Xara wandered around the empty Grim guildhall. It was fairly early and it seemed no one was around at the moment. She wasn't staying in the barracks -- she and Fhen had a modest little home in the Barrens -- but she'd come by just to see.
It wasn't significantly different than any other guildhall she'd been in, honestly, even Sanctuary's -- though she wouldn't mention that last to anyone, even if she'd only been a visitor there. There were trophies, banners, postings, gathering areas, and the like. No outward sign that there was any cause for concern. Much like most of the members Xara had met and befriended thus far.
She stopped to look at a painting someone had commissioned of victory over something or another. The trolless had seen her fair share of victories, and hadn't been counting on attempting more. But Fhen had been too restless after several years of retirement with all the trouble afoot within the Horde. She had known better than to try to talk him out of it when he started considering returning to active duty; he wouldn't have been happy, even if she was able to keep him away. So she had followed him, and it was here they'd ended up.
"Are you sure this is the right move?" he'd nonetheless asked her last night. They hadn't had a chance to finish that conversation before it came time for the interview.
Of course to him it was a move. The world was a battlefield to him and every decision a strategic maneuver in the war. Xara knew and accepted that about him. She hadn't been surprised when, last night, he said he'd yet to meet an adult, Alliance or Horde, he considered "innocent." Yet that meant their views really weren't so different: the only difference between the people on each side was which side they stood on. Their opinion of the significance of that differed, but she could, and did, live with that.
Could she live with this?
She looked up at where the words "PEACE THROUGH ANNIHILATION" were displayed. You couldn't fail to see them, or forget they were there once you saw them. Kind of like what she'd glimpsed during conversations with Lilliana.
"Sometimes, the biggest tool is the one you can trust to get the job done," she'd defined it to Leyujin blithely, to his pleased acknowledgement. That was the Mandate of the Grim. No diplomacy. No compromise. Just the demand of peace through force.
Xara sighed quietly to herself. She hadn't thought it would be so hard. Fhen would fit in well enough, and all she had to do was not cause any problems. They'd contribute to the effort for peace to the extent to which they were comfortable. Then she'd told Syreena straight out that she wouldn't cross lines that the Grim explicitly mandated be crossed.
Xara strongly suspected the only reason the High Inquisitor had decided to give her a chance was the Forsaken's old friendship with Fhenrir. Otherwise, the trolless probably would have been laughed out of that tavern. They mocked her enough during the raid on Stormwind and Ironforge afterward, disparagingly asking if this Alliance fighter or that one was "innocent." She didn't care, per se, that they mocked her morals; she wasn't trying to convert anyone, and didn't need anyone's approval of her sense of right and wrong. But she wanted to belong, and it just drove home that she really didn't.
So she'd kept her mouth shut, and resolved to do so for now on. As long as no one harrassed her, she'd be a good little Grim, contributing what she could to their efforts. She had half a mind to lend her gathering skills to the guild bank as well as continue helping others achieve other objectives, like when she, Ulrezaj, and Lilliana had helped protect the Brewmoon festival later last night, and the Grim had received an official acknowledgement from the quartermaster. Xara was always glad to help out friends. Even when they had differences. Lilly had promised her they'd still be friends even if Xara didn't work out in the Grim, which was good.
It would all be worth it to support Fhen, and a group that was doing more good than harm, of which it seemed there were painfully few these days. Even if it was only slightly more good than harm.
She had a trial to pass, though, the first of three. She already knew what she meant to do. It was something she had attempted and failed before, and it galled her somewhat. It would prove to herself and to the others that she really was still an accomplished fighter, and not coasting on an old and probably mostly forgotten reputation. She might try it tonight, if she had time. Regardless, soon. Her sights were set on it.
Xara turned to wander back out of the guildhall, her thoughts beginning to lighten as she considered what to do with her day.
In the Grim [[ Open ]]
Re: In the Grim [[ Open ]]
Feorn was sitting alone at a table, in a bar filled by Pandaren. A stack of papers and a cold mug of beer sat on the table.
“Stupid, fat, Pandaren.”, Feorn mused at his mug of beer, “Haven't earned more than a handful of gold in the last three months. Useless.”. He poked at some of the papers he had piled up on the table.
“So what if I'm too skinny, it's not like I'm hitting people with a stick! This is all Celethorn's fault, you know that?”, his beer didn't answer as he shuffled through his papers. “Him and his goddam love life. He puts a team back together, drags me out here to fight, gets me a steady pay for a couple months, then he up and takes a sabbatical! He's a reanimated corpse! Corpses don't need vacations!”, Feorn animatedly yelled at his beer mug, drawing glances from the other patrons. He grabbed a paper from the top of his pile.
“Will you look at this? It's another job offer that would need a whole band of mercenaries. Well guess what? I don't have a team! I have me, and I'm about as threatening as...I don't know...something non-threatening.”, the beer mug's silence didn't abate. Feorn continued to grab papers off the top of the pile, mumbling about bills and stupid swordsmen.
“You know, I should have learned how to hit people with things. That seems like the more lucrative career choice in hindsight. People like hiring big dumb fighters with their big pointy sticks.”, his beer didn't respond, but continued to bubble. Feorn pulled another paper off the pile, as he rocked his chair onto its two back legs.
“Take a gander at this one.”, his beer didn't look, but the letter read:
“Her sense of humour hasn't improved. Fhenrir and Xaraphyne weren't exactly my friends, and I've been on the wrong end of Fhenrir's big sharp things more than once.”, his beer continued to ignore him as he pulled a flask out of his right pauldron and took a long draught before returning it.
“Hmm...”, Feorn continued rocking on the rear legs of his seat. “I wonder if they would remember me... Well,it doesn't really matter, this is probably the best lead I've had on a big dumb fighter in a while. People like them are usually happy to meet someone like me.” He started fumbling in his chest pockets.
“Where are my damned matches? I thought I left them in the second breast pocket, but damned if I can find them.”, a drop of condensation rolled down the side of his beer.
“Ahaaaaaaa!”, Feorn exclaimed as his chair teetered over backwards. He once again drew glances from the other patrons. “I'm fine, I'm fine, I was just leaving anyway.”, he explained to the patrons as he pulled a match from his pants pocket.
“You know, I probably should have drank you. Might have done me some good.”, his beer didn't respond, likely for the last time. As he got up from the floor, he struck his match in the tile. It lit into a surprisingly large flame.
“Huh, what d'ya know, that old coot's recipe worked. I could probably make a killing off of these things.”, he said, this time to the match. Feorn then flung the match into his pile of papers and ran for the door.
“Stupid, fat, Pandaren.”, Feorn mused at his mug of beer, “Haven't earned more than a handful of gold in the last three months. Useless.”. He poked at some of the papers he had piled up on the table.
“So what if I'm too skinny, it's not like I'm hitting people with a stick! This is all Celethorn's fault, you know that?”, his beer didn't answer as he shuffled through his papers. “Him and his goddam love life. He puts a team back together, drags me out here to fight, gets me a steady pay for a couple months, then he up and takes a sabbatical! He's a reanimated corpse! Corpses don't need vacations!”, Feorn animatedly yelled at his beer mug, drawing glances from the other patrons. He grabbed a paper from the top of his pile.
“Will you look at this? It's another job offer that would need a whole band of mercenaries. Well guess what? I don't have a team! I have me, and I'm about as threatening as...I don't know...something non-threatening.”, the beer mug's silence didn't abate. Feorn continued to grab papers off the top of the pile, mumbling about bills and stupid swordsmen.
“You know, I should have learned how to hit people with things. That seems like the more lucrative career choice in hindsight. People like hiring big dumb fighters with their big pointy sticks.”, his beer didn't respond, but continued to bubble. Feorn pulled another paper off the pile, as he rocked his chair onto its two back legs.
“Take a gander at this one.”, his beer didn't look, but the letter read:
Feorn,
Long time no see,
I thought you'd like to know,
some news about old friends,
Fhenrir and Xaraphyne,
are out of their retirement.
-L
“Her sense of humour hasn't improved. Fhenrir and Xaraphyne weren't exactly my friends, and I've been on the wrong end of Fhenrir's big sharp things more than once.”, his beer continued to ignore him as he pulled a flask out of his right pauldron and took a long draught before returning it.
“Hmm...”, Feorn continued rocking on the rear legs of his seat. “I wonder if they would remember me... Well,it doesn't really matter, this is probably the best lead I've had on a big dumb fighter in a while. People like them are usually happy to meet someone like me.” He started fumbling in his chest pockets.
“Where are my damned matches? I thought I left them in the second breast pocket, but damned if I can find them.”, a drop of condensation rolled down the side of his beer.
“Ahaaaaaaa!”, Feorn exclaimed as his chair teetered over backwards. He once again drew glances from the other patrons. “I'm fine, I'm fine, I was just leaving anyway.”, he explained to the patrons as he pulled a match from his pants pocket.
“You know, I probably should have drank you. Might have done me some good.”, his beer didn't respond, likely for the last time. As he got up from the floor, he struck his match in the tile. It lit into a surprisingly large flame.
“Huh, what d'ya know, that old coot's recipe worked. I could probably make a killing off of these things.”, he said, this time to the match. Feorn then flung the match into his pile of papers and ran for the door.