Glowing green eyes surveyed the corpse in front of her. Trolls, she thought with distaste. Gangly, thin, awkward things, always hunched over. The tusks, especially, were hideous. Great protrusions of bone, sometimes yellowed with age and sun, having no apparent purpose except to look disgusting. Killing them brought no great satisfaction, but neither was it as distasteful as slaughtering animals (as some had her do).
She quickly searched the body for anything useful, keeping touch to a minimum. She only found a few coppers—rather pathetic pickings. Perhaps the next would have something valuable on him.
The village she was approaching was small, the buildings round and made of wood, with straw thatching. How easily they would burn, she mused. The huts created a circular perimeter around a firepit. She chose her target: a big, hulking brute of a creature, who stood idly by the firepit. He matched the description she had from Arathel Sunforge, and there was a beautifully crafted hammer hanging from his coarsely-woven belt.
The blood elf added another adjective to her mental list of trolls' deficiencies: stupid.
Fire gathered around her hands, swirling in ever-changing patterns. A moment more to check the surroundings for other enemies, and then she unleashed her attack on the unsuspecting Spearcrafter. The fireball hit him in the back, sending him toppling over, his clothes on fire and his skin scorched. A bolt of shadow energy followed, and then another. The troll did not rise again.
She jogged over to the dead troll and plucked the hammer from his belt; he hadn't even had time to draw it. She tied it to her belt using a spare length of twine, and almost walked off when her sharp ears caught a rustling behind her.
A weak voice called, "Hey, mon."
She spun around, her wand in one hand, the other reaching for her staff. All she saw was yet another troll, unnaturally pale, locked up in a cage.
"Come closer," the thing entreated pleadingly. She didn't move. "Don't be 'fraid, Ven'jashi not gonna hurt you."
At this she snorted. "I'm not afraid of you, vile thing."
The troll simply looked at her. "Come closer, den. Please."
She raised an eyebrow, then sauntered nearer to the cage, just out of arms-reach. "I'm closer. What do you want? I'm not a friend of your kind, so speak quickly."
"I be Darkspear, not Amani. We be mortal enemies of the Amani just like you. Their boss Zul'Marosh is evil troll. He give me the bad poison and leave me in this cage to die," he explained, words rapid.
"I don't care what faction you are," the blood elf sneered. "Nor do I care about your fate. If that's all, good day, and I hope that poison acts quickly."
She turned to leave when the troll's quick, "Wait!" stopped her. He continued, seeing her pause, "I not scared of dyin', mon. Don' need you to help wi' that. I seen death in the eye an' I laugh at her. What I need is peace."
"I'm no priest," she said. "I would not say your last rites even if I did know them. You're wasting my time."
"No rites!" he exclaimed. "I want de head of Zul'Marosh. I cannot die in peace yet, mon. Not 'til he be dead too."
"You want me to kill him, then?" she asked in a drawl.
"Yes," the dying troll said simply.
"What do I get for doing you this service?" inquired the elf, eyes thinning in calculation.
The troll dusted the dirt from something, and held it up. She inspected it: a wand, not as fine as her own, but it would earn her a few silver on the auction house. "Very well. His head for the wand."
"You find him 'cross the lake in Zeb'Watha. I hold this poison off 'til you bring me his big ugly head, mon," the troll said, satisfaction lacing his hoarse voice.
She jogged away from the captive, pausing only to snatch the dead Spearmaker's money pouch.