A rude interruption

Dawn found Abulos Sunwing sitting in his office, in the Magisterial complex above Farstriders Square, looking indifferently at the papers covering his desk. He had barely left his office for a week, after he had seen what he had helped Garrosh achieve at Theramore he was consumed by anguish and fear, afraid of what his race had done, and had the power to do again if the Warchief demanded it. He sighed and stood, his robes rustling softly as he walked over to the tall window, looking down on the Farstriders training ground, almost empty now the rangers were employed elsewhere. The Magister sighed as he watched several Kor’kron soldiers enter the plaza from the Royal Exchange, as traders shrank back into the shadows of their stands, and the guards around the square tense as they watched the Orcs progress. The Orcish contingent stomped out towards the Court of the Sun, and the plaza slowly came to life once more. Hellscream’s influence had swept through the city when the Kor’kron had arrived and plastered posters across the city declaring the Warchief’s call to arms. Several raids had already taken place as families tried to shirk away from Garrosh’s ultimatum. Sylvanas, still offended by her failure in Gilneas, had already repledged the support of Undercity to fighting the Alliance, and Silvermoon was expected to follow suit.

Abulos span around, alert, as something colossal slammed into his door. A few seconds later, with a sound like cannon fire, the door to the office splintered under the steel boot of its Orc wearer, who stormed into the office followed by several other Kor’kron. Abulos started across the room, glaring angrily at the group’s leader.

“How dare you barge in he-“Abulos stopped mid-sentence as the Orc grabbed the front of his robes and hurled him back into his chair, where the elf, in shock at being manhandled, stared at the Orc as he advanced and clamped a hand around his throat.
“Why have you not reported for duty? The Warchief has demanded your presence on the front lines.”

Despite the situation, Abulos’ prejudice against Orcs was engrained deeply into his mind. “Personally? You think I would’ve noticed a missive from the Warchief amongst all the neatly written papers that pass under my eyes.” He tried to swallow, finding it difficult as the Orc retained his iron grip.

“You’ve seen the posters, Elf. All will aid our war against the Alliance, be it through fighting or crafting weapons. You WILL obey, or be branded a traitor to the Horde.”

Abulos glanced around at the other Orcs. Several stared back, looking pleased to watch the elf squirm, while others looked around the room at the curios that were dotted around the walls. He returned his attention to the brute that held his neck. “If you wouldn’t mind, I am finding it quite difficult to breathe, which will make it harder to serve the Warchief, don’t you think?” He fell backwards with the chair as the Orc pushed him, hitting the floor heavily. Picking himself up to the laughter of the greenskins, he glared at the leader.

“Captain, is it? I have rarely left this room in a week, and only then it was to travel home in my carriage. I do not simply wonder the streets, and so have not seen this call to arms.” Abulos began to talk with more authority as he regained his composure. “Secondly, I am almost two hundred and eighty-nine years old. Venerable, even by my people’s standards. The battlefield is no longer my province, and I would appreciate it if you left that alone.” Abulos cast his gaze towards one of the Orcs, who had just picked up the staff his father had once wielded as a Magister and was flexing it in his hands. He drew a breath in sharply as the Orc casually snapped the treasured stave and threw the wooden pieces to the floor. Determined not to let these wretches see him saddened or fearful, he locked his eyes onto those of the Orc captain.

“And lastly, as I will no longer be serving on the front lines, I AM making weapons for Warchief Hellscream. As has already been witnessed in Dustwallow Marsh.” Abulos watched with grim satisfaction at the effect this statement had on the Orcs. Their expressions were mixed, some agreeable that he had served the Horde well, some distain at the Elves taking away the chance for glorious battle on Theramore Isle, and a few, Abulos noted, slightly fearful. Of course, now they know what you’re capable of. You must not let them see you regret creating such a weapon. “So you see, captain, whilst I would love the chance to aid you directly in battle, my talents are better used elsewhere right now. After your fine warriors secure a beachhead on Pandaria, I will follow with the Reliquary in tow to examine this mythical land, discover any and all magical artefacts Pandaria holds, and bring the might of the Magisters down upon our enemies. I believe that can be interpreted as serving the Horde.”

The Kor’kron captain narrowed his eyes and grunted. “We will be watching you, Elf. And waiting for you on Pandaria.” The Orc turned and marched from the office, kicking aside the splintered door. Taking this as an order, a few of the remaining Orcs took it upon themselves to push over pedestals and tear down maps from the wall on their way out.

When their footsteps had faded, Abulos waved his arms through the air, most of the damage the Orcs had done repaired itself. Abulos bent down and picked up the two pieces of his father’s Magisterial staff fusing them back together. Whilst the magic inside the staff had dissipated when it had been snapped, it had always been of great sentimental value. The Magister carried it over to his desk, glancing out of the window as he passed. Down below, he watched as the Kor’kron retraced their steps through the square, the tense and fearful mood once more passing through the traders and guards.

After returning the staff to its pedestal, Abulos once more took a seat at his desk. It was not long before he put his head in his hands, sighing, and found himself thinking something that he had not done for years. Sunwell save us.