ℱøℜs⍲₭⍷ ȶhé ᴆ⍲ⱳȵ

Ah, welcome, how did you even manage to find this place? I wasn't entirely expecting company, but make yourself at home if you can ignore the Vrykul hunting horns... Someone let their spirits out of a certain goblet. [A World of Warcraft roleplaying blog]

[theplaguelord]

❅—“Iｎ ｏｒｄｅｒ ｔｏ ｓｕｒｖｉｖｅ ｔｈｅ ｇｎａｓｈｉｎｇ ｏｆ ｉｔｓ ｔｅｅｔｈ…

               “Iu oɹpǝɹ ʇo snɹʌᴉʌǝ ʇɥǝ ƃuɐsɥᴉuƃ oɟ ᴉʇs ʇǝǝʇɥ…”  

    An ashen, featherlike brow would arch deliberately, as his sensitive ears gathered every vibration the Curator’s throat painted into the air. All of his considerations were placed aside. His intentions were instantly brushed from the forefront of his attention..  

                      ❝The Wretched? Of what concern are they to you?❞

     He was albeit, more hopeful than he sounded. Their gilded Prince, damaged and dishonored though the youth of Silvermoon would lament him - like parentless children despairing of a keeper - they would not know as he did, that Kael'thas persisted yet, and toiled still for the fallen of their kin. To believe that the Nightflare Curator and the Sunstrider Prince were working in a kind of tandem… if the tattered sheets of his heart could still beat, he would have dared believe that it would have skipped a sequence.

       Slowly, he gathered his composure as the smaller-statured elf intruded amiably into his space. Indulging himself, on the basis of self-same curiosity, the backs of his claws traced faintly along the curious, fel-magic runes etched into the side of Keldreyas’ face as he answered before anticipating a response to his own inquiry.

     ❝I was greatly taxed by the campaign in Draenor. It simply took this long to recover. It may interest you - as it did myself, in fact. Through some experimentation I was rewarded with a dismal discovery…  My strength wanes when I am greatly distanced from the Frozen Throne for an extended time.“ He glanced at his own hand, flexing his long fingers, each crowned in a black-lacquered claw. "I returned to Northrend post-haste, before this compromise to my potency was noted by the enemy. Not even in the Depths of Vashj'ir did I lose so much stamina. You see, in Draenor, I was severed from my King’s Voice, and his ice-cold fires of Will. There was nothing to sustain me save for my gifts as a San'layn. The opposition in Draenor is fierce and unyielding. I spent my noxious blood too freely, so like a weak currency to silence them. The Draenei and their Light assaulted me from one side, the Legion and its hellfire assaulted me from the other… I simply could not consume enough life-energies without rousing suspicion from my superstitious, if useful, garrison soldiers. It troubles me, to have overlooked this disproportion of use and reclamation of energy. I will need to enlist cultists who would willingly and eagerly spend their energies in small portions to strengthen my reach, if I am to sustain a presence in Draenor.

             My teeth still feel dry…❞

    He sighed, and brushed a loose strand of ash from his eyes. For a multiplicity of reasons, he felt comfortable disclosing this realization with the Curator. Perhaps it was a kinship of forbidden science-enthusiasts. Perhaps it was because like himself, Keldreyas did not fit comfortably into the pre-designated races of "Blood Elf” or “High Elf,” but rather, a disheartened third kind. It was additionally, undeniable that the Plaguelord was rather interested in himself, as an experimental subject.

    ❝I have stationed a few loyal servants there, to ensure that the apexis crystals and other vital reliquaries are collected for my Master’s glorious ambitions, but I will take time to ensure that I will not return to Draenor simply to greet fatigue once more. So, the event cataclysmic is on a scale relevant to none but myself this time, if it comforts you.❞

                                           —ｗｅ ｃｒａｗｌｅｄ ｗｈｏｌｅ,                                                         ‘ǝloɥʍ pǝlʍɐɹɔ ǝʍ

                                                               ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｌｌｙ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｂｅａｓｔ.”                                                                      “.ʇsɐǝq ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎllǝq ǝɥʇ oʇuᴉ

[nightflarecurator]

         That ever-present amiability never faded, as a single digit raised and pressed itself against lips that never seemed to cease facilitating voice, yet rarely gave away more than a portion of the secrets held within the lithe creature’s frame. In his haste to protect the little family left to him, the eldest, now head of the Dawnflare house, would have fled the battle in Quel'thalas, taking his sibling’s demonic state with him - he would not be present when the Sin'dorei were named, he had not stood with his brethren during their path, following the Sun King to glory, instead pursuing knowledge and power to fulfill a single promise. There would be no regret in his decision, but there was little point in forsaking the dawn now… if he was to be a wanted traitor regardless, if a sort of redemption could be allowed for abandoning his kin in their hour of need.. this was something he could do.

           "I simply have a few theories I wish to tes - t.”

Lightly hitched breath would see to it that his words faltered akin to a skipping record, the ghosted contact causing an abnormal display of hesitance as the slender being leaned back ever so slightly, that smile remaining, though luminescent orbs narrowed. Despite a distinct lack of fear, trust was always an issue to those with keen intellect, and any touch was foreign to the hermit who chose to lock himself in a tower on a daily basis. Evidently, the Curator was allowed to invade the personal bubbles of others, but was less willing to share his own.

   A quick wit would mentally note each reverberating phrase, at the same time that multi-toned gaze studied the features across from him, a memory as secure as a Titan’s programming caching each bit of information for later use.

      “Fascinating.                That does make perfect sense, considering how there are patches of roaming Undead around Azeroth that have completely lost their minds - ghouls and whatnot, because they have no orders giving them purpose, being only a continent away from the Throne - I cannot imagine being a timeline and universe away from the source.

      Perhaps the Shadowmoon Dark Shaman would make a proper meal for you?              They utilize Void and dark magics, do they not?    Considering they’re not entirely welcome anywhere,               you could essentially wipe them out.

 Ah, I have been researching the Apexis crystals as well,        too many rooms have been compromised by overloads..

       Regardless, you should come by for tea more often.                You still have that stone I gave you, don’t you?”

[theplaguelord]

❅—“Iｎ ｏｒｄｅｒ ｔｏ ｓｕｒｖｉｖｅ ｔｈｅ ｇｎａｓｈｉｎｇ ｏｆ ｉｔｓ ｔｅｅｔｈ…

               “Iu oɹpǝɹ ʇo snɹʌᴉʌǝ ʇɥǝ ƃuɐsɥᴉuƃ oɟ ᴉʇs ʇǝǝʇɥ…”  

    Recognition soothed some of the ire from his cavernous chest. He inclined his head, fangs bared from behind the security of saronite plating. It was very well that his maw was concealed from sight - lest he betray the wretched affinity he possessed, for the prospective taste of life-blood so replete with unstable energies. It did not escape him, the notion that Keldreyas Nightflare’s body was host to a sort of minuscule Well, what with the bounty and volatile mixture of powers contained beneath that adorned skin.   

  ❝It would be more the pleasure, Lord Curator, if ever I came to meet you when you were not absconding with my kin’s belongings.❞

     The Plaguelord’s voice reverberated softly, the low tones saturated in death, but made whole in the yawning depths of his dry throat by lich-wrought sorcery. His dominant hand extended, in the gesture of a bow. The motion then turned outwards, as Myrundíel reached a hand towards the tablet nestled in Keldreyas’ arms. Insistently, he married an ageless touch to ageless stone, claws tripping gently across the symbols, in a particular rhythm. His mother had served in Queen Azshara’s court - and he, himself had inherited enough of her gifts to replicate the great Highborne affinity for arcane in millennia removed from the presence of the Well of Eternity. The ancient stone recognized him, his cadence, a child of its worthy creators, and the curse it threatened - abated. Of course, the Nightflate Curator was responsible for damages incurred, prior. But the relic itself slept, bearing only its secrets. As much as he preferred that this young elf had discovered the tablet, and not some empty-headed dwarf, a part of him grieved, to let this fragile corpse be unearthed for use in an ungrateful time. He was somber for it. They had never meant to leave their joys and gifts to such a future as this.

        Still, Keldreyas was an elf, kin he was less sorrowful to acknowledge, and he gave a nod to indicate the completion of a disarmament ritual.

     ❝I had interrupted you, after all. I doubt you would have been hindered, if my presence had not beckoned your attention.❞

       It wasn’t an apology, and it wasn’t forgiveness.

    Lichfire eyes never strayed visibly from a frozen emptiness, beyond that which mortal eyes could see, but his attention had indeed, drifted towards the naga, frozen in a grip as formidable as the ice enclosed around his spirit. A cousin. A neighbor. A teacher, or a classmate. It could have been anyone. The naga were as thoroughly and yet distantly related to him as the Sin'dorei wandering Quel'Thalas.

It was sometimes, a surreal notion.

    ❝I would have been shocked to hear you had willingly harmed anyone, to confess the truth. Your methods are admittedly more tactful than my own.❞He retracted his hand, making a gesture that would conjure a coiled bead of shadow that would unmake the damage done to Keldreyas’ forearm. Recovery through erasure. It was the closest concept towards civility that he possessed this Age.

                                           —ｗｅ ｃｒａｗｌｅｄ ｗｈｏｌｅ,                                                         ‘ǝloɥʍ pǝlʍɐɹɔ ǝʍ

                                                               ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｌｌｙ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｂｅａｓｔ.”                                                                      “.ʇsɐǝq ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎllǝq ǝɥʇ oʇuᴉ

[nightflarecurator]

        Of course the relic would belong more to this ancient wonder than himself, there was no questioning if ire had been directed toward the eccentric packrat for unearthing history that was only partially his own; this, however, did not stop that lithe frame from bristling ever so slightly, as though preparing to protect his prize with all the ferocity of a kobold with its treasured candle. Instead, fascination, a distinct respect laced with all the wonder of a curious child - he beheld the caress of magic bend to that which was made to wield it, and that previously unreadable smile would broaden to a near manic state. The need to know, the will to understand, the momentum to experiment - Keldreyas had the makings of a wonderful Mage, blessed with a body capable of housing more individual magics than most would dare even attempt and utilize, the eldest of the Dawnflare house was incapable of producing spells without exhausting himself to near death. It cost more of the Sin'dorei's lifeforce to attempt and conjure than he had to spare; an unfortunate drawback to not actually having any mana capacity.

       It was such a wonder to witness those who could will the Arcane, or any magic, to accept the truth of their whims with the same ease as one would will their palm to raise in greeting. It was almost akin to a relationship - a bond, even, that he could not comprehend, but merely forced conversation in passing each time he invoked a particular energy source.

             "Ah, I thank you, that's wonderful!                It goes without saying, but Highborne were the experts on magical Wells,                             I needed this in order to delve further into the variables of the Wretched state.                      If I intend to be useful at some point in my life,      this could very well make a break-through."

He would continue to speak as deathly dark embraced pale, crimson-washed skin, the only indication that he even noticed the burn purged from sight through his own excited chatter, was a pulsation of that darkly runed, azure eye, a flicker of amaranthe tracing each track across the Elven Curator's face akin to a bloody lightning storm.

                       "I hear you've been dormant for a good while.                   What caused you to rise from the crypts?                              There isn't about to be another Cataclysm, is there?"

A chuckle, far too light considering the circumstances of his jest, would burst from deep within a toned chest. If the Curator could get any closer, it would be done, one of the only issues being the fact the deathly San'layn was incredibly tall, and he himself was even on the shorter side of the Blood Elf spectrum.  

[theplaguelord]

❅—“Iｎ ｏｒｄｅｒ ｔｏ ｓｕｒｖｉｖｅ ｔｈｅ ｇｎａｓｈｉｎｇ ｏｆ ｉｔｓ ｔｅｅｔｈ…

               “Iu oɹpǝɹ ʇo snɹʌᴉʌǝ ʇɥǝ ƃuɐsɥᴉuƃ oɟ ᴉʇs ʇǝǝʇɥ…”  

    The air screamed with the anguish of a banshee’s sigh, as time and space were parted with no respect. An avaricious, irreverent hand clad in the most accursed of metals peeled away the very fabrics of natural law. There was an unmistakable sound to a Death Gate’s conjuring, and the passenger of Shadow was even more a dismal figure. The immediate area seemed to despair as his heavy boot hit the ruined earth. The Plaguelord of Icecrown had arrived. Carrying the very plague that had unmade an era beneath his skin, Myrundíel Mourningale seemed fearless before his enemies. He encapsulated what the Scourge was capable of. Monsters, poison, corruption that penetrated the very particles of life - by his unlife, he was a nightmare. By his death, he would become a contagion that would make the Plague of Undeath, borne by soiled grain seem a child’s witless prank.  

    And now, he approached from the confines of Shadow, distantly traveled from the depths of Icecrown’s maw, to witness a guardian in a peculiar state of paralysis. His bone-white brows furrowed, displeasure further hardening his grieved expression. Once, beauty had reigned across those features. He was once the most fair of his people - a gilded little princeling. His mother had been a sorceress of few peer, and his father had been a Ranger-Lord, protector of wilderness and home. He was once the son of the stars, a child of heaven and earth

    This evening, he was a specter. Tall, imposing, and faintly soured by the odors of formaldehyde and damp earth, the Plaguelord pulled the heavy scarlet cloak he wore from his sword-arm. The mask he wore across his lower jaw, a cage made for the beast between his teeth, was secured - and yet he could still glean the scent of an intruder. These ruins, they were the remnants of his people.                   He did not often entertain intruders.

   Lichfire eyes scanned the nearby scenery. Less, he saw by daylight. But the tell-tale warmth of a living body would reach his plague-ruined eyesight. 

                                           —ｗｅ ｃｒａｗｌｅｄ ｗｈｏｌｅ,                                                         ‘ǝloɥʍ pǝlʍɐɹɔ ǝʍ

                                                               ｉｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｌｌｙ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｂｅａｓｔ.”                                                                      “.ʇsɐǝq ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎllǝq ǝɥʇ oʇuᴉ

[nightflarecurator]

       The ambient temperature allowing a frigid tempest to nick at one elongated ear wouldn't be the only sign of devastation itself striding into the area - the small sphere of chaotic arcane-infused magicks popped akin to a very tiny imploding star, immediately returning to its master, who was already standing up straight, head tilted sideways and backwards, peering over one slender shoulder at first with a blank sort of visage, quickly shifting to a more normal state of amiability upon noting the terrible specter of Undeath.

   Within his arms was held that small stone, carried as one would hold their most cherished book close to the chest to keep it from getting damp in the rain. He hadn't enough time before that powerful presence had interrupted him, to undo each and every curse and lock on the tablet, and as such, a blackened patch had carved itself into a sleeve and ran a short, burning path a small ways up the Sin'dorei's forearm. The Phasewalker assumed it would be fine, most likely, Highborne curses tended to be quick, painful and indignant.

          "Plaguelord Myrundiel, always a pleasure, isn't it?                  What brings you all the way out here?"

Light tenors lilted a bit more than what the eccentric Elf could generally boast, likely due to the stinging buzz gnawing at his flesh, coupled with the overwhelming air of powerful Plagueborne energy that all but emanated from the imposing beast behind him. Concern was a luxury felt for those he cared for, Keldreyas Nightflare held little regard for his own well-being, merely hosting ample curiosity in the face of the warped, deadly past. Reckless, but not without intuition, he was aware that his own presence within Highborne territory was most likely unwelcome, and his spell against the naga could be taken terribly wrong.

 There were writings within this petrified tome, however, that held secrets he wished to harness for the sake of research on the Wells, which would be helpful for a plethora of purposes.          Of course, it was not up to him how others viewed his methods.

        "This gentleman is perfectly fine,  he shouldn't even remember my arrival once I'm gone.                       If you were concerned, of course."

[nightflarecurator]

@theplaguelord

  ❂| |     Wisps of dusted earth slithered by way of wind throughout the salted air, mixing with sapphire waves and creating a somewhat murky sheen upon the depths. A raised platform of rock, barely a hundred feet around, was his only guard against the surrounding ocean, and skilled, pale digits kept an enchanted cloth squarely over a capricious mouth, lest he breathe in the tainted dirt that lay in beds across Desolace.  Atop his precarious bit of land was what could have been the wrecked entrance to a temple, bleached stone held aloft by ornate pillars, all chipped, with a few supports missing altogether.

  An entity stood behind him, frozen in space and time in a rather aggressive stance, trident prepped to skewer the audacious Elf in two for intruding upon Naga territory, draconic features agape in a now silent roar.   The spell was potent, magic woven from the Bronze Flight itself, and likely wouldn't wear off for a good hour or so, giving the 'Curator' avid time to recover the artifacts he had been meaning to acquire.

  His one decently working eye, aided by the use of loose-fitting spectacles, scanned the area with a keen, historian's prestige, glancing over broken vases and loose jewelry... finally stepping over to a tablet, etched with foreign writings, kneeling down to hold a palm out toward the Highborne artifact, a soft, pleased smile gracing otherwise sharp features.

[lightnlng-and-death]

🐟—❝Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｍｙ ｂｅｓｔ ｆｒｉｅｎｄ.❞

              “.puǝᴉɹɟ ʇsǝq ʎɯ ǝɹ,no⅄❞

      Mysteries unfolded the moment he stepped into the Curator’s lair. Powers that Toothless couldn’t even fathom saturated the air, and his nerves crackled beneath his scales with the weight of the ambient energies surrounding the enigmatic being. Toothless appreciated the welcome he received, even if it unnerved him a bit. After all, it was unusual to be regarded peaceably even in his own region of the world. He was almost at a loss, to be greeted like a long-expected visitor under these odd circumstances. The Night Fury bowed his head respectfully in return, his bold eyes softened by appreciation. 

     He watched the Curator’s motions with unabashed curiosity, but even with his gifted intellect, he couldn’t comprehend the Sin’dorei’s gestures. He had seen Gothi, the Elder of Hiccup’s village, at work. And her actions had seemed just as incomprehensible - perhaps that was just an indication of how unfathomable the artes could be?         

     And Storm-born? He hoped so, if that was a relevant component. He could only recall moonlight. There couldn’t have been a storm if he could see the moon, but… well, hopefully that was a figurative reference to his flame-type. The Night Fury parted his jaw to comply with the request for his breath, but the necessity of a vessel for the… enchantment, he called it? It took sudden precedence. A pendant… He didn’t have anything like that. His tail moved idly while the dragon sat in thought, until it literally occurred to him. 

    The artificial fin that Hiccup had made for him - would that suffice? He and Hiccup gave each other the sky with that fragile combination of metalwork and wood, bound together through fire and water. He waved it avidly, resting it in front of his clawed feet. It wasn’t something he would easily lose. And if it was threatened, there would be greater concerns as a result than his inability to change shape, right? Confidently, he exhaled against the Curator’s extended palm.

                                             —❝Ｉ  ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ａｔ ｈｉｍ …                                                         ‘ɯᴉɥ ʇɐ pǝʞool I

                                                               …ａｎｄ Ｉ ｓａｗ ｍｙｓｅｌｆ.❞                                                                      “.ɟlǝsʎɯ ʍɐs I puɐ

[nightflarecurator]

Cerulean plasma would halt mere inches from that slender palm, each finger flexing a digit at a time, as though stretching a seldom-used muscle, the blast seeping into a glowing sphere of energy to which the sight-impaired elf would give pleased nod toward. A fel-tinted nail traced delicately over an ancient language, a trained pair of violet lips coupled with a silver, jaded tongue whispering in speech that would scald the elements into a fury. He would peer behind him for a moment, noting the device with a long, slender brow raised, rather curious for the tale behind the finned flag, but even more so excited by the prospect of the experimentation about to be fielded. 

                          “I see, a fine choice.                  Now,                                                All you must do it stay perfectly still.                          This will be rather uncomfortable for the both of us.                                            As I’ve never tried this before~!”

Draconic mutters, hissed Titantic runes, a symphony of vibrant hues and crackling magicks began to caress the Curator from all sides, each Flight’s touch causing the plasma to flash in crimson, azure, viridian, onyx.. bronze; a quick movement, and the pitch-black container on the table was no more, shattered into debris by a powerful, precise scientist’s grip; the release of energy roared into view, before vanishing straight into Keldreyas’ etched eye, as a snake would seek shelter in a tunnel. 

                      “nOw, YoU cA~~N ChhOOSE yOU~~r oWn fo~RM,                                 oR aLlOW thHH~~e mAG~ickS tO fIlL                          iN--~~ tH~e b..BLA~nks.                                tHi~NK qUIICKl~y, I can.CAN...N~ot, nOT hOLD                    Th~~~iS fOr lO~~ng”

Reverberations, crackles and hisses laced the towerkeeper’s words, his voice falling out of sync with his mouth’s movements as the tiny universe within his grasp began to spark dangerously. He was no Magister, his body would simply shake itself from existence due to the overwhelming power that currently coursed through his veins, and as such, he hoped the beautiful beast would forgive him for being hasty. 

Without attempting to communicate any further, that raging powerball would be hurled directly at the Night Fury’s sentimental tailfin, which would, in turn, cause the spell to shoot straight up the dragonic figure’s spine and throughout his form, if allowed to make contact.

[lightnlng-and-death]

🐟—❝Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｍｙ ｂｅｓｔ ｆｒｉｅｎｄ.❞

              “.puǝᴉɹɟ ʇsǝq ʎɯ ǝɹ,no⅄❞

      Ｄidn’t it sound like this stranger could do something about it? It sounded like this stranger could help him out. Would he, really? Was it a trap? Years of practiced cynicism and survival grated unforgivingly against his preference for hope.     

     Ｈe would give this a chance. If he did manage to get what he was after… excitement rippled down the length of his spine, and his face-plates alternated their postures like tall grasses in a breeze-soaked field. Wouldn’t it be something, if this stranger could grant him the graces of the greater dragons of this world? Toothless glanced over his shoulder, keening softly before he realized it, in hesitation for leaving Hiccup’s side without at least informing him, somehow. But… how could explain something like this? Ah, it’d be better to just show him the results. He would make certain that it worked out right. And, just in case, he would also work on the best way to apologize if he ended up needing to call on Hiccup for help. Already, he admonished himself for being equal parts proud and reckless. Like he’d ever choose to ask for help, willingly.        

     Ｔhe Night Fury decided that he would brave the unknown, and silently accepted the Curator’s invitation by entering the portal leading to Nightflare Tower.

                                              —❝Ｉ  ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ａｔ ｈｉｍ …                                                         ‘ɯᴉɥ ʇɐ pǝʞool I

                                                               …ａｎｄ Ｉ ｓａｗ ｍｙｓｅｌｆ.❞                                                                      “.ɟlǝsʎɯ ʍɐs I puɐ

[nightflarecurator]

A lithe figure would step aside as soon as the scaled beast passed through space and time, bypassing the myriad of magical defenses he had painstakingly put in place for countless years, making the enhanced tower nearly impossible to breach without the proper invitation. The Curator himself had opted to initiate the conversation while occupying a space already worth working inside, the musty room being lined with bookshelves, housing all sorts of glowing runeworks, hovering objects and a few hissing tinctures. 

Red-tinged finger-tips, pointed by dark, claw-like nails were held out in a gesture of greeting, while a free hand was lifted, a single digit holding small spectacles in place in front of bi-colored, luminescent orbs. The crimson runework that ran down one side of the young Sin’dorei’s face pulsed idly, and a lopsided smile, as though unsure of how social etiquette worked, graced the tower-keeper’s features. 

A deep bow would be granted, in apt respect toward the dangerous reptile, dark locks falling in strands over narrow shoulders, before turning to face a sturdy, wooden table, where a large book was pointedly opened, an Obsidium reliquary placed beside it. While most of his frame would be turned toward the words upon the parchment, that pale, open palm would still face the Night Fury.

              “I shall require a sample of your magic, for this to work properly.                               You are Storm-born, are you not?                          Simply breath into my hand.               Did you wish for an item seperate from yourself,               to hold this enchantment? A pendant, perhaps?                           Or something less easily lost?”

[nightflarecurator]

lightnlng-and-death 

🐟—❝Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ ｍｙ ｂｅｓｔ ｆｒｉｅｎｄ.❞

              “.puǝᴉɹɟ ʇsǝq ʎɯ ǝɹ,no⅄❞

      Ｆaith. It was a funny concept to the Night Fury. Not one that pulled at his ribs with amusement, but rather, stroked at the strings of each thought as they traveled across memories of its rewards. He had since recalled belief in something beyond himself; within someone outside of himself. It had been just him for so long that he had nearly forgotten what it was to see another being up-close, still and wondering what the next move ought to be. One day, though, such a being stood wholly within his vision, and what he saw was himself - alive and alight with a want for proof. Proof of what? That was unclear, even now. Maybe proof that such profound loneliness… was not the result of having made a mistake. Of being mistaken. Of being a mistake.      

     Ｈe gave a shake of his head, dispersing old thoughts in favor of this novel communication. Toothless was relatively familiar with those “Proto-drake” dragons that came up every so often in this wild, wild world. He wondered idly if it would mean anything to correct this person. He wasn’t a Proto-drake, but then, Hiccup wasn’t really a “Vrykul,” either. The Night Fury inclined his head in a skeptical greeting, instead. Divergence of culture wasn’t any big deal - he’d go along with the Proto-drake cover for now.  

    Ａlthough Toothless still harbored some doubt as to the Curator’s capabilities, he allowed a little of that mysterious faith to quieten that preemptive temper of his. Squinting slightly at his own self-deception, he sat in front of the eye and nodded in affirmation. A little pause bridged the space between the last of his hesitation, and an envy confessed, of that startling ability he had witnessed in these lengthening hours spent in Azeroth:      

            ｄragons shifting their form into the shapes of their humanoid allies.

                                           —❝Ｉ  ｌｏｏｋｅｄ ａｔ ｈｉｍ …                                                         ‘ɯᴉɥ ʇɐ pǝʞool I

                                                               …ａｎｄ Ｉ ｓａｗ ｍｙｓｅｌｆ.❞                                                                      “.ɟlǝsʎɯ ʍɐs I puɐ

It was almost similar to a device recording information, and formatting it into a more precise, understandable language, as any form of communication the night-huen reptile offered was met with enthusiastic brightness, pulses of arcane flashing with each sound, vibration and intention. 

It was a fascinating prospect, to be sure, this small proto-drake wished for the gifts of the matured flights, given powers beyond limited mortal’s wildest dreams simply because they had the correct parent, to be able to present himself in a more suitable matter to the masses? This shifting of form was far more than a simple illusion, it warped the flesh, translating each affectation of a wyrm into what could be viewed with less screams and sirens. Perhaps this creature wasn’t content with being a beast of burden, a mount ridden into battle by a screaming, hairy Vrykul? The Curator honestly didn’t blame the poor thing, it was obviously more intelligent than anyone gave him credit for, a magnificent specimen of dragon, appearing to have been born by the Titans themselves, a child of Thorim and the storms.  It was no wonder the son of the Earth Warden was somewhat interested in this one. 

   “You wish a hominid form of your own?  You must be powerful enough as you are, to maintain such a feat,          young drake.             Fascinating, such fascinations!         It can be done, I have studied draconic magicks for decades,    even if you do not belong to a Flight, it shouldn’t matter in the end.            I can help you with your wish, it won’t be permanent,                       It must be invoked each time.                         And it will take concentration.                                            A fine experiment, if you’ll allow me leeway.”

The floating sphere compressed itself slightly, as though an invisible eyelid were squeezing it halfway closed in amusement, before a flare of energy expanded the lens, a shimmering image of a dusky room covered in parchment and various ornate containers able to be viewed within the hovering oval. 

                  “Come, you are officially invited to Nightflare Tower.                                   I apologize, but I must work within my own home.                     You can jump that high, I hope?”

[nightflarecurator]

Alias: Windrunner’s Rage. Classification: Cursed Tome. Location Found: Windrunner Spire. Description: An Indigo book framed in silver bindings and emblazoned with an Elven crest, fog-like energy swirls endlessly around the work, and while I wouldn’t recommend it, opening the item shows an endless stream of glowing green Thalassian text.

“The reasons behind the  acquisition of this artifact are more of containment rather than an interest in the magics it contains, as there’s no reason to allow such a potent source of rage to fall into the wrong hands.

 Back when the beautiful forests of Quel’thalas were still recovering from dragonfire and Orc torches, when the Plague was spreading too far within the High Elve’s land, Windrunner Village was a beautiful testament to the architects and individuals that called themselves ‘Quel’dorei’. Soon would come Arthas’ attack on our hard-earned home, and the village would easily fall, along with many of their most renowned Rangers.

As so many voices cried out in fear or in pain, many of the Elves fighting for their lives yelled in rage, their collective curses rising all the way to an enchanted tome resting in Windrunner Spire. The resentful wrath snaked its way into each page, weaving a powerful bane against any who dare to attempt and glean a single line of their suffering.”

[nightflarecurator]

Alias: Last egg of Rheastrasza, named 'Fhaerstrasz'. Classification: Tower Resident, Dangerous Denizens. Location Found: Badlands. Description: A lively dracling that loves to make a mess of my papers and cabinets. A beautiful crimson-scaled creature with an impressive wingspan for his age, exceptionally pointy horns and savage claws that are the bane of all of my tapestries. (Edited to suit the whelpling's fancy) "While this can be considered the documentation of a new resident rather than a relic, I was not the one to acquire the egg that housed this fine specimen of dragon. I was barely involved in the events that would later lead to the birth of the Black Prince, but I would accept this egg from a close friend rushing to me under the awkward impression I was more equipped to raise a baby dragon than them.  He had evidently picked up on my companion's strange form of Orcish through the shell, as he was speaking as soon as he popped out of the egg, insisting that he was a brother to Wrathion because they had the same mother, which I assume he meant the late Rheastrasza.. whether or not he realizes what Flight he is remains to be seen.

Under constant insistence, I had brought him to the only uncorrupted black dragon, and brought with me one of the Dark Prince's esteemed champions, one who had been assisting him since the campaign in Pandaria began. After the initial distaste for the Crimson Flight subsided just a bit, Wrathion was finally able to provide me a proper name, before essentially kicking his champion and I both out of his tavern. 

'Fhaerstrasz' was the name given to him, and the infant seemed rather pleased, having either not heard each time he was insulted or not believing he was the one each hiss and spit was directed at. 

Perhaps due to the ambient energies that cloud the air in my tower, he is developing rather quickly, already able to take on the form of a Sin'dorei child, and while it was an amazing feat for one so young, he can now use thumbs.

Anar'alah belore, there he goes again.."

[nightflarecurator]

Alias: 'Dal'Arshaah', or 'Starflare', otherwise 'Titan Celestial Summoning stone'. Classification: Summoning Item. Location Found: Engine of the Makers. Description: An ordinary-looking, yet perfectly round stone etched with Titanic runes, when invoked, produces a magnificent, armored steed made entirely of tiny celestial bodies. A chestguard and helmet adorn the front of this beautiful creature, and a finely crafted saddle allows for even mortals to utilize it as a form of transportation.

"While I try not to make it a habit of lowering myself into seemingly bottomless pits, the Engine of the Makers was far too interesting to pass up at least a bit of exploration. 

The Engine itself, now frozen over and covered in snow, rests peacefully akin to a gigantic bronze skeleton in the midst of a wasteland, gears larger than cities that once must have turned to produce mechanical life are now iced, but lack any sort of rust. Titanic etchings cover absolutely everything, a few runes reacting to my presence, while others simply hum with dormant energy.  

I had reached as far down as I could go, as a slab of ice too thick to melt without risking reactivating more dangerous things blocked my path. There was, however, a strange device that continuously rearranged itself in one corner of this 'room'. It was too large and too foreign to displace, but as I took notes on every move it made, a sudden burst of blue from the top of the machine caused me to startle and back up, only to be conked in the head by the rock that had come flying out of it.

It was a tiny stone, only the size of my palm, and as my fingers brushed against it, the text snaking across the little thing began to glow, and before I could protest or even form a single defense, I was suddenly in possession of a steed made entirely of shimmering stars."

[euxnthe-deactivated20150921]

        Euanthe seemed oddly perplexed by the other,     enough so to truly pay attention. She didn’t     expect Draenei out of most and, with Common     being — well, rather common — she didn’t see     any reason not to speak with it. It was highly     unlikely the other understood her native tongue.     Or Orcish, which Light forbid that language ever     been spoken by her again. Her attention perked     the more he talked, only to peak when he     revealed to her the crystal. Her light blue eyes,     already filled with such a warm look as it was,     shined at the sight.

     ❝Light-infused crystals…❞ her voice trailed off,     before her attention snapped back again. ❝Yes,     of course! They are a great source of power, even     the smallest ones… that most only our people can     properly bring out. Ah, I use such precious     fragments in my jewelcrafting. We adorn our     beasts with them to make them calm, noble     creatures. Yes… they are truly remarkable. We     are blessed to have them.❞

     The Draenei took a small look around the     settlement, honestly not sure she should even be     there herself. Sure she was with a large group of     her people, but he was not aware of the sorts of     things she believed in. Her support of those     considered outsiders or betrayers earned her a     rather patchy reputation with most. She was lucky     having a conversation with such a stranger wasn’t     anymore suspicious.

     ❝I am surprised such a thing has turned up in      your hands…❞ she mused softly. ❝Not in a      negative light, of course. Power like that is not so      easily left behind. What brings you to a place such      as this, my friend? Even with your thirst of      knowledge, certainly there is more to it than that.❞

[nightflarecurator]

A certain degree of dedication and pilfered tomes made it possible for the Curator to at least understand the language of the Draenei, but it was truly impossible for his Elven tongue to try and get around such foreign consonants.. so while he'd be keen to test what he had learned in a dynamic environment, it was probably best, for the sake of his pride, that Common was accepted as a form of communication instead.

The Sin'dorei's already curious gaze became all the more fascinated as he noted the knowing glint that shone as soon as he revealed one of his.. er.. reclaimed possessions. While in a way he supposed 'I just picked it up' wouldn't exactly be the best response, despite it being the most truthful, he also didn't want to invoke ire in a place where his kind was likely not entirely welcome, and there were a good deal of the foreign race in the area.. 

But she spoke with such honest amiability, that it was highly difficult to remain at all guarded, there was a disarming quality to the slender Draenei's charisma that made him simply want to sit down and listen like a child hearing a tale or being read a story. As it was, with two quick flicks of his free hand, a small scroll was idly tossed into the air next to his head, along with a quill. The two items stuck to the air as though caught in a spider's web, the parchment unraveling itself before the pen began eagerly jotting down everything they were being told. 

Ah, but there was the question.. the one his intricate thoughts still turned over and over in regards to how to answer..

"Ah, I am a scholar of sorts, I research things such as this, and this particular shard was laying in my path."

In the end, he went with the 'I-just-picked-it-up-I-swear-I'm-not-sabotaging-anything-don't-be-mad' route, though a tilt of his head indicated a further fascination upon the word 'Jewelcrafting' hitting his excessively long ears.

"You work with these? What sorts of things do you make? Ah! Do you think you could craft something using this? What an amazing skill, so fascinating! It must take incredible concentration to actually make something from an energy infused raw material..."

As though realizing he had started to ramble, Keldreyas held out the crystal toward her with a small, enthusiastic nod, which could also double as an apology in advance if he was asking much of her.

[nightflarecurator]

proceeds to place a flowercrown made of mageroyal on top of his head.

It took several moments of innately intricate thought processes to actually come to the conclusion that the simple gesture was one of endearment rather than a potential threat to his existence. The young Elf mentally made a note to stop being so dang paranoid, while another small voice insisted that as a wanted man, there was no such thing as being too cautious. Instead of delaying his response any further, a skilled set of fingers reached up to yank down the facemask concealing his visage, in order to be able to address the young Elf in front of him with a smile rather than a mysterious air.

“Ther’ana, thank you… did you make this yourself? It boasts fine craftsmanship, if I can say as such.”

Ironically enough, the light fuchsia shades of the flower in question actually matched his current attire a bit too well.. but perhaps this pretty young lady had taken that into consideration? .. Did he really wear that much purple and pink? With a tilt of his head, too subtle to disturb his new crown, the Curator directed a questioning, yet amiable gaze her way.

“Might I ask the occasion for such a gift?”

[nightflarecurator]

euxnthe

    ❝Well…❞

     Euanthe usually trusted strangers. She didn’t      have a reason not to trust them, in most cases.       Still, the way he spoke to her was rather       strange. A couple taps of her chin and a       moment to shut her eyes was all that was      needed before she went to respond properly.

     ❝Alright, friend. I would be lying if I said you       hadn’t peeked my interest somewhat. Share       with me what you wish. It never hurts to learn      something you did not know before…❞

While the ivory veil of cloth that currently shielded the bottom half of the Sin'dorei's face made it somewhat difficult to tell, an almost pleased smile crossed his lips as he was given permission to speak further. While Keldreyas had studied the Common tongue extensively, his phrasing was awkward at times and laced with such a thick accent, it was a relief his inquiry had been understood at all... the fact she even spoke said language was also a blessing, as the young man wasn't exactly sure he should be going about spouting Thalassian around Draenic settlements.

"Ah, thank you, Madam. Though I'd expect you'd know a bit more about these crystals than I do!" 

A heterochromatic gaze shifted to each of the rather slender Draenei's features, noting various key differences if compared to a.. could he say 'normal specimen' of the race without sounding too creepy for words? It was likely a good thing he opted to keep such observations to himself, lest he end up instigating rather than entertaining. Truth be told, the Curator had only been skulking around the area due to a lead stating that items of interest could be located here. Instead of relics or tomes, however, he found a rather interesting individual.

"In fact, all I know is that they spark when I flick them with the Arcane. Useless for my studies, but it does make for a fine display."

Removing a small, glowing fragment, likely a chip of the formations utilized in the Exodar, from within the confines of his excessively intricate clothing, the Elf proceeded to demonstrate his point by striking the side with a long, dark nail. Shimmering pink light erupted from the gem in a burst, before dissipating into the air with a satisfying crackle.

[nightflarecurator]

Alias: Dark Iron Metalwork. Classification: Blessed Item, Adornments. Location Found: Blackrock Depths. Description: A finely crafted picture made entirely of Dark Iron, the craftsmanship is such that there are even highlights and shadows burnt into the metal to create an almost third dimensional appearance. The image is of a rather smug looking fire elemental, and the piece is still exceedingly warm to the touch. 

"The Elemental Planes had always been a fascination of mine, along with ways to perhaps utilize their energies for specific purposes, but without the ability to waltz into the Firelands and go sight-seeing, I had to opt to find an informational venue a little closer to home. 

The Dark Iron dwarves had been revering and making pacts with the fire elementals for an uncomfortably long time now, and as a great deal of them had opted to make a home distressingly close to the Molten Core in reverence or servitude to the Firelord himself, these depths seemed like a perfect spot to begin my research, beginning with all of the flaming 'Ambassadors' that roamed the caverns. 

I was of course an unwelcome guest, and only through sheer excessive use of my painstakingly stored reliquaries was I able to even make it into what I could only guess was a sort of living quarters for many of the workers and guards. While you wouldn't suppose in such a dangerous environment, one would opt to appreciate the decor, I had indeed noticed what appeared to be an unframed portrait of a Fireguard on the wall.

It seemed as though the elementals approved of the picture, as I could feel vibrations of energy simply wafting from it, perhaps one of them had blessed it with their flames? While I cannot confirm that this is indeed old enough to be considered a relic or artifact, the initials 'D.T.' are etched into the back in the bottom right corner."

[nightflarecurator]

Alias: Nexus Ley-Key. Classification: Blue Dragon Artifact. Location Found: Coldarra.  Description: A beautifully crafted stave simply crackling with Arcane energy, the head is shaped like a magnificent Blue dragon, with a ball of frosty magic swirling in the alcove of the adornment. The grip is sturdy, made of a material I can only guess at the origin of, and wrapped in what appears to be sinew.  "In my extensive research of the Arcane, due to efforts at finding easier means of transportation and lodging, which in the end only managed to cause the Kirin Tor to have a distaste for my 'Reckless use of portals without a license', I came upon the lair of the Blue Aspect and many of the remaining Azure Flight.

Malygos' wishes to eradicate those who misused his blessings made this a rather dangerous retrieval, and a bit of an accidental one. As I was inspecting one of the Ley Lines that contributed to the massive fluctuations in magic all over the island, I was promptly buffeted off of my perch by the infuriated wing-beats of a nearby drake, nearly hitting my head on this particular staff.

It appears as though the stave was used as a sort of conduit made to balance the arcs of Arcane flying about, and give them a different path to run, as once I removed it from its home, many of the trails of magic crackled and dissipated, while others sparked.. and exploded. 

It certainly was fascinating to theorize after I woke up several hours later."

[nightflarecurator]

Bala'dash, doral ana'diel?

[[ Introducing a brand new World of Warcraft OC roleplaying blog! I'm rather excited to introduce an individual I've been working on for quite a while now, so if you're a WoW RP blog, please like or reblog this so I know who I should follow. ]]