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“There aren’t enough words in Draenei to describe how irritating I find you.”
“Anaria nel’airiane divh dalah’surfal erane dal.”
“Come again?”
“We don’t have that problem in Thalassian.”
Jadaar isn’t stupid, as much as Asric claims otherwise. Living in Shattrath, you pick up languages pretty quickly, especially when they’re being bandied around you nearly 24/7. When the Scryers took up shop, so to speak, Thalassian became a language that merchants hastened to learn, simply to try and get the best deals. In turn, Jadaar had to learn some, to have the upper hand when listening in on hidden conversations.
Likewise, he knows Asric knows at least a few swear words in Draenei – as much as Draenei has swear words, at any rate; the language is about as polite as its race and isn’t great for cursing in – and how to get a beer, which is really all one needs.
Personally, he prefers Draenei. It feels nicer to speak than Thalassian; the round vowels and sharp consonants just suit him better, and he never quite got his head around the slippery fluidity of Thalassian. It’s not that it’s that complicated a language – after all, Asric can speak it – it’s just that it winds and twists all over the place, with none of the sense that Draenei has.
But, the language barrier has its uses. Even in Dalaran, years after the whole Griftah debacle, Jadaar still finds himself muttering in Draenei, and having Asric promptly snicker and say something uncomplimentary in Thalassian in return. Of course, Jadaar has no idea what Asric’s saying, and he’s about 83% sure that Asric doesn’t know what Jadaar’s saying, so it’s relying very heavily on trust and a mutual understanding of each other.
They’re drinking – again – when Asric actually asks, “Do you want to learn Thalassian properly?”
Jadaar looks over at him. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, never mind.” Asric looks back down at his beer and mutters something, before glancing over with a grin. “It’d just mean you understand all of the names I’m calling you. They’re completely wasted on someone who doesn’t understand Thalassian.”
“I get enough of you insulting me in Common,” says Jadaar. Their once malicious arguing has become a teasing kind of banter that he actually enjoys, even though he doesn’t like the circumstances that surround it. Besides, he’s more than a little drunk right now, and the tense knot between his shoulder blades seems to be unwinding further with each pint. Asric’s much easier to deal with when Jadaar’s not sober.
“You could teach me Draenei,” Asric says with a laugh. “I’d be crap at it. It’s too polite.”
“Or you’re just incredibly rude,” he points out. “I wouldn’t call the Sin’dorei the pinnacle of grace and manners.”
Asric yields this round to Jadaar with a mocking toast, before subsiding. He’s been in an odd mood lately, one Jadaar doesn’t understand, but he trusts Asric to be able to sort out his own problems without him having to ask.
Then there’s the Week.
In the span of Jadaar’s life, it’s not important. But at the time, it feels as if someone has tugged the rug from under his feet. One day, Jadaar turns up at Cantrips and Crows with a book he thinks Asric might enjoy only to find that the pesky Blood Elf has up and disappeared.
Asric has passed up an excuse to drink. Something is wrong.
“Narisa, have you seen Asric today?” he asks, interrupting the barmaid’s rounds apologetically.
She shakes her head, frowning. “He still has his tab open. If he skipped town I’m sending an assassin after him.”
“Asric wouldn’t…” Jadaar pauses, thinks for a moment, then frowns. “Probably wouldn’t. Honestly, I really don’t know. I’ll go look for him, but if he isn’t here, I will return to pay the tab.”
Narisa folds her arms and gives him a flat stare. “Or you could just leave as well.”
“On my honour as a Peacekeeper.”
She looks him up and down, appraisingly, then shakes her head in disbelief. “You really mean that, don’t you? You draenei are bizarre. Alright, off with you. Go find your partner.”
He doesn’t bother to correct her assumption, instead thanks her and walks off.
Jadaar spends the day searching the Underbelly from crevice to crevice. He almost gets his head ripped off when he looks at a Sunreaver agent the wrong way, and nearly gets stabbed when he tries to talk to her. Asric usually does the talking whenever they’re investigating something to do with the mildly xenophobic elves.
He glances down at the book and sighs, before stashing it in his bag and heading back to the room he’s rented. Maybe Asric just had some private business to take care of that he forgot about until the last minute. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Three days later and no signs of Asric, Jadaar begins to get worried.
The staff at the Legerdemain Lounge haven’t seen him, so that rules out a particularly worrying drinking spree. The Sunreaver Guardian Mages don’t deign to speak with him, so instead he talks to the barber next door, who seems to take gleeful pleasure in gossiping about the goings on of anyone, not limited to her customers.
“Red headed elf?” She laughs uproariously. “Do you know how many red headed elves I get coming through here? It’s the new fashion with Blood Elves. They want to match their tabards or something, I don’t know.”
Jadaar pinches the bridge of his nose. “I am quite certain it isn’t dyed. He’s about this high, wears purple leathers, probably drunk.”
She shakes her head. “That describes half the elves I see wandering out of Sunreaver Hold on a daily basis. Sorry, big fella. Can’t help you.”
So, he’s probably not in Sunreaver Hold. And he’s not in the Underbelly. And he’s not off drinking his way through the taverns of the city.
Jadaar really doesn’t know where to look anymore.
So he spends the rest of the week working his way through three separate books and four times that in pints, until on Monday evening Asric sidles up next to him and drops his head onto the bar.
“Where,” says Jadaar with enough frost to make Malegos proud, “have you been?”
Asric mutters something in Thalassian, and Narisa pats him on the head. He bats her away and she laughs, before sliding a glass of Dalaran Red in front of him. “On the house.”
Jadaar waits patiently until Asric rubs his eyes and stands up properly, sighing and drawing the glass closer to him. “Family matters.”
Jadaar doesn’t have family matters. He doesn’t even know if any of his family is still alive, what with the crash and all. If any are, he’s never seen them since. It was the reason why he joined the Peacekeepers originally; he needed to surround himself with other Draenei, to reaffirm his place in a community rather than just be another stranger in the Lower City.
It was lonely, and as much as Jadaar enjoys his independence, he needs familiar faces now and again.
Asric, on the other hand, has more family members than he knows what to do with. While Jadaar knew every Draenei in Shattrath, and many more besides, Asric was related to nearly every Blood Elf. The amount of cousins, second cousins, and extended friends and relations that Asric had was insane.
He doesn’t realise he’s been glaring at Asric silently until he gets poked in the arm.
“Jadaar? You in there?” Asric waves a hand in front of Jadaar’s eye, and he reaches up to push him away. “I get it, you’re pissed, you can stop glaring at me now.”
“You should have told me where you were.”
“Why? I didn’t think you’d be worried.” Asric sounds somewhat bitter, and takes a quick drink from his wine. “It’s not your business.”
“I… suppose not,” Jadaar says slowly. “Nevertheless, I was worried. You have been known to do stupid things.”
“Of course that’s what it is. Control freak.”
“Reckless twit.”
“Da surfal ana.”
“Shi zar’zekilnai.”
The Argent Tournament is mostly cold, because it’s the northernmost part of Azeroth and apparently Tirion Fordring doesn’t believe in heating. Maybe it’s a human thing. Jadaar, for what it’s worth, very much does.
For once, Asric actually proves useful as a travelling companion – shocking, he knows. But apparently Asric has a third cousin twice removed who is a member of the Argent Crusade and stationed at the Tournament, who for one reason or another manages to wrangle some halfway decent lodgings for the two of them. His only stipulation had been that Asric not do the Thing, but Jadaar wasn’t privy to what the Thing was and at this point is too afraid to ask. He has heard enough about Asric’s exploits for a lifetime.
Well, Asric’s meaningless exploits. He has yet to learn anything significant about him.
“And then I said, anara’taldo, which is a lot more insulting in Thalassian than in Common – why is that? – and she punched me.”
“So it was your fault.”
“Well, no. She threw the first punch.” Asric grins, bright and cheerful despite the beautiful black eye he’s sporting. Truly, it’s a work of art. It almost seems like a blessing to be punched so perfectly. Jadaar has pretty much resigned himself to Asric getting himself into trouble, and now judges his concern on how bad Asric looks afterwards.
Jadaar sighs and pats him on the head, successfully ruining up his hair, before turning back to get another drink. Tingiyok gives him what he interprets as a pitying look along with another pint.
“So, how was your day?” asks Asric, undeterred. He leans his hip on the bench and smiles at Jadaar. He is almost disgustingly cheerful today, and for the life of him, Jadaar can’t figure out why. Maybe his cousin gave him a new jar of hair cream. “Anything interesting happen?”
“An elekk stepped on my foot.”
Asric tips back his head and laughs loudly. “No wonder you don’t like them. Clumsy old codger.”
“You were just punched in the face,” he points out. “I think you are the more moronic one of the two of us today.”
“I couldn’t hope to come anywhere near your levels of idiocy.” Asric gives Tingiyok a winning smile and then, presumably under the impression that it’s appropriate manners, sits on the bar top and starts swinging his legs.
“Why are you in such a mood today?” Jadaar asks, a little jealous, not that he’d ever tell Asric that. He hasn’t been in a truly good mood since Shattrath, and Asric’s uncharacteristic happiness reminds him of his own lack thereof.
Asric shrugs. “I didn’t have to listen to you prattle unceasingly this morning?”
“Brat.”
“You need to come up with something else to call me, that’s getting old,” he says, and Jadaar’s lip twitches. “Anyway, I suppose I’m just having a good day. I found an abandoned purse over near the Ring, too. Here.” He digs around in his pockets and pulls out a small wallet, tossing it to Jadaar. “Happy birthday.”
“I don’t believe you even know when my birthday is.” He catches it awkwardly and peers inside. There must be nearly a hundred gold in it, maybe more. It’s quite a find. Jadaar decides to give Asric the benefit of the doubt and take his story at face value.
“Sure I do,” Asric says. “August 14th. You were whining about how no one got you presents.”
“I mustn’t have been sober.”
“You were marinated,” he says gleefully. “Anar belore, I was amazed you could even stand afterwards.”
Jadaar turns the Thalassian over in his mind, then hazards a guess. “By the sun?”
Asric blinks, frowns, then his expression clears and he snorts in amusement. “You have been paying attention. Maybe you’re not a total dolt.”
“Man’tar.”
“Da surfal ana.”
“Nice to know I mean that much to you.”
For a split second Asric looks panicked, but it’s gone so fast that Jadaar isn’t sure that he didn’t imagine it. “Don’t overinflate your ego there.”
“You would know all about that.” Jadaar looks down at the purse in his hands and back to Asric, but he has turned to wheedle another pint out of Tingiyok. He’ll ask later. They have plenty of time.
Asric has fallen asleep on him.
Jadaar pokes him in the side, hoping to rouse him enough to boot him towards the hammocks, but Asric just lets out a little snore and murmurs something under his breath. His sunglasses slip down a little, and Jadaar sighs and readjusts them. He doesn’t want them getting tossed into the Great Sea because someone realises he’s smuggling a Blood Elf into Stormwind via ship, not when they’re almost there.
He’s reading a book on Thalassian. Asric’s cousin had given it to Asric when they left; well, he’d thrown it at Asric’s head, but where Asric is concerned it amounts to the same thing. Asric had left it alone, but Jadaar had picked it up, thinking it would be amusing to see what exactly Asric was calling him on all those occasions. After all, he does enjoy having the upper hand. He doesn’t so much mind what the insults really are anymore.
He’s halfway through a chapter on grammar – which is just as boring for Thalassian as it had been for Draenei – when Asric yawns and sits up.
“If you have drooled on my shoulderguards,” Jadaar says, “I will use your shirt to make new ones.”
“True poetry. Did I fall asleep?”
“No, you simply stared at the back of your eyelids for three hours.”
Asric snorts and rolls his shoulders. “When did the captain say we were coming into port?”
“This evening, hopefully. There have been some odd currents lately that may delay us.” Jadaar puts the book down on his other side. “Before you ask, it is mid afternoon.”
“So.” Asric folds his legs underneath him and looks like a six-year-old. “Where are we headed after this?”
“I… am not entirely sure. It would not be safe to stay in Stormwind overlong. Perhaps we could head to another neutral area; I hear Booty Bay has very good bars.”
Asric opens his mouth to reply, but the ship suddenly rocks precariously and sends them both toppling sideways. Jadaar lands on top of Asric, who lets out a wheeze and pushes at his chest.
“Get off, I can’t breathe. Light, you must weigh two hundred kilograms.”
“What was that?” Jadaar says, because he is the responsible one who is aware of things like priorities. He gets up and trots up onto the main deck.
Sailors hurry around, looking decidedly bedraggled. One, a blonde human called Sophie Dawning that Jadaar has made friends with, sees him and heads over to him.
“What was that?” he asks, and she shakes her head grimly.
“Strong waves are coming out of nowhere,” she says. “Meyer’s got no idea where they’re coming from, but it looks like there’s more where that came from. Look.”
She points overboard, and Jadaar follows her finger to see the roiling see. The waves are coming from behind them, pushing them forward, but with too much strength to be safe.
“Jadaar?” Asric pops out of nowhere at his elbow. “Look up, over there. Can you see it?”
Jadaar peers towards where Asric is pointing, but Draenei eyesight is not as good as that of the Elves, and he can’t see anything noteworthy. “What is it?”
“I can’t tell.” Asric looks more serious than Jadaar has ever seen him, including when he was supposed to be working back in Shattrath. “I need a better look.”
He darts off and swings up the mast, perching in the crow’s nest. Jadaar nearly has a heart attack when Asric shakes his head then pulls off his sunglasses, letting the bright green glow of his eyes broadcast his race to everyone watching.
Then, Jadaar spots it. A faint glow on the horizon, slowly – ever so slowly – coming into sight. The waves seem to be picking up in strength, too, and it’s all Navigator Meyer can do to keep the ship on course.
“It’s a dragon!” Asric yells, taking a step back and nearly plunging off the mast.
Jadaar falls back to avoid getting hit in the face with sea spray as another wave crashes into them. Captain Constance is barking out orders, and it seems that the sailors are all too busy preparing for dragonfire to be worried about a lone Blood Elf.
Sophie catches his eye and pats him on the arm. “It’s alright, no one’s going to try to kill your partner. We knew he was a Blood Elf from the start. Those sunglasses? Not very inconspicuous.”
“Thank you, Sophie,” he says gratefully, and she just smiles at him before running off to do important sailor-y things.
Asric doesn’t appear to be coming down from the mast, so with a sigh, Jadaar begins to scale the ropes.
“Reckless fool,” he says, perching on the yardarm below Asric.
“I think we have more pressing worries than the racism of a few humans,” says Asric in a tight voice. He turns to look towards Stormwind. “I can see the shape of the city in the distance. These waves are pushing us faster.”
“Fast enough to outrun a dragon?” Jadaar frowns and thinks deeply. “Why would there be a dragon coming from the middle of the ocean? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t think that matters right now!”
“No, it does.” Jadaar looks up, and Asric peers down. “Dragons can’t fly that far. From where you were pointing, it looks like it was coming from Kalimdor. There’s no land between us and the continent, where is a dragon supposed to rest?”
“It – ”
“This is no ordinary dragon.”
Asric doesn’t have a panicked rebuttal to that.
Soon Jadaar can see the spires of Stormwind come into view, but now the waves are reaching dangerously high, and he doesn’t know how safe the landing is going to be. Asric is calling out distances between them and the dragon periodically, and Constance directs the sailors accordingly. Soon even the humans can see the dragon approaching.
“Anar’endal dracon, band’or shorel’aran,” Asric mutters, looking panicked, and Jadaar snaps his fingers.
“Asric, calm down. We will make it to Stormwind before the dragon makes it to us. No one will be saying goodbye any time soon.”
“You speak Tha – ”
“Prepare for port!” Captain Constance yells, and within minutes, the ship is docked safely and the sailors and dockmaster are escorting the passengers out and into the city. Asric slips his sunglasses back on, which looks a little ridiculous given the sun is starting to go down, but it is sadly necessary.
The captain is having words with a dark skinned woman wearing a naval tabard and plate armour. Constance points over at Asric and Jadaar, who hurry their steps a little, eager to avoid suspicion by the authorities.
All of a sudden, warning bells begin to ring, and neither of them gets to appreciate their first view of Stormwind City as the waves pick up and begin crashing over the docks. The earth itself seems to be rumbling, and Jadaar nearly falls over as a particularly strong surge causes him to lose his footing.
“Dragon!” someone screams, and Jadaar whips his head around to see the clear shape of a very, very large dragon flying unerringly towards the city. Asric lets out a shocked gasp, and when Jadaar squints, he sees that it seems to be on fire.
From then on, everything turns to chaos. Jadaar keeps a strong grip on the back of Asric’s collar, using his large stature to clear a path and usher people towards the gates into the city. The inner Peacekeeper in him finds himself working in tandem with the panicked guards, who almost certainly did not have anything in their training to cover a giant flaming dragon attack.
He’s not sure whether he’s speaking in Common or Draenei half the time, just trying to calm people down and get them to safety. When the initial terror fades slightly, he hauls Asric towards the gates.
Asric grabs his wrist in a death grip and pulls him through the city. Apparently, he knows where he’s going, and Jadaar lets him lead.
“I have a fifth cousin thrice removed in the Mage Tower here!” he yells over the general mayhem. “She hates me, but not this much, and we can – ”
The rest of his words are drowned out by a terrifying roar, and then the dragon is upon them.
The earth heaves and groans, and with a startled yell, Jadaar watches as the entire quarter behind them is sundered from the earth and topples towards the sea. Dragonfire swiftly follows it, burning all the remains. Asric tugs at his arm, but Jadaar can’t draw his gaze away from the sudden chasm. All those lives, lost so suddenly, remind him all too much of the time Draenor was invaded.
“Jadaar, we have to go!” Asric pushes him towards the purple roves of the district ahead. “You great blue oaf! Come on, come on, we need to go!”
With a shudder, Jadaar pulls himself out of it, just in time to see the dragon hurtling down toward the city from above. He pushes Asric down in time to avoid the most of the fire, but the heat rolls over them in waves and Jadaar coughs painfully.
“It’s huge…” Asric breathes, and Jadaar looks up to see the dragon land on the twin towers at Stormwind’s gate, dropping coals and burning sparks like rain.
The dragon lets out a roar, one that echoes all the way down to Jadaar’s bones, before sweeping up and flying off north.
For the longest time they lie there, rubble falling all around them and people still screaming. Jadaar is breathing heavily, trying to clear the smoke from his lungs. Asric looks dazed, possibly in shock; Jadaar doesn’t think he himself is entirely in his right mind either.
“Jadaar,” Asric says slowly, “I want to get very, very drunk. I need you to tell me that’s a bad idea, or I am going to get so drunk that I’ll take a very long walk off a short pier and hug an octopus.”
Jadaar looks down at the irritating, shallow, foolhardy elf he’s come to like, then drops his head to rest his forehead on Asric’s. “Zor ul zekilnai faralos rukaz.”
“I’m afraid Draenei isn’t one of my many talents.”
“I did not expect Stormwind to be this much of an adventure.”
Asric lets out a vaguely hysteric laugh, then reaches up to wrap his arms around Jadaar’s neck and pull him into an enthusiastic kiss.
Asric’s fifth cousin thrice removed rolls her eyes at Asric’s grovelling, but Jadaar can tell by her expression that she’s secretly enjoying it. She manages to get Asric a day pass that will allow him to travel around Stormwind without risk of the guards trying to slaughter him, and directs them to a discreet inn that doesn’t seem to care about much other than the destruction that the dragon has caused.
“Oh,” she says, grabbing Jadaar by the shoulder as they leave. “Asric said you were looking for somewhere to go, that wouldn’t try to discriminate against you for being Horde and Alliance.”
“Yes?”
“Try the Darkmoon Faire. They should be visiting soon, and I know they’re always on the lookout for new members.” She gives Asric a derisive look. “Even for someone as useless as him.”
Jadaar thanks her, and follows Asric out.
“You must be joking.”
Jadaar sighs and folds his arms, waiting patiently while Asric and Aimee chatter excitedly in a curious mixture of Thalassian and Common. It had been quite a surprise to learn that their favourite pastry chef from Dalaran had hooked up with the Faire, but not an unwelcome one, and Jadaar doesn’t even want to know what relation she is to Asric. He knows better by now than to assume that they are just friends.
“Second cousin thrice removed,” Asric says out of the blue as they’re walking back behind the tents.
“Pardon me?”
“Aimee. She’s my second cousin thrice removed.”
“How could you possibly know I was going to ask that?”
Asric shrugs and smirks. “Natural intellect. You wouldn’t understand.”
“A wild guess, then. You wouldn’t know deduction if it danced naked in front of you wearing nothing but a hula skirt.”
“You’ve been haranguing Griftah again, haven’t you?”
“Lucky guess.” Jadaar looks down at him. “I suppose this means you’re going to eat cake for every meal, then?”
“It’s not my fault she makes amazing brownies! They’re so good they don’t even need bloodthistle in them!”
“You’re ridiculous.”
Asric smiles wickedly up at him. “That’s not what you said last night.”
Jadaar rolls his eyes and cuffs Asric around the head, but he dances out of the way and laughs. “Ashjrakamas nagasraka zekul.”
“Da surfal ana.”
Jadaar stops and eyes Asric curiously, who realises that he’s walking alone and spins on his heel. “What?”
“Is that what you’ve been saying the whole time?”
Asric blinks. “I don’t follow.”
A little smile pulls at the corner of Jadaar’s mouth, and suddenly he finds himself laughing, rich and full bellied. Asric just stands there, bemused. Jadaar’s too busy enjoying the feeling of true laughter to worry.
“Are you sure you’re not going senile?” Asric walks over and reaches up on his toes, rapping his knuckles against Jadaar’s forehead.
Jadaar’s laughter falls away, but the smile sticks. He rather likes the feeling. “Zor she’annur.”
“What?”
“That’s how you say it in Draenei.”
Asric frowns up at him, then understanding dawns and he flushes as red as his hair. “You understand Thalassian.”
“Enough,” he says. “I don’t think my accent’s very good, though.”
Asric lets out a rueful chuckle and shakes his head. “Of course. Insufferable know-it-all.”
“Twit.”
With a nervous grin, Asric says, “Da surfal ana.”
Jadaar looks at him fondly and then pokes him in the side. As Asric bends over, letting up all manner of curse words, he chuckles and says, “I know.”
“You’re horrible. I hate you.”
“That’s not what you’ve been saying since Dalaran.”
Asric subsides, then shrugs, a little sheepishly. “No, I guess it isn’t.”
Quiet snoring.
“Asric?”
“Hmm?”
“For the record, I love you too.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but – ” a yawn “ – your timing sucks.”
“Brat.”
“Windbag.”