wrathion. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dragonflight) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2015-04-21 04:39 pm
dragonflight) wrote in driftfleet2015-04-21 04:39 pm
Entry tags:
sigil of wisdom
Who: Wrathion + minions yOU
Broadcast: Fleet-wide
Action: Marsiva
When: present day; present time
[Wrathion didn't much like sleep these days. Every time he shut his eyes, visions of Azeroth's dark futures tormented him, taunted him. The Burning Legion's advance seemed closer every day, and his plans to prepare for their arrival were constantly thwarted by the very people he was trying to protect. Adventurers these days. No sense of the big picture. No gratitude. No understanding of what their own world needed.
So: he's angry when he wakes up on the Marsiva. Almost angry enough for a tantrum. He wants to scream, spout fire, rip apart the cots and, following that, anyone he sees.
But no. He lies there for a few minutes, breathing hard, his thoughts racing, his eyes shut tight. He's struck by a series of half-remembered images, by his own understanding that Azeroth is a jewel in a sea of perfect, glittering darkness.
A million, million worlds ...
Yes. Kairoz's plan had been interesting, but limited. He sought to make one world's resources infinite, but Wrathion knows that the universe itself is already infinite. He has seen it, in waking dreams and lucid prophecies.
He can find more people here. More worlds. More tools.
Wrathion's breathing evens out. All was not lost. Far from it, he tells himself. Far from it.
His eyes open, bright red, glowing hot like lava, the blood of the earth.
He notices the cameras, takes in the situation, runs his fingers over the chip in his neck. Fresh knowledge swirls in his mind, and this he truly appreciates, because who would spit on knowing more, on being the granted the capacity to do and make more?
Wrathion stands up, makes a show of dusting himself off. Everything's intact--well, except his dagger, that's curiously missing, but no matter. He adjusts the turban wrapped around his head; its inlaid rubies twinkle, and are cool to the touch. His red sash, filigreed with gold, is tied securely around his waist. His gold earring gleams in the stark light of the Marsiva's deck.
Near as he can tell--and he can tell--he looks fantastic.
Wrathion turns a shark-toothed grin toward the cameras. He opens his arms as though he's the one welcoming visitors, rather than the other way around.]
Greetings and salutations, whomever you may be! I admit, I'm not used to such, ah, minimalist hospitality, but one must do his best to adjust, no?
[It's clear that Wrathion is--physically, at least--no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, but he speaks with deliberate, cultured enunciation, like someone who knows he's being watched. Like someone who behaves as though he's always being watched.]
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Wrathion, and I hail from Azeroth. I am called the Black Prince, for I am the last dragon of my otherwise tragically doomed flight.
[His smile doesn't move an inch.]
I look forward to making your acquaintance. I'm sure, if we work on it, we can all have a mutually beneficial partnership.
Broadcast: Fleet-wide
Action: Marsiva
When: present day; present time
[Wrathion didn't much like sleep these days. Every time he shut his eyes, visions of Azeroth's dark futures tormented him, taunted him. The Burning Legion's advance seemed closer every day, and his plans to prepare for their arrival were constantly thwarted by the very people he was trying to protect. Adventurers these days. No sense of the big picture. No gratitude. No understanding of what their own world needed.
So: he's angry when he wakes up on the Marsiva. Almost angry enough for a tantrum. He wants to scream, spout fire, rip apart the cots and, following that, anyone he sees.
But no. He lies there for a few minutes, breathing hard, his thoughts racing, his eyes shut tight. He's struck by a series of half-remembered images, by his own understanding that Azeroth is a jewel in a sea of perfect, glittering darkness.
A million, million worlds ...
Yes. Kairoz's plan had been interesting, but limited. He sought to make one world's resources infinite, but Wrathion knows that the universe itself is already infinite. He has seen it, in waking dreams and lucid prophecies.
He can find more people here. More worlds. More tools.
Wrathion's breathing evens out. All was not lost. Far from it, he tells himself. Far from it.
His eyes open, bright red, glowing hot like lava, the blood of the earth.
He notices the cameras, takes in the situation, runs his fingers over the chip in his neck. Fresh knowledge swirls in his mind, and this he truly appreciates, because who would spit on knowing more, on being the granted the capacity to do and make more?
Wrathion stands up, makes a show of dusting himself off. Everything's intact--well, except his dagger, that's curiously missing, but no matter. He adjusts the turban wrapped around his head; its inlaid rubies twinkle, and are cool to the touch. His red sash, filigreed with gold, is tied securely around his waist. His gold earring gleams in the stark light of the Marsiva's deck.
Near as he can tell--and he can tell--he looks fantastic.
Wrathion turns a shark-toothed grin toward the cameras. He opens his arms as though he's the one welcoming visitors, rather than the other way around.]
Greetings and salutations, whomever you may be! I admit, I'm not used to such, ah, minimalist hospitality, but one must do his best to adjust, no?
[It's clear that Wrathion is--physically, at least--no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, but he speaks with deliberate, cultured enunciation, like someone who knows he's being watched. Like someone who behaves as though he's always being watched.]
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Wrathion, and I hail from Azeroth. I am called the Black Prince, for I am the last dragon of my otherwise tragically doomed flight.
[His smile doesn't move an inch.]
I look forward to making your acquaintance. I'm sure, if we work on it, we can all have a mutually beneficial partnership.
video;
Oh, Light.
[They're going to be stuck in close quarters with a dragon. omfg.]
no subject
Hmm? Is there a problem?
no subject
[Speaking of food, having a creature made of pure magic in the Fleet is like having a fucking cake hovering in front of Belthazar at all times. This is going to be distracting.
And yet. And yet.
He can't keep his mouth shut.]
... Do you have a taste for civilized food, by any chance? And no, I do not mean literally eating people.
no subject
My friend, I enjoy only the finest delicacies. Why, just a few short months ago I ate the electric heart of Lei Shen himself. It was exquisite.
no subject
[A sigh. He shouldn't be openly advertising working with a dragon, but... would it be more or less suspicious to ask for his communicator number? He really shouldn't be considering this at all, but he's desperate. More desperate here than he was in Exsilium.
... Maybe he'll fib a little.]
I am something of a cook, and I have been working on the dishes I know from home. I... would not be against having someone else try them. Perhaps you can give me your personal number, and we can speak more in detail about the ingredients I am forced to work with.
[... There. That wasn't so hard, was it? For someone who hates politics, he's actually not terrible at them.]
My name is Belthazar Spellscry.
no subject
I'd be happy to offer whatever assistance I can, Belthazar.
[INSERT #s HERE]
no subject
[He doesn't smile, he's not good at that, but he is polite.]
Thank you very much. I'll contact you shortly.