[Wrathion doesn't know how this happened. He had escaped the recent pandemic with barely a sniffle, which was no surprise to him--he was a dragon, after all; superior in fortitude and resistance, divinely crafted, nearly invincible. Yes, Exsilium was a sickly place, and yes, he did sometimes feel that rot trying to seep into him. Black dragons were creatures of earth: rock and soil and wood and the hot, molten depths that burned in the center of the planet. He is not directly connected to the health of this world, not as he was to Azeroth, but he keenly feels its plague all the same. Still, he should have been immune to it.

And yet.

Here he was, just days after returning from the beach, stuck with frustrated helplessness in his bed. He's sneezing, he's coughing, his head feels like somebody bashed it in and then replaced his brain with dust and cotton. And he's hot--uncomfortably, unnaturally hot.

Groaning, he scowls into his tablet. For once, Wrathion is just not in the mood for his usual front.]

What does a man have to do to get some medicine around here? I'm a prince, you know! I shouldn't have to go around begging for everything I need.

[He coughs violently--and maybe with a little more exaggeration than necessary--and his red eyes flare. He clears his throat and speaks through gritted teeth.]

What I mean to say is that I would be most grateful if one of you could make yourselves useful and bring me something for these terrible, horrible aches. And the congestion. And this truly awful cough!

[He goes in for another dramatic round of heaving.]

--and be quick about it. I'm really not used to wait-- [coughs] -- I mean, I'm in dire shape, here.

Thank you.

[He thought he could handle this situation on his own, somehow. He thought he would sort it out eventually, that it wouldn't matter to anyone but him -- these were creatures designed for his torment, meant to make him suffer. Their harsh murmurs tear at him more deeply and specifically than anyone else; unlike the others, he feels their burning claws slice into his back, their eyes boring into him. The demons curl around his ankles like unwanted cats; they settle in the chinks of his armor and hiss, their whispers as corrosive as acid. They don't tell him anything he hasn't heard before, which is partly why he's taken so long to say anything. He feels sure that the problem was contained--confined, even, to Koltira alone.

But recent posts on the network suggest that this is not the case.

Koltira stands in the center of his lake, on his platform of ice. Byfrost is stuck into the platform beside him, its blade completely invisible beneath the thick, writhing mass of miasma that envelops it.]

I apologize. If you have heard cruel whispers recently, or seen the shadows emerge from the dark and give chase, then I am to blame. They are demons meant for me, released by the evolution of my runeblade.

[He pauses a moment before continuing. His usually inscrutable expression is pained: his eyes are half-closed, his lips are thin, and his long eyebrows are drawn together in frustration. He hates that he has to do this, but there's no other choice.]

I cannot defeat them. They are reaching out from their own plane of existence, a realm of shadows.

[Another pause. He's getting there. It's happening.]

I ... I am powerless to enter this place. But if any of you are willing, I can send you to it. You could clear them away.

[His fingers close into a clenched fist over his chest. He exhales.]

Please.

[The unpleasant whispers have been nursing his worry all afternoon. They had been quiet enough at first; relatively easy to put aside while he worked but now, in the quiet of his apartment, the vicious words and the shadows that danced just outside of his immediate vision were starting to wear on him. When he reaches for the tablet and flicks on the video function, it's with a degree of unease.]

Seems like others see them too, then.

[His manner is guarded, face set in an unhappy, worried expression. He eyes the tablet, skimming through what he can, swallowing lightly. To be strong one must put their faith in the Light, and he reaffirms this with a pale shimmering aura about himself before saying anything else. The shield will help protect him, of that he's certain, but the unease continues to grow.]

Tell me, does anyone have any idea where they've come from? Are they only affecting us around here or ...can those outside of the city itself see them - hear as well?

[He gently presses the button that sends it to audio. The whispers have begun again and he would rather not lose his careful composure. Meditating doesn't seem like the correct path, not right at this moment. Still, he hesitates for a moment, and one might hear the slight inhalation before he simply says-]

Please be safe, everyone.

[Fenris has been hounded by the shadows since they first appeared. At first, nothing but whispers, nothing he couldn't ignore if he tried hard enough. But now they are louder, and they are hitting a little too close to home. He doesn't use the video on his tablet, unwilling to let others see even a touch of fear in his eyes. He keeps his voice steady, though the anger lying behind it is a little stronger than usual]

We have demons like this in Thedas. They slip through the Fade, into mages foolish enough to deal with them. These, however, seem to have no physical form, despite them knowing things only demons would know.

[You slaughtered those Fog Warriors after all they did for you, after they taught you what freedom mean, you destroyed them]

I wish to know how to destroy them. [He hates asking for help. He HATES it. But neither sword nor lyrium seem to have any effect, so ask he must] Does anyone here have a clue as to how to achieve this?

[Lawd, this guy is spent. Though he usually likes to broadcast from somewhere in the clinic -- his office, a supply closet, the waiting room -- this time, he's in bed, propped up against pillows and looking weary.]

Folks, we're not exactly out of the woods yet -- as the piles of stinking rubble and even less breathable air than usual make obvious -- but I still wanted to thank everyone who stepped up in service of the clinic over the past month.

[He rubs the side of his pale mouth tiredly.]

We lost a lot of patients, there's no denying that. But we saved plenty of people, too. Saved each other. We did our goddamn best. That's worth something.

[He pauses, as though that's all he's got to say. The feed shakes a little as he shifts around on his bed, his hand finding a piece of paper with a ring on top of it. He closes his fist over the ring, curls his fingers against the paper.]

And -- for those of you who knew him ... Belthazar has gone home, to Azeroth.

[His expression tightens; he's saying this for his own benefit, as much as anyone else's.]

No one who's been there would call our world a safe place. But our cities aren't like this, and Belthazar was just a child. Better that he's gone.

[He thinks of Jericho, so recently killed in the bombing, and Syllona, constantly overwhelmed with fear.]

Better that all the children should go, if their circumstances at home are even slightly better than this.

[There's been a tremendous spike in patients recently, and the influx is only worsening as the days pass. The clinic doesn't have a robust staff as it is, so Adrasteius--and probably anyone else on the roster--is more than a little overworked. His expression over the feed is harried, haggard, and more than a little frustrated. Normally, diseases wither into nothing under the influence of the Light, but this illness has proved alarmingly resistant. He can treat the symptoms well enough, but the sickness itself keeps surviving. It would drive him to drink, if he even had time.]

This situation is getting out of hand. If you're still able, and you have the skill, the clinic needs you. I don't just mean healing skill, either--we need people to run supplies, prepare food, organize files, maintain records, all that sort of thing. Just tell me what you're able to do and I'll find you a place.

[Adrasteius runs a hand over his tired face, but his eyes are as bright and steady as ever. They might be bogged down, but he's damn sure not going to turn anyone away--not until taking in more people becomes unsafe.]

And if you think whatever this damn thing is has gotten hold of you, come see us. Not just because we aren't the Initiative--but because even their hospital is probably overflowing. We're busy, but we've still got clean beds and I'm still going to take care of you. I can't eliminate the disease, but I can mitigate whatever pain you're feeling, at least.

[Anduin's voice is once more quiet and lightly tinged with a well-composed disappointment. He had perhaps been a bit too-focused on finding a sembalnce of normalcy lately, and now...]

May Aunt Jaina find peace ...or at the very least the strength to ...get herself through what is to come.

[Because he knows what lies ahead for the departed Mage and feels nothing but sadness for it. More than the loneliness of an empty home, more than his homesickness and desire to see his father once more - this is still perhaps worse. The knowledge of what lay ahead for Jaina very soon now that she had gone home was heartbreaking. He sighs softly, the weariness creeping into his tone.]

Ah- tell me, what do you do when you have trouble sleeping?

[Anduin's face is a touch too-composed as he edges into view, gazing silently at the screen of the tablet for a moment before leaning forward. Giving a quiet sigh, he rests his chin on his hands, elbows on the desk. His expression is a somber one, and yet he still smiles softly as he looks downward slowly.]

My apologies to those I was talking too awhile ago. Things have been a touch ...busy as of late.

[Busy in the avoiding everyone that he can sense, at least. Still, it's rude to try and shut himself away for so long no matter his feelings and it isn't what Varian would want. Using that resolve he sits up a little straighter, lifting his head. When he finds his voice, there's a newfound ring of pleasantry to his tone, even if he doesn't exactly feel the quiet cheer he is working into his voice.]

I just wanted to thank everyone who was kind enough to help me look for my father. I greatly appreciated your actions despite the actual outcome. It means a great deal to me that you took the time to help me, and I truly am grateful.

[It does no one any good to sit and pout and sulk because his father isn't there - things will be alright, really! He just has to convince himself of that, now. There is little to say now that he's offered his thanks, but still Anduin pauses for a moment, eying the tablet screen thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again, impulsively.]

If I can do anything in return, or ...if anyone would simply like to talk, by all means. Thank you again.

[And with that he cuts the communication, determined to force himself out of the slump. He had handled worse before, after all! This would be easy in comparison!]

Excuse me, if someone could help me for a moment?

[Anduin slips into view, peering solemnly at the screen. His voice is even and calm but there's an uncertainty rising in his eyes as he continues to speak.]

Has anyone seen my father? Varian Wrynn? Normally when he leaves like this I'm aware, but-

[But he's not sure, and he's uneasy even if he's doing well at hiding most of it.]

If anyone sees him, please let me know, or have him contact me, if you could. Thank you.

[Annnnd blackscreen.]

I understand that I am in a distant land very far from my own, and I should like to think I am grateful for the chance to travel. Though - I am sorry to say it, and hope I do not cause offense - the high lords of the Initiative have been misled to think a lowly baseborn girl of simple upbringing could assist them in their struggle.

Even so, I worry for my companions. Perhaps, if any hear this, you might be so kind as to attend for them? I seek the following: A man of middling years, small and thin, with close-cropped dark hair shot with grey and a short, pointed beard, who wears a mockingbird upon his breast. A boy of six, small and pale, with brown hair and large eyes, who may have the sigil of a falcon sewn upon his clothing; I am his guardian and must know where he is at once. A young woman, tall, with dark hair and blue eyes, most likely in men's dress. Alayne Stone seeks them.

You have my thanks.

[The face that comes to the screen is one that may (or may not) look familiar. Judging by how suddenly the communicator clicks on, its done in a frantic sort of smack, like it was hit accidentally. Whoever is on the other end sure does look a lot like a certain Lord of The Undead...only much less undead.

His voice is full of emotion, and full of rage. Its unclear as to where he's been the past few days, but judging by the undead gore on his armor, he's been out killing his own army...without knowing it, of course.]

Enough of this charade, I will hear no more of it. You will tell me where you've taken me, who you serve, and where you've taken my men. Do you not understand what evil threatens my Kingdom? I must be returned immediately!

[Its impossible to see who Arthas is confronting, but the light of the device seems to catch his attention, and he turns his head down to glare at it. His hair, where it was once wispy and white, is now full and golden blond. His eyes no longer glow that horrid runic blue, but instead are a lively sea green to compliment lightly tanned skin. He bares silver armor, chased with gold around its edges, swathed in a royal blue cloak bearing a strange symbol.

He also has a huge motherfucking hammer bearing the same symbol in his hand.]

What sorcery is this?

That seemed like a grand waste of time in the aspect of things. [No violence or war? Not exactly thrilling.] If I did not know any better I would have thought it was more getting us all out the way of something here.

[Gives in indifferent shrug.] Not that they would tell us of these things, as they do with most others.

Now then. Who has seen that orc Thrall around recently? I require words with him.

[Filtered to Jaina and Anduin.]

You will both be staying with myself in UNIT 1 2 1 0. I will hear no arguments against this. Bring your things.

[one of the few, if vague, things that Frodo remembers from his time before in Exsilium is how to work the tablet. The hobbit on the video is a tween, voice a bit higher than before and a mischievous look to his eyes.

He's leaned down, as if forming a conspiracy with all those on the network; whispering (loudly still) with possible partners in crime, if you will]

Has anyone got a list of what the kitchens around here serve? Or what times they find themselves the busiest? This is very important!

Greetings, everyone.

[The voice is one of a young man, and one who seems rather calm about his situation, or at least, is attempting to remain calm. He seems to have a careful sort of control over his emotions at the moment at the least. The boy is quiet at first, as if trying to remember just what he wanted to say, or perhaps just how to say it correctly.]

I pray that someone who hears this can assist me. I've been properly debriefed, as it was, but the personal insight of others would be far more desirable for this situation. If I am to remain here and help, then that seems to be the place to start. It was perhaps not the most ...convenient of times, but if assistance is needed and I can provide it, then I will.

[He drops into silence with a quiet sigh, letting it build for a short while, as if waiting. When he does speak again his voice is warm once more, the calm returning.]

Introductions are in order, I believe. Hello, my name is Anduin. Anduin Wrynn...

[He debated offering his title for a moment and for those potentially native to Azeroth it shows in how he trailed off. Something lingered in the final words but went unsaid. After a moment he picks up that slack with a moderately cheerful and patient voice.]

It would be my pleasure to meet you all as well.