The Lady Proudmoore had escaped. The whispers were that she was assuming Rhonin's position. Yes, that would be something to see. I had witnessed her several times before, though not in this guise. Red robes, fashionable hair, carefully-cultivated demeanor. No one had ever or would ever make the connection.
I got up and began walking through the streets of Dalaran, wandering towards the portal to Stormwind in the Silver Enclave with a somber expression on my face. Here I was known for my joy and merriment, as much a mask as any I've worn. It would not be appropriate for now though. I had to pretend that I felt sad as I nodded to one of the sentries and stepped from Northrend's sky into Stormwind's mage tower.
Certainly it was a tragedy. Certainly Garrosh was a monster. Certainly there was a reason to feel anger, hatred, sorrow. But I did not. I do not.
It did not take long to reach my home in the Mage District. The door was locked and barred as always. It had never been opened once, I had seen to it that it would never be capable of doing so. I gathered arcane power and Blinked forward five steps to deposit myself neatly in the foyer, bare of all furnishings other than a single wardrobe.
No one other than myself had ever been in here. For good reason. How would they react if they realized that the bright-eyed stripper was something else altogether? To conceal myself I had thrust attention onto my public persona, hiding in plain sight.
I disarmed the wards and opened the wardrobe, revealing battle garb. A golden-crowned mask stared out at me, the black eyesockets running down into dark tears for the sadness I could not feel as I did the deeds others could not. People knew this mask as amoral, willing to slay many to save few, willing to take on the missions others deemed suicide. I had traveled every continent and been exalted by many, collecting treasures and discarding them in the next breath. I did not care for such things. I was merely a sword to be drawn against an enemy, any enemy. A sword needed no face, it just needed to kill. After Deathwing's fall I had been sheathed, with some small hope that there would be peace.
I put the mask on and felt at ease. No such thing as peace. Garrosh had pushed this war. The new continent had been revealed, a land shrouded in mists. The war would go there.
And the Alliance would need a sword once again.