"Winterax is dead!" Ros'hal proclaimed, covering the skull's sockets with a three-fingered hand and giving it a vigorous shake. The contents clattered around its desiccated interior. "Drakkari in disarray, Winterfang gone… mebbe you be next, Frostmane." There was a lull in conversation as the green-skinned troll pitched the skull; it rolled across the floor, depositing gnawed finger bones in its wake. The assembled group jostled one another, jockeying for position to espy the number of skeletal remains. Grunts of satisfaction mingled with groans of dismay and tokens changed hands between winners and losers. "Mebbe Har'koa be huntin' down dem ice trolls and she can't tell your tribe apart, hey?"
Hadithi of the Frostmane tribe smiled, his exposed teeth jagged as ice shards. "Mebbe Skullsplitter wants to be sent to da afterlife to talk to da mad loa? You go as da Frostmane ambassador – I do da death rites for you myself, mon." He demonstrated with a sharp gouge and twist motion of his fingers. "Dem eyes come right out and da path for you be clear!" Those around him laughed at the veiled threat masked as a jest.
Ros'hal's feral grin was no less menacing. The skull was offered to him again but he ignored it, grabbing onto the tusk of the one who offered it and used it to shove him away. "Sure sure, can try. When Har'koa asks why no Frostmane talk to her direct, I just tell her dey are some cowards, yeh?" Calculated to inflame, the insult obtained its desired result. Hadithi shouldered aside the smaller Darkspear in front of him, intent now upon reaching Ros'hal to take revenge for the insult. Others shuffled aside, their own innate bloodlust roused despite the long standing truce that held sway while on Zuldazar. Ros'hal held his ground; he called the other craven and to turn away from the challenge now would result in a loss of face for his clan, his own life forfeit.
"Roll da bones." The voice held no malice but despite its kind phrasing there was no way to misunderstand the command for anything but what it was. Flared tempers diffused and the skull was proffered to Ros'hal a second time. He did not refuse it; the game began again.
His brethren granted him the honorific title of king, but Rastakhan was more mediator than ruler of the troll tribes. 'I am too old.' To utter the thought aloud meant death; such an admission was an intolerable weakness to the clans' shaman. When he felt his hand begin to shake, he gripped his spear tighter; his blanched knuckles implied restrained anger instead of a failing body. His fingers brushed the necklace of skulls encircling his neck - outwardly, a reminder of what might result if their leader's patience wore thin but inwardly, he reminisced about battles fought so long ago that only he remembered his foes' names and wore the trophies to prove it.
'Korrak yet lives.' For all the good that knowledge did, the mighty leader of the Winterax was alive. The evidence Rastakhan possessed suggested the dire troll was alone and the king knew of no enticement - besides one - he could offer even the most power hungry of zufli to join him in rebuilding his tribe. 'Da little witches wish to be equal but as a price to save da Winterax? Da cost be too high.'
Their empire once stretched the length and breadth of Kalimdor; now reduced to a handful of squabbling clans whose notion of a truce consisted of meeting on Zuldazar every six years with the agreement that they should not kill one another for the few days they resided on the island. A glance at the glowering visage of Hadithi was enough to tell the king either a Frostmane or Skullsplitter would not be returning to his home once the treaty no longer held sway. Rastakhan scanned the room while the others played their grim game; he counted those he saw versus those absent and the results were not encouraging.
Of the ice trolls, there was only the Frostmane, as few in number as the Sandfury. Ironic, as their climates were polar opposites - one preferred cold, the other desert heat. Forest trolls remained the most numerous; a testament to the perseverance of Zul'jin but Rastakhan saw no Firetree or Smolderthorn, no Shadowglen or Mossflayer. The first two tribes were lost to a madness in its own way similar to the one that claimed the Gurubashi and Hakkari, one that kept them clinging to a false hope of restored glory. The Shadowglen trolls were gone; his communion with Oacha'noa confirmed their passing and that of their loa Mo'che, the great sea turtle spirit. If the Mossflayer survived, they sent no representative to this meeting which was a grave offence, as near a declaration of war as the trolls could come. 'Better dey perished den the wrath of Zul'jin be unleashed on dem' for the warlord was unforgiving of allies who did not uphold their word.
Rastakhan continued his tally. 'Vilebranch, Witherbark, Shadowpine. Bloodscalp and Skullsplitter,' were all accounted for. Huddled together in an unconscious display of solidarity were the final three tribes: Darkspear, Revantusk and Shatterspear. He understood the decision made by the tribal leaders to collaborate with the faction known as the Horde; it was one of survival and practicality. He wished for an opportunity to speak to Vol'jin - to question the shadow hunter regarding his choices - for the two had never met. Where did his loyalties lie now? Trolls were long lived creatures and those of the priest caste – the shaman, witch doctors and shadow hunters – bound magically with their chosen loa would live several lifetimes to an orc's one. 'When da Warchief goes, what den?' Finding a worthy successor was not a simple task; a reality Rastakhan knew all too well.
The evening progressed. As the torches burned low, others were brought to replace them; the acrid smoke etched reflections of flame on the hewn stone walls. The king called for refreshment and steaming bowls of dinuguan were brought; the savory stew with its bloody broth a recollection of victory feasts now using the innards of boar rather than traditional ingredients. Storytelling replaced gambling – a dangerous diversion given the company – and tales became boasts, efforts at one-upmanship.
A Darkspear troll regaled them with his group's attempt at breaching the Lich King's stronghold in the heart of Northrend. His description met with hoots and catcalls of derision. 'Gal'vez' Rastakhan recalled, 'and da loa Velox." Through artful use of paint, Gal'vez etched the semblance of claw marks across his face, as if to imply he and his loa engaged in physical combat – with the shaman emerging victorious. It was not unheard of for spirit beasts to do battle with those who would challenge them for mastery but the scars wouldn't have manifested on the troll's flesh. Phantom wounds then, or a stylized affectation used to intimidate. It was having no effect on his audience, who continued to mock him in staged whispers. Zol'jin taught his people well – Gal'vez was not quick to anger but Rastakhan could see his muscles twitching, as he repressed the urge to retaliate.
When the Darkspear paused for breath, Rastakhan interjected, "Tell me, young one. What you think da most important thing is you need, when facin' da Lich King?" The murmurs ceased; the room grew quiet.
His answer was one Rastakhan anticipated. "Bravery, King - is needin' bravery more den anythin' when starin' into da rotten, decayin' faces of da risen dead!" His voice rose as he answered and his final proclamation was met with shouts of approval and agreement.
One of the Vilebranch trolls wasn't about to be outdone. "You be wrong, Darkspear! Strength you need: to draw your bow, wield your sword an' shield, to sink your blades into a foe!"
One answer, then another and soon it was a cacophony, impossible to distinguish one voice among dozens in the resultant din; each individual wanted their answer deemed the correct one. "Enough!" Rastakhan bellowed. He slammed the butt of his spear to the floor and it resounded with a loud crack. "Is your minds you should be usin', not your mouths! You think da Lich King be sittin' in his great citadel, yammerin' just to hear himself speak!" He rapped his knuckles against the side of own head for emphasis. "You must be havin' da brains to know how to best be usin' da brawn!"
The troll king made a show of getting to his feet, with each action and every move calculated to ensure the assembly's attention became focused on him. Zandalari trolls remained one of the largest of their race and Rastakhan was a specimen his tribe could be proud of, rivaling a Drakkari in stature. A troll ruler would not – could not – be soft and sinew shifted under greying skin as he moved off his dais. A wave of his hand and torches dimmed, while others blazed brighter; what lay behind him was now shrouded in shadows. "It is remindin' you need. Now I – Rastakhan, son of Re'uven, son of Bartalan – will tell a tale. It be one you all know but rememberin' it mebbe not so well."
He began:
The spirit realm is an echo of where we live but different in inconspicuous ways. There are forests with trees whose crowns cannot be seen so far in the sky they rise, just as there are lakes so deep no creature that breathes air could ever penetrate their depths. Not all of it is tangible. If a loa chooses to expend its power, it can create a plain with grasslands that reach the horizon and to walk to its end would be an impossible task.
In a place where substance wars with illusion, none was more skilled at manipulation than Socorro, the fox loa. The cleverest of loa, Socorro also possessed an amiable nature; most of his tricks were harmless and at worst humiliating. Socorro treated all as equals, other spirits and mortals alike – which antagonized both for he played no favorites with his pranks. The sting of falling prey to the fox loa was tempered by knowledge - to be the victim of his jokes one day meant you laughed at another's similar misfortune the next.
Because Socorro was so smart, he knew when to watch and when to listen and he uncovered many secrets. He learned the answers to questions only children are brave enough to ask: Why don't spiders get caught in their own webs? Why does the moon shine? Do cats always land on their feet? How far east can you go before you're heading west? and a thousand thousand others. Socorro was not admired but he was respected for his intelligence and sometimes he was beseeched for aid by the trolls.
"We do not understand!" cried the shaman.
"Tell us what to do!" begged the witch-doctors.
He had a sly way about him, did Socorro; his replies were rarely scrutable but always contained a measure of truth – it was his wont.
In time, Socorro realized these beings – these trolls – found ways to bind themselves to his brothers and sisters. This was a puzzle the fox loa felt he must solve; in doing so it rendered his kin vulnerable.
"Why do you go?" he asked, when he found Hakkar, though he quailed as he did – for Hakkar held a spark of the divine and was more powerful than he.
"For power," was Hakkar's hissed reply and he disappeared.
He sought Quetz'lun and queried her as well, "Why do you go?"
"For love," whispered Quetz'lun and she vanished.
He located the spider loa. "Why do you go?" he asked Shandra.
The spider chittered, "Because I must!" The answer made Socorro's fur stand on end. Buried in those insectile sounds were shrieks of torment and an entreaty for release - then she too faded away.
'Hmm,' Socorro mused. "Some go willingly, others… do not. Those who go of their own volition are of no matter; it is their choice – who am I to dissuade them? I, however, am content to remain here." He sat on his haunches and considered the problem. "It is not inconceivable one day another will come along who is at the very least my equal – I am no god, after all. Perhaps we reach an accord; perhaps not. Either way, I think it is in my best interest to delay that time for as long as possible.'
He considered his spirit form. 'If I were not so vain, I would make a great many changes: longer legs to be swifter afoot, keener eyes, sharper teeth…' His face split into a vulpine grin. 'But I am quite handsome as I am - I must not alter myself overmuch, for what worth would there be in doing so if it leads me to cower in some dank hole, afraid of glimpsing my own reflection? Some things are worth taking a risk for, after all.'
His first destination was the forest. Leaves skittered under his feet, a dry and crunchy carpet of browns and gold contrasting the sullen green needles of the pines above. No birdsong here, no ambient noises as in the mortal realm besides the wind - who saw fit to blow and bluster somewhere else today rather than keep him company as he walked along. He studied the trunks as he passed; a few he pressed a nose to, searching for the telltale spore of his quarry. He saw before he smelled; deep gouges scored a papery birch, its bark peeled away like parchment.
Socorro disliked the show of possessiveness. As he wended his way through the marked trees, he murmured under his breath and the words of power repaired the damage done. When he reached what he determined to be the center of the taiga, he paused before a large fir. "Thol ti ei tali." They would show him, in thanks for what he'd done, though his erasure of the scratcheswas not entirely selfless – easier to plead ignorance when he could claim in honesty he saw nothing to deter him. The other loa might not believe him but he would not go so far as calling him a liar and the trees would never tell.
Branches creaked and snapped as they contorted into positions unnatural to the growth of their boughs. 'Northwest.' He bowed his head in thanks and set off, his loping gait carrying him quickly through the woodland now that he knew the direction. When he reached his destination, it startled him into a chuckle. Aloud, he commented, "I should not have been overly concerned with my own conceit, for Nalorakk surely puts me to shame."
Crude and it might take centuries more to form – longer still for the parallel to appear in the material world – but the cave's shape was that of a bear, or rather, a bear's head. He stepped into the maw with little trepidation; the stone was not alive and Nalorakk had no more power than he himself did despite probable boasts to the contrary. The bear loa was stronger but duller of wit. Still, Socorro was willing to concede this reshaping was artfully done.
He stretched, extended his front then hind legs before he curled up, nose to tail. "And I will tell him such, when he arrives," for Socorro had found Nalorakk's wintering cave, where he came to spend the frigid months in deep slumber. The forest was quiet because all knew how frightful the bear loa was when roused. 'Not quite so perilous as I am, I imagine,' was Socorro's last thought before he dozed off.
Nalorakk's fetid breath in his face was what woke him. "My cave," the hulking beast asserted stolidly.
Socorro remained where he was, but opened a single eye. "Is it? I sincerely apologize. I truly had no idea." His head shot up suddenly and both eyes went wide with surprise. "Of course! Your likeness is on the outside, is it not?" He peered closely at the bear's countenance. "I should have recognized it immediately. The gods could take a lesson from you, my friend, for they certainly are not capable of doing any better."
Nalorakk preened at the praise but before he could say another word, Socorro continued, "Indeed, it is a fine home you have made here for yourself and honored I am to share it, if only to take a brief respite. Do not let me disturb you! I shall be as silent as Mus – you will not even be aware of my presence." He lay his head down and feigned sleep.
The bear loa was obviously confused by the exchange as he had not offered to share his cave, but did not seem prepared to argue either; he stepped over Socorro and ensconced himself deeper within the den. A wily grin spread across Socorro's face although his eyes remained tightly closed. He listened as Nalorakk shifted and settled his bulk down onto the grey-streaked limestone floor. It did not even begin to strain his patience to wait until the cadence of breathing slowed and fell into a familiar rhythm. Then – and only then – did he open his mouth and let loose a keening yell that reverberated through the cavern.
For the bear loa's weakness – or strength – was his acute hearing, a trait he shared with Hir'eek, the bat loa. Socorro did not know if it was because they both spent a good portion of their lives in caves or for some other unfathomable reason but those pointed ears were what Socorro coveted. The surrounding wood was quiet for the simple reason that it had to be – Nalorakk chased away anyone who might disturb his slumber. Even Mus, the mouse loa would be hard pressed to be silent enough to suit the bear and the fox's yelps were loud enough that even the inhumed would find reason to complain.
The moment the bear grumbled back to life, Socorro clamped his mouth closed. "NOISE!" Nalorakk roared as he got to his feet and lumbered over. He prodded with a paw, his claws uncomfortably sharp in Socorro's back. "Do that again, fox, and I will destroy you!"
"W-wh-what?" Socorro answered blearily, as if he had just woken. "What are you on about, old bear? I was sleeping peacefully before you began to bellow." He fluffed up his fur in indignation. "The only one making a racket here is you! Now, if you please…" He settled back and took a deep breath then another and another, a convincing pantomime of being at rest.
The bear was not mollified. Instead of resuming his former position, the bear laid down across from the fox loa which kept him in plain view. At first, he watched Socorro but eventually one eyelid drooped closed; the other soon followed.
Socorro repeated his earlier performance. This time a barking wowow woke Nalorakk but not quickly enough to see whether the fox's muzzle moved. When the bear loa roughly shook him awake, he replied, "Was it a…" and he paused, as if trying to think how to recreate the sound and then did a very good imitation of his own cry - but not exact enough to be identifiable. Nalorakk nodded his shaggy head in affirmation. "Oh, well yes, I heard it too. But how could such a noise wake you? I could barely hear it and if you hadn't raised a ruckus I might have slept right through it."
"Slept through it?" the bear was incredulous.
"You act as if it was very loud," Socorro persisted and then eyed the other loa speculatively. "Ah, I see at once the problem, my friend. It is your ears." In response to the scrutiny, the bear's pointed ears twitched. "With ears such as those, every utterance must be magnified a hundredfold." He shook his head sadly, "I do not envy you but there is little I can do to aid you. You will simply have to suffer. In silence, one would hope. Not all of us are plagued and might be granted a measure of peace by your remaining dumb." Inwardly, he snickered at the double entendre.
A look of rude cunning came over Nalorakk's face. "You say you don't hear it, eh, fox?" Without warning, the bear swept out a paw and knocked Socorro to the ground, pinning him down. "We trade then, your ears for mine. It's a good bargain."
Socorro squirmed, his helplessness in the position genuine; his hesitance was not. "These ears have been useful to me. I find myself reluctant to part with them, even in light of such an enticing offer. And," he added, allowing a whine to creep into his voice, "I am not convinced it would not hurt." It would of course be painful but he did not fear that - his recalcitrance merely a means of spurring the other on. 'A bully is only brave so long as they have someone to pick on.' The pressure increased and with it came his agreement to the arrangement. "Very well, you prove most persuasive. A swap as you so compellingly request."
A sharp stab of pain and the exchange was completed, his essence at first repelled then slowly accepting the bear's appendages. He swiveled them around, surprised at how sensitive the organs were compared to his former smaller, rounded ones and after a few seconds he wasn't sure he hadn't added to his problems. 'What will I hear that I did not before? Perhaps more than even I care to know.' It would not do for him to rush off and cause Nalorakk to feel cheated though, so he lay down one more time. "Now may we sleep? I am weary and this ridiculousness has gone on long enough." He forced himself to yawn.
A minute later, he sprang to his feet. "Yiyiyiyiyiyi!" he cried, running in a circle. "Such a clamor! Such a commotion! Is this what you bore so stoically, good Nalorakk? Your very breath is a howling whirlwind, a tempest! I cannot remain here, the tumult will deafen me – I must find somewhere quieter!" As he bounded back into the woods, he heard the bear loa's laughter follow him. 'Do not be so ready to laugh at the misfortune of others, my friend, lest you find that the joke is on you.'
Out of the forest now and onto the savanna where his passing made a sissing susurrus as he strolled through the long grasses. Once he judged himself to be far enough away, he allowed himself a minute of self-congratulation. It wasn't a particularly difficult feat – to fool Nalorakk with the bear none the wiser – but he accomplished it without a growled promise of retribution, which was worthy of at least a small homage.
His nose wrinkled as he approached the asphalt lake, essential to the next portion of his plan. The black tar bubbled as if boiling beneath the surface but it was gasses escaping, nothing more. So long as he was careful, the pit posed no risk. He circled around until he sighted a likely spot where the ground was covered in dry, weedy clumps, the plants clinging tenaciously to life despite their proximity to the congealing crude oil.
His hind legs first - he dipped one foot in, cautious even knowing it would not be hot. The sticky substance clung to him and as he pulled, he felt the corresponding suction as the inanimate ooze tried to hold its prize. 'Do not struggle and thrash about,' he chided himself, for the action would mire him deeper. He clamped onto a tuft of grass with his teeth and used it for leverage until – with a reluctant gloop – he was free.
When he was done, all four paws were covered and the way the mixture clung to him, he knew he'd never be free of it. He rolled onto his back, waving his feet in the air, willing them to dry more quickly in the afternoon sun. Once they dried, he was on his way again; he paused only to pluck an oddly wrinkled fruit, which he carried by the stem as he resumed his journey.
The sands were hot but in a twist of fate, the bitumen on his feet seemed to insulate his pads from the worst of it. 'There is, then, at least one thing to be grateful for.' He struggled up another dune that looked identical to the dozens behind him, seeing in the distance the shimmery mirage of water that had no place in the desert. He stood at the apex and gazed down; the sinuous trail he followed shifted, mimicking the undulating coils of its maker.
'Fortunate Hethiss' vision is so poor in daylight or this ruse would fail before it began,' Socorro thought, when the stone formation loomed over the next rise. The snake loa would be aware of his coming, the vibration of his footfalls giving him away.
With a toss of his head, he threw the item he carried into the air with abandon and gave a loud yelp. Before it landed, Socorro leapt, intersecting it in the air with a paw, which propelled it skyward. In acrobatic springs and skips, he kept the fruit airborne – kicking out with a forepaw, nudging with his nose until he reached the rocks, as he kept up a litany of exclamations. "At last!" and let the object fall to earth. The fruit's skin stood out, crimson on tan, like a spreading bloodstain. Socorro threw himself down into the shade of one of the monuments, tongue lolling from his exertions. He didn't acknowledge Hethiss but could see the snake coiled above, basking in the midday heat.
"Charlatan," the reptile's sibilant speech drew out the 'ch' into a long 's' but Socorro ignored the discourtesy, "why do you wander these wastes? Or have all the others finally tired of your chicanery and driven you out?" The snake loa raised his head, weaving it back and forth.
Socorro didn't bother getting to his feet and let contempt drip through his voice and into his words. "Little wriggler, you do Ula-Tek no honor by greeting me thus. I am here to make her an offering and I have many leagues yet to travel." A stretch of the truth and as close to a lie as Socorro usually got. If it proved necessary, he would seek the other serpent loas but hoped Hethiss' covetousness would be his undoing.
For all the serpent loas had a gift for falsehood, one that the fox loa couldn't match. However, his sense of self-preservation motivated him; he did not want to be trapped, forced to give away his knowledge, skills – his power – to undeserving mortals. He would no longer be free and to keep his freedom he was ready to pay a dear price.
"Offering?" the snake queried and slid down his perch and over to the item which lay on the sand. "This shriveled… thing?"
"It is a bhut jolokia, so hot it is like a shard of the sun. Look how it has scorched my paws!" He held them up as Hethiss slithered over to inspect them.
The snake loa's scaled face showed no emotion but his question indicated his curiosity was piqued. "I do not sense it," meaning his receptors indicated no temperature change in the fruit.
Socorro's reply was scathing, "Of course not! It remains hot on the outside for a little while only – long enough to scald my paws as you can see – but once eaten, it warms from the inside. Ula-Tek will not need the sunlight when she carries a flame in her belly." 'For several hours, at least,' he added mentally.
"No need?" Hethiss repeated. Torpid in cooler weather, a permanent heat source would be the incarnation of temptation to the snake loa, because it meant he could leave the desert, not tied to the land and free to move about like other loa. "I do not trust you, fox. Your gift may have poisonous intent." Hethiss laughed at his own joke. "I would see you sample it, to ensure it is safe to give to Ula-Tek."
"Oh, I do not think that is wise." Socorro balked, again letting his evident aversion foster the wrong conclusions.
"Think on wandering this desert for eternity, dog." The fox loa snarled, but Hethiss was unperturbed. "Not a large bite – just enough to ingest and prove your trustworthiness."
The fox loa shot Hethiss a withering stare. "I will do as you ask but if Ula-Tek believes I have profaned her gift, I will point her to you."
"Of course, of course," the snake loa said smoothly. "She will understand I am concerned only for her safety."
Socorro strode up to the brightly colored piece of produce and lowered his head with exaggerated care, drawing his lips back to nibble at the waxy tip. He could already feel the tiny piece turning to pepper in his mouth. He panted, backing away. "Hot, oh so hot!" he howled, "My mouth is on fire!" He staggered as his eyes began to water then collapsed. 'My flair for the dramatic is wasted on such as him.'
Quick as a whip, the snake was at the fruit, jaw disarticulated and swallowing the bhut jolokia whole. 'Oh ho, he will regret doing that.' Aloud, he complained, "You have eaten it! Tesi o maji, snake – you will rue the day you choose to betray me."
At first, it seemed Hethiss suffered no ill effects. He lay on the sand, the silhouette of the pepper large in his esophagus. "You did not lie, fox. I feel its warmth but nothing to rival the sun on my scales. It is good I ate this bhut jolokia of yours; you would not want to go in front of Ula-Tek with this stunted plant." Socorro didn't have long to wait, though. The snake loa's tongue began to flicker in and out of his mouth, slowly at first, then rapidly.
"What have I done!" the snake wailed. "I am melting - my bones char, my innards turn molten!" Hethiss writhed on the ground. "Save me, Socorro!"
The fox loa stood and ambled over to the unfortunate reptile, "Of course, my friend. I did try to warn you." He kept his voice soothing, "It cannot be so bad as all that. Stick out your tongue."
Hethiss complied and Socorro tsked at what he saw, "I am afraid you were right – your tongue is burned all up! Wait, no, not completely. There is yet a modicum of muscle untouched. We may be able to save it, but it will not be pleasant."
"Anything, anything," the snake moaned.
"Remain still and I will see what I can do." The snake extended his tongue and with a snap, the fox loa bit off one side of Hethiss' tongue and with a nip, he took off the other side. Socorro's final bite took off a tiny bit in the middle and left the snake with nothing but a sliver. He rolled the pieces of the deceiver's tongue around in his mouth until he felt them affixing to his own. Then he instructed the snake, "We must make you spit out the bhut jolokia before you roast," and before Hethiss could object, the fox loa picked him up in his jaws and began twirling him about.
Socorro swung the snake this way and that way, while the snake loa groaned and gasped. The fox loa spun around until he became dizzy from the motions then spat the snake out onto the sand where, with a few shuddering throes, Hethiss regurgitated what remained of the spicy pepper. Afterward, he lay there like a sodden piece of rope.
Socorro took this opportunity to depart. "You will still ache for several hours. I recommend you bury the remnants of your meal so Ula-Tek does not discover how you betrayed her. You will, of course, need to come up with a story to explain your tongue however – but better some than none, yes?" Hethiss didn't move, except for a twitch of his tail to acknowledge the fox's words.
"And now you be tellin' us about how da fox loa be meetin' with Aian'ar da lion loa next, eh?" a gruff voice interrupted. "Kept him from fallin' over a precipice by grippin' onto Aian'ar's tail but skinned it bare in da process 'cept for a tuft at da end, keepin' da rest for himself – and that's how he got his bushy brush?" The troll chortled, "I be rememberin' da old fables well as you, oh great King."
"If you be rememberin' it so well, Huwayda, what be da lesson Socorro be teachin' eh?" Rastakhan's dark eyes met his rival's and he let him read the message they held. 'I would bargain myself to da Soulflayer before you ever see da throne, Huwayda, so best you be thinkin' about how to kill me because I'm plannin' on killin' you.'
"Socorro is no real loa – or else why have none ever seen him?" He stepped forward, in front of the group now, and opened his arms wide in appeal. "Anyone heard da voice of Socorro or see da fox loa in da spirit realm?" There were mutters, but no one spoke up. "Any of your loa ever speak of da fox? Him and his monkeyshines, should be drivin' da spirits to madness, yeh?" Restless shuffling and Huwayda turned to face Rastakhan with a melodramatic shrug.
"Only a fool ignores da lessons of da past, Huwayda – whatever form dey might be takin'." His voice thick with animosity, Rastakhan issued the ultimatum, "Ueetay no Mueh'zala be callin'."
"Bwonsamdi see you safe," Huwayda answered and stalked out of the room. His fellow Zandalari was not without supporters and soon the room emptied without Rastakhan having to order it.
He tried not to think about how many might be trying to curry favor with the other and instead returned to his throne where he sat down heavily. 'If I cannot practice what I preach, maybe I be not so deservin' as I think.' Breaking his own decree meant others would as well. He wondered who he might see alive tomorrow - Ros'hal or Hadithi – maybe neither. Would the young Darkspear draw blood of the Vilebranch?
"So what be da lesson, mighty king?" a voice intruded into his thoughts, robbing him of the solitude he thought he found. He looked around the room, grown gloomy from lack of light. A troll, larger than any Rastakhan had seen, save the dire trolls - but this one was not proportioned as such - lurched to his feet. He hid his height by hunching over so he was nearly bent double but straightened as he came forward. "I be interested to hear da words of a loa been bound by no troll." He halted just outside the warm circle of torchlight.
"I be not knowin' your name or clan," Rastakhan said, "and a king should know his subjects."
The stranger raised a hand and the troll leader saw the skin was indigo, so purple it bordered on black. "My name be Balozi of ShadowTooth. I have come a long way to see you, Rastakhan. To see you and not be seen, which is easier den it sounds for one used to darkness." A knife flashed and the flesh between Balozi's thumb and forefinger began to bleed.
Mesmerized, the king watched as from overhead, an insect fluttered down and alighted on the cut. Its wings were not beautiful, not spun of gossamer and moonbeams but the beige of a corpse's shroud, though they sprinkled iridescent scales when Balozi stroked the tips. "She is Calyptra, and she be my loa. We have much in common, she and I, for we both always be seekin' da light."
So much implied in that sentence; the subtle wit impressed him. Rather than answer, Rastakhan asked, "What do you think Socorro's lesson be?"
The troll squeezed his hand, which caused the blood to pool in his cupped palm and Rastakhan saw now the moth was feeding, its proboscis sucking the fluid. "Is no lesson, my king. None that I heard or recall from the story as it was told to me."
Intrigued, the troll leader asked, "What den, if not a lesson?"
Balozi did not hesitate to answer, "Directions." He waited to see if the king would respond and when he didn't, the ShadowTooth went on, "He be knowin' so many secrets, is Socorro. Why den he be tellin' us how he be changin' himself to hide? Why he be sayin' he got new ears to hear us comin' and got a new tongue to tell us lies? Tell us nothin', and we know nothin' and he stays hid. I think," and finally he stepped into the light himself so Rastakhan could see his features clearly, "he wants to be found - if you can riddle through his clues. Mebbe he's got some words for dem dat finds him? I think mebbe he be sayin' secrets be not so secret – if you know where to look."
He raised his huge arm and Calyptra returned to the rafters. "Bwonsamdi be seein' Huwayda tomorrow. And I be seein' you." With that as his goodbye, Balozi turned and left, leaving Rastakhan well and truly alone.
"I think," a voice said conversationally by his knee, "that perhaps it is time for you and I to have a talk about this Balozi." The fox loa cleared his throat with a barking cough. "This Bal'jin." Socorro swished his tail and turned his head, giving Rastakhan a wry smirk.
Technically, this story doesn't belong to me anymore - it belongs to Blizzard because I submitted it to the 2010 Blizzard Global Writing Contest. But I lost, so because I'm a complete failure and totally terrible, I doubt they'll mind very much if I (laugh) finally show this off. If there's an issue, I'm sure their legal department will crack down on me and I'll remove it. I've got a year now to work on something for next year's competition and perhaps I'll have improved some by then. Or not - but not for lack of trying. Once I turned this in, I didn't go back and agonize over it as I'm prone to do so I'm sure when I read it now, I'll see a bunch of glaring errors I'll feel obligated to fix (or expand the story. I cut part of it short in order to ensure I came in under the word limit.)
I need to thank WoWWiki and all their contributors because it helped me research the intricacies of troll lore. I've always thought trolls got the short end of the stick in terms of how their story was fleshed out (and how they were completely overshadowed by Orcs and the Forsaken) and am glad to see that this seems to be changing in the upcoming expansion.
One of the characters in Z'étoile (which means 'The Star of Destiny') is a certain foxy fellow from somewhere not quite Warcraft, masquerading as if he belongs here. I suppose he does, really - I consider him my muse and the part was written with him in mind and his 'voice' in my head so any similarities are completely intentional (and I'm not the least bit apologetic about it either - I wouldn't trade him for the world.)
Feedback is welcome and encouraged (a critique is just as valued as praise).