((Great additions guys! Can't wait for all the threads to connect!))
Stranger in a Strange Land
The two trolls walked briskly through the Krasarang Wilds, headed back towards the Horde encampment. They walked in silence, each step taking Finnaeus towards an unknown that he was barely prepared for. Being a part of the Silent Guard taught him a lot about thinking on his feet, surviving in hostile territory, but he never once had to pose as the enemy in his work. The closest he had ever been to a situation like this, it was Erelyn considering infiltrating the Modas. He felt a pang in his heart at the thought of her, and how long it had been since he had seen her. He instinctively reached to touch the golden locket that hung around his neck, but he could not find it. It was still around his worgen body, his real body. The locket could provide him no comfort.
“So what’s the play?” Finnaeus asked, breaking the silence.
Turango looked at him, and did not respond. Finn could tell the troll was turning everything over in his mind, teasing out the angles and wondering which one would be their undoing. Finn had been doing the same thing. Every possible story they told to the orc Tazgrem would be filled with holes – all lies were – but their success hinged not only on the strength of the story, but in how well they could execute it. In Finn’s mind the simpler the better, but he would defer to Turango. Smart and clever as Finn was, he was not about to claim to know better than a member of the Horde in how to successfully navigate its environs.
Absentmindedly his tongue ran over the base of his tusks. Finnaeus could not acclimate to the two tusks jutting out of his mouth. They irritated him, like a foreign body that could not be removed. In the distance they saw the flickering torch lights of the Horde camp, and Turango came to an abrupt stop.
“Here be what we do,” Turango said, looking at Finnaeus. “There be no time to teach ya how to act like a troll. And you tryin’ to pretend will only get us killed. So, we got to explain it. We be tellin’ them that ya’re a Darkspear who was taken by the Zandalari. Ya be under their voodoo, and ya cannot remember who ya are, except ya name. Anyone asks ya name, ya be sayin’ Drak’Finn, Finn for short.”
Finnaeus nodded – the troll knew what he was doing. Weaving in enough truth in the lie made it easier to keep it going, easier to remember the strands as the mission wore on.
“We be sayin’ the Zandalari be usin’ ya for ya knowledge on the Horde. Ya then threw off the voodoo and fled to warn the camp, and that’s how ya ended in Krasarang with the
Saurok on ya.”
“What about Shan’Daon? How does the Mogu tie in to it?”
“We know that the Mogu and the Zandalari be allies,” Turango said. “It goes no deeper than that.”
“Think they’ll buy it?”
“That I don’t know,” Turango said. “But it be playin’ to their expectations. The Darkspear not be sittin’ pretty these last few months. They be thinkin’ ya weak for comin’ under the
voodoo, but that ya were strong enough to break it is important.”
“Why?”
“Because there be no room for the weak in Hellscream’s Horde,” Turango said, a dark look in his eyes. “Especially for a weak troll.”
“And what’s to stop them from killing me now?” Finn asked.
“Ya also have knowledge of the Alliance,” Turango said. “And that be of vital importance to the Horde.”
“You want me to sell out the Alliance?” Finnaeus asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Not a chance.”
“Ya bein’ foolish,” Turango said, standing taller. “We be tellin’ them that the Zandalari used ya to spy on the Alliance as well. That will keep us both alive ‘til we think of the next move.”
Finnaeus stared at Turango. He knew nothing of the troll, but he could not resist the impression that he was playing the situation to his own advantage. Undoubtedly he was taking a terrible risk protecting Finnaeus – or even attempting to – but there was a line that Finnaeus was unwilling to cross.
“So what’s the play?” Finnaeus asked, breaking the silence.
Turango looked at him, and did not respond. Finn could tell the troll was turning everything over in his mind, teasing out the angles and wondering which one would be their undoing. Finn had been doing the same thing. Every possible story they told to the orc Tazgrem would be filled with holes – all lies were – but their success hinged not only on the strength of the story, but in how well they could execute it. In Finn’s mind the simpler the better, but he would defer to Turango. Smart and clever as Finn was, he was not about to claim to know better than a member of the Horde in how to successfully navigate its environs.
Absentmindedly his tongue ran over the base of his tusks. Finnaeus could not acclimate to the two tusks jutting out of his mouth. They irritated him, like a foreign body that could not be removed. In the distance they saw the flickering torch lights of the Horde camp, and Turango came to an abrupt stop.
“Here be what we do,” Turango said, looking at Finnaeus. “There be no time to teach ya how to act like a troll. And you tryin’ to pretend will only get us killed. So, we got to explain it. We be tellin’ them that ya’re a Darkspear who was taken by the Zandalari. Ya be under their voodoo, and ya cannot remember who ya are, except ya name. Anyone asks ya name, ya be sayin’ Drak’Finn, Finn for short.”
Finnaeus nodded – the troll knew what he was doing. Weaving in enough truth in the lie made it easier to keep it going, easier to remember the strands as the mission wore on.
“We be sayin’ the Zandalari be usin’ ya for ya knowledge on the Horde. Ya then threw off the voodoo and fled to warn the camp, and that’s how ya ended in Krasarang with the
Saurok on ya.”
“What about Shan’Daon? How does the Mogu tie in to it?”
“We know that the Mogu and the Zandalari be allies,” Turango said. “It goes no deeper than that.”
“Think they’ll buy it?”
“That I don’t know,” Turango said. “But it be playin’ to their expectations. The Darkspear not be sittin’ pretty these last few months. They be thinkin’ ya weak for comin’ under the
voodoo, but that ya were strong enough to break it is important.”
“Why?”
“Because there be no room for the weak in Hellscream’s Horde,” Turango said, a dark look in his eyes. “Especially for a weak troll.”
“And what’s to stop them from killing me now?” Finn asked.
“Ya also have knowledge of the Alliance,” Turango said. “And that be of vital importance to the Horde.”
“You want me to sell out the Alliance?” Finnaeus asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Not a chance.”
“Ya bein’ foolish,” Turango said, standing taller. “We be tellin’ them that the Zandalari used ya to spy on the Alliance as well. That will keep us both alive ‘til we think of the next move.”
Finnaeus stared at Turango. He knew nothing of the troll, but he could not resist the impression that he was playing the situation to his own advantage. Undoubtedly he was taking a terrible risk protecting Finnaeus – or even attempting to – but there was a line that Finnaeus was unwilling to cross.
“No mention of the Alliance,” Finnaeus said. “We do that and I walk.”
“Ya be filled with honor,” Turango said, sniffing the air. “If this be any other time, I be respectin’ ya for ya loyalty. But ya don’t get it. Whether ya like it or not, ya be a troll now. And trolls not be popular with Garrosh Hellscream and his Horde. We be lucky they don’t have us chained already. They be respectin’ my strength, and so they suffer my presence. They need no reason to be killin’ ya brudda. And so we need to offer them reason to not lop ya head off.”
“No Alliance,” Finnaeus said. “If what we have isn’t enough, it’ll be my head they’ll pike.”
Turango sniffed.
“Ya’re a fool,” Turango responded finally. “But it be on ya head. Don’t be lettin’ on that ya’re a druid. The few druids we have in camp are well known with the Cenarions. They’ll be wonderin’ who ya are, and we won’t be able to account for it.”
“Agreed,” Finnaeus said, giving Turango a hard look. It was better that they were once again on common ground, but he saw a stormy look in Turango’s eyes, almost foggy, and he couldn’t make out what grand schemes were in his head.
“You be sayin’ nothin’ unless ya be forced,” Turango said, walking once again towards the camp. “And try not ta get us killed.”
***
The two entered camp. It took a few moments before Tazgrem noted the two trolls. His face contorted into a vicious snarl. A tauren stood by his side, her face impassive but her eyes trained on the two incomers. They walked towards the orc. As they did, Finnaeus passed an undead in robes. He could smell the fetid stench of undeath, and inside his stomach turned. He met the undead’s eyes, or where the eyes would have been, and the corpse’s face twitched into a demented sort of smile. Finnaeus turned away, a cold sensation inexplicably sweeping across his face. A Forsaken, no doubt, the same folks that plagued his nation and left it in ruins.
“About time you returned, troll,” Tazgrem snarled. “Though I see you lack the body of a Mogu sorcerer. Did you fail to rout this monster?”
“He moved on,” Turango said simply. “But the cave be just north of here, if you be curious. The voodoo lingers. He be messin’ with the Sha.”
The tauren sniffed, her fail flicking idly at the sound of the Sha. Tazgrem merely snorted and then spit on the ground.
“Coward.” He pat the end of his axe. “I would have run him through if he had the guts to stand in battle.”
“I tink he be leavin’ once he lost his spy,” Turango said, his eyes trained on Tazgrem. “He knew we’d be marchin’ on him as soon as we learned of his plans. This Mogu be smart.”
“Not smart enough to not stand against the Horde in the first place,” Tazgrem replied, narrowing his eyes.
“You mentioned a spy,” the Tauren said, her voice serene and still firm.
“This be Drak’Finn,” Turango said, gesturing towards Finn. Finn felt all eyes on him, but he kept his face impassive. “He be a Darkspear who fell under the Mogu’s voodoo. He and his Zandalari allies be usin’ him as a spy.”
“Leave it to a troll to be a sorcerer’s puppet,” Tazgrem said with a cold laugh. The tauren leaned forward.
“I sense a lingering presence on him,” she said. “I feel that he has indeed been touched by a foul magic.”
“Do you sense his weakness as well, Leyra?” Tazgrem responded coldly. “How much has he relayed to the Zandalari about the Horde’s movements?”
“I be getting’ nothin’ out of him except his name and the last few weeks,” Turango said. “His memory be wiped from the voodoo.”
“A troll with a damaged brain,” Tazgrem sneered. “He’s lucky he can stand on his own two feet. Probably brain dead as it is.”
“Watch it now,” Turango said, his eyes growing stormy.
“Have I offended you?” Tazgrem said darkly, stepping forward. The orc was large, even by his race’s standards. His skin looked worn, like sun-beaten leather, hardened by trial and the elements. His eyes were alive, burning, reflective of his rage and his thirst for combat. “I do not see how. You bring before us a troll that, by all accounts, is a traitor to the Horde. That is a stupid move as far as I know.”
“Ya be filled with honor,” Turango said, sniffing the air. “If this be any other time, I be respectin’ ya for ya loyalty. But ya don’t get it. Whether ya like it or not, ya be a troll now. And trolls not be popular with Garrosh Hellscream and his Horde. We be lucky they don’t have us chained already. They be respectin’ my strength, and so they suffer my presence. They need no reason to be killin’ ya brudda. And so we need to offer them reason to not lop ya head off.”
“No Alliance,” Finnaeus said. “If what we have isn’t enough, it’ll be my head they’ll pike.”
Turango sniffed.
“Ya’re a fool,” Turango responded finally. “But it be on ya head. Don’t be lettin’ on that ya’re a druid. The few druids we have in camp are well known with the Cenarions. They’ll be wonderin’ who ya are, and we won’t be able to account for it.”
“Agreed,” Finnaeus said, giving Turango a hard look. It was better that they were once again on common ground, but he saw a stormy look in Turango’s eyes, almost foggy, and he couldn’t make out what grand schemes were in his head.
“You be sayin’ nothin’ unless ya be forced,” Turango said, walking once again towards the camp. “And try not ta get us killed.”
***
The two entered camp. It took a few moments before Tazgrem noted the two trolls. His face contorted into a vicious snarl. A tauren stood by his side, her face impassive but her eyes trained on the two incomers. They walked towards the orc. As they did, Finnaeus passed an undead in robes. He could smell the fetid stench of undeath, and inside his stomach turned. He met the undead’s eyes, or where the eyes would have been, and the corpse’s face twitched into a demented sort of smile. Finnaeus turned away, a cold sensation inexplicably sweeping across his face. A Forsaken, no doubt, the same folks that plagued his nation and left it in ruins.
“About time you returned, troll,” Tazgrem snarled. “Though I see you lack the body of a Mogu sorcerer. Did you fail to rout this monster?”
“He moved on,” Turango said simply. “But the cave be just north of here, if you be curious. The voodoo lingers. He be messin’ with the Sha.”
The tauren sniffed, her fail flicking idly at the sound of the Sha. Tazgrem merely snorted and then spit on the ground.
“Coward.” He pat the end of his axe. “I would have run him through if he had the guts to stand in battle.”
“I tink he be leavin’ once he lost his spy,” Turango said, his eyes trained on Tazgrem. “He knew we’d be marchin’ on him as soon as we learned of his plans. This Mogu be smart.”
“Not smart enough to not stand against the Horde in the first place,” Tazgrem replied, narrowing his eyes.
“You mentioned a spy,” the Tauren said, her voice serene and still firm.
“This be Drak’Finn,” Turango said, gesturing towards Finn. Finn felt all eyes on him, but he kept his face impassive. “He be a Darkspear who fell under the Mogu’s voodoo. He and his Zandalari allies be usin’ him as a spy.”
“Leave it to a troll to be a sorcerer’s puppet,” Tazgrem said with a cold laugh. The tauren leaned forward.
“I sense a lingering presence on him,” she said. “I feel that he has indeed been touched by a foul magic.”
“Do you sense his weakness as well, Leyra?” Tazgrem responded coldly. “How much has he relayed to the Zandalari about the Horde’s movements?”
“I be getting’ nothin’ out of him except his name and the last few weeks,” Turango said. “His memory be wiped from the voodoo.”
“A troll with a damaged brain,” Tazgrem sneered. “He’s lucky he can stand on his own two feet. Probably brain dead as it is.”
“Watch it now,” Turango said, his eyes growing stormy.
“Have I offended you?” Tazgrem said darkly, stepping forward. The orc was large, even by his race’s standards. His skin looked worn, like sun-beaten leather, hardened by trial and the elements. His eyes were alive, burning, reflective of his rage and his thirst for combat. “I do not see how. You bring before us a troll that, by all accounts, is a traitor to the Horde. That is a stupid move as far as I know.”
“He be no traitor, when his actions be compelled by strong voodoo,” Turango said.
“So you say,” Tazgrem said.
“There is some truth to what he’s saying, Tazgrem,” Leyra said. “There is a magic upon him, a lingering power. I can’t be sure, but –”
“No one asked for your bleeding heart’s opinion,” Tazgrem snapped at Leyra. The tauren remained serene, but her eyes belayed a growing resentment towards the orc. “The facts are the facts. This troll has been spying on the Horde on behalf of the Mogu and Zandalari forces here in Pandaria. He is a danger to the Horde and therefore should be executed.”
Finn stirred, ready to defend himself, but Turango interceded.
“Ya not be thinkin’, Tazgrem. He be havin’ intimate knowledge of the Zandalari and Mogu movements. They be on the move, workin’ for this Thunder King. Havin’ that kind of information would help us prepare for battle.”
“The Horde needs no traitor’s help to squash a group of Mogu and their troll pets,” Tazgrem said, snickering.
“There is wisdom in having some insider knowledge,” Leyra said.
“It be foolish to waste resources,” Turango said, pressing his advantage. “We be facin’ enemies on every front, Tazgrem. Any advantage will strengthen us. Help us –”
“You are all weak,” Tazgrem said. “We need no additional strength. Hellscream was right about you lot. The troll’s value is that of dirt to me, and I will not have a traitor among my camp.” He gestured to two orc guards, who moved forward and seized Finn by both his arms. “He’ll be executed immediately.” Tazgrem looked at Turango. “Seize him too, until I know what to do with him.” Two orc guards stepped forward towards Turango. He raised his arms in defense, but a Blood Elf stepped forward and waved a hand. Arcane manacles chained Turango’s hands together.
“No storm calling for you,” Tazgrem said, smirking. Finn struggled against the orcs, but they pressed him down to his knees. Finn looked up at the orc, loathing in his eyes. “Any last words, troll?” Finn looked over at Turango, struggling against the arcane manacles. It looked like the gambit did not pay off. He turned his gaze back towards Tazgrem. He could think of a million things to say, a million curses to the orcs and their Horde. But no words would do his heart justice, and he would not show this orc fear in the face of his death. Instead, he simply returned the orc a stony gaze.
“Very well,” Tazgrem said. He nodded towards another Orc, who stepped forward. The orc huffed and lowered the blade of his axe to the back of Finn’s neck. T
“This is much too hasty,” Leyra said. “You are being imprudent, Tazgrem.”
“And you insubordinate,” Tazgrem replied. “This is my expedition, I lead it.”
“You have a very loose definition of lead,” Leyra said, shaking her head. “I refuse to be a part of this.”
“Suit yourself,” Tazgrem said. He rose to full height, looking down on Finnaeus. “The Horde suffers no traitors, troll. Your crime is betraying the Horde, threatening the Horde’s interests, and you shall therefore be punished accordingly. Your head will be posted on a spike outside this very camp, a message to all that the Horde will suffer no traitors in their midsts.”
Finn closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of the air coming in and out of his chest. Any moment now the axe would come. It was odd that only a few short days ago, he would have been working in the fields in the Valley of the Four Winds, helping the Pandaren and gathering information for the Presidium. Since that short time, he had believed himself about to die several times. And yet he felt like he had dodged the bullet far too many times in the past few days, and his luck would run out.
He felt the blade resting just on the back of his neck, almost as if the blade wished to introduce itself before it burst straight through his neck. The metal felt cool, but it sent a surge of heat through his body. He was not ready to die.
“You cannot do this, Tazgrem,” Turnago stormed. “Ya be throwin’ everythin’ away.”
“Silence. Bringing a traitor into our grounds is cause for death as well,” Tazgrem said.
Finnaeus felt a surge of energy. It was as if his body knew the end was near, and was raging against it. He forced himself to be calm, to not show fear. Death would be quick, this he knew – he had seen enough beheadings to know that only the dullest of blades made for a slow death.
“So you say,” Tazgrem said.
“There is some truth to what he’s saying, Tazgrem,” Leyra said. “There is a magic upon him, a lingering power. I can’t be sure, but –”
“No one asked for your bleeding heart’s opinion,” Tazgrem snapped at Leyra. The tauren remained serene, but her eyes belayed a growing resentment towards the orc. “The facts are the facts. This troll has been spying on the Horde on behalf of the Mogu and Zandalari forces here in Pandaria. He is a danger to the Horde and therefore should be executed.”
Finn stirred, ready to defend himself, but Turango interceded.
“Ya not be thinkin’, Tazgrem. He be havin’ intimate knowledge of the Zandalari and Mogu movements. They be on the move, workin’ for this Thunder King. Havin’ that kind of information would help us prepare for battle.”
“The Horde needs no traitor’s help to squash a group of Mogu and their troll pets,” Tazgrem said, snickering.
“There is wisdom in having some insider knowledge,” Leyra said.
“It be foolish to waste resources,” Turango said, pressing his advantage. “We be facin’ enemies on every front, Tazgrem. Any advantage will strengthen us. Help us –”
“You are all weak,” Tazgrem said. “We need no additional strength. Hellscream was right about you lot. The troll’s value is that of dirt to me, and I will not have a traitor among my camp.” He gestured to two orc guards, who moved forward and seized Finn by both his arms. “He’ll be executed immediately.” Tazgrem looked at Turango. “Seize him too, until I know what to do with him.” Two orc guards stepped forward towards Turango. He raised his arms in defense, but a Blood Elf stepped forward and waved a hand. Arcane manacles chained Turango’s hands together.
“No storm calling for you,” Tazgrem said, smirking. Finn struggled against the orcs, but they pressed him down to his knees. Finn looked up at the orc, loathing in his eyes. “Any last words, troll?” Finn looked over at Turango, struggling against the arcane manacles. It looked like the gambit did not pay off. He turned his gaze back towards Tazgrem. He could think of a million things to say, a million curses to the orcs and their Horde. But no words would do his heart justice, and he would not show this orc fear in the face of his death. Instead, he simply returned the orc a stony gaze.
“Very well,” Tazgrem said. He nodded towards another Orc, who stepped forward. The orc huffed and lowered the blade of his axe to the back of Finn’s neck. T
“This is much too hasty,” Leyra said. “You are being imprudent, Tazgrem.”
“And you insubordinate,” Tazgrem replied. “This is my expedition, I lead it.”
“You have a very loose definition of lead,” Leyra said, shaking her head. “I refuse to be a part of this.”
“Suit yourself,” Tazgrem said. He rose to full height, looking down on Finnaeus. “The Horde suffers no traitors, troll. Your crime is betraying the Horde, threatening the Horde’s interests, and you shall therefore be punished accordingly. Your head will be posted on a spike outside this very camp, a message to all that the Horde will suffer no traitors in their midsts.”
Finn closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of the air coming in and out of his chest. Any moment now the axe would come. It was odd that only a few short days ago, he would have been working in the fields in the Valley of the Four Winds, helping the Pandaren and gathering information for the Presidium. Since that short time, he had believed himself about to die several times. And yet he felt like he had dodged the bullet far too many times in the past few days, and his luck would run out.
He felt the blade resting just on the back of his neck, almost as if the blade wished to introduce itself before it burst straight through his neck. The metal felt cool, but it sent a surge of heat through his body. He was not ready to die.
“You cannot do this, Tazgrem,” Turnago stormed. “Ya be throwin’ everythin’ away.”
“Silence. Bringing a traitor into our grounds is cause for death as well,” Tazgrem said.
Finnaeus felt a surge of energy. It was as if his body knew the end was near, and was raging against it. He forced himself to be calm, to not show fear. Death would be quick, this he knew – he had seen enough beheadings to know that only the dullest of blades made for a slow death.
“The Zandalari be usin’ him to spy on the Alliance as well,” Turango said.
Finnaeus’s eyes jolted open. He looked up at Turango. He could not believe his ears. Tazgrem studied Turango for a moment, and then held up a hand. The orc with the axe stood away from Finnaeus. He breathed, but the small moment of relief was replaced with a dawning realization that Turango had betrayed him.
“You’re lying,” Tazgrem said.
“No,” Turango replied. “He be talented at bein’ stealthy. He knows the Alliance.”
“Fetch Leyra,” Tazgrem roared, seemingly angry that his execution had to be delayed.
“If you are lying, troll, I’ll have both your heads posted outside of this camp.”
“It is truth,” Turango said.
Leyra came forward, her expression finally betraying impatience. She looked down at Finnaeus, head still attached to the body, and then at Tazgrem.
“Cold feet?” she said.
“Our troll shaman here claims that this other troll was also used to spy on the Alliance. He claims he has intimate knowledge of the Alliance. Is this true?”
“And how would I know that?” Leyra asked dryly. “Though it is good that you decided to ask these questions before his head was removed from his neck.”
“Answer the damned question,” Tazgrem raged. Leyra huffed, looking at Turango.
“Tell me again.”
“He knows the Alliance very intimately,” Turango said. Finnaeus could tell that the shaman was phrasing things very carefully. Whoever this Tauren was, she seemed to have the ability to gauge the truth in spoken word. Perhaps she was a priest, reading emotion. It was unlike anything Finnaeus had ever seen before. She seemed calm, sensible, and yet she was perhaps the most dangerous person in the camp to him. “He has great knowledge of their movements, as well as their tactics. He has been among them for some time.”
Leyra gazed at Turango, and then turned to Tazgrem.
“There is great truth to these words,” she said. “He is not lying.”
Tazgrem huffed.
“Even still, he is a traitor.”
“Not of his own accord,” Leyra said.
“Says them,” Tazgrem responded.
“I be doubtin’ that the Warchief would be pleased that you be executin’ someone of such great importance,” Turango threw out.
“I very much doubt a troll would ever understand the mind of the Warchief,” Tazgrem spat. “Hellscream would tolerate no traitors in this Horde."
“Perhaps we should let him make the decision,” a voice said from behind them. Finnaeus turned and saw that it was the undead, looking coldly upon them all, that sick smile on his face. There was something more to this undead, something intangible that eluded sense. But the cold washing over him made him light headed.
“You propose bringing him to the Warchief?” Tazgrem asked, eyeing the undead with suspicion.
“Naturally. They say this troll’s mind was wiped. For all purposes, this troll is an outsider. No memory of the past except his exploits as a spy in the employ of the Zandalari. According to them both, he has a depth of knowledge of both the Zandalari and the Alliance movements. Therefore he is a valuable outsider.”
“Get to the point,” Tazgrem snarled. The Forsaken bowed. The voice sounded impossibly familiar to Finnaeus, though the tone and tenor were grating due to the rotted nature of the Forsaken’s body and the unmatched jaw stitched to the corpse’s head.
“Very well. By all accounts, he is not a member of the Horde, and should therefore take the blood oath. Let Turango present this…Drak’Finn…to the warchief. If he deems him fit to join the Horde, he will. If not, let the Warchief decide if his head goes on a pike.”
Tazgrem mulled this over. Finn could feel his heart beating in his chest. Though Turango’s gambit saved their lives, Finnaeus could not help but resent the shaman. If he made it through this, and he intended to, then he would be faced with the proposition of supplying information against Alliance interests. Something he was loath to do.
“Very well,” Tazgrem said, finally. “Turango will present this troll to the Warchief. What happens from then is out of my hands.”
Finnaeus turned back towards the undead, who merely nodded and turned away. But before he could ponder the undead any futher, he felt himself pulled to his feet, and then his hands shackled.
“You’ll get an escort to Domination Point,” Tazgrem said. He gestured to the blood elf, who removed the arcane shackles on Turango. “I’ll send word ahead. If the Warchief gives him an audience, then he gets one.” Turango nodded, his eyes stormy. Tazgrem turned to Finnaeus, and smiled.
“You have been bought some time, traitor. Soon the eyes of Hellscream will be upon you, and then we’ll know if you’ll be of service to the Horde.”
He gestured to an orc behind Finnaeus, who threw a burlap sack over his head. He saw only darkness for a moment, but then something blunt hit him in the back of the head, and he fell unconscious.
Finnaeus’s eyes jolted open. He looked up at Turango. He could not believe his ears. Tazgrem studied Turango for a moment, and then held up a hand. The orc with the axe stood away from Finnaeus. He breathed, but the small moment of relief was replaced with a dawning realization that Turango had betrayed him.
“You’re lying,” Tazgrem said.
“No,” Turango replied. “He be talented at bein’ stealthy. He knows the Alliance.”
“Fetch Leyra,” Tazgrem roared, seemingly angry that his execution had to be delayed.
“If you are lying, troll, I’ll have both your heads posted outside of this camp.”
“It is truth,” Turango said.
Leyra came forward, her expression finally betraying impatience. She looked down at Finnaeus, head still attached to the body, and then at Tazgrem.
“Cold feet?” she said.
“Our troll shaman here claims that this other troll was also used to spy on the Alliance. He claims he has intimate knowledge of the Alliance. Is this true?”
“And how would I know that?” Leyra asked dryly. “Though it is good that you decided to ask these questions before his head was removed from his neck.”
“Answer the damned question,” Tazgrem raged. Leyra huffed, looking at Turango.
“Tell me again.”
“He knows the Alliance very intimately,” Turango said. Finnaeus could tell that the shaman was phrasing things very carefully. Whoever this Tauren was, she seemed to have the ability to gauge the truth in spoken word. Perhaps she was a priest, reading emotion. It was unlike anything Finnaeus had ever seen before. She seemed calm, sensible, and yet she was perhaps the most dangerous person in the camp to him. “He has great knowledge of their movements, as well as their tactics. He has been among them for some time.”
Leyra gazed at Turango, and then turned to Tazgrem.
“There is great truth to these words,” she said. “He is not lying.”
Tazgrem huffed.
“Even still, he is a traitor.”
“Not of his own accord,” Leyra said.
“Says them,” Tazgrem responded.
“I be doubtin’ that the Warchief would be pleased that you be executin’ someone of such great importance,” Turango threw out.
“I very much doubt a troll would ever understand the mind of the Warchief,” Tazgrem spat. “Hellscream would tolerate no traitors in this Horde."
“Perhaps we should let him make the decision,” a voice said from behind them. Finnaeus turned and saw that it was the undead, looking coldly upon them all, that sick smile on his face. There was something more to this undead, something intangible that eluded sense. But the cold washing over him made him light headed.
“You propose bringing him to the Warchief?” Tazgrem asked, eyeing the undead with suspicion.
“Naturally. They say this troll’s mind was wiped. For all purposes, this troll is an outsider. No memory of the past except his exploits as a spy in the employ of the Zandalari. According to them both, he has a depth of knowledge of both the Zandalari and the Alliance movements. Therefore he is a valuable outsider.”
“Get to the point,” Tazgrem snarled. The Forsaken bowed. The voice sounded impossibly familiar to Finnaeus, though the tone and tenor were grating due to the rotted nature of the Forsaken’s body and the unmatched jaw stitched to the corpse’s head.
“Very well. By all accounts, he is not a member of the Horde, and should therefore take the blood oath. Let Turango present this…Drak’Finn…to the warchief. If he deems him fit to join the Horde, he will. If not, let the Warchief decide if his head goes on a pike.”
Tazgrem mulled this over. Finn could feel his heart beating in his chest. Though Turango’s gambit saved their lives, Finnaeus could not help but resent the shaman. If he made it through this, and he intended to, then he would be faced with the proposition of supplying information against Alliance interests. Something he was loath to do.
“Very well,” Tazgrem said, finally. “Turango will present this troll to the Warchief. What happens from then is out of my hands.”
Finnaeus turned back towards the undead, who merely nodded and turned away. But before he could ponder the undead any futher, he felt himself pulled to his feet, and then his hands shackled.
“You’ll get an escort to Domination Point,” Tazgrem said. He gestured to the blood elf, who removed the arcane shackles on Turango. “I’ll send word ahead. If the Warchief gives him an audience, then he gets one.” Turango nodded, his eyes stormy. Tazgrem turned to Finnaeus, and smiled.
“You have been bought some time, traitor. Soon the eyes of Hellscream will be upon you, and then we’ll know if you’ll be of service to the Horde.”
He gestured to an orc behind Finnaeus, who threw a burlap sack over his head. He saw only darkness for a moment, but then something blunt hit him in the back of the head, and he fell unconscious.
((For those who were following this, my apologies for taking so damned long. But, here's the next part!))
“Kneel.”
It was the first word Finnaeus heard when he awoke. He felt light-headed, and he wasn’t quite sure that his legs would stay steady underneath him. A firm grip took his shoulder, and then a metal boot kicked behind his knee. He fell to one knee, the burlap sack over his head clinging to his mouth.
“No words until the Warchief arrives,” the harsh voice of an orc said to him. Tazgrem. Finnaeus didn’t think the malcontented orc would travel with them to Domination Point. He wondered idly where Turango was, but it hurt to think, and he wouldn’t waste his time worried about members of the Horde.
In the distance he could hear the clang of steel and the muffled sounds of explosion. Finnaeus knew enough of the sounds of war to know that the fighting was intermittent, sporadic – they were not under constant siege. These were the sounds of mild skirmish, the poking and prodding of an opponent who did not wish to yet to lay full scale attack, and didn’t want to allow respite. From the sound of things, the full-scale war between the Alliance and the Horde had finally reached Pandaria’s shores.
Which meant, in all likelihood, that some of his allies were probably ashore. Gentyl never shied away from conflict, and if his Silent Guard partners were as good as Finn believed them to be, they had already alerted the Sepha to the massive amounts of people and land that needed defense against the Horde’s aggression. He wondered idly if Kordrion or Erelyn were joining the fight. But most of all he wondered if they knew he was missing, or in trouble. If he could make it out of his current predicament, he would have to find a way to reach them and tell them what happened. But he had been gone so long he had no idea how far their patience would go to a troll that could not communicate with them. Given the escalating hostilities and the atrocity in Theramore, perhaps his more patient comrades would find themselves at the end of their ropes with the Horde. But he had no way of knowing.
The chattering around him came to a sudden silence. A cold chill ran up his back that had nothing to do with the rain that began to fall and splash his back. He heard the sounds of heavy footsteps, some grumbling, and then the sack was ripped from his head. Finn looked up, and his eyes met those of a large, hulking orc, with giant bones covering his shoulders. A lethal looking axe hung from his hands, and his eyes narrowed with a barely constrained rage. Finn’s heart pounded a mile a minute.
Garrosh Hellscream.
The Warchief of the Horde was as imposing as Finnaeus imagined. The respect and fear of the orc vanguard around him added to Hellscream’s presence. Finnaeus cast a look to his side, and he saw Turango forced to his knees, his own hands tied behind his back. Finn returned his gaze to the Warchief, who was muttering to a strange looking orc next to him. It was then that his heart hammered with rage, a malice so hot that it burned his skin. This was the orc that issued the orders for the Forsaken to break Gilneas. This was the orc that caused the bloodshed that had escalated to a newly discovered continent. Friends, family, comrades all dead at the order of an orc who found pride in bloodshed, respect in conquering, reveling in destruction and bathing himself in fear. Finnaeus’s eyes narrowed – he had no concern for the look of sheer contempt on his face. He paid no mind to his current predicament, knowing full well that if he offended this hothead it could very well mean his death. All his thought bent to removing his hands from these shackles and taking one good shot at killing the Warchief himself.
“Kneel.”
It was the first word Finnaeus heard when he awoke. He felt light-headed, and he wasn’t quite sure that his legs would stay steady underneath him. A firm grip took his shoulder, and then a metal boot kicked behind his knee. He fell to one knee, the burlap sack over his head clinging to his mouth.
“No words until the Warchief arrives,” the harsh voice of an orc said to him. Tazgrem. Finnaeus didn’t think the malcontented orc would travel with them to Domination Point. He wondered idly where Turango was, but it hurt to think, and he wouldn’t waste his time worried about members of the Horde.
In the distance he could hear the clang of steel and the muffled sounds of explosion. Finnaeus knew enough of the sounds of war to know that the fighting was intermittent, sporadic – they were not under constant siege. These were the sounds of mild skirmish, the poking and prodding of an opponent who did not wish to yet to lay full scale attack, and didn’t want to allow respite. From the sound of things, the full-scale war between the Alliance and the Horde had finally reached Pandaria’s shores.
Which meant, in all likelihood, that some of his allies were probably ashore. Gentyl never shied away from conflict, and if his Silent Guard partners were as good as Finn believed them to be, they had already alerted the Sepha to the massive amounts of people and land that needed defense against the Horde’s aggression. He wondered idly if Kordrion or Erelyn were joining the fight. But most of all he wondered if they knew he was missing, or in trouble. If he could make it out of his current predicament, he would have to find a way to reach them and tell them what happened. But he had been gone so long he had no idea how far their patience would go to a troll that could not communicate with them. Given the escalating hostilities and the atrocity in Theramore, perhaps his more patient comrades would find themselves at the end of their ropes with the Horde. But he had no way of knowing.
The chattering around him came to a sudden silence. A cold chill ran up his back that had nothing to do with the rain that began to fall and splash his back. He heard the sounds of heavy footsteps, some grumbling, and then the sack was ripped from his head. Finn looked up, and his eyes met those of a large, hulking orc, with giant bones covering his shoulders. A lethal looking axe hung from his hands, and his eyes narrowed with a barely constrained rage. Finn’s heart pounded a mile a minute.
Garrosh Hellscream.
The Warchief of the Horde was as imposing as Finnaeus imagined. The respect and fear of the orc vanguard around him added to Hellscream’s presence. Finnaeus cast a look to his side, and he saw Turango forced to his knees, his own hands tied behind his back. Finn returned his gaze to the Warchief, who was muttering to a strange looking orc next to him. It was then that his heart hammered with rage, a malice so hot that it burned his skin. This was the orc that issued the orders for the Forsaken to break Gilneas. This was the orc that caused the bloodshed that had escalated to a newly discovered continent. Friends, family, comrades all dead at the order of an orc who found pride in bloodshed, respect in conquering, reveling in destruction and bathing himself in fear. Finnaeus’s eyes narrowed – he had no concern for the look of sheer contempt on his face. He paid no mind to his current predicament, knowing full well that if he offended this hothead it could very well mean his death. All his thought bent to removing his hands from these shackles and taking one good shot at killing the Warchief himself.
The logical side of him, however, knew that he would be cut down well before he could kill the Warchief. And Hellscream himself was no slouch – a very brutal and deadly warrior. To risk his own death for no gain would be foolish, and Finn was loathe to cause Turango’s death based on a foolhardy and reckless assassination attempt, even if Finn distrusted Turango’s true loyalty. And he cast another thought back to his friends in the Alliance, and that only reaffirmed his decision. He had to live. Even if that meant risking the one opportunity he would get to strike Garrosh Hellscream down.
The rain fell harder now. The acrid smell of smoke wafted over the ground. Garrosh ended his conversation with his advisor, and sniffed the air. A small, satisfied smile twitched over his face, before he turned his gaze towards Turango and Tazgrem. The smile vanished.
“My advisor tells me that you come here to waste my time,” Garrosh said. He delivered each word with malice and thin patience. “Tazgrem, you had better have a good explanation.”
Tazgrem, the orc that had no problem belittling and berating his comrades back at camp, seemed small and insignificant compared to the Warchief. His condescending tone disappeared into what sounded almost like simpering. Finnaeus had no compassion for the orc.
“W..warchief,” Tazgrem said, stuttering and lowering his eyes. A few of Garrosh’s Kor’kron guards snickered. “I bring before you two trolls. One of them betrayed the Zandalari and the Mogu, and is plying for membership into the Horde and for us to spare his life. Apparently –”
“Tazgrem,” Hellscream interrupted. “Are you deaf?”
“No, Warchief,” Tazgrem said, flinching.
“That surprises me,” Hellscream said, anger quaking in his voice like the first waves of an earthquake. “You must not hear the sounds of battle surrounding us. We are at war with the Alliance, on these very shores. My axe could be splitting the skulls of their soldiers, furthering our glory and triumph. And it hangs limp, here, in the mud, because you summoned me here on the account of two…trolls.”
The word issued from his mouth laced with contempt. Finnaeus looked over at Turango, whose placid face betrayed no emotion. It struck him that Turango lived behind a mask, serving the Horde despite its displeasure towards his very existence. Despite himself he felt a pang of sympathy.
“This one has knowledge of the Alliance, Warchief,” Tazgrem said, pointing at Finnaeus. “And of the Mogu.”
“And so you think the intelligence of a troll far surpasses the intelligence cultivated by the Horde,” Hellscream said. The snickering died down – Finnaeus could feel the wave of apprehension pass through the entire camp. Garrosh Hellscream approached Tazgrem, the Warchief towering over Tazgrem. The inferior orc hunched, his eyes steadfastly trained to the ground.
“You are an insult to the name orc, Tazgrem,” Hellscream said. “I’m stripping you of your command. You are to return to Orgrimmar, to remind yourself of what it means to be an orc, and how to serve the Horde without wasting my time.” He turned away from Tazgrem, who looked utterly defeated. Finnaeus felt his heart beat faster when Hellscream turned his gaze to Turango.
“It was you that brought this traitor to my camp,” Hellscream said. “As your kind should know by now, I have no use for traitors, or the incompetent filth that brings them to my camp. Explain yourself.” Hellscream turned to his vanguard.
“I believed him ta be an asset to da Horde, Warchief,” Turango said, his tone even and balanced. “Without him our camp woulda been taken by a powerful Mogu.”
“Relying on the wits of two trolls to save yourselves from Mogu,” Hellscream hissed. He looked around his vanguard, his gaze sending a shiver through the crowd. The rain fell steadily now, though Garrosh showed no sign of acknowledging it. “Is this fit for the name orc, fit for the Horde? Know this. The Horde does not cower in fear in the shadow of any enemy, Mogu or otherwise. Nor do we beg for help from others. The Horde shows strength, is strength – breaths in the enemy’s fear and lives in it. We accept the help of no one. We take what is ours.”
The rain fell harder now. The acrid smell of smoke wafted over the ground. Garrosh ended his conversation with his advisor, and sniffed the air. A small, satisfied smile twitched over his face, before he turned his gaze towards Turango and Tazgrem. The smile vanished.
“My advisor tells me that you come here to waste my time,” Garrosh said. He delivered each word with malice and thin patience. “Tazgrem, you had better have a good explanation.”
Tazgrem, the orc that had no problem belittling and berating his comrades back at camp, seemed small and insignificant compared to the Warchief. His condescending tone disappeared into what sounded almost like simpering. Finnaeus had no compassion for the orc.
“W..warchief,” Tazgrem said, stuttering and lowering his eyes. A few of Garrosh’s Kor’kron guards snickered. “I bring before you two trolls. One of them betrayed the Zandalari and the Mogu, and is plying for membership into the Horde and for us to spare his life. Apparently –”
“Tazgrem,” Hellscream interrupted. “Are you deaf?”
“No, Warchief,” Tazgrem said, flinching.
“That surprises me,” Hellscream said, anger quaking in his voice like the first waves of an earthquake. “You must not hear the sounds of battle surrounding us. We are at war with the Alliance, on these very shores. My axe could be splitting the skulls of their soldiers, furthering our glory and triumph. And it hangs limp, here, in the mud, because you summoned me here on the account of two…trolls.”
The word issued from his mouth laced with contempt. Finnaeus looked over at Turango, whose placid face betrayed no emotion. It struck him that Turango lived behind a mask, serving the Horde despite its displeasure towards his very existence. Despite himself he felt a pang of sympathy.
“This one has knowledge of the Alliance, Warchief,” Tazgrem said, pointing at Finnaeus. “And of the Mogu.”
“And so you think the intelligence of a troll far surpasses the intelligence cultivated by the Horde,” Hellscream said. The snickering died down – Finnaeus could feel the wave of apprehension pass through the entire camp. Garrosh Hellscream approached Tazgrem, the Warchief towering over Tazgrem. The inferior orc hunched, his eyes steadfastly trained to the ground.
“You are an insult to the name orc, Tazgrem,” Hellscream said. “I’m stripping you of your command. You are to return to Orgrimmar, to remind yourself of what it means to be an orc, and how to serve the Horde without wasting my time.” He turned away from Tazgrem, who looked utterly defeated. Finnaeus felt his heart beat faster when Hellscream turned his gaze to Turango.
“It was you that brought this traitor to my camp,” Hellscream said. “As your kind should know by now, I have no use for traitors, or the incompetent filth that brings them to my camp. Explain yourself.” Hellscream turned to his vanguard.
“I believed him ta be an asset to da Horde, Warchief,” Turango said, his tone even and balanced. “Without him our camp woulda been taken by a powerful Mogu.”
“Relying on the wits of two trolls to save yourselves from Mogu,” Hellscream hissed. He looked around his vanguard, his gaze sending a shiver through the crowd. The rain fell steadily now, though Garrosh showed no sign of acknowledging it. “Is this fit for the name orc, fit for the Horde? Know this. The Horde does not cower in fear in the shadow of any enemy, Mogu or otherwise. Nor do we beg for help from others. The Horde shows strength, is strength – breaths in the enemy’s fear and lives in it. We accept the help of no one. We take what is ours.”
Finnaeus looked around, horrified at the enraptured gazes of the Kor’kron vanguard and other denizens of Domination Point, all halting what they were doing and gazing in awe at the Warchief. Finn saw with his own eyes now – they believed so much in the message of conquest. And if they didn’t believe, they hid it behind masks, stowed away lest they be discovered and ferreted out. The powerful fear was not only in the enemies of the Horde, but in the Horde members themselves. Undoubtedly many felt drunk on the power of conquest, of taking anything they had the strength to take. But in others Finnaeus could see the spark of fear kindling in their souls, knowing full well that Garrosh would throw them into the heat of battle against the formidable Alliance, all for a gain that seemed questionable at best.
Finnaeus returned his gaze to the Warchief, and found that their eyes made contact. He wondered if Garrosh could feel the depths of loathing, the urge to strike out and kill. Garrosh smirked, his teeth showing, and for a wild moment Finnaeus was sure that Garrosh could read his mind, see the image of his own body crumpled under Finnaeus’s feral claws. Hellscream took Gorehowl and put the blade underneath Finn’s chin, forcing his head up.
“You are nothing to me troll. I could order you killed and not give it a thought. You wish to join the Horde? You will prove it. Through strength. And if you prove it, know that you are nothing but a small cog in the Horde machine. You will serve the Horde, or be crushed beneath it.”
Garrosh did not wait for an answer. He lowered his axe, his smile disappearing. He looked at Turango, and then at his vanguard.
“Send the traitor to the pit. If he lives, which I doubt, then they both live. If he dies, kill the other. Let us see how well he knows the Alliance.”
Hellscream turned, his advisor followed, and along with his Kor’kron they moved into the main fortress of Domination Point. Finnaeus watched him go, his eyes fixed on the back of Hellscream’s neck. He imagined himself pouncing on him now, crunching the bone and sinew in his jaws as a cat. But as the orc disappeared into the shadows of the fortress, Finnaeus lowered his gaze. His heart sunk, realizing that a golden opportunity to strike a significant blow against the Horde had been missed. But he had no time to mull it – in the next moment he felt vicious hands grabbing him and thrusting him to his feet.
“You’re in for a real treat, troll,” one of the orcs said, pushing him forward. The rain fell in sheets. The rolling boom echoed in the distance – Finnaeus could not tell if it was thunder or the sounds of war. He looked up, seeing lightning flash through the clouds above, and wondered if there was a difference. They reached the pit, and the orc pushed Finn forward. He fell clumsily, his hands still tied behind his back. He smacked hard into the ground, the mud splashing into his face. Looking up through the rain and mud he saw a crowd forming around the pit. In the crowd he saw Turango, his face still impassive, though his eyes met with Finn. But in the next moment, he heard a feral sound, and he scrambled awkwardly to his feet.
Across the pit, soaked in mud and dried blood, was the enraged form of a captured Night Elf. She was chained to a pike at the edge of the pit. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Finnaeus.
His heart stopped. He knew this elf. Alyana Springbough. They had fought together in Ashenvale. And if he was to survive, he would have to kill her.
Finnaeus returned his gaze to the Warchief, and found that their eyes made contact. He wondered if Garrosh could feel the depths of loathing, the urge to strike out and kill. Garrosh smirked, his teeth showing, and for a wild moment Finnaeus was sure that Garrosh could read his mind, see the image of his own body crumpled under Finnaeus’s feral claws. Hellscream took Gorehowl and put the blade underneath Finn’s chin, forcing his head up.
“You are nothing to me troll. I could order you killed and not give it a thought. You wish to join the Horde? You will prove it. Through strength. And if you prove it, know that you are nothing but a small cog in the Horde machine. You will serve the Horde, or be crushed beneath it.”
Garrosh did not wait for an answer. He lowered his axe, his smile disappearing. He looked at Turango, and then at his vanguard.
“Send the traitor to the pit. If he lives, which I doubt, then they both live. If he dies, kill the other. Let us see how well he knows the Alliance.”
Hellscream turned, his advisor followed, and along with his Kor’kron they moved into the main fortress of Domination Point. Finnaeus watched him go, his eyes fixed on the back of Hellscream’s neck. He imagined himself pouncing on him now, crunching the bone and sinew in his jaws as a cat. But as the orc disappeared into the shadows of the fortress, Finnaeus lowered his gaze. His heart sunk, realizing that a golden opportunity to strike a significant blow against the Horde had been missed. But he had no time to mull it – in the next moment he felt vicious hands grabbing him and thrusting him to his feet.
“You’re in for a real treat, troll,” one of the orcs said, pushing him forward. The rain fell in sheets. The rolling boom echoed in the distance – Finnaeus could not tell if it was thunder or the sounds of war. He looked up, seeing lightning flash through the clouds above, and wondered if there was a difference. They reached the pit, and the orc pushed Finn forward. He fell clumsily, his hands still tied behind his back. He smacked hard into the ground, the mud splashing into his face. Looking up through the rain and mud he saw a crowd forming around the pit. In the crowd he saw Turango, his face still impassive, though his eyes met with Finn. But in the next moment, he heard a feral sound, and he scrambled awkwardly to his feet.
Across the pit, soaked in mud and dried blood, was the enraged form of a captured Night Elf. She was chained to a pike at the edge of the pit. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Finnaeus.
His heart stopped. He knew this elf. Alyana Springbough. They had fought together in Ashenvale. And if he was to survive, he would have to kill her.
((Great story so far! I look forward to seeing the next part.))
((Thanks Tom! And thanks to all those who continue to read! Here's the next part!))
The sight of Alyana triggered a memory in Finn’s mind, irresistibly drawing him back to what seemed like a long distant past. In his mind’s eye he could clearly see himself standing next to Erelyn and Kordrion, back when the two were considering sending Erelyn undercover to the Modas. Finn, who at that point considered both of them something of kids to him, peppered them with questions on what they were prepared to do should the Modas demand it. When he asked Erelyn point blank if she would be willing to kill an innocent to maintain her cover, the conversation quickly became emotional. And she, like any child would ask a parent, asked Finn what he would do in that situation. He deflected the question.
There would be no such deflection this time.
Finn cast a glance above him. He could see Turango, and he idly wondered if their agreement to not reveal that he was a druid seemed less appealing as it did back when they thought they only had to fool Tazgrem. Combating Saurok or terracotta soldiers was one thing – fighting a hardened Night Elf Sentinel with nothing to lose was quite another. It seemed odd, almost surreal, how only a short while ago he was a worgen druid in the employ of the Pia Presidium. But once Liu betrayed him to Shan’Daon, Finn had been scrambling out of fire after fire, with no chance to rest. And that presented the greatest danger. While Finn was very familiar with Night Elf tactics and strategies – he fought with them in Ashenvale after Gilneas fell – his expertise was in feral combat. Combat that, according to his and Turango’s plan, would be unavailable to him while fighting one of the fiercest warriors he ever fought with.
His eyes caught the glance of the robed undead that suggested Finn be brought to Garrosh Hellscream in the first place. His decrepit face was inscrutable, though Finn thought he saw the ghost of a smile on the corpse’s face. The feeling of familiarity came over him again, cold, uncomfortable, and yet irresistible. But Finn could not linger long on the mystery. An orc threw down a rusted metal blade in front of Finnaeus. He picked it up. It was a clumsy, rusted thing, hardly suitable to kill a tiger let alone a Sentinel. An orc threw down a sword to Alyana, who could not yet pick up the sword because her hands were bound.
I have no chance, Finnaeus thought to himself, holding the sword between his three fingers. He barely felt comfortable in his troll body, let alone ready to wield such a clumsy blade. If he could only switch to his feral forms, but he had agreed with Turango that he couldn’t show that he was a druid. Not in front of all of these people. That would lead to questions among those familiar with the Cenarion Circle, questions on how a Darkspear with formidable druidic training could remain anonymous among those who were well entrenched with the druid enclave. He saw Leyra, the tauren who could discern the truth, and he idly wondered if she was a druid.
Won’t matter if you’re dead, Finn thought to himself again. He felt his heart beating wildly, a mixture of panic and dread overcoming him. But he could not fight on emotion – it lead to clumsiness, carelessness. With a deep breath he sank into the mud, crossing his long, gangly legs underneath him, and closing his eyes. It had been such a long time since he had the chance to meditate, a habit that he leaned on strongly when he became a worgen. The effect was instantaneous. His pulse slowed, his breathing controlled – slowly he came under his control again. He felt the wet of the rain against his skin, the mud underneath his feet. He felt life growing in the soil, despite the thunderous war waged on its surface. But that did not surprise him. Nature was resilient, tenacious, single-mindedly striving to keep alive. And it knew warfare, because nature was in a constant state of warfare to stay even, to stay alive. Despite all obstacles.
The sight of Alyana triggered a memory in Finn’s mind, irresistibly drawing him back to what seemed like a long distant past. In his mind’s eye he could clearly see himself standing next to Erelyn and Kordrion, back when the two were considering sending Erelyn undercover to the Modas. Finn, who at that point considered both of them something of kids to him, peppered them with questions on what they were prepared to do should the Modas demand it. When he asked Erelyn point blank if she would be willing to kill an innocent to maintain her cover, the conversation quickly became emotional. And she, like any child would ask a parent, asked Finn what he would do in that situation. He deflected the question.
There would be no such deflection this time.
Finn cast a glance above him. He could see Turango, and he idly wondered if their agreement to not reveal that he was a druid seemed less appealing as it did back when they thought they only had to fool Tazgrem. Combating Saurok or terracotta soldiers was one thing – fighting a hardened Night Elf Sentinel with nothing to lose was quite another. It seemed odd, almost surreal, how only a short while ago he was a worgen druid in the employ of the Pia Presidium. But once Liu betrayed him to Shan’Daon, Finn had been scrambling out of fire after fire, with no chance to rest. And that presented the greatest danger. While Finn was very familiar with Night Elf tactics and strategies – he fought with them in Ashenvale after Gilneas fell – his expertise was in feral combat. Combat that, according to his and Turango’s plan, would be unavailable to him while fighting one of the fiercest warriors he ever fought with.
His eyes caught the glance of the robed undead that suggested Finn be brought to Garrosh Hellscream in the first place. His decrepit face was inscrutable, though Finn thought he saw the ghost of a smile on the corpse’s face. The feeling of familiarity came over him again, cold, uncomfortable, and yet irresistible. But Finn could not linger long on the mystery. An orc threw down a rusted metal blade in front of Finnaeus. He picked it up. It was a clumsy, rusted thing, hardly suitable to kill a tiger let alone a Sentinel. An orc threw down a sword to Alyana, who could not yet pick up the sword because her hands were bound.
I have no chance, Finnaeus thought to himself, holding the sword between his three fingers. He barely felt comfortable in his troll body, let alone ready to wield such a clumsy blade. If he could only switch to his feral forms, but he had agreed with Turango that he couldn’t show that he was a druid. Not in front of all of these people. That would lead to questions among those familiar with the Cenarion Circle, questions on how a Darkspear with formidable druidic training could remain anonymous among those who were well entrenched with the druid enclave. He saw Leyra, the tauren who could discern the truth, and he idly wondered if she was a druid.
Won’t matter if you’re dead, Finn thought to himself again. He felt his heart beating wildly, a mixture of panic and dread overcoming him. But he could not fight on emotion – it lead to clumsiness, carelessness. With a deep breath he sank into the mud, crossing his long, gangly legs underneath him, and closing his eyes. It had been such a long time since he had the chance to meditate, a habit that he leaned on strongly when he became a worgen. The effect was instantaneous. His pulse slowed, his breathing controlled – slowly he came under his control again. He felt the wet of the rain against his skin, the mud underneath his feet. He felt life growing in the soil, despite the thunderous war waged on its surface. But that did not surprise him. Nature was resilient, tenacious, single-mindedly striving to keep alive. And it knew warfare, because nature was in a constant state of warfare to stay even, to stay alive. Despite all obstacles.
He heard the clanking of chains and his eyes flew open. They were unlocking Alyana. He stood, the sword hanging from his mind. Facts about her flew through his mind. Fierce warrior. Very quick, very agile. Cold, dispassionate towards enemies. Two daughters at home, both also fierce warriors. Her life mate, killed during the Third War against the Burning Legion. How she came to be captured, Finnaeus did not know. He suspected, however, that the price the Horde paid for their prize was steep.
Finnaeus did not want to kill her. To be cut down in the pit would be a disservice to her, to her honor, and to her family. And he felt a strong connection to the Night Elves, for all that they did for him, and for the Gilnean people. He and Alyana were not more than war comrades, but they fought in Ashenvale together until he parted ways to seek his solitude. She had wanted him to stay amongst their ranks and continue to fight together. He wished to be free of personal connections. To him, they resulted only in misery and loss. His current predicament vindicated that assumption.
“Goddess, be with me in my struggle against this monstrosity.” She spoke in the Kaldorei tongue. It took a moment to register that she was talking about him. A wild idea occurred to him – perhaps there was a way out of this.
“I am not your enemy,” Finnaeus said, speaking in her language. He could hear the whispers above them. He did not spare them a glance – he knew it would be odd for them to hear a troll speaking the language. Her face twisted into an expression of sheer contempt.
“Do not defile the language by speaking it with your tongue, filth,” Alyana hissed. She raised her sword.
“You do not understand, I-”
In a flash, the Night Elf struck with such quickness and power that Finnaeus could not prepare himself. He deflected the first blow, but the butt of her sword came crashing into the side of his face. A sickening crack filled the air. He swung his sword, backing her off of him before she could strike a killing blow before the fight even begun. A sharp, intense pain filled the left side of his face. She cracked his left tusk, blood pouring from the base of his mouth. He could taste it, taste troll blood – his own blood now – and felt repulsed. But the reprieve did not last long. She came forward again.
He was more prepared this time. He parried the first two blows. Alyana swung the sword laterally – he ducked underneath and jabbed forward, barely nicking her in the abdomen. She gasped and flipped backwards, gaining some space to check the damage. At the sight of her blood the Horde above them cheered. The nausea intensified.
The pain in his face got worse. It throbbed, draining strength and precious attention needed for the battle. Finnaeus could mend it, but that would reveal his true strength. His eyes locked with hers, and he could see the sheer loathing in her expression. She struck forward again. He parried her blows, though she came with more strength, more agility. For the first time in his life he wished he could change to his worgen form. Then he’d have the necessary agility to counter her. He could barely control his gangly body. His footwork got clumsy, and she took advantage. She drove his sword upwards and then booted him in the chest, sending him crashing into the mud. Like a cat she pounced. She made to swing, and he reacted on pure instinct – he swung his free fist up and punched her in her chin. The blow snapped her face to the side, and in the next free moment he pressed upwards. He knocked her off her balance, but then she grinned – twisting on one foot, she slashed with her sword. The blade cut into his abdomen in a swath, pain erupting in his stomach. Blood gushed out, and he struck out with his own sword. She dodged and took another swing. He turned – it missed his body – but it cut into his armor. He felt something fall off into the mud. Looking down, he realized with horror that it was his spirit totem, the totem that kept him bound to the troll’s body. She saw that it was vital, and she stomped on it, smashing it into two.
Finnaeus did not want to kill her. To be cut down in the pit would be a disservice to her, to her honor, and to her family. And he felt a strong connection to the Night Elves, for all that they did for him, and for the Gilnean people. He and Alyana were not more than war comrades, but they fought in Ashenvale together until he parted ways to seek his solitude. She had wanted him to stay amongst their ranks and continue to fight together. He wished to be free of personal connections. To him, they resulted only in misery and loss. His current predicament vindicated that assumption.
“Goddess, be with me in my struggle against this monstrosity.” She spoke in the Kaldorei tongue. It took a moment to register that she was talking about him. A wild idea occurred to him – perhaps there was a way out of this.
“I am not your enemy,” Finnaeus said, speaking in her language. He could hear the whispers above them. He did not spare them a glance – he knew it would be odd for them to hear a troll speaking the language. Her face twisted into an expression of sheer contempt.
“Do not defile the language by speaking it with your tongue, filth,” Alyana hissed. She raised her sword.
“You do not understand, I-”
In a flash, the Night Elf struck with such quickness and power that Finnaeus could not prepare himself. He deflected the first blow, but the butt of her sword came crashing into the side of his face. A sickening crack filled the air. He swung his sword, backing her off of him before she could strike a killing blow before the fight even begun. A sharp, intense pain filled the left side of his face. She cracked his left tusk, blood pouring from the base of his mouth. He could taste it, taste troll blood – his own blood now – and felt repulsed. But the reprieve did not last long. She came forward again.
He was more prepared this time. He parried the first two blows. Alyana swung the sword laterally – he ducked underneath and jabbed forward, barely nicking her in the abdomen. She gasped and flipped backwards, gaining some space to check the damage. At the sight of her blood the Horde above them cheered. The nausea intensified.
The pain in his face got worse. It throbbed, draining strength and precious attention needed for the battle. Finnaeus could mend it, but that would reveal his true strength. His eyes locked with hers, and he could see the sheer loathing in her expression. She struck forward again. He parried her blows, though she came with more strength, more agility. For the first time in his life he wished he could change to his worgen form. Then he’d have the necessary agility to counter her. He could barely control his gangly body. His footwork got clumsy, and she took advantage. She drove his sword upwards and then booted him in the chest, sending him crashing into the mud. Like a cat she pounced. She made to swing, and he reacted on pure instinct – he swung his free fist up and punched her in her chin. The blow snapped her face to the side, and in the next free moment he pressed upwards. He knocked her off her balance, but then she grinned – twisting on one foot, she slashed with her sword. The blade cut into his abdomen in a swath, pain erupting in his stomach. Blood gushed out, and he struck out with his own sword. She dodged and took another swing. He turned – it missed his body – but it cut into his armor. He felt something fall off into the mud. Looking down, he realized with horror that it was his spirit totem, the totem that kept him bound to the troll’s body. She saw that it was vital, and she stomped on it, smashing it into two.
Instantly he felt himself separate into two. The pull between his soul and the body appeared again. He heard a shout above him, and saw that Turango’s placid mask finally disappeared. In the same moment they both realized that they were in trouble. Finnaeus could barely stay alive fighting her when he was in control. It would be impossible to do with the spirit totem broken. She pressed forward again. He waved the sword, clumsily deflecting her blows. But she knew she had him. She slashed forward, cutting his shoulder, then his sides. In that moment he realized she was toying with him, embarrassing him, making a statement to the Horde above them. She proved her superiority, that she could not be defeated. Finn made a desperate swing at her, but it missed completely. She kicked out again, sending him sprawling into the mud.
The pain in his broken tusk, his sword wounds, did not compare to the pain in his own chest. The struggle between soul and body intensified. He tried to sit upright, but she was on him again, the point of the sword pressed firmly against his throat.
“I send your soul to the pit where it belongs,” Alyana hissed. Finn closed his eyes. He had no choice.
He shifted into his cat form. The move shocked her just long enough to swipe out. His claws ripped through the flesh in her stomach like parchment, and with his hind legs he kicked her off of him. She sprawled into the mud. An excited murmer ripped through the crowd. It sounded like chaos, but Finn could spare no attention to it. The pain in his chest grew ever more painful. He cast his eyes towards Alyana, who lay in the mud. The blood mixed with the rain. Finnaeus moved closer and saw that the claw marks had gone deeper than he suspected. She looked at him, her eyes staring into the feline eyes of his catform. He did not see fury, or malice. Instead he saw something else, something he didn’t quite recognize.
“I did not know…you were a druid…” she coughed out. Finnaeus twisted into his troll form. Blood poured from his wounds. He looked up at Turango, whose expression had twisted into a mix of relief and pity. There was compassion in the troll’s eyes. The debt between the two of them was even. But the price they paid was high.
“You did, once. I wish it did not come to this,” Finnaeus muttered in Kaldorei.
“I go to the Goddess,” she choked back, blood trickling from her mouth. “Your Horde no longer has power over me, troll.”
“I will make up for this, I swear,” he said. The pain disappeared, leaving only a heavy grief stealing over his heart. He met her eyes. He wished to tell her everything, explain his situation, who he was. But the chanting for the kill grew louder above them, and he could not bear to see the accusation in her eyes if she knew who he really, truly was. And she was suffering, no matter how strongly she fought the pain. It was time to end it. She would no longer be the Horde’s prize.
He steeled his heart, and then plunged the sword directly into her heart.
He made himself meet her eyes, watch as she took her last, painful gasps of air. He could see a sparkle in her eyes, gazing off into the distance. They then turned to focus on him, and for one fleeting moment he wondered if there was some sort of recognition on her face. But in the next moment the focus disappeared, and the last breath in her body came out of her in a sigh. Finnaeus closed his eyes, muttering a prayer he said for many of his comrades that had fallen. He looked at his hands, three troll fingers covered in blood. Just another addition to the blood already on his hands. He felt revolted.
He stood, the wild cheering above him mixed with those casting suspicious glances at him. He didn’t care. He did not care any longer if they discovered that he was truly an Alliance druid. It didn’t matter that his soul was splitting from his body, that he was wracked with pain that grew more intense as each moment passed.
Turango slid down into the pit, free from his bonds. He looked at him.
“Ya have ta take a trophy,” he muttered. Finnaeus looked at him, his vision blurring.
“What?”
“It…it is our way,” Turango said. “The troll way.”
Finnaeus leaned in, so only Turango could hear. “I am no troll.”
He reached up to his broken tusk, and pulled with all his might. It snapped off with a screaming pain. Blood poured from his mouth, but he did not care. He threw it at Turango’s feet.
“That can be their trophy,” he said. The dizziness came over him, and he slumped forward into the mud, his consciousness leaving him.
The pain in his broken tusk, his sword wounds, did not compare to the pain in his own chest. The struggle between soul and body intensified. He tried to sit upright, but she was on him again, the point of the sword pressed firmly against his throat.
“I send your soul to the pit where it belongs,” Alyana hissed. Finn closed his eyes. He had no choice.
He shifted into his cat form. The move shocked her just long enough to swipe out. His claws ripped through the flesh in her stomach like parchment, and with his hind legs he kicked her off of him. She sprawled into the mud. An excited murmer ripped through the crowd. It sounded like chaos, but Finn could spare no attention to it. The pain in his chest grew ever more painful. He cast his eyes towards Alyana, who lay in the mud. The blood mixed with the rain. Finnaeus moved closer and saw that the claw marks had gone deeper than he suspected. She looked at him, her eyes staring into the feline eyes of his catform. He did not see fury, or malice. Instead he saw something else, something he didn’t quite recognize.
“I did not know…you were a druid…” she coughed out. Finnaeus twisted into his troll form. Blood poured from his wounds. He looked up at Turango, whose expression had twisted into a mix of relief and pity. There was compassion in the troll’s eyes. The debt between the two of them was even. But the price they paid was high.
“You did, once. I wish it did not come to this,” Finnaeus muttered in Kaldorei.
“I go to the Goddess,” she choked back, blood trickling from her mouth. “Your Horde no longer has power over me, troll.”
“I will make up for this, I swear,” he said. The pain disappeared, leaving only a heavy grief stealing over his heart. He met her eyes. He wished to tell her everything, explain his situation, who he was. But the chanting for the kill grew louder above them, and he could not bear to see the accusation in her eyes if she knew who he really, truly was. And she was suffering, no matter how strongly she fought the pain. It was time to end it. She would no longer be the Horde’s prize.
He steeled his heart, and then plunged the sword directly into her heart.
He made himself meet her eyes, watch as she took her last, painful gasps of air. He could see a sparkle in her eyes, gazing off into the distance. They then turned to focus on him, and for one fleeting moment he wondered if there was some sort of recognition on her face. But in the next moment the focus disappeared, and the last breath in her body came out of her in a sigh. Finnaeus closed his eyes, muttering a prayer he said for many of his comrades that had fallen. He looked at his hands, three troll fingers covered in blood. Just another addition to the blood already on his hands. He felt revolted.
He stood, the wild cheering above him mixed with those casting suspicious glances at him. He didn’t care. He did not care any longer if they discovered that he was truly an Alliance druid. It didn’t matter that his soul was splitting from his body, that he was wracked with pain that grew more intense as each moment passed.
Turango slid down into the pit, free from his bonds. He looked at him.
“Ya have ta take a trophy,” he muttered. Finnaeus looked at him, his vision blurring.
“What?”
“It…it is our way,” Turango said. “The troll way.”
Finnaeus leaned in, so only Turango could hear. “I am no troll.”
He reached up to his broken tusk, and pulled with all his might. It snapped off with a screaming pain. Blood poured from his mouth, but he did not care. He threw it at Turango’s feet.
“That can be their trophy,” he said. The dizziness came over him, and he slumped forward into the mud, his consciousness leaving him.
((This is awesome Finn! Can't wait to see more.))
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