Worlds Apart
Disclaimer: Last time I checked, I was not the owner of Blizzard Entertainment Ltd. Therefore I do not own World of Warcraft. And it still haunts me that I didn't invent it first.
Chapter 1
The sun scorched a hole in the burning sky as Zekoth dragged his weary body back through the rugged mountains of Durotar to the cool shade of the Cleft of Shadows. He had been at Skull Rock, thinning the numbers of the accursed Burning Legion that had decided to make it their own.
Zekoth disliked doing things for other people, petty favours they could easily do themselves. That apothecary that had assigned him the mission – it would have taken five minutes of his day to go and clear those orcs out himself. And yet, instead he sits in Orgrimmar looking smug and mixing colourful liquids.
A proud Troll, Zekoth fought for only two things; his honor and that of the Horde. Every enemy his sword impaled, every spear stopped short by his thick shield, the blood he shed and the pain he endured – they were for himself and his allies. He cared nothing for any individual. There could only be survival of the fittest, and Zekoth intended to survive.
As he reached the small tent of that ungrateful Forsaken and collected his reward, the Troll warrior noticed a small group of orcs and Tauren enter the huge cavern that led through to the scourge of Orgrimmar – Ragefire Chasm. He chuckled to himself. At least they finally got someone to sort that out – Thrall had been a bit lazy in getting rid of that foul satyr Bazzalan.
Zekoth hoisted his shield up a bit further on his shoulders and started out of the Cleft. The place gave him the creeps – full of the stench given off by the rotting Forsaken, who stood and watched him unnervingly with glowing yellow eyes. He still didn't entirely trust the Forsaken's loyalty to the Horde.
As he passed through the Valley of Strength, Zekoth stopped in the Auction House. It was always busy this time of year, with Winter Veil approaching, everyone buying gifts for friends and lovers. Zekoth snorted. He had no time for such things as friends or women – there was only himself, the Horde and the enemy. A young Troll, Zekoth had not yet fallen in love – and of that he was glad. Troll females were more trouble than they were worth.
Finding nothing of interest, he stepped out into the sun again, relishing the burning feel on his pale blue skin. He stretched his arms and raised his long, curved tusks, yawning widely, then gathered his strength and bounded the last few steps to the gates of Orgrimmar. The guards nodded to him as he passed, and Zekoth grinned back. He looked at the clear blue sky. It was time to go hunting again.
Before he had taken more than a few steps, though, he noticed a small object poking out from behind a rocky outcrop. Curious, he swung round the side of the rock, sword drawn, and found the small, curled body of a night elf.
Casually, Zekoth sheathed his sword and leaned over the elf to inspect her. She was wearing a long, green robe that flowed over her hips and stopped just short of her dainty ankles. The markings on her face were a beautiful purple colour, matching her silky hair. Zekoth's hand was drawn to the white paint on his face and he smiled faintly.
The elf was dead. Zekoth knew he should be glad, since otherwise she would have got into Orgrimmar, but he wasn't. He felt a sense of loss, as if it was a shame that her life had been wasted. Shaking his head Zekoth grunted. There was no place for softness in his life, or in the Horde.
Zekoth knew he should just leave her. A vile night elf, the enemy of the Horde. He was better off with her dead, since that was one less foe to face. However, before he realised what he was doing, he'd cast a spell of resurrection and she was sleepily looking up.
The shaman looked at his hands. Had they just wrought that? Had he, a proud soldier of the Horde, just resurrected a night elf? He blinked and lowered his palms again. Zekoth's pride was in question.
The elf glanced around her, and seeing nobody around but he, she shakily stood up and thanked him. Of course, the Troll did not understand her language, but there was no mistaking the grateful gesture. He nodded to her in acceptance and walked away. Something made him look back over his shoulder as he continued down the path to Razor Hill, and as he did so he saw the shape of the elf standing, prone, staring after him. Then, she transformed into a dark panther and became one with the shadows.