＊＊＊

Lazar's heart pounded like a war drum as he crouched beneath the dense canopy of the forests of Quel'Thalas, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves underneath the overpowering scent of centuries of blood. The towering trees, their gnarled branches intertwined, cast a perpetual twilight over the forest floor here.

This part of the Eversong Forest wasn't the golden leaves and pretty cultured nature of the elves. This was Troll territory. Amani territory.

"Dis be madness," He muttered, his voice barely audible over the distant calls of revelling trolls and drums. "How I end up here, mon? Dis be Zul'Aman, da heart of da Amani."

His long moss green ears twitched as he heard himself speak, no matter his thoughts, or how he tried differently, his speech came out the same. This isn't funny… Why here of all places? Why now?

He clenched his fists, feeling the unfamiliar strength coursing through his sinewy arms. His skin, a deep mossy forest green, was adorned with ritualistic scars and tribal loa tattoos that marked him as one of the Amani. Memories had flooded his mind just minutes ago, a chaotic blend of his past regular life and the experiences of this new body of his. He was Lazar, a young troll on the cusp of adulthood, armed with a simple hunting bow slung across his back, a crude club at his side, and a butchering knife sheathed at his hip.

Of all the places to be reborn, he thought, a shiver running down his spine. "Da Amani, known for dey cruelty and blood rituals. And me, just a grunt, easy prey for da sacrifices." He grumbled, fingering his sharp tusks, the curved thick tusks capable of goring an enemy. He had memories of doing just that. Blood splashing in his face as he howled in victory.

The realization hit him like a blow from a warhammer as he watched the distant glimpse of Zul'Aman through a break in the forest. He was deep within Amani territory, surrounded by trolls who wouldn't hesitate to offer him up to their bloodthirsty gods as he was no one special. In fact he had memories watching his mother be dragged to the sacrificial altars. He had to get out, and fast.

There was no future with the Amani. Their fate was to be continuously curb stomped. They'd only fall further into corruption and blood rituals, binding their own gods. None of that would end well for a low grunt like himself.

Moving with the stealth of a practiced hunter, Lazar navigated the underbrush, each step calculated to avoid the dry twigs and fallen leaves that could betray his presence to anyone curious to follow. The forest was alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, their eyes gleaming like tiny stars in the darkness as he silently passed by.

"South," He decided, mumbling almost inaudibly to himself, recalling the geography of Azeroth. "Gotta head south. North be da lands of da high elves. Dey arrows be quicker than I can blink, mon."

He pressed on, the weight of his predicament bearing down on him. The Amani were notorious for their brutality, even amongst other trolls, and as a low-ranking member, a grunt really, his life held little value. The thought of becoming a sacrifice to appease some vengeful loa sent a chill through his bones.

He wasn't that thrilled about this new life of his, but he wasn't about to just give it up either. So far he'd avoided water, because seeing his own face in the reflection… Would make this all too real. He wasn't giving up… But he wasn't enthused about his existence as a troll to say the least.

He'd played alliance exclusively for his entire WoW experience, and becoming a troll was about as horrible a fate he could imagine. Except perhaps a forsaken - that was arguably worse. Although with the timeline he was in… Becoming that… Unfortunately wasn't out of the question yet.

Loa were the backbone of Trolls' powers and the reason behind the many sacrifices they tended to revel in, yet having seen the madness in trusting any sentient powers not your own in this setting… He wanted nothing to do with that.

"Loa be damned," He cursed under his breath. "I ain't messin' with no voodoo spirits. Dis' two hands be all I need." He decided for himself.

His mind raced, trying to piece together a plan as he ran. The Horde was not a thing yet, and even if he could reach them in Kalimdor by the time they assembled, would they accept an Amani troll? The Darkspear, led by Vol'jin, were somewhat honorable as far as trolls went, but the Amani had a dark reputation. It was just as likely they'd think he was Zul'Jins spy.

"Vol'jin be a good mon," He mused quietly to himself, hope flickering in his chest. "Mebbe he be giving me a chance."

Not that he desperately wanted to be part of the Horde. Both sides had their issues. But after Thrall went more Orc Jesus then he already was - deciding politics and ruling was beneath him and his cause - the revolving door of absolutely shitty warchiefs did not lead to a positive outcome in his mind.

He just didn't have that many options, because he sure as hell couldn't approach any alliance faction as he was. He knew himself enough to know he wasn't a fit for becoming a druid and joining the Cenarion Circle either. Nor was he shaman material to follow the Earthen Ring. Becoming an adventurer. A hero unit. Was probably his best bet. Give him some freedom to operate. Even while… Ugh… Under the Horde's umbrella.

He just had to survive until then and grow stronger… Which considering he was practically smack dab in the middle of the future scourge central was easier said than done.

His thoughts were interrupted by a rustling in the trees above. Instinctively, he froze, his hand gripping the hilt of his club. A figure dropped down, landing gracefully before him. It was Dracha, a fellow Amani troll and frequent sparring partner. Dracha's lean frame was adorned with bone jewelry, and he held a spear with casual confidence, currently not pointing at him thankfully.

Unlike Lazar's large protruding tusks, Dracha had small stubby ones, something he knew the troll was self conscious about. Something which made the other troll a vicious annoying bugger, always setting out to spite life itself. The old Lazar had attached himself just to avoid being a regular target of Dracha's temperament.

"Lazar, dat you, bruddah?" Dracha's beady eyes narrowed, suspicion evident in his gaze.

Lazar forced a grin, though his heart raced as he readied himself for quick action. "Dracha, me bruddah from anotha' motha'. I been lookin' for ya. Got somethin' special t' share."

He patted a leather pouch at his side, the contents clinking softly. In truth, it held nothing of real value - just some bone dice, a few coins and dried herbs meant for smoking - but he needed Dracha to lower his guard to make this easier on him.

He couldn't afford to draw too much attention. There would be other trolls guarding the perimeter further away. And they all had freakishly good hearing as a racial ability.

Dracha's curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped closer, peering at the pouch. "What ya got dere then, Bruddah?"

As Dracha leaned in, Lazar's grip tightened around his club. With a swift motion, he swung it upward, striking Dracha from underneath his jaw, throwing his head back, before smashing his club into the side of his head. The other troll crumpled to the ground, temporarily dazed.

With troll regeneration as it was - even if grunts didn't have it work as well as the elites - such a strike was only a momentary annoyance. What wasn't so minor, was Lazar mounting his friends chest and stabbing his butcher knife into his throat and eyes repeatedly until Dracha stopped moving.

He probably should feel bad or something. But all he felt was relief that the whole thing had been so quiet.

A sudden notification flashed before Lazar's eyes:

Body +1

"What da...?" He muttered, shaking his head to clear the strange vision. There was no time to ponder it now. It did bring him some hope that he wasn't left completely without recourse in this death world.

Although going back to that whole, don't trust a sentient power thought he had just minutes earlier… Non-sentient would be alright though. Maybe.

He quickly relieved Dracha of his spear and any supplies he carried, slinging a small satchel over his shoulder. With one last glance at his fallen comrade, Lazar resumed his journey southward, each step taking him further from the dangers of Zul'Aman and closer to an uncertain future.

The forest seemed to close in around him as he ran hunched over, ears flicking constantly as he tried to detect any possible pursuers or guards, the trees felt like they were focusing in on him, whispering bloody promises of ancient times. He moved like a shadow, his senses fully heightened, every rustle of leaves and snap of a twig setting his nerves on edge.

"Dis place be cursed," He muttered, glancing around warily. "Gotta keep movin'. Can't be lettin' dem catch me."

Hours passed, the moon climbing higher in the sky, the nocturnal wildlife going through its cycle of predator and prey around him as he ran. Lazar's muscles ached, but he pressed on, driven by the primal instinct to survive. Not sure if the Amani would follow - but sure he'd suffer mightily if they did and caught him.

As dawn approached, he stumbled upon a small clearing. A stream gurgled nearby, its clear waters reflecting the first light of day. He knelt by the bank, cupping his hands to drink, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. As a troll he had some ungodly stamina, but he still felt it when he went for hours on end.

"Need ta find shelter," He mused, scanning the area. "Can't keep runnin' forevah."

It wouldn't do to escape the Amani just to stumble into a Quel'dorei trap or even a human party on their way to one of the elven cities for trade.

His eyes settled on a large, hollowed-out space amongst a copse of trees at the edge of the clearing. It would provide some cover, at least for a few hours. He crawled inside, the earthy scent of moss and wood filling his nostrils.

As exhaustion overtook him, more mentally than physically, Lazar's thoughts drifted to the future. The world was vast, and he was but a single troll, lost and alone. But he was determined to survive, to carve out a new path, far from the blood-soaked rituals of the Amani.

Although his path would be no less blood-soaked, because that was how this world worked. Even just minding your own business and trying to eke out a peaceful existence didn't protect you from sudden old god shenanigans or randomly appearing dragon attacks, bandits, or someone summoning a demon in your neighbours basement.

"Vol'jin," He whispered to himself again, the name a beacon of hope in the darkness. "Mebbe he be givin' me a chance."

With that thought, he allowed himself to drift into a restless sleep, the sounds of the forest lulling him into uneasy dreams, even as he kept one ear open, the Amani used to sleeping lightly.

The days that followed were a blur of movement and survival. Lazar traveled by night, resting during the day to avoid possible Quel'dorei patrols or Amani hunting packs. He subsisted on wild berries and the occasional small game, his skills as a hunter serving him well, although he weirdly didn't have much of an appetite.

Each step took him further from Zul'Aman, but the weight of his memories, his bloody past, clung to him like a shadow. The Amani were cruel, they were raised that way, born that way maybe even, and he bore their marks still, both physical and emotional.

"Can't change who I was, ya know," He said one night to himself, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "But I can choose who I gonna be, mon."

＊＊＊

Weeks later, Quel'Thalas, Eversong Forest.

Lazar sat cross-legged by the spring, the soft gurgling of the water the only sound in the stillness of the forest. His fingers worked absentmindedly over his tusks, tracing the rough bone and the little charms of carved wood and animal teeth tied to them. His violet eyes, one scarred with a jagged line that ran from his brow to his cheek courtesy of a poisoned Quel'dorei dagger as a child, stared into the clear water. The reflection staring back at him wasn't overly familiar - not yet, anyway.

He still held on to his humanity in a way. Even as he let his troll memories and instincts guide him through the tribulations he faced.

"Dat be me now, huh?" He muttered, his voice low, almost resigned, as he studied himself.

The troll in the water's reflection was stockier than most of his kin. His frame was wiry but solid, with broad shoulders and arms corded with muscle. His moss green skin was marked by a network of tattoos, tribal loa designs carved into his flesh, symbols of his Amani heritage. A loincloth hung low on his hips, and his chest was bare save for a square of padded leather strapped across his heart, its rough edges tied together with sinew. His feet were clad in worn boots, cracked and stained from countless hunts. A belt sat snug around his waist, holding a jagged knife and a few pouches of dried herbs and meager supplies.

A single strip of red hair trailed down the center of his skull, ending in a long braid tied together with bone charms. Despite their presence, they made no sound when he moved, as if even the beads respected the silence he tried to keep. Or his mother's voodoo, whatever it might have been, kept them silent.

He'd always been a brute, to his mother's disappointment. Not that she got to be disappointed long. Since the Amani cut her open to deliver her to the Loa for a minor boon.

"Can't believe dis where life be takin' me," He muttered, running his thumb over the scar on his face. "Outta one life, into dis mess. What da Loa want wit me, eh? What dey see in a grunt like Lazar?"

If there was some strange power behind his existence, surely they would have transmigrated him into someone who mattered. Someone who could change things for the Amani perhaps. Instead he was a complete nobody.

He sighed and pulled up the strange screen again that had given him that odd notification during his escape. It had taken him a while to figure out how to summon it, but once he'd been alone and away from the immediate dangers of Zul'Aman, he had taken the time to inspect what it was - and frequently checked back on it. He had tried many words until status had finally worked, and now the ethereal panel hovered before him like a ghost.

It wasn't what he had hoped for. There was no grand system to turn him into a hero, no sprawling tree of magical abilities or flashy moves. What he saw was painfully simple.

But it had its own simple charm, so he didn feel too put out.

"Every kill be gettin' me somethin'," He murmured, his teeth clicking lightly as he spoke lowly. "Dat all it be. Kill, and ya grow. Dat's it."

The categories were few, but their implications loomed large. Body was straightforward - every kill could make him stronger, faster, tougher. Likely enhancing his regeneration at some point as well. The category of Magic teased at the possibility of spells, mana, and the kind of power that could make even the loa take notice - without the blood sacrifices. Crafting seemed less thrilling but undoubtedly useful for someone scraping by in the wild - and if it was as anything like other worlds' crafting system, the high levels would be… Insane to say the least. The last option, though, made his stomach churn, as he debated it, gnawing on his lip.

??? was all it said, marked with an icon of a swirling vortex. No explanation, no details. Just a sense of foreboding.

Mystery box.

It was a struggle to not pick it.

"Dis one..." He muttered, narrowing his eyes at the mystery box. "Ain't no way ta know what it do. Could be somethin' great, or dis could make me end up like one o' dem cursed bastards soon ta be walkin' round da land."

He tapped a finger against his chin. "Not worth da risk. Least not yet. Ain't like I got da luxury to be curious, mon."

Mystery box was for those who could afford to gamble.

One day…

For now, he had chosen Body. Magic might be flashy, and crafting might be practical, but none of that would matter if he got his skull split open before he had a chance to use them. Survival came first. Strength, stamina, and agility, with a dash of possible regeneration improvement - that was what he needed now.

Too bad he could only pick one thing at a time for his kills to improve. He wouldn't have minded some sort of split.

"Ain't no point in dreamin' big if ya can't live long enough ta see it," He told himself, leaning back and letting out a slow breath.

He stared at the water again, at the reflection of the tattoos that wound across his arms and chest. They were marks of the Amani, the clan that had once been his people, marks of the Loa he'd been worshipping. Now, though, they felt like chains, a constant reminder of the brutal culture he was trying to escape. His human mind was still somewhat warring with his memories and experiences as a troll, a disassociation entirely of his own doing due to the vastly different lives.

The thought of ritually sacrificing someone like his sister… Like his mother had been sacrificed. The Loa did not hold his allegiance anymore. His outsider perspective on the young troll's life easily spotted all the cultish brainwashing that had been going on. But saying so, deciding so, didn't completely erase the feelings.

"Dese marks, dey don't mean nothin' no more," He said quietly, insistently, running a finger over one of the swirling patterns. "Ain't no goin' back. Dey'd kill me just as soon as look at me if dey knew what I be plannin'."

His hand drifted to his knife, the bone hilt worn smooth from years of use. It wasn't much, but it had saved him more than once already. He glanced down at the spear he'd taken from Dracha, its wooden shaft etched with faint carvings.

"Sorry, bruddah," He said softly, though he knew Dracha couldn't hear him. "Didn't want ta do ya like dat, but it was ya or me. An' I ain't ready ta meet da Loa just yet."

Heh, he was getting introspective again, one of the pains of being alone for weeks on end, he supposed.

The forest around him was alive with sound - the distant calls of birds, the rustling of leaves, the faint hum of insects. Despite the relative calm, Lazar's nerves were a bit frayed he could admit. He was far from safe still. He had no idea how far Amani patrols might range, not having been part of that section of the tribe, and there were other dangers in the forest besides his own people.

"Dis world be brutal, mon," He muttered to his reflection, his fingers tightening around the shaft of the spear. "But I ain't goin' down easy. Not wit dis second chance."

His mind wandered back to the screen, to the milestones that had been teased. Every 250 kills, there was a promise of something - a reward, a beacon of hope. It was a cruel system, one that forced him to survive by taking life. But it was a system he could use. There was plenty of life to take on Azeroth.

"Justified murder, dey'd call it," He said with a bitter laugh. "Dat's what dis world be runnin' on. Wars, vengeance, survival, call it self defense, mon. Always a reason ta kill."

He leaned forward, staring hard at his reflection. "But I ain't gonna be like dem, ya hear? I ain't sacrificin' bruddah's ta no loa. Ain't killin' for fun or glory. I kill ta live, so I can save em' all, and dat's it."

The words felt hollow, even to him. He could justify it all he wanted, but the fact remained: every life he took made him stronger. It was a dark truth, one he couldn't ignore. It meant he'd live a life soaked in the lifeblood of others. Not everyone would be guilty.

But every death would be worth it if he could stave off even one of the many tragedies doomed to happen.

Lazar pushed himself to his feet, the soft squelch of the wet ground under his boots grounding him in the moment. He adjusted the strap of the leather square over his chest, ensuring it was secure. Even if it looked ridiculous.

He should just be glad he wasn't a female in a chainmail bikini…

"Time ta move," He said, glancing around the clearing. "Ain't no safety here. Gotta keep movin', keep killin', keep growin'."

The spear in his hand felt heavier now, not from its weight, but from the burden it symbolized. Every swing, every stab, every life it claimed - it would all bring him closer to true survival - a true life on this murder planet. And maybe, just maybe, it would bring him closer to freedom. To be able to move freely in the world…

As he stepped into the dense foliage, the forest seemed to close around him, the shadows swallowing him whole. The spring and its fleeting moment of peace were behind him now, and the path ahead was fraught with danger.

But Lazar had never been a stranger to danger. He was an Amani troll, born into blood and raised in brutality. And now, with the strange power of this system at his back, he would forge his own path through the chaos of Azeroth.

Future knowledge would be its own boon too. Even if most every faction would hate him on sight. Making things more difficult.

"Dis world gonna regret underestimatin' Lazar," He muttered, his voice low and determined. "Loa or no loa, I be survivin'. One kill at a time."

＊＊＊

Several days later, the very south of Quel'Thalas.

The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves as the wind teased the trees. Lazar crouched low in the underbrush, his green fingers brushing lightly against the shaft of the hunting bow he'd come to rely on. His violet eyes stayed fixed on the approaching caravan. He remained perfectly still, his breath slow and steady, as the human trade group marched north. Ten carts in all, their wheels creaking softly against the dirt road.

He chewed his lip, his sharp tusks jutting upward as he observed the group. Five civilians handled the carts, simple looking folk with wide-brimmed hats and plain clothes. Eight guards surrounded them, armed with an assortment of swords, axes, and shields. Their armor was piecemeal, mostly leather with a few sections of chainmail. Only one among them had a piece of plate - a breastplate that caught the light as it filtered through the trees. Thankfully, none of them carried bows. That was the only reason Lazar dared to entertain this risky idea.

He needed more points. And he had a feeling actual armed men fighting him for their life would be worth more than animals, or his quick takedown of his sort of friend through subterfuge.

"Dis gonna be messy," He muttered under his breath, his gaze shifting to the poison-coated arrows in his quiver. "But ain't no hero yet. Gotta grow strong first, den maybe save da world later."

Amani children learned how to brew poison as a matter of course. So it hadn't been hard for him to identify several plants and put together something to give him a further edge.

His stomach churned at the thought of what he was about to do. They probably didn't deserve this. They were likely innocent of any crimes, caught in the larger wheels of a world that cared little for their lives. He'd leave the civilians alone. The guards? They'd signed up for this, knowing full well the dangers. They would defend the caravan with their lives - and he needed to take those lives if he was going to move forward.

It wasn't ideal, but they were likely doomed to die anyway as Lordaeron was soon to become plagued.

Lazar sighed, muttering softly as he nocked an arrow. "Loa forgive me. Dis be for survival."

Old habits still stuck around as much as he tried to divest himself of it. Swearing or praying to the Loa, the hardest one he wrangled with. The one true avenue where this amalgamation of the two of them truly was won by his troll part.

The lead guard raised a hand, signaling a stop. The caravan slowed as the men adjusted their weapons and scanned the trees. Lazar froze, blending into the foliage, wondering if they'd spotted him somehow. He drew his bowstring back, the poisoned tip of the arrow glinting faintly.

Then quick action was needed.

The first arrow flew true, striking a guard in the neck. He gasped, clutching at the shaft before collapsing. The poison would work quickly to kill, even if in this case it was a moot point as the guard bled out on the dirt road. Chaos erupted as the guards shouted orders, scrambling to defend the civilians. A waste, because he wasn't going after the civilians. He fired again, this time striking a man in the unarmored thigh. The second guard stumbled, falling to the ground as the poison took hold.

"Ambush!" One of them shouted, his voice tinged with panic. "To arms! Take the treeline, close the distance!"

Lazar blinked slowly, a bit surprised he'd been able to understand the man, didn't everyone speak different languages? He sure didn't have a memory of being able to understand the common tongue.

Lazar put it out of his mind as he moved swiftly, already having intuited exactly what the humans would do beforehand, slipping through the trees like a shadow. He had no intention of facing them all head-on. His Amani instincts and months of survival training in the forest as a child told him to divide and conquer. As three guards broke off to chase him, he grinned darkly.

"Dat's it, mon," He muttered. "Come an' play wit Lazar."

The remaining guards stayed near the caravan, their weapons drawn as they formed a protective circle around the civilians. Lazar climbed higher into the trees, leaping from branch to branch with ease. His newfound strength from weeks of hunting and the incremental gains of his system made him light on his feet and agile as a jungle cat.

The guards chasing him stumbled through the dense forest, their movements clumsy and loud. Lazar moved over the traps he'd prepared earlier, having layed down false trails and pitfall snares to slow them. The first guard to actually catch up, fell into a shallow pit lined with sharp stakes, his scream piercing the air.

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The poison on the stakes ensured that he'd be dead within the minute, so he could move on to the next one.

"One down," Lazar muttered, loosing another arrow at a second pursuer who'd frozen upon seeing what happened to the first man. The poisoned tip struck true, sinking into the man's shoulder. He dropped his sword as the limb immediately stopped cooperating, staggering before collapsing against a tree.

The final guard paused, looking around nervously. He raised his sword, turning in circles as he tried to spot his attacker. Lazar felt annoyed in some ways that only his first trap was sprung, drawing another arrow. He waited until the guard turned his back, then fired. The man crumpled soon after, his body going limp as the poison worked its way through his system. Lazar might have been a tad mean to shoot him in the rump, but they'd annoyed him by being so… Bad at this.

The difference between actual army men and hero units - and some farm boys with swords trying their luck at being mercenaries or guards, he supposed.

"Three fer three," Lazar murmured, satisfied. "Dat be good odds." That left only three back at the caravan.

He doubled back toward the caravan after collecting his arrows from the corpses, his movements swift and silent. The remaining guards were scanning the forest for signs of him, acting nervous, no doubt having heard the scream from the first guard. Lazar crouched low, his sharp eyes picking out the weakest link - a guard near the rear of the group who had strayed too far from the others, hefting a shield as he glanced nervously around.

The caravan master and lead guard were too busy arguing with each other to notice.

With practiced ease, he notched another arrow and let it fly. It struck the man in the side of the neck, and he dropped to his knees, clutching at the deadly wound. He fired another arrow right after, hitting one of the two last guards in the torso, his leather armor not enough to prevent a scratch introducing the poison in his system.

Leaving the lead guard, who roared and rushed towards the treeline where Lazar was hiding.

Lazar didn't waste time. He burst from the underbrush, his bone club swinging in a wide arc to batter away the sword strike, his other hand holding his spear which he immediately jabbed into the guard's side. The lead guard was too slow to react, so he stabbed him again, in the armpit, and he fell with a wet gurgle.

The civilians screamed, their cries of terror echoing through the forest. Lazar ignored them, his focus on the carts. He rifled through the supplies, grabbing a rucksack and stuffing it with dried meats, bread, and a few jars of preserves. His hand lingered on a bundle of arrows, which he quickly added to his haul. He also found several books that he pilfered as they looked like some sort of magic tomes.

His eyes lit up as he spotted a decent sized steel warhammer in the carts carrying steel weaponry. He picked it up, testing its weight. It was heavier than his bone club but far more durable - and deadly. He slung it over his shoulder, satisfied with his loot.

He didn't know where he'd even spend the coin, but the filled pouch of coin he'd pilfered too should come in handy one day, surely?

The civilians cowered nearby, their eyes wide with fear, except for a young girl who was held to the ground by one of the others as she cursed impressively. Lazar scratched his chin, debating whether to speak. He wasn't going to kill them, but without guards… If they were stupid, they'd be dead meat if they continued.

Even kobolds or gnolls would take them as they were now.

He stepped toward them, his voice rumbling low. "Listen up, ya lot. Turn back. Go back south ta safety. I done got what I need, so I be feelin' generous today. Ain't gonna eat ya... Dis time."

One of the civilians whimpered, clutching her man close. Lazar's jaw tightened. He wasn't a complete monster, no matter how much the system seemed to nudge him in that direction for profit. He wouldn't harm civilians. He turned away, shaking his head.

"Get ta movin'," He called over his shoulder. "Before I be changin' me mind, ya hear?"

He grabbed a few more supplies from the carts before disappearing back into the forest. The civilians watched him go, their relief palpable, though fear still lingered in their eyes as they eyed all the dead.

Lazar moved quickly, putting as much distance between himself and the caravan as possible. He wouldn't stay at his usual cave for too much longer - it was too risky now. If adventurers or soldiers came looking, they'd search the area. He needed a new hiding spot.

It was for the best anyway, he never intended to keep to one spot. Too easy to track him down and put him with his back to the wall.

As he walked, he glanced at the shimmering screen that appeared before him. The numbers had changed - each guard had given him ten body points, bringing him closer to the next milestone. He smirked, though the expression lacked joy.

"Almost dere," He muttered. "Body be close ta 250 now. Wonder what reward dis system gonna throw at me."

His grin faded as his thoughts returned to the caravan. The sight of the civilians' terrified faces lingered in his mind. He didn't regret taking out the guards… Much. They'd signed up for the risk. But the rest? It left a sour taste in his mouth to see their fear and terror.

"Dis ain't what I wanted," He grumbled, running a hand through his braid. "Thought… Dis make me feel stronger, yah. Better. But all I feel is tired, mon."

He glanced south, toward the lands of Lordaeron. Soon, the plague would sweep through, turning everything into a nightmare. The undead would rise, and this entire region would become a battleground. Lazar sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"Maybe when da undead come, I can fight dem instead," He said softly. "At least den I won't feel so bad."

For now, though, he had to keep moving, keep growing stronger. Survival was all that mattered. One day, he might become the hero he dreamed of being. But today? Today, he was just a troll, alone in a hostile world, doing whatever it took to stay alive.

＊＊＊

Hours later, Lazar's cave.

The forest's soft rustling was usually a comfort to Lazar. He sat cross-legged on a fallen log outside his temporary cave residence, his bow resting nearby and a small pot of bear stew bubbling over the fire. For the last few days, this clearing had been his refuge - a place where the dangers of Azeroth felt distant, at least for a time,

But tonight, something was off, something he couldn't put his finger on. Lazar's ears twitched as he caught a faint noise. It wasn't the usual scurrying of forest creatures. This sound was of someone trying to be sneaky, a sidestep to avoid snapping a twig, a rustle of foliage too careful to be an animal. Someone was trying to sneak into his camp. They weren't bad at it, either, but 'not bad' wasn't good enough to fool an Amani who'd been born in these forests.

"Well now," He murmured, his voice low as he rose to his feet without any further sound.

He climbed a nearby tree with the ease of a jungle cat, his muscles tensing as he pulled himself onto a thick branch. From his perch, he scanned the clearing, his violet eyes narrowing. His hand reached for his bow that he'd snapped up on his way, notching an arrow in silence. Then the figure emerged from the underbrush, and his jaw nearly dropped.

It was the girl from the caravan. The one with the filthy mouth who'd been held back by the others.

"What da hell…?" Lazar muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes to study her.

She was a wisp of a thing, barely into her teens by his guess, or more likely just approaching it. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and her icy blue eyes burned with an intensity that didn't belong on a face as doll-like as hers. She moved cautiously, clutching a dagger in both hands, her gaze darting around the camp with murder in her eyes.

Lazar scratched his chin, baffled. What was she doing here? And why did she look ready to gut him? How had the other humans let her do this? Were they insane?

"So… Whatcha be doin'?" He rumbled, curious, throwing his voice to the far side of the clearing with a simple Amani trick. He might not have any mojo or be a voodoo type of guy, but there was more to the Amani than mojo.

The girl froze, her head snapping toward the wrong direction. Her dagger wavered slightly as she held it out. "Show yourself, monster!" She snarled, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury.

Lazar grinned, though there was no humor in it. "Nah… Don't think I gonna be doin' dat, li'l girl," He said lazily, shifting his weight on the branch. "Ya real stupid, ya know dat?"

Her glare deepened, and she turned in another direction, scanning the trees with wide, hate-filled eyes. "I'm not stupid! I tracked you, didn't I?" She snapped, her knuckles whitening around the hilt of her dagger.

Lazar tilted his head, mildly impressed despite himself, because yeah, that wasn't something he'd have bet on. Was she secretly a high elf? "Hmph. Took ya long enuff, but yah, not bad fer a human cub. Still stupid, tho', mon."

"You stole my magic books!" She shrieked, her voice cracking with pure anger. "Master Haddock said I'm useless now! He threw me out because I can't study without them!" Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, though she blinked them away furiously.

Lazar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The books. He remembered grabbing them during his raid on the caravan, thinking they might give him a head start on learning magic. It hadn't taken long to realize the flaw in his plan - knowing English didn't mean he could read Common. The books had been useless to him, but apparently, their absence had destroyed her life.

Just his luck. This just had bad Juju all over it.

"What da crap an' aspiring mage be doin' workin' fer a caravan master anyway?" He asked idly, more to keep her talking than anything. At the same time, he silently cursed the caravan master for abandoning her in what was essentially enemy territory. What kind of man left a child to fend for herself?

"They were mine!" She screamed, stomping toward the fire and kicking dirt over his cooking pot. Lucky for her, he was Amani, eating dirt wasn't anything new. "I stole those books fair and square! After I kill you and take them back, I'll go back to the caravan, and everything will be fine!"

Lazar barked a laugh, his tusks gleaming in the moonlight. "Girl, dat caravan master o' yours prolly halfway to da gates o' East Lordaeron by now. You ain't catchin' him, especially in da dark."

Kid certainly had kid logic though. Personally he wouldn't go back to someone who so easily discarded you…

Her icy eyes burned with fury as she spun toward him finally getting it right, meeting his eyes. "Then I'll run faster, avoiding animals by wearing your skin!" She snarled, clutching the dagger tightly.

Lazar sighed, rubbing his tusks in frustration. He had a murderpuppy on his hands. This was his fault, no doubt, but he wasn't about to kill some tween girl to fix it.

"Alright, den," He muttered, shaking his head. He dropped lightly from the tree, landing in a crouch behind her.

The girl spun, startled, but she was too slow. With a flick of his wrist, Lazar plucked the dagger from her hand. She stumbled back as he spun the weapon lazily between his fingers, studying her with an expression that was more curious than threatening.

"Got a bear stew on da fire," He said casually, jerking his head toward the bubbling pot. "Only got one bowl, tho' and ya kicked dat dirt in, so no complainin'."

The girl gaped at him, her chest heaving as she scrambled away. Her blue eyes darted between him and the cave, like a cornered animal looking for an escape route.

Lazar squatted by the entrance of the cave, tilting his head as he watched her. "Help yerself. I take ya back towards da gates in da mornin'."

With a furious cry, the girl rushed at him, her tiny fists hammering against his chest. Lazar didn't move, letting her vent her anger. She might as well have been punching a tree for all the damage it did. He could regenerate anyway if she somehow managed to do anything.

"Girl, ya like a li'l storm spirit, yah," He muttered, more amused than anything. "Gonna wear yerself out 'fore long."

When her punches slowed, he gently caught her wrists and held them steady. She glared up at him, her cheeks flushed with frustration.

"Ya done, mon?" He asked, his tone calm but firm.

She wrenched her hands free, stumbling back with a defiant glare. "I'll kill you," She growled, her voice trembling with anger.

Lazar sighed, running a hand through his strip of red hair and down his braid. "Sure, sure. Ya keep tellin' yerself dat, li'l murderpuppy."

The girl's face turned red with indignation, but she said nothing. She stalked to the fire, ladled some of the stew into his only bowl that sat nearby, and sat as far from him as possible, her glare never leaving his face.

Lazar leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched her carefully, noting the way her hands twitched when they strayed too close to her neck. A chain gleamed faintly beneath her shirt, and his sharp eyes caught the edge of a medallion.

"Magic bauble, huh?" He muttered, more to himself than to her. That probably explained how she understood him, despite his Zandali. For a moment, he considered taking it. But no - stealing from a kid was a line he wouldn't cross. Not today, at least.

He'd been wondering how they were able to understand each other. The effect must be pretty wide, because he'd understood the guards too, at least at the caravan site. Higher ups in the Amani knew the common tongue, mostly so they could better taunt enemies, but a lowly grunt like him had never been taught.

"Just eat, girl," He grumbled. "We deal wit dis in da mornin'."

She didn't reply, though the firelight reflected her simmering rage in her eyes. Lazar leaned back, allowing himself to relax. He really should've expected what happened next.

The bowl of stew hit him square in the face, hot stew splattering across his tusks and chest. Before he could react, the girl tackled him, her small frame colliding with his. Lazar stumbled back, more out of surprise than anything else.

"Girl, ya serious?" He growled, grabbing her wrists again to keep her from clawing at his face. Then letting out an exasperated breath as she kicked him in the junk.

Who taught this girl?

"Give me back my books!" She screamed, writhing like a wild animal.

Lazar sighed, holding her steady as she struggled. "Li'l miss, ya lucky I ain't da eatin' humans type. Now sit down an' stop actin' like a goblin on the end of a bad deal."

She froze for a moment, glaring at him with pure hatred. Then, with a huff, she tore herself free and stomped back to the fire. Lazar shook his head, wiping stew from his face.

"Dis girl gonna be da death o' me," He muttered. "I can already tell."

His main priority was definitely to dump her back with the humans. She could go be crazy with them…

His gaze fell on the mountains separating Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas, the plague…

＊＊＊

The night had fallen thick and dark, the forest around Lazar's camp alive with the sounds of chirping insects and the occasional distant howl of a wolf. The small fire crackled softly as he lay stretched out near the flames, one arm resting behind his head, the other loosely gripping his warhammer. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and steady, but anyone paying close attention to the signs would have noticed he wasn't quite asleep.

It was hard to sleep with so much murderous attention directed your way after all.

On the other side of the fire, the girl sat cross-legged, her icy blue eyes glaring at him with a mixture of hatred and frustration. She'd been unusually quiet for the last hour, not even muttering insults under her breath like she had before. That alone was enough to keep Lazar sure she was plotting.

And sure enough, two hours into the night, it happened.

She moved like a shadow, creeping across the camp with surprising stealth for someone so young. Lazar didn't move, didn't even twitch. He had to give her credit - for a kid it was damn impressive. Her steps were quieter now, more deliberate, though not quiet enough to get past an Amani troll raised in the wilds.

Then she ruined it for herself.

Not that she ever stood a chance.

With a high-pitched war cry of all things, the girl launched herself at him, her small frame hurtling through the air as she brought a dagger down in both hands. The blade hit against his chest with a dull thud, followed by another and another, as she laughed maniacally, stabbing in such fervent joy he was a little worried for her mental health.

Lazar sat up with a long-suffering sigh, the motion sending the girl tumbling off him and onto the ground. He plucked the dagger from his chest, examining the bent tip with a faint frown before tossing it aside.

"Girl," He rumbled, his voice exasperated, "How ya sneak through a forest, track me down, an' still be tinkin' breakin' stealth wit' a war cry be a smart idea?"

She scrambled to her feet, clutching another dagger tightly and swinging it wildly as she charged at him again. Lazar raised a hand, catching her by the forehead and holding her at bay at a distance giving her a chiding look. She roared in frustration, her feet digging into the dirt as she swung the blade at him, anywhere she could reach, which wasn't far enough to reach anything with how long his arms were.

Lazar sighed again, glancing up at the night sky as if seeking divine intervention. "Dis be da Loa punishin' me fer turnin' me back on dem, ain't it?" He muttered.

With his free hand, he plucked the dagger from her grip, twisting it easily out of her hands. He held it up, showing her the bent tip from where she'd just stabbed his arm, finally going for a target she could reach. "Girl, I'm a troll. Me skin tougher dan yer little daggers can handle. Give it up."

She stopped struggling, her shoulders slumping as she pouted angrily, her icy blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Lazar groaned inwardly. Great - now she was looking adorable, and he couldn't even yell at her for being an idiot.

He squatted down so they were eye level, gesturing with the dagger. "Look, girl. Someone yer size? Always go fer da soft bits. Eyes, throat, yah? If dey bigger dan you…" He flipped the dagger in his hand, demonstrating. "Cut da back o' da knees, get dem fallin'. Once dey down, ya stab here." He pointed to his throat. "Lodge it in deep, an' even regeneration won't help, mon. If ya got a long enough dagger, go through deys eyes, or go fer da brain." He tapped the side of his head where the skull was weakest. "Push hard enough, ya might get through."

She stared at him, her expression a mix of confusion and curiosity. It was clear she wasn't sure how to process being given a lesson on how to kill him. At the same time, he could see her mentally taking notes.

"Why?" She mumbled, her voice small and uncertain. She fidgeted slightly, rubbing her arm as she looked away from him.

Lazar scratched his chin with the bent dagger, his sharp tusks gleaming in the firelight. "Eh, ya ain't gonna kill me either way. But if ya run inta another troll someday, only fair ya get a fightin' chance. Good t' know, yah, mon?"

"I can definitely kill you," She grumbled, crossing her arms and glaring at him with her icy blue eyes. "Just watch me!"

He ruffled her hair with a broad hand, grinning as she squawked in protest and flailed her arms at him. "Sure ya can, brat. Sure."

Lazar tossed the bent dagger over his shoulder, the blade clattering against the dirt. He stood and grabbed her by the waist, ignoring her squeal of protest as he lifted her upside down. Holding her by the ankles, he gave her a gentle shake.

Well… For a troll.

Three more daggers clattered to the ground.

Lazar stared at the weapons in deadpan disbelief before turning his gaze back to the girl. "Girl," He rumbled, "Where da hell ya even hidin' all dis? Ya got pockets I don't know 'bout?"

Typical girls and women, you never knew what they'd pull out next, and how. Like where exactly was she keeping these things?

"Put me down!" She screeched, waving her little arms uselessly, her hair all over the place.

Lazar set her down with a sigh, pocketing the daggers for himself. "Ya gonna let me sleep now, mon?" He asked, raising a brow at her, having to hide another grin at how adorably she huffed, trying to straighten out her hair.

"I promise I'll leave you alone," She grumbled, her cheeks red with indignation.

Satisfied, Lazar stretched languidly, before heading back to bed. This time, he climbed up a nearby tree to rest on a thick branch. He wasn't overly concerned about her actually hurting him, but the idea of her poking him in the eye with a sharp stick wasn't appealing either. So might as well make it a bit more unappealing to even attempt it.

He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the jungle lull him into a light doze.

That's how he learned never to trust a human's promise.

The first attempt came less than an hour later.

Lazar jolted awake as the girl scrambled up the tree after him, a sharp rock in hand. He sighed, catching her wrist before she could swing. "Girl, ya serious? A rock? What ya plannin' t' do wit dat?" He looked at her dubiously, it probably wouldn't even bruise him, she'd be better off trying to pop his eyes with her thumbs or something and really dig in there.

Her response was to climb up his arm like a monkey and kick him in the chin, making him wince, not in pain, but at how close she'd gotten to impaling herself on his tusks. "I'm resourceful!" She snapped. "I would have found a way!"

"Resourceful don't mean smart," He grumbled, grabbing the rock and tossing it to the ground. He climbed down and set her back near the fire, shaking his head. There was no point in going back up his tree, so he just rested his head against one of his satchels, using it as a pillow as he laid down at the edge of the fire.

The second attempt came barely thirty minutes later just as he had dozed off. This time, she tried to sneak up on him with a sharpened stick. Lazar caught her mid-swing not even opening his eyes, before plucking the stick from her hands and snapping it with his thumb.

"Girl," He said, now fully exasperated, "Ya tryin' t' make me regret sparin' ya?"

She glared at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. "One time is all I need, I'll get you."

"Sure, brat," He said, tying her wrists together with a bit of rope, hoping she'd just give it a break with the upped difficulty. "Dis not gunna be da night, mon."

The third attempt involved her trying to roll a heavy rock onto his head from a low branch. He caught it with ease, her attempt way too noisy with having to get the rock up there in the first place. He set it aside with a tired sigh as he gave her a look. She scampered off, her bindings already gone.

By the sixth attempt, Lazar had had enough. He tied her to a tree, ignoring her shrieks of indignation. "Girl, ya tryin' me patience. Time fer ya t' stay put."

Time outs worked on brats, right?

He sure as hell wasn't going to spank her, so it would have to do.

"Let me go!" She demanded, squirming against the ropes.

"Not till mornin', brat," He said, settling back near the fire. "Now go t' sleep."

The seventh attempt was her trying to chew through the ropes to get at him again, almost managing by the time the noise woke him. By that point, Lazar couldn't even be too mad. If nothing else, the kid had spirit.

She would have made a pretty good troll, if he was honest.

Probably a better one than him.

He could definitely see her do some bad voodoo.

"Pretty good fer a li'l murderpuppy," He muttered to her afterwards, shaking his head as he tightened the ropes, adding another loop around her head to prevent her from being able to bend her neck and chew anymore rope. "But dis troll still be needin' me beauty sleep."

As dawn broke, and with an amazing three hours of sleep behind him, Lazar untied the very tired looking girl and handed her a bowl of stew, shaking his head at her furious glare.

Somehow it was his fault she hadn't had any sleep.

Women!

＊＊＊

Later that day,

Lazar led the girl through the dense underbrush. Despite her endless reservoir of murderous intent, the trek had been surprisingly tolerable. She was too busy trying to keep up with his long stride and watching the dark trees around them with wary eyes to cause him any real trouble. For once, she wasn't plotting his demise - at least not actively.

"Dat's it, girl. Step light, yah?" Lazar said over his shoulder as he deftly sidestepped a thorny bush. "Watch da roots too. Ain't no fun twistin' yer ankle out here."

"I know," She muttered, irritation in her voice. Despite herself, her focus stayed on his every movement, mimicking his careful steps.

He grinned to himself. Maybe there was hope for the murderpuppy yet. Not that he could explain why he kept bothering to teach her. Something about her rough edges called to the part of him that wanted to at least leave her better off than he'd found her. Besides, it wasn't like she had anyone else to teach her after he got her dumped by her caravan.

And with the plague coming… He could at least give her some wilderness survival tricks. Maybe they'd help, maybe not. But at least he felt like he was doing something.

As they moved, Lazar paused periodically, pointing out plants and fungi and explaining uses and cautions depending on which was which. "Dis one? Don't touch it. Nasty stuff, burn ya skin like fire. Dis one here? Good fer patchin' up wounds if ya mash it up first." The girl nodded, her icy blue eyes laser-focused on his every word, her small hands brushing the leaves of the safe plants he indicated.

She was adorable when she got like this, all serious and intent, absorbing everything he said as if her life depended on it. Her usual murderous impulses seemed to evaporate during these impromptu lessons, and for a little while, she almost seemed like a normal kid.

Almost.

"Now, dis one…" Lazar pulled her aside to crouch near some faint tracks in the dirt. "See dis? Wolf tracks. Ya can tell by da size an' da way da claws dig into da dirt. No pack too, dis likely a runt. Follow da tracks slow, don't rush. If ya spook it, ya lose yer dinner."

She nodded solemnly, her small face scrunching up in concentration. "What if it hears you? Or smells you?"

"Dat's why ya move quiet-like. Slow, steady, yah?" He smirked, ruffling her hair, before smudging her face with mud with his other hand, getting an offended squeak out of her, and a death glare that was more cute than scary. "Smell like da forest too, mon. Come on, let's find dis wolf."

It didn't take long. They found the creature drinking at a small stream, its small size confirming his earlier thoughts, its ears twitching as it seemed distressed. Lazar handed the girl his bow, crouching low beside her. "Steady now. Draw it back slow… breathe… An' let it fly." He whispered into her ear. He could hear her heartbeat as it slowed down as she focused, her brow furrowed in concentration.

For the past two days of traveling he'd been slowly teaching her how to shoot. His hunting bow was small enough she could just barely use it when she used her full strength.

She wasn't great, but she was also surprisingly quick at picking it up.

But that could just be how martial the population of Azeroth was in general, he supposed.

The arrow missed by a hair, grazing the wolf's side, the girl cursing up a storm. It bolted of course, but Lazar had already expected it, and was on it in an instant, bringing it down cleanly with a throw of his spear. He motioned the girl over, beginning to show her how to skin the animal and preserve the pelt and pointing out all the uses for the innards of the animal beyond food. She watched with rapt attention, helping where she could, her small hands working with surprising precision under his guidance.

"Every kid need t' know dis," He said as they worked. "Ain't always gonna have someone else huntin' fer ya."

Probably was more a troll thing. But considering things, it could do her good too.

She nodded again, her gaze serious. For once, she didn't have a snarky comeback. It was almost nice.

He'd only had himself to talk to these past few weeks, perhaps why he tolerated her so easily, because above all, it was someone else to talk to.

…

Over the days that followed, he even taught her how to properly use those daggers she was so fond of. She'd taken to the lessons well, her intense focus making her a fast learner. Her nightly murder attempts had dwindled to a mere three, her exhaustion keeping her in check. He didn't comment on it, though her increasingly creative insults during practice amused him greatly.

He even made sure to teach her some new ones. Something to bother the humans later once she was let loose amongst her kind.

Little cute girls swearing was funny. Sue him.

Did they have lawyers in Azeroth? He tried to imagine a lawyer trying to argue something to an orc. The lawyer's head flew away shortly thereafter in his imagination, screaming about depositions.

Probably not in the Horde, he thought, scratching his head at the oddity of his thoughts sometimes.

The last night before they reached the human gatehouse between Quel'Thalas and Lordaeron, Lazar noticed movement in the distance. He froze, motioning for the girl to stop. She obeyed without question, crouching low beside him. Through the trees, a small group of kobolds shuffled by, their pickaxes glinting faintly in the moonlight.

Lazar's lips curled into a grin. "Looks like loot an' some points, mon…" He muttered to himself.

Although kobolds were unlikely to be as plentiful in regards to points as a human guard, he suspected.

"What?" The girl asked, her voice barely audible.

"Kobolds," He said, his grin widening. "Li'l rat bastards wit' crappy pickaxes. Perfect fer huntin'. Ain't no threat unless dey swarm ya." He gave her a considering look, "Me, anyway, you, just be a snack."

He crouched and motioned for her to follow him into a tree. She scrambled up beside him, clinging to a thick branch as Lazar handed her his bow and quiver. "Stay up here, girl. Watch da fun. If somethin' come after ya, shoot it like we practiced."

She glared at him, her icy blue eyes narrowed. "When you die in there, I'll come pick at your corpse," She said seriously.

Lazar snorted, shaking his head. "Girl, if I wouldn't get shot full o' arrows on sight, I'd love t' have a word wit' yer parents 'bout how dey raised ya."

Her face shifted, the glare faltering for a split second as pure, unfiltered terror flashed across her features. She shuttered it quickly, returning to her usual murderous scowl, but Lazar caught it. He frowned but decided not to press. She'd be gone by tomorrow anyway.

It probably explained why she was desperately trying to join a caravan at her age though, and had connotations he wasn't happy with.

Problem with Azeroth? It could literally be anything from just regular abusive parents - to old god cult - to crazies wanting to become one with the Murlocs. He really didn't want to know which one he was dealing with here.

Again he reminded himself, she's gone tomorrow anyway.

He dropped from the tree, fingering his warhammer for a moment, before letting it go with a grunt. As he approached the kobold cave, he switched to his spear. Tunnels weren't great for wide swings, and he didn't need to go all out against kobolds anyway. He was halfway to the entrance when he felt a sharp sting in his backside.

He froze, grinding his teeth, then slowly turned, plucking the arrow from his ass. The wound healed almost instantly, the troll regeneration already at work. He held up the arrow, shaking it at the girl still perched in the tree. "Girl… did ya just shoot me in da ass?"

She crossed her arms and replied coolly, "I was aiming for the back of your head." She lost any coolness factor immediately, as she almost dropped the bow with her posture and had to scramble to keep it, face red.

Lazar snorted. "Ya got shit aim, girl. Two hours o' practice before bed tonight, yah? Can't let ya leave wit' skills like dat."

"Fuck you, you limp dicked cocksucker!" She yelled, her shrill voice echoing through the forest.

The commotion drew the attention of the kobolds near the cave entrance. Their beady eyes glinted in the dim light as they poked their heads out, hefting their dull pickaxes. Lazar sighed, shaking his head as he turned back to the girl. "Girl, I dunno where ya learnin' dis language, but it ain't cute."

"From you, you ball gargling dumbass!" She shouted back, nocking another arrow.

"Why do I do dis t' meself…" He muttered, some amusement leaking through as he stabbed the first kobold to reach him in the eye with her discarded arrow. Its dying screech soothed his battle wound.

Until he suddenly got another arrow, in the other asscheek. "Girl….!" He yelled, pulling it out and throwing it at her.

"That time I aimed!" She yelled triumphantly, sticking her tongue out at him.

Lazar grunted, dispatching the next kobold with a quick jab of his spear through its throat, while crushing the face of another with a stomp. "It's just 'cause I was goin' insane talkin' ta meself, an' I wanted company," He said to no one in particular. Complaining about his life choices.

"Aren't you supposed to be good at this?" She yelled, loosing another arrow that missed its mark entirely, shooting above the kobolds, even as they scampered around him, as he crushed and stabbed away, missing the odd one or two who wailed at his legs without much success.

Lazar frowned, easily sidestepping another kobold as the herd began thinning with his latest couple of swipes. "An' you supposed t' be in stealth, hidin', yah? Quiet like." He chided.

"If they're all dead, they can't hear me!" She retorted with childlike logic.

Lazar paused, considering her words as he skewered another kobold and used his kobold on a stick to beat another's face in. "Fair 'nough," He muttered with a shrug. He wasn't worried anyway - there wasn't much that could take him out in a damn kobold cave. And if anything from the forest tried to eat her due to her racket, it would probably regret it anyway and cough her up.

The cave ahead loomed ominously, the promise of more kobolds waiting within. Lazar grinned, his spear dripping with blood as he stepped over the bodies of the fallen.

"Time t' clean house, mon." He said, his voice low and eager. Behind him, the girl's voice carried through the trees, muttering curses as she nocked yet another arrow, keeping watch for any threats.

＊＊＊

The air in the mine was thick and stale, laced with the faint tang of iron and the earthy scent of old dirt. Lazar's long ears twitched, picking up the faint scratching sounds of kobolds deeper within. The soft clinking of their tools echoed through the narrow tunnel, a telling sign that the little rat-men were skulking just out of sight.

He moved forward, the dark no hindrance to his vision, his spear gripped loosely in one hand. Lazar's footsteps were almost completely silent, his hardened leather boots brushing against the damp dirt and scattered pebbles. Every movement was lazy yet ready to burst into motion at any time, his violet eyes scanning the gloom for any sign of his feast.

"Dis place stink like rotten mojo," He muttered under his breath, wrinkling his nose. "Kobolds sure know how t' make a home, yah?"

He wasn't too concerned about stealth here. He wanted them to come to him.

A faint chittering from up ahead drew his attention. Two kobolds scurried into view, their hunched forms silhouetted against the weak glow of candles. One carried a rusty pickaxe, the other a jagged knife that looked as if it had been fashioned from shit metal.

Lazar smirked, shifting his weight slightly. He'd noticed outside the kobolds gave him +3 body each, which meant he'd definitely hit 250 points soon. He gestured to the kobolds in the universal - come at me, bro - gesture.

The first one let out a screech, charging at him with its pickaxe raised high. Lazar stepped forward smoothly, his spear lancing out to impale the creature through the chest. It let out a pitiful squeal as he pulled the weapon free, its small body crumpling to the ground in a heap.

The second kobold hesitated for a fraction of a second before lunging at him screeching about candles. Lazar sidestepped effortlessly, spinning the spear in his hands and slashing the blade across its throat. Blood sprayed the tunnel wall, and the creature collapsed, clutching at its neck as it gurgled its last breath.

"Two down," Lazar murmured, shaking the blood from his spear. "How many more o' ya crawlin' 'round dis place, I wonder?" He grinned darkly, "Dey be lots, I hope!"

He pressed onward, deeper into the twisting tunnels. The walls seemed to close in the further he went, the air growing colder and heavier. Faint whispers of movement reached his ears, and he tightened his grip on the spear, his muscles coiled like a spring.

The next attack came without warning. A pack of kobolds burst out of a side tunnel that had been hidden behind a thin layer of dirt, screeching like feral beasts at the last moment of their ambush, not too unlike the girl. He wondered how she'd take the comparison, and made a mental note to definitely tell her. There were at least five of them, their pickaxes and makeshift clubs waving in the air as they rushed him.

Lazar lowered his head, baring his tusks in a feral grin. "Come on, den," He rumbled, lowering his spear. "Let's see what ya got."

The first kobold reached him, jumping up at him with its pickaxe swinging wildly. Lazar didn't bother dodging. The weapon glanced off his shoulder, barely scratching his tough hide. He retaliated with a quick thrust of his tusks as he moved forward, skewering the creature through the torso. It screeched as he twisted the tusks, ripping it apart and sending it's carcass at its compatriots in a shower of blood.

The second and third kobolds rushed him together, one going high by jumping, while the other aimed low. Lazar avoided the swing of the upper kobold's club by the matter of the kobold getting a face full of its torn apart friend, using the time he got to drive his spear down into the one at his feet. The spear punched through its torso and spine, pinning it to the ground.

The other kobold lunged again, free of his buddies corpse, its claws raking across Lazar's arm. He barely noticed the shallow wounds as he spun his spear in an arc, slicing through the creature's midsection. It fell with a wail, clutching at its spilled guts, a boot to the head silenced it's wailing as he followed the creature all the way to the ground with the motion, stomping his skull into paste.

The remaining two kobolds hesitated, their courage faltering in the face of his brutal efficiency. Lazar didn't give them a chance to regroup. He stepped forward, his spear thrusting with deadly precision. One kobold fell with a spear through its chest, the other with its head split open by the blunt end of the shaft.

"Dat all?" He muttered, glancing around as the echoes of the battle faded. His small wounds were already knitting themselves back together, the faint sting of scratches disappearing as his troll regeneration took hold.

He continued deeper into the mine, the tunnels twisting and branching in seemingly endless patterns. Occasionally, he passed crude kobold carvings scratched into the walls - symbols of their pitiful attempts at worship, no doubt. He ignored them, his focus on the sounds of movement ahead.

The next encounter was a single kobold, armed with nothing but a jagged piece of metal. It lunged at him with a screech, its eyes wide with fear and desperation. Lazar skewered it easily, his spear punching through its chest and pinning it to the wall.

"Pathetic," He muttered, yanking the weapon free.

He supposed it was the difference between a real situation and the game. Where one could play through a whole mine of kobolds and they all survived several hits in the game - reality wasn't as kind.

As he moved deeper into the tunnels, the air grew heavier, the faint glimmer of light becoming more sporadic. The chittering of kobolds echoed from all directions, but Lazar felt no fear. Even if they came rushing through the tunnel and bit and scraped at him, they wouldn't kill him, not with what they'd shown.

"Gimme more XP!" He roared.

…

The kobolds had been trashed like dry leaves in a storm. The narrow tunnels of the mine worked against them, forcing them to attack in small clusters, bottlenecked by the cramped spaces. Lazar dispatched them with brutal efficiency, his spear darting in and out like a serpent's tongue. Occasionally, a pickaxe or club would scrape against his hide, but the shallow wounds healed almost instantly, his troll regeneration knitting his skin back together before he even noticed.

He'd only run into the one caster, but with how noticable attempting to hang back and use magic was - he'd nailed it with a thrown spear before it could even think to cast something at him, and then ripped the kobolds around him apart with his bare hands and tusks.

"Dat all ya got, rats?" He growled, his voice echoing through the cavern. Another group of five rushed him, screeching in their bizarre mix of Common and whatever language the little beasts used. Lazar didn't bother waiting for them to reach him. He lunged forward, skewering the first kobold through the gut before whipping his spear sideways to slash the next two across their necks.

The final two stumbled, their small eyes darting between their fallen comrades and the massive troll standing before them. Lazar grinned, his tusks dripping blood onto the cavern floor.

"Shoulda stayed in yer burrows," He rumbled, stabbing one in the chest while backhanding the other with his off hand with such force its head spun 180 degrees. The kobold with the chest wound crumpled to the ground, wheezing, before Lazar's foot came down with a sickening crunch.

He barely broke stride as he moved deeper into the tunnels, his violet eyes scanning the shadows for movement. The kobolds' resistance was pitiful. Out in the open, their sheer numbers might have been a problem for a less formidable opponent, but here? Here they could only come at him a handful at a time, and Lazar was far too strong for that to be a real threat.

"Humans'd have a rough time in here," He muttered to himself, kicking a kobold corpse out of his path. "Armor'd help, but dey still soft. Ain't like me." He flexed his fingers around the shaft of his spear, watching the muscles in his arms ripple. "I be tougher dan dis whole damn mine."

He might have been human before he'd become this being he was now. Yet… As much as a troll might be one of his last choices on what to be if he had a say - compared to a human - with what was coming for Azeroth… He'd live with the racial advantages.

Halfway through the slaughter, a strange sensation washed over him. It started as a faint tingling in his limbs, growing stronger with every step he took. By the time he'd dispatched another group of six kobolds, the feeling had spread through his entire body.

He could detect more musculature up and down his arms, could swing faster, stab faster, hit harder. He'd already been stockier then the average troll, now he felt even more buff.

A faint shimmer appeared in the air before him, a screen flickering into view.

Body: 250. Choose one of the following rewards:

1. Stormbreaker, the weapon of Thor.

Lazar froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Stormbreaker?" He whispered, his voice tinged with awe. He'd expected something good when he hit 250, but this? A legendary weapon right out of the gate? His hand hovered over the first option, his mind racing. What would the rewards be like for 500? 1000? 10 000?

"Dat be a weapon fit fer gods, mon," he muttered, his fingers twitching with anticipation. The idea of wielding a weapon so powerful was almost too good to pass up. Almost.

He forced himself to look at the next option, knowing it would be stupid to just immediately pick the first thing he saw.

2. Trident of Poseidon, the weapon of Poseidon.

"Huh," He grunted, his enthusiasm waning. "Ain't no ocean near here, an' I ain't plannin' t' fight Naga anytime soon. Plus, a trident? Look like I'm fightin' wit a fork." He snorted, shaking his head. "Nah, dat ain't it."

Finally, his eyes landed on the third option and he forgot all about Stormbreaker.

3. The Silver Hand, the weapon of Tyr.

The name alone sent a chill down his spine. His heart raced as memories of his previous life flooded back - of playing World of Warcraft - of roleplaying as a Paladin of the Silver Hand, so named after Tyr and his weapon. This was no ordinary artifact he was given the choice to pick. This was the Silver Hand, the weapon wielded by the titan Tyr himself, a weapon of light.

"Dat's it," Lazar said, his voice trembling with excitement. "Sorry, Thor. Dis one be callin' t' me."

He selected the third option, and in an instant, the weapon appeared before him, floating in the air. It was beautiful - a massive two-handed mace, its surface gleaming with a radiant, silvery light. Intricate carvings adorned the head, depicting scenes of justice and battle, while the haft was wrapped in some flawless white material he couldn't even identify. Even in the dim light of the mine, it shone like a beacon.

Lazar reached out, his green fingers trembling as they closed around the haft. The moment he touched it, a surge of energy coursed through him, filling him with a warmth he hadn't felt in… Well, ever. It was as if the weapon itself was alive, its power humming beneath his skin.

He felt acceptance.

Tears ran down his face as the weapon rejoiced, his very soul filling with light as it shone over him, deeming him worthy.

He hefted the Silver Hand, testing its weight. Despite its massive size, it felt perfect in his grip - balanced, natural, as though it had been made for him.

… The humans were going to shit bricks over this, he knew.

It only made him want the weapon more.

"This…" He whispered, his voice barely audible. "Dis be a weapon. A real weapon."

A grin spread across his face as he swung the hammer experimentally, the air humming with the force of the motion. He could feel it, the latent power within the weapon, waiting to be unleashed. This wasn't just a tool for battle; it was a symbol, a beacon of light and justice. And against the undead that would soon plague the land?

This weapon.

It would kill.

"It gonna kill," He said, his voice low and dangerous. "Oh, it gonna kill."

His gaze flicked back to the shimmering screen still hovering before him. With the weapon chosen, it was time to switch his focus. He pressed the button to move future kills into the Magic category, his giddy excitement building as a dropdown menu appeared.

"Dis," He said, his voice tinged with awe. "Dis what I needed, mon."

He laughed maniacally as the drop down menu shone, showing everything he could choose for kills to go into to make him stronger vis-a-vis magic.

Void, Arcane, even Fel, it was all there. But he couldn't care less as he laughed and laughed and pressed down on that beautiful shiny button.

And then there was LIGHT!

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