#Shylmenra writing

[shylmenra]

A message arrives by courier for Telrien Rainwhisper, the next time he is in Feathermoon Stronghold. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Telrien, I know it has not been very long since my way parted with the Collective’s on that fateful day in Eldre’thalas, so I hope you have not been wracked with undue concern. Reaching out has been difficult; but finally I have been able to send you this missive. I understand you were injured in that most unfortunate fight with Lyrenna Leywhisper, but not terribly so; of that I have been assured. It pained me to be torn from you all, but I must seek out the secrets of my past here. It is time; I oft thought of returning, but could not work up the courage. And so, it has been foisted upon me by fate, and I would not back down this time. The Archmage has things to say to me, and I intend upon listening, as terrifying as that prospect is without safe harbor to run to if it becomes too intense. I miss the picturesque balcony of the Feathermoon Inn, or the quiet of the high terrace of the Feathermoon library, where the moon is so white and full. But I will, as always, strive to make you and the Collective proud. Make no mistake, I represent myself here, not the Collective; I would not seek to drag you all through whatever machinations the Highborne may have; though you are always in the back of my mind. I am well aware my people are insular and their aims are their own. They have expressed mixed feelings on the passing of Magistrix Leywhisper, a strange turn of events indeed. There are many secrets here, layers and layers of them; and I intend on rooting out what I can. My family is oft spoken of here; I had nearly forgotten the importance of the Whitespire line. High time I represent them and face whatever truths I should. I hope that you all are well...that you are well, and healed, and touching green earth and feeling the whisper of rain upon your face. My com no longer functions, but know that I think of you. I have no idea as to when I might depart this place, but do try to visit sometime? I’m sure I could arrange something... With love, Shy ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ((Note: Shy is unaware of the [my headcanon] temporal disparity of Eldre'thalas's interior vs the rest of the world.))

[shylmenra]

RETURN TO ELDRE’THALAS (10)

Biting her lip, the demure arcanist takes a long pause, subtly attempting the quell the rising tide of magic that threatened to overtake her. Snaking through her veins like a covetous, hungry thing, the infused Arcwine burned her from the inside like purest frostfire. It wasn’t entirely unpleasurable; however--unexpected and inopportune--it derailed her train of thought, rendering her mute as the vast majority of her concentration was expended upon the task of keeping herself contained.

Even still, entangled in its grip, with it offered so nonchalantly there was the urge for...-more-. She could no more fight against this desire than she could turn day to night. And so, she merely nodded in agreeance with both his assertion and his question, holding out her glass with limp fingers to fill both empty cup and empty space for her receding voice.

It was of course, as the Archmage desired. One never dealt with a Whitespire without an ace in the pocket. The family was inordinately powerful; and even this graceful swan, Cyan’thiel Whitespire’s youngest daughter, possessed his fiery soul within her frosty exterior. He suspected she had no idea what really happened to her parents; else, he couldn’t imagine that she would have willingly returned to Eldre’Thalas. It was not the time nor was it his place to inform her, however. The Archmage had other goals in mind this day, and his ambition allowed for naught to get in the way of his aims.

With a flick of his wrist, the decanter hovered up from its resting place and levitated over to her trembling glass, filling it well and full again before returning to top off his own and return to its place on the table. Taking a long sip, he set his glass down with a soft thud. Time to get to the point, and quickly, while she was subdued.

“My dear Miss Whitespire. Your beauty and grace are indeed as it has been said, and your skill in magic is formidable.” When her answer was merely a quizzical arched brow, he nodded, continuing quickly. “More so perhaps than even you realize.” The Archmage pushed himself up from his desk, gave one firm tug at his robes to situate them, and padded languidly forward toward the scrying pool which exuded its light in the corner of the office, shimmering and quiet. With a wave of his hand over its placid surface, the illumination increased, slowly coalescing into colors and shapes to help make his point.

“You, my dear, are not just an arcanist; you are a -sorceress-. You are the scion of an ancient magical bloodline. More than that: you likely could out-do them all, should you wish.” Peering aside toward her, with a wave of his arm he invited her forward. The shapes in the pool took on the form of a delicate spire, spiraling in concentric circles toward the ceiling; the colors turned blue and ice-white. “I am aware of your feat at the Nexus with your ‘Collective’. Is it lost upon you that most who would dare such a task would have perished? I assure you, it certainly wasn’t the -human- mage who ensured that feat was successful.” Light gushed through the structure, pouring out of the top of the model tower; pulsing to the ceiling where it crawled toward the edges of the room, vanishing in seeking fingers of smoke.

[shylmenra]

RETURN TO ELDRE'THALAS (9)

Taking a deep breath, Shy dared to slowly stand with a curtsy and began to pad around the room, away from his curious gaze. Taking in the voluminous books on the shelves as still she sipped at the wine, she shifted tack, carefully. “Your words are strong, my Lord. Most of our people remained here, in our great city, as I would have liked to..."

The ghost of a pout flickered across her lips, her eyes longing as they devoured his personal library. "However," she continued with a soft exhale, "I traveled the world as I was bid, following in the footsteps of my family, commanded to be a diplomat and disperse slivers of enlightenment to the other races of Azeroth. I have assisted the common folk in their magical needs; dispensed knowledge to the inhabitants of Darnassus, Stormwind, and Ironforge, respectively. I was to take my place in the Exodar, but, perhaps tragically, my tardiness due to my wandering led to Lady Moonlance taking the post.”

At that, Shy’s voice cracked and her eyes filled with unshed tears, causing the Archmage’s brow to arch in concerned query. Opening his mouth to question, Shy raised her hand to stop him, her head canting to the side in shame as she did so. “That is a tale for another time. Please, my Lord! Let me continue with this train of thought.” Balling a fist, she sniffed, slowly exerting control over her roiling thoughts. Another soft exhalation, slow and steady, and silver eyes peeked back open as she continued. “Nothing I saw impressed me. Raised and trained here as I was in Eldre’thalas, how could it? Darnassus is enchanting in the moonlight, yet devoid of a certain... spark. I admit, I’ve never been to the Kingdom of Quel’Thalas or the Isle of Quel’Danas, which remains a personal goal of mine. But then, then...I stepped foot upon the Broken Isles. Invited, personally, by Khadgar himself! Imagine that.”

Her eyes were shining bright as she told the tale, like two nether sparks dancing about the study. Her voice became slightly breathless while the Archmage again sat back and smiled, watching her with all the attention of the falcon upon the mouse. “Azsuna. Nar’thalas Academy. And even Suramar City…. I have seen what became of our people! They are beautiful and terrible. They make me tremble just thinking about them, and yet, I cannot stop wondering about them and their ease with the Art. Magic, which imbues all which they touch...clothing, jewelry, wine…”

At that she paused, peering down at the glass in her hand. Realization dawned upon her. This taste; this scintillating rush of the blood. She had tasted such before; that she had felt this surge in the veins, even become somewhat addicted to its unique infusion of bittersweet flavors and power.

Lifting her gaze from her dwindling glass, she peered at the Archmage, eyes luminous and dilated. Polishing off his own glass, he merely nodded with a small smile. “Arcwine. Twice-Fortified.” He paused to refill his goblet, holding the ruby concoction to the light. “It is quite amazing, isn’t it? I had some delivered when the Kaldorei established their foothold upon the outskirts of Suramar. I admit I’ve developed quite a taste for it - as it appears you have as well. Feel free to avail yourself of another.”

[shylmenra]

RETURN TO ELDRE'THALAS (7)

Time passed as it did in Eldre’thalas, strange and flowing in peculiar vectors, this way and that. The Tea was extended - yet, brief... and despite her best efforts afterward, Shylmenra could never quite recall what was said; much like a dream where the gist is retained but the details slip away all too quickly. In general, the citizenry seemed intrigued with her return, and she hoped the impression she’d made was a good one.

To signal the end, the Archmage rose from his seat, turning to address the assembled. Slowly ebbing away from his table in waves, robes of cobalt blue cascading down around his form like a living tide, he cleared his throat. A hush rapidly fell over the room as the guests looked up expectantly. Inclining his head with a studied neutral expression, he spoke. “Thank you all for your time. I hope you have enjoyed this brief respite in our hallowed halls, and that some exchanges of knowledge have taken place. Now, please excuse me. The Tea is concluded and I have some matters to attend to.” And thus, everyone began to take their leave as Lord Evenshade departed through the back door. It was over? Already? But she hadn’t… a tap-tap at her arm. Blinking, Shy glanced up furtively. A guard stood quietly and bent over, smiling gently. “My lady, please, follow me.” At that he bowed, pulling out her seat for her as she did as she was bid, taken back the way the Archmage had gone. Elevel was right: the Archmage didn’t just want to see her, her apparently did want to speak to her! A dizzying bit of corridor, to an imposing carved wooden door. The guard waved his hand and mumbled under his breath before turning the knob, and Shy tightened her shift about her shoulders as they stepped through the echo of protective magic to enter.

[shylmenra]

Return to Eldre’thalas (8)

Mordent Evenshade sat quietly at his desk, squinting through a magnifying glass at what appeared to be a set of minuscule scrolls. Handsome and ageless, the Archmage’s pale hair lingered upswept at his temples by the grace of a silver circlet; a faint bit of stubble climbed along his chin and cheeks, enhancing the dusky arch of his cheekbones. The dark lacquer of the wooden desk was mostly obscured with all manner of magical items such as crystal balls, focusing lenses, vials and parchment.

Glancing up at their approach, the parchment and magnifier sagged in the Archmage’s grip. With a nod to the guard, he quickly focused his gaze upon the young mage. Putting the items down he stood with fluid grace, a polite smile forming as he opened his arms in a gesture of welcome. “Ah, the White Dove. It has been far too long since we’ve seen each other. It was last in Darnassus, wasn’t it?” Skirting around the back of the antechamber, Shy curtsied, swallowing as the guard took his leave and quietly shut the door behind him. “I believe,” the Archmage continued, “that your company was in Teldrassil finding respite after one of their adventures. Such stalwart fellows among which you’ve found yourself! Seeking out the sore places of the world, attempting to soothe Azeroth’s woes and applying salve to the follies of lesser men. Noble indeed, if perhaps a bit distracting.” He gestured to the seat in front of his desk, again taking a seat only after she did. “I trust you still follow your vocation, though I can’t imagine you get much quality study time on the road?” Shy blinked but merely shrugged slightly, crossing her legs as her body contoured into a practised, poised seated posture. Clearing her throat, she calmed the torrent of rising thoughts and responded carefully. “The Collective is permissive with my comings and goings, expressing an understanding for my needs. Having a supportive role, I spend most of my time in towns and cities, and as such, avail myself of their libraries as much as I am able.” “Ah,” he replied, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers as he watched her face. “So you have continued with your studies. This is good, this is good. Once a bookworm always a bookworm, isn’t that right.” His tone was light and the repeated words seemed jovial, though his eyes flashed with something else. Tilting her head as the faint blush rose over her cheeks--the ‘correct’ response to his comment--she nodded and grasped her courage to venture a bold question. “My lord. It is a true honor to be here in your private chamber, and may I ask why you wished to see me?” White brows arched as a faint flicker of surprise passed over his face. “I see you are every bit a Whitespire,” he murmured, appraising her. Leaning back into his chair, he pulled idly upon the front of his robe, straightening the fabric. With a deep breath, something inside the Archmage seemed to shift. Reaching for the glimmering decanter of ruby liquid upon a side table, he poured them both a portion of wine before taking a small sip and proceeding. “Lady Whitespire,” the Archmage intoned in his pleasing baritone, “I trust I needn’t inform you how different, and special, we are. Not only are we Highborne, but we did not cross the sea like our wayward brethren. We did not sup from the Sunwell and fundamentally change our form and function. We have kept up with our traditions and the the practice of magic in its purest form.” His voice was measured and almost theatrical, mesmerizing in its quality and intensity. Each consonant was crisp, accented, and clear as he slipped into what seemed a familiar didactic mode. “We did not forsake our origins in the songs of all the spheres and slip into nocturnal savagery. We did not fall into the self-righteous bitterness and excused depravity of the Sunstrider and his people.” Her face must have twitched. Raising one long finger as if to respond to her unspoken thoughts, he plowed forward. “My words are strong, but I mean no ill-will towards our kin. I am impressed and thankful that the Kaldorei have deigned to humor us once more, allowing us to back into their society, as you can attest. The covetous Sin’dorei as a whole may take a bit more convincing, though a few have seen the wisdom of returning for our knowledge." Swirling his wine, he paused, glancing at her askance. "Again, something you can attest to, my dear.” At that, the protective thoughts of her Kaldorei friends rising into her consciousness was momentarily overcome with a surge in her belly. Was he referencing Magister Winthalus? If so, how did he know? Despite his status as a paragon of her people, Shy began to feel slightly discomfited by the breadth of the Archmage’s knowledge. She was outmaneuvered, and the conversation was just beginning.

[shylmenra]

Return to Eldre’Thalas (6)

As Shy entered the tea room on Elevel’s arm, a classic vision in purple and silver, a hush fell upon the small crowd. Heads turned, as they naturally did when any door opens; quizzical glances drinking her in quickly, well-dressed nobles arching brows in unison as she and her escort paused.

Elevel cleared his throat. “The Lady Shylmenra Whitespire,” he announced, soft tenor strong and clear, with slight but purposeful emphasis on her family name. Eyes widened in recognition as Shy blushed faintly and curtsied, guided to her seat and taking it. Patting her arm as he helped her into her chair, Elevel leaned forward, murmuring into a delicate ear. “You’ll be fine, White one. I’m only a cantrip away.” With a daring, surreptitious wink, he quickly took his leave. ~~~~~~ The Tea began as Tea was wont to. The Archmage must have been elsewhere, for Shy could not see him. Polite, stilted commentary surrounded Shy, soon seeming to warp and pass over her. Perhaps she had been away too long; perhaps when she'd been there, she'd not engaged enough. Apologetic, apathetic gazes generally avoided making direct contact with her eyes, and she began to feel as though she were encased in some sort of ward, present but not wholly a part of the proceedings. Smiling and nodding absently as she sipped her tea and nibbled at petit fours, she soon found herself engaging in a favored coping mechanism and left the room mentally. Her mind wandered the craggy peaks and lush valleys of her own expansive mind as the swirl of conversation around her became a hushed buzz, like the soothing sound of a babbling brook... “Whitespire.” The sudden, crisp intonating of her name snapped back Shy's attention, abruptly halting her theorizing on the merits of frost versus arcane for survival in a desert situation. It was the lady to her right, the one with the impossibly high cheekbones and wickedly arched brows. Her puffed, augmented shoulderpads, an older fashion, bobbed with a distracting sheen as she garnered the younger elf’s attention. “It has been quite some time since one of you has been present within the Halls,” she murmured, as the waiter slid around refiling their teacups from a levitating pot. “We are thankful that you grace us with your presence.” Shy smiled bemusedly, uncertain at her tone. And so it began. Given her time in the Collective, Shy mused on how quickly one apparently forgot the subtle layers of Highborne conversation, and realized she missed the sometimes gruff but refreshing honesty of its members. Clearing her throat, the oft' shrinking violet squeezed her necklace for strength and, sitting a bit straighter in her chair, revved herself up to respond.

[shylmenra]

Return to Eldre’thalas (5)

Some hours later, with a gentle knock on the door, Elevel arrived. One of the maids answered and when she stepped back to reveal Shylmenra, the young attendant’s breath caught briefly in his throat. Shy’s long hair, typically braided and pinned, was down now, coiling about her face and shoulders in gentle waves of freshly fallen snow, glinting and pristine. The chosen gown was rather simple, but eminently flattering. Amethyst silk fell in clean lines from matching chiffon straps, criss-crossing in the back, leaving the bulk of her arms and shoulders bare. The neckline plunged to her cleavage, revealing just enough to entice, though a small chiffon cross-piece provided modesty (a minor alteration Shy herself had insisted upon). Delicate silver ear clasps, winding filigree around ample elven cartilage, matched the chain about her neck. The quiet comm-pendants rested there, glinting upon her breastbone: mute testimony to her connections outside of the City.

“M’lady,” he whispered, “I am here to escort you to the Archmage’s high tea”. At that, the maids nodded and abruptly vanished the way the attendant had come, leaving the boxes of bath-goods and dresses where they lay for the arcanist’s pleasure. As soon as they’d gone he approached her, eyes leveling upon hers. “My lady,” he began, conspiratorially, “if you have any need of me, merely touch this and say my name, and I will be by your side.” A slightly shaking finger reached out to tap her Collective comm pendant, and it flashed with blue light for a moment. Peering down, she blinked. “You surprise me, Elevel. Your concern is noted, appreciated, and...assuredly misplaced. It’s merely tea.” The words were throw away comments as her mind latched to his spell, categorizing it. The answering look he gave her was almost comical. Shaking his head slightly, he brushed an errant lock of his cerulean hair from his face. “Don’t misunderstand me. You will not come to any bodily harm. But surely we both realize that a Highborne high tea is not ever ‘just’.” Waiting for the gravity of that double-sided word to sink in, he was rewarded by the furrowing of her brow. “You truly worry,” she murmured, once again meeting his gaze. “You know something, as if more than just a pleasant chat is afoot.” Boldly taking her hand, the attendant gently led her to sit upon her chaise - an echo of Lord Starsong’s insistent tug upon her when she first arrived. Lips pursed in annoyance at the temerity of these Shen’dralari men, she exhaled and waited. “Permission to speak freely, Lady Whitespire?” At her tentative nod, he continued. “You must understand that you are one of few who...escaped.” “Escaped!? I studied here for most of my life until I was sent to follow my family in service to the greater good of Azeroth. I never felt in danger here. In fact, I wish I could have stayed....” The lie left her lips and floated upon the air, a well-scripted exchange that seemed rehearsed even to herself. A pang of fear tugged at her. His words of caution called forth unpleasant memories which she had compartmentalized, such as the quiet bones of Kariel Winthalus, and she felt her ice answer. Encasing her in a layer of permafrost, she quickly grew more numb and distant with each passing second. He gasped, the delicate hand in his rapidly growing cold in contrast to his warmth. He was losing her! Carefully considering his reply, he swallowed as the fire he hid within himself blossomed to his clutching fingers, seeking to meet her in kind. “Yes. We all know of the Whitespires. A family of enchanters and conjurers, your line is ancient, powerful, and bold; even feared.” Her expression of surprise rewarded him. He was keeping her present, and so he ventured onward. “The knowledge amassed in Eldre’thalas is vast, much of it unique in all the world. But if not tempered with keen awareness, it can also serve as a distraction. There have been dark happenings in these halls, which our people would just as soon forget.” Fidgeting a bit, he cleared his throat and allowed his flames to fully bloom, licking harmlessly up and around their conjoined wrists. “M’lady, your being here is no coincidence. The Archmage had been in Darnassus for quite some time, lobbying for Highborne-Kaldorei relations; and yet, now he is here. As you are here. Something may not be wrong, but something’s not quite right.” Shy took a long moment to study his flames, fluttering like a baby bird in their palms, allowing his words to sink into her cold exterior. Grossly overstepping the bounds of being an attendant, Elevel was sharing opinions which could put him in danger. Likewise, he was sharing his magic with her - another misstep, should any find out. She knew that he was earnest, and she shifted to a more calculating mode, though her mouth moved first toward the topic more comfortable. “You’ve been training. How?” At her question, he smiled, and the flames travelled up the length of her arm, caressing her cheek before winking out. Tiny droplets of water - defrosted condensation - remained. He sat back with a slight grunt, spent from the effort but trying not to show it. “I would be happy to tell you anything you wish to know, in good time. I am clearly now at your mercy, Lady Whitespire. I trust you and adore you and despair of you, as an exquisite creature is meant to.” Unlacing their hands, he produced a kerchief out of nowhere and brushed the dew off her arms, handing it over to allow her to blot her chest and face. “However, we must get you to tea, as the hour has already passed.” Standing abruptly, he sketched a bow as he helped her rise. “You will be fashionably late, and it will fit the mystique all the more. Allow me to take you, and we will talk again if you wish, and soon. Just promise to be careful and make every response a measured one.”

[shylmenra]

return to eldre’thalas (4)

That afternoon, a pair of young handmaidens arrived at Shylmenra’s quarters with a shy knock upon her door. They came bearing several parcels which levitated in behind them as they entered. A simple but effective cantrip, Shy mused. Directed the bed, the boxes sprung open to reveal their contents to the arcanist’s curious eye. One spilled forth with gowns and dresses, fabric in a rainbow of colors oft preferred by the Highborne elite. The other slid apart to reveal a myriad of soaps and lotions, loofahs and sponges of various consistencies, and other such bathtime luxuries.

Dipping into quick curtsies, the taller of the two, with her hair up in a bun, spoke. “My lady, we have been sent to prepare you for tea. Please allow us to attend to you.” With a quirked brow and slight nod from her, they set work drawing her bath. At the sound of the flowing water, bits of memories flashed across Shylmenra’s mind, like stones skipped across a pond. She recalled past times having fun in the tub as a child, glowing bubbles scrubbing her clean while her family spoke in murmured hushes in the next room. She recalled being a bit older, willowy and thin, walking through the City with the other nobles, the awed whispers of other children barely reaching her in an inarticulate sigh as they watched from the shadows. How she’d wished she could have played with them; she wondered if she’d looked as lonely as she’d felt. She remembered being curled up before a roaring fire as the elders sipped tea behind her, quietly yet heatedly discussing great matters of State as she read a book... “‘Tis ready, lady Whitespire.” Jarred from her thoughts by the bell-like murmur of the maid, Shy begged her name as she stepped toward the bath and disrobed. The maid smiled, genuinely pleased at the interest, providing it as she helped the noble arcanist into the bath. Her companion, sporting twin braids, padded in, proffering the bath-box to Shy. Pointing at the blue and lavender bottles, the maid obliged the noble by pouring some of the purple contents under the tap. The wayward Highborne slid in deeper as the bubbles accumulated, allowing the warmth of the water and the sweet scent of the bubblebath solution to lull her into a relaxed state.

[shylmenra]

Return to Eldre’thalas (3)

The days passed as they typically did in Eldre’thalas - that is to say: not typically at all. There was a peculiar chronomantic magic inherent to the ancient Elven city which bended perception. Perhaps at some point in the future it would be properly recognized, researched and understood. Was it was due to the eons of magical experimentation and training? Perhaps because of the tens of thousands of tomes bursting with powers barely bound. Of course, there was the humming of arcane pylons around which danced sentient shards of nether energy. But most of all, the keen scientist might have realized there remained the lingering echoes of an unimaginably powerful alien presence, one which in its rage had forever warped the very gravity of the area.

And, so, like wine in a Shal’dorei vintner's aging chamber, weeks skipped fleetingly by; though to Shy it seemed mere hours, perhaps days. Immersing herself in reading, helping to tackle the impossible shelving backlog in multiple libraries, and seeing to various small magical tasks and research...she slipped back into a life that was all too familiar. As before, the stories within the books were vivified, thanks in part to all the magic and in part to the sheer power of her imagination. Crowding out her recent adventures across Azeroth, the lines blurred between imagination and reality; thus, her memories seemed more and more like distant dreams, lulling her into a state of submissive bliss. And so it was that one day Elevel returned, finding her standing up on a ladder to return a small book to its highly-perched home. “Ah, there you are m’lady. I’ve been looking for you for...well, for a while. You can be difficult to find for the Radiant White Dove of Fallen Snow.” Clambering delicately down, using a cantrip to move her skirts aside as she held both hands on the laquered wood railing, Shy smiled bemusedly. “What’s this? Who calls me that.” Brushing her hands off on her apron, she scooted the ladder aside and, keeping one hand upon it for stability, stood before him. Blushing slightly, the lad smiled. “Maybe it is me. Maybe it is others. You know well your family’s standing. You have many names, whispered with everything from fascination to jealousy from the corridors.” His eyes glimmered as they beheld her expression of surprise. “I’m honored to have been assigned to you, truly. You are so...” A book near the edge of the ladder lost its precarious hold upon its shelf, toppling down with a smart thump, serving to startle both Highborne. Letting the interrupted thought go (realizing it was probably for the best) Elevel sighed and returned to his task at hand. Standing up a bit straighter, he intoned his instructed message with formality. “Today m’lady, I have come to invite you to high tea with his lordship Archmage Mordent Evenshade.”

[shylmenra]

Return to Eldre’thalas (2)

Later that evening as she was settled into quarters, there came a quiet knock on the door. Mind spinning with colors and world-building, Shy glanced up from the book she was lost within for...minutes? Hours? It was so hard to tell, being here again. Closing it with a soft thud, she sat up at the desk, straightening her back into a pose of poise. “Come in.” A lean young messenger cracked the door, dipping his head in a bow. “Lady Whitespire? I’m afraid to inform you that your friends have...ended Magistrix Leywhisper.” She inhaled sharply, eyes widening. “What?!”

The messenger cleared his throat. “Indeed. The matter they sought to resolve apparently came to blows. The Magistrix is well known for her quick temper and wayward plotting, and thus your friends were allowed to leave. Even still, I fear that should they try to return, they will face tribunal for their hostile actions. Except for perhaps the Highborne, but....” Mind racing, Shy’s eyes followed suit, darting around his face and the room itself as she tried to make sense of the situation. The cadre had only come here to ask questions, she’d thought. Why oh why would they do this!? All but declare war upon an ancient stronghold of her - and Dusksong’s - kind? Nothing was making sense now. Placing a splayed palm over her chest, she imaged a fleeting scene of Telrien growing angry and shifting into his Direbear form. Her heart sped up and she sought to steady her breathing. “Th-thank you. Were there injuries?” He hesitated, but as she focused that icy-silver gaze upon him, he swallowed and stepped into her room, lowering his voice as he continued. “As you wish, m’lady Whitespire. Reports are sparse as the hall was fairly barren of staff at the time, and those few nearby generally refrained from becoming involved.” Wringing his hands a bit, he averted his eyes and peered at the ceiling, the youthful enthusiasm of being the presence of a noble lady lending him unnecessary candor. “If you ask me, many had reasons or wishes for her to...be gone. So your friends did us a favor, really.” She waited expectantly, and he looked back to her, blinking. “Ah yes. In the end, it appears there were some wounds.” In response her expression, he quickly added, “Though none mortally, I assure you. They did not linger long, and did not ask for aid.” Acknowledging his improper mannerisms, he cleared his throat and laced his fingers loosely before his torso. “Oh, and also madam, I am to inform you that...the Archmage is here, and he has ordered that...well, m’lady, unlike your friends, I’m afraid that if you wished to, you cannot leave just yet.” A shiver ran down her spine. With a sigh, Shy nodded, her face canting down toward the floor in defeat as she rested pale fingertips upon the book’s cover. She knew he meant it. She could certainly try to leave, but with the upper echelon focused upon her, the tunnel she took would now lead to nowhere. Better to remain and see what they wanted of her. Besides, she certainly didn’t wish to lend any more credence to the Collective’s bad behavior by sneaking in and trying to sneak back out following such an unfortunate turn of events. As long as none of them were seriously hurt...she should just stay, and try to make amends. Yes, that would do. Peering at him once more, she murmured. “Alright. Thank you…?” At her quizzical look, the messenger nodded and bowed with a flourish. “Elevel, my lady, at your service.” With that he took his leave, shutting the door quietly behind him. The Archmage. He could have meant Estulan; but then, that archmage was mononymous, just going by his given name. No...Elevel surely meant Lord Evenshade. He was here. And wished to speak...to her? Oh dear. A thought occurred to her. Hurriedly reaching up, she grabbed at her communication devices: one for the Collective at large, and the other between her and Rainwhisper privately. The delicate wonders of strange technology appeared merely as small silver pendants, slung around her neck on thin chain. However, as she touched them, she had a fleeting memory of Lord Starsong’s eyes lingering upon them as they spoke and he held her hand, the whisper of a possible incantation crossing his lips. With another sigh, she pressed down upon them and got what she expected: nothing but static.

[shylmenra]

Return to Eldre’thalas

Hurriedly, Shylmenra was led away from her companions as they faced the Magistrix Lyrenna Leywhisper. Through a labyrinth of stone hallways the two Elves disappeared, around corners and up and down staircases. Finally, they stopped in a medium-sized round room, full to the brim from floor to ceiling with curved shelves of books. Only then did the elder male Highborne release his deceptively strong hold upon Shy’s wrist, ushering her to sit down upon a soft chaise. The younger arcanist did as she was bid and peered around the room, taking stock of where she was.

They were now deep in the interior of the intact section of Eldre’thalas, in one of the auxiliary libraries. Shy recognized the room, having spent time here. The ancient city was eminently larger than outsiders realized, and the Highborne, though vastly thinner in number, still lived and moved throughout the habitable sections. Some areas were said to be haunted, though perhaps that was just rumor; and others were legitimately full of foul-tempered, dim-witted ogres. It was often questioned why the Highborne suffered the actions of the squatting ogre usurpers who had taken over what the rest of the world now called “Dire Maul”. Truth be told, the ogres served unwittingly well in keeping simple looters and the ignorantly curious away. It was almost ingenious that the ogres were utilized as some sort of fleshy moat, or watchdogs; perhaps so, if they weren’t unpredictable and dangerous. Over the years, some of them had gotten their hands on relics and even learned to use reckless magic. Hence, entrances and exits from the city were a complex matter. Turning toward Shy, the fellow Highborne’s silvery eyes flickered over her face rapidly, his expression shifting with a thousand thoughts. He huffed and shook his head ever so slightly as his braid, a pale ombre shifting from violet at the tips to crisp white at his crown, undulated to follow in his wake. “Welcome. I recall you well, of course my lady,” he clipped in crisp ancient Thalassian, “but in case you do not recall me, I am Lord Starsong.” With a flourish of a bow, he smoothed his robes and quickly continued, his tone more plaintive by the second. “My dear Lady Whitespire, whatever were you thinking? Skulking in without notice, without the proper ceremony, and with such troublemaking rabble?” His tone was pleasant enough until the last word, upon which his lip twisted as though tasting something sour. Perplexed, she blinked a few times as she took in and sifted through the presented information. Starsong. Ceremony. Rabble? She quickly realized he meant Rainwhisper, Sylvansong, Dusksong, and Shattercog. Answering in kind with the Shen’dralari dialect, she retorted softly, dipping her head in a gesture of respect. “My apologies Lord Starsong, but if I may speak plainly, I care not for the ceremony. My compatriots were here for a distinct and secret purpose, and I thought to watch over them.” Hesitating slightly, she added the last with a tone so quiet it was nearly just breath. “We both know what can happen to unwelcome intruders.” Lord Starsong’s eyes widened slightly as she spoke, and he blew out a measured exhale before replying. “May I remind you Lady Whitespire, there have been a great many visitors over the years who have wandered our halls unannounced, who have left un-hassled and untouched. That they found naught what they were looking for is not our concern. What also was not your concern, was your friends arrival. The guards should have been informed. We have protocols, and for good reason. With all due respect, you are a lady, not a bodyguard.” He shook his head and took the liberty of taking a seat next to her, grabbing her hand and leaning in slightly as he further spoke, lowering his tone conspiratorially. “Even now, they quarrel with one of our own. I have no love lost for Magistrix Leywhisper, but had I left you there in the vicinity, you would be implicated in the situation along with them, and that cannot happen.” Shy nodded absently, her eyes lidded. It made logical sense, of course. She was still attempting to place his face and name within the recesses of her memory as she responded, her confusion and concern overshadowing the sting of his words. “What will happen to them?” Absently he stroked her wrist, soothing away the tender echo of his worried squeezing from their rapid sojourn moments earlier. “Well,” he half-smiled amiably, “I suppose that depends on the outcome of this situation. Hopefully they will resolve their problem quietly and expeditiously and they will soon leave. You know as well as I, that the Athenaeum is to be kept quiet and orderly.”

[shylmenra]

Invitations

Shylmenra glided to a somewhat out-of-the way mailbox in the Kaldorei capital of Darnassus, moving more slowly than usual as she recovered from the Collective’s recent foray into the Nexus. Smoothing her hands along her robes, she studiously avoided the appraising glance of a duo of passing Sentinels as she reached in to see if anything was waiting for her. Silvery lips quirked as fingers grazed two letters which found their way into her hand. 

As she withdrew them, it was apparent the two slips of correspondence couldn’t be more different. The first was rustic in appearance, a diminutive rolled scroll of thin treebark; tactile with a soft, slightly sandpapery scrape against the skin, twined shut with a living vine. The second was smooth and slick, the paper dense; crisp and whiter than fallen snow, with a glimmer of violet emanating from within.

Not only did they look different, but the affect they had upon the arcanist varied as much as their appearance. The first caused a soft smile to bloom upon Shy’s pale face as she went to tug on the vine to open it. The miniscule plant responded to her touch, awakening and unwinding itself from the missive, allowing the bark-parchment to open as it fell gently to earth. There, it burrowed itself into the soil and took root at the base of the mailbox like a proper little plant, reaching toward the sky. I did bring you back, and was at your side…it began, her brow rising as the small smile bloomed a little larger. It was a reply to her own letter, confirming her belief that Rainwhisper was responsible for getting her out and to safety, and querying him for his whereabouts. However it was not long before the Circle requested my presence. They wished to know about the DEHTA camp, about the satyr activity, my own outlook on the Nexus. I turned them away for as long as I could. It seems the fate of a Highborne matters little to them. But I did not leave until I knew you would walk once more. If only I had been there when you awoke. I will seek you out soon. A soft intake a breath. Despite herself, she peered around as though to catch a flash of those amber eyes. But as always, she would have to be patient. She had learned in these past few months, that druids seemed to come and go in their own time. Perhaps it was a touch of the Dream which surrounded them; and no amount of wishing or wanting could hurry them, despite all they had to speak about. The second missive, written in a flourished hand, caused the mage to purse her lips as she leaned against a tree to read. Dearest Shylmenra, Doral ana’diel? It has been quite a while since we spoke, and I had thought to seek you out for some time. I’d learned you had been recently returned to Darnassus, a bit worse for wear for your…adventures. I came to visit you during your recuperation, but they would not let me very close at first. You already had a visitor and they were prattling on about ‘magical instability’ or somesuch nonsense. This had me perplexed and I’ll admit, a bit perturbed. If the malady was magical in nature, why not seek me, or one of the others of our kind, out? Why allow a brooding druid by your bedside but not me? Despite being family, I did not wish to cause a stir, so I did not press the issue. I do know how much you despise a ruckus, even given our superior station. The second time I tried to visit, much to my relief, you were already up and about and gone from your bed! I shall have to inform Erdunor and Ithurian. No doubt they will be worried sick once they hear of the nature of your return. I’m sure your hackles might be raised a bit at this point; always a sensitive one, our little Shy. It’s alright, dear niece; I have a job to do here which is as much diplomatic as it is practical and I don’t intend to make enemies of our gracious hosts. And I’m sure the druid was one of your Collective, just seeing to your wellbeing.  As well they should - they have a Highborne in their midst! And a Whitespire at that! They should be honored. In the meantime, please do come by the shop and see me. We have quite a bit to catch up on, and I am interested to hear of your time roaming with your merry little band. Oh, and I crossed paths yesterday with Archmage Evenshade. He seemed surprised to know that you were, how did he put it? ‘Out and about with a militia group’. He expressed the desire to speak with you as well. He can usually be found in the Howling Oak these days. Shorel’aran, Aladrel Whitespire A heavy sigh escaped as she bit her lip, deep in thought. Before departing, she noticed the druid’s tiny plant had sprouted diminutive white flowers.

[shylmenra]

Shy turned over in the diminutive human-sized bed, attempting to pull the rustic coverlet more thoroughly over her form, and was rewarded with a sharp stab. Radiating down from her shoulder, it meandered down her ribcage like a slow slide of molten lead. Hissing through her teeth, her mind wandered through the unfamiliar miasma of pain to how this happened. Images of rolling mist, towering pine trees, and distant dark figures materialized, along with glowing red eyes; there was sudden, sharp pain, and a shocked ride through the hills down, down, down to this encampment within the fjord. Reignac, her partner in this ‘scavenger hunt’, had stayed by her side, his usually placid face twisted in utter panic; her whispered comment about anatomy and the cook led to him fetching him, a dwarf of course; she remembered little after that, giving in to her frost magics and losing herself completely beyond the coarse actions which removed the offending arrow. A shaman had healed her of the more serious wound, though she only dimly remembered the flashing of his light energy. Her compassion had led to this, stalling their gathering of items per the Commander’s order. “They are corrupted Quel’dorei, Reign. Just look at them…” she had said, venturing too close to the purple and white banners. Dark Rangers of Sylvanas. Their fine-boned structure, their noble bearing even beyond death, reminded her of someone else; someone whom she had honored after his death, of which she was inextricably entwined. Guilt washed over her and she sighed. Her thoughts were beginning to race and track back to unhealthy, unhelpful places. Yet again, she felt the creep of her ice counteract the warm rush of fiery emotion, and she sighed as she became, instead, comfortably numb. It was still rather dark, though a small glow from around the corner perhaps heralded the rising sun. Shifting again beneath the ineffective covers, trying in vain to get comfortable, she shivered, whispering out a name, the only familiar one in this strange land, the letters traced in frosty breath. “Reign...?” 

(April 15, 2016)

[shylmenra]

The human wizard requested her assistance. "Bring your wand and your teleportation runes," he advised. Guarded, but curious, she appeared in the basement of a secret cabin upon Shandris' compound as asked, and they discussed his plan. He explained the cadre would be moving to Northrend and needed a way to get to a specific location, quickly. All of them, together, at once. One day hence, through his imagined portal. It was a potentially dangerous proposition. He needed to ensure its stability. He needed her help. They had to work quickly. The grounding design was sketched on the floorboards already, an intricate array of runic patterns and lines, about which Shy secretly thrilled she could read like a familiar map to a well-worn traveler. As they chatted, an intense cat-and-mouse discussion of magical theory and intent, their jobs in his scheme became clear: he would hold the base structure for a spontaneous portal steady while the arcanist was to tether the energies to a distant point. Like most humans, his idea was a bit rash. She was hesitant; but in a distant land, their displaced fellows (including Rainwhisper) awaited aid. Upon her reluctant agreeance, they began without delay. As they worked, much to her surprise, he flattered her. Cooed his compliments of her abilities, whispered that she was a testament to her race. Despite herself, the words plucked at her innate vanity and acted as music to her long elfin ears. They stirred her blood, feeding her magic. And so she reached through the very nether, pulling his billowing energies along with her, hooking them onto the first suitable anchor she found – a surge needle. The echoing runes on the ground in Feathermoon coalesced as they resonated, humming and glowing. Spent, she fell back, wiping the sheen of sweat from her brow. Hopefully that would be safe enough. “Not to worry,” he assured her, patting his familiar – the first test subject. Hurrying upstairs to continue her studies and refine what they had done, he offered her his ‘famous pudding’ should she return to tweak their creation. 

(March 22, 2016)

[shylmenra]

Shy furtively paced her quarters in Feathermoon, her skirts swirling about her feet. Tendrils of cold wafted from her hands, curling and uncurling into fists with the torrent of her thoughts. A faint trail of frost followed in her wake, into which she coursed again and again. It condensed onto her pale skin, creating a glittering patina in the cool light of a rising moon. She noticed not. "Fool," she murmured. "Blasted fools. All of them." To plumb the depths of the ruins. To take what was not theirs. To use what was beyond their ken. To invite this ruin. This corruption. Before she could find her answers, the Druid had fled into the Dream. But something was wrong. Unprepared and without the pieces in place, they all must now quest. Beyond her comfort zone. To a land of frigid beauty. Of curses, of ghosts, of death. And hopefully, of rebirth. A thought occurred to her. She paused. Perhaps there was something she could do after all. The most powerful ley lines of all converged in the North. It was a dangerous proposition; yet with the promise of great potential. Leaning on the railing, skittering lines of ice spread from numb finders as she gazed across the sea to where it made a line with the sky. Her careful consideration would last long into the night. 

(March 18, 2016)