World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

Isaera, Next Door...

Matthean consents to the mild medical attention; after that small mercy, the mage is left holding a small, bloody rag to his nose while it figures out how to stop bleeding. The nose will darken and puff, but it'll heal up fine. Forced to breath through his mouth, Matthean's voice is inelegant in its breath economy but no less full of conviction.

"Thank you, Isaera. And it's... not what I would have first wanted for our people, either. But the time for passion and mourning has passed, I think. The world is full of tribes of trolls who used to have an empire as powerful and sophisticated as the Kaldorei, but once scattered, they... mooned after their greatness and dilapidated into savages, banging rocks together and living in straw huts. We have to move forward. To something new. Something real."

When you volunteer to go speak to his brother, Matthean nods, and offers no resistance. "He's alright. We fight, some times. I just wish I had Khadgar's reflexes against surprise pugilism. I'm sure he'll talk to you, though."

When you step outside, you briefly spot the white pelt of the furbolg's shaggy form wandering into your companion's tent, but there is no outcry of surprise at this; so you must assume it is in hand. Zalael is standing to one side, rubbing beneath his closed eyes with thumb and middle finger of his left hand, gently shaking out the right which must still be lingering with the sting of his brother's skull. His eyes briefly open to track to you, but given that you are not his brother following up on the argument, he offers no objection, and instead presents a pursed-lipped, awkward, somewhat broken hearted smile.

Everyone Else, In the Ratchet Chapter's Tent

Everyone is in vary stages of shock, delight, and feigned delight over deep dismay at Mor'Lag's 'victory'. In retrospect, it may have been disruptive to the voting process to have offered such a blanket invitation to the Stonemaul ogres, whose induction into the Horde was part of the night's proceedings. Their remit to bring members was well used - it's how you got your invitation, for that matter, as their guests. This, combined with the fact that some of those ogres managed to vote once per head, and a general flash of Horde amusement for her assault on Khadgar, clinched the vote on this admittedly ramshackle and informal contest. Imagination alone can preserve an image of what the 'king and queen's dance' would have looked like.

Roshorn the Strider disrupts this discussion as he bumbles through the door, his ursine snout leading the way. He holds his grooved and ornamented staff low at one side in a big paw, and his are dark, and big. Even across the considerable gulf in physiological lines, the furbolg is expressive enough to be plainly upset. His eyes wander first to the towering Mor'Lag, then to Emilia and Marion. After he has communicated mutely all the apology his furry face can offer, he looks to Jakk'ari, and speaks in a language that, to the uninitiated, sounds like no language at all. It sounds like a blurred mash of onomatapaeic impressions of waves crashing, and wind blow, not juvenile and sloppy but oddly grounded and, in ever sense of the word, elemental. To Jakk'ari, who speaks Kalimag, it is a language as penetrable as any other.

"Jakk'ari of Farraki... I need your help. My friends - the other Opal clan, of Winterspring - they have not arrived. I feared they would be late; but now, I am certain there has been some delay. I made my way to this red-dirt land early, knowing they had much work to do and horses to travel faster than my paws; but they never caught up. The spirits tell me they left Winterspring - but they did not reach Durotar. Something must have befallen them, in Ashzara. You are Opal clan too, aren't you? And your friends? Are you... bound to help? Will you?"