Broken Legs
The party was all that Manabloom said it would be and then some. As they were a mile away from the party, they could hear it, and even farther back, there were still the faint sounds of a commotion that could have only meant a massive celebration. It was a celebration of celebrations -- that was the theme. A ridiculous meaning, but it was a meaning so often thrown around by the shal'dorei; partying was a past-time that would not have ever left them.
Even with the demons marching about, seeking innocent prey.
Cathiir had spent some times recanting spells to improve the illusions his outlander allies had on. He spent brief moments knowing minor details on each of his allies and absorbed the information well enough. Their first meeting was tense, and Cathiir made himself seem as a cruel friend to them. He wanted to dispel some of the tension.
Fitsy, the meek woman, was actually not all that meek. She was designated F, as all of her allies were -- they were to only be called by letter. She was what was referred to as a gnome among her people; small, yet creative, and intelligent to a fault. She specialized in medicine and used pure magic to sustain her allies. She had an attitude to her that frustrated Cathiir, but when he approached her with calm as he adjusted her illusionary form, she responded with the same calm. She fed off the emotions of those she was working alongside.
Samuel on the other hand, was far different. He spoke so dry and uncaring, with a hint of a pompous tone about him. He was a human, Cathiir was told -- he focused on the use of the same magics that the demons themselves used. The moment that was noted to him, Cathiir knew his illusion was among the most important: that magic could be detected quite easily in the city. Samuel did not seem to care, however. There was an unsettling eagerness he had for violence that his fellow comrades attempted to convince Cathiir would not be a problem.
None spoke more than Wrathdor. He was the closest in kin to Cathiir: a kaldorei. The shal'dorei chose to be walled off for their protection, and the kaldorei chose to be free for theirs. He was the mediator amongst the rabble, and as they all talked over one another, when Wrathdor spoke, they all listened. Then grumbled in frustration knowing his expertise was beyond their own, and left conflicts where they were. Wrathdor said he was a druid, one who focused on the balance of arcane and nature. Above all, this one was the least likely to give away their deception. He nearly could disguise himself without an illusion.
Though the one who needed the illusion the most was not Fitsy -- she could have sneaked about at the knees of the shal'dorei party unnoticed for hours. It was Hargoth who needed it the most. His accent hurt Cathiir's ears, mostly due to its rough and uncontained nature. There were vague expletives here and there, but Cathiir was not familiar enough with the slang of the outlanders to know if it was simply that, or the crude sounds of the dwarf -- as Cathiir remembered him being called -- hacking and spitting. His frame was bulky, and his blunt nature made him the distraction of the group of misfits; he could take hits, and dish them out, as was stated.
Finally, there was Catherine. Another human, clearly, though she was the quietest without shyness or fear behind it. She, too, could have gone unnoticed for hours, merely because she would choose not to be noticed. A strong ability, Cathiir noted, though without magic, she would stick out like a sore thumb. A rogue, they called her. The more it was explained to him what precisely her role was, the more Cathiir found himself relating to the skillset. But of course, without all the ridiculous improvising with physicality. Magic was enough to outsmart even the smartest -- why bother changing a good thing?
The six traveling together looked more cohesive over the two hours they walked. They were at the entrance to Manabloom's estate, having walked along the canals for most of those two hours, then for the last ten minutes needing to slip through a small garden with a pathway, glowing purple flowers in bloom, and follow along the edges of a dozen houses before they could make it to the extravagent pathing to Lord Manabloom's estate.
There was floating blue, purple, and pink lanterns everywhere. It looked as though luminescent bugs all socialized outside of the house, floating up and down in a pattern to communicate. They were held afloat by magic alone, not needing strings or any sort of artificial interference to work. Further, there were portals opening here and there, some of servants delivering more stores of arcwine or snacks, and others of more guests, who were waved in by an attendant. One thing Cathiir noticed is there was a crippling lack of guards checking for disguises, though guards nonetheless.
The frivolous uses of magic here made it hard, some might say impossible, to determine where an illusion might be coming from. The lanterns were likely not real, and simply suspended light that had to be refreshed every so couple of hours. The portals did not travel from long distances, but the sheer number that showed up along would cause interference with the focus of one attempting divination to find dwellers in this raucous party who sought ill intent. Certainly, Manabloom was told this and he certainly did not care.
If he was a respected sellout to the loyalists, then he would be allowed to do as he please. Though the way Cathiir imagined it was that the man had dug his own grave and carved the tombstone. Cathiir adjusted his mask and glanced towards his allies.
"Only one man dies tonight. Am I understood in that?"
They all nodded, not speaking for fear of revealing the illusions that Cathiir had worked so hard to keep together.
"You cannot leave my sight for too long or else the illusion will get weaker and weaker. No longer than five minutes out of my sight. When I see you, you'll know when you're good to move out of sight again."
Cathiir then closed his eyes and started to walk towards the estate.
"One step at a time, outlanders," he muttered quiet enough to only be heard by his allies. "We don't have to rush yet."
Elodine was not certain if she was lost, or simply in a sort of adventurous haze, which would in turn, get her lost. She made her way through the thicket near the city, even glancing from behind foliage to see the same guards fighting away the withered at the border of the city. At some point, she saw Milaes there, too, giving orders to men and hearing reports. She was much too far off to hear anything, only the interaction itself.
Perhaps it was strange that it surprised her Milaes would help Elodine. She surely knew what Elodine was doing. Though Cathiir never said anything about that, either. She concluded it was because even Cathiir did not know. His father was getting progressively more dire, and he showed no signs of resistance to anyone. Sildor and his men were convinced Lord Starsunder was in a league with the uprising felborne -- nightborne tainted by fel magic, and becoming demons, in essence.
She never considered that Milaes may have resisted, even if only in subtle ways. Her weapon was not even drawn when she confronted her. A brief bout of paranoia made her think that she could have just as easily reported Elodine whilst she was not listening, but if that were the case, suspicions would be high, and Elodine would have been found by now. Especially with the prevelance of trackers in the thickets.
Elodine avoided them, too, however. She moved through the thicket with both curiosity and precision, remembering all she was told by Sildor as warnings. She noted three traps and moved out of their triggering ranges. A part of her wished she could disarm them to save the suffering of an animal out in the thicket; the trackers were known for brutal methods to tame beasts.
Though she knew it was not wise to take on every issue she came across. It could be a mission for another time. For now, this arcwine had a distance to travel, and she moved with haste. Soon, the wooded areas and folige became less and less dense, and she came across waters. Turtles and stags gathered here to drink from the pools, though they either scattered or paid no mind to the nimble smuggler as she traversed the water which flowed a long way down into Suramar City itself.
Her destination was a rock in a clearing, the side facing the clearing would have a small carving on it; a dusk lily. She was to leave the satchel there and make her way back, to which an associate of the rebellion would gather the arcwine and do an even more dangerous and lengthy job: find refuges lost in the wilderness, retrieve them, and ensure they would not wither on the trip to safety.
She knew she was nearing her destination by the frequency of birds perched onto the trees. She was given vague details that she noted she was proficient in discovering. The trees were said to hang in the direction opposite to which she came. They would act as makeshift arrows to the clearing, and to confirm it was the proper one, she was told to look through the gaps left by the bent trees and see if she could note the towering parts of Suramar faintly in the distance. The birds were claimed to more commonly sing her songs.
Elodine felt relaxed here, calm. As the trees became less dense, an opening was just out of her gaze. Though as well, was shuffling. Elodine stopped dead in her tracks and immediately found a tree to hide behind. She peeked to listen. All she knew was it was not a beast, nor a withered. A beast would have discovered her first and acted accordingly, territorial or fleetingly. A withered, too, would have found her first, for it would have wanted to drain her body of every ounce of mana she had to offer.
No, this was a humanoid with their sanity intact.
Elodine braved peeking far enough to actually try and see who was near the very rock she was supposed to drop off her goods to. She saw only a leg from behind foliage, and there was armor. The form shifted, suddenly, as if taken by surprise by something. That was when the silence was finally broken. A voice, loud and commanding, as well as louder footsteps started to rumble the forest.
"You are wasting your time, elf."
"The messenger squealed near instantly, do you really think it was inaccurate?" It was a man's voice. The commanding voice -- if the content of his words had not already made it obvious to her -- she concluded was not an elf. She was good at listening to voices and believed she could recall that voice belonging to a demon.
A felguard. The same felguard who, himself, dragged Aslyssa out of the city, parading her around in a fashion to degrade her. If Aslyssa was hurt, as far as Elodine was concerned, this demon was responsible as much as Lord Manabloom. It caused her heart to tense up in pain.
A shift in her footing caused a loud crackling from a crumpled leaf. Elodine's heart further tensed.
The first to react was the 'elf' who conversed with the demon. His hands raised and he faced the foliage that blocked his view.
"Come out, traitor!"
Elodine stayed in her hiding spot and tried to calm herself. She could not properly escape without remaining calm. She managed to do it quick enough, but as she prepared to bolt, the sound of feet and thudding approached her. She knew she would have to stand her ground.
Elodine's hand gripped the blade at her side, and her eyes closed. She tried, now, to think thoughts of beautiful design. It fueled her to have something to fight for. So she thought of Cathiir, of Aslyssa, of the future of Suramar. She did not want to die so soon. She knew, however, she would die to protect them all.
The moment her confidence reached its peak, Elodine heard something new. It was the sounds of a struggle. The elf swept around and the thudding of the demon stopped.
"Did you hear that," the elf said.
"Find that fuckin' sound, elf! I'll deal with the intru--" the demon's words were cut off by a ear-splitting roar of pain. He fell and the ground had shaken once again. "An ambush!" He shrieked.
Elodine revealed herself and looked upon the scene in front of her. The demon was bleeding green blood from his neck, and he held it to try to stem the flow. It was no use, though, he was losing too much for it to be stopped -- the flowers and smaller plants below him started to wither and turn a sickly color when being exposed to the brute's blood. It looked to have been opened up with an arrow that the demon stupidly ripped from his neck.
The elf, now more clearly seen by Elodine, was adorned in armor, and held a large blade he needed to hold with two hands. He was covered head-to-toe, his face even concealed. He was not a captain of the Duskwatch, but perhaps a prized member -- one praised for his skill often, as evident by his decorated state. He seemed fearless. Though Elodine suspected that would get him nowhere.
"Where are you? Come out and face me!"
"Nevermind that, whoever did this will--" the demon choked on his own blood, but nevertheless, stood up, mace in hand. "--will pay, and I will be the one to dish out punishment."
Elodine finally pipped up. "Turn around, bastard."
The man did as she said, and the demon scattered around, looking aimless as they bled out. This close, Elodine better recognized the eyes on the man.
"Aslyssa's little girl... I can't say I'm surprised."
"I thought the will of Astrus men was unbreakable, Aelin."
The shal'dorei winced in response.
Elodine had danced for many parties. It was all for entertainment -- her form was well-suited for it, and her excitement even more so. It was a form of expression, an art. Though there was always those who far from got it. Those who berated Elodine for choosing what they believed to be a lowly field of work. Aelin Astrus was among a family that believed the purity of Suramar, and their place in the court was to fight to restrain how the shal'dorei could express.
Aelin, especially, had shown ire towards Elodine at this. Had called her a harlot (though of course a more vulgar terminology was used). In this moment, Elodine did not draw her blade due to that, or his treatment of her at a party in specific; where she danced for Cathiir specifically, personally. Something she had done for no one else, ever -- for her dancing was never personal. Her form may have been pleasing, and others may have been drawn to her beauty, but it was often personal for herself and no one else. She lost herself in her trade. She always suspected it was jealousy that motivated Aelin. He told her that his will was unbreakable by a woman of her nature.
She was more disgusted this same man who preached the purity of Suramar with his family had joined forces with demons. Her blade was held in a stance as if she was about to dance, high, and pointed at Aelin.
"Bold words. But words are wasted on you, Elodine. You are on the wrong side of this conflict."
Elodine was silent, waiting for him to make the first move, now. Ironic, considering what he previous said, for instead of making a move, he continued to monologue.
"The rebellion will fail -- can you not see that? I seek only to preserve Suramar, and if degenerates like you must fall to preserve it, then all the better I say." His fist clenched, and magic glowed from his palm. Though it was not magic of arcane design. The glowing was of a bright green.
"Can you truly deny the gifts our masters seek to give us? It is no matter to me. The less of you that accept it, the more that the best Suramar truly has to offer will accept, and we will end up unstoppable."
The corrupted magic trailed up Aelin's arm, then as soon as that, it dissipated. The shal'dorei gasped, closed his eyes, then tensed up. When his eyes reopened, he seemed to be renewed. He held the blade as if it became half its usual weight -- strength flowed through his veins.
Elodine appeared unfazed, though underneath, her mind swirled with her usual thoughts. Behind the elf, the demon cried out, scaring away all wildlife perched in areas.
"Come out you fucking cowardly elves! Face me, now! I am Zakee-- arrrgh!"
Another arrow flew from behind a tree, and it was made of pure arcane.
` Elodine took solace in knowing somewhere out there, someone else was fighting. She was not alone in this fight. Aelin's eyes were locked on Elodine, and the moment the demon cried out in pain, Aelin rushed in to meet Elodine's blade.
Elodine decided it best to give Aelin what he always wanted:
A dance with the performer herself. So, she weaved away from his brutish strike, and the next, and the next. She awaited an opening to begin cutting him down.
In the distance, the sun started to rise, peeking its face onto the wilds, and giving a clearer scene of the battle unfolding.
It had been an hour inside of Manabloom's estate, and Cathiir was reluctant to admit that his allies held up well enough under pressure. They kept their eyes forward and made no contact with anyone. This was in part due to the fact that Cathiir introduced them as performers, and that they would be sure not to partake too much, as it would ruin their performance.
A servant approached the six "performers" and had informed them that she could show where they would be doing their act. Cathiir requested the audience of Lord Manabloom himself, to which he was told that Lord Manabloom was indisposed. Cathiir read that as he was hopped on arcwine, and perhaps was passed out for the night.
The design of Manabloom's house was all but subtle, thankfully. The six were taken through a dining area, packed with quite a few guests, then into a ballroom, even fuller, and numerous women clothed in little or nothing at all were about, doing performances of their own to the appreciation of the men and women who saw them. There was a clear split -- one side of that, and another side of couples dancing, attempting with all their ability to ignore the other half. Manabloom did not discriminate, thankfully -- he allowed those of little or high manner to join in on the festivities. It made the party bigger, and thus, a bigger cover for accidents to happen.
Past the ballroom was an area with multiple tables in front of a stage. Some gathered here, sitting around. There was a performance already in progress, of two women and a man acting out something that Cathiir barely paid attention to. He gathered the premise to be a story of a man who was offered a great gift, and two women the same gift. The women actively tried to restrict the man from the gift -- which was acclaimed to be the best thing the man could ever receive. At the portion Cathiir entered the room to was the climax -- the man valiantly fought for his rights.
Cathiir rolled his eyes in coming to realize it all. He did not want to assume anything on the intended meaning of such a performance.
As Cathiir and his allies were brought to the backstage, many sideways glances were given. Many of the performers organized their time on stage beforehand -- Lord Manabloom boasted a large potential audience, and so many performers lined up to get a chance at a big break. Most performers were turned down. Unless they managed to appeal to the manager of entertainment.
Rumors spread that some bribed. Some gave away property. All for a chance to make it big at Manabloom’s big stage. It was considered next to impossible to not leave without a patron or two at least intending to give a come-up to a performer.
“You’re lucky,” One of the managers of the stage had said. “Lot of musicians… lot of actors… but magicians? You’re going to be setting the stage. Lord Manabloom loves a fanciful display of magic.” They were lead to where they could see the actors finishing up their performance. Gasps were heard from the crowd as some resounding twist was had, and the full tragedy of the story came to fruition. Cathiir had stopped paying attention altogether. He had surprisingly found himself wondering how he would woo the crowd.
They were left alone, the manager wandering off to do further work to line up performances. It left the six to speak unhindered of what was really being done. Cathiir turned to them and looked over each one.
“I do not know what sorts of magic you outlanders know and do not know.”
Samuel retorted, “We probably know more than you, being that we’ve been isolated far less.”
Cathiir had scoffed quietly. “If that’s the case, pretend as though you know what is going on. We need a masterful performance to win a conversation with Lord Manabloom himself.”
“This isn’t a diversion?” Wrathdor perked a brow.
“It’s a phase of the plan,” Cathiir replied.
They all looked among one another. They nodded as they realized precisely what they were to do. They were about to perform for a large crowd of pompous demon-sympathizers. It was not exactly what the rebels had warned them of. Fitzy actually seemed excited, though she frowned deeply in seeing Samuel’s negativity at the prospect of their plan.
Cathiir closed his eyes and sighed. The curtain fell as the actors ended their play. They left the stage to the opposite side. The manager returned soon after and eyed the six.
“How shall I introduce you all? You certainly have a name, right?”
With his eyes still closed Cathiir answered. “The Hidden Lily.”