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Wanderlust	By : KazekageKeiran Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 7268 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Author's Note: Hello,
and welcome to "Wanderlust" the tale of a young troll and his adventures in the
big wide world of Azeroth. It should be known that this fic will embrace
the more wholesome, family-friendly aspects of a world at war, including but not
limited to: Hot, sweaty naked male Trolls and Orcs, said big, muscular male
Trolls, Orcs and other venerable races of the Horde such as the delicate and
graceful Sin'dorei getting their 'Freak on", gratuitous acts of violence,
mercenaries, male self-service, stealing, lying, cheating, drunken bar fights,
and perhaps the kicking of a very cute and vulnerable puppy. With that in
mind, please, curl up with a hot cup of chamomile, a blanket, and a loved one
and enjoy, "Wanderlust." And remember, "For the Horde!"

Wanderlust

Episode 1: �A Journey
of a Thousand Miles��

Chapter 1

Smoke meant many things to his
people; an omen, a signal, a vision, or even a dream, but the thick black smoke
that rose ominously into the sky before him was unmistakable as the dark harbinger
of death.� It loomed heavily in the air
above the charred pit rimmed with the skeletons of the Troll huts that had once
been a small and peaceful village.� The
din of screams from the dying and tortured spirits lingered there and coiled
inside the acrid scent of the blaze which seared into his all of his
senses.� It spoke clearly to him with the
anguish of the genocide that had taken place not hours before he had
arrived.� The echoes of it still rung in
the ears of the old Tauren bull perched heavily astride his restless Kodo
mount, even in silence of the wake of destruction, and Inali Ebonfeather closed
his eyes and raised a hand reverently with a prayer to the Earthmother
to watch over the departed souls.� He was
too late.

The judicious and grayed shaman had
woken several moons earlier to a bloody prophetic dream which had beckoned him
to the shores of Durotar where the Darkspear tribe made their homes close to
their new Orc brothers.� He had set out
immediately to the desert the day of the vision but he never imagined that it
would be the lives of an entire village in his hands, or that he would arrive
too late to do anything to prevent the deaths of so many innocents.� He could not help but feel despite that fact,
that perhaps his purpose lay not in warning the trolls of the destruction but
in some other destiny, so against the thick sorrow in the air, he took up his
reins and urged the Kodo forward.� Having
none of it the stubborn beast bellowed lowly in protest and slunk backward,
great head tossing with an irritated snort.

�Peace old friend,� the bull
soothed in a calming voice, �I am certain they have all gone.� They would not stay to patrol such a small
village, this was done out of hatred and nothing more, so let us move forward
and do what we can to help if anyone has survived��

The wizened beast of burden heeded
the gentle sound of his master�s voice and finally carefully lumbered down the
hill toward the wreckage with a keening moan.

Inali watched their surroundings
carefully as they made their way down and past the cultivated edge of the
village, well aware that Alliance
forces lingering were still a likely possibility.� He took his feathered staff fiercely in his
gnarled hands that had seen a lifetime of war and strife from the holster against
his back, tattered bovine ears pricked high, and
hooves tight in the stirrups of his saddle while his still keen eyes roved the
ruins.� The shaman guided the Kodo down
what had once been the main path through the center of town where the huts and
stands still smoked and smoldered and saw nothing.� For a brief moment, his heart eased in relief
for the denizens to have escaped before the razing.� He smiled to himself, and questioned the
spirits for sending him a dream of the tragedy, but was brought to a cruel halt
when he arrived unwittingly to the center of the village and saw just how wrong
he was, his jaw dropping in mute horror.

Bodies of slaughtered, unarmed,
provincial Darkspear Trolls littered the blood-stained, burnt, and blighted
ground where they had all rallied in defense of their home.� They lay in their final, violent repose with
vacant eyes glazed monochrome in death as they stared soullessly into the
blackened sky.� Nothing and no one had
been spared.� Men still clutching spears
and axes sprawled beside their mates, mates who still clung to young whelps
murdered as if they were full grown.�
Limp, three-fingered hands reached in futile for disembodied heads
severed with ruthless precision by Alliance
troops who were well seasoned in coping with the regenerative abilities of the
Troll race.� Broken tusks were scattered
from the crushed skulls of their owners and shone as the only sad flecks of
white against charred earth in the heat of the Durotar sun.

Inali gripped his chest as he gazed
upon the chilled calm left in the wake of savagery, and his mount would move no
longer, the kodo lowing and reeling backward from the battlefield.� He abided the beast�s nervous request and
eased himself down to the ground from the saddle, his staff still brandished
warily in hands that shook with fury.�
Heavy hooves forced themselves to move, and his tail swished alertly
behind him as the Tauren moved with caution into the village against the
protests of his churning stomach.� He had
not seen battle or death in many years and had thought himself retired to his
divining and potion making for good.�
Following his dream had unwittingly brought him back to the grisly
aftermath of war once more.

The shaman picked his way with
reverence through the remains of village and Troll alike and stopped only
occasionally to slip a finger beneath an intact chin to find no pulse still
within the chests of any.� He called out
as he searched, but only the wind answered him as it whistled mournfully
through the burnt bamboo huts carrying smoke with it and tossed matted, wiry,
once vibrantly colored hair.� Slowly he
traversed the length of the village with no signs of life calling to him
whatsoever.� At every turn he was met
with nothing but corpses frozen in the moment of death with naught he could do
at his age and alone to offer them even a respectful burial.� The occasional slumped form of a dead human
in Theramore regalia gave him a small measure of
pride that the Trolls had at least fought valiantly for their lives, but it was
clear who had suffered the greater price.

Inali whispered gentle prayers as
he went, stooping to arrange bodies with the care and respect of a war healer,
and gradually let his guard begin to lower.�
He even went so far to strap his staff back into its leather holster to
free his hands to work, but just when he thought he was perfectly safe to
conduct his business with the dead, however, a cracking of wood and a flash of
red caught his sharp attention and he stood to his full height, staff instantly
back in his hands.

From the direction of the
disturbance all the bull could see was a single hut that had mostly escaped the
flames of the razing.� The thatched roof
had burned and collapsed inward, but the basic structure still remained
standing and supporting the body of a young red-haired male.� Impaled and hung with a score of arrows
through his slender body and his own spear thrust brutally through his heart,
he was pinned like a specimen against the wall of his own home.� Beneath him, his milky green eyes stared
downward at the shredded corpse of his mate; a once powerful woman with a blaze
of deep violet hair and daggers still clenched in her hands.

Inali�s stomach wrenched for the
brutality shown to the duo and shook his heavy, horned head with scorn for a
corpse to be left in such a state.� He
made his way to the slain warrior�s side, yet another prayer on his lips, and
gripped the spear firmly to gently ease it out of his body.� No blood flowed from the already ensanguined
form and yet it slumped easily into his arms cold with death but not yet
stiff.� He laid the nameless Troll down
on the ground beside his mate with the utmost respect and crossed his arms over
his chest, giving him his final rites as he gently closed his staring eyes.

The Tauren moved to grace the woman
with the same ritual, but the sound that had first called him to the hut
sounded once again behind him and he whirled around to face it.� Instead of warriors, instead of armed humans
returning to scout the area, instead of wild animals smelling dead meat coming
to feed as he had expected, the source of the sound came from a tiny enclave
hidden within the black roof beams and charred thatch where a tiny form
lay.� Shrouded in darkness and covered in
soot, it was difficult at first for Inali to see what it was, but as he inched
closer a pang of shock and horror pierced his gentle heart to see a small,
three-fingered hand clutching at the dirt.�
The young Troll whelp trembled violently where he curled on his side in
the rubble of his home still alive, his eyes squeezed shut, gashes through his
tender teal flesh still bleeding and fresh.

�Child�� Can you hear me?� Inali called to him as he
crouched low to the ground and reached a hand out.

The boy emitted a terrified
squeaking sound and curled into a tighter ball with his hands protectively over
his head.� The Tauren�s gut wrenched and
he inched carefully closer to begin clearing away the debris beneath which the
child hid.

�Do not be afraid
little one,� he assured him, making sure to speak this time in his own tongue,
�I am here to help you.�

Upon hearing the comforting
language of the Trolls as well as the remains of the roof shifting away above
him, the wounded whelp�s tiny ears pricked up, and he dared to open a single,
timid emerald green eye.� He had seen a
few Tauren in his life and instantly knew him as a friend and savior, reaching
weakly out for the bull with a shaking hand.

�H-Help�� he managed to croak.

�Don�t worry, I�ve got you,� Inali
quickly assured the boy and shoved the last of the brittle beams to the side.

They toppled like mere twigs and he
winced at the state of the ghastly body revealed which bore the unmistakable
lesions of being trampled by hooves as well as the bite of blades.� He hurriedly removed his cloak to drape over
him protectively and cover the wounds to heal them.� It was a miracle and testament to the
tenacity of his race that the boy had survived at all.� The Tauren�s hands glowed
a gentle green with healing waves as he gingerly swaddled the limp little
creature and lifted him into his arms, careful to keep his back to the ravaged
corpses that were once his parents.� The
tiny, wiry Troll issued a mute squeak of pain and opened the only eye he could,
the other swollen shut and crusted in dried blood.

The glazed green iris wavered
slightly in recognition as it met with the earthen brown orbs, and Inali gazed
with awe at the only survivor of the slaughter.�
A young Troll indeed, hardly out of his fifth year by the look of his
gangly, disproportioned body and unkempt red hair.� His nose was still short, no hint of tusks
showing anywhere at the corners of his mouth, and his ears still soft and
tender in a shallow sweep away from his head.

The Tauren smiled gently at him and
thumbed the sticky, clotted blood away from his face.� He had been left an orphan, completely alone
without even a village to adopt him, but Inali knew then what his dream meant
at last and he heeded the call of fate as he carried the child back to his
Kodo.�

�What is your name?� he asked
gently.

The Troll looked deeply confused
for a moment, almost betrayed, before he closed his eye again and butted his
face into the broad, warm chest.

�Enoki�� he whispered at length.

�Enoki�� Inali repeated, �A fitting
name, my name is Inali, and I promise I will take care of you.�

�Inali�� the boy murmured in an
echo, �T�ank you��

The old shaman simply nodded as he
clambered atop the great beast with his precious cargo clutched tenderly in one
arm.� He situated them both comfortably
in the saddle and felt the tiny body go lax as Enoki let the darkness take him
over at last.� Letting him slump easily
against him, he spurred the Kodo onward and the creature lumbered easily away
back the way they had came, back home, back to Mulgore.� Inali prayed again as they rode away, nothing
left to do for the village except to take their surviving youngling and take
care of him, raise him as the child he had never been graced with.� Enoki would live, he promised himself firmly,
and he would know happiness.� As they
rode away however, neither had noticed that in the ground where Enoki had
fallen, in the rich soil saturated in his blood, a tiny green sprout had pushed
hopefully toward the sky.
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Wanderlust