Power

Gul'dan wasn't just trembling; he was vibrating like a goblin's tinker-toy gone haywire, a manic tremor of pure, unadulterated glee over his latest, most delightfully grotesque invention.

A few agonizing minutes later, as the sickly shadow-light of the Altar of Storms reluctantly receded, the monstrosity standing in the swirling gloom slowly, agonizingly, revealed its true, horrifying glory. Gul'dan, practically drooling, leaned forward, his eyes wide as saucers, desperate to feast upon the creature birthed from his unholy machinations.

It was, unmistakably, still an ogre. But something had fundamentally, hilariously, wrongly shifted. It was bigger, yes, a hulking mass of muscle and malice, but its proportions had undergone a radical, almost artistic, re-sculpting. The gut, typically a mountainous, pendulous affair, was now merely a formidable paunch. Its arms, usually dragging on the ground like overgrown vines, were now merely long, ending in fists the size of boulders. And those perpetually bowed legs? Straighter, lending the beast a surprisingly agile, almost spry, appearance.

Then, the pièce de résistance: it had two heads.

Gul'dan let out a cackle that could curdle milk. A pleasant surprise? This was Christmas, the Summer Solstice, and the yearly Warlock's Ball all rolled into one! No one, not even the most ancient gronn, understood the implications of a two-headed ogre better than Gul'dan.

Two-headed ogres were rarer than a polite murloc in Draenor. They weren't just bigger and stronger; they moved with a terrifying, almost unnatural, coordination. They were worshipped by their single-headed brethren like gods, tacitly regarded as the supreme, undisputed kings of the ogre race. Cho'gal, Gul'dan's long-time, equally two-headed, and deliciously wicked apprentice, was living proof of their terrifying potential.

But this new one, this magnificent beast, was even rarer still. It radiated an intelligence that hinted at true arcane potential. Gul'dan had found Cho'gall, his current reliable assistant and powerful warlock, when he was just a runt, and had painstakingly molded him into the loyal, multi-headed terror he was today. Now, it seemed, Cho'gall was no longer alone in his unique, two-headed glory.

A two-headed ogre! And one that practically screamed "genius" and "unstoppable force" from its twin, drooling maws. The most glorious part? This ogre mage was born with the innate, terrifying talent for multiple casting. It could unleash an unparalleled, devastating spell bombardment while still maintaining the bone-crushing melee ability of a fully-grown ogre.

The raw, primal power surging through its newly formed veins made the two-headed ogre mage instantly recognize Gul'dan as its rightful master. With a flick of his wrist, Gul'dan ordered Cho'gall to indoctrinate the new brute, to explain every dark secret of the Horde and everything it needed to know. The ogre mage listened, its two heads swiveling in unison, drinking in every word like a parched desert wanderer at a fresh oasis.

The birth of this monstrous mage was nothing short of a godsend for Gul'dan, who was always short on capable muscle and cunning minds.

Of course, to Orgrim Doomhammer, these were just bigger, meaner, and slightly more complicated warriors. The Warchief couldn't care less that these new creatures were utterly devoted to Gul'dan rather than himself. In the grand scheme of the sprawling Horde, a handful of two-headed ogres and ogre mages were just a drop in the bucket. As long as he held the reins of the entire tribe, whatever petty schemes the underlings cooked up, they'd still march to the Horde's drum.

Orgrim grunted, a sound that might have been a smile, and turned to leave. Gul'dan would handle the next phase of his dark experiments; the Warchief didn't give a hill of beans how many multi-headed monstrosities this power could churn out. Orgrim's focus was always on the bigger fish to fry, like securing the absolute, ironclad loyalty of the troll clans.

However, a sudden, jarring piece of news slammed into his good mood like a runaway kodo.

Something had happened to Zul'jin.

A meticulously planned ambush, an emerald arrow that had come within a hair's breadth of piercing Zul'jin's heart, had nearly blown Orgrim's entire troll-alliance plan sky-high. Seeing the familiar, sickly green fletching protruding from Zul'jin's chest, Orgrim's thick eyebrows practically touched his hairline.

Just one measly centimeter, and Zul'jin's heart would have been splattered across the cave wall!

The entire arrow, a good two feet long, had punched straight through Zul'jin's body, and the vile, alien power it contained was actively fighting the troll's legendary healing. To make matters worse, Zuluhed, the old witch doctor, warned the Warchief that yanking it out would likely send Zul'jin straight to the ancestors.

Orgrim knew, deep in his gut, how critical Zul'jin was. With the other troll clans only recently brought to heel, and the fragile alliance between orcs and trolls still in its infancy, Zul'jin, the de facto chieftain of the Amani, was absolutely indispensable.

Gritting his teeth so hard they might crack, Orgrim growled, "Who did this? Alleria? Or Sylvanas?" It was impossible for Orgrim to keep track of every last enemy, but the ones who truly got under his skin, the ones who caused this much trouble, those he never forgot.

"I don't know. Three very powerful female elven rangers, looked like they were cut from the same cloth, they swarmed me," Zul'jin rasped, each word a struggle. "To be precise, there were four in total, but the last one was a bit of a lightweight."

Three? Four? Orgrim blinked. Of course, he didn't know a thing about the Windrunner sisters, just as he couldn't tell the difference between a griffin and a particularly fluffy cloud. He'd always had trouble telling one pointy-eared, tree-hugging elf from another, a common affliction among orcs who spent more time smashing things than studying facial features.

"Rest well, Zul'jin. The Horde will avenge you," Orgrim rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle. He figured it would take ages for Zul'jin to shake off that mysterious green energy. But then, to his shock, Zul'jin's claw-like hand shot out and clamped onto his arm.

"I saw the writing on the wall, Warchief. I saw how small I was."

"So?" Orgrim grunted, impatient.

"So I need power! Magical power! Mystical power! I heard you've been messing with an altar made from those elves' rune stones!"

Gul'dan's altar? Orgrim's lip curled. He'd never been a fan of Gul'dan's slimy, evil magic, and he felt compelled to lay out the grim truth for Zul'jin. "The latest word is, for every ten ogres, three kick the bucket during the ceremony. Six sprout an extra head, and only one, one, truly gains the power of magic."

Zul'jin coughed, a wet, hacking sound that brought up a sickening gush of green-tinged blood. "Isn't it just a chance to croak, or sprout an extra noggin, or end up looking like a grimy swamp beast? For the vengeance of the trolls, I wouldn't bat an eye!"

Orgrim, who usually scoffed at petty personal vendettas, found himself oddly stirred by this sacrifice, this hatred elevated to the very soul of a race. Zul'jin was willing to roll the dice, to gamble his very existence for that ethereal, corrupting power. This, Orgrim mused, was a kind of twisted nobility.

He didn't refuse. "Gul'dan will hold a ceremony for you when you deem it appropriate."

When Gul'dan heard the news, his grin stretched from ear to ear, revealing teeth that were too sharp. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, I can truly get my hooks into a troll chieftain.

An hour later, the Altar of Storms roared to life once more.

Power, ripped from the very fabric of the sky, surged through the rune stones, transforming into a torrent of rich, dark energy. It struck the Troll King's head with pinpoint accuracy, a bolt of pure, unholy force.

A dark, malevolent aura instantly enveloped the long, green arrow still impaled in Zul'jin's chest. Under the sheer, tearing force of this terrifying power, the green energy – that almost self-sustaining, endlessly vital force – was effortlessly crushed, devoured, and swallowed by the encroaching darkness. A gaping, bloody maw of a hole appeared in Zul'jin's chest, steaming faintly.

But the ceremony was far from over.

Understanding the insidious power the Windrunner had left in Zul'jin's chest was merely the appetizer. As more runestone fragments pulsed and injected even greater torrents of dark power into Zul'jin's body, the troll king's entire chest began to swell, distending grotesquely. Not just his chest; every inch of Zul'jin's body – from his scrawny neck to his bulging shoulders, his sinewy arms, his rippling waist muscles, his thick thighs – every single fiber seemed to stretch, strain, and expand, as if he were trying to contain a raging storm within his very skin.

More demonic power poured into the raw, writhing wound on Zul'jin's chest. The bloody hole pulsed and throbbed like a hungry, ferocious mouth, greedily feeding on the torrent of darkness.

Finally, with a guttural roar that tore through the air, a dark, violent gust of wind exploded outwards from Zul'jin, ripping through the chamber like a physical manifestation of pure, unbridled fury.