IC Reactions to War of Thorns
Boot, the Lightbringer and Sunwalker of the Ironsong Tribe, walks into the guild hall. He looks around at the members assembled there. 

Sbin, his brother and a druid, lies purring on the hearth, lost in emerald dream. "Typical," Boot murmurs to himself. 

The forsaken mage, Charles "Neat" Harris is seated at the table, drinking a red liquid from a goblet. He offers another goblet to Boot, "Care for some Falanaar fine vintage? No? Very well, more the better for me."

A wizened old troll sits with his back to the door. Smoke from his pipe wreathes his head. Boot recognizes Jabadue, Farseer of the tribe, too old to fight much anymore.

Boot removes his pauldrons and gently places them in the corner. They are stained with a red and purple. "I've had enough killing night elves this day." Everyone looks up at him, as he sits in a chair beside his brother's dozing form, and stares into the cold fireplace.

Jaba shoots him a glance, "Aye, I guess we be da enemy now."

Neat smacks what is left of his lips, wine dribbling down his bony chin, "Our warchief only does what is necessary to protect the Horde, and the Forsaken. They think we are abominations, worthy of destruction. It has always been that way, and always will. I warmed my cold dead hands on the fires of Teldrassil, and was glad." He takes a slice of cheese and delicately places into in his maw.

Boot just says, "I'm a soldier. I obey my orders, and protect my tribe as the sun protects us from winter."

"Now, Now den," Jaba says, "we all be tribemates here. I tell ya da truth, I gots no wisdom for ya. Mebbe, I been fightin' too long, and seen too many go to Bwonsamdi. Too many old friends that we never see again. Mebbe time for me to go to him too. But I do know we gots to decide dis ting as a tribe. When da last time we had a moot, anyways. Oryx and Zlinka be our warchief, and Ol' Jaba be followin' dem wherever dey lead."

Neat lets out a "Pfffft," and goes back to his wine. 

Sbin, mews and claws the hearth in his sleep. "Slumber on brother, slumber on."
Have Mana Tide, Will Travel
Krelldor leans casually against the wall as he watches Boot enter the Guild Hall. He listens closely to the conversation as it unfolds between several members of the Tribe and uneasily shifts his balance from side to side. These members have been a part of the Tribe since Krelldor was welcomed in. They have seen much more than he has, and Jabadue seems to carry much weight with the leaders of Ironsong.

Clearing his throat loudly he states, "Well, I don't know alot about what the Tribe stands for in this world, I only know that we seem to stand together. And it is my duty to stand before you all, to put myself in harms way, and do what I can to protect those who stand with me. I am proud of this." He looks about the room, not really trying to catch anyone's gaze, just a bit absentmindedly. "But I do know this, something just doesn't seem right to me. I can't put my finger on why, but things just seem..." his words taper off a bit as he finally whispers. "off-balance."

He steps forward and carefully removes his leather pauldrons, and places them on a table. "Perhaps one day, I will put these back on but for now they will stay here." Quietly, he pivots on his heel and strides out of the Guild Hall.
Shantow the Bear
The Ironsong Tribe

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." King
Mahks sat in the back, still never feeling completely right in the Ironsong guild hall. It was just so… cozy, nice. Things that you just never found back home in Kezan. She listened to the Demon Hunter, and figured he meant well. But they were still just creepy. The paladin had been more comforting, a thought she never expected to have. But these were weird times.

It was the biggest, baddest ball of fire and explosion ever… why was it so bothersome?

She looked over to the side and saw the Forsaken girl called Comfort. The monk was just sitting there cross-legged, as she had been for hours, quietly staring into the fire like… well, a corpse. She hadn’t heard anything from her since the big old elf tree went up in flames.

Mahks shook her head, trying to get it together. It wasn’t right to feel this bad. She’d done horrible things just working for the trade princes. But since she came to the Horde… well, it had been better. There was a reason for things beyond just money. They beat the Burning Legion! They’d exploded the un-explodable! And now…

She wandered back, knowing there was one person she could talk to. Skrap was only half-goblin, but she seemed to get all her sense from the cartel side at least. And she’d brought Mahks to Ironsong.

She walked outside to the workshop. The tribe had figured out early on that goblin engineering and safe cozy spaces did not coexist. She passed some of the Tribe’s Pandaren on the way, hearing Ohuchi, the warrior, debating with others about what to do noe. It’s on everybody’s minds, she thought.

She went to knock on the door, but it opened before she got there. Skrap stepped out, the petite half-orc looking surprised behind her goggles to see someone there.

“Heya kiddo.” she grinned, hefting a large travel bag over her shoulder. The smile was familiar, but there was an angry look there. Mahks looked her up and down, and planted her hands on her hips.

“You’re leaving?”

Skrap shrugged at that. “Yeah. Hey… don’t give me that look. I just…” she made a gesture, and sighed a little. “I got the feelin’ I seen this all before. And I don’t think I wanna dance that number again.”

“Oh come on, it’s gonna be a worldwide brawl!” Mahks tried a grin, “You know ya wanna ‘splode some gnomes and run off with the Wyrnn family jewels.”

Skrap laughed at that, then seemed to think, and began to fish something out of her bag. “Been there done that kiddo. ‘Sides, the Skrapyard is still back in now-then, and I could use some time ta think.” She pulled out one bomb, a big yellow one that she’d been painting. It had a bright goblin wicked grin across it in beautiful greens and blacks. “Here, watch over the place for me, remind these guys ta have fun every once in awhile.” She started off then, quiet as a thief. “Oh, and take care of Anca. You’re ‘bout the right height.” She winked, and left.

Mahks took a deep breath, and looked down at the smiling face of the bomb. And then she grinned. “Alright, now I gotta job ta do!”

(Edit: Mahks is NOT blowing up the guild hall. It's a passing of the torch. It's metaphorical! )
Four pairs of eyes glance up from a nearby gaming table, the gold and violet glinting in confusion at what was transpiring around them. Eventually the Nightborne let out a soft chuckle as he looked back to his blood elf challenger. "Do all your fellows take war so personally," Nephios quipped, his voice filled with sarcasm though his gaunt face showed no emotion, "or is just those with the fel-fire still in their hearts?"

The newly returned Yaetherin, unusually devoid of armor does not give into priests jibes, moving his rook into mate. "It all depends on if the opening gambit was worth it and thus far, this one has not born results to most's liking." He leans back taking up his glass of clear, floral smelling liquor with a smug victory smirk. "Just like your chess skills."

"Impossible game, my boy, impossible!" Nephios guffawed as he gathered up the last of his pieces in defeat.

Across the hall, the hulking brute of a Bloodtotem named Kuthun sways uneasily to the words echoing around him. It was unclear how much he had drunk, but if the stench of hops and malt coming from his breath were any indication it was a lot. "By the EARTH MOTHER! You all act like you never razed a village before!" he blurted out loudly to no one in particular, followed by a loud belch. "We had done that for generations! Even before our blaggard of a chieftain ruined us with corruption. You'll never hear a Bloodtotem moaning about a burnt tree and a few bloodied enemies!" Mercifully the monk stops short as he slams his head against the bar surface. It is unclear if he has passed out or just lay his head down, albeit forcefully.
Clang! Clang! Clang! CRASH! The sounds of metal being smashed and hammered ring through the guildhall.  After several hours, Fasar emerges from the training room sweat trickling down his forehead.  A Forsaken at the bar calls over to him and says, “How many training dummies did you wreck today, mate?”
The orc doesn’t look at him as he walks up to the bar and orders a drink, “More than a broke drunkard like you could afford to replace, Rawne,” he growls.  The Forsaken chuckles in a low throaty kind of way which makes the orc clench his fist and it is apparent that he is considering violence. 
“I’m not in my cups enough to deck you, but keep it up…  I’ve seen and done horrible things today, what’s one more?”  Fasar gets his drink and starts quaffing it.
Rawne licks his lips and eyes the brew fondly.  “Say mate, you don’t have a few coins to spare? I got a bit o’ a thirst too y’know, and as you said, I’m a bit short on gold.”  This was an understatement, the rogue had a legendary debt in almost every bar across the known lands of Azeroth.  “I’ll getcha back of course, mate.  Y’know I’m comin’ outta retirement a bit, gonna earn myself a few coins, pay a few debts.  This war is an opportunity to make a few coins and I got pla—ehrk!!”
The garrulous Forsaken was cut off by a huge orc hand around his throat.  “You are without honor.  This whole war is without honor.  There’s something rotten about you and your queen, and I don’t like it!”
“Let him go, there will be no fighting here, you know the rules.” A wizened tauren druid named Dentik put a calm but firm three-fingered hand on Fasar’s shoulder, and the warrior’s fist unclenched.  “We do not know,” the tauren continued, “to what end this road will take us.  The spirits spoke to Vol’jin and told him Sylvanus was to be our Warchief for a reason. We must trust their wisdom and guidance.  For now, it is enough to know that we must all do our duty and protect the Horde, for it is precious to each of us.”
Fasar bellowed an orc curse and let the rogue go completely.  Then he slammed an empty mug down.  “I must return to my training.”

Moregil looks around the room, semi-annoyed at what our "Warchief" has led us into.

"There was no reason to do that to Teldrassil. Even though we blood elves are part of the Horde, I am not fond of the mass killing of elves, be it Night Elves, Void Elves, or whomever. I saw the look of fear on those Alliance solder's eyes as my Glacial Spike was soaring towards them. It is the stuff of nightmares."

Moregil walks over to an empty seat near the fire, warming himself from all the frost spells he had to cast in this war. He looks into the fireplace and says: "We have our own mini-Teldrassil right here!"

His eyes close while trying to rest, and he starts mumbling some existential nonsense to himself. He wonders if this really is the right way for the Horde to go, and wonders if the Warchief was Baine Bloodhoof from Thunder Bluff, would we be in this war right now. He counts his blessings that he escaped this war unscathed, knowing full-well the toll that both sides had endured. He knew that if things had gone poorly, he could at least teleport to safety as a mage.

Moregil conjures a chicken leg and says: "At least I have chicken..."

He then quiets down to hear what opinions the rest of his guildmates have.
*munch munch munch munch*

“Oh, oh dear, where did that bandage go?”

Batrapha sat on the floor in the corner of the guild hall, her face nearly inside the overstuffed hexweave bag in front of her.  With one paw still rummaging through the satchel, she reached out to her left blindly, searching for the plate of shrimp dumplings.  Her hand patted the ground until she felt the cool metal tray, then she deftly grabbed one and popped it in her mouth.

“A-ha!  There you are!”  Pulling out a long bandage, she exhaled with relief and grasped for another dumpling.  Instead of her favorite treat, however, she felt a furry tail in her paw.

“Ai-ya!  Tangtang!”   She grabbed her bandicoon and pulled her away from the plate.  She grabbed the two remaining dumplings and shoved them in her mouth, then turned to scold her pet.  “If you would have asked” she scolded between bites “I would have shared, but you were rude, so you get none."  Tangtang walked over and sniffed her hand, then headed across the room, eyeing a mage eating a large piece of chicken.  Batrapha shrugged, pulled out two red bean buns from her satchel, and began devouring the desserts.  She closed her eyes, murmuring in satisfaction as she relaxed for but a moment.

A haughty voice mixed with a hint of amused interrupted her repose. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to speak with your mouth full?”  Batrapha jolted upright, squeaking in surprise as a Nightborne hunter loomed over her.  “  Ai!  I was...I mean, I just...Tangtang should have asked.   I...I’m sorry.”  She removed another bun from her satchel and offered it to the hunter.  “Um...are you...I mean...do you want one, Batolam?”  

Batolam sniffed the bun before accepting it and nodded a thank-you.  She nibbled at it delicately, then whistled softly.  The air seemed to shimmer next to her, and a spectral fox appeared.  She tossed the remaining bun at the fox, who caught it in her mouth, and gulped it in one bite.  The fox then sat down and scratched herself for a moment, before vanishing again.  Batrapha gasped, and Batolam began to laugh.

“She is not one to remain visible, priest.  Do not be alarmed.  Now, what are you doing on the ground?  War has come once again to Azeroth!”

Batrapha sighed wearily and gradually rose to her feet.  Staring at the floor to avoid the intense gaze of her guildmate, she replied haltingly “I...I do not like war.  I...I do not know...I do not understand….b-but people will be hurt.  So, I, um, I need to help.”

The hunter nodded and stalked off without another word.  Batrapha sat back down, and searched her bag for more edible comforts.  She was terrified, and absolutely abhorred the idea of going to war against other people.  She was resigned, however, to heal the Horde as they needed her.  She had vowed, silently, that *she* would never harm a member of the Alliance, but she would heal any Horde in need.  She wordlessly prayed to the Light for strength, for peace, and for the ability to keep that vow.


In a shadowed corner, a lanky, blue-skinned warlock eyed the activities of those in the hall.  She said nothing, then turned and walked away.
Batrapha, Batnissi, Batolam, Batel, Batya, Batjireh, Batshammah, Batraah.

Yes, I AM batty.

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