Fall of Theramore: Your Character's Reaction

Wyrmrest Accord
I sat on a bench in Dalaran, face exposed to the cool air drifting in from Icecrown. Theramore was gone, obliterated by a mana bomb. Rhonin, leader of the Kirin Tor, had been among the victims. I had never much liked his brashness, but he hadn't done anything to undermine the Kirin Tor so I had been neutral to him, as I was to many others.

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.
Gripping onto the handle of her sword, Beatrix pulled herself to her feet in agonizing pain. Lacerations could be seen across her body; splintered wood embedded in most of them - her own blood beginning to stain her blue and gold armor and the tabard of Stormwind she wore proudly against her chest. Rain began to fall as the wounded warrior made her way across the sandy shore, dragging her sword in the sand, and away from the water she had fallen into. The salt from the water stinging her wounds.

The area was crawling with Horde soldiers, shouting commands, running in all directions looting the now destroyed city of Theramore. Her own heart stopped in her chest and her eyes widened at the devastation the mana bomb had caused; cold tears ran down from the corners of her eyes, washing away the dirt and grime on her face and leaving a visible trail behind. She wanted to sink to her knees right then and there, but the area was far too dangerous to stay in.

With all her strength she limped her way behind a rock, planting her back firmly against the cold stone, her armor clanking nosily against it. She lay her head back against it, closing her eyes, the vivid image of the destruction around her still burned into her mind. How could this have happened? She thought to herself. Why were they not informed sooner? Beatrix opened her eyes to the darkened sky above her, rain pattering gently on her face. Slowly the sounds around her began to fade away and the sound of shouting muted out - it was as if Beatrix was starting to fade from reality as everything started to grow cold. Even her vision began to blur, focusing in and out.

Am I dying? She asked herself. Is this the cold grip of death the men talked about right before they passed in my arms?

She sank to her knees, no longer caring whether or not she'd get spotted by a member of the Horde. She sat back on her calves, her gaze still staring up at the heavens, her breathing starting to slow. Oddly enough, she smiled.

I fought well. I tried to save as many as I could.... I guess this is it.

Suddenly, she felt her world become shifted upwards and she was no longer on the ground. Instead she lay slung over someone's shoulder. She held loosely onto her sword, dragging it behind as she was being carried, refusing to let it go. She heard the person's voice, but the words could not be deciphered. Beatrix tried to speak out, trying to respond to whomever was carrying her, but shortly after she grew weak and blacked out...
Gadgetzan. Belaene Mornsong is sleeping when the news reaches the town, along with a hefty shipment of mail. She is woken by the innkeeper, who whacks her in the chest with a few letters while talking at a mile a minute.

"Woah. Woah, hey, slow down there Fizzgrimble."

She sits up, rubbing her eyes and fighting nausea. Too much beer the night before. Too many worries.

Then she catches 'Theramore' in Fizzgrimble's frantic ramblings, and she's more awake than she's ever been, and the nausea second only to morning sickness.

"Fizzgrimble! Theramore! What's happened?!"

The goblin manages to get it all out. She might have been able to handle it if it had just been normal war. But all he has to say is 'mana bomb', and she's lurching outside to retch into the sand.

When she recovers, she scrambles to read the letters. The very fact that there's two is worrying enough.

Mama, the children and I have relocated to Dalaran, but mama, Thelien...

If something is coming, Mother, I will stand with Theramore and defend it. I don't care if it's the Horde. I don't care if it's you leading the charge. This is my home, and I will defend it with my life.


Belaene Mornsong is sitting on the walls of Gadgetzan. It is night. She has not moved in hours. She is singing a lullaby to the stars.

It is the lullaby she sang to every one of her children in their infancy. All five of them. She has buried three. The Horde has killed one. She is sure there is no way in hell that she will get to bury him, or even look upon his face to say goodbye. But she can at least sing him to the eternal sleep, a sleep much longer than the one she sang him to when he was a swaddled infant.
For news to arrive all the way out to Hearthglen, something truly massive must have happened. And the scale of Theramore's destruction was one such event that would arrive so far north, even to the 'neutral' Argent Crusade.

The Horde, specifically, the Forsaken, were always under close watch. The cautionary stance taken to ensure Sylvanas Windrunner did not become the next Lich King, or Queen, was something that Tirion Fordring had taken a stance into ensuring, if not passively to avoid pointless conflict. In the end, though, the Argent Crusade was a force that would fight with righteousness, for righteousness.

The ongoing war between the Alliance and the Horde was something that should have been put to rest years ago. Those who remained in the Argent Crusade after the fall of the Lich King, possibly had this idea in mind when they remained with the organization. Or, they probably felt the same about Sylvanas. Still, neutrality in the conflict and ensuring that the priority goals are dealt with, was the focus that most pushed toward.

But this news was something even a member of the Argent Crusade could ignore. Or, at the very least, not Mirania. Theramore was a refuge for many people of Lordaeron, and was a beacon toward the admiration of a potential end to the conflict between the Alliance and Horde. Lady Jaina Proudmoore put herself through much grief and anguish to ensure those relations were not shattered. Such a person would have few real enemies, right?

"Garrosh Hellscream..." The name lingered in Mirania's mouth, ever-present in her mind. A blatant amount of disrespect the orc had shown to Tirion Fordring, and to the operations of the Argent Crusade as a whole. From what Mirania knew of Grom Hellscream, the similarities were jarring, at least initially. The orc was a worrying one, but now...

Mirania looks toward her empty bed, her Argent Crusade tabard neatly folded upon it. Her hand lowers, to gently press to the crest of the Crusade embroidered upon it. She smiles fondly, remembering her own convictions in her joining, and why she remained. "This conflict must end... but I do know, now, that such a thing will never come to be, so long as Garrosh Hellscream holds his title of 'warchief."

Speaking to herself was always a way to quell her nerves. As 'calm' as she seemed, Mirania's core was shuddering with grief and anguish. But, this was not the time for that. The time of mourning could be had, when justice had been served. "Now is not a time for strict neutrality. The goals of the Argent Crusade, and a rest of this war can be had while acting against a blind monster..."

Gathering her belongings, Mirania packs her Argent Crusade tabard neatly upon the top of her clothing, not so willing to leave it behind. She could still be a proud priestess of the Argent Crusade, upholding the morals of the Alliance and the Crusade, while also actively ensuring they were made. This would be a trying time for all, and many may resort to dark dealings and acts that would shame themselves, and those that had died. That would not be allowed.

"I think it is time for our wings to spread. The time of the Alliance's morality and convictions is now. To ensure we do not become the demons we seek to destroy. We must remain honorable, despite our pain. That is what we strive for. That is why we are here..."

And so, the door closes, as another opens.
In the cool, pinched sunlight of early dusk Thieren James paused for a few moments, staring at the fenced road that snaked through Elwynn Forest. Riding cleared her head, and despite the lengthy trip back to Stormwind from Lakeshire her mind had drifted. She'd heard, of course. News traveled fast, particularly such horrific news. She'd considered the matter, but in the end there was little immediacy in personal action or words. She wasn't an Alliance soldier, and hadn't been for years.

Now, though... Now she felt the need to reflect.

She climbed down from her horse, a Balnir gray, and gave the mare a playful shove as she reached into her saddle bag and withdrew a battered leather journal.

“Stay close girl.”

She sat on the fence, crossed her legs, and balanced on her heels. The words came naturally and easy, and she wrote by the fading sunlight, racing the darkness to the finish.

If one believes that we are a family, that there is a common bond forged not by blood but shared experience, then I feel for my kin across the sea. Though many left our lands of origin centuries ago I think such a bond transcends time and space. Those who called Theramore home were refugees; refugees like my people now. They built a new home, forged a new banner, and prospered, though I don't believe they expected the conflicts of old to follow them. Perhaps they didn't, really, but they simply were waiting for them when they landed.

She paused as the mare shoved her shoulder with her nose. She grinned and shoved the mare again before turning her attention back to her pen.

To be sure, we now share another similar experience. The loss of a kingdom at the hands of monsters born from malice. If there is any truth to this bond then I suspect that we'll discover a singular truth in this soon. A grudge has been written, and it is a grudge shared by Stromgarde and Stormwind and me.

She waited for the ink to dry before closing the journal and continuing the trip to Stormwind.
I know as soon as I see them.

They're the men from my mam's ship, the Star's Shadow. First Mate Adams, who replaced Smythe. Porter and Mibbs and Giles and Holcombe. A few faces I never knew, but they're all grim, and they're all looking for me.

They come to tell me what I already know: Captain Lisa Isolde Fallon of the Star's Shadow, privateer of the Alliance, is dead.

She died at Theramore, they say, though she didn't get hit by the bomb. She boarded an enemy ship on the water, slaughtered half the Horde on that ship before a gunshot took her down. They say an elf found her. They say she talked to him in Thalassian. They say he looked afraid when he finally ended her life. They say that when she breathed her last, she turned to seaweed and seafoam, and that ship was cursed then. They say that it went down not two minutes later, and they could hear her cackling through the din of battle.

None of it's true.

All of it's true.

All they have for me of hers is her hat. It's quite a hat, black and floppy with gold trim and a giant purple feather sticking out the brim. It's the captain's hat, and it means more than just a memory of my mam.

It means that I'm captain.

I've been expecting this day for a while now. I knew the last time she said good-bye that we'd never see each other again, not the way we knew. I knew I'd become captain. I ain't sad. I ain't even mad. I take her hat and inhale. It smells like her, still, the old coconut-and-sunshine smell of her hair that I remember from when I was a baby. For a minute, I close my eyes and I can see her face. I can see her hair. I can see her coat and boots and sword and pistol. I can hear her laugh, her voice barking out commands.

And then I open my eyes. I adjust the hat and hold my head high. I am Captain Mairèad Isolde Lisa Fallon-Lovells of the Star's Shadow, and I am an instrument of the Light's vengeance. The crew looks at me. I raise my sword and tell them to get my ship seaworthy again within five weeks' time, that anyone caught lazing about will be keelhauled, that I have to go add one more man to our crew--a particularly attractive battlemage--and then I turn on my heel as they say, in unison, "Aye aye!"

And I swear, I hear her laugh on the wind, and I know it's true. We are the sea, after all.
Isellah Wallard laughed--a hollow, heartless, unnerving sound that was often heard following death and destruction--as she stood in the bowels of the Undercity, listening to the news from an array of couriers, merchants, and travelers. She felt mix of feelings rise up in her at once, which she fought to hide. Deep down she felt a sharp pain, from an emotional wound long-buried, as if half her heart had been torn out long ago and had never fully healed. A brief flash of pity for Jaina Proudmoore that she would never admit. She too, knew the pain of losing her city--her home, her friends and family.

And Jaina had refused to join Prince Arthas in the Culling of Stratholme. She walked away, she did not participate. But she did not stop him either.

The pity passed as quickly as it had come, replaced immediately by a bitterness and almost gleeful feeling. "It's a shame they didn't just plague the city. With the plague we could have bolstered our forces! Such a waste." Isellah shook her head. Sweet, sweet irony. B**** had it coming to her. She walked off toward the inn, suddenly wanting to be alone.
She was trying very hard to care.

Prikka lied awake in the little tent, nestled in her lover's arms. They weren't alone; Chadley sprawled on the floor in full gear, practicing the least dignified deep meditation in history. Prikka tried to put them both out of her mind. She needed to generate the appropriate response to the Theramore tragedy. The correct display was necessary to ensure that the Gnome kept her standing with the men--why, handling the situation well might even improve their estimation of her. At the very least she oughtn't come across as a heartless !@#$.

Compassion was unnatural to Prikka. She had learned to cultivate sympathy for those close to her--but Theramore hadn't been close, had it? A city across an ocean, full of Humans who wouldn't have given her a first look. The loss of a major Alliance stronghold was a blow, of course, but that was business. That didn't help.

So Prikka put on her caring face and thought about all those lives lost. Families ripped apart, dreams that would never be realized, the pain and horror they must have felt.


Was that--

No. Just gas. Prikka smacked the straw pallet and turned over. It was going to be a long night.
"And all the dollies were silent, she says yes she said. A flash of the bright and no sight, no sounds. No anger, never again. All the dollies were silent. *screams hysterically* MAKE THEM STOP. MAKE THEM STOP. PLEASE...

Where... No. Nowhere. Not ever again... anywhere. The dollies are broken and no amount of thread will ever fix them again, I'm afraid."

((I think that's about appropriate.))
"Sir, it's been done."

Centurion Vurk'Gol Bladebreaker looked up at the grunt reporting to him with those long-dead, lifeless, blue eyes. He canted his head toward the east, toward the far off crater filled with the blood of the Orc's enemies and the lost souls whose bodies were nowhere to be found.

There would be no funerals, no pyres, no candlelight vigils.

A smile came to the Orc's lips, one tooth missing, tusks sharp as knives. Was he happy?

"Do you remember seeing Theramore as a child, Grunt? You might be too young to remember marching to the camps."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't."

"It might be for the best that you don't. Too many of us do."

"Is there anything you need of me, sir?"

"One more thing; I want you to inform your brothers in the barracks that Centurion Bladebreaker had cast his eyes on Theramore. As did our Warchief. So did Theramore fall, and with it the petty lives of the very people who humiliated and tried to destroy our people. Inform your brothers that it is today that our people have found our retribution."

"Yes sir. Right away sir."

Centurion Vurk'Gol Bladebreaker looked up at the bleak sky above him with those long-dead, lifeless, blue eyes. He canted his head toward the east, toward the far off crater filled with the blood of the Orc's enemies and the lost souls whose bodies were nowhere to be found.

There would be no funerals, no pyres, no candlelight vigils.
Caneyn groans, muzzle-first within a mound of dirt, body wracked with pain as he pushed against the smoking ground, shaking his head. He glanced about, finding himself within... A ditch? No. Trench. Wait, this... What the hells had happened?

The worgen, clad in broken, smoking mail armor, stumbles out into a wide, yellow field. The sky is dark, both of Azeroth's moons shining overhead. He looks up, before falling back onto his rump, holding his black, fuzzy head in his claws.

'Ugh... Wot happened,' he thinks, as he stands up again, stumbling forward one. Two more feet. Suddenly, the remnants of his crimson chestplate falls apart, into fragments. With it, falls a small, emerald necklace, with a silver wing on the medallion.

Caneyn just stares dumbly down at it, still dazed. That necklace. It seemed so familiar. He remembered just a month ago, how he got it for Illia's birthday...


The worgen collapses, eyes flooding with anguished tears as he holds his head in his claws, remembering.

The weeks of struggling to find her, after she fled from home.

The pain of separation.

The savage defense of Theramore from the Horde, protecting his little girl from the orcs.

The hurried retreat and evacuation, and watching in horror as that small, silver orb fell right onto Proudmoore's Tower.

The explosion...

He remembered too, the moments after the explosion. The deaths of countless orcs, and his own rifle setting fire to ships and zeppelins alike. Juramir and Randal, there at the crater, alongside him, and countless others, defending Jaina Proudmoore as she extracted an artifact, from the center of the bomb. Hearing her spout bloodshed and anger at the orcs, her water elementals slaughtering many.

Then the search. The frantic, panic-stricken search, to try and find anything of his daughter that remained. He found the apartment she stayed at, and was assaulted immediately by a scouting party. He had activated a Dimensional Ripper: an engineering gadget. Capable of immediate personal teleportation, to a landing location. It would have dumped him at his apartments in Stormwind.

No. The mana in the air fried the wires, and the worgen was consumed in a bright blue flash, finding himself high above a flat, rolling plain, plummeting downward.

And now, here. In the middle of nowhere.

Caneyn staggered to his paws, picking up the emerald necklace. He rolls a bead between two claws, watching the moonlight glint off of it. He bows his head and slides it down his neck, leaving the medallion hanging above the remains of his shredded armor.

The worgen turns, to the trench. Only, now, he knew. More a crater, than anything else. He climbed down the small, dirt incline, spotting the hammer-headed rifle, sticking out of the side. He pulls out out, rubbing soil off the shining metal. Good. It'd still work.

He holds the rifle close, touching his forehead to the gilded hammer-head. Tears once again pour, as he remembers...

Illia... Juramir... Raker... Randal... Talia...

Hatred. Fury. Anger wells up in his heart as he remembers the orcs, slaughtering their way through the streets before retreating, and calling down the mana bomb. He snarled, hearing the coarse laughter. He imagines everyone's last moments, the screams. The pain. The suffering. The Horde.

A long, drawn-out howl echoes over the valley. Full of anger. Rage. Revenge. And underneath... Pain.

Prella Northshire, one of the few warlocks of the Argent Crusade, heard the cry from the commanders of the Horde forces as the most recent skirmish was apparently coming to an end. What was initially a quiet vacation of arcane science study in Theramore was not ending well, as the Horde had been attacking in waves over the last week or so. There was also that one ponderous matter...

The rising buildup of quantum and temporal energy, centered around Theramore, growing steadily over the last few weeks. It had seemed to come to a head on Sunday night, as a massive Horde wave stormed the city, culminating in apparently the deployment of a large weapon, but as soon as it was to hit... half the combatants just disappeared.

An alternate reality, apparently. Given her personal history, it was something she had more than a passing knowledge of.

She knew something was coming to Theramore...but when? She wandered over to the blacksmith shop to repair her robes, tattered a bit in battle.

While she was waiting for repairs, she saw the tell-tale signal...a bright flash of light. Even if most people didn't know what that signified, she knew exactly what it was. She rushed to a corner of the building, in the vain hope it would protect her. The explosion that followed was enough to shake the ground enough for one of the hammers on the shelf to smack her in the head.

She fell to the ground, unconscious, as the shockwave rippled out from the blast...

She awoke to a pair of women, a worgen and a Draenei, who were out looking for survivors. She slowly got to a sitting position...

"Don't move, ma'am...save your strength," the Draenei said. But Prella had to see for herself. How bad was it? After all, the building she was in was still standing, protected by the wall across the street to the east.

She slowly got up on her feet, still unsteady from the concussion, and walked out of the shop, across the street, and to the wall.

Then she saw it... the crater bleeding with arcane energy....

"GREAT RASSILON'S BEARD!!!" she exclaimed, overcome by surprise. She summoned her mount, and headed to a high cliff, which had once been the walkway to the tower.

Pulling out her Ultrasonic Screwdriver, she took a quick scan of the area., and shock was on her face once again.

"It can't be... it's... it's a cosmic fact! In all quantum realities, all parallel universes...9000 people, all...dead...". There were some survivors, of course, but only a couple hundred out of a city of 9500. "It's.... It's Arcadia all over again..."

Prella slowly walked her horse over to where the inn once stood only moments ago, unsummoned the mount, and sat among the ruins, sitting in shocked contemplation. She looked at the Argent pin on her robe and, removing it, started rubbing it between her fingers,

This is unacceptable, she thought. There was no need for this much destruction. If they simply wanted to destroy the city, they could have just used a large nuke. No. Garrosh is a monster. The Horde apparently have no civility! The Horde needs to--

She cut off her thoughts right there, and looked again at her Argent pin. No... I can't start thinking that way. I am an Argent Crusader. I stand for peace. And she caught herself saying that last part out loud.

However, she realized she *was* losing control of her emotion. She needed a change of scenery, she needed to re-focus on her personal stance. Not *all* in the Horde agree with Garrosh, and she knew this, from talking to the orcs in Hearthglen and the Tourneygrounds over the last year or so.

Hearthglen. I need to get to Hearthglen

With that, she re-pinned her Argent pin, tossed her Argent tabard on over her robes, summoned her fel mount, and tore off toward Lordaeron.
Irisah sat at the base of the mage tower in Stormwind seeming exausted as she stared blankly in front of her.
She had been there, and escaped with just moments to spare. Covered in dirt, her robes torn and singed at the bottom. She had offered all she could defending Theramore to the point she thought they were all going to be safe. Perched atop a cannon tower near the north gate she had dished out all the magical damage to the enemy she could. Fire, frost, and arcane alike had left her being in an attempt to show those dreadful horde what it means to be honorable. She had watched in horror from an escaping ship full of soldiers and injured as the horde decimated any chance of peace, honor, or dignity. they had bought only revenge with their actions.

As her ship arrived in Minithril Harbor her first reaction was one many may not of expected. She did not ask how were the wounded or how she could help. She fell to her knees mourning the aparant loss of Jaina Proudmore. Last she had seen Jaina was running into the tall magical tower, and in the next moment the tower had been decimated. As she sit helplessly on the docks crying and speaking to herself it seems " Oh Jaina! What have those monsters done?!" a young night elf woman came to her and offered her a plain white hankerchief. Irisah looked up a bit suprised " Thank you" she said to the night elf. The night elf, seeming somewhat young in age kneeled beside her " Are you alright ma'am? Are you wounded?" she would ask.
"No, I am not wounded. I am fine." Irisah replied " Though I am mourning the loss of a great woman"

At hearing that and old grey haired dwarf carrying a hammer twice his size walked over
" Aye lass, you talk'n bout the Proudmoore woman yes?"
Irisah would look up nodding, still sorrow on her face
" Well I'm sure the woman got out safe, oi she is Proudmoore. Last I saw'er she was headed west! I bet'ya she be with your King now!"
Irisah's eyes would brighten as she stood up " Really?! Are you sure!?" she smiled as she dwarf nodded to her. Just like that she turned towards the water and her hands would glow a bright white and then like that she would be gone.
Upon arriving in Stormwind the King's Keep was her first stop, though after searching she did not find Jaina. " Maybe the Kirin'Tor! " and like that the bright white glow again and she was in Dalarran, the city of mages. She ran about franticly unable to find Jaina. Before she knew it she had been to every major alliance city and asked all in sight and to no avail. Fearing the worst, fearing her future mentor ( it had been her ambition to be taught by Jaina for many years ) had indeed perished she sat at the bottom of the Stormwind Mage tower waiting for word of Jaina. Irisah had no family, no friends, just her books to keep her company and the flag of Thereamore proudly displayed at her side.
"Now I feel almost foolish." Selynth uttered in a low voice, using of course, the word 'feel' as loosely as one of her current state of being really could. Behind the slight mask on her vicious looking headpiece, pale lips purposefully tweaked into a smile.

The white rat sitting precariously on her shoulder sniffed the air. Finding it undesirable, it shifted uneasily before squeaking protests. Protests that the priestess ignored, but still. Clinging there, the little pet looked around in clear distress of the changed 'atmosphere' of this place.

"...it is foolish, isn't it, to assume one has seen it all, to think one is to the point in their existence wherein being 'surprised' is no longer something that will happen." She mused, possibly to herself, but also quite possibly to Whiskers.

She was lingering on the outer edges of the wreckage, where once had stood a defiant city amid the swamps. Now,it was simply more of an embarrassing blemish upon the landscape.

"Perhaps 'surprised' is too strong a word." Selynth glanced at the little rat, lifting one hand to pet it's head with a single, careful touch from a skeletal finger. "Also quite incorrect, really, now that I think about it."

She tugged the reigns on her warhorse, coaxing it to start walking, slow steps along the outer edges still, not at all planning to delve deeper into the magic-tainted crater. It wasn't fear of either the lingering magic in the air, nor fear of being confronted by a few of the breathers that were similairly surveying what was left that kept her from going down there. Oh, no. Fear was not an issue. She simply wasn't interested in a scuffle amid the ruins, no real desire to add another few bodies for the Alliance to usher away to a cold grave.

Selynth simply wanted to observe.

Yes, 'surprised' was too strong a word. It was rather fascinating, in it's way. This was, by all accounts, quite an impressive bit of destruction, the sort of thing one could appreciate from a strategic standpoint.

She tsked however, inclining her head just so as she looked down at what once was Theramore.

"And somehow, the Undercity and it's people require being watched with a close eye by the oafish Kor'Kron, when our esteemed Warcheif carries out such plans..."

The priestess might've laughed, but instead her lips just retained that smile which was still hidden from view.

She pulled once more on the reigns, her ghostly white, skeletal mount let out a bizarre mimic of a living horse's gruff exhaling of breath before turning in the direction she guided it. Away from this mess of crumbling ruins, where she was more than certain the ghosts would linger for years to come.

"...there is always a 'silver lining', though. Was that not the saying, when I lived? It must have been, it seems apt for this moment."

This thought, did make her laugh. Not the pleasant chime of a voice such as it'd been when she was alive, it was more a subtly vicious, mocking sound.

"Oh, the possibilities! This will turn the focus to Kalimdor more than ever, which may indeed mean Hellscream's eyes need not rest so much on the Undercity. And if his troublesome Orcs remain within the Dark Lady's halls...."

Another laugh, amused, as she slowly rode away from the scene.

"It is such a shame, how...'accidents', can happen to even the most elite soldier, so far from home."

Yes, she served the Horde on the battlefield, but she wore the banner of her people, of the Forsaken, first and above all else.

Selynth knew what her priorities were.
Reshuv walked the city streets, dressed as a mage as always, and not meeting anyone in the eyes. He arrived at Theramore just in time for the retreat to be called, though in the confusion nobody noticed that and he talked like he had been there the entire time. He, along with the other survivors of the attack, had their recognition as heroes bolstered, but that didn't mean anything to the warlock, he was too busy thinking.

"What did Hellscream intend?" As he came to the trade district, he saw a few familiar faces, regailing the tale of their "noble battle", as citizens crowded, cheering, weeping, showing all spectrum of reaction to the fall of the city. "Did he intend to scare us?"

Reshuv's found his feet moving him of their own accord further into the city, his mind too lost in thought to notice. He looked up for a second and saw posters; "The alliance needs you!" They were plastered everywhere, it seemed like all the stone in the city had been replaced by paper.

"Hellscream is a fool, if he intended to leave us weakened and hopeless, he got the opposite of what he wanted. We're united now, all of our adversaries are gone, Varian has taken up the mantle as high king of the Alliance." He looked up, he had wandered to the harbor now. He smirked as he saw the scene laid out before him; Airships, boats, tanks, all manner of weapon being prepared for the war to come, "We have a united army with the sole intention of vengeance, what does Garrosh have? A broken Horde lead by leaders who either ignore or outright resent him." He took a seat on the balcony as he watched.

"And if it is war Garrosh wanted?" He chuckled a little, "We're superior to the horde in every regard, this won't be a war..." His smirk widened as he watched the first airship leave port.

"This will be a bloodbath."
The old elf turns her head to look upwards through the leaves. She lifts her lips slightly, single glowing eye fixed on the moon. "The Goddess will ward us, as we ward this world. And we will do, as always, what we must." The big sentinel stands, hand on her glaive. "Elune is with us." For a moment, the glass eye gleams as well, reflecting the moon's light as she looks at the panting runner. "I must travel south, from Ashenvale. I must find the others of the Odds."
The first hint Sgatha Jacobs has that something is massively wrong is the sudden influx of refugees to Gadgetzan. She sees to wound after wound, hearing the same story time after time. The horde's attacking Theramore. We barely escaped. The young woman keeps her visor down, feeling her blood pound along her neck. Theramore? Again? They wouldn't.... Surely they'd turn their attention to Ashenvale. But as Sgatha thinks, she remembers the defeats the orcs have suffered in Ashenvale, and the truth sinks in. They've turned on the soft target. She leaves Gadgetzan behind.

She rides through the desert on a horse that is more spirit than beast, bonded to her by blood and soul. She rides with spurs shining, too new to have developed a patina of age. Her armor, too, is all new. Recently a squire, Sgatha's barely had time to settle into being a proper knight. Dust settles everywhere, raised by the ethereal hooves. Sgatha coughs and pulls her helmet off.

With her face bare, subtle traces of wrongness are written across Sgatha's features. Her cheekbones are a bit too square, her skin too sallow, her eyes a raw chestnut, and there's a gentle coarseness to her bones that smacks of the alien. She purses her lips, looking to the sky, and a tusk pins her lip. The mystery resolves itself into the mask of orcish blood, evident as soon as one knows what one is looking at.

The halfbreed paladin rides into the growing darkness, towards the marsh. She does not know the pain she goes seeking, yet. She does not know the injuries she'll sustain, battling horde, or the heartache as her shield fails her. She will find out soon enough.

((I am too tipsy to write, durr.))

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