Beneath unrelenting threads of smoke and the discordant din of late night tavern-goers, Inquisitor Liore Bloodwing was busy getting a professional sulk on. Bent wretchedly over his solitary table, he alternated ruining his lungs with the pale cigarettes that had started to grow on him since his stint with the Dominance Offensive, and trying to find the bottom of a wide bottle of bourbon. The small, secluded pub was quickly reaching standing-only capacity, but none were bold or drunk enough to take the seat opposite the armored figure with the poisonous stare and deadly, baleful expression.
Prognosis: unwell.
Months of strain were starting to take their toll. The fighting against the Alliance was hard work, with SI:7 casting to the wind their usual discretion and throwing their weight into Krasarang. Pursuit of the nameless, traceless vigilante that had been murdering key members of Lordaeron Council had long ago devolved to pacing a cold trail. The distant threat of Lei Shan loomed ever nearer (though the Inquisitor would not know it just yet), and the very real death of his daughter by his own blood-soaked hands robbed him of any hope of rest or comfort in weeks.
Food had lost its taste, war had lost its purpose. For the first time in centuries, Liore felt the crushing weight of his years.
Here he sat, smelling of sweat and blood, feeling bad for himself. Every couple thousand years, that leads to something productive.
Movement snapped Liore from his introspection; for not the first time that night he snapped up a piercing leer that would peel the plaque off a Zandalari's tusks. Across the table, covered as it was in crushed cigarettes and empty shot-glasses, a Pandaren dusted off the adjacent seat and settled himself in with a satisfied grunt. The pale-faced bear wore a hooded blue robe, thick red prayer beads, a pair of nasty scars over the bridge of his nose, and a wizened expression of such potent patience and calm that the scornful rebuke that had seared itself up the back of Liore's throat cooled into a neutral and unwelcome 'Nnnnh'.
The Pandaren shouldered a absolutely massive keg onto the floor and thunked an impressive wooden stein on the table, proceeding to tap himself a tall draught.
“I pray you do not mind that I sit here,” the bear stated in the husky baritone of his people, heard clearly despite the softness of the tone. “The road has been long, and I am afraid I have spent too many years in the temple! Hm-Hm!”
Blisteringly foul mood or no, Liore knew nothing but respect for the stoic people of Pandaria; something about the tranquility they shared as a nation struck him as edenic. A height of enlightenment to which all races should aspire. Ordinarily he would have shooed the bear away, but there was something... tolerable about the monk that held his inquisitorial retort.
Without reply, Liore knocked back another shot of burning, bitter repression. With a deepening, fangy grin, the Pandaren proceeded to drain his own stein, and soon set about refilling it.
Prognosis: unwell.
Months of strain were starting to take their toll. The fighting against the Alliance was hard work, with SI:7 casting to the wind their usual discretion and throwing their weight into Krasarang. Pursuit of the nameless, traceless vigilante that had been murdering key members of Lordaeron Council had long ago devolved to pacing a cold trail. The distant threat of Lei Shan loomed ever nearer (though the Inquisitor would not know it just yet), and the very real death of his daughter by his own blood-soaked hands robbed him of any hope of rest or comfort in weeks.
Food had lost its taste, war had lost its purpose. For the first time in centuries, Liore felt the crushing weight of his years.
Here he sat, smelling of sweat and blood, feeling bad for himself. Every couple thousand years, that leads to something productive.
Movement snapped Liore from his introspection; for not the first time that night he snapped up a piercing leer that would peel the plaque off a Zandalari's tusks. Across the table, covered as it was in crushed cigarettes and empty shot-glasses, a Pandaren dusted off the adjacent seat and settled himself in with a satisfied grunt. The pale-faced bear wore a hooded blue robe, thick red prayer beads, a pair of nasty scars over the bridge of his nose, and a wizened expression of such potent patience and calm that the scornful rebuke that had seared itself up the back of Liore's throat cooled into a neutral and unwelcome 'Nnnnh'.
The Pandaren shouldered a absolutely massive keg onto the floor and thunked an impressive wooden stein on the table, proceeding to tap himself a tall draught.
“I pray you do not mind that I sit here,” the bear stated in the husky baritone of his people, heard clearly despite the softness of the tone. “The road has been long, and I am afraid I have spent too many years in the temple! Hm-Hm!”
Blisteringly foul mood or no, Liore knew nothing but respect for the stoic people of Pandaria; something about the tranquility they shared as a nation struck him as edenic. A height of enlightenment to which all races should aspire. Ordinarily he would have shooed the bear away, but there was something... tolerable about the monk that held his inquisitorial retort.
Without reply, Liore knocked back another shot of burning, bitter repression. With a deepening, fangy grin, the Pandaren proceeded to drain his own stein, and soon set about refilling it.
