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He leaned back against the sturdy frame of the gryphon nest as the pair, Saashenka and Zaanthe, traveled down the ramp toward the Lower City Orphanage. His eyes flitted toward the short barrier that fenced the upper city from the fall into Lower City. He couldn't see over the edge and he didn't care to. His eyes closed and his imagination took over; what would be in the Lower City?  He pictured draenei laid in piles, crushed and twisted metal, rives of royal blue blood. His eyes snapped open, and his left hand began to twitch against the wooden frame. Even with his eyes open unable to see his imagination’s depictions it continued to run wild, a phantom smell of blood and death curled in his nostrils. The taste of blood seeped into his mouth and his thoughts traveled other places. The Hinterlands, a young boy, his head was caved in, the taste of blood welled in his mouth.

"Mosur say hi."

His attention snapped back to reality, Zaanthe and Saashenka had returned along with the child Kavaan. Mosur forced a smile and responded after a pause. "Hello Kavaan," the taste of blood was still thick on his tongue, "your horns have grown since I saw you last." A sharp pain in his cheek during idle conversation revealed the source of the taste.

"Perhaps there is somewhere better than the middle of Shattrath we can stand to get reacquainted," Zaanthe suggested with a smile ignorant of his Brother's thoughts.

Author Mosur
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