08-17-2006, 11:47 AM
((This is my story of my quest for Rhok'delar. There will be accompanying screenshots for some of the later portions.))
Srengââ¬â¢jin Skullclaimer, Warlord of the Ironsong Tribe, knelt reverently in the forest glade, trying to keep his breathing calm and even. Great evils lurked under the writhing, twisted boughs of Felwood. There were signs of the landââ¬â¢s corruption all throughout the tortured wood: trees grew gnarled and rotten, some even suggesting leering or tormented faces in their warped bark. The beasts that stalked Felwood were tainted and unwholesome, and unnaturally aggressive.
Ten thousand years before, Felwood had been a verdant paradise, but the invasion of the demonic Burning Legion had changed all that. Even now, so long after the tragedy that was the War of the Ancients, the land still bore scars from which it was unlikely to ever recover.
Where Sreng now knelt, three of the most profound casualties of that war still stood: what appeared to be massive trees were in fact the petrified, long-dead remains of three mighty Ancients; forest protectors from a bygone era. They were frozen in time like great, sad statues; noble guardians that had sacrificed themselves in the great war.
The trollââ¬â¢s journey had led him here. In one calloused, blue-grey hand, the Warlord held the edge of a single petrified leaf, large enough to shelter under should it rain. When Sreng had found the leaf, he knew precisely where it had come from. No other tree in Kalimdor could have grown so great a leaf, and the petrifaction marked it as one of Felwoodââ¬â¢s many sad truths.
Srengââ¬â¢jin straightened his gangly form to its full seven feet and looked about himself. He frowned grimly at his dire surroundings, and then laid the leaf at his feet. It seemed right to the Warlord that it be returned to its place of origin, even if that place was a monument to the suffering of the natural world. Heaving a sigh of exasperation, Sreng turned to leave.
The wind lifted the bony branches above Sreng, and he paused. In the clattering whisper of the limbs scraping one another, the troll thought her could make out voices. On his guard for the trickery of the demons that still haunted the wood, Sreng removed his rifle from its holster, and cast about for the source of the noise.
The putrid glade suddenly came to life. Power older than the forestââ¬â¢s taint cleansed the air for a moment, and a clean, pure wind blew. Then, the great spirits of the petrified Ancients themselves manifested.
Like the petrified corpses that loomed over the troll, these spirits resembled mighty trees. Unlike them, however, these appeared somehow stronger, younger, and healthier. Their bark was unmarred by the predations of age, and their eyes seemed to glow with the verdant green of a young forest in the morning. Overawed by their sudden manifestation, Srengââ¬â¢jin dropped his rifle on the loamy forest floor. He stood and stared up at them, as they stood and stared down at him.
ââ¬ÅPeaceââ¬Â¦ trollââ¬Â¦ We would speakââ¬Â¦ to youââ¬Â¦ of vengeanceââ¬Â¦Ã¢â¬
Srengââ¬â¢jin Skullclaimer, Warlord of the Ironsong Tribe, knelt reverently in the forest glade, trying to keep his breathing calm and even. Great evils lurked under the writhing, twisted boughs of Felwood. There were signs of the landââ¬â¢s corruption all throughout the tortured wood: trees grew gnarled and rotten, some even suggesting leering or tormented faces in their warped bark. The beasts that stalked Felwood were tainted and unwholesome, and unnaturally aggressive.
Ten thousand years before, Felwood had been a verdant paradise, but the invasion of the demonic Burning Legion had changed all that. Even now, so long after the tragedy that was the War of the Ancients, the land still bore scars from which it was unlikely to ever recover.
Where Sreng now knelt, three of the most profound casualties of that war still stood: what appeared to be massive trees were in fact the petrified, long-dead remains of three mighty Ancients; forest protectors from a bygone era. They were frozen in time like great, sad statues; noble guardians that had sacrificed themselves in the great war.
The trollââ¬â¢s journey had led him here. In one calloused, blue-grey hand, the Warlord held the edge of a single petrified leaf, large enough to shelter under should it rain. When Sreng had found the leaf, he knew precisely where it had come from. No other tree in Kalimdor could have grown so great a leaf, and the petrifaction marked it as one of Felwoodââ¬â¢s many sad truths.
Srengââ¬â¢jin straightened his gangly form to its full seven feet and looked about himself. He frowned grimly at his dire surroundings, and then laid the leaf at his feet. It seemed right to the Warlord that it be returned to its place of origin, even if that place was a monument to the suffering of the natural world. Heaving a sigh of exasperation, Sreng turned to leave.
The wind lifted the bony branches above Sreng, and he paused. In the clattering whisper of the limbs scraping one another, the troll thought her could make out voices. On his guard for the trickery of the demons that still haunted the wood, Sreng removed his rifle from its holster, and cast about for the source of the noise.
The putrid glade suddenly came to life. Power older than the forestââ¬â¢s taint cleansed the air for a moment, and a clean, pure wind blew. Then, the great spirits of the petrified Ancients themselves manifested.
Like the petrified corpses that loomed over the troll, these spirits resembled mighty trees. Unlike them, however, these appeared somehow stronger, younger, and healthier. Their bark was unmarred by the predations of age, and their eyes seemed to glow with the verdant green of a young forest in the morning. Overawed by their sudden manifestation, Srengââ¬â¢jin dropped his rifle on the loamy forest floor. He stood and stared up at them, as they stood and stared down at him.
ââ¬ÅPeaceââ¬Â¦ trollââ¬Â¦ We would speakââ¬Â¦ to youââ¬Â¦ of vengeanceââ¬Â¦Ã¢â¬