Lionguards stand sentry in the shattered shell of the vault. Guarding the money. They have their orders. And their priorities.
The Trading Post awaits the return of the King Over The Water. Or the Charr Over The Fields, should we say.
Deep beneath the sea the great drill lies still, haloed with flickering auras as stuttering arcs of energy spit from the tip. What these lights portend is not yet known.
In the camps sentiment is hardening.
There will be consequences. There are always consequences.