#traysk

Verath paused mid ale-sip when the picture came to the table. He just assumed someone had sent him some nonsensical threat. One blonde brow slowly lofted and a little bit of ale dribbled into his beard. “Well then Miss Verlai, the armor does you no justice.” He mused, flicking the photo with a finger and a devilish crinkling of his eyes.

Two things were on the desk.

The picture of his wife was the only well kept thing at his home. It was before the gnome devices got around that could capture your image perfectly. Instead it was instead a mix of traditional painting and magic, capturing them both in vivid, if not fantastical detail. She was laughing. -He- was laughing.

Beside it was one of his finest bottles of Pandaren whiskey. It bloomed fire throughout the flesh and could invigorate a corpse. Each bottle was worth a hefty sum, though the Pandaren valued friendship and cooking above monetary means.

With a sigh he took the picture. Every year he wished. Every year he realized the holiday was a sham. Wishful thinking didn’t make for happy thoughts. The picture was set down, gently, face first. He took the bottle and wordlessly unscrewed the cap. 

Traysk stumbled drunk into his home. Most of the time when the term stumbling and home were involved it was usually because alcohol was involved. Yet he noticed the door to his bedroom was opened somewhat. Fists curled tightly before he slammed the door open. Both were startled to see each other. Pann, in her black lace, pulled the covers up at the sight of an intruder. And Traysk….well, he was more confused as to how she got into the house. There were still one or two servants that worked for him.

I ALREADY ANSWERED THIS NIM GOSH.

First one I’ll answer for Traysk, others for Silath. )

10. Traysk suffers from severe depression, potentially bipolar disorder and a dash of hallucinations. His mental state is bad. Alcoholism deteriorates it further. Silath on the other hand thinks crazy people are simply crazy and he has nothing to do with it.

11. Silath pursues anything of intellectual worth! And by that he means magic and the arcane and a dabbling of blood magic. If it increases his knowledge and furthers his ambition it’s certainly a worthwhile pursuit.

Getting spat out of the portal coincided with the wave of sobriety that washed over him.

Who could say why the Monk wanted to get embroiled in another conflict. Was in the dwindling coffers of House Dawnwing? The need to find an excuse for his life to be lost? Maybe he was just desperate for some patriotic purpose even though the Horde was something he couldn't relate to in the least. 

Yet here he was. Fireballs flying through the sky and not a drip of whiskey on his tongue.

It was all one unbearable blur. Punctuated by pain in his muscles, sweat in his eyes, and both literal and proverbial puddles of blood coming and going from his fingers. The only thing he was thankful for was that the unfortunate duty of actually shutting the damned portal off rested on some heroic, more capable group of people. Him? Breaking things with his limbs. At least things were that simple. 

Orcs. They came in spades.

His opinion of Orcs hadn't changed much for the first two wars. Of course, everyone was against the Scourge so he didn't hold that against them for the Third. They were on his side and now with a new coat of paint and purpose some were his enemy. Well, a whole new Horde of them.

And then darkness.

When he awoke the carrion birds were circling the sky. A field of corpses. Some belonged to his side. Others the Alliance. Quite a great many belonging to the Iron. A warm trickle ran down the side of his temple. Perhaps a piece of shrapnel had clipped him. He imagined from the sounds of distant machinery and marching that the Alliance and Horde had been the ones on the retreat.

Now was an opportunity to die...

Sober.

He willed himself into sitting. One muscle at a time he was standing and shambling. Following the trail of corpse that could only mean desperate survivors on the run.

Maybe another day.