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The rhythmic clang of plated boots marked the distance from the flightmaster into the depths of Oribos. Lost in thought, the weary warrior mechanically sidestepped locals and mercenaries crowding the path — a common sight since Sylvanas’ antics in Azeroth and her subsequent flight to this realm had driven swarms here: some to hoard riches, others to chase glory in the Shadowlands.
Rend snorted irritably.
The Shadowlands… As if this place had fewer problems than Azeroth. The Bastion schism, Ardenweald’s mana-eater invasion and drought, Maldraxxus’ petty throne games, Revendreth’s shadowy schemes, droughts plaguing other regions… The list never ended. Enairend had initially pitied the locals. Now, this endless parade of crises — which no one seemed eager to fix — grated on his nerves. It felt like the lion’s share of this bullshit had been dumped on adventurers. The supposedly almighty realm rulers acted worse than spoiled children — throwing tantrums, making threats, blackmailing…
“All they’re missing is a dramatic foot-stomp.”
Not that the blood elf wasn’t tempted to stomp his own boot lately. Problems avalanched relentlessly, most not even his to solve.
“By the Sunwell’s light, I’m so godsdamned tired of this…”
Steering these thoughts, Enairend reached the tavern. He shoved a tipsy goblin aside, claimed a vacant stool, and glanced at his neighbor’s unnaturally vibrant hair — likely a Night Fae Covenant recruit.
Rend signaled the barkeep, drummed fingers on the counter, and scanned the room. The green flash he’d noticed earlier belonged to the luxuriant mane of a night elf woman nearby. The sin’dorei hoped his Horde affiliation wouldn’t spark trouble and focused on the beer mug thudding before him.
After taking several deep gulps, the man closed his eyes and exhaled sharply.
“Elune's bloody tears, I'm so done with this,” came a voice beside him, perfectly echoing his own thoughts.
***
Life was inching toward normalcy — or what passed for it now. The routine dulled the sharp edges of recent horrors, though they’d never vanish completely.
The elf leaned against the flightmaster’s balcony, absently gazing at the view. She’d just returned from another Night Fae assignment, but her mind lingered elsewhere.
“Like Teldrassil…”
Pawprint grimaced and shook herself. Even months later, the Burning’s ghost still ached. At least she slept through the night now — mostly. The nightmares, though… Healing from the chaos would take years.
Tonight had been no exception: snow whirlwinds under scaly wings, flames melting ice, devouring homes. The roar drowning screams. Ash choking her throat, the stench of charred flesh.
Helpless. Voiceless.
She’d woken to her own ragged cry.
Needless to say, her mood was foul. Not even the Winter Queen’s tasks could lift it.
The druid flicked her ears. Maybe Oribos would distract her. She tugged her cloak and headed out.
The Crossroads thrummed with noise — a welcome chaos. Azerothians crowded the area: fortune-seekers, duty-bound soldiers, refugees. With the realm’s crises, adventurers were a necessary plague.
“Hope the tavern’s not full…”
It wasn’t — mostly barstools. Pawprint took the first free seat, ordered, then felt a hostile glare. An orc at a nearby table spat and looked away, muttering.
Another Alliance-hating grunt. Exhausting, but predictable.
The kaldorei turned to her drink. The beer was divine; her first mug vanished too fast. As she sipped the second, heavy footsteps approached. A fair-haired sin’dorei dropped onto the adjacent stool. Pale green eyes flicked over her, assessing, before he ordered.
Animal instinct told her he meant no harm. She relaxed, swirling her mug. Missing friends. Hoping they were safe.
“Curse this war. These Shadowlands. Fuck it all.”
Melancholy tightened her chest. She gripped the mug.
“Elune's bloody tears, I'm so done with this,” she sighed, glaring at the beer.
“Fucking same. Absolute shitstorm,” came the gravel-rough reply beside her.
She turned. His tired eyes mirrored hers — weary, understanding. Without a word, they nodded and returned to their drinks.
For some reason, that crude exchange made things... fractionally lighter. As if each muttered curse had jimmied open a lock to some inner cache of stubbornness.
Sometimes, even chance encounters could be exactly what you needed.