Vice Chieftain

Jarrior

Paladin · Blacksmith

He come up rough. Orgrimmar streets ain't raise no soft troll. Down in da alleys, where da air stink of smoke, blood, and bad deals, he learn early dat nobody comin' to save ya. So he save himself. Axe in hand, rage in his gut, TROLLGANG at his back, he fought his way up from da gutter. He was a warrior — a proper one. Every dungeon, every raid, every monster mean enough to think it could put him down, he was dere. If dere was a door, he kicked it in. If dere was a boss, he put it in da dirt. If dere was loot, well... dat loot belonged to TROLLGANG now. He climbed every mountain Season of Discovery had to offer and stood at da top with blood on his axe and not much left worth provin'. Then one day, he didn't get back up. There was no heroic last stand, no miracle, no second chance. He died on dat field, and whatever troll walked into dat fight stayed dere. His flesh was cold, his blood had stopped, and his heart had gone quiet. Death had settled into every bone, and he shoulda stayed buried. Then da Light came. It hit him like a boot through a tavern door, burning through dead flesh and filling rotten bones with somethin' bright enough to hurt. He don't know why da Light chose him, and truth be told, he don't much care. Maybe Light got strange taste. Maybe it ain't about bein' worthy. Maybe after livin' like a street rat and dyin' like a warrior, da Light figured he was exactly da kinda bastard it needed. Now he walks again with holy fire in one hand and a hammer in da other. An undead Paladin — a thing that shouldn't exist, carryin' a power that should never have touched him. Da living look at him funny. Da dead know better. He still got Orgrimmar in him. Still got da gutter in his voice, still know how to crack a skull before askin' questions, and ain't no priest gonna teach him manners. But somethin' changed when he came back. Death took his life, and da Light gave him a reason to keep walkin'. He ain't come back to be some shining hero. He came back angry — angry at death, angry at da world, and maybe a little angry at da Light for draggin' his ass back. But da Light got him now so if it wanna ride wit' him, fine. He'll take it where it ain't never been before: back into da dark, back into da dungeons, back into da raids, into every place where da shiny good boys don't survive. He's not a glittering golden hero. He a dead troll from da streets of Orgrimmar, and somehow da Light decided dat was exactly what it needed.