Salt-caked windchimes by the Northtide coast...

[Ghosteater]

It's a gray, uninviting day in Silverpine Forest. You stand by the windswept coast, watching as the tides wash the offal from the sea ashore. The dreariness of it makes you half-forget what brought you here in the first place.

This spell of drudgery is broken by a faint sound – a clattering of chimes. You carefully descend towards the beach and follow the jingling noise. Inside a small, salt-crusted cove, you find the source – it appears to be three windchimes hanging by its entrance. They chimes are pathetic, frayed things – shells, pebbles and pieces of glass stringed together. They seem to bear rustic etchings upon them.

You are not entirely sure why, but you slide your hand down one of them. It's the largest of the lot, filled with intricate designs.

No sooner you do this, a vision floods your senses.

The Ghosteater Tribe had dwelled in Silverpine Forest since the Third War, after the great upheaval broke up many of the remnants of the Amani Empire left on the Eastern Kingdoms. Since then, they found a home in those quiet shorelines.
Their tribe had been once highly respected among the Amani as a priest-caste, given their intimate knowledge of the spirit world. But now, they were reduced to nothing more than solitary nomads.

And then the Forsaken arrived.

Some of the Undead would wander the lands aimlessly, uncertain of their destination, and then find themselves following the entrancing sounds of the chimes that led them to the cove of the Ghosteaters. The Trolls would quietly disrobe and wash the visitors, feed them barrowcaps and pour them bubbling bowls of lacrimosyum stew. Once their guest's senses were fully disassociated, then the ritual would begin.

With this ritual, which their tribe had perfected for millenia, the Ghsoteaters would untether the soul of the Forsaken from the entanglements it still kept from its past life. Any nostalgia, heartache, angst or hatred would be swept off, cleansed, and cast to the seas –– but not always.
Sometimes, the Ghosteaters found something of great value, something that Bwonsamdi could find appealing. These tokens of trade they kept, trapping the spiritual remnants in bones, shells or any mineral that was properly treated before. When the time came, they knew the forces of the spirit world would be tempted to bargain for these small treasures...

You manage to rip your consciousness away from the trance. You notice the windchime you just touched lies on the ground, small crabs scuttling above it.

The second windchime is smaller, but it bears many different types of stones – some you recognize must have been arrowheads at one point.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you touch the second chime, and you begin to feel the warmth of a bonfire and the sweet smell of broiled mushrooms...

You wonder where your children are gone. Isipoke has told them not to hunt during the dark, but Umufi and Mbala are slow to learn. The cover of darkness used to be their friend, after all.

You shake the thought away, finish chopping the spongy morels, and drop them into the cauldron. You take a whiff of the stew, and you are filled with satisfaction. Perhaps the Ghosteaters should have been a caste of cooks. Maybe now your family would be living in the palace of some Zandalari emperor instead.

You lift the cauldron and head towards the Eldermeet, trying not to slip on the wet rocks that litter the road down to the beach. On your way, to your surprise, you meet Isipoke.

"Whatchya doin' here? – you ask - Is the Eldermeet over'?"

"Seems like Eldermeet has no room for the Deadhands – Isipoke replies, as she begins to undo her ceremonial garb, unfastening the cumbersome feather dress from her shoulderpads –. We are just their hot skulls, apparently, so we have no say on the matter."

"Isipoke, I don't --"

"Save it - she interrupts you – I know this much, they are hungry. Bring them their chew. We can talk later."

"Isipoke, the children haven't returned from the forest yet. It's already dark out. I feel they might --"

She cuts you off again. "They can't help getting into trouble, huh." She's trying not to show she's worried too. But a Deadhand cannot fear, not even the unthinkable. Their training requires them to tame forces you cannot begin to comprehend. You remember when Cwila almost drowned when trying to loot a shipwreck and the vessel caved in above her. Isipoke darted into the depths and cracked the hull of the ship with her bare hands. She spent nearly 10 minutes underwater before she could bring Cwila back to the surface. But those 10 minutes felt like a lifetime to you.

"It's okay, Wawu - Isipoke continues - I'll go fetch them. I hope they've actually caught something this time though."

You nod, and watch her slink up towards the edge of the forest. You fasten your hold of the cauldron, and continue walking towards the pyre. Eventually, you make it to gathering, and silently begin to pour bowls for each of the Elders. They seem to be caught in a heated argument.

"Zul'jin was an idiot", one of them grunts.

"That doesn't make Vol'jin a genius. He's still a slave in golden chains. Whatever affinity we have with the Horde is empty if our way is threatened", you hear the Great Elder saying.

"She speaks truth. The Grey Wall of Gilneas may have opened, but we have nothing to fear if we stick to the shadows."

"Nay, nay. The shadows is the land of the Worg. They've taken the night."

"And humans have taken the day. We cannot hunt without angering those in Pyrewood. We cannot fish without running into the Gilneans. It's a good thing the ghouls at the Sepulcher don't have an use for meat, otherwise we'd have starved many seasons ago."

"Don't mistake the aid of the Forsaken for kindness, runt. It's a bargain."

They've gone on like this for days. You fear they might finally take the offer of the Darkspear and join the ranks of the army of some Orcish Warchief. Isipoke may like that. She's always been aching for a bigger battle to wage. But it would mean taking all your belongings across the Great Sea, and no one in the tribe has ever attempted that journey. Mbala won't like it at all. She's grown a bit too attached to her new--

A distant rumble startles you. You absent-mindedly spill the bowl you were holding to the ground, and it splashes on the dress of the Spearmaster.

"Wawu, you clod! Why don't you watch--" Then, all the Elders go quiet. The rumble grows stronger.

You are back to your own body. Your head aches. You are holding onto something. It seems you broke the windchime by the seams, and now it lies shattered on the floor.

You turn towards the last chime. It's the smallest. Just a couple of shiny shells. You pluck it out and cup it in your hands. Then you smell ashes...

A lone figure stands by the fog. The Troll kneels down, and dusts off the corpse. It's Wawu, the cook. His face writhes in agony. A bad way to go – it appears they sank their teeth into Wawu's throat and tore a chunk of his neck off.

The Troll feels bitter relief. It's better like this. Now, he doesn't have to tell Wawu about what happened with Isipoke and his children.

The Troll carefully places a spearhead on Wawu's head and then begins saying the words passed down through generations. Once the ritual is done, the Troll takes the spearhead, ties a knot with string around its base, and attaches it to the juju.

The Troll should leave, but even if he knows Wawu can't listen to him, he speaks to him anyway.

"I can't take this away. I wish I could just tear this away from me, but I can't. The Ghosteaters die with me. I know this. But those who did this will also die with me too. I'll butcher them all, and once the life is out of their bodies, I will rip their ghosts apart too. I make this promise. To you, and to whoever takes this offering."

The Troll finishes putting the chimes together. He begins walking away of the cove, but before he's lost in the fog, he can't help to look back one last time.

[Qabian]

Qabian flips a pearlescent fragment of shell over the back of his fingers like a coin as he walks through the forest back toward Tirisfal, frowning. The Blood Elf intensely hates something about the mental manipulation required to tell the kind of story he just witnessed, but it isn't the first time he received a message in such an esoteric manner. Even having a nostalgic patrol down the coast of Silverpine interrupted by something so strange wasn't entirely out of the realm of the Elf's past experiences.

When Qabian finds a Troll waiting for him on the road back north, it's also unusual, but also not particularly surprising given what just occurred.

The Troll eyes the shell in Qabian's hand. "So you are the one who took up the offering?"

Qabian stops the shell's movement and holds it out on the flat of his palm as he approaches. "I suppose I am."

"Then you are the one who can give me my vengeance," the Troll says. The statement could have been a question, but instead sounds like a declaration.

Qabian raises an eyebrow. "While those I represent are certainly known for such things as vengeance, especially assuming the tale I just shared is yours, I hardly--" the Elf pauses, interrupted by a fat drop of rainwater seeping through the sleeve of his robe, and glances up to the sky. "Perhaps we should meet and speak somewhere more formal," Qabian offers, but when he looks back, the Troll has vanished into the shadows of the forest.

Qabian sets his jaw and tilts his head, a bubble of translucent fire protecting him from the rain that begins to pour as he makes his way back to the Grim halls. "So be it. Find me," the Blood Elf declares, shouting above the rushing sound of the rain through the trees. He holds his hands and the shell fragment tightly behind his back as he walks, certain this isn't the last he's seen of this Troll.