Alright. Here is the updated prologue to the fiction previously known as Once were Warriors. If you read the first version of this, you will notice a LOT different. Including the name of our Troll friend. There's a lot more of an establishment in this version, some of which I hope will clear up some questions you might have had about the Troll. There will still be the time jump, but this time (since I was told to do so) I'll be including an announcement of the time difference. In any account, I hope you will enjoy this newer presentation of this fiction.

As always, I do not own the world in which these characters live, nor certain characters such as Thrall, Arthas and others. I do however own rights do Zi'Cal, Tainia, Dorgan and any other unfamiliar faces.

I am accepting fan art for this story and would greatly appreciate it.

And remember, read and review!


The Eastern Plaugelands was not the highest on the list of tourist attractions when one visited the Eastern Kingdoms. It was not balmy like the jungles of Stranglethorn, and such a place would have been much more welcoming to the purple-hued Zandali troll that stood before the inn. With a casual scratch of his chest, Zi'Cal mused over the various tasks that might have brought him here. He had no skill with identifying and collecting herbs, so the exotic plant life of the scarred land was not his goal. Perhaps he'd offered his services to the Argent Dawn? No matter how hard he thought on it, he could not pin down the reason for being in this Goddess forsaken place. He scratched his chest once more and shifted his weight, his eyes not moving from their current distraction.

Before him lay the palest creature he'd ever seen, almost gray skinned. Translucent flesh was stretched tightly over a drawn face, as if even sleep could not keep the pain at bay. Black hair scattered out beneath the upper body, trailing along the ground like Death's fingers. The rest of the body was twisted almost sickeningly, a puddle of blood pooling beneath, testament to the gaping wound that marred it's side.

He nudged the body with the toe of his boot cautiously, as if expecting the prone figure to attack. After a few more ginger prods, he knelt down to study this girl, this Blood Elf, he reasoned. He noticed her lips were tinged blue, and after a quick brush of his forefinger, he realized it was either from cold, loss of blood, or in the worst case, both. His finger then traced her jawline to a scar that ran the length of her face, chin to temple. The line was faint and thin, an old wound that was properly healed.

Rocking back on his heals, Zi'Cal pondered his next move. As he weighed his options, he realized he was torn. He did not need the burden of yet another life's thread on his hands; keeping his clan alive in the terrors of Northrend was difficult enough, especially with the recent forthcoming of Arthas, the self proclaimed Lich King. 'Aftah all,' Zi'Cal thought humorously, 'She pick a good place ta die. Dere bound ta be a healah here at da inn.'

With a sigh, he kneeled down once more, this time to pick the girl up and carry her inside. He would be a very dumb troll to upset his Goddess and ancestors, which he was very well on the way to doing with his brief moment of selfishness.

Once inside the inn, he dropped the necessary gold into the inn keeper's hand and rattled off an excuse as to just why he had an unconscious girl in his arms. The keep seemed to believe the troll when he said the girl's condition was a result of the rigorous journey to Light's Hope. He made his way to the designated room without much interference.

After checking the door twice for a secure lock, he laid the girl on the bed and ripped her tunic enough to allow access to her injured side. The cut was not deep, more long than anything. It was clean edged, so he was sure it was not one of the animals of the Plaguelands. 'Dis look like da work of a sword.' He thought, but what here in the Plaguelands wielded bladed weapons? Other than...

Zi'Cal pushed the thought from his mind, focusing instead on cleaning the cut. He was not a healer, so his mediocre first aid skills would have to suffice until he could get her the proper attention she would need. The idea that he could be helping the enemy kept trying to jump to the front of his mind.

He adjusted the last bandage and stood, lighting a fire in the hearth with a flick of his wrist. The basin on the dresser was full, as was the pitcher next to it, giving him plenty of water to wash them both up. Zi'Cal told himself that what would follow was simply for the girl's safety and was not meant to be perverted. He could not help but blush as he slowly removed her black steel armor and her royal purple tunic and leggings. He made the decision to leave her undergarments where they belonged.

The girl was cleaned quickly, her skin even paler now that the dirt, grime and caked blood was cleansed away. More scars like the one on her face littered her body, accented with scars that seemed intentional, rune-like, that wrapped around her shoulders, down her back and over her stomach. Faint blue tattoos traced along the scars and continued up onto her jaw and over her collarbone. Zi'Cal's stomach clenched with a sense of dread. The tattoos were familiar. They were not of his homeland, nor of the Horde. These were the same runes engraved onto a weapon that haunted his sleep, a weapon that did not kill it's opponents, but decimated their bodies and enslaved their soul.

This girl was a servant of the Lich King himself. Zi'Cal's realization made him reel back in a moment of terror. His eyes slid from her body to her armor that was now sitting near the dresser. Armor like that wasn't cheaply made. It wasn't patched, dented or even showing signs of wear. He looked back to her body, examining the scars of past battles. Judging by these marks, her armor was remade rather than repaired. No simple errand runner would warrant such armor.

With a firm swallow, Zi'Cal draped the blanket over her frail body and lit a fire in the hearth with a flick of the wrist. No matter who she was, it would be wrong of him to have let her die. He'd mended her the best he could. The cleaning staff tomorrow could find her. They'd be sure to get her to a healer.

With that last thought, he walked from the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.