Luminash was conscious, certainly, of the eyes on himself and Jaskian as they wove through the Conservatory crowd. At such events, where magisters strode, the people took notice; he was no socialite, and every moment surrounded by the clashing noises of speech that garbled the simple beauty of the music made him feel as if his bones themselves sought to escape.
A flash of regret passed through his bond to Jaskian; it was, by all accounts, a lovely evening, and a lovely display of Thalassian art and culture, and he had no wish to sour it with his own discomfort.
The magistrix, though, offered a reassuring squeeze of his hand. That was enough to root him once more, though part of him wished he could have remained aloof; passing through the dance of color and light that was the Sunglass, he led Jaskian towards his goal, a decidedly less grand music studio set aside to celebrate the unfinished works of a certain priestess of the Sun who had perished in the Fall.
There came a sense of sorrow through the soulbond from her husband before the pair approached the display in the room, a tiered stand housing neat rows of sheet music written for strings–mostly quartets, but a handful of solo pieces for cello. Luminash knew that it had been the composer’s favorite.
The magister briefly raised a hand, as if to reach out and touch the damaged bow displayed before the music. It yet showed signs of the care its owner once had paid it, but it had snapped, the wood splintered, yet its strings remained intact, a relic from before the Fall, a piece of what life had been before it came crashing down. Another stab of regret as he withdrew his hand.
Luminash offered a bow of the head and a grateful smile to the cellist who sat nearby, lost in the performance of the collection here.
For the next while–he could scarcely say how long–he stood, Jaskian beside him, eyes closed and awash in a sound he’d not heard in many years, and how fortunate they were, in that moment.
The plaque adorning the table read: Leanna Dawnwing.
@daily-writing-challenge
@keranna-zerine for the event (In Spirit: Gallery for the Departed)
@kharrisdawndancer for Jaskian
Jaskian set her pen down and looked up from the historical map she had been working on.
It had felt a bit like a bubble rising up in her consciousness, then popping to release.
Luminash was thoroughly delighted by something, and through their soulbind, she could not help but be infected, too. Her smile grew wide as she felt the unfamiliar sensation bloom through her. It was distinctly not her own emotion she felt, but his, and it thrummed through her like a ripple traveling in a pond. Harmony.
They had not been wed long, but the honeymoon had certainly not worn off. Everytime she wondered about him, she could simply search inwardly and find him. It was fascinating and was a balm.
She hadn’t told anyone about her intentions when she’d been waiting to meet with Luminash in Oribos that fateful day. But, like many magistrix she suspected, Jaskian had thought long and hard about the consequences and the implications of what she was going to ask him. Marriage, and more, was not something to be taken lightly. Once, she might have worried Luminash accepted her marriage proposal from a place of charity. It would have reaching effects on both their standing in the Magistry, with the nobility of Quel’thalas, and just for their sense of selves. But binding their souls in the method of the Shadowlands was even more weighty.
She was confident, though there were pinpricks of doubt, too. Would their spirits even take the ceremony since they were still mortal? Would their spirits be as much a match as they’d thought they were in life?
She need not have worried. Their souls cozied up as easily as their fingers threaded together. It had been a discovery, for both of them, she knew, but the depths of their bonding were proving vast and pleasant.
She stood up from her desk and couldn’t help the way she rushed down the stairs to meet him at the door. Her heart skipped a beat. Their happiness at seeing the other made them chuckle as they kissed. They practically fell into the foyer, kicking the door shut behind him.
The spellbreaker slumped to his knees, his body shaking with exertion. His breath came quickly, and beads of sweat trickled from his brow as the Void strained against the magister’s wards. Luminash had borne such pride at his craft, the result of hours of persistent spellweaving, an arcane barrier that even Silvermoon’s spellbreakers could not dispel; surely the artifacts held within, even suffused with the Void, would pose no threat.
As the spellbreaker forced himself to his feet again, one hand outstretched, palm shining so brightly with the arcane that it left a black afterimage in Luminash’s vision when he looked away, the magister realized his errors too late: first, the madness of seeking to contain that which, by its very nature, defied containment, and second, the very act that had saved the rest of the tower.
* * * * *
He and Jaskian had been in the garden, guiding new vines over trellises with the gentle coaxing of magic, when a wave of dread passed over them, followed quickly after by a sound somewhere between the distant roar of thunder and fabric tearing coming from somewhere in the north. The pair’s eyes were drawn in unison towards the sky, the threads of magic they held in delicate fingertips sputtering out as they witnessed the birth of the Voidstorm, a swirling, inky blackness spreading across the heavens over Silvermoon, over Quel’Danas, over the Sunwell itself.
Everything next happened so rapidly that Luminash would not be able to adequately describe it in the days to come: first came panicked shouts from the tower across the grounds as spellbreakers scrambled to contain a surge of wild magic. Already, brilliant flashes of purple and white burst from the tower’s front door, the pale wood broken from its hinges by an armored guard sent hurtling through it by the eruption of a mana conduit.
Luminash knelt at the man’s side while Jaskian went on ahead in silent understanding. Stabilize the leyline conduit or all will be lost. His eyes rolled back in his head as Luminash drew him to lean against the cool stone of the tower; he yet breathed, but consciousness had fled. The magister pressed his palms to the guard’s temples, and his hands flashed with a bronze light. He focused on undoing the damage done in a desperate attempt to suppress his rising panic, itself fed by the knot of gnawing anxiety that was Jaskian huddled in the back of his mind.
With a raspy gasp, the guard’s eyes shot open once more, and he doubled over, shuddering as if suppressing the urge to vomit, “Magister, it… The leyline, it…” He struggled to speak as he slumped to the ground, clutching his head.
“We know. Take a moment to recover, then rejoin the others,” Luminash cut in, placing a hand on the guard’s shoulder, “The confusion will pass. The mind can scarcely reconcile the event with the non-event; this is common with chronomancy,” he continued as he stood and slipped through the shattered door, “There’s no doubt much work to be done!”
Elven shadows danced along the walls and spiral path climbing the tower, lit by the overwhelming brilliance of overloading mana conduits. Those that had not already shattered, spilling forth tendrils of the world’s arcane lifeblood, strained under pressure, the sound of groaning metal and cracking glass echoing from stone walls. The indoor gardens that surrounded the primary leyline conduit and masked the most unsightly of the channels seemed to have grown rapidly, responding to the influx of raw energy, much as the vines he and Jaskian had so gently been tending, but on a far larger scale. Worse, a low rumbling came from below; the very leyline itself seemed to be shrieking in terror at what had torn open the sky.
Luminash found Jaskian at the base of the well in the tower’s center; he could sense the threads of the arcane tangled in her fingers, delicate movements guiding them, weaving them into a throttle for the uncontrollable flood rising from the earth. It seemed as futile as holding back Elrendar Falls with a spiderweb, and yet, Luminash felt the flow begin—even if only slightly—to weaken.
“Making progress?” Luminash asked, although he could already feel the answer. Jaskian only offered a curt nod, her face a mask of complete concentration.
Standing beside her, the magister began to pour his own power into her spell, drawing magic into him with a breath—and how easy it was here, so surrounded by the raw mana streaming from the shattering channels!—a conduit for his wife’s spellcraft.
He was dimly aware of the spellbreakers Rommath had so thoughtfully stationed here leveraging their own skills to stanch the arcane bleeding on the broken conduits, and found himself bitterly thankful for their presence. Jaskian did manage to quirk a slight smile at the pang she felt through their bond, and Luminash knew it would be a point of pleasant mockery later, a light in the oncoming night.
The magister did not know how long throttling the leyline took, but it felt as if it had been hours of constant spellwork, so drained was he by the time it was over. What came next, however, overshadowed the rest.
“It is…” Jaskian began, letting out a deep breath, an exhalation that seemed to draw much of her spirit out with it as she settled herself on the ledge of the well, “Done.”
Luminash, too, felt hollowed out. He had seen a string of goblin lights, once, flash brilliantly just before they sputtered out; the feeling he had was much the same. The spellbreakers, too, both on the ground floor and up the ramp towards the laboratory proper, settled themselves against walls, or on the floor, their breathing labored and limbs shaking.
So exhausted were all the elves present that they had only the haziest awareness of a growing darkness above.
“Magister, with me! At once!”
Luminash was snapped from his torpor by the shout. It had been the guard he had healed, now joining the others within. Unnoticed in the heat of the moment before, the crest on his helmet indicated that he was the captain of this squad—Bel’anas, first name unnecessary, if Luminash recalled correctly.
“Can you not feel it? The laboratory, now!” Captain Bel’anas repeated, breaking into a run up the ramp and past his exhausted subordinates.
Jaskian looked up at her husband, the glow of her eyes dim, and nodded. She reached up, and with a brush of her fingertips against his, said simply, “Go.”
* * * * *
And so, Luminash lent his power to the wards, joining Captain Bel’anas. It was still not enough, though, just as drawing water from a dry well cannot slake one’s thirst: the Void leaking from the artifacts—from simple pieces of tainted elementium to a fragment of an obelisk made from some indescribable material, its surface marred by a single staring eye—threatened to overwhelm what few of Luminash’s vaunted wards remained, weakened as they were by the throttling of the leyline and the destruction of the conduits that powered them.
The artifacts, in fact, were scarcely visible behind the black cloud that had formed, specks of light flickering within that seemed to watch the pair of elves. There was an interest there, a hunger, as from the cloud reached what seemed a hand, scrabbling at the ward from the inside, like an animal caged, searching for any hope of escape.
Bel’anas faltered at that, once more falling to his knees, this time clutching his head. Lost in the sound of his armor clanking around him as he dropped was a low groan. Touching his face, his metal-cased fingers came away bloodied as a presence forced itself upon his mind. Luminash felt it too, though he was not yet its focus.
He reached out to Jaskian’s presence in his mind, her usual brightness faded with utter exhaustion. There were no words, merely the impression of an embrace; he hoped his fear was not too blatant, but he could not abandon Bel’anas, could not abandon his work here, could not allow this thing to break free in Eversong. Once more, there were no words, but the impression of flight, of safety, of escape.
Luminash’s eyes flickered around the laboratory, searching for anything that could be of use as the ward began to crack, and the seething, roiling Void mass within began to seep out through the opening, creeping towards Bel’anas. The other wards, he noticed, were weakened, but not lost; fel and necromanctic relics sat, inert as ever.
With a grunt of exertion, Luminash seized the threads that bound those wards, one bundle, as it were, in each hand, and pulled, forgoing any delicacy—no gossamer webs, no gentle coaxing this time—and redirecting the power towards the failing Void ward. The cracks began to seal, leaving wisps of black Void smoke beyond, dissipating with a hiss as the beast within howled, its myriad flashing eyes glaring towards the magister as its mass—for was mass, it seemed heavy, even as it appeared only to be fog—was hurled against the barrier in a thrashing, hungry rage.
“Bel’anas?” Luminash asked, his voice raspy and forced, his throat dry and lungs weak. He repeated, “Bel’anas?” The captain did not answer, but did nod, even as droplets of blood flowing from his nose marred the white marble of the floors. He was, at least, alive.
The magister’s body burned from the stress placed upon it, the power flowing through it; his hands cramped from grasping the arcane so violently, as its wild flow sought to escape his grip. Jaskian’s presence drew nearer, not escaping, but embracing him in turn. It was enough—it would have to be enough—to keep him standing for a bit longer.
There is another disturbance in the leyline, Lumi. Jaskian’s words flowed through him, and left in their wake a renewed dread. And yet, she did not seem afraid. There was, instead, a tentative sort of hope.
Then, a rumble from within the earth below, just as they had felt during the first surge, and the room erupted with the Light. The trickle in the conduits, even damaged as they were, became a shining torrent of molten gold. As it flowed into the wards, they shone with renewed vigor, the pale violet of the arcane giving way to a light like the sun itself, the threads of magic tangled in Luminash’s hands searing, snapping, and slipping away entirely.
Stunned and reeling as the power abruptly left him, the only support left to hold up his depleted frame, the magister fell, the cold stone of the floor beneath him the last sensation before his vision faded and his mind was seized by blessed sleep.
Luminash exhaled, and a plume of smoke flowed forth, the earthy musk of bloodthistle wreathing his head. He leaned back in his chair, permitting himself a moment away from the paperwork strewn across his desk; since his decision to return to Quel’Thalas and restore the dilapidated Dawnwing estate, he had had few such moments to himself, free from the demands of contractors and a renewed interest among the nobility in a resurgent House Dawnwing.
He was about to raise the pipe to his lips once more when came a knock on his study door, snapping him back–partially–to his present reality.
“Enter,” the magister intoned, not rising from his desk, nor in fact doing anything at all to hide the languor he had allowed himself.
The door opened, and the estate porter ushered in the magister’s guest. The porter, a young silver-haired elf from Silvermoon proper, Rilaniel by name, was one of the handful of employees Luminash had brought on for maintenance of the property. He was diligent, skilled, and understanding of how particular Luminash himself could be in his desires for the estate.
Particular, too, was the guest Rilaniel had brought. As quickly and quietly as the clerk entered, so did the porter close the door and depart.
Luminash, formerly interrupted, puffed a few times on his pipe, savoring the scent and the haze creeping over his mind; what often raced, a frothing rapids, had become a calm stream, “Goldleaf. Do come in, make yourself comfortable.” The magister offered an easy smile and motioned with a sweep of his arm to the chair opposite him at the desk.
The clerk adjusted his glasses and padded across the room, sliding into the chair with a distinctly feline grace; his slight frame and melancholic air only added to the effect, “I thank you for the welcome, Dawnwing. It has been many a year since I’ve visited the estate.”
“Since before the fall, you mean. I was not aware that you ever had,” Luminash responded, offering the pipe across the cluttered desk to his guest.
Despite quirking a smile at the gesture, Goldleaf shook his head, prompting the magister to bring the pipe once more to his own lips instead, “I had been a not infrequent guest of your father while he sought to woo my stamp of approval on research petition after research petition. Much as you have often been my guest in the Spire, come to think of it.”
“Ah, how little things truly change,” Luminash mused, “And now you’ve come again, for more of the same.” With a shrug, he slid from his chair, “You will want to see the tower itself, yes? Come.”
As he strode away from the desk, he dampened his pipe with a flash of frost and motioned for the clerk to follow.
* * * * *
Goldleaf nearly gaped as Luminash led him into the restored tower that dominated the eastern side of the estate grounds. Each successive generation of Dawnwing magisters had added their own touches to the structure: Senaril, the first of the exiled Highborne to bear the Dawnwing name to Quel’Thalas, had envisioned it as a beacon in untamed Amani wilderness, a high seat from which to look out on his new domain. Selius, Luminash’s own father, had made it an extension of his more frequent home in Dalaran, filling it with the trappings of the Kirin Tor, a monument to the organization’s twin pillars of scholarship and bureaucracy. In restoring it, Luminash had a grander design in mind.
The entry hall was dominated by a stair winding upwards, and a twisting, arcane sculpture of sorts, a series of distinctly mechanical conduits stretching from this font and running through the floor, the walls, the masonry itself, winding upwards. Surrounding this, a vibrant Thalassian garden, as if to hide the unsightly with the beauty of the forests outside. The tower itself was lit with lamps enchanted to gleam like the sun, to nourish the garden facade. As of yet, the conduits remained dim.
“Luminash, what…is this?” Goldleaf asked, stepping towards the structure towering in the center of the room.
“It is what will allow my great work to be done, Goldleaf. The tower has always been connected to the leyline running beneath our feet, but it has never harnessed that power effectively, never directed it towards any purpose.” Luminash scoffed, “My forebears used it to enchant their lamps, to shift rooms at their whim–parlor tricks! Allow me to show you, Goldleaf, so that you may better appreciate what I offer our people here.”
The clerk continued after the magister, stepping closer to the center of the room so that Goldleaf could see what seemed to be a well stretching into the earth, from which the spiral sculpture arose. Although both men were tall and slim, Luminash’s squared shoulders and blazing eyes, sparks of lucidity sharply focused even from the depths of the torpor brought on by the thistle, gave the other the impression of being dwarfed by someone of much greater stature.
Luminash, with outstretched hand, began to draw something up from below. Though the clerk had little aptitude for the arcane, even he could feel movement in the earth. Whatever this apparatus the magister had grafted into his tower was, it seemed to function as promised as a surge of brilliant pale violet filled the arcane well and flowed forth into the conduits, casting the tower as a whole in its arcane light.
The magister’s face spread into a smile as he turned to his companion. He seemed almost to hum with the power he had drawn into the conduits as he spoke, “With that, let us ascend. The true heart of the project lies above.”
As he followed the magister’s steps–growing brisker as both enthusiasm bubbled over and as the latent arcane power seeping into the structure itself energized him–Goldleaf ventured, “Your proposal was that you would be conducting some manner of experiment in energy transmutation, yes? Am I to assume you need all this power for it? What am I to report to the Grand Magister when he asks why we have authorized the private use of a leyline of all things?”
Luminash shook his head, “He will see clearly when you report the initial results.” When the pair reached the top of the winding steps, the magister ushered the clerk into the room at the top, through a pair of heavy, deep red curtains.
Within, the leyline conduits thrummed with power, washing the room in violet, and initially drawing attention away from the assortment of items the magister had accumulated here.
Along the walls of the round chamber were various and sundry objects of power: fel artifacts no doubt pilfered from Legion worlds; Void-soaked relics dredged from the vilest dens of maddened cults; holy symbols gleaming brilliantly with the Light or with the peaceful vibrance of life itself; runed carvings saturated with the sickly glow of Death. All were encased in multiple layers of warding, some arcane and bearing the hallmark of elven enchantment, others clearly derived from the technomancy of K’aresh.
Goldleaf could scarcely choke out his words over the lump forming in his throat, “Magister, do you understand how dangerous something like this is? These should be sealed away by the Reliquary. Or destroyed! Or–”
“I assure you, having designed a number of their security measures myself, the Reliquary would positively envy what I have crafted here!” Luminash responded. His irritation at his expertise being questioned was evident, though tempered by a warm sense of pride in his craftsmanship, “Please, allow me to show you the purpose of this place.”
The motion of Luminash’s fingers was delicate as he wove a series of tiny portals, transferring–slowly, methodically, much to Goldleaf’s appreciation, which would certainly be noted in his report–one of his collection to the table central to the room, itself encased in another layer of wards, only evidenced by the enchanted Mage’s Eye shining above. The item in question was a small wooden box bearing the mark of the Arathi’s Sacred Flame, but blackened by the touch of the Void.
“Before you lies an Arathi tinderbox, a symbol of their devotion to a manifestation of the Light,” Luminash began, taking on the tone of a lecturing professor, all too common when speaking to magisters, Goldleaf reflected–though he preferred that to those who spoke only with noble arrogance.
“As you no doubt can see, it has been marred by a loss of faith,” he continued, “The Order of the Night, they called themselves, and gave themselves over to darkness. But, I ask, is darkness insurmountable?” He flashed the confident, brilliant smile of a man about to be proven irrefutably right, “Of course not! Our people know this better than most. But what is able to overcome the dark?” He looked then to Goldleaf, expectantly.
The clerk knew not to take the question at face value. When Luminash entered such a mood, his desired lessons were rarely so straightforward. And so Goldleaf replied: “Any suitably strong will. As our people demonstrate themselves, yes?”
The magister barked a laugh, “Ah, a brilliant observation, my friend! Indeed, any suitably strong will. The Light need not banish the darkness. The darkness can, in fact, swallow up the light, or anything else, should it be powerful enough itself.” Though still nearly vibrating with built-up anticipation, Luminash did grow more serious for a moment, “Xal’atath proved this with Dalaran. The K’areshi heretics showed this in their manaforges: any power may be used to bind any other. And so…”
He motioned then back to the tinderbox, “The Arathi say much the same, that our understanding of the cosmos is arbitrary, based on categorizing what defies categorization. You would not be familiar with their work, or that of the Broker Firim, but I believe they approach the truth of the matter.” His eyes gleamed as he raised his hands and began to channel something, the arcane power flowing through the conduits whirling in eddies in response to the movement of his fingers, “The frame of all creation lies beneath what we see, and oh, Goldleaf… If we are gentle, if we are careful, we may…”
The tinderbox, to Goldleaf’s astonishment, began to glow, not with the Light as he expected, not with purification, but with a beautiful emerald, the color of dreams, a hue of hope.
“Pull…”
Then it shifted once more, and Goldleaf felt his stomach tie into a knot: the hope became despair as the sickly power of Death radiated from the tinderbox, black and bleak tendrils.
“Back…”
Another shift, then, as the energy in the room continued to grow; Luminash himself seemed overcome by it, his thin frame drooping, but kept upright by the power flowing through him. This time, the box seemed to split open and emit the same bright violet that flowed through the ley conduits.
“The veil.”
With a flash of nearly blinding golden light, the tinderbox glowed anew with the Light, with its Sacred Flame, and Luminash fell to his knees, his breathing heavy. He looked up towards Goldleaf, though, with triumph written on his features.
“Whatever you report today, know…that the Sin’dorei…” He paused for a deep breath, “With this new understanding, we will…be ready.”
The certainty in the magister’s voice sent a dagger of ice into Goldleaf’s very soul, “Ready for what, Luminash?”
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.”
"Magister Luminash Dawnwing: under the authority of Grand Magister Rommath, you are hereby barred from access to your tower laboratory until further notice, pending investigation," clerk Goldleaf intoned. His slight stature and reedy voice held little gravitas but for the words he uttered. He took a breath—hesitation, or regret?—and continued, "Until such a time as the Magister may be cleared of suspicion of Twilight's Blade involvement, he shall be barred from leaving the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas, and shall remain under the oversight of the Guard."
Luminash felt his jaw clench, the slight creak of grinding teeth audible, although he hoped neither this reluctant messenger nor the spellbreakers flanking him could hear it, such an indignity it would add to an already unworthy moment!
"Have you anything to say in your defense, Magister?" the clerk asked, a look of sorrow flashing across his face—he knew very well Luminash would not take this quietly.
Despite all expectations, Luminash remained silent for a moment. Then, he spoke.
"The Twilight's Blade? Truly? Rommath accuses me—me! whose family has been a staple of the Magistry since the foundation of the very Kingdom!—of consorting with that wretched band of blind zealots?" He stood from his desk, prompting both spellbreakers to shift their hands to the hilts of their weapons, though the defenseless clerk made no such moves. It was simply nerves, he knew.
The magister continued as he paced, "He refused to see the merits of my research here, and instead is shutting it down out of blind fear! The blind groping in the dark, afraid of whatever other blind maggots they may come across!"
The spellbreakers exchanged a look of concern, but Goldleaf raised a hand and whispered, "Please, allow him this."
The clerk spoke then, aloud, for the magister to hear, "The fear is that your experiments in energy conversion may not be limited to cleansing the Void. As you know, any trace of the Void may draw even the strongest mind into madness, and—"
Luminash wheeled on the trio, rage contorting his normally placid features, "An accusation of weak-mindedness on top of treason! You saw my safeguards! Quel'Thalas has always been so skilled at hiding away from the obvious that it cannot see the true threats looming! And Rommath would throw away one of his most potent tools for preventing the corruption of the Void out of fear!"
Goldleaf remained silent, only rolling the scroll from which he had read his pronouncement back up with a soft crinkle.
"I myself once felt precisely the same, especially after the near-miss with Alleria at the Sunwell years ago," Luminash continued, the anger beginning to drain from his voice, replaced with resignation, "But I understand more now than I did then. And when you return to the Grand Magister, I expect you to tell him that he is making a mistake."
The clerk sighed, "Dawnwing, we both know I cannot do that."
Luminash sighed in turn, offering a slight shrug of the shoulders as he returned to his desk, slumping into his chair, "It was worth a shot, wasn't it? Fine, then," he waved his hand dismissively, "Let the Guard and its spellbreakers watch me. Let them crawl all over my estate and trample all my work. We shall see how this turns out in the end."
Despite the new start at the Dawnwing estate, there was much work to be done, from masonry repairs to the restoration of the entire interior, not to mention cleansing the place of lingering Death. While its embrace awaited all, it was, no doubt, inimical to the growth of new life.
Luminash signed another work order, rolling the scroll and pressing the daub of crimson wax to seal it, the imprint of his signet–a winged sun, Thalassian phoenix superimposed–upon it. Though guided by new purpose, an emptiness remained after K’aresh; he felt only an echo of himself here, where the walls of reality were so unyieldingly firm. He could not open himself to the infinite cosmos here; he was painfully aware of the body trapping the arcane soul within.
The estate’s study was situated precisely in the center of the second floor, its window opening onto the courtyard below, and through it streamed the morning sun. Although its light offered admittedly pleasant warmth to the magister, he felt like a Thalassian flower wilting in the desert sun over Kalimdor, as if he ought to be elsewhere.
Sliding into the desk chair, one of the few pieces he had managed to salvage from the ruins, he permitted himself a moment to center himself and to breathe. In the back of his mind was Jaskian’s steadfast presence, and around him was the work to be done. He repeated the tasks ahead as a litany against the disconnection he felt.
The sound of a cleared throat from the doorway broke him from his reverie.
“Morning, magister,” Telivathus offered in greeting, “It’s already looking up around here, I say.”
“Ah, Tel. Good of you to come; it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Luminash replied, pushing himself up from the chair. It was not such a struggle, but all the same felt as if his body was dragging him down.
Telivathus eyed the magister as he entered the room fully, taking in the details: a gaping hole in the roof above, a floor ravaged by the elements, the shelves built into the walls broken, and what contents remained resting on the floor. At least the dust had been cleared and the codices and scrolls stacked along the walls again.
“You seem troubled, Dawnwing,” the older man observed, “Care to share?”
Luminash shook his head in response, “No need, Tel. There is simply a great deal of work to be done, and I fear little time in which to conduct my other responsibilities.”
“Such as? You’re a magister, my friend. I am sure no one will mind if you take some time for yourself. You would have the power to simply silence their dissent, no?” Typical Farstrider cheek at the Magistry’s expense.
Permitting himself a slight laugh, Luminash shrugged, “No need for that. It is not about time for myself, but about time for my work. I have a meeting this afternoon at the Spire concerning my report on K’aresh, another with the Reliquary tomorrow morning concerning a manuscript for publication, and–”
“Walk and talk, Dawnwing,” Telivathus cut in, turning on his heel and striding out of the room. In fact, he was continuing down the main stairs towards the estate’s entry hall before Luminash caught up.
“Where are we going, precisely?”
“You’ll find out,” Telivathus said, a mirthful gleam in his eyes, “Walk and talk. Don’t let me interrupt you.”
With a sigh, Luminash continued, even as the two left the house and grounds behind, “I know what your game is, Tel. You think I’m too deep in my own thoughts and need to clear my head.”
A noncommittal grunt and a shrug of the shoulders was Telivathus’ only answer.
“It’s not that, but precisely the opposite, you ought to know.”
A brow raised, but no response. A light breeze ruffled the leaves above as the ground began to slope towards the Eldrendar in the north.
“It’s somewhat how you said you felt after Outland. That your mind was elsewhere, and the body is left behind going through the motions.”
That, at last, elicited a response as the pair began to weave down a sharper slope, “I’ve heard what you faced out there. I surveyed the manaforges in Netherstorm for the Scryers, and the damage even a fragment of Dimensius did to reality itself there was palpable.” After pausing while stepping over a particularly hazardous exposed root, he continued, “And I can’t say I’m sensitive to that sort of thing at all. You, though?” He sucked air in through his teeth and shook his head.
“It’s not only that. Imagine, Tel, that there is a…piece of you, something in your soul itself, that does not belong here, but does belong there.” He shook his head, “No, that is not quite right. That belongs outside, that longs to pass through the rift in reality, to exist beyond it. Now imagine it here. It is like being caged.”
“And yet you’re the one who caged it, aren’t you?” Telivathus’ reply made Luminash stop in his tracks, so fully did it cut to the core of the problem, “Do you truly understand why you did it?”
Luminash remained silent, stunned, but continued following his friend as the sound of the Elrendar met their ears.
“You let yourself be part of this world before K’aresh, and you will again, but you need to remember why. It’s what I had to do after everything I was made to do with the Sunfury, and it takes time.”
As the pair approached the riverbank, Telivathus placed his hand on Luminash’s shoulder. In that moment, a flash of memory: the assault on Tempest Keep, the defense of Quel’Danas, and later, Luminash’s hand in that same position, pulling Telivathus up from the abyss of his own despair.
“It’s going to take time, Dawnwing, but you know where to find me. And your lovely wife is but a thought away, isn’t she?” The older man nudged his companion with his elbow, “Take the time, and it’ll all fall into place.” Luminash scarcely noticed the receding of Telivathus’ footsteps, leaving him alone on the gently sloping south bank of the Elrendar.
For a man who contained memories of seeing the cosmos from the outside, it was such a tiny place, even as the trees, at last healing from the blight at their roots, towered over him, and the river rushed onward to the near-boundless sea. It was so small, but, as the magister settled onto the grass, so was he; and in that moment, the ache of disconnection faded.
This was why.
@daily-writing-challenge
@kharrisdawndancer for Jaskian reference (again!)
The grounds of the ruined Dawnwing estate were growing vibrant. Though the stone remained pockmarked by the decay that once gripped the lands, blooms had returned at last to the sickly trees, and the sun illuminated the ruins through new leaves, their shadows dancing over the skeleton of the manor house and its grounds.
Luminash strode around the perimeter of the courtyard, gloved hands clasped behind his back. While the structure of the home remained, it had been gutted by the twin depredations of the Scourge attack and time itself. Scarce evidence remained of his mother’s garden on the south side of the grounds, and only a husk of his father’s tower remained. It had survived even the Scourge’s ravages only to be destroyed by the surge of power that had come through its portal on Dalaran’s fall.
Theras and Aneyah stood, the Arathi resting her shoulder against the ranger’s, before the memorial Luminash had placed many years ago, its eternal flame glowing yet, even if the sun seemed to dim its light.
“What is he looking for, Ther?” Aneyah asked, peering up at him. The pair had arrived after the magister, and their brief time at the memorial had seen Luminash circle the courtyard thrice.
Theras shook his head, “I can’t say I know for certain. Jaskian might be able to say, but Father hasn’t said a thing. I thought we were only here to pay our respects as always.”
Magistrix Dawnwing née Clearwater had not arrived yet, but Luminash had said she would arrive later to view the grounds as well.
The younger pair watched as Luminash knelt before the ragged field of grass that had once been the estate’s garden, and pressed his hands onto the soil. Theras moved to speak, lips already parted, but stopped as Aneyah shook her head. She sensed something, it seemed, the younger Dawnwing did not.
There came a flash, like a spark, from Luminash’s hands, the brilliance of the Arcane tinged with something else. Then, a warm golden glow from the grass as flame began to spread; it was not the red-orange of a natural fire, but the same comforting yellow as Theras had seen in Hallowfall.
He looked to Aneyah, his surprise evident on his face, “Is that…?”
She nodded in reply as the Sacred Flame began to swallow the grass and creep across the field.
The magister stood, raising his hands to his side, looking for all the world like the conductor of an orchestra as he guided the dancing flames to an unheard tune. The growing light of the fire illuminated his silhouette, golden hair shining like the flames themselves, even as the shadow of the leaves above danced about him.
They stood in silence as they watched the fire encircle the magister, though it never so much as singed his robes, only for that silence to be broken by Luminash’s own voice.
“Theras, Aneyah. This is but the start. Will you join your efforts to mine to restore this place? The time has long since come to let the pain this ruin holds end.”
He turned towards them, then, eyes shining with radiant purpose, the Sacred Flame around him searing away the dry grass and leaving behind only a clean slate, a hopeful smile spreading across his face, “Today, Dawnwing is born anew.”
@daily-writing-challenge
@kharrisdawndancer for Jaskian!
