#Rastari

[zandalar-the-golden-throne]

[leahdarkspear]

The Interrogation

Kian's first night as Leah's "house guest," where Leah interrogates him about the darkness within him Content Warning - Past trauma, threats of violence

While the strange Zandalari sipped his coffee, Leah took a moment to really observe him. She had noticed most of these things already but now she wanted to study him without distraction. She took in the features of his face. He wasn’t old, but he didn’t look particularly young either. His face was mostly smooth, with only slight traces of fine lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, but there was something careworn about his expression that led Leah to feel he had a decent amount of life experience. She placed his age at somewhere between forty and forty-five years old.

His viridian hair had been shorn close on the sides, and cropped into a short mohawk on top, much like a lot of the city guards in Dazar’alor wore. The stubble on the sides of his head indicated that his haircut was maybe a few months old. Definitely not regulation. This, along with his well-muscled physique made Leah think perhaps she should drop a line with some of her contacts to ask around and see if the Rastari had any AWOL troops.

His skin was smooth, absent of the rocky patches that normally adorned Zandalari trolls’ shoulders. It was a recessive trait among the Zandalari - uncommon to be sure, but not entirely unheard of. He had no visible tattoos, no identifying marks of any kind, save for a long scar reaching from just below his breastbone down to his navel. Leah wondered about its nature. Because of their regeneration, trolls only tended to sport scars from the most grievous of injuries. But this scar was clean and perfectly straight, whereas marks from battle tended to be jagged and messy. It could be a ritual scar; in those cases the troll undergoing the ritual would make repeated gouges in their skin after using a potion to temporarily halt their healing factor in order to let the scar tissue form. It was a lengthy and painful process that was generally used to make elaborate designs to either honor the Loa, or to indicate rites of passage or tribal affiliations. But this? This was just a single mark. Leah didn’t profess to be an expert of all the various trollish tribal markings, but something told her that’s not what this was. To her, it seemed much more like a surgical scar, but then, why hadn’t his regeneration healed him? Perhaps he’d been cursed, or possibly forsaken by the Loa. It could be, Leah reasoned, that the scar and his dark mojo were somehow related. She made a note to find a way to test her theory later.

By far, the most striking thing about the mysterious Kian had to be his eyes though. They weren’t solid colored, nor did they emit a subtle glow like most Zandalari’s eyes - instead he had separate sclera, irises, and pupils much like Leah herself had. The color of his irises was also unique. At first glance, Leah would have said his eyes were white, but up close, they reminded her much more of quartz crystal. They were a cloudy-clear color that would pick up hues of things nearby. When he looked in the direction of the wall sconces, his eyes would show specks of yellow and red as they reflected the firelight. When he looked down toward the table, they would reflect the bluish color of the inlaid tile. Their unusualness added something to the intensity of his gaze, and Leah couldn’t decide whether she was unnerved or intrigued by them.

Leah jotted her observations down in a small notepad. There was so much that was odd about Kian - his antiquated dialect, his lack of rocky patches, his strange eyes, the unusual scar, not to mention the darkness he carried inside him. Individually these things didn’t mean much, but together, perhaps they added up to something. Though what that might be, Leah couldn’t exactly say.

Kian of course had noticed her looking, or rather, staring rudely at him, but it wasn’t until she started writing that he spoke up.

“Is that about me?” Kian asked as he inclined his head toward the notebook.

“Yeah,” Leah replied. “I’m just jotting down observations, writing down ideas on where to look to help you unravel this mystery. So… now that there are fewer distractions, are you up for answering some more questions?”

“Distractions…” Kian repeated hollowly. “You mean the ‘orc’ who threatened to set me on fire and feed me to that beast?” He sneered as he spoke of Leah’s friend Heroya. “Or perhaps you meant the shaman with the attention span of a saurid?”

Leah smirked. “I suppose working with those two is a bit like herding sabertusk cubs, yes. But that didn’t stop them from making quick work of you in that cave, did it?” 

If looks could kill, Leah would have most assuredly dropped dead in that moment. “They got lucky,” the Zandalari spat. 

“Maybe so. Sometimes that’s all it takes.” Leah shrugged. “Either way, you���re here now. Let’s focus, please.”

Kian stared daggers at Leah for a long while, and Leah stared right back, placid and unaffected. Finally, Kian conceded. “Alright, little trolless.”

“Good.” Leah nodded. “So exactly how far back can you remember?” “Perhaps a month? Two at the most.” The Zandalari shook his head. “I really could not say. It’s patchy. The times I do recall all seem to blend together, and there are parts missing.”

“That’s okay,” Leah remarked as she scratched more notes onto her pad. “And you don’t remember anything at all before that?”

Kian closed his eyes and seemed to really concentrate for a moment. He opened them and sighed. “No. Nothing.”

Leah continued nodding as she recorded his answers. “And you came from the north, you said. From the swamp?”

“I… I must have. Yes. I remember wading in water. Then there was an ascending path, and a rope bridge. I tried to cover as much ground as I could, I slept in caves, under rock outcroppings, in the hollows of trees…”

At this, Leah furiously scribbled the words “blood troll” and “captive” both followed by question marks. She looked up at Kian for a moment. “And did you encounter anyone as you traveled?”

The Zandalari again closed his eyes and tried to picture the journey in his mind. There were parts that were missing, parts where he only saw red. He worried about just what that meant. “N-no,” he stammered before opening his eyes and looking directly at Leah. This time he repeated himself more confidently. “No. There was no one. You and your friends were the first people I encountered.”

Leah squinted hard at the mon before taking down his answer. “Okay. So, what can you tell me about this scar?”

As Leah pointed her pen toward his abdomen, Kian lifted a hand to absentmindedly touch his scar and then flinched as if it hurt. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he repeated with apparent distress. 

Leah reached out toward him and motioned for him to calm down. “Shh. Everything’s alright. You’re safe here,” the trolless soothed.

This lapse of memory seemed different than what he’d displayed so far; it seemed to Leah more like a trauma response. It was like Kian remembered that something bad had happened to him, but his mind had buried it deeply so as to keep him from ever having to relive it. This was unfortunately something Leah had seen before while serving the Horde’s army, particularly back during the Icecrown campaign. Watching the undead that used to be your comrades turn on you and try to tear you apart tended to have that effect on people. She’d known quite a few soldiers who came back home with more than their share of trauma after witnessing the horrors of the Scourge. Hell, she’d come close to being one herself.

Before Leah could get too lost in her own memories, the atmosphere of the room began to change. She could sense the same strange feeling from the caving rising again. Kian slammed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Aiden, Leah’s canine companion who had up until this point been curled up placidly in the corner, now stood and emitted a low growl, ready to attack on his master’s word. Leah watched intently and prepared to call on her own mojo to her just in case she had a fight on her hands. 

After a tense moment, the heavy feeling in the room dissipated, and Kian opened his eyes. Immediately, he dashed toward the front door, but unable to cross the threshold still, he doubled over and vomited onto the floor.

“Sorry… sorry,” he panted as he grimaced at the sour taste of black coffee and bile.

Leah sprang up from the table to grab a kitchen towel and jar of baking soda. After handing the towel to Kian, she shooed away Aiden, who had gotten up to sniff the pile of sick in that way dogs do. She then sprinkled the powder on the floor to soak up the mess and offered Kian a reassuring smile. “That’s alright. Nothing we can’t clean up. You sit back down, I’ll get you some water.” 

Kian pressed the towel to his mouth, wiped away the vomit, and did as he was bade. Leah brought him some water. After a few moments, she swept away the dried up vomit and the powder and rejoined her house guest at the table. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wouldn’t have asked if I had known it’d be that upsetting.”

“How were you supposed to know?” Kian shrugged. “I didn’t even know. I cannot remember anything about it at all. You would think that would mean it wouldn’t bother me.” He looked down at the floor and heaved a sigh heavy with weariness and frustration.

“Should we take a break from this?” Leah asked.

“I am fine,” he answered a little too quickly.

 Leah arched an eyebrow doubtfully at the stranger, but proceeded all the same. “Alright. Tell me about this darkness inside you.”

“It is… difficult to describe. It’s always with me. I feel it lurking just below the surface. It’s like having a voice in my head, giving me ideas, urging me to do things. They sound like my own thoughts do, and I feel the desire to do what they tell me, but it feels foreign. It’s inside of me, but it is not me. I…” The mon sighed. “I do not know how to explain it any better than that.”

“I think I understand,” Leah replied. “What kind of thoughts do you have? What does it tell you to do?”

“Well,” the Zandalari replied, “right now, the voice is telling me if I were quick enough, I could snatch that pencil from your hand and jam it through your eyeball.”

Leah almost chuckled. “Really? Then why haven’t you tried to do it?”

“Because it’s not in control, I am. For now.”

“So, when I feel it,” Leah said while motioning to herself, “when the whole atmosphere around you changes, that’s the darkness trying to take control of you? It’s trying to push your consciousness to the back of your mind so it can make you do what it wants?” Kian nodded. “I believe so, yes.” “And do you have any idea what triggers it to try to take over?”

The Zandalari shrugged. “Sometimes if I feel angry or I’m threatened, it can manifest -”

“So like when we confronted you in the cave?” Leah interjected.

“Yes. But other times it seems completely random.”

“And you can’t control it at all?” Kian’s shoulders slumped. He looked defeated. “Most of the time, it is… just easier if I don’t try. I can resist on occasion, but it takes every ounce of concentration I have, and it seems to punish me for resisting. It can be incredibly painful. Or make me violently ill.” “Like just now when you puked on the floor?” Leah asked.

“Yes,” the mon replied, looking embarrassed. “And even when I give it everything I have, sometimes I still lose. Which is… frustrating.” 

Frustrating didn’t seem like the word he wanted to use, but it was the one he settled on nevertheless. Leah supposed she understood.

“I can imagine,” the huntress replied. “So you want help with this so you can stop killing?”

Kian shook his head. “No, you misunderstand me. The killing is not what bothers me. I like killing. I am good at it. I enjoy the smell of blood. I take pleasure in watching the light go out in someone’s eyes, and knowing that I caused it. Taking a life… it is… the closest mortals get to being gods,” he leered sinisterly. 

Leah squinted hard at the mon, unsure of what to make of that confession. “Not sure I agree with you there.”

“To each their own, I suppose,” Kian replied. “Tell me, little trolless, have you ever killed before?”

Something about the way Kian looked at her made Leah uncomfortable; she felt like he was trying to decide how best to cook and eat her. Perhaps he was.

“Yes,” Leah answered matter-of-factly. “But if you think I’m gonna share the lurid details so you can get your rocks off, forget it.”

Kian’s lip curled up in a smirk, but he continued to look at her with that cold, shark-like gaze. “You won’t even tell me which one was your favorite?”

“It’s gonna be you if you keep talking about this,” Leah snarked. 

Kian raised his eyebrows and his mouth split into a sinister grin. “I hope that’s a promise.”

This confused Leah. “You don’t value your own life?”

“In the end, we are all just meat for the feast, blood for the sacrifice,” he shrugged.

The huntress narrowed her eyes. “And what Loa do you worship who requires such a tribute?”

The mon opened his mouth to respond, but stopped. Another thing he couldn’t remember. Leah jotted this down; perhaps another sign he’d been forsaken by his Loa? Kian grew visibly distressed. A troll’s Loa was an important part of their existence, if he couldn’t remember his, then he was truly lost. Who would he call on for help now when he needed it most? 

“It’s okay. We can come back to that,” Leah assured him. “Don’t worry about it for now.”

The mon shifted uneasily in his seat, but otherwise said nothing. Leah eyed him warily, worried for a moment that he might have another episode, but to her relief, the darkness didn’t return. 

“I am fine,” Kian barked when his eyes met Leah’s. He seemed annoyed at her concern.

Leah shook her head. “So if the killing doesn’t bother you, then if you don’t mind me asking, why’d you agree to let me help you?”

Kian looked as if he were considering how to phrase his answer. “Listen, Leah… it is Leah, correct?” The huntress nodded slowly.

“Leah, I need you to understand something,” the mon continued. “I know what I sound like when I say I like killing, but think of me as a… tradesmon who is proud of his hard work.”

“Uh huh,” Leah said, unimpressed. She wasn’t exactly buying into the tradesmon analogy. “And what exactly is your trade? Hunter? Soldier? Mercenary? Assassin?”

He sighed wearily. “I am sure this doesn’t come as a shock, but I don’t recall. The point I’m trying to make is - I am not a mindless butcher. I am precise, I am methodical. If I had been in my right mind when I killed those dinosaurs on the game reserve, you would have never caught me. I am not that sloppy. However this… thing inside me, it turns me into a mindless butcher. When it takes me, I kill without direction or purpose. It steals my mind and forces my hand, and then robs me of my memory. It is that which I cannot abide. I want it gone. I want to be my own master.”

Leah noticed as the stranger talked that his voice was deep and lilting. It was pleasant to listen to, even in spite of the subject at hand. It also struck her as somewhat odd that even though he claimed to remember nothing from his past, he spoke with such conviction about his skills and love of killing. Whoever this mon was, whatever this affliction was that he suffered from, Leah found him interesting, if a bit dramatic.

“And what will you do, once you’re free to do as you please?” she asked.

This question gave the mon pause. “I could not say. Right now, I cannot even picture what life might be like without these thoughts, these urges. Seems foolish to make plans.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Leah conceded. There would be time to figure all this out later. For now she needed to focus on the matter at hand, which was figuring out what the hell his dark mojo was that Kian carried within him. 

Leah quietly continued to scribble for a moment. Possession? Mind-control? She scrawled these ideas hurriedly into her notes. Did he actually have a separate entity living inside him? How would she even go about testing that? Find and contact a demoniac, she wrote. 

As for mind-control, Leah wasn’t so sure about that. The two types of trollish mind control she was the most intimately acquainted with were Zalazane and Zanzil’s methods, and none of their victims were ever lucid enough to know they were being controlled. The fact that Kian was even a little aware of what was happening made his condition wholly unique so far as she knew. 

She followed up her thoughts with a note to consult the Chroniclers’ archives next time she was in the city. Dazar’alor boasted one of the most extensive libraries on Azeroth, containing information dating all the way back to the first written records of the trolls - literally thousands of years of accumulated knowledge. The Chroniclers’ collection of information on trollish rituals and magical practices was unmatched. If there was an answer to be found, surely Leah would find it there. At last, she now had a few ideas on where to start her research, so that was something. It was time to set the ground rules.

“Alright, Kian. I think I have everything I need for now, so let me tell you how I see this working. Ideally, I’d like you to have a modicum of freedom while you’re here. You’re going to be confined to this room for now, and you’ll only be allowed to leave if you’re under my direct supervision, but it’s not my intention to keep you chained up. I’m sure this goes without saying, but if you feel that mojo coming on, you’re going to have to try to fight it. I’ll help however I can, but we both know it’ll mostly be up to you. If things go well, I’ll give you more run of the house and maybe the yard, we’ll see. Once we figure this out, and I’m sure you won’t be a danger to anyone, you’ll be free to go your own way. How does that sound?” 

Leah extended her hand for Kian to shake. He studied her with an inscrutable expression, his eyes darting from her hand to her face. Finally, he accepted her hand. “It sounds reasonable.”

Leah smiled. “Alright. So are you hungry?”

“That is the second time you have asked me that question,” Kian remarked. “And yet you still haven’t answered,” Leah said teasingly. “Seriously, can I get you something to eat?”

“No,” Kian replied gruffly. “Are you sure?” Leah chirped. “I have a lovely brutosaur stew I could heat up for you.”

The Zandalari scowled up at Leah. She would help him, yes, but he was a prisoner, and this exchange between them should stay purely transactional. He didn’t want to be Leah’s friend, and he wasn’t about to be bought off with homemade stew. But… something warm to eat might be nice after living in the wild and eating whatever he could scarf down quickly. Grudgingly he nodded his acquiescence. Kian had to admit that the stew Leah dished up was a far cry better than what he had been eating the last couple of months. The meat and vegetables were tender and well-seasoned, the broth rich and filling. Much tastier than stringy, raw, cold ravasaur meat and foraged mushrooms that tasted like dirt. He finished his first bowl and mopped it clean with some bread Leah had set out for him. Then Leah offered him seconds and he eagerly accepted. She seemed happy to see him eat; Kian was a bit suspicious of this, but not enough to stop him from eating his fill. 

After the dishes were all cleared away and the leftover stew stored in the icebox, Leah slipped upstairs for a moment, leaving Kian once more under the watchful eye of her hunting companion Aiden. She returned momentarily with an armful of books. “Here, so you don’t get too bored down here,” she explained as she set the tomes down on the table. “And here’s a notepad and pen so you can doodle or keep a journal or whatever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to remove all the pointy objects from the kitchen, and then get out of your hair so you can rest.”

Once Leah and Aiden had departed for the night, Kian took up his books and moved to the sleeping mat Leah had placed in the corner. It was no down mattress, but it was dry and reasonably comfortable. Compared to his previous accommodations in the cave, he may as well have been staying in Queen Talanji’s royal chambers.

Freshly showered and with a full belly, Kian felt more like a person than he had since he could remember. He propped himself up against the wall and picked up the book that was lying on the top of the pile. The title read boldly in all uppercase letters LEARN TO SPEAK ORCISH: How to Sound Like a Native Speaker in No Time at All! Kian scoffed. He wouldn’t be reading that one any time soon. The little bit of Orcish he’d heard the others speak tonight sounded coarse to his ears; Zandali with its smooth lyricalness was the obvious superior language in his mind. He looked at the book a little more closely before setting it aside. It was old and frequently used - the spine was cracked and worn and some of the pages were dog-eared. Kian wondered for a moment if Leah had used this same book when she had learned the language; she was clearly fluent in it. Meanwhile he didn’t even know what an orc was, nor could he remember seeing one previous to meeting Leah’s fiery friend. Had Leah not told him different, he would have guessed the tall, muscular orc woman to be an Amani troll, albeit with a birth defect that gave her too many fingers and toes.

Kian flipped open the front cover of the Orcish language primer. On the inside, in handwritten Zandali print read, “Leah Sid’he Darkspear, Year 21.” What year is it now? Kian thought. He scowled in frustration when he realized he didn’t know. So many things he should know, so many things he couldn’t remember. Maybe in time it would come to him. For now, he needed a distraction. He picked up the next book - A Comprehensive History of the Troll Empires, by Chronicler Tokini. Nope. Too heavy and too serious for the moment. 

The third book in the stack was a paperback that featured an illustration of a bland looking shirtless mon flanked by two busty elven women. The title, written in flowing script across the cover read Hot and Misty. Kian shrugged, cracked open the book and began to read. He’d only been reading for approximately a half an hour when he snapped the book shut and proclaimed to no one in particular, “This is rubbish!” The protagonist, Marcus, had to be without a doubt the most milquetoast character ever. And why were these women fawning all over him? Did Leah actually like this stuff? Kian would most certainly question her about this later. She seemed too smart to like such tripe.

There was only one book left. Kian was pleasantly surprised to find it was a compilation of Zandali poetry. He flipped it open to a random poem and began to read. And then he read another, and another. Each rhyme, each stanza felt like it awakened something deep in him, though he couldn’t say just what. He read until the wee hours, until he could no longer hold his eyes open, then drifted off into the first comfortable sleep he’d had in what felt like ages.

[falaa-art]

Forget to upload de version with a little simple background ^^’’ Sry for double poste it. I’m very proud of thsi picture and I would also think over it to offer this as Commission variant if people are interested ^^

[bwonsamdi]

"but tenta why are you building rastari barracks" for gay rastari bullshit next question

[frutavel]

Fun Mina fact: Shortly after moving to Zandalar, she got in trouble with the Rastari Guard for openly studying blood magic. Upon being confronted, she told them to leave her and her studies alone, and claimed that "The only ones allowed to talk to me like that in this city are the royals and their prophet, and they need to make an appointment."

Talanji herself later confirmed this, and said that not only was she the one who asked Mina to study blood magic, she also had to try for about a month to book a consultation.

[rneowth]

o right i wanted to share this SUPER FUCKIN GOOD COMMISSION i got from @/SilverSoo_Chris on twitter recently,,,,,, my ex-rastari boy za’kal

he raises baby raptors to atone for his Loa Crimes and also as a coping mechanism

[airanke]

I CANNOT BE THE ONLY PERSON WHO THOUGHT OF THIS WHENEVER ANY OF THE RASTARI SAID “DO YOU NEED PROTECTION!?!” WHEN YOU CLICKED ON THEM. (Spoiler: I know from Twitter that I am not the only one who thought this). He’s just happy to offer Shion some protection ya’ll.

I’m planning on doing a series where I draw illustrations / mini comics based on the click dialogue / speak dialogue / farewell dialogue of NPCs in WoW. I already have a whole list, currently mostly of basic NPCs (like guards and merchants and other that you can usually find in any major city).

Will add named NPCs to the list (and have a few already).

[bread-elf]

DWC 2020 - Day 2

Zandalar

Battle for Azeroth, pre invasion of N’zoth “Oh Mother Moon, forgive me for my transgressions! Please, help me!” Jiroki fervently whispers to herself as she struggles to trigger the toe blade mechanism in her boot, unable to reach it nor activate it in the netting she hangs from. In the jungles of Zuldazar she sprang a trap, now hanging aloft in the air as the rope netting gently sways from side to side. Jiroki had noticed parts of the trap, but wasn’t aware of just how far it spread out, meant for one of the large dinosaurs that prowled the lands. Tangled up in it she could barely move; she was supposed to meet someone out here in secret for personal business, but by now she definitely is late to their designated time. And now she either will be lunch for a predator or be caught by one of the locals. “Fuck-” She curses in Common, the language sweet and simple when it comes to venting her frustrations in a hurry. She tried to tap her boots together but they were stuck, and so she squirms and tries to reach for her dagger on her belt. “Maybe I can-” A snap of twig and she freezes, instantly alert and becoming quiet as death. Her midnight eyes try and scan around as best as she can from her view point, but the sound comes from behind.  A sitting duck she continues to squirm as she tries to reach for her dagger, fingertips barely touching the pommel as the ropes dig into her skin. As she does that however, now she can hear the adamant rustling of leaves as something begins to approach, the elf hearing the blood pulse in her head as she struggles for a fighting chance. But the sound of a clucking chicken is not what she’d expect this deep in the jungle. “Jiroki?” A familiar gruff voice speaks in a trollish accent, and Jiroki nearly passes out from relief. “Zim’bowa!! Oh thank the Goddess- where are you?!” She couldn’t see him, squirming even more now as she tries to turn her head and peer through the netting, and she sees her compassion down below. A forest troll from the Revantusk tribe, having once saved Jiroki in a time of need, and now the two had some sort of friendship formed; the person she had plans to meet with today. Beside him his travel pet Pepito lurked around, a chicken that pecked at the disturbed earth where the trap had sprung from. “BWAHAHAHHAHA!!” Zim’bowa erupts in laughter, pointing a finger up at the hanging elf like a piñata. “When I said iffin I don’ make it on time just ta hang out, I didn’ mean literally!” “What?!” Jiroki fumes as the forest troll has the audacity to laugh at her while in such a state in enemy territory, and as she struggles more the net begins to swing more. “Come say that to my face!!” “Or what? Ya’ gonna come git me? Come on, I dare ya’! Le’s go!” And then just laughs some more as the net trap swings more from her struggles, absolutely tickled by all this. Jiroki lets out a slur of angry Darnassian phrases at the troll, an onslaught of verbal insults difficult to translate into Common, but it just brightens the mood more of the jovial troll. “Alrigh’, alrigh’, shut up ya’ elf tongue before ya’ be alertin’ de whole island.” Zim’bowa starts to look around, and walks out of her line of sight. “I think I be seein’ de mechanism.” After a few solid seconds of only being able to hear rustling and the troll’s mumbling the trap is set loose, and Jiroki plummets to the ground in a heap. A hard landing with a painful groan, she starts to squirm again as she seeks to release herself from the loose netting, and gets the aid of the troll as he comes back to help. Once freed she stands, uneasy on her feet for a moment before she stretches her back. But it was only now that the boot knife from the toe of her shoe triggers and sticks out, a mocking reminder from the fates. Grumbling she bends down to tweak it back in. “Thanks.” The elf huffs as she fixes the boot knife back into its fitting. “Ya’ probably no’ be makin’ de greatest o’ impressions ta de Loa o’ de hunt fer gettin’ caught in’a trap.” Zim’bowa scratches at a bit of moss growing beneath his chin, Pepito coming along and nearly tangling his chicken feet in the ropes. “I could have got out of it eventually even if you didn’t come along; I nearly had my dagger.” Jiroki grinds her teeth, standing back up once her boot is fixed, and a heavy green hand is placed on her shoulder. “Eh, don’ be forgettin’ what ya’ been learnin’.” The troll gently scolds, as if an educator for a younger being, despite their vast age difference. “De pack be stronger den de lone hunter. Raptor, saber, whatever, it don’ be matterin’ whatcha are. An’ ya de Alpha o’ ya’ own pack ya’ made; ya’ gotta learn ta no’ be so stubborn iffin ya’ want ta succeed.” Truth to his words, truths that Jiroki knew very well but often dismissive about due to her spouts of anger. “I know, I know…” Jiroki could feel her forearm tingling, right where her tattoo of a raptor resided, a subtle reminder of dedications she had made. “I’m sorry... Thank you for helping me out, really.” Letting out a steady breath to help calm herself. “I’m… Trying. You know it’s hard.” “Ayah. Bu’ ya’ lucky I be patient.” Patting her shoulder, a genuine grin around his tusks that solidified her trust in him, a man she could call a friend even if she had trouble admitting it. “Alrigh’, we should be goin’, ya’ fat ass fallin’ probably alerted de Rastari.” “WHAT?!” Once more riled up due to the troll’s insults, and the man just starts to walk away from the trap with a smug and toothy smirk on his lips, Pepito fluttering away from the ropes and following along. But she has no choice but to follow after him, on their way to the Garden of the Loa. “I’ll beat your ass in front of your Loa, how about that?!” ((Honorable mention to my alt troll Zim’bowa!)) (( @daily-writing-challenge​ ))

[arensica]

I love it and think you colour well ❤️❤️

Headshot commission of Rarkhet for @rarkhet. 👌🏻 still don’t know how to colour

[wyrmguardsecrets]

I just want to clarify that I the player of RASTARI the hunter am a black african male in real life. I mixed my heritage ties to africa and the dominican republic with that of a human who was raised in stranglethorn and also raised near trolls. If you thought my profile was racist then I have no words. Literally I don't. I am even leading the charge on a forum post on the wow forums because skintones are locked to faces and you talk to me about racism. Message me in game if you have a issue.

.

[hippieuncle]

Bastard Rastari Guard Am Not Even Sure How He Got There But Punched A Council Member

[zandalarki]

Zin’jang

The Pyramid or Dazar’Alor had never seemed so magnificent. Naked, but without care, Dar’kran walked the steps of Zuldazar to the Great Pyramid, drawn to it like a moth to the flame.

When he’d arrived at the Port of Zandalar, no one dared approach the massive Troll, eyes transfixed on his scars and old and faded tattoos. Their meaning not lost to the older onlookers. But now, as he ascended the steps towards the seat of absolute power among all Troll-kind, he was met with resistance. A Prelate of the Rastari blocked his path, her spear poised at his throat in a blur, “Why do you approach the Great Seal, old mon?” she spoke, voice low but stoic.

“I come..” he paused, pondering the question. He was still in shock at the fact that Zandalar still stood, now swallowed by the sea like those he’d spoken to had said. He hadn’t stopped to ask himself why he walked to the city, and to the Great Pyramid, he simply did.

“Put that spear down, fen’di.” Another voice spoke, emerging from behind a row of the Animated Golems. This one, a Prelate herself, wore highly decorative armor and was flanked by two other Rastari. The Prelate before him lowered her spear, offering the newcomer a respectful head bow.

“High Prelate,” the spear-wielder said facing the newcomer, “This mon has approached the Great Seal, forgoing the motions of passage,” she shoots him a glance, “And his attire is nothing less than...disrespectful.”

The newcomer, the High Prelate, approached Dar’kran, circling him. “Who are you, old mon? Your scars say you are a warrior,” she looks him over with greater scrutiny, “Your tattoos say you are so much more,” she stops in front of him, placing her spear to a different, more outlandish symbol on his chest, “But this...this says you are a threat.” She draws back, the other Rastari holding their spears at the ready. “Who are you?”

Dar’kran looks to his feet for a moment, pondering the question. He has been many things, but what is he to them? What do they want him to be? His eyes set on his faded tattoos, from a time long-forgotten by most, and hardly remembered by himself. He looks to her, eyes locked with hers. “I am our king’s Great Warbringer, sent to lead our people beyond Zandalar. I am the Destroyer of the Veil, and leader of Yojamba’s greatest warriors.” He pauses for a moment, as he considers his next words, “I am the Battleguard of the Battlesworn, the elite of the Kor’kron Legion, the greatest champions of the Horde. To them, I am Dar’kran, but to you, fen’di, I am Dar’rokh.”

While the other Rastari murmur to one another, the High Prelate still stares upon him, her gaze unwavering, and quite unimpressed. “And what about this?” She hisses, as she jabs the tip of the spear at his chest, the tip barely nicking the surface, where the mark of Bwonsamdi is plain for all to see. “Do you come serving fickle death, to claim our king for him?” She pushes the spear further, the blade slowly slicing up part of his chest, yet he does not falter.

“Death has marked me with his blessing, for my purpose is to serve the living still. I serve them, and above all else, our king.” His gaze drifts from hers, up to the top of the Great Pyramid, just as the sun rises from behind, its majesty and warmth bringing tears to his eyes.

The High Prelate slowly lowered her spear, and with a quick gesture, her Rastari drape the old man with their own cloaks, and usher him down from the Great Pyramid, and away to the outskirts of Zuldazar. 

They come upon the Mugambala, the battle grounds of the Warbringers in the past, and now a prime spot for Rastari to train and prove their might. Here, they undrape him and offer him clothes, which he so graciously accepted. The High Prelate hadn’t taken her gaze off of the old Troll since they met, studying him as he dressed.

“So, Warbringer,” she said, piercing the silence surrounding them, “Why have you come home?”

“Because it is where I belong.” He answered quickly, confident in his answer and his purpose.

“But you serve the Horde as well?” Her eyes scan a tattoo of the Horde on his arm, “You swore a new oath, devoted yourself to someone or something new. Are you twice a deserter?” Her words cut deep.

“Deserter...hmph,” he rose, taking a few steps towards her, “When the Cataclysm shattered Azeroth, Zul’s missionaries brought word to all corners of the world that our beloved homeland had been swallowed by the sea, that there was nothing to come home to. The whole world believed him.” He takes a few steps closer, standing two heads taller than the High Prelate. “He even convinced our oldest ally of this falsity, to which I ask what would you have done?”

She looked at him silently, unfazed by his standoffish behavior.

“When the Orc Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, threatened to plunge the world into chaos and war, I left the corrupted Horde to rebuild and fight for something new, I di-.”

“I did not ask for your life story, Warbringer.” She said, calm and collected, “I asked are you a deserter?”

He paused, realizing his pride and rambling had brought him nowhere. Exhaling, he sat on a nearby bench, looking to her, “No, High Prelate, I am not a deserter. I thought my home, my purpose, was lost to the waves, and...” he felt his chest, where the mark of Bwonsamdi lay, “And I died for the Horde, only to be brought back, here.”

She looked him over once again, her gaze less harsh and scrutinizing, “And why do you think the Loa of Death has brought you back here, Warbringer?”

Once again, he pondered the question. Why was he here? What greater destiny is there beyond dying at the Broken Shore. He sighed, “I do not know, High Prelate. Death believes I have a greater purpose in life, and apparently, here, on Zandalar. What that is, I wish to find out for myself.”

For a moment, the High Prelate stood silently, her grip on her spear tightening..then she thumped then blunt end on the ground in a rhythmic pattern, beckoning Rastafarian assistants. Each of them carrier armor and weaponry in hand. “So let us find out. We face enemies to the north in Vol’dun and Nazmir. Our king wishes for us to deal with those threats quietly.” The assistants would begin to cloth Dar’kran, adorning him with armor. “You will prove for us and to his royal highness that you are still worthy of your title. Quell the northern insurrection, or do not return.”

Dar’kran stood now, clad in traditional Zandalari warplate. It felt right, so familiar..and when they offered him a choice of blades, and he gripped the massive war-axe, he felt whole once again.

[i-sh1p-malec]

i love how the Rastari Skull Whistle actually kinda sounds like an Aztec Death Whistle (obviously because that's what it's supposed to be)

[bwonsamdi]

workin on the big ol' rastari barracks that ive been contemplating on

they'll connect to ra'tika's kitchen thru a door teleport, trying to make it seamless is annoying and i'm a lazy bitch

[warcraft-shenanigans]

Rastari Enforcer sighs. Rastari Enforcer says: Elves...

[frutavel]

Alarion was already in love with Azeroth ever since day one but then years and years down the line he goes to Zuldazar and falls harder, which is great for him but generally inconvenient for everyone else

After two days the Rastari guards start posting signs everywhere telling people to NOT feed the dragon, he's already fooled fifteen different people into giving him food and shows no sign of stopping, his charm is too great for the average person to resist