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Voices whirled across his mind.

Gruzzexl often wondered how his mind could retain so much information. It poured into him from the Void -- only that which was relevant to Azeroth did he retain, of course, but he knew far more than any Trade Prince or Warchief. Names, places, things he'd never seen. He didn't need to. The Void was not empty, it was full -- full of the destruction of races, planets, people. And this great darkness in his mind witnessed all of it. And continued to know of it.

And that was how he knew. A Light extinguished. Somewhere.... far south. Westfall, perhaps? Yes, Westfall.

"Modas," Makgorg, the Voidwalker beside the goblin breathed.

"Modas," the Voidwalker inside the goblin breathed.

"Perfection," the goblin breathed, "We will make a deal. We will have it."

"Troll."

The old hunter barely had to glance at the bloody prints and the still-smoking shed to make a pronouncement. Biting his lip hard to keep from retching at the sight, Lahkin came over to see. He stared at the scuffed up ground, not seeing anything but....scuffed up ground.

"How can you tell?" Lahkin asked. Dustwing held up a hand to ward him away from trampling the tracks, and pointed at two indentations that looked like nothing more than rain pocks to Lahkin.

"Two toes. Likely a male." The crouched night elf crawled sideways, examining the other marks. "Felhound, here. And the woman...came up behind him..."

"Uh, Dustwing? Is it just me or--" Lahkin's question was interrupted by a loud sniffing sound. "--do I hear a felhound?"

Dustwing sprang to his feet, but then relaxed as he listened. "...no," he said at length. "Human. Upstairs, I wager."

"Human! Then there must be survivors."

"Get up there," Dustwing ordered, but Lahkin needed no urging. The lanky paladin pushed into the house, slipping on the blood as he hurtled to the stairs. He grasped the railing--somehow--and sprung up the steps two at a time. He stopped his mad rush when he entered the bedroom and saw no signs of life. Or death. That was a good thing.

"Hello?" Lahkin never noticed before how empty houses could echo, but it sure creeped him out now. "Is someone there? It's okay to come out."

Another sniff, then a choking sob. Lahkin dropped to his knees, peeking under the bed. Something stirred. Gritting his teeth, hoping he wasn't about to get his face bitten off by some tentacled monster, the human squirmed underneath.

It was a girl child. She screamed and something large and fluffy smacked Lahkin in the face. She darted out the other way, and Lahkin spat out teddy bear fuzz.

"No! Come back! Really, it's okay."

It was worse than chasing after Kordrion. Eventually Lahkin managed to corner her up against the dresser, falling to his knees and opening his arms so she wouldn't see him as a threat. She sat and began crying again, and Lahkin could creep up to her to put her in a one-armed hug. What else was he supposed to do?

"Just the one?" Dustwing's voice came from behind him. The little girl gasped and bolted for the nearest cover--which was Lahkin.

"Er, yes," said Lahkin with some difficulty. He disentangled the girls clutching fingers and wrapped her in a tight hug again. "Shh. It's okay."

He looked up to see the night elf watching him pensively. Dustwing undid his cloak's clasp and d#!**d it around the girl, pulling the oversized hood over her head. "I want you to report to the Sepha," he told Lahkin. "This is the work of Modas, likely a troll warlock. The man's heart is missing. And the girl--"

"We'll figure out something," Lahkin said. "If the Sepha doesn't have a place for her, my parents might."

Dustwing nodded. "Don't let her see down below. Ah, Elune. I'll need a smoke after this."

"Since when do you smoke?"

Dustwing shrugged as he turned for the door. "Since I was given a reason to."

Kuta lounged in the shadows of a corner booth of Worlds End Tavern and listened as the as the Courier whispered the latest news from the Black Channel, as the network of spies, gossip, and rumor that conveyed news of the illicit world was called. His attention ebbing and flowing as the news droned on and he focused on the delicate bomb trigger mechanism, he perked and cackled lightly at news of Atul's death...'shuved dat bahstad raht" before bolting upright nearly dropping the oh so dangerous trigger...."and the the rayed sigul of the Modas was left on the child. SI:7 and other alliance organizations are investigating. In other news...."

Picking at his tusk the canny assassin pondered in partial bitterness and partial hope. Ever since the Dark Chief Azielly had "up and disappeared" the Modas "Tribe" as he thought of them had fractured and fallen away as the Cataclysm swept the world. Some in hiding, others working in the shadows for the Dark Chief's Great Design, others were caught and executed if they left their spoor in sloppy ways. Could this be a sign that the Dark Chief was returning? Was it another sending a message?

It was nigh impossible to fathom the dark and inscrutible mind of the Dark Chief. All Kuta knew was after the blessed bloodletting of the Cataclysm and the hunderds of deaths he had served the Loa with as his Hand (Meuh'zla had been Pleased!), he had been very careful lest he be caught as a Modas agent. He had also grown somewhat bored as the free reign and artistry the Dark Chief had given him in his assignments had faded. Now he did contract work for the Lord Ravenholdt for "special assignments" and mundane and irritatingly simple work for the Cartels in their endless struggle for position.

Simple longing for the old days...oh how he remembered painting the room red, literally in blood, of Panthas Gribblework and leaving the sigul of the Modas as tribute not only to the Dark Chief but as an expression of the Loa caused him to sigh. Enough so that he nearly missed in daydream and fresh wrought plans to seek out the source of the news, the coded summons of yet another Cartel underling as the Courier finished his daily Black Channel communique....

A brief interlude

Lying beneath a frayed woollen blanket at the back of one of Orgrimmar’s many barracks, in a long-forgotten pile of refuse, is a collection of diaries written by a kind-hearted shaman by the name of Groshna Marroweater. This building was only recently converted into a barracks for the Horde; before Garrosh’s reign, under Warchief Thrall, this building had been a clinic for the mentally unsound. Many patients were treated here over the years, including war veterans that awoke screaming in the night, terrified of demons and undead and the myriad other monstrosities which soldiers of the Horde faced, to criminals deemed incapable of understanding or learning from their mistakes. It was, at times, an unruly place filled with dangerous people, but it was also a highly respected clinic, full of brilliant healers, who saved the lives of countless patients. Like so many things in Orgrimmar, when Garrosh assumed control of the Horde, the clinic was considered to be a pointless service that was wasting resources that could be better used elsewhere. Thus, the healers were shipped to various warfronts, the miserable, wretched soldiers who had nowhere else to go and no one to aid them were told to shoulder their burdens and die honourably for the Horde, and the criminals were executed outright. The clinic itself was transformed into a barracks (the beds, kitchen, halls, baths and storage made this conversion extraordinarily simple) and any equipment that could not be used on the front lines was dumped in the basement, where it rests to this day.

Of interest to this tale are the diaries of Groshna Marroweater. Groshna was a young orc shaman who came from a long family history of healers and spirit-talkers. During her residency at the clinic, she assisted in many diverse and terrible cases. It appears that one case particularly intrigued her, and the notes concerning it were documented with utmost diligence. The patient was an adolescent troll male by the name of Dree’jin, who had been captured by Horde guards at the Razor Hill tavern after he beat another male troll to death with a steel beer mug. He was considered too young for conventional prison, but such was the violent nature behind his crime that it was deemed necessary to isolate the troll where he could do no harm to himself or others. The following notes are extracts from Groshna’s personal diaries concerning this curious patient.

Book 3, page 164 – 10 am therapy session, troll male, Dree’jin.

The patient did not get off to a good start with his first session this morning. Dr Amendis has prescribed a mild sedative to be drunk by the patient every morning (3 parts peacebloom: 1 part purple lotus: 1 cup hot water) as the patient may suffer from violent tendencies. Nurse Windchaser, the burliest tauren on staff, was tasked with administering the tea – it seems that the patient refused to ingest the sedative, and when Nurse Windchaser attempted to force-feed the patient, he received numerous bites and a bloody cut from one of the patient’s tusks for his trouble. I arrived at the patient’s room before things could escalate out of hand. Once Nurse Windchaser was removed, I was able to coax the patient into drinking a new sedative (the nurse was drenched with the original tea) and before long, the patient had calmed noticeably. We struck an arrangement to have his morning tea delivered by myself. Evidently, the patient responds better to young orc women than large tauren men. Dr Amendis told me that the patient was arrested after killing a rival male troll over a female in Razor Hill. With this in mind, I have decided to exclude Nurse Windchaser from interacting directly with the patient; he will remain outside the patient’s room during our sessions, where he can respond quickly if the patient attempts to harm me. Somehow, I doubt he will – call it intuition, but the patient seems quite taken with me.

Book 3, page 178 – 10 am therapy session, troll male, Dree’jin.

We made fair progress this morning. The patient was born to the Skullsplitter Tribe, one of the many savage groups of trolls in Stranglethorn Vale. He was one of many children, borne to the tribe’s high priestess, a woman by the name of Ektilia. According to the patient, he was the only child in his family able to commune with the troll ancestral spirits and gods known as the Loa, and it appears that his parents, both priests, doted on him and gave him special treatment above the others. In my opinion, this may have introduced the patient, still at a very young and suggestible age, to a feeling of elevation above others. This state of mind appears to have grown out of hand very quickly – according to the patient, he led some kind of gang of troll youths for several years, and was responsible for quite a bit of mayhem. In short, he was a bully and a thug. The patient mentioned offhandedly one incident in which another troll child called the patient a colourful name, and so the patient pushed the offending child into a campfire, where he suffered severe burns and died later that night. During this story, I could not shake the impression that the patient was scrutinising me, reading my reactions; he has piercing, yellow eyes that see too much for one so young. I attempted to pry at the patient, to see if he was punished for such a heinous act, but it seems not. Either because of his mother’s high station in the tribe, or possibly because the tribe itself considered such interactions between children to be acceptable, the patient continued to, basically, do as he pleased with no concern for the repercussions of his actions. Whether it was the former or the latter or, most likely, a combination of the two, the end result remains the same: the patient is incapable of empathy. Is it any wonder that the patient considered beating another man to death as acceptable behaviour?

Book 3, page 216 – 10 am therapy session, troll male, Dree’jin.

The patient, Dree’jin, refused to speak with me today until I agreed to allow him access to the activities room. He claimed to be terribly bored, and wanted to play with the other patients. I suspect that Dr Amendis would prefer for Dree’jin to remain isolated in his room, but I have agreed to Dree’jin’s request on the condition that he remain under strict supervision by both myself and Nurse Windchaser whenever he leaves his room. This was apparently acceptable, and we were able to continue our discussion. In his early teens, Dree’jin left the Skullsplitters, against his will, to join the Gurubashi priesthood. According to Dree’jin, the Gurubashi are the dominant troll tribe in the jungle, and often demand tribute from the lesser tribes in the form of slaves, weapons and treasure. Although technically a slave, Dree’jin embraced the cruel lifestyle of the Gurubashi and displayed potential as a priest of the troll Blood God, Hakkar the Soulflayer. Dree’jin’s descriptions of life within the great troll temples of the Blood God sound ... terrifying, to say the least. It seems that the high priests expect the acolytes to fight amongst themselves, hexing and murdering their rivals, in order to gain the favour of the Blood God and to prove their strength and cunning. Dree’jin himself claims to be a shadow priest, but I have yet to see him perform any feat of magical power. I find myself wondering if these tales are merely the fiction of a strange and tormented mind. Dree’jin seemed almost reluctant to discuss the next stage of his story: from what I could gather, a particularly powerful priestess abused him and threatened to kill him when he retaliated, but was unable to match her power. In order to survive, he fled Zul’Gurub and managed to cross the sea to Durotar from Booty Bay as something of a refugee. In Kalimdor, Dree’jin hid himself among the other trolls of the Horde, camouflaging as a member of the Darkspear Tribe. If there is any truth to Dree’jin’s story, I must admit to feeling somewhat daunted. How can I possibly go about helping this troll who comes from such a barbaric and monstrous way of life? A society where one is expected to kill or be killed, to devour the hearts of the fallen, and destroy everything that opposes them without a shred of regard or sympathy for the weak. I cannot even imagine such chaos and horror, let alone think of a way to combat it.

Book 4, page 29 – 3 pm activities room, troll male, Dree’jin.

Dree exasperates me to no end – he is completely incapable of following even simple instructions. I made it abundantly clear that he was not to upset the other patients in the activities room, and for a while, Dree seemed to occupy himself happily with the finger-paints. This clearly became dull after some time, and so Dree decided to overturn a table where two veteran orcs were playing cards and dice, for no definable reason that I could see, other than to purposefully aggravate and intimidate others. With the assistance of two other large nurses, Nurse Windchaser was able to drag Dree back to his room. I lectured him sternly about how his behaviour is unacceptable and needlessly mean-spirited. At first, he acted as if the whole episode was a joke, winking at me with those sly, yellow eyes. I refused to give in to his attempts at charm and friendliness, however. Dree responded by sulking and lapsing into a depressed state. I can only hope that he is not the lost cause that I fear.

Book 4, page 42 – 10 am therapy session, troll male, Dree’jin.

Dree was not happy to speak to me this morning. Indeed, he was still sulking from the previous afternoon’s lecture, I believe. After some time, and an apology from myself, we managed to continue our discussion. It seems that soon after joining the Horde, Dree found himself a member of the notorious Fel Hand. Considering his upbringing, this is perhaps not surprising. The infamy of the Fel Hand is spoken of at great length, although their destructive designs appear to be directed solely at the Alliance. Regardless, I do not condone their methods – rumours abound of a ritual that happened (not a month ago!) outside of the gates of the Undercity, where the devious, cold-minded forsaken priest Creator and sinister orc warlock Grahmal tricked a group of Alliance into attempting to rescue one of their own, only to have their very souls stolen and used to fuel some demonic spell. Dree spoke at great length of a brutal tauren shaman by the name of Chilali, and a powerful, ambitious forsaken warlock by the name of Aziel V’Ghera, and it became clear to me that Dree respected and even admired these dangerous and terrible persons. It is good that Dree is a patient here, even if it is against his will, because now he finally has the opportunity to get the help that he desperately requires. Who can say what kind of a monster Dree could become if he continued to be exposed to social environments such as the Gurubashi, or Fel Hand?

Book 4, page 63 – 10 am therapy session, troll male, Dree’jin.

Dree has disappeared. The entire clinic has been forced to shut down, and undergone numerous searches. There is no sign of him. The warden swears that he saw not a soul on his patrols of the clinic, and Dree’s door remained locked from the previous day’s session. The only possibility that I can fathom is that the troll somehow became ... intangible and drifted through the bars on his window, to escape into the night. I have heard tales of shadow priests that are able to transform into pure shadow. But if this is what occurred, why didn’t Dree harm either myself or Nurse Windchaser with such dark powers? Furthermore, if Dree could leave the clinic as he saw fit, why would he bother to spend almost a fortnight here in isolation, with only myself for occasional company? I do not understand, but there is a small part of me that cannot shake the impression that one night, I will open his door and there he’ll be, standing in the moonlight, watching me with those sly, yellow eyes.

(( Very nice read. Dreejin is a bogie man ... on the road to become a dark power. ))

(Wow, nice job as always. I've always been your biggest fan.)

(( Just to clarify, those diaries are supposed to have been written years ago. I wanted to put a date in to make it perfectly clear, but I don't think it was 2007/2008 in WoW land a couple of years back :P ))

The Heart’s Filthy Lesson

Tormvul shuddered awake. An icy chill rippled across the tauren’s flesh in intermittent waves. Still half asleep, he reached out and brushed a hand across Tammra, his wife’s, shoulder. She mumbled something nonsensically and rolled into him. Tormvul frowned to himself, certain that something was wrong. He was a Brave, and he trusted in the instincts he had honed for over a decade. Unless it was just a breeze that had found its way into their tent, which happened often in the winter months, high up in Sun Rock Retreat. But the sleeping pair of tauren were covered in multiple layers of hide (not to mention a thick, wooly rhino pelt from Northrend, a gift to Tammra for putting up with Tormvul’s insistence to aid the Horde’s northern efforts) and regardless, Tormvul barely noticed the cold. He lay in the darkened tent, eyes watchful and ears keen, waiting for whatever had attracted his attention. Tormvul did not have to wait long – a sorrowful, ululating howl drifted through the night. Again, the mournful tone caused his flesh to go cold and his fur to stand on end; Tormvul shuddered despite himself. Quietly, so as not to disturb Tammra (spirits forbid he woke her unless the tent itself was burning down around them!) he slipped out of bed and dressed rapidly, hefting a large two-handed mace onto his shoulder on his way out. The moon wasn’t quite full, but it illuminated Sun Rock Retreat well even so. Tormvul spotted Anura, another Brave, emerging from her home, and both Braves hurried to each other to confer. He wasn’t sure why, but they kept their voices low.

‘Can you make out the noise? It’s mortally wounded, whatever it is.’ Tormvul grunted.

Anura frowned, her tanned muzzle creasing. ‘It almost sounds like a wolf or coyote, but this far into the mountains?’ She shook her long, dark hair. ‘I don’t like it.’

Tormvul searched around the empty clearing, certain that something else was unusual. It didn’t take him long to realise what was the true cause of his growing unease. ‘Where are Mokom and Hamuk? Weren’t they on duty tonight?’ There should have been at least two Braves wandering about the Retreat at any time, with another two posted at each gate. Once, Sun Rock Retreat had been a large settlement – in fact three generations of Tormvul’s ancestors were born here. He and Tammra were hoping to continue that legacy. But years of attacks from the Alliance and disruption of the local wildlife by the Venture Company, upon which the tauren were heavily dependent for food and equipment, meant that most of the tauren had migrated to Mulgore. Now, Sun Rock Retreat was a shadow of its former self, and it broke Tormvul’s heart to think that one day it may lie abandoned in these mountains, with no one left to admire their beauty.

‘Come. Let’s check on the main trail.’ Anura nodded toward the larger of the two gates, and both Braves headed swiftly in that direction. That haunting, eerie howl drifted upon the wind once more.

The gate was empty. Whomever was on duty here was gone. Anura knelt and squinted at the ground in the dark. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been a struggle or anything.’

Tormvul nodded in agreement, flaring his nostrils. ‘I cannot smell blood. But where could everyone be?’ The howl reached them again, causing Tormvul’s ears to twitch. He grunted angrily. This entire situation was getting on his nerves. ‘Perhaps they went to investigate the noise. We should follow.’

Anura looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Wander out into the night, where anything could be lurking? We should alert the barracks, organise a search party, and then investigate.’

‘Alert who? If the other Braves are gone, we are all that’s left! All that’s left to defend our people!’ Tormvul’s voice was rising. He didn’t mean to direct his anger at Anura; he was scared, and Braves were not supposed to be fearful.

‘The Crossroads. I could fly there on wyvern-back, and return with a search party in an hour, perhaps less.’

Tormvul was torn between the sense in Anura’s plan, and his need to protect Tammra, and the others. ‘Very well. I shall remain here. Be swift, Anura.’

‘I won’t be long. Don’t do anything stupid.’ She smiled, but her joke fell flat. Both tauren shared a brief chuckle, more of a vague attempt to banish their mutual distress than anything else, and then Anura was gone, headed for the wyvern roost.

Tormvul suddenly felt very alone. Very alone indeed. He glared at the forest down the mountain trail, trying to watch every leaf in exquisite detail. If there was to be an attack, he would be ready. The burly tauren braced his large hooves and tightened his grip on his two-handed mace. Nothing would get by him. Nothing would harm Tammra or his people, because nothing was getting through him.

‘Wha’s dis about reinforcements, big fella?’

Tormvul’s heart leapt in his throat, and the tauren whirled, swinging his mace. The troll stood just out of reach of the heavy weapon, his face concealed by a voodoo mask, but clearly unconcerned about a large tauren swinging gigantic weapons about at the slightest provocation. ‘By the Ancestors, Troll! Don’t sneak up on a Brave on duty!’ Tormvul grimaced, lowering the mace. ‘I could have crushed you!’ The troll reminded him of the Witch Doctor down in Malaka’jin – he had the same voodoo mask, ragged robes and strange ornaments hanging from his lanky frame. Tormvul spied what appeared to be a withered human ear on the troll’s necklace, surrounded by purple feathers and yellowed bird skulls. The tauren grimaced again, for different reasons. ‘You’re going to have to go inside, Troll. It is my duty to protect you, and for your protection, it is best that you get out of the way. We’re expecting some aid from the Crossroads soon.’

‘Well den, I’d bettah ‘urry dis up.’ The troll replied, a sly, facetious quality to his voice. Tormvul didn’t understand what was happening, until the troll began gibbering in some savage, guttural language. Tormvul’s earlier nervousness was nothing compared to the wave of crippling, mind-crushing terror that swept over him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see – everything terrible in the world seemed to loom menacingly in his thoughts, and the only thing he could conceive of was despair and hopelessness. Tormvul dropped his mace and fell to his knees, cringing. ‘Time ta go fer a liddle ride.’ The Hexxer spoke, and a fresh wave of crippling horror crashed over the tauren Brave. The troll placed a hand on Tormvul’s shoulder, and suddenly they were elsewhere, somewhere down the mountain trail. Green light danced over Tormvul’s flesh, but he was only distantly aware of this, of anything.

Dree’jin stepped away from the tauren. ‘Tear him up good, ya, just like the others. But remember – I want the heart in one piece.’ He commanded in Troll. A massive, tusked cat, actually a troll druid, leapt onto the catatonic tauren and latched its jaws directly on the tauren’s throat, before it began to thrash about. A third troll dragged the heartless body of another tauren Brave across the small forest clearing, and dropped it beside a pile of four mauled tauren bodies. ‘And let’s be quick. We’ve only got a short amount of time before this trail is full of orcs.’

‘Are you sure the Boss would approve of this, Dree?’ The other troll said as he struck a flame over the dead tauren. There was enough dry pine needles from the Stonetalon Mountains to make sure the bodies burned merrily, and maybe even some of the surrounding forest, as well. ‘Our numbers are few. We cannot afford to antagonise the Horde.’

Behind his mask, Dree’s eyes narrowed to slits of menace. He suppressed the urge to beat the troll down where he stood. Instead, he shooed the druid off Tormvul’s corpse and hefted his bonesaw. ‘The Boss isn’t around at the moment, so I don’t give a toss what he would approve of or not. You’re both Modas il Toralar, and I’m the ranking officer, so we’re going to play the game my way. Is that clear?’ Dree hissed as he hacked away. His felhound, the creature that had originally lured the Braves away from Sun Rock Retreat with its howls, gibbered from across the clearing, hoping for more bloodshed. Dree plopped Tormvul’s heart in a jar of preservatives, and the troll druid picked the mauled tauren up in its jaws and dragged him to the pyre.

Dree grinned and slapped his fellow Toralite on the back. ‘Don’t worry, chum! I’ve got it all worked out. You see, the Horde is never going to track this to us – they’re going to be too busy mounting a campaign to wipe out this Alliance group, them Reclamation fellas and ladies.’ Dree’jin dipped his hand in a pool of Tormvul’s blood, and on a tree overlooking the burning pyre, painted a clumsy depiction of a downward facing sword superimposed over a shield. He painted plenty of blood on the shield parts, so that it was obvious that it was supposed to be crimson. ‘There.’ He wiped his hands together, which only managed to spread more blood about himself. ‘Between my felhound’s howls to imitate that worgen fella, and the Reclamation’s symbol, the Horde is going to be even more keen to string this lot up, after their attack on Zoram’gar. It’s one thing to wipe out a bunch of orc soldiers on the warpath, but to brutally massacre proud tauren Braves whose only crime is trying to protect their loved ones?’ Dree’jin chuckled to himself. There was going to be a good deal of strife and destruction. ‘Gather up the hearts. I think it’s time to celebrate a productive night’s work, don’t you?’

((Dun dun dun. Good job, as always. I'm looking forward to seeing Dree on the battlefield again.))

Dree'jin was at a loss. Collecting one hundred and eleven powerful hearts was proving to be a greater challenge than he had anticipated. What was worse, his options were further limited by annoying, minor details - people like Oskor and Erosielle would make great additions to his collection, but such high profile individuals would be noticed if they went missing. Besides, apparently they were his friends (although after the previous evening, when Dree offered to let Rosie display her dominance over a slave in an attempt to cheer her up, he suspected that if they had been friends, they no longer were) and so Dree didn't particularly want to kill them unless he had absolutely no other choice. Happily, there were other sources of courageous, generous, loyal and kind hearts. In fact, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to bring people like that together in one place. And as an added bonus, no one in the Horde would get their knickers in a bunch if Dree hunted them - quite the opposite, actually. Dree would probably be rewarded for offering a great service to the Horde community, or some such nonsense.

Scribbled messily in thick pink crayon on poor quality parchment, and sent via express courier to Gentyl.

Eh dere chum. Long time no see. I still got ya ear, doncha know it! Wear it alla time. Is one o' ma favourite trophies, an' das really sayin' sometin', cause I got a lot. Is nice to dwell on good times we's shared in da past, but I's gonna get to da point. Cause I's such a nice fella, I figured dat I'd give ya da chance ta warn yer Pia Presidium folk in advance. I's gonna cut out da heart o' everyone I see wearin' yer bannah. I's gonna bury yer wretched guild fer ma own amusement. Except fer ya, Gentyl - I's nah allowed ta harm ya personally. Yer on Arjah's list o' 'People Dat I's Gotta Be Nice To Even Dough I Really Don' Like 'Em'. Dat cooky ol' bastard, Hrookhzin be on dat list, too. 'ow I wanna wrap ma 'ands round 'is neck...but I's losin' ma direction 'ere. So, dis be yer chance ta warn yer folk, let 'em know da mess dat YOU got dem into. I's sure I be seein' ya's. I be seein' ya's real soon.

Yer pal,
Dree'jin

Gentyl had just finished going through some applications when Tobias knocked on her office door. "Sepha, there's a messenger here."

She walked outside the office. No one outside of Presidium was allowed inside the tower, not even AAMS. It was a harsh rule, but one she had to implement to ensure the safety of their new headquarters. Not even Imperon had broached their wards and she planned to keep it that way.

The gnome waited in the town hall for her, kicking her feet against the chair that was much too tall for her as most furniture was. Her face brightened when Gentyl walked in. "Miss D'Amond?"

"Turncutt actually, but, yes."

"Oh, yes, forgot about that. Not sure why since there was so much ruckus about you getting married. Huge pool going on at the office and most bet you'd never marry."

Gentyl frowned. Why did everyone assume no one would ever marry her?

The gnome cleared her throat. "Anyway. Got a message for you." She handed the letter over and thanked Gentyl for the tip. "Thanks, ma'am and thanks for using the Anytime Anywhere Messenger Service."

Gnetyl nodded absently as she stared at the familiar letters in thick pink crayon. Only one person wrote with those, but he was dead. He was dead. He had to be dead.

Her fingers trembled as she tore open the seal.

Eh dere chum. Long time no see. I still got ya ear, doncha know it! Wear it alla time. Is one o' ma favourite trophies, an' das really sayin' sometin', cause I got a lot. Is nice to dwell on good times we's shared in da past, but I's gonna get to da point. Cause I's such a nice fella, I figured dat I'd give ya da chance ta warn yer Pia Presidium folk in advance. I's gonna cut out da heart o' everyone I see wearin' yer bannah. I's gonna bury yer wretched guild fer ma own amusement. Except fer ya, Gentyl - I's nah allowed ta harm ya personally. Yer on Arjah's list o' 'People Dat I's Gotta Be Nice To Even Dough I Really Don' Like 'Em'. Dat cooky ol' bastard, Hrookhzin be on dat list, too. 'ow I wanna wrap ma 'ands round 'is neck...but I's losin' ma direction 'ere. So, dis be yer chance ta warn yer folk, let 'em know da mess dat YOU got dem into. I's sure I be seein' ya's. I be seein' ya's real soon.

Yer pal,
Dree'jin

It was him. She sat down wearily and read the letter again. No one could imitate his style of writing or the madness laid open by the words. He had no respect for life or authority aside from the hold Arjah held over him. He had once used her to try and kill Dr. Hrook.

Gods, why can't some vermin stay dead?

Heart Full of Soul

Dree’jin hated elves. There were no words in the Orc language that could encompass the depth of his hatred toward elves. Purple, pink, white skinned – they were all the same to Dree, nothing more than arrogant, fragile fops that looked upon trolls as if they were little better than animals. Trolls had existed upon Azeroth long before the first night elf washed up on the shore of the Well of Eternity, but did the elven race offer trolls the respect that their senior, sophisticated culture deserved? Of course not. They were far too preoccupied with their own superiority, their own vision of how every race should live, that they only ever noticed a troll when it was preparing to skewer them to serve over a campfire. Dree recalled fondly the days in the Horde before the elves were given sanctuary. But now they were everywhere, and he couldn’t even walk through the halls of the Modas il Toralar’s Inner Sanctum without catching a whiff of their stink. Oh, how he hated every last, pompous one of them.

The moon had not yet set over Lor’danel. The night breeze was cool, and carried the faintest trace of ozone, possibly a result of the electricity and many wind elementals present over Darkshore. The troll glided through the night silently on wyvern back, pausing only briefly to look upon the destruction of Auberdine with a mixture of satisfaction and...vague disappointment. It hardly seemed fair. If anyone was going to destroy a night elven settlement, it should have been him. The tower of Lor’danel rose in the distance, a great shadow in the darkness. Dree gently patted his wyvern’s mane, urging it to swoop into the trees. Approaching the village in the open sky would be suicide; the troll’s night vision was good, but the night elves’ was better, and he would not be able to avoid them. It was the early hours of the morning, when prey was at its most vulnerable – several hippogriff riders patrolled the skies, but they were tired, and had no reason to fear an attack. By all accounts, the bulk of the Horde’s forces were tied up in Ashenvale. Dree’jin would deliver a little surprise to them, a particularly nasty trick he had picked up during his time with the Gurubashi over the past year. In truth, it was a message directed to the likes of the Pia Presidium and Tenth Legion, rather than the night elves as a whole. It was a fairly simple message: something along the lines of ‘I want to play.’ The deaths of a few Sentinels were merely an added bonus.

With difficulty, the wyvern climbed through the trees with the lanky troll on its back. It did not take long for clouds from the storm-choked, elemental ravaged sky to drift across the moon, and the wyvern made one agile, decisive leap from the surrounding trees to the tower of Lor’danel. Rapidly, its massive claws clutched into the thick oak, the wyvern scampered up the tower and onto the top terrace. To Dree’jin’s surprise, not a single Sentinel watched from the platform. The troll sneered, his lips curling back around his tusks, and got down from the wyvern. Elves were weak and useless.

Dree’jin closed his eyes and let his consciousness soar, letting it test and prod at the malleable barrier that separated the material and spirit worlds. The troll no longer invoked the power of the Loa to aid his voodoo. Begging for the assistance of the spirits was beneath him. Now, Dree’jin forced the spirits to do as he pleased, be they demons, trolls, or otherwise. He felt the connection to the spirit world, and smiled to himself. It was time to begin. Very carefully, the troll pulled a grinning, painted fetish from his bag and dropped it over the tower platform. The fetish, attuned to the spirit world, immediately caught hold of the connection Dree’jin was forming, and floated serenely in place. The moonlight glimmered faintly on its smiling, unnerving visage. The troll winced as he sliced open a palm with a raptor’s claw, squeezing his three-fingered fist tightly over the fetish. Several drops splattered upon the carving before the troll’s flesh knit closed, sealing the cut. Finally, Dree’jin placed a delicate chain made of animal bones below the fetish. The idol’s vague, humanoid face seemed to twist and grin at the troll. Dree’jin ran a fingertip over the sharpened edge of the raptor’s claw. It was time to gather some spirits.


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There were no more than a handful of Sentinels in the tower, and all of them were caught unawares, facing out across the sea. The single exception was a lone Sentinel, a woman with long green hair, who ran inside when the screams began. She actually managed to impress the troll, by driving her sword through his shoulder. But she was no match for the Hexxer, and was quickly overwhelmed by the troll’s voodoo. Hers was the only heart Dree’jin would take that night, considering the others to be worthless. With little trouble, the troll returned to the tower platform, and disappeared into the night, his wyvern quickly outdistancing even the fastest of Lor’danel’s hippogriffs. Meanwhile, the fetish’s magic took effect: the spirits of the slain night elves were chained to it, unable to pass on. Perhaps worst of all, the fetish’s bad mojo twisted and warped the elven spirits, turning their only thoughts to those of pain and torment, causing them to lust at the chance to inflict their own suffering on whomever was unfortunate enough to enter the tower. Dree’jin thought it unlikely that the chained spirits would cause trouble for a seasoned adventurer, and it would only be a matter of time before someone broke the fetish and released them. But that was fine. There were all sorts of new tricks he had picked up in the jungles, nursing his hatred for the Horde and Alliance, his hatred for all those who stood in his way and that of the troll race’s return to its supremacy. It was indeed time for Dree’jin to have a little fun.

((Bah, sorry I missed this.))

(( All good! Wasn't supposed to be a pvp thing. Just going about making messes that people may/may not wish to jump in and get involved with the story. ))

"Dustwing, there's something wrong here..."

Lahkin leaned past the tall night elf, eying the tree-like tower of Lor'danel. The alarms had rung out several hours ago, now silent. A few Sentinels stood around the base, looking at the door pensievely and conversing amongst themselves. None of them tried to stop the pair as Dustwing led the way up to the door.

"Yes," said the night elf. "It's too quiet."

"No, I mean, really wrong."

Dustwing quirked an eyebrow, looking back at the human. He looked like a deer startled by a hunter's gun. Dustwing snorted.

"Very well. Tell me."

Lahkin looked surprised. Perhaps it wasn't often people asked him to explain his thoughts. Dustwing crossed his arms and waited patiently.

"It's...twisted," Lahkin ventured. "Angry." He gave the night elf an apologetic look for not making more sense, but Dustwing's expression didn't change. Lahkin straightened then, closing his eyes.

"It's the spirits."

As if cued by Lahkin's voice, the ghosts of the dead Sentinels descended on them all at once. Dustwing reflexively dove to the ground and rolled out of the way, but the paladin was not so lucky.

"Dustwing!" he yelled, covering his face with his arms. He shivered as the ghosts passed right through him, gasping like a man who'd jumped into a lake of ice would gasp. The cold felt edged, and Lahkin felt it before he really felt it.

Pain. Anger. The spirits were being tormented.

"Just hit them, Lahkin! Your weapons hurt them like they would anything else." Dustwing came back to his feet with his gun in hand. Two echoing blasts, and two of the ghosts winked out of existence. "Draw your sword!"

"No," Lahkin whispered. Ice formed along the edges of his armor as the human stood straight again. A banshee-like Sentinel leered at him as she turned for another swoop. Lahkin stared into her eyes, still glowing even in death. She made her pass. He lifted his hand and....twisted.

He wasn't sure what he did, only registering a flare of Light and a surprised yelp from the ghost. She backpedaled, eyes clear. With a pained look at him, she disappeared.

"What did you--" Dustwing frowned. "Do it again!"

"But I--" The remaining ghost was still angry. Lahkin could feel that anger jangling on his nerves. At Dustwing's urging, he reached out again and tried to do the same thing to it. What seemed so clear before was now lost to him. The ghost grinned as he swatted back and forth clumsily. "I can't."

Dustwing pulled his hunting knife and threw it, end over end, at the spirit. It left a ragged hole through her front, and the Sentinel paused--at least for a little while. "Look for the anchor!" Dustwing called. "These Sentinels were just recently slain. Someone must be calling them back."

Lahkin gulped. "Sorry," he said to the ghost. "But I really do need to get past you."

If the Sentinel understood, she didn't look too happy about it.

Lahkin closed his eyes and pushed through her. Another layer of ice appeared atop the first, and Lahkin shivered uncontrollably as he headed up the tower's ramp. A gunshot and Dustwing's cursing told him the last ghost was still at large behind him.

The air of the tower continued to curl on the edge of his senses--those other senses, the ones he couldn't explain. There was no time for questions though, so Lahkin followed the sensation. He stumbled up onto the tower's balcony. There, the spiraling was worse, and seemed to spit black and purple sparks at him--except in reality, nothing was there except a nasty looking charm, hanging in midair.

Lahkin stared at it. He didn't recognize the designs, but surely Dustwing would. He reached out, then snatched his hand back just as quick, staring at the otherworldly sparks trying to worm into his skin.

It stung.

"Dustwing!"

More shots and more cursing. Lahkin shook his head to himself, tugging off his cloak. He threw it over the charm, and with a swipe of his sword, knocked it from the air. The dark spirals broke up in his other-sight as the thing tumbled to the floor with a sad-sounding flump. The angry pall to the surroundings eased, and Dustwing laughed as he finally managed to put a bullet through the remaining spirit.

"Dustwing!" Lahkin called again.

"Coming," said the night elf, and a few moments later, he appeared. Lahkin offered the bundle to him. Dustwing stared, not at it, but at the human's palm. "Your hand..."

"It's okay," said Lahkin. In reality, it still stung like fel, and the human tucked it behind his back.

"Get it looked at," Dustwing growled, and gingerly took the bundle. He unwrapped it, frowned, then pushed it back at Lahkin. "And get that looked at, too. It looks like our troll friend is at it again."

"The same one who attacked Daisy's family?"

Dustwing's face darkened. "The very same..."