World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

The Lady of Theramore raises one blonde eyebrow, and her gaze instinctively moves to the wall behind the group, beyond which the marsh landscape unrolls down the path the party has just travelled; before she looks to Marion again. “I have hopes that the land can be developed over time. It’s a long process - these kinds of tidal wetlands have a high salt content, and it will take some time to attract enough engineering talent that isn’t afraid that one day the Horde is just going to wipe us off the map.” She shakes her head a little, lips pressed pensively together. “Obviously, I don’t think that is going to happen. And I think that kind of hysterical over-caution is self-replicating, and leads to rash action; so I’m willing to wait for the talent to show. At the same time, I’m in no rush. Dustwallow is bad land. There’s a reason it’s seen so little colonization by the Kalimdor peoples. Most of our wealth, such that it is, in Theramore comes from two things: skilled and productive fishing fleets, and the industrious attitude of our people. Everyone here is working hard because they know they’re building a new life for themself, and those who come after them; not just running in place. I figure we have about twenty years before we need to have expanded out capacities enough to keep a new generation interested in staying, and not sailing back East. We’re going to lose a lot of the next generation to Stormwind, I think, now that it’s rebuilt.” She seems to realize she’s wandered a little, and offers Marion a mild apology in her smile. “So I’d like to see some satellite villages cultivating the land, like you might have seen around Brackenwall. But not so quickly that it’s cheap work; and not so hastily that the Night Elves end up breathing down my neck for deforming the natural state of the land. Druids are the best friends a fledgling settlement can have - I hope to get them on side. Those are my plans, for now. That timetable could move up, if there is a sudden emergence of, for example, individuals with technical talent and a known and performed pedigree of non-hostility to our Horde and Steamwheedle neighbors.” This is said with a little humor in her expression; enough to offer Marion two assurances - that she has detected at least some framing of her ambition, and that she is not hostile to it, despite Marion’s Alterac accent and known study of the fel powers. The Lady’s mind is broad enough to imagine that orcs, who came into this world rampaging in front of the whip of warlocks and demons, can become fine friends and honorable countrymen. There is certainly room to imagine that someone like Marion can afford to have some questionable marks on her record and still turn out to be perhaps a respectable regional administrator and fellow shaper of the new world.

When Jakk’ari offers his very professional and well spoken appreciation, she smiles at him again and then seems almost amused at the offer to dine with them. Not an insulting humor, as if it is humorous that such people would think she would dine with them; but more a humorous appreciation that the troll possessed the audacity to push past the presumption that she would not. “If only I could, good Jakk’ari. I’m afraid the next few days will allow very little respite for me, however. A demonic attack on this scale, and the atrocity at the hand of the dragons, both propel me to alert my peers in the Kirin Tor. An investigation will have to take place, to try to untangle the mess of it. It’s hard to imagine dragons striking like that unless the Stonemaul were threatening their deepest interests. And their deepest interests are secrecy and survival, both of which are undermined by such a flagrant attack on what is for all intents and purposes a Horde outpost. Not to mention our cadets, geographically inconvenient as they might have been. Someone must answer for these things. But I thank you, all the same. Perhaps, another time.” The raincheck sounds more genuine that one might expect, and the Lady takes the offer in the spirit it is intended. “I ought to get to those matters now. Do consider my offer. I’d like your whole group for this project, if I can get it. Take a few days to rest and speak among yourselves; and if I’m not available in my tower, you can leave a message with Ysuria. She’s also the one who will instruct Isaera on the use of the teleport key-rune.” With that, she seems ready to finish the audience; though not so ready she would cut off a chance to respond.

Spoiler: Isaera's House

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The reactions to the splash of cash are ostensibly positive, but also mixed. Your mother is stunned for a moment, and then so overwhelmed by the surge of extra relief she didn’t expect to feel that she actually reaches out and puts her hand on the coin pile as if to make sure they’re real. “Oh, Isaera! That’s amazing! What did you have to do for all this? Are you alright?” One genuine question, one rhetorical, both on a voice suddenly blooming with maternal pride, untethered to the lodestone of present destitution.

Aleeana’s expression ranges in sequence from astonishment, to avarice, to sisterly jealousy, to a flash of self-reproach for that jealousy, to a directed faint smile of appreciation, and finally a thoughtful frown as she digests the cocktail of feelings that just rushed through her. Some part of her, you’re sure, is also disappointed that the conflict has been defused. There remains in potentia a conflict between your sister and mother in which your sister actually follows through with her threats and walks out, vanishing to join the reclamation project back in Quel’Thalas, hunting the flesh eating parodies of your deceased elven countrymen and women; maybe dying in the attempt; maybe worse. The tragedy that befell your family quelled her rebellious spirit for a while, and drew her into the family effort for a while; but wanderlust, and the need to strike out and define herself as something other than a scion of greatness or a refugee statistic has been back in her heart in force.

Tarien’s face is the most complex, in that moment. He’s relieved to see the money, but shortly after worried again. His eyes skip over the the coins as they spill over the table, and your eyes catch him quietly mouthing a count, seventy, seventy four… A very impressive display of numeracy you haven’t seen in him before. But after that, he catches your eyes while your sister and mother are still processing the display, and gives you a very faint worried look, and an almost imperceptible shake of the head - a look that turns to back to his neutral, henpecked countenance once the other two are aware of their surroundings again.

Aleeana’s primary argument solidly undercut by this display of liquidity, she can mount no reasonable counter argument against Isaera’s suggested slow-and-steady approach. She does, however, mount a defense of the physical alteration: “I like the green eyes. I think they make me look more mysterious.” This provokes a roll of more conventionally blue eyes from your mother, but she seems to respect the peace you’ve bought and doesn’t bite on that particular bait. Discussion on how to prioritize spending this money immediately breaks out between your mother and sister. Construction supply for the upper floor. Beds for Aerdithane and Rayadel. The actual wands and reagents the girls require to practise at home so they don’t have to spend so much time using the loan-items at the mage tower. The reenchantment of some of the cleaning equipment. Paint for the house, when the top floor is completed. Some decent food - maybe not like they used to have in Quel’Thalas, but surely they can afford better than fish and hard bread. A little wine, obviously. And enough vision dust to keep the nine of them in the house clear-headed and focused, just for now. Maybe a small stash of dream dust? Just for emergencies?

Rapidly, the ideas balloon from purchasing essentials and frugally smoothing the remainder out over a long time, to blowing it all now in a well-earned and long-awaited splurge on things that the family has wanted for a long time. And when you think about it, occasionally getting things you merely want is a kind of need, isn’t it? And back and forth the negotiations go. Tarien remains on the periphery, but he opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something; but then simply doesn’t. He does, however, take the opportunity to come over to your side, and give you the delayed hug. Tarien’s magical talent is pedestrian, and now mostly lapsed. His other talents, if they exist, have not really emerged. He contributes to the house by absorbing the blows to elven pride that many others in the house cannot accept - the cooking, the cleaning that cannot be done by a ten year old borrowed from next door, the walking the hand-cart borrowed from the other neighbour to buy food, late on the market day when the folk were closing up and prone to selling their remnant stock cheap. A thousand other small duties that might cause a conflict if someone else had to do it, which he simply does quietly, impervious to the wrinkled pride of others. And right now, ignoring whatever complex thing he is feeling about this burst of material relief, he wraps you in his arms and squeezes you like he has been suspecting, for the last ten days, that he had lost you.