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WHO: Wrathion & fellow siege survivors
WHEN: Part 2 of the siege
WHERE: Various locations in and on the borders of Alem
WHAT: Investigation, crafting, pacing, thinking. Some closed prompts! You can throw a new one at me, or plan with me here for me to write something custom.
WARNINGS: None to start, beyond some bad mental health situations going on here.

War was something Wrathion understand. He'd never had a childhood, not really. Never really had friends. What youth he had, as he grew far too quickly, had been taken over by his dark purpose. By the threat of Deathwing --

( A shadow of dark wings, a deep voice, metal plates, magma held into shape --)

and all those who would have killed him for being related. For wanting his freedom. The threat of his family, turned to insanity, and then the threat of invasion, of the armies of the Burning Legion, the threat of N'Zoth who sough to turn him as he had his father --

An endless sea of troubles.

Watching Irenia bank and turn back towards Alem, Wrathion feels as if this place is not so far from Azeroth. Endless threats, all of them dire. None, individually, feel quite on the scale of threatening the entire planet but... all of them have the potential to certainly build up if left unchecked.

The sight of her brings dark, brooding fears to the surface. What if he dies here, and is brought back as she was -- a tool to be turned against friends? To be used to spread destruction? Following in his father's footsteps, haunting these mountains as the Aspect of Death.

There are those who believed his corruption inevitable. Perhaps he has been foolish to think he could ever escape such a fate, but still.

One thing at a time.

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"When don't I?"

As if Wrathion would have any idea at all. Though the Doctor's tone is, of course, nonchalant and airy, simply stating a casual fact. He's stumbled upon something immediately interesting to him, so he steps closer. To be fair, Wrathion could just be sitting there staring at nothing at all and the Doctor wouldn't ask before stepping closer and intruding upon him if he felt compelled to. And in such a trying time, he feels compelled to check in on everyone he cares about.

"My timing is, as ever, impeccable," he notes with a brief, self-congratulatory smile before nodding to the stones. "I'd hoped I'd see more of your magic soon enough."

Since the stone has been set down to one side, the Doctor also takes it upon himself to reach for it, intending to examine it a bit more, curious as ever.

Wrathion gestures openly as the Doctor takes the stone, allowing him to pick it up and take a look.

"Poor quality, unable to contain the enchantment. Hence the crack."

He tilts his head, watching the Doctor study it. Is it a specific interest? Or just a generalised curiosity about everything around him? He certainly has the air of someone who likes to learn for the sake of learning, for the sake of understanding as much as he can about the world around them all. Yet then again, he could well be fishing for something in particular.

"None of the stones here are particularly good. The mine has likely as not already lost its best over the years, and the miners are hardly focused on looking for more. All the same, some of them have been enough to last for a few tokens."

Trinkets to stop people falling to their death, to help wrench Irenia from the undead lord's control. He always hopes to achieve more, but here it may all have to be enough.

"You're doing your best under the circumstances then, I'd say."

Curious about everything, this one. Perhaps to a fault, although he'd never think so. The stone is examined with singular and enthusiastic focus even though there's nothing of particular note that he's able to discern from it personally. He's fascinated by the magic, the enchantment, and Wrathion himself. His thumb moves over the hairline crack before he levels a gaze at Wrathion again.

"And you've a way to keep people safe, you mentioned. You've been busy, of course you have."

Setting the stone down now, the Doctor's eyes wander again, catching sight of the pendant on the table, the dragon wrapped around it. He says nothing at first, only tapping the pendant lightly and briefly, a hint of reverence perhaps in the slightest touch. "For her sake, this one? For our dear Irenia?" He muses aloud.

Ah. Wrathion drifts his eyes over to the pendant, to the way the Doctor's fingers alight on it. It gives a light answering pulse of power, warm and expectant, waiting to be called on.

"That's a spare for the tower defenders. Given the focus on evacuation now it's unnecessary, but I made a variety of wearable styles to catch anyone who ended up falling. Irenia needed a... larger design, considering her size."

Not to be rude, but she's not on the small scale. Wrathion begins absently packing away his things, admitting defeat to himself. Nothing is getting done at this hour.

"She also needed hers to be... permanently attached. The affliction of undeath is not easily removed, and so long as she stays undead any of the liege lords here may try to take her under their control."

He draws open a pouch, begins collecting up gems he has yet to test for later.

"We settled on a horn ornament, large enough to inset several gems, but all it does is weaken the influence. She's not immune, should she end up back in Rathakku's range of power and find herself unable to flee before his grip takes hold."

"As free as she can be at the moment."

As free as an undead creature can be, trapped between fates, with the potential to be controlled by an undead lord ever a possibility.

His attention remains on the pendant, though. It's not that he's unfamiliar with enchantments, magic, and the like—and certainly not since being here—but every part of this is quite new to him. The pulse of power that emanates from it equally delights him, and the tip of his thumb lingers over it.

It's easier to focus on the small, tangible object that piques his curiosity. The longer he thinks about Irenia and any creature wielded against their will, the more it upsets him. For now, at least, she's safe.

But what then? What waits for her? There was worry amongst their group about Irenia being enthralled again; a valid concern, yes, but if she remains free of any control—as he hopes—what happens when she's left here?

"What becomes of her beyond this, I wonder..."

As Wrathion is packing up his things, the Doctor takes the liberty of offering the pendant back.

"Might have a chat with her a bit later, if I can."

Wrathion presses his tongue against his teeth, a barely suppressed flinch crossing his features.

As free as she can be.

He accepts the pendant, toying with it as he forces out a slow breath.

"She seems content enough, enjoying not having to do Rathakku's bidding, but she cannot stray far from our party. It seems her undead state requires a tether to a source of power. We've placed her in a gilded cage, of sorts."

He places the pendant in a box, expression pulled into a frown.

"I'd like to find some way to offer her a power source that isn't tied to our party, and I have some suspicions around what may do it but... it won't be easy. We'd be toying with power we don't fully understand. I find people get upset about that."

Edited (Decided I hated that wording!) 2023-04-06 20:38 (UTC)

"And for good reason, often." He should be concerned by the mere suggestion, and he is. Toying with power that isn't fully understood is a dangerous gambit. Context matters, though, and the Doctor has never shied away from meddling both with things he does and doesn't fully understand, if it means fixing what's gone wrong. He specializes in impossible things, after all.

"A sacred creature with a chance at life again," the Doctor muses quietly, though there's a tension to his features now, other considerations swirling about in his endlessly busy mind. "Rescued from Rathakku's thrall, we owe her that chance, I'd say. What are you proposing?"

They're just talking, after all. For now. And since the subject has been broached, he can't very well not follow that line of thought as long as he can. Whether he ultimately agrees with Wrathion or not is of little consequence at the moment. He'll always want to hear every point of view to the furthest extent possible.

He worries his tongue against his teeth again, closes the box and slides it to place into his bag.

"Two potentials," he offers. "The first, murkier and less likely to work. Along with all the other strange artefacts, our party has collected two undead body parts. One is a tongue, in endless stasis of sorts, that we know can summon a kraken. The other is a heart, still beating, that was used to seal a deal with the undead lieges. The tongue we stole from a captain whose mind had twisted, potentially related to exposure to said tongue. The heart, our party was asked to retrieve when we forcibly broke the deal a city had with the undead. They were trading endless weapons to the armies, who were then using them to attack other cities, in return for their own safety. The Merchant sent one of our number to find it and dig it up. So, two essentially undead body parts. We know Irenia needs to anchor herself to a source of magic the undead use. Perhaps these organs could have enough of that, and perhaps we could find a way to essentially bind her to one. The risk being... we have no idea why they remain living, what they do, who they belong to, or if some insane cult is shortly going to collect all of them and do something terrible with them."

Wrathion frowns, gathering up his tools.

"Option two, more dangerous, more likely to achieve something: mirrors. Mirrors are a known source of power. Mirrors grant wishes. Mirrors cured Haiva, but also likely broke his mind. Mirrors were experimented on in Ellethia, and likely destroyed Ellethia and started this whole string of disasters we're following after. Mirrors likely gave Matthias, The White Wanderer, the power we suspect he has to control and create undead. Which means they gave, in a manner of speaking, the undead the power they used to raise and control Irenia."

He shuffles his tools into a box, looks up and lofts an eyebrow at the Doctor.

"The risk there is obvious."

To start: "As ever, a wealth of knowledge, my friend."

Though the Doctor has gathered what he could of their party's history before he'd arrived, hearing about it and actually living through it are two separate things, and he values Wrathion's wisdom in this. He's been correct on more than one occasion. That he's cautious in both suggestions also serves to trouble the Doctor less. Whether either option is truly viable, he's careful in his approach, not gone mad with any sort of power or authority like many have before, in the Doctor's experience.

"Obviously we need to know more about all the aforementioned artefacts, and not only as it pertains to Irenia. Stating the obvious, of course."

Fidgeting as they speak, the Doctor laces his fingers together, back and forth a few times.

"Dear girl...she didn't ask to be raised from the dead. She was gone and it was over. Peaceful, one presumes. As peaceful as death can be. I wouldn't know." His own deaths have hardly been peaceful, but he imagines there's a peace in knowing that one might at last be able to rest. "Then she was brought back and used against her will. What's there for her at the end of all this?"

His voice is more distant, eyes troubled, not looking at Wrathion for the moment. A part of him can't help recalling the Star Whale, that beautiful creature who was the last of its kind. So much like himself. Death will come for the Doctor eventually, but it won't be over. As he's learned from Clara now, he gets another go at it, and he'd started accepting that would be the end at last.

Death would be a gift. Words that haunted him once, for the way they sat in his hearts, the way it felt to imagine there might be an end to the loneliness.

They can save Irenia from remaining tethered to their party, and they should, but what happens to her after that? When she's left alone? It's rare in his travels that he has time to ponder these questions; he saves the day and moves on quite quickly. He's quiet for a long moment, longer than he should be, longer than he generally is. And he catches himself, leveling a darkened gaze back at Wrathion.

"Tethered to a different source of power with either option, is that freedom? Happiness? Will she resent it? It should, of course, all be her choice. She's been given very little of that at all, it seems. So long as she remains happy and content, truly, we'll find a way."

Wrathion shifts, both hands coming to rest on the table so he can lean heavily into it.

"She's lived a long life, I'm sure. Most, given the chance, would fight for a taste of immortality. They fear the end. All the same, I wouldn't want this. The danger of being controlled at any moment. Living in a state of endless decay."

He frowns, fingers flexing unhappily against the table, then meets the Doctor's gaze.

"Where I am frown, undead creatures slowly lose themselves. Their bodies are weaker, but they also begin to forget what it was to be alive. The comfort of warmth. The ache of love and loss."

Something Wrathion would never want. He may struggle to control his emotions, may find them inconvenient and frustrating, but to live that way -- that way, he knows, would make him into the worst of creatures. Devoid of guilt, removed of all ties to the mortal races, a danger to everyone.

Slowly lose themselves and forget what it was to be alive. Well, there's nothing at all familiar in any of those words. Certainly not. It lives in him all the time—all the things he's done, all the countless selfish choices when he lost himself—and he needn't be undead to have struggled with such things, to still struggle in the moments when he has to make the hard choices far too often. The injustice of the universe, setting it all to right, forgetting the promise of his name at times because he's so old now, and he can't always see it anymore. He knows the beginning and end of all things and because it drives him mad, it's why he so desperately needs others, not only with him but all around him, to help him remember the beauty and the hope of it all. He sees it through them, all of them. What becomes of those creatures with nothing at all to anchor to? Wrathion said it himself—they lose themselves.

"I don't like endings, but for some, there can be far more to fear than the end itself. The getting there, as it were. Or...never getting there."

~~Not that he has any experience with that either. Why would you think that.~~

Leaning back against the table, the Doctor crosses his arms loosely over his chest as he matches Wrathion's gaze.

"Will it be a life for her? What she has beyond this?"

Had he the TARDIS, of course, most of their problems would have been solved the moment he arrived, not least of all what to do with Irenia. If she's to endure, he can't bear the thought of her lingering on with nothing and no one, susceptible to being made a prisoner again. He would take her with him. The alternative would be to remain here with her, should things turn that way. He's had that thought more than once, even before this.

"For now, she has the chance of something better than she's had in far too long. Imperfect as it is."

He gives a slight incline of his head at that, accepting it if clearly uneasy.

"We have improved matters, I hope. We give her no commands, we ask nothing of her."

Yet she is still... in her undead state. Still required to follow them. She is not, truly, free. He frowns in thought, dropping his eyes to the table.

"There were so few dragons left in Serthica. She's different to them, too. How many of her own are left, if any? Where are they? She might not even know, if she's been under Rathakku's control a long time."

He's projecting now, he knows. Seeing things where he has no particular evidence. Yet all the same, he remembers vividly the fall of his own flight. Dragons sent spiralling into madness, slain then dragged back as undead creatures to continue fighting.

He wouldn't want that for himself. That's why he made people promise him -- promise, back when the beastmaster terrorised them, not to allow him to hurt anyone. Whatever it took, if he lost control, he wouldn't want to be allowed to hurt anyone.

Even if that meant the end.

"Lonely business, that. Being the last of your kind."

There's far more going on beneath the surface for Wrathion, he suspects, and the Doctor takes careful note of it all. Their conversation is a bit on the nose in more than one way, and though it may have taken him a bit of time to get around to the finer details, he's not unaware of what he presumes to be a far more intimate knowledge of what Irenia may have to contend with.

"Happy at first, being free, but left in solitude for so long, under threat, well, it would drive even the most peaceful creatures to madness, anger, weariness. I know a bit about that, too. The fear of it."

Pushing off from the table, the Doctor paces in a slow circle, coming back to the heart of the matter, as it were.

"You'll tell me if I'm wrong—though I doubt I am—but I suspect you understand it far too well yourself. The undead creatures of your world, Irenia's fate—are there any others like her left? Are there any on your world like you that remain, Wrathion?"

Wrathion straightens a little at that, arms lifting from the table to fold over his chest and body language stiffening.

He's never said, directly, that he wasn't human -- but perhaps he's given himself away in other ways. They did discuss the Doctor being mortal, but regenerating, and he mentioned he thinks that he hadn't observed timeway based powers in mortal races. He'd displayed use of magic, but humans can use magic in Azeroth. Perhaps they cannot in the Doctor's experience? In Hermione's world, not all humans can. Or is it the eyes? Glowing eyes from exposure to high power magic sources in not uncommon in Azeroth, but seems to draw attention here.

Equally, he supposes, it's entirely possible the Doctor thinks he is human but his country has fallen and he's only similar in that respect. A population mostly wiped out by an invading undead army, the last of his people rather than a... species. He'll assume its that. He's totally got this. His cover is brilliant. His overinvestment in the undead dragon is just a coincidence, clearly, never mind the fact that Red already saw directly through it.

"We have undead lords on my world," he says, "and undead who have freed themselves of the control of undead lords. I have observed the cycle before, of those being captured, then freed and no longer quite belonging anywhere. We have a whole city the free undead took it upon themselves to congregate in, to populate as a new united faction. They call themselves the Forsaken."

Perhaps this information will distract the Doctor from the fact that Wrathion did not, in fact, answer part of that question. He does seem easily distracted.

It's all very fascinating and he almost—almost—latches onto it, because he does genuinely want to know more about that, too. He can be distracted easily, it's true, and it might have worked under different circumstances.

"I'm bookmarking that, for the record," the Doctor notes. "The Forsaken, we'll come back to that."

And they will, yes, but now he's locked onto Wrathion himself, for better or worse.

"I'm very old, as you know. Been around, seen a lot. Your magic—or what I know of it—is unique. Fascinating, extraordinary. Stick with me a moment, eh," the Doctor settles back against the table again, arms folded.

"Your red eyes—lovely—the dragon pendant, an understanding you seem to have not only of Irenia, but with her. The carefully crafted instrument suited to her specifically, the tokens you've made to help people fly. So much like a dragon. But here you stand before me, not a dragon. The rest of my point, I'm getting to it. I've met many species in the universe that could change form, shapeshift: Kymbra Chimera, Zygons, Axons, Rutans, I could go on. Different mechanisms, of course, different adaptations, but all variations on a theme."

The Doctor's eyes are both curious and soft. "So! You're a dragon in a different form. I'm sure I'm right, but I'm also sure and will insist that you have nothing to fear from me." Secret that it is; many must already know. "Secrets keep us safe, I know all about that. You can lie to me if you want, deflect, ignore all of it, you don't have to say anything else at all in fact if you'd prefer. You could stand there and glare or raise a withering and skeptical eyebrow, but I've found moments of truth don't have to be as terrifying as we imagine."

Ah, yes, because the Doctor is always so excellent at this himself, of course.

The simmering tension stays within Wrathion, increasing as the Doctor continues to talk until his top lip begins to twitch. Like a cornered animal ready to bare its teeth, he has an air of being braced to do something.

He controls it, just about, lets out a slow breath and runs his tongue over his teeth as he decides what to say.

"A small number are aware," he admits.

Anduin, Hermione, Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji and Red. Emilia perhaps, he's so far avoided talking to her about the fine detail of what she understood. The members of the tower team who saw him change by necessity, Strange and Stephanivien. The number is, slowly, growing. He's not entirely sure how he feels about that.

He's hit a nerve, obviously, he doesn't miss that particular cue, at least. No doubt the Doctor himself would feel a similar sort of way, and he has. But—good, he thinks. Best to get it out. He respects the need to keep secrets, he won't betray anything Wrathion's told him, but there's no need to hide from him, either. Everyone just needs to see it his way, of course.

"And what we know will be kept safe," the Doctor adds to reassure. Though, perhaps little comfort. "And you, your kind—are you all that's left?"

Though the question is asked with care, with a gentleness of tone, the Doctor isn't unaware that it's still intrusive and likely not altogether comfortable. It's not a subject he particularly enjoys himself, yet if he's at all correct, in some fashion perhaps they would share an understanding in this.

Wrathion frowns, worrying his tongue against his teeth. He wants to argue this isn't relevant, that it's unnecessary information. Yet people do, he's learned, like to talk about this sort of thing. To offer sympathy.

Sympathy has never helped Wrathion. Never brought back dead dragons, never solved a crisis, never made him feel better.

Still, he can indulge it if he must.

"I have one brother," he admits. Ebyssian. He's new to his life, only recently come forward, but Wrathion is glad to have him -- as different as they may be.

On some level, the Doctor is aware that it's not his business and Wrathion doesn't owe him more explanation, but that's never stopped him before. He could sympathize openly to a certain extent, perhaps, though how much he chooses to share of his own losses is always variable.

"I know a bit about that. Not the brother part. Well, I did once." The tips of his fingers skirt along the edge of the table for a moment. If they're sharing, well...he should share, too. He should. He's not always good at that, either, and only in certain moments. But if ever there was a time. "They're gone. I understand that, and I'm sorry."

In what way does he understand? He doesn't elaborate. It's definitely not important or anything.

"What you are, what you've shared, I don't take it lightly. Your secret is protected, and you'll be protected if I have anything to say about it. And I do have quite a lot to say, generally, as you well know."

"Quite alright," Wrathion says, in something of a tense undertone. "I've protected myself for quite some time now."

He's a black dragon, he doesn't need protecting. He protects other people, that's how it's all meant to work. How it should have worked, would have if everything hadn't all gone horribly wrong. He drops his gaze to begin packing up, movements stiff.

"You may think you understand, Doctor, but I sincerely doubt we are the same. Most of my kind died by my own hand."

There's something of a threat there, a warning. Don't underestimate me. Wrathion is capable of being dangerous. He may be here, mourning a creature he barely knows, sleeplessly trying to keep their party alive and together but he has done terrible things before. Will likely do terrible things again, in the pursuit of his greater good. Of the bigger picture, as he sees it.

And there they arrive at last, at a point the Doctor couldn't have entirely predicted when they'd started, but it satisfies the curiosity and the part of him that fully believed there was more beneath the surface.

"Well," the Doctor's lips briefly curve upward as though a darkened and humorless smile might make an appearance, but just as quickly, it's gone and his eyes are a starless night, his entire form tense as he grips the edge of the table.

"I know a bit about that, too. More than I'd ever care to, or for anyone else to, either, being honest." Jaw taut as he speaks, his words are a bit more halting than usual.

He doesn't admit this to people, he simply does not. Oh, the part about being the last, yes, he'll come around to it eventually, less easily than in his previous life. But this, this, this is a secret few know. And is he really going to share with Wrathion, is he honestly about to? He doesn't have to, he doesn't owe him anything at all, yet as guarded as the one across from him has been, he's shared this much about himself and doesn't he warrant the same in turn?

A question that will haunt him long past their time together here.

"I'm the last of my kind, Wrathion, and I'm the reason for it."

Wrathion frowns at the first comment, then slowly lifts his eyes as the Doctor clarifies.

The last of his kind. The reason for it.

Not something he expected, in truth, from the man's demeanour. Then again, do people expect it from him? He couldn't say. What manner should someone who had done such a thing even have? What would be expected?

Blood is not always visible on hands, even when you can feel it. The stain of it, the creep of corruption.

"Not everyone has the stomach to do what must be done," he offers. "Sometimes, some of us must stand alone against the darkness so that others may bask in the light."

Edited (just noticed that typo) 2023-05-19 18:43 (UTC)

Some of us must stand alone. Too right. Unfortunately.

He certainly hadn't expected the conversation to turn in this manner, either, but now he feels a strange and unfortunate connection to Wrathion borne of tragedy and mutual blood on their hands. For the greater good. Certainly a Pyrrhic victory, and not a win at all, at least in the Doctor's mind. No one really won the Time War, but it was a war against death itself, in the end, and so the universe going on at all was a triumph.

"And we don't stop. We can't. The darkness is always there chasing the light, the universe always needs saving, the choices always need to be made."

Curious as ever, the Doctor wants more context for what happened to Wrathion's people, but his own words tell him enough. Enough for now.

"You're not standing alone, Wrathion. Not here. And that's all we have at the moment."

What happens beyond this when they eventually leave here, the Doctor can't say. He imagines he'll be alone again himself because that's the fate always waiting for him; hard to imagine otherwise when you've seen the beginning and end of everything.

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framing your tag btw it was everything I never knew I always wanted

Just The Right Amount of Suffering

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