When they had told him that New Nendis was under construction, he thought, they hadn't explained half of it.
Navarion and Zhenya walked into the city proper after having been allowed through the high stone walls. The fortifications were the most developed, impressive structures in the city, showing once again that the Sentinels as a faction were a military dictatorship at the root of it, supported by a theocracy at the top. Armored warrior women stood watch everywhere, and even those night elves dressed in plain clothes walked as if they were merely off duty soldiers. One could always tell.
Large patches of green areas and woodlands within the city walls themselves dotted the landscape, providing for a high amount of natural beauty within an urban setting. Even in the supposedly unfinished settlement, the sheer splendor of the surroundings surpassed that of any of the Alliance or Horde cities Navarion had visited. The construction he'd heard of was simply the natural growing up buildings under the direction of priestesses and Druids, just like his family's estate back in Ratchet had risen. Rather than building wide structures, the night elves tended to raise tall ones, growing hollowed out trees connected by winding ramps and vine bridges above the ground in order to save square miles of the city proper. A sort of canopy formed above the once ruined highborn city, vaguely resembling an open air version of Darnassus. Were it not for the wandering treants, looming archers hiding in porticos grown out of the high trees and the hippogriff riders patrolling above, one would not be able to guess that the serene place waited for an invasion from a sentient race of insectoid beings at any given moment.
The duo walked down the main road a little longer, soaking in the seemingly peaceful atmosphere before Soraya found them.
"You!" the disgruntled sentinel captain growled while pointing a clawed finger at them both. "What the fel took you so long!"
The question was simple enough, and formulating some sort to tell her should have been easy. Given the delicate nature, however, Navarion didn't want to give Zhenya time to answer lest she blurt out what they had actually been doing. 'Desecration of a moonwell of the White Lady while fulfilling our carnal desires' would be a quick way to get them both thrown into the brig.
"We thought we had heard a noise, so we lied low until we were sure it had just been cicadas." Straight faced and serious, he worked his acting skills to the best of his ability to pull that one off.
Soraya eyed them both suspiciously. Such was her scrutiny that even some Kaldorei passing by broke their societal rules of minding one's own business to scope out the captain glowering at two mercenaries for hire. The excuse worked, however; the actual sentinels held irregulars in such low regard that the bumbling behavior he'd described sounded believable to most of them.
"Get to the barracks, just go get to your bunks," she grunted while pointing roughly toward a series of massive trees ringed by a high, living fence of wood; the drill yard could be viewed just beyond the gap marking the entrance. "Unpack and meet at the huntress lodge in half an hour. You and the other sellswords will be briefed on the details of your assignments there."
"Thank you, captain," Navarion answered for them while pulling Zhenya away. There was no reason to give her a chance to get them in trouble.
They ambled down the road, passing beneath the many vine bridges and tree houses above while politely moving past the number of Kaldorei daywalkers in addition to some foreign visitors and merchants. Switching into a more serious mood, Zhenya vented as they approached the quarter reserved for military matters.
"I am not a sellsword," she huffed. "I came here to help these people and the world at large prevent another threat from the silithids."
"Just keep walking, she's still watching us and our ears are a lot more sensitive than yours."
"How do you know she's watching us? She might have gone back to whatever activity such a bitter person wastes her time on."
"Voodoo," he replied while raising his index finger into the air. "I can sense life and death. And I can roughly tell which direction a person is facing and what they're holding."
"She's holding bitterness," Zhenya grumbled, eliciting another laugh from Navarion as they passed the high wooden walls and entered the area quartering troops.
Several ageing ancients of war had long ago settled their roots into the soil, perhaps having survived the initial razing of Old Nendis in the aftermath of the Third War. Their trunks had grown tall and hollow, and inside the open entrances the bunks of numerous sentinels could be seen. It was almost a little overwhelming; there were so many bunks, beds and hammocks visible yet no demarcation of who slept where. All elves were meticulous about such things, and wandering to any empty space to set down their bags wouldn't endear them to anybody.
"Are you two lost?" asked one of two vindicators standing just off the main paved road, a male and a female. Their armor didn't cover as much as Zhenya's, but the gold tint mixed in with light purple crystals was the same.
Glad to accept the possible help, Navarion stepped off the main road to allow others to pass while they conversed with the two strangers. "Yes, we're looking for the quarters for the irregulars, actually."
The female nodded to him, having already known just by their appearance. "We're just waiting for the meeting at the huntress lodge back near the front walls of the city. We can show you both where to leave your belongings."
"Oh, that would help out a ton, wouldn't it?" Navarion asked Zhenya. Her helmet back on, it was impossible to know just why she didn't respond, but the curious stares of the two other draenei indicated that it wasn't a cultural thing so much as a Zhenya thing.
"Oh...we're happy to oblige," the male vindicator said awkwardly while stepping back out to the main road. "I'm Dmitri, by the way. This is Tammie."
"Hi!"
"Hey, nice to meet you both," Navarion replied. "I don't want to keep you guys waiting..."
"It's not a problem at all," Tammie chirped, displaying a much more upbeat demeanor than Zhenya as she took the more stoic of the two women by the arm. "All of us irregulars are treated rather poorly, so sticking together is the only way for us to have any semblance of a social life." She dragged Zhenya along toward the last sets of barracks at the end; one had women milling about inside while the other had men. "You can just drop your bags off here."
Tammie continued dragging Zhenya into the tall, hollowed out tree that served as the quarters for female irregular soldiers, attempting to coax some sort of conversation out of the paladin for some time. Dmitri stepped around a surprisingly short furbolg conscript as the two men entered the male irregular's ancient.
Inside, numerous bunks grown from large clovers lined the walls, every person having a large webbing of vines growing directly above for storing armor, bags and containers. The ceilings were low for a night elven structure, and Navarion was a little closer to the height of a jungle troll, thus forcing him to hunch over like one while passing by other fighters for hire on the first floor. As if he knew where they needed to go, Dmitri walked right up the winding ramp that jutted out from the back exit and would d around the outside of the tree, leading Navarion up to the fourth floor. Much to his surprise, there were a number of night elven irregulars, most of them probably with stories to tell of why they wanted to fight but weren't regular enlisted members of the Kaldorei military.
Once inside the narrow fourth floor, Dmitri sat on a bunk Navarion assumed was his in order to make space; there were only four bunks at that level and a circular table in the middle, and the space seemed cramped to the point where it would only be sufficient for sleeping.
"The one directly behind you is unclaimed; that's why the bunch of berries growing from the storage vines are uneaten."
Not finding the space to turn around without swinging his backpack and knocking over a serious looking chess match on the table, Navarion found himself forced to sit back as well. The clover leaf forming the bed was far more comfortable than barrack amenities he'd stayed at elsewhere, and the fibre tissues were strong enough to support his weight. All things considered, it wasn't a terrible situation to be in, having signed up on short notice for a job cleaning out insectoid invaders in a remote location still unconnected to the world.
Dmitri appeared content to just sit in the bunk for a bit, greeting a rather quiet, subdued highborn Mage who entered only long enough to return the greeting to them both, not ask who Navarion even was and set down his bag in his bunk before walking right back out. The two of them rested their feet for a minute and Navarion could tell that Dmitri had probably been on a long march to get there as well.
"Did you pass through the Darnassian Base Camp?" the vindicator asked him while inspecting his own hooves.
"That we did, though I'm not entirely sure if it could be called a base camp. The place was huge."
Although he remained focused on a part of his hoof that looked like it needed to be filed, Dmitri's voice indicated that he was listening and alert. "I know, right? It's like a pioneer fortress in and of itself. I almost wish I could have just stayed there."
"It definitely had nice amenities," Navarion conceded.
"And to be honest, I kind of feel like the lower number of military troops there made the place a little friendlier," Dmitri added while looking up for a second, as if to emphasize the point.
"How so?"
"Well, you know how it is. The Sentinels pride themselves on their unparalleled combat skills and battlefield tactics, the way the Horde takes pride in brute strength and the Alliance takes pride in technology. So they see themselves as this ultra elite force that values every soldier, and the only thing they lack is canon fodder."
A smirk broke out across Navarion's face. "That's a recent attitude. A result of viewing how much of a threat the younger, less wise, supposedly less skilled races pose. It's fear masked by haughtiness."
Not knowing what else to say, Dmitri hunkered down and relaxed into his bunk. "I guess that sounds possible, what after all the factional wars and double crosses at all."
Interest piqued by the comment, Navarion scanned his new friend's heavy armor, noticing that there weren't any insignias for any faction. "You're still technically a member of the Alliance, though, right?" he asked.
"That would be correct," Dmitri replied unapologetically. "Most of our people are, due to the religious and cultural similarities to the humans, dwarves and high elves. Even if we're from different planets so much of what we believe is the same."
"Of course, and the factional association makes sense in that case. But how do you adjust out here? After the Sentinels struck out as their own faction, they left the Alliance high and dry as they lost their footholds in the Barrens."
"Well, I'd take issue with the wording there," Dmitri countered politely. His eyes, the same shade of gold as Zhenya's lit up at the topic despite the man's weariness as he sank into his bunk. "The military junta that rules these lands - I don't know if the Kaldorei like to be called a country, so we'll just say these lands - did ditch the Alliance and leave those Barrens outposts to the Horde. But just as the Orcish grunts who overran those outposts don't represent all Orcs, the dictators who decided not to involve the night elven government at all don't represent all night elves."
"You sound like my dad," Navarion chuckled while adjusting his bags in the vine hammock above his bed.
"Your dad sounds smart. And I can tell from looking at you that your mom and dad both must dislike stereotyping, give how different they must be."
"Half Kaldorei, half Darkspear," the young man said while thumbing himself, providing an explanation. "They all live in Ratchet now."
"Ratchet, huh. That's not a bad place. There is something alluring about the thought of different types of people all living together in peace."
While they talked, Navarion removed his gauntlet-bracer combination and stored it above his bunk. His melee weapon, a spring loaded sickle blade that remained attached to his right bracer, couldn't be removed, and thus he left his forearms bare up to the elbow while keeping the rest of his armor on. Upon the removal of his holster for storage, Dmitri leaned forward.
"That's one of those guns they call a pistol, right? I hear those are dangerous if you keep them at home."
Used to the question, Navarion unloaded the ammunition before putting the weapon away. "Only if they're not stored properly. Otherwise, they're mostly harmless."
"Logically speaking..." The vindicator hummed to himself for a moment, apparently giving it some serious thought. "I guess it's no more dangerous than keeping swords and maces in the house, but there's something different about guns. Psychological, almost."
"The noise they create?"
"That, and the speed at which they can hit a target. It isn't any more violent than a traditional weapon, but it just feels more violent. But in a sort of...I don't want to say negative-"
"Say negative," Navarion said, opening his arms. "I don't ask people to censor themselves."
Dmitri sat for a few seconds longer, unsatisfied by the term. "Hmm...I just don't prefer them, is all. I think that's the fairest way to put it."
Just then, the highborne Mage from earlier knocked and walked in, trying to remain formal and distant as their kind often did while seeking to tell them something. "A large number of our fellow irregulars have gathered at the huntress lodge near the front. They might start the meeting early."
A pained look on his face, Dmitri twisted his back as much as his armor would allow and a loud pop could be heard. "I guess we ought to head over there, then."
"Where you guys, lead, I'll follow. I'm just glad that..." Navarion turned to see the Mage walking out without them, not even waiting to hear him thank them both before leaving. "Er, I'm glad we bumped into you, actually," he directed toward Dmitri as the two of them laughed at the night elf mage's behavior.
"No, it's not a problem at all. We'll both be glad for the company." The two of them walked out of their room and descended the ramp that wound its way around the hollow ancient, watching at least two dozen other irregulars wearing non-matching sets of armor congregated outside the lodge below. "As you might already know, we don't receive the amount of respect as the enlistees. We aren't bound by signature, but our pay is lower than one would expect and the jobs we're given hold lower honor in elven society."
Navarion glanced around, concerned that Dmitri's voice might be heard; elves in general not only had sensitive ears but also had a tendency to listen in on conversations, especially in a military dictatorship like the Sentinels. "Yes, Zhenya and I have experienced that firsthand. There's a lot of corpse cleanup, supply caravan protection and simple boring patrol work."
"To be honest, I'd almost prefer the boring patrol work," Dmitri chuckled once they reached the ground below. "I guess we'll hear officially during this briefing, but the rumors about this new silithids invasion don't sound very good."
The two of them looked for Zhenya and Tammie, finding the last few other irregulars having gone to the lodge already. A few properly enlisted sentinel soldiers walked by, both of the giant women as tall as Dmitri. They actually bumped into Navarion as they walked by despite having clearly seen him, not even apologizing as they did. He turned to see what their problem was and found a bizarre mixture of resentment and flirtation on their faces that he had experienced from the female soldiers during his time as a mercenary. Like Zhenya, he often found their attitude toward him maddening in its confusion, and much preferred the males - a combination of Druids and even a surprising number of warriors - who merely refused to acknowledge him. Or, better yet, to just not wear his armor and have them assume him to be a civilian or independent adventurer, in which case they were as cordial and polite as one usually expected elves to be. As a hired solider of fortune, the members of the Sentinel military proper became downright unpleasant toward him.
"Just ignore it; remember where you are," Dmitri reminded him as they joined the rest of the irregulars filing into the huntress lodge.
"I wasn't going to say anything. I learned that lesson the hard way."
Dmitri smirked, and Navarion already found the man to feel like a close companion even after having spoken to him for only a few minutes. "You and me both," the draenei chortled.
There were more than twice as many irregulars in the hall as there had been both irregulars and soldiers proper in the column Navarion and Zhenya had marched in from the Darnassian Base Camp. Tauren, furbolgs, draenei, two worgen, and an absolutely monstrous dark troll from the once nearly extinct Shadowtooth tribe milled about, chatting most in Common amongst themselves. Most striking, however, were two things: the apparently reformed satyr fraternizing as if it were completely normal for him to be there, and the fact that half of the irregular were night elves. The half elf had noticed it before, but why native born, pureblooded Kaldorei joined the anti-silithid campaign as mercenaries rather than regular recruits baffled him. The fact that they mostly spoke Common even to each other instead of Darnassian baffled him even more.
Several uniformed sentinels stood at the front of the hall, whispering among themselves while pushing a board bearing a large map of the region in front of the irregulars. Nobody seemed ready to quiet down until another sentinel stepped in front. There was no need for introductions or names; the moment she stood at the front, everybody fell silent and many of them even started to sit on the floor, the general habit of mercenaries during briefings; proper soldiers in the Sentinel military were allowed to stand.
Her armor, shining elven steel and silver strapped on by leather, didn't clink or creak once as she walked slowly to the front where she could best be seen. Her movements were slow and while it wasn't likely that any of the pre immortality generations like Navarion's mother were in active military service - Cecilia Hearthglen herself had been arguably one of the most skilled warriors on Azeroth but had already hung up her glaive for good - the woman's age was still apparent. Likely born around the time of the War of the Satyr, the young man surmised based on the elegance mixed with solemnity in her body language as well as the fact that, like his mother, most of the woman's originally blue hair had faded to a combination of silver and grey strands. She practically radiated a strength of command without even trying, and there wasn't even the need for anybody to say 'shush' when she took the stage.
Ancient silver eyes flitted over the mostly seated irregulars, inspecting them one by one in silence and not looking to be in any sort of a hurry. Immediately, Navarion felt a warm sense of comfort wash over him as if he were in the presence of his mother once more. The facial features were different enough that he could tell the woman wasn't kin to his mother; night elves had low genetic diversity due to their population bottleneck at the Sundering, and the obvious difference in appearance meant this commander definitely wasn't some long lost aunt or something. Regardless, he felt like he was in the company of family even if some of the other mercenaries appeared to be intimidated by the woman.
After waiting for a moment, she spoke in a voice that carried throughout the lodge despite her not raising it. "Stand up," she ordered flatly but not rudely in her accented Common.
Much to the surprise of Soraya - who stood just behind the commander - the mercenaries all stood up, just as the two other sentinels standing off to the sides were. Symbolic but monumental considering the hierarchical culture they were in.
"On behalf of the Sentinel Army, I, Commander Lamia, greet you all; ishnu alah," the commander said, nodding her head only slightly as the majority of the mercenaries bowed. From the middle of a tightly packed group of night elf mercenary women to the left, Navarion noticed a thistle colored ponytail rotating as if someone were looking around a little too much. "You have all accepted a noble assignment, and for your service you will be paid in cash, and more importantly, in honor among our people."
A combination of disbelief and trusting relief passed over the crowd of unenlisted troops. Soraya's near-gape at the comment echoed the sentiments of some who had grown used to scorn from the military. Others, not just Navarion but even others he could sense by his voodoo, felt a sensation of gratitude at the words from the seemingly honest commander. It was certainly a different reception than the one he'd received from the captain standing just behind the commander.
"Let me dispel any rumors here and now: we are experiencing a flare up up silithids encounters. The good news is that we've already explored the deepest of their caverns via the aid of the good Druids viewing the developments from the side of the Emerald Dream, and I can tell you that the claims of the silithids having burrowed into the planet's crust and tunneled all the way from Silithus are false. This is a localized infestation." A collective sigh of relief escaped from the crowd of mercenaries and even the two sentinels monitoring at either side. No murmurs, however; were Soraya the one to speak there might be, but Lamia's nature almost seemed to control the crowd. "The other good news is that we have not detected any qiraji; in the absence of intelligent life forms among the insects, the drones and fighters are largely without direction or organization. The dozen or so hives that have sprouted up are not functioning in coordination with one another. This city's defenses are complete, our military is strong, and with your assistance we will wipe out this infestation one hive at a time so that the good people of Kalimdor might rebuild New Nendis."
Rather than asking for questions, Lamia let her lip hang open slightly as she raised her chin into the air and inspected all the irregulars once more. In a culture so concerned about saving face, the elves were unlikely to say anything, but one of the Tauren, an older brave with light brown fur, raised his hand.
"Is it accurate that we'll be assigned to units of regular soldiers, Commander Lamia?"
"An excellent question. Yes, that news is accurate; as part of the current eradication efforts, irregulars will be integrated into units of regular soldiers. We'll use the honor system to discern your talents and then assign you to an appropriate unit of troops accordingly; the recruitment tables are being set up outside as we speak." The commander tilted her chin up again, searching for more questions.
At first, nobody else seemed as brave as the brave and hands were held at sides. Seeing no reason to let everyone wait anxiously, Navarion raised his hand next.
"Has a schedule been posted, commander?" the half elf asked, ignoring the stares from the furbolgs, the confused dark troll trying to figure out Navarion's roots and someone with thistle colored hair.
"Indeed it has. You may find the schedule outside the ring formed by the ancients of sustenance where rations are distributed; the schedule is the same for both regulars and irregulars."
The first two questions spurred others on, and one by one the mercenaries became a little less shy. Payroll, duration of assignments, break times and chain of command were all discussed, and Lamia handled the questions professionally and swiftly, seeming to have memorized the entire Sentinel military law book. By the time the group had been exhausted of questions, everyone seemed a little more upbeat after the reception by the more respectful commander.
When nobody else asked anything, Lamia adjourned the meeting and the majority of the irregulars filed out to reach the front of the lines for receiving assignments. Viewing the mad rush as quaint, Navarion stepped off to one side and waited for more people to file out. Dmitri noticed him standing away and stood next to him briefly.
"You know, if you wait to the end you might not end up in the more desirable positions," the vindicator warned him humorously.
"I'll take my chances. Every job has to be performed for the greater good anyway, right?" the half elf asked.
Dmitri smiled and laughed, and the sound was quite good natured and humble. "If you change you're mind, I'll let you cut in front. Be careful what you wish for."
"Now you're making me a bit worried!" Navarion joked right back, sharing another laugh with the jolly draenei as he hung back in the lodge.
There were scant people left inside, and he tried to scan the crowd for any sign of Zhenya or Tammie, finding neither. Although he had never really suffered from the social awkwardness of his father, Navarion still found himself feeling a bit alone as everyone either filed out or crowded around Lamia for more direct questions. Just as he was about to step away, the color of thistle caught his eye again.
Off to the side, an elf was looking in his direction. Elves of all varieties tended to view people who looked around too much as simpletons or younglings, and he wondered if the night elven irregulars were mostly people from his generation. A periwinkle colored face to match came into his peripheral vision as he started to walk out, only to turn back to Commander Lamia when he looked in the direction. Met only with a thistle ponytail, he mumbled about the strange looks his biracial appearance occasionally earned from full blooded elves and trolls and wandered out.
And speaking of the other side of his heritage, he found himself face to face with a large, black object the color of obsidian as soon as he walked out. One second later and he realized is was the dark troll berserker from inside. The man shouldered a femur bone from a kodo like a club the way Navarion's father occasionally did, except this man - from the most primitive tribe of Azeroth's most primitive races other than silithids and troggs - stood even larger than Khujand Hearthglen, maybe even ten feet tall.
The man's naturally neon green mane stood out against his obsidian hide, drawing attention away from his gaze. "What you be?" the berserker asked in Zandali, apparently not even fluent in his own mother tongue.
Zandali was not Navarion's mother tongue, however, and even though he understood the language perfectly, he answered in Common since the Shadowtooth obviously understood. "My father is Darkspear," Navarion replied. "Jungle troll."
"Shatterspear?" the berserker asked, a reference to the rare tribe of jungle trolls that had survived on Kalimdor after the Sundering.
"No, Darkspear. From...across the ocean," Navarion tried to explain, not sure if the dark troll had ever heard of Stranglethorn Vale.
The veritable giant looked down at him curiously, not seeming to understand. "Same-same Shatterspear?" the berserker asked in Low Common.
After considering whether or not he wanted to give a minor history lesson, Navarion settled for the partially inaccurate answer. "Same-same," he replied while trying to sneak a peek around the man to see the dwindling lines at the movable grown tables just beyond the entrance ramp. "Navarion, by the way."
The berserker looked down at him curiously, likely perplexed at the elven name for the biracial man who, in his berserker mind, just looked like a silver eyes troll. "Rangar," the dark troll berserker replied while pointing at himself.
The two of them approached the single assignment table that still had an officer waiting and to Navarion's surprise, it was a man. Even though the traditionally defined gender roles of night elves had been bent after the Third War, it was still generally understood that while many women excelled as druidesses, very few men could advance in the ranks of the soldiers and the priesthood; the mysogyny of the Alliance military was often said to be only marginally stronger than the mysandry of the ranks of the Sentinels.
Once the group of night elves and furbolgs in front of them had finished, the troll and the half troll stepped forward. The male night elf officer wore the same silver and steel armor without a helmet that the women all wore, and his slow movement indicated a great age; given the lack of Druidic magic on him, he likely had been a barrow den guard or some sort of administrative worker during the Long Vigil. Rather than letting his hair run wild as the majority of night elf men (overwhelmingly Druids) tended to do, he had his dark green locks tied back in a ponytail like the women. Not a hint of irony felt Navarion as he forgot that he also had a ponytail, and was half Kaldorei, yet gaped at the hairstyle of the Kaldorei man seated in front of him.
"Name, origin and talents," the humorless officer boomed in accented Common. His voice was so deep that he almost sounded like an Orc.
The berserker had been standing further forward, and so answered first. "Rangar from Shadowtooth. I berserker-"
"Commander Lamia's retinue," the officer boomed once more, cutting Rangar off. At the sight of the dark troll furrowing his heavy hairless brow in confusion at the word retinue, the officer grumbled and tried to use clearer language. "The commander already had you marked for guard duty. The silithids are just intelligent enough to go after commanders first and she requires someone big, scary and eye catching to stand next to her as a meat shield."
"You protect the commander," Navarion whispered to the still confused pureblooded troll in Zandali.
"I meat shield!" Rangar cackled while saluting, then promptly bound off to goddess knows where.
The officer had already begun inspecting Navarion, and the half elf, half troll realized that he didn't have any weapons and probably looked rather useless to most people. However, he wasn't facing most people, and the officer possessed a similar sense for magic that most night elves did. Voodoo was generally considered necromancy by most Kaldorei and even the three tribes of trolls who had joined the Horde - one of the main ideological reasons why Navarion's father had left the faction - but it was also highly effective in combat. Given that the Sentinels were resorting to supplemental forces for their military, they didn't really have the leisure to pick and choose.
"Shadow hunter?" the officer asked brusquely, referring to the class of healer-warriors that Navarion's father and non-Horde trolls relied on as the lore keepers.
"Yes sir," he replied proudly, beaming when he realized that the term wasn't used scornfully. "I can heal, use an ensnaring ward, am immune to status ailments and psychological effects, and-"
"Western wall unit, night shift," the officer said dismissively while scribbling something on his pad without even asking for Navarion's personal details.
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"You patrol the western wall during the night shift. Start at the northwestern patrol tower at dusk from the day after tomorrow." The man was apparently scribbling down the information he'd just stated; when he looked back up, he switched the conversation to Darnassian. "Half Shatterspear?"
Frowning at the officer's lack of concern for his skills, Navarion avoided open insubordination and forced as polite a tone of voice as he could in his mother's language. "Navarion Hearthglen, sir. Kaldorei mother from Suramar, Darkspear father but not a member of the Horde."
Surprised by the revelation, the officer actually paused before completing his list. "Suramar...that's pre-Sundering. May Elune bless your family." The prayer was brief but said in as much sincerity as the taciturn man could probably muster that it did redeem him somewhat, in Navarion's eyes. When the man finished jotting everything down, the logical disconnect clicked in the shadow hunter's head.
"Sir, what is the assignment for tomorrow, sir?"
At the sound of the question, the officer pursed his lips roughly into what he probably thought was a smile and gazed at the younger man as if he were bestowing a great honor upon him. "The port hasn't been built yet because it's been infested by a species of silithid that sprays enemies with a horrible smelling gas. It doesn't actually hurt, it just smells like death. You're the last to sign up, so you get to accompany the strike unit to take them out and clean up afterward."
Unable to feign any sort of gratitude, Navarion fingered the end of one of his tusks while closing his eyes. "Thank you, officer," he mumbled, forcing himself to show proper official respect even as the man continued to do that taciturn smile thing.
When the officer returned to his paperwork without saying a word more, Navarion took a step back to survey his surroundings. The majority of the irregulars had either gone to the food distribution center or wandered out of the military quarter, and there were only a handful of night elves and a Tauren hanging about chatting. A few regular enlisted soliders walked by in opposite directions on the main road, and the seren quiet of the elven city felt monotonous without anybody to talk to. Navarion turned around, trying to see if he could find Dmitri or Tammie but saw the heavily armored vindicators nowhere. A few night elf irregulars exited the huntress lodge while conserving with a uniformed sentinel, and he noticed a periwinkle face looking his way just before he felt the fingers on his behind.
"You didn't even look for me," Zhenya scolded form behind him while slapping his ass.
Shocked by the flagrant lack of restraint anathema to both night elves and draenei, Navarion spun around to see her and fought an internal battle over whether to grab her ass right back or tell her bluntly to wait until they could be alone. Her war hammer had been left at her bunk as far as he could tell, but she still wore all of her armor, helmet-mask and all.
"I did look for you, but the lodge was crowded," he protested while trying unsuccessfully to wrap his arm around her shoulder. The two of them walked toward the barracks without the need to speak; he wanted to remove his armor and she likely to wanted to do the same. "What's your assignment?"
"Patrolling the eastern wall, just behind the military quarter here," she huffed as if it were an insult.
"Hey, what's wrong with that? You literally have a two minute walk to the guard tower you'll need to report to."
Zhenya shook her head as they passed more regular troops on the road, the peaceful feeling of the city under a canopy contrasting with the war machines on display everywhere. "I will also see my place of work when I wake up and go to sleep. I think I'll spend most of my time off duty in the city proper. I don't want to feel tied down."
"That statement defines your personality more than you realize," he laughed, reveling in her lack of social awareness.
"You're mad because you can't control me."
This time when he reached for her, he waited until her hoof hit a gap in the moonstones paving the road and managed to pull her deeply enough into an embrace as they walked that she wouldn't have been able to pull away unless she made a scene - which, thankfully, she didn't do that time. "One day, you're going to have to let your wall come down. The world is much funner this way."
"Say more fun, not funner." He only laughed at her comment and didn't take the bait, denying her the gratification of getting under his skin again. "Soraya is the captain of your unit."
"How do you know what my unit is?" Navarion asked suspiciously. "I didn't see you when I was signing up."
"Your backside is almost as cute as mine is," she said flatly in the unsexiest tone he could have imagined.
"You're a paramount of propriety. But seriously, how do you know Soraya is the captain of the unit patrolling the far western city wall?"
Zhenya already started to ascend the ramp into the ancient of war serving as the barracks of female irregulars. "I saw her name on the list the cute officer was filling out. You're going to have loads of fun." She laughed heartily both at her taunt and at his scowl when she complimented the other man's looks, sauntering into the barracks with just a little more sway in her hips than usual.
Ignoring the thistle colored ponytail passing in behind her, Navarion grumbled to himself as he ascended the ramp to the male barracks. If he found Zhenya tomorrow after he dealt with the stink silithids, he'd make sure to give her a great big bear hug.