Born to the Amani Tribe in Zul'aman, he trained as a young troll to become a flame caster, commonly known for their vicious abuses of common magical practices and deadly aim when it came time to unleash their flames. Primarily suited to little more than tinkering about in the realm of the arcane, the tribe found him, on the whole, useless. This was not due, however, to his expertis
e (o
r lack thereof) in his chosen class. Rather, he was frail and stringy, whereas his brothers and sisters were lean and strong. Unable to hold his own in a contest of physical strength and of little promise in the art of hurling fire, it was not long until he was deemed unworthy and cast out of the tribe. He was not even considered fit for sacrifice to their many animal spirits. Shamed in this, he vowed never again to refer to himself as Amani, and abandoned the northern forests of his childhood in favor of a land where his name was not frowned upon.
Wandering[]
In the years following his banishment, the world was fast changing. The Scourge reared their ugly undead heads, and the path southward became paved with perils that the young troll was largely unprepared for. Despite his mentors' thoughts on his capabilities, something about relying on the strength of his limbs alone helped the troll to find a certain measure of peace within himself. When the situation became dire, his training prevailed, and he was able to burn his way out of the growing horror in what was then called Lordaeron.
His wandering took him far south from there, beyond the human lands of Hillsbrad and the beleaguered troll-ridden Hinterlands, across the Highlands, through the muck of the wetlands
, and still farther south until, at long last, he discovered Stranglethorn, along with a zeppelin passage to Orgrimmar. Aware that his heritage was something of a point of contention with his fellow trolls, he quickly adopted the Darkspear tribe as his own in name only, and at last found escape from the Eastern Kingdoms and the trials he endured there. It was in Orgrimmar that he met the young orcess who would help him establish himself among the Horde and free him from the bonds of his past.
Darma[]
When they met, she was nothing more than a grunt, a young orcess searching to prove herself for the honor of her people and her family. She found work where she could, killing off quilboars or fending off Alliance scum as the oppurtunities arose, but her living was meager and her life, for the most part, was empty. She confessed this to the troll one evening as they sat in the same tavern, she drowning in peon sleep potion, he a bottle of rum. Though his orcish was rough at best, they became fast friends, and they talked about any manner of things. He didn't realize she had grown attached until she attempted to seduce him one evening, drunk as she was, and he was forced to rebuff her in the interest of keeping his distance. When this was not direct enough for her, he was forced to recount his
exact reasons for remaining aloof, and told her everything.
He fully expected her to rebuff him, or, worse, kill him, but it seemed he was fortunate enough to find she found the fact that he was Amani uninteresting at best. But, as she saw the anxiety in his face and understood the severity of his loss, she invited him home to the farm in Durotar and he never left. She spent the next few years fixing his broken orcish, teaching him to care for the pigs and fish and hunt and wrestle, for the most part unaware of the way the world changed around them. They barely noticed the Blood Elves had joined the Horde, and only acknowledged it when they found peculiar bird mounts wandering their beloved Orgrimmar.
When tales of Zul'aman's imminent destruction came to him, he knew he had to return.
Death[]
The Curse[]
His first ventures into Silvermoon were cursory at best. He despised the pale beings and knew by virtue of his birth that he always would, but the question remained. Which side did he belong on? When Darma was not near to help him decide, he ultimately ended up venturing back to Zul'aman's gates in a desperate attempt to reconcile his past with his present. What he found there was not, however, forgiveness and a warm welcome. His people, the people he grew up with and had loved from a young age had been distorted by the twisted consumption of their spirits, and they ejected him with all the force they could muster. Again, he was not worth the effort it would take to scrape him off the stone.
As he made his way back to Silvermoon, convinced that his place was now firmly with the New Horde, he stumbled across a young elf. She was, in so few words, enraged by his intrusion, and threatened him. He remembered primarily the vivid green tint to her eyes, the way fel energy leaked off of her in waves, and the almost drunken manner of her speech. She stank of demonic power, was drenched with it, consumed by it, and he was powerless to resist. She lay a curse on him that planted the seedling of a parasite at his neck, depriving him of his speech even as he screamed in agony at this sudden intrusion of a demon entity. He was dead before he reached the gates of Silvermoon, the creature draining him of first his arcane resources, then his life.
The parasite presented as a network of nasty purple marks spanning his neck, upper back, shoulders, and upper chest.
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Service to the Lich King[]
His body somehow fell into the hands of the forces surrounding the Lich King, and he was raised as a Death Knight. Upon waking he found his memory of his death had been all but erased, scant images of his attacker difficult to locate and fleeting. He could not recall who had ended his life, though he tried, and it soon became clear that this was but a minor inconvenience. Even as he was coerced into hunting and killing Scarlets, Horde, and Alliance alike, he was enamored with the now abominable strength in his limbs, the slow, dull throb of pure power that slept deep in his breast. He was dead, yes, but he had never felt more alive, freed as he was by the bonds formed in Undeath. Even without his voice, and though the parasite still slept beneath the skin of his neck, his muscles now obeyed his slightest command, unending strength overcoming all obstacles.
Though he n
ever speaks of his time under the Death Knight's bloody banner, he frequently thinks back on his early days, and is well aware of the blood on his hands. When it came time for the Knights of the Ebon Blade to break free of the Lich King's control, he gracefully reintegrated into Horde society and never again attacked his brethren. To anyone else, he would show no mercy.
Second Life[]
Home Again[]
Shortly after the attack on Light's Hope, he made his way back to the farm. Darma, long assuming him dead, was terrified by the strange light behind his eyes, the slow, unrelenting way he moved about and viewed the world, and, mostly, by the parasite creeping beneath his skin. In his patient-as-the-grave fashion, he eventually persuaded her to accept his new situation, and they became friends once more. Only he could fin
ally defeat her in a wrestling match, and she rarely let him forget this fact. Her usual angry, declarative style of speaking became moreso in the absence of his voice, and at length she became the overbearing, ultra-protective wife-figure that his friends would come to know her as. Yet, despite his return, things did not return to normal on the farm, and Darma began to speculate on ways to rid him of the parasite that deprived him of his speech and regularly caused him great pain.
In his search for a cure, he found himself wandering the streets of Silvermoon, vague visions of his past reminding him to find the green-eyed creature that had taken so much from him. It was there that he discovered a variety of new friends and acquaintances, all of whom would later play a role in discovering a way to remove the parasite. Primarily among these was a peculiar undead named Jim Straus, who, he discovered, had wandered into Silverpine while living and never really left, his corpse reanimated and unceremoniously arising in the Undercity. His horrible orcish and resilient charm quickly drew in Aji's laughing spirit, and they immediately became close friends. Much to Darma's chagrin, of course.
As much as imagined it could never happen, the troll discovered that the elves of his past were not the elves of his present. The strange, short, fragile creatures still bent magic with reckless abandon, still smelled strongly of Blood Thistle and sex, but had, through some impossible twist of fate, become members of their coalition and even allies to the struggling survivors of Troll warfare. His kind had, somehow, learned to live with them, though the old hatreds would never die. Among these lanky long-eared individuals he came to know a few; Iloam, a rogue with a quick wit and an insatiable libido; Faetrix, a largely improper noble with delicate hands and an easy grace; Kharris, Iloam's wife and elf of uncompromising inner fortitude; as well as a handful of others he would learn to recognize in passing.
All the while he wormed his way among them, learning their stories, listening as only a mute can, and at length was able to expose the source of his silence. Several rose to the occasion of helping rid him of this curse, still more volunteering to help discover who it was that hurt him so, and kill the creature.
For what it's worth, he's a pretty happy guy. Mostly.
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Removing the Curse[]
It's important to note that through his time with the parasite, he had relatively little idea what it was that drained him periodically and caused him immense, unbearable pain. He frequently rationalized it as a form of a curse designed to cause him pain, but couldn't explain away the occasional feeling of otherness, a second consciousness in his mind that slept and dreamed while he wandered the waking world. He couldn't explain away the nightmares and visions of the night, nor the inexplicable desire to stray toward centers of magic like Silvermoon.
It was not until late one evening that he became aware of the parasite's true presence. It awoke and forced him from his bed, away from his friends and loved ones to sit and feed upon the fel crystals in Silvermoon's warlock sanctum. Gradually his consciousness became overwhelmed by the feeding frenzy of the parasite, and when his friends at last found him, he was nothing more than a sponge, staring blandly at those who accosted him for answers. Thinking him lost, they attempted to remove the parasite by draining it of its sources of energy, a fel hunter forcibly removing any and all magical energies from the body of the parasite itself, inflicting identical wounds on either side of his neck in the process. When the parasite discovered it no longer had the capacity to drain, it drove itself deep into the troll's central nervous system, and began to suck away at the necrotic energy that maintained his undeath. Inching close to yet another death, they stopped the draining and withdrew to find other ways to remove the bug.
Armed with this knowledge that the entity was not something wholly intelligent, he and his friends located a warlock confident he could banish the fel parasite and at long last free the troll from the bonds of his curse. The procedure was fairly simple and the parasite was powerless to resist, but none had anticipated just how deeply it had delved, and how much of his neck had become integrated into the parasite's body. When it slipped into the nether, it took an enormous chunk of his throat with it, leaving a gaping, bleeding, empty hole in its place.
Not only was the parasite removed, but so too was his ability to speak.
Communication[]
With the loss of his voice, the troll had to learn a variety of ways to interract with his companions. Lacking several key fingers, learning to sign was difficult and cumbersome, and he eventually declared it an unworthy form of speaking. Instead he's found a variety of ways to get the message across, and for the most part makes himself heard, in some form or another.
Nonverbal[]
Pantomime[]
For the most part, Aji finds it easiest to show his companions what he is trying to say, rather than wait for them to guess. With exagerrated arm motions and cleverly immitated actions, he can indicate anything from eating to something as complex as the details of his condition, and his inability to speak. However, as imperfect an art as pantomime is, the finer points of his messages often go overlooked by those with insufficient knowledge of his character, and thus he must resort to other forms of communication.
Grins and Smiles[]
The most common form of communication remains simply facial expressions. Quirked brows, lips split into a wide grin, or even an agape expression of horror can indicate his feelings toward a situation far more effectively than other forms of expression. More than likely a conversation with this troll will consist of a variety of facial twitches and changes that will demonstrate his changing mood from moment to moment. He likes to appear an active listener, and reacts in an exagerrated fashion to everything that is said. Many have expressed appreciation toward this fact, and he considers himself an active listener. It is also important to note that he makes a point to appear at ease with much that goes on, though his true disposition may in fact exist otherwise.
Complex Emotions[]
His arsenal, though carefully implemented, is largely incomplete. While it is true he can hold a conversation with just about anyone on just about any topic, the fact remains that the complex facts of life that everyone is faced with are barred to his communication. The most interesting and stark example lay within his conflict between home and heritage. He feels a strong, deep connection to his brethren of any combination of troll tribes, and considers himself very much Troll, he also finds himself drawn to the voluminous cultures surrounding the Horde as an entity. His life with Darma taught him the proud ways of the orcs, and his time spent in Silvermoon revealed to him the complexities of Elvish society in a way he scarcely imagined he would ever come to know it. He exists as two beings; Troll and Horde, and frequently finds that the two do not intermingle. Unable to express this with any amount of clarity, he leaves it to run circles in his mind, until a time that he can, at last, raise his voice against the conflict of his heart and head.
Written[]
Shit gets real when Aji busts out the parchment[]
Despite his early training as a flame caster, a magus by all standards, he is very poorly trained in the written word. He can form complete, readable sentences in Orcish, but his penmanship is sloppy and his grammar structure rudimentary at best. This is his least favorite form of communication and the one he resorts to only when other forms of expression are inadequate or not specific enough. For the most part he carries a pad of parchment and a stick of charcoal with him, and his friends know when he pulls it out that he has something rather pressing to say, and does not wish to be misunderstood. Generally speaking he only resorts to parchment with those he trusts on some level, as it allows a greater specificity to knowing him as a being.
Available Tools[]
Quite often the parchment and charcoal are too bulky for his purposes, and he may resort to using a variety of tools. He has been known to write in dirt, using his fingers as a stylus, or even with his own bodily fluids if no other mediums are available. It's important to note that while he is resourceful, there are simply times when he cannot make himself understood, and no amount of available tools can clarify his inner conflicts.
