i. ʙᴏᴅɪᴇs; [ Llane has only arrived. He has entered the house, unlocked his room--there is armor, there is swords--only to be met with a letter. The blood has worried him, but it doesn't smell like the barracks had--it doesn't smell like fel. There is no sulfur, though the feeling of swallowing a bucket full of stones persists, settling in his stomach. He'd pressed forward, still in his robes, still with his crown.
He does not like this.
Of course he does not like this--no one enjoys seeing bodies splayed like this, horrific in nature, repulsively elegant. There is murder and crime in Stormwind, of course, no city is without, but even in the Oldtown district, there is nothing quite like this. Llane is unsettled, unbalanced, but he doesn't hesitate: he strides quickly to the one with the arrow, concern in his eyes. She is dead, yes, obviously so, but no one should be put on display like this. ]
Someone hold her still. I'm going to try to pull the arrow from the wall, so we can better lay her to rest.
ii. ꜰᴏᴏᴅ; [ It is chaos, at the very least for Llane--not the loud cacophony of battle, although that is almost more preferable. There, there is a singular goal in mind. There, Llane knows his strengths and weaknesses and plans accordingly. There are too many outside factors here, too many questions and not enough answers. He feels a headache coming on. Right in between his brows, blooming all the way to the base of his skull.
The urge for a nice glass of Dalaran red is palapable. Caraway Burnwine, or any Highland spirit. A flagon of mead, even.
The problem is he doesn't trust the table. He eyes it warily, distrust etched across bearded features. ]
Do they think in earnest we'll sup while this carnage is plainly in front of us?
[ And more accurately: do they think we're stupid enough to, if it's poisoned? ]
iii. ᴇɢɢ; [ Eventually, Llane retires to a corner. He has no trusted the food, nor the drinks, but has refused to turn away from the bodies. To do so seems like some form of cowardice to Llane for some reason, and it appears his stubborn streak about certain things remains intact: he faces the bodies. A small amount of defiance, though for whom he isn't sure.
He's taken an egg, plucked it gently from its box, and is running a hand over the strange scales. His is the blue one, matching part of his robes, and he holds it up to the sky. It's no larger than a grapefruit. ]
no subject
[ Llane has only arrived. He has entered the house, unlocked his room--there is armor, there is swords--only to be met with a letter. The blood has worried him, but it doesn't smell like the barracks had--it doesn't smell like fel. There is no sulfur, though the feeling of swallowing a bucket full of stones persists, settling in his stomach. He'd pressed forward, still in his robes, still with his crown.
He does not like this.
Of course he does not like this--no one enjoys seeing bodies splayed like this, horrific in nature, repulsively elegant. There is murder and crime in Stormwind, of course, no city is without, but even in the Oldtown district, there is nothing quite like this. Llane is unsettled, unbalanced, but he doesn't hesitate: he strides quickly to the one with the arrow, concern in his eyes. She is dead, yes, obviously so, but no one should be put on display like this. ]
Someone hold her still. I'm going to try to pull the arrow from the wall, so we can better lay her to rest.
ii. ꜰᴏᴏᴅ;
[ It is chaos, at the very least for Llane--not the loud cacophony of battle, although that is almost more preferable. There, there is a singular goal in mind. There, Llane knows his strengths and weaknesses and plans accordingly. There are too many outside factors here, too many questions and not enough answers. He feels a headache coming on. Right in between his brows, blooming all the way to the base of his skull.
The urge for a nice glass of Dalaran red is palapable. Caraway Burnwine, or any Highland spirit. A flagon of mead, even.
The problem is he doesn't trust the table. He eyes it warily, distrust etched across bearded features. ]
Do they think in earnest we'll sup while this carnage is plainly in front of us?
[ And more accurately: do they think we're stupid enough to, if it's poisoned? ]
iii. ᴇɢɢ;
[ Eventually, Llane retires to a corner. He has no trusted the food, nor the drinks, but has refused to turn away from the bodies. To do so seems like some form of cowardice to Llane for some reason, and it appears his stubborn streak about certain things remains intact: he faces the bodies. A small amount of defiance, though for whom he isn't sure.
He's taken an egg, plucked it gently from its box, and is running a hand over the strange scales. His is the blue one, matching part of his robes, and he holds it up to the sky. It's no larger than a grapefruit. ]
Will it hatch, do you suppose?