A Scholar's Ruminations

A World of Warcraft character blog for Luminash Dawnwing, a blood elf magister, adventurer, and professional scholar (WRA-H). Avatar art by musingzeroart. Doubles as an OOC blog for a Latin teacher and Classicist.

[ericaofanderson]

Stelliform.

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KnownOrigin / SuperRare / OBJKT / Zedge 

[rosieandthemoon]

[luminashdawnwing]

Picking up the Pieces

Note: This takes place after the full campaign; there will be no major spoilers, but some events may be tangentially mentioned. The second and third parts of Luminash's, Telivathus', Theras', and Aneyah's parts in the campaign finale are still a work in progress!

It was rare for Telivathus to have guests in his apartment nestled in the alleys of Murder Row; rarer still was for Magister Dawnwing to pay a visit, mostly due to the inherent dangers of someone so nobly-garbed as conspicuous as he moving through those shadowed corners of the city.

And yet, Dawnwing had come, and gladly took in hand a glass of whiskey poured by his host. Placing the bottle back into his lavishly-appointed bar, Telivathus turned on his heel and padded past the magister's chair to take his own seat, with his own glass.

“Taking stock of the damage to the city after the attack, Dawnwing? Or are you here on a social call?” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass and tilted his head, “It has been far too long since we’ve played a game of chess, hasn’t it? Theras isn’t too bad, but he’s been busy with Aneyah of late, and I am quite starved.” The way his voice hit a singsong note on the Arathi cleric’s name made Luminash quirk a small smirk.

“Still giving him grief over his infatuation, are you?” Luminash asked, a brow raised.

“It is not merely that, my friend, but the way she looked at him when she awoke from the Void haze that hung over her since the…incident,” Telivathus replied, approaching the near-miss their people had suffered with surprising tact.

“She is a good sort. Inquisitive, kind, with a great deal of wisdom, I believe, despite her relative youth. I will hesitate to give my approval unless something comes of it, but Theras could certainly do worse,” the magister admitted, taking a sip of his whiskey and blinking at its strength.

“I never answered your question though, did I, Tel?” Luminash continued, “Get the board set up, but in the meantime, I would like an update on your activities, such as they are.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Telivathus chuckled as he slid out of his chair and proceeded to the cabinet where he kept his hand-carved chess pieces, “Which activities first, Dawnwing? Shall I begin with the Blade?”

Luminash nodded, “I don’t see why not, even if their activities in the region are no doubt going to be diminished by Xal’atath’s departure.”

As Telivathus gathered the pieces and began to set the board—the round table by where he and the magister had sat was lacquered with a grid already—he shook his head, “Oh, quite the contrary, my friend. Though Antenorian was cut down, and that ogre in Zul’Aman, the disaffected still flock, and I have reason to believe will be increasing their attempts to gain a foothold in Quel’Thalas before long. The desperation of a cornered animal, to borrow a turn of phrase from Theras, hm?”

Luminash furrowed his brows, pursing his lips in concern as he braved another sip of his drink, “You think so, Tel? I cannot say I am surprised, but rather…disappointed. I trust your judgment in this matter, however, so continue your work as you see fit.”

“The Broken Throne, in particular, is a hotbed of activity,” the former ranger explained, sliding languidly back into his seat on the side of the table where he had set up the pieces carved from ebony, “And as much as I am loathe to admit, the Amani may need aid.”

“Do keep me apprised of the situation. I, and our people no doubt, appreciate your dedication, Tel,” the magister said, leaning forward to observe the board. As he reached for a piece—the queen’s pawn—he hesitated, feeling a warmth emanating from the pale wood, “Is this lightwood?”

Telivathus only grinned back at him, “You are not the only one who can procure interesting things, Dawnwing. And speaking of which, your little fel project?”

Luminash nodded, “Yes, my second question: how have you fared so far? Any news?”

“The Row is still the Row, as it ever shall be, and as I am sure you are aware. The major smuggling operation that was frightened off by the Illidari poking about has left behind caches yet to be discovered,” he said, watching as the magister moved his pawn, carved into the likeness of a Silvermoon guard helmet, “I have a few reliable leads on where they have been stored, both in the city and without, and our dear Nether consultant and I will be paying them a visit to judge their use soon enough.”

He moved his king’s knight, carved into the shape of a hawkstrider, leaping over his row of pawns.

“Really?” Luminash responded, whether to the ranger’s defense, or the ‘dear Nether consultant,’ Telivathus could not tell, but he allowed himself a pleased smirk across the table all the same.

“I do have one request, however, before we conclude this little bit of business and return to pleasure, as it were, my friend.”

Luminash glanced up from the board, a brow raised, and nodded as he moved his own king’s knight over his pawns.

“An enchantment on vellum, so that I may apply it at a later date. The ability for, let us say…a weapon, or other such object, to draw latent mana from the environment into itself, and to release upon impact. An ambient infusion, of sorts.”

Luminash motioned for Telivathus to make his move, “That is simple enough, though that hardly seems your style. In fact, it seems more that of ‘our dear Nether consultant,’ as you so phrased it. Either way, what need would there be, when, to my understanding, your trusty blades have their own sort of infusion already.” His gaze flickered for a moment towards the bookshelves near the bar; he knew what lay behind their hinges, and what sort of infusions a skilled killer produced.

“Oh,” Telivathus waved a hand dismissively, “It is not for my blades, but rather something else.” He then made a motion that called to mind the crack of a whip, and broke into a wide grin, “I am afraid I put pleasure before business, and attended quite the show in Shattrath that offered some inspiration.”

Luminash simply stared, stunned by his friend’s pantomime, opened his mouth as if to speak, then only shook his head, “I dare not pry further. I truly, truly do not wish to pry further. As a favor to you, I will take care of it, as if I’ve no other more pressing concerns.” He shook his head again, brows still raised, though he also looked as if he was stifling a laugh, “Just…make your move, Tel.”

The ranger laughed brightly, “Now, let us put business behind us, and let us see how long it takes for you to lose, my friend.”

( @rivannah as the "Nether consultant")

[toxxicsnake]

[luminashdawnwing]

Dusk

(Spoilers for the campaign ending of the Voidspire follow.)

“Of course there are conditions attached,” Luminash muttered as he scanned the agreement that had been placed before him.

Despite his irritation, he was forced to admit a certain comfort. Magistrix Bloodflame’s office at the University was much like his own at his estate, or those set aside for his use but infrequently used at Magister’s Terrace, lined with books and relics of antiquity—and magical potential—an oasis of calm on a campus teeming with eager apprentices.

“Your demonstration at Lord Saltheril’s, and the scholarship you provided, was remarkable, Luminash,” the magistrix said, pausing for a moment to peer closer at a piece of student work she had been correcting when Luminash had arrived for his meeting. It was a distinct look of displeasure mixed with confusion, reserved solely for the most stunning of student errors, “That spell matrix is bound to collapse…”

Returning her attention to Luminash fully, she shook her head, “My apologies. The conditions were at the insistence of the Grand Magister. Although our mutual friends, Lord Saltheril included, have done their best, some compromises must be made in the name of seeing you at your full potential.”

“I will admit,” Luminash replied, “that ‘Professor of Transmutation’ has a pleasing ring to it, though I cannot help but wonder if this insistence upon collegial collaboration in all matters pertaining to the study of Void artifacts is not a way to keep me on Rommath’s leash.”

Magistrix Bloodflame offered a small shrug in return, “A handful of our finest researchers have obtained artifacts from Quel’Danas that the Devouring Host left behind when the Sunwell expelled them. You would not be alone in your curiosity, here, and you would be safer for it.”

Luminash leaned back in the chair, crossing both his ankles and his arms, “Then to business, yes? I assume that this position arises from noble gold in Magistry coffers, and so may be limited by their goodwill. Firstly, we must ensure continued favor, and I assume your connections with Saltheril will do this.”

Magistrix Bloodflame nodded, “I will do my part, but you, my dear, will no doubt have many updates on your progress requested of you. If your research and your instruction is satisfactory—”

“That does bring me to my second point,” Luminash cut in, “I trust that my responsibilities as an instructor will not impede either my continued work in theory, nor the occasional need for field work. The nobility will find that I do not do my best work trapped in a gilded cage.”

“They know your reputation, Luminash,” she chuckled, “A few of those at your demonstration specifically came because of it. You will have responsibilities here, but if you provide the University with adequate reason for travel, then travel you shall.”

She tapped her fingers on her desk, eyes drifting with renewed annoyance to the student’s doomed spell on her desk, “And others thought it best to put one of Silvermoon’s most elusive scholars, our prodigal son, whose publications haunt our libraries, but who himself does not, on a shorter leash; you were right about that. But I hope you’ll find the fruits of our negotiation tempting enough to take us up on this offer.”

“If it provides the resources I need, I will—”

Before Luminash could finish, he felt something in his core wrench. His connection to the Sunwell, the warmth of the Light and the boundless potential of the arcane that sat within him was gone. By the widening of Magistrix Bloodflame’s eyes and the sickened look on her face, from a sense of dread growing in the back of his mind, Jaskian’s dread, he knew others felt it too.

There was nothing, as if the Light within had been consumed, not even befouled as before, but gone. Outside, panicked shouts, and the midday sky grew dark.

Something had gone horribly, terribly wrong.

* * * * *

For weeks, Aneyah had tended to the Sunwell, a foreigner to Quel’Thalas, but the radiant, burning Light within reminded her all the same of her home far across the sea. Other Arathi from Hallowfall had come, even Lamplighters like Faerin. Where were her people from home, she wondered, when Renilash threatened?

Still, she mused, resting after draining herself to channel the Light into the fount, one of many desperately maintaining the well’s strength against the encroaching Voidstorm, perhaps victory would come with the aid of Hallowfall alone, for the Vanguard had joined the battle properly some time before, no doubt striking at Xal’atath’s heart.

The well was stronger now, after whatever had been done in the Voidstorm, more able to withstand the assault. For not the first time in those days did a wave of relief wash over her; the darkest hour of Renilash had passed, and though the pain it caused Theras’ people was immense, the Light had delivered them.

Doubt remained, gnawing at her spirit, however. Where might this reliance on the Light lead? She had already seen her kin, her own Arathi, seizing on those they deemed “suspicious” in the city. They were only guests; what right had they to act so? They had not done so at home, or in Hallowfall, but here, so assured of their righteousness, they seemed to descend to petty tyranny. Was Renilash only the beginning of the end? What lay beyond the defeat of the shadow, if nothing were left to check the Light?

She thought, too, of the young Dawnwing, fond and warm, even now tending to the refugees in the city that they had aided together when Quel’Danas first came under assault. She saw his resolve when he put himself between the accused and accusers when the Vanguard had begun to patrol the streets, his strength and his gentleness, and beyond that, the eye of an artist when he looked on the world. 

She permitted herself this warmth as she returned to the well’s edge, to wash away the doubt. Where those like Theras were, tyranny could not easily take root.

Then, a pang of fear as the Voidstorm rumbled, and the Light ebbed. In an instant, the world simply ceased, and all went dark.

[luminashdawnwing]

Weds for Tel:

Have he ever had a “Great love”?

Telivathus did have one great love, his wife Amirys.

She was a magistrix he had met in passing when he worked on the docks at Sunsail Anchorage in his youth, and kept running into over the years. Eventually, he chose to join the Farstriders rather than go to sea, so that he would not be parted from her so often or so easily, at her urging.

They remained together for years, and though he would consider her his “great love,” there was a fundamental incompatibility. They argued often, made up often, but remained together, so deeply convinced they both were of their connection; he remained ever restless, she hoping for true roots and stability.

When the Sunwell was lost, and the Sunfury followed Kael’thas to Outland, wracked by arcane addiction, their relationship suffered even more, with her addiction to magic driving more desperation, and his growing bitterness at the Sunfury putting them further at odds.

In the end, he defected with Voren’thal and the Scryers, and she, nearly Wretched, fled into Terokkar.

While he has made some connections since, and had grown as a person since those times, especially as he comes to terms with his age, he still laments that he was unable, then, to fix what his own actions helped to break.

Thanks for the ask!

[luminashdawnwing]

Does Luminash think those in charge of Quel'Thalas are doing a good job at handling the Voidstorm and the threat of Xal'atath? Is there anything he would advise them to do differently?

He thinks they are doing acceptably, especially given Rommath swallowing his pride enough to allow the Ren’dorei to help.

He would certainly propose, if given the opportunity, some serious thought into contingencies should the Sunwell fail (perhaps not as, let us say, eccentric as Astalor’s approach, but contingencies all the same).

Spoilers for the campaign follow:

As for the gathering of the elves, he could have done without the high elves having a presence in the city, especially after the Purge of Dalaran, but he understands at least.

The night elves, he also has no true hostility towards, but has serious concerns about the path the Sin’dorei have going forward after the birth of the Dawnwell, and the insistence of the Kaldorei that there be no font of power to draw upon; how will Quel’Thalas survive, or maintain itself, without power?

Time will tell.

Thanks for the ask!

[luminashdawnwing]

[W]ednesday: Where did his distaste of working with Saltheril or the Thalassian nobility come from?

While technically nobility himself, with a line stretching back to the kingdom’s foundation, virtually all of whom have been magisters, and virtually all of whom have largely been focused on their own academic pet projects and pursuits.

Luminash in particular was raised between Dalaran and Quel’Thalas, with little contact in his formative years with other nobles beyond what were essentially pure academics. He knows how the game often has to be played in academic circles, and has always chafed due to his desire to focus on his work and his work alone; this is what gave him his status as somewhat of a black sheep

He doesn’t resent nobles for politicking, nor does he entirely dislike the maneuvering; he simply dislikes it as a necessity, or a pre-condition of his true ends.

Thanks for the ask!

[randommemestouse]

‘W’ednesday Asks!

~ What if… - Ask my OC ‘what if’ questions ~ Wonderful - Tell my OC what makes them wonderful ~ WTF - Ask/tell my OC something that would get a WTF reaction ~ Whoops - Accidentally send my OC a message/letter that was never supposed to be sent ~ Who/what/when/where/why - Ask my OC anything you want!

ANON IS ON!

Don’t be ‘that person’, practice good question/reblog karma!

[fio-renze]

For @fio-renze , @keranna-zerine and @pyraelia !

[luminashdawnwing]

For @luminashdawnwing (and any of his “supporting cast:” Theras, Aneyah, or Telivathus), and @masonkohler.

My own asks will be sent out later in the evening!

[luminashdawnwing]

A Noble Diversion (Part II)

(A follow-up to this.)

“Magic is the lifeblood of our people,” Luminash intoned, arms raised as he addressed the gathered crowd of gawking nobles in Lord Saltheril’s courtyard. He was the very picture of the magister the nobility expected to see here, wreathed in robes of red and black, trimmed in electrum, which caught the golden light of Eversong, yet did not reflect so brightly as the noble’s own unalloyed golden trims. It drew a contrast, sent a message, Luminash thought.

“We have subsisted on the Sunwell for millennia,” he continued, gesturing towards the north, towards the column of radiance holding the Voidstorm at bay. He had seen it wane in recent days, felt the weight of the Void more heavily, “And our mastery of the arcane is unmatched. And yet what may help may also harm.”

He began to move through the crowd, the nobles parting around him. While he spoke, he circulated, drawing in others who had been too lost in their conversations across the courtyard; however much he did not wish for an audience, he knew the larger the better in this case.

“We have all felt the steep cost of dependence on the arcane alone,” he pressed a hand to his heart, “We have seen the devastation that unchecked necromancy unleashed upon us; we know all too well the dangers of fel and of the Void.”

He let Void linger, and felt a pang of pleasure at seeing a few of Saltheril’s assembled guests shift in discomfort.

“And now the Lightbloom encroaches on our lands” Luminash added, returning to the front of the crowd, “Life left unchecked, bound by the singular will of overzealous Light. We magisters have cultivated the beauty of Eversong for generations, aided often by treants, our own stewards of nature.” He clasped his hands together, interlacing his fingers, “The order of the arcane and the vibrance of life, together in balance. But now, that balance has shifted, to disastrous effect!”

“What is it you propose, then, my dear magister?” Lord Saltheril called from the back of the crowd. He had entered his own party fashionably late, slipping in while attention was on Luminash.

Only a slight twitch of the eye betrayed Luminash’s mild irritation at the interruption. He knew well that this bit of theatricality would serve his interests, as did Saltheril: a bit of back-and-forth to make the other guests feel included.

“I propose, Lord Saltheril,” Luminash replied, waving a hand towards the Haven’s arched entryway where Captain Bel’anas and two other spellbreakers waited, “Transmutation!”

The nobles exchanged glances ranging from confusion to amusement as Bel’anas and his subordinates moved towards the magister, each bearing armfuls of arcane equipment: Bel’anas carried a heavily-warded box, a dark wood carved with glowing pale purple runes, which shook violently, whatever within seeking release. The others each bore a single large crystal foci tucked under an arm, and cradled in the other, an energy condenser of clear K’areshi design.

Luminash himself began to etch before the eyes of the assembled nobility a runed circle on marble flagstones, magic springing from his hands and pouring into the symbols traced with crushed mana crystals. While he worked, he continued to speak.

“There is an underlying framework to all things, and if we Sin’dorei can grasp it, can comprehend it, we need fear no destructive force, no corruption of our homeland,” he raised his eyes to observe the audience’s reactions as he continued, “Magic is our lifeblood, and all magic is simply that: magic. However it manifests, if we learn to leash it with our mastery of the arcane, it is ours for the taking! The Void cannot threaten our Sunwell; the Lightbloom cannot consume our forests!”

Bel’anas deposited the quaking crate within the circle, his spellbreakers channeling the arcane into the foci and watching them rise from the stones where they had been placed to hover flanking the magister. The energy condensers were quickly connected to the crystals by copper wires and began to hum quietly as they were activated, the ambient mana of Eversong providing ideal fodder for the machines.

Luminash silently lamented the simplicity of this demonstration, the simplicity he had to adopt lest he risk the attention of Saltheril’s guests. However interested certain nobles might be in academic pursuits, he was under no illusions that this was not truly an academic talk. Back in his laboratory, the sheer power of the leyline siphon afforded far greater flexibility to study the transmutation of one force to another, or of the interactions between them. Here, he would need to work quickly, and on a small scale.

The spellbreakers retreated to just outside the magister’s rune as Bel’anas opened the box with a latch on the side, allowing the Light-maddened lasher within to break free, flailing with vines and gnashing its jagged, mouth-like flower.

A few of the nobles gasped, or stepped back, before the creature froze in place as the runed circle flashed brightly, glowing with the arcane and catching the gnashing lasher in a stasis field.

“As you see, the Light has maddened this beast, among so many others, in our fine forest, and driven many more out of their own homes, as our neighbors in Fairbreeze may attest,” Luminash began, pacing in a wide circle around the stasis trap, motioning first to the lasher, and then east, in the direction of the great tree that marked Fairbreeze Village.

His path took him near one of the crystals, and as he raised his hand, a stream of mana began to flow towards it, at first a mere gossamer strand, then an almost-liquid tether, “None of us are any strangers to taking what we need, when the need arises. In this new age of uncertainty, as our Sunwell is threatened once more, why should we not secure ourselves against that uncertainty?”

He closed his fist, and the tether snapped. He raised his other hand, and a stream began to flow not only from the hand, but both crystals flared to life, pouring their collected mana into the lasher.

Saltheril had, it seemed, not only invited the nobility, but representatives of other factions, as well; a handful of scholarly-looking sorts bearing the marks of the Magistry stood in the back of the crowd, eyes keen on the threads of magic Luminash had begun to weave within his captured subject.

He had to be careful; the condensers only allowed enough power for one brief transmutation. There was little room for error, “In my research, I cite the work of Magister Bloodsworn, when he used the arcane to harness M’uru’s Light in years passed. That power was only accessible to his chosen, his Blood Knights. But what, I ask,” he paused for a moment, for effect, “If all of our people could access any power, at any time?”

Those same magisters exchanged a mixture of worried and excited glances. A delegation even further away, more aloof still from the gathered nobles, wearing Blood Knight colors shook their heads.

The spellwork complete, with a dramatic flick of his wrist, Luminash fixed the spell, the flow of mana ceasing; the lasher thrashed, snarling and snapping, as its golden glow shifted to the pale blues and purples of the arcane, only to calm as its Light-madness ebbed.

As the magister dispelled his stasis circle, most of the nobles retreated in apprehension, but not Saltheril.

Luminash motioned towards him, a sheen of perspiration on his brow; such magic took more of him than he cared to show this crowd of vultures, who would no doubt swoop down upon him at the first sign of weakness, at the first glimpse of a crack in what he had presented as a visionary solution.

“Please, Lord Saltheril, if you would do the honors. Remind the Sin’dorei that the world’s magic is ours for the taking.”

Lord Saltheril stepped forward, laying a hand on the lethargic lasher’s now-calm head, and with a bright smile, turning to face the crowd, and a flash of white from his hand, drained the elemental’s mana, the arcane essence that had once been pure, maddening Light. As it slumped towards the pavement, Saltheril seemed to stand taller, allowing Luminash to slip away and his accompanying spellbreakers to remove their equipment in peace.

It was done. Luminash would no doubt spend the rest of the day answering questions—and accusations—from nobles, magisters, and Blood Knights alike, but his work was no longer any sort of secret.

And perhaps the Grand Magister would be forced to take note.

[luminashdawnwing]

A Noble Diversion

Luminash had always felt Saltheril’s “Haven,” as he was fond of calling it, to be a horrid scar on Eversong’s vernal beauty; the eternal revels, unceasing even in the face of the Sunwell’s destruction, the unrest that followed, and now the Void’s assault and the ravages of the Lightbloom, were utterly tasteless.

Despite the tastelessness, visiting the Haven himself, and being surrounded by the mingling masses of the nobility, and espying representatives of the Blood Knights, Farstriders, and even a few faces familiar from the city’s darker corners, there might be a method to the madness—this time. These reflections came as the magister paid approximately half his attention to the impeccably dressed sommelier outlining Saltheril’s wine offerings; Keranna had been right, his taste was good, at least in wines.

The wine Luminash selected, poured expertly into a long-stemmed glass, was a deep, dark red, rich and sweet in its aroma, and shimmered on the surface with infused mana. The latent magic within offered a pleasant tingle on the tongue and lips, which prompted an appreciative nod to the sommelier, who bowed before taking his leave.

“I trust you are enjoying the fine work of our vintners in Goldenmist, magister?” Saltheril himself asked, joining Luminash after greeting a few other new arrivals. He wore a brilliant smile that almost fully reached his eyes as he ushered his guest up the ramp towards the private pavilion floating above, “The others will not miss us for a few minutes, will they? We have much to discuss, and I am pleased you have come!”

“It is a pleasure to be here, Lord Saltheril. Your invitations are, of course, to be envied,” Luminash responded, hoping he managed more sincerity in his voice than he himself felt. Truly, he would have preferred to be most anywhere else rather than surrounded by preening nobles—except perhaps in the midst of the Lightbloom, channeling his mana into a runestone, the fate that this event had saved him from at least for one day.

“They are, aren’t they?” Saltheril mused, his laugh bright and nearly infectious, “Especially when one has been so mistreated as you, my dear Luminash. The festivities have scarcely begun, and we have yet to welcome our guest of honor.” Upon reaching the top of the ramp, Saltheril slid onto a chaise and threw his legs up, the very picture of easy elegance.

Away from the crowd, Luminash saw the truth: every word, every move, the man made was a perfectly rehearsed mask. The realization that he was out of his depth struck too late.

“Your guest of honor, Lord Saltheril?” the magister ventured, hiding his discomfort behind a sip of the wine. The vibrance of the mana swirling in the claret braced him.

“Why, you of course! It is why you were invited! Did I not say in my letter?” Saltheril asked, a look of stunned, feigned innocence on his face as he held a hand to his chest and sipped from his own glass.

“I…” Luminash shook his head, taking a too-large sip of his wine to regain his composure, “I am afraid you neglected to mention that at the time.”

“Please, dear magister, take a seat,” the host motioned to a chaise facing his own, “You look as if you are about to swoon!”

Slumping onto the couch, Luminash settled himself, adjusting his robes in a manner not quite as dignified as he would have liked, “I am a scholar, Lord Saltheril, not some dignitary. Your invitation mentioned addressing the ‘ills,’ as you put it, facing Quel’Thalas. That at least, I am prepared to discuss.”

“And that is precisely why you are our guest of honor!” Saltheril exclaimed, “I do hope you will pardon the flattery if it allows you a platform for your most important work. I know you’ve not always seen eye-to-eye with your colleagues. But you may make some new friends today who may help that.”

Luminash narrowed his eyes, blue wreathed in Sunwell gold meeting Saltheril’s green, “I’m listening.”

Another brilliant smile, not quite reaching the eyes, and Luminash realized what was being hidden behind the mask. Saltheril’s persona was striking, and overwhelming, yes, but it was a projection of comfort, of ease, much as was the Haven itself. It was leadership by a certain misguided example, a hope of easing the minds of the common people.

That demeanor shifted now, out of sight of the guests, as Lord Saltheril cut to the heart of the matter, “When you returned to Quel’Thalas and began to rejuvenate the old Dawnwing estate, many of us old guard, as it were, rejoiced: at last, one of Silvermoon’s prodigal children has returned. Dear old Selius would have been proud.”

“My father never spoke of dealings with the nobility,” Luminash cut in bluntly.

Saltheril dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand, “He was diplomatic, and a good sport at parties like this. It is never an unwise gamble to support a reliable magister, especially one with connections both among our own less tractable academics, and those in Dalaran, may the Sun ever light its ashes. Your mother, on the other hand, actually enjoyed our parties. Our peers positively scrambled to listen to her harp. Ah, what music it was!”

Luminash’s gaze had drifted to his cup, following the eddies of the arcane in its depths.

“Whatever little value he may have thought we had,” Saltheril continued, “We were of use to him, and he to us. Though certainly not all magisters ourselves, many among us have a keen interest in scholarship. Ask around the University sometime, and you will see who holds the pursestrings, hm?

“I will be blunt, my dear Luminash. I know, and the rest of the nobles who are interested in the well-being of our kingdom, that you have resources of your own, and those the Grand Magister allows you. We also know that you are being stifled, and would not mourn should the Grand Magister himself be forced to acquiesce to…certain pressures.”

“So you do not all agree that the Void is anathema,” Luminash posited, a hopeful rising note in his tone.

Saltheril shook his head, “Oh, let us not sully this talk with something so repellent. It is not about this magic or that magic, but about the precedent it sets. If our best and brightest cannot pursue their most visionary work without an observer eternally glowering over the gold trim of his mask, what hope do our people have should the worst come to pass?”

The nobleman motioned towards the north where, through the golden leaves of Eversong, churned the Voidstorm and the dwindling column of Light holding back its predations, “Word is, they are having trouble. I am sure you’ve heard?” The question was merely rhetorical, as he continued, “Scouring the world for relics of the Light, even whispers of the exiles looking for solutions.” So this is what it was like, Luminash thought, to not be able to get a word in.

“What exactly is it that you are proposing then, Lord Saltheril?” the magister asked. He looked past the man, lost in glimpses of the star-flecked indigo heart of the Voidstorm, broken only by the leaves dancing in the gentle, flashing in yellows and oranges.

“As my guest of honor, Magister, your audience expects only one thing, waiting with collectively bated breath: a small demonstration. Begin with the Lightbloom.”

Luminash raised a brow, and allowed himself a small smirk over the lip of his glass, meeting Saltheril’s own wide, rakish grin; this one touched his eyes.

(@keranna-zerine for a brief mention!)

[masonkohler]

Pain to Purpose

The sound of whetstone scraping across the blade’s newly beveled edges soothed Mason’s frayed nerves. The entire process had: heating the steel, hammering the glowing ingot into shape, coaxing out the artwork hidden within cold metal.

Some might not call it art, but the weapon in his hands, gleaming in the glow of the forge that had yet to cool, sang to him. It had almost begged to be released from the prison of unformed metal; the length of a shortsword, it was a massive two-bladed spearhead, a ring open in the center awaiting the presence of the storm. He had seen such weapons wielded by the Valarjar in years past, and something days ago had driven him to his forge before even breaking his fast, a compulsion he could not explain.

As he fastened the spearhead to its prepared ashen haft, he saw the shadows lengthening as evening drew on, and exhaustion struck him like his hammer had struck the anvil since the early hours. His limbs grew slack as he rested the new greatspear next to his other arms and began the rote process of tidying the forge for the next day’s work. As often, his mind wandered.

* * * * *

Blood pounded in Mason’s ears, the other sounds of battle—the clash of steel, the shouts of pain, the groans of the dying—fading away to nothing as darkness crept into the edges of his vision. He had been told this excursion would be his death, a return to the Broken Shore to scout for the lost and forgotten after the disaster at the Tomb. He, though, had yet to fall.

His armor moved with him, a second skin, as he hacked away at the foe, demonic ichor spraying across the fel-blighted, blackened soil, the sting of it splattered on his skin and into his eyes only deepening his concentration on the sweep of his axe. The pain was distant, and offered clarity, surety that he still lived, as Legion forces fell before him.

Trusted companions, those who had followed, and too had been knocked from their gryphons by Legion attack, fell in the dust. Others clawed their way to survival with Mason, one even forcing a felbat into the sky and back towards Dalaran. He had spent many nights in planning, in perfecting his approach, his strategy to quickly scout the terrain and flee before discovery; how little it had availed him!

He brought his axe down with a guttural scream, crushing through the felguard’s armor and sinking halfway into the brute’s shoulder. Pulling the weapon out, he struck again, cleaving across its torso and sending it to the ground. Mason’s lungs burned with exertion, but he was so blessedly alive; he did not realize, then, that the others had gone, and he was alone. Even the Legion forces had withdrawn, and yet his blood shrieked for war.

The thunderous steps of a pit lord’s approach were met not with the terror they ought to have evoked, but with another battle cry and brandished axe.

The battle that ensued would be Mason Kohler’s glorious end, bloodied and broken in the dust as the annihilan breathed its last, a blinding bolt of Light from above spearing the demon, a gout of felfire from its husk swallowing the frail mortal who had almost bested it.

* * * * *

The dinner Mason had set before himself was simple: brown bread he had baked the day before, hard cheese and cured meats from the market, and fruit plucked from the orchards near his home. Each day now was simple too, their rhythms calm and familiar. The haze of war was far away, the violence and fear only a haunting memory. Honest money from his work made its way back to his aging parents, enough remaining in his hands only to keep himself comfortable.

And yet, that was all he was now: comfortable, almost lost in a different sort of haze, like one waking, knowing of what awaits beyond the warmth of the blankets, but lost all the same in their embrace. 

The recent companionship of Vix was a welcome disruption to his routine, a few moments to talk about something other than his craft. There was poetry—his little library had been lain bare, and its contents shared for the first time in many years—and pain—memories of the frozen north he had thought best left unstirred—but together it became reality. However it hurt, pressing on those bruises, as it were, reminded him of what he had lost in his safety. It was a brief glimpse through a foggy windowpane into the wider world outside; he longed to follow her there.

That window had been utterly shattered the night of the great storm, when Sigfa had appeared at the lighthouse: the val’kyr had been his savior that day on the Broken Shore, snatching him from certain death and granting him new purpose among the mortal Valarjar. The more he thought, the more he felt she had doomed him: he should have been another casualty of the Legion’s war, another weapon broken in the heat of battle. Yet he had been reforged, made stronger, and forbidden from breaking. If he leapt through the broken panes, what fate awaited him?

The walls of his little house seemed to close in, and he found himself swallowed unbidden in the gulf of bitter memory.

* * * * *

Mason looked back over his shoulder, the Kohler farm fading away in the distance as he ran, blade in hand, lightning crackling along its length, pulse pounding in time with the thudding of his feet on Westfall’s soil.

Everything he had built had come crumbling down: a home reclaimed from the devastation of the Legion, made into a safe haven for the rudderless and unwelcome. The crime of one man, a murder committed in desperation, had brought Stormwind’s guards down upon his benefactor. That benefactor, then, had sealed his fate with righteous anger, raising arms against his own kingdom.

He did not know how long he had run, but when golden fields began to slope downwards towards a river, beyond which was a bleak and hungry forest, made more unwelcome by the darkness of the night sky, he finally stopped, dropping his weapon and surrendering himself to the soft grass.

Whatever became of his home now, there would be no turning back for Westfall’s lost son.

* * * * *

He took a series of deep breaths, counting as he did, and felt the grip he had on the edge of his table slacken, returning to his repast in an effort to banish the painful thoughts, giving in to the necessity of the body to soothe the mind. As he ate, the food became as ash in his mouth, and he stood abruptly enough to knock his chair to the floor, a scream in his mind overwhelming his senses.

He had not heard the Radiant Song before, not like many others, and yet it struck in this moment, a scream of terror and a vision of the sun swallowed by a starless, inky blackness. He saw panicked elven faces frozen in a moment of suffocating fear.

He saw Sigfa in his mind’s eye, resplendent in golden armor, impassive under her helmet. He heard her voice, a call to become a shield for his world. Darkness was coming, and the Valarjar were silent.

There, too, he saw Vix. A shadow threatened Quel’Thalas, she had told him, the pair leaning against the counter one night in a dimly-lit Boralus harbor tavern. His mind had raced, then, how best to fight against an unseen hand. A thrill had risen in his breast at the thought. It was that window, again, another peek through the glass.

Then she was among the others, an exiled mourner of an eclipsed sun. Her sorrow became his, and he felt himself lost in the dust of the Broken Shore, lost in the grasses of Westfall as he fled, an exile of sorts himself, mourning the loss of peace, the loss of innocence.

A flash, like lightning, and the smith’s senses were lost again to the Song.

Blood pounded in Mason’s ears, the other sounds of the village in the evening—farmers calling livestock in for the night, children managing a final few moments of play, the distant crash of sea waves—fading away to nothing as a brilliance flashed in the smith’s vision.

It was enough to send him to his knees as he rushed out of his home’s front door, panting and gripping the dust in clenched fists. He choked back the agonized howl that threatened to erupt from his lips from the pain of his memories, from the pain of the Song, from the fear playing on Thalassian faces, the gnawing dread of that blackened sun. He had seen enough, had felt enough. Wherever he went, war followed; it was in the very beating of his heart, a war drum in his very breast.

The message in the Song focused Mason’s mind, and as its racing calmed, he saw with clarity, the colors of the world clearer and crisper even in the evening twilight than they had been in some time, the sky a rich indigo, the horizon gripped by the last of dusk’s rosy fingertips.

He would not—could not—abandon those in need again. If war was his lot, then he would suffer it so that others would not.

* * * * *

While the battle at the Sunwell raged, the Devouring Host pressing against the walls and rampaging through the gardens and terraces of Quel’Danas, there came a bolt of lightning, a peal of thunder from the darkened sky.

In its wake, a lone mortal Valarjar rushed against the Void’s onslaught, a shield wreathed in storm, raised not by the Light, not by any others’ urging, but by its own will, to stand between the innocent and their destruction.

(@tannoraste for Vix! And here for certain backstory references.)

[bluesick]

[ericaofanderson]

Cosmic Time.

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KnownOrigin / SuperRare / OBJKT / Zedge 

[luminashdawnwing]

A New Game

In the time since the Voidstorm’s eruption and the Sunwell’s great surge, Luminash had scarcely a moment of quiet, neither in the work of the world around him, nor in his own head. Sleep had been hard to come by, and rest in his waking hours even harder: the Grand Magister had placed all of his own on emergency footing, with personal pursuits largely suspended in favor of defense of the kingdom.

Luminash could scarcely fault him that, as much as he might disagree with Rommath’s narrow-mindedness at other times, not even as he and Jaskian were assigned to reinforcing the runestones as they strained against the encroaching Lightbloom. Her skill with the leylines running beneath Quel’Thalas was in high demand, as tapping them to their fullest potential was critical to the continued safety of Eversong; Luminash, on the other hand, was especially skilled in transmutation and abjuration, the latter making him an excellent candidate for being, he thought when his mood shifted towards resentment of the Grand Magister’s decisions, a runestone battery.

As he returned to the Dawnwing estate, the pair of spellbreakers standing watch outside his damaged laboratory tower saluted. He offered, in return, a halfhearted wave. At least his response to the disaster when the Voidstorm struck had earned him the respect of Captain Bel’anas and the troops under his command. They had, in fact, interceded on the magister’s behalf when Rommath heard of what had transpired, and through Bel’anas’ efforts, the laboratory and its wards remained intact; the Grand Magister reluctantly agreed that there may be a place for Luminash’s research once the immediate threat had passed.

That was, of course, utterly noncommittal and, Luminash reflected, guaranteed to be twisted in such a way to hinder his work should Rommath feel the need. He was surely already at his wits’ end with the Ren’dorei hovering around Quel’Thalas’ outskirts.

Before Luminash reached the front door, however, Rilaniel, the porter, stopped him, swift steps coming from behind.

“Magister Dawnwing,” the young man said, bowing his head, “A letter for you.”

The envelope he proffered bore a seal that Luminash recognized, but sincerely wished he hadn’t. Tucking it into his robe, he nodded in thanks as Rilaniel departed, returning to tending the spellbreaker cohort’s hawstriders. The poor boy hadn’t had a moment’s rest himself since they had arrived, Luminash thought, shaking his head.

At last slumping into his desk chair, its high back and heavy armrests engulfing his slim frame, the magister sighed and pulled the letter from its hiding place. Melting the wax with just enough fire magic to pull it free, he opened it, and was greeted with exactly what he expected—an excessively calligraphic script, an excess of flattery, excess of prose—but also with something he was not—perhaps not an excess, but a flicker at least of understanding:

Most Esteemed Magister Luminash Dawnwing,

As I am sure you know, I rarely take the time to personally write to prospective guests, as my duties keep me busier than one might imagine. Your plight, however, has caught the eye of a number of Silvermoon’s most illustrious.

I could enumerate the Magistry’s misdeeds: stifling the brilliant research you are conducting; kneecapping a shining hope for the future of our sylvan homeland; and cutting off at the root the future of our magisters’ free inquiry. I shall not, however, for this letter could scarcely contain all on which I must speak!

That said, it would be an unparalleled honor if you and your wife, the incomparable Magistrix Jaskian Dawnwing, née Clearwater, herself, were to join me at my haven. There, we may speak freely, and I have no doubt find common ground on how to approach the ills our kingdom—not to mention our world—faces.

Warmest regards, and most sincerely, Lord Saltheril

Luminash tossed the letter onto his desk and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. While the games of the nobility had rarely interested them the way they did a number of his peers, he had to admit that their political pressure, bent to his ends, could be of use.

At least it would be a momentary distraction bone-deep exhaustion.

(@kharrisdawndancer for Jaskian mention! Have fun at the party!)

[bronzedragonflight]

[silsol]

Astalor