A Loa of a Tale

The air in Zandalar is thick in the lungs, but a different kind of thickness than Pixisticks was used to. It was not the smog and burning air of industrial innovation that she was born to breathe, that was the Kezan goblin way. It was stuffy and warm with humidity, even on the best of days when the salty breeze off the ocean quelled the oppressive heat on her sweaty green skin. The air was loud, and chaotic too. The waves on the beach provided the only steady beat to the cacophony of sound; the slithering of lizards and snakes. The bird calls of hundreds of exotic, colorful fluttering wings. Monkey hoots and shrieks as the massive dinosaurs, once only relegated to tales of far off Un'Goro Crater, made their dominion over the untamed jungle known. Even the plant-eaters were dangerous, if only because of their size. And the smells - oh diamonds and dynamite the smell! The vegetation, both the living and the still rotting, clashed with sickly sweet flowers and bitter fruit juices in a tug of war only interrupted by the savory Unagi Skewers someone always had to be grilling nearby.

And that was just the rest of the continent. The city of Zuldazar itself, the seat of the Zandalari Empire, was an entirely different thing. Despite the recent…hiccups… in the once vast empire’s history, the ancient pyramid-palace of Dazar'alor still stood as a reminder of just who the Horde was dealing with, with the extensive garden terraces, shops, villages, and temples that stretched for miles into the jungle canopy. Pixisticks had gotten lost on multiple occasions trying to navigate through the tens of thousands of steps that connect it all, and those travels came with a few close calls for the techno-mage. More than once did she mistake an unstable rock for an unkempt stone step, and nearly plummeted into one of many thunderous waterfalls that ran through and around the city. The only safe place for the goblin in comparison was the emissary quarters and the Port of Zandalar, but even there was danger. For the first time in ages, prompted by the arrival of Horde envoys, non-trollish traders from all corners had arrived, bringing their own sets of problems.

All of that was pushed aside on the days when Jazabu dragged Pixi by her blue hair to the orphanage located with the Port. Twice in the moon cycle, the old Darkspear troll would come, telling stories of the Horde and their heroes to the children, and every time she expected Pixi to come and accompany her. "It's ya duty as an envoy of da Horde ta make a good impression wit de people." would come the chided every time. Though it quickly became apparent that the goblin was not the best with children, an arrangement had been cobbled together between the two that as long as Pixi could be cordial, she did not have to participate in reading stories to the children, just in disciplinary matters.

“Settle down cheza, and I will tell you de story of Aazj de Huntress.” Jaza's motherly cooing broke Pixi out of the meticulous tweaking of her most recent goggle prototype. The children had just finished giving her a "cultural make-over", painting onto her sky-blue skin in various colors and shapes and braiding baubles, rings, and feathers into her visually jarring orange hair. She looked like a multicolored peacock that had been run through a wood chipper, but there was no malice when she hissed at the little girl who thought it funny to pull on one of many new braids. "Dis one begins long ago before da Zandalari became such a great empire."

"Dat is stupid!" One of the children shouted, "De Empire has been around foreva!"

Jaza took the interruption with grace, taking the child into her lap as she spoke, "It may be hard ta believe now, but dere was a day when de trolls were just as small in number as de saurid are in size! Now, can I start, or would you like to add anyting else?"

The child shook their head, and Jaza started her tale:

Long ago, before the Zandalari were even a tribe, there was a clever girl named Aazj. Aazj was one of the most beloved of her village, being the daughter of the chief and a prophetess favored by the Loa. She was a generous and courageous character who grew into a skilled hunter, healer, and chieftain for her people after her father passed to the Other Side, leading them through feast and famine, and zealously defending them against their enemies. The village prospered under her rule, when, after many years of peace, she began to have visions of some grave misfortune befalling her. The fearful huntress appointed a rider to the Necropolis to discover their meaning.

One of the little girls shot up her tiny hand, “But if dis was before da Empire, how come the rider could go to the..the- the Dead Man’s temple. Dere was no one ta build it!” 

Jaza sighed, her smile exuding patience, “It is a simple, little one. Just because dere were not enough trolls ta build de temples and de roads does not mean dat de Loa and dere places of power did not exist beforehand. Dey just… did not exist as we know em today.”

The child went to protest, the ‘but..but..’ shivering on her delicate lip, but not sound escaped it. Satisfied, Jaza continued.

Aazj’s messenger wasted no time in mounting his raptor and riding to the Necropolis to consult Bwonsamdi, who kept scribed within his rush'kah, or death mask, the known fate of all trolls, and considered to be especially wise in such matters. When donning his own rush’kah, the rider reached the cold and misty door to the Other Side, he found the halls arrayed in splendor, as if some magnificent feast were about to occur. The rider made his offerings to the Loa of Graves and questioned him concerning this festivity, and he responded that the guest of honor was to be none other than Aazj. He gleefully recounted how the Huntress would meet her doom, stopping only when he realized, from the desperate nature of the riders' inquiries, who this disguised newcomer truly was.

“...Why did de rider have ta wear a mask?” The same child as before interjected.

One of the older boys jumped up and sneered down at her with a cruelness that reminded Pixi of her own people. “Don’t be stupid! Every mon knows dat de ghosts will steal ya soul and take ya body for dem’selves - if they catch ya in de realm of de dead. De masks make ya look like one of de recently dead, so de leave ya alone.”

“I be hearin' voices, but it be comin' too low down to be seein' where from.” Jaza stared down at the boy with her sharp amber eyes until the tips of his ears turned a darker green than his skin and he returned to his seat.

The rider returned with sorrow and fear to the village and told his companions what he had been told. Aazj, refusing to accept the possibility of her failure and the death of her people, went to every Loa and made a pact with each, receiving gifts that would make her immune to all harm. From Torcali, she asked to be as strong as the mountain. From Pa'ku, she asked for the swiftness of the wind to make her every arrow true. She asked Lakali to grant her knowledge of her foes, and Shadra to whisper to her their secrets. From Gonk she received the forms of wild beasts, so should she be disarmed she would never be defenseless. From each of these did she seek counsel, and from each did she receive blessings, until it came to pass that no living or nonliving thing under the sight of the Loa could harm her. After these pacts were secured, the Loa and the villagers made a sport out of the situation. They threw sticks, rocks, and anything else on hand at Aazj, and everyone laughed as these things bounced off and left the Huntress unharmed.

“Dat must be why Rastakhan is over two hundred years old! He made a pact wit Rezan, and he be keepin him around to protect all of us!” The older boy spoke, though he made sure to keep his tone in line as to not offend Jaza, though failed to cater to the younger girl he had yelled at earlier. She clipped the back of his head with her palm, a solid smack in Pixi’s estimation. 

“It’s too bad dat he’s dead den!” She echoed his earlier tone, and together they shot up like panther cubs onto their feet, duking it out over the fate of the Loa of Kings. While it was true that Rezan had met a terrible fate at the hands of the treacherous Zul the Prophet and his rebellion, the followers of Rezan would have argued otherwise, for not all who once wielded the devilsaur loa’s power like the greatest Alliance paladins had lost their light. Surely this meant that the Loa lived still? Pixi put her goggles aside and stepped in between the children; whatever the fate of Rezan, it would not solve this quarrel.

Jazabu was not paying attention to the children, or her friends’ attempt to settle them down. Her attention was focused on the pyre which lit up the room. The fire had turned a hellish purple hue, substantially darkening the room, and within the thick acrid black smoke curls two, unnaturally blue eyes peered back at her. She looked around in a panic, but all were busy with the screaming children to pay any heed to her distress. Turning back, she watched as the vision changed; an ethereal hand stretched out its thin fingers and… waved at her. The separate fingers moved like liquid and… wiggled like ripples in a pond. Then just as quickly as it made its presence known, it was gone. 

“Alright ya brats! Take this and sit down.” Pixi was shoving handfuls of bubblegum into all the other kids' hands as the two other caretakers swooped in and took the misbehaving children away. She looked up to Jaza, expecting an admonishment, but finding only fear. “Jaz, hey Jaza? You okay? You look like you’ve seen the Bwonsamdi fella you keep telling these kids about….Is everything alright?”

The troll woman shook her head, taking a deep breath before letting it out again,” I am fine Pixi. Help Patiko and Padae settle de children down, and we can finish dis and head home.”

The wily Bwonsamdi, angry that he had been seemingly outplayed, sensed an opportunity for revenge. In the disguise of an old troll, he went to Aazj and asked her, “Did all things swear oaths to spare you from harm?” 

“Oh, yes,” the Huntress replied, “Everything under the eyes of de Loa. Bwonsamdi is so small and petty a thing compared to the might of all the Loa combined, he would never move against them himself, and now he will never have my soul.” 

Immediately upon hearing this, Bwonsamdi departed and located one of the pale-skin elves sacred trees, carved a spear out of a root of one of their great trees and fire-hardened it by the light of their Moon, and brought it to where the Loa were playing their new favorite game.

He approached the bat Loa Hir'eek and said, “You must be feelin quite left out, havin to sit back here away from the merriment, blinded by the bright sun not meant for your kind, not being given a chance to show Aazj the honor of proving her invincibility.” The blind god concurred. “Here,” said Bwonsamdi, handing him the shaft of the elven spear. “I will point your hand in the direction where Aazj stands, and you throw this branch at her.” So Hir'eek threw the spear. It pierced the Huntress straight through, and she fell down dead on the spot.

The Loa found themselves unable to speak as the villagers trembled with anguish and fear. They knew that the death of Aazj would mean the downfall of not just her, but themselves and the entirety of the village itself. The villagers wept and begged the Loa to deliver them.

At last, Torga the Wise and Benevolent spoke and asked if there were any among them who were clever and bold enough to journey to the land of the dead and offer Mueh'zala, the death-loa, a ransom for Aazj’s return. Jani, the Loa of thieves and patron of scavengers, offered to undertake this mission. Torga was unsure of this, but at the other Loa’s insistence, instructed Jani to bear their plea to the underworld, and off they went.

Jani ran fourteen days and nights through ever darker swamps and deeper forests on his quest to rescue Aazj’s soul that had been sent to The Other Side. Upon entering the Necropolis, hiding from the life-thirsting spirits of the long-dead amongst the jars, Jani spotted Mueh'zala and Aazj, pale and downcast, sitting on the floor in front of him. Jani spent some time watching the two, before approaching the death-loa and pleading with Mueh'zala to release the Huntress, telling him of the great sorrow that all living things, the villagers and especially the Loa, felt for her absence.

Mueh'zala responded, “If this is so, then let every thing in the cosmos that knew her weep, and I will send her back to you. But if any refuse, she will remain in my presence.”

Jani ran back to the village and told these tidings to the Loa, who straightaway sent messengers from the village to bear this news to all who knew Aazj. And, indeed everything did weep for Aazj – everything, that is, save for one troll: Old Samedi, who was none other than Bwonsamdi in another disguise. Old Samedi coldly told the messengers, “Let Mueh'zala hold what he has! I will not weep for her.” 

And so Aazj was condemned to remain in Mueh'zala’s darkness, dampness, and cold. Never again would she grace the lands of the living with her presence, and shortly after her death, the village was wiped from the land by plague, famine, and war. All that Bwonsamdi had prophesied had come to pass, for you can not escape death.

No sooner did she finish the words did a bellowing horn sound through the Port of Zandalar. 

“What was dat Padae?” Patiko asked as he wrestled to contain the elder boy in his large arms.

“Dat is the de Habor horn. Someone is attacking de port!” Padae put down the girl and rushed outside to look out over the sea.

The blue of the Alliance battleship sails was unmistakable.

---

The air in Zandalar is thick in the lungs, yes, but it was preferred in Pixistick's opinion over cannon fire and ash from burning flesh. The Alliance burned everything they could during their siege of Dazar'alor; even now, with the armistice being signed between the Horde and Alliance, ending the Fourth War, the stones still bore the scars of that day. As did its people. 

Pixi did not fault them for their attack though, as much as she wished she could. As much as she knew Queen Talanji did. But what the Banshee - What the Horde did at Teldrassil was worth that much at least. Undercity too. It was no different than what they did sieging Orgrimmar.

Garrosh. Had it really been so long ago when Pixisticks, convinced to fight for the right side by a human, of all people, joined Vol'jin's rebellion, and now once more the goblin found herself now a twice traitor, having fought in another rebellion yet again led by a hero - Saurfang - and he didn’t turn out much better than the Chieftain did. What would her mother say if she knew her daughter couldn't even pick the right insurgents to back. And she dares called herself a goblin. A smart gob would have back both sides of the conflict, pocketed the gold, smuggled a few pounds of Azerite out, and disappear like dust in the wind.

That’s what Gallywix did. Twice in fact. Must be rich enough to buy himself his own world by now. At least he didn't get away so cleanly the second time. Ain’t that a thought.

“It be a beautiful sunset, no?”

Pixie looked up at Jaza, who had come to join her on the terrace looking out over the greater jungle of Zandalar, the sun a burning orange glow on the treetops. The Alliance made their mark on her as well; It was the shapeshifter's quick thinking that saved the children from the slaughter. It took the 7th Legions Vanguard best of an hour to break through the towering thorn and whipping vine wall she erected in the entrance to the hall. It took another hour of their mages blasting the ice was she instructed Pixi to put up while she used her magics to burrow a tunnel out of the Hall and into the surrounding jungle outside of the city. It was at Jaza’s insistence that Pixi went with the children, sparing her a gruesome death. 

Jazabu was not so lucky. Long after the Alliance fleet was driven away did the goblin find her friend's body, hacked and mangled by her frustrated opponents, cradled in the arms of a taller, younger Zandalari woman with old amber eyes. Together they were surrounded by similar mangled Alliance soldiers. Pixi was a little more educated on magical matters than most gobs, but what she learned that day was still hard to believe: Bowsambi came to Jazabu that day, in the fire of the pyre, warning her that death would soon be upon her. Soon after she closed the entrance to the tunnel the 7th Legion broke in and were unhappy their vengeance had been delayed for so long. She fought with tooth and claw, with sun and moonfire, but in the end, she could not hold off every sword that swung her way. It was there as she lay bleeding out, a particularly large brute carving her body further into pieces that the Loa of Graves came to her again, in his more usual form. Jaza would not say what they talked about, but by the end, Bowsambi made her a deal - To return to life and continue protecting her people, in exchange for serving as his agent in Zandalar and sending her murders’ souls to him. (It was never specified to Pixi if the Loa meant any soldier in the blue and gold, or if it had to be the ones who personally had a hand in her fall.) Jaza accepted the terms of the bargain, but with her old body being too mangled, the Loa took the body of one of the fallen Zandalari trolls and sent her soul there.

“It is beautiful,” Pixi replied finally, “Are you ready for the next fight?” 

Jaza sat down in a meditative position, “Is everyting prepared?”

“Yeah, everything’s set up.” 

“Then yes.” The troll nodded, taking a deep breath before baring her fangs in a somber smile, “I am ready.”

“Good.” The goblin slid her rhinestone-encrusted [Bronze-Tinted Sunglasses] on and stared out into the setting sun. "Good."