Post by Jembah on Nov 20, 2010 16:26:54 GMT -5
Tucked away on a secluded island there lived a small village of Jungle Trolls, not technically allied with the Horde, but smart enough to leave the Orcs alone and give them trade goods. The leader of this tribe was a Shadowhunter by the name of Rookah. For centuries they had thrived, living a peaceful life on their desolate island, hunting and gathering and keeping to themselves. But, Rookah could not gain a male child to bear his name, his mates constantly bore female offspring, and he began to give up hope. In his desperation the Troll sought out a Witchdoctor, and forced him to solve the problem. The Witchdoctor gave him a brew that would make his next mate bear a son, but gave it to him with a warning. “Dah first son dat be born o’ dis brew must be kilt. For if not, ‘e will kill da man dat raises him, ‘e will become da onjuis…” Despite these words of warning Rookah, did not heed the Witchdoctor, and after feeding the brew to his mate, the conception was complete and in nine months, a boy was born. Overcome with happiness the warning that had been issued to him almost a year before just slipped away, and he couldn’t bear to take the life of his own child. So he kept him, and raised him as his own.
It was a crisp and clear morning, favoring an unnatural stillness that would be unsettling to most. To Jembah, it was home. It meant the hunt was on, and nothing would come between him and his prey. For him there was nothing except the sounds and sights of the jungle, the sound of a twig snapping or of leaves rustling, the sight of his hunt, the sight of his prey. The Troll lay prone in a bush, surrounded by an ample amount of cover to keep himself almost completely hidden from view. Before him there was a wild boar, a fierce animal, but a natural born prey regardless, and Jembah, was a natural born predator.
With a silent and practiced grace the Troll pulled an arrow from his quiver, notching it onto the string of his bow, which already stood at the ready. His bow was engineered to be a devastating killing machine, and as he pulled that arrow back there was no sound to betray his position or intent, and the boar was none the wiser. In fact, it remained that way, even as the twang of his bow rang out in the still air and the arrow burrowed it’s way into the boar’s skull, ending any feelings of worry it would ever have.
Emerging from the bushes Jembah eyed his catch, properly rationed it would provide enough food to last him for at least a month, and he had plenty of salt to make sure it wouldn’t go bad in that time. This was good news for him, he could use that month to cover much ground. After all, taking a day to hunt was always perhaps too much, he couldn’t afford to stay still for that long. Upon reaching the boar he immediately sets to work on it with his knife. “Mmmh, dats wha’ Jembah needed.” He muses to himself, pulling the beast’s heart from between cracked ribs. “Give Jembah much strength, much mojo.” Leaning in he takes a slow sniff of the organ before reaching back and placing it in his pack. “Filled wit’ mojo, dis one.”
After a good twenty minutes of work he managed to get all of the good meat from the bones, and package them individually into small folds of bark packed with cool cold mud, these would keep the meat fresh until he could take the time to get salt on them, then the combination of the two would keep it good forever, it would just need to be washed before consumed. Besides, if he stuck the meat in his pack, it would mingle blood all over his freshly gained heart, and he didn’t want the mojo spoiled. With the dirty work done the Troll stopped and took a minute, looking up to the clear morning sky. “Ja know, der be enough time dis mornin’ ta do a bit o’ fishin’, joo would like dat.” The Troll murmured to no one in particular.
Sure of his next destination he headed off in the opposite direction he should have been heading. After all, luck was on his side this day, he had plenty of meat and even the treat of a healthy heart, he could afford the hour trek back to the watering hole he had spotted earlier, there would be plenty of fish there, and an hour wouldn’t be the difference between getting caught and getting away. Walking in silence he pulled his handy string and hook from a side pocket, snatching up an ample stick that he could use for a pole. With luck still favoring him he even managed to find a tree with loose bark, and underneath that bark, scores of plump juicy grub. After snacking on a few, he took a handful to use as bait. With enough luck on his side to scavenge every supply needed to fish before he reached the pond, he was able to sit down at the edge of the water, construct the fishing pole, hook a grub, and get right to fishing. Tilting his hat low over his eyes the Troll relaxed, letting his line sit in the murky waters. For Jembah there was no need for a bobber, he would feel the line as a fish took, and he was ten times as reliable as the little wooden floaters. So he rested, eyes closed and hat blocking the sun from his eyes, waiting for that vibration in his hands to pull back on his reel.
But what he felt first was the cold steel of a blade as it found his neck, applying pressure but not rending the soft flesh. This was enough to snap him back to attention staying still an eternity seemed to pass, both of the individuals remaining completely motionless, not even speaking a word. Even the birds chirping as they mated had seemed to stop, time just practically standing still. Then, a low voice came from behind him, haggard and tired, but filled with some sort of determination. “I found joo, betrayer, and joo gonna pay for what joo did fi’e year ago, oh, joo will pay…onjuis.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five Years Before……
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a crisp and clear morning, favoring an unnatural stillness that would be unsettling to most. To Jembah, it was home. It meant the hunt was on, and soon enough the hunters would return with enough food to feed the whole village, and Jembah would eat like a prince. Currently the young Troll was resting easy in his hammock, between his father’s tent and the outlying trees that surrounded their village. It was his favorite place to rest, the shade would cast patterns on his face as he lay, and these kept him cool. While the rest of the tribe hunted and gathered, he had no need for such trivial things, they would give him the food that they came home with, and they would do so with a smile and plenty of bowing. This was the life.
“Dah fook joo tink ya doin, boy?” The gruff voice of his father rang out from beside him.
Regarding the man with only one open eye Jembah yawns. “Restin up, Fadda.”
The older of the two Trolls snatched up the bottom of the hammock and pulled it upwards, spilling his son to the ground with a thud. “Restin up from what? Joo not dun a t’ing.” He puts emphasis on the final word by kicking the younger man in the ribs, hard.
The kick caused Jembah to crumple in pain, holding his gut while simultaneously tucking himself into a ball that would hopefully keep him from taking any further harm. From this position he cried out. “But Fadda, dey don’ need Jembah, dey always kill da t’ings witout ‘im.”
This causes the father to grow even more angry, practically seething the larger of the two reaches down and grabs the smaller by the hair, lifting him up harshly, despite the protests. After Jembah was forced to stand, his father cocked back a hand, and delivered a solid punch to his son’s face. “Joo sh*t eatin’ spit-f*ck…” He yells out, spittle flying onto Jembah’s face. After a few more harsh punches to the nose he manages to calm himself, so he lets the young man drop to the ground, his face and nose bleeding. “Dat bring any sense ta ja thick ‘ead, mon? Either joo ‘unt, or joo don’ eat. Disgracin’ da family name, dat all joo do!” Turning on a heel the man storms off, leaving his son to bleed in the grass.
Frightened out of his young mind Jembah slowly pulled himself up off the ground, managing to bring himself to a hunkered stand, holding his either bruised or broken ribs. Struggling just to stay on his feet he begins the slow trek back to his tent, shuffling his feet in a feeble attempt to walk. Reaching up with a hand he tests the under side of his nostrils pulling the hand back after he felt the warm feeling of his blood. Still shuffling the tent didn’t seem any closer. “Dis be da lastime….” The young one mutters to himself. “Dis be da lastime joo beat Jembah. Know dis, dat tonight, Rookah die. Den Jembah be king, mon, den da village ‘unt fer Jembah, an dey kill fer Jembah.”
But before his plan could be enacted, the boy would need sleep, and plenty of it. The bloody nose would take care of itself in a few more seconds. But, whatever damage had been done to his ribs, that would take all day for his regeneration to take care of. Retreating to his abode took time, but when he finally managed to arrive there the Troll happily collapsed into his cot, and closed his eyes. Sleep came within moments.
He awoke much later, the sounds of happy festivities that had surely taken part at some point during the day were gone, as was the sound of idle chatter that came from after a party. It was dark out, only the light from the moon and the stars, and it was quiet. Jembah could not have prayed to the Loa for a more perfect set of conditions. Rolling from his cot the Troll gingerly touches his ribs. They are sore, but not as bad as before, and he was sure there was no breaks. With all the silence of a snake the young Troll collected the only two things he would need for the night, and then crept across the village.
Rookah was peacefully asleep in his own home, all of his midwives shared a hut a little ways away from him, he enjoyed sleeping alone. So, he was naturally alone on this night, in the midst of a dream, the same dream he had almost every night, the dream of his son killing him. With a belly full of fermented fruit juice he was also still quite drunk, so the dream didn’t really bother him. In fact, he wasn’t bothered by the needle prick to his arm, nor was he bothered when someone carefully opened his mouth, nor when that same person shoved a cloth between his lips.
The first thing that actually disturbed him was the light smack to his face, and this caused his eyes to slowly open. Trying to bring a hand up to rub the sleep from his eyes he found that his arm would not move an inch. When he tried to spit the cloth out of his orifice he found that he couldn’t even open his mouth. By the time he finally focused his eyesight on the man standing before him, he already knew who he was going to see, for he had just dreamt of this very moment.
There was no words to signal the start of the horrendous beating, no taunts or jabs. Jembah just gave his father one last look, a look so filled with anger and resentment that the father would not even be able to question why the son was about to do what he was about to do. The first strike came with such brutal force that Rookah’s neck made a sickening popping noise as the fist collided with his limp face, causing his neck to twist painfully.
Few would find justifications in the act of murder that Jembah was prepared and fully able to carry out on his father. But, almost none would find justifications in the way he planned on doing it. You see, the poison he had used on his dearest daddy was from a rare flora only found on their island, and it had peculiar effects. There was many names for the plant and many stories behind the devilish origins, but everyone knew the way it effected a person, paralyzing their muscles but leaving their nerves and receptors quite in tact. This meant that Rookah felt every single strike.
Leaping onto the cot and straddling his father Jembah began to just rain his fists onto Rookah’s face. Hitting him with a bare knuckled right and left over and over again. Jembah wasn’t the strongest of young men but he was in a raged fury, going berserk and smashing his father’s face in. It wasn’t long before the blood from gashes on Jembah’s split knuckles was oozing and mixing with the blood from gouges on Rookah’s face as they poured out blood. Later in life Jembah might see that this was symbolic in a way, the blood of son meeting the blood of father. But, at the moment, he didn’t give a sh*t. He just kept on punching the man until his knuckles were bruised bloody and raw.
When he felt that his fists couldn’t bear anymore abuse he climbed off the man, yanked him from his cot, and renewed his vigorous beating, with his sole. Smashing his heel into any piece of Rookah that it could find he ended the brutal beat down with an exaggerated stomp, right to Rookah’s forehead. Perhaps it was the rage and vigor, or perhaps it was the fact that he had softened the skull with his fists, but Rookah’s body decided it had had enough, and his skull collapsed, his bone plate piercing his brain, ending his life.
Standing there, gasping for breath and with fists dripping of a mixture of his own and his father’s blood, was Jembah. On his face there was no signs of regret, nor the smallest bit of woe. He was entirely complacent with the horrid act he had just committed, and in fact, there was the smallest line of a smile on his lips. Just when he had caught his breath his ears flicked gently as he heard a noise behind him, the sound of the hut flap door opening. Turning to see who it was, Jembah couldn’t help but let the smile grow. Reaching up with his hand he smoothed out his hair, inevitably marking his face and hair with the blood, before speaking up. “Evenin’ bruddha.”
Jembah’s brother, Jash’tok, could not help but stare, completely aghast at the scene before him. There was his father, laying dead on the floor, his face almost not recognizable due to the bruises and blood that covered it from forehead to chin. Then there was his brother, standing over the dead man, dripping with blood, and with a smile on his face and a demeanor that suggested nothing was wrong.
“Wha…” The younger brother choked back tears. “What ‘ave joo done, bruddha?”
The two stood in silence for a moment or two, then Jembah slowly walked up to his brother, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and whispered into his ear. “Jembah jus’ saved da bot’ o’ us.” Then he walked by, leaving his brother to stand dumbfounded in the doorway.
Jembah was able to get back to his tent and grab his rucksack before his brother snapped out of it, the younger of the Troll brothers symbolizing the aforementioned with a loud and angry yell. “Kill Jembah! Kill da usurpah!” But it was too late, Jembah had already ran off into the lush vegetation that surrounded their village. Maybe he wouldn’t get to be king of the village, but damn did he feel good…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five Years Later……
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Oh, joo will pay…onjuis.” An older and harsher looking Jash’tok muttered, a look of hate on his features as he watched his brother slowly put down the fishing rod. “Joo t’ought joo would get away? Joo t’ought joo could escape Jash’tok?”
With that same smile he had worn when he killed his father, Jembah shook his head. “No, Jembah jus’ be waitin’ fah da day joo caught ‘im.”
It was a crisp and clear morning, favoring an unnatural stillness that would be unsettling to most. To Jembah, it was home. It meant the hunt was on, and nothing would come between him and his prey. For him there was nothing except the sounds and sights of the jungle, the sound of a twig snapping or of leaves rustling, the sight of his hunt, the sight of his prey. The Troll lay prone in a bush, surrounded by an ample amount of cover to keep himself almost completely hidden from view. Before him there was a wild boar, a fierce animal, but a natural born prey regardless, and Jembah, was a natural born predator.
With a silent and practiced grace the Troll pulled an arrow from his quiver, notching it onto the string of his bow, which already stood at the ready. His bow was engineered to be a devastating killing machine, and as he pulled that arrow back there was no sound to betray his position or intent, and the boar was none the wiser. In fact, it remained that way, even as the twang of his bow rang out in the still air and the arrow burrowed it’s way into the boar’s skull, ending any feelings of worry it would ever have.
Emerging from the bushes Jembah eyed his catch, properly rationed it would provide enough food to last him for at least a month, and he had plenty of salt to make sure it wouldn’t go bad in that time. This was good news for him, he could use that month to cover much ground. After all, taking a day to hunt was always perhaps too much, he couldn’t afford to stay still for that long. Upon reaching the boar he immediately sets to work on it with his knife. “Mmmh, dats wha’ Jembah needed.” He muses to himself, pulling the beast’s heart from between cracked ribs. “Give Jembah much strength, much mojo.” Leaning in he takes a slow sniff of the organ before reaching back and placing it in his pack. “Filled wit’ mojo, dis one.”
After a good twenty minutes of work he managed to get all of the good meat from the bones, and package them individually into small folds of bark packed with cool cold mud, these would keep the meat fresh until he could take the time to get salt on them, then the combination of the two would keep it good forever, it would just need to be washed before consumed. Besides, if he stuck the meat in his pack, it would mingle blood all over his freshly gained heart, and he didn’t want the mojo spoiled. With the dirty work done the Troll stopped and took a minute, looking up to the clear morning sky. “Ja know, der be enough time dis mornin’ ta do a bit o’ fishin’, joo would like dat.” The Troll murmured to no one in particular.
Sure of his next destination he headed off in the opposite direction he should have been heading. After all, luck was on his side this day, he had plenty of meat and even the treat of a healthy heart, he could afford the hour trek back to the watering hole he had spotted earlier, there would be plenty of fish there, and an hour wouldn’t be the difference between getting caught and getting away. Walking in silence he pulled his handy string and hook from a side pocket, snatching up an ample stick that he could use for a pole. With luck still favoring him he even managed to find a tree with loose bark, and underneath that bark, scores of plump juicy grub. After snacking on a few, he took a handful to use as bait. With enough luck on his side to scavenge every supply needed to fish before he reached the pond, he was able to sit down at the edge of the water, construct the fishing pole, hook a grub, and get right to fishing. Tilting his hat low over his eyes the Troll relaxed, letting his line sit in the murky waters. For Jembah there was no need for a bobber, he would feel the line as a fish took, and he was ten times as reliable as the little wooden floaters. So he rested, eyes closed and hat blocking the sun from his eyes, waiting for that vibration in his hands to pull back on his reel.
But what he felt first was the cold steel of a blade as it found his neck, applying pressure but not rending the soft flesh. This was enough to snap him back to attention staying still an eternity seemed to pass, both of the individuals remaining completely motionless, not even speaking a word. Even the birds chirping as they mated had seemed to stop, time just practically standing still. Then, a low voice came from behind him, haggard and tired, but filled with some sort of determination. “I found joo, betrayer, and joo gonna pay for what joo did fi’e year ago, oh, joo will pay…onjuis.”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five Years Before……
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a crisp and clear morning, favoring an unnatural stillness that would be unsettling to most. To Jembah, it was home. It meant the hunt was on, and soon enough the hunters would return with enough food to feed the whole village, and Jembah would eat like a prince. Currently the young Troll was resting easy in his hammock, between his father’s tent and the outlying trees that surrounded their village. It was his favorite place to rest, the shade would cast patterns on his face as he lay, and these kept him cool. While the rest of the tribe hunted and gathered, he had no need for such trivial things, they would give him the food that they came home with, and they would do so with a smile and plenty of bowing. This was the life.
“Dah fook joo tink ya doin, boy?” The gruff voice of his father rang out from beside him.
Regarding the man with only one open eye Jembah yawns. “Restin up, Fadda.”
The older of the two Trolls snatched up the bottom of the hammock and pulled it upwards, spilling his son to the ground with a thud. “Restin up from what? Joo not dun a t’ing.” He puts emphasis on the final word by kicking the younger man in the ribs, hard.
The kick caused Jembah to crumple in pain, holding his gut while simultaneously tucking himself into a ball that would hopefully keep him from taking any further harm. From this position he cried out. “But Fadda, dey don’ need Jembah, dey always kill da t’ings witout ‘im.”
This causes the father to grow even more angry, practically seething the larger of the two reaches down and grabs the smaller by the hair, lifting him up harshly, despite the protests. After Jembah was forced to stand, his father cocked back a hand, and delivered a solid punch to his son’s face. “Joo sh*t eatin’ spit-f*ck…” He yells out, spittle flying onto Jembah’s face. After a few more harsh punches to the nose he manages to calm himself, so he lets the young man drop to the ground, his face and nose bleeding. “Dat bring any sense ta ja thick ‘ead, mon? Either joo ‘unt, or joo don’ eat. Disgracin’ da family name, dat all joo do!” Turning on a heel the man storms off, leaving his son to bleed in the grass.
Frightened out of his young mind Jembah slowly pulled himself up off the ground, managing to bring himself to a hunkered stand, holding his either bruised or broken ribs. Struggling just to stay on his feet he begins the slow trek back to his tent, shuffling his feet in a feeble attempt to walk. Reaching up with a hand he tests the under side of his nostrils pulling the hand back after he felt the warm feeling of his blood. Still shuffling the tent didn’t seem any closer. “Dis be da lastime….” The young one mutters to himself. “Dis be da lastime joo beat Jembah. Know dis, dat tonight, Rookah die. Den Jembah be king, mon, den da village ‘unt fer Jembah, an dey kill fer Jembah.”
But before his plan could be enacted, the boy would need sleep, and plenty of it. The bloody nose would take care of itself in a few more seconds. But, whatever damage had been done to his ribs, that would take all day for his regeneration to take care of. Retreating to his abode took time, but when he finally managed to arrive there the Troll happily collapsed into his cot, and closed his eyes. Sleep came within moments.
He awoke much later, the sounds of happy festivities that had surely taken part at some point during the day were gone, as was the sound of idle chatter that came from after a party. It was dark out, only the light from the moon and the stars, and it was quiet. Jembah could not have prayed to the Loa for a more perfect set of conditions. Rolling from his cot the Troll gingerly touches his ribs. They are sore, but not as bad as before, and he was sure there was no breaks. With all the silence of a snake the young Troll collected the only two things he would need for the night, and then crept across the village.
Rookah was peacefully asleep in his own home, all of his midwives shared a hut a little ways away from him, he enjoyed sleeping alone. So, he was naturally alone on this night, in the midst of a dream, the same dream he had almost every night, the dream of his son killing him. With a belly full of fermented fruit juice he was also still quite drunk, so the dream didn’t really bother him. In fact, he wasn’t bothered by the needle prick to his arm, nor was he bothered when someone carefully opened his mouth, nor when that same person shoved a cloth between his lips.
The first thing that actually disturbed him was the light smack to his face, and this caused his eyes to slowly open. Trying to bring a hand up to rub the sleep from his eyes he found that his arm would not move an inch. When he tried to spit the cloth out of his orifice he found that he couldn’t even open his mouth. By the time he finally focused his eyesight on the man standing before him, he already knew who he was going to see, for he had just dreamt of this very moment.
There was no words to signal the start of the horrendous beating, no taunts or jabs. Jembah just gave his father one last look, a look so filled with anger and resentment that the father would not even be able to question why the son was about to do what he was about to do. The first strike came with such brutal force that Rookah’s neck made a sickening popping noise as the fist collided with his limp face, causing his neck to twist painfully.
Few would find justifications in the act of murder that Jembah was prepared and fully able to carry out on his father. But, almost none would find justifications in the way he planned on doing it. You see, the poison he had used on his dearest daddy was from a rare flora only found on their island, and it had peculiar effects. There was many names for the plant and many stories behind the devilish origins, but everyone knew the way it effected a person, paralyzing their muscles but leaving their nerves and receptors quite in tact. This meant that Rookah felt every single strike.
Leaping onto the cot and straddling his father Jembah began to just rain his fists onto Rookah’s face. Hitting him with a bare knuckled right and left over and over again. Jembah wasn’t the strongest of young men but he was in a raged fury, going berserk and smashing his father’s face in. It wasn’t long before the blood from gashes on Jembah’s split knuckles was oozing and mixing with the blood from gouges on Rookah’s face as they poured out blood. Later in life Jembah might see that this was symbolic in a way, the blood of son meeting the blood of father. But, at the moment, he didn’t give a sh*t. He just kept on punching the man until his knuckles were bruised bloody and raw.
When he felt that his fists couldn’t bear anymore abuse he climbed off the man, yanked him from his cot, and renewed his vigorous beating, with his sole. Smashing his heel into any piece of Rookah that it could find he ended the brutal beat down with an exaggerated stomp, right to Rookah’s forehead. Perhaps it was the rage and vigor, or perhaps it was the fact that he had softened the skull with his fists, but Rookah’s body decided it had had enough, and his skull collapsed, his bone plate piercing his brain, ending his life.
Standing there, gasping for breath and with fists dripping of a mixture of his own and his father’s blood, was Jembah. On his face there was no signs of regret, nor the smallest bit of woe. He was entirely complacent with the horrid act he had just committed, and in fact, there was the smallest line of a smile on his lips. Just when he had caught his breath his ears flicked gently as he heard a noise behind him, the sound of the hut flap door opening. Turning to see who it was, Jembah couldn’t help but let the smile grow. Reaching up with his hand he smoothed out his hair, inevitably marking his face and hair with the blood, before speaking up. “Evenin’ bruddha.”
Jembah’s brother, Jash’tok, could not help but stare, completely aghast at the scene before him. There was his father, laying dead on the floor, his face almost not recognizable due to the bruises and blood that covered it from forehead to chin. Then there was his brother, standing over the dead man, dripping with blood, and with a smile on his face and a demeanor that suggested nothing was wrong.
“Wha…” The younger brother choked back tears. “What ‘ave joo done, bruddha?”
The two stood in silence for a moment or two, then Jembah slowly walked up to his brother, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and whispered into his ear. “Jembah jus’ saved da bot’ o’ us.” Then he walked by, leaving his brother to stand dumbfounded in the doorway.
Jembah was able to get back to his tent and grab his rucksack before his brother snapped out of it, the younger of the Troll brothers symbolizing the aforementioned with a loud and angry yell. “Kill Jembah! Kill da usurpah!” But it was too late, Jembah had already ran off into the lush vegetation that surrounded their village. Maybe he wouldn’t get to be king of the village, but damn did he feel good…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five Years Later……
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Oh, joo will pay…onjuis.” An older and harsher looking Jash’tok muttered, a look of hate on his features as he watched his brother slowly put down the fishing rod. “Joo t’ought joo would get away? Joo t’ought joo could escape Jash’tok?”
With that same smile he had worn when he killed his father, Jembah shook his head. “No, Jembah jus’ be waitin’ fah da day joo caught ‘im.”
Founded April 26, 2005