Dalaran

Oddly enough, continued from All the Wrong Reasons 

The beer bounced on the table, rings of ripples captured in mugs, droplets splashing, ivory foam staining hands and gloves. The heady scent filled the room like the raucous music piped up from the band and the singing and yelping from the dancers in the center of the tavern floor, all in a twine of smoke and flickering golden light. Echo tipped back her pint, watching over the rim as she took it all in.

She made sure every belt and buckle of her uniform was fixed straight and proper before she ever stepped outside. The wind greeted her, a cold slap to her reddened cheeks, where freckles hid under a remaining flush, still bright and apparent. She couldn’t do anything about it, and not much more about the tangle of hair at the back of her head, an amber mess which defined poker-straight any other time but now. A gloved hand wouldn’t do much to smooth it, so she pulled her fingers through it only once before walking away into the internment camp compound. Eyes turned to her, as they always did; she walked through the gazes until they drifted away.

When one person withholds from another, it’s only a matter of time before tension overcomes rationality.

(( Very long. I'd apologise, but I already butchered the chat log to less than a half just to get it to this point  >.> ))

There was always something protective about the atmosphere in the Legerdemain Lounge. The ever present murmur of voices was like a blanket – you could sit comfortably within it and observe the world from within its heavy folds, the reassuring background buzz punctuated only by the soft clink of crystal or glass. The constant dull undulation of voices also made it hard for a listener to overhear any one conversation in particular. And that, of course, was why she was here.

Heulwen sat at the desk in the study, bare legs propped up on the dark wooden surface, feet crossed at the ankles. Her toes flexed in unconscious time with the heavy yet muted ticking of the case clock in the corner. The gilt-edged invitation card in her hands rotated again and again, her fingers as busy as her thoughts.

((Continued from Lifeblood))

The air of Dalaran was warmer than Aerie expected, despite its height over the chilly Crystalsong Forest. Not that she minded; she’d had enough of the cold already.

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The cell door slams shut with a stomach-turning CLANG. You listen to the guard’s footsteps echo down the corridor outside, then fade into dripping water and quiet sobs, now and again interlaced with the scrape of chain upon stone.  A short length of chain extends from a loop set into the masonry of the wall to the heavy shackle about your ankle; you can move a little ways, but not without the iron digging into your flesh, even through your clothes.  At least your hands are free, if only to stuff under your arms so the chill doesn’t get to them.

You certainly weren’t planning on being thrown in jail tonight.

Dalaran shimmered beautifully in the evening sunlight, accented by the crystal forest and snow drifts below. For a moment, Lady Brightsinger looked around with a smile upon her face as her mind was reminded of the city streets and their enchantment; Dalaran wasn’t plastered with hateful colors, rather it was clean and crisp. “If only I could capture this sight for my wedding.”

This isn’t the time or place to be thinking about that.
You are here for a reason.

The building where Lilthessa, the seer, said she had an apartment at was the same building she had once lived in; the greeter at the teleportation orb recognized the young noble woman and bowed with respect before activating the orb with a gentle wave of his hand. “The apartment number and floor I wish to visit,” she said as she handed the man a small snip of parchment with numbers neatly inked upon it. Her hand, dirt edging the manicured nails, touched the orb and quickly she was pulled from one place in reality and dropped before a door.

It would be a short vacation. Just long enough to relax before the Gala, she could come back refreshed and it would be wonderful. She left the door code to the new mecha-lock, one that she’d built and installed recently, at Fortune’s flat with a note to please feed her cats and play with Sable as much as he wanted.

He’d like that.

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Grasping the back of your chair to regain your balance, you demand the dwarf tell you what she thinks she’s doing. Perrinale, his eyes wide and mouth open, leaning back as if the posture could keep the dwarf from cutting into his neck, stretches out his fingers as if reaching for something on his desk. You follow his eyes and glimpse a twisted wand lying among the papers. It seems to be glowing slightly. Quickly, you look back to the dwarf.

His hand went for that com and clicked the button, and I could hear the sound of crackling on the other end. I could hear his sound of glee and triumph even from where I was, standing knee-deep in the water with Del forming a wall between us.  His words were so quick that he got out his message before my own fel-flame spell burst from my own trembling hands. I wasn’t aiming for him, but for the small mechanical object. If I could cut him off, perhaps less would come to his location. No doubt he was calling for backup.

The man gasped as my fel-laced spell hit dead-on upon the device, sending it into a whir of smoke and ash at the man’s feet. He had been in mid-sentence as well. Excellent. Sometimes I was glad that I cast spells from this far of a range. It had its uses.  It was enough of a distraction to allow Del an advantage, allowing for my Knight to cut the distance between them by half.

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Pulling your attention away from Kenseth's sobbing widow, you move past your escort and into Inspector Perrinale's office. The chaotic bustle of the corridor calms as the tall elf closes his door, the guard from downstairs left standing sentinel outside.


Perrinale's office appears in a kind of disarray that seems unfamiliar to the furnishings, as if this was a particularly busy day. A goblet resting on its side at the edge of his desk slowly drips clear liquid onto sheaves of paper covering the floor below. As you move to a chair you catch it up and place it upright, startled by the piercing stare of the Investigtor as you lift your eyes.

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A cold weight settles in your stomach, your fingers curling around the edge of the bar. No longer interested in your half-finished meal, you wait, motionless, until you hear the dragon Miranda’s footsteps blend into the voices and music descending from the party upstairs. Slapping some coin on the bar, you shove yourself out of your seat and hurry from the Legerdemain Lounge.

Obviously, she knew who had killed Kenseth.  Why else would she have spoken that way? Dragons. They always seemed to know everything, keeping it to themselves and pulling the strings that suited them from the background. Meanwhile, decent men like Kenseth end up dead and fools end up living in the sewers. You wonder about your dwarven tail as you chew over your thoughts, but decide to not even glance behind you.  If she continues to follow, she’ll just be walking into the Dalaran Constabulary anyway.

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Miranda the not-so-well-disguised blue dragon stares at you when you ask if she could possibly explain the whole situation. Then she slowly, gradually smiles, showing her sharp canines again, as her long fingers pluck a fruit-laden toothpick out of her cocktail.

“How adorable you mortals are, always asking for explanations. Always asking us to reveal our plans. This is where I’m supposed to speak in a clever parable, aren’t I? Where I will somehow draw parallels between some fictional events and what is happening as we speak without ever spelling it out? I could do that, you know.”

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“What do you mean, ‘Who are you?’??” The strange woman beside you retorts, looking quite taken aback at your inquiry.  “Didn’t they tell you all about me? Their dragon contact? You’d think they worshipped the ground I walked on half the time.”

With a look to the bartender, a drink arrives before her momentarily, which she sips as if she needs the alcohol to calm her down. A little ruffled by her initial answer you mention casually that you had noticed, indeed, that she probably was a dragon in disguise.

“Sameth! Did you finish that research your father asked you to work on?”

The silver haired youth poked his head around the corner so he could see where his mother stood in the kitchen, “....Halfway?” He smiled brightly, mischeviously, and ran a hand through the shaggy locks that he refused to trim, “I just need to go to the Royal Library, again, is all. There’s a treatise on arcane magics and how they affect the--”

15 years in the future...

I'm finally a master mage! The celebration took place in Dalaran so even my actual family was able to come, and not just a few forsaken or elves. Mickal, my trainer and also my uncle from before I died, was oddly the most supportive of my journey to becoming a master, even after everything that happened. "You have to be one of the best!" He tells me. The incident that has happened when I told my family that I'm a forsaken now was behind me and everyone else too. I stopped aging after I died, so it looks like I'm stuck at this age for ever. I don't have to worry about rotting anymore, I discovered a spell that prevents it!

It took about 10 years to perfect it, but it was worth it. Everyone is a bit older except for me. I'm about 35, though I look the same age as I did once I died. Mickal is 50, my younger brother is 20. They told me not to think about it, it would just cause stress.

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As you wind your way out into the open street, you find your feet turning towards that beacon of light and life in the still night of the city, the Legerdemain Lounge.  While adventurers of both the Horde and Alliance had their own styles of taverns for rest and relaxation, the Legerdemain was something else entirely. Perhaps a bit of elven opulence, perhaps a splash of human recklessness, perhaps a touch of gnomish ingenuity, perhaps a large dollop of goblin greed: it all came together in the colorful vibrancy of the Lounge.

Obviously, a private party was being held in the upstairs rooms and balconies tonight, as groups and couples and the occasional loner either waltz into the building or stagger out at your approach. Thudding, humming music spins around the lights shining from the upstairs windows, and the smell of alcohol and perfume hits you as hard as a bouncer as you step inside. You swiftly turn away from the lobby, where bouncers are indeed waiting to deny entrance to those without an invitation, and make your way to the relatively undisturbed bar.

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You take a long moment to look over the motley crew of characters before you, with their rather cliché group name. They stare back at you expectantly. At this point, all you want to do is get out of the damp stink of the sewers, so you tell them yes, you will help them, if you can.

“Oh, I knew it!” The gnome claps his hands together and breaks into a grin. “I knew we’d find a ally!”

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They seem to lean in over you: the gnome, the goblin, the orc, the swarthy dwarf woman and the shadowy undead. Not even the orc, however, is showing any sign of violence towards you; they seem to radiate a strange, needy curiosity.

You clear your throat and start talking.

You tell them about seeing the squirrel in the Dalaran courtyard, and the corner of a cloak behind some bushes. You tell them about the body of Magister Kenseth sprawled in the grass, the paleness of his skin and the bruisings on his face and hand. You tell them about the note you found crumpled there, how you couldn’t read it and wondered what it was.  You tell them about the arrival of the guards, your meeting with the elven Investigator Perrinale, and how you had planned on taking the note to him. Then you look to the gnome and the orc who had caught up with you in the alley and shrug.

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Your feet jam up against the slick pipe, even as another blast of cold air chills you at the very edge of the drop-off.  You’re suddenly sick with vertigo; a winged shape hovers deep in a cloud, pronouncing the space between you and it and the ground. For a moment, you’re unable to move.

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As your captors approach, the dwarf standing sentinel raises a hand and takes a step towards them in greeting. Not wanting to risk another meeting with the orc’s fists, with all the strength in your legs you push yourself towards the cool fresh air spiraling up the tunnel.

With a thud you land on your chest, painful little rocks digging into your flesh through your clothes. You start to squirm, shoulders, elbows, knees and toes digging into the soiled tiles to inch yourself forward. From behind you, a bark of a laugh echoes in the tunnel.

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Everything hurts a little more than you’d like. Resting your head back against a cool stonework wall, you take a few long deep breaths, allowing your head time to clear. Gradually your eyes adjust to the flickering torchlight, and you’re able to discern figures approaching from a tunnel off to your right, beyond the dwarven sentinel.

*The journal is old and worn with burn marks all over inside is a Symbol which appears to be a demonic circular rune with a death knight's in the middle some of the pages are missing an odd darkness can be felt when holding it*

Entry 1

Ive arrived at Dalaran it is a very interesting place I can feel the magic here... I hope to learn more of my power and how to control it, I still cant believe that ive arrived here most of the people I had worked with wouldve killed for this oppertunity.

*Many pages are missing*

Entry 24

Continued from: Page 4.

Glancing from side to side, you quietly inform the Investigator that you would like to speak with him in private, later, if possible. He gives you a long look then slowly nods.

“I see. Well, once we’ve transported the body and swept the area, I will head back to my office. I should be there in no more than thirty minutes. I will inform my secretary to allow your entrance. The Golden Tower, by the way.” He takes a small card from a pocket and hands it to you, clear printed writing and a slightly glowing arcane circle on the little slip of paper. “Investigator Laurth Perrinale, of the Dalaran Constabulary. And you may be?”

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The Sin’dorei approaches with long strides behind the two guardsmen. His features are sharp and his eyes narrow, a pointedness to his face accentuated by a blond goatee at his chin, which he strokes thoughtfully as he approaches the scene. Long red robes take a moment to settle around him as he pauses.

“So it’s true then. It’s really Kenseth, isn’t it?” He answers himself with a deep sigh, his eyes on the corpse.

The guard who had been speaking to you begins to give his report to the elf; obviously the Sin’dorei is an official investigator. As the guard gestures to you a long eyebrow raises and a green gaze scans your person closely, fine long fingers still stroking the goatee. The hair on the back of your neck stands up. He’s not just looking - you can feel it. He’s sensing deeply, surveying every movement of energy around you.

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You scramble back from the corpse at the guard’s approach, quickly shoving the little folded note into a pocket. “Master Kenseth?!” you exclaim, eyes wide. “He’s dead!”

The female guard, armor clattering, quickly takes your place by the corpse’s side, fingertips reaching for the neck to feel for a pulse. She shakes her head, in obvious distress. “He is! He really is! It’s too late for a priest, Markas, but call for help!”

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The courtyard remains empty, save for the birds and squirrels rustling in the tree limbs above. Casually, you make your way over to the body, leaning around a stand of bushes for a full view.

The body is that of a human male, of average height and solidly built. He is dressed in fine robes of gold and crimson, trimmed with lavender. The embroidered silk is twisted around his body, one leg bent beneath the other. His eyes are only half-closed, a hint of green showing beneath pale lids.

((Continuation from from Hathrien's blog.  Music by Johnette Napolitano.))

    A crimson haired figure peeked into bar from hallway leading to the Bazaar.  The tables and bar was mostly empty, as to be expected this early in the morning.  The Innkeeper stood with her cleaning maids with a clipboard reading out which rooms were to be cleaned.  

    Carefully, delicately even cautiously she tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her hair.  Glancing back inside the inn while she tied her white silken veil over her lower half of her face.  She slipped into the Inn without drawing too much attention to herself.  Her soft, yet cold fingers glided up the banister leading up to the second level.