Grim Views

*A small arcane elemental teleports into the guildhall holding a letter. It floats emotionlessly to the nearest person and presents the sealed parchment. The letter itself looks ancient and is written in a beautiful calligraphic pen. Unsurprisingly perhaps, the “ink” appears to be blood.*

Dear Recruitment Officer,
The one you call “the Cen” has written to inform me that The Grim and I hold similar aspirations. She thought it wise for me to contact any of the following guild members: “Syreena, Khorvis, Atticus, or Awatu”. I do hope this letter reaches one of them. Of course, I was skeptical at the prospects of such a ‘blind date’, as I had not yet heard of the Grim’s exploits. But, after doing the appurtenant research, I can say that I am impressed by your Mandate and its implications. Indeed, I would be humbled to be accepted into your unholy war and would like to discuss with those in charge of how my unique talents can best be used to massacre the Alliance.

Your prospective brother,
~Bjarnemon

*The arcane elemental hovers, perhaps awaiting a response.*

The elemental had stumbled across the canteen and saloon, being that it had no prior instructions for bypassing the spidery wards and arcane barriers that cocoon the Grim Halls. As fate would have it, the teleportation spell did not deposit the messenger into the solid stone of ancient colonnades or the empty lava bowl of the Vault's corehound sentinels. Perhaps by luck, or more likely belonging to engineered intent, the wards placed the elemental right where it needed to be: atop the long wooden table where High Inquisitor Bloodstar sat scarfing down his afternoon meal with a single-minded fury.

Shaking a half-eaten mutton leg at Drinn Sel'Quar, Khorvis continued what must have been a long-winded and tired argument. "I still do not think we are best served by sending more fists to Deepwind Gorge!" Small chunks of meat flew past the Tactician, which she dodged with an expert grace and long-suffering gaze. "The garrison we did leave at Eastwind Rest is more than capable of holding that valley! The northern flank is safe - with thanks to Anaie's Flying Tigers and brother Mohan's Drunken Oxes - and they should March South! Bah! Those Pandaren will grow fat and complac-"

As Khorvis reached for another steaming hunk of meat, his fist instead clasped the elemental messenger and raised the quaking apparition to the orc's gaping maw. Catching sight of it mere inches from his greasy tusks, Khorvis cut off mid-sentence and stared confusedly into the arcane being's white eyes, which were now the size of tea saucers.

"What the bloody fel!" exclaimed the warrior. Setting the messenger down, he glowered at Drinn but made no false accusations. The elf only covered a sarcastic smirk with a loose fist and motioned expectantly towards the accompanying missive. Scanning quickly through the letter's contents, his eldritch eye sometimes - annoyingly - moving more rapidly than the one his ancestors gave him, Khorvis let out a dismissive grunt and barked a set of orders to the elemental.

"Return to your little master, creature. You will instruct him to find the Inquisition this night at Warsong Hold on the shores of Northrend. If his 'unique talents' are at all potent, then the Mandate will use every ounce of his flesh until only the spirit remains. Off with you!"

Shooing away the arcane pest, Khorvis returned to his munching and arguing with a renewed vigor. "Where were we .. ah, aye! Hellscream raped that land. Little is left in the Deepwind mines, and the Mandate MUST keep its gaze on Draenor where ..."

Drinn only put her forehead down upon the wooden feasting table and breathed out a long sigh.

(( In a different timeline: Bjarnemon never makes it into The Grim's ranks because Khorvis, unaware, eats the troll's mailman. ))