I do not own World of Warcraft or anything related, this is merely a work of fiction and I have made no money from it.
In a world where war has come and gone. A world where mixed races and species live in relative peace. A streamlined and Industrialized world. The racism and bigotry still remain, however it continues to be passive. In position of former Magical relics and Massive weaponry lining the shelves in stores, modern fashions, electronics and creature comforts have taken their place. Azeroth's new world boomed in the wake of death and chaos.
The Lich King and Illidan had been destroyed. The Horde, after many hours of negotiations, formed a tentative peace treaty with the Alliance to purge the Burning Legion from Azeroth. Thrall still did not trust the humans. They proved their worth in battle however.
When the war ended, the High Master Vol'jin sought to reconnect the bonds of the Darkspear Tribe with their forest cousins and the other troll tribes. The tribes convened, Zandali, Gurubashi and Amani working together to reunite their ancestral ties with the Loa. The trolls still held a deep seated hatred for all other races, but they adhered to the treaty and avoided the races as much as possible. They, along with their most hated foes, the Night Elves, rarely inter-socialized.
One Darkspear troll sat at the work easel in his home on the Darkspear Strand. Though Azeroth has had many advances in fashion and technology, he however preferred to stick close to his ancestral roots. He studied the sketch, adding details and measurements to the scaled drawing. He was a highly sought after architect. The lamp cast directional light at the board, filling the room with a shadowed glow. It reflected off the pale blue skin. Vol'jin sighed and stretched the tense muscles in his back and scraped a hand through his long fiery red hair.
Like his namesake; Vol'jin stood much taller than his Darkspear brothers. His hair hung in a long plait down his back to his waist. Long sections of bangs framed his face, bound together at the shoulder level. He had been called old fashioned, but it did not bother him. He personally felt he held a tighter spiritual link with the Loa and his ancestors by sticking close to the old ways.
Although he was an architect, he followed in his mother's footsteps as a Shaman using totems and ancestral magic. He often wore ancestral kilts and robes to the building sites to bless them. In press meetings, under the pressure of his agent, he would wear stylish suits to fit in. But it was never so, no one was interested in who he was, just his name.
A knock sounded from the front door. Setting aside the charcoal pencil, Vol'jin glanced at the heirloom clock on the fireplace mantle. It read a quarter to nine. Passing through the entry way he paused at the front door. Vol'jin adjusted the stonewashed jeans that hung low on his hips. When he opened the door, he glared at the human that stood there.
The human seemed cow under the dominating presence of the troll. Though not as structurally built as an Amani, Vol'jin still stood above the trolls of his clan, striking nervousness and fear in a person. The human smiled anxiously and held out a clipboard to sign for a priority package. The troll growled and signed the slip, then took the package from the human. The man nearly ran back to his truck.
Vol'jin shut the door and returned to his office. He opened the letter from his agent. His eyes quickly read over the common language, pausing only to re-read the request part of the letter. Growling he snatched the cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and called the wayward agent.
"Wha' da hell is dis shit?" He barked into the receiver.
"I take it you got the contract I sent you? Vol, it's a good opportunity. The magazine just wants an interview and photo-op. Look, just do it. It will be painless." Vol'jin snorted.
"Dat be a sack of Kodo shit an' you know it. There is no way I'm goin' ta do dis."
"Vol," her voice came sweetly, he could almost see her puppy dog look. "You have too. They wanted a well known troll. And the article goes in depth of the animosity between trolls and night elves. Do it for me, please? Hell, you may even like the woman they picked. I do, and let me tell you, she's hot."
"I don' care 'bout dat. Ya know I don' like dem damn elves," he paused. "'Cept you of course."
"Please love, do it for me. It's only a couple of hours. Then you can return to you little bungalow." Her sweet voice got him every time. Groaning, he tugged on the feathers attached to the little bands around his bangs.
He sighed, "Fine Caryn, but'cha owe me. I'll sign da damn contract."
"Great, I'll pick you up tomorrow. We'll go grab some lunch, then I will stick you on the plane going to the Vale." She giggled, "They are doing the shoot in the jungle behind the city. Something about all natural." He did not laugh.
"I will see ya tomorra." The troll ended the call. If it were not for the little blood elf, he would have retired and spent the rest of his days in his little bungalow. Clicking off the light in his office he moved into the to the double doors that let out onto his deck facing the ocean. In the distance he could see the edges of the Echo Isles. Vol'jin lowered himself onto the mat he had placed in the corner and settled into his nightly meditation.
The waves sloshed rhythmically on the shore lulling him deeply into his meditation. The warm breeze brushed over his skin like a lover's sigh. He recalled a conversation that he repeatedly held with his mother. One she repeated daily, "when-are-you-going-to-get-married-and-give-me-grandchildren' line. She was a shaman from the Amani clan and very matronly. He would always laugh and scratch his head. He was born almost a year to the day after the mating with his father. His baby sister followed him ten years later.
Vol'jin figured that his mother only pestered him because his sister had given into the pressure and married a Zandali troll who worked in politics. They have two whelps of their own. No matter how much Vol'jin loved his nieces, he never had any desire to have one of his own. Every now and then, his father would step in and discourage his mother from harping him.
His father was a politician him self and had an arranged mating with the Amani shaman, to strengthen the bonds of intertribal unity. He would always say to her, "Nahney, let the boy alone. I was older than him when we was mated. An' we still had children. He will take a mate when he be good an' ready."
Though it consoled her, she would still reply, "I jus' don' wan him ta be alone." His father would just rub her arms affectionately and kiss her head.
There would be times when Vol'jin would feel the emptiness of his bungalow. It mirrored the emptiness of his soul. Cursing, the troll stood. He was having difficulty lately clearing his mind enough to meditate. It has been this way for a while now. Too many thoughts rolled around in his crowded mind fighting for dominance. He returned to the interior of his house and made his way to his bedroom. Shucking his jeans at the foot of his four poster bed, he crawled beneath the cotton sheets and buried his face in a pillow. The troll let a long sigh and closed his eyes. Even his bed felt empty and cold. That was the last thought that passed through his over wrought mind as he drifted into sleep.
The World of Warcraft is about to get turned on its ear. I hope you enjoyed the first of many chapters to come, It has been completely written and just needs to be typed. Let me know what you think, thanks for reading...