beyondthedoor | the greatest things fade the fastest

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the greatest things fade the fastest

[Where there is ale, there is life. Frostfire Ridge is no different. Set up out of a confiscated ogre dwelling, the bar is makeshift but fully-stocked. Furs and leathers are available if one wants to sit on the ground. Otherwise, there are barrels and other makeshift chairs around flat tables.

A trio of garishly-armored blood elves have perhaps the liveliest conversation. As they grab their weapons so they can leave, one of them glances over at the quiet stranger huddled at the edge of the bar. (Is that Thrall? It looks like Thrall. But he has no hair! No, I'm not going to ask, that's just rude.)

Thrall sticks out like a sore thumb, even here. He's huge, for starters, and bright green when the rest of the Frostwolf are a rich red-brown. His black and brass armor is fiercely recognizable as belonging to a couple of Warchiefs, though he covers some of it with a long, sweeping coat. He's currently hunched over an ogre-sized mug of ale, though he's been nursing it a while; his face is dark like the day is long.]

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[Frostfire Ridge was too cold for a Bleeding Hollow like him. Give him the heat of Gorgrond, the humidity of Tanaan, or even the dry, sandy winds of his 'home' in Durotar. But in the military, you cannot whine like a big baby about how you're cold. Especially when your safest territory, the place to fall back to, is the one that's colder than Sylvannas' left tit. (Don't ask me why specifically her left one is the coldest, it just is. It's totally really cold.)

Gerron needed some peace from paperwork, from working, from overseeing the movements of troops, and so he had fucked off elsewhere, specifically somewhere no one would seek to find him. His troops know he's not much of a drinker, so he has made his way to a bar, if only to get something to eat and not be expected to yell at Zog to go make someone do something or other.

So the old orc steps into the re-purposed dwelling, his dark fur cloak closed tightly around him and over his plate armor. Hopefully no one interprets it as 'stately' over 'useful' because really he has it more for the useful aspects. Shit's so warm, hell yes, thanks Rifa. He gives a once over of the people in the room out of habit, a quick scan of potential threats when really he knows there are one. Various Frostwolves, a Laughing Skull in the back trying to literally drink out of a skull she brought with her (and failing, because 1) skulls have holes, and 2) she hasn't even removed her mask and it covers her mouth)... a big green skinned orc almost visibly darkening the area of the room he's in.

Respectfully, Gerron gives the orc some space, situating a little bit down the bar from him. A fella looks like that, you try to give him some peace. He probably just wants to get drunk and barf on some snow later.

Gerron gruffly orders the bartender to serve him, you know, in an orcish way where it's not a really rude demand so much as 'acknowledge me and my desires and if you don't i may or may not stomp angrily either in this bar or afterwards privately to myself.' DUDE JUST WANTS SOME RAW BUT LIGHTLY HEATED MEAT IS THIS SO MUCH TO ASK FOR. DEMAND... FOR...]

[Yeah, yeah, that's not the first orc the bartender's served. He gets Gerron his lightly seared clefthoof haunch and plops it on the bar.

The orc down the way perks up at the smell of food, as if he's just remembered there are other people in the vicinity. His ears pin slightly as he tries to think of what he wants to do, but in the end he just sighs and continues staring into his mug.

He's had a long couple of months. He shaved his head, but it's starting to grow out again. It's past the stubble stage and more like 'awkward teenager beard'. He rubs it out of habit, making it stick up worse, and then looks sidelong at the meat.

After a minute, he orders his own steak-- medium-- and straightens up a bit. The light catches a bit of his gauntlets, which are clearly sporting the Horde symbol. Notably, he avoids direct eye contact with anyone else, but his eyes are easy enough to see. That's Thrall. That is definitely Thrall and he is definitely trying and failing at getting drunk.

He goes back to waiting for his food, or perhaps for his life to change, and rests his chin in his hand. This is a sad, sad orc with the weight of two worlds on his shoulders. It's also the face of an orc who is probably not allowed to sleep in his mate's tent tonight, but that's neither here nor there.

Amusingly enough, the torch-lighting on the far side of the bar seems to be dim. Very dim. That's what happens when shamans get depressed.]

[Gerron wishes he could just enjoy his warmed up meat. But this orc keeps making it darker and darker and don't you think he didn't notice you EYEING HIS MEAT. not that meat. not. not the downstairs meat the regular clefthoof meat goddamn.

For Gerron, it's the bracers that give Thrall away. Not his voice, his eyes, his big dumb head. Those bracers, once belonging to Doomhammer, and now belonging to the former Warchief. No wonder he's trying to seem as unimportant and small.

But really, his poor mood is effecting the lighting. This just is not going to work. Gerron clears his throat just loud enough to be heard; but not enough to garner much attention. He's respecting the man's desire to be sort of hunched and small and unnoticed as he speaks soft and low.]

Farseer, may I make a request?

[Gerron's already lowered his hunch just a few inches more intentionally, showing his deference even as he seeks to not draw his attention to Thrall.]

Could you stop darkening that side of the room? At the rate you're going, you're going to snuff out the flames entirely.

[Farseer. He-- hasn't heard that title in a while. Drek'thar? Farseer. Thrall? More like Fuckup. His ears lower out of embarrassment, and he feels his face grow a little hot. Was he really affecting the fire? He didn't notice.

How stupid. He usually notices these things. If he lets his elemental powers get out of control, he might-- he might hurt someone, again. He thinks of how he left Garrosh and whatever he's been drinking nearly rises in his throat. He pushes the memory down.]

I-- yes, of course. I apologize.

[He closes his eyes for a moment, and the torches return to their gentle burning. The one closest to Thrall spits a few sparks in his direction as if blowing a raspberry. He glances at it, his lip curling around his tusk, then returns his attention to Gerron.

He's aware how stupid he looks. Former Warchief, washed up in a bar in the middle of fucking nowhere... and he's got some military commander telling him not to do stupid shit. What is his life, even?

One has to wonder.]

[Gerron nods his head and takes a big, bloody bite of his clefthoof. Blood drips over his lips and absently he wipes away at it.]

Thank you. I appreciate it, as does, I'm certain, the owner.

[He does not raise from his further lowered hunch; he can feel the Farseer's eyes upon him, even if they are not scrutinizing. He knows to show his respect, and the rest of the patrons are honestly too drunk to notice one old orc hunching a little bit more than necessary.

He doesn't feel like he should speak to the man, and just leave him in peace. But being watched makes him feel like he should say something, and he settles on this. He turns his head though, just enough so he can eye the shaman himself as he speaks, instead of remaining a stoic wall pretending he isn't there.]

...I offer apologies of my own, Farseer. I do not mean to disturb you from your thoughts.

[It's weird talking to an esteemed figure who is clearly really in a bad mood but he's staring at you.]

I'm certain you do not need a stranger making any requests of you.

[Even ones like 'pls stop turning off the lights some of us want to eat food in peace'.]

[Thrall is still feeling awkward. So damn awkward. He wants to tell this guy that he doesn't have to hunch over that much, but pointing it out would make it worse, so he just... lets it go. It seems like they're both awkward as hell anyway-- Thrall with his failure at conversation, Gerron with the whole 'the former Warchief is staring at me'-- yeah, they're both awkward right now.]

It was a welcome interruption, if I can even call it that. [He goes back to staring at his mug.] And the request was not unreasonable. I have not been myself lately, though that's hardly an excuse; I should have noticed.

[He takes a few seconds to drain the rest of the ale. It's not like what he got at home, but he didn't usually get stupid drunk there, either.]

[This he interprets as a vague reaching out - in a sense, less 'HELP ME' more 'I want to talk to someone'. And while he is gruff and cranky, he's not a heartless bastard who would stomp out. Not anymore, at least. He may not come off as sympathetic, sure, but he's not gonna be like 'okay bye'.

Gerron rips off another large chunk of meat and steps over towards Thrall, and positions himself in such a way that if the ex-Warchief wanted, he could sit up a little straighter without being noticed and gawked at by anyone else who might recognise him. An unspoken courtesy that he can stop easily if told to or hinted at.]

A troubled man rarely notices the storm around him.

[It's not admonishing, so much a statement of fact. Also Gerron is kind of talking with food in his mouth. Sorry. It's probably considered good manners in orc culture to talk with food in your mouth, let's be real.]

Much less a few flames. After all, he has a reason. Not an excuse.

[He doesn't presume to KNOW Thrall, but he throws the Farseer a bone, a benefit of a doubt that perhaps he has some real issues and not just 'wah I am a big baby'. Do not go 'wah I am a big baby', Thrall. Don't you do it you little fucking shit.]

[Thrall watches Gerron over his shoulder as he makes his way over. He's not about to tell someone to go away when he's clearly lonely, but the company he's looking for, well, it doesn't come in the form of gossipy blood elves. So, he's sat. Alone. Stewing. For hours, probably. His beer is warm and honestly pretty disgusting, so he's glad when it's gone; he pushes the empty mug aside.

The steak chooses this time to arrive. While he doesn't mind a haunch, he's really more about the meatier parts. Thankfully, he doesn't need silverware; he just grabs the thing and takes a big bite. He swallows, though, before speaking. He has to keep up a good impression... also he was raised by humans. That's a thing.]]

I am not worthy of your words, [he says softly,] nor your respect.

[He feels a flare of anger at Thrall's words: to him they reek of some measure of self-pity, of some sort of backward insult. But aside from the lowering of his brows, the stiffening of his shoulders, he tries to keep himself in check. He cannot haul off and slap the former warchief. As much as he may deserve it. So instead a little more of his teeth show as his lips tighten.]

I would not be alive if not for you. Don't tell me you aren't worthy of my respect.

[His words are not even the kind that feel like he is expecting something of the man. Gerron is grateful. He respects that this stupid whelp went and rounded up the last free dregs of their race, and freed those suffering under the bootheel of the alliance. He respects that this whelp gave him back a chance at having a life.]

[Of course that was the wrong thing to say, but Thrall isn't very good at saying the right thing. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and puts the steak down. He has no appetite, anyway.

He can't refute Gerron's point, but he's still frustrated. He says nothing for a moment, just kind of quietly snarls to himself-- that's the orc in him-- and then he turns to Gerron.]

I have been dishonorable. No one else has said anything to that effect, but I feel it. I-- I know it to be true.

And this dishonor undoes everything else you have achieved, hmmm?

[Gerron shoves the rest of his meat in his mouth and quickly makes short work of it. Hell yes pretty much raw meat. That's some good shit.]

Tell me, Farseer, what is this grave crime you have committed that has brought you so low?

I fear it might.

[Even though... pretty much every hero of the Horde has done some stupid bad shit, Thrall holds himself so much more accountable. He has less room to fuck up. He wasn't raised an orc, he was raised a monster. To some degree, he will always be stuck halfway between orc and human.]

My mak'gora was impure. I wore armor when he had none, and I used more than one weapon. I wasn't thinking, I just...

[He looks at his hands.]

I could have controlled it. I should have-- but I gave in. And this is the result.

[Gerron nods firmly. He had not been there, but he had heard through the chain of command of the events that happened.]

Hnn. I had heard you slew Hellscream's boy.

[He leans lightly against the bar, head tilting down for a minute to mill over his thoughts before speaking again.]

You should not hide away from your mistakes. Wear them. Own them, Farseer, as do all of us who made choices that took us places we thought we would never tread.

[Hellscream's boy. One of his best friends... had a son, and Thrall killed him. He had thought it was the right thing at the time, but part of him has been thirsting for the chance to put Garrosh down since they crawled underneath Orgrimmar. But he'd been stopped, and he'd given Garrosh a chance at trial... and Garrosh had escaped.

All for this Iron Horde. But, stopping Garrosh didn't really do anything, did it? It just made Thrall feel worse.

Wearing his mistakes is the kind of advice an old orc would give. Gerron is obviously old enough to have gone through the Dark Portal. He's not part of the generation born in the camps, or afterward. He marched.]

I see no other alternative, [he says finally. His voice is a low rumble. Tired. He's so tired of keeping up appearances. He misses Aggra. He misses Jaina. He misses when things were simple, but he can't lament about the past when there are problems right here that need taken care of.] I will have to carry the burden of his life, like so many others. And his father-- his father will come for me, whether he knows or not.

I must be ready.

[He closes his eyes.]

I suppose... I had always hoped it would end differently.

[Oh, he marched. Only 24 and full of fire and anger. His red eyes alight with malice and his face twisted into a sadistic smile. It'd be hard to see that young man in this old orc unless you knew where and when to look. They're miles and years apart.

Gerron reaches out and claps Thrall on the shoulder for a moment, before quickly drawing his hand away and stooping a little low again as an apology for fucking CLAPPING HIM ON THE SHOULDER SUPPORTIVELY (ORCS?????????????). Then he straightens back up a little to where he had been before. Body language game too stronk.]

Don't consider his death a burden to be carried. Consider it a warning. Not against those who would take the actions he did- [The disdain in Gerron's voice is palpable.] -but to those who might think that heroes are infallible. Even the mightiest of us fall, Farseer.

[Gerron turns to face towards the bar now, no longer looking at the ex-warchief. He braces his arms on it, the sharp tips of his claws laying gently on its surface. Didn't wear his gauntlets to the bar because that's silly.]

And try not to dwell on the 'what if'. There is... little to gain, wondering about what might have been.

Edited 2015-01-07 01:59 (UTC)

[Thrall looks slightly alarmed, but not offended. Mostly because this guy gave him a supportive gesture then flinched away before he could even say anything. He really does have the guy's respect. It's an honest thing, not some simpering mercenary trying to earn brownie points. That's-- that's good.

Sometimes it's good to get an outsider's opinion too. He misses Eitrigg's counsel. Saurfang, too. They would understand that he's an orc, but not... the orcs' orc. He's still blindly stumbling his way through his people's past in many ways. He thought reconnecting with his clan might help things, and it did, but Thrall himself fucked it up so badly.

It is what it is. He can't take back what he's done now. He nods, takes a breath to steady himself.]

... Thank you. I am sorry if I have spoiled the taste of your dinner with my troubles, but you have helped me immensely.

[He smiles a little around his tusks.]

[Gerron snorts a little, then laughs.]

You spoiled nothing. The cook did that themselves. I wanted it warm, not fractionally charred. There is a difference and it was not adequately met.

[JUST. JUST GIVE HIM A PIECE OF DETHAWED MEAT THAT WAS WAVED OVER A FIRE ONCE. DON'T EVEN TRY TO DO ANYTHING LIKE 'COOKING'.]

I don't claim to be wise, Farseer, but I remember being young and making 'rash' decisions - though mine much different from yours. I will also admit, I don't feel right talking to you as I have. But there was no one else. And I am fairly certain I smelled one of those elves poking about the doorway again trying to see if it was you.

[He scowls briefly.]

Imagine the scene that would have been.

[Now that gets a little laugh out of him, quiet and warm, much like Thrall is. He knows how picky people get about their meat. He's probably the only orc around Orgrimmar that actually likes... cooked stuff.

He bows his head for a moment.]

You and I may have different experiences, but that doesn't make one better than the other. We are both Horde. We learn from our mistakes. We wear them, as you said. And we forge on-- becoming something better.

I appreciate the help, however. The elves are particularly... fascinated with me. I... don't know what to say to them. [THEY THINK HE'S CUTE AND IT MAKES HIM EMBARRASSED?]

[Gerron grins; though his is unlike Thrall's. While Thrall comes off very human when he smiles, Gerron is all teeth, his lips curling back to expose them all. Anyone not versed in orcs might assume it's just teeth bearing, but the lack of snarling musculature layout shit in the nose, the bare brows being up.]

There is... an elf under my command. Insubordinate little shit, but not enough to merit any real punishment. Just petty little snipes at my leadership, the endless rumbling that an elf should lead... I've had him on latrine duty for a month.

[He barks a laugh.]

Too much pride in the elves for my tastes. Too much mucking about with demons. So I am afraid I cannot advise you on how to deal with elves, as I can barely deal with them myself.

[Thrall gives him an eyebrow. On one hand, the elf was, indeed, being insubordinate. On the other, flat out racism really isn't something Thrall tolerates.

It's not his Horde anymore, though. And that is probably for the best, even with divisiveness among the races. Garrosh only made things worse.

He sighs.]

I have fought alongside many elves without incident. Orcs, too, have occasionally too much and some history with demons. But insubordination also can't go ignored.

If I might make a suggestion... Send him to an outpost with Vol'jin's people. I am sure that will teach him a lesson in teamwork.

[The humor in Gerron's tone drops. Completely. That was a low blow, and one that hits him very personally. He is quiet for a moment, setting his jaw, before he speaks again in a very cold tone. Congratulations, Thrall, for shooting down your own attempts at connecting with someone.]

You need not remind me, Farseer. I am no Frostwolf who found their skin green through exposure. I drank the blood myself.

[In fact, the low hunch rises some. A subtle sign that even with the large amount of respect he is willing to give Thrall, he will not just take such backhanded insults in kind.]

And the elf stays. He is an insubordinate shit, but he is an excellent warrior, and I will not have myself down a capable man because he does not like me and I do not appreciate him slandering my name.

[He didn't-- it was just-- fuck. For a minute, it shows on his face-- he's somewhat abashed.]

... I apologize. I meant no disrespect, [he says quietly.] I only meant to point out a similarity.

[God, he fucked up. He rubs at his temples and wonders if he can just. Sink into the ground. That would be nice. Just have the ground swallow him up and spit him out somewhere, like, in the middle of nowhere. Fuck.]

Yes, of course. You have every right to do with your soldiers as you please.

[UGH UGH UGH. He just stares into his cup now. He's totally lost any kind of appetite. This is no longer his Horde, and he is no longer their leader. He can't just...]

[He knows body language, and the shame he reads in Thrall's shoulders, in his neck, head, hands, is enough to placate him a little. But the lowered hunch does not return. Thrall lost a little bit of the respect he had been given. Not all of it, as Gerron still doesn't stand straight, but... some.

He still sounds a little cold when he speaks.]

It is not something to point out to a stranger, unless you mean to insult them, Farseer.

[Gerron chooses to look away, trying to even his tone. It's easy to forget the former warchief is still little more than a child and may, at times, seem more like one than an adult.]

You are concerned I am intentionally targetting this soldier. I am. But he knows this as well, and he knows why I am doing it. His friends of his race, they face no such problems, as they show proper respect and react to me as our ranks demand. He meets no further problems from me, aside from latrine duty. As soon as he gets himself in line, he'll be off the latrines and doing something that better fits his skills.

[Enough, certainly, and the damn torches are flickering again. Thrall notices this time, though, and gives them a Look until they start brightening again.

He feels a bit like he's being scolded. And he is. Gerron is nearly twice his age. He has every right, really, since Thrall is not the eldest here. Maybe in terms of raw talent he's something decent, but he's far from the greatest shaman this world has ever seen, and he has no right at all to say anything about anyone.

His ears pin slightly.] Y-- yes. I realize my mistake now.

[He lets Gerron explain his side of things and doesn't interrupt. But he doesn't try to make eye contact again, either.]

You are a fair and just commander.

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the greatest things fade the fastest

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welcome to the realm of the same icon into infinity

it's ok it happens

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