Post by tyrjael on Apr 12, 2006 23:35:48 GMT -5
On a small island off the coast of Stranglethorn Vale, a small child stood off to the side as she watched her parents bodies burn on the funeral pyre. Around her, not a troll stood to offer her support. At the pyre, the tribe's shaman chanted and prayed, looking toward the child with the long deep purple hair. "Oh Spirits...save dis tribe from de sickness...show us de way.." His words echoed across the small island.
When the fire finally burnt down, leaving the smoldering remains in the pit, the Shaman turned toward his tribe and spoke up. "De Spirits have spoken ta meh. Dere is only one way ta stop dis sickness f'om takin' mo' of ouah chillun." An overly thin and long finger pointed at the child, Tyrjael, she was called by her parents. "Dat abomination must go! She must be dest'oyed...her be de cause o' de sickness..." He continued to rant, spewing hate filled words about how the small child had infected not only her own parents but four other children, causing their deaths.
Before the night was over, Tyrjael found herself running for her life, her tiny legs carrying her as fast as they could. Behind her she heard the thrashing of the villagers as they searched for her. Unable to swim the distance to the mainland, she found shelter behind one of the lesser used altars of the Zandalar.
The tribe assumed she drowned or became the next meal for some murloc. They couldn't be more wrong. The child became adept at blending in with her surroundings, surviving by stealing bits of food here and there. When she was finally strong enough to swim to the mainland, she left the Zandalar island, swearing never to look back.
As the years passed, her skills in using the shadows to her advantage grew as did her pickpocketing talents. For years she kept to herself, stealing as she needed and sometimes just to keep herself nimble. After meeting Jambwe and the Stone Ravens, her life changed for the better.
Her story continues.
When the fire finally burnt down, leaving the smoldering remains in the pit, the Shaman turned toward his tribe and spoke up. "De Spirits have spoken ta meh. Dere is only one way ta stop dis sickness f'om takin' mo' of ouah chillun." An overly thin and long finger pointed at the child, Tyrjael, she was called by her parents. "Dat abomination must go! She must be dest'oyed...her be de cause o' de sickness..." He continued to rant, spewing hate filled words about how the small child had infected not only her own parents but four other children, causing their deaths.
Before the night was over, Tyrjael found herself running for her life, her tiny legs carrying her as fast as they could. Behind her she heard the thrashing of the villagers as they searched for her. Unable to swim the distance to the mainland, she found shelter behind one of the lesser used altars of the Zandalar.
The tribe assumed she drowned or became the next meal for some murloc. They couldn't be more wrong. The child became adept at blending in with her surroundings, surviving by stealing bits of food here and there. When she was finally strong enough to swim to the mainland, she left the Zandalar island, swearing never to look back.
As the years passed, her skills in using the shadows to her advantage grew as did her pickpocketing talents. For years she kept to herself, stealing as she needed and sometimes just to keep herself nimble. After meeting Jambwe and the Stone Ravens, her life changed for the better.
Her story continues.