1312/Cold Tea

Cold Tea
Date of Scene:	11 January 2015
Location:	Northrend
Synopsis:	Ivraala owes Artyom a few answers about herself and the Scourge.
Cast of Characters:	665, 679

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Ivraala (679) has posed:
    Northrend is a frigid place, fitting its name. Tundras and frozen landscapes spread all over the region, sapping it of warmth and comfort. It is not an inhospitable land, though: many call this place home, particularly the less harsh Borean Tundra that sits on the southwestern shore. A small, fortified settlement is the particular spot in this region today where a requested meeting will be assembling.

    It's a decently protected place on the shore, with a dock for ships to come and go between other regions of Azeroth and a small fortress for more official planning to go underway. Soldiers and civilians alike, whether human, night elf, draenei, dwarf, or gnome wander the corridors and bustle between buildings and ships, just as many arriving as leaving. It's clearly a hub of sorts, and the large inn just next to the docks is profiting from it.

    Ivraala has set herself up on the ground level of the inn, where a bar is set up for anyone interested in stopping by for a chance to relax and refresh. It isn't a quiet place, but she's found a corner to herself, where she sits alone at a table with her greataxe leaning against the wall beside her and her hood lifted over her head. Nobody seems interested in coming near her, so that should provide some space whenever Artyom arrives. She has some explaining that's owed; it could take some time.

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    This place is not so bad. It is far better than Shiva- at least here, there is the occasional volcanic upsurge and sprawling geyser fields. The earth lives in Northrend, and that makes it automatically better than a lot of other places, as far as its latest visitor is concerned.

Of course, its natural beauty does little to disguise the forces threatening it.

    Artyom makes his way through the Alliance port-town, his heavy blade slung peacefully across his back. The same travelling cloak he wore only a few days ago in Skyrim still billows about his legs as he steps into the tavern. As a matter of courtesy, he pauses at the door to kick some of the ice and snow off the soles of his boots- rudeness is unacceptable no matter where you are, after all.

Unless it is specifically called for.

    Artyom draws a few looks from the patrons as he enters. That kind of height is usually reserved only for Tauren and particularly tall Draenei- seeing it on someone who looks more or less human is somewhat... odd.

His attire seems to soothe most of their concerns. Adventurers are inevitably kind of weird in one way or another, and this guy definitely looks like an adventurer.

    His eyes scan the tavern- it doesn't take long for him to find the person he's looking for. It's hard to tell if that's because he recognizes her or her axe, or because she still hurts to look at for too long. In either case, he hesitates for a brief moment, before undoing the clasp of his cloak. Artyom folds it beneath an arm as he approaches, before settling wordlessly into the chair opposite to his host.

"So," he says, setting his cloak aside and folding his hands atop the table, "I believe we have much to discuss."

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    As warm as the inn is with the blazing hearth set up to one side and the heat of cooking wafting from the kitchen, Ivraala's corner seems eternally chilled. Simply a natural effect of who she is, it seems; no warmth will settle where she lingers.

    She remains nearly unmoving when Artyom approaches. Arms folded, legs stretched and crossed for the comfort of her hooves, the most she does is lift her head to meet his eyes with her own cold, shining gaze. A nod is offered, but it seems he doesn't need any more welcome.

    "Indeed we do," she replies in her even, accented tone. Her lips tighten slightly with a lingering sense of tension, but she continues, shifting a little in her seat with a rattling of dark armor. "You have many questions, I imagine. About me, about the Scourge, about why I, a Death Knight, am only formerly of their ranks. You probably wonder why I am what I am, and why I should be trusted. Am I right?"

    The draenei gives a slow sigh, fog seeping from between her lips. Her hand lifts in a vague gesture to Artyom, indicating that he should go on before her voice says the same in a tired, practiced tone. "A lot to talk about, but I will let you choose where to start. I will answer your questions truthfully, to the extent of my knowledge. You have my word on that, whatever it's worth."

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    Fortunately, a chill that is only (relatively) mild is... tolerable. The summit of Titan gets about as cold as any mountain does once you go that high up. The cities and caverns keep the people warm, but otherwise, you need to be of hardy stock to find that sort of weather comfortable.

Titans were born of their land, and they are exactly as hardy as they need to be to survive upon it.

    "Indeed," Artyom rumbles once Ivraala finishes. Wariness and suspicion manifest as a slight edge in his words and sharpness in his eyes. His lips form a thin line on his face as he goes on. "Moreover, the fundamentals of your magic, why it even exists, and more pressingly, what you and your fellows intend with it."

There's a hardness to his expression that makes it pretty clear his guard is still very much up. Though perhaps it's understandable why that might be.

    "But I am not the kind of man to ask deeply personal questions straight-away," he says, leaning back. He laces his fingers together under his nose, resting his elbows atop the table, "So let's start with... How this all came to be. What force is behind the wrongness I feel in this place?"

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    Ivraala has come to expect wariness of all kinds in her days now. She certainly doesn't seem to begrudge Artyom for his, but there is a clear tiredness to her tone, as if she dislikes this situation just as much as he does.

    A nod is given once he begins, and the Death Knight takes a moment to pull her hood back before she speaks, letting it drape behind her and expose bright hair and the shining crystals dangling from her ear. "Very well, then. You already met the general forces of that issue: the Scourge. They are an army led by one known as the Lich King, though I could not tell you his origin. What I /can/ inform you of is his nature, for he is a being of incredible power and influence. He has raised armies of the dead and the twisted with the sole purpose of ending life and spreading suffering across the world. Ghouls and skeletons are the least of his followers, for he has under his complete control even more horrifying and powerful abominations. Liches, like the one you saw; frostwyrms, like what he intended to turn that dragon into; and Death Knights, like myself. I have even heard the vrykul have allied with him. Giants of the north, the original practitioners of the rune magic Death Knights use, once thought to be gone from the world. They speak of an undying devotion to the God of Death...but if that is the Lich King or someone else, I am uncertain. I do know that there is something...different about Northrend. The armor I and all Death Knights wear is forged from saronite, an ore unique to this land. Any mortals who are exposed to it for a prolonged period of time are driven to insanity and obsession, but the Death Knights are given an immunity to its effects. Whatever it is, there is /something/ in this land that no doubt spawned the Lich King."

    A frown settles over her features, then. Not one of weariness, but something closer to a deep-seated resentment that sends a sharp chill through her words. "Everything that does not willingly join the Scourge is killed and forced to in death. The Lich King particularly delights in corrupting those who are holy and good. My race, the draenei, with our connection to the Light the naaru granted us, are choice subjects for that reason, though it is rare that any endure their transformation. Whoever becomes part of the Scourge is forced into the total control of the Lich King, subject to his goading and whispers and the conditioning his followers instill. It is not a fate one escapes from easily, if at all."

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    Artyom sits silently as he listens. There's quite a bit to take in, it seems! Fortunately, the depth of his patience is somewhat famous in Alexander. He waits and waits and listens and listens, all the while barely moving save for the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.

Finally, Ivraala finishes, and Artyom nods.

    "I see. So there may be something else at fault for all this," his eyes flit to the heavy axe at the Draenei's side, then back towards her. If she is insulated from that metal's effects, then does it only harm the living? And if so, why? "I suppose it is fortunate that we managed to protect that dragon, then. I dread considering what doing battle with one of these Frostwyrms would be like."

Probably something involving a lot of flying. Ugh.

    "Perhaps these Vrykul have some inkling as to what the root cause of all this is. It may be worthwhile to... Interrogate some of them," he murmurs, rubbing at his chin. A giant fighting giants would be an interesting show, certainly, but he should probably gather a party before venturing forth. It'd at least be worth acquiring what they know of Rune Magic- could potentially be useful.

    He shakes his head, then, banishing the thought from his mind for the moment. One thing at a time. "So you say that the Scourge is completely and totally under the dominion of this Lich King. And that it is difficult to escape from this control, but then..." Then Artyom decides to ask the question that's been looming over this conversation like some kind of interrogatory Sword of Damocles, "How did /you/ escape?"

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    The suggestion of interrogation draws a brief, mirthless smirk to Ivraala's lips. "A bold idea, but consider that one is not very different from you, and there is a whole race of them. They are spiteful creatures, too. I have never met one who did not think I was wasting its time with my mere presence, and it might take some convincing to get anything from one of them. But...perhaps it is something to consider for the future."

    Her expression settles again when the discussion moves on. The resentment has faded, but something different seeps into her visage at his next question. The air she holds is one closer to melancholy; one that is as firm and unrelenting as the cold mountain winds. "...I was purged of the Lich King's control," she replies quietly, "by an exceedingly powerful force of Light. It is difficult to explain, but the Lich King intended to send a large detachment of Death Knights, myself included, into a suicide mission to draw out one of his greater enemies, a paladin by the name of Tirion Fordring. Our commander, Highlord Mograine, was...inspired to return an object of great holy power to Tirion. In that effort, he and the Death Knights following him were severed from the Lich King's influence, for good or ill, and the Highlord formed the Knights of the Ebon Blade from their ranks."

    Her tail sways behind her, flicking around before draping over her lap. The draenei falls silent for a few moments of thought, then finally shrugs her shoulders and looks back up to meet Artyom's gaze. "I have never heard of any being freed before or after that. Any Death Knights that showed resistance or tried to escape were slaughtered. I'm still not sure how easy it would be to replicate such fortune."

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    "Perhaps, but perhaps that is a bridge for negotiation," Artyom suggests, leaning forward onto his elbows ever so slightly. "They are spiteful, they are arrogant, but I know these kinds. They sound... Shivan. Prove one's strength, and perhaps they will be... willing to listen." Besides, if they're the kind who think all non-giants are lame, then what happens when one shows up on their doorstep? It could be interesting, at least.

    Ivraala has more to say, though, and so Artyom goes quiet once again. He listens, still and silent as a stone in a field. There's a sense that he's either very used to being utterly motionless for long periods, or it's something that comes naturally. It's almost unnerving, in any case. "I see," he rumbles, nodding. "So his mental control was purged by the employment of high-level White Magic. I suppose that is roughly analogous to using an Esuna spell to clear similar mind-affecting enchantments." He frowns, brow furrowing curiously, "But how did this Highlord of yours manage to resist to begin with? Surely he must have, if he handed the artifact over."

More importantly, how did that much white magic /not/ eradicate all the ostensibly undead knights where they stood?

    He moves on. It would be rude to ask 'why didn't you die when it happened' after all. Artyom's stare remains fixed in spite of the wrongness assaulting his senses. "Perhaps. Do you have any reckoning as to what this Lich King is using to control his subjects? Moreover, what /is/ the means he uses to... Defile the dead? I doubt it is simply necromancy."

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    "The artifact was...corrupted," Ivraala replies, her tone uncertain and the furrow of her brow echoing as much. "It was a sword in his possession, and Tirion was simultaneously able to restore it and use its power to enhance his own. Again, I am unfortunately lacking the knowledge of /why/ it was in that state to begin with. Such would probably be a matter for the Highlord to answer. But...I assume it had something to do with his transformation into a Death Knight." Another idle shrug, another sigh of resignation. "It would fit the Lich King's preferences, at least."

    "As far as why the Highlord managed to resist...it was Tirion's influence again, I think. He was shown an image that reminded him of who he once was, what his purpose once was. It inspired an already powerful soul, and he was able to resist long enough to give Tirion the weapon." She huffs sightly, shifting her crossed legs beneath the table and glancing down to her lap. "If Mograine had any signs of weakness in the Scourge's cause, enough so that Tirion's methods inspired him, then he must have held them off very well. But that is in the past; I didn't concern myself much with it all, under the circumstances. I apologize."

    With that, the draenei sits up a little straighter, folding her arms on the table instead as she looks back to Artyom. More questions are posed, and more answers are ready to be given. "Yes, actually. There are several tactics that are used, each of which is intended to make use of the weakness of the target. The Lich King's whispers are in the minds of every Scourge, for one thing. He is always present, goading them into their acts of cruelty and malice against the innocent. Emotions such as compassion, mercy, and happiness were beaten out of us, and hatred, bloodlust, and a joy in the suffering of others were encouraged and rewarded. The Scourge are like hounds, and the Lich King is their master, training them to act just how he wishes."

    Again, that icy frown returns. The table around Ivraala's arms starts to gain a light coating of frost where she touches it, but she manages to keep her voice level after a moment's pause. "...he uses other tactics, but they are difficult to remove. Those, at least, are lessened when his influence is severed. As far as animating his followers, it is just necromancy; an extremely powerful version of it, but necromancy in essence."

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    "That... Miasma from the other night was the same sort of necromancy, then?" Artyom asks, frowning rather severely, though it's difficult to tell beneath his steepled fingers. The memory of that spell is... rather strong in his mind. Next time, he must remember not to overextend himself against these creatures so quickly.

Perhaps save the Limit Break for when he actually needs to kill a lich or something? Probably wise.

    "From what you're telling me," he goes on, unfolding his hands and allowing them to rest back on the tabletop, "If a strong spirit can be made to recall its own identity, then it will be able to resist this King. The question then becomes why he chooses those with powerful souls to corrupt to begin with. It seems... Counter-intuitive. Why attempt to control those who would be most difficult to manage? Better to create agents that are strong enough to accomplish desired goals, but not strong enough to rebel." It seems rather strange in his head, or at least tremendously hubristic. Though that wouldn't be entirely unexpected in situations such as these.

    "Furthermore, if he truly does go beyond merely controlling his subject's minds," Artyom continues, glancing briefly at the creeping layer of frost across the table's surface. Fortunately it doesn't creep too far. "Then it is my understanding that such... Manipulations are often difficult to dislodge. Which brings us to my other concern," he rumbles, leaning back again into his seat as his eyes narrow somewhat, "How... ingrained are these things in the psyche of a Death Knight?"

And, by extension, in herself as well.

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    "In a way," Ivraala replies, in regards to the miasma. "Disease is a choice method of the Scourge's, for their goal is not only to kill, but to corrupt and taint. Part of the dark magic some of their practitioners hold, Death Knights included, revolves around the creation of magical diseases. Far more potent than anything natural, and that kind was specially crafted to act as an automatic revival of the dead into malleable followers."

    The next answer comes readily; Ivraala is very experienced with the reasoning for the Lich King's particular choices. "Pride. Or resentment, perhaps. It brings him great satisfaction to bend the true and just under his will and make them complete servants of his efforts, and with the numbers he has behind him, the few that resist should be of little concern overall. The events that freed me and Mograine were remarkable; there was something else there, I believe, than what was immediately apparent." Her hand lifts, balling into a fist that serves as a perch for her cheek. The frost on the table seems to be thawing already, at least. "And besides, most who are connected to the Light and given their own freedom after the Lich King's manipulation would rather kill themselves again than live as a Death Knight, knowing the atrocities they committed. Many did, in fact. It's a problem that takes care of itself."

    There's a certain frankness and apathy to her words, with how easily she can talk about people killing themselves in horror and grief. That could be enough of an answer to his next question, though she falls silent for another moment more before she continues. "...they are very strong. A memory of the life one once lived returns when the Lich King's influence is freed, but the conditioning ingrained in a trained Death Knight is powerful. There is...a last resort, as well, in case they attempt to revolt. The Endless Hunger; something that causes not only a desire to cause harm, but a need for it. If we do not hurt anything for too long, we are striken with agony until our minds are lost to violence. And as for emotions, I..."

    Something seems to hit her, suddenly. That melancholy air settles over her again, but even stronger than before. Shoulders sink, her hand lowers to the table again. The air is quiet for another lingering, frigid pause until she speaks again, this time more softly. "...I can't remember the last time I felt those things. Happiness, compassion...I barely remember what they were like. Even fear is gone."

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    A flicker of... Something passes through Artyom's eyes. Like a wicking flame-tongue surging out of the pits of his pupils. It may take Ivraala a moment to recognize it as wrath, terrible and contained only by virtue of Artyom's typically calm nature. "I see," he says. There is a low undercurrent to his voice, "That would explain my... reaction to the spell. Fortunately others were capable of dispelling it. I will need to be more careful in the future."

Or just, y'know, obliterate liches and the like with incredible prejudice whenever he seems them. Scourge Casters of all stripes, really. Probably most Death Knights too? Speaking of which. "Pride is a common failing of most tyrants," Artyom agrees. "As is sadism. It will almost certainly be his downfall, one of these days. The higher one builds one's tower, the less he sees of its foundation- and the more tenuously it rests upon that foundation."

Perhaps it's wishful thinking? Perhaps it's confidence.

    He goes silent again when Ivraala goes on to explain the more subtle aspects of Scourge indoctrination. His lips curve downward at that- but this is not a stern, furious kind of frown, but one of genuine sincerity. He sighs, "I see. My condolences. I suppose it is only logical that death will take something from the dying. Unfortunate then that what is taken was any chance of truly appreciating the world. This Lich King is cruel indeed."

But then...

    "Fear is gone," he echoes, "As are happiness and compassion. Other things too, I imagine." Artyom inclines his head forward, his hands folding back atop the table. And then he decides to, maybe, ask something that is... A bit too close to the heart. "What remains, then? Anger? Regret? How deep does this wound bite? Do you fight the Lich King for the sake of vengeance alone? When he is dead and gone, what will remain of you- and of the other Death Knights?"

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    "Perhaps," is all Ivraala murmurs in response to Artyom's confidence. As determined as she may be, that sort of optimism still seems to be lacking. How, then, does she manage to endure?

    Chilling silence falls over her again as she leans back in her seat. More a slump than anything relaxed, but she tries to maintain some semblance of fortitude. Her gaze isn't focused on him, or really anything, distantly aimed at the floor. Finally, she responds again.

    "Hatred, for both myself as I am now, and the Scourge for making me into this. Anger that my life was wasted to defile everything my people stand for, after everything they've been through. Regret that I wasn't strong enough to resist the Lich King, or determined enough to die instead of being conditioned like I was. I was..." Her eyes shut, finally cutting off their icy glow. For a moment, her gritted teeth are bared, elongaded canines glinting briefly in the dim light before her hand comes to rest on her face.

    "...I was not just made to slaughter fleeing civilians and eradicate whole armies. I was made to /enjoy/ it, to /revel/ in it," she hisses. "And it disgusts me. My people believe that death would be a mercy for something like me, and maybe they're right. But before then, I will see the Lich King destroyed and ensure that he will never, /ever/ do something like this to anyone again. And after that, I-"

    The draenei stops abruptly, silenced by her own uncertainty. Her cold, hissing wrath, a stark contrast to the flaring volcano that started in Artyom, soon begins to fade. Her hand falls to her lap; her eyes are still closed, but those sharp fangs are no longer bared. When her voice comes again, it's back to that frigid, even tone of before, though somehow even more tired. "...I don't know. Forgive me. Wrath is not the way of the draenei, and there are some things I need to learn again."

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    Artyom is quiet for a long moment. As terrible as it might be, he finds himself... Judging. Silently, stoically judging. Behind his calm visage, the cogs of his mind churn, digesting information as it continues to emerge by trickle or by flood. One way or another, it would come to this. This was the reason he came to speak with the knight, after all.

    Not only to determine the severity of the threat that that Scourge posed, but also to discern the nature of these Death Knights. Artyom is a thoughtful creature, in the end. His emotions affect him like they would any other, but he is slow to make up his mind. Sometimes this is to his advantage. Other times it is to his detriment.

    A few more moments tick by. His eyes are set studiously in his skull, lips stoic and still, forming a line between his chin and nose. Distant firelight casts shadows over his face as it plays across his cheek and the bridge of his nose, giving his stationary visage the illusion of motion and gesture. Whatever Ivraala might see in his expression is only hers to decide. After a moment, he speaks again.

This time, he has very little to ask.

"This Lich King," he begins, "You said he is something of... a God of Death, yes? Or something close to this?"

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    Silence lingers over the pair, and Ivraala doesn't seem eager to break it. Her head lifts, and her eyes slide open, but her gaze is cast to the side instead. What else is there for her to say after all that? It's already enough of an embarrassment to her kind that such a deep-seated loathing crackled up to the surface; is there much more to say on the matter?

    She sits in the darkened corner until Artyom speaks for himself, arms crossed, tattoos and gems and eyes creating a glow in the dim light that is more cold than comforting. What a contrast, befitting their natures: one figure sturdy and unmoving like a carved stone, the other lithe but lacking in any warmth or light like ice in the depth of winter.

    When he speaks again, her head lifts, casting her gaze back at the titan. "The Vrykul call him that, I believe," she replies, her tone even and subdued. "It isn't a title I've heard elsewhere, but it may very well be. Why do you ask?"

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    To say that Artyom's nature is that of Earth and Stone is rather hitting the nail on the head. While Titans can have dispositions as widely ranging as that of any subspecies of humanity, Artyom's seems to have been anchored particularly deeply to elemental roots of his homeland. He is very much like a mountain when he is feeling particularly contemplative.

    For a moment, he withdraws into that place of internal awareness and contemplation, assembling the words in his mind before he gives voice to them. Timing, in such situations, is everything.

    Then, he finally speaks, leaning back slightly to recline in his seat. "You feel regret for... Not dying. Why? All things that live do so in defiance of death. Eating. Breathing. Even the things we do without thinking- they are done because the alternative is unacceptable."

"You are undead, I suppose that is the difference. Dead, but not." Artyom shrugs, then, folding his arms over one another upon the tabletop. "Still, only the living dare to seek out what lies beyond the horizon. After the long night comes dawn. So long as one continues move forward, they will certainly walk once more in the light of day."

    "If you died then," he rumbles on, the words pouring out like an avalanche, "You would have stopped. If you stop, you will have truly died, and Death would claim another. Destroy him, claim your revenge, but if that is all and there is nothing left, then so too do you destroy yourself."

"So then," he finishes, asking the final question that rests at the end of all his philosophizing. "When all is done and vengeance is spent, who is it that will stand triumphant?"

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    It's Ivraala's turn to be silent as Artyom speaks, in his steady, thoughtful way. She doesn't seem to mind; maybe silence comes naturally to her, or maybe she's simply gotten used to it after a while. Whatever is the case, she allows Artyom his time to speak, listening to his every word and considering it all in turn.

    When he's done, she doesn't exactly rush to answer, but she doesn't wait, either. With a slow sigh like a winter's breeze, she lets her last thoughts assemble, then speaks again. "Because I would rather have died than lived a life that went against every tenant my race was built on," she replies simply. "But, it is done. The past cannot be changed. I simply have to accept that it happened and continue to make up for it."

    Her brow furrows and her eyes narrow, her expression settling into one that is pensive and uncertain. "...before I end this life as well, I want, more than anything, to make my life one that assists the Light and aids its purposes, even as I am now. And, if I possibly can, I want to regain what I lost. I want my emotions, my desires, my home. I want to live again. But, even if I cannot have that, then I will be content in the knowledge that I did something good in my life. Maybe happiness will come with it."

    Her arms fold over her chest again, and a slow breath falls from her once more. "What that assistance is, what /I/ can do, I don't know yet. But I will find something, somewhere. That is what I hope for."

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    Artyom listens again, he goes silent again. The odd beat of their dialogue hammers on in its larghetto rhythm. Back and forth it goes, until once more the pendulum swings into his court. "Do not worry so much about that," he gestures... not dismissively, but with a wave of a hand that accentuates his words, "Keep seeking, you will find it, then you will lose it again, then find something more. I do not feel as though life is so simple as to have a single answer. Instead, it has many small ones that come and go with time, separated by periods of confusion and meandering- but all of life is full of uncertainty, yes? Anything can happen."

    His eyes remained fixed for a few moments more. It might occur to her that they have /been/ fixed to her own for much of this conversation, save for when his gaze shifted to look at something particularly relevant to his meditations at the time. Now, though, they finally look away to peer intermittently at other things in the way that is only natural for most people in conversation.

    "For what it is worth," he says, sighing, "Though your presence is still tremendously unsettling and though I can feel the corruptive magics within you affect the very land you walk on, I believe your intentions are sincere." Whatever that might be worth, anyway. Perhaps a lot. Perhaps nothing at all. "However, from what I know of undeath and white magic, I strongly recommend against attempting to remedy your... condition- until you are certain that it will work."

    "The results could be disastrous, otherwise," the man finishes, idly recalling what happened that one time he threw a Phoenix Down at a zombie. It was quite a pretty lightshow, at least.

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    Finally, a light smile is summoned to the corner of Ivraala's lips. It's not exactly mirthful, more a smirk than anything, but it's a different gesture for once. "You have the mindset of a draenei. That is certainly admirable. Ah...yes, I hope that I will find something. I have little reason to believe that except faith, but perhaps that is all I need. It has gotten me here, at least."

    Her expression settles again, and she straightens up a little in her seat. "I appreciate, then, that you took the time to be here and speak with me, to try and understand me. That can be said of few people in regards to my kind, but...can you blame them? When the Scourge has taken from them what they love and cherish, these things aren't so easily forgiven. In time, I hope to show them that we are different."

    With that, the draenei stands, pushing her seat back to clear space for her great height. Her axe is lifted and hefted onto her back, buckling into place once more. "You are right; that is probably something to wait for until a much later date. But I am not very concerned with that. If it can be managed, I will be pleased; if not, well...I will endure, as I have thus far. That is the way of my people."

    She pauses, looking down to Artyom with a thoughtful stare. "...I am indebted to you, you know. Your trust in my sincerity means much to me. If there is something I may do for you in the future, whatever it may be, you need only call on me, and I will do whatever I can. The debt of a draenei is not readily forgotten; I remember that much."

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    Artyom... Actually chuckles a bit. It's probably the first bit of genuine mirth this table has seen all night. "Is that so? Perhaps such things transcend worlds and species. Or perhaps it's simply a bit of common wisdom." He shrugs, then, "Call it faith, call it determination. I have met my maker- our people live upon them. But life will endure for as long as it can, belief or no. If faith is what carries you, then guard it well."

    He pauses briefly when Ivraala starts speaking again, remaining silent until she finishes- and gets up to leave. When he resumes, he's on his feet as well, "Nonsense. The reason I met you here was to confirm or refute my own suspicions. There is no need to thank me for indulging my own selfish desires."

    Though was it really selfish? Most would have simply stuck to their presumptions and prejudices rather than even taking the time.

    "More importantly," he produces a small rectangle of paper from a satchel on his belt and offers it to the Draenei- it's a business card! "If it would not trouble you, please keep me informed whenever you next move against the Scourge and I will endeavor to accompany you. I would rather not see an acquaintance move to engage them alone. Otherwise, if you are ever in need of a geomancer, please keep me in mind."

Ivraala (679) has posed:
    An acquaintance? Maybe a somewhat detached term, but it's certainly an unfamiliar one for Ivraala these days. Confusion flits over her expression, but she nonetheless takes the offered card, examining it curiously before nodding her thanks. "You were an excellent ally in Skyrim. I would be a fool to deny your aid again. It won't be much longer; you can be sure I will ask for aid soon."

    For a moment more, she pauses, staring at the titan with a lingering thoughtfulness. "Remain as you are, Artyom, no matter what crosses your path. The world could use more like you, and it would be a shame to lose someone so needed."

    With a last, practiced motion, she pulls her hood up over her head again, letting her horns pass through its surface. "I should take my leave, I think. This inn has tolerated my presence long enough, and I have some things to investigate. May your days be long, Artyom, and your hardships few. We will meet again soon." She bows her head once more in farewell, then slips past her companion to the door, and beyond that, to the rest of Northrend's cold reaches.

Artyom W. Valodjn (665) has posed:
    A detached term, but one gets the sense that Artyom meant it in a somewhat more... friendly sort of way. Or perhaps he finds it unusual to call someone a friend after only two meetings? Perhaps there's something more to it, but it is still a strong step away from 'warily considering the possibility of a threat.'

    "Nothing that lives does not change," Artyom says, his lips and eyes both brightening into a smile. "All that we can hope and endeavor for is that whatever does change does so for the better." He lifts his cloak from where he had set it aside and wraps its tremendous volume around his shoulders and neck. It conceals everything below his adam's apple. His blade is next, sliding back into its place over his shoulders.

    "Yes," he nods as she bids him farewell, "I feel as though I should have a look around this region before night settles in earnest. It is a rather beautiful land, for all of its flaws." He pauses briefly as she bows, and inclines his head somewhat in reply, "And you. May sure ground be always underfoot, and the Earth generous with its bounty." He watches her go, then, taking his time as he collects the rest of his belongings. Perhaps he will rent a room here for the night? Hmm.