an accomplished master of the arcane manipulation of electricity, and answers to the name of Sen’jel. Not, I expect, that the brute’s name will be relevant once you’ve done your job.”

“Yes, Senior Magis’tr. Wat eh. Be my timeline?”

The elf pushed back his chair, eyeing Taz critically. “You tell me, Captain. The elimination of this shaman—of all of them—has the highest possible level of priority. Accounting for all possible unforeseen circumstances, what is the longest you envision it being from the time you leave this camp, to the time you return with his head? …So to speak; please don’t actually bring a head into my tent.”

“I won.’” He considered, briefly. “Two hours ta get dere quietly, an’ by foot. Hour fa unforeseen circumstances. Mebee tree hours ta get back carefully.”

“You understand of course, that what I’ve just explained to you is information of the highest security priority. If you cannot complete the mission, inform us at once. And under no circumstances—none—are you to allow yourself to fall into enemy hands. Even the smallest amount of information forced out of you would be disastrous to—”

“Dis ain’ my firs’ time.” Taz frowned at the elf, sneer barely contained. “I know wat dis be for.” He brushed a hand against the small leather pouch cinched tightly to his shoulder and hidden under his pauldron. “I radder die den find out wat de Zandalari do ta traitor-trolls anyway—ya orders or no.”

Sin’aralalr nodded curtly, then dismissed him with a handwave. “I expect a report of success inside three hours, then, and a personal debriefing in six.”

“Aye.” Taz saluted, finishing the gesture halfheartedly when he realized the elf wasn’t even looking at him anymore. “Look for de storm ta break inside tree hours.”

____________________________________________

The going was slower than Taz had hoped, but better than he’d feared. He worked his way through the dense marshland, diving into the muck and submerging himself at a moment’s notice to avoid a backwoods patrol, or scrambling quickly into the shadows or branches of a tree to prevent hostile wildlife from giving him away. It was nasty, smelly, dirty—and Taz loved every moment of it.

He finally arrived at the outer wall of the compound, and he followed it North, angling towards a small stone hut on the edge of the coastline. It was quiet and unassuming, save for the very clear, raw hum of power surrounding it. There was no mistaking his target. His muscles tensed, and he silently drew his twin daggers from their familiar resting place at his hips. Blood roared in his ear as he sidled towards the entrance, and he could almost feel his blades quivering in anticipation equal to his own; both tool and wielder were eager, very eager, to drink deeply of the Zandalari blood that would flow in Bwonsamdi’s name.

There.

The Storm Caller was there, seated in a chair with his back to the open door. Nothing but shadows between him and his target’s unprotected neck. Taz’s hands tightened on the hilt of his daggers as he approached, sliding through the door effortlessly and silently. He paused just long enough to plan his strike, determine the exact footing, the weight shift, the lunge, the cut, and—

“Be quick. …Please.”

The abject pleading in the voice stayed his hand almost as much as the shock of the voice itself. His arms quivered, his mind screamed at him to strike to finish the job…but he couldn’t. Something wouldn’t let him. Had he been watching someone else in his position, he would have called it weakness. Regardless of what it was or wasn’t, his blade remained poised…but didn’t strike home. “You’re Sen’jal.” He spoke in Zandali, as if to test the statement.

The Zandalari nodded, and stood to face him. Taz took a half step back, snarling instinctively and adopting a defensive posture as the much larger troll rose to his full height.  “I’ve been sent to kill you.”

Sen’jal nodded wearily, shoulders hunched forward. “I know. Well—I guessed.” He spread his arms. “I won’t stop you. Just—quick. Painless. Please.”

Taz dropped one of his daggers on the floor, and kicked it across the floor to the Zandalari, caught somewhere between pity and contempt. THIS is a representative of the mighty Zandalari? The troll empire that ruled the known world? “At least die with that in your hand.”

“I don’t want your weapon.” The Zandalari kicked it back, with equal contempt. “I don’t want any weapons. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to fight the Zandalari. I just…want to be left alone. I want peace.” He read the flabbergasted look on the assassin’s face and added, “but if you aren’t going to kill me yet, may I at least make us some tea?”

And that was how Captain Taz’jin Darkspear, master assassin to the Horde army, found himself in the peculiar position of sharing a pot of hot tea with a mark he had been sent to murder. Sen’jal was many things, he learned, but a stereotypical Zandalari was not one of them. There wasn’t a whiff of their traditional haughtiness or superiority; just a simple love for life, good stories and good cheer. There was no malice in him—or if there was, it was well enough hidden that it may as well not have existed. He wasn’t fighting for the Zandalari by choice, he explained—merely out of obligation, and the desire not to be hunted down as a traitor. “But you see,” he explained over their second pot of tea, “it occurred to me, after the wind informed me of your approach, that there is no end to this. Either the Zandalari will win, and there will be more battles—there are always more battles—or they’ll lose, and I’ll die here. Either way, there’s no freedom left for me in this life. No more stories told by anyone other than the dead and dying.”

Taz shook his head. “You could run—as long as your power leaves this place, you’ll be dead as far as I’m concerned. No one will chase you.”

“No one but the Zandalari.” Sen’jel smiled sadly. “I joined because they found me. They will not leave me to run. They will not give me peace.”

“You’re not wrong.” Taz sighed, and placed one of his daggers on the table. “Peace, at least, is something I can offer.”

Sen’jel nodded thoughtfully, wincing as he ran a finger over the blade’s sharp edge and drew blood. “The blade. Its cuts burn.”

Taz watched the blood drip from the Zandalari’s fingers, pictured the dagger biting into his neck, unleashing a further torrent of it. “There may be another way.” When the other troll looked up at him, Taz patted the small leather pouch under his pauldron. “I always carry insurance, in case of capture.” He yanked the pouch’s drawstring, and a small vial fell into his waiting hand. “Poison. Quick. Painless.”

Without another word he uncorked the vial, and upended its contents into Sen’jal’s mug. The Zandalari nodded, and stirred. “There is something I wish to ask you, assassin.”

“What’s that?”

Taz tensed as Sen’jal reached under the table and into a bag of some kind, instinctively expecting him to produce a weapon. Instead, he laid an old, dog-eared book on the table, and slid it across to the Darkspear. “My stories. I’ve spent my life collecting them. See them out of this place. Tell them to others—add to them if you can.” He smiled, wide and unashamed. “This is the value I bring to the world. Don’t let it die here too.”

“Stories?” Taz furrowed his brow as he took the journal, and noticed the man’s anxious movements and expression as he did. Somehow, giving up this book was far more difficult for him than dying. Regardless, the things written here were harmless, and would never leave his possession anyway. “I’ll keep it safe. See that it gets off the island.”

The relief that washed over Sen’jal’s face at that statement couldn’t have been faked. “All right—all right. I have your word?”

“You have my word.” Taz glanced down at the chronometer on his belt, and placed a hand lightly on the dagger still sitting on the table. “But time, I’m afraid, has run out for us.”

The Zandalari nodded, and lifted his mug in salute before draining it quickly. Taz mirrored the gesture. “Another time, an—” Sen’jal began, but hit the floor, dead, before he could finish the thought.

“Another time, another place, brother,” Taz finished, coming around the table to check the Zandalari’s pulse, and slit his already-dead throat just to be sure. “Bwonsamdi make your journey an easy one.”