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Diplomacy 101: Chapter 19
🕑 Added 2024-08-04 21:30:42 +0000 UTCHexlord Malacrass sat himself upon Zul’Jin's throne on the deck of the lightning totem ship.
His tiny, diminutive frame made for an interesting juxtaposition when the seat was intended for a 7+ ft. tall Troll.
Dangling his legs off the seat, Malacrass nursed his broken tusk, and coughed droplets of blood due to his broken ribs.
He played with a shrunken Troll skull in his hands, marveling at it.
‘This will be me soon.’ Malacrass thought to himself with a giggle.
The squeaky laughter flared up the pain in his side, forcing him to wheeze.
Damned healing factor. Why couldn't he be like the rest of them? Spit upon, and played with like some sort of ball all his life, Malacrass resented the Amani.
They called him a Goblin, forced him to feed on rats to survive, and broke the totem binding his only friend-a weak earth elemental-to this plane, breaking his heart in the process.
Unable to take it any more, Malacrass had willingly defected to the Elves. Ignored by all those who towered over him, Malacrass had heard quite the juicy secrets, and he was all too happy to share them.
He had fantasized countless times about his revenge. How he would cut off his tormentors legs, and let them feel how it was to be short.
Poison their water so they could feel what it was like to heal slower than a Human, and the ravages of disease.
Feed them burnt scraps, and throw them into an ice cell so they would know what cold and hunger felt like!
All his life he suffered, all his life, he yearned to be accepted by another friend. So he sought out the Quel'Dorei.
Malacrass was an all too willing collaborator.
However, things did not go according to his fantasy. No, no, reality was much crueler than that.
Not only did the Elves refrain from opening their arms to him in friendship, they tortured him, broke him, and mind controlled him.
Specifically, an evil witch of epic proportions got her perfectly manicured claws on him.
She promised him power beyond imagination, knowledge known only to the most venerated of Trolls. The witch-whom her followers addressed as mother or mistress-told Malacrass he would become the lead shaman of the Amani, second in command to only the chief, a leader of the entire tribe.
Malacrass politely declined, and told the demon in Elf skin that he was done being a Troll, and would like to begin his new life amongst Elf society now.
The inhumanly pretty demon had laughed! Her black lipsticked lips parted to reveal a sinister, sickening smile that had sent a shiver down his spine.
She told him he would achieve his revenge. Told him in explicit detail her plans for him. What sickened Malacrass was how just she was. How each and every one of her explanations tickled his desires. Yet feared her all the same he did.
She was a being of pure evil.
Every time he caught whiff of her perfume from his room, and heard the click-clack of her high heels, Malacrass knew he would be in for a day of unrelenting punishment.
The torture was terrible! Unbearable, intolerable, insufferable, and many more descriptive able's aside! The Elves forced-curse them for a thousand years-the Elves forced him to learn how to read!
Day after day, every 12 hours, poor Malacrass spent painstaking hours carefully writing down hieroglyphics, reciting spells, and practicing rituals.
All the while black squiggly lines leapt out from the pages and into his eyes. Malacrass thought he had gone crazy when the Elves told him there was no such thing as squigillies!
But the voices in his head reassured him that the squigillies were, in fact real, and that the Elves only wanted to torture him with more reading!
Malacrass swore to the Elves that the ancient Troll texts tore away at his psyche, yet they didn't believe him.
When he told them about the voices, the whispers in the dark, they mocked his intelligence. They wondered if such a small body possessed a correspondingly small mind!
It was then and there that Malacrass decided that if the Elves didn't want him, then he would find new friends!
For the time being, he would play at being the good little asset, and follow that evil witch’s command to the letter.
Unfortunately, it was during this time that he developed a terminal illness. Purple growths began to grow out of his side, lessening his importance in the eyes of the witch.
They tried healing him with potions, holy magic, shamanistic techniques, etc, but nothing worked.
The voices whispered about something called the Sunwell. It was a font of immense arcane power that granted the Elves immortal life. If anything could cure him, it would be a bath in its pools. They told him that if anyone deserved it, surely Malacrass, with his dedication and hard work, was there any more resolute towards the mission? Was there anyone like Malacrass, willing to read for the greater good?! He thought not!
When Malacrass respectfully broached the topic with that witch, he was scolded, and denied all but the oldest, moldiest of rations for the rest of his tenure in Silvermoon.
That day, the resentment grown from the forced reading torture turned into a full blown grudge.
Fine, you want him to become a shaman for the Amani? To return to the bosom of his tormentors?! Then he would do so! He would become such a good pawn that the evil Elves wouldn’t see his knife behind their back until it was too late!
The voices told him of a way to get revenge on both of them. They said that a day not far off would greatly weaken the Elves. To prepare the Amani for a naval invasion.
Malacrass had laughed at the voices, thinking there was no way Zul’Jin would approve of a fleet. The Amani were Forest Trolls, not Water Trolls! For a thousand years, they had stalked the woods, maybe sailing down rivers or streams occasionally, but never sailing on the open ocean!
The voices laughed along with Malacrass, and taught him a binding ritual. One that the fool, Zul’Jin, could not pass up. A ritual he would be willing to pay any price for. Even something as seemingly stupid as a fleet.
So, Malacrass waited and plotted for the day when it was time to launch a naval invasion of Quel'Thalas.
Finally, the day had come for Silvermoon and Zul’Aman’s reckoning.
With Undead blocking the land route, Malacrass conveniently had a fleet ready to set sail, and avenge the Trolls on their ancient enemy.
It was a very inspiring send off, speeches were made, sacrifices offered, the Loa posed. It was all very moving for the Amani.
Malacrass, meanwhile, barely withheld his vomit at the copious celebration. His only solace from this shameful display of grandstanding was that his plan was almost complete.
So he set out in deliberately stormy waters, watching on in glee as hundreds drowned during the voyage.
Then he led the Amani to a natural chokepoint with the intention of bleeding his ‘fellow countrymen’ dry. Unfortunately, Zul’Jin had demanded action from him, and he couldn't afford to jeopardize the plan at that point. Hence his destruction of the cliff face and widening of the beach.
He then sent the totem of water-the best totem for healing and managing the rough waters-away from the main fleet. The more Trolls that passed, the closer his plan would come to fruition.
Lastly, Malacrass sent out a false report to his handler. He also added a force of Elite shadow hunters as a red herring. The longer he kept that witch’s attention locked up inside Silvermoon, the more opportunity he would have to complete his revenge.
Little did the demon in Elf skin know that her asset had bucked the collar!
Now all that awaited was the final step in his plan.
Malacrass knew his time on this mortal plane was swiftly nearing its end. His only wish was to look upon Zul’Jin and the witch’s faces when he, Malacrass, the ‘Goblin,’ the ‘crazy dolt’ killed them both, destroyed their civilizations, and got the last laugh.
But fantasy was fantasy, and the cruel reality was, Malacrass was dying. As if to punctuate this point, he began to cough up purple bits of goo mixed with chunks of his organs.
Face paling, Malacrass was growing antsy waiting for the voices in his head to give him the go ahead.
A scout burst onto the deck smelling of fear, and wild eyed.
“Hexlord, da chieftain is in bad trouble! Da Elves have caught him in ah bind! We need your voodoo, we need your hoodoo, we need da tings even you haven't tried!” The scout said hurriedly in his report.
Malacrass chuckled, causing purple fluids to drip down his chin.
“Heh, the bastard isn't dead yet, is he?” Malacrass kicked his tiny legs from the throne like a kid in a car seat as he expressed his displeasure.
“H-hexlord?!” The scout blinked his eyes in astonishment.
“Oh by the way, ‘dis, ting, da’ those aren't proper. Now that I don't have to pretend to speak like a Trogg, I thought you should know. For such a tall Troll, I'd have thought your cerebrum would be better developed. My mistake.” Malacrass sighed in mock pity.
“Sir-ee-brum?” The scout blinked, cocking his head to the side in confusion.
Malacrass rubbed his eyes in consternation.
Idiots. He was surrounded by idiots.
While Malacrass was massaging his eyes, a phoenix and a flaming green dragonhawk landed roughly on the deck.
The scout reacted with a shout, and charged at the phoenix, axe in hand. For his troubles, he was met with a bolt of fire, turning him into a burning wreck.
‘Now. Commence the ritual now!’ The voice in Malacrass’ head urged.
Malacross subtly nodded his head, and prepared himself for the greatest moment of his life. Subtle energies coalesced around his body, and secret runes carved onto each and every Troll canoe began to light up, awaiting his signal.
Everything was ready to go, but Malacrass decided to have some fun before his demise, and see what this duo of unlikely allies had to say.
“Your cruelty toward the tribes ends today Malacrass! I'm going to punt you into the sun!” Jan'alai snarled.
“Indeed. This farce has gone on long enough. All the Trolls on the beach have been slain. It's over Hexlord, you have lost.” A charismatic male Elf's voice accompanied Jan'alai's.
“I have to thank you, Prince Kael’Thas, without your High Elves, I never would have achieved my revenge.” Malacrass cackled.
“I played no part in your scheme, creature.” Kael frowned.
“Not directly, no. The Quel'Dorei are a different story. It was by their training that I could sit here today. You can thank the one they call Faedra for this.” Malacrass crowed, and held his arms wide gesturing towards the massive ash pile of former Trolls accumulating on the beach.
“Faedra? What does she have to do with this?” Kael’Thas said in a mixture of anger and concern.
“Everything.” Malacrass grinned from ear to ear.
The look upon the Prince's face was just priceless!
Truthfully, Malacrass didn't know much of anything about Quel'Dorei politics, but he knew the witch's name. He never would've imagined shifting the blame to her would allocate such a visceral action!
Malacrass clapped his hands gleefully at the Prince's plight, laughing so much, purple ooze began to spill out of his rashes and scabs.
“I've seen this in countless Vandercross documentaries! He is stalling!” Jan'alai exclaimed, then immediately breathed fire at Malacrass.
Surrounded by a shield, Malacrass cackled as Kael’Thas joined in.
“Excelsior! I've always wanted to banter ever since I saw one of those low effort Vandercross plays.” Malacrass said in a good mood, accepting his fate.
“They are not plays! They are documentaries of real life!” Jan'alai denied in anger.
Malacrass smiled widely at her. There was no time to debate, his shield was cracking, and he had a ritual to conduct.
Filling his voice with magical energies, Malacrass began a guttural chant uncharacteristic for his typically squeaky voice.
“Kith'ix-kalaken!
Kith'ix-kalaken!
Kith'ix-kalaken!
The time has come to awaken!
I call upon the Old Gods: Y'Shaarj, C'Thun, Yogg-Saron and N'Zoth to bring forth this beast from the depths of the ocean, and awaken!
Awaken!
Awaken!
Awaken!
Blood of Trolls, feed upon the screams of their thousand-thousand souls!
Their flesh your skin, their blood your tonic, heed this summons now, your Master calls!
Kith'ix-kalaken!
Kith'ix-kalaken!
Kith'ix-kalaken!
Kith'ix, General of the Black Empire, Tormentor of the Shifting Sands, Servant of Yogg-Saron, I command you in the name of the Old Gods to Rise!
Riiise!
Riiiiiiise!
Riiiiiiiiiise!”
Reacting to Malacrass’ ritual, all the blood, flesh, and souls of the deceased Amani were used as sacrificial fuel to raise one of the deadliest forces of nature to grace the realm of Azeroth.
Emerging out of the dark recesses of the ocean came a colossal, mountain sized bug-lobster-cthulhu nightmare.
Its chitin exoskeleton was a deep, umbra purple, and it possessed two magnificent pincers the size of ancient temples. Fins adorned its lobster-like face, four appendages similar to a crabs legs burst from its shoulders, and its eyes glowed a sinister dark orange-yellow.
Malacrass bemoaned that he did not have the souls of Zul’Jin, Jan'alai or Akil'zon to complete the ritual. Their powerful energies would have healed Kith'ix completely of the wounds he suffered in death.
As a result, all along the creature's exoskeleton were scars, and tiny holes from countless eons of battles past. One or two massive gashes on its armor exposed tender flesh underneath. In particular, a gap in the monster's armor beneath the left armpit gushed corrupted blood.
Oh well, it wasn't Malacrass’ concern any longer.
This was the moment of his revenge!
Malacrass smiled toothily at the summoning of his lifetime. The irony of the situation sent Malacrass laughing to his grave.
The thought that the Amani had taken so much pride in their ancestors for slaying this thing, only for the Amani blood, flesh and souls to serve as its resurrection fuel was so funny, Malacrass laughed away the pain.
Taking one last look at it, Malacrass passed on in peace knowing that Kith'ix, legendary creature, and slayer of the Titan Keeper Tyr would be the harbinger of his revenge.
