In an ocean, there was a group of islands. Being fairly small it belonged to a proud tribe that had come from an ancient empire far across the Great Sea: Gurubashi. That had been a long time ago. The Darkspear Trolls now answered to a Shadow Hunter called Rokhan who had reluctantly taken over after the death of their great leader and Warchief of the Horde, Vol'Jin.
It was not long since the last battle for the islands and the trolls were content to at least have their home back. Rebuilding took less time than repopulation. It was tragic; they had lost so many people in the recent wars. The Darkspear never ran from a fight; on the contrary, they were known to be courageous, loyal and strong. Over the years as part of the great Horde, they had still brought forth famous warriors, hunters, mages and holy women and men. Their priests worshipped the Loa, mighty spirits of the jungle, and the shamans used incense, potions and mystic dances to contact the elements and the wild spirits that walked the world.
Vol'Shalai loved his home and he loved his family. He would do anything to keep them safe. But now that safety was once again threatened. It was not the Alliance, it was not a force of evil from the North or the East or from Outland. This time, the danger came from the Other Side. He shuddered with awe and fear just thinking about it. The Other Side, that was where everybody goes when they die. It was a place of mystery, of imagination, of uncertainty.
Something was stirring on the Other Side. Priests could not contact their Loa and ancestors. Prayers remained unanswered. There were rumours of a betrayal. Vol'Shalai was scared and he knew that many felt the same. This was nothing that they could battle with spears and arrows. They needed a different kind of power.
He had gathered sacred herbs and medicine, ground them into incense. He had asked his wife for advice - she was a priest who worshipped Samedi, the Loa of the grave, and knew a great deal about the Other Side, secrets that Vol'Shalai had no idea about. Together, they prepared for the ritual.
The hut was separate from the others, hidden behind a large red rock. It faced the West, the direction of the Dead, and thus they could see Durotar from here. The orange line divided the sea from the sky, a constant reminder that the Darkspear would not even have this home were it not for the efforts and help of others. There were no walls; only a roof of straw covered the lean building. The waves on the beach beneath the hot sun, the rustling of palm leaves and the cries of seagulls - everything could be heard.
At sundown, on the last night of a waning moon, Vol'Shalai carried a burning torch to the hut, walking slowly and solemnly. He lit the two torches that stuck in the ground, left and right of the entrance. He climbed the short flight of wooden stairs and lit the firepit in the centre of the hut. Then, he stuck the torch into the sand behind the hut, facing the far coast of Durotar. Now that his hand was empty, he slowly sat down next to Miwemba.
His wife was especially beautiful today. She was always the most beautiful when she got ready for a sacred ritual. Her thick hair, which had the colour of sundown, was braided and bound on the top of her head. Golden and silver amulets and bracelets hung from her neck and wrists. She had exchanged her simple robe with a ceremonial garment that was just short enough to dance without tripping over the seams. The heavy cloth was covered with the bones of hundreds of creatures, some were humanoid, some were animals - a tribute to her Loa. And Miwemba had painted her cheeks and her short tusks in a vibrant red.
She turned her head and smiled at him. It was a warm smile but the desperation still showed. She stretched out her hand and passed Vol'Shalai a small pair of ceremonial drums.
Vol'Shalai nodded. They were ready to call the Loa.