Zebodah had come to find there were three kinds of burns. They were different. They seldom occurred at the same time. They should always be avoided.
Collaboration w/ @druidickats
She couldn’t bear it. This...unholy situation.
This preparation...and waiting.
This rescue mission that had turned into a political standoff.
This feeling of utter uselessness.
Jeanne growled to herself and loosened the shawl from around her shoulders as she trudged aimlessly through the camp. The Cape of Stranglethorn felt even more humid at night than during the day. It was nearly pitch black, save for the many torches and lanterns that provided some light in this darkness, with the songs of crickets and exotic birds the only present noises in the deathly silent jungle. Her only company were the occasional mix of Alliance and Horde sentries on duty that she would pass without acknowledgement.
At least Varian was there, even if he was just as, if not more, stressed and angry. And arguing with that old troll had become routine. Both kept her grounded in reality, in this nightmare.
The druid missed Anduin...and Nadia...but especially Anduin. Any mention of their kidnapping at the hands of the Gurubashi was enough to get her blood boiling and her heart aching.
She and Zebodah should have never left them alone. Never.
Another sound punctured the night air. The soft pop of a cork, which soon bounced into her path and stopped her in her tracks. Her head turned at the sound of sloshing liquid, and a part of her regretted looking.
Two, three...four, no, five empty glass bottles laid slain around the troll as he sat propped up against supply crates, reminding Jeanne of a summoning circle. More stood at attention atop the other crates, their bright blood and banners ready to be put to use. Rum, bourbon, colorful neon spirits that were clearly Goblin made, tequila...
Zebodah’s head was tipped back, resting lazily on the crate as he let bottle number six drain down his throat. Jeanne could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down with each swallow, keeping the rhythm, not stopping for a single breath until the liquor was half gone.
“Well...” he drawled, finally noticing Jeanne standing a few feet away out of his bloodshot eyes. His mouth twisted into a wicked grin after a hiccup escaped past his lips, “If it ain’t da flea-ridden pup.”
