-8- Descending into Darkness

It would have been hard for anyone to get used to the new Guro'jintal. Little had changed about his personality, save his more than usual sense of calm. Hirojata felt a subtle alienation from the Troll that he hadn't felt before. But it was more because of his leader's startling appearance. The white mane of hair accompanied by the shadow burn and topped off with the tattoo spearing his left eye, appearing more sinister now with the battle scar, sent shivers up Hirojata's spine. Had Guro'jintal not moved with the energy and dexterity of a born warrior, he might have mistook the Troll for an Undead.

His fighting had changed as well. Often Trolls succumb to some degree of bloodlust during battle, and rarely do they fall into a rage. But Guro'jintal displayed no hints of the bloodlust. They came upon an Undead caravan mid day the following morning, when Guro'jintal had fully recovered with the help of salves and potions. It was a small fight, but an enlightening one as well. Hirojata had paused to watch as Guro'jintal weaved around the mindless Undead with a fluid purpose he had seen in few warriors, Troll or not. Each strike with his bone dagger was precise and perfectly timed, as if he could do more than sense the moment.

Like he could live it. He had confronted Guro'jintal afterward, inquiring upon his leader as to what had transpired before they had arrived. The older Troll had sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder to assure him that in time, the answer would come. But Guro'jintal had admitted that he himself was not quite sure what had happened, and until he knew, he would refrain from explaining. He knew the other Trolls were skeptical and dying for an answer as well. Hirojata explained Guro'jintal's answer, to which many nodded their heads, but clearly displayed their dissatisfaction. Only time would tell.

---

He hadn't seen the wolf since. But he was glad, because he knew the wolf to be something within himself that had to be escaped. Essentially he had done so, but in a way he had become the wolf as well. He had become the ultimate predator among many, and a nameless one at that. But nameless heroes didn't go unnoticed. They simply went un-adored. Guro'jintal knew the feeling, though he himself looked up to the very man he knew to be a nameless hero among many. He thought back to the final moments when the two of them finally parted ways, and Guro'jintal resumed his search for destiny while he had ascended to it.

"Mon, I knew this day to be a'comin'. You always gettin' yourself into trouble. Today, more than you can chew!"

"You're probably right, Guro. You've been right about everything else."

"I be havin' a feelin' I ain't gonna' see you no more," said the Troll, his tone serious and certain.

"We must part ways today, Guro'jintal. But I am glad today, and not yesterday, or the day before. I owe a great deal to you," replied Stefan.

"And I to you," said Guro'jintal, extending his left hand. "Bless you, Stefan Dreis, for saving my life. Perhaps now, my debt is repaid."

"In full," answered Stefan, clasping his hand wrist to wrist.

He looked down to the same hand he had used then. He felt the history, all the blood and sweat that had pooled in the palm. He raised his other, the arm that he had lost minutes before he had shook Stefan's hand for the last time. It had grown back in since, and remained a decent weapon arm. He could make out the scar where it had been severed. Though the limb was new, it bore remnants of the past. Nothing vanished without a trace. That's why he knew the bloodlust was buried somewhere within, locked away by his newfound resolution.

He anxiously waited for and feared the moment when somehow, he would unlock it again.

---

They followed Fredrus' notes across the snowy ridges of Dragonblight's eastern plain and continued beyond the menacing walls of Wyrmrest. They passed by several contingents of Horde and Alliance alike, and were noticed by a few passerby. Lackadaisical greetings and casual waves were exchanged, but for the most part the Trolls had kept to themselves. More endless plains of snow replaced the concrete walls of Wyrmrest, until something in the distance gave Guro'jintal the idea that they were soon to arrive at their destination. The Trolls were now on their guard and ready for trouble, because as far as any one of them could tell, they hadn't the faintest idea what they were walking into.

From a distance it looked like a bunker in the snow, and automatically Guro'jintal thought of Dwarven design. But as they drew closer and the details of the masonry began to appear, he realized it was an alien work that he subtly recognized. Nerubian. Memories of Azjol-Nerub and the tombs flashed through his mind, and at once he noticed this was far from ordinary. A single bunker posted in the middle of a snowy plain? There had to be something else.

After surveying the location from a distance, they Trolls moved in from all sides at a cautious pace. They passed remnants of old battles, from hulls of meat wagons to the dismantled wreckage of steam tanks. Upon finding no threat in the vicinity, they gathered around the bunker to figure out what to do next. It was then that Guro'jintal remembered the multi-tiered temples that the Nerubians often employed for most of their buildings' designs.

"It could be a temple, and this the highest level. It probably runs deep underground," he explained.

Hirojata nodded. "Then this Marx, he is somewhere beneath? We could be walking into a trap."

Alojin, who had grown more and more confident, spoke up. "Hasn't this entire continent been one big death trap? Perhaps we've been lucky enough not to have sprung it just yet."

Guro'jintal chuckled. "Too right, young warrior. We shall descend, but not all of us. Hirojata, Wotam, Jakazul, and Alojin will come with me. The rest will stay here."

Hijawath,Vilzujin, Hakamo, Afawata, Lijawoto, and Itmowath all had the look as if they had been cheated. But nonetheless they grunted their approval and began working to erect barricades from the metal scrap and wood lying around in hopes of creating a proper defense. Meanwhile, Guro'jintal and the others worked on figuring out how to get inside the temple. Before long they had found a pair of large, metal blast doors that appeared to be the only entrance. They were unsure only because the design was more familiar, like the architecture of Ironforge. After finding no other way of entry, they began to prod and pick at the corners of the thick metal. Soon they resorted to kicking and bashing at it, again to no avail. They sifted through the scribbled notes of Fredrus until Guro'jintal settled on the map of Marx's location. They were definitely at the right spot, so there was question to that. However, Guro'jintal hadn't noticed the small note jotted down in the margin of the parchment. It read:

Two knocks

He turned to the door and presented the hilt of his bone-dagger, did as the instruction said and hit the blast door twice. The hollow ring was all he could hear for a moment, but then the soft sound of gears grinding upon gears grew into the foreground. And then with a squeal, the blast doors slid apart. Weapons in hand, Guro'jintal and the others looked back to the five keeping watch, and nodded to each other. A silent promise was made to come back alive.

Then they disappeared into the dim gloom, and the Trolls resumed their work at creating a defensible position.

---

Inside, there was a walkway that led to what appeared to be an elevator of sorts. It was more crude than the magic-run platforms of the Undercity, and stank of technology. Through the metal grating of the box-like elevator, a mess of gears sat quietly, waiting for them to activate the machine. After Alojin stepped in he closed the metal door behind him and began to work with the lever.

"Here goes..." he trailed as he gave the lever a thrust to the side. It locked into position with a snap, and the cage shook slightly as the gears began to move. With a jarring shudder, the elevator began to descend.

Guro'jintal realized that once, this had been a Nerubian temple. But it had undergone a change in the form of endless rows of pipes and metal plating. They passed each level of the temple, where the crypts and stone pathways had been layered with pipes that blew steam and metal walkways that crossed chasms that would have been otherwise un-traversable. But by the time the elevator began to descend beyond what would have been the nesting grounds for the Nerubian brood queen, he realized that their journey had been scratching the surface. As the elevator disappeared into a hole at the bottom of the temple, lit by electric lamps embedded in the wall, Guro'jintal could see that another presence occupied the grounds.

With perfect timing, a speaker they hadn't noticed before crackled into life on the ceiling of the elevator. The voice was altered slightly by the contraption, but what Guro'jintal could make of it was a voice that held a certain annoying tone, and yet spoke of intelligence. The Common was perfect and unaccented, as if spoken by a scholar.

"This is an automated message. Whatever your purpose, know that you have come here for a reason. You have either been brought here by fate, or perhaps against your will. Either way, your presence here will benefit me and my work. Imagine a place where science could not be limited by the world orders. Imagine a place where the weak are replaced by the strong; where the old are discarded for the young. Where inspiration is found in droves, because there is no freedom like it upon Azeroth. This is such a place. Welcome, traveler, to the Underworld of Fabrovus Marx!"

The voice crescendoed into a short chuckle, within which Guro'jintal had heard the slightest hint of insanity. As the elevator ground to a halt and the Trolls stepped out with their nerves on end as the echoes bounced off the metal walls, Guro'jintal knew that expecting the worst might not be enough to save them.