Darkspear

Se’ala,

Sorry it took me so long to write back, but I’ve been busy preparing.  My friends have been pressing me to go, and I am now ready to visit you in Outland.  I would like you to show me the city of Shattrath, and the place that was on the picture, as well.

I hope you can survive on just the fungus until I arrive, for I will make sure you get some decent food.  I hope we will be able to spend much time together, but I will understand if your duties prevent us from being able to do much together.

Hoping to see you soon!

Moshir

The soft scratching of the tip of the quill against the paper stopped as he signed.  One last time he looked at the letter and postcard, and then he folded his own letter, sealing it in an envelope.

I have not forgotten the taste of victory
Or the songs rising up from our celebration
Or the sound of laughter echoing through the trees
During those first few nights after the war was won.

We were Darkspear then, regardless of birth, of race.

Now we are Horde, and only memories remain.

((IC response to A Letter for Violet))

I felt the cool air and smelled the dust and smoke that hung lightly in the air.  My eyes opened slowly; the dim lights in the Cleft of Shadows helped me gently swing from sleep to consciousness.  My mind took a while to understand what it was seeing.  Green skin, large ears, bug eyes, sharp teeth.  Slowly the thoughts emerged, why was there—

I cried out, scrambling back.  The tiny goblin that crouched near my bed flinched, shrieking in return.  The thick furs I’d laid out for a bed crumpled and scattered as the goblin began to shout in a loud voice.

1.  Guardian spirits, his mother called them.  The other young ones in the village thought him touched, and would avoid him.  He didn’t mind; his friends would let themselves be seen by no one else.  When his mother called him special, he knew it to be true.

2.  The robes were loose and cool.  Moshir did not envy the warriors, with their heavy armor and axes; he knew the Loa would protect him, shimmering shields and wards turning away enemies’ blades and arrows.  The war-cries of his tribesmates were all the louder because of his chants and prayers.

3.  Searing agonies ripped through Moshir, the high-pitched cackling of Zalazane, his new master, shattered the serene beauty of the Islands’ jungles.  “If ya wanna run, yah free ta!  Yah nevah escape me!”  The young ex-priest’s body lay still on the ground, his sobs drowned in the mocking laughter.

I'll show 'em useless!  Tashorr fumed as he stalked through the undergrowth, moving quietly despite the fury that gripped him.  He breathed in a deep breath of warm jungle air, trying to calm himself to keep focused on moving silently.  The sea witch was sending her murlocs against the Darkspear, and they'd refused his help!  He was thirteen years old, nearly a Darkspear man!  His scowl darkened further as he made his way through the jungle.  The murlocs had stopped coming for a few hours now, but everybody knew the sea witch was just calling up more.  The bright green plants only waved slightly as he stalked by, his fur blending in with the foliage.  Tashorr's fury softened as he grinned.  I'll show 'em useless!

The tavern was quiet. A pair of regulars snickered as they watched Azu’mah take his seat. He arched an eyebrow at them, but knew better than to get in a fight before he’d finished his drink. It would be no use crying over spilled rum afterward.

He heard their comments from across the room, the way they found amusement in his presence. Obviously they had some preconceptions about trolls being excessively violent and dumb. They were only half-right. He closed his eyes for a moment, and suddenly his mind was thrust back to his childhood. A memory surfaced, and he allowed it to entertain him for a moment.

He was small, and so very young.  There is no way I should be dead right now.

But you are dead...

Yes, I noticed this, The Troll warrior thought to himself, What I can't figure out is how...

What were you doing... when you died...

At this the warrior laughed outwardly, Fucking the welp's mother...

The voice spoke to him, as calm as ever, Would you not kill a man for doing this to your own mother? In particular if he was not in fact your father?

Little wretch, sneered the Troll, ignoring the spirits comments, still don't know how he did it.

Through us...

All the venom left the large Troll's voice now, his usual swagger gone, You, but how? He's so young....

Age is of no importance to the Loa.  We are ageless, timeless, and his father has gained our favor.

His father is a friend of mine...

The old Troll sat quietly observing the youngsters around him.  They were were all waiting very patiently for him to  begin his story.  Master Vornal sighed in quiet contemplation.

The old Jin'Marou was perched over a rock overlooking Sen'jin village that morning.