The world had changed. Again. For the second time in his life, Irilin awoke from a stupor whose duration he could not guess. He had found his peace, only to emerge into a world that was suffocating in turmoil.
When he had arrived in Silvermoon, he collapsed. Healers had ushered him into a quiet room where he slept and ate. No one told him of what was happening in the world, and he did not think to ask. Once healthy, Irilin gathered some supplies—his familiar ink and parchment; some newer, simpler clothes; and food and water for the journey—and made his way to the zeppelin tower in Tirisfall.
It wasn’t until he arrived in Orgimmar that Irilin realised the world kept moving while he was away, and he didn’t like its direction. Kor’kron guards swarmed everywhere. The normal bustle of the city was reduced to a hushed hurrying, nearly drowned out by clanking armour, crashing weapons, and cries of war. Even before he left the zeppelin dock, he faded from sight and moved cautiously, making haste to exit the city.
The scene outside Orgirmmar was no more pleasant, and his pace became almost frantic as he made for the longhouse. All around were the sounds of war, sounds which unnerved him, though they did not strike fear into him, as many of their creators might have hoped. When he reached the grounds of the longhouse, he found…nothing. No sign of building or being, not even the rubble of a destroyed structure. One thing to be said for the war machine, it was certainly efficient.
Irilin cautiously made his way to Ratchet, which he hoped would still possess at least the hint of neutrality. He found the town nearly empty, save for the goblins making their money, and people waiting anxiously on the docks for the ship that would take them to the Eastern Kingdoms. He made his way to the inn, but even there, save for the innkeeper who eagerly accepted his payment for a night’s stay, there was no one.
Alone. So many times he had found himself alone, and now, again, in a world he didn’t recognise. Perhaps he would take the boat to Booty Bay as well, and make his way back to Silvermoon. There, at least, the vestiges of war had not disrupted the Blood Elven way of life, even though every face was foreign and unfamiliar to him. At least loneliness was a familiar companion.
When he had arrived in Silvermoon, he collapsed. Healers had ushered him into a quiet room where he slept and ate. No one told him of what was happening in the world, and he did not think to ask. Once healthy, Irilin gathered some supplies—his familiar ink and parchment; some newer, simpler clothes; and food and water for the journey—and made his way to the zeppelin tower in Tirisfall.
It wasn’t until he arrived in Orgimmar that Irilin realised the world kept moving while he was away, and he didn’t like its direction. Kor’kron guards swarmed everywhere. The normal bustle of the city was reduced to a hushed hurrying, nearly drowned out by clanking armour, crashing weapons, and cries of war. Even before he left the zeppelin dock, he faded from sight and moved cautiously, making haste to exit the city.
The scene outside Orgirmmar was no more pleasant, and his pace became almost frantic as he made for the longhouse. All around were the sounds of war, sounds which unnerved him, though they did not strike fear into him, as many of their creators might have hoped. When he reached the grounds of the longhouse, he found…nothing. No sign of building or being, not even the rubble of a destroyed structure. One thing to be said for the war machine, it was certainly efficient.
Irilin cautiously made his way to Ratchet, which he hoped would still possess at least the hint of neutrality. He found the town nearly empty, save for the goblins making their money, and people waiting anxiously on the docks for the ship that would take them to the Eastern Kingdoms. He made his way to the inn, but even there, save for the innkeeper who eagerly accepted his payment for a night’s stay, there was no one.
Alone. So many times he had found himself alone, and now, again, in a world he didn’t recognise. Perhaps he would take the boat to Booty Bay as well, and make his way back to Silvermoon. There, at least, the vestiges of war had not disrupted the Blood Elven way of life, even though every face was foreign and unfamiliar to him. At least loneliness was a familiar companion.