World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

Emilia has been sitting to the side all this time, her meagre kit packed into a sling bag at her feet. She watches Isaera as she returns and she and Marion begin sparking off each other again. She had hoped that, over her tenure in Ratchet Chapter, she would see their periodic frictions smoothen into something approaching respect; perhaps even the kind of friendship that comes out of rivalry. But Emilia herself wasn't much of a peacemaker - and she couldn't even reprimand Marion's intoxication without hypocrisy. If the mage and warlock were going to bond, Emilia wouldn't get to see it. Still, she straightens up for a second as if preparing to interject as some kind of distraction, before Jakk'ari gets there first with a more genuinely informative comment.

As far as she could see it, Jakk'ari was ready to take up the task; Mor'Lag would follow Marion's lead, and Marion's assent was, for the moment, dubious with sarcasm. Isaera's input may be enough to push the discussion into action.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion drew her glass up to her lips again and took another deep sip, the amber-gold liquid quickly diminishing. The bottle that the adventuring noble had originally retrieved and from which she dispersed the alcohol, was getting close to half empty, its 40% alcohol content having gone into the system of only one present: Marion.

She remained quiet as Isaera followed up with Jakk'ari whom, ever the diplomatic, acquiesced to the elf's demands for expedition.

But it was another figure that caught the Warlocks attention, as her eyes widened at observance when she was drawing her glass down and spotted Emilia prepping her things, ready to depart. The Paladin and her had...never really gotten along. Surprising! But nevertheless, Emilia hadn't pissed the warlock off, nor gotten in her way, nor made any unreasonable demands of her. Indeed, she had been downright stalwart, and Marion was not so egoistical as to not see the salvation for humankind the paladins had been...even if they'd almost gotten her killed several times during her personal attempts at escape during the Scourging of Lordaeron.

And so, Marion unceremonly lurched forward and walked in in front of Jakk'ari and the furbolg as if they weren't even there, her bare feet slap-slap-slap-slapping on the floor as she walked with the grace of something from Durotar, until she drew herself up alongside the paladin.

"I'm sorry to see - hic! I'm..." Marion blinked, pressing her eye-lids together hard and then opening them, "I'm sorry, to see, you go, Emilia, I really am!" she put one arm around the paladin, clutching her close in a tight hug.

"Look, about the Legion, there's something you should know..."

The warlock then spent the next five minutes, as slurred and drunken as she was, dispensing some...very insightful advice into the demonology of the ether, the legion and devils in general. It was rather astute and learned, suggesting that Marion was a lot more knowledgeable than she might have let on, and it could possibly save Emilia's life or those of her colleagues one day.

Kissing the paladin on the cheek, swaying on her feet, Marion wished her the best, smothering her with a several inebriated affections before turning her half-eye-closed attention back to the troll, furbolg and Her Majesty.

[WindStruck]

Isaera listens to Jakk'ari's translated plea, her eyes shifting a bit from side to side, among her companions and their visitor.

"Well.. I don't think he expects us to leave right now? It's getting late and the weather is quite terrible," she says.

"I suppose we could help, although.. this feels like searching for a needle in a hay stack, doesn't it? Kind of like those marines..."

"Does he even have an idea of what route they might have taken? How long is the journey?"

[Plaids]

Isaera listens to Jakk'ari's translated plea, her eyes shifting a bit from side to side, among her companions and their visitor.

"Well.. I don't think he expects us to leave right now? It's getting late and the weather is quite terrible," she says.

"I suppose we could help, although.. this feels like searching for a needle in a hay stack, doesn't it? Kind of like those marines..."

"Does he even have an idea of what route they might have taken? How long is the journey?"

Jakk'ari

Ahh... well I see, the elements will be most forthcoming with the two of us. But I see your point. We succeeded with ranger skills of Sergent Zachary Black, guidance from the alliance, and hospitality from the horde. Delaying our departure would be prudent with our faculties and conditions.
Jakk'ari notes as his enthusiasm subsides in the midst of his disheveled party.
You may rest while I will see what else Roshorn knows and what he does not.

Turning to Roshorn Jakk'ari renews his questioning.
Roshorn, do you know which route your clan may have taken and what may have prevented them from arriving here? Are there any scouts in Azshara who will come to our aid? My clan and I have saved people lost in the wilderness on multiple occasions but have had scouts or directions while doing so. I also fear the guidance elements will not be available should an arcane adversary be responsible for your clan's dissapearance.

Spoiler: Hopefully Emelia will not be leaving immediately

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Hopefully Emelia and the other the paladins are going to take some time to prepare their campaign to plan out the logistics.

[MrAbdiel]

Roshorn's ursine head tracks between the speakers, tension entering his posture as he loses touch with an exchange beyond his understanding and draining away again as Jakk'ari decodes it for him. In Kalimag, he responds.

"I do - I walked the road with my own paws expecting them to catch up to me on the way. We pass from Winterspring through the hold of the Timbermaw - our opal clan has good relations with them - into Ashzara, south along the escarpment above the ruins of Eldarath, and south to Lake Mennar and the path the orcs have carved in the lower mountains to the Orgimmar canyon. It is not especially dangerous, but there are naga in the bay... The horde soldiers from Valormok keep them in check. But I cannot imagine the Opal clan would stray into danger without some good reason..."

The conditions make it difficult to imagine leaving this evening, though tomorrow morning the roads in all directions are likely to have travellers retreating from the collapsed peace summit. Night elves returning north are likely to go west through Ashenvale, instead, but the druid hub of Moonglade is accessible to the north - for druids, anyway. The road may not be totally lonely. As for Emilia and the rest of the Argent Dawn, she seems to be preparing to depart tomorrow with all haste - if there is no portal available for mere squires, she'll have a ship to catch as soon as possible.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari

That trail narrows our search and what may have detoured them.
We are not in a state to depart, and we need to rest. But you have my promise that I will help find your opal clan.
Jakk'ari reassures Roshorn.

Perhaps the little elemental of snow and wind can help us recover.
Jakk'ari wonders as he sees Marion drunken beside Mor'Lag recently having been hurled by Medivh.

Jakk'ari begins arranging his bedding to rest.

[Feathersnow]

Lag sneaks the bottle away from Marion as she talks to the Lightbound warrior and downs most of it, passing the rest to Mor, who puts it down after finishing it.

She needed to protect her leader from excess, but getting caught wouldn't do at all... with a decent buzz, the twins trundle off to find a place to sleep.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

The bottle was easily whisked away, Mor'lag and others noting it was about 75% empty, the entirety of it having been imbibed in their warlock companion would was now stumbling about. She muttered and grumbled about a few things before being plonked into her cot to sleep everything off.

[MrAbdiel]

Azshara

Precious few remember Zin-Azshari. Precious few remember the Kaldorei Empire at all, let alone the glorious and glamorous capital. The earliest Night Elves built the city of Elun'dris on the shores of the Well of Eternity, but only when it blossomed into an empire did the Kaldorei rename the city Zin-Azshari, the Glory of Azshara. But after the war of the Ancients, after the Legion first came to Azeroth and the gravity of the queen's desecration buckled the land and caused the city's bulk to shear from the tectonic plate and plunge into the endless dark of the ocean, the despairing survivors came to know it more simply. Not a glory, but a reminder of the hollowness of empire, and glory, and arcane obsession.

Now, it's simply Azshara. But even with all its ancient Kaldorei glory sunk into the ocean forever, the land is not devoid of natural beauty. Some quirk of its proximity to the Well of Eternity las locked the flora of the region in perpetual autumn. Tall polyathias, noble oaks, and swooping juniper trees with fabulously curved trunks all sport majestic boughs crowded with leaves of oranges, reds and yellows. Even the grass has an unnatural, but not unlovely fall hue. Supposedly, the region is especially lovely when the sun is rising over the sea in the east, turning the whole realm into fields of burnished and glowing gold.

Walking along the scrappy dirty road down from the mountain pass from Orgimmar, each of you is now as far north in Kalimdor as you have ever been with each step, rather than returning home the way you came as you had planned. Fortunately, you aren't losing time: early in the morning before your departure, one of Lady Proudmoore's apprentices visited your tent to impart to Isaera two things. The first is a ceramic disc fired from a mana-rich clay and engraved with a spell that will create short-lived portal to Theramore. The second is a reiteration of Jaina's assurance that, when Isaera stops by, she will receive the texts and components she needs to start inscribing the chapter's portal anchor at the tower in Ratchet. The upshot of it all is, as long as you aren't delayed by several days here in Azshara, you'll arrive back in Ratchet faster by portal and ship than you would have if you had left immediately and taken a combination of ship, zeppelin, and marching.

Once again, you find yourselves walking into the wilderness looking for lost heroes. These are not freshly minted cadets out to get themselves into trouble; these are adventurers at least somewhere close to parity in expertise to your party. They had somewhere important to be, and were travelling a safe rout. What could have befallen them, or else possessed them to deviate by days and miss what was anticipated to be one of the most important diplomatic events in modern history - and the culmination of the Opal Collocation's noble goals?

You missed today's sunrise by several hours and it's near to noon as you follow Roshorn's ambling bulk off the road to the small lake Mennar. A modest, glistening freshwater lake accruing from a stream from the mountains you just passed, the water is the most obvious place for travellers to water their horses on the way through. A collection of chalk-white marble ruins are scattered around the lake's rim and some in the water itself. Column and stairs broken from their ancient belonging sit tilting half out of the sand. A lone tower, its outer masonry worked and fine beneath the weathering, stands sealed and leaning slightly south west; like a poorly tended gravestone for the ancient glory of the elves.

A small rugged hut sits next to a rough cut timber jetty over the water, suggesting at least one long term occupant; and a gated paddock in the golden grass stands empty beside it.

The bear man growls out in his impenetrable shaman-tongue, relying on Jakk'ari's translation.

"If my Opal clan made it this far, they surely stopped here. Perhaps... there is sign of their passing. Or no sign, to suggest instead they diverted earlier on the road..." He plods along the bank of the beach, sniffing and looking about for confirmation.

Spoiler: OOC:

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You're on the hunt. You can begin your investigation however you like, checking out any of the nearby features and looking for signs of the Winterspring Chapter!

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari

This is the furthest the Winterspring chapter could have traveled. Traces of their presence may remain in the landscape; while an absence would suggest they stopped earlier on their journey to Durotar. Jakk'ari translates for Roshorn.

Be wary amongst the ruins and stay within sight of one another. This be a hexed land, the remains of it's Demon Queen still persist. He warns the party while bristling at the white marble ruins still retaining some of their opulence from ages past.

I will investigating over there. Jakk'ari points forwards towards the quiet landscape as he resolutely walks forwards.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


And so the Opal collective pushed north of Orgrimmar, further than most humans had ever been in a small band of canting heroes that strode forth to rescue another group of heroes from their own clumsy stupidity. At least that's how Marion saw it.

The morning was easier on the warlock than most might think, as her teenage youth allowed her to shrug off the half bottle of alcohol she had imbibed with relative ease, and evade the brain-pulverizing curse of a hang-over. Instead, she had had an...awkward morning, at least around Isaera. Indeed, Marion had not forgotten the social wound the elf had inflicted on her and the ensuing salt rubbed within it, and she carried this injury by not talking to or addressing her directly, instead asking whoever was closest to pass on a message, if they were willing.

However, that was forgotten for now, as Marion sat atop Charon, the visibly fel-laced horse she had learned to summon before the trip to Orgrimmar. A relatively simple spell once you got it down, the fel-steed was a beautiful specimen of its kind, with an orange-black mane down its long, broad neck that was hot to the touch. Normal eyes did not reside within its sockets, but instead small pits of fire that somehow managed to convey an animalistic intelligence with its glare, while when it scraped its hooves against the ground it did so with emberous keratin that left soft little dark patches of char where-ever its arched horse-shoe tipped trotters touched the earth.

Marion herself had opted for an arcane casters fieldware: striking, but somewhat practical. Purple was the color of the day, with the silvery, grey lining helping to accentuate the beautiful, polished and cut emerald that sat at the base of her cleavage and at the centre of the satin gorget around her neck, while her crown of yellowed, blonde hair was braided along the side of her head as if to funnel the rest of her mane into a golden waterfall behind her head. If there was any hint one desired as to how deep the young womans coffers had become from the income of her enterprises, she wore them all with aplomb.

Naturally, as befitting a lady, Marion rode side-saddle, the rich purples of her robe draping across one side of Charon's muscular form, the saddle situated upon its back seemingly perfectly sculptured, doubtless by the girls own magic, to suit the warlocks contours with comfortable precision. It also retained space for a large, side-saddle hostler within which was sheathed a firearm rifle that Marion had brought along, as well as a utility belt of useful items and weapon reloads that she could swiftly fasten about her waist in a pinch.

When they came upon their first mystery, the scholar and intellectual curiosity of the Warlock was set to wander as she peered across the ruins of sculptured marble, decaying remnants of a once grand and vast empire forged by beings whom now huddled upon the island of Teldrassil in the nadir of their power. To think that they had once commanded the land from coast to coast, their hands stretching out across a vast continent of unimaginable riches and potential, yet now all that remained was some coastal influence and an island wrapped around a tree. The Kaldorei had grown tall and fallen far, indeed.

However, perhaps it was an individual curiosity, but Marion had always wondered why the Elves had not advanced to the gunpowder stage of their civilization. They clearly had the mental faculties to grasp and understand the principles, yet they had deliberately chosen to apprehend themselves in stasis. Though preserving a beautiful heritage was understandable, Marion felt a tinge of sadness that in doing so they had sacrificed their ability to defend it from outside forces that were mightier than they. Could the world today look very different had the Night Elves of old possessed, maintained and deployed squadrons of steam tanks, cannons, mortars, barrels of gunpowder and riflemen? Marion thought so. Such weapons had been instrumental in humanities efforts to blast to piece the vile orcs in decades past. What would the Kaldorei have done with such firepower, and how would the world be different today? That their empire had been forged with the same weapons they were still using at its fall thousands of years later, was indicative of utter failure, in Marions eyes. Guns were the great equalizer, after all. Marion was no physical match for a brutal orc, but give her a rifle and 50 yards of distance, and she could drop half a dozen in short order.

One could argue, if Marion could play devils advocate against herself, that the Night Elves druidic customs had been their downfall. Though initially productive for both spiritual and defensive means, the pathological strive for 'balance' had driven them into a state of complacency and stagnation, their one nature-infused trick becoming predictable to their enemies to the point it was no longer a reliable shield, but a lead anchor whose weight had made them vulnerable. In the long run, peace had cost them their strength. They were defeated by their own initial victories.

Be wary amongst the ruins and stay within sight of one another. This be a hexed land, the remains of it's Demon Queen still persist. He warns the party while bristling at the white marble ruins still retaining some of their opulence from ages past.

I will investigating over there. Jakk'ari points forwards towards the quiet landscape as he resolutely walks forwards.

Marion nodded to the troll - a member of another species long-fallen from power in Azeroth, but this time for the better - her eyes moving over to the Furbolg whom was shuffling about towards what he believed to be a source of clues as to his companions whereabouts. Now that she was more, ahem, sober, Marion didn't know what to think of the bear-man. He was...odd to look at, after all. Disgusting, ugly, but oddly endearing, perhaps because he was so ghastly, yet possessed of a timid and humble soul. Maybe.

For now, Marion remained atop Charon, and performed just a gentle trot around the perimeter, remaining within sight of the others and not traveling more than 50 to 100 yards, as she cast an inspection about their surroundings.