Runestone

The trolls, perched like grotesque gargoyles almost at the very top of the ancient, gnarled trees, silently readied their weapons. Most of them bared their sharp, triangular teeth in ferocious, blood-curdling grins, a silent promise of the carnage to come. This wasn't just a battle; this was a vendetta, a festering resentment that had simmered hotter than a goblin's forge for thousands of years.

From their perspective, these pale-skinned, pointy-eared interlopers had been chipping away at the glorious Amani Empire ever since they first set their dainty feet on the continent, a mere 6,800 years ago. They had gradually, insidiously, seized control of the land, piece by bloody piece. And these elves, these infuriatingly agile, stealthy, and fast elves, had a whole bag of dirty tricks up their sleeves. The most infuriating of them all was their damned magic. Trolls had never been exposed to such arcane shenanigans before, and they had no earthly idea how to fight back against those mysterious, glowing attacks or how to punch through those infuriating arcane defenses. It was like trying to fight a ghost with a stick.

The only thing they could do was throw their rapidly regenerating flesh and blood, their overwhelming numbers, and their very lives at these abominable elves, hoping to drown them in a tide of green fury. And for a time, the trolls were successful. Their ancestors, bless their bloodthirsty hearts, had used their very essence to forge an epic saga for the trolls, bleeding the last drop of magical energy from the elves' veins, and then, almost, almost, wiped every single one of those weak, effeminate creatures off the map.

But then, more than two thousand years ago, the elves, those backstabbing pointy-ears, had teamed up with the despicable, cunning humans. These two pale-skinned races, like a pair of rats in a cheese shop, had completely crushed the mighty Amani Empire. They'd captured fortresses, burned castles to the ground, incinerated the very cultural essence of the Amani Empire, and massacred tens of thousands of their troll brethren. The once-great Amani Empire, once the undisputed rulers of this planet, had been shattered, fragmented, its glory reduced to dust. All that remained was the crushing shadow of thousands of years of continuous defeats, clinging to the soul of every troll like a maggot on a tarsal bone. The trolls had been utterly unable to restore their glory, unable to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

Until now…

The sudden, brutal appearance of the Horde, like a hammer blow from the heavens, had ignited a blazing inferno of hope for revenge. Zul'jin, ever the opportunist, was more than willing to believe them. Orgrim Doomhammer, a tribal leader strong and wise enough to make even a troll grudgingly respect him, had promised to help them rebuild the Amani Empire, brick by bloody brick.

In fact, when the war between humans and orcs first kicked off, Zul'jin, seeing his chance, had immediately set about reuniting the various, squabbling troll tribes. The Amani, Fire Trees, Rotten Moss, Evil Teeth, Evil Branches, Burning Thorns, Dead Wood... these forest troll clans, divided for countless generations, had long since become bitter enemies, hating each other's guts more than they hated a bad toothache. But now, for the first time, in the face of a greater, more glorious goal, they had found common ground.

One by one, Zul'jin had challenged and defeated the leaders of these clans, whether through brutal combat, grueling tournaments, or other, more subtle means of persuasion. All of them had bowed before him, their tribes swearing fealty, obeying his every command. The forest trolls were, against all odds, united again, a single, snarling beast.

And as if that wasn't enough, Frost Troll clans like the Frostmane, whose ancestral territories had been stolen by those greedy, bearded Bronzebeard Dwarves, had also eagerly joined the army of revenge. With the Horde's help, they would cleanse the world in a similar, brutal fashion to the humans and elves, and then, finally, rule the forest again, undisputed. The orcs, bless their simple, green hearts, showed no interest in the forest whatsoever. Zul'jin suspected they'd be content to take over the valleys and plains of the world, leaving the trees to the true kings.

On the tree, looking down at the elves below who were utterly unaware that they had already stepped into the very jaws of hell, Zul'jin's grim smile stretched even wider, revealing more of his sharp teeth. As someone who had grown up immersed in the mud of hatred and revenge, Zul'jin fully understood the burning feelings of his compatriots. They had penetrated deep into the elves' homeland, a land they had stolen. And now, in this very land that the elves considered their safe, sacred home, they were preparing to slaughter them, to make the elves taste the bitter, agonizing feeling of losing their homeland and watching their compatriots get butchered.

Suddenly, a faint sound, like breaking wind, echoed overhead, startling some of the patrolling elves. Too late, suckers.

Trolls weren't exactly known for their brute strength, that was relative to orcs, who were practically walking mountains of muscle. But in this environment, where close combat was about to explode in less than two seconds, the elves' shortcomings in individual combat capabilities were magnified exponentially, like looking at a goblin through a magnifying glass.

Zul'jin leaped down from the tree, his huge, clawed feet landing with sickening thuds right on the heads of two unsuspecting elves. The sheer weight of him, combined with the brutal acceleration of gravity, delivered an overwhelming force that easily snapped their cervical vertebrae like dry twigs. Before he even touched the ground in the woods, Zul'jin, with a strange, twisting motion, hurled his axe. The sharp blade spun through the air, a deadly blur, flying effortlessly between two more elves. Before they could even react, the spinning axe blade had already sliced clean through the throat of an elf facing Zul'jin. In less than half a second, the axe, still spinning, chopped deeply into the head of the elf who was further back. The same gruesome fate befell the other axe.

They fell down almost as fast as the two elves that Zul'jin had trampled to death. The lifeless bodies of the remaining four elves collapsed limply, their blood splattering onto the leaves of the forest floor, a macabre painting of death. Shocking! Before they could even let out a proper scream, the rest of the elves were dispatched with lightning speed by the trolls that descended from the sky, a chaotic, brutal, and utterly merciless assault.

Zul'jin surveyed the scene, a grim satisfaction settling over him. This ambush, serving as a delightful appetizer, had gone off without a hitch.

"'Cut off their heads and hang 'em up!'" Zul'jin roared, his voice thick with triumph. "'If there's still a chance, tell the elves that the trolls are coming! And we're bringing hell with us!'"

On all fronts in the southern end of Eversong Forest, the trolls attacked the elves' outer patrols frantically, like a pack of starving wolves. Some troll troops won easily, barely breaking a sweat, while others paid a heavy price, leaving a trail of green blood in their wake.

"'What?! Are you telling me some elves actually foresaw our arrival and set up counter-encirclement and assassination squads?!'" Zul'jin's face twisted in confusion, his subordinate's report making his head spin. If this was a battle that had been warned from top to bottom, the trolls' losses would undoubtedly be much greater. Unfortunately for the elves, less than one-fifth of the area was a crushing defeat for the trolls, a rare stumble, but the rest were overwhelming, brutal victories.

"'Never mind. The rest will be left to the orcs. It all depends on whether Orgrim can break the damned defensive magic of the elves as he promised. That's his problem now.'"

"'What?'" Orgrim grunted, his brow furrowed, a rare flicker of caution in his eyes.

When Gul'dan approached Orgrim, the Warchief asked, his voice surprisingly subdued, "There are some things you should see in person, great Doomhammer." Gul'dan bowed deeply, a theatrical flourish that always set Orgrim's teeth on edge.

Orgrim merely nodded, resting his massive Hammer of Doom on his shoulder, and motioned for Gul'dan to lead the way. Soon, they came to a huge, freshly excavated pit. At the bottom of the pit lay a colossal stone, its rough surface covered with countless delicate, glowing runes. Such intricate strokes must have been drawn by some clever, obsessive creatures. But that wasn't the point.

Even Doomhammer, a brute who knew nothing about mystical abilities or psychic powers, could feel the raw, humming energy radiating from the heavy stone, a palpable force that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

"'Is this an elven trap?'" Orgrim asked, his voice a low growl.

"'Yes, Warchief,' Gul'dan purred, a sinister smile playing on his lips. 'And it's not just a trap.'"