-1- Cold Summer

Even though the rattle of the steam tanks' engines were loud enough to cause a ringing in Guro'jintal's ears, it was a smooth ride atop the giant metal hulks. Every so often there would be a dip in the road that would bruise his backside, but the Troll wasn't bothered by a minute annoyance. Other things were more important, like staying alive. It had been three days of on-and-off skirmishes with the Scourge since the Trolls had last seen a decent meal. The Dwarves had assured Guro'jintal that he and his men would be well fed upon arriving back at the camp. The Dwarf Kelar Fireward was a good man, and a hearty spirit. Even in the chill of the Frozen North, there was an impervious smile wrought on his face. To top it all off, Kelar had a sense of humor that was borderline unhealthy.

"How can you look so happy in such a place as cold as this?" Guro'jintal asked.

"Ah, it's not cold, lad! Winter's already passed. It's summer! Can't you tell?" replied Kelar.

Guro'jintal looked around, exhaling a plume of fogged breath. He shook his head in reply.

Kelar laughed. "It's about three degrees warmer, which would put as at about..."

He stuck his right index finger into his mouth, then held it up to the cold breeze.

"Hmm...fourty-five below freezing? Warmest summer yet!"

And so Kelar kept Guro'jintal locked in cheerful conversation for the remainder of the trip. It was a good change from the day to day ramble the Troll's brethren had given about the hardships of their work and the sour fruit of their labors. From the beginning, they knew what they were in for. Guro'jintal had explained to each of the twelve warriors that their mission had no purpose, only direction. They would land on Northrend, and continue to fight the Scourge till their company was too ill fit for war. There was no outcome, no end in sight; when the time came that they could no longer take the fight to the enemy, it was played by ear.

Guro'jintal didn't see that time coming soon. They hadn't lost a single man, and were still at full strength, if not heavily fatigued by the most recent campaign. The brief respite that Kelar and his men presented was a good opportunity to take a breather.

---

"Ah, here we are," chimed in Kelar, arresting his composure after another of his corny, but humorous jokes. Guro'jintal watched the road ahead as they made their way around a bend, a rush of renewed warmth running up his spine as the camp came into view.

It was nestled in a tiny glade off to the side of the road. There were road blocks on both sides of the path that led into the camp, each accompanied by a pair of Dwarven sentries. Kelar only needed to wave in order to move the blockade aside, and then the tanks were rumbling by. Guro'jintal was mildly pleased at the friendliness with which the sentries greeted them. Times had changed for the Horde and Alliance on the war front. A common enemy had united the warring factions in their worst moment, nearly on the brink of conflict with each other. Guro'jintal gave a silent thank to the Lich King for making an a*s of himself and ultimately uniting the Horde and Alliance. A string of good in evil.

The three tanks pulled up parallel to the road, acting as a second and more resilient barrier. The Trolls and Dwarves dismounted from the metal giants, heading toward the bonfire at the center of the clearing. On the way, Guro'jintal noticed the five buildings that circumvented the clearing in a sickle-moon shape: there was a sick tent, a tiny, make-shift barracks, a blacksmith, armory, and a stable. He noticed that the they were short on livestock, with only four pigs and a trio of chickens.

"Be havin' to do a bit of hunting?" Guro'jintal asked to Kelar, pointing to the stable.

Kelar nodded briskly. "Right ye' are. Admit I was thinkin' o' recruiting you and a few of yer' gents for a hunting party. Up for it?"

"Always. It's been hard finding a square meal these days," replied the Troll.

"Well, I didn't say it was going to be easy," said Kelar. Guro'jintal chuckled with him.

First they all gathered around the fire, resting their bodies and retiring their weapons. Kelar called the entire camp to the gathering and introduced Guro'jintal and his twelve companions. Food and drink was passed around and stories of new and old shared. Through bouts of laughter and warm clasps of hands and slaps on shoulders, Guro'jintal connected with Dwarfs in a way he hadn't before. He remembered his time with Mae Paledust and Geraldros Stoneblock, but times had been much different. Here, he was with brothers and sisters of a different kind. He shared a bond with everyone sitting at the fire that he hadn't shared with any but another Troll. He pondered the possibility of a bond like this spreading to Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms, then quickly tossed the thought aside.

Peace among the ignorant and the stupid? Many a great leader have tried to defy the old testament, and all have failed. Not to say they haven't come damn near close. Guro'jintal gave a silent toast to Jaina and Thrall, downing the last of his cup of water and calling for another.

---

After the meal and exchanging friendly goodbyes, Guro'jintal and Kelar set about rounding up a proper hunting party. Kelar chose three Dwarves from the camp's armed defenders, Garil, Fordram, and Bolax. Guro'jintal decided to leave his best with the Dwarves at the camp, and took three of the newer blood in his company; Hijawath, a youngster from the Grey Skull, Biotal, a promising novice from the Darkspear, and Alojin, an inexperience youth of the Blood Axe. After undertaking the oath of service to Guro'jintal, all became Darkspear, regardless of their original alignment. But more than that they became a member of the Troll race, pushing aside inter-racial prejudices and accepting their people as one. It was the reason why the Darkspear had risen to such heights of glory, with such a unifying belief. Thus, the Darkspear tribe is comprised of many tribes and clans, united under a single alignment: Troll.

Now, treading softly through a snowy forest half a mile north of the camp, Guro'jintal felt a surge of pride knowing that despite the tribal differences, each and every of the twelve Trolls under his command would give his life for his battle brother. And knowing that three were watching his back now, somewhere in the heart of the Frozen North, was a warming bit of knowledge.

Yet beside all this, there were still misgivings from inter-faction tensions that the common enemy of the Lich King could not completely overrule. Alojin moved from his post fifteen paces from Guro'jintal and came up alongside his superior to speak to him in a quiet voice.

"Is it wise to trust the Alliance so readily, commander?" spoke the young Troll.

"They are not Alliance, Alojin," started Guro'jintal, keeping his voice calm with a hint of agitation. "They are Dwarves."

"Well yes, but once our Warchief would have called them an enemy," answered Alojin.

Guro'jintal turned to look the young one in the eye as they continued to advance through the thin trees. "Since the birth of the Horde and Alliance, they have never been called our enemy, young one. They were our neighbors, and consequently our lifestyles differed to such a point that we grew apart. And the recent lack of communication has driven us apart to a quiet standstill. But here, on Northrend, there is a common enemy. They are brothers to you as Hijawath and Biotal are. Never forget that."

Alojin nodded after a moment. "Aye, commander. Please forgive my ignorance."

"There is need to apologize, only to learn and adapt," replied Guro'jintal. "Now return to your post. We've some food to catch."

"Movement!" came a call from Hijawath. "Looks like a stray cow. Where the hell did that come from?"