The Travels of Thelarwen

[Gergel]

The Island.

Seven large, healthy and rested trolls versus one injured and tired death knight. Hardly a fair fight. I pity the hapless trolls who would make a mistake of attacking me.

I boast, of course. But another battle is not on today's itinerary, it seems. The head troll is a massive, muscular specimen that nevertheless does not reek of corrupting magic like the overinflated berserkers I am used to encountering on Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. No, his bulk comes from entirely natural and well-trained muscles. The only smell I sense coming from him is a pungent stench of murloc. His skin is green with a light hint of blue with a few tattoo lines here and there but not overly much. He and his comrades are wearing kilts made of dark green scaly leather that I suspect had once belonged to murlocs. I cannot be certain, but their necklaces, bracelets and other adornment might also be made from murloc claws and teeth. And of course there is no mistaking the strings with small shrunken and stuffed murloc heads which circle their necks and waists.

Most of the group carry spears and tridents. One, a muscular female, has a long and sharp-looking machete hanging from her belt. The head troll lifts his large trident - longer than the one belonging to the now-dead giant murloc - in his hand. He holds the shaft from the center, turns it horizontal, extends his hand holding it and lets it drop on the sand very demonstratively and expressively. The others relax, hold their weapons casually at their sides and rest their tips in the sand nonthreateningly.

The expression is clear. Even though I do not understand the language, I do recognize the calm, friendly tone that the lead troll uses to address me. I lift my sword in my hand, hold it horizontal before me, and let it fall on the sand next to the spear.

The trolls laugh and spread out. Several wander over to the dead murloc, go "ooh!" and "aah!" and make appreciative gestures towards me. A few others slink off along the coast, to do some hunting of their own, I suspect. The huge leader picks up his trident to clean it, and I do the same with my sword, wipe it clean and attach it to its resting place on my back.

Next he picks up the murloc's trident and sticks the murloc's huge head on top of it as a grisly trophy. Then he hands the weapon to me. All this is accompanied by a one-sided conversation that I do not understand at all. The dialect is so different from the Amani speech that I do not recognize any words.

He is clearly aware that he cannot communicate with me. I believe he is only talking to express his calm and friendly tone of voice and peaceful intentions. Then he points at himself and intones a word. "Mulai."

The troll looks at me expectantly. I think he is introducing himself.

"Thelarwen."

He looks slightly confused. "De… ra… ra… n?"

A bit too difficult and unfamiliar for a troll mouth. "Thel."

Mulai grins much more widely now and nods. "D'el." He turns his body halfway and points towards the jungle. "'Ey D'el! Yu weh!" Clearly he wants me to follow. His comrades are already around us. Two carry the headless corpse of my kill, three others carry a smaller dead murloc each, and the last one brings everyone's weapons. The hunting party is ready to return home and they are inviting me along.

Go.

It has been a while, voice in my head. Yes, I will go. I was planning to follow them anyway.

We walk in the forest for a few hours. Vegetation is thin and the ground is easy to traverse. It is a pleasant enough trek. The trolls talk incessantly amongst themselves. Every now and then one looks towards me, gives me an acknowledging and encouraging nod or a friendly word. I catch a glimpse of respect from their eyes. Maybe it has something to do with the ease with which I am handling the heavy trident and its murloc head.

The sun is dropping towards the evening when we reach the edge of the forest again. There is a large village ahead of us. Hundreds of trolls, according to my quick approximate guess. It does not seem warlike - no spiked walls, armed warriors or the like. Just men and women and children going about their business. Children are the first ones to notice me. A squealing crowd gathers in a flash. None of them look hostile or fearful, I see only amazed and joyous gazes. They surround me completely, touching my armour and sword and trident, pointing at the murloc head trophy. For a moment I am forced to a standstill because I simply cannot move for fear of stepping on someone. But Mulai barks orders and the crowd disperses somewhat to let us pass.

Mulai yells something towards the village. A few moments later, as our party continues towards it, we see an old woman making her way towards us with a determined expression on her face. Where most other villagers are content to stand and gape, she has a target: me. Or Mulai. Or both.

The old woman exchanges quick words with the hunter leader. She eyes me up and down and I see an expression of recognition. Then she turns towards me and, to my utter surprise, addresses me in simple, heavy-accented but completely understandable Common.

"'Ello womon! Welcome ta da village. Ah be Niljan."

That was unexpected. I manage to introduce myself. "Thelarwen… Thel."

Niljan senses my confusion. "Ah be visitin' big lands. Meet da Horde. Learn Orcish. Learn Common. Good, eh?" She cackles with laughter. "Come, D'el. Mah son Mulai say you be killin' big-big murloc alone." She eyes the head and the body. "Dis be mighty good work." The old woman seeks a word briefly. "Honourable. You be comin' wit' us, sit, rest, eat! Take off big iron armour!"

I should mention that I am still wearing my helm. A human - strange creature by itself - is one thing, but a walking corpse might not make a good impression on the natives. "I… Thank you, but I would rather not remove my armour," I tell the woman carefully. She peers into the eye-slit of my helm and a new, knowing look appears in her wrinkly expression.

"Aha. Ah get it. Come ta mah hut den, D'el. Ya be wet an' wounded, ya be needin' healin'."

Truthfully, I am indeed. I would like to sit in a secluded spot, take off my armour to clean it and myself. But obviously not in this unfamiliar village full of strangers. But the old woman with an unusually strong grip has grabbed my hand and is already dragging me away. Mulai snatches the trident with the murloc head from my hand and apparently goes to plant it in a spot of honour. A dozen children try to follow us, but a few stern words from Niljan make them change their minds and run off.

As we walk, I ask the question that has been burning in my mind since I emerged from the ocean. "What year is it?" How long had I been down there? The Horde still exists? Either they have survived for millions of years or…

Niljan tells me the year and the month. I am dumbfounded all the way to the hut. According to her, my journey under the waves had taken just a little more than half a year. Not aeons, not millennia, not centuries, not even decades.

She sits me down in the middle of a medium-large tent. I cannot help but notice that this tent, and every other, appears to be made of patched-together murloc skin stretched over a wooden frame. There are bottles and jars and bags everywhere. Everything reeks of murloc. I glimpse pieces of murloc bodyparts - eyes, scales, organs, tongues, things I do not even recognize - among shrunken heads, fetishes and masks. It seems Niljan is a local wise-woman or shaman.

The old woman does not give me much time to examine my surroundings. She pulls my helm off despite my carefully timid protestations.

"Ya be dead womon, eh?" she says. "Don' worry. Ah been ta da Horde. Seen lots dead pepal walkin'. Ya be lookin' good." She pokes me in the nose. "Nose not be fallin' off. Don' worry. Da village won' mind."

I suppose they have some contact with the Horde and have therefore seen the Forsaken. Most of these look indeed worse than I do.

"A'ight. Get ya armour off. Big holes in armour. Big holes in ya, need healin'. Ah do good voodoo!"

"No. I am sorry, I will not take the armour off," I tell her very carefully.

Niljan shakes her head with a disappointed look on her wrinkly face. "Fine. Dat be ya loss. Still gon' try ta heal ya but ah have ta stick da voodoo in holes. Hurt less if ya take da armour off. No?"

She proceeds to smear a greasy substance with an overwhelmingly fishy (or rather murloc-y) smell onto a stick which she inserts into the holes in the shoulder and chest of my armour. I do not know the exact condition of my wounds below it, but experience shows that they should be already healing. The grease still stings quite a lot.

A golden-green glow appears in Niljan's palm which she lifts towards my chest. I stop her hand instantly. "Please. No holy magic."

The woman shakes her head again. "Ya not da first dead womon ah heal. Probably not da last. Not gon' hurt ya."

It feels not unlike a druidic healing spell, but it is nevertheless not quite nature magic. In any case, it definitely helps. The sharp pain recedes and only the dull ever-present one remains.

"Good. Now come ta da village, eat, rest. We gon' speak 'bout da ding in ya head tomorrow."

That was unexpected.

As Niljan had predicted, none of the villagers are obviously hostile towards my undead state. I notice a number of them keeping their distance and whisper amongst themselves, but just as many wave and smile at the great murloc-hunter.

The head of the murloc I had killed has been stripped of flesh and is now just a skull on top of the trident. There are a few teeth missing, I notice. Perhaps someone decided to make a necklace. I am fairly certain that the flesh of that murloc, as well as those killed by the hunters, is cooking in several pots and roasting on spits. I must admit that the smell is indeed quite good.

We eat, drink, rest. The trolls go to their huts to get their sleep. Both Niljan and Mulai offer me a guest mat in their hut, but I decline respectfully. Instead I sit on a rock by the seashore and let my mind go blank as I watch the moon go up and down again. No vengeful murlocs attack under the cover of the night. No demons, undead or beasts dare interrupt the murloc-hunters' slumber.

In the morning my hosts go to their daily tasks. The old witch-doctor beckons me to her hut. Clearly it is time to discuss the presence in my head.

"Spirit in ya head, it powaful. Ah not know name. But ah feel da powa in it. Need mo' powa an' a special place ta get outta head. Ya have a ding of voodoo on ya? Amulet? Fetish?"

I show her the two amulets I have gained over the course of my travels. Despite the storm and the depth of the ocean, both are entirely intact and look as good as the day they were made.

"Yes. Dis be powaful voodoo. Give ta me. Ah gon' put mo' voodoo in. Den ya ready, go free da spirit. Ya go ta Stranga'dorn jungle. Big secret. Deep in jungle. Da spirit guide ya, ya find secret. Den da spirit go free. Ya carry it well, it maybe give powaful reward."

"How will I go to Stranglethorn?" I have no idea which way to sail, even if I had a boat. Maybe the trolls will lend or sell me one.

The witch-doctor laughs. "No worry. Big ship gon' come in week, mebbeh two. We trade wit' goblins. Dey bring ship, bring stuff, we give stuff. Ya go on ship, go ta Stranga'dorn."

So I must wait. The presence in my head seems to accept this, it does not compel me to move faster nor find an alternative way of transportation. Niljan takes the two amulets, shoos me away from her hut and gets to work with her incomprehensible murloc-based voodoo.

Mulai has taken me under his wing. He and his hunting party - whose membership seems to change every day, often including women and sometimes studious teenagers - drag me around their island, show me their best murloc-hunting and fishing spots. Occasionally I wander off alone, sit on the shore of a stream and stare at my fishing bobber. Sven comes to mind. I wonder if he is doing well. Perhaps I will see him again some day, and we can fish together like we did so long ago.

And then a ship appears on the horizon. Troll children notice the sail immediately and cause enough of a ruckus that the entire village is promptly roused. Burly and surly goblins begin to ferry goods back and forth between the ship and the shore. With the help of my last gold coins (miraculously surviving in the satchel that also used to house my amulets) I manage to strike my usual deal with them: I work for passage. Good fortune is with me, their next destination is Booty Bay. The captain estimates that it will take only a few weeks with good winds.

On the last evening, Niljan calls me to her hut again.

We sit face to face, with a stone slab between us. My amulets lie on it. The two separate items have been joined, one above the other, by a latticework of what look like murloc claws and teeth. I realize that this is what must have happened to the missing teeth from the skull of my murloc. Now their lower ends have been inserted and melted into the resin disc, while their sharp tips hold the fish-bone lattice in their circle, where it has been bound very tightly and strongly with what looks like very thin sinew. Murloc, no doubt.

The witch-doctor points to the now-singular amulet. "It be done. Big powa in da amulet now. Ya go ta Straga'dorn. Find secret temple. Den ya free da spirit."

She looks at me, deadly serious. "Keep da amulet safe. Rememba dis: bad dings happen if da amulet get broken. Da moment when da spirit leave ya an' be free, da spirit voodoo be tied ta da amulet. Da spirit go free, den amulet be not'in."

While the amulet is in my possession, I must guard it with my unlife and keep it safe. Otherwise something terrible will happen to me, the spirit and the world. I pick it up from the rock. It tingles my fingers even through my gauntlets. Something reaches out from me and through me and binds itself to the amulet. My passenger getting ready to depart, manifest and be free.

"Rememba what ah said," Niljan tells me even as I step on the goblins' boat to make my way to the ship and to sail from this island. "Da moment when da spirit move from ya, da amulet need ta be safe!"

She continues staring at me with her unfathomable expression as the boat departs from the fish-man-hunter island shore. Many villagers, including Mulai, wave at me and yell good wishes in their tongue that I have only barely started to grasp after these weeks. I do not know if I will ever return here. But I think I would like to.