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The smell is easily recognizable. Old burnt wood, burnt paper, burnt flesh. The strength fades away over time, but it never quite leaves the debris. Piles of broken stone and ashes lie like a warning; do not rebel against your leader, Garrosh Hellscream's will is unbreakable.

Except that he is breakable, and he broke.

She doesn't tread carefully over the crumbling bricks or the old lumber. It seems nobody has cared enough to clear it away, and all that remains is the leftovers of a raid from long ago. Inside broken walls are sun-bleached floors covered with dust. A few rats hide in corners, but they are the only remaining tenants. Anything worth stealing has been stripped, from clothes to books to the windowpanes. Here and there are indications of children; notches in the rotting wood, broken toys. The bodies were all taken and burned or buried, but the places where they died remain blood-stained. Nobody stayed to clean or rebuild, and the rat shit lies in little piles underfoot to add their stench to the mix.

They're not afraid to confront this intruder and one scurries across her path, only to be stomped to death by boots blackened by soot and mud. The creature squeals for an instant before it's bones shatter, leaving a pile of fur and blood as she makes her way to one of the rooms left intact. It's just as filthy as the rest of this building, but one thing remains; a book shelf. Inside of this book shelf are the scattered pages of old tomes, journals, ledgers. A jewelry box, already raided, lies broken on it's side. Without hesitation, she grabs one side of the book shelf and drags it, letting it crash unceremoniously to the floor. The sound makes insects and rats run from what appears to be a hole in the wall full of dead vermin. With a gloved hand, she reaches inside and fishes through the decay. Sifting through rodent bones and hair, roaches crawl up her arm. Unbothered, she searches until finally she finds what she's been searching for.

A few seconds worth of sweeping the roaches from herself are all she needs. Leaving the book shelf and everything else behind, the orc trudges out of the door, only a little filthier than she was when she entered. Another orc stands outside, drawn by the sound of the book shelf crashing, and peers at her warily. He's a huge burly warrior, clearly a soldier of some kind, his armor chipped and dented as if he'd just returned from a fight. Hers, in comparison, is haggard and held together by bits of leather and salvaged metal.

"Hey, you," he grunts.

There isn't a verbal answer, but she looks at him with eyes reddened by lack of sleep.

"Don't I know you?"

She almost laughs, but it comes out more like a cough. Nearby, a shaggy wolf with patches of missing fur growls low until she puts a hand on his muzzle and walks him away. "Nobody knows me."

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In the space between spaces, wrapped in the swirling chaos of the Nether floated a large structure.

It was his laboratory.

Quite by accident he had found that Titantech seemed to respond faster when not shackled by the paradigms of formed worlds.

So he had built this place, between worlds, to conduct his experiments in peace.

It was an imposing structure of titanium and nether forged adamantium, a rare form of the metal recovered from battle with Deathwing.

It had taken some doing to locate the plates at the bottom of the ocean and more to recover them but it had been worth it.

An ominous looking metal cylinder with a multitude of lights and antennas along it's surface, it hung menacingly in the Nether.

The collector array fanned out at the front was regularly being struck by arcs of Netherfire, harnessing them for power.

It was a marvel of Orcish engineering using techniques and technologies left by the Titans, re-imagined and re-engineered.

Every bolt, every wire had been designed and installed by one single Orc, possibly the leading authority on Titantech across the known realms.

A single Orc who was at that very moment, drifting by naked in a slow backwards somersault with a slightly disturbed look on his face.

"Well....shit." Bloodscream thought to himself as he drifted away from his lab.

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(( From here, done nine months ago in the spirit of this thread, and so copied here: ))

Tucked away within the hills of the eastern plaguelands, broken-down and forgotten like a long-soured well, the rubble of the manor gripped the hillside in stubborn defiance of the crevasse below. Even at the height of the House, it had been little more than a ruin, but now its tumbled-down stones were a hazy memory of what it had been, leaving little wall or roof to shield the rooms from the angry sky, with the lone exception of the main hall. Here, the highly vaulted ceiling rained down leaks and darkness, the broken windows doing little to pierce the shadows. As if by malicious irony, the room grew darkest at the hearth, where Sabachthan sits in soot and grime, his two baleful eyes glaring out over the wreckage like glowing coals.

Rising above the destruction of their House had been the vision of his elder brother, Netheryn. The others had all deferred to Netheryn’s leadership, his strong voice unifying them into directed vengeance. In those days, battle had waged across the land, and the House rose up with the intention of seizing entire territories from the alliance who had betrayed them. They laid ambushes and executed strategies that allowed them to overcome foes of greater strength. Without hesitation they followed Netheryn’s commands, willing to sacrifice themselves for the House.

But as the House grew in power, the world changed. Attention shifted away from the old conflicts and toward new realms. New sources of power allowed a single individual to wield might enough to level entire towns. With nothing but wreckage left in the old world, no enemies stayed to fight, and Netheryn had withdrawn in disgust.

Without his elder brother’s vision to direct them, the House disintegrated before Sabachthan’s eyes. In battle, no one followed the orders of the commander, each warrior thinking himself strongest and wisest—the fools. The cohesion of their forces, once their defining and most formidable characteristic, had disappeared with Netheryn. New goals and motives of treasures and power drew members away from battle and into crags and keeps, wherein they lost even their identity. All forgot themselves and drifted away one by one, until only Sabachthan and ashes remained. Not even the rats stayed on without Netheryn to rally them.

Netheryn had always been a short-sighted fool.

Sabachthan sighed, closed his eyes, and then only darkness and ashes remained.

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"Don't let him bully you. He'll fall asleep, eventually."

Soft fabric over soft well-manicured hands. She had recently lacquered them crimson, to match her eyes. That her pinky was chipped infuriated her, but Ninorra attempted to push the anger aside and slipped the gloves on. They smelled like the same perfume she wore three years ago. And smoke.

"I'll keep that in mind," said the man beside her, sitting with a toddler beside him. The man was dead. His remaining hair was tied back in a ponytail and the bones beneath rotted flesh protruded sickeningly. The toddler by his side was the opposite of this madness. He had short-cropped shockingly white hair, porcelain pale skin and perfectly dimpled cheeks. They sat together like best friends, the smaller of the two playing with a wooden pony, oblivious to the conversation happening around him. The undead gave him a reassuring pat on the head. "When will you be back?"

Ninorra ran her fingers along the closet nearby and pulled out a weapon; a staff. It was dusty with time, dented here and there, but the glowing orb situated at the top still rotated and pulsed with unused energy. "I won't be gone long. I promise, Steinburg."

The undead nodded, though he appeared unconvinced. "And.. has there been word from Vicailde?"

Her face faltered. The warlock smiled at her friend. "Don't worry so much. He's fine. If he weren't, I would be the first to know."

"You usually are," he chuckled sadly. The toddler got up from their seat and ran to his other toys; a collection of knights and ponies, all carved from white colored wood. "But you know, you can't be everywhere.. and if something were to happen to--"

"Nothing," she interrupted. "Is going to happen, dear. This home is fortified. This place is secure, and nobody cares about some random home in Silvermoon Forrest. We aren't that important."

Steinburg looked down at his hands. "No offense, but I've heard all of that before."

With a patient sigh, Ninorra went to Steinburg and sat beside him. "I know, and I am sorry. You understand that there was nothing more we could do. We couldn't save any of them, try as we might, and I swear it will not happen again. This is why I have to go. If the news is true, and if power has shifted, we might have a chance to rebuild--"

"No," the undead suddenly burst. "No. No no no."

"Rebuild.." She continued. "..our relationship with the Alliance. I do not speculate that we can have a real truce, but we must try, mustn't we?"

Steinburg leaned forward, resting his head in his palms. "You can try, my lady. Your husband, he is trying. And while you try, if you die, what of your son? Am I to be the only one left? Again? I can't keep watching this happen. I've died and come back and died and come back and I've seen everyone else not come back. Vicailde may not come back. You may not come back. Your son--"

"Get a hold of yourself," Ninorra commanded, her tone firm. She stood up and dusted off her robes; black, red, pulsating with woven runes and magic. She felt warm and secure with them on, once more. "I will be back. I promise."

Steinburg watched as the elf went to her son, and caressed his chubby face. The boy looked like his mother, but Steinburg refrained from becoming too attached. He'd seen too many children die, already.

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The lab was shrinking in the distance of the chaotic void that was the Twisting Nether.

Bloodscream rubbed at his right ear where a small scar went mostly unnoticed.

The Hearthchip opened communication with the lab.

"Jeeves dispatch E.R.D.'s to sector twelve, scan for my lifesigns and this Hearthchip signal.

He saw four small orbs come out of the cylinder and begin towards him in formation.

"Emergency Response Drone team Alpha has been launched boss."

"Out of curiosity Jeeves where is my armor?" He really was curious about that.

"The Mark IV Explorer armor is right here Boss, on induction pad Two, recharging and running diagnostics after successful recall."

"Hmmm me and my naked ass would like to challenge your definition of "successful"

Bloodscream scratched at one of his tusks as the drones arrived and the soft hum and greenish light of the telekinetron beam surrounded him.

That put an end to the spinning and Bloodscream was thankful for that.

Then an arc of Netherfire seemed to come out of nowhere the way they often did and slammed into the rescue drones.

Bloodscream was less thankful for that.

"Son of a..." he exclaimed as the dimensional rip tore through the drones and the kinetron field went haywire and fired him like a canon ball across the void.

Thankfully he was fired roughly towards the lab, which he would shoot past in little time but if little time was all that was at hand then little time would have to do.

Bloodscream was screaming now, not that it made a difference to the hearthchip which equalized all to a loud whisper.


Jeeves thought it best to forgo the argument in which he mentioned the ripper cannon was an untested prototype. He also decided not to mention that without a metallic shell surrounding him, their current calculations were unusable. He just locked onto the signal as it raced by and off towards the darkness.

The sheer complexity of the calculations racing through Bloodscream's mind cannot accurately be described.

"Target acquired, standing by." came Jeeves voice.

Bloodscream had no time to double check his math, if the ripper was still calibrated using the baseline from Azeroth, which he was quite certain it was he just needed the right ambient power spike to reverse nether X cohesion for a moment and...

There was a bright light as an arc of Netherfire blinded Bloodscream and he felt the energy pulse wash over him.

"FIRE!!" he bellowed through the pain.

He felt the ripper's ray hit him, he watched the cascade form and the material of the universe rip and in an instant was pulled through the rip and vanished.

Inside the rip all was white light and muted sound. It was only a moment and then he was spat back out into a world of shapes and colors.

Bloodscream opened his eyes and there a few hundred feet below him was Orgrimmar.

He roared triumphantly. He had done it. He had properly calculated the jump and saved himself from an uncertain fate adrift in the Nether using what he had always perceived as his greatest weapon, his mind.

A mind that at that very moment, was tapping him gently on the shoulder ever so apologetic about interrupting his jubilance and pointing down towards the ground far below while offering a brief tutorial on gravity.

"Well...shit." Bloodscream thought to himself as he plummeted towards the city below.

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It's strange, trading under Stranglethorn Exports again. The company I started too many years ago...I thought it was gone. After Neesa's betrayal I didn't think I could ever recover from the damage to my reputation. Slave trade! Dealing in flesh leaves a stain on a company that is not easily washed off. More than that, Neesa was my most trusted associate. I had employees, sure. Neesa was the only one I trusted to run the company while I was busy. I'll never make that mistake again.

I'm not proud of Neesa's current state, but it's the only solution short of executing her. The main point is that she won't be a danger to me, or any innocent, ever again.

As for the state of the company, struggling. I realized a few years ago that my ideological beliefs were fundamentally flawed. The sad naivety of my earlier years were a bit embarrassing to think about. The idea that people could get along no matter what...

A laughable idea.

Joining Sanctuary had been a mistake. I made good friends. People I hope to stay in contact with for the rest of my life, but the basic concept behind the group was flawed. War is war. I joined Sanctuary for purely financial reasons. I really believed they had a chance to stop this war. I was mistaken. Being able to sell to both sides would have been fantastic, but it won't happen. Now even the Horde is fractured. It's time to take contracts as they come, and ignore the war. It's not my business. If people want to kill each other, I'll gladly supply the means, but I want nothing to do with the politics or battle. Give me my books, research and study and I can let the world freeze over. Which it might.

The Merchant Queen is pulling into port now, so I need to end this entry. Basic food stuffs. It's surprising what people at war will pay inflated prices for.

And pay they will...

Kimiji Mur'Zunni: Captain of the Merchant Queen. President of Stranglethorn Exports.

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The sounds of heavy footsteps from outside the hut caused him to wake, rolling out of bed and stretching as high as the roof would allow. stepping outside, his blue skin glowed with a sliver light from the moon, the winds of Winterspring carried sounds for miles, a perfect natural defense from unwanted guests.

On the doorframe to his right, several daggers made their rest. The troll pulled two from their crude sheathes and crouched low, taking in the crunching sounds of someone approaching from afar. The sound was too forced, intentional, familiar; a wolf, a big wolf, carrying someone weighted with armor. He rose with a grin on his face, and walked toward the approaching rider.

"Look, i know you know who it was, but you should have at least put on some leathers.."

Vilmah eyed him with a battle-warn frown, looking him over from head to toe.

"Ida put on sometin if it wernt ya, I'd 'tought ya be likin dis a bit betta."

He grinned and helped his mate down from her warg, "An besides," he continued. "It aint da arma dat been keepin me alive dis long." He adjusted her heavy shoulder armor. "Dats what yo be fo."

Vilmah let out a short laugh and strode past the troll toward the hut.

"Got another one for you. Better get it done before the morning sun, this one likes to move around."

She reached into a bag on her side and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it up for him to retrieve. He snatched it from her hand , opening it to read the contents.

"'orde, 'orde. Always da 'orde now a'days....."

Vilmah sighed. "It's getting harder for outside ties to give us names. We want people to come to us for help, but they can't know that WE are the hel-"

"Ya ya ya, ah been on Azarot' just da same as ya. But ahm tellin ya, we coul jus go see Vol-"

Vilmah grunted, "We've been over this. At least you are able to enjoy this horrid cold, but you were right for us to stay low after we were driven out."

He sneered in disgust "Traitahs....traitahs. Now dats da pot callin da kettle black!"

Nojinbu walked into the hut and towards a fireplace with a dying fire, grabbing a metal rod and stoking it back to life, then grabbed his eye patch and armor from the mantle before him.

"Get mah poisons. Ahl be needin' dem dis time."

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Profitable Information, Volume III, excerpt begins from page 67

[....] for we always presume that Dead and Gone are interchangeable. Yet, for a good trader of secrets, differentiating the two and tracking their status across personages can be absolutely invaluable. The Lich King and his ilk, and a variety of foes throughout the history of this sphere (and the crumbs of Draenor) clearly demonstrate that one can be Dead, But Not Gone. Likewise, and all the easier to accomplish, can one be Gone, But Not Dead.

Naturally, great advantage -- and sometimes, thereby, profit -- can also be had by allowing others to confuse the two with regards to one's self. I myself have spent several good periods Gone, But Not Dead in an effort of speculative dispossession of my death against those who might have valued a profit in it at the time, with the obvious examples of SI:7 and the Trade Princes detailed in the previous pair of Volumes, and then again during the period of great transitions known now as the Deathwing's Cataclysm. Through upheavals in land and nations, many Dead and Gone were left missing, making it all the easier for those who wished to be Gone, But Not Dead. Simultaneously, this particular period brought a horde of goblins boiling up out of the Undermine and into the Horde, increasing my personal difficulty at not blipping across their Doppler scry devices. Since the one Trade Prince had effectively signed me up for War (see Section 87 of the Second Volume), this troll decided to become a casualty in the heightened conflict and be Gone altogether.

However, the problem with being Gone, But Not Dead while making one's living in commerce and secrets is a subsequent lack of opportunity to conduct commerce and collect secrets. Striking deals naturally requires someone else with whom to reach that deal, the accumulation of inventory often accumulates attention, and meeting with birds naturally means not being entirely Gone. In other words, an effective affectation of Gone requires the Death of profitable operations -- or, perhaps in a more accurate sense, a freeze. So as the Lich King came out from beyond his Frozen estate, this troll entered his own state of frozen assets, and as Deathwing destroyed the land and scattered debris in his wake, my carefully built network likewise collapsed.

Yet one advantage aligns with Gone, But Not Dead in that, when outside of all others, you are in the best place to locate and track other outsiders. Quite so, to be Gone is often to be in the places where none others are, which is exactly where one will find others wishing to be Gone. And so, as I hid amidst the rubble of the World, I occupied my time seeing who else I could find scrabbling about the debris. Unfortunately, I found some Dead. And I found some Gone for Good, had they any choice in the matter. But, after many a year, I noticed a curious stirring, as if the shifting of the tides, which seemed to be pooling together various interesting personages long Gone [....]

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The cold wind bit through his plate armor, and he supressed a shiver.

He was cold, hungry, and a recent skirmish had left him with a deep gash on his torso. Still, he was the first one suited up and waiting at the gate. Forty soldiers donned their weapons and armor, prepared for war, and he stood at the front. He was Lieutenant General Fhenrir Phoenix, one of the highest ranking members of the Horde military.

He could not afford to show his allies or his enemies any weakness. The Grimtotem blood coursing through him demanded no less. The gates opened. Fhenrir charged into the harsh blizzard atop his war bear, and it wasn't long before the Alliance and the Horde collided.

Howls, clashes, gunshots and screams echoed through the mountains. Adrenaline pumped through Fhenrir's veins as he charged into his first opponent, a night elven druid that had shifted to the form of a cat. The large mace on his back gripped in both hands, he lunged forward and tried to bring it down on top of the beast, but it shifted to the side and claws tore into the back of Fhen's mane. He wrestled to break free, but more claws and bites struck true.

Thinking quickly, Fhen fell backward and crushed the druid under his weight. He rolled to his hooves before the druid could stand, and brought his mace around in a brutal arc that landed with a sickening crunch. The elf shifted back to an elf as she fell lifeless. Fhenrir recognized the woman as one that was simply doing her duty... her duty for his enemy. And he had no time to mourn.

Around him the Horde was faring poorly, and allies were dying all around him. He charged into another skirmish, crushing and pounding the life from a dwarf and a human that had just slain an orcish warrior Fhen often fought beside. He had no time to mourn for his comrade, either.

They were losing this outpost, and the Horde was falling back. But the Alliance was advancing too quickly; the Horde needed more time to fortify their next battleground.

"Move! NOW!" Fhenrir shouted to the Horde behind him. They did not wait to question him. Fhenrir let loose a howl, drawing attention from the nearby Alliance army. He leapt through the air and landed directly on top of a mounted gnome aiming to slip by, and threw the gnome's body at another soldier riding past.

They began to overwhelm him. He felt the sting of frostbolts and arrows. Bullets and swords. Fhenrir lashed out, spinning his mace in devastatingly fast circles around him. A human fell, but another was saved by magical healing from support behind him.

Fhenrir's wounds ached and throbbed. He stomped the ground, buying himself a few seconds from the attackers around him, and chugged a flask from his hip.

It did little good. More attackers came upon him, and riders began to slip past. Fhenrir's armor was chipping and breaking under magical assault.

Then, a sword stab found its mark.

Fhenrir was run through, the blade piercing his heart.

He collapsed, bloody, into a snow drift. A human warrior patted him down for supplies as the Alliance army advanced past him.

His body was growing cold.

Kali... Xara... Raina...

He would never see them again, he knew.

Life left him.


Fhenrir shook his head, coming to his senses. The cold wind of the Southern Barrens bit through his hunting leathers, and he shivered.

During his days of active service, he'd seen that dark dream as an inevitability. He counted the days he survived and lived in the moment. Not anymore.

Xaraphyne had convinced him to retire to the Barrens with her, something he'd never have imagined agreeing to. Still, here he was. Life was quiet now. Peaceful, even.

As he bagged the boar he'd caught for dinner, he pondered if he would still be fighting today had she not entered his life.

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Belicosa walked defiantly through the Valley of Spirits. The numerous Kor'kron guards simply glared at her, since the first guard who had affronted her was still wandering bewildered wondering why he had taken the form of a sheep.

As she stalked by the deserted bank, auction house, cooks and scribe huts, her anger built dangerously and arcane power crackled about her entire body.

As she entered the Valley of strength, with only a moment of hesitation, she pulled herself to her full height and entered the stronghold of the Warchief of the Horde.

She stopped just inside the door, very aware of the guards flanking her. Garrosh looked up and glared at her.

"You dare enter my chamber Troll? And wearing the tabard of your Tribe. A bold move. Do your job, messenger, and remove your unsightly person from my presence."

Belicosa snorted in derision and virtually spat her reply. "Belicosa not be messenger, traitor of Horde. Her just wanted last look before you fall. You kill Cairn and try kill Vol'Jin. And Vol'Jin been like father Belicosa since her young. Know this, so-call Warchief, Belicosa be there when you depose."

As she spun on her heel to leave, Garrosh let out a roar of fury. Belicosa unleashed a blast of frost, freezing all in the stronghold to the floor, ensuring her safe retreat from the confrontation. As she summoned her Blazing Drake, her treasured gift from Alexstraza, she ruminated that it would be quite some time before she would be welcome to openly walk the streets of Orgrimmar, not that she had cared much for the city since her friend and mentor Deino had gone to Northrend to avenge her brother."

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"Blue skies, sandy beaches, palm trees, what more could a goblin ask for!"

Chikt stood with his hands on his hips, head held high as he stood there on the sandy beach. Eyes closed, enjoying the sun beating down on his face. The sound of the leaves of a palm tree rustling behind him. Eventually he slumped his shoulders and slowly turned. The stench of smoke filled his nostrils as he took in the sight of the Blackbird - the once proud airship of the Raven Cross, now a smoking wreckage on the shore of a tiny little island in the middle of the ocean.

At the very least he'd gotten out lucky. The Alliance airship he was fighting on the other hand - not so much. They'd exploded spectacularly and went down somewhere in the middle of the ocean.

"Well... it could be worse." Chikt muttered to himself.

"Not really." Came the electrical, female toned voice of INDI from the device upon his wrist. "Now you'll just slowly starve to death."

"Ahahahaha! Nooo. The Raven Cross will find me. They always do."

He hesitated, looking out over the rolling blue waves of the ocean.


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Goroka sat contemplatively on her small patch of farmland near Halfhill. While it still irritated her to be referred to as "Gorvena's like sister and junk" by the now hated Kor-Kron, it still suited her to lurk in the shadows.

She reflected on Orgrimmar, how a once easily defensible but comfortable place had become the abomination created by Garrosh after the fire which had claimed the life of her father. She thought about Gorvena's best friend, Belicosa, and how she and Chingaso's mate Orugasa had become little more than mercenaries, although Belicosa swore complete allegiance to Vol'jin, and where Belicosa went, her trusted group of fighters followed.

Rummaging through the fresh soil to claim her crop of ghost iron and trillium, she decided that things were going too slow for her. Sure, mining and engineering kept her busy, but she didn't join the Horde to do chores. Someone was going to have to die. And that someone had a name...Garrosh.

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Zazaine sat on the clean sands of the Echo Isles, her robes folded neatly beside her, her minions waiting in the nether. She had finished her weekly ritual of bathing in the clear waters of the bay, including a thorough scrubbing with the fine sands of the beach, but somehow still felt tainted.

She had been one of the mindless Voodoo troll thralls of Zalzane until his fall, when she and her kind were freed from his control. She wanted to train in shamanism, but did not have the skills of the elements, so she followed the path taken by most of the other liberated Voodoo trolls and trained as a Warlock. It turned out she was quite adept, but she had always kept her eyes down, ashamed of her past.

One day during training she had met the mage Belicosa, who referred to herself as "the orphan of Sen'jin Village." As they became friends, Belicosa told her of her childhood, how her arcane powers had come naturally, even though she was scorned by some of the other children who were training as shaman. She told Zazaine of how she had at times lost her temper, setting a tormentor's hair ablaze or freezing their feet to the ground. The she explained how she had counselled extensively with Vol'jin, learning not only to control her volatile temper (which still occasionally got her in trouble with the Kor'kron) and embrace her power to be the best she could. They became fast friends.

"Zaz" as she was known to her friends got up and went back into the water, making sure all of the fine sand was rinsed from the dense blue fur of her body. Then she returned to the beach, donned her robes and arms, and set out for Pandaria. She had work to do. She was determined to be there when the fool Garrosh was unseated as warchief. She owed her tribe, her saviors, her leader, that much.

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