The druid gazed upon the Ruinic City, looking around at the towering structures. Adorning them were Trollish hieroglyphs, showing the history of the Gurubashi Empire. The druid walked to them, reading them in order. He saw that the Troll Nations were once together, as one. But at the pinnacle of their power, everything broke apart. One of the most powerful clans remaining was the Gurubashi.
Everything suddenly moved, the world around him blurring…
He was whisked to a great altar in the middle of the city, monolithic compared to the priests surrounding it. As the troll priests chanted madly, a figure began to take place. The being was almost as gigantic as the altar, its form dominating the druid's view.
Seemingly from nothing, bones began to form, stretching and morphing into what appeared to be a great bat. Muscle and sinew soon grew over that, as the bones began to move, trampling priests in the monster's desire for a sacrifice. Once the beginning's of skin began to form upon its body, the priests brought forth small bundles, placing the forms upon the altar. One by one, each chanting figure plunged a knife into the bundles, the sound of screaming children issuing forth. After each brutal stab, the great figure grew in height and girth, eventually becoming greater than the altar it rested upon.
Once the final child was sacrificed, the skin encasing the gigantic being sealed shut. It stood, bearing its bat-like-face to the Blood Priests. It roared, and the very foundations of the Ancient City rumbled, temples and huts tumbling over as if they were nothing but dust in the wind. The head priest walk forward, bowing his head in prayer. He joined the children, as the other priests bore down upon what would soon be his corpse. The god-like being upon the altar sniffed the air, looking at the new High Priest. As the priest asked his name, the entire race of Trolls, and all of Azeroth could hear the response, that much the druid was certain. "Atal'Hakkar."
The scene blurred once again, the druid falling to his knees from the sudden rush of images. He looked up, as a group of armor clad figures approached the blood god, attacking him with insatiable fury. Eventually Hakkar fell to the ground, one plate-clad warrior jumping upon his chest, and piercing his damned heart. The screech of the Blood God reverberated throughout the Troll Capital, the structures of Zul'Gurub creaking from the cry of immortal fury, rage, and death.
The scene blurred once again, the druid screaming for these sickening scenes to end. A tribe of trolls walked into the abandoned city. They were not Gurubashi, but they were jungle trolls. They progressed inwards, deep into the city, to the altar where Hakkar had sat. The altar had been destroyed in the death throws of the god, but the Trolls ascended it, some calling upon their voodoo, others calling upon the shadow magic within the altar.
Other tribes began to flock to the city, none marked the same. They were all weak, and broken, all small, and few, all ravaged and angered, and all willing to survive. They all flocked to the shattered temples, the ruined huts, and the devastated altar. Every broken tribe threw down their banners and stripped off their paints, and all took the banners and colors of the one; the first tribe to reclaim Zul'Gurub. They took up the colors of…
Jarn'dor awoke from his fitful slumber, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He blinked his eyes once or twice, looking around the small hut. He let out a sigh of relief, the dreams having been all but that. He looked at the troll in his arms and smiled, his woman looking peaceful in her sleep.
Jarn'dor gently set her on the mat and exited the small hut, walking the small distance to the river. The sun began to rise above the mountains within the Barrens, gazelle and lions stirring within their packs and herds. The drowsy troll splashed water on his face, looking into the waters.
He was a good looking troll, his tusks large and long. They were a sign of a great person, and a powerful leader in his culture. Upon his face where the faded marks of the Gurubashi Tribe, the tribe he had been born into. He touched the paint that covered that, the marks of his new tribe, the Bloodraptor. They were small, but determined to make their rise back up through the Troll Tribes and into the eyes of the Horde.
Jarn'dor ran a hand through his green hair, each separate braid twined together with a bone at the end, another keepsake of his birth-tribe. He was well toned, like a runner, but his muscles still bulged out from his blue-green skin. A tattoo wound around his left eye, swinging across his left shoulder and down his arm to his hand. The tattoo was a vine, covered in thick jungle leaves; fruit bat's clinging to the vine or supping upon the sweet and interesting plants.
The gangly troll stood, looking down at his now smaller reflection. Jarn'dor was also a full head taller than most trolls, towering over the Darkspear Chieftan, Vol'jin. It made it easier to traverse the jungle trees, his limbs longer than other trolls as well.
A small little flower attempted to push its way through the plains-grass near his feet, trying to bud in the morning sun. Jarn'dor knelt beside the flower, gazing at it with interest. He cupped the bud in his hands, closing his eyes.
The flower seemed to pulse with the life of Azeroth, as did all living things Druids could interact with. Jarn'dor smiled at this fact, that he had been the first druid born of the Gurubashi Tribe in over a century.
Jarn'dor looked through the plant, saw through its roots and connected with the other plants in the area, checking on them and their welfare. As a Druid who was born in the jungle, Jarn'dor tried to maintain a constant connection with the local plant-life and earth.
The flower seemed to be too weak to bloom in sunrise and so Jarn'dor gave it what it needed; he fed some of his own energy into the flower, and watched, with a smile on his face, as it bloomed, turning into a lovely Mageroyal. The flower seemed to open up and beam as the sun climbed over the mountain tops, bathing the Barrens, and the shoreline of Durotar, in the morning sun.
Jarn'dor turned as his woman walked out of the tent, a sway in her hips. He smiled at Jaz'renthi, pulling her close.
"Ya left, mon," spoke Jaz'renthi quietly, "I dinna know where ya went."
Jarn'dor chuckled, kissing the top of her head. "I just be wakin' up. Ya sleep well, mon?" Jaz'renthi nodded, snuggling into Jarn'dor's chest. "I slept well… I had a really good pillow."
Jarn'dor smiled warmly, thinking back on the dream. He ran over it in his mind, the images of the Hakkar priests murdering children frozen in his mind's eye. The thought frightened him, that his own Tribe had summoned a being of that magnitude to Azeroth. If the Zandalar Tribe, another Troll Tribe who loathed the Gurubashi, hadn't sent adventurers into Zul'Gurub to confront Hakkar...
Jarn'dor was afraid to think of the outcome for the world. But the past was now the past, and Hakkar had been slain. What saddened Jarn'dor the most though, was that the Gurubashi had been nearly wiped out in the assault. He was almost certain that he was a lone Gurubashi now, unless others had managed to get away in the conflict.
"…wit da oda ones we might be able ta find us a place to call da tribe home. Ya payin' attention Jarn?"
Jarn'dor blinked once or twice, coming out of his thoughts. He looked at Jaz'renthi, her face filled with worry. "Ya be okay? I neva seen ya like dat."
He sighed, closing his eyes. "I had a bad dream last night… Just nonsense do'. Notin ta be worried about." Jaz'renthi shook her head. "Now I be worried… Come, ya tell me about it." She pulled Jarn'dor into the tent and sat him down. They talked for a while, about his dream and tried to divine it.
"Don' ya see?" exclaimed Jaz'renthi, "Dis could be a vision! We be druids, we canna' just let it go. Ya need ta go ta Zul'Gurub and see about dese oda tribes!"
Jarn'dor sat cross-legged, shaking his head. "Dat place be tainted wit Hakkar's blood. I no be goin wit'in fifteen fadoms o' dat place."
Jaz'rethi scowled. "Wat if dis be a vision? Huh? Dis could be ya chance ta be a hero! Ya could save hundreds o' lives!"
Jarn'dor sighed, knowing that Jaz'rethi was right. Even if he didn't want to go, he knew she was right. If this was some sort of army, it could threaten the world. "A'right mon… I be goin to Zul'Gurub den."
Jaz'rethi immediately smiled, cuddling up to Jarn'dor. "Look at da bright side, if ya dreams be wrong, we got notin' ta worry about."
The sun rose high as Jarn'dor perched above the small village of Razor Hill. He had set out the day before, meaning to get to Orgrimmar before nightfall. He did not, however, anticipate how far the river had seeped into the Southfury Watershed… Jarn'dor ended up coming out wetter than he had been when he had swam in the ocean.
He sighed, clearing the thoughts from his head. He needed to focus right now. He opened his eyes, looking at the barren land of Durotar. Jarn'dor did not enjoy this home. He preferred the tall jungle trees and the ruins of other cultures… Not mountains and cracked plains. Not even a Gnome would find these appealing.
Perched upon his staff, high upon the guard tower, Jarn'dor laughed. Even the gust couldn't blow him off his weapon, perched upon the vertical stick with one foot. He had the other crossed over it, hunched into a sitting position. He wasn't sure why, but he meditated best in this position. Down below him, a small group of trolls was forming, and among them, a proud, blue crested troll talked.
Jarn'dor instantly recognized him, for they had nearly killed each other two days before…
Jarn'dor entered the tent, getting out of the rain shower. He looked around at the other trolls, all part of the Bloodraptor clan. He immediately spotted Jaz'renthi, and gravitated towards her. They smiled at each other briefly before the Clan Chieftain began to talk.
The troll was almost as tall as Jarn'dor, with a crest of dark blue hair on his scalp. His face was splashed with white, bordered with a dark purple color. Behind him, stood his Voidwalker slave, the demon grumbling about its issues.
Zi'bal talked over the other trolls, getting them to be silent. He talked about a rival clan, and how they were acting around the other Bloodraptors.
"Why don we just talk to dem?" said Jarn'dor from the back, the crowd parting to point out the speaker. Zi'bal scowled at him before continuing on, talking how they should be dealt with.
Jarn'dor sighed. "Chieftain mon, why don't we just let da youngbloods know how dey should act?"
Zi'bal locked eyes with Jarn'dor, ripping a wicked looking scythe from his back. The crowd began to murmur, as Jarn'dor settled into a crouch, pulling out what appeared to be a large thorn from underneath his cloak.
"I don like ta be questioned, mon," said Zi'bal through clenched teeth, "'specially from a Gurubashi." Jarn'dor narrowed his eyes, but began to talk calmly; using an old suggestion technique he was taught by his Druid Master. "Look mon, I just be offerin' mah suggestion. No questioning here."
The two trolls held their stances for a few moments longer, until Zi'bal put his scythe away. The crowd folded back around Jarn'dor as he dropped his thorn, letting it sink into the ground. Jaz'renthi quietly grabbed his hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
After the meeting, Jarn'dor stood outside, watching the sunset. Zi'bal parted the tent flaps, looking at Jarn'dor. "Ya be claiming Jaz'renthi as ya woman?"
Jarn'dor looked at Zi'bal quizzically. "Ya… Why mon? No offense, but she don't be seemin' like ya type."
Zi'bal remained stoic. "She be mah sista. And if ya eva hurt her, I be sure ya be da next sacrifice on mah altar, mon."
Jarn'dor knew what was happening to his eyes, as if they were filling with venom. He could see the slight shock in Zi'bal's eyes. "And if ya eva hurt her, chieftan, all da venom in da Vale look like a nice little medicine compared ta what I'll put in ya veins."
The two held their ground for a time, until Zi'bal returned inside the tent, letting the flap smack against the tent loudly…
Jarn'dor shook his head, clearing himself of the memory. He watched Zi'bal mark the new trolls with their tribal paints, eventually dismissing them.
Jarn'dor respected the warlock, and trusted him as a leader, but so far, he wasn't a fan of the dark haired troll. He knew that the Chieftain might one day jump to a horrible idea, and so far, from his talks, Zi'bal seemed focused on getting power for the clan, which didn't seem right to Jarn'dor.
As the sun set and the moon rose, Jarn'dor simply fell forwards, kicking the staff into his hands and landing in a crouch, twenty feet down from where he was perched. The druid waited for a while, until the stars came out. He quickly began to map his route to Orgrimmar, walking through the Drygulch Ravine.
On the other side, Jarn'dor could see the Dranosh'ar Blockade. The newest fortification the Orc Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, had put up. Jarn'dor walked past the metal monstrosity, and pushed past the traders and beggars into the rumbling metropolis of Orgrimmar.
Jarn'dor knew his mouth must have dropped, for the city was incredible. While the buildings were now jagged with the metal and fortifications the new Warchief had decreed, the people were by far the most interesting.
In one corner of the valley, goblins were auctioning off items of great rarity and value, while in another, smiths were pounding out the shapes of armor. Hunters were gathering around fires, telling stories of their adventures, while warriors sparred in the streets, crowds cheering them on as day turned to night in the city.
The most curious thing Jarn'dor saw, were elves. Blood Elves entering and exiting the Warchief's hall, probably as emissaries, or ambassadors. A few goblins trickled back home to the newest slums in Orgrimmar, while some Forsaken moved in and out of the crowd, cutting purses and pick pocketing poor people.
Jarn'dor walked through the bustling city, eventually arriving at a sheer cliff face. He looked to his right and saw some kind of tower. He walked in, and the entryway slammed shut, the wooden floor rising up through the tower. Once it reached the top, Jarn'dor was treated to a real sight, the whole valley from a sky view.
Up on the Orgrimmar Skyway, people traded mounts and caught Wind Rider's to villages. At the highest point of the Skyway, were Goblin Zeppelins which rode to specific points. Some went to the Tauren city of Thunderbluff, while others went over the ocean to the Forsaken's Undercity. A few went to the wintry continent called Northrend, and one went to Stranglethorn Vale, where Jarn'dor was headed.
Jarn'dor ascended the zeppelin tower, finally arriving at the very top. A small goblin was barking orders to the others, grumbling in its strange language. The small goblins, and a large pinkish one, went to work on a zeppelin, fixing it.
"All aboard for Grom'Gol in Stranglethorn Vale! Come on now, all aboard!" Jarn'dor nearly sprinted across the small platform, getting a place on the zeppelin. He went below the deck and set down his bags, watching the goblins run around, tightening blots and preparing the aerial behemoth.
With a mighty lurch, the zeppelin moved free from the dock, setting sail from Orgrimmar.
"You know what, man," said one of the Goblins on the deck above, "This time, I really hope we don't explode again…"