Every part of him - his wrists, his ankles, his nose, his ears - were covered in bones. It made him a rogue you could hear before you saw, rattling and tapping with every step, his near constant whispered conversations with spirits he claimed were always at his side a clear demonstration that the troll was unlike any the Barrens had ever seen. If he had any fear of the dangers the harsh land of the Barrens possessed, he showed it not in the slightest. He strutted along the main road from the Crossroads to Ratchet, eschewing any concept of stealth in spite of his abilities, and jangling with every step. His supreme confidence came from the belief - in his mind, the knowledge - that if he were to pass to the spirit world, his ancestors would give him warning well in advance. It paid to have friends on the other side.
Mebok Mizzyrix, one of Ratchet’s many inhabitants attempting yet another get-rich-quick scheme, knew him more by reputation than anything else. Ratchet was a town of trade, and knowledge was its own currency. Knowing about Saancha the rogue was worth its weight in gold, as long as you knew two aspects of his character; first, that he was reliable, and second, that he was surely mad. That made him the perfect rogue to task with collecting what he was searching for, and if he succeeded he’d gladly look past the incongruous voodoo mask and countless bones worn by the enigmatic rogue.
“Space them out?” Saancha muttered to himself when approaching Mebok, looking off from one side to the next as he took the deepmoss spider eggs out of his pack. “Why? I just be needin’ to… okay, okay.” Fifteen in all, exactly as Mizzyrix had asked for. The goblins of Booty Bay would pay handsomely for spider egg omelettes, and the pittance he paid for the long travel into Stonetalon Mountains and the dangerous collection of the eggs would be a fraction of what he’d get in return. He smiled wide with yellowed goblin teeth and a handful of gold replacing the ones that had rotted away.
Yet no matter how great the riches were, there could always be more. He looked in the troll’s pack. Deep amongst a number of bones and strange, seemingly pointless objects, lay a few extra eggs. Mebok was not one to miss an opportunity, no matter how strange and disconcerting the adventurer was. “Hey, pal, I know I said fifteen, but I’ve got an extra couple silver in it for ya if you want to part with the last couple!” he asked enthusiastically, hoping his attitude would rub off on the strange troll.
Saancha looked back at him through the mask, two deep, intense red eyes staring into him. Through him, maybe. He twirled one of the bones that hung from his earlobes. Mebok could have sworn the mask took on an expression of its own, the painted wood seeming to shift slightly. Then, in a moment and a puff of dark grey smoke, the troll was gone.
Silence, save for the lapping waves on the wharf and the call of goblin traders bartering over the prices down to a single copper. A strange troll indeed, but one that delivered on the goods - and therefore, in Mebok’s mind, the best kind of adventurer. With a shrug of his shoulders he began collecting the eggs.
Suddenly, just as he lost himself in his thoughts of wild splendour and wealth from his upcoming trip to Booty Bay, a voice whispered behind him. “The other eggs be mine,” it said. He was startled enough to leap the height of the troll that was now suddenly a foot behind him. “I’ll be needin’ them. The old one. The young one. They tell me so. I put my faith in them.”
With that, the troll was off again, muttering to himself. Mebok could only shake his head.
—
Saancha arranged the harpy talons all around the feet of Darsok Swiftdagger before collecting them all and doing so again. The orc stood and waited, pleased at the destruction of so much of the harpy menace, but frustrated at the actions of the bewildering rogue who delivered them. Had it not been a returning soldier of the Horde leaving the proof of his completed mission, he would have given a swift boot to the chest and sent him tumbling off the watchtower.
Aggravated, he reached down to collect one of the talons, only to have his hand slapped away - a dangerous thing to do to an orc, and an especially dangerous thing to do to Darsok Swiftdagger. “Fine,” he growled at the troll. “Have it your way. Now return to the place of their hovels, and bring me the rings of their lieutenants. They’ll be-”
“No,” the troll mumbled. Saancha looked to his right side at nothing in particular, nodded, and collected the talons again. “Spirits don’t ask for dat.”
“Spirits? The Horde asks for the rings, not-”
“Nah, mon. Listen. The spirits don’t need dem.” He held up a single talon. “I’m keepin’ this one.”
The orc ran a large hand over his face, wondering if the heat of the Barrens sun, inescapable in the watchtower at the Crossroads, was causing him to see things. “What use would you have in a single harpy’s talon?”
“Hah! Not for me to know.” A puff of smoke, and the troll was gone.
—
Throw the hearts on the ground. Drain the blood. Soak the whole of the Barrens with it. Crush, pound…
Calm. He be needin’ only to show he has them.
Darkthorn asked for hooves, and she's given hearts - ha! Hah!
The blood of the animals will suffice. Show the madness. The madness of the spirits, the madness of us!
Hah! Only one of us is mad, and it isn’t the crone!
Both of you, calm yourselves. Segra Darkthorn comes. Place two of the hearts on the ground, child. To your right and to your left. Hold two more in your hands as she approaches. Press the two into your mask, letting it drain, cover it fully in blood. They must be fearin’ you!
They be thinkin’ he lost his mind!
The coming darkness will take us. Stomp the other hearts. Sacrifice!
“Segra Darkthorn,” Saancha said as the orc hunter approached him. “I have come with proof of the successful hunt of the zhevra. I have collected their-”
“I asked for hooves, troll.”
“Yes, you did. The spirits did not.”
“What spirits?”
Ha! Should we tell her we’re right beside her? My tusks be close enough to lock with hers!
Let him speak without our interference. Saacha - you must do as we be tellin’ ya.
Saacha looked to the old troll spirit, standing matronly and strong at his side. She was the spirit he trusted most, although he followed all three explicitly. Aged but still tall, she carried herself with the regal bearing of a queen. The others, both young, were anxious and mocking, respectively - but their warnings and demands were no less real.
Go, child. Do it now.
Holding the two zhevra hearts in hand, he pushed them against the top of his voodoo mask. The blood ran in thin rivers down the painted white, covering it fully in ichor. He then crushed the other two under foot, ensuring that the steps that he would leave behind were marked in blood.
Did not think he’d do it! Steppin’ on a heart! Hah! Squash! Haha!
…blood begets blood begets blood begets blood…
“Hear me now, orc. I be goin’ alone.” He lifted up his voodoo mask to reveal his face painted ghostly white, the colour of bone, his earrings, his necklaces, his jewellery, bone. “I speak with da spirits. Don’t be followin’ me unless you wish to join ‘em.”
Orcs were never one to take well to threats, but Segra Darkthorn hefted her axe up upon her shoulder and nodded. There was no sense arguing nor reasoning with the mad, and if he wished to leave the Crossroads alone, she wasn’t interested in stopping him. In a cloud of black he disappeared, leaving bloody footprints heading to the west.
She called out to the Crossroads guards shortly after, instructing them to keep their patrols to the east for the day. When asked why, she wasn’t sure what to tell them. Something deep in her heart told her not to follow the troll. When she had looked into his eyes, she could only shiver in spite of the heat.
—
Why ya be so glum? Did ya get too much blood in that long hair of yours?
A deed done in blood. They need not know. Lead them away. Far away. Far away!
They be wanting to stay away from a madman. Crushin’ hearts was my job back when, but not like that! Hah!
Focus, both of you. All three of you. The first of the party lies ahead. Saancha, it is your time.
The spirits had led Saancha out to the west of the Crossroads, past the forward burrow on the route to Stonetalon Mountains and just south of the Forgotten Pools to the northwest. What ‘party’ she meant was beyond him, but he hoped whatever was to come was to happen quickly. The Barrens sun pounded down upon him, long since drying the blood on his mask to a dull, rusty brown, and leaving him desperate to visit the nearby oasis. But if the spirits said to travel this way, they would not let him pass into the next realm so unceremoniously as this. There was a purpose here. He had faith.
And he could hear it before he could see it. The distant stomping, the wind-carried battlecry.
He had spoken to tauren that had described the pounding hooves of a centaur war party. They would say it was like the sound of rolling thunder across the plains of Mulgore, distant and foreboding until it washed over you with a terrible and sudden ferocity. But the centaur tribes have been culled strongly enough for massed, cohesive attacks to be rare.
Rare - but not eliminated.
He could not see the war party yet. Atop a hill in the distance, obscured as it was by the waves of heat emanating off the dusty Barrens ground, was a lone centaur scout. Beyond him would be the patrol party accompanying him, and further beyond that, the whole of the centaur raid. Even the forward barracks and the distant sight of the watchtower at the Crossroads may not provide enough advance warning. This was dire indeed.
There he stands. The first drop in the sea of doom!
Plenty of flies around that one.
Listen carefully, Saancha. You must not kill him. Not yet.
Are ya hearin’ this? Don’t kill him? Hah!
Slit his throat, let the Barrens soak the blood! Just as the zhevra fell!
Draw him to you, the spirit of the old troll woman said. Draw them out.
Against his nature, he walked with his back to the oasis and straight towards the centaur, no semblance of stealth troubling him. It wasn’t long before the centaur saw him, conspicuous against the mostly empty landscape. The horn his enemy blew rang out far, signalling the other centaur to follow him and trample the first of their Horde prey. They came for him now, and they came with the speed of their equine forms carrying them swiftly across the savanna.
Ya done it now! And here I be thinkin’ you were a rogue!
Draw them out, draw their blood…
Good, Saancha, the old one said. But this is not your place to battle. Flee, into the oasis! With haste!
He did not have to be told twice. As quickly as he could, he bounded towards the oasis, five of them in total now after the scout called his brethren. The centaur saw him from a distance, and Saancha was quick. He reached the oasis far faster, allowing himself a place to set an ambush. The bloody footprints left from the stomped hearts would lead them right to him. Now, however, it was an environment better suited to stealth and trickery rather than speed. Here, he suddenly found himself to be at an advantage.
The centaur scout was quick, obviously younger and far more eager to prove himself than the others. He bounded in first with reckless abandon, slow to recognize the inherent advantage of tree cover and enclosed areas that greatly benefited one who specialised in sneak attacks and slipping in and out of combat. He was just about to blow his horn again, signifying a hunt through the oasis’ heavy foliage, when the knife found his throat. He collapsed with the horn still in hand.
The next four were not so foolish. They found the body, snorting and communicating in a halting, harsh language in which he couldn’t understand. It wasn’t long before they split off to search for their prey, moving in teams of two and circling the perimeter of the oasis.
The waters will run red with centaur blood!
Hah! They may! Whose blood, now that is yet to be seen! We may be needin’ to find another one to haunt if this goes bad.
Steady, Saancha. Move towards one of the parties. We will guide you.
“What am I doing here, spirits?” Saancha whispered. “Why must I fight them alone? Why can I not rally the Horde?”
Keep your faith, young one. Do as we say.
Two had branched off towards the water. One held a simple bow, the other a staff. The latter was female, a thin white bandana covering her face and signifying her as one of the centaur clans’ mages.
Open your pack, young one. Saancha did so without questioning. He always did, regardless of how strange or bewildering the order was. The eggs, Saancha.
The centaur with the bow, the larger of the two, turned in his direction. The jingling of the bones on his necklace and wrists made his presence known, and an arrow thumped into the tree just beside his head.
The eggs!
A crackling bolt of lightning from the mage blasted into an adjacent tree, leaving a smouldering, burnt-out hole in the trunk. Another arrow whizzed by. Not knowing what other interpretation he could have chosen, Saancha used what the spirits had given him. He threw the eggs, one at each of the centaur. The one at the mage found its mark, bursting along her side and spreading a great number of tiny deepmoss spiders crawling across her flank and biting into her skin in their own panic. She screamed and swatted at them, giving him a moment’s reprieve. The other egg landed just shy, but as the centaur nocked an arrow and prepared to fire, the spiders crawled up his leg and bit at his arms. The poison began to numb the limb, leaving him unable to pull the bowstring back in full.
The distraction was more than enough time to close the distance. It wasn’t long before the two centaur were down.
Woulda preferred an omelette.
Chaos and blood, spiders and death, poison and pain. Blood begets blood. Direct the blood away. Away!
Two remain, Saancha. Go. Swiftly. Before they retreat and tell the others what happened.
And so he did. He moved swiftly and carefully through the foliage, taking greater care to conceal the sound of the bones that lay upon his wrists and chest. It wasn’t long before he found them; the final two centaur, one mage and one warrior wielding a massive club.
The caster, first.
Don’t want a shock, do ya?
Bleed the magic from her!
The caster fell to the dagger the way so many of its kind have. Cloth was never the best protective armour against a blade. There was still the matter of the larger, more powerful centaur, however, and this one proved to be rather upset at the loss of his companions. Smashing the club against the ground in rage, he charged through the grass and branches at the troll.
Do not strike at him! Make him swing at ya! the younger male spirit demanded.
The club came in strong, but the rogue was nimble. Using the dense foliage of the oasis as cover, he dipped and dodged around the wild swings. A few came close, but none connected. Soon enough, the centaur began to tire, struggling to lift the club let alone send it his way with any true intent.
Hah! Well, I didn’t think ya be listening. I was mostly kidding about not striking him down…
Blood! Blood! A new oasis, just of blood!
One final dodge and three swift strikes, and the final centaur fell. Covered in blood, some from the zhevra’s hearts but most from the centaur, the spirits gave him little reprieve. It was the elder troll spirit that spoke first, and when she spoke, he listened.
Time is short. Take the harpy claws and dig deep into the flesh of the centaur. Mark them everywhere. Mark them across your dagger strikes to appear as if it were harpy claws instead of your blades. Do so. Now! Quickly!
—
Saancha came back along the same path from which he left the Crossroads. Passing by the forward burrow, he heard the orc sentries yelling in harsh, panicked voices. “Centaur war parties - far to the west! I can smell them on the wind already! We must alert…” He paused, as Saancha listened in from beneath the burrow. “Hold.”
“Hmm?” the other orc grunted.
“They’re… shifting. They’re moving to the north.”
“That’s harpy territory.”
“Harpy territory,” the orc said in agreement.
Both grabbed their weapons instinctively at the sound of hysterical laughing coming from underneath them. However, they relaxed when they saw it was a strangely attired, bone-laden troll, covered in dried blood and looking parched from the beating sun. “What’s your business here?” the larger of the two demanded.
“Oh, just savin’ your hides!” Saancha returned. With a puff of smoke he disappeared, finding his way into the burrow and appearing right beside the two of them. “Just gotta trust the spirits, mon.”