UN/CROWNED

Wrathion’s web was a wide cast thing, one which latched into the places least expected, drawing them into his weave until each thread was his to pluck a tune from as he pleased. It was a dangerous dance, one he had not appreciated in his younger days– there was a line between violent tyranny, the desire to inflict his will onto all, and the need to do good. How close he had strayed to his father, how nearly he had become as terrible as the puppet that had been ‘Deathwing’. Then, many would argue he had become worse given the blade that lodged itself in this world.

It had taken reorientation of his purpose, an understanding of his failings, and the welcoming of knowledge that sometimes the wisest thing was a gentle guidance over sharp manipulation. Gentleness was not his way though. Had not been the way of any black dragon for so, so long.

Even so, this pattern he had tugged into line beautifully. Perfectly until the only patrons are those upon his pay, those who chose to follow him instead of casting their lot into foolish factions and nameless cults which lingered as if they might ever achieve anything by that alone. The Uncrowned had been little more than that; simply another band of souls who liked to talk and achieve nothing.

“There is always someone upset with me, my dear. Usually many someones. Really, I’ve given up keeping track of those who’d like my head upon their wall!” Mirthless huff, sitting beside as drink was put before him without request. 

It was taken gratefully, talons clinking against glass as he lifted it in careful show of consideration. “You’re looking quite lost. I hear things have gone… poorly with the Uncrowned of late. Quite sad, no? Oh, but what a surprise it is to see you here!”

It was not. They both know it.

        ❝  Oh  SHOVE  off  it  !  ❞  Incredulous  laughter  was  punctuated  by  an  elbow  that  attempted  to  drive  itself  into  the  man’s  side,  though  the  force  applied  was  minimal  at  best.  It  was  not  the  first  time  Tess  had  been  ushered  into  his  company  ;  though,  admittedly,  the  other  times  rejection  had  come  easily  in  lieu  of  personal  responsibility  and  her  independent  streak.  Wrathion  was  a  person  she’d  come  to  respect  ---  in  many  ways,  they  were  not  dissimilar.  Distant  fathers,  unwavering  stubbornness  (  even  if  his  was  wrapped  in  egotism  )  and  a  desire  to  do  what  was  best  for  Azeroth,  no  matter  the  cost.  They’d  both  suffered  for  that  in  their  own  ways.

        Short-cut  nails  clinked  at  the  glass  before  Tess  brought  it  to  her  lips,  preferring  to  down  the  whole  brew  in  one  fel  swoop.  The  burn  was  not  unfamiliar  as  it  warmed  her  stomach  and,  as  she  slammed  it  against  the  bar top,  she  shook  her  head.  ❝  The   Uncrowned  is  fucked.  I  was  too  optimistic  in  believing  that  neutrality  could  persist  when  faction  hatred  runs  so  deep.  Most  of  the  shadows  have  abandoned  the  sewers  ---  those  who  remain  are  scattered...  distrustful.  It’s  difficult  not  to  sympathise  with  them  ;  not  with  what  happened  with  Teldrassil  and  Lordaeron --- ❞

       Even  now  she  swore  she  could  smell  the  ASH  in  the  back  of  her  nose  ;  the  vile  taste  of  burning  flesh  inhaled  as  the  skin  of  her  people  slouched  off  in  Tess’  hands.  NO,  SHE  COULD  NOT  BLAME  THEM.  There  was  a  time  where  she  nearly  joined  them  ---  where  her  mother’s  life  lay  in  the  balance,  and  further  still  where  discoloured  scars  pulled  wrinkled  skin  taut  in  pained  healing.  By  the  Banshee’s  hand,  her  people  had  lost  their  home  twice.