Hello! This fan-fiction is about my RP character in World of Warcraft, and his journey during the time period between Mists of Pandaria and Warlords of Draenor.
This is dedicated to all my guildmates in the Zandalari Empire, best troll RP guild on Argent Dawn EU!
Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft, that is owned by Blizzard. The only thing in this that is mine is the characters that I create that are not already in the World of Warcraft franchise.
Gold. A never-ending sea of gold layed before him. Grit that defied gravity assaulted his skin and made him feel like he was being ravaged by a lynx. Not that he ever was ravaged by a lynx, but he could certainly imagine it. The golden, gritty particles invaded his wet nose and burned the hairs that laid within, making the young dark troll cringe.
"Tch! Dis sand be gettin' on meh nerves!", muttered the troll to himself in his native tongue.
"Even wit' all o' dis extra protection dis annoyin' sand be findin' it's way to meh face!"
Zwan'talle made a worthless attempt to wrap the dark clothing he wore around him to stretch to his left side, but to no avail. Zwan'talle was an average sized dark troll, reaching the height of twelve feet tall. He had royal purple colored skin, and a night colored mohawk that rose high above his head. The troll had a seemingly unrelenting angry expression smudged on his face, even when he was in high spirits.
The troll trudged through the hot sand, burning his bare feet., trying to find some ancient Farraki ruins to take shelter in, so that he may not get stuck in a sandstorm that quickly approached him from the west. The scorching sun toasted his skin, turning the royal purple to something more closer to black.
The troll was already beginning to regret leaving his brothers and sisters of the Zandalari. He wished that he just stayed with the empire and discipline himself there. But no, he had to challenge nature herself in an attempt to prove that he can discipline himself, that he could learn how to become a troll of true blood.
"To prove myself to da Prophet. To prove myself to Jahn'do. To teach myself to focus, to teach myself what it means ta be a true troll..."
Yet his thoughts were clouded by his feelings of unworthiness. He chose this path because he thought he was unworthy of going on the great hunt. Because he thought he wasn't strong enough.
"Yet maybe it be true..."
Zwan'talle looked down to his arms, and looked at his nearly fully regenerated hand. The same hand that was taken for his misdeeds, that was taken because he was unworthy of having it. He proceeded to look at his right arm, which he knew was taken because of his lack of focus in combat. That very arm was taken during a game of axe tag, a game played by the children of the empire. He was very unlucky that day, and it was because for some reason (for which Zwan'talle does not know of) one of his fellows tried to kill him in axe tag.
Zwan'talle knew where his last sign of punishment layed, and that was on his very face. His once great, long tusks now were in the possession of a personal rival of his, Maa'lak. Maa'lak seemed to Zwan'talle like an arrogant prick, someone that thought of himself to be far superior than him. Zwan'talle of course, was taught since his youth to respect his superior trolls, yet Maa'lak, even though he was slightly superior than Zwan'talle, treated him like trash. Something that is bound to disappear. Maa'lak even called him a lesser once, he compared him to the filthy orcs, humans, elves and goblins! Zwan'talle was constantly humiliated by the amani, and Zwan'talle does not easily swallow his pride. Thus, Zwan'talle challenged Maa'lak a many a time, yet was always punished for striking his "superior".
For these reasons, Zwan'talle no longer had tusks worth being proud for. All he has is remnants of what once was.
Zwan'talle stopped his train of thought when the coming sandstorm became visible to his eyes, and began to make a run for a small Farraki ruin nearby. He took cover behind some of the ruin's ancient walls and got ready for the long wait. Sandstorms do not die out quickly.
"Argh! How did dese Farraki even manage to build deir own empire in dis environment!", Zwan'talle growled to himself, he already had awful memories of Tanaris, and these seemingly constant sandstorms did not help.
He began to think back to when he first came to Tanaris, seeking his path after he bore witness to the slaughter of his tribe on Mount Hyjal. Back then he thought salvation laid in the south end of Kalimdor, and little did he know of the wasteland it was.
His first encounter with the inhabitants of the desert was not a good first impression as farraki trolls decided that sacrificing him to their loa would help them a bit. Lucky for him, some lessers sent by the goblins of Gadgetzan cleaned up the farraki, and helped Zwan'talle out of the mess.
However, Zwan'talle was brought back to Gadgetzan and offered a "job" to him as a repayment for being saved. Now, that job was more like slavery than a job. His payment was a few copper a month and he had to work like a dog beating up enemies of his goblin employer and pulling massive carts of adobe stones and such across the desert.
Zwan'talle was lucky enough to find a way onboard a ship to Booty Bay, and without his boss finding out.
Even though his time spent in Tanaris was bad, he still had to thank it. Because if he never came here he would've never met the Zandalari empire, and would never had met the best friends he ever had like Ran'ghi or Dah'ti.
"Take da good wit' da bad."
Even in the scorching hot sunlight and with the raging sandstorm beating against the thick wall of adobe Zwan'talle's eyes began to feel gritty, like Sandman had sprinkled done his duty for him. Zwan'talle placed his travel gear on the sand beside him and began give in to the sleep deprivation he has had since he left his family. He eyes fluttered shut, and darkness took hold.