FUTUROLOGY NETWORK.

[ The forge is back to its former smoky glory, for the most part. The anvil's intact and the oven's firing, anyway, and those are the key things. The walls are still slowly rebuilding themselves, but they're largely intact, too. Koltira doesn't look as pleased about it as one might expect. He's carving a filigree into a dagger with a burin; a pattern of intertwining leaves and ivy, something half-remembered from his youth. His jaw is set, his eyebrows furrowed. ]

It seems that even when I try for mercy, chaos reigns. What, then, is the correct course? Perhaps this is the weakness in me, the flaw that Sylvanas spoke of.

[ He digs into the metal, scowling. ]

Perhaps my time here has made me soft.

[ He doesn't sound entirely convinced. He doesn't sound sure of anything, in fact. He's not concerned with the team's moral direction as a whole, or their cohesion as a unit. To his mind, he already exists outside of those discussions. He's in turmoil only due to his own challenged beliefs. A moral compass that was once rigid now has its needles pointing every which way. Should he have killed those Taraxans after all? Is ruthlessness always the most efficient, most productive answer? For once, he doesn't know.

His head aches. He stares up, directly at whomever might be listening.

Now more than ever, he has to distract himself. The hunger gnaws at his nerves. A confusion of thoughts distresses his mind. He needs direction. Focus. ]

It is imperative that I stay occupied. Give me work, if you have it.