World of Warcraft®

Blaine walked among the dusty shelves housed in the Seat of Knowledge. He was not looking for anything in particular, but he enjoyed spending his time perusing the collection of historical memoirs the Lorewalkers had amassed. Failing to find anything that peaked his interest, Blaine strolled to the outskirts of the large room and slumped against the cool wall. He sighed tentatively. "Hrm..at this rate, my lack of goings on will do me in far before old age claims me." He randomly picks a tome out of the nearest shelf and flips through it hastily, not paying much attention to the contents. Nearby, a few of the Pandaren caretakers rush in and out of the door, speaking quickly about what is happening outside. Blaine looks up from his book, but doesn't listen closely to their conversation. He returns the book to it's shelf and begins to nod off.
Suddenly, his solace is interrupted by a startling sound: an extremely loud boom, followed by a prolonged hiss, similar to a thousand serpents calling out at once. A few Lorewalkers cry out in dismay from outside, prompting Blaine to investigate. When he reaches the balcony, he is shocked to see the goblin excavation area, the front of the Mogu'shan Palace, and nearly half of the Vale gone, replaced by the black corruption of the Sha. Blaine gapes at the desolation before looking towards the former mining site. He spies a familiar figure triumphantly marching away. At that moment, Blaine's calm demeanor is replaced by one of pure rage and spite. "TOO FAR, HELLSCREAM," he shouts, "YOU HAVE GONE TOO FAR THIS TIME!" Blaine thanks the Lorewalkers for their hospitality bluntly, and shifts into his storm crow form. He swiftly takes off towards the Shrine of the Two Moons, hoping to catch up to Vol'jin's forces before the inevitable battle begins.

"Pandaria?"

Arjah smiled sadly and shook her head when she heard the news.

"Ah am sorry for dem. But Pandaria is a long, long way off. We trolls been waitin' since before de Horde had an alliance wit' Silvermoon for our fair say."

A slow, proud smile spread across her face. "An' against all odds," she murmured, "Vol'jin finally found it in 'im ta stand up an' speak for us at last. Garrosh would be fallin' if we'd nevah heard a'Pandaria!"

Curly the Undead fingered the bullet-hole in his forehead. Nervous tic. We've all got them.

He hadn't been there himself, not with the more local but equally pressing wars the Snipes were contracted to engage in. But he'd heard tell of the all of the distant vale, its harrowing beauty smothered into ash by a blanket of oily corruption. He had a heart for such things, he did. The demise of majesty.

Unhappily he'd brought the news to the Inquisitor, who'd been brooding in his office over a half empty cup of Gilnean Black and an undiminished stack of important-looking papers. Requests and reports, a waist-high swamp of bureaucracy that illustrated the tedium of his station. That girl was in her garden, and he couldn't bring himself to pull her from it.

Curly expelled his dour news, followed with a mumbled apology.

Liore continued to stare uncomprehendingly at the fine print of a Magistrate's summons. His hand hovered across his oaken desk and Curly flinched. The forsaken breathed relief when the inquisitor's hand passed over his silver revolver, and settled instead upon his customized Hearthstone. It was tossed over in an abrupt arc, and he caught it smoothly.

"Draenor called," Liore grumbled, trading one inscrutable page for the next. "They send their sympathies."

Finnaeus stood at the entrance of the Shrine of the Two Moons, his back to the horrible, twisted remnants of the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. He did not need to bask in the wreckage - it reminded him too much of Gilneas, and his shattered home.

The Shrine, however, held a far more pressing concern. It was filled to the brim with Horde. Horde that contained some of his most hated enemies. The Forsaken and Orcs, primarily, but he had no love for the rest of them. And yet, as he stood in front of the shrine, he realized he had nowhere else to go. His search for the Mogu that stole him from his body and placed him in this troll frame was nowhere to be found. He was stuck as a troll, for better or for worse, until he could take up the search once more.

He ascended the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Though his heart revolted at the thought, he once again felt that undeniable sense that he had a duty to fulfill. The destruction had to stop, and he had a part to play. He would not turn himsef against any member of the Alliance - never again - but he could not ignore that a significant moment was upon them. He had to assist in whatever way he could, because the balance must be preserved. No matter the cost, regardless of how he felt about his new allies.

Finnaeus reached the top, and a Tauren looked at him.

"I do not recognize you," the Tauren boomed.

"I be Drak'Finn," he said, mustering an attempt at a troll accent. "I be here ta help against Garrosh."

The Tauren looked at him appraisingly. "Are you good with a blade?"

I do not need a blade to kill, Finnaeus thought savagely, but he kept his temper in check.

"I be a battle healer," he said. "A good one."

The Tauren nodded. "For the True Horde."

Finnaeus nodded, and stepped into the Shrine.

No, he thought. For the balance.