Back Talk
Nobody gets away with bar-fighting and mess-making in The Filthy Animal on Uda the Beast's watch. Not even a time-travelling dragon-saving member of the Six.
Dedicated to Dusty the Umbravita, who encouraged me to write my idea for a cracky Varian/Rhonin fic. I decided that Varian was more likely to punch Rhonin in the face than to smooch him, so this is my consolation gift.
Rhonin's disguise was so impeccably enchanted that the Sunreaver guardians did not once glance at him, even as he shouldered his way through throngs of blood elven magisters and reeking undead archmagi. He straightened his back, bared his teeth in a sneer as he'd practiced, and tossed his (now much longer) hair before setting off towards The Filthy Animal, where Magister Hathorel was waiting for Magister Sarien—or, in reality, for Rhonin Redhair.
Sucker, thought Rhonin.
It was a stupid plan—'suicidal' was the word Ansirem Runeweaver had used, and Vereesa concurred. But the life of a bureaucrat ill became him. Sitting on his haunches with nothing to do but watch them expand, scurrying after lost transcripts, dining with the most ancient and arrogant archmagi until his eyes rolled back in his head in boredom… He was a warrior to the bone, and he had had enough. His blood was hot, his intentions good; he couldn't bear to sit by and watch wrongs go unpunished.
And for all its splendour, there were wrongs in the Violet City. Too many.
Even through the magical wards a chill seeped into his skin, and Rhonin fought a highly un-elven shiver. He had worried that the magi would see through his getup, but none of them so much as blinked: they inclined their heads as they passed, and he mimicked them, careful not to smile. Effusive displays would give him away, Vereesa had warned; her elven cousins were not a happy people.
What an unlikeable lot these Sunreavers are.
He strode by the entrance to the bar in silence, pausing to glance up the steps that led to the entrance. Lanterns hung from the rafters, red and green and gold, and the light was bright, casting long shadows over the street and over Rhonin. He saw a flash of blue and felt the tang of magic, and someone inside laughed, long and deep and loudly, a rumble that stirred his stomach and made him smile despite himself.
No time to linger, though. He ducked around the corner of the building and into the alley, wrinkling his nose against the smell of sewage and spoilt meat. The entrance to the pantry was nothing more than a grill he lifted back, and the opening was barely large enough to allow him entry. Sarien was much slenderer than he, but he still had to wriggle to ease his shoulders through, and when he finally slipped in he tumbled to the floor, knees buckling before he could catch himself.
"Magister Sarien. I see your balance has improved only little."
'Sarien' winced, picking pebbles out of his palm. When he looked up Hathorel was looming over him, arms folded across his chest, his long blond hair impeccably combed and his composure disconcerting. Rhonin hurriedly rose and smoothed back his own hair.
"Still," Hathorel continued, giving a curt nod, "I am grateful to you for coming. I thought you were playing a joke on me."
"I thank you for agreeing to meet with me." His Thalassian accent was good, but it was not perfect (as Vereesa constantly reminded him), and he prayed that Hathorel would not push him farther than his abilities allowed. "We have much to discuss."
"Truly." Hathorel looked him up and down. "Was there a reason you wanted to meet here? I'd have thought you'd never pass up a chance to see Uda."
Rhonin knew who Uda the Beast was, but he did not know what Hathorel meant by this. Did she owe Sarien money? Was she in on the plan as well? "Privacy takes precedence where some things are concerned."
Hathorel twitched an eyebrow. "And what things might those be?"
"The book you tracked down. I want to be involved in researching it."
The elf tensed, practically flinched at the words. Ah. Now there is a sign of wrongdoing, or I'm a goblin's mother. "That book is... not your concern, Sarien."
"Oh, no?" Sarien's lips pursed. He must have looked a good deal sourer than Rhonin normally did when he made the same gesture, because Hathorel flushed and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
"Why must you persist?" he said. "There are some matters that are more important than your academic credentials, do you understand? I don't even know how you caught wind of this thing, but I cannot involve you. I'm sorry."
You'll be sorrier. Rhonin flexed his fingers, pleased with how nimble and practiced they felt even now. "Not even if I offered—"
"The book is gone. Long gone. And I won't tell you where." He rolled his shoulders—tensing for a fight, or working off annoyance? "Now, is there anything else you wished of me?"
"Yes." Sarien's staff did not fit as comfortably into the curve of his shoulder blades as his own, but Rhonin felt its weight, reassuring. 'Suicide' Runeweaver had called it. But then, Runeweaver did most of his work from his bright, toasty solar, and he had never had Rhonin's taste for adventure. "Did you really kill that Silver Covenant messenger?"
Perhaps he had spoken too bluntly. Hathorel stared at him, and when he spoke he did so slowly, as if choosing his words. "And if I did? What is it to you? You hate that lot more than I do, Sarien."
There it was—damning. He felt fury rise in his chest at the words: a messenger, young enough to be a child, Vereesa's handpicked servant. Loyal and brave. And dead.
But he could not blow his cover, not yet. "It's nothing to me." He forced a queasy grin. "I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done, actually. The more of those fools we kill, the better."
Hathorel stared at him for a long moment and then shrugged. "Well," he said, "I'm glad you approve. In truth, I didn't kill him myself, but we're not without our agents. Come, let's shake hands and say goodbye. I could use a drink."
Rhonin approached him, wary and a little confused. Did the elves shake hands? Rhonin could not remember—Vereesa certainly never did. He had thought it was a human custom. Perhaps they had picked it up over centuries of contact. Stranger things happened.
"Shorel'aran, then," Rhonin said.
But as soon as Hathorel's fingers closed around his own, and Rhonin looked at his face, he knew he had erred. The magister was staring down at him with a smile that was at once smug and incredulous.
"A little formal, aren't you?" he said. His blond hair brushed Rhonin's face as he leaned in. "So very formal indeed, for an old friend..." His eyes flashed when Rhonin met his gaze. "For someone comfortable with the language to use the formal case in such a discussion..."
"Politeness is never amiss," Rhonin said, quietly, because he was lost and he knew it. Damn it, damn it, you fool, Sarien and Hathorel are supposed to know each other-
"Oh yes, friend," Hathorel said, and shoved Rhonin away from him to strike the far wall with a jolt that made the shelf above him shake, earthenware pots rattling.
Rhonin's staff was in his hands before Hathorel could let off the first volley, and he parried the cast easily. Instead of immediately returning the blow he reached down into the shattered earth below the city and tugged, drawing up spirals and swarms of ley energy that he formed into a protective grid.
This time, when Hathorel sent a fireball at him, Rhonin did not even bother to parry, just let his shield absorb the attack. His own bolt of ice was as sharp and precise as an arrow, and Rhonin deliberately aimed for Hathorel's leg, looking to disable but not kill. Hathorel shifted away too slowly and the edge grazed his skin, drawing a line of blood that welled through his pants. Wincing, he tilted, and Rhonin took advantage of his distraction to raise a net of frost around his knees and calves, securing his feet to the floor.
It was over that quickly; Hathorel lost his balance and slumped against the wall.
"Who are you?" The elf was panting, out of breath, and he looked up at the approaching Rhonin with—was that admiration? Of course. His people admired magical prowess, even in their enemies.
"A servant of the Kirin Tor. And you are under arrest."
Hathorel gave a sharp laugh. "More like a servant of the Silver Covenant. And what am I under arrest for?"
"Murder."
"Is that so?" Hathorel was unmoved. "Is it murder if you kill a man in war?"
"It's always murder to kill an innocent." What could be simpler? Trust a blood elf not to know that.
Hathorel had a smile in his eyes, even as he shook his head. "How very convenient for you."
The ice shattered as Hathorel blinked out of it, shards like needles flying against Rhonin's shield, but he whirled around in time to see the mage appear where he himself had been standing moments before. The darkness of the barrage he tossed at Rhonin was staggering, veins of shadow, a felfire spell, typical, and he managed to sidestep it only just in time.
Rhonin's answer was another bolt of frost, but this one was larger, more powerful, with the weight of anger behind it. Hathorel raised a mana shield, and Rhonin registered that his arms were shaking—he is getting exhausted, good. The lance bounced off it and collided so heavily with the wall that the foundation shook and the vases clattered and the cans rang with the noise.
Nothing happened. Hathorel did not return the blast. Indeed, for a second he was paying no attention to Rhonin at all. He watched as, one by one, the jars slid off the shelf to shatter on the floor. The silence between them was ringing, and Rhonin braced himself for another onslaught.
It did not come. Hathorel blanched, and a look of pure terror crossed his face.
"Please," he said, cowering, "please don't tell Uda. I beg you."
And with a popping sound and the sprinkle of arcane energy, he was gone.
Rhonin stared at the spot where he'd been. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, blinked again. There was no way Hathorel should have had the reserves of energy left to disappear like that. What could possibly have frightened him so much that he'd risk a magical collapse to get away from it?
Nothing for it. Rhonin would have to go looking for him.
He sighed. It was better than admitting to Vereesa that he'd blundered so badly.
Rhonin had not been to this particular bar since the Sunreavers set up their tiers here, and the change was enough that he was momentarily staggered. He was one of the Six and ostensibly neutral, able to walk through the streets of Dalaran as he pleased and with impunity, but theory was one thing, politics another. He was Vereesa Windrunner's husband, and his loyalties lay with her people and her cause.
The Filthy Animal, formerly The King's Lady, had undergone a transformation such as might be expected: it was filthy.
He shouldn't have been surprised; after so long spent roughing it in the wilds, bopping from city to city and misadventure to misadventure, un-wiped beer rings and rinds of pork and slimy handles ought not have elicited such disgust from him. No good. Living in the Violet Citadel in state and with his beautiful, flawlessly clean wife, servants attending to their every housekeeping need, had spoiled him.
He wandered through the maze of tables and overturned cheers, stunned by the roars and the laughter and the clink of coins and cups hitting the bar. The murk of smoke disoriented him; Sarien was much taller than Rhonin, and he nearly smacked his head off a low-hanging lantern. Where the hell did he go? He couldn't have gotten any farther than this. Could he?
A broad-shouldered and heavily-armed orc passed him, and Rhonin had to press himself against wall to avoid getting clipped with his axe. Something stiff brushed his arm. He glanced over his shoulder and felt his mouth open stupidly, a landed fish gulping for breath.
He was standing in a museum of romantic conquests, the walls plastered with notes, paintings, dried flowers, ribbons and—locks of hair? Rhonin paused over one particularly long, silvery curl that reminded him of Vereesa's. It was tied with a crimson bow and pinned to a note. To my flower of Nagrand, it read in an unusually elegant Orcish script, love, your Lor'themar.
Rhonin raised an eyebrow and glanced up ahead to the entrance of the bar, where the light made the shadows of the street darker and cold air chilled the heat and turned it to oily steam. Uda the Beast, the Flower. This should be interesting.
So she wasn't what Rhonin was anticipating. He had been expecting the 'flower of Nagrand' to be a bit more like that—a flower, lean and delicate and lovely, if still possessing a certain orcish... rigour.
Uda may have been a flower, but Rhonin thought she looked more like some solidly-planted redwood. She was the biggest woman not trying to kill him that Rhonin had ever seen, standing at least eight feet tall, with shoulders that looked like they could heft Garrosh Hellscream and hips that looked like they could knock him into orbit. When one of the trolls blew her a kiss, she flexed and chuckled and returned it, and it was then that Rhonin realised the laughter he'd heard earlier had been hers.
"My friends!" she roared at a pair of tauren who came in, stomping the snow from their hooves. "Tonight you sup at my table! I will feed you as my Warchief would feed your chieftain! You have never had a meal such as you will have under my roof!"
Quite the boast. But Rhonin did not have time to admire her theatricality: he had spotted his quarry.
Hathorel was slumped against the doorjamb, clutching his chest, his face pale and drawn. The cloth on his shoulders rose with every breath, and Rhonin could the sheen of sweat on his skin, his colour gone from ivory to mint. It would have been lovely in a vase but meant only one thing in a mage: he had completely exhausted himself.
Good. This one will be no trouble to me, then. But how can I get him alone?
Hathorel could very well out him as a spy to the entire bar, but Rhonin's disguise was holding firm and if it came to that he could blink out of there in a moment. It was a risk he was willing to take. Perhaps if Rhonin approached him he could scare Hathorel into the street and arrest him there. If he were smart enough to hang around Rhonin would have to escort him out the way he'd escort out a sack of potatoes—by throwing the elf bodily out the door. That could be ugly, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. The city was a sanctuary. It would not end in spilt blood, his or anyone else's.
Unless I allow it to, he thought with a grin and headed towards the entrance.
Still, Hathorel had keener eyesight than he'd anticipated; he glanced towards Rhonin and his face blanched even further. He managed to stumble to the door, shoving aside a few of the serving girls and scrabbling at the handle. So it was to be a flight. Excellent.
As if remembering something Hathorel started, paused and then leaned in, whispering to Uda before slipping away into the shadows.
For a second Rhonin had serious misgivings. Had he misjudged Hathorel? Would he really be willing to admit that he had led a spy into Sunreaver territory, been so thoroughly tricked that a simple disguise had fooled him?
No. That was impossible. Rhonin glanced back at the trails of love notes and bouquets on the walls. Probably he was disappearing for a while and relying on Uda's power to hide him from discovery. Rumour had it that the woman was as rich as she was big, and her thick-headed act just that—an act. Could she help him? High-ranking admirers and a monopoly on orcish grogg: doubtless Uda had clout.
He remembered Hathorel's words. Sarien knew her.
"Uda!" He strode towards her with outstretched arms. The she-orc glanced over her shoulder and then, seeing who her guest was, slowly turned, face darkening. "My Mag'har princess! My... my flower of Nagrand!"
"Sarien, mon, I wouldn'," a troll said, but Rhonin ignored him.
"It's been ages," he said. One of the wolves at Uda's feet raised its head and watched him with bored eyes. "I've missed your hearth and your mead, darling. Would you set a table for me? I've been travelling for hours, and I'm famished. And some of your stew, please, and good warm ale. And my regular room, if it's available. If not, I'll take another, though preferably not on the ground floor—I'm liable to have someone sneak in and steal my goods. You can't tell these days, can you?"
Uda gaped at him for a moment, and Rhonin wondered whether she was as stunned by the torrent of words as he was. When she regained herself, she raised her fist and, aiming for his mouth, gave him a punch.
Rhonin was not a small man, and for a mage he was downright solid, though no warrior by any standard. Still, the blow Uda gave him was enough to knock him off his feet and to the ground in a boneless heap.
"You!" she roared, pointing at Rhonin while one of the trolls did his best to help him stand. "Friend Hathorel has told me all! You come, you cause big trouble! Mess everywhere!" She loomed over him, blocking out the fading summer twilight. "I say, no fighting! You say you are gentleman, but you make mess! Break plates, mash faces! Messy and sneaky, like small orange cat!" She straightened, gestured to her wolves. "I feed small orange cat to wolves! I teach you a lesson, elf!"
"Oh, fuck." Rhonin touched his mouth through a sheet of blood and spit. "Woman, you broke a tooth."
Uda was not placated. She gestured with her axe, swinging it around the bar in a manner that could only promise pain. "When I am done with you, not even Arthas will touch your corpse!"
I'll have to remember that threat. He managed to stagger to his feet, his entire face alternately numb and aching, his ears ringing with the blow. He was, he knew, lucky that she'd not snapped his jaw from the joints. "Look. I don't want to fight, my lady, but I will."
This comment was not well-chosen, judging from the other patrons' reactions. The bar got very quiet as Uda got very red-faced.
"You can try, little elf."
Rhonin did try. He tried to cast an immobilising frost net spell, only as soon as he raised his hands, fingers splayed and teasing forth ley energy, Uda reached into her pocket and withdrew a glass ball that looked like a snow globe. If snow globes were utterly terrifying, that is.
In retrospect, Rhonin should have suspected that a warrior running a bar in Dalaran would have ways of dealing with argumentative sorcerers, ways that did not involve "hacking off their bits" or "feeding them to her wolves" (though Uda threatened him with both these things several times). But when Uda held up the silencing trinket, its cold glass surface churning with light only he could see, all Rhonin could think was, Fuck.
That was before the magic in his hands disintegrated.
And with it, his costume.
For a few moments, he thought that he had gotten so involved in magic that his skin was simply melting from his body and all that would be left was a pile of bones and charred robes. But when he looked down, he saw that the fair, smooth skin on his hands was shifting to a darker shade, and little hairs were sprouting on the backs of his knuckles, and the floor was getting progressively closer—
At this point, what he thought was, Sanctuary or not, I am going to die.
"Human!" Uda pointed, as if the other patrons needed help figuring this out. "Spy! Human spy! You come to make mess in Horde bar!"
Rhonin was about to say that he had not, in fact, come with this specific intention, only the other patrons were staring at him and he did not feel like telling an entire bar of hostile warriors that he'd come to arrest one of their number.
"We can work this out," he said.
"Yes," Uda agreed. She tested the edge of her blade against her thumb. "I will start you a tab for the damage you have done. And you will pay it—tonight—in your flesh and your blood."
Rhonin did not get to suggest using an alternate form of currency—like gold—because the other patrons decided that this was a good time to congratulate Uda for her decision and ingratiate themselves with her further.
"I'll kill him for you, Uda." The orc who spoke was carrying a pair of warglaives that looked extremely sharp. He looked extremely willing to use them.
"Allow me to help him, my sweet," one of the elves said.
"Anyt'in for a lady." It was the troll who had picked him up. Rhonin gave him a wounded look.
"No!" Uda's shout made even her wolves flatten their ears. "The Beast needs no man's sword or spell! And you are all messy! You in particular, Agthash!" The orc turned away, scowling. "Leave him to me! I will make him suffer for his insolence!"
Blinking was no longer an option with the magic in the air and earth sealed against him, but at least the fight was one-on-on. Or a Mag'har woman who looked to have ogre blood against a mage who hadn't fought hand-to-hand in years. When she lunged at him Rhonin feinted to the right, barely managing to sidestep her. She whirled around to face him, and Rhonin got into a fighting stance: feet spread, fists raised. This lasted for about three and a half seconds before Uda seized him by the scruff of his neck and hurled him to the ground.
"Enough!" For emphasis she placed her foot on his back. "You learn, now. A chair! Bring me a chair, friends!"
A veritable stampede ensued in which every single man and most of the women fought to be the one to grant Uda's request.
Uda deigned to take a three-seat chesterfield from a tauren, tossing it to the ground with one hand while she dangled Rhonin with the other. To his surprise she sat down first, pulling him over her lap so that his face was pressed into the cushions. Breathe, he told himself. You can survive this. Wriggle away from her while she's hefting the axe and dart.
As if reading his mind, Uda placed an enormous hand on his back, pinning him in place. "How many blows, friends?" she asked the bar.
"A hundred!"
"Fifty!"
"Until he dies!"
"Six!" someone croaked from the back. "One for every Horde nation!"
Uda laughed at that, a sound that Rhonin was surprised he found charming, even now. "You are clever, Archmage Smith. Death has not rotted your brain. I will give him six, and you will all count with me."
A cheer went up. "Lok'tar ogar!" Uda roared, waving her axe over her head to the sound of accompanying yells. "For the Horde!"
And then, instead of hacking off his head, she brought the flat side of the blade down on his ass.
Even through his robes the pain was enough to make his eyes water, though whether his face reddened with disbelief, humiliation or agony he could not say. Later, he would suspect a peculiar combination of the three.
"One!" Uda's shout was the loudest of all.
The next blow was much like the first, only this time he had the presence of mind to think, This cannot be fucking happening through a haze of pain and yelling so loud he thought his eardrums would burst—if not from the strength of Uda's blows then from the noise of the room around them.
"Two! Blood and thunder!"
This is exactly how Rhonin would have described the third blow, which he was certain broke the skin and seemed to rattle every bone in his body from his heels to his teeth. His whole backside was burning, but when he tried to struggle out of Uda's grip she held firm, her hand a warm weight resting in the small of his back, strangely gentle, almost protective.
What are you thinking, you stupid man? Run away, run away!
"Three! Are you learning, little mage?"
Not particularly, considering all he could think about was, That really hurts, and I hope Aethas Sunreaver doesn't hear about this. The impact jarred his teeth, but this time the heat seemed to travel all the way from his buttocks to his groin, and he sank his teeth into the cushions to keep from crying out.
Impossible. No. He would not believe that this could possibly—
"Four!"
Two more and he was done, but he could not bite back his whimper—an ecstatic blend of pain and delight wracked him, and to his horror he felt himself stiffening against his robes. His nails tore threads from the cushions and his jaw hurt from biting the chair, but neither could distract him sufficiently from what was happening to him. Think of the Scourge, think of Deathwing, he always makes you want to shit your pants in terror, just don't think about—
"Five!"
His cry seemed to echo in the room, and even though neither she nor the yelling crowd seemed to notice it sounded to him indecently sexual, more like a lover's plaintive moan. Please don't let me faint, Rhonin prayed to whatever cruel Gods were listening. And then, beneath that, he offered a quieter prayer: Please don't let her notice how I'm responding to this.
"The last one, friends—six!" And to celebrate she shoved him bodily onto the floor where he lay in a sad pile, clutching his wounded behind and trying very hard not to cry as everyone cheered and toasted.
She yanked him to his feet and he staggered, struggling to stay upright and also to mask all evidence of the fact that his 'punishment' had not been entirely unbearable. "Mok'nathal justice!" she yelled in his face. "Next time I will not be so forgiving!"
Forgiving? Rhonin thought that having his head lopped off might have been the better thing. His entire lower body ached in a variety of humiliating ways, and the idea of heading over to the remnants of Malygos's men and offering his allegiance had a sudden, startling appeal.
Uda gave him a shake to ensure she had his attention, which she had not lost for a good half-hour. "Go home!" She gestured at the street. "You will learn to behave in my bar, I think!"
Rhonin straightened a little and stared at her. "Are you serious? That's it—you're letting me go? Just like that?"
Uda's brow furrowed, and she bared her long eyeteeth at him. "Does the orange cat want to be thrashed until the fur peels from his skin?"
"No, no." Rhonin raised his hands and backed away, edging towards the door and keeping his wounded hindquarters far away from her. "I'm quite good, thank you. Quite, ah, quite good."
Still seething, Uda watched him waddle off. The nerve of these sorcerers never ceased to infuriate her. You could not trust such a man: Uda fought with axe and shield and teeth, her wolves ripping and howling alongside her as her blades flashed. It was only decent.
The little orange-haired one had been lucky to walk away with his manhood intact—if he ever tried such a stunt again, she'd nail his testicles to the sign outside and let him hang there.
"Clean this mess," she said to her barmaids, gesturing at the piles of shattered crockery.
Aethas Sunreaver materialised at her shoulder and gave her an adoring look, which Uda ignored. "What a spectacle. You should charge for admission."
Uda glanced at him, small and smug and with apple-coloured hair, and gave a satisfied nod. "He will not cause trouble for me."
"Who would dare trouble you, my queen?"
He is always trying, never getting the message. Uda rolled her eyes and turned away to carry the chesterfield back to where it belonged, only the sound of snapping fingers and a bone-jarring explosion was enough to get even her attention.
She turned around. Aethas had blown up his table, and splinters of wood and shattered ceramics and strips of charred meat were raining down on the other patrons.
"A thousand parsons," he said, folding his arms across his chest. His expression as he stared at her was clinical, curious, the way Archmage Smith looked at a plague sample or she looked at a cask of ale for quality.
Uda had been angry before, but that was nothing compared to what she felt now; her grip tightened on her axe. "You! Messy elf! You make clutter in my bar! You will pay!"
"Yes." He nodded. "You can hit me with your axe here, if you like. Or I can buy you dinner first."
Confusion was a feeling Uda was very familiar with, but every time it happened she only became angrier. She did not like to feel she was being outsmarted, even when she was, and she also did not like to feel like people were laughing at her. So what if her mother had been an ogress? So what if Uda sometimes forgot which coin was more valuable? (A zombie Archmage had taught her a rhyme to remember: far better is gold, silver hundredfold—only Uda couldn't always remember what 'hundredfold' meant.)
But still. Still. Dinner was dinner and Uda found it difficult to say no to feasting. She lowered her axe a fraction of an inch and stared at Sunreaver, making no secret of her scepticism. "What dinner does messy elf mean?"
He stroked his little red beard. "Roast boar and potatoes and grogg? Does that suit my lady?"
Uda's axe hit the floor with a dull thud. She shrugged. "Okay, elf. First I dine. But then I hit you later. And you cry like sissy girl you are. This is payment for damages."
"My darling orc," he said, offering her his arm and leading her towards the interior of the bar, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
The End
Author's Note: I love Uda the Beast. Yeah. I think it's obvious that I find her by far the hottest lady in WoW. She could probably pull Arthas out of Icecrown by the hair, only who would look after her bar while she was gone?
I also apologise to any Alliance fans who feel that I sissified their faction—that was never my intent, and I didn't mean to pull a "Herp derp take dat for da hoard." Garrosh Hellscream has to take Uda out to gladiatorial matches with front-row seats to get the same treatment Rhonin got for free! So there you go. It's the red hair. Orcs love it or something.