((Ended up as a follow-up to "Tongue Tied" given timing...Takes place pre-Portal rushing))
Nore watched as Daevra finished the engravings on a pair of truegold bands. Normally, the commander would have asked Harrigan—but his injuries were going to keep him from such detail work for some time, and the push through the Portal was coming any day now.
Suicide mission? Just sounds like a bunch of pessimistic talk to me. Maybe if you're not prepared, but I'm me. I was on Argus, dammit. I fled the Legion for thousands of years. I raised my family in Light-damned Tanaan Jungle. I'm going to live, no question about it, and so is Henii.
((Mostly just felt like writing a short little blog of Areelan laying down the Death Knight hurt on Iron Horde. Since she'd definitely see defending the land and potentially going on a suicide mission imperative for her.))
The runed bloodstained axe split the ground as it was dragged through it. The pale elf holding it didn’t seem slowed by the extra effort it took to move the axe in this manner as she stepped forward. Her head tilted one glowing blue eye looking at the brown orcs charging her position. The lanky geist flanking her had a jittery stance.
She must have dozed off, lying across Wesley’s draconic neck and shoulders after leaving the faire and relaxing together by Olivia’s Pond, the city lights blocked by hills and rustling trees. It was a lovely autumn night off, and for both of them at the same time.
He gently woke her as they landed in front of the apartment. “I blame the Darkmoon Reserve,” Nore muttered. He chuckled, shifting from stone drake to worgen, offering her an arm to lean on as they went upstairs.