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He's a Dark Troll, large. He's an idol carver, a tattoo artist and a piercing artist. He's the youngest, and runt, of his family. Most of the stories he's heard about Horde and Alliance don't stem too far beyond Mt. Hyjal and some more recent things (mostly what happened during BC and Wrath.) He's not a cannibal, and he's more comfortable around Goblins and other neutral races then some of the Horde Factions. He doesn't hate the Alliance races as much as others, due to his tribe having worked with both Alliance and Horde during the Hyjal incident, and feels a bit more comfortable in neutral areas.
He has numerous tattoos and a few piercings, and, of note, an 8 inch prehensile tongue. (To get those little bits of food off his tusks, as well as his ancestors using it to snatch up grubs from the tiny holes in their mountain homes.)
A Dark Troll of the Shadowtooth Tribe, the youngest and smallest son of his family. His brothers and father were gatherers and trappers, most notable for being the ones to travel to the summit of the Mountain and gather the water, bringing it back down, fresh, to be used in their medicine, children's food and ceremonies.
This had been going on unchanged for decades, if not more, until the water was tainted by the efforts of an over zealous Night Elf tainted it in efforts to recreate a well of immense power. Despite the utter failure of his endeavor, it did cause something, something that tainted the trolls of the Shadowtooth. They became far more aggressive, as well as falling back on more decadent times of cannibalism and sacrifices to a particular idol.
A youth, his mother and sisters fled with him, they staying in the shadow of Mount Hyjal, while he himself fled to the Eastern Kingdoms. Seeking for help and information on a way to save his family. After scraping and searching, he discovered a tome, one of the oldest in known troll kind. Held by the oldest of troll tribes, and the most powerful of troll voodoo masters. The tome was known as Tome of Diabolic Remedy, and the Doctor was known as Hex Lord Malacrass.
He would need to get the book, the materials and use it on Hyjal, but to use it now would be too little too late. Even that great magic would be too weak to defeat the disaster cast upon the mountain's water now. But it could be used to create a barrier to prevent it from happening in the future. The answer? The Caverns of time.
The plan was difficult, complicated and near suicide, but it was all he had to go on. Not something he could do alone, he set out to find help from anywhere he could, and would pay back that assistance with his life and his blood, this is the way of his clan.
He has come to settle amongst the Gorlocs of Sholazar, admiring their love of nature, and sheer will to survive despite being accosted by Wolvar, Scourge and even a band of over zealous hunters burning down their food sources. It is here, in the hollows of their trees, he finds comfort and a home.
Sample RP: Mount Hyjal.
The greatest peak in Azeroth.
It bore scars of War, and trophies of nature. It had been mutilated by the hand of the Legion, and restored to most of it's former glory by the wilds, cuts and lashes still strewn across it's landscape. But nature always seems to persist and even thrive in these kinds of adversities. What were once deep chasms caused by magic and demons now rippled with fresh water rivers, craters that were dug into the soil by the impact of fire, and stone were now deep rooted flowerbeds.
But that was not the mountain, so much as it's footing. The peak itself was so tall one would thick it would pierce the floor of the Gods. Even Dwarven mountaineers would look upon it with awe and respect, as it could as soon show you the wonders of the world from a heavenly view, as strike you down, leaving your corpse in a frozen hell.
That's how it was viewed to outsiders, to those who saw these peaks, valleys and rivers as breath taking new sights, and not the every day landscape they were raised with.
While to some, this terrain was a battlefield, or a testament to war's past, or even a beautiful valley, with an ominous mountain, to the Dark Trolls, it was simply 'home'.
Three dark blue, almost charcoal stained, fingers gripped tightly around a stone that jutted out of the rock face. Thick muscles strained beneath a long, powerful arm as it bent to pull an athletic frame a foot further up the mountain. It was a fraction of a fraction, one wouldn't even consider it true progress when compared to the size of the mountain he gripped, but there was no other way to the peak. Not the way things were now.
One hand rose up, and gripped hold of something solid, the other coming soon after. Foot by foot, the ground was slipping further and further away, eventually caked and hidden below thick, ominous clouds. One false move, one bad footing and the drop would be long enough for one to consider exactly what their biggest mistake was before they hit the ground. Maybe even write out a quick will and testament.
But he never looked down, or hesitated, even when a foot slipped, or a stone broke loose. He couldn't afford to pause, or even slow. As the mountain began to slope, and smooth, offering less and less to grab hold of, one hand slipped to his belt. Pulling loose a dagger, he thrust his arm forward, sinking it straight into the rigid stone, and another dagger soon followed.
His mind swam as he bit at the rock with knives, his progress slower now. He thought back to words, faces and names that had driven him this far, and it was that, more then any food or drink, that fueled him right now.
You're not old enough for this yet, Zul. Give it another couple years, you're due for a growth spurt. Then you can come with me and your brothers. The whole tribe depends on every drop of water we bring down, we can't afford to drop any and you just aren't strong enough to carry the loads. You understand.