Of Trolls and Tikbalangs

[ToxinDoctor]

The troll conman flashed a toothy grin as a few gold coins dropped into his hand. Griftah looked up at his customer as he passed him a stone token on a rawhide necklace that was also decorated with beads. Taking his fake charm with enthusiasm, Taz'elo also smiled, thanking the vendor. He was assured that with his new charm he was safe from being carried off by timberlands any time soon. Placing the sham of a ward around his neck, the shaman slinked away to the center of Shattrath.

Catching word from Marsh Rat Post, he had been given the news that troubles in Northrend had been resolved for the most part. It took him a month or so to pack and leave his little hut in Zangarmarsh. Taz'elo was very excited to return to his people and tribe with everything he had gained during his quest towards enlightenment. He had resolved to come to Shattrath to utilize the portals in the city so that he could return to Azeroth.

Soon, he came to the edge of the portal leading to Orgrimmar. Looking inside, the troll could see a number of people bustling about the city, his view lit by the torches and raging pyres of the night. After stepping through the portal, Taz'elo started to make his way out into the red earth, on the road towards Sen'jin Village. The trip was for the most part uneventful, a quiet sojourn back to his people.

Eventually, the shaman could see the dim glow of the village's bonfire as he continued to tread on the roadway. Once he actually arrived in Sen'jin, he was greeted by several faces, both new and old. There was dancing, storytelling, and many opportunities for Taz'elo to play his drums with the other players around the fire. When enough celebrating had been done, the troll went to sleep with a smile on his face, preparing to tell his elders about his experiences and success in Outland.

The next morning, Taz'elo spoke to one of the elder witchdoctors of the tribe in their native tongue. He traced pictures in the red sand at his feet as he spoke, “Every day I laid outside my hut, meditating. I was like that for weeks, not understanding why my vision refused to come to me.”

Quirking a brow at his old student, the witchdoctor patted him on the shoulder before responding, “I assume you got through it or you would not be here, young Taz'elo. Tell me how you achieved your vision.”

“By taking interest in the local inhabitants of the marsh,” the young shaman responded with a grin. “I learned from the Sporelocks the effects of certain mushrooms and by using that knowledge, it aided me in finding my vision, master.”

The elderly grinned at his protégé, patting him heartily on the back this time. “You are a clever and resourceful one, my boy. Your tribe greatly benefits from you and we could not be luckier to have you with us before we attempt the reclamation of our Isles.”

Kurtzel blinked, looking up to the medicine man with a bewildered look on his face. “Is it time? Shall we be retaking the Isles at last from the mad man?” he said. His teacher's only response was a solemn nod before departing to his tent.

[ToxinDoctor]

A shrill cry continued to rise through the air above the islands as birds scattered from their sleep at the noise. Taz'elo too looked up at the sound before shaking his head. A few yards ahead laid one of Zalazane's camps full of mind-controlled trolls. A good deal of the mindless returned to their savage ways, eating the meat of kin willingly when animals were unable to be caught. The young shaman cringed as the cry from further away died down. This was not the way his people should be.

Peering over a great stone block that was sunk deep into the island's sand, the troll could see a group of Zalazane's brainwashed followers huddled over their dinner for the evening, feverishly picking at like raptors on a zhevra carcass. Sinking back to a sitting position, he shook his head again with a disgusted look. Deciding it was the best time to strike against this particular group, Taz'elo jumped from behind his hiding place, offering up words to the spirits for protection and strength as he ran towards the middle of the camp.

One of the feasting troll looked up to notice the shaman's arrival, pointing and howling at the intruder shortly before being blasted in the face by a lightning bolt. The remaining group of Taz'elo's three savage enemies turned from their meal and began to move towards him. With murderous intent in her eyes, the closest troll quickly closed the distance between herself and Taz'elo, raising an axe in the air to strike. Thinking quickly, the shaman brought his staff under his enemy's legs, stepping to the side as she plowed face-first into the stone behind him. The remaining two seemed content with their careful shuffle, removing ritualistic daggers from their sides as they came closer.

Trying to employ more of his stave training, Taz'elo tripped the enemy on his right, taking his eye off his other opponent long enough for the other brainwashed troll to land a slash against his shoulder. Furious at blood being drawn, he turned and placed a hand against his attacker's face, throwing him back after using a powerful earthshock spell. Kicking the savage at his feet, Taz'elo held his shoulder, speaking a prayer to the loas in order to heal it. After looking around the camp, he found that there was very little there he risked his safety for, despite the fact that he had tested the skills of Zalazane's followers.

Soon enough, the shaman was swimming through the cool tropical water back to the torch lights that stood outside Sen'jin village. As he swam, he reflected upon what his training and what else he might do in order to help the tribe reclaim the isles. Once he had reached the shore, he climbed up towards the village, greeting the watchers who were on duty. It occurred to him, the best thing he could do for the tribe was to leave once again.

[FlyingSquirrel]

[[Just a warning, we haven't done the reclamation of the Lost Isles yet.]]

[ToxinDoctor]

(( Thanks for reminding me. I'm taking the story in a different direction for that reason, only showing the preperations beforehand.))

[ToxinDoctor]

“So. You'll be departing from your tribesman once again, Taz'elo?” one of the witchdoctors inquired from across the village bonfire. The elder troll watched his protégé carefully for the few minutes it took before he responded.

Shaking his head, the younger shaman replied, “It's not like that, elder. I just think that ti would benefit the tribe greater if my training were finished before I fought alongside my brothers and sisters.” He crossed his arms with a sigh, now returning the witchdoctor's stare.

“Your training could take months ot even years to finish!” another of the medicine men exclaimed.

Next to Taz'elo, one up the tribal sages spoke up, knowing the younger one's mind could not be changed. “So could our fight against Zalazane. We are barely even beginning to reconsider our enemy more carefully now and the first signs of a full-on battle are still far from us at the moment,” he said as he placed a hand on the younger shaman's shoulder.

At this, the other advisors began to mutter and deliberate amongst each other in a hushed manner. Each nodding to one another, one of the sages stood, indicating Taz'elo before speaking. “A decision has been made, son of the Darkspear. You will be allowed to return home, as you requested, so long as you continue to seek enlightenment from the spirits. In some part, the honor of the tribe is upon your head, so choose wisely what it is you will do.” With that, the witchdoctor shook his staff in blessing towards Taz'elo, the dried gourds on the weapon's end rattling as he did so.




It was the next day when Taz'elo had finally reached the gates of Orgrimmar. The impressive city boasted quite a number of adventurers on its street that day, forcing him to brush elbows with all manner of folk ranging from blood elves to tauren. After taking some time to navigate through the bustle of the crowd, he eventually reached the tower in the center of the capital's Valley of Strength. Once he had reached the top, the troll walked towards the flight master, already rummaging through his satchels for coin needed to cover his trip.

Standing with his arms folded, Doras the orc asked gruffly, “Where're you looking to go?”

“Ah need to get to da Strangle'torn Vale.”

Scoffing, the Wind Rider Master shook his head before looking back up at the troll. “Not a chance, troll. There's no way you're going to pull that trip with one of these civillian beasts,” he stated while pointing back to one of the roosting wyverns. “They can't stand that long of a ride.”

At that moment, there happened to be a goblin climbing the tower. Hearing Taz'elo's predicament as he climbed, Krixx stopped behind the troll and chuckled. “Yeah, but our Zepp can.”he pointed out to the flight master. He was more than glad to accept the shaman's tip after he explained that the craft that would ferry him to Stranglethorn was outside the city and that it would be departing at any moment.

Taz'elo turned to scramble down the ramp of the tower, shouting a thank you to both Doras and the Zeppelin Engineer as he hurried to catch his ride. Pushing hastily through the crowd below, he endured a few half-hearted shoves himself alongside shouts of anger and annoyance. Racing the clock, he finally reached the way leading to the city's gates, nearly tripping after freeing himself into the red dirt outside. Further off, a group of goblins on the tower could be seen signaling the zeppelin as one of them announced its departure. As Snurk finished her sentence, Taz'elo was ascending the tower's ramp, panting with a pain in his side from running.

The zeppelin began to pull away as the troll reached the tower's top. Rubbing the end of her nose, Snurk nodded towards the zeppelin and began to say, “Sorry, kid. Looks like-” before being cut off as he rushed towards the contraption. Unable to think of a better situation to do it in, Taz'elo dove forward, narrowly grabbing onto the netting hanging from the dirigible's side. After hastily climbing up over its side, he collapsed on the deck, breathing heavily. Responding to the stares received from the crew, he simply told them he hated waiting for boats just as much.

[ToxinDoctor]

The sun shone down bright on the troll's face through the canopy of the zeppelin‘s sitting room as he napped. With heat setting there, it warmed his cheek until he breathed in a deep whiff of the hazy jungle air. Sitting upright, Taz'elo peered around the small under carry of the fuselage. The first image to his eyes was that of the back of the dirigible's body, a large hole in the frame featuring a balcony. In through the thin entryway cascaded sunlight from the shaman's homeland, an almost immaculate sight to him. The nostalgia rush he had soon afterward was enough to make him stagger. He was home.

A moment or so later, the zeppelin docked at the tower in Grom'gol base camp, along the middle of Stranglethorn's western coast. After exiting the tower, Taz'elo was hailed by a series of whoops and cheer from across the camp. With a wide grin, the shaman strode up to the trolls Nimboya and Kin'weelay, both tribal brothers.

Being a fellow talker to the spirits, it was Kin'weelay that initially spoke, “'Ey dere bruddah! How da spirits be treatin'ye?”

Taz'elo shook his tribesmen's hands before responding, “Dey talk an' dey don'. How be bot' of you guys?”

Shrugging, Nimboya the headhunter responded, “Dere still be tribal wars among da oddah jungle trolls, but we here to exact a little revenge…” After looking at one of the outpost's guards he grinned and added, “Foh da Horde, of course.”

Patting Taz'elo on the back, Kin'weelay pressed him, “Tell meh, bruddah, wut bring you back home, huh?”

“Eh, da loas be telling' meh in a dream.”

The other shaman snorted, peering at Taz'elo, “Da loas? Ye be meanin' jus' da spirits, righ'?”

Taz'elo shook his head, “Naw! Ah mean da loas…dey speakin' to meh now.”

“Oh, don' be startin' da crazeh loa stuff. Are yo realleh gunna get scareh like dem Shadow Huntahs, boy?” Kin'weelay stood in front of him, shaking his shoulders with a concerned glance.

Scowling at the witchdoctor, Taz'elo broke his arms from his frame, “No, buh wut's wrong wif dat? Yo sayin' ye disrespect owah mos' honah'd tribesmen?”

Kin'weelay hastily shook his head, “No, no…of course not! But…you have to admit, they take the traditions a little far…and are a bit too batty.”

It was the other troll's turn to shake his head, as he sighed at his fellow shaman, “Dat's sad mon. You bein' oldah den me an' forsakenin' da ways befoah ah have.”

Nimboya raised a brow at the pair and shook his head. He knew better than to get involved with this talk. He was a simple troll, one to always hack first, ask questions later. This would also be the reason for the many shrunken heads dangling from his belt.

“Les' fohget dis, please, mon. Come ovah by da cauldron an' have a sit. We'll speak of times past,” the older shaman pleaded.

Taz'elo eventually agreed and the three sat for hours, speaking of tribal matters and occurrences in Stranglethorn. After chattering on, Taz'elo finally spoke about the Zalazane situation and his decision for training in the homeland. Kin'weelay piped up that an orc in the camp knew the location of a waterfall that might help in the shaman's further enlightenment. Interested, Taz'elo bid his kin farewell for the time being as he searched the camp by torchlight for the orc.



Sitting cross-legged by the fire-pit under his canopy, the Far-Seer smiled without turning around to see the troll approaching him. Mok'thardin had grown to know the jungle well and the trolls were still very much apart of their home.

“Son of the Darkspear, how does it feel to be home?” the powerful shaman enquired as Taz'elo arrived just behind him.

“Well, ett's nice. Tanks foh askin',” he responded, scratching the end of his goatee as had become habit. Perplexed, Taz'elo asked the Far-Seer, “So, joo verreh powerful in da spiritual ways, huh?”

“That I am. Why have you come to me from so far?” Mok'thardin returned.

“Meh bruddahs over by da cauldron sayin' yo know of a magic fall or some such.”

“ I do know of such a place, but it is a spring. Currently the place is swarming with naga, though, troll. I'm not sure if you can handle such a mass of them yourself.”

The Far Seer looked over Taz'elo carefully before shrugging, “Perhaps I could be wrong. Not everything is revealed to me.”

Eventually Taz'elo got the orc to tell him the location of the sacred spring, despite the dangers the naga presented. He explained that they wouldn't be too hard to deal with after he made the right preparations. The younger shaman thanked Mok'thardin many times before departing, saying that he would be heading to Booty Bay. As Taz'elo shambled off, the orc peered into the fire with a warm smile on his face. The wise teach better by giving out parts of wisdom rather than by saying everything.

[ToxinDoctor]

Taz'elo's journey to the Bay was uneventful, for the most part. There were a few occasions where the wildlife caught sight of him and thought he looked quite the snack, but the troll was quick to scramble further down the road far enough that said creatures lost interest in chasing him. Enjoying the sights of his ancestral home, Taz'elo gaped in awe at the massive Arena as he passed by it. Making a mental note, the troll promised himself that he'd revisit the site at a later time.

Eventually, the troll stepped inside the shark jaws that had been placed at the Bay's entrance, nodding to the guards holding post outside. The response he received wasn't exactly hospitable but he had grown to know better, coming from goblins. After making his way through the tunnel entrance, he came out on the other side to face the jungle sun shining in his face like how the morning had began. With a smile, he walked to the edge of the upper part of the pier and peered down at those who wandered the boardwalk that day.

Among the port's usual characters there was a group of elves and a forsaken man with a curious-looking mask, much like a bird's beak. Taz'elo watched with curiosity from far off as he saw the undead move the hand not holding his black bag in a great series of motions as he explained whatever he was attempting to convey to the group. One of the elves, as the troll noticed raised his hand in a rude gesture and shouted what could be assumed the same as the meaning of the gesture towards the curious forsaken. At this, Taz'elo chuckled until the resulting fit from the macabre birdman raised his humor still. He fell onto his back and cackled madly at the sight until his ribs hurt. It's more than likely that the shaman would die laughing one day.

After his bout of hysterical laughter had subsided, he hopped to his feet and rubbed at his ribs. Looking down, he saw that the walking dead man would soon be heading up towards him as soon as he reached the ramp to his right. Opting to not be anywhere near the strange man, Taz'elo turned to head into town via the highroad on his left.

Passing by the blacksmith's, he was hailed by the shopkeeper of the Plate-n-Chain to come inside and look around. Snorting, the troll continued until he reached the tavern, smiling as he ducked underneath its wooden sign on the outside. After swinging open the very troll-friendly door (complete with tribal mask), he was greeted by a blast of strong alcoholic stench accompanied by the odor from sweat of all sorts. Taz'elo swallowed down his urge to vomit before he headed further into The Salty Sailor.

Around him there were three tables with a pair of humans and an elf at one with bottles cluttered on top of all three. A number of bottles (some empty, some half-full), also covered the bar top in the corner opposite him. The goblin tending the bar perked a brow at Taz'elo's entrance as he rubbed the inside of a cup with a grimy cloth. The traditional goblin taproom if there ever was one.

“You gonna stand there with a dumb look on your face or are you gonna order somethin' ?” good ol' Nixxrax Fillamug said with a gruff, annoyed tone.

Shaking his head, the troll spoke up above the bustle of the tavern, “Eh, nuttin' to drink. Jus' heeyah to look about.”

Glaring at the troll, the goblin repeated the gesture an elf had used recently as well before he bent to retrieve a bucket from beneath the bar. Taz'elo watched the goblin in curiosity as he slowly made his way to the stairs before turning to climb up them. Below, the bartend took all the remaining bottles from the counter that didn't happen to be empty and poured them into the bucket. The crafty, little, green man then put a sign up in common that said, “Bilge Drinks! 99 copper!” Shaking his head with a small chuckle, Taz'elo reached the second level of the place and peered around.

Here there were only more cluttered tables and bruisers standing about with the only thing of much interest being the pirate-looking human female near the end of the tavern. Not being much in favor of the buccaneer sorts after a few personal experiences, the troll slinked past her, relieved to see that her gaze only swept him momentarily. Mounting the bridge at his left, Taz'elo saw another familiar tribal mask placed on the door in the hallway across him, used as décor. He smirked, wondering if he were as much or more of a tourist attraction than the Bay's decorations and tales of notoriety as he stepped foot off the small bridge.

Turning towards the staircase at the end of that hallway, Taz'elo paused, flicking his ear at the sound of hushed whispering coming from the door closest to him. Leaning up against the wall to the room's right side, the troll held a hand to his ear in an attempt to eavesdrop. The impish grin on his face slowly faded as he realized the pair of people were speaking some sort of elfish tongue. The troll rolled his shoulders and turned to continue to the Sailor's next level, not seeing anything he was looking for on the previous ones.

Looking around the next room, he spotted no one sitting around the tables but three usual types for the Bay standing, being two goblins and another pirate-type, this time being a dwarf. He grumbled a moment before catching a scent wafting in from the Baron's balcony, carried by the sea breeze. The sudden urge to throw up came to him much stronger this time as the overpowering smell of the group of ogre body guards from outside reached his nose. The troll hastily ran to the end of the room and across another bridge to reach the other exit.

The stinging of sea salt in the breeze was more than welcomed as it hit the troll's face. After gasping a few moments, the shaman stood up and heaved a sigh of disappointment. His search for any willing, acceptable mercenaries was unsuccessful, so he would have to come back frequently to check the Bay. It looked like his training really was going to be more difficult than he expected. Who would want to go to Booty Bay every day?