Private Thomas Nahees was intensely uncomfortable in his dress uniform. At least with his regular uniform he could loosen it a bit, make it less constricting, but he had no such luck now. He supposed it was the price he paid for being part of Secretary Clinton's honor guard at the feast. And what a feast it was! Four long tables had been set up; one for the Horde, one for the Alliance, one for the neutral powers, and one for the American delegation. Nahees and his fellow marines, including his mates Lopez and Claypoole, had already eaten, and were on alert for anything suspicious. Nahees was somewhat disappointed at not being able to try the food, which magically appeared on the table when the previous dish had been finished, but his current mission was just as good, since it gave him a chance to look around at all the marvels surrounding him. To his left, he saw the Horde table. Orcs, big and green, sat side by side with thin, vicious looking trolls, diminutive goblins, exquisitely beautiful Blood Elves, massive bull-men, called Tauren, and undead. The undead made Nahees shiver a bit, remembering his first harrowing hour on Azeroth. The Tauren confused him somewhat. The translation spell, which had been cast in improved form on all of the members of the delegation, rendered the name of the bull-men's race as Tauren, which sounded suspiciously like the Greek word for cow or bull. That couldn't be coincidence. Nahees mentally filed it away to look into later. To his right were the Alliance. Humans, dwarves and gnomes sat with Night Elves, equally as beautiful as their Horde counterparts, if in a more ephemeral way, Gilnean survivors, identifiable by their different clothing or by the fact that they had fur and fangs, and the bizarre blue-skinned draenei. Past them were the neutral delegates. He saw the strangest things there, such as a Night Elf with antlers that appeared to be growing out of his forehead, A half man half cat, and what appeared to be a being made out of pure energy and wrapped in bandages. The last one reminded him somewhat of the old stories of the Invisible Man.
One by one, during the course of the feast, various delegations were supposed to come over to the American table and introducing themselves to Secretary Clinton. This, Nahees guessed, was what this feast was really all about. First impressions were important, and everyone would probably be in a more agreeable mood if they were full of good food and booze. Not too much booze, he hoped. The big brown Orc looked like a mean drunk, or a boisterous one, both of which would be problematic. At least he had a gun. Apparently Clinton had managed to convince whoever ran this place, the red haired guy, Rhonin if he recalled, to let the Marines carry weapons to make up for the American's lack of magic or claws or just great hulking muscles. So far, the High Tinker of the Gnomes, the High Priestess of the Night Elves, the ruling council of the Dwarves, the Queen of the Forsaken and the Chieftains of the Trolls and Tauren had presented themselves to Clinton. Currently, the Kings of Stormwind and Gilneas were before the ambassador, making grand speeches about friendship and honor. Nahees had been a bit surprised when Clinton had asked to see King Genn Greymane's worgen form, and had been quite surprised when the king complied. He had hunched over, as thick gray smoke erupted from his body, hiding him from view. His silhouette remained somewhat visible, and Nahees could see the king's form shifting, twisting, until finally the smoke faded and the king stood before them, hunched, furry, and feral looking. Nahees tensed a bit; those claws could do serious damage. He noticed his fellow marines were equally wary, but Secretary Clinton looked as if someone had just brought her coffee, not transformed into a werewolf in front of her. In fact, she hadn't looked perturbed the entire time, not since they had taken the Black Hawk up to a floating island holding a magical city, a phrase straight out of so many of Nahees' books and video games he couldn't count them all. It was all part of her job as diplomat, he supposed. He would have been running around the city in awe by now, had he not been part of the honor guard, but that was why she was the Secretary of State and he was a Marine PFC.
Former Senator, First Lady, and current Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was more than a little perturbed at the moment. She had just seen a man shift into a werewolf in front of her. While she had known that this could happen from the debriefings of the adventurers, it was another thing entirely to see it happen before her very eyes. In fact, this whole mission had been one shock after another. From the moment she stepped through the portal, one amazing occurrence after another had been piled on her, almost non-stop. Still, she dealt with kings, dictators, conniving politicians, and most of all, Bill, on a regular basis. Plus, she couldn't let her impassive mask slip, or one of these strange beings would find a way to take advantage of her somehow. That was one of the primary rules of diplomacy, and a skill she had learned long ago, facing the cameras during the dark days of the impeachment. She returned to the matter at hand.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I appreciate your taking the time to demonstrate. I must say it seems painful though."
The King barked a bitter laugh. "It eases with time. And nothing can compare to the pain of seeing my people, my home, my son, all torn from me."
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I didn't mean to reopen old wounds."
"No need to apologize. Everyday I am reminded of what I have lost; today you just happened to be what reminded me." King Varian Wrynn, of Stormwind, spoke up.
"Madam Ambassador, thank you for your time. We look forward to the resumption of negotiations tomorrow. Come on Genn, let's get some more food."
The two bowed and left. Clinton noted how the younger king treated his elder. Greymane needed Stormwind's help to get his kingdom back, and thus Wrynn was in a position of power, and knew it, hence his casual ordering of the older man. There was tension there; she filed the fact away for later use as the the Draenei leader, the Prophet Velen, approached, along with his bodyguard and the shaman who was responsible for the extraordinarily useful translation spell they were using. Of all the leaders, he impressed Clinton the most. Not only was he dressed in robes that managed to be simple, yet at the same time incredibly elegant, but he also radiated an aura of calm, serenity, wisdom, and most of all, age. Clinton felt like she was in the presence of everyone's favorite grandfather. He bowed, and spoke, his voice rich, deep, and musically accented.
"Blessings be upon you, Ambassador Clinton. I am the Velen, Prophet of the Draenei and servant of the Naaru and the Light. I wish for peace between our peoples, and all peoples." Clinton thought that would be it, but the ancient being continued.
"Sadly, as much as we may wish for peace, it does not come lightly, or freely. There are enemies of all that is good, all that is pure and holy. The Burning Legion may come for your world, Ambassador, as they have hounded my people across the stars. I hereby request on behalf of my people the assistance of the United States against the evil that stalks the stars."
Clinton pondered the implications of this request. She knew from the debriefings that Velen was respected, and she could see that even the leaders of the Horde weren't as hostile to him as they were to, say, Varian Wrynn. Besides, Dasmykon had some astounding pieces of jewelry, apparently made with Draenei technology, that scientists back on earth would be extremely keen to look at. On the other hand, such a potentially binding agreement was not something to rush in to.
"Thank you for your kind words, Your Holiness. I'm sure our peoples would benefit such an agreement, but we would like to save such discussions for later, so that we may all enjoy the feast."
"Please, I am merely Velen, or Prophet if you must. Your words ring true; merriment is something that should be enjoyed when one is able, and our meeting is a cause for great merriment." The ancient Draenei bowed. "I look forward to further meetings. Blessings upon your family." As the Prophet said this, Clinton felt a sense of peace wash over her. It was a wonderful sensation, but all the same she made a mental note to have her head checked, just in case. The sense of peace ended abruptly as the leader of the Horde aligned Goblin faction, Trade Prince Gallywix of the Bilgewater Cartel.
Gallywix was an obese little goblin, dressed in some of the gaudiest clothing Clinton had ever seen, complete with a ridiculous purple top hat covered in stars and jewels. He swaggered up to her with the aid of a cane, accompanied by a large retinue of goblins that reminded Clinton of nothing so much as a CEO's entourage of yes men. Given that the fat goblin was a Trade Prince, and that goblin culture was apparently highly mercantile, the comparison was likely apt. Upon reaching the American table, the fat goblin pressed a series of buttons on his belt, and a ludicrously complex device began whirring, clanging, unfolding into...a chair. Which Gallywix promptly sat in. This was going to be interesting.
"Ambassador. Here's the deal: we Goblins love two things: trade, and explosions. Trade for our buddies, explosions for our enemies. Since trade gives us new ways to make explosions, we like Trade a bit more. So how about this; you give us trade relations, and we'll make it worth yer while, hah? I saw that fancy schmancy flying machine youz came in. Something like that, gotta be produced by some kinda machine, since youz dont have magic. That means it's mass produced, means you guys need plenty of gas for it. We can give you that gas. Plus all sortsa resources. Ya know, iron, cobalt, gold, lumber; you name it, we can get our hands on it. So how bout it?"
Clinton was silent for some time before answering. This was a tricky one. If what Gallywix was saying was true, it could mean a major economic boom for the United States, especially if they could find new sources of oil. On the other hand, part of President Obama's agenda was green technologies, and new sources of oil would sabotage that. Neutrality seemed best for the moment.
"I appreciate the offer, Your Highness, but as I told His Holiness Prophet Velen, I would like to save all such negotiations until tomorrow so that we can all enjoy this feast."
"Hah, Yer Highness, that's a laugh." And laugh the Trade Prince did, in a snorting, piggish manner. "Hehehe, yer highness...ah, that's rich. Ah well, suit yerself. C'mon boys, lets see if we can put the Dalaran kitchen outta business."
As his ludicrously complex chair retracted and he walked away, Clinton suppressed a shudder. Something about Gallywix rubbed her the wrong way. He seemed to ooze sleaze, almost like Silvio Berlusconi, but without the Italian charm to compensate. All thoughts of slimy goblins were driven from her head as the most important delegation of the night approached. Warchief Garrosh Hellscream, massive and clad in his bone armor, thudded as he came up to the American table, followed by three other Orcs, all green in contrast to Garrosh's dusty brown. She recognized one of them from the briefings; it was the former Warchief, Thrall. He was supposedly calmer than Hellscream; hopefully that meant he would handle the negotiations.
The Orcish delegation stopped before Clinton, and as one thumped their chests with one hand and chanted a phrase which the translation spell rendered as Victory or Death. She understood that this was a greeting among Orcs. Garrosh began to speak.
"Ambassador Clinton, of the United States. I am Garrosh Hellscream, Warchief of the Horde! With me are Thrall of the Earthen Ring, High Overlord Saurfang, and Eitrigg of the Blackrock. We come before you to seek an honorable peace." Though something about his voice made Clinton tense, she was happy to hear that the Horde wouldn't be immediately hostile.
"Thank you, Warchief. Peace is also our number one goal. Our concepts of honor may be different, but peace is something we can all strive for." She decided to try and give the Warchief a chance to brag. "May I ask, how did you come by that armor?" She saw Thrall immediately sigh and slump. Maybe she had made a mistake?
"Haha! I'm glad you asked, human. Now hear the tale of true valor, as can only be displayed by an Orc!"
A good twenty minutes past, as Garrosh related in painstaking detail how his father had brought down the Pit Lord Mannoroth, whose tusks now adorned his armor, and how he himself had hunted and killed the yetis that provided the skulls. Clinton, well used to U.N. diplomatic functions, managed to look engaged the whole time. When he had finished, he laughed, moved to clasp Clinton on the shoulders, thought better of it when Thrall nudged him in the ribs, and finally retreated to his table to get drunk and eat all the food. Thrall stayed behind briefly to apologize and request patience with his successor, before following.
Private Nahees flopped down on his bed. It was huge and soft, and he nearly sank into it. He had always found formal events tiring, and this one had gone on for hours. After the Orcs had left, the neutral factions had started coming up. Some had been boring, like the old fellow who just pledged friendship in the name of the light or something before going to eat with one of the orcs, but others had been more...interesting, to say the least. Like the invisible man who spoke in a sibilant accent and moved like he was under a strobe light, and who had been keen to set up trade deals. Interesting as it had been, he was tired, and this bed was soft. Nahees smiled; he wondered what his old DI would think. The old bastard wouldn't even bother thinking, he would just have Nahees running laps until his legs were gone, before yelling at him to always be watching out for Secretary Clinton. He paused for a moment; what threats to the Secretary did he need to worry about before he went to bed? All the factions seemed friendly, although the brown Orc, Hellscream, was indeed a boisterous drunk, though thankfully restrained by his advisors. He supposed maybe one of the factions trying to destroy everything might attempt an assassination or something, but that was why he was there, and nothing was getting through the Marines. Content in this knowledge, and knowing that Lopez would wake him for his guard duty shift, he drifted off to sleep.