I have a tendency to plot ahead of myself and write random future scenes that I plan on implementing. Some get to shine, some I realize just don’t work or weren’t half as good as I believed when I wrote them down at three in the morning.
Sleep deprivation, however, neither reduces nor adds to the burning dislike I feel for a certain King Gruntpants. Aka Varian Wrynn.
So if I ever get around writing a sequel to Diplomacy, you can all count on this happening. (Some have seen it already, but anyway.)
Post Battle for Undercity, Jaina is in Stormwind trying to patch things up while Varian is being unreasonable. All the other Alliance leaders speak through mage illusions, or try to speak because there’s too much royal bitching to get heard. Jaina calls forth an image of Thrall so that he too can try to talk about what happened (at this point it’s more about talking to the other leaders because, surprise, Gruntpants ain’t listening).
“If I thought for a single moment that my head on a pike would put an end to the war,” Thrall said, his gaze cold and steady, “then I would slit my own throat. But you will not believe me when I say that, and you would not be pacified by it even if I did provide.”
Varian, who had scoffed but otherwise actually let the Warchief speak, now shook his head and met the chilly expression from the illusion with a glare.
“Your head on a pike would be a start, but I will not rest until every one of your murderous kind is gone from this world one way or another.” His hand slammed into the table, making pens and papers jump. “The Alliance have tolerated your weight upon Azeroth for long enough! If you want to avoid fighting, then leave.”
“We have made a home here on Kalimdor,” Thrall said, his voice hard but controlled – in stark contrast to the king’s rage. “But if we would leave instead of fighting, where would we go?”
“Back to Outland, where your pack came from in the first place,” Varian replied, sweeping his hand out in a dismissive motion. “Or find another world to spread your spawn across. You are not welcome here.”
“Outland cannot support all of us, and we do not know how long it will remain in one piece. And would the Alliance find us more tolerable in Outland than here on Azeroth?”
“That’s not any of my business.”
“But it’s mine. Your peaceful solution is not acceptable.”
They glared at each other for a moment, until Varian scoffed again.
“Then my declaration of war stands,” the king of Stormwind said. “We will chase the Horde to oblivion.”
“We?”
A voice that had been silent for very long spoke up. It was high-pitched and nasal, so much that it sounded silly – however, there was a dangerous tone to it. Gelbin Mekkatorque folded his pudgy little arms across his small chest, gazing up through the link of magic that let him and everyone else take part in this unusual meeting.
“Who are these ‘we,’ Your Majesty?” he asked. “The Alliance? You don’t mean to have the humans alone fight the Horde, do you?”
“Of course not, I mean the entire Alliance,” Varian replied, scowling down at the gnome.
“Ah.” Gelbin nodded. “The thing is, I must inform you, that I don’t recall agreeing to an all out war against the Horde.”
Beside him, Magni Bronzebeard grimly nodded.
“Neitha’ do I,” the king of the dwarves said, then added with a sharp edge in his voice, “however, what would I know? We lads aren’t even allowed ta take part in the councils of this so called Alliance.” He held up a hand as Varian and many other humans in the room opened their mouths in outrage. “We dwarves an’ gnomes feel we’ve been ignored, but we’ve born it – ‘til now. Yer Majesty, this be an outrage. You cannae come back and decide the Alliance be going to war with the Horde just like that.”
“You call that an outrage?” Varian snarled. He threw out his hand. “The Horde is all over our ancestral lands, pillaging, murdering and taking whatever they want. Will you still sit idle?”
“We will’na sit idle, Yer Majesty,” Bronzebeard sharply said, “but this be not the time nor the place. You be blinded by hatred. We cannae spare the manpower ta fight each other now. The Scourge will eat both sides alive.”
“You’re blinded by your own inability to act!”
“I will not stand for you speaking to me that way, Yer Majesty. We have fought long and hard too, but we know well that there is a greater enemy than the Horde. Warchief Thrall is no fool.”
“Is this an Alliance, Your Majesty?” Tyrande Whisperwind spoke up. “Then we must all be in agreement about what to do. You do not have the authority to command the night elves to war, nor any others amongst our numbers here.”
“The path you walk is dangerous, king of Stormwind,” Velen softly spoke. “More dangerous than you can imagine, for you let rage steer your every decision and cloud your senses. We draenei have seen that blind rage before, in those people you hate so much.”
“How dare you compare me to that filth!”
(Cut Royal Temper Tantrum)
“And you, you have already made your stance clear, Proudmoore.”
“As have you, Your Majesty. Theramore will not stand for this.”
“You might want to reconsider your stances. As they are, they are those of a traitor.”
“Lay one finger on my wife, or Theramore, and you will have your war, Wrynn,” Thrall said with a low growl lacing his words.
“And you will not have the support of the night elves,” Tyrande added, sharply.
“Nor the dwarves.”
“Nor the gnomes.”
“Or the draenei.”
Jaina did not show the relief she felt at the support from Tyrande and the others. Had she allowed herself a single sigh, the floodgates on her tension might have exploded and sent her to her knees.
“Theramore is an independent city state, built by survivors from Lorderon and Kul Tiras,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice steady. “Stormwind has not, and has never had, any authority over it.”
(Something goes here)
“But answer me this, Proudmoore,” Varian said, his eyes narrowing at Jaina. The snarl was still present on his face, but he straightened up, making him look less than an enraged lion. “Were you not a friend of Prince Kael’thas once upon a time?”
“We spent time together in the Violet Citadel during my studies there, yes,” Jaina said, watching him with her frown deepening. “But I don’t see what that-”
“And you were there, weren’t you, in Stratholme, the first time Prince Arthas’ madness made itself known?”
All color drained from Jaina’s face as she stared at the king of Stormwind, realization and fury rising in her eyes.
“Your Majesty-” she started.
“And you made the pact with the orcs and their pack in Kalimdor, eventually roping in the night elves which led to their loss of immortality,” Varian cut her off, ignoring the other protests in the background.
“We would have all died if we hadn’t cooperated,” Tyrande said, her soft voice sharp as a blade. “Archimonde’s march would not have stopped there! Furthermore, Lady Proudmoore had no part in the making of the plan that cost us our immortality, it was entirely Archdruid Malfu-”
“I am not finished, all of you,” Varian said, throwing a glare all around before returning his smoldering focus to Jaina. “And I was captured by the Defias brotherhood on my way to Theramore, on your request. You stood back and let your own father be killed by the orcs. And then, you marry that-” he waved at Thrall. The Warchief’s lips had drawn back so far that almost all of his sharp teeth were visible, and his hands had curled into huge fists.
“We married to ensure peace between our nations,” Jaina said. She did not raise her voice, but the frost in it was almost tangible.
“So you say. At this point I suspect, however, you rather threw yourself in his arms to further your own perverse desires.” He pointed at her, black gloved finger stretched towards the blond woman in a white dress. “Wherever disaster has struck in the last few years, you have been there, Proudmoore. You’ve supported the orcs, the enemy, all this time, and you were there when the undead began to march. Is there, I ask you-” he looked around again, “- truly no place for suspicion of this woman?”
Several voices started up, but Jaina raised her hand to ask silence.
She straightened up in her full height. She was a tall woman, but Varian could still tower over her. Even so, power emanated from her slim form, magical power and, more importantly, pride and personal strength so present that one could nearly see it enveloping her to carry her.
“I wish I could say that your accusations are preposterous, king Wrynn,” she icily said, “but fate has seen fit to bring me to those events you mention. I allied with the orcs and their allies to save my people, to save the whole world. I stood back and let my father measure his own military might against Durotar, for in supporting him I would have betrayed those who fought alongside me to save the world, and in supporting the orcs I would have betrayed my father and my homeland. I married the Warchief to ensure peace and safety for my people.”
For the whole time she watched him evenly.
“As for my involvement with Prince Arthas and Prince Kael’thas, as well as your imprisonment,” she said, “I had no part in any corruption or evil deed, this I swear on the Light and everything dear in this world. I do not know how to prove you wrong, but neither do I know how you would prove me wrong.”
“Then we are at an impasse,” Wrynn hotly said. “My accusation stands. There is too much coincidence here to swallow.”
They glared at each other, until another voice broke through.
“Come to the Exodar, Lady Proudmoore,” Velen said, swiveling heads in his direction. “The Naaru O’ros can look into your soul and tell all of us whether there is any merit to these accusations. Would that satisfy you as well, king of Stormwind?”
“I will believe only what I see with my own eyes.”
(In the Exodar, haven’t written Jaina getting mind searched by O’ros yet. He shows some stuff from her memory to everyone there, nothing condemning. Varian is there too because he’s a hardass like that.)
It took a moment for Jaina to notice the strange atmosphere that fell over the great hall. Whispers started, rising and falling in between outrage and confusion, yet a wave of silence spread as Velen raised his hands and swept his glowing gaze all around. Hooves clapped against the floor as draenei moved aside, and behind that sound was another rhythmic beat of heavy, hard footfalls.
Jaina still felt lethargic, as if floating in a dream, and thus, she did not at once realize what it meant. She only knew that she knew the sound of those steps so, so well. Groggily she turned around, blinking.
Across the hall made up of glowing crystal, and surrounded by flabbergasted draenei, Warchief Thrall walked.
[STRIKE]Thrall: “I have come to toast your marshmallows.”[/STRIKE]
[STRIKE]Thrall: “I picked up the milk and toast, honey*. Ready to head home?”[/STRIKE]
No, what he actually (eventually) says is:
“I deduced from the speech you held in the Undercity that you are fond of melodrama, Your Majesty.” (Insert eloquent, theathrical and politically correct speech for “SCREW YOU AND THE HORSE YOU RODE ON” that I haven’t yet found the right words for)
*Unintentional Roxette reference, I SWEAR.
