Trolls. To survive among them, you must be deadly, brutal, mystic and slightly canabalistic. This is how it is, the trolls were created this way, they cannot stop it as humans may not grow wings and fly away, it is a way of life, a tradition, a culture. Among those trolls are a few who grow powerful, gain mystical power, become gods. Those are the weakest. Power corrupts, power weakens, power destroys. Strength is power.

Melathern took a step off the boat, onto dry land, for the first time in weeks, months, mabey. A beutiful, untouched plain, caribou roam free and eagles soar above, manatee and orcs swim below, a haven of all. As he walked towards the captain he saw in the distance a huge glaciar, real ice, he looked up to the sky and saw the northern lights ((Yes, they somehow exist in a world with nothing below the equator)) and was astonished. The excitment was short lived, a batalion of scourge soon came running towards the newly docked boat. The batalion was cut down with no heavy casualties. But it still wasn't a good start, the clerics had their work cut out for them.

The next morning they began to preper the gryphons. "Remember, you don't want your bombs droping when your gryphon starts to fly, LOCK THEM IN, LOCK THEM." announced the general. He locked the bombs into the harness as ordered, placing the helm on the gryphons head, he mounted it and awaited orders. A few hours later they were flying above the Grizzly hills, landing on the cliffedge that used the be the Amberlodge, the inhabitants of the lodge seemed to have been infected with the plauge, simply walking round mindlessly, their flesh rotting and falling off, they made sure to dispose of all corpses in a fire after lakeing the lodge, they were to use it as a base untill more reinforcements came to northrend, or they got masacred, whichever came first.

Three months on: They were holding out against heavy troll attacks, not at all made easier by the lack of food and supplies, many of the soldoirs had fallen ill with the plauge or fallen from starvation, all the food supplys they had brought had been infected. Complete loss seemed inevitable. Reinforcements wern't comeing, food wasn't comeing, they were alone against an army. A neverending army. For every loss, there was a gain and for every gain, there had to be a great, great loss.

Eventualy, there were two left, there was no food left, even the plauged food had been eaten, the attacks became more brutal by the day, there was no way to survive, there was no way to escape...

As the last one fell, Melathern ran, leaping onto a gryphon ((That somehow survivied)) and flying up to the north, where the attackers were comeing from. A giant fortress seemed to be the entrence to a large ziggurat, he flew down towards the ziggurat, launching a bomb towards a hut. Destroying it completely. He had two left and kept them. He had been spoted by now and headed lower, towards the ground. The gryphon exploded on impact and the night elf's corpse was nowhere to be found.

The elf wandered the towering temples where the gods watched over the world. He made a desguise, a quite good desguise at that and forged a large iron claw as a weapon, heavy and unwiledy. Wandering the lands he saw a dire troll go beserk against a group of lesser trolls and though he should step in. he slit the dire troll's throat easily. In a remarkable coincidence, one of the normal trolls turned out to be the owner of the Ampitheater of Anguish and thought that he should fight there. He was asked his name. He responded with "Rhol'nere Rek'Lethsp"

To be contuined...?


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