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Sreng's Journey
The preparations had been made, and there was no more putting it off... it was time to go.

They gathered where they had gathered since the early days; Ironsong Beach served them well. Sreng told them of his plans: he would make for the Goblin lands of Kezan, in the South Seas, and from there he would supply himself for a solo expedition. His objective was to seek what was left of the Darkspear homelands, and lead any survivors back to Durotar and the Horde.

He had faced fierce enemies with a courageous heart, but the idea of leaving his Tribe filled him with a secret fear. He would not show them that; they must believe in his confidence as ever they had. Kosath would lead the Tribe, under the mantle of Shieldbearer. It suited him like his invincible armor.

Meathook was turned out to hunt in the wilds of Durotar. Surely the beast-of-war would soon lead a pack of his own on many successful hunts. Sreng's rifle was carefully oiled and put on a wall in the guild hall; it would be of little use at sea. He brought only his spear, which was sure to be recognized as a symbol of totemic authority amongst the people of the isles.

The moot was harder than he thought. So many feelings... fear, excitement, love, loss, pride, and sorrow. They had turned out to see him off, and that fact moved his heart like none other.

Before leaving, he swore to his Tribe. They would see each other again, in this life or the next.
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The sound of waves crashing on the beach's shore was the only sound heard for hours. Everyone had long since left Ironsong beach after the rather emotional departure of their Warlord.

Only one troll remained on the edge of the beach. His plate armor reflected the last glinting rays of the sun as it began to slowly disappear beyond the horizon line. A golden sword stood impaled in the beach's dirt-strewn sands, the red embers of a dying fire casting an eerie glow over the sharp object.

Melikar was sitting in this exact position for a long time. He watched as Sreng swam away, watched until the ocean's waves obscured his view from seeing the Warlord any longer. His mind reflected all the times he could remember about his brother-in-arms. A lively moot in Grom'gol, the dangerous runs through Naxxramas, the exciting stories told about the isles, the adrenaline-rushed war grounds against the Alliance and all the times they saw one another in the guild hall.


The warrior felt his body shudder, but he remained stoic in his posture. Reaching up to his neck, he felt only his skin. There was no familiar feel of a cool, metallic chain there anymore. He only hoped his gift would be encouragement enough.

The troll then felt helpless, the night beginning to take over the day as the last rays began to duck behind the hills to the west. As if a switch flipped off, the dark encircled him and the light was gone.
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