Moving quietly and having a gimp leg tend to be mutually exclusive activities. Stands to reason.

Doing it in the dark, with only the smallest of glows from the decorative crystals in the room to guide you whilst you hobble about? Or the wane light of the pre-dawn peeking through the curtains? Peak of idiocy. Invitation to disaster.

That is, unless you've had years upon years to practice.

(( Some slight bad language, not enough to warrant a 'mature' tag, but be warned if you're at work or something :) ))

Heulwen slumped comfortably, the morning sun warming her skin.  She was perched on top of a pile of crates in the Bazaar and leaning against the stone wall at her back.  Beside her lay a water-skin and a package of sandwiches wrapped in grease-paper.  At the base of the stack of crates was a satchel.  Just another courier waiting to meet a contact, a common sight in this part of Silvermoon.

Relax.

This would be easy.  Super-easy, even.  Nothing to it.  Just one vial into the other, no drips, nice and quick, like a bandage.  She checked the time.  It was still five minutes until it would be ready, about five seconds since the last time she'd checked.  Muscles clenched in her back, persistently reminding her that for the past hour, she had been sitting straight-backed in a wooden chair, huddled over a desk, watching two vials for the slightest hint of a color change.  Vial still clutched in hand, she rubbed the haze from her eyes before continuing her vigil.  Stilll blue..a little patch of sky in a bottle.  They looked almost pretty, illuminated by the lamp light.  If only the job that involved them wasn't so important.  She frowned at the little blue vials, accusingly.  So pleasant in its looks, but deep down, not nearly so good, like the sparkly city of Silvermoon or the stars who could afford houses named after seasons.  It made sense, that term, stars.  High, lofty, beautiful, sparkling, always looking down on everyone and nothing to give but their shine.  Tiavara decided then that she hated stars.

Purple!

(( To go with this song. ))

The pale blue light of the morning sun just beginning to illuminate the sky began to sift through the window over Lady Solisbane's desk, setting a pale glow over the polished finish, the stacks of paperwork, and the Lady herself, writing in a delicate, careful cursive by the weak light of a lone candle.  A knock at the door pulled her attention from her work as the elder sin'dorei let herself in, expertly balancing a china teapot and matching teacups, all decorated with red dragonhawks in midflight.  The servant gave Aramalia a weary look as she set the tray down on a nearby table and began to restore energy to the crystalline lamps lining the walls of the room.

"Working like that for too long will straing your eyes, milady."

"I did not want to wake the household, Shavarra."

Shavarra snorted, walking back to the table to start pouring the tea, "As if I wouldn't stay awake until you got home.  You were late, you know."

Aramalia could barely hold back a chuckle, though her eyes smiled with endearment at the old sin'dorei, "Gone are the days where you needed to hold my hand, dear Shava."

Even through her barking laughter, the elder continued to pour the tea after handing the lady her cup, "I remember a certain young girl saying similar words...Of course, that was back when she had to hold her father's shortsword with two hands and still struggled to lift the blade."

"While that may be," Aramalia answered with a hint of teasing warning, "it was not due to the doctor.  There was an altercation last night in the Row."

The stables are a well maintained area, for their purpose. I venture there twice daily, once to saddle and prepare the squirming child that is my hawkstrider, and again to return him, exhausted, to his roost. This daily ritual, performed after my routine check-in with the Sanctum, has been all that keeps me sane. Well, perhaps that is inaccurate. Jim is certainly a large help in keeping my mind in one piece, but what I experience around him is a distinct… lack. Lack of feeling, lack of care, lack of thought. A smothering void of emotion and fear, which I once craved but I now… need? Is that the right word? Need?

((Special thanks to the fine roleplayers above for a fun late night rp session. I tried to do the scene justice as much as possible without a chatlog available and only my poor memory to rely on.  If I failed, the blame is all mine.))

He walked the streets of Silvermoon like a zombie. In his mind, a slow, reverberating chant could be heard in a disturbing mockery of his own voice.

"Mana. Mana. Mana."

More more more.

He clutched his head, squeezing the temples until his head physically ached. He walked, trying to avoid the mana dens but was drawn back to them like a moth to flame. He paced in front of one of the doorways, drawing the attention of several nobles who tut-tutted and clucked their tongues at him.

"Filthy addict," he heard them say. He turned, forced his leaden legs to walk away. Everything was so bright. So bright.

So...purple.

((The first bit is a tribute to a real Mana Tombs group I had earlier.))

He climbed up the mile or so of steps, a stiff dry breeze from nearby Terokkar brushing across his cheek.  He took one look around before entering the ruins.  He already knew this was a bad, bad idea, but the small group of adventurers following behind him trusted him to lead them.  And so he and four others crept down the dark hallway leading to the mana tombs.  He held up a fist to stop them and leaned around the last corner.  The brilliance was dazzling.

All sorts of Nexus stalkers and elementals patrolled the hallway. Veins of what looked like pure mana pipelines lined the walls, glowing enticingly.  Saviero took a deep breath and pressed up against the wall, naked sword clenched tightly in his gloved hand. Inside the padded plate, his fingers were sweaty.

Footsteps approaching.

About three months ago...

Perspective 1

The sun has set over the Kingdom and the streets are swept up in silence.  The first day of the week where those that live within the walls have returned to work means that there will be little to no company for wandering citizens tonight.  Adaelus walks slowly along the stone pathways as he has done for years, and like so many nights before he is accompanied by his companion Bástriel, an enormous red lynx with a mane of burnt orange.

He sighs, "Should I say goodbye to what I am used to?"  Bástriel cocks her head to the side as a femenine voice fills Adaelus' head, "I see no reason in letting go of what makes you who you are.  It is simply a matter of finding a balance that appeases both you and Lady Sunwalker."

Shavarra's eyes followed Lady Solisbane's steps as she rushed up the steps to her office, already starting to remove pieces of her armor.  After hearing a familiar -click- of the office door closed and locked, she ventured up the stairs, knocking lightly.

"Milady, anything I can get for you?"

"I shall be taking my tea early this eve.  The usual additives."

"Right away."

By the time Shavarra had returned with the blue-tinted tea, Aramalia had changed into a silken housecoat and was leaning over her desk, glaring at the contents of a notebook.

"You seem out of sorts, milady," Shavarra spoke gently as she passed the steaming teacup.

Taking the cup, Lady Solisbane drank deeply, her muscles visibly relaxing, though her eyes remained focused on the notes, "I hate it when people lie to me."

The House Vaults within Silvermoon City’s bank looked more like crypts to Sid. Maybe it had something to do with the rows of doors bearing nothing but a family crest. It took a bit of searching to find his—a curving line branching into nine flames. He was vaguely surprised the crest still responded to his touch, but the real shock came when the door opened.

The chamber was standard for a noble house, big enough to hold all its fortunes, plus any heirlooms meant for future generations. The Sunlash vault contained all of four things—a signet ring, a worthless deed, a small sack of coins, and a lacquered wooden box. The pitiful inheritance wasn’t what distressed him, he always knew the family would piss everything away. The problem was the box. The sight of it alone was enough to make his back ache. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory, but he could already smell the dusk blossoms…

Saviero slipped his arm around his rather inebriated companion for the night, walking her back to his - well, Fortune's - place to indulge in more private pleasures. The girl was tittering and swaying in his grip and the giggling was really starting to get on his nerves.  She stumbled and almost fell again.  Poor girl couldn't hold her alcohol at all.

The girl giggled again and proceeded to kiss Saviero's neck, completely absorbed in making out with his skin.  He sighed internally - if he couldn't get her home he might as well have fun where he could before she passed out. So he pushed her into a nearby alley and redirected her mouth to a more appropriate place.

That's when he heard a scuff of footsteps amidst the sounds of her pleasured gasps.

((Catching up with my writing lag.  This is before Fortune's attack. Rated M for language.))

He was not fine.  Not fine.

There were some days he ached for magic like a menstrual woman wants chocolate.  Except, make that a rabid menstrual woman.

He rolled over in a tangle of sheets and patted the bed for his companion the previous night, and felt for her warm, soft skin.  "Hey, babe. You still here? I thought you'd be gone." Rolling over to grope her, he got a fistful of fuzzy fur and a distinct low purring noise filled his room.

Artisania Stillwater-Ell'Karan had almost forgotten.

It was one of those movements like an anchor being tossed over the side of a ship.  She threw out her hand, clutched the edge of her desk just as she was moving around it, and was therefore drawn back into her chair, which rolled a little across the library floor as she descended into it once more.  Tywyll's note, Tywyll's note... she'd been so distracted (and amused and quite touched really) by the girl's shuffling of her manuscript that she had forgotten the note.  She found it once more amid the forest-floor of leaves of paper scattered across the desk, smoothed it out, read it again, then pulled forth a miraculous clean sheet on which to write.

Tywyll,

Small streams of color flowed through the air, pulsing in hue and vibrance in time with the soft flow of musical notes.  Synesthesia made reality.  Through the torrents of arcane energy, bookshelves were visible, their towering forms encircling the study.  Underneath the glow, sat Gwrtheyrn, carefully penning each note in the latest composition to move through his mind.

I've learned many, many things since I've arrived here. Some more useful than others.

I can create a sudden, searing gout of flame with little more than a moment's notice and a brief twitch of my fingers. A spear of ice needs only the slightest thought to coalesce, then launch itself from my outstretched hand. Ranidaris' advice is giving me more control over my errant mana, and slowly, the spells are becoming more and more familiar to me. Like fletching arrows or churning butter, it's just something that must be practiced to find the best way, the rhythm, the key to doing it right and well.

You're an idiot.

You must have some idea of what you've just done.  You may be some country peasant, but even a few days here should make you realize that the words "Lady Convocate" mean something.  I could have you stabbed in the middle of the street.  I could have you locked up for crimes you can't even fathom and no one would have the desire or the means to oppose me.  I could have set you up with the nicest house in the countryside, and funded your little tea-making adventures for the rest of your life.  Damn, you are an idiot.

This is pathetic!  I don't even have any reason to like you.  You're thick, you're simple, and your sense of humor is decidedly lacking.  There are a hundred people in the city that would kill for a night with me, from nobles to thugs.

Alright, maybe not a hundred, but a few, certainly.

I knew, some day, that I’d have to overcome my illness. I knew that in doing so I would also be overcoming a part of myself that I have known intimately for centuries. I knew it would be difficult, terrifying, and even bad for my health, and I knew it would likely take such time that I might never fully recover to the end of my days. I did not, however, pause to consider the myriad times in which this progress, slow and steady as it was, would slip backwards. I did not think my work could be undone, at least not this way.

Art is in the air! Got inspired to get out my wacom tablet tonight and do some drawing. Warning for mature content. May not be safe for work!

((The following are two letters from Aestan's hand))

MEMORANDUM
TO: LUCAS MALKIN
SUBJECT: ARAMALIA SOLISBANE
CLASSIFICATION: STANDARD

Hello Lucas,

As we discussed, I have taken lady Aramalia Solisbane to the Bazaar today, where she took a vow proclaiming her loyalty to the city, the Legion, and swearing that she had never betrayed us. As you know - the reason I suspected her of treason was because she refused to take this vow. She changed her mind, and her vow was clear-voiced and sincere. Her name, as far as I am concerned, is entirely cleared, and I hope you will feel the same, and make clear to any doubting voices that she is loyal.

As her previous rank was Colonel, before she became the General, I have decided to give her the rank of Lt. Colonel, and as such, I offered her the option to take an Adept under her care. She has chosen Sijmen Beauregarde, and I've decided to honor her request.

((  A smudgy rough doodle with a complete disregard for proportions!  I felt that Alysaene and her father deserved a sketch while I was trying to mentally nail down their character designs.  I've no idea when I'll get around to inking and painting this, so I thought I'd share the draft for visual-aid purposes.  ))

(( Featuring a certain cast of characters who appeared a long time back in the blog Policy Pirate ))

Some months ago….

((Poem after the break! It's on the short side; you've been warned. Critique and criticism always welcome!))

 Count the fingers on the hand… one two, three, four five six seven, eight, nine, ten. All there. Still there, same number, regardless, but just to make sure…

One two, three, four, five six, seven, eight nine ten.

Good, good, moving on.

I am comforted by the ritual I perform each time I begin my day. I know it’s not necessary, I know it’s probably not something others should know I do, but it has to be done. Ten fingers. Ten thin, pointy appendages all neatly groomed and in line, ready to go about the day’s business. Whatever would I do if I suddenly woke up with nine?

((Common practice on Haven appears to be to write the response to letters received in-character as a comment on the post itself. Once I wrote it, however, I noted that its sheer size likely warranted a seperate post. I apologize if this offends anyone's delicate sensibilities.

This post is in response to the letter found here. ))

3 Sundew Boulevard, Silvermoon

Dr. Nachtengaal,

It is with extreme reluctance that I write to you, which I expect you will recognize and thus treat my case with the care, diligence, and secrecy it & I deserve. I have suffered from a peculiar reoccurring dream for several weeks now, one which meaning - but not its importance - has eluded me. As I place great meaning on the interpretation of my visions, I have deemed it necessary that you attend to me with haste. I find that this psychic aberration is preventing me from further progress on my masterpiece, which has been delayed long enough already.

Present yourself at my residence immediately. Should you not already be knowledgeable as to its whereabouts, refer to the address noted above.

- S.S.

P.S. - Burn this.

            Breathless laughter escaped her throat as she ran.  She went barefoot, and the many hidden rocks and broken twigs dug into her soles all the while, but she didn’t much mind at all.  The welcome squish of mud and stirred grass eased any ache she may have felt, and there was more of that than anything.  And the moss.  The thick, glittering carpets of moss.

Leaning back in the worn, dingy hammock, she stared at the rotting wooden planks that consisted of the ceiling, trying to summon some kind of entertainment from them; it was a terrible failure.  She had understood the risks and sacrifices that would need to be taken, what she'd be giving up once the paralytic toxins took hold and the dagger sliced through his arteries.  It was all too hasty, too hasty.  Of course she wouldn't be so forward.  No matter.  That want for revenge...it seemed to slip away, one more emotion consumed by the overwhelming apathy that comes with a job finished with no satisfaction.  And now where was she?  Taking sanctuary in the Underbelly of Dalaran.  She let out a quiet, bitter chuckle at the term: sanctuary.  No different from prison, really, except you pick the accomodations.  She rolled over, facing the entrance of the room, watching as a sewer rat scurried across the floor, sniffing for any scrap of food.  It bolted in squeaking terror as a throwing knife struck the wood a few centimeters away from its twitching whiskery nose.  No, this wasn't the way to be...She scratched her head  through the material of her cowl, her eyes catching sight of a group of chattering sin'dorei.  An idea started taking root in her brain; shallow roots, but quickly digging in.  She sat up and ushered the barmaid close as she wandered by, "Oy, 'ere's some coin.  Buy th' girl there a drink."

The Legion probably wanted a body before they'd be satisfied.  She could manage that.

“I've seen enough.”

Cold wind whipped along the coast of Lake Lordamere, rustling through the leaves of the trees. Bellani had watched the pair, listened to them talk. Listened to the two of them dance around what they both wanted to say and lie about what they meant. They were both pathetic. The two elves sat on top of an old wooden storage shed at the end of a tiny pier. The red headed one who was all hurt and venom, throwing her cigarettes in the water in anger and disgust, and the dark-haired one with her dimple and her stupid bangles, who sat there with her hand on her belly just taking the other's abuse. Bellani couldn't believe that one of them was herself.

A postman wends his way through Silvermoon, handing off letters here and there at various inns, homes, and businesses. He's a good man, wife and child waiting at home for him to finish the late-night shift, and seems to love his job. A kind smile as he knocks on doors and the cheery whistling that follows him at all other times, bright and touchingly happy, assures me of this as I watch him wandering down the darkening city streets. Nothing but good in his soul, if only at face value.

Is it wrong to hate the man solely because my apartment is one of the last on his list?