A small envelope is left at the front gate of the Everblaze Estate. It is left by a woman wearing plain clothes and a hood, who quickly departs by Thalassian charger after ensuring the letter's delivery. The envelope itself is barely larger than a note card, and sealed with red wax.
Bey'ron,
I have much to explain, and hope that you will hear me out over a glass of Eversong red. If not, I understand.
A shimmer of emerald flame flickers into existence mere meters in front of a tired cyclopian Knight-Lord, just outside the Hall of Blood. From it, a vibrant red envelope is cast out by an unseen hand. Black filigree decorates the edges of the envelope, and a wax seal binds it closed. It smells of brimstone. Within it, a note on plain white paper reads as follows:
Ina'thia,
You had me a Eversong Red. Feel free to come by my estate at your earliest convenience. Your presence is always a welcomed one.
Ruthar departs the interior of the Rangers' Lodge along with a series of other Farstrider leaders. They all look somewhat worn after what must have been a lengthy meeting of the minds. His bow and helmet are racked inside the lodge.
Bey'ron leans up against the doorway. "It always smells so... -rugged- in here, don't you think? I've always appreciated how Farstriders aren't afraid to get their hands dirty." he smirks, eyes meeting Ruthar's.
Ruthar halts in his departure, shifting to the side nearer Bey'ron. "Magister Everblaze," he begins, bowing his head in a small greeting. He turns a slight smirk. "Rugged is a...pleasant way to put it." He gestures behind him. "Please, come in - it has certainly been some time."
[Bey'ron]: Too long, I'd submit.
Bey'ron takes Ruthar up on the offer, and steps past him to get into the Lodge proper. He pulls back his hood as he looks around, admiring the trophies and displays.
Ruthar folds his hands behind his back, his gaze following the Magister's. He stands to his left but behind him slightly. "Too long, indeed. I hope the aftermath of the Incarnate dealings has been agreeable to you and your own."
[Bey'ron]: Mm, it resolved rather satisfactorily, I should think.
[Ruthar]: It's good to be back in Silvermoon, in any case. Even if temporarily.
Bey'ron sets his staff aside-- it hovers upright and in place. He turns to Ruthar, and smiles. "It always is, isn't it? The city itself defines the word 'home' for me. I could never imagine leaving it for too long."
[Bey'ron]: Though, I suppose you'd have to depart, if only for a short time, to truly appreciate the feeling of returning. That sense of peace, hmm? Of belonging.
Bey'ron shakes his head. "I suppose, in that way, I envy Miss Li-Mei."
Ruthar nods in agreement. "Fortunately, the return to home is usually trivial, thanks to the expert work of the Magistry." He holds a finger aloft to garner the attention of a newer recruit. "Can I get you a beverege, Magis..." Ruthar let's that hang in the air as Bey'ron offers Rosi's name.
[Bey'ron]: Oh, nothing for me, thank you.
Beyron grins at you wickedly.
Ruthar puts his finger down and the confused looking recruit scurries away. Ruthar reaches into his hauberk to produce a handwritten note. He unfolds it and passes it over to Bey'ron. "I have to say, I'm surprised to hear that name. Doubly so after receiving this. I had my doubts about who it was from, but I doubt this is mere happenstance."
Bey'ron accepts the note, and looks it over. "--Tch... seems someone spoiled the surprise." he frowns lightly.
[Bey'ron]: Just as well. My first instinct was to come to you about it, of course. If anyone would want to know about a Farstrider deserter returning to the High Kingdom, I knew it'd be you.
Bey'ron hands the missive back. "Given your mutual history, of course."
Ruthar takes that in for a moment, accepting the missive and returning it beneath his tabard. He smooths the fabric before replying.
[Ruthar]: I had assumed she had fallen in combat after reading the report of her absence, a rather unfortunate loss - such a promising Farstrider, it was a pleasure to promote her to the rank myself.
Ruthar sighs, glancing over toward nothing in particular. "Deserter? Now...that is something else."
Bey'ron raises his brow. "Oh? You didn't know... well, I suppose assuming she'd died valiantly in defense of the High Kingdom would weigh better than her turning her back on it." he sighs.
Ruthar 's demeanor darkens somewhat. "Indeed," he replies slowly. "I assume you have the pertinent details, then?"
[Bey'ron]: But of course. And I'm happy to share them with you, Captain. That's why I'm here.
Bey'ron waves a hand. "Now, you'll have to forgive me for not delivering her here in person. Frankly... I'm not entirely sure what you'd want done with her. So let me tell you what's happened, and give a recommendation, hmm?"
[Bey'ron]: To my surprise, I encountered her on the Dragon Isles. Hiding away from here. I came to learn she'd left Quel'Thalas sometime during the Fourth War. Something about serving the Dark Lady, albeit indirectly, must not have sat all too well with her.
Ruthar nods, gesturing over toward a desk, his mind moving just barely too quickly to notice the mistake in his title. "Before we continue, and if you'll allow, I'd like to take a record of the account to update our files." He slides a quill into his fingers as he looks expectantly to Bey'ron.
[Bey'ron]: --Ah, of course. By all means, Captain.
Ruthar quickly slides a blank piece of parchment over and begins to scribble on it. "Ranger Captain," he says more firmly than he intended. He writes quickly but pauses to add a question. "Where, exactly, in the Dragon Isles did you locate her initially?"
Bey'ron clasps his hands behind his back. "Well, my sources located her out and about. But I approached her in person for the first time just outside Valdrakken."
[Ruthar]: We have a Farstrider encampment outside of the city, as I'm sure you are aware. That explains the note easily enough.
[Bey'ron]: Cautious little thing. I'm surprised she didn't flee immediately. But alas, we shared a brief dialogue, and I was able to glean that she left in a disagreement with Horde leadership.
Ruthar continues to write, pausing again. "If it were a matter as trivial as that, I would think there would be record of it somewhere."
[Bey'ron]: I have no such record, I'm afraid. To be frank... I hadn't given her much thought, until I heard she'd been seen around the Dragon Isles.
Bey'ron shakes his head. "Nonetheless, I'm a firm believer in second chances. So I offered her a chance to put her expertise to good use. And if you can find nothing else to be proud of in this tale, take pride in the fact that she certainly delivered."
[Bey'ron]: That's when she approached me about coming back to Quel'Thalas. She sent me a missive, and asked to meet.
Ruthar nods, writing the offered details after dipping the quill in an inkwell. "She sent you a missive after you met face-to-face and assigned her an assignment?"
[Bey'ron]: Mm, that's correct.
Ruthar scratches out a few words and amends the document. "I have to say, Magister, that I am surprised that your first reaction was not to inform the Farstriders before sending her on an errand. I assume it was something of great importance to Quel'Thalas's actions in the Isles?"
Bey'ron shrugs. "I'm sure it's not quite what you would have done, but I saw an opportunity to set her back on the right path. And she took it. If she hadn't, I would have brought this exchange to light much sooner."
[Bey'ron]: I'm afraid I can't go into details about the assignment. But I can tell you that her choosing to accept and complete it most assuredly met with Quel'Thalas' best interests.
Ruthar nods, accepting the reasoning. "Testing the heart of a deserter is an acceptable play, though I'm sure the Farstriders would have preferred performing such a test themselves." He writes a few more words. "I appreciate your diligence, personally." He finishes a few lines. "I have it noted that she performed duties for the Magistry under the direction of yourself. I assume that will suffice."
[Bey'ron]: It very well should.
[Bey'ron]: In any case, that's when she reached out via the aforementioned missive, and asked to meet. We discussed what exactly it would take for her to return to Quel'Thalas under honorable conditions.
Ruthar jots that down and looks to Bey'ron. "Respectfully, that may be for the Farstrider leadership to decide, should more details come out once she is spoken to. However, I would like to hear the details of that conversation for the record."
Bey'ron smirks, and shakes his head. "Before all that, we've reached the point of this conversation where I'd like to hear -your- thoughts, Ranger Captain."
[Bey'ron]: For all intents and purposes, you -are- the Farstrider leadership. Were she in your custody now... what would your decision be regarding her fate?
Beyron peers at you searchingly.
Ruthar places down the quill next to the unfinished report. "Protocol demands more information first and foremost. I would need further information on her actions and whereabouts in the time since her departure. It would be of critical importance to ensure that any information that she was privy to was not improperly released. I would have suggested she be detained during that investigative period. Considering her departure was during the conflict of the Fourth War, there could be serious ramifications if she had offered information to the Alliance during that time of conflict."
Bey'ron nods firmly. "A sensible response. Protocol in full consideration of the security of Quel'Thalas. I'd expect nothing less from a Ranger Captain."
[Bey'ron]: But... now that you've recited the Farstrider Handbook for me, let's set that aside. Off the record...
Bey'ron steps forward, lowering his voice. "How would -you- like to see this resolved? You, Ruthar. Not Farstrider Captain Ronaestrider."
[Bey'ron]: I'm not certain how close you two were, but if her -crippling- fear of what you might think of all this is any indication, you two were close, hmm?
Bey'ron shakes his head. "Not suggesting anything untoward, mind you. A mentor-mentee relationship, at the very least."
Ruthar purses his lips, standing straighter. "If she finds herself mired in -crippling- fear over my reaction to this, then I fear that she has done something that would be very difficult for a Farstrider, potentially former in this case, to recover from. Regrettably, both my personal reaction as well as my official rests upon the truth of her absence."
[Bey'ron]: Mm. Insightful. Cautious. Admirable traits, indeed.
[Bey'ron]: You'd see justice done, whatever form it takes, hmm? Regardless of the ramifications it may have for you, personally. Commendable, most assuredly.
Bey'ron unclasps his hands and brings his arms in front of him, idly straightening his sleeves and adjusting his cuffs.
Ruthar nods, his expression stoic. "I would. It would not be the first time that duty had taken precendence over my personal relationships."
[Bey'ron]: I'm certain anyone with sense would see this was well beyond your control. I mean, yes-- you had a part in her training, vetting, and promotion. But all that can only reflect so poorly on you.
Bey'ron sighs. "Or the Phoenix Guard. Sun willing, her indiscretions won't soil the organization's good name. True heritage we all share, that."
Ruthar doesn't visibly react to that. "Indeed. Nor will this have been the first time a ranger's actions have potentially marred the image of myself or my associates. You and I can both attest that times of war can drive certain individuals to drastic action."
[Bey'ron]: That we can. We can only hope such context factors in to whatever external jurisidiction determines Farstrider Li-Mei's fate.
Ruthar nods, reaching for the quill once more. "Agreed. Now, to your subsequent conversation with Li-Mei. Did you offer her a pathway forward for her desire to return home?"
Bey'ron exhales sharply. "--Ah. Well, that all seems rather irrelevant now, doesn't it? It's no more up to me than it is up to you what pathway to redemption lies before Li-Mei, is it? We'd have to handle that internally-- and discreetly-- for that."
[Bey'ron]: A curious alternative, to be sure.
Bey'ron plucks some imaginary debris from his robe. "Certainly an attractive option, I'd have to admit..."
Ruthar considers that for a moment, the quill still in-hand. "I suppose. Though, I have made note of your conversation with her here already." He glances around the Lodge to anyone nearby. "It would be preferred to wrap that up in some manner to formally close this particular parchment," he offers slightly quieter.
Bey'ron grins, and nods. "Of course, as you say. I told her that, were it up to me, she'd need to show in a tangible and unmistakable way that she is loyal to the High Kingdom, and felt deep remorse for any past falterings of that loyalty."
[Bey'ron]: After that, she departed. To where, I cannot say.
Ruthar nods, appreciating the Magister's understanding. He adds the final words and some filligree to the end of the document before signing it. He offers the quill to Bey'ron and slides the parchment over. "If you would review and sign, please - I will see this is processed formally." He lowers his voice slightly. "After which time I'd be happy to discuss further off-the-record."
[Bey'ron]: Certainly.
Bey'ron accepts the parchment, and sets it flat on the table. His eyes scan over the words, carefully-- quill in hand, at the ready. "I trust this will be filed away properly? I know it can be frustrating when such affidavits go missing at the Spire..."
Bey'ron nods once, and signs the parchment.
Ruthar nods, "You have my word, Magister Everblaze. Paperwork has, for better or worse, become one of my strong suits." He allows the ink to dry a moment before folding the parchment and sealing it with a red wax seal. "I appreciate you bringing this here personally. I realize how simple it would have been to send a note or a delegate - your offer of time and information is certainly noted and deeply appreciated."
[Bey'ron]: Ah, but of course! I'll admit I have a bit of a soft spot for the Phoenix Guard and its alumni. This issue, most certainly called for a personal involvement, I think.
Bey'ron clasps his hands behind his back. "Do keep me informed as to how this all plays out, hmm? I'd love to stay and discuss it further, but I'm needed back in the Spire. No rest for the wicked, you know." he smirks.
Ruthar lifts the sealed document from the table and nods. "Indeed I shall. I will get this submitted to have Li-Mei's record updated accordingly. Perhaps we can arrange an appointment in a few days time to...continue the discussion? Perhaps somewhere
Ruthar more...comfortable." He chooses his words carefully.
[Bey'ron]: That sounds most agreeable, Ranger Captain. We'll see it done.
Ruthar bows his head respectfully. "Thank you again for your time, Magister Everblaze. It is good to see you again. Sunwell guide."
[Bey'ron]: Mm, and you. Always a pleasure.
Bey'ron turns, and takes his staff up from where he left it lingering. "By the by... have you stopped in to visit Lady and Doctor Starfrost recently? On the subject of old alumni, of course."
[Bey'ron]: If you haven't, perhaps you should pay them a visit. Always a treat, visiting old friends. Who knows? You might even bump into some you didn't expect to see...
Ruthar shakes his head. "Sadly, my attention has been focused whole-heartedly on our efforts in Valdrakken. I should make a point to rectify that now that things are subsiding on the Isles. I was always very fond of Lady Starfrost." He considers the addendum, searching for the right words. "I look forward to it greatly," he adds, his mind considering a few possibilities.
[Ruthar]: Do send my very best if the opportunity presents itself.
[Bey'ron]: Likewise, should you encounter them before my next opportunity.
Bey'ron nods once, then pulls his hood up again. "Shorel'aran, Ranger Captain."
Ruthar nods, "You have my word. Al diel shala, Magister Everblaze."
The jewel-toned leaves of citrine, topaz and ruby crunched under the heavy footfalls of a child of blood long overdue for their return home. Black boots caked in enough mud, sand and blood made them appear dull, almost gray in appearance. The entire suit of armor had much of the same wear and tear after years of travel. A once pristine black tabard with a red phoenix was layered over the armor, with years of dutiful mending evident on the endlessly frayed and repaired hems.
Stopping just outside of Fairbreeze Village, the weary traveler looked up at the tall inn building. Memories of a past lifetime of chasing little lordlings caused a derisive exhale, though the days of walking had certainly taken a toll. A brief rest for a proper meal couldn't hurt, could it?
Finally, the tattered red hood that covered the traveler's face fell back over her head, settling around her neck much like a scarf. The face of Ina'tha Dawnblade, the once-decorated Knight Lord of the Blood Knight Order, and once-proud Commander of the Phoenix Guard, finally allowed herself to be seen. It was unclear if she'd been hiding her face out of shame for her abrupt and prolonged absence, or her lack of usual dark eye makeup and lipstick. Considering both her pride and her vanity, it was likely both.
With her chin held high, Ina'thia strode right up the ramp and sat a table in the inn. Before the waiter could approach the table, she placed a gold and several silver pieces on its surface.
"A glass of Eversong Red and a fruit and cheese platter."
No please, no thank you. Just the sharp comments of someone who had been away from civilization or entirely too long. Patrons of the Fairbreeze Village inn whispered in hushed tones amongst themselves, and Ina'thia couldn't help but catch one well-dressed man out of the corner of her eye. He had watched her a moment too long, and his chair made a gods-awful sound on the floor as he got up too quickly.
The man hurried outside in a whirl of red and gold robes, speaking quietly into an enchanted gemstone. Ina'thia leveled her one-eyed gaze on him as he left, then sipped at her wine the moment it was brought to her.
"M-Magister… are you there? Magister Everblaze…" the man stammered, covering his mouth so his lips could not be read, "You're not going to believe this. She's here."
To Bey’ron: “Aren’t you afraid of ending up alone?”
“Afraid? Come now, do I truly come off as someone who would fear loneliness? Loneliness and I are old friends, by now. You know what they say; It’s lonely at the top. No, I’m not afraid of ending up alone. Preposterous!”
The Magister was silent a moment. His expression, though partially covered by his blindfold, was pridefully amused. A chuckle accompanied shaking his head, lips curled to his usual smirk.
“An utterly ridiculous notion. Why would I fear that which will never come to pass?”
Tyrellius Duskfury exhaled sharply out of his nose. His mask hid well the disapproving scowl on his face, as he escorted Lady Silentspear into Everblaze Manor. While the Demon Hunter didn't see in the same way as his elven kin, he could still perceive his surroundings well. Better than most, thanks to his prime bound demon. Observers saw the world through many different lenses. And now, so did he. Everblaze Manor was… gaudy. Crimson drapery with golden filigree, the grandiose portrait frames and statue busts lining the corridors-- most of which depicted Lord Everblaze himself, of course-- the vaulted ceiling crowded with dimly lit chandeliers... all of it shiney and extravagant! The manor was a monument to the Magister's narcissism, most assuredly. Tyrellius found himself glad, for once, that he'd gouged his real eyes out to spare them the true pain of seeing all this naturally.
Tydori, on the other hand, didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. A rather slender woman, she walked the halls of the Manor with such grace and reverence, any passer-by could have mistaken her for master of the domain. If not for the garish horns protruding from her raven hair, perhaps. She dressed the part nonetheless; an elegant black dress with red and gold trim. A blindfold to match. Simple, but all the same displayed a fealty to the High Kingdom. And that wasn’t an accident. For months, since stepping into the spotlight of the Council, she’s long represented the side of Quel’Thalas often left too forgotten by those living in the luxury of Silvermoon. Soldiers and citizens, all who have made often-overlooked sacrifices. She needed no extravagant dress or peacocky attire. Hers was a platform of simplicity and fealty. And she wore it well in both the literal and figurative sense.
That’s why they were here, Tyrellius could only surmise; Lady Silentspear’s controversial propositions had tipped the Sun Council itself on its head. Outraged at her “radical” ideas for reformation, she was dismissed… much to the ire of the people whom she represented. Protests, riots, anger in all its forms from civil to ugly all erupted throughout Silvermoon. Unintended by Tydori, of course, but Tyrellius knew she wouldn’t have been invited to a Councilor’s estate if noise hadn’t been made on her behalf. Though, he never expected Lord Bey’ron Everblaze, of all the Councilors, to be the one who would reach out first. An odd move, even for him. Despite the support she’d garnered from her fellow elves, to any politician she was a poison; was Lord Everblaze truly so powerful-- or arrogant-- to host her like this without losing face?
The pair of demon hunters stepped into a large room; dimly lit, but that was no issue for them. Bookshelves lined the walls. And where there weren’t bookshelves, there were more paintings-- scenery in this room, rather than portraits. In the center of the room were three luxurious chaise lounges, all circled about an elegant table of food and wine. No guards. No attendants. The room was as empty as a tomb. Magic permeated the air throughout, causing Tyrellius’ ears to flicker with unease. Was this a trick? He wasn’t fond of the idea before, and grew less so by the second. His hands settled onto the hilts of his weapons as he stepped out ahead of Tydori to better examine the lounge. Nothing looked too unusual, save a few remnant portal signatures slowly dissipating into the ambient arcana. He approached the sitting area, Tydori waiting as patiently and quietly as she always did for her trusted hand to inspect the scene. The food, while delivered via magical means, was real. Fresh, too. Grapes from a vineyard, sliced meats and cheeses… and red wine in a small cask-- their host’s vintage, it seemed. Tyrellius grunted, before nodding to Tydori. All seemed well enough… for the moment.
“How long are we to wait here for him, before we get on with our lives?” he asked, no shortage of bile in his tone.
Tydori approached, and placed a hand on Tyrellius’ shoulder. Wordless, yet it said all he needed to hear. He exhaled a sigh, ears wilting as he dipped his head.
“... I know. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge. I’ve heard… things… about this Magister.”
“--Good things, I hope.”
A pair of bookshelves across the room opened up, revealing Magister Everblaze. He smirked at his guests as he entered the room, and bowed his head.
“Lady Tydori Silentspear. I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation today.” he grinned, approaching the sitting area.
Tydori bowed her head politely, her ruby lips curling into a polite smile. Tyrellius, however, simply crossed his arms. Bey’ron raised his brow curiously, at the rather mixed reception.
“... I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long. I know you Illidari are used to a certain hastiness, hmm?”
“--I’m sure you mean punctuality, Milord.” Tyrellius corrected, unabashedly.
“Mm… certainly so.” Bey’ron grinned at him, before motioning to the chaise lounges. “Why don’t we sit, hmm? Please make yourselves comfortable.”
Tydori once again dipped her head, before lowering herself into one of the seats. Bey’ron did the same, settling into his preferred chair. Tyrellius remained standing, arms crossed as he stared at the Magister. He’d seen him before, once or twice in passing; always dressed in lavish robes, and wearing that cocky smirk. His entire person soaked in arcana-- and a streak of fel magic inherent to most Blood Elves. Yet now, the Magister’s attire was simple. Almost humble for him. Unusual, considering everything he’d seen so far of Lord Everblaze’s lifestyle. Was it a ploy of some kind to relate to Lady Silentspear? Or a gaff at her expense? Perhaps neither; perhaps Lord Everblaze didn’t find this meeting worth dressing up for. Insulting, no matter the case. Tyrellius was normally reserved and accepting, but… something about Bey’ron rubbed him the wrong way. He kept still, statuesque, mask hiding the glare on his face. But Bey’ron seemed to know it was there… and smirked at Tyrellius as if he didn’t care. As if he welcomed it.
“I admit, I’ve been greatly impressed by your resilience through all this, Lady Silentspear. Your Councilorship has not been the smoothest, has it?” the Magister began, folding his hands atop one another in his lap. “And yet, you endure. You persevere. I find your tenacity inspiring, I must say.”
“--With all due respect, is this a joke, Milord?” Tyrellius chimed in. “You know as well as I do that Milady Silentspear has been dismissed from the Council by you and your fellow Councilors, hasn’t she?”
“Ah, I’m glad you asked. That’s not entirely accurate.” Bey’ron got his turn to correct. “Councilorship isn’t just granted and revoked by declaration alone. There’s a lengthy process to both. The Council’s intention is unaltered, presently, but she’s not been stripped of the honorific just yet.”
He turned his attention to Lady Silentspear, and dipped his head.
“That, frankly, is what I’ve invited you here to discuss, Lady Silentspear. I’m curious what it is you want. What you hope to achieve. If our goals align… perhaps we can attain them together, hmm?”
“Milady Silentspear’s goals are quite clear, I believe.” Tyrellius spoke up once more. “She outlined them succinctly in the draft of her most recent proposition. One which you and the Council--”
“--Forgive me, Master Duskfury, was it?” Bey’ron’s voice raised, eyes narrowing at the Illidari as his smirk vanished. “I’d thank you to hold your commentary, hmm? I was addressing Lady Silentspear.”
Tyrellius exhaled sharply once more, shaking his head.
“I speak on her behalf, Lord Everblaze.” he explained. “A side effect of the sacrifice she made, and the pact she formed… Milady Silentspear doesn’t speak any language but one, now. Not one that elves inherently understand.”
Rather than appear surprised, as Tyrellius expected the Magister to, Bey’ron simply chuckled lightly. His emerald eyes flickered, settling once more on Lady Silentspear, as his fingers steepled in his lap.
“Worry not, Master Duskfury. This is something I anticipated.” he grinned. “I know Lady Silentspear hasn’t been one to address anyone publicly. And her propositions were all delivered by Council Orators, never by herself. It wasn’t hard to piece together her vocal limitations. I assure you… I’m quite capable of carrying out a conversation with her on my own. Reza kil xi nath (We won’t be needing you).”
Tydori’s ears flickered, as Bey’ron switched fluidly to the Demonic tongue. She turned, looking to Tyrellius, who appeared equally surprised. His brow knit behind his mask, as he exhaled a grunt of disapproval.
“Hmph… You’re a warlock then.” he derisively accused.
“Oh, please, Master Duskfury. That’s such a savage nomenclature, don’t you think? I’m not some ritualistic demon-worshipper, like an Orcish warlock.” he grinned. “No, I’m a Magister. My interests and pursuits into the Fel and Demonology have all been scholarly, I assure you.”
“Zi nar falak tu zu kanil (You’re full of surprises, Lord Everblaze).”
Both turned to Tydori, as she finally spoke aloud. Her felfire gaze glowed a bit brighter, shining through her blindfold as she peered at Bey’ron. The Magister dipped his head, and replied to her, in kind.
“Gek toro ix vesk taniz (Our paths aren’t so different).” he assured her with a nod, before speaking in his native Thalassian once more. “If it pleases you, we can converse freely like this, hmm? No need for your translator.”
“(He’ll stay. But I’ll speak for myself, now.)” Tydori replied. “(I admit… it’s nice to have a direct conversation again.)”
“One of the many ways I’m sure we’ll work well together, hmm?” Bey’ron grinned. “So please, tell me… what is your ultimate goal in these propositions you’re creating? You seem to have public interests at the forefront of your agenda.”
“(Of course. I’m an Illidari, Magister Everblaze. We’re but one group of many sin’dorei who are criminally under-represented in the Spire.)” Tydori elaborated. “(By design, the Sun Council is a nepotistic exclusive group, suited to serve the nobility best, and everyone else sparingly. That has to change.)”
“On that, I think we agree. But it won’t change overnight, Milady. You’re talking about altering the foundation of the Sun Council itself. That will take time.” Bey’ron advised, before plucking a glass of wine from the table. “What is your plan, precisely? Brute-forcing propositions won’t work, I’m afraid. You must realize that now, hmm?”
“(I… do, yes.)” the Illidari exhaled a light sigh. “(Perhaps I was too… ‘hasty’, as you put it.)”
Tyrellius scoffed lightly.
“(But that’s only because this goal is an important one. Our Kingdom has changed greatly over the last few years. Old mindsets no longer suit our needs.)” she elaborated, her tone brimming with conviction. “(Modernizing organizations like the Sun Council are the first steps towards building a better Quel’thalas. For everyone. Not just the nobility.)”
“Mm. Then we should do so mindfully.”
Bey’ron nodded in agreement, before taking a sip of wine from his glass. He eyed Tydori for a moment, silently, before leaning towards her.
“You know… I wasn’t always a noble. My beginnings were humble, if you can believe it. I had to build up my name. It wasn’t already pristine and revered, like the one you inherited.”
His lips curled, eyes flickering a bit brighter.
“Or… should I say stole?”
Tydori reached for a glass as Bey’ron spoke-- pausing to look up at him at his last accusatory word. Her brow raised; not in confusion, but light panic. Tyrellius stepped forward, hands slipping up to his sides.
“--I insist you show Milady Silentspear respect, Lord Everblaze!” he growled. “You’ll not slander her so in my presence!”
“Oh? Is this all for show, then? Or does your pet not know, Lady Silentspear?” Bey’ron grinned. “I have a theory on who you really are… maybe you’ll confirm it for me, hmm?”
Without hesitation, Tyrellius drew his blade and pointed it threateningly at Bey’ron. His eyes ignited in felflames, glowing brightly behind his cloth mask.
Tyrellius turned, brow raised at Tydori. He could sense it-- her demeanor had changed from one of silent confidence to quiet shame. Her shoulders sank, chin dipping as she leaned back in her seat. Like a child caught stealing treats, she folded her hands before her. The strength in her aura, too, diminished. Something was amiss. Slowly, he sheathed his blade, looking between the two Councilors warily. Bey’ron only chuckled.
“He doesn’t, then… a pity. Do you wish to tell him, or should I?”
Tydori remained quiet.
“... So be it.” the Magister smirked. “Lady Tydori Silentspear went to Outland and fought as part of the Sunfury. But she never became an Illidari. She died in Netherstorm, defending a Manaforge from Aldor forces. Isn’t that right?”
Tydori still kept quiet and still; her silence still rather telling.
“This woman, to which you’ve pledged your fealty, Master Duskfury… I suspect is actually Tanori Flaresorrow, Lady Silentspear’s trusted seneschal and close personal friend. My theory is that upon her Mistress’ death, she joined the Illidari… and then stole Lady Silentspear’s identity once your kind were accepted back into Quel’thalas. A name like hers carried such weight - a shame to see it wasted. Am I right?”
Tyrellius shook his head in disbelief. He turned to the other Illidari fully, leaning down at her. He could feel it; her heart rate increasing, beating hard in her chest. Her cheeks grew flush with embarrassment or shame. She didn’t need to say anything to confirm what Bey’ron claimed.
“... By the Sun…” he muttered, defeatedly.
“(That’s not why I did it.)” Tydori-- rather, Tanori admitted. “(I swore I would do everything I could to uphold her family name and its values. Nothing I’ve done has been outside her intent and wishes! Turn me in if you wish, Lord Everblaze, but know that Tydori had nothing to do with this! I won’t see you drag her name through the mud!)”
“--Oh… you misunderstand, my dear.” Bey’ron shook his head, idly swirling the wine in his glass. “I’m not going to turn you in. You’ve turned Lady Silentspear’s name into a beacon, and the citizens are rallying around it. That has uses. You have uses.”
“--Bastard! This is why you brought her here? To blackmail her?” Tyrellius snarled.
“On the contrary… I meant everything I’ve said thus far. Our goals may align well here. And my keeping this little secret is… let’s call it a show of good faith, hmm?”
A dozen thoughts swarmed Tyrellius’ mind all at once. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade once more, as he stared with disdain at Bey’ron. Tydori had been a long time friend… he never knew she’d lied about any of this. But was it so bad? He knew her intentions were pure. Would it be worth continuing to serve her? Or would the lies pull him apart from the inside out? What of Bey’ron? Tyrellius knew he could kill him, here and now. But… no, that would only make things worse. His staff knew he was meeting Tydori and him today. Turning up a corpse of their master right after? It wouldn’t be hard to piece it together.
“... Leverage, then.” he grunted.
“Call it what you will.” Bey’ron shrugged, before taking another sip of his wine. “My offer stands; reintroducing Lady Silentspear into the Council, and helping her gradually bring about positive change, is still very much in line with my own agenda. Details aside, we can help one another out. With your support of the citizenry and my clout in the Council Chambers? I’m confident we can see certain improvements made. Effectively, too.”
“(I won’t manipulate our people like that!)” Tanori frowned.
“--More than you already have, you mean? With your lies? With your silent consent of their aggression?” the Magister chuffed. “You’ve made it decently far on your own merit, my dear, but you won’t get much further without someone helping you. No matter how you look at it… that’s what I’m offering.”
With that, the Magister stood up. Tyrellius stepped forward, ready to intervene or apprehend him if he tried anything… but Bey’ron simply smirked at him again. Gloating over him. Mocking him, like a dog at the end of its leash. He knew there was nothing Tyrellius could do. Not without only harming himself, or his mistress. Lightly, Bey’ron bowed his head to Tanori, and turned to depart.
“I’ll give you a few days to think it over, hmm?” he offered his parting words. “Feel free to linger, if you wish. See yourselves out at your leisure. We’ll be in touch, to be sure.”
With that, Lord Everblaze departed in the same manner by which he’d entered. The bookcase doors closed behind him, leaving the two Illidari alone once more in the elegant lounge. Tanori was silent for a moment longer; less in a quiet dignity, and more out of speechlessness. Tyrellius grunted, as he looked her over. His blood felt like it was boiling-- to be lied to for so long! If he had known, he could have protected her better, or helped conceal it. But now, this Magister had her locked in his grip, and there was no easy way out. Tanori seemed to feel the same way.
“(... I’m sorry, Tyrellius.)” she muttered, quietly. “(I should have told you.)”
“It’s too late for that now, Milady.” he replied, with a grunt. “Instead, we need to figure out what we can do about this.”
Tanori shook her head, before looking up at Tyrellius. Even behind her blindfold, he could see her eyes were dim. Extinguished.
From the beginning, I was never understood. Surrounded by so many-- friends, family, everyone-- all of them having resigned to the decisions and machinations of someone else. Spouses to spouses, citizens to magistrates, criminals to gang bosses... No one I knew had any measure of self-assurance. No ambitions beyond surviving to the next day, or week. Content in their mediocrity. Pathetic! What manner of elf could abide such inappetence? Not me. I stood alone; the radiant phoenix among a flock of low flying dragonhawks. The sun’s warmth called on me to rise above.
Ambition alone means nothing without direction. I saw only one aspiration worth chasing; a crown. The Sun Crown. For too long, I had been told the Sunstrider lineage bore the sole claim to the monarchy. Why? Dath’remar’s undeniable achievements were wrought in blood, pain, toil, and sacrifice! And his progeny benefit from simply sharing his bloodline? No wonder my elven kin are so sated; no ambition thrives in a world where your lot in life is simply handed to you. Born into nobility, or spawned into poverty… should that define an elf? Did it define Dath’remar? An absurd notion. The High Kingdom was built on his ambition! It should not serve as ambition’s tomb! No… my people would see that bloodline alone means nothing. They are so content to be governed? So eager to be ruled over?
Then I shall rule them.
The path before me was clear; and yet, fraught with obstacles, both miring and dangerous. But I was not deterred by such adversity. In fact, it only enkindled my drive! All the opposition between my golden objective and me served only as proof that it was worthy of my pursuit! I started with the gift I had been given; an affinity for magic. Not uncommon among my people, but it seemed to be more of a curse than a blessing for many of the ignorant fools surrounding me. They used their arcane gifts to ease their mediocre lives… and nothing more! Magic made them all the lazier. Their sails may have already been closed, but what little arcane proficiencies they bore stilled the winds. None of them saw the potential I did. I fully grasped the Arcana before me! I shaped it, and molded it, and bent it to my will! I rode it to new heights, and became among the most powerful of my people! Finally, I was among others with ambition! But even they had their own self-imposed limitations.
The Fel is dangerous, they told me. Warned me. Shielding themselves from it like a storm. I didn’t run from the storm’s terrible thunder-- I reached for it! An investment in power would be the only way to earn my throne! And if that meant stealing the power from chaos to bring about order of my own design… so be it! I bridled the thunder of the storm; the dangerous and terrible Fel became another weapon in my arsenal! Another rung on my ladder!
There was something else of which I should have been wary, however. Something far more dangerous than demonfire. Love. I found another I thought shared in my ambition. Someone with which I believed I could climb to the top of the mountain of my greatest dreams! Only to learn she, too, had resigned herself to play the role of a pawn in another’s game. By the time the love blindness was lifted, it was too late. Love narrows one’s vision, setting a haze over the path to destiny. I was burned, literally and figuratively, by trusting someone too much. But even that misstep didn’t defer me from my path. Nothing would!
Now, I am closer than ever; the prestigious Sun Council dances to the steady rhythm I so subtly play with the tap of my finger. Do any of them realize it? Some suspect, I’m sure. But if I’ve learned anything in this ascent, it’s to be mindful. Subtle. Cautious. The masses are content to be ruled. But those who imagine themselves rulers do not. Still they dance; their feet move to the beat, the illusion of agency. Their decisions are more easily made when they believe them to be of their own design. I’ll call them colleagues. Peers. It caresses their fragile egos, and keeps them docile; revealing just how beneath me they really are will only agitate and antagonize them. And I’ve enough obstacles yet to face without adding more, needlessly.
It matters little, in any case; soon they’ll learn the truth for themselves. They’ve always been beneath me. I have no one. I need no one!
((Story co-written with @thefugitivemango / @lordbeyron. @pariker / @inathia / @phoenixguard for mention.))
~*~*~
Cebina waited in the foyer as Bey’ron finished his bath. She took her time to stroll around the room, picking out her favorite wine and helping herself to a glass. She sat herself down comfortably in one of the large lounge chairs, sitting back and crossing her legs.
She’d always enjoyed her time spent in the manor, as short as that time was. Bey’ron had good taste in lavish decor, always ready to entertain guests. She sometimes wondered if he expected Lor’themar himself to show up at his doorstep. Even the room he’d given her to stay in had been one of the fanciest she’d ever had. A shame that didn’t last. They’d worked well together, the two of them, before her switch to the void and exile.
Water under the bridge now, as it were. The war between Alliance and Horde was over now. While Cebina’s presence still wasn’t welcomed in Quel’Thalas, travelling there was no longer as big of a risk; as long as she suppressed her Void powers and kept out of sight, of course.
She swirled the wine in her glass and sniffed the bouquet before taking a sip. Yes. She’d certainly missed this.
Her presence wasn’t lost on Bey’ron; nothing happened in his manor that he didn’t know about. Eyes everywhere… but he figured Cebina knew that as well. He cut his bath short as he sensed her presence once more in his house. While he didn’t feel in danger of anything she might do, his trust in her certainly took a dive following her last big revelation. He dried and dressed himself casually, paced calmly as he always did, before stepping into the room.
“Pour one for me too, hmm?” he instructed, nonchalantly.
Cebina smiled from her spot on the chair moving her hair over her shoulder to show off more of her chest. A natural reaction for her, even though she knew it had no effect on Bey’ron. She pointed towards the counter, where a second full glass of wine sat waiting for him.
“Way ahead of you, Sweetie,” she hummed, “How have you been, Bey Bey?”
“Mm… considering my home’s been invaded,” he narrowed his eyes at Cebina, “not terrible.”
He scooped his glass from the counter, swirling it gently as he approached the Ren’dorei intruder, uncertain at what brought her here. To gloat more, perhaps? He didn’t think she would have come here to kill him… but then the void did alter one’s mind, didn’t it? How far had her dark studies taken her…?
“Why are you here, Cebina?” he asked, bluntly, tone indicative he wasn’t interested in going through the usual foreplay. “Haven’t you caused me enough of a headache already?”
Bey’ron isn’t one to talk about his secrets, and his dirty secrets are no different! Still, his bedroom secrets are pretty bland by most standards. The worst of them would probably be him having sex with someone as a political maneuver early in his career.
[J] Jack - off (masturbation hc)
Bey’ron doesn’t do that often... if at all! He’s not one that’s overly driven in that regard, so tending to himself isn’t something he ever really feels the need to do.
[O] Orgasm Denial (how do they do it, do they like it done to them)
That’s not something Bey’ron’s ever tried, but he certainly wouldn’t enjoy it! He isn’t the sort to be denied something he’s after, and if he ever got into such a circumstance, he’d clearly want the big finish!
A letter arrives to Bey’ron, postmarked from Pandaria of all places. There are grummle-prints all over the envelope, which at one point was probably in great condition! “I’m sorry that I left. I felt trapped — by my armor, by the politics, by the... visions... I left to the only place I know to clear my head and my soul. I really did love you... I still do. I will never forget Midsummer, years ago. I hope someday you can forgive me.”
[[ Interestingly enough, I have a response to this prompt ready, co-written in part by @kidcatgemini. We were going to post it later on separately on its own, but with some amending, it felt proper to post it up in response to this! ]]
~*~
Night finally fell over Eversong. With the day concluded, Bey’ron shed his formal attire, causing his mantle to levitate up from his shoulders. He disrobed, slipping instead into a more comfortable evening lounger robe; These little comforts had become borderline necessities to him, over the years. After going without such things most of his life, they reinforced the progress he’d made in his life. Tonight’s robes were white-- unusual for him. Yet the golden flame-patterned filigree around the seams and deep red streaks at the collar and cuffs felt on-brand enough for him. He had already slipped it on and tied it closed, before he realized where he’d gotten in. A Midsummer gift… from Ina’thia.
He stood in silence a moment, eyeing the robe in the full-length mirror that stood tall and proud beside his eveningwear shrank. He hated this. He hated ALL of this. It was one thing to have something taken from you - everything else could be replaced. But not her. The void she left behind wasn’t just a vacancy. It was a cold-yet-burning tightness in his chest. He should’ve known better than to let anyone close like that again. He’d hoped Ina’thia would be different. A stronger, deeper bond that could withstand the test of time. The foibles of refamiliarizing himself with the notion of a relationship. The hardships of disagreements and conflicting interests.
He was wrong.
A part of him wanted to rip the robe off. Burn it. But at the same time, he wouldn’t dare. It was one of the few things he had left of her. And for as much pain as he felt now… they’d had some good times. The robe was a gift from last year’s festival. She’d picked it out for him, after learning he collected them. It made for a fine addition to his nightwear collection, he had to agree. The year before that, their relationship was only just beginning. At least, the positive turn of their relationship was. He remembered the conversation well. Of nobility. Of doing what was right for Quel’Thalas. He’d found such common values in her he’d never stopped to consider before. It was then, and events like that, which painted the stern and impatient Knight-Lord in a new light for him. The start of something greater.
He snapped back, shaking himself free from the memories. They provided only so much comfort. The more he thought about them, the more it hurt when he finally stopped. He settled on wearing the robe all the same, stepping away from the mirror as he approached his bookshelf. He needed something to read to distract him from his own thoughts, tonight. But the opportunity to even select a distraction was robbed of him, as a knock came at his front door. So late! Who would dare disturb him at this hour!? He considered sending the felstalkers to deal with whatever intruder was present… but thought better of it.
Instead, he waved his hand to trace a runic sigil in the air. It lingered, fel-green magic forming a window. A viewfinder. At the same time, fel green eye materialized from a portal down at his front door. It darted about, settling on a figure for a moment-- before it burst in a small controlled arcane 'pop'! He recognized the tall, slender figure. A Nightborne. Aelissah. A portal opened in place of the eyeball, leading into the upper rooms of the Manor, where Bey'ron sat waiting.
The Nightborne stepped through and pulled back her hood to expose her dark skin, ears and glowing arcane markings. Her white eyes set on the Magister, making no commentary on his attire. It was late after all. The portal closed behind her promptly.
“I regret to be bothering you at this hour, Lord Everblaze.” Aelissah said, tone even.
“Nonsense, Miss Ambroise.” the Magister replied, returning the gaze. “You bring news?”
The Nightborne’s brows knit together, her gaze meeting his as she delivered the report. Straight to the point; she figured he wouldn’t appreciate hesitation. She extended her hand, holding out a small, well-worn envelope very familiar to Bey’ron.
“I traced the letter through Pandaria, as you ordered. There’s a good chance it was written before N’Zoth’s fall. And considering how hard the Old God corruption made it to fully trace back to origin… I’d say that’s likely the case.” she frowned, almost apologetically. “However, I did manage to get my hands on the list of casualties, and can confirm that her name does not appear on them.”
“... Hm.”
Bey’ron’s initial response was a little underwhelming. Even for him. He took the envelope, and eyed it pensively. With a sigh, he tapped his chin with his bare, calloused hand, for a contemplative moment. His expression was unreadable, aside from his eyes glowing just a bit duller.
“... Damn her.” he muttered, turning from Aelissah.
He went straight for the wetbar just along the left-hand wall, and set the letter down before pouring himself a drink. His hands shook, glass decanter clinking against the cup he slowly filled. Slowly, his facade fell apart.
“She’s… a fool. A fool!” he scoffed. “Running off amidst such chaos? Away from the safety and security of this place? This manor, in which I so graciously accommodated her?”
He wore a scowl as he turned back to Aelissah, eyes flaring now in anger… or grief. Both, perhaps. He shook his head.
“That list… is it complete? You’re certain of it?” he asked. “Or is it just a list of confirmed dead? Because if she’s gotten herself killed out there, and no one’s found her, she… she wouldn’t…”
He huffed in frustration-- before throwing his glass across the room! It crashed into a bookcase, shattering into half a dozen pieces. Felflames danced along his hands, now clenched in fists, as he stared aimlessly. He was upset, certainly. Shaken by the news.
Aelissah’s ears flickered as the glass shattered, but otherwise remained unaffected by Bey’ron’s outburst.
“The list was last updated two days ago. The count was taken from The Vale of Eternal Blossom, Uldum and Ny'alotha.” she answered… a brief hesitation befalling her before continuing. “...To be frank, it does not include those swallowed up whole by Void tears. I believe the Alliance has the Ren’dorei looking into that. However, Dawnblade’s name was not on the list of registered combatants. It is possible she made her way straight through to another part of Pandaria, but there are no leads to go on in terms of actually finding her.”
Bey’ron slumped down into his chaise, hunched over as he listened. Ears wilted in grief, yet flickering to indicate he was paying attention. He buried his face into his palm.
“So one way or another… you’re telling me she’s gone.” he scoffed, frustration well-evident in his tone. “There’s nothing else? No possible leads? No matter how small, she just… vanished? How many people have you questioned about her? Anyone? How--”
He clenched a fist… then relaxed it. A sigh of resignation escaped his lips as he slowly shook his head. He leaned back, brushing loose strands of hair from his face as he stared off at the far wall. He was never a very expressive elf, generally hiding his true emotions behind that nigh-sinister smirk of his. But now, he wore no such mask. He looked… weary. Broken. Hopeless.
“... How could she do this to me…?” he mumbled, rhetorically. “She wanted for nothing here, but left anyway. Are void-ravaged warfronts truly so preferable to my hospitality? To me?”
His eyes, now dull once more, flickered to Aelissah. He sighed.
“You met her, once. Once I know of, in any case. Do you recall?” he asked. “What do you remember of her?”
“I remember her being confident and decisive.Good at giving orders and getting others to follow her lead,” she said, “but not much beyond that. I was mostly concentrating on approaching my target unseen, then trying to unimpale myself from a tree before someone decided to use Light magic in the Void filled area.”
She shook her head.
“I did not get to know her on a personal level, so I cannot tell if her current decisions and actions match her personality or not.”
The Magister waved his hand, dismissively-- almost sorry he asked. He shook his head, as he exhaled a sigh.
"I'm not asking if you think this is in character for her. I already know it is." he said, sinking down into the chaise. "She's a dragonhawk, Miss Ambroise. Gorgeous, cunning… dangerous if you don't approach her the right way. So tenacious… so elegant…"
He let out another lamenting sigh of resignation, covering his face once more with his hand.
"... I was the foolish one, for thinking any cage, no matter how grand, would be suitable for such a free and indomitable spirit. Of course she'd leave!”
He reached out towards the table beside his chaise lounge for his glass-- only to then remember he’d thrown it across the room. Another sigh.
“And now… she's gone." he muttered to himself.
He stood up once more, and returned to the wetbar. He took up the decanter once more, but… then simply set it down again. His palms pressed to the bar’s edge, as he stared at the worn grummle-printed envelope in a moment of silence.
“... That will be all, Miss Ambroise.”
He didn’t look to see her leave. He wasn’t even sure if she’d left before he ordered it. It didn’t matter. Instead he plucked the envelope up once more, and withdrew the letter inside. His eyes flickered over the words, as if to commit each quillstroke to memory.
He’d find no distraction tonight.
[[ Co-written with @kidcatgemini / @aelissah belongs to her. @inathia for mention. ]]
The Magister laughed. He idly tugged his gloves down taut across his hands one by one, as he shook his head.
“The same thing that makes everyone happy, of course; success.” he explained, tone condescending as usual. “While other people are content accomplishing their meager goals, the basis of the notion’s the same. We all like to succeed. And my successes are far superior to those of a common elf’s. So imagine how much happier I am, hmm?”
As when it came to the special delivery of obtained goods via signed contracts and such, Dawnstide Harbor Trade & Supply usually sent out it’s own courier with the item and the idea for collection of payment for services. Although there were certain occasions where Asharri delivered the goods herself, she wasn’t always afforded such a luxury due to the nature of her status within the Farstriders. Such was the case as to why she sent out her official courier to Lord Everblaze’s estate with the tome he had requested.
The Sin’dorei gentleman with auburn hair had been let in by the estate’s house-staff and led back to the study where the Magister would be waiting. Very carefully he carried the fancily dressed box tied with a crimson ribbon and a note attached in both hands, awaiting eagerly for the other man to take it from him once he had been announced.
“Lord Everblaze,” the courier bowed his head politely. “I come at the request of Ranger-Captain Lakefire to see to it that this is personally hand delivered to you and payment is collected for our services. The extraction was quite the success, I am pleased to announce.”
Within the nicely wrapped box, the very tome asked for was within. ’The Inextinguishable Theorem’, written by Arcanist Lueni Destre. Naturally it had signs of being weathered over the millennia that had passed, even under protection enchantments and being locked away in a chest. Trapped beneath the depths in the ruins of Zin-Azshari, it was bound to not be in pristine condition, yet still readable for the most part.
The letter attached to the package read along with a precise number for payment:
Dear Lord Everblaze,
It is with great pride that we present to you the tome you asked of my trade to recover. While I will not bore you with the specifics of the recovery process, clearly our extraction was a success. Your tome is in remarkable condition given the location and time that has passed since it was originally written, but could naturally use some careful restoration work.
I have included the final pricing for our services on the next page and humbly ask that you send your payment along with my courier. Should you require our services in the future, please do not hesitate in reaching out. Dawnstide Harbor Trade and Supply is always happy to provide.
Elegantly written as the letter was, Bey’ron hardly set eyes on it. He tugged it from the box, and promptly handed it over to his attendant. His interest lay with the box, and the contents therein. Slowly, he withdrew the weathered tome, grinning wide as he beheld just how intact it remained. Not entirely unexpected, but indeed better condition than he had anticipated. He chuckled lightly, holding the book as if it were made of solid gold. Crystal, even! The tome was worth well more than its weight in either.
“Oh, Destre, you clever woman,” he spoke to the book as if it were the author herself. “You knew this precious book would find its way into my hands eventually, didn’t you? An arcane love letter, just for me...”
Few things in life could make the Magister this happy. He turned from both the courier and his attendant, carrying his prize off to take its place among his most valued treasures.
“Pay this man, Tali’nel. Whatever price.” he muttered nonchalantly-- before abruptly turning to eye the courier closely. “... And you; relay my sincere thanks to the Ranger-Captain. This momentous success is the firmest of foundations. The strong beginnings of a very beneficial relationship. For the both of us.”
He smirked, brow flickering as he titled his chin upward. Then he turned once more, retreating into his private study.
Bey’ron frowned. And frowned deeply! His eyes ignited in brilliant green flames, as the rest of the flames in the sconces and fireplace flickered to dim embers. He scoffed!
“Are you drunk again, Lady Starfrost? Or do you honestly think the same tricks you pull on common bar patrons will be enough to lure me into your bedchambers? You ought to know better by now, my dear!”
Unbeknownst to most, Bey’ron briefly had a criminal record! During a visit to Stratholme, the Magister was arrested for unlicensed solicitation when he allegedly tried to sell an old spellbook he no longer needed to a magic-adept human woman. A misunderstanding, surely. He was fined 200 gold by some rather xenophobic and crooked city guards, and was restricted from the city for two week’s time. Stratholme burned in that two-week window, and any record of the “criminal offense” was lost. Nonetheless, the event has altered his opinion of humans overall.
Speaking of the law, Bey’ron is actually a lawyer by trade! He studied the subject extensively both locally in Silvermoon and in Dalaran for a broader-kingdom perspective on the subject. He was licensed to practice not only in Quel’Thalas but additionally in all human kingdoms and Ironforge. He hasn’t tried, obviously, but on paper he may still be able to do public defense work in the dwarven capital!
Dahlyah:
Dahlyah entered military service at a young age - only fourteen! Desperate for food and shelter after her father vanished, she lied about how old she was in order to join the Anvilrage Reservists. The Reservist Corps provided her lodging and food during her time with them, as well as combat and survival training that’s still helping her to this day!
Dahlyah met Queen Moira Thaurissan back when she was still Moira Bronzebeard! Once she was captured from Redridge and brought to Blackrock Mountain, Moira was restricted to a holding quarters. And as one of only a handful seasoned female Reservists, Dahlyah was tasked to guard the prisoner for a brief period during the Princess’ in-processing. She remembers being greatly impressed by Moira, and how unfazed she was even in the face of being detained deep below “enemy territory”. Somewhat reflexively, Dahlyah asked if Moira needed anything, to which Moira replied “Dunnae worry ‘bout me, lass. Won’t be stayin’ long.”
The Magister swirled the wine in his glass, thoughtfully - it must’ve been his fourth, or fifth by now. He scoffed.
“Hm... what a ridiculous question. Of course I have. Everybody has.” he replied, taking another deep drink. “Listen well; everybody betrays everybody. Eriene betrayed me. Ina’thia betrayed me. Syrielle will betray me soon enough, I’m sure. It is not a matter of who will betray you, but when they will.”
He nodded once, firmly.
“... And only a fool would fail to plan accordingly.”
((Thanks for the ask, @prancingmad! @eriene, @inathia, & @syrielle for mentions! ))
