Zonar
03-01-2006, 04:19 AM
“The best stories are not those that simply retell events, but depict
heroes. A tale that teaches a few short lessons does far less than one
that that creates a dream that leads a spirit that much closer to their
destiny.” ~ Gortuc, Shamanistic Elder
“Dat be great! Ah be ‘overin’ ova da brink ah death again…”
A calm white haze filled trolls vision as he looked around the landscape. The rocks, the trees, and even the wind seemed to whisper to him. The animals walking around his feet however made no noise. This wasn’t unexpected though. Zonar had often had these short visions, these minor dreams, before waking again to see the colour and light of day. Inspecting the area further, he saw himself looking over the peaceful lands of Durotar. The sun rose high in the sky above him although he could not feel its heat on his skin, just like he could not feel the wind run through his hair, and past his single remaining ear.
Raising his hand to his head, Zonar felt around at where he other ear should have been. Instead his fingers felt bumpy and bubbly flesh, as if the scar had been burnt in order to prevent infection. It would grow back in time, Zonar knew, but he had doubts about the rest of his pride. Despite his prideful boastings after their meeting, Zonar knew that Ravicarrak had injured him far worse than a sliced ear and a broken tusk. The thought of his tusk brought a pain back into his mouth, and the walking corpse’s words back into his mind. Repeat after me. I will obey and respect those who are above me. Zonar could feel the pain increase as he thought about the brutal Forsaken, his bony hands on his tusk and that plate laden foot on face. The pain wasn’t really there though. After all, he was dreaming. Dreaming a dream bred from a concussion most likely, and he needed to wake up.
“Now den, dere normally be ah angel ah some sort be ‘angin’ ‘ere waitin’ fa dis troll ta be wakin’” Zonar said with a sigh as he looked around the blurred images of grave markers that surrounded him. “Where dat woman be ‘idin’? Ah not be ‘avin’ all day.”
Zonar crept around the grave markers, looking behind stony hills and slender trees. Sure the angel was normally big enough to see from all around, but there was no reason this one wasn’t a Gnomish angel, or a Dwarven one. “Ah be ‘opin’ not do. Ah not be tinkin’ dat dis troll be able ta stomach wakin’ up ‘cause ah ah Dwarf.” He muttered to himself as he searched.
He began to look away from the gravesite, towards the more pointed hills and the dusky sea he could smell coming from beyond. He walked forward towards the sea, stepping around rabbits and over the clic-clattering of scorpids that should have been. He could see pitch black smoke coming up from over the hill, and he began to quicken his pace. “Dat smoke be strange ta see wit’ everyting else bein’ white as ah cloud,” he spoke aloud as he continued to climb, a scorpid’s tail catching on his boot. Instead of cutting through the fine leather worked by his brother’s knife however, the tail just ran through his leg as easily as a cool breeze would pass through an open window. Zonar didn’t stop, but kept going until he could see the tops and frames of the familiar huts of Sen’jin Village.
“Sen’jin!” he cried out in shock. “Wha be dis doin’ ‘ere? Dis troll be tinkin’ dat ‘e be findin’ ah angel, an’ not ah ghosty town!”
Zonar ran down the hill towards the village, expecting to see the hustle and bustle of the Darkspear Tribe getting ready for their day of fishing and hunting. It wasn’t uncommon at all for people to sometimes appear in his dream when he approached places where it was certain that people should be. Instead he saw nothing. No men heading out to the shoreline with their nets. No women beating the dust out of their hide-sewn clothing. No little trollings running about, chasing after this thing or that, or even the unfortunate hexed victims of the witch doctor in training, who was apt to turn people into snakes for the children’s amusement from time to time. The entire town was empty. Abandoned in every way save the small fire that would always burn right by the village elder’s favourite spot, beneath the shade of the tree. Even the fire looked distorted, it’s flames frozen in place as if made of coloured wood, and pitch dark just like the smoke that was coming from it.
“Dis not be right,” Zonar muttered as he turned in circles looking at the village. “Dere be some ting seriously wrong ‘ere. Ah empty village. Ah fire dat be burnin’ da blackest ah eva been seein’. Ah fire dat be burnin’ da blackest ah eva been seein’, even while it not be movin’!”
He slammed against the stone hedge, where the young witch doctor would normally be found practicing his magics, and slumped to the ground. “Why ah even be seein’ dis place? Da last place dis troll be fightin’ be in da Vale, ‘gainst da ogahs by owa outpost. Ah should be seein’ visions ah dat place.”
Zonar let his head drop down between his knees as he sighed in confused contemplation, his tusks hitting his thigh as he did. “OW!” he screamed out, his head jumping back up to relieve the pain of this tusks jutting into his legs. He rubbed his hands on his legs, to dullen the pain. “Dat be ‘urtin’! Dese tusks ah mine be ah pain som~”
Zonar stopped midspeech, unable to even complete his thought. All his focus was on the ground in front of him, and the two fully formed tusks sticking out of his mouth. He grabbed at his left tusk, unable to believe his eyes despite how much he wanted to. He felt the tip, as sharp and pointed as he remembered. He ran his fingers down the side, checking the pressure all around, making sure that his touch couldn’t be fooling him as he was sure his eyes had to be doing. A quick hand shot up to his ear, to find that it too was restored from the bubbly flesh he had felt just moments before. He was restored.
Leaping in excitement, Zonar bounced around the stiff dark fire, completely forgetting the puzzling predicament he was in. Dancing about this way and that, he thanked the Dusk for making him whole again.
In the middle of one of his summersaults of excitement, a flash of red caught his eye over by where the village were known to lay their dead. The flash made him forget he was in the air, and he landed on the ground with a thud, a loud BAKA! escaping his lips. Standing up again and dusting himself off, he walked over to the red glimmer.
The stone shone a vivid red, far more lively than the bland and blurry white sand that lay all around it. It was adorned with peculiar markings, white runes that spoke of importance. Hung all around it were small wooden totems made in a likeness of an elderly Troll, his white hair in dreadlocks around his neck and chest. Completely out of place atop the stone rested an Orcish skull, with a large tooth forced through it, pinning the skull to the rock. The white runes, which strangely were not blurred like the surrounding area, simply read “The Storyteller.”
“Ahhh…” Zonar sighed deeply. “Ah be rememberin’ you mon. Ya poor ol’ Troll.”
He reached out to touch the stone, examining the skull placed so forcefully on top. As his finger rested upon the stone, a brilliant light shone before Zonar’s eyes as visions burned themselves painfully into his head. A moment later, and Zonar was on the ground once more, his body heaving without breath.
From his eye trickled a slow and warm river of crimson blood…
((This turned out to be far longer than I ever expected it to be. Please consider each part as a mini story for purposes of the contest. I fear this story is going to be a long time in the writing.
BTW, this was written between the hours of 3 and 5 AM, so I am not held accountable for any spelling and/or grammar mistakes =P))
heroes. A tale that teaches a few short lessons does far less than one
that that creates a dream that leads a spirit that much closer to their
destiny.” ~ Gortuc, Shamanistic Elder
“Dat be great! Ah be ‘overin’ ova da brink ah death again…”
A calm white haze filled trolls vision as he looked around the landscape. The rocks, the trees, and even the wind seemed to whisper to him. The animals walking around his feet however made no noise. This wasn’t unexpected though. Zonar had often had these short visions, these minor dreams, before waking again to see the colour and light of day. Inspecting the area further, he saw himself looking over the peaceful lands of Durotar. The sun rose high in the sky above him although he could not feel its heat on his skin, just like he could not feel the wind run through his hair, and past his single remaining ear.
Raising his hand to his head, Zonar felt around at where he other ear should have been. Instead his fingers felt bumpy and bubbly flesh, as if the scar had been burnt in order to prevent infection. It would grow back in time, Zonar knew, but he had doubts about the rest of his pride. Despite his prideful boastings after their meeting, Zonar knew that Ravicarrak had injured him far worse than a sliced ear and a broken tusk. The thought of his tusk brought a pain back into his mouth, and the walking corpse’s words back into his mind. Repeat after me. I will obey and respect those who are above me. Zonar could feel the pain increase as he thought about the brutal Forsaken, his bony hands on his tusk and that plate laden foot on face. The pain wasn’t really there though. After all, he was dreaming. Dreaming a dream bred from a concussion most likely, and he needed to wake up.
“Now den, dere normally be ah angel ah some sort be ‘angin’ ‘ere waitin’ fa dis troll ta be wakin’” Zonar said with a sigh as he looked around the blurred images of grave markers that surrounded him. “Where dat woman be ‘idin’? Ah not be ‘avin’ all day.”
Zonar crept around the grave markers, looking behind stony hills and slender trees. Sure the angel was normally big enough to see from all around, but there was no reason this one wasn’t a Gnomish angel, or a Dwarven one. “Ah be ‘opin’ not do. Ah not be tinkin’ dat dis troll be able ta stomach wakin’ up ‘cause ah ah Dwarf.” He muttered to himself as he searched.
He began to look away from the gravesite, towards the more pointed hills and the dusky sea he could smell coming from beyond. He walked forward towards the sea, stepping around rabbits and over the clic-clattering of scorpids that should have been. He could see pitch black smoke coming up from over the hill, and he began to quicken his pace. “Dat smoke be strange ta see wit’ everyting else bein’ white as ah cloud,” he spoke aloud as he continued to climb, a scorpid’s tail catching on his boot. Instead of cutting through the fine leather worked by his brother’s knife however, the tail just ran through his leg as easily as a cool breeze would pass through an open window. Zonar didn’t stop, but kept going until he could see the tops and frames of the familiar huts of Sen’jin Village.
“Sen’jin!” he cried out in shock. “Wha be dis doin’ ‘ere? Dis troll be tinkin’ dat ‘e be findin’ ah angel, an’ not ah ghosty town!”
Zonar ran down the hill towards the village, expecting to see the hustle and bustle of the Darkspear Tribe getting ready for their day of fishing and hunting. It wasn’t uncommon at all for people to sometimes appear in his dream when he approached places where it was certain that people should be. Instead he saw nothing. No men heading out to the shoreline with their nets. No women beating the dust out of their hide-sewn clothing. No little trollings running about, chasing after this thing or that, or even the unfortunate hexed victims of the witch doctor in training, who was apt to turn people into snakes for the children’s amusement from time to time. The entire town was empty. Abandoned in every way save the small fire that would always burn right by the village elder’s favourite spot, beneath the shade of the tree. Even the fire looked distorted, it’s flames frozen in place as if made of coloured wood, and pitch dark just like the smoke that was coming from it.
“Dis not be right,” Zonar muttered as he turned in circles looking at the village. “Dere be some ting seriously wrong ‘ere. Ah empty village. Ah fire dat be burnin’ da blackest ah eva been seein’. Ah fire dat be burnin’ da blackest ah eva been seein’, even while it not be movin’!”
He slammed against the stone hedge, where the young witch doctor would normally be found practicing his magics, and slumped to the ground. “Why ah even be seein’ dis place? Da last place dis troll be fightin’ be in da Vale, ‘gainst da ogahs by owa outpost. Ah should be seein’ visions ah dat place.”
Zonar let his head drop down between his knees as he sighed in confused contemplation, his tusks hitting his thigh as he did. “OW!” he screamed out, his head jumping back up to relieve the pain of this tusks jutting into his legs. He rubbed his hands on his legs, to dullen the pain. “Dat be ‘urtin’! Dese tusks ah mine be ah pain som~”
Zonar stopped midspeech, unable to even complete his thought. All his focus was on the ground in front of him, and the two fully formed tusks sticking out of his mouth. He grabbed at his left tusk, unable to believe his eyes despite how much he wanted to. He felt the tip, as sharp and pointed as he remembered. He ran his fingers down the side, checking the pressure all around, making sure that his touch couldn’t be fooling him as he was sure his eyes had to be doing. A quick hand shot up to his ear, to find that it too was restored from the bubbly flesh he had felt just moments before. He was restored.
Leaping in excitement, Zonar bounced around the stiff dark fire, completely forgetting the puzzling predicament he was in. Dancing about this way and that, he thanked the Dusk for making him whole again.
In the middle of one of his summersaults of excitement, a flash of red caught his eye over by where the village were known to lay their dead. The flash made him forget he was in the air, and he landed on the ground with a thud, a loud BAKA! escaping his lips. Standing up again and dusting himself off, he walked over to the red glimmer.
The stone shone a vivid red, far more lively than the bland and blurry white sand that lay all around it. It was adorned with peculiar markings, white runes that spoke of importance. Hung all around it were small wooden totems made in a likeness of an elderly Troll, his white hair in dreadlocks around his neck and chest. Completely out of place atop the stone rested an Orcish skull, with a large tooth forced through it, pinning the skull to the rock. The white runes, which strangely were not blurred like the surrounding area, simply read “The Storyteller.”
“Ahhh…” Zonar sighed deeply. “Ah be rememberin’ you mon. Ya poor ol’ Troll.”
He reached out to touch the stone, examining the skull placed so forcefully on top. As his finger rested upon the stone, a brilliant light shone before Zonar’s eyes as visions burned themselves painfully into his head. A moment later, and Zonar was on the ground once more, his body heaving without breath.
From his eye trickled a slow and warm river of crimson blood…
((This turned out to be far longer than I ever expected it to be. Please consider each part as a mini story for purposes of the contest. I fear this story is going to be a long time in the writing.
BTW, this was written between the hours of 3 and 5 AM, so I am not held accountable for any spelling and/or grammar mistakes =P))