Da Butha

2009-09-13T15:30:00.000-07:00

Raddic shivered in fear as he watched the shadows unfolded around Buthaleirus. What the human saw next would have been imprinted on his memory for decades, if he had lived that long.

The troll’s wiry frame stretched his baby-blue colored skin taut. His muscled arms swung almost lazily at his sides as he approached.

In his heavily scarred right hand, swayed a near legendary weapon, a weapon of his dreams and his foe’s nightmares: Spineshatter. Glowing red, the mace’s squared business end was complimented with series of spikish-hooks. Heavy and foreboding, it should have hung like the iron hammer it was; instead, it seemed to move with Butha. In his subtle and unmarked left hand, paced the symbolic Ebon Hand. Red and white veins bled slivers of color through the hammer’s blacked steel. Crafted from the very cores of the fallen foes of rock and fire, this weapon seemingly breathed the energy of sacrificed lives. Buthaleirus often wondered how many of his friends died so that he may wield this high weapon. How many sacrificed their great treasures of rock and fire, so he may swing the Crusade’s only Ebon Hand. Whatever the number, he swore he would do them honor and justice. He treasured this weapon for what it was: a symbolic gift of friendship and trust. Back and forth the maces moved, keeping pace with Butha’s strides.

As he neared, Raddic gasped. “Your eyes!?” The troll’s red orbs burned passionately. Peering between the folds of his blood-red hood, his eye’s spoke of love and hate, of glee and sadness, of hope and fear. A moments glimpse told a lifetime’s tales of peaks and valleys. Some beings wore their emotions on their sleeves, Butha bore them through his eyes. Blackish-red leathers of the epic quality dressed the shadow master from head to toe. Their fit tight. Their finish superior. Butha’s movements in them seemed rhythmic, almost as if he danced his approach to the hapless human. “No, please…no, no, “ whimpered the soft-pink human. “I-I…” Any remaining pride Riddic had was crushed as his fear took hold of his bowels. Standing over the cowering animal, Butha took a moment. Inhaling deeply, he breathed in the animal’s embarrassing stink, grinned and giggled. The soft giggle morphed, into a guttural growl, which grew into a near deafening roar, as rogue raised his hammers high. Exploding downward, the hammers fell crushing bone and tearing flesh. Within seconds all that remained was a bloody stew of powdered bone and meaty chunks.

((A more “typical” description”- For a troll Butha is about average height with a wiry/thick, well-defined build-Thick legs, broad/sloping back. His right hand is heavily scarred, while his left is clean and soft. His face bares no visible scars, but is tattooed (but is often hidden due to the mask-I love the mask).

His tusks are of average, but equal length, with a near perfect shape. If anything out of the ordinary is to be noted, it is his smile/grin. He wears one often and it always genuine-be it of glee or wickedness. When I “see” Butha, I see a troll of pure heart. A mace-wielding shadow master that once on a path will not cease until his mission is accomplished.

Three words to describe him: Loyal, Passionate-Free spirited.-Basically, take Chris, make me a troll give me some maces-and you got Butha.

Of Sea and Stars Part II

2009-05-25T01:00:00.001-07:00

((Just a quick note on language. Butha is speaking troll, as that is the language he knows best. The "stranger" is speaking orc with a troll accent. His reasons are kinda revealed later in the story and in stories to follow.))

He enjoyed their ritual morning swims, but at the time it was offered, the temptation of a long-awaited present overshadowed any need to join in their swim. Yet, something seemed amiss. A mixture of excitement tempered with uneasiness, tore at Buthaleirus as his gaze cycled between his mother's slowly disappearing orange bob to mysterious package.

Too young to comprehend the minutia of his mother's words or context of her actions, Buthaleirus was instinctual enough to feel his her emotions. The passing minutes felt like hours, as he replayed their conversation, and the young troll's anxious excitement slowly descended into a lonely despair. Memories, both recent and old, and a suffocating fear gripped Buthaleirus, squeezing tears from Durotor's newest orphan.

With his head buried in his hands and his eyes flooded with tears, Butha didn't notice the adult-male troll, which had been spying him. Casting a long shadow over the weeping youngster, the tall lanky Darkspear stood just feet from Butha. The aged stranger's face beared the signs of empathy.

"Dun cry lil' Butha." The stranger said in a thick troll-orcish, and continued almost speaking to himself as much as to his young audience. "Der still be hope."

"What?" Butha asked, slowing his sobbing and wiping the tears from his eyes, as he poorly attempted the illusion of composure. "What are you talking about? My momma!"

Ignoring the youngsters questions and demeanor, the stranger continued his charming and calming tone. "Wuthca got der?" He asked, crouching down to the smaller troll's eye level and pointing to the leather wrappings.

Butha shrugged absently. His thoughts lost, grasping at feelings he did not fully understand. Despite the heavy blanket of despair choking the youngster, a sparkle, twinkling within this stranger's eyes pulled at Butha.

"Nah?" The elder troll said, feigning surprise and confusion. "Den open dat fing up! "Et lookin like a gud fing, an gud fings shood be knows!"

"I can't." Butha answered, his voice cracking. "My momma...My momma said I can't open it till she gone."

"Dat nawt wut she sayin." Smirked, the spy. "She sayin..." The stranger's accent disappearing to mimic Butha's mother's voice. "You can have this, only if you promise, not to open it till you can't see me." The imitation was uncanny: the voice, the mannerisms, the expression.

Bewildered by such an accurate impersonation, Butha responded. "Yes, I guessin that's what she said."

"Gud." The unnamed troll smiled. "Der be a big diffarance in gone an jus nawt seein dems. Sometin, Shentul teach ya."

Shentul's mention hit Buthaleirus like a wooden club, and his expression showed it. His parents both spoke reverently of the troll. Just this morning, he remembered his momma said something about Shentul teaching him just as he taught Butha's pup-pup. "You know Shentul?" Butha asked. "He supposed to meet Butha."

"Yah, I noz Shentul." The smile on the troll's face grew wider. "An, iffin yooz wantin him ta meet ya, yooz betta open dat fing!"

Peering out to the east, Butha scanned the horizon for any sign of his mother. With his gaze never leaving the Sea, he said. "She g--". Pausing, then looking to the unnamed Darkspear, who was still crouched at eye-level, Butha finished. "I don't see her anymore."

The larger troll nodded, and said. "Ohpen et."

"Ok." Butha answered, his voice cracking with a heavy sadness, yet happy to have seemingly found a friend. Shifting his hips back, the young Darkspear sprawled forward, reaching for his prize. Uncharacteristically, he slowly, deliberately removed the fine leather folds. Through the tears that began to slowly fall, Butha saw a dagger. His father's training blade lay uncovered on Durotar's clay beach.

The larger troll stood from his crouch, and performed a salute of sorts. Stating in troll, so Butha would make no mistake in translation. "Welcome ta da Shattered Hand. I am Shentul, Butha." Pausing and crouching to look his student in the eyes, Shentul continued. "And, that dagger is your admission into the Hand's academy."

As morning rolled to afternoon and the afternoon faded, the ever-student and his teacher sat on the beach. Buthaleirus wanted to know so much. Questions about his father, his mother, his past and his future, all poured forth. Shentul, patient beyond description, answered as many as he could.

"Et gettin late lil' Butha." Shentul noticed. "We ought ta be headin ta da cleft, an get joo set up."

"Okies." Butha answered, looking off into the early evening sky. "An, you right bout one-thing."

"Oh, I's glad ta be gud on one fing." Shentul smirked. "Wut dat one fing be?"

"My momma nawt gone." Butha said, looking up at three stars. "She just didn't want Butha to see her."

"Dat's righ't." Shentul replied, following the youngster's gaze, as he stood. "Time ta go Butha."

"Okies." Buthalierus answered, as he followed Shentul's lead. "Just one more question?"

"Sho' fing."

"That's not a dagger." Butha said, pointing to the crude weapon hanging from the Trainer's hip.

"Dat's righ't." Shentul's ears perked up, as an idea shot him like an arrow. He pulled the weapon forth, twisting it clumsily in the air. "I's tryin ta get the han'g uf et, but jus can't."

"What is it?" Butha asked.

"A Mayce."

of Sea and Stars

2009-05-09T14:42:00.000-07:00

"Watcha lookin at Butha?" The heavily scarred female troll asked, placing one hand on her son's shoulder, while resting the other on her rounded pregnant belly.

"My star." The future shadowmaster answered, as he diverted his attention from the early morning sky to his doting mother.

"Ahh..I see it." She said, holding back the tears welling in her eyes. "Don't you ever forget what your stars mean, and always be a good troll, Butha."

"Okies mumma." Butha answered nonchalantly, content to stare off into the sky. Ever since his father's death, six months earlier, he had come to expect a certain level of mothering that was unique amongst his peers. Then, as they had done nearly every morning since that death, the small broken family sat on Durotar's red clay beach and watched the night begin to recede to the morning.

"There's goes Pup-pup." Butha murmured under his breath, watching the dawn's light drown-out the light from the evening's stars.

"Oh, my little Butha, just because you can't see him, does not mean that he is not there." His mother jumped in. "Remember, when you sneaking them raptor eggs for Zjolnir? The momma raptors may not have seen you, but you were there, stealin their eggs! Or, remember when you sneakin' the other' little trolls' elf skulls, so you could have the most skulls?"

"Ya, of course I remember!" Butha answered. "That was fun!"

"It was and is the samething with Pup-pup." She revealed. "He's there, even if you can't see him, and he was..."

"What...you..." The young troll's eyes light-up with a contagious mixture of excitement and wonderment, as he interrupted his mother beating her to her point. "You mean Pup-pup was a sneak like me?!"

Smiling wide, she answered: "You mean you are a sneak like he was, and yes, he was." Continuing, she sat down and began to disrobe on the beach, readying for their morning swim. "And you're not a sneak...yet."

Seeing his mother getting ready, Buthaleirus peeled off his shirt and shook lose his sandals. "G-o-i-n s-w-i-i-i-i-i-m-m-i-n-n!" Butha half-said and half-sung, as he danced out of his remaining clothes. His energies jumping seamlessly from one conversation to the next. Although morning swims were nearly a daily routine, the joy and excitement, the one-day assassin expressed was genuine.

"Ya, but this time, you wait here, lil' B." She said, as she pulled on a unused tunic, The tunic, which was a stark ivory color, contrasted sharply with the splashes of color woven into it, depicting scenes of her everyday life. Straightening the garment neatly, she continued. "I haven't told you before, because the spirits were uncertain of your future, lil' B, but the elders now sayin you got the gift of shadow like Pup-pup." She said, as she manipulated an elven collarbone, pinning her bright orange hair high over her head. "Lil' B, you'll be meeting a good troll. He is called Shentul, and he will teach you like he taught your father."

"What?" Her once-singing, now confused son asked, focusing on the obvious present disappointment, rather inquiring further about more gleeful ideas. "I can't go swimming?"

"Not this morning." Her voice breaking a bit, as if she was biting back tears. "I need to do this swim alone, but I did bring something for you to play with while I'm gone."

"Oh?" His disappointment abated for a moment, as he pondered the idea of a new toy.

"This." She said, pulling forth a yet unknown object carefully wrapped in fine folded leathers. Placing one hand on Butha's shoulder, she urged him to sit. She then kneeled, leveling her eyes with his. "You can have this, only if you promise, not to open it till you can't see me." She demanded, knowing that will ensure his place on the beach.

The disappointment on Butha's face morphed to what would become his trademark grin, signifying a silent, excited agreement. "Okies! I promise."

Matching her son's grin with her own, she smiled warmly, tasseled the troll's mohawk and gave him a long hug. "Kay, I goin son. Remember, what we've talked about." She said, backing into the Great Sea and pointing to unseen Stars. With waves crashing at her back, she touched her round belly and said, "We''ll be watchin you Buthaleirus." Then, turning to the open water, she swam.

A smiling orc.

2009-05-02T08:29:00.001-07:00

"Boo, why you up so early?" Bylin asked Butha, as she rolled to face her lover, watching him gaze onto Orgrimmar's morning bustle.

"Jus tinkin a lil." He responded to himself as much as her inquiry. He loved the mornings, especially in Orgrimmar. With the sun barely peaking over the city's walls, only the most ambitious were awake, or just going to bed, depending on their individual perspective. The shadowmaster appreciated such things.

"Thinking about what?" The orc queried.

"Tings...I dun noz. Life be sa good, since yooz comin back." Butha spoke softly, reflectively, sitting on his hunches, watching the city's other early risers. "fuckin, eatin, fuckin, sleepin an mo' fuckin, dat perty good, huh?" He turned his head and smiled at Bylin, seeking the obvious answer.

"Yeah, I suppose it's pretty good." She said, rolling her eyes and matching his wily smile.

Life was indeed good Butha thought to himself, as he returned to watching his city. He had everything he wanted. He had enough money saved to live the rest of his days comfortably. He had enough notoriety to walk amongst both citizens and soldiers with equal respect, and finally Bylin had come back. Long had he fought against his passion, and just when he had allowed himself to give in, she left. But now, she has returned and his life should be full.

"Buuuut...I sense it, hun. What's the but?" Bylin pried.

"I dun na...Hey lookies. Der Koriq down der on dat mota-tingie. I wonderin how he doin ta'day."

"Silly troll. Probably not different than yesterday, when you talked with him."

"HEY DER! YOOZ KAY'ZY GAY!" The troll shouted at his long-time friend, waving as he did so from his loft above central Orgrimmar.

Grinning at the sound of a familiar voice, Doctor Koriq looked up and waived back, shaking his head in amusement at the naked, yelling troll. "And, he thinks I'm crazy."

Turning around, Buthaleirus strolled the loft's short span to a worn-wooden foot locker. Deftly, he ran his hands over the smooth corners and across the length of the iron bands, which reinforced it. Feeling the familiar grain, he murmured, as if in passing thought. "He really shood be ridin dat tiga'. Et mo his..." Butha paused searching for the proper word.

"Style?" Bylin finished his thought, moving behind Butha massaging his shoulders and back. "His style. You know; like your style swingin' maces high and low."

"Meh." Butha responded, casually, as he turned to face Bylin. "I guessin sa'. Dat used ta be me ting. I used ta be perty good, yah?" He again smiled at Bylin, seeking the obvious answer.

"No, my Boo." She quipped, and in her best Butha impersonation continued. "Yooz aint used ta be anythin." *Now, flowing back and forth between dialects* "Originals can't be used ta bees. They just always ares." Buthaleirus smiled his big-toothy smile, as she continued. "If you want to go bashin, GO BASHIN! It's who you be. I'm sure Koriq would love to have you return."

"Yah?" Butha half answered and half-asked. "Den et be like ole' times. Yooz an me be beatin an killin tings!"

"You think they'd take me back too!?" Bylin excitedly asked. "I mean, we know they will take you back."

"Yooz da silly one now." Butha answered reassuringly. "Course dey take yooz bahck. Wez *points to her then himself* pahtnars."

"Kay. Even Doctor Kash? He seemed to yell a lot."

"Corse Kash will." Butha answered. "An dey call 'em Kuss now, since T-mon's still be mad at 'em."

"Why Kuss?"

"Yoo jokin' righ?" Butha's shocked expression, drew across his face. "Yoo reahlly dun noz how he got dat name?" Then, without a moments hesitation, the Shadowmaster, puffed out his chest, grabbed a nearby empty bottle, a wooden spoon and went into his best Kash-Kuss impersonation.

"Listen-up, yoo mutha-------!" Butha started, trying to really orcify his trollish-orc dialect. "Yoo ------ bettar get it righ't tis time, er Is gonna stomp anotha -----hole in yooz!" He continued, chewing a wooden spoon from one-side of his mouth to another, as a makeshift cigar. "Dat's righ't. Is said anotha, cuz yoos already a buncha -------!"

Bylin laughed heartily at the representation. "Oh yeah. How could I ever question that?"

Giggling at both himself and a flood of silent memories, Butha peered over his shoulder, and spied Backlash's Guild Master at the mailbox. "Mebbe, I goes ta speak wit K-mons now."

Bylin smiled. "Maybe, you should put pants on first."

"Mebbe, I shoodnt." Butha grinned.

Bylin smiled bigger.

Callings part I

2008-12-24T14:23:00.001-08:00

Buthaleirus snickered. Talking to Shentu'l always proved entertaining. Between the youthful enthusiastic would-be assassins seeking approval and promotion, and the blood-thirsty proficient killers needing re-training and validation, some roguery was always afoot.

Tonight was no different. However, this night, Butha paid less attention to their requests and more attention to the weapons of choice used by the both the young and the old.

"Ah' be noticin da ahlmost all da sneaks now-a-daiz be usin eithah meh beat sticks, er da lon' blades." Buthaleirus commented to Shentu'l, as the trainer finished his third salute in the last ten minutes. "Where all da pointies?."

"Ahhh, bruddah, daggahs be fallin outta favah lon' ago." Shentul answered. "Luk at ju'. Joo be half da reahson some sneaks be usin da mayces an hammahs. Besides, dem biggah weapons jus be easiah ta use. Nah fahncy feetswork, jus slashin an bashin."

"Yah, but evfen da pups be switchin." Butha nodded with a solemn look on his face, as he watched an undead rogue barely into his tenth season carrying a sword shimmy up to the trainer. Dey nawt evfen learnin da pointies gud." He continued, as he felt the pommel the dagger tucked inside belt. "Dis nawt a gud ting, nawt gud at all. How can a sneak, reahlly be a sneak, iffen dey dun' be learnin da bahsics."

"Joo aint goin ta see meh fightin words wit dat brudda." The trainer agreed, nodding to a disappointed Buthaleirus. "Dah quahstion be, whut joo goin ta do bout its?" He asked, looking to the Butha's maces, maces, which Butha helped popularize.

"Meh?" The ever-student responded with a puzzled tone and look. "Whut joo meanin, meh? Joo da teachah. Joo jus stahp teachin dem pups wrong."

Ignoring the young undead sword rogue standing in-front of him, Shentul turned to the Shadowmaster, placed a hand on Butha's shoulder and switched his dialect to troll. "My friend, I've learned long ago, you can only teach what folks want to learn."

Buthaleirus sighed deeply and listened intently as his Trainer continued.

"You know my meaning. I'm just an old rogue, trying to help wherever I can. But, you Butha, you are not so old. You are the one fighting mystical beasts. You are the one killing alliance. You are among the ones the youth look-up to." Pulling Buthaleirus closer and placing his other hand on the Shadowmaster's other shoulder, he continued. His tone grew softer and more serious. "You have heard as I have, the northern wind is blowing stronger. Things will be getting bad sooner, rather then later, and change is afoot. The horde, and its rogues, will be needing leaders. Leaders that lead by example.

Easing Butha back to his original distance, Shentul' winked and watched as the Shadowmaster absorbed their exchange.

Shentul's words borrowed deep into Buthaleirus. The Shadowmaster allowed only a select few to speak to him with such priority. Shentul was one of those few. Butha had known the Trainer since before his mother's suicide.

So much had changed, so quickly for Buthaleirus. Perhaps now, what he needed more than anything was a return to his roots, a return to the shadows.

"I need to think on this brother." The long-time mace-wielder spoke softly in troll. "This is not an easy choice." Turning to leave, Butha's thoughts and more importantly, his feelings were a sea of confusion. He did indeed need to think on this decision, and he knew just the place for such thought.

Callings Part II

2008-12-24T14:18:00.000-08:00

Perched high atop of Durotar's rocky cliffs overlooking The Great Sea, Buthaleirus wept, as he recalled the whispering wind. The gentle westerly breeze carried Yaka's words. The shadowmaster was not a tracker, but judging from its volume and direction, Butha knew his partner retired to the northern Barrens. With that thought foremost in his mind, his trademark grin spread familiar across his tear-marked face. He had heard whispers like this before, but this time they were different. This time there was a finality to them. His partner would not be running the Gluch or canvassing the Basin anytime soon. He felt alone.

"She's happy." He silently thought.

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he turned inward, freeing his emotions. From the empty blackness of his thoughts, feelings of respect, friendship and love washed over him. Diving even deeper into himself, he embraced those sensations. It was then he realized just how unique Yaka had been to him. Butha had loved before, but this was different. Through shared experiences and a trust built from battle and bloodshed, Yaka had become the sister he had never known, and he loved her as such.

As the reflections waltzed through his mind, the Great Sea pounded Durotar's red clay rocks. The thundering waves tempted him with permanent end to his pain. A violent oceanic gale swirled around the crouching rogue, whipping about his purplish battle cloak, urging him to heed the Sea's call.

The rogue sought comfort the only place he knew. Looking down to his hands, Buthaleirus saw his twin battle maces. To him, his weapons have always been more than just tools of his trade. They were instruments for his symphony. They played the silent song he held within his soul. For years, Butha swung the blunted weapons for which he had become renown. Sure there were other rogues that flailed about generic war-hammers, but no shadowmaster danced with the brutal grace of Buthaleirus. Yet, when the shadows grew dark, and he was alone with himself, he longed for the slow and easy curves of his first love, one which he had long kept silent. Now, with his dearest partner quieted, the Shadowmaster opened his ears, and his heart to a third and final call this night. Reaching back into his waist band, Butha pulled out and placed twin daggers at his feet. Their deadly blades arching slow and easy.

His long ears moistened, as tears slid down his cheeks. He had raised his eyes, lifting his vision toward the evening sky, searching. With his chest heaving, he slowed his breath, calming any anxiety. Losing Yaka had turned him inside-out. He had lost so many, friends, companions and lovers. Each time, he would search the sky, seeking out his Stars for answers. But, this time, while searching the sky, he found himself.

Now, standing on the cliff's edge, he began to spin. Violent and reckless, he abandoned thought. Again and again, he pushed off with one foot, while balancing on the other. Teetering, the rogue spun and wavered. His momentum transforming his flailing arms and maces into a whirling blur.

((Art by Bylin-Thanks!))

Callings Part III

2008-12-24T12:38:00.000-08:00

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!"

A Crushing Duel

2008-12-23T13:56:00.001-08:00

Written by Bylin-

Narrowing her eyes, Bylin pulled her swords silently from their sheaths. Then, closing her eyes, she concentrated on her breathing, slow, rhythmic, and deep; attuning it to the quiet sounds of the light breeze that swept across the dry, coarse land. Snapping her eyes open once more a smile teased at her lips as she circled her prey. The folds and joints of her well fitted leather were hushed and muffled as she pulled the shadows and bent them to her needs. She slipped comfortably into stealth, advancing cautiously towards her target. The soft soles of her boots whispered upon the rocky ground.

She watched Butha closely as she narrowed the distance between them. Two large maces dangled heavily from his hips. Lightening danced and flickered about them, telling soundless tales of their devastating power. An ear twitched towards her as she moved across a patch of lose pebbles, Butha knew he was being stalked but made no move to find her. The battle would be quick, no matter the out come, it would be over soon. Bylin increased her pace, the fight was had already begun.

Charging into the troll, Bylin broke from stealth as she smashed against him with as much force as her small, orc frame could muster, stunning him momentarily with the impact of her body. She carved her swords, long, across his back; feeling the satisfying slice of her blades against the softness of flesh.

Within a moment the troll was facing her, maces in hand, a wild grin upon his face as he smashed them against her right side. The sickening sound of crushed muscle and bone resounded in Bylin’s ears as her blood pooled below the surface of her skin, swelling and making her shoulder stiff. A grunt escaped her lips as she took advantage of the opening the attack had left and plunged her sword in deep, leaving a nasty gash across the troll’s ribs. He pivoted to avoid her next attack and raised his hammer, bringing it down hard upon her back. The air escaped her lungs with the weight of the impact; she stood dazed as she attempted to draw a breath back into her burning body. Again the maces came crashing down upon her; she gasped, managing to bring her sword up in time to parry the blow. The piercing ring of metal against metal echoed across the barren land. Bylin retreated backwards, her crushed arm slow and stiff as she attempted to fend off the flurry of attacks, she gritted her teeth as every block and parry, every attack and counter attack sent torrents of pain through her right side. Her fingers grew numb with ache till finally she could grip her sword no more and the troll knocked it nimbly from her hand, sending it dancing across the ground before coming to rest a few paces away.

Her heart pounded in her ears as she felt her blood begin to boil. Still the troll grinned as he advanced upon her, his eyes tinged red and focused upon her. Desperately Bylin lunged with her offhand, two quick jabs as she dove into a low roll towards her fallen sword. Butha spun as she leapt past him, swinging low and wide with his spiked mace. Again she felt the sickening crunch of her flesh. She ignored the pain and protest of her beaten body as she grabbed up her weapon and rose again to her feet. She limped a moment, her left ankle protesting madly to the weight of her body, but a moment was all she could spare as again the hammers prepared to crash into her once more. She cried out as she shifted her weight to her broken ankle, narrowly avoiding a vicious blow meant to send her crumbling to the ground. She stumbled, bringing her weapons across the opponent’s chest, leaving a pair of deep wounds. Slowed and stiff, the attack cost her too much. The world exploded into nothingness as her head snapped to the right with the nauseating blow to the side of her head. She crumbled, beaten, to the ground.

Pain, incredible pain, was Bylin’s first thought as she began to awake. Oh how she didn’t want to wake up, not yet. The pain was too fresh, she felt herself falling back into the peaceful darkness of the unconscious. A cool trickle of water upon her lips pulled her again from the comforting dark, which seemed to reach and grab at the edges of her mind, beckoning her to come and curl up in their soft velvety folds. She opened her eyes only to slam them shut once more against the blinding and painful brightness of the mid afternoon sun. She felt a shadow move across her face, and dared to open her eyes once more. The troll smiled down at her, a damp piece of cloth in his hand that he applied gently to her forehead.

“Gud duel yah?” There was a fondness in Butha’s voice that made Bylin smile as the darkness relinquished the last of its hold upon her. The troll handed her a water skin and she sipped at it slowly. Many of his wounds had already healed and disappeared thanks to the regenerative nature of his kind. Bylin smirked, however, to see the long cuts in the leather of his tunic – he had not been expecting that blow. She propped herself up on her elbows and took another sip of the water, wondering how long she had been out for.

“Nah long” He seemed to read her thoughts. “I got joo gud in da head,” He thumped himself on the head where he’d landed the blow. “Joo went down ‘ard. I thinks mahbe I ‘urt joo.” He smiled at her, blushing slightly.

Bylin raised her hand to the place he’d indicated and winced. He’d cleaned it free of grit and the swelling was quickly decreasing, but the wound was not yet healed. He took her hand and moved it away from the nasty gash. Closing her eyes Bylin lay back down upon the pack he’d improvised as a pillow. She felt him lean over her, his hand gently inspecting the wound. His fingers slid down her face to cup her cheek and she opened her eyes again to smile at him.

“Was a gud fight thoh.” He looked at her reassuringly, and she nodded at him.

“Was a good fight.” Bylin agreed. She felt her breath catch in her lungs as he leaned over her once more. He brushed his lips softly against hers before kissing her gently.

The Original

2008-12-23T13:54:00.000-08:00

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."

"FIERY!"

2008-12-23T13:48:00.000-08:00

"in a loft high over Orgrimmar*

Closing his eyes, Buthaleirus inhaled deeply, breathing in the night and smelling the thick smoke from the burning fires beneath him. The ever-present grin widened as he listened to the pounding rhythm of distant war-drums. Then slowly, he opened his eyes and took in the sites of his home, Orgrimmar. He loved this place.

From the loft many of the old Storm Wolves once called home, he watched carefully the on-goings. A sense of melancholy choked the shadowmaster. He was tired, and although he didn't want to admit it, he feared as if he had been beaten. Rumors and whispers abounded that changes were afoot in the coming weeks. Changes that would pit horde vs horde. Changes that would have elves walking side by side with orcs. Changes that Buthaleirus did not look forward to.

Then, he spied two long-time companions at the bonfire below. Ragemane and Kash stood face to face. Their battle-scared armors and war-torn weapons served as visible trophies of the warriors' true prize: friendship. Sculpted in the heat of battle and strengthened like only brothers who have bled together share, their bond would never be broken. With that thought lingering, he quietly escaped, moving into the enveloping shadows. With deft hands, he drew his greatest, most symbolic of all his possessions, The Ebon Hand. As a father would lay his child to sleep, Butha gently placed his gift back into its blue gift box. Closing the lid, his teary eyes drew their attention to a less ornate container.

The box arrived only yesterday its only adornment was seal of the Warchief himself, Thrall.Breaking the seal, Butha opened the sturdy wooden box. What lay before him, were rewards of a lifetime of service. The near perfectly balanced daggers' steel blades glistened, bouncing His Stars' lights into Butha's dampened eyes. Blinded for a moment, his world within the shadows went dark. Time seemed to stop. With eyes wide and sightless, he hefted the weapons. Unconsciously, he moved. No, he did not just simply move. He danced to a song long unheard. Unlike the rhythm he swayed the Demolisher with, this serenade was self-imposed and familiar. It was not initiated by any other than the Shadowmaster himself. This silent anthem was his soundtrack. Memories and dreams translated into cords and melodies. Weeping heavily, his body shuddered, violent, yet graceful, Buthaleirus danced.

Surrounded within a choking black smoke, the Assassin cavorted on the loft's thin wooden edges, teasing death. He taunted the fires below with self-sacrifice. As Butha twisted, spinning his deadly medals, he let out a haunting howl, which faded to a slight giggle. Then, as suddenly as his dance begin, it stopped. Except for his steady near silent breathing, the rogue stood motionless. Calm had settled.

A short moment of rest had passed, when from behind him, Butha heard a familiar and very welcomed voice."Butha, you got your daggers!" Tamanaka said excitedly. Amidst the emotion, Buthaleirus had forgotten he sent word on the winds to his dearest of friends.

Turning quickly, he sprung a hug on the unsuspecting orc. "Ah' did!"

"But, whot about maces?" Frowning slightly, she responded. "I liked them."

"Ah' knows." Butha nodded and sighed heavily, as he turned sauntering easily from the loft's edge to a wooden foot-locker within the building. The rogue was well-aware that many friends and foes alike came to associate him with the blunted weapons. "Mahney dew, Tam Tam."

Opening the foot-locker, a wave of memories washed over Buthaleirus. He moved each item with a delicate caring touch. Till he came to the sacred Blood Paw, tabard of the Storm Wolves. Pausing, Butha mouthed a silent salute before repositioning it, revealing a small, flimsy dagger. Picking up the dagger and reading the letters inscribed upon its blade, a surge of energy raced through the troll. He grinned.

"Joo wunted Da Butha ta come out?" The once-would be assassin growled rhetorically. "Here Ah' be."

"Whot?" A puzzeled Tamanaka asked, somewhat taken aback with his sudden change in demeanor.

"Ahh, nahfin, sistah." Buthaleirus quickly snapping back to present day. Changing the subject with genuine excitement, Butha asked, "Meh new daggahs ar' needin sum magiks.

Excited at the prospect of enchanting such mighty weapons, Tamanaka asked, "Whot kinda of enchant do you want?!"

"Can joo dew da green glowey one?"

"No." Tam said flatly, attempting to hide her own disappoint in her enchanting skill.

"Nah?" Butha said, sensing her feelings. He rebounded hoping to lift her deflated spirit. "Den can joo make dem hit reahly hard?"

"No." Tam again said flatly. This time her attempts at deception were even more transparent.

"Dat okies." He replied quickly still trying to salvage the downward spiral. "Joo can jus put da magik dat be given meh der lifes. Joo knows, da pahple glow."

"No!" Tam said completely discouraged. "I can't do that either.""Oh, den whut magiks dew joo's got?" Butha asked, fearing the answer.

"FIERY!"

A Return to Shadows

2008-12-23T13:46:00.000-08:00

The rolling foamy waters of the Great Sea licked at Buthaleirus' toes, tickling them. The troll smiled and snickered as he lay sprawled along Durtotar's clay edge, gazing at the stars. Over the past weeks, a quiet peace had begun to settle over Butha, and he allowed himself a moment to remember the events, which led him to such a tranquil oasis.

Closing his eyes, a wicked grin twisted across his face, and a sickening sense of self-gratification came over Butha. He recalled the retribution on his dream tormentor, the child killer, Celphus. Now the cries of his youth will forever be drowned out by the screams of his revenged. He relished that sound echoing within his head before turning his attention to an image of a great orc seated on a Throne.

Led by Kash, a raid group simply known as Awesome, had defeated Neferian. Thrall's mismatched band of cast-offs and misfits had placed the dragon's head high atop Ogrimmar. For some, the head symbolized victory and strength. For Butha, it symbolized much more. It represented hope and perservence. It represented a thousand sacrifices and a thousand more opportunities. Awesome had crushed a barrier and new frontiers awaited.

The Shadowmaster bit back a tear as he recalled disbanding the guild-house which he created. With their missions completed, he thought both his assassins and the horde better served with his shadowstalkers scattered amongst the other noble clans of Awesome. He knew in his heart their loyalties were more than a shared tabard or guild stone. They walked where others feared to. Guided by faith as much as sight, they walked the shadows.

Finally, Buthaleirus opened his eyes and returned his gaze to the stars. As he donned his new colors, the rogue remember his former clans, and in silent tribute, bowed deeply. After months of fighting beside Tamanaka and her clan, Butha had been asked to walk amongst Sanguine Steel. Today, with great pride and honor, he did.

Although these were monumental events, there was more to this peace, this ease, which Butha experienced, something deeper. He was growing whole again. Shattered and broken by the loss of his sister and Alabaster, the last Black Wolf morphed from the smiling, giggling mischievous sneak to a rampaging, brutal destroyer of empathy. The broken shards of his heart cut his spirit deep. A cavernous and festering wound grew infecting and stinking, threatening Butha's existence. He became a shell of his former self, cold and hollow.

But no longer. The once near fatal wound healed. Its putrid stench, cleansed. Buthaleirus had found his way home. As he lay buried within the darkness of the night, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: Comfortable. It had been months since the rogue experienced such a sensation. Over the past weeks, he felt his movements gain their fluidity back. He felt his zest and zeal for living return, and now, finally, he felt at home surrounded in blackness.The grin that now appeared on the Shadowmaster did not twist its way upon his face, rather it seemed to dance its way there.

Da Butha was back.

A Kahn's Call

2008-12-23T13:44:00.000-08:00

Felwood, where for some, not all the demons one faces are visible.

The wind carried many words this eve. Among them, new found soldiers and companions sought the rogue's company in an old battle. The Basin called.

Smirking slyly, Buthaleirus pulled forth a knife, twirling it slowly, gathering its "feel" in his left hand. His soft fingers wrapped around the blade's hilt easily. He held out his right hand. Palm facing skyward. Scars, new and old, shown on this rough meaty appendage. He paused and looked at his hands. Half-giggling, half-growling as he noticed the difference in them. His left hand had kept its skin, soft and tender. It bared no scars. Its texture smooth and clean. While, his right hand shown the marks and wear of battle. Scars and callouses created from wounds opened and healed covered it's surface, hardening it to the core.

His smirk flatened and his eyes grew dark."It time ta bleed da ground again."

Speed and deftness of blade marked his movement, as he sliced a new wound on the battered hand. Balling it tightly into a fist, he rolled it back and forth as he whispered over and again:

"Ah' give meh blood fo' da blood Ah' bouts ta take."

The long dead trees of Felwood cracked and bristled, as the wind picked up. It blew with a force he seemed to feel from within. His Khan, Volk, spoke.

There was an attack to be made, and the greatest of trolls sought Butha's presence.

Butha looked down as his blood trickled from his fist dampening the ground. His dark eyes, brightened as memories of the blood paw flooded back. But, tonight, he promised his blood to others.

Then, Butha felt something he hadn't felt in a long-long time...happy. The Wolves were running again. This made him happy. The thought of a future venture of mayhem with his brethen made him smile.

((Art by Volk-Thanks V :) ))

MAYCES!

2008-12-23T13:42:00.000-08:00

Candle light softly glowed, illuminating the pages before Buthaleirus. Although not formally educated, Buthaleirus had a basic understanding of the written word. Alabaster had taught him well.

It had only been a couple hours since the great Kazzak had fallen, but Butha's excitement over his newest toy lingered. His head still rang with words of congratulations. They played as a song of celebration serenading his sub-consciousness. Butha smiled, reading and humming to the silent tune. He was interested as never before. What other great items existed? What are their legends? Could one be his destiny?

As he turned the final page of Thrall's "borrowed" book, a single verse from Butha's unheard song played over and again,"Jya gonna be usin dem beat sticks now?"

It was the great huntress, Sayifia's voice that posed the question.

It was a question, Butha had pondered on more than one occasion. He had often been intrigued by the strength and power held within the blunt weapons. Now, it was a question he was trying to answer. He had known only daggers, and their sharp and pointed edges."Mayces?" He asked to himself softly, as he turned the great Demolisher over, examining it. It was a heavy weapon. Hefting it, he felt its great weight, and although cumbersome, he imagined with practice its potential for devastation. Buthaleirus closed his eyes. Within the silent song of congratulations, Butha found a rhythm, and to that rhythm he danced, a deadly dance. Swinging the Demolisher high and low, he began to unfold the weapon's potential. Moments turned to minutes, and minutes to hours, sweat poured from the beserking troll's pours, as the rogue entered a state of near madness and exhaustion.

Consciousness fading, Buthaleirus opened his eyes. Their now peaceful gaze rested upon a the only word that appeared on that final page.Buthaleirus smiled his trademark grin as fatigue took hold and consciousness left him, but not before he uttered that single word:

SPINESHATTER.

Until Ash or Stars shine

2008-12-23T13:40:00.000-08:00

*Until Ash*

Is all Buthaleirus could seem to say or think as his body drowned in the lava which surrounded Ragarnos. Floating high within the chamber, he watched as his physical form became that which his "Sweets" foretold time and time again, Ash.

Although corporeal, Butha gazed upon his friends battling the great FireLord. Even in death, Butha's snicker could be heard. He snickered because he knew the outcome had been decided even before the mighty Ragemane sundered the first blow. Ragarnos' hammer would fall, and fall it did.

As prayers were answered and Butha came to regain his being, he looked about and smiled. How he enjoyed the company of these friends. Then, as a Star's glint would catch a passer's eye, so did the golden glow emanating from the fallen God.

Memories of youth and sounds of broken glass filled the shadow master's head and ears, as dream of sorts lay before him: Perdition's Blade.

An Old Enemy

2008-12-23T13:37:00.000-08:00

A disgusted sigh blew gently from Buthaleirus' lips. He had just got off the zepplin and Tristfal Glades lay before him.

"Butha be hatin dis place now." With that, he jumped from the platform, welcoming the bruises and pain that would surely befall him for such a leap.

"Brill under attack" "Brill under attack" The all to familiar alarms sounded, and he took a moment for a grin before mounting Vexi.

"Gud, Ah' be in da mood fo' some killin. Vexi! Get obah here!"

-----

Without a sound he moved. Graceful and powerful, he stalked Brill, searching for the living violators, but all he saw were the dead kind. Butha spat, as the inn keeper wiped his jawless face.

"Where da attackahs, deadin?"

Mumbling some response that sounded like raw sewage being flushed down a drain, the inn keeper stared into the shadows peering for speaker. He did not have to look long, as a troll hand appeared from the darkness slapping him senseless. Dagger posed to cut the keeper's throat out, Butha growled low in troll...

"If der be no pinkies to kill, den mebbe joo do." Butha paused.

From the corner of his good eye, he caught a glimpse of a face, familiar but different. With a flash of smoke, Butha was unseen again. He watched and listened. This deadin was familiar. It's voice, it's movements, even it's sickening smell brought the blood and rage into Butha's veins. Yet, he stayed his hammer and simply watched.

"Trilink, your room is ready", came the call from the keeper's son. Spit formed on his lips, his hands shook, Butha knew that name. Butha knew this undead. The hours passed and he waited and watched. The seasons taught the rogue, weapons and poisons were not his best friends, but patience and opportunity were. Moving carefully, he stealthed upto the table, which Trilink sat.

Then, with his hammer ready, standing only inches behind the sitting deadin, Butha revealed himself. "Joo lose dis?", he said stiffling a bit of laughter.

With that, he flipped http://www.thottbot.com/?it=18144 on the table.

Once again, a flash of powder and a puff of smoke, the rogue was gone.

Fires that Burn

2008-12-23T13:35:00.000-08:00

The campfire dimmed. It's smoke rising lazily into Feralas' cool, clear evening sky. It's flames flickered, struggling to maintain it's slowly smoldering life. The only noises that could be heard were the crackling of the dying fire. It's wood and paper giving it's life, so that another can slowly die.

Buthaleirus thought the scene so funny he chuckled, while biting back his nightly tears. Evening after evening he came to this spot, their spot and he cried. At first, the tears were of sadness. He mourned her silence. Her absence. Then, as the weeks passed, the tears were of a sort of joy, a peace. The fondness of the memories outweighed his loneliness and feeling of loss.

Now, the tears that fell from eyes that burned with fury. Eyes that once found joy now seek pain. She had left him, no note, no goodbye, just empty promises of a return. His heart once full of love, now felt empty, yearning to be filled.

Fire seemed to burn through his body as his blood turned cold. "Alabahstah!", he cried forth. His lungs nearly exploding with the force of his rage. He looked to the Stars, and they shown bright and clear. Looking down, eyes burning, he focused through the tears and pain. He raised the weapon he had come to call own high over his head and drove it down. Over and over again, he hammer slammed into a dirk which buried itself into a putrid, but perfectly kept, worg heart, destroying both the flimsy knife and the long-still heart.

Butha giggled and grinned as he looked slightly to his left. The campfire had burned out.

Friends ((A thank you))

2008-12-23T13:31:00.000-08:00

The morning came late as Butha stretched his anxious limbs from their slumber.

"Come duel me Butha", came Ries' siren-like call. He marveled at her voice, sexy, yet strong, but most all he envied her accent. Unlike Butha's heavy darkspearin dialect, hers was clean and clear. It was distinct and uniquely hers.

"Sho' ting! Joo outside da south gate?," Butha responded. " I go an gets some poisons fo' us."

"Don't bother, I never bring any."

"Butha, bring your trinket. I want a try at ya," Lochly's call joined Ries' for a test of skills.

"Joo bet mons. I always gots dat ting wit meh. Joo nevah knows when jya be needin it."As Butha rode to the gate, his mind began to wonder. Ries hadn't asked for a duel in sometime. She was content and satisfied with her training, and Ries, being Ries, did not know boredom. "Mebbe, she jus wunts ta see Da Butha sweat," he snickered to himself, his mind drifting to thoughts better left unknown.

As he cleared the south gate, Durotar opened up to him, as it does every Horde. He loved this part of the world. This was home. The high late morning sun baked the clay beneath his feet. The hot and dusty air, suffocating to outsiders, warmed Butha's lungs. He knew he would die here one day, his spirit not to return, but today was not that day.

Smearing poison onto the flats of his hammer, Butha looked about and smiled. Many of his friends stood near. That thought alone, the fact he had many friends, made the troll's grin grow wider. He had been blessed.

Duel after duel, Butha tested himself, against these friends. The only thing Buthaleirus loved more than testing his skills were those he tested them against.

The actions and words spoken next remain a blur. A gift box, wrapped in blue, laid before Butha's feet. He paused a moment, and lifted his vision from the gift to those gathered around him. Ravageclaw, Vinylic, Purloin, Lochly and Ries all stood within an arms reach of the troll.

Ries spoke. Her words danced to Butha's ears. The gift was for him. The gathering, the odd-duels, the gift, Buthaleirus knew. His hands began to tremble and tears slowly crested his eyes. Buthaleirus knew. Carefully, he tugged at the bow. Gently, he loosened the paper, and slowly he raised the box's lid. He wanted to savor this. To remember his feelings forever.

The Ebon Hand laid before him. He grasped the greatest of hammers, binding it to his soul.

Congratulations and cheers filled Butha's ears. Some were an arms distance away. Some were carried by the wind. All congratulating him on receiving the great hammer.

He appreciated everyone of the words spoken to him, but they were all mistaken.

Congratulations were indeed appropriate, but not for the newly received gift. Rather, one he already had in abundance, friends.

Last Dawn

2008-12-23T13:29:00.000-08:00

Buthaleirus woke early this morning. The dawn had not yet broken through the night sky. His sleep was restless. His dreams agitated. Sleepily, he walked to the mailbox, and smiled. His love, Alabaster, made him his purple shirt. The letter, dotted with kisses, was short and sweet much like it's sender.

Checking his guild stone, he searched to see if any were awake. His tired eyes scanned the listings. Then, at the same mailbox where he was "hearted", he fell to his knees and roared. Tears fell like stones as he lost the strength to stand. Falling to his knees, the rogue wept.

Alabaster's name was absent.

His soul grew black. Hate, raw like the putrid flesh of dying humans, erupted within him. He would kill today. Slowly, through teary eyes, he looked to the sky. Buthaleirus searched for his guides. There with a feint, desperate twinkle, they sat, seemingly higher, further from reach. Shaking, he rose and called Vexi forward. Moments later, he was at the water's edge, watching and waiting. The stars gave way to the dawn as the sun broke the horizon. The water lapped at his feet. He could feel it pulling at him, urging him to swim one last time.

He watched the sun break the horizon, pushing the stars further from sight. He used to love mornings. Memories of hot milk, laughter and silliness, filled his head and drowned his heart. His love had left. Pushed away by the some of very ones he called family. Hate, dark as the night that had just receeded, filled in him again. "click-click-clattah-clattah"

A scorpid, no match for one his season, approached Buthaleirus seemingly without fear. He giggled. Like a wave that builds far out at sea, it came, emotion. The shadowmaster's shoulders tensed with focused rage. His mouth filled with saliva. He spat at the Great Sea. It would not take him this day. This day no saving letter was needed. This day he had his salvation...himself. An anger he had not felt since the burning of the Hexfires, drove this troll as he moved away from the water towards the fearless scorpid. Nodding to the beast, he raised his great hammer, and with a speed unknown to any, he brought the weapon to bear. Snarling, Butha growled low and gutteral, "Witout fear der be no hope."

Shadows of Hope and Fear

2008-12-23T13:08:00.000-08:00

Granting the patroller’s dying wish, Buthaleirus allowed her to sound the city’s alarm. The troll wanted his prey to know he neared. Methodically, he stealthed his way through Stormwind, skipping from shadow to shadow. Along his murderous path lay the bodies and blood of those he choose to kill. They served as both markers and warning to any that would try to hinder this self-imposed duty.“This is it.” Butha thought to himself, as he looked at the small undistinguished house. “Time for the nightmares to end.”

o=={[]} {[]}==o

“By the Light, no”, Celphus whimpered. Alarms had been sounded. His judgment neared. Now old and weak the former SI:7 agent held little hope he would survive this starless night. Just as his stalker had little hope those many years ago. Rain pelted the window pane, as the ex-assassin reflected. Memories and feelings of murder, duty and guilt flooded forth.

o=={[]} {[]}==o

“NAH!”, Buthaleirus raged. His classmates’ screams and cries filled the young troll’s ears. Chaos erupting around him, his instincts took over. Buthaleirus sought the shadows and watched. He watched a SI:7 agent murder his peers. Although still only new to his training with the Shattered Hand, the orphaned troll recognized the gratuitous brutality of the murders. The human took his time as he slaughtered each student.

o=={[]} {[]}==o

Celphus hated Orgrimmar. Its dirt, its filth and its stink made the city near unbearable for the “finer” races. He moved with haste through Drag into the Cleft of Shadows, where an arm of the Shattered Hand existed.“This will be over soon enough.” The notorious child-killer sighed to himself. “Four. Only four. This will indeed be quick.”With a swift kick, the old door collapsed, and the human went to work. One by one the young orphaned students fell before the ruthless agent‘s daggers.“Bah, only three? There were supposed to be four. I don’t have time for this.” Turning about slowly, he chided the hiding would-be assassin, “Come out, come out wherever you are. Come now, do not be afraid. I will make it quick.” The human quickly searched his victims, taking their daggers as identification and proof of his mission.As the Orgrimmar guard descended upon the Cleft, Celphus' time rapidly faded. “You little ***!“ Celphus shouted. “We will meet again.” With that, the human disappeared.

o=={[]} {[]}==o

The shadows seemed to breathe. The dank air hung like a wet drape over the room. Darkness closed around the old man. His hope fading, he fell to his knees, praying, "I shall be with you soon my love. May the Light guide our new blade strong. May he find a path different than mine. Have mercy on his soul." Then, in a moment where fear meets panic, Celphus felt it. He felt the rain on his back. He tried not to scream, but failed.

o=={[]} {[]}==o

Lifting the window and gliding through it, Buthaleirus moved closer to silencing the screams in his head. The old man knelt only yards away. Methodically, he circled the child-killer. The trolls’ rage building, he struggled to restrain his shaking hands. His eyes narrowed, while his lips trembled, stretching themselves from a snarl into his trademark grin. Butha watched as the mumbling human began to scream. The shadow master giggled, and stepped forward. Butha loved many things. He loved pies, flowers and friends to name a few, but few things entertained the rogue like the dance that takes place within shadows.

o=={[]} {[]}==o

Eyes so filled with tears, Celphus could barely make out the shadowed figured that approached, yet he knew who it was. The rogue sauntered forward. His maces swung casually, almost lazily, at his sides. Lifting the great Demolisher up, he rested it upon his right shoulder, as he stood before the kneeling human. Placing the other hammer under the old-man's chin, Butha raised the murderer’s head, till their eye's locked. "Joo know who Ah' be?" Buthaleirus asked.

With the sound of the troll's voice, Celphus leaned to his left and vomited. A mixture of bile and half-digested lamb now covered the wooden planks of his modest home. Bent forward his forehead resting in a self-loathing puddle, Celphus wept between his heaves. A mixture of rage and pity filled Buthaleirus. His heart pounded with sounds of revenge, but something held his hammers low.

"Daddy?" A human voice asked from the doorway. Celphus, the father, looked up and saw his son. Although the troll could not interpret the words, he understood their meaning. With a deafening roar, Butha raised his great hammers, and with a force that made his chest nearly explode, he sent them crashing down, splintering the floor’s wooden planks.

A flash of powder and a moment later, Buthaleirus was gone. Powder dusted the air, filling it in a thick smoke. Muffled cries of hope and fear filled the troll's ears. Butha crept towards the window that he entered. As he neared, his eyes searched skyward. To Buthaleirus, the night was never Starless. Whistles and other alarm brought the near delirous troll back from his seizure of violence and vengence. Flexing his hands and rolling his shoulders, Buthaleirus straightened himself. His breathing slowed to normal.

As he regained composure, he looked to the broken bodies crumpled on the floor and snickered. Peering out the window, he spied two guards entering the house's lower level.

"They will be here soon." He thought to himself, grinning. "Good, I will pile their bodies high."

Relaxing, he rested his wiry frame, sitting down on the undersized bed. Pulling off his boots, he tilted his head, as he watched his wiggling toes.

---Voices muffled came from the room below.---

How long had it been since he had a good foot rub? He mused. Far to long. Sure, he would get a quickie from the odd individual in need of an open box or begger of coin, but a quality foot-rub had been lacking for sometime. In fact...since he last saw his love, his Sweets, Alabaster. How he missed her grace. Her style. Her touch. Memories of a life gone by, began to fill his thoughts.---Heavy armored foot-falls sounded on the steps just outside the room.---Sighing, Butha tightened his grip on his maces.

"If they are going to interupt, I hope they bring at least three. I'm getting hungry."

o=={[]} {[]}==o

Why?

2008-12-19T14:43:00.000-08:00

((As some may know, A long time ago, I routinely ran with Raid Awesome (a large raiding organization on Scarlet Crusade) The player known as Kash asked us to write up why we would follow his toon (a crazied orc and founder of Raid Awesome). This is what I wrote. Incidently, this just exactly what happend.))

Fire, lava, and ash assaulted Buthaleirus' senses, but the young rogue pressed on, slamming his broken milk bottle into the Molten Giant's flank. Challenge after challenge, Buthaleirus stepped to the fore, until the group's leader, Ghis, commanded to halt.

What lay before them was a challenge like none other the rogue had ever faced: The Barron Geddon. Larger than anything Butha had ever seen, the future Rogue Leader had no idea what to do. Humbled by the power around him, Butha asked for aid, asked for instruction, yet, all he received was silence.

"They are just busy and don't have time for my questions." Butha thought to himself. Then turning to Alabaster, he asked, "Sweets, joo knows whut Butha sahpost ta dew. Ah' wunts ta help.?"

She turned, touched his cheek and began to say..."My dear.."

"PULLING!" Ghis ordered, and within seconds the great Geddon engaged.

The chaos that ensued is marred by a cloudy memory of victory marked with the death of his love, Alabaster. After the battle, the dead were raised and treasure passed out. Once again, Ghis spoke, commending those that wore the colors of Tempest. At this, Buthaleirus looked at his colors and at those his lover. The red and white tabard of Last Dawn did not match or fit those that surrounded it. He was an outsider. He felt small.

An hour or so later as he was nearing rest in Orgrimmar, Buthaleirus, a respected rogue in his own right, sent word expressing his gratitude for the chance to see such a dangerous foe and to fight alongside such a fearsome group as Tempest, via the wind to Ghis. Perhaps the wind was still that night, as Butha tried several times, but never heard a reply. To ensure his gratitude was passed along, the rogue sent a goblin mail. Days went by, and no reply was ever received.

Although not familiar with formalities, Butha was not stupid. He knew when he was not welcomed. More importantly, he could recognize apathy; something the passionate shadowmaster despised.

In the following weeks, Tempest invited the Butha on several excursions, each time Ghis was never present. After just a few encounters, Buthaleirus grew to respect those of the clan, but never forgot or forgave the slight their pompous leader showed the proud rogue. Those same weeks brought change as well as opportunity. His love became distant, withdrawn. For months, Alabaster had been under constant pressure. Although she reigned as the Dark Lady standing tall over the Last Dawn, Ghis sang a siren-like song encouraging her to be more than a guest to Tempest. Many of the Last Dawn rebelled sickened by the situation. Buthaleirus, however, stood quiet, observing. Until one day, he spied a recruitment of sorts.

—-The parchment stood out the way the sickest calf in a herd does. It's color browned and stained. The hand-writing was barely readable, and the stench! How could paper stink? Even more ridiculous, how could paper smell like whiskey? Butha nearly gagged as he read it slowly and to himself. The Shadowmaster had heard of this Doctor Kash, and on occasion shared a blood-shedding with the self-proclaimed Reverend. Runs against the undead, ogres and the dreaded alliance had proved the Doctor a capable, albeit squishy, warrior of the Horde. Although his axe and mace were powerful weapons, there was something even more powerful about this orc. Kash's recruitment was not for a single clan, but an army.

Skeptical, Butha snatched the whiskey-stained invitation and headed to the "blimpie", reciting one word over and over "shenanigans". Once again, Butha fought his way through the core. This time as Butha bashed with his maces, he did not feel like an outsider. This time he did not feel small. This time Buthaleirus felt...awesome.

Back in Orgrimmar, several hours after the run ended, as the battered troll was preparing to send word of gratitude to Kash, thanking him for the opportunity to bleed along side him, he noticed a letter. As Butha unfolded the blood-stained parchment, the familiar smell of whiskey clouded his head

Butha,You didn't die unless we all died. You did good. Write up something for the rogues.Thanks,Kash."

THE Mace rogue smiled. He did indeed feel f*ckin awesome.