The fall of Stormwind and it's King was spoken of everywhere, the resignation of the Guardian of Azeroth from his position as the head of the Council of Six too. No one could find him, though he supposed that was the point. Khadgar did not want to he found. It was an extreme reaction to the devastation that some would say was unwarranted, but the Archmage knew that it was the least he could do.
Within the losses of Stormwind and Gilneas, that were numerous, the more pronounced ones were the murder of the Archmage Kalec, Lorna Crowley, Mia Greymane, Anduin Wrynn, Tess Greymane and various other Stormwind leaders. On Tess and Anduin's wedding day, no less. He remembered how grey it was on the day they put them to rest, there were no bodies – like Varian, there had been nothing to do it with. He thought the sky around Stormwind was weeping for the priest-king that sought peace for his people and the others, for the daughters, the archmage, the mother and everything else that Sylvanas had destroyed.
Khadgar's chest hurt just thinking about it. He knew he had been an emotionless hack that day, speaking quiet words to the survivors and other leaders that drew themselves around it. Going through the motions, he thinks Modera called it, that he was so overwhelmed by grief – by misplaced guilt, that it was the only way he could manage everything.
He caused that, his mind had (and still did) continuously reminded him of it, the voice sounding suspiciously like Medivh, it was his fault.
He couldn't even refute it, not even a single protest was able to be made. Not like it could be for the death of Medivh at his and Lothar's hands or the death of Lothar at the hands of an orc. There was no excuse for it and he-- He knew there was nothing he could do to repent for it. That much had been made clear by the weight of the Worgen King knocking him to the ground and hissing his, "this is why you don't trust those abominations," into his face when the plague had dissipated enough that they could seek any – unlikely – survivors.
The white haired male had wondered if Genn was going to kill him for what he did. He hadn't and Khadgar wondered why not, even now he did. He was the one agreeing with the young Wrynn, advocating for peace and even thinking the idea to invite Sylvanas, the Warchief of the Horde, was a good show of faith. That she would come to the wedding and sway others into thinking the same as them.
Khadgar regretted it now as he pulled his knees to the chest, leaning his back up against the cold, damp cave wall that was serving to hide him away from the rest of the world. There was a half banked fire pit directly in front of him, flames flickering up to touch the wood once in a while, though it did nothing to stave off the bone-deep chill that had taken him over. There were papers strewn all around him, covered in shaky near illegible writing and smudged ink, from where freezing hands could not stay steady and well, the man could not be bothered to actually rewrite any of it.
His blue robes were ripped in places from attacks of wandering demons that came to close to the cave that he fended off without his trusty greatstaff – one he felt he also thought he didn't deserve anymore. Parts of his face were covered in dirt and he had a long, scabbed over cut against his temple and blood matted hair pressed to it in places. His once lively gaze was hollow, blue eyes catching the glint of dying embers and lighting them up, but he was focused on something.
Sylvanas, of course, he was focused on how to make her pay for what she did. Anger rose from the mourning like a tidal wave, though it too was cursed to fade into apathy before long, but for the moment... It had him look actually alive for a short while. His hands reached for the pestle and mortar that he had for making the ink he was using, as well as more of the terrocone he had gathered the last time he ventured from his hide-away in Terrokar forest, noting to himself that he would need to go and forage more of them in a short while. Perhaps kill something for it's meat and cook it if the anger lasted long enough, though he was not sure it would.
He growled to himself, stopping his milling to throw the pestle across the cave, seeing the edge of a shadow flickering along the edge, hoping to catch whatever intruder off guard and drive them off without extending much magic. He was so tired, he wasn't even sure when the last time he slept properly was and he didn't know if he truly had the strength for a proper fight.
Of course, maybe it would be better if they did manage to kill him. Though, he thought it might just be an adventurer looking for ore... He sighed softly, setting the mortar aside, curling his arms back around his knees and drawing them close to his chest, resting his forehead against them.
Khadgar thought about how long he had spent in the cave, it was almost a month, maybe more. Hiding from the world, hiding from responsibility that no one would actively put on him. Maybe the other Council members decided to put a reward out for his return, though he did not want to, not before he could extract the perfect revenge upon the bloody Forsaken that drove him out there in the first place.
"Leave," he managed, voice harsh from being unused for so long and his throat was dry. "If you have a brain, you will leave."
Greytrust - Miri
Within the losses of Stormwind and Gilneas, that were numerous, the more pronounced ones were the murder of the Archmage Kalec, Lorna Crowley, Mia Greymane, Anduin Wrynn, Tess Greymane and various other Stormwind leaders. On Tess and Anduin's wedding day, no less. He remembered how grey it was on the day they put them to rest, there were no bodies – like Varian, there had been nothing to do it with. He thought the sky around Stormwind was weeping for the priest-king that sought peace for his people and the others, for the daughters, the archmage, the mother and everything else that Sylvanas had destroyed.
Khadgar's chest hurt just thinking about it. He knew he had been an emotionless hack that day, speaking quiet words to the survivors and other leaders that drew themselves around it. Going through the motions, he thinks Modera called it, that he was so overwhelmed by grief – by misplaced guilt, that it was the only way he could manage everything.
He caused that, his mind had (and still did) continuously reminded him of it, the voice sounding suspiciously like Medivh, it was his fault.
He couldn't even refute it, not even a single protest was able to be made. Not like it could be for the death of Medivh at his and Lothar's hands or the death of Lothar at the hands of an orc. There was no excuse for it and he-- He knew there was nothing he could do to repent for it. That much had been made clear by the weight of the Worgen King knocking him to the ground and hissing his, "this is why you don't trust those abominations," into his face when the plague had dissipated enough that they could seek any – unlikely – survivors.
The white haired male had wondered if Genn was going to kill him for what he did. He hadn't and Khadgar wondered why not, even now he did. He was the one agreeing with the young Wrynn, advocating for peace and even thinking the idea to invite Sylvanas, the Warchief of the Horde, was a good show of faith. That she would come to the wedding and sway others into thinking the same as them.
Khadgar regretted it now as he pulled his knees to the chest, leaning his back up against the cold, damp cave wall that was serving to hide him away from the rest of the world. There was a half banked fire pit directly in front of him, flames flickering up to touch the wood once in a while, though it did nothing to stave off the bone-deep chill that had taken him over. There were papers strewn all around him, covered in shaky near illegible writing and smudged ink, from where freezing hands could not stay steady and well, the man could not be bothered to actually rewrite any of it.
His blue robes were ripped in places from attacks of wandering demons that came to close to the cave that he fended off without his trusty greatstaff – one he felt he also thought he didn't deserve anymore. Parts of his face were covered in dirt and he had a long, scabbed over cut against his temple and blood matted hair pressed to it in places. His once lively gaze was hollow, blue eyes catching the glint of dying embers and lighting them up, but he was focused on something.
Sylvanas, of course, he was focused on how to make her pay for what she did. Anger rose from the mourning like a tidal wave, though it too was cursed to fade into apathy before long, but for the moment... It had him look actually alive for a short while. His hands reached for the pestle and mortar that he had for making the ink he was using, as well as more of the terrocone he had gathered the last time he ventured from his hide-away in Terrokar forest, noting to himself that he would need to go and forage more of them in a short while. Perhaps kill something for it's meat and cook it if the anger lasted long enough, though he was not sure it would.
He growled to himself, stopping his milling to throw the pestle across the cave, seeing the edge of a shadow flickering along the edge, hoping to catch whatever intruder off guard and drive them off without extending much magic. He was so tired, he wasn't even sure when the last time he slept properly was and he didn't know if he truly had the strength for a proper fight.
Of course, maybe it would be better if they did manage to kill him. Though, he thought it might just be an adventurer looking for ore... He sighed softly, setting the mortar aside, curling his arms back around his knees and drawing them close to his chest, resting his forehead against them.
Khadgar thought about how long he had spent in the cave, it was almost a month, maybe more. Hiding from the world, hiding from responsibility that no one would actively put on him. Maybe the other Council members decided to put a reward out for his return, though he did not want to, not before he could extract the perfect revenge upon the bloody Forsaken that drove him out there in the first place.
"Leave," he managed, voice harsh from being unused for so long and his throat was dry. "If you have a brain, you will leave."