[RP] Revolutionaries

Emerald Dream
((Brah brah oi oi Gor'Watha))

Get to the temple.

Raiyda had stripped down to his pants and jumped from the overhang of his hut into the water. He fell, less than gracefully, over the waterfall that fed the mote around the center temple; the elevated slab of rock that once tied the thing they called “Hakkar”, but only in hushed, uneasy whispers.

Get to the temple. He'd heard it in the back of his head, the same familiar voice and voices, urging him to do things before he understood why. He crawled up onto the center island as quietly as he could. The rocks were slick with moss and little water plants that dipped below the surface of the mote, but Raiyda was determined. He hoisted himself up, crawling on hands and knees to a cluster of massive ferns nearby.

Nobody at the temple noticed him. They were preoccupied with something at the top of the steps, something that buzzed with excitement, and the smell of blood was thick in the air even from the base of the island. Senior Sergeant Jin'taza stood at the top, his familiar mask and bright red hair poking up above the rest. He was waving a dagger, its steel painted red, dripping down to his hand and wrist and robe. His woman stood at his side, wild looking as usual with bone and feathers in her hair. She was shaking, laughing, clapping her hands.

Closer.

Raiyda moved to the foot of the temple and began to climb. All pretense of being invisible was lost, and somewhere in the back of him mind Raiyda wondered if he'd make a bad headhunter after all. He stopped a few steps below a woman in dark leather. Her hands rested on wide hips, a shock of green hair toying with a soft breeze that washed over the city of Zul'Gurub, carrying the hungering scent of blood and flesh with it.

Raiyda licked his lips.

An Orc lay before them, bleeding but very much alive. His wild eyes scanned the crowd, fingers fumbling for something in his robe. He was familiar, dark robes, dark hair. His cracked voice pleading with the Trolls to spare him.

“Dis mon came to us, to our gatherin.” Jin'taza waved the dagger. “An why? To tell us it was our place to be slaves. To tell us Garrosh has de right of it. To wish us into shackles and curse our families into poverty and begging. An he in his cowardice refused to fight, refused to step down. He met us in a peaceful city and wished us war, and now here he is to say dose words again.”

The druid knelt down, the point of his dagger pressed against the Orc's throat.

“The w-- the warchief will hear of this.” He licked his lips, sweaty and grasping. “He'll hear of it and he'll storm your pathetic city. He'll tear the head from your body and take your woman for his own. Zul'Gurub will fall again under the might of Garrosh Hellscr--”

Blood poured from his throat, screams of pain reduced to choked, helpless gurgles as he fought against death. Jin'taza's scowl curled into a smile, his blade and hands soaked with red.

“Ya heard de mon! Zul'Gurub is unsafe! De great an powerful Garrosh gonna come for our heads! In de comin weeks, we gonna meet many more Orcs like dis. Ones like de mon we saw in Shattrath, who support Hellscream through slavery, through tyranny and death. We will not find refuge in de Horde much longer unless we take de Horde for ourselves! I say down wit Garrosh, an bring de heads of all who stand wit him to bloody de altars in Zul'Gurub!”

A wild cheer arose from the crowd. The woman in dark leather turned to the steps with a smile on her lips, passing Raiyda by without even noticing him. Little Headhunter. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked from foot to foot as blood began to trickle down beside him.

“Papa wanted me to be safe.” He whispered, curling his toes. “Is dis what dey call safe?” He looked left, to the temple of Bethekk, where a massive dead man with ice in his eyes slept. He'd called him Little Brother. He turned to the waterfall behind him, where a lanky Frostmane had made him promise to do his best, and not to disappoint him. He turned back to his own hut, where a stocky Troll with a deep, husky voice gave him a bedroll and a box, and told him to be very careful.

And his mind went to the Echo Isles, where horror stories of men in iron and women being dashed and cut along the beach poured from the mouths of the terrified few who'd already fled from Orgrimmar. They filled his ears and eyes, even when he closed them.

It wasn't safe, no. No place was safe for a Troll anymore. But if there was a chance to make it that way, to stand up for his people and be seen, be heard, as something more than a man in chains, he would gladly do what was needed.

A revolution.

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