It’s been a while, Thunderers. I got caught up in a little bit of a war, and it’s taken me a few weeks to sort everything out, put the experience in order. I know you demand a high level of coherence and informativit– informationali– knowing stuff, from me. So I wouldn’t want to deliver an inferior product.

And this is definitely something you deserve to hear about, because what was to be my piece on Sen’jin village turned into a diary of Vol’jin’s campaign to reclaim his tribe’s homeland! There’s no great loss there — I was mainly babbling about how sick I got from the super-spicy food, and how this one guy did a faceplant trying to bust a move:

So —

When all of a sudden these big drums start up, and I notice all these trolls moving towards the beach. Right on, I say. It’s only ten in the morning but we can get started.

I really like trolls. I hear they like to eat people but I’ve never met someone who got eaten by a troll and who didn’t deserve it. In the meantime they’re just so cool. They have cool hair. They know the coolest dance moves. You go out hunting with a troll for dinner, and a crocolisk gnaws his legs off — he’ll make a drawling joke about how he’s only half as a hungry as he was an hour ago. And let me tell you, no one shoots you down with the cool disdain of a trollish lady. She’ll walk away, your heart’ll be in pieces, you’re going to go into hiding for a month, but you’ll still be like… “damn. That was cool.”

So, they’re all heading for the beach and I assume it’s going to be a party. I know something must be up because Sen’jin is… well, ordinarily a bit of a sleepy backwater. Young troll adventurers feel guilty for skipping a visit and just heading for Razor Hill, but they still do it (and of course, the locals act all cool about it, like it doesn’t hurt. natch.)

But now, good lord. Elves, mammoths, ghosts, druids, three different colours of orcs — and there was Shadow Hunter Vol’jin, who usually just hangs out with Thrall up north. And he told us we were going to take back the Isles.

“So how can I help?” I asked the drill sergeant.

“You be part of our terror campaign, mon — you get a Windrider, and go throw some frogs at the enemy!”

“Frogs.”

“Not jus’ frogs — frogs droppin’ from da sky!”

“Hm,” I said, “maybe we should let the orcs organize this campaign.” No, I didn’t say that, actually.

I’m still not convinced this wasn’t a practical joke on the new recruits. Testing our commitment or something. Anyway, once they found out I was a shaman — I only looked like a putz — they stopped with the frogs business. We shamans are storytellers and speech-makers among our people; our people’s memory passes through us, and we know how to remind them. So they sent me up north to drum up some more recruits.

You could say I was in my element. eh? eh? Nevermind, here are some pictures.

And that was that — we returned to the shore, divided the spoils, listened to the speeches, bragged about our prowess. I got this sweet cloak. It kinda goes “swoosh” when I walk. Me — and my cloak — will be on the road again as soon as the dust clears, and I’ll try not to leave you hanging again!

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