Well, One of Us Has To Go Home and Change
Zenji didn't much care for the new base of operations. It was damp, drafty and the never-ending roar of the Maelstrom kept him awake at night. Sure, it had its advantages; as the Legion would never be able to find them. It also was good place for… well, nothing. Alright, so it had one advantage.
The commotion around him was palpable. Shamans from every part of the world were gathered here. Some he knew, such as Erunak, but most were unfamiliar to him. And hell if Thrall hadn't been able to coax him into becoming the leader of them all.
He suspected it had something to do with the weapon, as he absentmindedly fingered the now familiar weight of the Doomhammer at his side.
Originally, Zenji had preferred spells over melee weapons, feeling more in tune with the elements that way. But when Thrall had offered him the fabled Doomhammer, the troll couldn't help but to jump at the chance of possessing it. After all, electrocuting your enemies was nothing compared to clubbing them over the head with a giant mace.
He was certain the spirits would approve, anyhow.
He walked over to the edge of the cliffs overlooking the whirlpool, headed for the large stone altar that teetered on the edge. He was hesitant to alter the weapon, as he had been advised. According to Thrall, every wielder of the Doomhammer had tapped into different powers, making it unique for each and every one of them. Changing the legendary weapon was challenging for him because of many reasons; what if he ruined it somehow?
Still, he wished the altar hadn't been quite so close to the brink of literal death, as there would be no way to survive were he to plummet down into the water, shaman or no.
On the way, he was greeted one of the newest arrivals, a draenai shaman he had never before seen. He nodded curtly and kept walking before doing a double-take and stopping abruptly. Nestled in the large hands of the draenai was a familiar looking mace; it was blue and crackling with lightning, but there was no doubt it was the Doomhammer.
"Hey mon!" he called out before he could stop himself.
The draenai turned and regarded him politely, before his gaze caught the troll's weapon and his eyes widened almost comically.
"Where did ya get dat mace, mon?" Zenji asked, his voice forcibly calm.
"I… I received it when I defeated a demon lord," the draenai replied. "How did you get yours?"
His accent was heavy and Zenji spoke very little Common as it was, but still got the gist of his words.
"I retrieved it from da Maelstrom. Thrall gave it ta me aftah Ah killed a demon wit' it." He narrowed his eyes.
"Well, I assure you I'm not lying when I say that was how I came by it, as well."
Zenji scoffed. These upstarts couldn't just leave well enough alone. He wielded the Doomhammer and of course there would be jealous people milling around, wanting to prove him wrong.
"Dere can't be two Doomhammers, so one's gotta be fake," he said matter-of-factly.
"Unless both are," the draenai countered.
"Of course dere not-" He broke off, thinking back on the encounter with Geth'xun. Mylra had been critically injured in the fight, and as he had healed her wounds, the orc shaman had hung back.
Really, why would Thrall give up the famous mace, the weapon that had aided him through the foundation of the Horde and establishment of Orgrimmar itself?
Why would anyone give up the Doomhammer willingly?
Suddenly, he whirled around, his steps heavy and determined.
A/N: Meanwhile Thrall sits at home, stroking the actual Doomhammer, giggling as he thinks of the poor adventurers he has fooled.
"Mine," he whispers. "My own. My precious."
My aim is to make these oneshots mostly humorous, but Legion is making me kind of sad, guys.