World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[WindStruck]

"Perhaps our homelands will be taken back, eventually," Isaera says. "But the question that bothers me now is, under what banner? Will they even resemble anything like they used to be?"

Isaera sighs. "Excuse me. We can talk later," she says, hurrying back to the table she sat, where the feuding brothers were.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion was going to answer, but Isaera took her leave.

The warlock drew in a lungful of air before exhaling it in irritation. Her jaw grimaced slightly before angrily drinking the last of the champagne in her glass and setting it aside. Shaking her head gently, the girl departed the function with her chin high, and left to go back to the Opals quarters. She wouldn't dilly dally about, she had no interest in seeing the sights of beautiful Orgrimmar, and so it wasn't long until her figure darkened the entrance to the rendezvous and entered while the troll and the ogre were talking.

Not having the energy or care to exhibit any annoyance at Mor'lagg after her, ahem, 'spectacle' earlier, Marion just nodded towards the two of them, adding a polite "Good evening," as she moved to where she could get another drink and loosen the straps on her corset. Being as wealthy as she had become had its perks, which included a very old and very expensive bottle of apricot brandy that she had hoped to open in celebration. Instead, she drew it up and poured herself a large glass - and then took it down in one swill.

Then she poured another.

[Plaids]

Then she poured another.

Jakk'ari
Jakk'ari noticing Marion's uncharacteristically brief salutations and her brisk sips of alcohol Jakk'ari replies.
Good evening, Marion. I see that your Armistice Ball celebrations are sunken; are there any pearls in the murky depths?

With enough optimism to hopefully avoid chiding an undoubtedly disappointed teammate and with enough inquiry to hopefully prompt a response and postpone her next drink if only for a moment.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


Marion drew the glass up to her face, its size visually enhanced when gripped with her smaller hand, its amber contents tilting as she brought it close to her lips.

Good evening, Marion. I see that your Armistice Ball celebrations are sunken; are there any pearls in the murky depths?

The warlock paused. She snorted lightly in sardonic amusement, "in a manner of speaking," Marion answered, before taking a half mouthful sip and and visually inhaling through her teeth.

"You know, Jakk'ari, there are times I envy your people," she commented, half turning as she moved over to a large chair and deposited her rump within it, her collar and neck exposed as she peered at the wall/ceiling before her as if it owed her a lot of money and was refusing to pay up.

"Someone does you poorly, you can simply spear them in the chest, and that's the end of it!" Marion made a stabbing and scooping motion with her free left hand, while taking another sip of her drink.

"There's a beautiful simplicity to the entire arrangement. Piss me off? Spear. Chest." she once more made the gesture, only slower this time and used to emphasise the words; Spear. Chest.

"Would certainly make for a politer society."

Another sip.

"What about yourselves? Was it a magical evening that seized you with its festivities?" the shorter human turned her face to look at the two, as she brought one foot behind the other to push her stylish new shoes off so that she could wiggle her free toes. A part of Marion, a nastier part, wanted to take a gentle jab at Mor'lagg following her emotional display, but her better sense over-ruled it. She was sure the ogre felt bad enough as it was, without adding to it further.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag shake their heads in shame. Being addressed so by their leader hurt almost as much as their drubbing by the archmage

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari

The modicum of levity he maintained while listening to Marion's night vanishes upon being prompted recount his own. He places a hand on his chest. All to resist the urge to palm his face and attempt to scrape the disappointment from tonight off of it.

I met several new contacts. A Bronzebeard scribe of Ironforge, a Darkspear majordomo of the Horde, and veteran Scarlet Crusader. I think you would have liked him. He replies attempting to impose some hope in spite of the gravity of tonight's events. Unfortunately they have receded back to their own circles upon news of the upcoming war.

He pauses as the argument next door reaches a crescendo, while muffled by fabric the passion beginning to override civility is unmistakable.

When the war begins in the Eastern Kingdoms the weapons and soldiers of the Horde and Alliance will follow. I don't know if that will impede or be a blessing to our mission in Kalimdor where our duties lie.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


A part of Marion felt sorry for Mor'lagg. It was like watching a giant puppy dog sheepishly positioned next to an utter mess it knew it had created. Besides, the warlock did not think that any words from her would chide the ogre any further than her own shame had already laid low her self-esteem.

But even if she could, would she want to?

Probably not. Marion had lost any spite that might have been within her earlier in the night and so she now lacked the necessary venom to chastise and admonish.

But it was something that Jakk'ari said that drew Marion's eyes, and caused her to raise an eyebrow.

"A Scarlet Crusader?!" she asked suddenly, sitting up in her plush chair, eyes darting to the entrance to their tent, then back to the troll. Swallowing, pursing her lips, exhaling, the warlock nodded slowly, her alarm rescinding as she lowered herself back into her chair.

Oh she had had run ins with the Scarlet Crusade alright...sometimes, she could still hear the crackling of the flame...the scent of charred flesh sloughing off the bones...

"Yes...it's very troubling all of it, isn't it?" she asked, taking another sip of her apricot brandy.

"Every time you think we've taken a step forward, we get pushed back two," Marion shook her head gently, another sip following.

"And now the Elves are in the Horde as well! What a disaster..."

[MrAbdiel]

Isaera

When you round back to try to catch the feuding brothers, they are not where they were; but a modicum of attention permits you to track the sounds of their escalating argument out into the street again as they storm back toward their tent.

"I can't believe you, Matthean! You stand by this, this, arson of our heritage because of the bigoted and blind actions of a handful of humans. You're ready to see our people formally side with the Horde over this?" The young elven warrior fumes as he stalks through the more meandering crowd; most aimless and dazed by the events of the evening and not so desperate to get back to quarters. His magical brother has to hustle to keep up with his stride, both elves caking their boots in the mush of red mud made more slick still by the spritz of unseasonable rain that begins to fall.

"I don't say that - I said don't be hasty. I want what is best for our people's future, not their past! We have no permanent allies; that's a lesson we couldn't afford to learn the first time!"

The other members of their party - the human huntress Atia, the forsaken Pernard and the orc Lorik, keep pace with the pair and say little. Their thoughts on the events are no less real, but they seem to be used to this dynamic and primarily interested in getting it out of the street as a public spectacle. Atia spares you a glance as they all follow the brothers into the Arathi Entente chapter's tent, tacitly permitting you to be there, given the elvish nature of all the emotion flowing around.

"Don't you get it? What happens if another war breaks out? We'll be marching out to kill the same people our father died trying to save!"

"Our father is dead because of the same bullheaded allegiance to sentiment that you-"

That snaps something in the warrior brother, and with a silk smooth movement of grace and power he rounds and drives his fist square into his brother's face. Matthean's nose crumbles under the impact, blood streaming immediately as he totters over backwards on to the ground in a daze born as much of the fratricidal direction of the blow as the impact itself. Zalael looks ready to follow it up with a kick or two before Lorik's big green hands snatch him by the shoulders and restrain him, and Atia kneels by Matthean's side as he recovers. The mage stays down for the moment, spitting blood to one side that creates a vivid crimson spatter on the blankets laid down on the tent floor.

"Wake up to yourself, Zal! Nothing is fine, and no amount of dumb effort will make it okay. No one's getting everything they want - we compromise, we move forward, we survive. I don't even want to go back for Silvermoon - you want that. I just want allies we can rely upon right now while we build a new home. You want to stay loyal to the humans, like father might have wanted? The humans who fought for our homeland? Good! You've been working with one for months!"

When Matthean gestures, it's not to the huntress Atia, but to the forsaken warrior, Pernard, sitting on a stool at one side of the tent looking small and uncomfortable with the back and forth. His jawlessness makes him unable to directly respond, but he does look up with eye sockets filled with a soft yellow glow, back and forth between the brothers, like he resents being dragged into this. But Matthean isn't finished.

"Lordaeron and Silvermoon both fell, and the only reason there's any resistance left in Quel'Thalas at all is because Pernard's people never stopped fighting the Scourge even after they gave their lives! Lady Windrunner gave them the means to fight back. Not Varian Wrynn, or the dwarf kings, or anyone else. The humans who were our allies in the second war are still fighting. Do you get it?"

Zalael may not take this point completely, but what he does realize is that he has raved all the way from the gates of Orgrimmar to this tent about the indignity of allying with the Horde, while his orcish and forsaken brothers in arms patiently let him scowl. Embarrassment for that, and for punching his brother, and then for doing all this infront of you, reddens his cheeks, and he retreats at the summit of his frustration and shame around you, back out the tent flap, to stand in the muddy street and the drizzling rain.

In the Ratchet Chapter's Tent

Emilia is finished packing quite quickly, and spends a little while lingering listening to the others talk about their disappointments for the evening. For a party they'd travelled so far for, that seemed so honouring and promising, everyone came away feeling worse for it.

"Did... you all see that comet? It was big, wasn't it? I mean... close. Probably going to land somewhere inland and draw all kinds of-"

She cuts off her sentence when a goblin hiding under an umbrella raps on the tent flap, and she takes a parcel wrapped in waxed cloth from him. She tips the goblin, and he goes on his way; and she pulls from within the cloth a folded scrap of paper, and... a gold envelope, its top clearly already opened. She gives the letter a glance, then hands both to Jakk'ari.

Spoiler: The contents.

Show

Jakkari

Grabbed this and laughed when I read it. I heard the vote counters arguing about whether you got one vote per head or per body; now it makes sense. I guess there are more than a few souls attending who think Old Khadgar could use a punch in the face.

No hard feelings brother.

- Bembowole

An officious looking card details what the master of ceremonies might have read at the podium if the festivities hadn't ended prematurely.

King of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball by Plurality Vote: Zalael Emberpride
Queen of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball by Plurality Vote: Mor'Lag

(scribbled hastily in another hand) Do not call for the king and queen's dance. I know it's on the run sheet but it'll look ridiculous. Chen is making a batch of 'royal shots' to toast with instead, try to stall. - Ogbin.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari


Jakk'ari shuffles through the deliveries. The apology from Bwembole assuages the disappointing from tonight. But to have the greatest consolation arrive so suddenly. Jakk'ari announces the news and promoting the small victory. He raps a hollow gourd with a cooked bone the modest thuds permeate the tent.

It would seem the most esteemed guest of Armistice Ball has among us this whole this entire time. Mor'Lag your boldness has made an impression and you have been bestowed the title of Queen of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball!
Jakk'ari congratulates Mor'Lag by jubilantly patting the ogres on their elbow and offering the golden envelope and letter to Mor'Lag.
The Opal Collocation can claim at least one victory tonight.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag just look on in shock.

"I... uh"/"I... uh"

"What!?

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Jakk'ari

It would seem the most esteemed guest of Armistice Ball has among us this whole this entire time. Mor'Lag your boldness has made an impression and you have been bestowed the title of Queen of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball!
Jakk'ari congratulates Mor'Lag by jubilantly patting the ogres on their elbow and offering the golden envelope and letter to Mor'Lag.
The Opal Collocation can claim at least one victory tonight.

Of course.

Of course the hideous ogre won Queen of the Ball. What was Marion expecting - something sensible in this land of madness? Fat chance, sister. At least there was a certain dignity losing to a she-elf. The fair folk were beautiful and graceful by nature, so taking home the silver when competing against them in the realm of allure at least carried a degree of self-respect and understanding. There was no shame in losing to the best.

But losing such a contest to an ogre? A race who fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down? And one that actually initiated a fist-fight against other guests of the event? Of course Marion lost to Ms Cankles - of course she did! Just the salt rubbed into the wounds from this pile of garbage the orcs called their capital city. The sooner she could get back to her tower and put this ****hole in the rear-view mirror, the sooner Marion would be happy.

Outwardly Marion looked unphased, however internally displeased she was. Offering a polite, congratulatory smile while she took a sip of her apricot brandy and gestured her glass-carrying hand towards Mor'lag in a 'yeah - you!' motion, the warlock nodded.

"Congratulations are in order Mor'lag - well done!"

[WindStruck]

Isaera has to scurry to catch up to the arguing brothers at first. It wasn't hard to find them with the scene being made as they practically shouted all the way back to their camp. It all culminated in their tent when Zalael throws a punch into his brothers face and makes a bloody mess of his nose. Isaera gasped and brought her hands up to her own face, cringing.

For once, Isaera is at a loss for words. Zalael left the tent in shame, and while she watched him for a moment, she hurried up to Matthean and knelt down next to him. His nose was still a bloody mess, and it would feel pretty foolish to ask if he was okay. Obviously he wasn't. His allies could only administer some basic first aid, and she was even inept at that. "That looked like it really hurt.. in more ways than one." She looked down, feeling some embarrassment on behalf of Zalael's actions as well.

"You make some very fine points. It's.. something I've never thought of before..." And much like the decaying and animated body of Pernard, the legacy of Silvermoon was also probably just as faded and downtrodden.

"I still don't think I like the idea of a formal alliance. Though I admit, I was never really opposed to cooperation in the first place." Isaera stands again and then sighs. "I should go talk to him," she says, gazing out the tent flap.

[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?"

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag, still in deep depression, rouse at this at and seek to gather the others, sure an expedition is imminent...

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: ooc

Show

time really does fly!

"I don't think we'd devolve into a bunch of .. as you put, savages," Isaera says, trying to be careful with her words. Seems all these brothers did was inadvertently insult their associates. Though perhaps Matthean was speaking a bit more historically, rather than calling orcs and their troll allies savages in the here and now. But still. It's not like she would disagree.

She tries to smile and says, "I think we are too connected by magic and everyone else in this world to truly forget who we were and what we have accomplished. And besides, the legacy of Silvermoon still stands and can be recovered. Someday. But if you would rather let go of the past and move forward to something new.. I do not blame you..."

She stands and makes her way outside to find Zalael (and a furbolg entering their tent). More fires to put out later, perhaps. Isaera sighs and stands there a few moments, just letting the awkwardness bleed out. Or grow. She wasn't sure if silence was helping.

"You really need to apologize for that, you know."

"Though, an apology doesn't undo what was done..."

Isaera glances sideways at her own tent, half monitoring it and says, "You're not wrong though. I feel the same way you do. We can't be the only ones who think there's something wrong about all this.."

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

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?"

And so an additional group of vagrants had barged into their quarters to spill forth another sob story. Naturally, this was followed by the net being cast out in the hopes of ensnaring their help and, if no such assistance was visibly and swiftly forthcoming, the soft undercurrent of guilt-tripping to pull at the heart-strings and twist their arm.

Marvellous.

To make matters more abrasive, there was just something about the animalistic appearance and bestial grunts of the Furbolg that really got under Marions skin and pissed her off. As if on tonight, of all nights, she needed some disgusting hybrid of bear and ape to barge into her tent and garble its hideous language at her in demands that she risk her life for its dumb companions that got themselves lost in their own lands. Morons. F**k'em. Why should they interfere with natural selection?

Burn it, a nasty part of the warlocks psyche beckoned her. Who in the Twisting Nether does this ****hole think he is - barging in here and making demands of us? Snap your fingers and set him on fire, right now! He'll think twice before making such demands of others again! The cheek!

Marion tilted her head back and swallowed down the mouthful of apricot brandy she had poured.

Then she got herself another. This was her third in ten minutes.

"Sure, why not?" Marion waved her free hand dismissively.

"It's not like we're in the middle of anything important. We'll just click our heels, trot along down to Ashzara and Winterspring, past the hostile continent full of beasts that want to kill us, enter two regions of which we know nothing, and find your missing companions quick sharp. Is that all? " she added the final question with sardonic mirth, rather than being put forward as an actual inquiry.

"No worries mate! We'll get right on that! Anything else we can do for you while you've stopped by? I've got some sweets packed in my luggage if you'd like to have those as well? What about apricot brandy, you have that back in your huts by the river in the forests you live in?"

She knew the Furbolg couldn't understand her, but right now the warlock didn't care. Marion was currently the smallest being in the tent, her 5'6" and trim frame rather diminutive compared to the ogre, the troll and the furbolg, as she slouched back into her plush chair and took another swill of brandy and stared hatefully up at the ceiling.

"Pfft" she blew her lips.

"Flimshaw!"

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari

Jakk'ari jumps forwards to stand beside Roshorn and fills the beat of silence, left by Marion, by introducing the fellow shaman Roshorn.
Everyone, the Furbolg beside me is Roshorn a member of the Winterspring chapter of the Opal Collocation. He too has come to has come to advance the peaceful goals of the Opal Collocation just like us.

Jakk'ari warmly describes Roshorn hoping to dislodge any disdainful sentiments before they have a chance to take root. The guilt from abandoning the furry shaman now knots his conscience as he explains Roshorn's plight.

Unfortunately he can only communicate with those outside his chapter through Kalimag, the speech of Elements, and his chapter never arrived for the Armistice Ball. He has requested our aid in investigating the absence of his chapter mates.

I will be aiding Roshorn. We have seen the beneficial results of associating with a sibling chapter.
He gestures towards Isaera, vaguely knowing of the attention she had received and the potential courtship it insinuated. Though the full nature of the young relationship escaped the married troll shaman.

Such association could breed comradery and even bring abundance beyond the material.
He speaks with emphasis guided towards Marion, making evident that he had been listening to her initial reaction to Roshorn.

Comradery has saved us from tremendous threats before, hasn't it?
He asks Mor'Lag, still looking for a sense of community after having been left adrift without a clan.

[Feathersnow]

In deep depression over being rejected by Marion, as well as everyone else, who not being Wonder Workers, had less valuable opinions. Mor and Lag were on the verge of tears at this point...

At Jak'Kari's words, they bouy slightly, having a mission, but neither sister dares directly contradict their "leader."

[MrAbdiel]

Isaera, Outside...

Matthean hears you out, and lets you go without complaint. You sense no malice from him, despite your points of disagreement.

Zalael hears your injunction to apologize, and gives a sagging nod of his head. "Yes. Well... Well, you're right... But I'm not so worried. We fight a lot, like that. It's not always me who strikes first. We'll work it out. We always do."

On the more general topic, the wrongness of this direction of elven motion, he remains sullen, and is glad to have your agreement. "I can't believe Prince Kael'thas has just... given up on his legacy like that. Refusing to be the new Sunstrider king isn't humility, it's cowardice. We need singular unity taking back our homeland, not... this. A part of the people combing the orc world for imagined mana, another part throwing themselves behind Lor'Themar, and others... I imagine, looking to the Ranger-General Vereesa, who did not seem party to this. When we take back Silvermoon, who will rule there? Lor'Themar, king of the blood elves?" He grimaces, and shakes his head with a sigh. "It's wrong, like you said. I will fight when the time comes to take back our land - but I will not call myself Sin'dorei, or kneel to a regent who does. I am Quel'dorei, like my father." Without prophetic vision, it is hard to know if this is stubbornness in the face of inevitability or a principled conviction that will one day be seen as righteous. The rain is picking up now, plastering down the warrior's hair to his face. He glances to you, then back to his chapter's tent, where his brother awaits a mending of this rift. He makes a minimal gesture towards that tent, saluting your initial encouragement to apologize as he makes to go do it now.

"I'd better... Well. It was very fine dancing with you, Isaera Runescribe. I'll write." Then he steals away into his fellows' tent as the rain goes from showering to pouring, and you are driven to consider a similar retreat.

Everyone Else, Inside the Ratchet Chapter Tent

Roshorn is a simple furbolg; the kind of wisdom he needs to commune with the spirits is not the same as the social savvy required to navigate complex interpersonal webs. All the same, he is not a fool. He knows when he is being mocked, even in another language, and his amber eyes watch Marion as she scowls and parades her discontent. He does not seem to hold it against her - and perhaps just as well, for he has very little leverage throwing himself on the mercy of the Ratchet Chapter. He watches Jakkari hopefully as the troll offers a more soothing flow of incomprehensible language to him, the diplomat clearly acting as his advocate. He growls a Kalimag addendum to Jakk'ari.

"I have none of the riches Horde and Alliance crave to pay your companions; but mine are not without their own skills. Whatever has befallen them, they will be grateful to be delivered; and we will certainly owe your clan a debt of like action."

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion perked an eyebrow when she noticed that Mor'lag seemed somewhat despondent, despite her outward show of congratulatory support for her victory. Watching the ogre slink away, the warlock had paused momentarily, as if pondering whether she should go after her and ask what the matter was. Perhaps that would be best.

The Alteracian struggled at first to dislodge herself from her plush, deep chair. Grunting in annoyance, gripping the side with her one free hand and wriggling her legs and rump, Marion gritted a "Ny...yaah!!" as she finally pulled herself up and out of the opulent chair, visibly staggering about and blinking whoozily as she got to her feet, the alcohol clearly getting to her brain.

Inhaling, Marion walked past the Fulbolg and the troll who were talking, and approached Marion from behind - the size difference between the two of them like that gapped between a human and a gnome.

"Hey, Mor'lag - you alright?" Marion asked, steadying herself against the wall.

"You...hic!...won Queen of the Ball! You should be ecstatic!"

[Plaids]

He growls a Kalimag addendum to Jakk'ari.

"I have none of the riches Horde and Alliance crave to pay your companions; but mine are not without their own skills. Whatever has befallen them, they will be grateful to be delivered; and we will certainly owe your clan a debt of like action."

Jakk'ari

Each one of my clan would be willing to be of aid. Though motives will vary from of fairness and family to acceptance and belonging to ambition and respect.
He looks patiently to each party member, his patience overriding any exasperation as warmth tinges his assessments. Then back to Roshorn.
Would there be any ogres or royalty amongst your companions would there?

He asks probing Roshorn hopefully.

[Feathersnow]

Marion Mordis

Marion perked an eyebrow when she noticed that Mor'lag seemed somewhat despondent, despite her outward show of congratulatory support for her victory. Watching the ogre slink away, the warlock had paused momentarily, as if pondering whether she should go after her and ask what the matter was. Perhaps that would be best.

The Alteracian struggled at first to dislodge herself from her plush, deep chair. Grunting in annoyance, gripping the side with her one free hand and wriggling her legs and rump, Marion gritted a "Ny...yaah!!" as she finally pulled herself up and out of the opulent chair, visibly staggering about and blinking whoozily as she got to her feet, the alcohol clearly getting to her brain.

Inhaling, Marion walked past the Fulbolg and the troll who were talking, and approached Marion from behind - the size difference between the two of them like that gapped between a human and a gnome.

"Hey, Mor'lag - you alright?" Marion asked, steadying herself against the wall.

"You...hic!...won Queen of the Ball! You should be ecstatic!"

Mor and Lag look at their glorious leader blankly fir a minute.

"Really?"
"You think so?"


"We got humiliated."
"And ran"

"But..."
"But..."

"So did the Horde"
"And they picked us."

"Maybe..."
"Maybe they were serious?"

"We..."
"We... Won"

"We won!"

Mor'Lag seems to have come out of their funk.

[MrAbdiel]

Roshorn remains somewhat cowed by the strange spectrum of emotions going on in the tent - locked out of the discussion in common/orcish, he cannot understand that much of the bad feeling in the room has nothing to do with him at all. Still, he is buoyed by Jakk'ari's words, and offers a summary of his chaptermates.

"No ogres, I think. Though I sometimes struggle to tell the furless apart... No, none are ogres. There is Donova Den-Of-Snow, a woman dwarf. Two men of the far kingdoms, that bicker like littermates. An old man, Ignaeus, and a younger one, Laydus. Both are men of steel. And Yara is trollkind, like you - though young, and her skin is blue. If any are royal, I do not know it... but they are honorable."

Donova, Ignaeus, Laydus, Yara, and Roshorn make five; which seems to be a stable and typical number for chapters like this.

Spoiler: Jakkari:

Show

There are many blue skinned troll tribes, and a short name like Yara. No affixes to the name give you nothing to go on - Zul'Yara might reasonably be expected to be a master of atleast one form of voodoo, Yara'Maz might be either a tribal leader or one tapped to inherit that mantle when the leader died. But a simple 'Yara' suggests either a young troll woman with few accomplishments to brag about, or no heritage worth flagging.

Spoiler: Marion:

Show

You know none of these people, though "Ignaeus" is the name of the ancient tribal king of the Alteraci tribe whom King Thoradin of Arathor bested in combat and took on as a brother and fellow general in the ancient trollwars. Ignaeus was given the name "Trollbane" for his heroism, and his descendants carried that name eventually to the throne of Strom. Obviously the real Ignaeus Trollbane is long, long dead; but the name is most commonly given to Alteraci sons more than Stromic ones.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Mor and Lag look at their glorious leader blankly fir a minute.

"Really?"
"You think so?"


"We got humiliated."
"And ran"

"But..."
"But..."

"So did the Horde"
"And they picked us."

"Maybe..."
"Maybe they were serious?"

"We..."
"We... Won"

"We won!"

Mor'Lag seems to have come out of their funk.

Marion had to tilt her head back to look up at Mor'lag, their size difference almost comical as the smaller human swayed gently as the alcohol ate away at her brain. Still, the Warlock remembered how embarassed she felt when the ogre had made her scene, charging Khadgar in public like that...still. As far as Marion could tell, her name hadn't been associated with anything, and it was in the past. Water under the bridge.

Shrugging, Marion blew a raspberry with her lips and waved her glass-holding hand dismissively.

"Who cares what the....they thick...hic! You don't owe them anything!"

"I'm from Alterac, the...hic...black sheep of the Alliance...and...hic...I got expelled form Dallaran for...practicing...magics that I shouldn't be practin...hic! Great shame for everyone invol..involved...but the Scourge quickly too pre-sea-dints...hic!"

Swallowing, inhaling, Marion took another sip of her apricot brandy.

"'sides, old girl, you jolly well wowed the lot at the ball, didn't you? I mean, bagging the title and all! Who could possibly have a beef with you when you're the belly of the ball, eh? Plenty were keen to look past any trifles and hand you the crown. Bravo, I say! Jolly good show!"

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari

Yes, none dared to bear such strength against the mage so boldly. But now our sibling chapter needs your strength Mor'Lag. Jakk'ari interjects as he wedges himself between Mor'Lag and tipsy Marion.
Roshorn has told me his five allies have gone missing. Jakk'ari's confidence swells as his and Marion's praise elevates Mor'Lag's moods.

He pivots to Marion for a moment hoping her drink had dulled her robust skepticism.
Roshorn has promised a man of iron from a far kingdom who would be grateful for your aid. Hopefully Iseara is close by and knew a cantrip to cure light inebriation.

He listens to Marion and Mor'Lags response while prepared to search for Isaera.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag look expecting at their leader, the wonder worker Marion.

"We should go?"
"Right?"

[WindStruck]

Outside the Pavilions

The rain had begun to drizzle more. "That is a good question, isn't it? Who would rule Silvermoon and control the destiny of our people? Why should we adhere to tradition blindly following those who forsake our heritage and cherry pick what they want to uphold? But.. I don't know what we are actually dealing with. Maybe it's cowardice. Maybe it's not humility at all, but grandiosity. Maybe it's just sheer foolhardiness.. either way.. it disgusts me..."

As the rain picks up, Isaera says, "We aren't alone in our beliefs, Zalael. But.. our people.. but truly, our people, us Quel'dorei.. I feel we shall be alone, without any allies we can fall back onto. Not even our king anymore..." She sniffles a bit. "Farewell. I hope to see you again."

Isaera scurries inside as the torrential downpour ensues.


Inside the Pavilion

The high elf arrives inside the tent with muddied feet and sandals, a drenched dress that sags on her, and somewhat tousled hair, looking like a drowned rat. She peers about at the jubilant Mor'Lag, the smashed Marion, affable Jakk'ari and.. the unexpected Furbolg?

She catches the tail end of what Jakk'ari says. "Five missing allies? Who....?"

Isaera looks curiously at the Furbolg. 'Roshorn'? Or was that one of the missing persons.

"I didn't know we had a visitor. What's going on?"

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Mor and Lag look expecting at their leader, the wonder worker Marion.

"We should go?"
"Right?"

At the current point in time, the Warlock hardly looked the 'leader' that Mor'lag believed her to be. Having initially dismissed the furbolg as an entitled whiner, she now had to actually listen to him. Or at least Jakk'ari, who provided useful translational services.

Marion shrugged.

"Sure. Why not. Hic..."

After all, what else did they have to do?

But then Isaera entered, dunked in the rain with her flax-like hair clinging to her scalp. Her inhibitions largely untethered by her apricot brandy, Marion pursed her lips as the elf entered the tent.

She catches the tail end of what Jakk'ari says. "Five missing allies? Who....?"

Isaera looks curiously at the Furbolg. 'Roshorn'? Or was that one of the missing persons.

"I didn't know we had a visitor. What's going on?"

"I could write a book about what you don't know," Marion whispered under her breath, before taking another sip of her drink.

"Hmm?" Marion murmured a little louder, drawing her look up and across at Isaera.

"Oh...hic...Madam has returned? You honour us with your presence," she spoke, before turning to the Furbolg.

"Tell him Jakk'ari, he is lucky to receive his Ladyship," she gestured to the elf, eyes still on the Fubolg, "few are worthy...hic...few are worthy of her attention, so plead your case quickly and do not waste her precious time."

[WindStruck]

Isaera glanced at Marion and could sense the contempt and sarcasm. She knew her well enough at this point. Briefly, she asked herself just what crawled up Marion's ass and got into her system. But then that answer was immediately apparent: the booze.

Isaera inhales sharply and decides to play along with the act. "Yes, if you do have something to say to me, make it quick. I am in a rather.. disgraceful state at the moment."

"...or, perhaps, you could wait some moments for me to get changed."