The flag was raised, the heralds horn bellowed. It was known what he had done. The Blacksmith now belonged to the Horde. Wiping the slick substance from his gloves onto the grass, he dropped to a crouch, and snuck along to hte smithy itself. Up the chimney, to the roof, under the shadow of a looming tree. He found his hiding place, and casually awaited the Alliance' arrival. Talon tipped fingers glided over numerous bandoliers of blades across his vest, byceps, and thighs... He would be ready... A number of vials, each labeled with brail, were set down on the flat of the roof with him, along with a three slot injector, and a bundle of scrap cloth...<br/><br/>Now... Came the waiting...<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>