Hunting the Prophet: Chapter 1

---Part II: Hunting the Prophet---

An Old Aquaintance

It was like walking on burning coals, with fields of the black rocks that stretched for miles in every direction. If one were wearing shoes, one probably wouldn't be within the next few hours. The heat wears the rubber out faster than a Kodo can down a dozen field mice. And since there is little to no shade in the entirety of Durotar, save the massive fortress-city of Orgrimmar, the treks across the burning sands are quite painful. This is why the Darkspear Trolls, who walk the desert barefoot, are some of the more dangerous species of Azeroth. Perhaps they do not feel the searing heat upon the soles of their feet as every one else. And even if they suffered equally, they showed no fear.

Guro'jintal smiled as he remembered, from a year before, the man's words. And the Human was correct, perhaps more than he had known; the sands tingled the soles of Guro'jintal's feet, and perhaps he would get a blister at the end of the day, but he payed it no mind. With Azeroth on the brink of war, there was no time for a warrior to fret about a sore toe. A Darkspear need mind only his weapon and his heart. The Troll sniggered. Two things a Troll could not regenerate.

A call echoed over the sands and caressed his ears as the wind beat about his wild, dark purple hair. Another tribesman was calling his attention. Guro'jintal shouted a reply, spotting the Troll waving towards him from the outskirts of the huddle of tents. The Troll shouted something else, but most of the sentence was lost on the wind. Still, Guro'jintal was able to understand that they had a visitor.

"Show him to the command tent! We cannot speak amongst these brutal winds!" he shouted back in his native tongue. The other Troll nodded in recognition, but added something more. It gave Guro'jintal pause, but only for a moment. The Troll's description of the approaching figure stirred memories from Guro'jintal's past.

"His race matters not! Show him the hospitality you would give for a fellow Darkspear!"

The other Troll gave a brief moment of contemplation, but nodded in reply. As the Troll ran off to meet their visitor, Guro'jintal ducked into the large command tent, which would momentarily serve as his meeting room.

Guro'jintal was a natural leader. Born tall, broad, and muscular, he had the frame of a commander and his endless charisma stirred the hearts of his fellow tribesmen. Over many years he had earned his name and rank in battle, now leading a group of the Darkspear to Orgrimmar in hopes of being given the honor of battling for the Horde, and for the Warchief. The blood of warriors ran in Guro'jintal's veins by birth, and he was destined to rest his soul on the field of battle. Much like the burning sands of Durotar, there was little that could instill fear in the Troll. And yet, something inside him had begun to stir.

Because he was sure that today he would meet one of the few people who infused his faith with doubt. As he sat patiently in the tent, listening to the leather flap dryly in the wind, the sound of stirring sand at regular intervals drew closer. It was something in the step, something in the rhythmn, that betrayed his portentous notion that today was indeed the day. When he saw the pair of feet come around the tent flap, he let out a long-held breath.

The day had come, once again. The visitor was barefoot, recognizing the tradition of bare soles upon the earth, putting undeniable trust in nature itself. But he was not a Troll. He was a Human.

Guro'jintal stood. Clad in the shining, plated armor of a battle-forged warrior, the Troll was both menacing and enchanting. He bared his people and his pride upon his chest proudly. There was no regret in his eyes, and no doubt on his face. But admiration was playing across the Troll's smiling lips. Admiration for the man that stood before him now, clad in white pants with a vest and hat to match. The man took off the hat, and bowed gracefully. To the whispered disbelief of the few Trolls watching from outside, Guro'jintal returned the gesture with a deep bow of his own. Then, they both sat cross-legged upon the floor, eye to eye, one equal to another. Guro'jintal was the first to speak.

"Never think me see the day," said the Troll, in broken Common.

"Nor I, Guro. It's good to see you, my friend," replied the man.

Guro'jintal leaned back and pulled a wine sack forth. He offered the man a drink as well, who accepted, and poured two bowls of a green liquid. He handed one to the man, and the two drank deeply before resuming their conversation.

"Looking good, mon. But me little worried. Never bless me with presence on sunny day," started Guro'jintal, looking quizzically at the Human.

"Well I would come more often, but your people and your allies are not the greatest friends with me and mine," chuckled the man. The Troll nodded, grinning.

"True, true, mon. But times be changin'. Legion of Fire be comin' once again," said the Troll, his voice grave.

"Indeed, old friend. Then it won't come as a surprise that I come here seeking revenge against the very same demons," replied the man. Unresolved tension was in his voice. The Troll sloshed the green liquid about in his mouth, perking an eye brow at the man.

"Guro, I've fallen on hard times. You remember the girl I told you about, the last time I visited?"

"Aye, mon. The lady friend. Cute one, she," said the Troll, winking slyly.

"She's dead. Murdered by a member of the Legion, I suspect."

The Troll stopped mid-gulp. He lowered the bowl, looking at Stefan with a mix of harsh sternness and soft empathy. He stood up, slowly pacing about the tent.

"I feel you, mon. Once lost pretty Troll-lady to Legion of Flames. Long ago," started Guro'jintal. He turned to face the man with a renewed fire in his eyes. "But for the demon b******s, forgiveness I refused."

"So," said the man, rising to a standing position as well, "If I were to ask you to aid me in finding her killer, would you answer my call?"

The Darkspears had long believed that the soul could be seen brightly from within the eyes. But as Guro'jintal looked into Stefan Dreis' twin orbs, he saw a waning light, threatening to go out at any moment. For anyone, even his enemies, the Troll would want to see the fire from within. It was this fire that fueled them in battle, and carried them on into the next world. Without that fire, they had nothing. The Troll held out an open hand.

"It has been long since I help you, Stefan. But I would give blade and my life for a good friend," said the Troll. "As I do now."

Stefan smiled brightly, gripping the Troll wrist to wrist.

"Thank you, Guro'jintal."

The Troll swore he saw the fire stir within the man's drained eyes.