Author's Note & Standard Disclaimer: Warcraft and related intellectual property are, quite naturally, owned by Blizzard Entertainment. I am not them.
I've never posted anything here before, so you'll have to bear with me. Criticism of any kind, including glaring lore errors I may have made, greatly appreciated.

The masters were coming!

It was a day of excitement in the village of Shadowprey- excitement tempered with sadness, perhaps, on the part of the elder women, sadness that tended to find its expression in a harsh snap and a cuff around the ears, but excitement nonetheless. The old troll on the wharf was prone to harsh laughter if anyone asked about it, and the Wind Master was calmly making preparations at the end of the pier... The masters were coming!

It had been only a year since the end of the Third War, since the trolls had followed their Warchief to this new land, and had spread out- the village of Shadowprey, the Jagged Spear on the coast, had been home to many trolls since that day. Some of them had been deemed too young to fight, and wished to join the Horde now in whatever capacity they might serve...

The masters were coming! ...and there, running along the rocky clifftops of the coast, some forty feet above the water, were two trolls, male and female, sprinting towards the village from the north...

Rholdakh's eyes positively twinkled with malevolent glee as he raced Maliata across the rocks. "Last one to the village be a pinkskin humon!"
She growled something that was probably a vile curse at him. "You really know how to flatter a lady, eh?"

Rholdakh's reply was lost in a yelp as the rock he was leaping off went out from under him, tumbling him sideways. He had time for a screech before he was lost in an almighty spray of seawater. He came up spluttering. Maliata, discerning that he was not in any immediate danger, gave vent to a hoot of laughter. "You gonna look mighty funny drippin' on de master's robes, Rhol!"
Rholdakh glared back and threw himself into a vigorous breast-stroke, striking out for the pier as fast as he could in waterlogged clothing. "At least I won't be a pinkskin humon!"
Maliata's screech of rage echoed across the cliff as she realized the other troll had a good fifty-foot lead on her.

The masters were coming!

The first to arrive were the warriors, a delegation from dusty Orgrimmar, two sturdy orcs overshadowed by a towering Tauren. Their mounts, three swift wolves, galloped along the main road, defying any wildlife, any bandit, any centaur to attack them, their armor gleaming in the sunlight almost as much as the massive weapons they bore. They were an impressive sight, and several of the stronger trolls got an immediate gleam in their eyes.

Then were the mages, a flash and a bang foretelling their arrival as a doorway opened in the air. Beyond it could be seen the city of Orgrimmar, and the mages simply stepped through. With a pop, the view of the city, its sound and its dusty smell, were all cut off.

Next came the hunters, an orc and a troll, one bearing a gun, the other a bow; they came running over the mountains with no mount at all, an owl flapping behind the one and a majestic tiger keeping pace with the other. One troll, who had a quiver at his hip, watched appraisingly and with careful interest, unconciously mimicking the movements of the pair.

Maliata arrived, skidding to a stop amongst the small group of hopeful young trolls queued up in the wish to be Chosen by a master. She looked around, but didn't see Rholdakh- that would show him who was the pinkskin humon.

There was a soft, sibilant hiss, like the wind over rocks, like water poured on hot coals, and a shaman simply stepped into the village from thin air. Immediately the excitement and frenzy calmed slightly, the wise old Tauren's influence rolling out over the crowd like a blanket. A troll in the front row stared at this evidence of power with wide-eyed shock.

Maliata heard a squawk from one of the wind riders, looked around- the Rider Master was calming one of the beasts... but she'd swear the beast itself hadn't been there thirty seconds ago. She caught a slight movement from the corner of her eye and, looking carefully, saw the indistinct form of an orc in dark leathers. He smiled at her from beneath a cowl, held a finger to his lips, then flashed the sunlight into her eyes off his dagger... by the time she could see again, the Rogue master was standing arrayed with the others opposite the hopeful trolls. She resolved right then and there that she would be equally good at misdirection someday, no matter what she was chosen for... where was Rholdakh, anyway? They were about to start!

Rholdakh looked up at the edge of the pier and cursed quietly under his breath. It was a good three feet above the surface of the water, and as such well out of his reach. He tried, for the third time, to scale the post and, for the third time, slid down as fast as he could scramble up, achieving precisely nothing. He needed to get up and sneak along the dock. He knew he was at least good enough at sneaking that he could make it to his hut, a change of dry clothes, without anyone noticing him, and be back in time for-

"What are you doing down there, troll?" The voice cut through his thoughts like a naga through the waves. "Are you so weak, that you will not stand to be Chosen?" The voice was harsh, dry, like something long-dead.

Rholdakh looked up, and the reason for this became apparent to him. The owner of the voice was long-dead as well, a Forsaken, a human woman in golden-white robes, with unnaturally pale flesh and eyes that glowed a faint yellow, a ragged discontinuity visible at stomach level where her robes appeared to sag, as though covering a hole that should have been- that had been- fatal. Her companion, a troll in black robes, looked on with some interest. It took Rholdakh almost four full seconds to realize that they were both standing, without apparently noticing it, in thin air a foot above the water's surface.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Is he mute, J'kala?"
The troll shook his head. "No, mon, he be just a little surprised, I wager. Go ahead; I'll help him out."
The undead woman stepped easily onto the pier and strode towards the village as the troll knelt- in the air!- and extended a hand downwards. "Grab on, mon. Can't have you be missin' this day."
Rholdakh mutely took the hand and allowed himself to be hauled out of the water and placed, dripping, on the dock. "Thanks, mastah. I'll just be gettin' some dry clothes-"
The other troll shook his head. "No time, mon. Take this." He handed the young troll a small ribbon. "A bit of incidental magic I had an enchanta do for me one time. Just keep it near ya."

The ribbon was of black silk, with gold running down the center in an intricate pattern. It felt somehow sleeker than even silk should, somehow warm- Rholdakh noticed that his clothing was dry. "My clothes-" he started, then snapped his mouth shut at the priest's grin. "Thanks, mon."

The older troll winked at him and gestured for Rholdakh to lead the way into the center of the village. As they arrived, the Tauren shaman cleared his throat impressively. The elder troll moved to stand with the other masters and Rholdakh slipped into the group of trolls waiting to be Chosen.

Maliata nudged him in the ribs. "Pinkskin," she whispered under her beath.

"Quiet, mon, they be startin'!"