Wrathion is no stranger to Winter Veil celebrations, but this... is supposedly not Winter Veil. It's... Christmas, although it feels very familiar to him. The same colours are favoured, styles of decoration. If he hadn't been told otherwise, he'd assume it was Winter Veil by appearances alone.
This... tree, though. Wrathion sits watching the ceremony with a frown as he studies the interplay between all the people here. Quite interesting, he thinks that they do not appear to be totally in harmony -- if the gentleman drinking is any indication.
There's a burst of applause, the tree is revealed, and as everyone gets up to rush to the queue Wrathion lingers back. His black leather jacket and loosely wrapped scarf are only just about keeping him tolerably warm, but mostly he appears to be eyeing the tree.
"Are these considered... Fashionable?"
There's a barely disguised note of disdain to the question, one that clearly communicates that he cannot imagine why they would be.
ii. CHRISTMAS VILLAGE
The teleportation is... irritating, and at first Wrathion wonders if he has escaped this place entirely at last. It's unfortunate to find the hasn't. Instead, he's simply in a colder part of Santa Rosita, and the light t-shirt under his leather jacket isn't cutting it. Zipping it up with a gentle tch of frustration Wrathion wades out into the crowds, curious enough to at least see what might be of interest here. He gravitates quickly toward the bar, buying some hot chocolate to try and keep his hands warm, then curiously explores the rest of the activities.
He pauses by the stand to watch people wreathing... garlands and wreaths of some sort, presumably for seasonal decoration. There's an art to it, he realises, and that piques his interest enough to have him stopping and setting down his drink to begin curiously twining. There's a careful confidence to his the movement of his hands that speaks of someone used to crafting (although, admittedly, his crafts are usually more... purposeful than decorative wreathes) and in a few minutes he stops and examines his finished product.
It has, perhaps, slightly less flourish than some of the examples the representatives have hung up -- but that's simply his own taste. The added tinsel on theirs is rather gaudy in his opinion. Almost as bad as the aluminium tree.
He now unfortunately has a wreath he hasn't much interest in.
Wrathion glances around, then looks to the closest person by him considering the stand.
"Perhaps I can save you some trouble," he offers, and holds out the one he made.
iii. SKATING -- CLOSED TO ANDUIN
Wrathion has, admittedly, never been ice skating in his life. He's simply been far too busy to indulge in these peculiar seasonal activities, and besides which -- skating is of no use to him. It is not a skill that would benefit him, a dragon. Were he to encounter ice, he could simply melt it or fly over it!
Currently, he can do neither.
The enthusiastic people by the rink have talked Wrathion into putting on a pair of skates and getting onto the ice. Currently, he is holding onto the edge with a vice-like grip and trying to balance. They are, repeatedly, trying to encourage him to let go.
"I will do so when I am ready," he snaps back, and tries to move a little once more. It is... more difficult than it looks to balance. Wrathion instantly realises this was a mistake -- he's cold, his muscles are tense enough that he's already aching, and worst of all he's risking embarrassing himself thanks to pushy people dressed poorly as some sort of elf.
Glancing up and across the ice Wrathion pauses suddenly, eyes catching on a flash of blond hair and broad shoulders. Then blue eyes.
Wrathion forgets how to breathe.
Then, how to balance.
He wobbles, flails out his hands and grips the boarding around the ice rink as his feet escape out from under him. There's a bright, tinkling peel of laughter from the elves and Wrathion's fluster turns to irritation as he scrabbles to get his balance back.
"Yes, very funny," he snaps, and his eyes shoot nervously back to Anduin.
iv. THE MAYOR'S GALA
Some of the garments on display are, in Wrathion's opinion, absolutely terrible.
He's barely managed to escape scrutiny in his red and black suit, which has far more colour than he'd like but beggars can't be choosers. The black waistcoat goes some way to making it tolerable, but he misses having his own clothing, and he misses being more often around tolerable people.
He lingers by the drinks, sipping sadly non-alcoholic punch and trying to strike up casual conversation every now and then.
"Chief Harding seems rather tired tonight," he prompts carefully of the newest person to duck in beside him. He lifts newly-hazel eyes up to his companion and offers a wry smile. "I wonder if he's simply exhausted from enjoying the seasonal celebrations too much."
It isn't that at all, but you can't just open with suggesting someone is drinking due to how dire the whole thing is.
Wrathion | World of Warcraft
Wrathion is no stranger to Winter Veil celebrations, but this... is supposedly not Winter Veil. It's... Christmas, although it feels very familiar to him. The same colours are favoured, styles of decoration. If he hadn't been told otherwise, he'd assume it was Winter Veil by appearances alone.
This... tree, though. Wrathion sits watching the ceremony with a frown as he studies the interplay between all the people here. Quite interesting, he thinks that they do not appear to be totally in harmony -- if the gentleman drinking is any indication.
There's a burst of applause, the tree is revealed, and as everyone gets up to rush to the queue Wrathion lingers back. His black leather jacket and loosely wrapped scarf are only just about keeping him tolerably warm, but mostly he appears to be eyeing the tree.
"Are these considered... Fashionable?"
There's a barely disguised note of disdain to the question, one that clearly communicates that he cannot imagine why they would be.
ii. CHRISTMAS VILLAGE
The teleportation is... irritating, and at first Wrathion wonders if he has escaped this place entirely at last. It's unfortunate to find the hasn't. Instead, he's simply in a colder part of Santa Rosita, and the light t-shirt under his leather jacket isn't cutting it. Zipping it up with a gentle tch of frustration Wrathion wades out into the crowds, curious enough to at least see what might be of interest here. He gravitates quickly toward the bar, buying some hot chocolate to try and keep his hands warm, then curiously explores the rest of the activities.
He pauses by the stand to watch people wreathing... garlands and wreaths of some sort, presumably for seasonal decoration. There's an art to it, he realises, and that piques his interest enough to have him stopping and setting down his drink to begin curiously twining. There's a careful confidence to his the movement of his hands that speaks of someone used to crafting (although, admittedly, his crafts are usually more... purposeful than decorative wreathes) and in a few minutes he stops and examines his finished product.
It has, perhaps, slightly less flourish than some of the examples the representatives have hung up -- but that's simply his own taste. The added tinsel on theirs is rather gaudy in his opinion. Almost as bad as the aluminium tree.
He now unfortunately has a wreath he hasn't much interest in.
Wrathion glances around, then looks to the closest person by him considering the stand.
"Perhaps I can save you some trouble," he offers, and holds out the one he made.
iii. SKATING -- CLOSED TO ANDUIN
Wrathion has, admittedly, never been ice skating in his life. He's simply been far too busy to indulge in these peculiar seasonal activities, and besides which -- skating is of no use to him. It is not a skill that would benefit him, a dragon. Were he to encounter ice, he could simply melt it or fly over it!
Currently, he can do neither.
The enthusiastic people by the rink have talked Wrathion into putting on a pair of skates and getting onto the ice. Currently, he is holding onto the edge with a vice-like grip and trying to balance. They are, repeatedly, trying to encourage him to let go.
"I will do so when I am ready," he snaps back, and tries to move a little once more. It is... more difficult than it looks to balance. Wrathion instantly realises this was a mistake -- he's cold, his muscles are tense enough that he's already aching, and worst of all he's risking embarrassing himself thanks to pushy people dressed poorly as some sort of elf.
Glancing up and across the ice Wrathion pauses suddenly, eyes catching on a flash of blond hair and broad shoulders. Then blue eyes.
Wrathion forgets how to breathe.
Then, how to balance.
He wobbles, flails out his hands and grips the boarding around the ice rink as his feet escape out from under him. There's a bright, tinkling peel of laughter from the elves and Wrathion's fluster turns to irritation as he scrabbles to get his balance back.
"Yes, very funny," he snaps, and his eyes shoot nervously back to Anduin.
iv. THE MAYOR'S GALA
Some of the garments on display are, in Wrathion's opinion, absolutely terrible.
He's barely managed to escape scrutiny in his red and black suit, which has far more colour than he'd like but beggars can't be choosers. The black waistcoat goes some way to making it tolerable, but he misses having his own clothing, and he misses being more often around tolerable people.
He lingers by the drinks, sipping sadly non-alcoholic punch and trying to strike up casual conversation every now and then.
"Chief Harding seems rather tired tonight," he prompts carefully of the newest person to duck in beside him. He lifts newly-hazel eyes up to his companion and offers a wry smile. "I wonder if he's simply exhausted from enjoying the seasonal celebrations too much."
It isn't that at all, but you can't just open with suggesting someone is drinking due to how dire the whole thing is.