Title: Pay Attention to Your Surroundings, Reddit
Description: "Not for the first time, Sylvanas takes note of how...'dense' the general populace can be."
Notes1: Again, I wanted to get this out before work a couple days ago but I've been busy, and as of this time I've about an hour and twenty minutes out before I have to head out back to the old grind.
Notes2: I'm of the opinion that HotS didn't need an in-game clock, because all I have to do is look to my right and check the time on my bedroom wall. I didn't see what the big deal was back then on the subreddit, I still don't see it now, hence the comment Sylvanas makes at the very end.
Notes3: Originally, I was planning to include a stealth reference to TGNSquadron and MFPallytime as residents of the Nexus who are very enthusiastically waiting for Deathwing to appear in the Nexus, along with some other folk being adamant about Terokk (of all people) riding on top of him as a mount. Guys, I'm just as curious as who will make their presence known after Gul'dan, but there comes a point where a joke stops being funny and it turns into beating Mr. Horse beyond the point of death and into beef; then it becomes an annoyance. That, however, doesn't stop me from watching their streams when I have the time for it. It's really the only grievance I have toward them.
Notes4: Although not directly named, the book Sylvanas is reading is Stephen King's Skeleton Crew, particularly the short story "Survivor Type".
"Tell me, ole chap," said the gentleman to his companion, "how goes that new fandangled device? The, uh, whatchamacallit?"
"This watch?" said the companion, raising his arm for the other to see.
"Why yes! The watch! I hear word going around that you can tell time with numbers now! Can you believe that?"
"Why yes, you can! Look you here." He pushed up the sleeve of his pinstripe suit and tapped a silk-lined finger at the watch's glass interface. "See these black sticks? This short one is slow and points at the hour we are on now, and the longer one is fast and always on the move, pointing at the minute. Roundabouts this circumference are sixty black ticks, twelve of which are larger than the other; these are what we call intervals. The long stick is on the sixth interval, the shorter on the third, so if my guess is correct…the time would be…."
"Three-by-six?"
"Yes, indeed! Three-by-six!" He nodded approvingly. "Although it would be much easier to say it's half-past three. You do not want to sound like a junkyard husker or a cotton picker. Do bear this in mind for future reference."
"I will remember that. Thank you for looking out for me, old bean," said the man, clapping the fellow on the back. "It wouldn't do me any good if I were to slip into such frivolous diction."
"We must all see to one another, especially with these watches and clocks being reintroduced into the Greater and Lesser Belts beyond the Rocks. Did you hear they've refurbished that old overgrown cottage out by the Wend into a church for that little midget?"
"I did, and you would do well not to call Chronormu a midget! She is a bronze dragon in the guise of a gnome, a little person."
"Even littler than those dwarves?"
"Even littler!"
"Well then, my apologies, good sir, but you must understand they are gathering quite the following to their locale and making the rounds to hold daily sermons in their crude handwriting. Why, I've heard they're even smuggling all manner of electrical hodgepodge when we're not looking, like the clepsydra and the water-powered tablets, so they can spread word of potluck dinners, feng shui, and whatever sorts of tomfoolery they come up with to fit their agenda!"
The man quirked a brow. "How is that any different from the Churches of Light and Darkness, or any of the churches that adhere to heretic deities and other such denominations?"
"Eh?" was all the other had to utter. "What do you mean?"
"The Churches also have potluck dinners, feng shui, and a menagerie of activities," he said. "They also worship a pantheon of higher beings, some of which consist of the Powers That Be. It's just that this time their person of worship is a dragon who can see through all foreseeable timeways in the Nexus."
"In the guise of a gnome," repeated the companion. "A little person."
"Big people love little people, don't you know? Why do you think we have gym shoes and tennis shoes and cleats with Falstad and Swiftwing on them?"
"But aren't dwarves just as small—"
"NO. NO, THEY ARE NOT. DEFINITELY NOT. They are big, I tell you! BIG! BIG!" He grabbed his friend by the shoulders and gave him two rough shakes for emphasis. "And no matter how small Chronormu may appear to be, her name will be bigger and spread wider than any gryphon's wings way up there in the sky! Hail Chronormu! Say it with me! HAIL CHRONORMU!"
"HAIL CHRONORMU!" The man stammered. He was rather taken aback by the force that which the other was applying him with, but it seemed as though it came across more as a tone of fright than shock.
"Be proud, godsdammit!" growled the first gentleman. "Stand up and show your colors! HAIL CHRONORMU!"
"HAIL CHRONORMU!"
He shook his shoulders. "Again!"
"HAIL CHRONORMU, MY GOOD MAN!"
Now roaring: "One more time! For the little people!"
"HAIL CHRONORMU, HAIL CHRONORMU, HAIL CHRONORMU!" And all the while he was being jostled back and forth like the training dummies at the Heroes' Court, only it was by dint and grace it was only just that and not the usual damage they were subjected to (lightning, fire, magic, the likes; oh, and being drenched in murloc slime and exploding fish guts). Finally, his friend let go, and he was left gathering his breath. "Zounds, brother! You have strength in those bones!" He straightened up and fixed his collar, smoothed the folds and creases of his suit.
The man threw his head back, laughing heartily. "There are still many decades left in this ole hound before I can start to worry about those physical maladies! Come, my friend, it's twenty-to-four. Let us catch the monorail and peruse the luncheon special over at the Whimsical Unicorn."
"That sounds like a smashing idea! I should like to hope they have some of that Peking duck today…." Their conversation trailed off as they wandered away from the area, their words coalescing into whispering phantoms.
Sylvanas lowered the book and looked around. The park was bustling with activity today—noblewomen in their voluminous dresses hiding from the beating heat of the sun under their umbrellas on benches made from recycled plastic bottles, children wearing flat caps and dusty coveralls playing marbles or gin rummy in the dirt, men in three-piece suits lighting their pipes and listening to whatever baseball game was playing on the carry-on HoloVision. There was a serf going around closing up the plastic lining around the garbage bin with a massive zip-tie.
Then she noticed the little details: a pair of ladies on their benches admiring a pocket watch dangling on a gold chain; a peasant child lingering at the back of the others huddled over their marbles refilling his clepsydra from a plastic bottle with the word POM emblazoned on the front; a gentleman reclining in a lawn chair checking the time on his Rolex before returning his focus back to the game.
She looked behind her over her shoulder, taking in the clock tower standing high above the trees in the Rocks plaza. In a few hours—five sets, they called the hour, or a quintet—the sun would set and the world would reach the apex called the blue hour, descend into twilight, and finally, darkness.
That clock tower was there when she had arrived in the Nexus. It was there when the others came before her. It was there for Chromie, and it would be there for the Heroes that would come thereafter.
She looked away and shook her head. "Idiots," she murmured, and then turned her attention to the page where she left off.