Its that time of the YEAR AGAIN. Tis time for the Dance of the Earthmother. Details on the forums:
https://us.battle.net/forums/en/wow/topic/20765078214
as told by Ghal’zan at the weekly Story Circle in Bloodhoof Village
Author’s note: This story comes from the forest trolls, and has been told over many a fire in many a village. The accounts differ a little depending on the tribe telling it; the locations change, for example, and while one may speak of twenty soldiers, the next may speak of a hundred. But the names… the names have remained the same, which makes me think that the events in this tale may have truly happened.
I have done my best to write a definitive version.
--
Long before the days of the High Elves, in a green valley in the Eastern Kingdoms, there lived a tribe of forest trolls, attuned to the land and hidden by the trees. Under the leadership of their chieftain, Hala’jin, they took only what they needed, and though their existence was not easy, they were content.
But one day, the tribe’s scouts reported a mass of activity about halfway up the mountain. A fortress of some kind was taking shape, built by thin, tuskless creatures who wielded a strange glowing magic they had never seen before. Hala’jin listened to these stories grimly; he had heard of Highborne and their ambitions, but had hoped that they would never reach his people.
His worries were confirmed the following month, when refugees began to flow in from the neighboring troll village a few miles away. They spoke in hushed voices of an elven army that crushed their defenses and burned the buildings to the ground. Clearly, these Kaldorei were here to stay, and they were willing to destroy anyone who got in their path.
Deciding to take matters into his own hands, Hala’jin disguised himself as a messenger and set out for the elven fortress himself. When he reached the gates, he requested that their leader speak to him, and perhaps they could come to an agreement of peace.
“Is your chieftain so cowardly that he sends his lowliest to bargain with me?” A tall Kaldorei with long silver hair stepped onto the wall, sneering down at him. “You tell him that Commander Teyrien Starshore will not rest until every last one of your kind is driven from our land!”
“It does not have to be dis way,” Hala’jin said, though the commander’s words infuriated him. “We can talk -- we do not need to fight.”
“I am not wasting my breath on the likes of you!” Starshore waved aside the Troll’s words. “Send him on his way,” he told his archers. “We have a valley to conquer.” Arrows pierced the dirt around the disguised chieftain, and he was forced to turn his raptor around and flee into the forest.
Returning to his village, Hala’jin seethed with fury. But he knew that if he attempted to engage the Kaldorei head-on, his people would be slaughtered. As he stood fuming over the commander’s arrogance, an idea began to take root in his mind. Inspired, he called together the village and announced his proposal; it would be risky, but if it worked, perhaps they had a chance to survive. Without any other options, the other trolls agreed and began to make preparations.
Two days later, Hala’jin once more rode to the gate of the Kaldorei fortress, this time in regalia befitting a chieftain, flanked by two of his tribesmen. “I would speak with Commander Starshore,” he said.
“That is close enough.” The silver-haired elf appeared at the top of the wall, his features twisted in disgust. “You can surrender from where you stand, troll.”
Hala’jin laughed at him. “I be not here to surrender, night elf. I be here to talk peace, if ya be wise enough to take it. But I warn ya: if your people march on my home, only death awaits.”
Starshore smirked. “Death? From savages with sticks? I helped to defeat the Burning Legion in the War of the Ancients, and you think we will fall to YOU?” There was scattered laughter from some of the other elves on the wall.
The Troll held his head high, staring directly into the commander’s eyes. “You Highborne let da demons IN. Is dat your idea of a victory? To set a fire and den expect praise for puttin’ it out?”
The Night Elf bristled. “You dare to mock our sacrifice?”
Hala’jin grinned. “Ya be mockin’ it more dan I, brother. Ya came here because ya thought we trolls would be easy prey. But how are ya against a REAL challenge?” Seeing Starshore’s darkening expression, he continued. “I bet my tusks dat if ya try to march on us, ya be runnin’ back home like a scared rabbit within da hour.”
“I will rip those tusks out of your skull myself!” Starshore snarled, drawing his sword. “You have written your own death sentence, troll!”
“I warned ya. Remember dat.” Turning his raptor from the gate, Hala’jin led his companions away. Even before the fortress disappeared behind the trees, he could hear the commander barking orders to prepare for war. He just smiled.
--
True to his threat, Starshore arrived at the outskirts of the Troll village mere hours after the exchange at the gate, leading a sizeable force of swordsmen, archers and mages. A line of troll warriors met them at the clearing in the center, formidable but easily outnumbered by the approaching army. A few paces in front, Hala’jin himself stood, a simple spear in his hands and his face streaked with war paint.
“Ya should have chosen peace, Teyrien Starshore,” he said.
“I AM choosing peace,” retorted the Kaldorei. “When you hut-dwelling filth are nothing more than a pile of ashes, that will be peace. Attack!” he ordered, and his soldiers began to advance.
In reply, the troll chieftain sighed, shaking his head.
“Your decision, mon.” With that, he raised his spear and struck the ground before him. The head gave off a clap like thunder and a brilliant flash of green light, forcing the elven army to stop and shield their eyes. And as they did, something stirred behind the huts that surrounded them, a chill of dread settling in the air.
From behind the trees and behind the buildings, tall figures emerged, their forms shrouded in long robes and their faces behind leering masks. Some carried staves, others voodoo totems, and they stepped out into the open, forming a ring around the invading force that outnumbered them three to one.
See, as soon as Hala’jin proposed his plan the week before, he sent messengers to all the other villages in the area, asking them to send their best spellcasters. In those days, the trolls were the most advanced at enchantments; centuries later, the High Elves would steal their knowledge and apply it to their own work. So while Starshore’s forces had defeated Hala’jin’s unprepared neighbors with ease, he had not yet encountered Troll defenses at their most potent. Only now, as the spells began to fly, did he realize the price he was about to pay for his arrogance.
I believe we all know well the consequences of a well-placed hex. The witch doctors took full advantage of this knowledge, aiming first for the most dangerous members of Starshore’s forces: the mages and healers.
And while the Highborne had been prepared for a direct assault, they had not planned on being circled, which forced their archers to face outward in all directions instead of concentrating on a specific target. This too was exploited, as arrows rained from the surrounding treetops where Hala’jin’s archers had hidden amidst the boughs. Even the sharpest-eyed elf with the fastest bow could not have stopped such an onslaught.
In the middle of all this, the troll warriors rushed into the fight, and without the archers’ defense or the mages’ support, the elven troops were blindsided by the assault. Despite their superior weapons and armor, they were outmatched easily once they were within range of the berserkers’ blades.
… All save for one.
With his casters turned to frogs, his archers distracted, and his warriors set upon from all sides, Teyrien Starshore would have been wise to surrender. Instead, he charged directly at Hala’jin, intent on separating his head from his body. The waiting chieftain turned his sword with his spear, and a ferocious battle began, the other Trolls forming a ring around them as they watched.
Starshore had not been lying about his prowess; before long, Hala’jin was on the defensive, warding off the commander’s furious blows. If Teyrien had been out for blood before, now he was in a frenzy that would have done credit to a dire troll, and while Hala’jin was physically stronger, the elf was the more skilled fighter. Already, Hala’jin bled, his every attempt to counter caught on his opponent’s shield.
But the old Troll was a fine warrior in his own right, and cunning besides. With a roar, he caught the elf’s sword arm and spun to the side, using Starshore’s own attack momentum to send him stumbling to the ground. Hala’jin now held Starshore’s blade, and could have easily cut him down. But instead of pressing his attack, he barked an order at the surrounding Trolls in Zandali and turned away.
The bewildered commander of course did not understand the language, and he lunged at the two berserkers who approached him, assuming they were to execute him. To his surprise, though, the trolls merely caught his arms, despite his struggling, and bound them behind him. Wordlessly, they forced him to his feet and walked their captive through the body-strewn battlefield.
Of the proud force that Teyrien had led to the forest, only a few had survived, the majority having fallen to the trolls. Some had wisely taken their injured friends and escaped, while others watched the grim parade with disbelieving eyes as they lay dying. And while Starshore’s eyes blazed in rage, they focused not on his fallen companions, but the figure seated at the far end of the village, awaiting him.
“Impressive... for savages with sticks,” said Hala’jin, unable to hide his smile. Starshore thrashed against his captors, trying to get at him.
“My people will come for you!” he threatened. The Troll stood up, towering over him, all mirth gone from his expression, his wounds slowly healing even as the Elf watched.
“Yes… they will.” Hala’jin held out his hand to a nearby witch doctor, who smiled and gave him her knife. “But not for a long time. And -” He unsheathed the blade, the enchanted metal glinting a sinister red. “They will not follow YOU.”
--
Hours later, the few elves who made it back to their fortress would witness strange movement in the forest outside. Three trolls, carrying a wriggling bundle, emerged from the trees and walked brazenly up to the gate, depositing their burden on the ground. The tallest of them then called to the guards.
“Found something of yours. Ya can have it back!” Laughing, the trolls turned, leaving the captive curled up in the dirt. Once they dared to leave the safety of the fortress, the elves found that the prisoner was none other than Teyrien Starshore, bound and battered but inexplicably alive. He was conscious, but unusually silent, his eyes downcast and his mouth a tight line as the others untied him and began to help him inside.
As they brought him back through the gate, they noticed that something on his forehead glistened wetly in the torchlight, and despite his feeble protest, one of the guards drew aside his hair to look.
There, carved into his flesh, was a single bloody word in Zandali: the name of the Troll who had brought him defeat.
--
It is said that after that night, an uneasy peace was struck between the elves and the trolls - at least for a good long time, until the Highborne were able to receive backup from their kin up north and the Troll Wars truly began. Hala’jin became known as one of the greatest Trolls of his time, and some of his tribe’s descendants claim that he became a minor Loa upon his death a few decades later.
It is also said that Teyrien Starshore, humiliated and broken, resigned his position in disgrace and vanished into the wilds. No one has seen him since, but if he somehow yet lives, you can BET that he still bears the mark of his failure. The name of his greatest enemy, scarred into his forehead for all to see.
As told by Ghal’zan at the Story Circle in Bloodhoof Village, Wyrmrest Accord server.
--
There are certain tales told on the docks of Ratchet, the piers of Booty Bay, the sands of Durotar, the harbor of Stormwind. They whisper of a ship that travels the Great Sea, preying on trade routes and captained by a fearsome son of Zandalar who answers to no authority but his own.
It’s said that this mysterious pirate is known by the name “Sawtusk.” For where a Troll’s tusks ought to be, there are only stumps, sawn off a thumb’s length from his face and capped in gold. Some of the tales about him might be true. Most of them are probably not. But I assure you, Sawtusk himself is not a myth, and this is one of the stories about him.
About five or six years ago, Sawtusk’s ship came upon a small island one night. As he and the other pirates disembarked to explore, he could see a small village tucked into its center between the rocks. There appeared to be no guards and since their supplies were low, Sawtusk instructed his crew to surround the village and search for food and fresh water.
So they approached, keeping to the shadows, but when the people milling through the buildings finally came into view, Sawtusk’s plan took an abrupt change.
Of all the creatures on Azeroth, there is none he despises more than the naga, and this village TEEMED with them, their scaly forms glinting in the moonlight. As Sawtusk watched, they slithered past the bodies of the island trolls who’d lived in the village, tearing apart each building and breaking open every container to search its contents. What they were trying to find, he didn’t know, but a naga raid could only mean trouble, and doubtless the object of their search would be dangerous in their hands.
Sure enough, a small crowd around the center shrine parted to reveal a priestess bearing a heavy globe of sea glass, engraved with an image of a shark. For the shrine had been one to honor Gral, the Loa of the Sea, and the globe was doubtless something with a deep connection to the ancient spirit.
At the moment, Sawtusk did not care about that. The sight of the naga boiled his blood, and he slunk closer through the brush, swords at the ready.
The naga never expected an attack, and it wasn’t until the first three soldiers dropped that they even knew they were in danger. With a roar, Sawtusk cut through their ranks, an unstoppable whirlwind of vengeance, his crew leaping into the fight in his wake. So ferocious was their charge that it was only a short time before he faced the priestess herself. But before he could attack, she held the globe aloft and uttered a spell.
Beads of water streamed from around the globe, forming into an orb that clung to Sawtusk’s face like a liquid mask, and he dropped his weapons, clawing at the water as it began to force its way into his nose and mouth. His lungs burned for want of breath, and just as his consciousness began to darken, he was just scarcely aware of something slipping out of the shadows behind the cruelly-smiling priestess…
The naga screeched in pain, dropping the sphere. The orb of water melted from Sawtusk’s face, and he fell to the ground, gasping and coughing as his lungs dragged in precious air. Above him, his first mate pulled her bloodied blade from the dead priestess’s back, but her eyes rested not on him, but on the sea-glass sphere glimmering softly in the sand. Wiping the last of the water from his face, Sawtusk picked up the globe, tracing the graven image upon it.
“A shark?” his first mate asked.
“More than that,” Sawtusk said. “Gral, the Loa of the Sea.”
As though responding to his words, wild waves crashed against the shore, rocking their ship moored in the distance and tugging at the cliffs as though to tear them asunder. Several of the crew eyed the sphere uneasily at this.
“What do we do with it?” asked one of them. “I don’t think I want it on our ship, no matter how valuable.”
“We cannot let the naga have it,” the first mate said. “It holds too much power.”
“There is only one thing to do,” Sawtusk said, approaching the shoreline. The waves lashed at his feet, but he kept walking until he stood waist-deep in the sea. Lowering the sphere so that it touched the waters, he spoke aloud in Zandali.
“Great Loa of the Depths, I return what is yours.”
For a breath, the waters were calm. And then they churned violently as something massive moved beneath the waves. The crew stepped back in fear as a giant fin cut through the surface, followed by the rest of the creature. A massive tiger shark, rows upon rows of teeth in its giant maw, now floated in the waters before the Troll. If Sawtusk was frightened, he did not show it, but stood tall, holding out the sea glass relic.
A moment passed, and it seemed to the crew that though neither the creature nor the Zandalari spoke, there somehow seemed to be an understanding between them. An unspoken communication that transcended speech, perhaps. Then, the shark delicately took the sphere in its jaws, and as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone beneath the waves. Satisfied, Sawtusk let out a slow breath and returned to his crewmates.
“He is pleased,” was all he said.
The other crew members were puzzled at these words, but they claim that ever since, the sea seems to favor their ship just a little bit more now. The right winds and currents seem to follow them, and storms are more easily weathered. They say they can’t be certain, but it’s almost as though an agreement was made that night when the captain called upon the sea Loa.
Sunday’s Wolfmane Tribe Story circle! It was a bit of an odd one! Between an assassin appearing, to an oddly friendly Worgen and even so much as a beautiful gift from the hosts it was far more action packed than normal! See you next week!
