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[warchief]

[Rotash was a kingdom born of blood.

The elders spoke of it like a living, breathing thing. The water was its tears, the earth its flesh. When the ground quaked and the ravines opened, it was Rotash's wounds from fighting the other gods. When volcanoes erupted, it was Rotash bleeding from being struck. Such were the stories, though few believed them now. The future was magic: harnessing it into energy, or using it for battle. At first, the numerous tribes fought amongst each other. Then one man rose up, united them all, and sought to conquer the world.

They marched on the biggest kingdom. Magical fortitude met military might. Through sheer numbers and their crazy berserker fighting style, the dark-skinned Rotashi sacked the capital and nearly slew the king. But they were repelled, eventually. Some of them were taken as prisoners of war, some executed. The rest scattered and huddled down in the small tribes they had hailed from.

Out of the ashes of that horrible defeat rose an escaped slave, aptly named Thrall. He was foreign, but he learned his people's language and rose through the ranks through displays of strength and magic prowess both. He united the clans once more, then abolished them completely and built a proper capital city whose might mirrored that of the other kingdom.

That was six years ago, and now Thrall was a cautious twenty-four. Only now was the political situation in Rotash enough that Thrall could step out of his kingdom for a while. According to his scouts, there was a higher military presence at the border. It was time to talk politics. He sent a messenger to arrange some kind of diplomatic meeting-- a first for a Rotashi warchief-- and waited to hear back.

And waited.

At last, a meeting was arranged. In the other kingdom, of course... It smelled rankly of a trap, despite the flowery letter's assurances. But Thrall had the spirits with him, and he was a bit naive. He took a small contingent of his best guards and traveled by horse across the border, until he finally met the high stone walls of the other city.

It was grand. Magnificent, even. The architecture showed very little sign of the burning it'd suffered ten years ago. Thrall fought the urge to shove his head out the wagon window, like a gaping tourist. He'd see the city eventually.

At last, the wagon came to a stop at the gates of the castle. Many heated words were had. And then, almost too soon, he found himself in the middle of a long, cold royal hall lined with the highest-quality marble. Gold and silver veins flowed through it in defiance of nature. Silk curtains framed the tall windows, stained glass crests casting rainbow lights across the floor. Thrall felt... very plain in comparison, and awkwardly waited for the other political leader to make an appearance.

He'd dressed in what constituted as formal wear for the Rotashi. Across his shoulders rested an immense fur cloak secured by a jeweled brooch. He'd plaited scarlet ties into his long dark hair. A ceremonial belt and breeches made of mail and leather made him look at least partially ready for battle; his chest, though scarred, was left bare to show his confidence and also his honor. To attack someone while they were unarmed and unarmored was a cowardly move. He was serious about this truce and the release of any remaining prisoners of war.

Thrall's advisors and bodyguards were forced to wait outside; this was an audience for he and the-- King? Queen? Alone. He hadn't quite caught who the ruler was, but it was certainly some kind of king the last time he checked. Which was a while ago, admittedly.

But his knowledge of the language had not diminished. He had been owned by someone from this very kingdom, knew it before he was named. He hoped that would weigh in his favor.]

Comments

[crymoore]

[ If he was expecting someone of grace and crowned in jewels, there was no such person here. Instead the human nation of war sent out a maiden who couldn't be much older than himself with a book tucked underneath her arms. Compared to the magnificence of the throne room and Thrall himself, she was simple and to be honest, that's the way she's always preferred it to be.

Both popular and unpopular in her kingdom due to her egalitarian rule, he may have heard grumblings along the way as a result. His arrival was unprecedented and could very well shape the future of Menethil--hopefully in a way that is good. ]

You came. [ It isn't a very formal greeting, but the childish excitement slips in through the words as she approaches him steadily. ] This is excellent news. You are serious about ending the conflict then?

[ What an introduction... Clearly she hasn't been taught the proper way to conduct herself in these matters or she's specifically chosen to address him in this manner for some reason. ]

[warchief]

[Thrall wasn't expecting a girl who was-- probably a couple years older than him, at most. He wasn't expecting a girl who could have passed for a servant, either. His surprise is plain on his face for a moment. He tries to clamp down on it, not wanting to be rude, but it comes out in other ways-- like the half-stuttered introduction he gives in return.

She's blonde, just like the servant girl who helped him escape. Which shouldn't be a big deal, but it's a sore spot, a sore memory, and he aches suddenly.]

L-- Lady, ah, Proudmoore?

[Not the best start. But he finds his feet quickly, so to speak, and gives a sweeping bow that definitely, definitely marks him as Menethil-born, if his perfect grasp of her language doesn't give him away first.]

I am Thrall, Warchief of the Rotashi. I was... under the impression that Menethil had a king. I apologize for any disrespect on my part.

[He breathes, straightens a bit.]

I am here to negotiate a truce between our countries, and the return of my people to their homes. Rotash is a much different state than the one that invaded your borders several years ago. Your city is magnificent, your walls stronger in the rebuilding. It is time for my people to rebuild as well.

[crymoore]

Warchief. [ Her eyes study him briefly, wondering what the difference between his scars were--which were caused by combat and which were a result of captivity. Would she even be able to tell the difference if she looked hard enough?

It dawns on her only after she's gotten an eyeful that she's being rude. Oops. Manners definitely aren't her strong point and it may be easy to come to the conclusion that the kingdom's sovereigns just had little time to waste with him so they sent out this novice. ]

Warchief! The title suits you and your armaments well. Our king--it is a long, long tale and we have more pressing matters to tend to. When you introduced yourself as Warchief, admittedly I had expected a declaration of battle to go along with it. Or that perhaps we would duel honorably as I have heard is custom.

[ Is this woman even a real diplomat?? ]

[warchief]

[Though he's spent years among his people, her gaze makes him feel strangely naked. He resists the urge to adjust his cloak. He'd grown up seeing everyone else wearing fancy shirts, but he'd always been denied this basic thing because it made him seem more savage.

Ah, well.

He's just not used to her manner. She's so-- open. Slightly excitable. Informal, but not rude. It's not what he's expecting at all. For the second time in five minutes, he tries to get his feet back beneath him, mentally.]

Warchief is simply a title, like King or Queen, but it is not passed down by blood. I was chosen by the previous Warchief to carry his ideals before he passed. [For good or for ill. Thankfully, he'd changed his old ideals, so that was... fortunate.

His lip quirks at the corner.]

Er, that is the custom for certain occasions, but I'd like to avoid a duel. [He glances down at his hands.] I do not mean to boast, but you are elegant and-- dainty, and I am... not. I fear you would be hurt.

[He's afraid he'd snap her in two. She's obviously beloved by her people, he can't imagine what would happen to himself if he left Jaina a smear on the floor.]

[crymoore]

If you could snap me right in half, I should be able to get twice as much work done. [ She jokes without realizing it may be in poor taste.

Had there been any guards, surely they would have flooded in by now at this talk despite his refusal to engage. Either she's not as helpless as she appears or they don't consider someone like him a threat. ]

You spoke of your previous Warchief's ideals. Are those what you have come to discuss with me today, Warchief Thrall? Your ideals and plans to rebuild?

Because overhauling our shared borders and the land nearby has been my dream for some time.

[warchief]

[Oh my god she's joking. He hopes. That slightly-panicked expression returns, only to be shoved back down. How can she joke about something like that? If she's truly the ruler, then why aren't there assassins leaping in from the shadows to kill him at the perceived threat?

But there's nothing, just a nice beautiful hall and a girl who could be his age, and he's feeling so damn overdressed right now.

He clears his throat.]

Yes, and--

[Then she smiles, and he's helpless again.]

Really? [Yes, really. He inwardly smacks himself for the lapse in formality. He must seem so stupid, like some kind of animal playing at politics.] That-- yes, I have had ideas for land development, but it was too risky with the tensions near the border.

[It's almost too good to be true. But it's not in Thrall's nature to distrust everyone he meets, either, and a smile slips through.]

... I would like nothing more than to discuss what we can build together, Lady Proudmoore.

[crymoore]

I would love that as well.

[ The smile lingers for only a moment before Jaina begins to mentally reinforce her senses for the turn their conversation must take. The transformation between an enthusiastic child of peace to a steeled tactician took place in the blink of an eye. Despite the serious demeanor she took on, she still maintained that air of friendliness she had present before. ]

The path in doing so would be difficult and often met with resistance from both friend and foe. Are you prepared for that, Warchief? [ She's not, but it's easier to take the step with someone falling in at her side in stride. ]

From what I can gather though, you are quite used to a bit of tension? I hope a bit more to improve the living conditions for both of our kingdoms would not turn you away.

[warchief]

[He handles the transition easily. Now that they're speaking politics and not cultural oddities, he can do this. Part of him can't really believe it's happening. He's in the company of the Menethil crown princess, and she hasn't tried to kill him yet. Gods, maybe peace really is something they can attain. He's here because he hopes for it, because he'll risk his life to achieve it, but this is the first moment where he's felt like it was actually possible.]

I am prepared. My people are tired of fighting-- tired of fear. I hope any dissent will be assuaged by the return of the prisoners-of-war that still remain.

[He shifts his cloak to cover his chest; Rotash is a desert and Menethil is... decidedly not. He's a little cold. Ancestors, he should have worn a shirt.]

I remember the living conditions of Menethil well. [A shadow falls across his face. His hand shifts to a place on his belt where he still carries the necklace of the girl who saved him.] ... The noble caste system is corrupt, but so is any system that allows for slaves and unpaid servants.