This is insanity. All insanity.

Varik touched his jaw, flinching against the pain. It wasn't the first time that he'd ever been struck in his life, and judging by his unfortunate ability to say things that should remain unsaid, it probably wasn't going to be the last. That wasn't what truly bothered him; it was that this time it had come from a person who had promised never to strike him. Ever. As long as he did what was best for his people, best for the clan, best for the Horde, that one was never supposed to harm him. And that it had happened in public, a close unto unforgiveable sin. Those in the room had done Varik the respect to not react, to turn their gazes away when the Warchief's hand had fallen.

"You forget your place, woman!"

Varik wrapped his arms around his chest and growled, a low pitched hiss in the near darkness. Woman. Woman?! Of all people… Varik had not been that in years, and for it to be brought up now. The phrase after was perhaps more accurate, but it had hurt as much.

"Go from my sight, freak. Take your prophecies, your words of warning, away. I am the Warchief. I am the shaman. You are not!"

No, Varik had never claimed to be either. Not the Warchief. Not a shaman. He was just…Varik, and until recently, that had seemed to be enough. Now, no more. He had stood for hours, nostrils flared, ignoring the pain, ignoring the flow of blood down his jaw, while those around him ignored it as pointedly as he had. It would be an insult to note that the Warchief had struck him, and there was some solace in the fact that they had not torn into him at that vulnerable moment.

It doesn't matter. Ner'zhul is gone.

Varik sank to his knees, bowing his head. He had failed to stop Ner'zhul so many times before, why did it still seem like such a betrayal that, once again, he had failed to do so?

I could have won it.

Hubris. Still pining over a war well lost. And now, pining over a recovery that seemed as well lost as that war. They had destroyed everything they had touched. Destroyed their world, lost the war, and now, the Warchief… The best thing to do would be to cut his losses, disappear somewhere, and wait it out. Land on his feet again. He'd done it before, this could be no different.

No, even with Ner'zhul gone, they will not let me go. Kargath will try to keep me. And he will fall as surely as Ner'zhul. Another pawn. I'll go from one master to the next. Just a pawn. Just a pet. Used. It's time to take control of this.

Take control. Every time that Varik had tried to take control, it had come around to haunt him. Surely he should know better by now?

If I don't, nothing will stop. Nothing will change. Just an attack dog, to be sicced on somebody else's next target.

He stared at the floor, fixated on the droplets of blood still falling from his nose, landing on the darkness. He rested his fingertips on them, and smeared them into oblivion. He'd bled enough.

No, not enough. There's only one way out of here. Away from Kargath. Away from the Clan. Away from this mess.

Varik pushed that idea from his mind. Not now. Not yet. Not while Ner'zhul still was. As bad as it'd been lately, he still belonged to Ner'zhul. He would not turn his back on that. It was all he still had. And once that was gone, only then he'd truly be free to do this…