The horizon glowed, as the sun fell. Twilight was moments away, but Buthaleirus would not know of such an event for in the Cleft of Shadow sunlight never ventured.
"Brudda! Ah' dun wuns anymoar uv joo's coin!" Shenthul, the rogue trainer, shouted in frustration. "Lissin' Butha, all dez' reteachins gettin silly. Ah' gotz a she-trollie back in Senjin meh gotz ta be seein. An meh can't be leafin till joo gets outta here. Now, why dun joo jus be choosin how joo be killin an go do some killin."
Nodding wearily, but still grinning, Butha acknowledged. "Ah' knows. Dis gettin silly, effen fo' da Butha." Turning slowly, shoulders rounded, his sloping back slightly bent, the ever-student began to saunter to the nearby poison vendor.
Looking relieved, Shentul spun about and gathered his personal belongs. His rapid movements fueled by thoughts of troll hips and lips. Packing his netherweave bag full, the Rogue teacher hesistated momentarily. He sighed and mumbled something about "dat fool sneak", and resumed his packing.
As his lips pursed his Raptor whistle, he glimpsed Buthaleirus from the corner of his eye. Shentul, shaking his head in exasperated disgust, knew couldn't leave just yet. The d*** fool was wearing daggers!
"BUTHA! Gets ovah here!", shouted the trainer, as he laid down his bag and moved to meet his student.
"Uh ohes." Buthaleirus fretted. "Did Ah' be doin sumtin wron'?
Taking a hold Buthas' hands, Shenthul's frustration left, and a feeling of genuine care and sincerity took hold, and the teacher looked within his ever-student's eyes. "Butha, go put dem pointies back in da bank, nex' ta dat broken milk bottle." Shentul said candidly. "Joo a Mayce sneak. Da first one."
As Shenthul spoke, Buthaleirus began to sway rhythmically to his words.
"All dem othas dey be sahconds ta joo." Within moments, the silent song that rings with Buthaleirus' mind melded with the words that his mentor spoke, and Buthaleirus freed himself of his mentor's grasp. Spying a pair of training mallets, Shenthul turned, scooped them, and tossed them yelling, "Joo chra'zy sneak! CAHTCH!"
Without breaking rhythm, Buthaleirus snagged the spinning hammers and began to softly weep.
"Membahs Kazzak, an da Demolisha', da Core, da Ebon...", Shenthul continued, serenading memories tied to the Rogue's past, but Butha was lost in the melodic dance of an unheard cadence. All the Shadowmaster heard was that which others could not. With his teary eyes closed, Buthaleirus giggled, careening the hammers high and low. At first, Butha weaved slowly, shuffling his blue feet and shifting hips with grace. As the dance progressed, so did its intensity. The pace quickened. The movements grew in power, until his blue skin soaked of sweat and heat. Violently writhing, the troll raised the mallets, mouthed a silent prayer, and in a rush of Adrenaline slammed them down, denting the clay beneath his feet. Red teary eyes illuminated Buthaleirus' tattooed face. His strength renewed, the indefatigable trolled grinned and continued his frenzied cavorting.
Seconds turned to to minutes, and a crowd of a dozen or so cutpurses, assassins and the like had gathered in the Cleft. The ignorant laughed or stared in bewilderment, thinking the troll mad. The knowing nodded and smiled, among them was Shenthul, who stepped back to his shanty and readied for his rendezvous.
As Shenthul turned to leave, he overheard a group of young Deathstalkers quip between bouts of laughter, "Who is the dancing fool?"
"Dat be no fool, pup." The old master growled a reply.
"If he's not a fool, then what is he?" Snickered, the most brazen undead rogue.
From shadows, a male orc voice answered in perfect orcish, "He is THE Mace Rogue."
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