The Cost of War

The smell of fire stung my nostrils as I slowly made my way through the lines of shattered bodies, gleaming armor dented and stained with blood, the eyes of the dead lifted skywards, imploring silently for redemption. Each footfall soaking my toes in blood each turn revealing another tragedy that weighed upon my heart like a lead chain, loss as far as the eye could see. It is said that war has many faces and each as ashen and painful as the next, but in all my long years very little has matched the horror of civil war. For when brother turns on brother there is no clear victor..and when the roar of battle has died down...the banners have all fallen still the silence of the night washes in like a bitter tide bringing only stinging regret. My thoughts consumed me as I wandered the rows of the dead and dying until a soft grip on my ankle halted my progress and drew me from my reverie. Looking down I saw a young Orc soldier laying on his back, his abdomen cleaved open, his grip weak and his eyes pleading with me.

Slowly lowering down to my knees I slipped my fingers into the rebel's and squeezed as I peered into his eyes, so full of pain and terror as he lay stricken, hovering just a moments away from the Baron's grasp. Despite himself he forced a small smile onto his blood stained lips as he recognized me as a Troll and I could feel his pride that he had died fighting for something be believed in. I opened my lips to speak when I was interrupted by a cough behind me and in turning I made out the form of an Older Orc clad in dented plate with a notched old axe over one shoulder. His eyes bright and intense narrowed slightly at the site of me kneeling near the rebel and by his armor I knew him at once to be Kor'kron. Lowering his axe he strode over to us and in a gruff voice demanded "Why are you Here Troll...Can't you see you lost this battle?" and he pointed his axe towards the Orc laying near me. Taking a step forward his heavy booted feet came to a crashing halt as I drew my robed hands away from the orc laying before me, the cloth falling away and revealing the face of the dying Orc.

The Kor'kron's eyes widened and shot from the Rebel to myself and back as I felt his entire body droop, leaning forward...the axe once held so powerfully falling from his mailed fist to lay at his feet. On shaky legs he approached and I rose to my feet taking a step back, this was not my moment this was his and as he fell to his knees before the dead rebel he peered back at me and his eyes once so full of intensity seemed to me..lost, so full of pain. It is a look I have seen a thousand times before and each time I see it the effect robs me of my breath, it is something I shall never overcome...and perhaps that is proper, one should never grow accustomed to such things. I watched silently as the Kor'kron turned his face from me, to try and hide the tears that even now began to well up...I watched silently as he removed his mailed gloves to rest a hand on the Rebels forehead. His voice cracked with emotion as he spoke "Will you perform our rite Troll?" to which I responded "Ah will, and bury 'im", to which the  large Orc simply nodded.

I stood in silent observation as long moments passed, calloused and scarred hands stroking the hair from the dead Rebel's forehead gently, when he again spoke "He was my brot-" and I cut him off with a simple "Ah know", to which he again nodded silently and fell forward, his forehead resting against his brothers and began to weep. I had to look away as the wretched, pitiful sound of a being dealing with such loss was uncomfortable enough, I did not wish to watch his body lurching as sobs broke his powerful form. Extending a hand I rested it firmly on the Orc's shoulder and patted before I wandered off.

Very few ever felt the weight of their actions and decisions...but in this battlefield of strangers two brothers separated by ideals had once again come together, but at a cost that would haunt me for the rest of my days.

 "When darkness falls, our sins return to sing us to our rest"
Keeper Bha'zim'Guul
 

Tip The Hand

I sat and stared at this parchment for many hours, quill perched and ready but unable to inscribe these words. It is only fitting now in darkness, in shame, in this silent place that I may record what ultimately must be recorded. I have made a bargain...Loa forgive me I have made a bargain against my soul itself. I traded my son for the life of another, and restored peace to my Tribe...at a cost I may never truly fathom. I pray that with time my mind may become dull, that with the stains of time my memories may fade, and I may forget what I have done, but as I sit in the darkness my sins return to me and weigh about my brow like a crown of iron nails whose spikes cut deep...so very deep.

"The man who holds life in hand, carries death in his pocket"
Keeper Kha'Jur'Guul

A Shadow is Born

As I put quill to parchment I find myself distracted by the influx of energy coursing through my body and realize several moons have come and gone without rest. I've begun training my adopted Nephew in the ways of the shadow Hunter and our frequent trips to the Shadowlands have re-invigorated my powers and energy. I find however my greatest source of energy is pride, pride in the achievements of my nephew and his resilience during such a trying phase of his tutelage. I was concerned for his safety when imbibing the Elixir of Shadow..however not only did he survive he came free of the experience in perfect health. My old darkened heart can't help but swell with filial affection at the boys tenacious yet reverential attitude towards the pathway of education that he has started down. It is uncommon to find such passion, drive and respect for the old ways in such a young mind and heart, but it is I the teacher who find my student waiting respectfully for the next step.

I will closely watch my student for the next few weeks as the effects of the elixir will surely play havoc on his personality as his body learns to find balance with the shadowy essence within. Already I have seen his powers of stealth greatly improved and he has even begun to learn the art of shadow warping, which as you well know is the ability to phase ones weapons out and re phase them bypassing armor and protection to achieve horrendous wounds. I find myself with a sliver of hope that the son will persist where the father had failed, and carry on his bloodlines dedication to the Shadow Hunter art. The candle burns low and my duties in the boneyard call, so I will end this entry with a favored excerpt from the Scrolls of Infinite Shadow.

"The shadow reflects not the face that gazes into it, only the darkness hidden beneath"
- Keeper Azhil'Guul.

The Candled Flickered

Dark days are where I find myself as I sit at my table quill in hand I find myself at a loss to explain the mix of emotions that course through my tired old heart. Troubled occurrences weigh heavily upon my brow and  I struggle to keep my head up in the wake of recent events. The very ink with which I scratch these words upon this ancient parchment seems a metaphor for my existence, darkened slices leaving the history of my troubled life upon weathered skin. In the span of only a few days I have spoken the word goodbye to two very important Souls in my world and I fear I have failed both in my indecision.

My adopted Son Zon ever a creature of pride and instinct believes he has shamed our Tribe with recent events, and in his shame opted to place himself in exile. So stricken with guilt was he, that he barely told anyone of his departure and I feel has made a grievous error. His Tribe cares for him and will be undoubtedly concerned with his absence but his stubborn nature is legendary and I was unable to persuade him to speak to them. What troubles me most is that he did not inform me of his decision, and were it not for my close tie to him I would have missed his passing...but I felt something was amiss and intercepted him before he left. It was I who pulled him from the darkness not so many years ago and brought his mind back to him, for years I taught him self control to maintain his hold and to keep the beast at bay and I had thought..thought that our bond of friendship meant more than this...but it seems that he struggles with his inner demons even now. I...am hurt that he did not tell me, I have ever been a sympathetic ear to his struggle, and perhaps this is precisely why he did not tell me...for fear I would talk him out of it. I have grown to love him like a Son, and as I promised his father..sealing the bond with his dying breath, I will forever watch over him. Now it seems my son has once again slipped from my fingers and I am left with an unshakable feeling I have failed him again...I could not quell the pain and grief in his heart for the murder of his mate and again when he needed me most I watched him walk off into darkness. I pray and have faith that The Baron will look over my much loved child and lead him to the peace he so greatly deserves...but in the deepest darkest places of my soul I fear one day it will be my hands who close his eyes and my hand trembles as I put these thoughts to parchment.

Sitting in my old chair I can see the flickering of the candle at my desk and see that soon the wick will be burned to the quick casting me in darkness and for the life of me I can't be bothered to light another. The following words are best put to parchment in the same darkness that caused them, for the revealing light can only cast the shadow of doubt on my actions and this I can not face. In the lingering night I can still smell her perfume hanging in the air a gentle reminder of the joy she had brought to this cold place, brought to me. For but a brief time I was allowed to bask in her fire, warmth and love and as the Loa are my witness she made me want desire again. Like a breath of fresh air filling my lungs I breathed in her thriving life and for the faintest of moments...I was alive, a shadow of hope trapped in emerald orbs that made my soul shudder when they shone upon my lowered brow. I would have killed the world, sacrificed all that is my existence just for another night spent in that embrace...but it was simply not meant to be. No matter how enrapturing how enchanting her touch was, as I read the branch of her life there was so much more to do...to accomplish and the leaves of life require warmth...the sun on her skin to grow...not the cold shadow of a dusty old Hut. Her life so robust so powerful holds so many great things yet to come...a child born of love a joy brought into the world under the morning sun, her life...her heart should be held in the light and cherished...not forever entombed in the tender cold embrace of a love that whispers in shadows. It killed a part of my soul to do it, to see the pain etched upon her face, the rejection she felt as I had to let her go...but I beg that in time she will see the wisdom of my decision. Those first steps...leaving her there standing alone, were the most difficult I can remember taking...but the further away from her light that I got...the more the numbing mercy of the enveloping shadows grew. Had I tears to weep for my loss I would bitterly etch them upon this old parchment to sign my emotions away...but as I sit here alone in the darkness...the air filled with the sulfurous scent of the candle long since extinguished..the shadows come to me as an old friend so long forgotten...offering their chilling Nepenthe.

Strange Things in the Shadow Seen

After several disconcerting forays into places I fear the tribe was never meant to tread, two of our bravest appear to have been afflicted by some kind of madness. The spirits tell me terrible things whispered in their dreams and I fear they may be driven to the very edge of sanity if I do not intervene. This precipice, this very razor edge between sanity and the abyss of madness below is one I have long walked, and as brave as they may be they are ill equipped to deal with such. Particularly the Tauren Kruega who walks with the light, the higher one places themselves morally, the more painful and intense the fall...and he will not survive this...I have seen this. This madness...I know his foul stench for I have smelled it before with the Rising of Hakkar, ancient, foul, cruel and determined it permeates their being...but this is not the will of the Baron...and I will be damned for eternity before I let any harm befall my adopted Tribe. As the gardener to the uncooperative branch, I will guide it to it's place or snap it off at the root and begin again. My determination is my strength...I am iron...and beast nor god is prepared to contend with my will in the defense of my charges.

To this end I have fashioned a Soul string...an ancient fetish used by my ancestors to capture troubling dreams and visions and funnel them to a Witch Doctor who can guide and negate such unclean apparitions. The creation is an arduous process and taxing on my resources but necessary. I will present this to Kruega soon and have him place it where he sleeps at night...and then the game begins. Let us see how well these horrors fare against the two of us when I control his dreams, this should offer some temporary solace until the root of the issue can be found and severed.

...In an unrelated note..and one that I must confess has me at a loss...I find myself reminded of my living self in a...not unpleasant way. One has dared to brave the shadows and I fear has awoken a frightening passion that I'm concerned...this brave soul is unprepared to weather. Though as I record these words the the fragrant scent of a creature that has not graced my home in...many many years hangs about me like a warming blanket on chill nights..and I find my ears turned to the moonlit night with hope...hope that the gathering storm finds soft footsteps back to my humble abode.

Memories like a Sharp Blade.

Many times the Baron's Collectors have been asked why we do not blink, why our gaze is as eternal and finite as the grave itself, and more often than not we respond with some kind of cryptic reference to our duty.
This is however a lie, one we weave to continue the concept of the unbiased ever watchful Collector, it's a deliberate misdirection spawned out of requirement, the less questions asked the less revealed and the mysteries of the grave are preserved. The truth however is far less noble, and is an uncomfortable thought for those whose faith depends on our unshakable laconic nature.

The truth is that at one point or another we were all Trolls, our hearts beat, we felt pain, love and suffering and...we remember. As I sit in this old chair it is not swords, nor fire, nor loss of limb that I fear most...it is memories. Like spirits conjured from the darkest recesses of the mind, they return to haunt me in the late hours of the night when my eyelids grow heavy and sleep clutches at my mind dragging me down to witness all that I have done, all that I have witnessed in my long, long existence. Like many of my brethren I do not close my eyes often for when I do the ghosts of my past return to haunt me...and they are as unforgiving and cruel as only memories can be. The touch of every lover left behind, every mothers tears shed for a lost child, the anguish and pain I daily encounter are entombed within my mind for all time.

Try as I might I can not think of myself as a...thing, a creature who spirits those away to their end without feeling or concern..I am...after all is said and done..a Troll, and while my flesh has faded to shadow and my heart is a darkened grotesque mockery of it's former state, I still feel...everything.

A Moment Longer

As the War Drums again beat I followed my Horde Brothers and Sisters
to the Grim lands of Tol Barad, a barren pitiful speck of rock whose
roots soak with blood. I follow there whenever possible because the place
is a prison to the souls of those who can not pass on, forever chained to
that place, so I go to ensure the fallen in each battle find their way home.

When the cries of battle and the clang of steel passes and there is no further
glory to be had the victors and the defeated trudge off to heal their wounds,
and the battlefield becomes the home of the dead. Passing through the piles
of departed...Horde and Alliance I walk chasing off wicked spirits who seek
to claim another prize and helping guide those confused souls of the recently
departed find their way to the next place. It was during such work that I happened
upon a human man, huddled on his side, next to a tree. As I paused to look at him,
clear blue eyes looked up at me frightened, pained...Baron's will...this was a child.
His face clear and fresh as that of a youth, yet dressed in the garb of a man...sent
out to die. We Trolls are known for our brutality...but sending a child to war..is
even beyond our ken.

Stopping I stared down at the human and noticed the numerous and grievous wounds
that covered his body, his life had bleed the ground red around him and he lacked
the strength to reach the blade only a short way from his fingers. I saw his lips
curl into a snarl and while I did not understand his strange language, I perceived
that he challenged me. He had courage an admirable trait, but as his eyes swept
left and right and the realization sunk in that his companions had abandoned him
to his fate, I could feel the tightness in his heart grow as fear quickly replaced
his final attempt at bravado. I turned to leave him to his fate when he suddenly
raised his hand, a gesture...imploring me not to leave. Long did I stand struggling
with my feelings, this..man..this boy had likely sent friends to their death..yet still
I could not abandon him...Death cares not for banner on a shield, it only knows it's duty.

I moved to sit with the young man and for long unspoken moments we remained, he did not
wish to die alone, a simple request from a man who faced his demise. I retrieved his weapon
and placed it in is hand...to weak to hold it I closed his fingers around the handle. As I
watched his life slowly drip from him onto the cold rocks, and his breath shortened I sat
and waited a moment longer till with a gasp his life ended. I closed his eyes and rose
from my spot offering a blessing to the Baron to see this boy on his way. Turning to walk
off I paused to look back, no songs would recount this child's bravery, no stone would bear out his
deeds, in time no one would remember that he even existed, save for his enemy who with
compassion was willing to wait just...a moment longer.