@redeeming-sun ❤︎’d for a starter
Grey eyes regarded the ugly, rotting scar that cut through Eversong with a cold mask of indifference.
From atop the wall-walk, Sylvanas gazed down at the blighted swath of land contemplatively. She’d been informed there was no known way of curing the lands in a timely manner. It vexed her that Quel’Thalas would remained scarred, perhaps indefinitely.
Silvermoon was still in the grips of its recovery, entire sections of the capital were cordoned off due to construction, the undead, or disease (and at times, all three). Her people floundered for another source of magic to stave off bitter withdrawal now plaguing them.
Mages of all ranking demanded elixirs, and potions of essence (mana) to sate their screaming veins. It was not just the battlemages, enchanters, or magisters that were helping their troops fend off the Scourge, but others as well. Magic-users who were arguably not as important. Those who had no talent for combat, scholars, and philosophers who wished to preserve their ludicrous lifestylesover the lives of less-fortunate Quel’dorei citizens (and refugees from Lordaeron).
They could not fathom why not all people wished to cram themselves into Silvermoon, forced to live in glorified squalor as shanty-towns grew. They ignorantly shouted that as mages, could do in weeks what the few farmers Quel’Thalas stilled possessed would take months to accomplish.
Sylvanas knew they could, but permitting every arrogant mage to use their spells flagrantly would not only draw the Scourge back to Quel’Thalas. It would also burn through their limited reserves of mana.
There would be no aid from Lordaeron, the kingdom was the first to fall and paid the greatest price. Dalaran was still recovering, and there’d been no word from Gilneas. Sylvanas worked under the impression it too had been decimated by the Scourge (though she hoped in secret the small kingdom still stood).
Anestarian had burnt every bridge with Stormwind, so if there was aid coming from the High King, it would be delayed.
The dwarves of Khaz Modan offered some support, though their efforts were split. All the war-torn lands were pleading for aid.
Quel’Thalas was to receive crews to aid in demolition and reconstruction, but nothing in regards to magic.
Which meant, the elixirs were reserved for those who would do battle with the undead and Amani who now pushed into elven lands in hopes of expanding their territory.
Precious farmland must be protected, the borders had to be reinforced. She needed to ensure that her people possessed the room to grow – to get at least half of the populace crammed into Silvermoon out.
“Regent-Lord,” the title came from a young voice. Sylvanas turned, half-curious as to who now stood by her. He bowed his auburn head, pressing a fist to his chest.
A young man, scarcely old enough to enlist. He was a runner, arguably one of the most perilous positions. But she knew Lor’themar. The New Ranger-General would never dare put someone so less in years in mortal danger. This messenger was bound to the interior of Silvermoon, and only the safest routes.
“Your nephew has arrived.”
Though relief washed over her, none of it showed. She nodded to the messenger.
There was a second salute before he disappeared. Sylvanas returned her distant stare to the Scar.
Perhaps she’d have the useless spellchuckers research the blight.
If they wished to complain, she’d be kind enough to give them a reason.
The sound of boots ascending the battlement stairs drew her thoughts away from the complaints of mages. She turned, worries forgotten as she laid eyes on her nephew.
Arator had grown since she laid eyes on him last, with sun-gold hair bound in a loose tail draped over one shoulder. Eyes were a radiant blue despite the absence of the Sunwell. He stood taller than Sylvanas by a few inches. He was broader then many elven men, a trait from his human father.
His armour looked to weigh a proper ton, accentuating just how imposing the young man appeared to be. The hilt of his broadsword peeked over his shoulder, pommel shining in the grey light of the overcast day.
A subtle smirk played onto her lips.
“You’ve grown,” her remark was cool, but she betrayed herself as she moved forward and pulled him into an embrace.
She’d sent him away, as far as she could before the Scourge marched on Silvermoon. Her one true abuse of power, she’d sent Arator to Dalaran, to be with mages whose powers were not intimately tied to the Sunwell. Arthas’ overconfidence had given her a single victory when he came to Quel’Thalas.
He’d told Sylvanas his desire, and so she was able to keep her nephew safe.
Or she’d believed so, until word came that Dalaran fell into ruin. She’d been beset with worry for weeks until word arrived that Arator survived.
Her selfish desire nearly cost the young man his life – she’d never be able to forgive herself.
“How was your journey?” She stepped back from him, unable to mask the joy in her voice.
No portals were functioning in the Eastern Kingdoms; travellers were forced to go by foot or boat (if there were any ships to spare). She’d secretly dreaded the notion of Arator travelling from Dalaran to Quel’Thalas without an escort, but there was precious little she’d been able to do about it.
Not that it mattered now, he’d made it. She knew it shouldn’t surprise her, but she’d never have forgiven herself had something befallen him.
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