The Journal of Mal’koreth Cinderstorm
Personal records from the final months of his bandit career
Entry 1 – Third Moon, Early Spring
The merchants from Crossroads have started taking the eastern route through Thousand Needles instead of my usual hunting grounds. Word travels fast among their kind – they speak of the “cursed canyons” where travelers vanish in landslides, only for their goods to be found scattered and looted days later.
Cursed. If only they knew how right they are.
I’ve had to range further north, closer to Ashenvale borders. The pickings are leaner, and I’m competing with actual bandits – crude fools who rely on rusty blades instead of the earth’s own fury. Yesterday I watched a group of them bungle an ambush on a night elf caravan. Sloppy. Wasteful. They killed three guards for a handful of silver when a properly timed rockslide could have taken the whole group and their cargo.
The elements whisper of change. The earth spirits seem… restless. Agitated. Something stirs in the world beyond my small hunting grounds.
Entry 2 – Third Moon, Late Spring
A close call today. Too close.
I struck at what I thought was a lone goblin merchant heading south with a pack full of engineering supplies. Triggered a flash flood in the narrow ravine – textbook execution. But when I arrived to “rescue” the survivor and claim my prize, I found him sitting calmly on his floating pack, completely dry.
“Interesting technique,” he said, adjusting his goggles. “Water elementals, right? I’d estimate… maybe a dozen minor spirits channeled through that upstream boulder formation?”
My blood went cold. No one should be able to read my work so clearly.
Turns out he was a Horde military engineer, studying terrain for some operation up north. Knew enough about shamanic practices to recognize my “disaster” for what it was. We stared at each other for a long moment. Then he smiled.
“You know, the Horde could use someone with your… talents. Unconventional warfare is becoming quite popular.”
He left me a Horde recruitment token before departing. Said his name was Fizzbang, and that he’d “forget” to mention our encounter in his report if I “happened” to turn up at the nearest recruitment post within the month.
I’ve been carrying that token for three days now. The metal feels warm against my palm.
Entry 3 – Fourth Moon, Early Summer
The Tauren have found me.
Not the soft ones who raised me – these were Grimtotem warriors, following reports of “unnatural disasters” in the region. They knew what to look for, could read the signs I’d left behind. When they cornered me at my camp, I thought about fighting. The earth spirits were eager, hungry for violence.
But their leader, a scarred bull named Magrok, didn’t draw his weapon. Instead, he spoke of the old shame – how the tribe had failed me, failed to guide my gifts properly. How my adoptive parents had sent word years ago, asking if anyone had news of their lost son.
“Your parents grieve for you still,” he said. “They know what you’ve become, but they remember the confused child who only wanted to belong.”
I almost killed him for saying that. The rage that filled me in that moment… I could have brought down the entire canyon wall. But something in his eyes stopped me. Not fear – understanding. He knew exactly what I was capable of, and he wasn’t afraid. He was disappointed.
They left me alone, but with a warning: the Grimtotem won’t be so merciful if they find evidence of my work again. “Find a better path,” Magrok said, “before someone else finds you first.”
That night, I dreamed of Mulgore. Of warm fires and patient elders and the sound of someone calling my name with love instead of fear.
I burned the dream away when I woke.
Entry 4 – Fourth Moon, Midsummer
I’m being hunted.
Not by Grimtotem this time – by Alliance forces. A paladin named Marcus Redpath has been tracking the “Desolace Disaster Sites” for months. Smart bastard figured out the pattern, realized the “natural” disasters were too convenient, too precisely timed. He’s got rangers with him, and at least one dwarf who knows enough about geology to spot my work.
Found their camp yesterday while scouting. Heard them talking around their fire. Redpath has connected at least seven of my “incidents” and estimates over forty deaths. He’s determined to find what he calls “the dark shaman responsible for these abominations.”
Forty deaths. Has it really been so many? I’ve never counted before. The number sits strangely in my mind.
They’re closing in. My usual hideouts aren’t safe anymore, and I can’t keep running forever. Every time I strike now, I leave traces they can follow. The elements themselves seem to be betraying me, leaving signatures that can be read by those who know how to look.
I found myself staring at that recruitment token again tonight. The goblin – Fizzbang – said the Horde needed people with my talents. Unconventional warfare. Maybe it’s time to see what he meant.
Entry 5 – Fifth Moon, Late Summer
I’ve made my decision.
Last night, Redpath’s group almost had me. I was forced to trigger an earthquake just to escape – brought down half a hillside to cover my retreat. But in doing so, I revealed my position to every tracker in a day’s ride. By morning, there will be a dozen groups converging on this area.
I could run again. Disappear into the deep desert, start over somewhere new. But I’m tired of running, tired of living like a scavenger on the edges of civilization. The goblin was right – my talents are being wasted on petty banditry.
The Horde offers something I never had with the Tauren: a place where my nature isn’t seen as a flaw to be corrected, but a weapon to be wielded. Where destruction serves a greater purpose than mere personal gain.
I’ve buried my few possessions and erased the traces of my camps. Let Redpath find empty caves and cold fire pits. By the time he realizes his quarry has vanished, I’ll be wearing Horde colors and learning to channel my gifts in service to something larger than myself.
The elements sing of war coming to the world. Great conflicts that will shake the very foundations of Azeroth. If I’m to be a creature of destruction, let it be destruction with meaning.
Tomorrow, I ride for the nearest Horde outpost. The bandit Mal’koreth dies today. What emerges from his ashes… that remains to be seen.
But I suspect the Horde will find me quite useful indeed.
[Final entry in the journal. The remaining pages are blank.]
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