I love Vol'jin. I hate how Blizzard treated him. So I've decided to try my hand a fic that follows the events of the Broken Shore, taking place between the time Legion was launched, and Tomb of Sargeras' release, in which Vol'jin becomes a Demon Hunter (the second troll one, because I figure, he needs someone to teach him WTF to do so... yeah /sob made an OC for that purpose).
The only thing I own is U'thel, because if I owned anything else, Jaina / Sylvanas would not be useless bitches, and Varian / Vol'jin would still be alive because plot holes galore in that Broken Shore scenario ._. *still salty about it*
Chapter 1: Deserted
It was lonely on the shore.
Green blood fed into the ocean. Like the plant life, the ocean seemed disgusted by the blood. The tide was low. It refused to come in. Even the wind had died down.
A storm was growing out on the water - there was a screech, then cracking bone, then a dark laugh. Cruel eyes watched as an Eredar head rolled down the sand. An unseen force stopped it just short of coming in contact with the water.
U'thel hefted his glaive up to his shoulder, stabbing the other one into the body that still twitched. He wiped the back of his hand over his lips, smearing blood.
For a moment, he stared at the back of his hand, wondering why his blood was still red. It had been years, maybe even a decade since he had been dragged down the path of the demon hunter. To his knowledge, he was the only troll that had followed it.
It hadn't been difficult. Staking out the Illidari, dodging detection, slipping unseen in and out of the shadows. He'd earned his keep. Made his own armor; made his own blades. Hammered the glaives into shape, using the sketches he had made as his guide.
Wielding them had been a different story. U'thel had been no warrior, and the weight of the glaives had been unbearable at first. He'd trained himself until he could lift them with ease, like they weighed no more than a feather. Sometimes, U'thel even forgot when he was holding them.
As time had passed, he felt the Loa grow distant; they lurked, certainly, but they seemed as disgusted by him as the ocean was with the blood that dribbled into it. Sometimes their presence was more tangible; sometimes he could reach out and trace the air, and feel their essence. Sometimes they reached back.
But he hadn't heard from them in years.
Something was happening on Azeroth, that much was clear. U'thel hadn't seen these many demons in one place for a long while, not since he'd made his way back from the Outlands. He'd secluded himself to this place - the Broken Shore - hoping that he could continue his life as an outcast, free of the troubles that plagued the rest of the world.
As fate would have it, some idiot managed to summon a massive chunk of the Legion.
"All de mo' fun fo me," he muttered bitterly, shaking his hand as if disturbed by the sight of his own blood. He grabbed the glaive, jerking it clear of the body, and hefting it onto his other shoulder.
What had led him down this path, he didn't know. The pulsating red of his tattoos had once led him to think Hakkar was at fault, reminding the troll too much of blood on any given day. He was still often distracted by how the tattoos illuminated areas around him, tinging them with red; tinting his gray-blue skin.
But that Loa was lost to him; most of them were. Perhaps all of them were.
Still, this loss didn't explain why sometimes he felt them so thickly around him.
Perhaps U'thel was not as lost as he had led himself to believe. He still prayed. He still sought them, expecting nothing for his troubles. He'd lapsed before, angry, feeling forgotten - the troll shook his head.
The wind had picked up again, and he looked down.
"Whoops," he sighed, tipping his head back to look at the churning sky. He'd done it again, wandered up to one of the highest points on the shore. If anyone from Dalaran paid even a sliver of attention, they would have noticed him by now.
Would have noticed him when he caught a ride on a gryphon, grabbing its foot, dropping silently onto one of the buildings after the city had abruptly appeared in the skies above him. It had piqued his curiosity, happening shortly after two separate armies came bearing down on the shore. But he was certain that the mages would pick up on him after he released the gryphon's foot - and if not them, most definitely the warlocks.
U'thel had to admit, he was rather disappointed with the archmages, and the warlocks - and the Illidari, on top of that.
Maybe the troll had been just out of their senses. He hadn't moved to wander about the city, after all.
Still, U'thel was miffed they hadn't been able to pick up on his presence.
"No mattah…" he said to himself, his shoulders rising and falling with a heavy breath, "ya tried it once befo'. It didn' work den, it won't be workin' now."
He jumped off the point, letting himself free fall for a moment. It made his heart pound like it had the first time he'd jumped - only, that time, he hadn't intended to survive the fall.
But U'thel did.
Damn his troll blood.
He let his wings materialize and spread when he was a quarter of the way to the ground. Down he floated, watching the imps scurry away, frightened by his shadow. He deliberately landed on one, crushing it under his foot, a pleased sneer crossing his lips. It broadened when the other imps whimpered, and he sent a growl in their direction, making them cower further.
U'thel left bloody tracks in his wake. By the time he reached his little grove, the blood had been tread off his feet.
This small part of the shore had managed to retain its life. Lush grass, fully leaved trees - one of the little things that U'thel appreciated.
He checked his foot, deciding it was safe, grateful to feel the grass tickling his foot instead of being seared away. His glaives clattered against each other as he dropped them on a black blanket, made up of the hides of yaks. He stripped off most of his armor too, especially the heavy pauldron. It fell to the ground with a thud, the magic in the skull's eye sockets fizzling out into black smoke.
The only part of his armor that remained was the thick leather pants, and the mail guards U'thel wore over his shins, speckled with demon blood. The belt was dropped over the pauldron.
U'thel rolled his shoulders, sighing, and sat himself down in front of a little stone slab he'd found. It was covered in candles, but kept clean of wax. He stared blankly ahead, a weariness coming to his young face.
Leaving the candles unlit, he crossed his legs, letting his arms rest over his knees. He curled his first finger and thumb toward each other, leaving his second finger extended. The tattoos that covered the majority of his left side pulsed.
Meditation was one of the few comforts he had, because it stopped the demonic whisperings in his ears. Sleep came easy but was often restless. At least when U'thel meditated, the fel magic in him calmed, ebbing and flowing like a river instead of raging like the maelstrom.
Better to meditate than to wish for a conversation with another living, breathing creature, even if it was just a bird.
It was lonely on the shore.
