It was certainly strange, having both the Horde and Alliance sitting together, being flanked on one side by a mysterious shal’dorei from Suramar and on the other by a rather rough-hewn dwarf who looked like he was still a couple of ales away from being friendly towards anyone, but if there was any cause for jubilation the defeat of the Burning Legion was definitely one of those. Tanthelara chuckled quietly to herself as the nightborne crinkled his nose while a couple of Forsaken hunters walked past.
A thick, green arm thrust suddenly into the air, ale spilling from the brim of the tankard it held. “To the defeat of the Legion!” the orc shouted, “and glory to those who fell in the fight!”
“To the defeat of the Legion!” another voice shouted, this one a human.
“Aye, to th’ Legion!” bellowed the dwarf next to her, who followed up with a string of profanity-laden insults aimed at the demons and their fallen titan master. His deep voice resonated in her delicate chest and hurt her elven ears. She cast a hateful glare his way.
“Sorry about that. Yer brethren in th’ World Tree are a bit more hardy ‘an yer kin. I’ll try t’ be more considerate in th’ future.” he shouted at her. Even over the rabble, he apparently didn’t know how to control his volume.
Tanthelara sighed and upended the glass of Dalaran Red she had been nursing for nearly the past hour, trying to control the grimace that manifested on her face as the alcohol trickled down her throat. It was horribly dry and clawed on her tongue, with a burn afterwards that felt like drinking ashes. Humans may make great mages, but they make terrible wines.
The expression on her face must have been obvious as the dwarf took notice.
“Try this, elf” he said, offering her his stein of frothy amber liquid, “it’s mead! Most of my kin ‘n’ friends poke fun at me for not likin’ ale but this’ll get yer thrashed just as good as anythin’ else! Straight from Dun Morough, too!” his enthusiasm was tangible. Not wanting to spark trouble, she accepted the offer and held it up to her nose for a sniff. Not too bad, she thought - there was the expected fermented smell, coupled with a light gaminess she expected from such crude people as the dwarves, but also had a light resinous, pine note too. She closed her eyes and sipped it, letting the sweetness coat her tongue and fill her palate. It was like breathing in the air of mulled cider over a campfire in a pine forest. Not her fancy, but certainly not as bad as she initially thought.
She opened her eyes and lowered the drink, the dwarf smiling and beaming as he came into view.
“Aye, ye like that? Much better ‘an the swill th’ uppity folks here in Dalaran make.” he said, his demeanor changing remarkably fast. She could only imagine what was going through his little bearded mind.
“That’s much better!” she said, trying to talk over the commotion of the party going on in the background.
“Go on, keep it” replied the dwarf, “th’ name’s Thorgug. I got more where tha came from” he said as he withdrew a large sheep’s bladder from his pack and patted it gingerly.
Tanthelara drank from the stein again. There was a certain rustic charm to it, as in all things that are similarly hewn. It was hardly bitter at all, and the alcoholic burn actually flowed well into the more aromatic notes while the drink overall kept enough harshness to make its presence known.
“Thorgug, huh” she said, her face beginning to flush from the wine she had downed earlier.
“Aye, me kins call me ‘Thor’.” the dwarf responded, taking a gulp of mead from the bladder.
She scoffed slightly. “I am not your friend, Thorgug, so what do you propose I call you?”
The dwarf capped his drink, thin streams of mead dribbling down his beard. “…anything you want.” As if to punctuate his intentions, he placed his rough, large-for-the-body hand on her delicate leg.
Almost by instinct, Tanthelara slapped him across his face, raking her nails into his cheek. “Do you think me to be that loose, to sleep with you after one drink?” she exclaimed, sobriety returning to her in the adrenaline rush.
The dwarf rubbed his cheek and wiped away the traces of blood her nails had left. “Wha-? Ah, no! I was jus’ bein friendly and thinkin’ you might want to be, too, for someone sharin’ their personal stash wit’ ye and savin’ ye from the hogwash being served.”
She finished the stein and handed it back to the dwarf. “Your ‘friendliness’ is unwelcome, dwarf” she scowled.
Thorgug sighed and took another swig of his mead. “I’m sorry. It was too brash o’ me to think you’d be easy like tha. It’s just with th’ Legion gone now an’ so much that has happened here recently, I was thinkin’ that maybe Fate was shinin’ 'er countinance on me”.
A server - an arcane elemental - glided past and offered Tanthelara another drink. She politely declined, rambling about how ridiculous it was that the humans of Dalaran could learn any school of magic but couldn’t make a wine that didn’t want to make her rip her tongue out in disgust. Moments later, she felt a nudge on her arm. It was the dwarf, holding the filled stein out as an offering to her and maintaining his gaze straight ahead.
“Here.” he sighed as she accepted the drink. “Again, I’m sorry. Despite it all, I’d think meself to be a horrible dwarf if I let a delicate flower like yourself suffer any more of tha’ swill.”
She sipped on it and turned to him. “Tanthelara. Most people just call me ‘Tan’ because apparently the Thalassian dialect is too difficult for everyone.”
“Aye, that is a beautiful name. Tanthelara…” he said, the last few syllables slurring on his tongue, “it flows so well, with beauty and grace like yerself.”
She chuckled. He is persistent she thought.
“But enough with the pleasantries.” the dwarf said, returning to his drink. “Ye can call me Gug. That’s wha’ most really call me. ‘Thor’ jus’ sounds so much more heroic and epic, like thunder and lightnin’.”
The two sat and talked as the party outside their little bubble raged on. They talked about their homes and their fights against the Legion, about their journeys in years past and some of the more lighthearted moments when the factions collided. She learned he was the youngest of five brothers and had one sister, of how his father was a brave warrior who died at the hands of the Scourge while in Northrend, and how his mother made the absolute best pies that could be found anywhere in Dun Morough or in Stormwind. She found herself becoming more comfortable around him, commenting about his beard and the intricate braiding around various runestones that must have taken considerable effort to perfect. They laughed and joked and enjoyed each other’s company as the party inevitably began to dwindle down.
She sat next to him, an arm draped over his broad shoulders and twirling his beard between the fingers on her other hand. It felt good getting to know this strange dwarf, and seeing that this former enemy wasn’t a monster to be reviled or a threat to existence to be eradicated. He was a person just like herself.
As she stood up to excuse herself, she leaned over to the dwarf and, with a sly wink, whispered into his ear.
“Normally I only ride on epic mounts, but it’s not every day you defeat the Burning Legion and share drinks and stories with an enemy… so, let’s talk…”
((whoa, this was much longer than anticipated! Thanks for reading this far, and hope you enjoyed it!))