"A chance for ol' Krae'jin to show 'is mettle! Hah!" The old troll shambled past the draenei keeper, his scaly skin brushing her fancy gossamer cloth while doing so. There was a weirding way about the shaman, like a a creature out of his element yet calm in his own world. The aura persisted as he trundled up the ancient stone stair to the Aldor terraces and the waiting elven hunter. "Ahoy! You dere, mistah' elf man," he waved from several yards behind. "Wait up fo' Krae'jin, yah? You got da mean look on ya brow and I dun' tink 'dere be nothin' in 'dese books das gonna heal ya all o' da quick-like!" Krae'jin continued to stomp forward past the bemused Naheal through the stone archway, relying on cane and wit to guide the pair into the inner sanctum.
The troll had been on the Aldor Rise of Shattrath, muddling through the tomes stored in the northern summit. It was a typical foggy day, with the mists drifting past the city walls like an unperturbed invader boiling forth from the Zangarmarsh. The illusion of a floating island of rock and shelving was not lost upon Krae'jin as he squatted on a precipice of the Rise, gazing out over the false sea of vapor. Below, multitudes of Skettis Outcasts soldiered on with the rebuilding of their feathery lives and the Lower City was abuzz with the latest rumor and gossip. Turning away from the overlook, Krae'jin returned to the wide olemba table covered with various tomes of Draenei history and geographical minutia that could only interest the devoutly bookish. A draenei priestess had entered the repository and was passing a strange blessing from scion to adherent. The words were strange to Krae'jin's tongue and nagged at a certain curiosity. A curse with physical scars? "Oh! Priestess!" the troll called. "What be dis warning o' which you speak?" Krae'jin cleared his throat. "I know a ting or two 'bout healin'!"