Troll

The rain came down as if this patch of jungle was the sole reservoir of Azeroth. Streams of water became an indecipherable torrent that threatened to drown one on the spot. The indigenous wildlife, long since accustomed to the monsoon, could only wonder at the idiocy that drove outlanders to wander through the trees. A long line of peons, their backs laden down with supplies intended for a remote expedition, trudged on. The few guards that accompanied them kept their heads down, seeking a reprieve from the onslaught.

"Morning, Grosh!"

The burly orc looked up from where he had been washing the floor. A spunky goblin with an over-sized hat was waving at him. Her overly enthusiastic greeting was accompanied by an obvious overabundance of energy contained in her diminutive frame. The hat shielded her eyes, leaving only a bright smile and wisps of her turquoise tresses visible. Grosh groaned as he rose up on his feet, though whether it was from the effort or due to the visitor could be open to interpretation.

His expression was neutral, though it was flirting with mild irritation. "Aren't you here a bit early, Razzleshaft?"

"Oh, come on Groshy-baby! Don't be so formal!" she gleefully replied. "Call me Pikki! It's not like we're strangers, am I right?"

"Regretfully, no," he mumbled under his breath. The wet sponge in his fist was slowly drained of water.

He found me in Shattrath, standing around lost and a little confused, and thank all the Loa and the ancestors that he didn't seem to realize that tall doesn't always mean muscular. Or maybe he did, but finding a partner who knows how to work with explosives and still has all his fingers left made up for it. I suppose he would have had to train me either way--fighting in the air, he tells me, is different from fighting on the ground, and using a spear while staying in the saddle while your partner flips nearly upside down to avoid that blast of nasty purple fire? "Not easy" doesn't even begin to describe it.

The chirps of the small frogs, buzzing of the insects, and occasional croak of a larger frog were the only noises save the soft rustle of the foliage and calm splashes of the small waterfall into the pond that rose to about waist height. Kyi’lin paused, her toes just dipping into the water’s edge. It had been only a few hours since she arrived in Stranglethorn, but the land seemed to be as familiar as if she had been here ages. The Troll took a deep, calm breath before slipping off her dusty, simple robes and setting them down on the ground next to her. She stepped into the water with a soft slosh. The water was cool and refreshing, a welcomed embrace from the hot jungle air, thick with sweet humidity.

Continued from Betrayed...

"I am sorry."

"No joo ain't." She said it quietly, though, and her voice was lost in the crackling hiss of the cell's bars. She stood and moved closer, fur rising to stand on end as she neared the bars of uncomfortably violet light. "Joo gonna pay for dis."

Continued from Cornered...

"Dey be comin' now, get ready!" The quiet exclamation caught the attention of everyone in the room, and there was a rush of clanking armor and weapons as those around the fire moved to take their places. The first wave of naga came with a hissing, shrieking cry, scaled bodies scraping over the rough stone of the ruins, spears sparking and crackling with captive lightning. Two fell to axe throwers, one to the elf with the bow, and then they were pressed against the hurried line of shields that had been erected across the entrance, howling and snapping.

Six trolls, two orcs, an unusually scrawny tauren, four draenei, three humans, and an elf of some sort huddled in the large ruined building, keeping a wary eye on the exit. It had been a good two hours since the naga's last attack, which might mean they had another hour of peace before the next one. Or it might mean they had only minutes, if the scaly creatures decided to break their pattern in an attempt to catch the combined groups off guard.

After that, if she was still judging time correctly, there would probably be one more attack and then a break of four to five hours that they could use for sleep. That was the pattern the last eight days had followed, at least.

Spring has not quite touched winter here. The sun is high and bright, but the air is cold, and the drip, drip, drip of melting snow means only that the ground will be crusted with ice tonight. Icicles glint in the sunlight, a veil across the mouth of the cave, and the low hoots and shrill chirps from outside fall heavily, muffled. The few sounds that find their way in clearly echo strangely, as if I am surrounded.

I have wrapped myself in fur and claws, matching the small bear that stares down at me from atop the claw-totem. My breath comes in clouds of steam, fogging the air of the cave, curling and twisting and fading as it rises. It has been a day and a night since I came here, and while I was already familiar with the bear's form, I feel that perhaps I understand it more closely now, or at least in a different way. The bear is but part of what these creatures are, and their respect is not the same as that paid by other races.

Gadgetzan. A dirty little town full of dirty little outsiders, human bandits and goblin thieves alike. Here it was that my mission took me, striding over the sand, no attempt to hide. Honesty? No. A grin crept over my face as the guards let me pass, widening as I entered the town. They likely interpreted it as friendly. In truth, it was a mixture of nerves and confidence.

As I had been told, I searched for the signs, the postings. Here was one for-- Mul'gore? The beastmen's land, if I remembered correctly. Another for some barren land, one asking for warriors to fight in Stone Talon Mountains. That, at least, looked promising. I made note of the group's symbol stamped at the bottom, and the name. A lie, in case I could not find the truth. I turned, then, and

"Ya here ta fight, troll?" A small green goblin, jaws cracked wide around a roll of herbs.

Large-ish image under cut! :) Feeling pretty good about this, I think I'm getting this troll thing down.

The other day, after I finished and posted "All Pink", Heulwen said something to me along the lines of, "Well, that's great and everything, but all you ever paint are pretty girls."  So I said, "Okay, if not pretty girls, then what should I paint, eh? Eh??"  In other words, COME AT ME, BRO.

Heulwen spouted off something about a troll scout in Outlands delivering a report to an orc, leaning from his raptor mount. 

Orcs? Trolls??  RAPTORS???

AND ALL MALE??

She should have been happy.

The letter had arrived bent in half, creased, and a little damp. The handwriting was his, smudged though it was, and the short note inside had brought a smile to her face easily.

It hadn't lasted, though. Too many worries, too many old fears crowding the inside of her head. She caught the courier watching her as she skimmed the note, and jammed it deep in a pocket before snarling at the smug elf and making her escape. Out the door into the rain, up the ladder to the narrow room she shared with the other healers. One hand slipped on the wet ropes, tearing skin. She cursed, spat, and ignored it. She needed somewhere safe, hidden.

"We're goin' home tanight, pup."

It's not too difficult to find a way out of the canyon. My sight's not as good as Mawly's in the dark, but the moon's bright enough. Just a short drop down to the piled rubble below, and we're gone. Didn't bring Sally, so it's just the two of us, running through the long grass, wind in our ears. Feels glorious.

We get a few odd looks from the guards at the elevators. Late night, and we've been away from civilization a few days. I know I'm a mess, torn-off ear and all, and Mawly's just a shadow slipping from the darkness behind me. The Shu'halo are patient, though. They raise their weapons, but don't shoot. I nod, make some apology in Orcish once my mouth can remember the shape of it, and they let me pass, Mawly on my heels. Going up is like flying, and the city is brighter than I remember it, the people louder.

Fish and mushroom loaf. Gravy. Toast. A mug of sunfruit juice. Se'ala stared at the meal, sliding her tray back and forth on the rough wooden tabletop. The juice sloshed in the mug, not quite creeping up over the rim.

A letter. She'd have to write another letter.

Called me a moth. Maybe she's right.

Flutterin' here an' there, always drawn toward that fire.

Can never quite reach it. It just ain't meant to be. And if I ever do, it'll burn me up, like as not.

Still keep tryin', though. Keep reachin', flyin' closer an' closer each time.

It ain't a choice.

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.

((A response to Moshir's letter in Good Friends.))

"Here."

Se'ala took the small vial, peering at the label. The instructions were scrawled in crude pictograms--one drop in water, once a day. She looked up, meeting the Forsaken apothecary's gaze with her own. "What be da side effects?"

"Side effects? Oh, no." He grinned, dead grey lips peeling back to reveal cracked, dry gums and a set of pearly white teeth that had almost certainly belonged to someone else. "Don't you worry about that, Miss Troll. Only a few minor ones--headache, stomach pain, bloating, death--and most of 'em go away after about a week. Standard for all female Horde soldiers out here. Gotta be safe, eh?"

((A reply to Moshir's Movement and Stillness.))

(('Alienated' from Cerwis' Single Word Prompt List.))

((A reply to Moshir's letter in Call and Response.))

A lone figure in the fading light, Zyjiin sat along the shore. He was home, among the familiar isles his people had once called home, now reclaimed. The Echo Isles they were called, and for him they held an echo that was painful to bear. As much as he was among his people once more, he was so very alone. The waves lapped at his feet and the hem of his robes, but they were a small comfort to a soul lost in the pain of uncertain despair.

Each waking nightmare, each moment since the earth had shattered he had felt distant from the people around him, a shell of whom he once was. He knew others saw it. He had never been good at hiding his true feelings. They watched him with sad, curious eyes and said nothing. A few he considered friends would touch his cheek, embrace him, and tell him that the pain would be easier to bear in time.

It was a beautiful day.

It was a day meant for running through the sand, for basking in the sun, and playing the frivolous games of youth. The sun melted through canopies above and beyond Zyjiin, and he knew there was warmth, though it felt hollow. He knew that he walked a trail littered with dead leaves, but he felt nothing. The scents that had once been so strong in the jungle were only a vague memory now.

The sky turned to darkness, and the world wept as nature arched her back in pain under the torment she suffered.  The shudder was felt in every root, every stone, and the sea drew back, exposing cliffs and corals previously hidden beneath its waves. A rush of air followed as birds took to flight, and the jungle became alive as the danger was realized.

((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.