Doldrus

Doldrus heard about the crisis in the Shimmering Coasts and immediately took action.

"I go," he announced to no one, because tortoi live alone and speak rarely. He gathered his potions, transmutation draughts, flame-converting elixirs, and concentrated toxins that could poison an army and set out from his cave in the Aria Badlands. He walked with purpose and determination and the absolute certainty that his alchemical mastery would turn the tide against the Conclave Arcana.

He walked very slowly.

When he arrived at Fenmoor Basin, the battlefield was empty. Bones littered the mud, broken weapons rusted in the muck, and scavengers picked through the remains.

"What happened?" Doldrus asked a local merchant.

"Battle ended weeks ago. Conclave forces withdrew. Battle's shifted to the Wild Northeast now. Some water mage named Jicarilla."

Doldrus blinked slowly. Tortoi always blink slowly.

"I go," he said, and turned northeast.

When he arrived at the Wild Northeast, the storms had passed. The orcs had established defensive positions. Jicarilla's forces had retreated. A Grimward orc watched the enormous tortisian shuffle into camp.

"I am here," Doldrus said with great dignity, "to turn the tide."

"Tide's already turned, friend. Weeks ago. You want the Broken Lands. That's where the fighting is now."

Doldrus blinked.

"I go," he said.

Eight hundred years of alchemical knowledge. Potions that could reshape flesh, transmute fire into healing energy, convert his own death into a weapon that would poison everything nearby. Objectively, one of the most dangerous beings in Praetoria.

If he could ever get anywhere.

The Broken Lands were quiet when he arrived. Shattered stone, torn earth, forests still, roots settling back into soil. The armies were gone.

"Mahkah's forces fell back weeks ago," a Lyverian scout told him. "Mount Praetorous, that's where everything's headed now."

Doldrus stood motionless for a very long time. The scout grew uncomfortable.

"You... you alright there, big fellow?"

"I am thinking," Doldrus said.

He continued to think for a great while. The scout eventually left.

"I go," Doldrus said, and began walking toward Mount Praetorous.

Somewhere behind him, a new battle was probably starting. Somewhere ahead, another battle was probably ending. The entire war swirled around him like water around a stone, moving and shifting and changing faster than he could ever hope to follow.

But Doldrus was tortoi. Tortoi do not rush. Tortoi do not abandon their course. Tortoi commit to a direction and walk until they arrive, no matter how long it takes.

He would reach the final battle. Eventually. Probably.

And when he got there, the Conclave Arcana would learn what eight hundred years of alchemical mastery could accomplish.

Any day now.