The White Troll - Part 1

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Under the cover of darkness, an evil stalked Durotar. They walked without light, knowing their way only by keen senses and memories. Undoubtedly they would be back within the walls of Orgimmar before too long. There were just too many names upon the list to ignore. One milky eye rolled lamely in a disused socket, while a sharp red eye observed the worthless creatures that surrounded him, pushing a small wagon through the harsh lands of the Orcs. Within the wagon was a pile of preserved organs from various, seemingly, random people. Race nor geographical location was discriminated against when it came to the gathering of these grizzly trophies. Instead there was presumably some kind of method to this madness. Surely it wouldn't just be random targets? Ritualistic magic tendencies were not often so careless.
The creature, clothed in a white flowing garment tied with a silken rope, raised its hand to call a halt. Its followers immediately obliged, the wagon creaking with the sudden change of pace. Of the small group that followed the Troll, all looked upon it with reverence and fear dancing behind their eyes. Two emotions that do not necessary conflict as much as one might initially believe. Whenever the creature called for a stop, it usually just stood still for awhile with its head tilted at an odd angle and then gave the order to march again. It always seemed to be listening to some ethereal conversation. At first, the group practically supplicated to the Troll right there and then for his blessing, but in times since they used this intermission period to prepare themselves for the next tiresome leg of the journey.
This time, however, would not be like the others.
The milky eye rolled madly in its socket, setting itself finally on one of the followers pushing the wagon from behind. It was a young Troll male with bright, fluffy hair and short tusks. He looked absolutely petrified as the creature pointed at him with its left index finger. Instead of crushing the poor Troll male, the creature instead spoke directly into his mind.
“Something comes this way, it is your task to protect me and our precious cargo. We must reach our destination. You will lay down your life if necessary. Is that understood?”
When speaking into the mind of a victim, the Troll's commands appeared as conscious thoughts in the afflicted mind, as if the idea was theirs all along. The only indicator was the inherent sense of wrongness one felt after having their mind dominated by a superior will. The images of three Orcs and a Sin'dorei flashed in his mind to accompany the words.
“Yah masta, Jebba no' be failin' ya!”
The Troll proclaimed this, even as he was running away from the cart with all haste. Part of him was overjoyed. Jebba could help his master in his lofty goals by stalling these intrepid adventurers, but somewhere deep down dread was forming. He was only a young Troll, after all, with not many seasons under his belt as an adult. Add to that fact that he was merely one Troll against four members of the Horde, this likely wasn't going to go well for him. Well, at least he had one thing in his favour: he knew what they looked like and they had no idea he was coming.
Jebba followed the tracks that the cart left in the dry earth, clearing them away as best he could while trying not to leave any tracks himself. He then forded the Southfury river at a low point typically used by those who wish to avoid notice by the bridge detachment. Namely brigands and curs. Jebba also caught the attention of a lone crocolisk basking in the river, but it paid him no heed save to hiss menacingly. The Troll closed in on Orgrimmar, keeping low and staying out of sight of any paths, quick to take to the under brush, knowing that even if the adventurers did manage to kill him that they would find only the bare minimal tracks with which to work with.
It would take one hell of a tracker to be able to find where the wagon had gone.
[Leads to]
Category:Story