(As told at Tall Tales in Bloodhoof Village)
Lohkawas stands and begins to address the listeners gathered around the bonfire in Bloodhoof Village. "So, I tell story a few moons ago about why there are no Tauren rogues. Story was also about a rogue named Shenthul. He was trainer in capital, Orgrimmar, but one day disappeared after the Great and Mighty Deathwing broke free from his prison and shattered the lands. Not many stories can you find of this one, but as told before, he came to our village on occasion for stories and ale. For a rogue, he was always very interested in speaking to our Mystics and Shamans. So, now I tell you more about Shenthul of the Shattered Hand."
If he had not been a friend of the shadows for many years past his prime, he would not have felt or known when the familiar presence of his superior in the Shattered Hand, Tran’ke of the Bared Knives slipped behind him. His was an interesting story, but since Shenthul was on duty, working with the latest batch of new recruits, he let the entertaining story slide back into his long memory. “Wat can Shenthul be doing for ya?” he whispered so low, he appeared to be murmuring to himself.
“A journey ya be taking, mon. A journey unlike any oter. Te loa be speaking, dat ya te only one dat can save Azeroth.” Tran’ke spoke and then whisked away, even as Shenthul and Therzok, an orc and fellow trainer standing next to him, shared a glance that said volumes.
One of the newest undead recruits, Torgimus, began to speak to him, and Shenthul, who was looking forward to inducting this one into the Shattered Hand, bit back the solemn words that would have begun the rogue on his next quest to be firmly initiated into their ways, and instead he interrupted the undead “You, go speak to Gordul, ‘e be your trainer now.” Shenthul nodded to the other trainer, and then slipped into the shadows to follow Tran’ke and learn more of this journey to save Azeroth.
“Need ya to find a shaman, but we gat no name, no idea were tey is, and no idea wy,” said Tran’ke, once they were well secluded and away from any prying eyes, ears, noses, or any of the other senses for that matter. Shenthul, never one to mouth off or make light of a situation, made no reply. If he was being pulled from Orgrimmar, from the Cleft of Shadows, from making sure that true rogues did not turn out to be mere gutter thieves, but knew something of honor and to uphold the Code of the Shattered Hand, then someone was pulling numerous heavy strings.
Shenthul said nothing. De Loa. De spirit beings of every living thing. De voodoo. He believed in what he himself could see and hear, and though de Loa rarely spoke to him, they were always there, especially the Loa of Death. He was not a follower of old Bwonsamdi, though one might think that of a Darkspear Troll in his profession.
And so his journey began. He could forge his own orders, so travel was never a concern on a Horde transport, hide in the shadows aboard Alliance vessels, and he saw many wondrous things as a peaceful trader of exotic goods, which as a rogue, were always easily obtained and then sold for profit. Information was sometimes bought, bargained, or just rumors pieced together from village to town, and if not easily obtained, there was always the shadows, wherein he often learned more.
He found Pandaria before either the Horde or Alliance, laughing as he tasted the brews of Jinyu, Hozen, and the infamous Stormstout Brewery, though why the Alementals had to try to interrupt an honest rogue’s drink was something he would never understand. There he met many Pandaren shamans, but the Loa stayed silent.
Eventually, he remembered a former student from another land, Highmountain, and found passage to the Broken Shores, before Horde, Alliance, or Legion made their presence known. That did not end well for either of them, the student nor the trainer. For at no point during his sojourn in those lands did the Loa indicate any special shaman to take note of, though he often caught sight of other trainees, like the undead Torgimus, who acquitted themselves well as befitted a rogue that he had trained.
While he continued to sample the various brews of all the Broken Shores, he also took his place as a defender of Azeroth against the Legion, bearing witness as the Titan Argus plunged his mighty sword into the land. He travelled to the site of the damage and finally began to hear the chatter of the Loa. The small animals and insects which still drew breath, holding the spirit of the Loa, began to speak to him, and he thought he was close. For in Silithus, the Earthen Ring stood side-by-side with the Cenarion Circle in an attempt to heal the damaged lands at the base of the sword. Horde or Alliance made no difference here, and it made no difference to Shenthul either. For all he knew, the shaman he needed was Alliance and not Horde. But the Loa did not elucidate on this matter, except that he overheard talk of Zandalar, and portals were opened to that land and Kul Tiras.
Again, forged papers gained him access to the legendary Golden City of Zuldazar, home of the Zandalari Trolls and bountiful Shrines to numerous Loas. When he stepped from the plank onto the land itself, Bwonsamdi himself whispered in his ear, “Welcome ‘ome Shenthul. Ya tink ya ‘id well, but old Bwonsamdi be followin’ your steps and now ya back where ya belong.”
That was not a comforting thought for the rogue, but he kept the surprise from his face and quickly melted into the shadows created by large crates scattered along the docks. He finally muttered under his breath, “Well, ya be knowing were I been old Loa, den maybe ya know were my quarry be?” He waited and heard nothing in return. He chuckled deep inside, for no answer was as good as one. His shaman was in this land, and Shenthul was one step closer to saving Azeroth and fulfilling his mission for the Shattered Hand.
Lohkawas took a deep breath and looked around the audience a slow smirk growing across his lips.
So how do I know this? I met this rogue, the undead one. We were stationed in Nazmir, and huddled around a campfire in the rain. I always tell stories to those I patrol with, to share and learn. Torgimus pulls me to the side later and tells me his own tales of Shenthul. He has seen him in Silithus at the sword and at the Zuldazar docks, and I have asked the shamans of my home what talks they recall of Shenthul. And now, I am editor of Redwood Times. There is story here to be discovered, and we will not stop until we solve the mystery of Shenthul and the Unknown Shaman.