Zul'jin's Rise

Trolls, bless perpetually grumpy hides, are more adaptable than a chameleon at a plaid convention. They can dabble in almost any class, save for the perpetually shiny, self-righteous Paladins. Given their inherent bloodlust, a talent that makes a Berserker look like a mild-mannered librarian, it's generally agreed upon that trolls are best suited for the art of the hunt.

But for true heroes, or in this case, truly unhinged individuals, the definition of a "profession" is about as clear as a swamp on a moonless night.

Take Zul'jin, for instance. He's primarily a warrior, a walking mountain of muscle and axes, yet he moves with the slippery grace of a greased goblin. And now, under the dubious, glowing influence of Gul'dan's Altar of Storms, Zul'jin had apparently decided to pick up a new hobby: Druidism.

"ROAR—" The sound wasn't just a roar; it was the guttural, earth-shaking bellow of a giant bear, a sound that rattled the very bones of every troll present. A phantom of a colossal, shadowy bear, easily the size of a small hill, shimmered into existence behind Zul'jin, its spectral claws raking at the air. Every troll watching, from the lowliest grunt to the most grizzled witch doctor, looked like they'd just swallowed a live frog. Their jaws hung open, eyes wide as dinner plates.

This was immediately followed by a piercing, triumphant eagle cry, sharp enough to slice through the very air. The monstrous bear illusion dissolved, morphing into an enormous, spectral eagle. Its feathers were a mottled gray-brown, and its wingspan was so vast it could have cast a shadow over a small village, easily stretching over a hundred meters from tip to tip.

Zul'jin, meanwhile, was sucking down the raw energy of heaven and earth like it was the last mug of grog in the known universe. Gul'dan, however, looked like someone had just peed in his morning fel-coffee.

The problem, as Gul'dan could practically taste it, was that the very essence of Zul'jin's natural, wild power was giving the dark forces a big, fat, resounding "NO."

Gul'dan could feel it, a simmering, internal rebellion. Zul'jin was trying to integrate the dark energy into his already boiling, bloodthirsty veins, but the sheer, unadulterated violence of his natural troll blood was weakening the dark power, turning it into little more than a mild tickle. The biggest, most infuriating snag was that the power of darkness and Zul'jin's newly awakened, tree-hugging talents were fundamentally at each other's throats.

If Gul'dan kept pushing that dark energy into Zul'jin, the troll king would go off like a keg of blasting powder, leaving nothing but a fine, green mist and a very awkward silence.

Orgrim Doomhammer was staring at Gul'dan, his eyes narrowed to slits that promised pain. And a whole legion of Zul'jin's most loyal, axe-wielding trolls were also staring, their expressions a mix of hopeful anticipation and "you-better-not-mess-this-up-or-we'll-eat-your-liver." Zul'jin, in his quest for power, clearly didn't give a hill of beans about dying. But could Gul'dan really afford to let him bite the dust right now?

Before they'd even had a proper dust-up with the elves, Zul'jin, the only troll who could keep the major troll clans from tearing each other's throats out, was about to become a very messy, very dead problem. Whether Orgrim would let Gul'dan off the hook was debatable, but the rest of the trolls? They'd be forming a lynch mob faster than you could say "voodoo."

It was a recipe for disaster, a guaranteed way to have the trolls and the orc-dominated Horde duking it out right under the pointy noses of the elves. Definitely not worth the headache.

"Tsk!" Gul'dan spat, a sound like a cat coughing up a hairball. He muttered a series of guttural, ancient words: "Nagudalokasaxi!"

With a frustrated flick of his wrist, he chanted the spell, dispelling the pure dark power from the rune stone. While the energy controlling the rune stone was still undeniably demonic, what was now flowing into Zul'jin was, much to Gul'dan's chagrin, a purer, unadulterated natural force.

Zul'jin's body stopped its grotesque expansion. The blood vessels, which had been stretched to their absolute breaking point, threatening to burst like overripe grapes, finally had room to shrink back, throbbing with a newfound, albeit green, vitality.

Zul'jin's eyes snapped wide open, and a terrifying, almost primal light burst forth from those fierce, expressive orbs.

"I feel the power—the power of the bear and the eagle! It is the power of the earth—it is the power of the sky—" he roared, his voice a raw, primal symphony.

Zul'jin's entire body was suddenly engulfed in a blinding, emerald-green light. In less than half a heartbeat, Zul'jin was gone, replaced by a magnificent, towering giant eagle. It flapped its colossal wings, each one easily five meters long, and with every beat, more than ten miniature tornadoes erupted from its feathers, effortlessly stripping every single leaf from the towering trees outside the clearing. The bare, skeletal tree trunks stood out like sore thumbs amidst the lush green woods of summer, a testament to Zul'jin's sudden, explosive power.

The next moment, Zul'jin's massive form began to shrink again. This wasn't a sign of weakening power; it was the opposite. His power was becoming more concentrated, like a fist pulled back, ready to deliver a blow that would be all the more terrifying for its coiled intensity.

Striding down from the altar, Zul'jin looked more powerful, more alive, and more ready to chew nails and spit fire than ever before.

He walked proudly before Orgrim, and for the first time in his life, the proud Troll King dropped to one knee. Even though the posture was still a bit rough around the edges, more of a half-crouch than a proper genuflection, he knelt. This wasn't just a bow; it was a seismic shift, symbolizing the true, albeit begrudging, recognition and submission of the supreme troll leader to the orc-led Horde.

Orgrim's chest heaved, a silent, triumphant roar. Why had he pushed for this insane march across a thousand miles to attack the elves? Of course, he knew the elves were a force the Horde had to conquer or crush eventually. But they hadn't even officially joined the war yet, and picking a fight with a powerful opponent prematurely was just plain dumb. If he could snag some extra allies, especially ones the orcs could actually tolerate, or even better, secure the loyalty of a subordinate race, that was a deal worth making.

And now, Orgrim had gotten his wish.

"Good! Good! Good—" Orgrim boomed, his voice thick with satisfaction, and he quickly stepped forward to help Zul'jin to his feet. "I said it before, orcs and trolls are brothers..."

Frustrated that the Altar of Storms had apparently developed a mind of its own and refused to cooperate with his dark agenda, Gul'dan simply ordered Cho'gall to smash the rune lines on the rune stone, then abandoned the altar entirely. As the night deepened, not a single member of the Horde remained. An altar that refused to play by Gul'dan's rules was, in his eyes, utterly worthless.

Just as the entire forest was swallowed by the inky blackness of night, several shadowy figures materialized near the abandoned altar.

"Despicable trolls! Hateful Horde! They actually destroyed the rune stone!" The first figure to storm forward was none other than Alleria Windrunner. As the eldest daughter of the legendary Windrunner family, and an elf who loved her homeland with a fierce, almost obsessive passion, she felt it was her sacred duty to defend Quel'Thalas. She dropped to one knee, her face contorted in agony, as she examined the shattered rune stones scattered around the altar. The elves' safety barrier, a colossal magical defense hailed as unbreakable for thousands of years, had been casually shattered by Gul'dan, just like that.

Duke appeared beside Alleria, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "Tomorrow morning, take the broken rune stone to the Silvermoon Council..."

Alleria cut him off, her voice laced with impatient fury. "No! I'm going now! I'll see what those blind, pompous senators have to say this time!" The most famous ranger-general in Quel'Thalas was a walking powder keg of monstrous rage.

"No rush," Duke said smoothly, his calm voice a stark contrast to Alleria's fire. "Unless Silvermoon City comes under direct attack, it'd be like pulling teeth to get the Silvermoon Council members out of bed in the middle of the night. Anyway, there's a regular meeting tomorrow morning." He easily calmed Alleria, if only for a moment.

"So what are we doing all night?" chimed in Veresa Windrunner, the third sister of the Windrunner generation. In the original timeline, she would have been the youngest female member of the family. Unfortunately, with Lirath standing right next to her, she was relegated to second-youngest.

"Do you think my painstaking efforts to have you ambush Zul'jin were for nothing?" Duke replied, a hint of his usual cunning in his tone.

Speaking of Zul'jin, all four Windrunner sisters gnashed their teeth in pure, unadulterated hatred. In Duke's original, meticulously crafted plan, killing Zul'jin outright would have been ideal. As the most crucial link between the orcs and the trolls, Warchief Orgrim was a tough nut to crack. Zul'jin, by comparison, seemed like a sitting duck. The current Zul'jin was a far cry from the formidable chief of the Amani clan who would awaken new, terrifying powers and cause endless trouble in Zul'Aman in later generations.

Unfortunately, even with the combined might and precision of the four Windrunner sisters, Zul'jin had, against all odds, managed to cling to life.

But Duke's plans were like a hydra's heads: cut one off, and two more, equally cunning, would sprout in its place. Knowing full well that Gul'dan had historically used the Altar of Storms to beef up a whole mess of ogres, Duke had cooked up a brilliant scheme. After Zul'jin took a hit, he'd be desperate for more power. And wouldn't you know it, Zul'jin's natural attributes were about as compatible with the Altar of Storms as a murloc in a formal ball.