The Journal of Zan’thurok
[This ancient leather-bound tome shows significant wear, its pages yellowed with age. The binding appears to have been repaired multiple times over the centuries. The first several hundred pages are covered in an archaic script that predates known troll writing systems – indecipherable symbols and characters that seem to shift and writhe when viewed directly. Only the final pages, written in common Orcish, are readable.]
Recent Entries
Entry 1
[The handwriting here is noticeably different – more careful, deliberate]
For months I have watched from afar as that cursed blade was wielded against the Legion. Each report from the Broken Isles filled me with dread – shadow priests drawing upon its power, feeding the entity within with every spell cast. I monitored the situation carefully, but the greater threat of Sargeras stayed my hand. As long as the weapon was being used for a good purpose, I wouldn’t intervene.
But now the Legion is broken, Sargeras himself is gone, and I hear disturbing rumors from Silithus. They say the blade’s power was used to cleanse the great wound left by the fallen titan’s sword. If this is true – if the weapon has expended its accumulated power in such a ritual – then there may never be a better opportunity.
The entity bound within grows stronger with each use, but perhaps this great expenditure has weakened the prison just enough. If I can find the blade now, while it rests drained from such a monumental task, I might finally destroy what I worked so hard to hide.
I have avoided the lands of those closed-minded, bothersome trolls for sixteen thousand years. But if there is even the smallest chance to end this threat while the binding is at its weakest…
I must go to Zuldazar.
Entry 2
Strange, to walk upon shores I thought never to see. They do love their pyramids, and gold now adorns everything in this vain empire. The lineage that cast out my name has built monuments that dwarf the settlements of my youth.
The trolls I pass in the streets are “my people”, yet strangers. Their language has evolved, their customs shifted, their very bearing speaks of centuries of proud isolation. They look upon me as they would any foreign dignitary – with cautious respect, but no recognition. Good. Let them see only another exile returning to serve.
King Rastakhan received me with the courtesy due one who claims knowledge of ancient threats. I spoke carefully of wisdom earned in distant lands, of dedication to Zandalari welfare. All true enough. He has no need to know that my “distant lands” were islands I fled to before his great-great-ancestors drew breath.
The irony is not lost on me – seeking audience with the inheritors of those who condemned me to this eternal exile.
Entry 3
Too late. Always, it seems, too late when swift action is required.
I came upon some priest who had found the blade, and was happy to do everything it told her to. It is even worse than I had feared, she did not only return her power. She gave her a physical form and the freedom to move about of her own volition.
At first I felt frustration, but in the end I knew that this was always going to happen. It was never “If”, but “When”.
And for now, she is merely another day’s problem. I choose to look on the bright side: I find myself eager to engage with the world again, something I assumed was many many centuries behind me.
I am going to find the time to ingratiate myself with the Horde. I wish to see the world without having to deal with too much scrutiny. There is a war going on now, and what better cover to have one’s history unquestioned?
I will show them what I can do for their war effort. I am sure that will do the job nicely…
[The journal continues, but the remaining pages are blank, waiting for future entries as this ancient being navigates his return to active engagement with the world.]
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