Zul'jin

Especially when Orgrim, the Warchief himself, decided to throw down, fighting with his bare, calloused hands, the trolls' eyes widened in grudging respect. This wasn't some greenhorn just out of the nursery. This orc, with the same brutal thrust, had sent dozens of dwarves and humans to meet their makers. He was clearly a force to be reckoned with, a walking, breathing wrecking ball.

"What do you want with our leader? You don't think his meat's tastier than ours, do ya, hehehe?" The troll chuckled, a guttural, rasping sound that scraped against the ears. Orgrim, ever the pragmatist, used the common tongue of humans and trolls, a language that, despite the accents being thick enough to choke a kodo, somehow got the message across. Especially after they realized they shared a delightful hobby – collecting human heads – the initial hostility between the two sides melted away faster than snow in a dragon's breath.

"We are orcs," Orgrim grunted, his voice like grinding stones, "from the Blackrock Clan of the Horde."

"Trolls, forest trolls, Amani clan," the troll replied, a flicker of surprise in his beady eyes that these green-skins didn't know their kind. "Alright, spill it. Why do you want to see our leader?"

"I hope to talk to him," Orgrim stated, his voice dropping, the second half of the sentence delivered with a heavy, emphatic tone that left no room for doubt: "for the sake of our common enemy."

The Horde's disastrous run-in with the Alliance navy had cost them an arm and a leg. Orgrim, unlike that brick wall Blackhand, wasn't one to beat his head against the same wall twice. He was beginning to see the writing on the wall: humans, dwarves, elves – they were all a pain in the neck, a real thorn in the Horde's side. For the orcs to conquer this world, they'd have to chew through the combined forces of three powerful races. That was no walk in the park for the Horde, not after they'd already been beaten to a pulp. Since the Horde had already taken in ogres and even those creepy Death Knights, who were once human, why couldn't they make room for trolls? Besides, their almost identical green skin gave them a common ground, a shared shade of awesome.

However, diplomacy, Orgrim knew, was never a tea party. It was always about flexing your muscles, about showing who had the bigger stick. Even though Orgrim was playing it cool, keeping his mighty warhammer a full meter from his hand to show he wasn't looking for a fight, the other troll clearly had a different agenda than the first one.

"We never negotiate with our meals," the troll snarled, a hungry glint in his eye.

Delicious meal? These overgrown runts actually think we orcs are delicious meals? Orgrim's lips peeled back in a sneer, revealing tusks that could split timber. The troll, clearly not getting the hint, launched a javelin with a force that seemed to rip through the very atmosphere, a blur of motion faster than most orcs could even comprehend.

Simple and direct, that javelin was. Its only characteristic? It was fast. Incredibly fast. Insanely fast. One moment, the javelin was a tiny black speck in Orgrim's vision; the next, it filled his entire field of view. If he just stood there like a fool, the javelin would undoubtedly punch through the head of the Horde's Warchief, splitting it open like a rotten watermelon. Of course, that was assuming Orgrim, who bore the awesome title of Doomhammer, would just stand there and take it.

Without even a flicker of a dodge, Orgrim casually snatched up his warhammer. Though the Doomhammer looked like it weighed a ton, in Orgrim's astonishingly powerful grip, it felt as light as a feather. In less than a blink of an eye, the colossal, square-headed black hammer had already whipped up a gale-force wind. The swung hammer connected with the javelin like a baseball bat hitting a fastball, delivering a perfect "grand slam home run." Orgrim, having caught the troll's spear mid-flight, actually whacked it back, and the splintered shaft punched through the troll's knee. The troll let out a bloodcurdling howl, clutching his leg, which was now sporting a new, unwanted hole.

"Hah—" Orgrim bellowed, a primal battle cry that ripped through the air. The sheer force of his roar made the surrounding leaves whistle and dance around him, a whirlwind of fear centered on the Warchief. The other trolls, stunned by Orgrim's display of raw power, froze, momentarily abandoning their injured companion. Orgrim, however, wasn't about to give the fool who dared to disrespect the Warchief of the Horde a chance to beg for mercy. He needed to lay down the law, once and for all. The troll who had dared to challenge the Doomhammer had to die!

With a leap so powerful it could shake the very foundations of the earth, Orgrim surged forward, covering five meters in a single bound, landing before the fallen troll like a vengeful spirit. The Doomhammer, fueled by Orgrim's righteous fury at being provoked, and swinging with unparalleled power, smashed down hard on the troll's head.

SPLAT! The troll's skull, for the first time in its life, truly did become a rotten watermelon.

But that wasn't the end of it. In the next half-second, from collarbone to shoulder blade, from pelvis to leg bones… every single bone and every last piece of flesh within the Doomhammer's killing zone was pulverized into a bloody, unrecognizable mess. Blood and gore splattered everywhere, painting the ground a gruesome crimson. A troll, over two meters tall, was reduced to an unrecognizable pile of meat paste in an instant.

"I say again," Orgrim roared, his voice echoing through the trees, "I want to see your leader!"

It was a request, delivered with the tone of a command. Orgrim spun around, fixing his gaze on the remaining trolls, who still hadn't recovered from his bloody, brutal counterattack. They trembled, their spears now looking like flimsy twigs.

"Take me to him, or I will kill every last one of you who refuses, and then I'll go find the trolls who will take me." The Doomhammer was raised high, dripping with blood, its black stone head a grim testament to its power. With the cheers of the orcs as a backdrop, the faded hair and shattered bones clinging to its surface, every remaining troll lost the courage to challenge Orgrim.

Orgrim's sheer arrogance worked like a charm. All the trolls took a step back, put their spears behind their backs, and spread their hands wide, showing they had no hostile intentions. Then, a troll with a bone necklace around his neck stepped forward from among them.

"You wish to speak with Zujin?" he rasped, his voice wary.

"If Zul'jin is your leader's name or title, then yes," Orgrim nodded, his gaze unwavering.

"You'll see him."

"We'll wait here," Doomhammer announced calmly to both the trolls and his own warriors, his voice brooking no argument.

An hour later, without so much as a rustle in the leaves, a shadow emerged from the woods with huge, silent steps. It was the troll who had spoken before, accompanied by three other powerful trolls who looked like they could wrestle a bear and win.

"If you wish to meet Zul'jin," the lead troll announced, his voice a low growl,

"I am he." Zul'jin was noticeably taller and leaner than the other trolls, a coiled spring of raw power. He wore an open leather vest, and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck, covering the area below his nose, giving him a truly ferocious look. As he drew closer, Orgrim suddenly noticed something bizarre: the troll's skin was covered in moss! What a weird bunch!

"Do you want our forest?" Zul'jin snarled, his hand instinctively going to his waist where two axes hung. "Or do you want to fight us for those despicable humans and elves? If you're here to pick a fight, then consider it accepted."

"No, on the contrary," Orgrim grinned, a wide, unsettling display of tusks that made Zul'jin visibly uncomfortable. "We have a common enemy."