A stream of muttered cursing flowed from the balcony outside Tiradell and Tanakyll’s Orgrimmar apartment. Tiradell lay on his back, wiping the latest stream of thick oil off his face. “Why it couldn’t have been a halfway competent kidnapper, but no, I get the mad possessed one,” he scowled, throwing the filthy rag onto a pile of other filthy rags. Despite the swearing and the mangled pile of metal and parts that used to be his flying machine, Tiradell smiled, recalling the aerial pursuit.
The pen was mocking him; Tiradell was sure of it. He sat there, looking between the pen and the paper. This was always the hardest part of the week; thinking back to make his report. Sometimes it was easy, merely informing General Sunlash of his observations and what had been done. Other times, it was like composing a song, delicate and complicated. Tiradell sighed, then placed the pen down against the paper, writing out what came to mind, his memory flashing back to the events of the week.