(( Subtle theme is subtle. Not. ))

Something cold and wet nudged her cheek, followed by warm breath and soft woof against her ear. Vanaja turned her head, lightly shoving at the furry head intruding on her space only to be met with a warm, wet tongue sliding the up length of her face.
 
“Oz! Stop it!” she grumbled as she turned over. She stiffened as the red wolf snagged one of her golden earrings with a fang. “Okay, okay. I’m awake. You can let go now.” She growled. The wolf woofed in her ear again and complied, stepping back to sit on his haunches, watching the orc, ready to pounce if she tried to fall back to sleep.

This...was not a good week.

Avaraelia paced slowly within her room, eyes narrowed in deep thought. By chance, she glanced up and saw her reflection in a mirror - a face typical of a young Sin'dorei woman. What was not typical was the slitted pupils or the violet hues of her eyes. She stopped pacing, drawing closer to the mirror.

Mistress Avriella...if only you could see me now. What would you think of me, I wonder? You, who were my idol...would you be proud of me for following in your footsteps to the letter? You probably wouldn't be too happy with me, considering the attempted coup within the Felsworn...Darah was definitely not pleased, nor was his father....

A lot could change in the course of a week. It was difficult for Sid, who was used to letting entire decades slip by unnoticed, to take it all in without getting a headache. Then again, the headache likely had more to do with the punch than anything. Suicide punch was something he invented back during the darkest days of the war. He couldn’t remember which war exactly, but he vividly remembered the desperation that inspired it. Thus was born a creative distillation process involving dirty socks, rotten fruit, and a shaky grasp of responsible fermentation. The first fabled batch rendered at least one soldier temporarily blind. Even now, after trading socks for a proper still, the concoction could easily double as an accelerant. Sid would drink nothing else.

I smile, tucking my note into the frame of her mirror before snatching my stave. A glimpse of bright green eyes and the flash of my grin dart across the glass as I limp towards the door. I know I'm smiling like an idiot. Hopefully, she'll be doing the same soon enough, when she returns.

 What we need exists only in the emerald dream... acorns that are infused with a powerful restorative magic. Many places in this sacred glade are closely tied with the dream, and my shrine is among them.

In truth, Denley was only half-listening. There was a slight tinge of worry that spread across her face as ears perked forward, tugging on the loose crimson strands of silken hair. She had never been entirely comfortable in the Moonglade to begin with, and now.. she'd have to delve even deeper?

The small room she had rented in Dalaran was bathed in brilliant darkness. Heavy blankets covered the small window blocking out all sun light. Dark thick bolts of cloth were stuffed around the door frame, preventing any light from seeping in, and muffled any noise coming from the hallway. In the center of the small room, Zaazas sat motionless on the plain wooden chair. In front of her, a small work table. In the middle of the table lay a Dark Jade and Forest Emerald. To either side of the small gems were arranged tools from her Jeweler's kit. Completing the set were two tiny bowls. One gave off a faint glow of soft white, the other, a soft glow of gold, as if the tiniest sliver of sunset resided within. Zaazas sat completely motionless. Her eyes were closed. She slowly let her breath escape her lips. Calm. Relaxed. Ease. Sitting there in complete darkness, relaxed, her mind saw what her eyes could not.

Emerald Eyes.

In a basement in Brill, behind steel doors, Jakobus paced down the isles of his laboratory, a blackboard closeby. Occasionally, he glanced at his scribblings; endless rows of formulae incomprehensible to any but him. He ran a hand through his golden hair, the ring on his finger catching a few of them – the light pain as the hairs were pulled from their nooks in his scalp barely registered. Self-activating behaviors, Jakobus mused, before snarling at his own lack of focus and returning to staring at the board. It all added up. It was correct. It had to be.

Aramalia stood over her desk, a pile of partially-filled official papers to her left and an open notebook on her right.  Glancing from right to left, she copied the contents word-for-word onto the fresh parchment with a cautious hand.  Despite the late hour, her actions had energy, her eyes a focus that defied the lack of sleep that threatened to close her eyes.  She had hoped that there had been some underlying factor that could explain his actions, but no.  There could be no reason for these actions. Aramalia rolled her shoulders, not relieving any tension, but succeeding in making a number of cracks and pops.  Soon, she thought, soon…Checking for any missed details, she bound the pages together and slipped it into an envelope, sealing it with red wax.  He had considered the Virtue of Compassion a weakness.  To those who would refuse compassion to others, there would be none.

General Aestan Firatril,

As requested, I have investigated the reports made by a number of citizens both within the city and within the Horde.  Based on their testimony, I regrettably inform you that I find it necessary to continue with a formal trial against Hamlen Prideux.  The list of charges includes, but is not limited to: assault, threats of violence, harassment, and attempted unlawful arrest.  Included are the testimonies I have collected detailing the events.  Be sure that these remain private and only seen by you.

Now, I have heard that the voting for the replacement Convocate of Regulation is to happen soon.  With Prideux as one of the candidates, this may cause a bit of trouble.  I trust that you within the Convocation will find a suitable solution.

Dutifully submitted,

Aramalia Solisbane, Lieutenant-Colonel

Ever wanted to engage in political intrigue?

Or perhaps you believe you will be the kind heart bringing joy to all of Silvermoon?

Are the old ways better, and you intend to damn well prove it?!

Are you a newcomer, taking a seat against all odds?

Uniting the Horde, perhaps you feel that is the direction Silvermoon should take?

((I'm apologizing in advance for the dry, uninspired wall of text! Caveat lector.))

Three days ago I learned that, in spite of the old saying, you can go home again.

Nilzex wasn't an unscrupulous goblin, at least relatively speaking insofar as goblins went. That much Valeyard could tell. Certainly he knew that the goblin was charging him a ridiculous sum for his flat, but at least he kept the place secure and minded his own business. Although everybody has a price, and goblins' tended to be lower than most, Nilzex so far had kept all the riff-raff and undesirables from poking about. Certainly any goblin's lips could be parted for a fee – Bellani and the Keeper tracking him down in Stranglethorn had been proof enough of that – and though Valeyard had come to like Booty Bay for all its certain charm, he knew that he could not rely on Nilzex's continued discretion forever. Goblins or no, staying in one place for too long was just courting disaster. Valeyard could never allow himself the luxury of getting too comfortable, lest he forget that he was forever a man on the run.

For all that he was certain he knew of goblins, however, Valeyard wasn't altogether sure that gift-giving was part of their culture. Nilzex, apparently out of the goodness of his little green heart (or so he insisted) had bestowed upon Valeyard a baby revasaur as a gift, despite the doctor's strenuous and repeated assurances that no such gift was necessary. Nilzex steadfastly maintained that for Valeyard to refuse such an offering by a host was a grave insult. Not wanting to appear ungracious, Valeyard relented and with great trepidation accepted the tiny creature. Once handed over, Valeyard inquired as to what the creature ate. Nilzex, who beat a suspiciously hasty retreat, succinctly and ominously replied: “Everything.” 

Standing in the private viewing room of the bank, Zaazas carefully lifted the delicate dress out of box she had retrieved from the bank vault and set it on the small table. She then began the task of disrobing from her battle gear. Once undressed, she folded her armor carefully and placed the items, as well as her sword and shriveled heart, carefully back into the vault container and slipped carefully into her most prized possession: Her Dress. Peering into a small mirror, she straightened the garment, smoothed out a minor wrinkle, adjusted the fit, and rang the bell to let the vault keeper know that she was finished and she slipped past the delicate silk privace curtain and exited the bank.

Standing upon the hill, overseeing his Mindscape, Jakobus narrowed his eyes in tense anticipation for what he would have to do. Decades of work would be risked; his very sanity lay in the balance. Perhaps tonight, he would not return to Aedran. Perhaps he would finally overstep his abilities, cracks and tears slowly laying waste to his very mind. Necessity, he mused, may be the mother of invention, but it is the sister of destruction.

"You women worry too much", the scholar spoke in response to the leatherclad woman’s request. He leaned in to kiss the pout off her face, but the woman leaned back, her hand against his chest as she held him at a distance. “"You women, eh? Way t' trivialize it, Jakobus. Fuck you. We's right” she accused, angrily. Surprised by the strong reaction, Jakobus leaned back, taking in Aedran’s copper-colored hair: “I know my limits, love” he responded, pausing for a moment before adding:  “Trust me – I will be alright”. Clearly, Aedran was not convinced, weeks of held-back concern coming out in one sharp, snorted response: “Whate'er y' say. So when y' stop breathin' in th' night an' I think fer 'alf a secon' y' might be dead, I'll jest tell m'self it ain't no big deal an' put m' pretty li'l 'ead right back down on th' pillow.”

Every forest sits under the sheltering, ever-changing sky. Some sit patiently on the plains, waiting for the charity of the heavens in light and rain. Others labor up the sides of mountains, refusing to accept a lower station, determined to receive the stormclouds on equal footing. Still others sink lazily down, down into the rifts and valleys, greedily draining the rainfall from all about them to fill their gluttonous hunger for moisture. Despite their paltry differences, all the stately trees that make these verdant havens accept the sky as a protector, provider, and lover. All that they are is possible through the rain the clouds bring, and the sun that warms their bark-shod souls.

This forest had no need for a guardian.

This forest required no provision by the weather.

This forest had a soul, warmed not by the sun, but by black and twisted hate.

The mission was simple.  Then again, the other task was supposed to be simple too, so who could really say if it was simple or not?  They said it was to improve her; in Tiavara's opinion, it was just further punishment for messing up.  Her quiet footsteps stopped in front of a storefront at the far end of the Bazaar.  The ornate sign above the door loomed over her, its fancy gold plating a clear indicator of a place she did not belong.  Taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to settle her stomach, she stepped into Keelen's Trustworthy Tailoring.

The gut feeling she got at the door was almost immediately made an unquestionable fact as she eyed the assistant who was very clearly looking at her, or at least her threadbare, hand-me-down robes.  The slight trace of a sneer was replaced with a painted grin as she saw Tiavara's eyes on her.  The worker finished folding the fancy doily shirt on the table and called to the girl in a syrup-sweet voice, the kind used to hide something less savory, "Let me know if you need anything, sweetie."  And, without a second look, she left Tiavara to go into the back room.  Tiavara, meanwhile, stared at her shoes.  How was she supposed to do this?  On a mannequin display was the cloak she needed, the silken stitches so close, yet so out of reach.  Well, there wasn't any use standing about.  Pulling the silken curtains aside, she walked to the back of the store, following the stairs to an open, circular room.

"What do you think you're doing back here?"

 It was nearly strange, to find this desert wasteland in the midst of snow-laden mountains; crystallized trees so full-blown into winter that there was not a care in the world for them besides the hibernation. Denley hovered over the decaying bones on her wyvern, an absent hand tangling splayed fingers into the furred mane to soothe. Still, she had a task to do, and she was being counted on. The wyvern flew in spirals now, down to the sandy ground, and delicate paws touched; allowing his Mistress to dismount.

The slender Priestess struggled for a brief moment with her pack, pulling forth the Hourglass of Eternity that Chromie had bestowed upon her. It seemed much larger as she set it down, and long, filament tendrils swept forth; a definite source of power. A bright flash appeared then, stinging the eyes, and Denley lifted a hand to shield her own emeralds momentarily. Opening them once more, she saw.. herself.

              ‘Here I am, using my schematic book as a Journal.  Go me.  Well this is a first in a list of firsts for me.  Incase someone finds this book and is able to read my scribbles, my name is Zero, I suppose I had another name before but I don’t know it and no one is left as far as I know, no one remembers my real name but I’m getting away from the problem at hand.

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…