[RP] Vol'Debbie Vol'Does Vol'Dun

Wyrmrest Accord
((Hey Howdy! It's been like 5 years since I wrote... anything, really. I'm really into my troll guy at the moment, so I figured I'd force myself to put out something sort of stream of conscious...ish to help ease myself back into it!

Apologies in advance if it's kind of an utter mess, but I hope at least some of it is enjoyable!))

[..]And so they turned to face the last loa before them: a great tiger, with a pelt of dying sunlight, and stripes made of the night itself.

"I am Shirvallah," the tiger spoke, "and I am greatest of all."

The trolls murmured in disbelief. "What makes you great?"

"Where Facile Torcali will may you to eat, only I will teach you to feast. Where Treacherous Gonk may teach you to hunt, only I can make you a hunter. And where Cowardly Jani may teach you to survive, only I can teach you to thrive," Shirvallah declared. "So I ask you: will you abandon your ambitions? Meek trolls living in muck and mire, food for all the jungle? Or will you rise, kings amongst beasts, prey of no one?"

This desert was an absolute nightmare.

It had its charms, of course. The foxfolk were a curious lot, the snakefolk fierce and quick. Even the exiles were a personable sort, provided you caught them in a good mood. Vol'dun was a menagerie of people and ideas, all huddled together in the shadow of a once-great empire.

The parallels were not lost on him.

Stag shifted impatiently on the deadwood branch he had so precariously perched upon. The plan had been so perfect in his head: drop an undeniably Horde-looking banner on the road to the Alliance's outpost, perch above, ambush anyone stupid enough to pass below. It should have been simple! Let them come to him. Hunt them one by one. Thin their ranks. Yet as the moon rose high and the sands went to sleep, Stag realized the only stupid one may be him.

His claws tapped against the worn wood as a hunger pooled in his gut. It was a feral feeling, one that did not belong to him and yet that he was all too familiar with. These dunes were a prime hunting groud- teeming with life. Yet here he was, sitting in a dead tree, finding none of it. His lip curled in frustration. Surely he had not been misled?

'Do you not feel it, little king?' The voice in his head was low, rumbling, and mocking. Stag remained silent. 'Are you deaf to the way its heart hammers in its chest? Can your 'Lord of the Pack' not reveal its shape to you?'

Stag hissed under his breath and closed his eyes. 'Show me.'

'Distant smell of sweat on skin. Clumsy boots climbing through cooling sands. Ragged leathers, struggling home beneath dim light of dying stars. Silver eyes drinking in sunbleached bones. So close.

She carries the moon inside her. Tear it out.

The sound of shuffling sands broke the silence. It was a lanky thing- shoulders gone slack from fatigue, dark skin blending in with the cloudless night sky. A night elf. Stag watched curiously as she stumbled, tired feet desperately slugging towards the road. Her feet sunk into the dunes with every step, stomping along as though it were thick snow. She was taking. So. Long. If he sat in this tree any longer, he may well waste away himself. 'This creature may not make it.'


Stag clenched his teeth and held his tongue as he watched the elf's journey. Time itself seemed to move in slow motion as she dragged herself to the road- Stag could practically feel himself shriveling up. Slow feet finally shuffled their way out of the sands, revealing ugly elven boots that desecrated the stonework with every footstep. Stag could feel laughter in his chest- at least he was enjoying this.

'Watch as she approaches! You feel it now. Her heart is so weak, little king. Take it.'

'Take it.' the word repeated in his head as his heartbeat hammered in his ears, as the elf continued her togged march towards his trap. It was not an idea, nor a suggestion. It was a command, and it pumped through his body from tusk to tail, overriding all else. His irritation & fatigue melted away. Why had he been so impatient? These dunes were his hunting grounds: all who tresspass, his prey. He would conquer her, as he conquered all man and beast. He was made for this. Shirvallah had made him for this.
Stag shot forth from the treetop like a loaded spring, shadows peeling back from his feral form as he sent her crashing into one of the surrounding pillars. The ruined archway groaned loudly as it shattered- but not near as loud as sickening crunch below him as he introduced her face to the ancient architecture. Stag felt himself salivating as his claws dragged down her shoulders and spine, coating the sandstone below them in ribbons of red. She would not be long of this world, he knew. He just needed to-

Flashing light. Pain, tumbling: claws scraping against wet rock and earth, not flesh, not elf, not--

A feral cry ripped out of Stag's throat as he bound forward, blinded but not deterred. Yet the troll's claws found no purchase. So he lept, again and again, screaming impotently into the sands as each surge forward was met with vacant air and empty claws. Stag's heart slammed into his throat as his vision cleared. Unfortunately, so had the sands. The elf was gone.

He had not come this far to fail. He would not skulk back to the Hideaway, small and pitiful, unworthy of even the scorn of his peers. Stag steadied himself, lifted his head to the sky and took a deep breath. 'Shir-'

'Scent of blood, thick in the air. Dunes burdened by sluggish footfalls. So slow now, so slow! TAKE IT!'

The kaldorei did not make it far. Stag found her but a few yards away, broken body slumped beneath broken bridge. She met his eyes as he approached her. The light in them was fading so fast, so fast. Stag shifted from his feral form and took the knife from his belt as he approached her.

"Filth," she spat. The elf was drooling, dribbling blood and mucus from cracked, dry lips. Not a dozen breaths left, and she would waste them insulting him? How typical. She continued her gurgling, half-coherent vitriol as Stag approached, hunching down above her. "You are a mistake. We should not have suffered your malignant species to live. You. Are. Nothing."

Stag gripped her head roughly with a clawed hand and wrenched it forward. He ignored the way she sputtered blood and sneered, the grating sound of Darnassian curses tumbling from ugly, elven lips. He knew she would not understand. How could she? She was kaldorei, too simple and too stubborn to grasp his language. A sad people mourning a sad tree, huddling in rags and huts in fear of the very forest around them. Begging for scraps at a Boy-King's table. Pathetic.

He leaned close to her ear, claws digging into her bruised face as she tried to writhe away, dagger tapping her chest.

"We are Shirvallah," he growled. Stag pressed his weight down upon her, pinning her in place as his first incision sunk past battered leather and soft flesh. "And we. Are. Kings."
Awesome work as always Stag. Glad you're writing again!
((Thank ya both so much! I know the pacing is definitely weird and it could be a little more exciting at points, but man does it feel GOOD to just be like, "you actually finished a story, you gave it a beginning/middle/end, you put it out there and now you can learn from it and write better stories as result of it."

Now if I just applied the same thought process to the WPVP that fueled this... maybe I wouldn't get my butthole blown out by every ret paladin who so much as looks at me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ))
((Wow this is cool as heck and I love it.))
((Despite this being a Hordie thread, I always feel compelled to call out good writing when I see it! Very well done on your part, Stag. And I especially enjoyed the inner monologue-esque conversation your character was having with Shirvallah. Those're usually difficult to pull off, but I think you did excellent work!

Oh.. and we need to keep putting the "Vol" in Voldun. Eh? Eh? Eh. I'll show myself out. ))
Good story, good images, good druid.

((I love it! Very cool. the entire premise of the piece with the quote from the inscriptions was really badass. MORE!))

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