THRALL
COURT Unseelie
TITLE Waywarden
OCCUPATION Warchief, Elemental Babysitter
ABLE TO FAST-TRAVEL No.
RESIDENCE IN 2,701 Ta'ri Trading Post, Azure
RESIDENCE IN 2,702 Caer Scima (fairly nice quarters), Ta'ri Trading Post
MAJOR EVENTS
TARI TRADING POST TIMESKIP LOG
What it says on the tin. [ ✖ ]
HIGHLIGHT
Description [ ✖ ]
HIGHLIGHT
Description [ ✖ ]
|
PLANS
Thrall needs a network, so he will be reaching out to people on all sides. Those with information will interest him greatly. He may do his best to smooth over anti-shardbearer sentiment but there are no solid plans to get him involved with that yet. He is slowly heading in a more neutral direction as he despises war, and to that end, he will also be shielding/protecting children, refugees, and other non-combatants. Much of his energy will be devoted to healing the damage the war has wrought and communing with spirits.
SUMMARY OF KNOWN DETAILS
Thrall will have his own spot of land to outfit and strengthen as he pleases. This new base will act as a great place of operations for him, and a good place to stop since it's basically right in the middle of the map. Nice.
TIMELINE OF EVENTS
| SPRING IN 2,701 (Mar, Apr, May) |
- MARCH - Thrall helps with unfreezing the Roc's frozen rampage. BOON EVENT
- MARCH - Thrall helps out in Azure, meets Wan.
- MARCH - Waver hands over the keys to the old Barrel.
- MARCH - Rin calls Thrall up on da phone and tells him to get his ass down here.
- MARCH - Thrall helps Rin & the Barrel (2) with healing some damage down south, helps with her garden.
- APRIL - Shardbearers hear harps in their dreams, can smash it to make it stop. BOON EVENT
- APRIL - Waver comes by.
- APRIL - Saber comes by.
- MAY - Fairy rings and lockets stop working. Monarchs disappear. Thrall goes golden swan hunting.
- MAY - Swan hunting w/ Diarmuid.
- MAY - Javik comes by the TTP.
|
| SUMMER IN 2,701 (Jun, Jul, Aug) |
|
|
| FALL IN 2,701 (Sept, Oct, Nov) |
- SEPTEMBER - Suddenly language barriers everywhere! Thrall speaks Common and Orcish and orcs are natural polyglots so this should be fun.
- LATE SEPTEMBER - Brewfest? a.k.a. the Treun wreath festival. Maybe Thrall can get some imports for his pals.
- LATE OCTOBER- Samhain! Sun does not rise; characters can go wherever they please; Black Shuck makes another appearance; giant party on the Cathraon. Thrall is going to the party with Vol'jin and he'll be dressed up as a dwarf because that's fucking hilarious, is what it is.
- NOVEMBER - Some kind of prison break from Leathann. Thrall watches.
|
| WINTER IN 2,701/2,702 (Dec, Jan, Feb) |
- LATE DECEMBER- Thrall will dress up as Greatfather Winter for Yule and give presents to the kids. Also both courts are trying to catch the White Hart.
- JANUARY - Caer Scima is finally rebuilt, but Thrall does not return.
- FEBRUARY - Something like Children's Week in Parrais. Several notable artists found murdered. Thrall is perturbed and wonders if it's tied to anti-shardbearer sentiment, but maybe not.
|
| SPRING IN 2,702 (Mar, Apr) |
- MARCH - The dead rise again! Thrall will have no problems cutting down skeletons. He's dealt with the Scourge before.
- APRIL - Imps and fairies both go missing?
|
|
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
APRIL - HARP SEQUENCE
It wasn't enough that the harp haunted his dreams. It would come during his waking hours while he renovated the Barrel's old building into a trading post. One moment he was completely fine, but the next found him on the ground with tears running down his face, the earth trembling beneath him. He was thankful then and only then for his limited dominion over the elements; he was sure he would have set something on fire in his grief. But the trading post still stood, and the only damage was a knocked over flower pot.
He knew this ache. He knew it was the same ache that destroyed him when he'd seen Taretha's grisly death. And, as always, Thrall's grief led to rage.
The second time the harp music lured him in, he was alone in the basement with a book. He pored over the epic poetry spread in the pages before him, reading easily by candlelight... It was one of his favorite activities. One of his favorite subjects. But then the harp notes settled in his ears, erratic and high-pitched and ringing like bells, and his vision went red.
The candle sputtered and left him in the darkness. Thrall hardly noticed. He shoved away from the desk and sank his fist into the nearest wall, right through the rock. The scent of blood filled his nostrils-- likely from scraping his knuckles-- but he didn't stop. He punched the wall again, and he roared. All his teeth and tusks carried the vibrations that traveled through him, across his skin, and shook the entire building.
Thankfully he was alone on this spot of land. No one would be frightened except wild birds. But Thrall was inherently a gentle creature and he disliked losing control. When he came to his senses, he found himself on the floor with bloody hands and torn papers, and he was ashamed.
There had to be some way to stop the music. At great risk to his venture, Thrall settled on the edge of the land and told the renovation-helpers not to disturb him under any circumstances. It was here that he would meditate. The grass whispered around him as the wind hushed through the treetops. Though no vibrations came from the ground below, he let it steady him. He knew the earth was alive and well. It would guide him.
Spirits, he prayed, I ask for your aid.
The earth rumbled in reply. Only he could feel it, but it sent a shiver up his spine. In his mind's eye, the spirit of a bird paused to listen.
There is something haunting me and throwing me out of balance. It makes my spirit ache, and I do not know the cause. I-- I am afraid I will abuse your power and hurt those I swore to protect.
That was huge. It wasn't easy for Thrall to admit such weaknesses, but he was ever-humbled by the presence of the spirits. That they still deigned to listen to him after he had failed so utterly at Caer Scima... It was worth admiration. He could still make a difference. He could still be a shaman.
The spirits did not reply for some time. He could tell they were deliberating among themselves. The spirit of Life was especially curious, and he could feel its cold touch on his forehead. It almost felt like it sifted through his memories. Something like wings brushed across his cheek, tracing the lines where tears had fallen previous. Thrall drew in a shaky breath.
It begins in your dreams, came the reply. He had his suspicions already, but this only raised more questions. Who controlled his dreams? Who was in charge of the music? All these and more rushed to the surface, but he hesitated. That insistent touch settled on his lips as if to keep him quiet. Do not be afraid, son of Durotan.
Thrall's eyes fluttered open. It took him a moment to gather his bearings again, to make sure he was still in his body. The sky had darkened above, both as a result of the lateness in the day and gathering rainclouds. He felt something watching him, and paused to look at a sparrow in a nearby tree. Giving it a nod of thanks, he went on his way.
He heard the harp again when he slept that night. Normally, Thrall assumed a passive role in his dreams and let them come. But this time-- this time he was ready... or so he thought.
He stood before Orgrimmar's great gates, and he felt a surge of pride. Thrall's people had quite literally built the town from dust. A lot of blood had been sacrificed to earn them this land. Though it was arid and unforgiving, it was home. They survived somehow, and now they were thousands strong. Thrall was so very, very proud to be their leader.
But he knew he would step down eventually. If the world shattered as Vol'jin said it would-- and Thrall believed his brother without question-- then Thrall could not continue to be Warchief and shaman both. That weighed heavily on him even though he had not spoken of it... to anyone.
As the harp music drifted through the gates, Thrall centered himself, recalling what the spirits had told him. He would have to find the source of the music. Tonight. It was here, it had to be. He took one step forward, then another, until he passed through the gates into the Valley of Strength.
The city was a wasteland. The civilians and merchants were nowhere to be seen, not even gathered before the bank like they had when martial law was declared. Food lay on plates, untouched. It was as if people had vanished where they stood, and there was no explanation for it.
Still the music kept coming. Thrall followed it with his keen ears. He walked through the shadows of the Drag, which seemed even more sinister with the absence of its people. He walked and walked, ascended the hill, and came to a stop before the shadow of Mannoroth's horns. Not so long ago, Grom had given his life to slay the demon while Thrall lay powerless. His chest tightened at the memory as it so often did; Thrall had this grisly monument in front of the Hold as a reminder.
But he couldn't linger here forever even though he missed his home. The music came from the throne room, so he turned away from his friend's memory and ascended the steps.
Thrall did not expect the memory to follow him, however. Grom stood in the center of the room and his presence seemed to fill it. His shoulders were still as broad as Thrall remembered, yet somehow still more slender than his own. In his hands he clutched Gorehowl. When he faced Thrall, his eyes burned with red demon-fire and his pierced tusks were visible around a snarl. Behind him sat a gilded harp, strings plucked by invisible hands.
Thrall stared dumbly at his formerly dead friend. His mouth refused to work, and air left his lungs. Then Grom surged at him and there was no time for talk anyway. He ducked beneath the axe's swing, trying to ignore the knot in his gut, the familiar howling of air whistling through the holes in Grom's axe. "Grom! Brother!" Faced with Grom under the effects of demonic bloodlust, Thrall felt as powerless as he had those few years ago.
Grom had been more than his best friend. He was his brother, his mentor, and a friend of Thrall's own father. Though he had made plenty of mistakes, Thrall never doubted he had a good heart. Faced with him again, it was... so hard to do more than defend himself. But he had to. As the axe came down again, it just barely missed Thrall's feet. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and realized belatedly that he was tearing up.
Thrall was unarmed, as dreams most often went, so he reached for the earth. But... the elements didn't respond. That moment of hesitation was all Grom needed to fly at him, his jaw open in a wide roar. Thrall's armor took the brunt of the axe but it wasn't quite enough to keep the blade from sinking into his shoulder. Thrall growled through the pain, felt his own bloodlust rear up but-- no. No. He clamped down on it, grabbed the axe by the blade and yanked it out of his shoulder with one hand.
"I will not fight you again," Thrall managed. Black blood seeped through the crack in his breastplate and made rivulets down his left arm. He hefted Gorehowl despite the pain, the slickness of the handle. It was... lighter than he remembered. "Not even a memory." Grom closed in despite being disarmed, but Thrall looked past him to the harp.
Time to end this.
He dodged past the blood-hazed Warsong chieftain, lifted Gorehowl and swung. The sound the harp made as it shattered was not unlike a hundred tiny glass figurines splintering. Emotions surged over him in a wave; he fell to his knees and wept openly with the axe still in his hands.
Grom appeared once more, this time as Thrall remembered him. No blood-haze, just a characteristic crooked grin. He said nothing, only touched Thrall's forehead.
The shaman awoke face down in the pile of furs that served as his bed. His face was soaking wet (along with his blankets). He strained his ears to see what time it was: early morning or so, by the chirping. He drew his big green hands across his eyes to clear them, stared up at the ceiling a while.
Although Grom had been a distraction, his memory was one of several that inspired such deep emotions in him. Losing his friends and family made Thrall what he was, and yet he wanted so desperately to trade what he had... to have them back. In the end, it was his memory-- Gorehowl-- that allowed Thrall to smash the harp.
"Thank you, old friend," he whispered.