Tohrm was just turning the fourteenth page of the information dossier, when there sounded a heavy knock at the door. Seeing as all the others had gone upstairs to discuss recent scouting information (which would just be passed down to him in the form of another dossier eventually), Tohrm decided to answer the door. He placed the paperwork carefully down on the nearby table, next to his cup of very strong Draenic tea, savouring an inhalation of the rich substance in the process. He then stood up with a heavy exhalation of effort.
The knock came again, this time more persistent, annoying. Tohrm reached the door with a symphony of creaks and thuds and opened it swiftly, drawing up to his full height. In this state he filled the doorframe; puny human buildings were not designed for the sheer mass of the Draenei body. Neither were puny humans, as Torhm observed when the woman who had knocked on the door shrunk away from his immense size.
“Hello…” croaked the figure standing upon the doorstep, her voice strikingly similar to the sound floorboards made when Tohrm stood on them.
In front of Tohrm hunched an old woman, old grey wispy hair, old wrinkly skin, old weary yet wise eyes, and an old walking stick holding up her old decrepit body, donned in old, smelly clothes. And yet she was virtually seven billion years younger than Tohrm was. Oh boy, do some people let themselves go, Tohrm thought, as he took a scan of the area before lowering his vision to this senile interloper.
“I am here… for the annual meeting… of the flower arranging committee,” she announced. The way her eyes lit up upon mention of the committee seemed to infer she had little left to live for.
Tohrm puffed up his chest a little more, “This is a likely story,” he replied, sarcastically. It was clear; this malign character was attempting some kind of subterfuge. “May I ask then, young old woman, where are your flowers?” He surveyed her more closely, and it was confirmed, she was not currently wielding any sort of bouquet or singular flower. She was flowerless. Her story, her deceit was uncovered.
The Shaman slammed the door in her face; he would not tolerate evil-doers. He was the door man; it was his duty to regulate those who could use the door, approach the door, and even those who glanced at the door. To fulfil the third of these duties, Tohrm stepped over to the closest window and peered outside. His glowing azure-white eyes followed the elderly spy back down the street. In the process he scanned for any other possible door-offenders. There were none. Tohrm returned to his seat, tea and information dossier.
… a notable increase of cooking related literature in Horde supply. Perhaps some form of giant pastry is their great plan. We should work to create anti-pastry defences as well as train our new recruits in food-related scatter-techniques…
“Hmm,” the Draenei thought, draining his cup of tea and then placing both the dossier and the cup down on the table once more. He set off into the kitchen in search of food.
((I decided not to go with my ridiculous plans, and made a mostly humble time-wasting post. :D ))