The Search for Answers

[Voljaan]

(( Hey all. I'm new to posting stories on TNG, but I thought I'd give this a shot. I should have the second part done for tomorrow. Thanks in advance for reading! :D ))

Stepping off the ship at Booty Bay, Voljaan sniffed at the jungle air. So much he had forgotten! The wondrous smell of the fresh rain, the screeches of the raptors chasing their prey, the taste of the vegetation in the air, it was all coming back to him in a flood of memory.

Memory…

Putting this out of his mind, he walked off the dock and over to the Salty Sailor to get a new hearthstone. He had to get a grip on himself. After all, he didn’t come to Stranglethorn to wallow over lost memories! No, he had something much more important to do.

“Ey mon,” he asked the bartender, “Do ya know where Ah can find da one called Hon’ga?”

“Sorry stranger,” was the pitiful excuse for a reply he got. An eavesdropping Orc sitting behind him proved to be more helpful.

“Did you say Hon’ga?” he asked. “He hasn’t been seen for a while, but last I heard he was out by Grom’gol.” With a puzzled look on his face he added, “What do you need the old witch doctor for? Surely you can find one here with the same services for much less of the danger.”

“No,” Voljaan said quietly, “Hon’ga is the only one who can help me with this.”

And with that, he walked out of the tavern and out of Booty Bay, making his way to Grom’gol Base Camp.

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Malak awakes from his sleep in a cold sweat, not entirely sure why. He can’t recall what he had just been dreaming about, but is sure he will remember if time allows. A few minutes later, he does remember, and after wishes only that he could forget. He screams into the night in an attempt to release his agony. It doesn’t help.

His dream had been one of terrible bloodshed. Not unusual for him, but this one had been particularly disturbing. He had been back in his home village. He was talking to Quazma, the trainer of those that practiced magical arts. Oh yes, he remembers well now. That day of death, of disgrace.

He feels he can no longer survive with this conflict inside him. He goes out into the night, gathering certain herbs and mixing them in viles with strange liquids. In an attempt to take his own life, he drinks the newly made poison. He feels pain in him. Unbearable pain. He collapses, a heap on the ground, everything going darker than the darkest night…

[Voljaan]

It was mid-afternoon the day after Voljaan’s arrival. He had spent the morning looking for signs of Hon’ga or his whereabouts, but nothing had turned up. He was angry at his unfruitful search, believing if what he needed wasn’t found today, it probably never would be.

His search was delayed by the arrival of a group of particularly nasty looking raptors. He had dealt with these as a child, but that was with a much larger group, and he was now very much alone. It was after this arrival that he decided to return to Grom’gol to sell some of the things he had gathered. Upon his return, he spied something he had missed before; a path was worn in the ground on which he stood, probably from years of frequent use. A specific path was not usual in the jungle though, so he decided to follow it.

About half a mile out his search led him to a small hut, temporary by what it looked like. It was made mostly of mud, with tree bark here and there for support. There seemed to be nobody inside. Making sure his footsteps wouldn’t be heard, quietly walked to the hut to inspect it. To his surprise, he found it empty save for a cot and fire pit.

Voljaan let out a sigh of relief as he spotted something on the ground. It was a mace, magically enchanted by the looks of it, and highly valuable. Whoever left this here would surely come back for it. With this in mind, he hid himself in the shadows of the empty hut and waited.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

Feeling life renewed to him, Malak tries to sit up. He still feels pain, though it is dull, unlike the sharp pain that filled his body when he first drank the poison. He looks around questioningly at his surroundings. He quickly realizes he is not alone. All around him are elemental spirits. The largest one, an elemental of earth, speaks to him with a booming voice.

“Fool! What has gone through your mind, that you would ignore he callings of the spirits and take your own life? Are you insane?!?!”

Malak cringes, feeling the words penetrate his soul. He feels unable to tell what is wanted of him. But he then hears himself spew everything he had been holding inside him, unable to stop the torrent of words.

“Joo wanna know why I tried ta kill myself? Ah’m a betrayer! And I can’t take it no more! Ah helped tha killin of one of my friends! Would ya be able to live with that? You wouldn’t know what it’s like! Everday Ah be helpin people, thinkin It might make me feel better. Butcha know what? It doesn’t! Nothing I do can stop the pain!”

Feeling he has said all he can, Malak lets out a heavy sob, and doesn’t try to stop himself. He just lets the tears flow.

“Think what you will,” says the elemental, “But your time here isn’t over. Your redemption will come. Now, you must return to your home. It is on your way that you will find the courage to look into yourself and forgive yourself.”

“But–” Malak cuts his words off as the images of the elementals begin to fade. He slowly gets up off the ground, scared that any sudden movements might bring back the full pain of the poison.

He thinks about returning to Orgrimmar, but realizes he left his mace in his hut. He turns, unable to recall the direction he came from. He finally settles on a path, and in a few minutes he is back to his makeshift house.

Upon entering, he immediately feels that something is wrong. He sees the mace by the far wall, many feet away from where he left it. He cautiously walks towards the mace, scanning every detail of the hut as he goes. He reaches the mace untouched. Feeling relief run through him, he turns to head back out the door. Then he feels the dagger on his spine.

“Where do ya think you’re goin?”

[Voljaan]

Day slowly turned to night as Voljaan waited in the hut. The more he waited, the more impatient he became. Hour after hour was spent sitting in the same position, hidden away in the shadows. He had just decided to leave when he heard footsteps outside.

The troll that entered the hut was not quite what Voljaan had expected. He was frail, weak, and stupid. He noticed how the mace had been moved to better suit Voljaan’s plans, but blindly went forward to retrieve it. How easy a task this would be. As the dumb troll turned to leave the hut, Voljaan simply put his dagger against the former’s back.

“Where do ya think you’re goin?” Voljaan asked, almost gleefully. “You have some information I’m in need of.”

The other troll trembled, probably in fear. Good, thought Voljaan, fear is good.

“Whatever I can give ya, I will. Just let me go.” Voljaan smiled at this. Easy prey.

“I wantcha to tell me where I can find the witch doctor, Hon’ga. He has something I need.”

“Well den, your search has ended, as he be me.”

To this Voljaan was very surprised. He had heard great tales of the witch doctor that had healed many wounded soldiers, and laid waste to Alliance settlements. How could this pitiful whelp be him? Impossible! Something was amiss, and Voljaan was determined to figure it out.

“If you are truly Hon’ga, you can tell me where ta find da grave of one known as Malak. I have heard from extremely reliable sources datcha buried him. Where is he?”

The second troll seemed to hesitate, but then asked, “What are ya wantin with him?”

“His grave!” snarled Voljaan. “Ah want ta look in his grave! I know, he died. I know ya buried him. All I need to know now is where.”

Again, the troll who was supposedly Hon’ga hesitated before replying. When he did, it seemed like it took every ounce of strength in him to simply get the words out.

“Ya know I’m Hon’ga. Whatcha don know is dat I’m also Malak.”

These words seemed to stun Voljaan. For a long time he sat motionless, trying to make sense of what he had heard. This one couldn’t be Malak. Malak was brave, he was a friend, whereas this whelp was probably the weakest, most cowardly troll he had ever seen.

Through all of these thoughts going through Vojaans head, one emerged: the camp. The place they were all imprisoned after the humans raided their village. He remembered Malak sitting in his wooden cage, twiddling with his thumbs as he always did when he was nervous.

Looking down at the troll before him, he saw something; a thumb twiddle. It started slowly, and not too often. As he watched though, he noticed the frequency and the speed increase. Soon it was a whirl of thumbs moving through the air. Voljaan knew it to be true. This was Malak. This was the one who had betrayed his father all those years before.

[Voljaan]

Voljaan could easily remember the day of his father’s death.

There had been a fierce battle the day before. A large group of humans had raided the village Voljaan lived in, and any left alive were taken prisoner. Voljaan, his father, an aspiring shaman named Malak, and a number of others had been captured and taken to a camp in the northern part of the jungle.

There was still hope though. The shaman Malak knew some of the human tongue, and served as an interpreter of sorts. The trolls could use this skill to find information to help them, such as when it was safe to sleep. The humans eventually found out, using this to more efficiently communicate with the trolls. One day, the leader of the camp told Malak to interpret his speech for the rest of the trolls to hear.

“E says dat e wants ta fight Quazma. E says dat if Quaz wins, da others’ll set us free.” Malak said this slowly, trying to transfer between the languages as fast as he could.

Quazma trained the magic wielders in their old village. Quazma was also Voljaan’s father.

“Why does he want ta fight me?” Quazma asked suspiciously. “Why not someone else?”

“I told ‘im you were da strongest of us all,” Malak replied, “E wants ta challenge your strength. I think ya can win. An think of it dis way, if he is lyin, at least dat’ll be one more human dead.”

Quazma warily agreed to the humans offer. Malak was right. Even if the human was lying, Quazma would surely beat him, putting one more human in a grave. After all, the favorite saying of him and his son was, ‘Da only good ‘uman be a dead one!’.

The leader unlocked Quazma’s cage. Quazma stepped out and stretched, glad to be free of his cell, if only for a little while. One of the humans threw a stick at him, obviously meant to be his weapon.

“E says datcha hafta hold up your stick when you’re ready!” cried Malak from the cages. Quazma held his stick high into the air, eager to begin the fight. The human then drew his sword, which gleamed in the afternoon sun. The fight for freedom had begun.

The human charged at Quazma, filling himself with the holy light as he did so. Quazma simply teleported himself out of harms reach and launched a fireball at the human. It scalded his exposed skin save his face, and greatly enraged him. He charged again, but as he did so Quazma slowed his movements with a ball of ice, then calling upon magic itself to take the form of missiles and beat down on the human. The fight had almost been won. Quazma was starting to cast the finishing fireball when he was stabbed in the back. He fell to the ground, revealing a dirty looking human, bloody dagger in hand. Quazma let out a loud gasp for air, and was then motionless.

Voljaan let out a scream of terror and anger. His father was dead! Killed in a fight that would have won their freedom by a cowardly human who could only hurt when striking an unsuspecting victim from behind! And… wait, what was this? The challenging human was retrieving what appeared to be a sack of coins. He was throwing them at Malak!

Using gestures, the human was able to make it clear to the trolls what had just transpired. First he pointed to Quazma’s now lifeless body, then to Malak, the sack, and the human. What was he trying to say? Looking over at Malak, Voljaan saw the pained look on his face. Suddenly Voljaan understood. Malak knew about Quazma’s weak back. He knew, and he told the human for a simple sack of coins!

Voljaan swore then and there that he would get revenge on the pitiful humans. By whatever means necessary, he would kill those responsible. And Malak. If they ever got out of this hell alive, he would hunt Malak down and kill him just the same. He would not care about honor. Honor was for weaklings, and he would not be able to accomplish this if he was weak. He would kill them all, and he would enjoy it.


(( I'll have the last part posted later tonight. Please, fellow RPers, post some sort of reply! I'm starting to talk to myself! :cry: Hehe, just kidding. But really, please tell me what you think!))

[Voljaan]

As he stared down at who he knew to be a traitor, Voljaan felt a small moment of pity. After all, he used to be his friend. The moment quickly vanished, though, as he realized that only made the betrayal worse.

Voljaan couldn’t think of what action to take. If he let Malak go free, he would destroy everything he had vowed to do. If he killed him, he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He didn’t know what to do, so he decided to prolong the decision.

“One ting Ah wanta know is why you called yourself Hon’ga. Why’d you pretend ya died?”

“Ah couldn’t live with the fact dat I helped in the death of your father,” he said, painfully, “Ah wanted ta be known for helpin da Horde, for bein an Alliance killer. I had ta leave my past behind.”

Voljaan recognized the sincerity in Malak’s voice. He knew he couldn’t kill him. But there was one thing he could do.

“You were de interpreter. Ah need ya ta tell me somethin. I’ve wanted for so long ta reek my revenge. I’ve wanted ta kill ya. But I just thought of somethin. What was tha name of da one dat challenged my father that day. The one who payed you.”

Malak considered this for a long time. What was it the elemental had said? “Your redemption will come.” Somehow, he knew this was what the elemental had meant. Shakily he told the name.

“Da human you seek… his name is Gryan Stoutmantle.”

Gryan Stoutmantle. The one who led the human settlements in Westfall. This was good, as Voljaan now knew where to look for the vengance he had sought for years.

Voljaans search for answers had ended, and his quest for revenge had begun.


(( Well, this is the end of it. Hope you enjoyed! Oh, and look out for Epilogue, which should be comming in a couple of weeks, the true conclusion to this tale. Bye!))

[Jobolg]

(( I like the story, man, although I'm a little torn that the traitor survived. I'da killed him! Killed him, AND the human when I found him. Nice regardless though. Next time you'll have to include a fight scene! No tale of revenge may be without one! ))