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WHO: Anduin Wrynn and YOU?
WHEN: During the Priest's Plot
WHERE: On the deck of the Pariah & below in the sleeping quarters
WHAT: Anduin gets a little carried away and knocks himself out for 2 days...
WARNINGS: None so far!
NOTES: You can encounter him on deck when he first passes out or when he's waking up (someone's gotta get him up off the floor!), just know it'll take him 2 days to wake up again so he won't be very chatty until that time haha

Anduin had understood from the start that firing those arrows at the mass of roiling dark clouds in the sky would take a toll on him. He had done his best to conserve himself, taking small breaks for food and rest, recharging what energy he could with the aid of one of his companions' amulets as the priests had instructed to do.

He had known, logically, that his efforts were only making one small dent in a larger effort. That for that reason there was no need to overtax himself. But with each arrow fired into the sky, with each sucking pull on his spirit, his mana, his energy -- whatever the arrows were stealing from him -- so too grew within him a sense of urgency. A feeling of dread. A fear of that which Anduin could not put into words, but that he knew he could not allow to overtake these boats, filled with people he has grown to care for.

And so he does not heed the warning signs that are there, as the edges of his vision start to blacken and dim. The boat beneath his feet feels unsteady, and Anduin understands that it is not due to any rocking of the ocean below. Still, he reaches for one final arrow. These are not his people, but that does not make them any less worthy of his defense. He will not fail them now. He cannot.

Pulling his bowstring taught, Anduin releases his arrow high in the sky -- before he crumples to the deck like a puppet cut from its strings, the darkness swallowing him whole.

And in the darkness, Anduin dreams, if a dream it can be called, of the ocean. Of deep, murky, cold water. Everything still, so still around him. And silent. Anduin knows that there is more to existence than this darkness, this silence. And he yearns for it, that he might one day be born with a shape, and--

Anduin wakes to a dull throbbing in his temples and an ache in what feels like almost every part of himself. If he had yearned for a body, then a body he had most assuredly received. Groaning softly, he moves to raise a hand to his head, momentarily caught off-guard when he finds his arm restricted by... A blanket?

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Anduin glances down at Wrathion's hand on his arm, letting out a long, slow breath. He supposes that Wrathion does have a point. Also this is another point in the favor of not doing such a thing again, if there are important discussions to be had, and important investigations to be made.

"They told me that some of their number were able to raise the body of another," he continues, somewhat doggedly, although he realizes that in order for him to rest and recover they will need to move on to other topics. And he will need to allow Wrathion to continue to help him, for at least a little while longer.

Wrathion tilts his head thoughtfully, considering that.

"Raising more undead is usually an ability some undead have. The ability to increase their number."

You cannot exactly breed undead after all, and it isn't normally a natural thing that happens. Unless he means something else by raise the body of another -- inhabit the body of another?

Anduin shakes his head. He had meant, of course, exactly Wrathion's second thought.

"Wei Wuxian calls them the bodied dead," he elaborates, gravely. "Some may have retained the spirit of who they were once in life. More often than not though, they seem to have risen again in any body that would have them. Not resurrection, but -- repurposing of the corpses of their companions so that they might have form again themselves."

"I do not know whether this is of their own volition," he continues, "or if it is driven by whatever power it is they say is keeping them below. The two are not mutually exclusive, I suppose..."

"Not unheard of," he admits, "but not pleasant, all the same."

A pause, as Wrathion studies Anduin.

"There is still nothing you can do about this in your current state."

Just to be clear: Anduin is drained, exhausted, apparently unable to even heal himself. He needs to rest, not theorise about dead or undead or 'bodied' dead.

"No," Anduin agrees, with the flash of a smile, letting his eyes fall again to the glass of water in his lap. "You are right, of course. I will be of no help to anyone if I do not regain my strength."

He should eat. Rest. He is not incapable of sitting still and taking it easy on himself, but he is sensitive to the necessity of having to do so. It comes, he supposes, from his long recuperation after the incident with the Bell.

One would think that he might have learned from that incident then to be more cautious. As it is, he's had the ability to be able to heal himself of most things, and a certain amount of caution leaves a person with such a gift.

"Have you eaten lately yourself?" Anduin asks, glancing back up to Wrathion. "You might bring something for us both, if you like?"

"For both of us, then."

He reaches out and rests a hand on Anduin's shoulder, squeezes gently.

"Stay put." As if Anduin might spring up the moment he leaves him alone and embroil himself in more trouble. "Is there anything else you'd like?"

Not that Wrathion can exactly run to a general store, but he will do his best to find whatever it is Anduin desires.

Is there anything else he would like?

Anduin's bones ache, his temples are still throbbing slightly and his head still feels fuzzy. He contemplates the question and the fact that he would normally just heal such minor inconveniences away.

Is there even anything on the ship for such things? If they were back on Azeroth, he would suggest a potion, but...

He offers Wrathion a gentle smile.

"Perhaps -- some tea?" And then, after a moment's pause, and an added curl to his lips, "I will be here when you return. I promise."

A wry smile tugs at Wrathion's lips. As if pirates have tea.

"Luckily for you I have a little stored in my pack still. I'll find us some cups."

Heating the water, at least, won't be a problem for him -- although making sure the cup isn't burning hot as well might be. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Pushing to his feet, Wrathion grabs up his pack to help carry things, glances around at Anduin one last time and studies him in silence.

I will be here when you return. I promise.

Mortals are always so confident, beyond their own strength and ability. They might be able to group together and bring down powerful entities, but how many are lost in the process?

The age of dragons may be long over, but he'll still live many lifetimes after Anduin has faded.

"I'll be back in a moment," he says finally, and slips away into the depths of the ship. It's a good fifteen minutes or so before the sound of his footsteps begins to return, the scent of some manner of stew accompanying him.

As Wrathion steps away, Anduin makes himself comfortable for a few minutes, before he quickly realizes that that is a decidedly dangerous way to spend his time, if he doesn't wish to fall back asleep again. Pushing himself up to sit up straighter, Anduin decides to take stock of the situation instead.

He is half-lying in what appears to be a pile of blankets -- a nest, he thinks to himself, and the thought makes him smile -- tucked away in what appears to be... Well, it's rather sparse for a cabin, but then again Anduin's experience of such things may be more than a little skewed. A small, quiet space that Wrathion had no doubt sequestered specifically for him.

Setting the glass of water to the side, the light catches on the cuff on his wrist and he reaches to run his hand over it, finding some relief to know that Wrathion is with him, even now. If he had lost this...

A sudden chill runs through him and Anduin raises a hand to his chest, to feel for his mother's locket at his throat, his father's compass in the breast pocket of his jacket -- a jacket he is decidedly not wearing.

He pauses in his search at that, glancing down to consider the shirt he finds himself clutching in his hands. Not the one that is part of his court attire, this one is made of soft linen, and with it, he finds himself in a pair of light trousers he'd been using as pajama pants that he'd found for himself in Ke-Waihu. It's decidedly not the pirate's outfit he remembers dressing himself in, the morning before the incident with the arrows.

Anduin finds himself sitting frozen in place, staring at the fabric in his hands -- a small part of him still wondering if perhaps something maybe did happen to his clothing, while the more conscious part of his brain recognizes that someone had dressed him this way on purpose.

It had been two days...

A very complicated expression plays itself across Anduin's face as Wrathion steps back in to join him, though the fact that he has not released his hold on the front of his shirt is perhaps a sign of his train of thought.

"My father's compass. It was in my jacket pocket. Is it safe...?"

"Ah," Wrathion says softly, and sets down the two stew bowls. One is decided thinner than the other, clearly lighter and with less heavy ingredients. Checking his inner pockets Wrathion produces Anduin's compass, holds it out for him. "My apologies, I didn't want to leave it loose in here. Pirate ship, after all."

He couldn't be certain someone wouldn't become light-fingered. Once Anduin has taken it Wrathion shifts closer with the two bowls, moving the lighter one toward Anduin and beginning to unpack two cups, a container of water and some tea.

"They had no plain broth, I'm afraid, but I persuaded them to weaken the stew they had to offer you something less overpowering."

Anduin's gaze falls to the compass as Wrathion passes it back to him, its weight familiar and reassuring in his hand. Closing his fingers around the small object, Anduin lets out a slow breath, more grateful than he can say for the thoughtfulness Wrathion has shown -- in all of this, really.

"Thank you," he says, "I'm sure it will be fine." He considers the compass for a long moment, watching Wrathion unpack, before he holds it back out towards his companion.

"I think perhaps you had better hold on to this for me. For now." He pauses for a moment, before adding, "Until I recover, I do not trust myself to be able to look after it. As you said, it is a pirate ship. And I... apparently do not even have any pockets, at present."

Not exactly a priority, for an unconscious patient.

Wrathion nods in acceptance, taking it back and sliding the compass into his inside pocket. He pours some water into one of the cups, presses a hand to the side of it until it starts to steam then begins preparing tea leaves in the other cup.

"Let me know if the stew doesn't suit you," he says, "and I'll see what else I can find. There's a plethora of oranges, that much I can say, but I wouldn't have described citrus as a gentle food."

He sits back, touches a hand to the side of the other cup with tea leaves in it then decants the steaming water into it.

"No teapot I'm afraid," he says, "but we can make do."

"I will try not to fault you for not having a full tea set with you in your pack," Anduin replies dryly, watching Wrathion heat the water then decant it into the second cup to steep. Just because he was born and raised in a castle does not mean that he cannot live without certain luxuries, thank you.

He still doesn't know quite how to feel about the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, an invalid. Like Zenobius, someone must have had to care for him these past few days, make certain he was washed and re-dressed. Coax some water down his throat, not knowing when he might wake and swallow for himself...

"Has someone else been here?" Anduin asks, carefully reaching for the bowl of stew. Carefully avoiding meeting Wrathion's eyes, uncertain he will like the expression he finds there. "To help you look after me...? Wei Wuxian, perhaps? Tell me you not let Hermione--..." Better stop that thought before it can be allowed to continue.

"The majority of your care has been from me," Wrathion confirms. He pauses, part way through the preparation of his own tea. "I assumed you would prefer that."

Perhaps he was wrong, however? His eyes lift from the tea warily, watching the way Anduin avoids his. Was this inappropriate in some way? They did not, that he knew, have a trained medical professional who would be suited to caring for Anduin until he awoke. It seemed perhaps better that Wrathion, who already knew Anduin well, do this rather than a stranger. Yet perhaps it was too much? Perhaps Anduin felt he may have been... taking advantage in some way?

Anduin considers this, as he slowly comes to understand just what Wrathion really has been through for the past few days. Slowly, carefully, he raises his eyes to meet Wrathion's.

"Of course," Anduin says automatically, even as he can feel the heat slowly rising in his cheeks. Out of what, shame? Embarrassment? He is not certain he even knows for certain. "I am -- I trust you the most out of anyone here, that is not..."

Anduin presses his lips together, forcing himself to stop and take a breath and collect himself. Trying not to imagine Wrathion, saddled with the responsibility of caring for his unconscious form. Wrestling his clothes from his unconscious body. Bathing him? Oh, no...

"I owe you far too much," he says, back to his bowl of soup.

There's a long pause as Wrathion weighs up what far too much entails. What is too much for Anduin Wrynn personally. Would a lesser amount be acceptable? What would that be?

"I have owed you far too much for some time now. It seems only fair we take it in turns."

Wrathion had caused Anduin plenty of pain. He may have taken steps to atone, but it was a process rather than a cut and dry situation. He has to continue to support Anduin for it to count, not simply settle a score then leave it be.

Anduin glances back up at Wrathion, at this. Searching his expression for a long moment before his eyes soften. He still feels -- awkward perhaps is the best way to describe it, knowing what he had put Wrathion through. He should thank the Light it had only been two days, he supposes.

"I suppose it is," he allows. "Although perhaps we might agree with one another that it is better not to keep a score. That there need be some debt to be repaid, stacking up against each other."

Anduin reaches out a hand to lay gently upon Wrathion's arm. Squeezing gently, and offering him the twist of a smile, before continuing, "I certainly do not wish to find out how you might outdo me after this."

"As you know, black dragons always exceed expectations."

Wrathion moves to sit closer, close enough by Anduin's side that their arms brush as he moves. Enough to be companionable without... imposing more when the priest is still recovering. The bowl of stew and his tea are slid closer, then Wrathion turns to regard Anduin placidly.

"Perhaps we might agree not to make it a competition, however. I think we can both agree I'm far too handsome to risk damage to these fine features, and --"

He turns more to face Anduin, lifts one hand to run the backs of his fingers along Anduin's cheek.

"-- I'd rather you avoided it as well."

Anduin's lips twist up again at the not-quite-compliment. Made all the sweeter that, for all Wrathion's own bravado, he had still chosen such a soft approach towards Anduin himself.

"That would indeed be a crime," Anduin agrees, turning his face into the gentle press of fingers against his skin. "For all that I'm sure you would still be very dashing. I would prefer to keep you just as you are -- all in one piece."

For all that the Light can seal wounds and heal broken bones, there are limits. Anduin knows this personally. He would prefer not to have to find out what they might be on dragon anatomy, if it's all the same to Wrathion himself.

"I'm glad we can both agree on that."

Wrathion twitches a smile, then gently releases Anduin -- shifts to nudge the bowl of stew closer to him.

"Tell me if that's too strong for you."

He can weaken it more if need be, after all, or attempt to find an alternative. He cannot guarantee it will be more appetising, but the goal is mostly that is stays down and that Anduin builds his strength up. The bar for success is low.

Anduin obediently reaches for the bowl as Wrathion slides it towards him, picking it up and sniffing the contents dubiously. A stew. Perhaps it is better if he does not ask precisely what it was made with.

Taking a sip, he makes a valiant effort not to make a face — but Wrathion can probably read it in his expression anyway. It isn’t that he is a picky eater, he isn’t! He’s still technically a growing teenager, he will eat plenty of new and adventurous things. But he did grow up in a castle and there is something to be said about quality…

"It’s fine," he reassures his companion, then to quell any protestations, "Well." His lips quirk slightly. "It's certainly not Stormwind's finest. Perhaps you might have a word with the chef, the next time you see him."

"A word with the chef," Wrathion echoes. "And what do you imagine that word might be?"

Since Wrathion strongly suspects any words he might have would be of little impact. If they don't have better ingredients, they aren't about to suddenly develop some now just because Anduin's more refined palate objects to their seasoning.

"Do bear in mind this was weakened in strength for you."

So if his complaint is that it is dull, watery or tasteless that is in fact by design.

"That," Anduin replies, "is hardly my complaint."

If anything he could stand to have it weakened further, but he is hardly about to make Wrathion lift another finger for him just now. Certainly not over something as silly as this.

Steeling himself, Anduin determinedly raises the bowl to take another sip. He is hungry, as much as the stew leaves much to be desired.

"Tell me what I have missed," he says, trying to distract himself instead. "Have the spirits moved on?" He tries not to sound too hopeful. He would like to think that, however ill-advised his decisions may have been, they might have aided at least partially towards something good.

"Their presence has lessened, certainly. I've seen one or two still lingering but nothing like before."

He takes a slow sip of his own stew. It is indeed far from the best thing he's eaten, but if forced he'd have to admit it wasn't the worst either. Wrathion has spent plenty of time struggling on his own, without any manner of chef at all, eating whatever he could to keep going.

That said, if this is unacceptable for Anduin he could probably char some fish. There's bound to be fish of some sort here -- although if the fish are palatable or peculiar in some way remains to be seen. Wrathion shifts himself a little, adjusting to lean a little more deliberately up against Anduin's side.

"We are continuing to sail onwards. The Concord still follows, and the weather appears to be worsening."

The Concord. Anduin frowns slightly at that, trying to fight through the fog of weariness clouding his brain to put the details of everything back into place. Grateful for Wrathion's presence at his side, he is more than happy to lean into the warmth of him in return.

"They have not made another attack?"

That is what happened the last time, is it not? The Concord was the name of the ship that fired upon them. Of the Dawn's Reach Trading Company. Begging the question, naturally, what business does a Trading Company have in pursuing and firing upon pirate vessels, of course.

Just what has the Merchant gotten them into the middle of now?

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