Murlocs. Why did it have to be murlocs? The stout dwarf paladin always knew that one day his time to die would come, but he always assumed that it would come somewhat more… heroically. The day had started out as normal: going to the call board in the main square of Stormwind where notices were posted. A single job stood had stood out: Travel to Stone Cairn Lake, kill some murlocs and take the head of their leader. It was perfect, just a short detour on his way to Eastvale logging camp, and then maybe onto Redridge. Easy enough, right?
The dwarf looked around himself and panicked. He was surrounded and the largest Murloc was pointing at him with a long jagged fingernail and chanting at him in its whiney gravelly voice. At that moment he knew that he was done. When the spell finished he would breathe his last and well… he brought his shield to bear, blocking the thought from his mind. Suddenly it appeared from nowhere. In a flash of claw, fur, and a fantastic spurt of blood the shaman suddenly lay on the ground, his neck broken and back flayed open. Standing over him was a cat, striped with huge fangs protruding from its jaws. The paladin smacked a murloc with his hammer, then backhanded the last remaining one with his shield and then quickly surveyed the battle scene. About a dozen murlocs lay dead in ring around him. Partially due to his hubris and partially due to their nasty habit of finding friends where you think there are none. He then took note of his rescuer. Suddenly he tensed, sensing the danger he was in. How could he have missed it? The bright, red mane the cat sported or the braids in it or the many bones and bits of metal pushed through its ears or the war paint adorning its back. Troll! Horde!
He reassumed his fighting stance, expecting an ambush. The cat slowly backed away from him, and then….changed. Fur melted off of the figure and blue fur turned into blue skin, fangs transformed into short tusks. Soon, crouching before him was a troll in a defensive stance, daggers in her hands. She was wearing a skimpy studded leather top and leather pants, a series of buckles holding the loose folds tight against her curves. She held her ground silently, slowly bringing one daggered hand to her mouth, and then a shrill whistle pierced the air.
This is when he would die. He knew it. At least being a casualty of war was a little more glorious (and far less embarrassing) than dying to creatures that were considered little more than a nuisance. Suddenly, a large green raptor burst from the undergrowth and, startled, the dwarf let loose a roar and charged towards the attacker. Before he knew it the troll had swung herself onto the creatures back in one smooth motion and was riding away from him. He was taken aback in the moment, and then awestruck. This troll wasn't trying to ambush him at all, instead, she had saved his life.
He watched her ride away, his face concentrating as he tried to memorize every detail of the duo. From the way her raptors green tail whipped back and forth, to how her long red braided mane fell down her back, almost to her waist and how she gracefully moved with the creature as it bounced along the trail, south, away from Stone Cairn Lake.