Butha spun around and around. Relaxing his body and releasing his mind, the troll sought answers.
What was he to do? How was he to do it?
The raging sea pounded Durotar's red cliffs and offered its solution, while the Stars above countered. Whirling about, blackness crept into his consciousness finally freeing him.
---
A splash.
---
Waking slowly, Buthaleirus found himself face down, breathing in the dusty clay. He was alive. The rogue pushed-up onto his knees. Blindly reaching to his left, he gathered his helm and placed the cover upon his head. Exhausted and still disoriented, he leaned forward slowly opening his eyes.
When he did, a reflection caught his attention. His daggers, which earlier he placed at his feet, glowed in the Starlight. Grasping their pommels and rising to his feet, he had his answers.
Now, standing firmly on the cliff's edge, Butha taunted the sea. As he looked to his future, a voice from the past, rang in his head. The shadowmaster softly giggled as the memory played over and over. It was only one word, but it needed only one:
"FIERY!"
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