zandalarki

[zandalarki]

Hey friends and followers, I don’t post here much anymore, but I am now as I’m trying to help a friend in need. If you’re willing to donate or share, I would really appreciate any and all the help possible. Thank you.

https://gofund.me/f65cd30e

#gofundme #sick dog #charity #veterinary medicine #sick pet #donations

[zandalarki]

This video pisses me off because everything about it is perfect. It’s extremely well shot and composed. Every decision that went into it from the choreographed sunglasses throw to the bass boosted Nickelback seems deliberate and incapable of improvement. 

Nothing I ever make will be better than 12 second long shitpost.

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Honestly… one of the best fight scenes in all of Dragon Ball

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(source)

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When people underestimate how much you can shitpost

[zandalarki]

Trading Fate

The journey to Icecrown had been long and filled with worry. Though Northrend had known peace since the fall of the Lich King, the frigid air carried an aura of unease. Whispers of the Banshee Queen’s own journey to Icecrown had spread, and as Dar’kran and his party travelled, they saw what fear her presence wrought. Warsong Hold had been on a tight lockdown, carefully vetting those who passed in and out. Taunka villages were walled shut, Braves patrolling around their perimeters in droves. The remnants of the Argent Crusade were on high alert, with sky patrols almost always overhead.

And yet, when word of her arrival at Icecrown Citadel came, none were prepared. The Banshee Queen and the swath of loyalists she held had stormed the Citadel, clashing with the Argent Crusade and Knights of the Ebon Blade, and despite the united front, she slipped through their ranks, ascending the Citadel.

“She must mean ta’ take the helm fo’ herself.” Suggested Zul’jawa, “Ta become a new Lich Queen!” 

“Perhaps.” Murmured Dar’kran, as they wove their way through the carnage at the Citadel, his mind elsewhere. His son, Zugon, kept close. Despite his harsh upbringing, the boy showed no signs of fear or worry as they were faced with brutality all around.

The three of them made their way to the inner sanctum, where a lone Argent Crusader laid, mortally wounded at the Saronite Elevator. Dar’kran knelt beside him, placing a hand on his wounds and channeling some soothing waters. “I cannot save ya’, but I can make ya’ end painless, mon.” He rested another hand on the Crusader’s shoulder, locking eyes with him. He was a young Human, with sky blue eyes and a pitiful excuse for facial hair. He was but a boy, left to die in the most damned corner of the world. He deserved some peace. “Did ya’ see her? Da’ Banshee?” The man nodded, his bloodied hand gripping Dar’kran’s arm. “How many are wit’ her now?” He shook his head, a single bloody finger held high.

Fuck.

Dar’kran lowered the man’s hand to his chest, channeling some more soothing waters. As his eyes drifted back and his lids fell, he laid him flat before rising, turning his attention to the elevator. “Only one way to go now.”

They stepped on, and the magical elevator began to rise. Zugon teetered close to the edge, peering over it as they began to rise with a look of wonder on his face. Dar’kran smiled to his son, as he and Zul’jawa unloaded their packs and weapons. Zul’jawa held his chakrams with a grin, “So, ya’ t’ink she’s got a chance, mon?”

“A’h dunno, mon. Against da’ current guy? It be hard ta’ say.”

Zu’jawa hesitated for a moment, as he pulled a whetstone to sharpen the edges of his chakrams. “Ya’ t’ink we got a chance?”

“Absolutely.”

A maddening laugh echoed behind Dar’kran, one that only he could hear. “Dat’s pretty gooood, mon. Don’t want ya’ best bud t’inkin’ he walked into a hopeless situation now, eh?”

Bwonsamdi.

Dar’kran spoke to his patron Loa, only the two of them could hear. “I brought him because he be da’ most unpredictable fighta’ I know. You gonna see, he gonna be avoiding death like it be a party. He growled, as he wrapped his axes, infusing them with the power of the storm. Bwonsamdi kept on laughing.

“Ooh yah, mon. He gonna be dancin’ in his grave if ya’ ain’t careful.” His eyes flared to life for a moment, his tone shifting. “I need ya’ both ta’ be careful, ya’ hear? Dis one gonna cause all sorts o’ trouble if ya’ don’t.”

“Ya’ keep sayin’ dat an’ bein’ cryptic. Would be a lot nica’ if ya’ were straight wit’ me.” The old warrior grumbled.

“Trust me, mon. Ya’ don’t need nor want ta’ know more. It be above ya’ head! Just do what I need ya’ to do, and everyting will be alright” Dar’kran just grunted, hanging his axes from his side as he turned his attention away from his Patron and to his son instead.

“Zugon, c’mere.” He laid a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, handing him a small ritual dagger. “Take dis an’ stay close behind me, ya’ hear? Only use it if ya’ need to.” The boy nodded, a brave look on his face. His tusks were finally starting to take shape. They lacked his father’s spiral, but had his mother’s hooked appearance. He loved that about his boy.

The elevator began to grind and whine as they neared it’s apex. The three held their weapons tight, Dar’kran and Zul’jawa ready to pounce the moment they reached the top and were met with whatever forces waited for them...

...

...

...

There was nothing there for them.

Before them was a single, long causeway. It’s entire stretch was strewn with the bodies of the fallen. Mostly of the undead, and few living. Blood, viscera, and an unholy stench invaded their nostrils as the three of them carefully stepped past the masses, Dar’kran and Zul’jawa testing corpses with their blades to make sure they weren’t faking it.

None so much as stirred.

“Did she really do all o’ dis?” whispered Zul’jawa, brushing his chakram’s against the shaft of an arrow protruding from the chest of a fallen Crusader.

“Aye.” Mumbled Dar’kran, scanning every inch of the causeway as they made their way. The purple haze of the Banshee’s arrows was unmistakable, it was her calling card. Corpse after corpse was decorated in them. One soul had been impaled upon the spikes adorning the guardrails. Another had both of his eyes shot out by arrows with a third sitting in his throat, painted with blood. 

The cold air began to cut deep, and Zul’jawa and Zugon began to shiver, with Zugon trying his best to shield his eyes from the blistering winds. In a split second, the young boy slipped on a slurry of snow and blood, his whole weight shifting to the side and practically over the guardrails. Dar’kran was there without a second thought, grabbing his son by the collar and hosting him back up and into a free arm. 

As Zugon clung to his father, shivering and with his heart beating at a million miles and hour, Dar’kran’s own heart stopped.

No. No. How?

As he looked over the edge where his son had nearly fallen, Dar’kran’s gaze met a massive maul caught on a ledge, adorned with the blood red imagery that was once so typical of Kor’kron weaponry. Beside it, shattered fragments of armor, a puddle of tainted blood, and an all too familiar scent.

Skullcrusha. 

He..he’s here. Was here. His presence was but only lingering...By the spirits, was he...finally..?

“Bwonsamdi?” Dar’kran called to his Patron, and the Loa of Death appeared to graciously.

“Watchu doin’, mon? Why ain’t ya’ movin’?

“Where is he?” he said coldly, he was done playing games.

“Dun look at me, mon. He ain’t my responsibility.”

“So, is he dead or not?”

“Bahhh!” the Death Loa scoffed, fading away, “Ya’ ain’t got time for stupid questions, mon. Get a move on, or it be both ou’ heads!”

That last part took him by surprise. As he continued to walk the causeway with Zugon in hand, he kept wondering. “Both ou’ heads?” What was the bastard talking about?

“Hey, mon! Look!” Zul’jawa pointed to an opening at the end of the causeway, “I t’ink we’re almost to the end!” Dar’kran snapped his attention back to the matter at hand and jogged to catch up, the three of them making it out from the open air and into the antechamber there at the end. Inside was another elevator, presumably to the top of Icecrown Citadel, and beside it an arcane teleportation rune. The two older trolls sighed for a moment, as they gazed up the rest of the elevator.

They were nearly there. Loud cracks and the howling winds of winter echoed above them. By the Loa...

“They already be goin’ at it...” Zul’jawa spoke in awe, swallowing a lump in his throat. Dar’kran recognized the fear in his voice and as he set down Zugon, saw the same quivering in his son. Dar’kran’s own gaze shifted upwards, then back to his son as he set him down and knelt down to his level.

“You gonna stay down here, aight? It be too dangerous for ya’ up there. But we’ll be fine. We’ll be back.” He cupped his son’s face for a moment. “I promise.” Zugon smiled, holding his father’s dagger tightly and nodded. Dar’kran then turned his attention back to Zul’jawa, the mon was wrapping trinkets and bijous around his arms and chakrams, whispering zandali incantations and prayers to himself. They were prepared to face what was likely doom...

*CRACK*

What the?

*CRACK* *CRACK*

Dar’kran began to sway, his head feeling foggy.

A deafening boom reverberated down from the peak of Icecrown Citadel and beyond. A pulse of energy unlike anything anyone had ever felt before swept through them all, and quite literally knocked Dar’kran on his back, clutching his chest.

By the spirits...”Zul!” he gasped, clutching his chest in agony.

His heart had stopped...What the hell had happened?

“Zul?!” He gasped out again, Zugon at his father’s side now with a look of terror and confusion on his face. Zul’jawa snapped out of it, hearing Dar’kran’s crys, he rushed to his battle-brother. Both he and Zugon looked down on Dar’kran with terror and confusion. Dar’kran scanned the area around them in a frenzy, scared and unsure of what was happening, then he saw him...

Bwonsamdi...

“I told ya’! Ya’ were too slow!” Screamed the Death Loa, this time for all the hear. Zugon and Zul’jawa leapt as the the Loa loomed over them all, specifically Dar’kran. “And now look at what she did? She broke everyting!” Life an’ Death are broken!”

“Ww..w-hat?” Dar’kran mumbled, his vision becoming dark.

“Da’ very magic that I used ta’ give ya’ dis stupid body back is all out o’ whack now. I got nothin!”

Dar’kran turned to face Zugon, who looked terrified beyond all reason. He still clutched that dagger closely. Dar’kran tried to say something, but he was too weak. He was..fading.

“An’ now, ya’ makin’ me need ya’ more then eva! Damn you, Dar’kran, fo’ makin’ me do dis!” Cried Bwonsamdi, who in a blink of an eye had snatched the dagger from Zugon.

No...please. Not my son...not for my failure.

White hot pierced the fog, and Dar’kran’s attention snapped back to center. In the center of his chest, Bwonsamdi had buried the dagger to the hilt. “We gonna be workin’ a lot closa’ together now, mon.” Hissed the Death Loa, who turned both himself and the dagger to smoke, flowing into Dar’kran.

Dar’kran’s heart did not beat. Yet he did not die. The fog was lifted, and yet he felt stronger than before. He rose slowly, and both Zul’jawa and Zugon looked at him with horror and confusion. “What just happened?”

“Oh, ya’ couldn’t tell, mon?” Echoed Bwonsamdi from..within Dar’kran?

“For now, we are one.”

#World of Warcraft #shadowlands #trolls #zandalari #rp #creative writing

[zandalarki]

DESTINY 2: BEYOND LIGHT

↠  THE CROW

[zandalarki]

Eris Morn in Destiny 2- Beyond Light Reveal Trailer.

[zandalarki]

“Focus on your power, let it grow… Our fight is far from over” - The Stranger.

[zandalarki]

having a normal one on twitter

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The Calling

Snow and slush touched waves whipped against a hull of a massive warship. At it’s head, a lone troll stood surveying the horizon, seemingly unfazed by the cold winds which would chill others to the bone. In his hand, he tightly clutched a totem of the Loa of Death, Bwonsamdi; who had commanded him north for an unknown reason. The troll obeyed without a second thought, who was he to second-guess his patron Loa who brought him life after all? Thankfully, Bwonsamdi said nothing about bringing along company.

“Aye, Dar’kran!” howled a voice over the cold winds, as two more trolls stepped up to the head of the ship, the lone troll turning his head to see them. A man and a child, each of them was clad in heavy wool and cloaks shielding them from the cold; neither of them had quite the resistance as he. “Come on inside, mon, its getting late!” the older troll beckoned to the loner, to which he nodded and followed them.

Inside the deck cabin, the other two trolls shed their protective gear, the older one shaking his green braids free and brushing some frost from his tusks. The younger one sneezing and shaking his hands and face to warm up, he was but a tuskling really. They were Zul’jawa and Zugon, the only family that the old troll had left in this world. They settled in the middle of the cabin, warming their hands at the brazier, it’s fire flickering. Zugon rubbed his hands together for a moment and, while sneezing, managed to conjure more flame with the help of the elements, his shaman training had yielded fantastic results so far. The older troll, Dar’kran, sat with them, rustling his young son’s hair as a sign of pride and acknowledgment, a small smile on his face, “That’s my boy. Just like your ol’ mon.” Zugon flashed a toothy grin, his tusks finally starting to take more prominent shape. Dar’kran’s attention turned to Zul’jawa, his best friend, who’s own shivering had stopped and now was just reclining next to the brazier. “We should make landfall by morning. We should be able to resupply and rest for a day or two at Warsong Hold then before we move forward. Are you still along for the ride, brother?”

Zul’jawa sat up, yawning and stretching, “Mon, it’s been way too long since I’ve had a nice adventure with ya. I ain’t quittin now! And besides,” he reaches to Zugon, rustling his hair like his father just did, “Gonna need more protection than just Zugon here, you be on creaky old mon now!” He let out a hearty laugh, nearly falling backwards. while Zugon actually did. Dar’kran smiled.

“Good to hear, mon. Its always nice to have some travel companions.”

“You can always count on me, mon!”

“And me too, fatha!” Piped Zugon, propping himself up on his elbows. The little mon looked exhausted, yawning as the words left him. Dar’kran chuckled, as he rose to scoop up his son in his arms.

“That’s the spirit, lil mon. Now you get some rest, we got a big day tomorrow.” Murmured Dar’kran, as he set his son down in his bunk for the night, Zugon nodding and closing his eyes as his father tucked him in. Dar’kran returned to the brazier, gazing into the flames for a moment.

“You okay, mon?” uttered Zul’jawa, a look of concern on his face.

“Yah, mon. It’s just..” he struggled to find the words for a moment, “Bwonsamdi has never seemed so concerned before, said he could feel all kinds of bad mojo moving north.”

“Do you think it’s her?”

“Maybe, but I don’t know why he’d send me. Against someone like the her, what could I possibly hope to achieve?” He scratched his chin a moment.

“Bolvar maybe?” Zul was rubbing his chin now.

“Unlikely. Mon ain’t exactly sunshine and happiness, but I can’t imagine him stirring up trouble like the one before.” he shrugged, stepping towards the window of the cabin and gazing outward, the tip of Icecrown now barely visible in the far off distance. Zul walked up beside him, gazing outward with him.

“You know, he could be up there, causing some trouble..” Zul’s voice ran cold, fists clenching. Dar’kran rested a hand on his shoulder.

“We don’t know that. All of your Siame-Quashi agents haven’t been able to find anything to pin him anywhere. For all we know, he could be rotting under some rubble.” He trailed off, doubting even his own words, until Zul hit him in the shoulder.

“Best we don’t tempt fate then, aye mon?” Zul smirked, and did Dar’kran.

“You’re right, mon. You’re right.” He chuckled, patting his friend on the back. “I’m going to go out for a bit longer. You get some rest, aye?” They nodded to one another, as Dar’kran stepped out into the icy cold once again.

The cold didn’t bother him one bit, not ever since he first ventured to Northrend decades earlier, this was just like any other climate for him. And yet, as he stared at the monument to death in the distance, an uneasy feeling set in. He had no way of knowing for sure, but he had a sense that this was the beginning a harrowing journey, and that the ghosts of his past would surely have words with him.

#darkran #World of Warcraft #rp #writing

[zandalarki]

I wonder if Vader ever found out that the droid who carried the Death Star plans was Artoo.

I can just imagine him thinking: “This explains everything. My men didn’t stand a chance.”

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VRchat will never cease to amazing me.

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THE DREAMING CITY;   queen’s court

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[zandalarki]

Zin’jang

The Pyramid or Dazar’Alor had never seemed so magnificent. Naked, but without care, Dar’kran walked the steps of Zuldazar to the Great Pyramid, drawn to it like a moth to the flame.

When he’d arrived at the Port of Zandalar, no one dared approach the massive Troll, eyes transfixed on his scars and old and faded tattoos. Their meaning not lost to the older onlookers. But now, as he ascended the steps towards the seat of absolute power among all Troll-kind, he was met with resistance. A Prelate of the Rastari blocked his path, her spear poised at his throat in a blur, “Why do you approach the Great Seal, old mon?” she spoke, voice low but stoic.

“I come..” he paused, pondering the question. He was still in shock at the fact that Zandalar still stood, now swallowed by the sea like those he’d spoken to had said. He hadn’t stopped to ask himself why he walked to the city, and to the Great Pyramid, he simply did.

“Put that spear down, fen’di.” Another voice spoke, emerging from behind a row of the Animated Golems. This one, a Prelate herself, wore highly decorative armor and was flanked by two other Rastari. The Prelate before him lowered her spear, offering the newcomer a respectful head bow.

“High Prelate,” the spear-wielder said facing the newcomer, “This mon has approached the Great Seal, forgoing the motions of passage,” she shoots him a glance, “And his attire is nothing less than...disrespectful.”

The newcomer, the High Prelate, approached Dar’kran, circling him. “Who are you, old mon? Your scars say you are a warrior,” she looks him over with greater scrutiny, “Your tattoos say you are so much more,” she stops in front of him, placing her spear to a different, more outlandish symbol on his chest, “But this...this says you are a threat.” She draws back, the other Rastari holding their spears at the ready. “Who are you?”

Dar’kran looks to his feet for a moment, pondering the question. He has been many things, but what is he to them? What do they want him to be? His eyes set on his faded tattoos, from a time long-forgotten by most, and hardly remembered by himself. He looks to her, eyes locked with hers. “I am our king’s Great Warbringer, sent to lead our people beyond Zandalar. I am the Destroyer of the Veil, and leader of Yojamba’s greatest warriors.” He pauses for a moment, as he considers his next words, “I am the Battleguard of the Battlesworn, the elite of the Kor’kron Legion, the greatest champions of the Horde. To them, I am Dar’kran, but to you, fen’di, I am Dar’rokh.”

While the other Rastari murmur to one another, the High Prelate still stares upon him, her gaze unwavering, and quite unimpressed. “And what about this?” She hisses, as she jabs the tip of the spear at his chest, the tip barely nicking the surface, where the mark of Bwonsamdi is plain for all to see. “Do you come serving fickle death, to claim our king for him?” She pushes the spear further, the blade slowly slicing up part of his chest, yet he does not falter.

“Death has marked me with his blessing, for my purpose is to serve the living still. I serve them, and above all else, our king.” His gaze drifts from hers, up to the top of the Great Pyramid, just as the sun rises from behind, its majesty and warmth bringing tears to his eyes.

The High Prelate slowly lowered her spear, and with a quick gesture, her Rastari drape the old man with their own cloaks, and usher him down from the Great Pyramid, and away to the outskirts of Zuldazar. 

They come upon the Mugambala, the battle grounds of the Warbringers in the past, and now a prime spot for Rastari to train and prove their might. Here, they undrape him and offer him clothes, which he so graciously accepted. The High Prelate hadn’t taken her gaze off of the old Troll since they met, studying him as he dressed.

“So, Warbringer,” she said, piercing the silence surrounding them, “Why have you come home?”

“Because it is where I belong.” He answered quickly, confident in his answer and his purpose.

“But you serve the Horde as well?” Her eyes scan a tattoo of the Horde on his arm, “You swore a new oath, devoted yourself to someone or something new. Are you twice a deserter?” Her words cut deep.

“Deserter...hmph,” he rose, taking a few steps towards her, “When the Cataclysm shattered Azeroth, Zul’s missionaries brought word to all corners of the world that our beloved homeland had been swallowed by the sea, that there was nothing to come home to. The whole world believed him.” He takes a few steps closer, standing two heads taller than the High Prelate. “He even convinced our oldest ally of this falsity, to which I ask what would you have done?”

She looked at him silently, unfazed by his standoffish behavior.

“When the Orc Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, threatened to plunge the world into chaos and war, I left the corrupted Horde to rebuild and fight for something new, I di-.”

“I did not ask for your life story, Warbringer.” She said, calm and collected, “I asked are you a deserter?”

He paused, realizing his pride and rambling had brought him nowhere. Exhaling, he sat on a nearby bench, looking to her, “No, High Prelate, I am not a deserter. I thought my home, my purpose, was lost to the waves, and...” he felt his chest, where the mark of Bwonsamdi lay, “And I died for the Horde, only to be brought back, here.”

She looked him over once again, her gaze less harsh and scrutinizing, “And why do you think the Loa of Death has brought you back here, Warbringer?”

Once again, he pondered the question. Why was he here? What greater destiny is there beyond dying at the Broken Shore. He sighed, “I do not know, High Prelate. Death believes I have a greater purpose in life, and apparently, here, on Zandalar. What that is, I wish to find out for myself.”

For a moment, the High Prelate stood silently, her grip on her spear tightening..then she thumped then blunt end on the ground in a rhythmic pattern, beckoning Rastafarian assistants. Each of them carrier armor and weaponry in hand. “So let us find out. We face enemies to the north in Vol’dun and Nazmir. Our king wishes for us to deal with those threats quietly.” The assistants would begin to cloth Dar’kran, adorning him with armor. “You will prove for us and to his royal highness that you are still worthy of your title. Quell the northern insurrection, or do not return.”

Dar’kran stood now, clad in traditional Zandalari warplate. It felt right, so familiar..and when they offered him a choice of blades, and he gripped the massive war-axe, he felt whole once again.

[zandalarki]

E’ko

In the depths of the Great Sea, elemental madness and untold energies give birth to new and bizarre life…

One such life, a massive serpent with several heads, similar to that of the terrestrial hydras, skulks around the depths, in search of bottom feeders to make its next meal. Its eyes are pale and meager, the creature opting to rely on its other senses to find its way around the deep dark depths. It sifts through the silt of the ocean floor, turning up snails, crabs, sea-cucumbers, and all manner of invertebrates, much better suited for these parts of the ocean. Usually, such findings would delight the creature, but today, its senses draw it elsewhere.

The serpent swims menacingly through the depths, its multiple heads poking around in different directions, trying to get a fix on that odd sensation drawing it near. Is it food? No, though the iron scent so often associated with blood is unmistakable. It searches on, traveling deeper and deeper.

The serpent slows its pace, as it begins to feel the warmth and sensation of arcane energies seeping from a cracked mana line below. These mana lines provide valuable light in these depths, attracting even the most elusive of prey to its edges. On any other day, this would be a feast for the serpent, but it is driven onwards by the otherworldly sensation.

Beyond the mana line, into a deep sea crag, the serpent’s agile body maneuvers gracefully through the tight rock formations. The source of the sensation is close, so close. What is it? The serpents heads all convene, forward facing as they get closer and closer to the sensation.

It comes upon a clearing, smooth sand lie untouched by any creature in a perfectly round outcrop. There, in the middle, is the source of that bizarre sensation. It swims closer, its mostly blind eyes honing in on the object of it’s interest, its other senses helping to paint a picture.

It is a sharp, jagged piece of metal, with some odd ornamentation. A gold skull, with teeth as large as the serpents own, and bright red jewels embedded in it’s eye sockets. The ornamentation is cracked and charred, so too is the jagged metal. The serpent has never seen something like this before. Is it a bizarre shell? Is it food? The serpent swims closer, encircling the object, while one of its more curious heads moves in for a closer look.

Suddenly, an arc of light lashes from the object, striking the curious head, causing it and the rest of the serpent to convulse suddenly. The serpents body goes rigid, as more and more arcs of light lash out and stab at it. This pain is intense, so intense that the serpent can do nothing in the agonizing moment as the light continues to lash at its body, causing its blood to boil, its scales to burn, and the brains of each of its heads to light up with chaotic activity, as the energy from this strange light cooks the serpent.

Finally, the serpents heart stops, and the last chemical impulse in its brain stops. Now, the metal object glows with an eerie white light, scattering any other life that would have witnessed what just happened. The ocean floor is illuminated like never before, and yet in the majesty of it, there is still darkness, and from that darkness, something else lurks.

From the shadows cast behind a rock, something evil and menacing begins to laugh. “Like fish in a barrel.” it says, voice cold. A hand, half skeletal, half fleshed, reaches from behind the rock, as the thing emerges. It does not have scales, or an odd gelatinous skin like the rest of the deep sea life, but is instead covered in ghastly gray flesh. Its arms are slender and lack flesh in some places, exposing bone and some black core, blacker than even the depths of the sea. Its torso emits the same darkness, but cracks in it also emit an uneasy light. But, it’s face is all the more haunting. A skull, with scattered fleshy bits, and two massive tusks, and that haunting light emitting from its eyes. This creature is death incarnate.

“Hehehe, Bwonsamdi did good, eh?” He says to himself. “A’h t’ink dis will be jus’ enough ta’ get da’ job done.” The Death Loa glided across the ocean floor towards the metal object, a sinistee chuckle emanating from within. He whips his hand up, commanding the flesh and organic tissue to rise from the serpents corpse. Blood, fat, and oil fill the ocean water, yet none of the local ocean life dare grabbing a bite. In the wake of this, there is nothing but the serpents skeleton, surprisingly sturdy and flexible, despite the crushing pressure of the ocean depths. Bwonsamdi flicks his wrists again, causing the bones to twist, fracture, and compress into new shapes and sizes, as he sculpts them into something new.

Vertebrae were compressed, razor sharp teeth were fused into two identical, much larger ones. Teeth and ribs were splintered and fused to form tibia, fibula, humeri, radii, carpals, tarsals, and dozens of more tiny bones. Skulls were shattered and molded to form scapula and pelvic girdles, and one was molded into a visage similar to that of the Death Loa himself. He looked upon his creation, a devilish grin across his hollow face, his work was almost done.

The Death Loa sniffed the water, blood was still bountiful in the wake of the Serpent’s demise. With his palm open, the blood began to drift to him, his own dark powers compressing it into a single, bubbly mass, engulfing the skeleton he’d just constructed. He walked closer, peering into the bloody mass, watching as blood coagulated against the skeleton, forming large masses within. “Yess..” He purred, reaching for the metal object near his foot and yanking it free from the sand, his reflection visible in the jeweled eyes. He and the bloody mass began to rise from the depths.

As they rose, light began to break through the dark ocean water, illuminating the bloody mass and what was inside. Blood was coagulating and attaching to the skeleton in an orderly fashion, morphing and toughening over time. The creation began to twitch. Bwonsamdi smiled with glee.

Finally, they broke the surface, and the Death Loa, walking on water, ushered the blood mass to a nearby shore, where it slithered itself ashore, growing smaller and smaller as the blood continued to gather around the skeleton. The figure within stirred more. Bwonsamdi took a few steps away, gazing out into the ocean, a faint orange light illuminating part of the sky in the distance. “It ain’t like ol’ Bwonsamdi ta’ do somet’in like dis.” He said, playing with the metallic object in his hands. “But, a’h’m not gettin’ enough work. All da’ otha’ death gods had der’ fun lately, but ol’ Bwonsamdi gotta sit back an’ accept nothin’? Nah..” He turned to what remained of the bloody mass, it now clung tight to the figure, a troll figure. 

“So, we got’ make a deal.” He looked now to the metal object, inspecting it closely. It is the hilt of a massive, Zandalari blade. “Ju’ gonna one o’ ma’h agents. All who fall at yo’ hands, dey comin’ ta’ me’h. Troll o’ othawise.” He grinned, his black teeth contrasting against his eerily glowing maw. “A’h t’ink ten-t’ousand sounds fair.” He walked closer, the blood parting and revealing the fresh blue flesh of a Zandalari Troll. “In return, a’h grant ju’ life, an’ da’ body ta’ do what a’h need ya’ to.” He placed a hand to the Troll’s still chest, as black and gold runes began to appear, the Death Loa’s mark.

“Now, rise, child o’ Zandalar. Rise, o’ great Warbringa’. Ju’ ‘ave a debt ta’ pay, an yo’ Loa commands ju’ ta’ rise!” The troll twitched, as his heart began to beat, blood began to flow, and his new lungs began to breath for him. Bwonsamdi raised the metal hilt, and as he brought it down on the trolls chest, he shouted, “Rise, Dar’kran!”

Dar’kran shot upward, a sharp, burning pain in his chest, yet when he felt for it, there was nothing. He looked down at his hands, flexing them. He felt..odd. Strong, Invigorated, yet uneasy. Like something was looming over him, a shadow of dread ready to swallow him up. He dropped his hands to his side, feeling the coarse sand in his fingers, and watching it cascade down as he raised his hands again. ‘How am I here?’ he wondered, as he looked at his hands in front of his face. 

Behind his hands, the orange glow caught his attention. He rose slowly, his legs a little wobbly but by no means weak, his toes curling in the sand as he did. He rubbed his eyes as he strained his vision out towards the orange glow. ‘It’s the sun.” He thought to himself, expecting to be warmed by it’s glow…but he felt nothing. He focused his eyes more, now stepping into the water as he tried getting just a bit closer. His eyes widened as he realized what he saw.

Teldrassil is burning.

His mouth hung slightly agape. ‘Did the Burning Legion win? Are they all over Azeroth now?’ he wondered. ‘No, those aren’t fel flames…those are natural…Vol’jin?’ He swallowed hard at the thought, turning from the sight and looking at the ground in thought. ‘What has happened…how long was I out…where am I?’ The last question gave him pause, as he looked up, seeing the thick jungle behind him, a flock of scaly looking birds overhead, and a ruined golden arch with a skull emblazoned in the middle looming over him. He fell to his knees.

“I’m home.”