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The talk of the camp was against him, and it was difficult to suppress his resentment.
The memories of frosted air and the dead north gradually lost their grip on the gryphon rider as he flew through the warm climes of Kalimdor.
The ata'mal crystal shards had transformed him into a sentinel of alternate universes without end, sometimes down to their very eclipses in darkness, or ice, or fire.
Velen didn't sorrow for these futures or mourn their extinctions or shout in exaltation at their triumphs.
The sky-filling, armored form of Deathwing flew across a burned world and landed on a charred, broken tree so vast it could only be Nordrassil, while supplicants draped in dark-purple robes lined up and threw themselves into a volcanic crack in the earth. The Prophet had long ago learned detachment from his visions lest they drive him mad.
The third eye of prophecy had been with him so long that having premonitions was like breathing.
The Seat of the Naaru's soaring energies inspired inner peace from the most bloodthirsty of warrior pilgrims, awe from even the most jaded of Azeroth's inhabitants.
Usually, the earthbound were either awed by the new perspective of flight or frightened by the soaring and maneuvers that were commonplace among those who flew. Someone who had seen scores of worlds and warred against the Burning Legion in an endless conflict would find nothing noteworthy in flight across Azeroth.
Now they served as crude bonds while he beseeched the Light to heal the mutant, to calm its madness. Its power moved through the young prince, using him as its channel to set aright the creature writhing under his hands.
Anduin didn't understand what was wrong with the thing. The act of healing always made Anduin feel like the key in a lock, the tool applied to its proper use, and he'd proven his talents to himself in his time with the draenei.
The proudest moment of Anduin's life had followed when, in the aftermath of that argument, the Prophet had spoken to him in his soft preternatural tones, inviting him to study at the Anduin wrenched his attention back to the present, away from distracting self-pity and toward the need of the lasher.
He made a vow to himself in the next heartbeat that he'd never lose his awe of this experience.
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The first time Anduin had glimpsed one, he'd felt not disgust but sorrow.