I wrote this for Pill for following a regular blogging schedule. It will also, hopefully, jump start a horde-alliance conflict.
The Bloodelf couple in the stands kept to themselves, whispering in their language. They screeched with joy when a Sindoeri rider dehorsed a human flying the colors of Stormwind. Bricu stood nearby watching the match. What caught Bricu’s attention as he mounted his horse was the ribbon–braided white, blue and black–that all the riders for Lordaeron attached to their lance. It was a detail that did not escape the couple either.
“You see, my little thistleblossom, when we brought civilization to the Northmen, how quickly they debased even jousting?” the male whispered. “Few humans could ever stand up to an elven rider.” His plate armor was mirror-polished, and he wore the colors of Silvermoon proudly. His standard held ribbons memoralizing service to the Blood Knights as well as to his “service” against Kael’Thas. Bricu hated him on sight.
“Why did we even bother with them, Fortense?”
“A failed experiment in altruism…”
Bricu dismounted and strode quickly to the stands.
“Oi.” He said in Thalassian, “Get your history right, squire.”
“Oh look, the barbarian thinks it can speak our language!”
“His accent is terrible!” the female elf squealed, “make him stop!”
Bricu rolled his eyes. Fortense eagerly lept to his lady’s defense. He said, slowly and loudly, screaming in Bricu’s face.
“Did. You. Learn. Phonetically? Or. Are. You. An. Gnomish. Automaton. With. Free. Will?” her turned his, addressing the woman still in the stands, “You have to speak slowly to the northern humans. They are thick skulled and quick to anger. The loud noises can scare them into a deferential posture.”
Fortense turned back towards the now grinning northman.
Bricu slammed his forehead into the bridge of Fortense’s nose.
“Just sharin’ a wee bit o’altruism an’ civlization yeh slick eared ponce.”
Fortense collapsed to his knees, stunned at the amount of blood flowing from his nose. His lady rushed from the stands to his side, checking on her man’s shattered nose.
“You’re a monster!” She screamed.
“Yer the screechin’ harpy! I’m just the barbaric northman who refuses to be civilized.”
“I will show you civilization, you uncouth lout.” The blood elf mumbled something in a language Bricu did not understand, but he recognized the gestures. He reacted by slamming a gauntleted fist into the sorceresses mouth. She crumpled to the ground, next to Fortense.
“Oi. He’s the mouth breather. Yer the Teeth-eater.” Bricu said with a grin.
“And you, Sirrah, are removed from the Tourney.” Said a third voice. Bricu turned around and was starring directly at a lance. The owner of the lance, on back of a hippogryph, was in the armor of the Crusade, her helmet over her face. She stared down the length of the lance and announced, “Two assaults, Master Bittertongue. That is two weeks away from the tournament or the appropriate pennance.”
“The fuck? There’s pennance for hittin’ tossers an’ defendin’ oneself?”
“Concern yourself with your actions, Sirrah, not the the actions of others. Penance or removal?”
Bricu looked to the blood elves who were slowly coming to their feet. The urge to kick their legs out from under him nearly rivaled his fear of a lance to his face.
“Exile it is lass.” He reached into his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a cigarette with a few swift motions. “Give us a ride t’the flightmaster then?”
“If you have the energy to fight two spectators, you have the energy to walk the few yards to the flightmaster. We’ll fly behind you though and provide the proper guidance.”
“Proper guidance. Right. Just lower yer fuckin’ lance. I’m hoofin’ it.”
The Crusader lifted her lance to the rest position. She flew behind Bricu as he marched across the snow to the flight-master.
“Tell me.” The crusader said as he paid his gold to Dalaran, “was that worth it?”
Bricu turned back to the crusader. She was still mounted, her lance still at the ready. “Yeh want me t’say nah, it weren’t worth it? That I should be ‘shamed o’bein’ removed from yer tourney? S’ballacks. What the hell d’yeh hope t’accomplish with yer fuckin’ game here? T’teach t’tilt? T’channel their aggression an’ prejudice inta fightin’ skills? T’boost morale? All o’that? None o’it? Strewth. Fights like is are gonna happen–an’ they’re gonna keep on happenin’–till yeh let us folk represent what we lost?”
“And what is that?”
“Our home. Lordaeron is gone an’ the only way we remember it is through our ribbons. Yeh make us rub our wounds with salt here. We can’t tilt for our memories, but we can make others hurt. Till yeh let us do the former, we’ll enjoy the latter.”
The Crusader turned her hippogryph back towards the jousting grounds.
The flight master handed Bricu the reins of the hippogryph. She ran briefly, building up speed to take off into the air. Bricu had her buzz the grounds. He saluted the fellow from Lordaeron before soaring back to Dalaran.