The gallant Dazël, the brave Throwontax, and myself, little Phrunk, had been resting for a few days at the Cenarion Hold inn. The lovely Yunah had just left us, called back to other realms by some household duty, and, being good trolls, we spent most of our time diligently soaking ourselves in explosive rum, much to the dismay of the local elves, scandalized by our overly exuberant belches.
Suddenly, in the middle of our drinking session, we heard a string of pitiful curses and pathetic wailing fill the thick, heavy air of Silithus. Intrigued, we staggered toward the source of this auditory nuisance. It was Mar’alith, the fort commander, crawling at our feet like a spineless wretch, his face drenched in tears, muttering a few incoherent phrases. After many rounds of rum, he finally managed to tell us the cause of his distress: his steady companion, a certain Natalia, had disappeared several weeks ago, and he had heard nothing from her. We figured this prolonged absence was just a textbook case of infidelity, and we mocked the feeble elf accordingly. However, motivated by our natural kindness and the promise of a generous number of barrels upon our return, we agreed to search the area for his beloved. Thus, the next morning found our weapons sharpened, our supplies packed, our tusks polished, and us setting off southward.
Our first destination was the camp of one Bronzebeard, a small, ugly, and shifty dwarf—like all dwarves. There, we encountered two of his lackeys and a monkey of his, a scrawny and ridiculous little thing. After much pointless babbling from the pair of country bumpkins, they finally pointed us to where Natalia had ventured a few days earlier: an immense, buzzing hive crawling with vile, aggressive insects, affectionately called the “Lair of Madness”—a cozy getaway spot indeed. The Regal Hive…
Without delay, we sped off eastward, hoping to find this charming, wayward Natalia.
Then, for hours on end, it was nothing but slicing off antennae, hacking through chitin, severing stingers, and puncturing innards. We advanced slowly but steadily through the ominously glowing corridors of the hive, which seemed to pulse like the veins of some enormous, murderous creature. The air grew scarcer as we pushed onward, thick with noxious fumes. At last, we reached a vast, circular chamber teeming with creatures; and there, in the center of the room, lost in sad musings, we spotted the infamous Natalia, looking every bit the haughty elven prude. Without further ado, we quickly disposed of the surrounding beasts. Once the area was clear, Throwontax swaggered up to the lady and, adopting his smooth, seductive tone, well-known among the troll women of Kalimdor, gave her a wink and said, “So, my lovely, out for a stroll”?
Hardly had he finished his sentence when the charming damsel landed a well-aimed slap, sending him flying against the opposite wall. At this, the blood of loyal Ostrichon boiled; seeing his master treated in such a way, he immediately lunged at Natalia and started pecking her with vigor. Dazël and I, along with Throwontax, once he had recovered from the shock, joined the fray, and the fight turned fierce. It turned out that sweet Natalia, so dear to Commander Mar’alith, had undergone a bit of a change: for reasons still unclear, she was now enslaved to some dark, grotesque deity of the demon variety. In any case, the elven lady proved to be a raging fury and a formidable adversary, casting spells left and right. Poor Ostrichon struggled to hold off her attacks, and before long, we’d exhausted all our magical energy in this relentless battle.
The fight dragged on, the situation grew dire; we ran in every direction, frantic, until Ostrichon finally fell under the relentless blows of the dreadful hag. At that moment, hope began to slip away, and cold sweat poured down our furry backs, when Natalia at last collapsed, fatally struck. But we ourselves weren’t much better off; we’d drained our very last reserves to see this battle through. Throwontax, dazed, kept muttering that it was “the first time a female ever did that to me”; Dazël, glassy-eyed, clumsily tried to mend his robe’s hem, while I struggled to revive brave Ostrichon, catching my breath. Finally, our little group staggered back on the path, leaving behind that place, ill-suited to rest or hearty laughs. Luckily, the Fort wasn’t too far away, with rivers of rum awaiting us, and Mar’alith could hang himself in despair for all we cared; after all, an elf is an elf. Life was good in Azeroth that day.
