Murlocs

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!

Once upon a time, in a jungle far, far away, a tribe of trolls lived as they had lived for centuries upon centuries. They grew strong on the blood and flesh of their enemies, conquered their foes, and lived in strong, comfortable huts woven of jungle fronds, grasses, and wicker.

They didn't blink an eye when the diminutive green-skinned creatures set up a town in their jungle, instead letting them be. It hadn't been their land they settled on, and any who infringed on them learned, at their peril, of the ferocious power of the trolls. The trolls themselves learned that the tiny green-skins didn't taste as good as troll.

The crazy druid in Borean had taught him the Winterfin dialect, but these Chillmere murlocs sounded entirely different to Lormar's ears. He sat on the warm surface of the large rock, watching the ancient fishman scratch symbols in the dirt below them with the thin staff he leaned on.

The old creature looked up at the rogue, his dark eyes sad and wet. He gestured at the symbols and warbled, a few of the gurgling sounds close enough to the Winterfin's that, combined with the pictures and expansive gestures with flippery hands, Lormar realized with growing horror what the elder was asking.

The Everbloom family, from the very first to the noblewoman who currently held the name in her possession, all suffered from some condition of the heart; whether it had been frozen over or merely absent from the body, each and every one had shared this hindrance to his or her health. In Azsveria's case, this dynastic deformity manifested itself in the form of a heart unable to cope with the egregious malice every cell in her being exuded; so great was her hatred that in order to spare her heart the strain of this malice, her subconscious mind transformed this wrath into verbal form so that it might be violently spewed outward in terrible curses. Like many other women, and at least one other Everbloom, she had been likened to a siren. She had been a sight to behold, an object of admiration: as long as she remained out of earshot; for unlike the sirens who draw wandering sailors to their perches through their alluring songs, Azsveria projected dissonance.

She had never felt so awkward, so powerless before; so devoid of grace, so completely defenseless was she that such a pitiful creature as a murloc was laughing at her. Until this moment, she had no idea that a murloc could laugh - and upon hearing the creature's mutilated cackling she was disgusted that she had - but as certain as she lay stomach-down on the seashore, the murloc looming over her was Mrrrrrrlalalalalalalalalalaughing incessantly, waving a makeshift spear about in triumphant glee. She could not help but wonder if the freakishly evolved race of fishmen would have been better off to have remained whatever in the Nether they had been; for it was certain, beyond any doubt, reasonable or unreasonable, that such cacophonous laughter did not increase the fishmen's rate of survival. She felt nothing but contempt for the stupid creature before a dreadful thought struck her.

Janiil leaned against the tree staring back at the camp, she shook her head looking towards teh ground. She had tried to get away earlier but Taneel had followed her. She had wanted to punch, slap or otherwise tell him to go away but hadn't been able to bring herself to do it.

At times she really just wanted to kill him for he was just to damn concerned with others. She found it so frustrating trying to use her cold shouldered attitude on him only to be met with, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Among other statements expressing forgiveness and that he hadn't ment to offend her.

With each step the ground gave, boots sinking a depth uncertain, like walking through a room laid with mouse traps blindfolded you would eventually get caught off guard. The sick sucking of the moist ground as she pulled her boots away trudging onward was starting to grow on her nerves like many other things in the blasted swamp. The fire, once distant was now close and she could hear them now. Laughing and joking among themselves, sitting around the fire eating partially cook sawtooth flanks she had delivered earlier to the camp. That had been her only purpose to coming out her in the first place, to give the feeble defense camp some supplies from Stonard.

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