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If Morden was being completely, [i]brutally[/i] honest with himself, he did not give a fuck about the interpersonal politics of Vangar’s government. Doves this, Imperialists that- It didn’t matter if they argued until the Astral Mist evaporated into nothingness. While they debated on how to move forward, people were dying every day. The old saying that war is old men taking and young men dying rang true, so they could trade words in Vangarian tribunals all they wanted. It wasn’t Morden’s problem, nor his perogative to listen to such words. It was war.

The crash on the road, however, was a bit more impactful. Etherium was spilling out, and Morden was sensitive enough to the mist that he could tell it was getting [i]bad.[/i] This entire road could be a crater any second, one errant spark here or there setting it all off. The others got out, and Morden took off in the other direction. Fifty paces backwards, since he didn’t want to risk anything weird happening. It might not have meant anything, but his magic was awfully mist-hungry.
He inhaled air, and exhaled raw magical power. The mist filled his skin and flesh with strength, the air crackled. And then, he walked back over to the wrecked truck. 

Morden jogged back over and stepped around the pool of Etherium. His hands reached for the hitch between the truck and the container, and he snapped it off. He then gripped the steel walls of the tank, and exhumed a loud metal groan from it as he tried to push the thing upright. The damage might’ve been done, but he could stop the puddle from becoming a flood.

The wheels banged against the ground as he got the awkward shape to move. The Etherium sloshed around, but now it wasn’t going to spill further.

[color=a90000][i]I’m moving the tanker. Watch your step, don’t get Etherium on you.[/i][/color]

He walked around to the front end of the tanker, and lifted upwards with one hand. From there, it was as simple as dragging it like a wheelbarrow off of the road, out of the way of any vehicles coming and going.