warforged | your hands protect the flames

Who: The Dragonsworn
What: The first arrival of the Dragonsworn goes a bit...awry.
Where: Scattered around the perimeter of Suramar.
When: Dawn on March 21st
Warnings: Please PM the mods if any warnings are needed

It is almost as if you've woken from a daydream when the ground meets your feet. The stench of fire is overpowering, and though dawn is just approaching in the canopies of Kalimdor, bright flashes of green can be seen between the branches of impossibly tall trees. If that doesn't snap you out of your surprise, then the sound of nearby spitting in demonic tongue may persuade you to get a grip and notice your surroundings -- you are not alone. There are others like you, huddled just a bit too close, with a somewhat familiar face keeping you from advancing further. Looking down at your hands may briefly reveal a momentary flash of color, but nothing lasting more than a few seconds.

The mages of each flight take the helm of their charges, and they are quick to notice any movement from their groups despite channeling some sort of spell to keep you protected. Stray fire will bounce off an invisible shield that ripples when anything make contact with it. There seems to be nothing in sight but your new comrades, and your guardian -- at least not on the ground. The sky has flying demons swarming a pack of dragons -- and the dragons are very clearly losing. Look just a bit farther, and you might find more dragons, though these clearly have different colored scales than the ones above your head.

While distracted, you may hear your guardian speak to you. "There may yet be wounded nearby -- if you care to, bring them here, and we will tend to them from the Sanctum." Briefly, they gesture skyward, toward the dragons flying overhead. "Do not bring to us any that are not our own, lest you invite their demise!"

But the mage is focused on casting -- they are in no position to halt your advance, and they know it. They speak with concern -- concern for you, concern for the dire situation at hand. The demonic cackling is drawing near. The forests are rapidly becoming overrun, and there are already a few dragons slain on the forest floor.

"Take care, Dragonsworn -- I am bringing us to safety, but it will take time. To wander far is to invite your ruin, and we cannot afford the loss of your life."

[OOC: You are free to mingle on this post as you choose, despite the flight groups being scattered through the forests around Suramar -- after this log, you will be separated into your sanctums, and your interactions will be watched much more closely. Attempting to enter the city itself will result in a vicious attack from demons that will kill. The Dragon Mages will be tagging sporadically to heroes of their matching flight, and the conclusion of this log will lead Dragonsworn through portals to their Sanctums.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[the urge to slap this boy upside the head is great, but Tempest resists, if only barely]

I care, because we were asked to help with the wounded if we could, and I would rather not become a dragon's meal, thank you. It has nothing to do with makeouts or whatever else is running through your damaged mind.

[His grin falters, but repairs itself quickly enough. There's enough there for him to latch onto, if only by wording rather than spirit.]

Yeah. I hear you there. But saving your own skin doesn't mean you can't have a little fun?

Live a little. [Caliborn makes eye contact with the dragon, his words growing more dramatic and thus more stilted.]

Quite possibly. Literally. A little. In your case.

Do I look as though I am here to have fun?

[she's been pulled into another war, dammit. Fun is the last thing from her mind. She turns to the dragon]

When there is less a chance of being eaten or killed, by all means, have as much fun as you like.

Expand your damn thinkpan.

[Once she turns away, Caliborn takes a few steps backward and brings his assault rifle to bear. He fires a shot over their heads, and then drops the muzzle to point in their direction.]

[His grin has turned wholly cruel.]

I am having fun. For exactly those reasons.

[if there's one thing that Tempest has learned about the modern world, is that their weapons are annoying and that she doesn't enjoy them one bit. She startles when Caliborn fires off his, and turns to look over her shoulder at him with a frown]

You cannot be serious right now.

[The lights on the rifle's magazine strobe in a bizarre rainbow, and all he can do is grin.]

Oh. I'm totally serious, babe.

The only thing stopping me from joining in all the murder fun. Is that I don't know who I should be killing.

It's a bummer, you know? If I kill someone useful. Then shit might not sail so smooth for me.

[Tempest sits back on her heels, and regardless of the gun pointed in her direction, rubs at her face, exasperated. She could tell him that killing is wrong, he shouldn't bother, and all that moral bullshit, but she'd be a hypocrite if she bothered. And besides, she'd like to know who is responsible for all this so she can kill them anyway]

It is not going to sail smoothly for you if you do not get that thing pointed away from me.

[Caliborn shrugs.]

Fine.

[He points it away.]

[At the dragon's head.]

[It's easy for him to turn the dragon's protest into a roar of pain that ends abruptly. All it takes is the pull of a trigger, held and sustained against the recoil of a round of bullets.]

[He doesn't bother breaking eye contact with Tempest.]

[her first instinct is to call up her fire, but there's something . . . off, with her magic. Something that she doesn't have the luxury of playing around with at this very moment.

So instead, she drops her hand to the hilt of her sword, prepared to draw it should the gun be turned on her again]

That was not necessary.

[Caliborn eyes her. He's honestly disappointed that she didn't scream or cry or wince or anything interesting, but he'll work with what he's got.]

[Caliborn pulls it back, the barrel smoking.]

And yet? Amazingly! It happened. Your boyfriend is toast.

[He eyes the sword.]

Are you really going to do something about it with that.

[we're sorry the target you've chosen is dull and boring (and also a mercenary used to this stuff)

She shrugs a shoulder, but otherwise doesn't move. She knows she's at a disadvantage, but as if she's going to show him she has doubts]

Would you rather a knife instead? I could slit your throat.

[His life is perpetually unfair, so he really should have expected that she wouldn't be as riled as he wants.]

[Still, her reply does at least earn a cackle out of him.]

If I was nearly as suicidal as you are. Then yeah. I'd be really interested in seeing you try that.

[Caliborn takes a step back and tilts his gun upward, harmlessly away.]

[it isn't suicidal, it's low self-preservation. Not that she's going to say that out loud]

Do not test me, boy, I am not in the mood.

And what mood is that.

[He doesn't put his gun away, if only because he's now thinking more about the fact that he could get attacked. But he decides he's not going to hurt this human lady today.]

Use your words. Or copious amounts of tears. And maybe mournfully tearing at your clothes a little?

[she actually leans back to look at him better, both eyebrows up. Then she snorts, a far from ladyy-like noise and gets to her feet]

Do keep dreaming. Or find someone else who will give you that satisfaction.

your hands protect the flames

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