Ramerian: After the Blight
“This mess reminds me of Northrend.” A large black dragon sprawled on a rocky outcropping, overlooking the Ruins of Lordaeron. He raised a scarred head and sniffed the wind critically, before snorting softly. “It has the same smell. Old rot and vile plagues. Worse things wriggling in the dark.” Ramerian shudders. “It ought to be put to the fire. Cleanse it in flame.”
A younger, less scarred red drake shook his head softly. Lutheristrasz’s voice was sad. “We’ve all lost power since the Dragon Soul was destroyed. It would take an army of us to bring new life to that place. And we can ill afford the attention that would bring.”
“Who said anything about bringing new life?” Ramerian growled at the suggestion. “I just think we ought to burn whatever is left down there before it mutates.” He pushed himself to his feet and stared down balefully at the ruins. He imagined he could see the undead still moving about in the clouds of toxic green gas. He gave another low, throaty growl, and flames licked along his teeth. His claws flexed against the rocks as if they were already ripping through undead flesh. “The only difference between the Banshee Queen and the Lich King is opportunity.”
“It would still attract attention.” Lutheristrasz, too, got to his feet, but only so that he could block Ramerian’s view of the remains of the Undercity.
Ramerian growled. He drew himself up to his full height, and the red drake for a moment wondered if he’d made a mistake. Lutheristrasz was suddenly very aware that the big, black dragon still bore the scars of previous wars, and the look in his eye was less than kind. Ramerian the Cruel, he’d been called. But then Ramerian just nodded, and he sank back down to the warm stones. “Perhaps you’re right. I enjoy my place in Suramar. I’d be loathe to leave it over...whatever it is the Banshee Queen thinks she’s playing at.” Ramerian sneered, a flash of sharp, yellowed teeth.
Lutheristrasz gave a relieved sigh. He wouldn’t be losing his throat today, at least. Even with the black dragon “cured”, albeit for an unknown duration, and no longer hearing voices of the old gods, his temper was as mercurial as the volcanoes his flight favored, and his magic was much stronger than the young red dragon could handle alone. He suggested softly, “Perhaps we ought to return. I imagine they’ll be looking for both of us back at the Repose.”Â
Ramerian shook his head and pushed himself again to his feet. He crouched, preparing to take off. “You can, if you like. I’m headed back to Orgrimmar. I’m going to volunteer Thuvial Merqestris to join the Horde army. When Sylvannas finally pushes things too far, I want to be there to watch her fall.”
Lutheristrasz gave a soft, uncertain rumble. “...Very well. I’ll come with you. At the very least, I ought to divert attention from you. Your magic still isn’t up for intense scrutiny.”
The black dragon growled and launched himself into the air. “Thank you for reminding me. At least the blue dragons of Azsuna were...not inclined to let the pipsqueak know I was in the area.”
