World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[Plaids]

For once Jakk'ari was grateful to be within the overgrown swamp. The foliage that had obscured the trails and given opportunities for land-dwelling predators to ambush the party had obscured the procession of refugees from the dragons. The stymieing mud was now a mercy on Jakk'ari's blistered feet.

Jakk'ari only knew the dragons as bronzed, reclusive, and dispassionate creatures. The ferocity of these black ones was evident at night with the distant fires tinting the sky orange with towers of smoke reminding everyone how far they had traveled from Stonemaul. While the marsh offered plenty of water foraging for food was an impossible task. The few goose berries, toads, and swamp apples that could have sustained the party could never have fed the ogre refugees.
The sorrowful ogre song around subdued campfires made Jakk'ari weep. The song of the dispossessed reminding him of his ultimate mission and the consequences of failure.

Targ's arrival the next day was well met. The promise to protect and shelter the ogres along with the friendlier disposition rekindles some hope within Jakk'ari as he begins conversing with Targ.
"I do not know where the black dragons came from or why they came. They simply flew in after we finished fighting the demons at Stonemaul.
Thank you for sheltering the people of Stonemaul. You're saving lives well after the battle and I believe you can handle the change in a village's composition. News of your deeds will be brought to Theramore."

Thanking Targ once more before the orc returns to leading his own grunts Jakk'ari takes stock of his own party.
Marion and Zachary are unreadable as usual to him. A dejected Mor'Lag is in tow along with a sullen Felix who Jakk'ari tried to keep busy with a few rounds of foraging. It would seem the attempt had failed. Isaera can be seen falling asleep on a bird larger than any plane-strider he had seen while a flamboyant elf guides the creature on foot. Given Isaera's flair for the dramatic it wouldn't surprise Jakk'ari in the least if the two elves had some form of kinship between them.

[MrAbdiel]

Exhausted, emotionally gutted, mentally trained, the party prepares to return to North Point Tower. Targ bids them farewell, and seems to have grown somewhat in affection for the crew with the manifest tales of their heroism for as much the sake of ogres as their own. And Oro, the broken-horned ogre and the defacto leader of the refugee train takes Mor’Lag aside before the parting.

Spoiler: {Fluff}Language: Ogre

Show

“There was no time to honor your call, Mor’Lag Voidfist. And the Stonemaul clan has suffered such a blow to its strength now you might reconsider - perhaps, it is better to be clanless than anchored to us as it stands. But hear me: if, once we are resettled and have chosen our new chief, you would still wish to be recognized among us, then Oro Manflinger will pledge for your induction. And if you choose to remain clanless… then you will always be a friend to the Stonemaul, and we will not forget your valor, or power.”

Zachary keeps his distance from the Horde delegation - suspicion haunts his eyes when he is drawn to shake Targ’s hand at the parting. Felix has to be pried away, though, distracted as he is. The ogre children are as tall as he, and thicker of build; keen even displaced and frightened to compete when given the offer, and madly keen to wrestle when they can. But Felix has a (barely) grown man’s cunning, and is fleet of foot; and at the time the party is set to peel off from the refugee column, he is leading the dozen ogre youths - the same whom the party’s intervention saved from death at the hands of demons, and then again at the breath of dragons - on a merry chase, slaloming between trees and using his pace and turning to remain uncaptured quarry. Just like the ogre voices are not sonorous, the laughter of their children is not melodious; a chortling, shorting guffawing rumbles from the hunting pack as they chase their elusive human friend. But it is laughter; and it is that sound, not the grieving song, that is the final note the ogres leave for the adventurers as they part back to the road to Theramore.

* * * * *

The journey back to Theramore is uneventful - a small mercy, perhaps. Once the party arrives at North Point, they are reunited with Brother Bright, the driver-marines and the medical team who rode up with them, and they prepare the wagons to take them back down the road home. The soldiers at the tower greet Felix with mingled relief and muted care; and as he explains to them the mitigations of the success of the mission, and gestures to the wrapped and herbally embalmed figures Mor’Lag and Jakk’ari are loading into a cart, a pall of sadness rolls out through the tower’s occupants. The tragedy of the two dead is sufficient it almost entirely eclipses the miracle of two alive.

As Balandar helps Isaera down from the back of his avian steed and bids her farewell, he speaks quietly to her in the elven tongue…

Spoiler: {Fluff}Language: Thalassian

Show

“Al diel shala, Isaera Runescribe. And a word of advice from a simple merchant, if you care for it - you ought to consider learning Orcish now. The tides of fate shift, and our people consider the best course to chart for the Sin’Dorei people, and the future we may yet have. Just a thought.”

… and then he is off, heading back towards the inlet where his neutral ship the Dawnrunner is supposedly docked, from whose deck he had come a-striding when smoke rose up from the deep swamp.
The party, now on wagons to spare their feet, take the road back. These days of travel are less jovial and musical than those first couple on the way up; and they pass unremarkably.

* * * * *

Until finally, you stand once again within the white stone embrace of Theramore; the saline breeze strong enough to cut out the marsh fragrance; the voices all speaking languages you understand; the idiosyncrasies of the culture old, familiar knowledge if not entirely native. The people go about their fishing, their training, their trading, like there are no demons at all; and no dragons to come haring in raking the land with fire.

The whole city feels… smaller, somehow, than when you left.

The five of you stand on the swept hardwood floors of Captain Evencane’s office. The flat-topped military man sits in his crisp, polished mail with the familiar gold-on-white anchor crest of Theramore on his tabard, behind a wide, clean desk whose orderly disposition of stationary speaks to an orderly mind of the operator. Having heard your tale hours earlier, he had invited you to take time to wash up and get changed as you might prefer, after which you made your way to the barracks with understandable eagerness to have the ordeal finally pay back a little of what it has taxed from you.

He opens the top left drawer, and takes a handful of coins from a petty cash chest within. He holds the mess of clinking discs in one big, gloved palm and counts them out on the table in front of you.

He takes three gold coins. The first makes a clear, neat thok as it snaps to the table top under the flat of his thumb. The next two, clik, click, are piled on top of it. “The agreed rate - one gold for each cadet you brought back alive; fifty silver for recovering the bodies of the fallen. Three gold, square.”

The five (or six) of you look down at the table and the stack - a very charitable description, but even so, stack - of three coins there. Three coins, representing the last twelve days of mud and mosquitos and raptors and fire and demons and rotten bodies and fire roaring high as black wings cut through smoke and even the Captain shifts uncomfortably in the ensuring silence. Zachary breaks the quiet, after some eight seconds.

“Do you… have that in silver? We can’t…” He gestures loosely down the line at Jakk’ari, Mor’Lag, Marion and Isaera. The mathematical difficulty of dividing three gold coins between four adventurers makes the moment even more absurd. “Oh, of course. Certainly.”

A few minutes later, and the three ridiculous gold pieces are replaced by four small complementary cloth draw-string bags, each containing seventy five silver pieces. A fifth bag is matched for Zachary, who joined the group after price negotiations and so whose cut is generously added gratis to the pot. Jakk’ari and Mor’Lag’s bags are just a little heavier - each furnished with five additional silver, pursuant to the agreement that Isaera had incepted in the captain to give them bodyguard wages for herself, and Marion. Thus, the total spoils: three hundred and ten silver pieces. Not a small amount of money; not when compared to the amounts of money one got for selling baskets of haddock for coppers a head, scraping out a whole silver as a fee for some trivial alchemical fix for a horse’s rash. But a small amount of money compared to… well. The size of the experience, perhaps? It’s something like that, and though you take the money (Evencane is intractable in post facto negotiations, it turns out), it feels too light in your hand. Fortunately, it’s not all that comes from the meeting.

“Now, before you go - I’ve, ah. Well. Just wait here a minute, will you?” Never the most socially smooth man in your observations, the Captain locks his desk, gets up from his chair, regards each of you with a skeptical but appreciative eye, and strides out of the room through the door you came through. The guards on the exterior open and shut the doors as he goes, their smooth click and muted slam sealing you in the room for another minute of quietude, in each other’s company. Then you hear the click and slam again, and turn to see it’s not the captain returning to the office, but a new figure - and one you all know, even if just from gossip, and the occasional glimpse in the Theramore streets.

Purple, gold, and white are her colors; a projection of regal bearing that is both true to her bloodright and fitting to the manner in which she conducts herself. Her attire is called robes by the magi, but not by tailors; the layered Dalaran purples of her skirts terminating at a gilded belt , a few inches below the lower rim of an ornate piece of armor that is called breastplate by magi, but not by armorsmiths. Armor inhibits almost all arcane operations, and what little the Kirin Tor wear tends to be for the dual purposes of style and sometimes craftsmanship capable of carrying enchantments. Thus, a bare midriff and a breastplate that is more corset than cuirass, along with a patterned cloak with its broad, integrated shoulder guards, constitute her robe. It is a fashion sense the mages of Dalaran inherited from influence of the High Elves who taught humans magic in ancient days; though it is a modest arrangement compared to Isaera’s silk and gossamer regalia. She wears no crown, but there is no mistaking her authority in this realm. Marion, Isaera, and now for the first time Mor’Lag can all feel the arcane potentia vibrating on the other side of reality around her, coaxed into readiness as an almost gluttonous mana reserve by discipline, and talent, and the synergy those things produce as mastery. Jakk’ari immediately feels the presence of two distinct, powerful water elemental spirit presences that move with her every step, swelling and receding at her left and right within the dislocated space of the elemental substrate of the world.

Spoiler: Shh, I'm trying to think here.

Show

This is Jaina Proodmore; exiled princess of Kul’Tiras across the sea, prodigy student of the great Archmage Antonidas, Magus-General of the refugee fleet from Lordaeron and Dalaran to Kalimdor during the third War, and the woman who could easily have called herself Queen but contentedly requested to be instead merely the Lady of Theramore. Also, not to put to finer point on it, probably the most magically powerful human on the face of Azeroth, and on the short list for the unqualified category, with names like Kael’Thas Sunstrider, and Kel’Thuzard.

“You’ll have to forgive me for ambushing you like this. I’d only just gotten word of your exploits, and I feared you’d be ready to go your separate ways. I wanted to thank you personally for rescuing Aeden, and Felix. I know your mission wasn’t the unmitigated success we all would have liked - but we had no right to expect any of them back alive, even before the… additional threats you faced came into play. You’ve brought these boys back to life, at great risk to yourselves, not to mention the Stonemaul survivors who will know your names forever - and above and beyond that, demonstrated collective skill both martial and diplomatic. So you have my thanks. And, I hope, you’ll indulge me if I saddle you with a new proposal, weary as you are.”

She looks to the window, barred to prevent climbing invaders access but still open to the breeze and the evening western sky. “I want to… sponsor you. I’m part of a group that is invested in promoting the activities of heroes who do not exclusively fly red or blue banners. Members of the Kirin Tor, Earthen Ring, Cenarion Circle, and many wealthy individuals on both sides of the great conflict are part of this group, united by a painful awareness of the truth. The day is coming when we shall all be required to link arms and stand against greater foes again; and before that time comes, the people of Kalimdor, and the Eastern Kingdoms, need to know by tale and witness that people who were once enemies can accomplish good together - and perhaps, after enough time, even live with a shared world. You wouldn’t be working for me; that would make you an alliance affiliate. You’d merely be receiving a non-trivial stipend to establish yourselves as a neutral guild in neutral territory. You’ll be acting autonomously on the operations you choose, and as long as enough of those operations present a profile of ecumenicism and good will to both Horde and Alliance, you’ll continue to be paid well. Enough to buttress your own projects and personal goals, training, so forth.” She looks back from the window to you and, as if remembering that she ought to smile, replaces a the somewhat melancholy profile she presented with one of weary good cheer.

“How does it all sound, so far?”

[Feathersnow]

It is bittersweet, to assume a Trial-nane and have it confirmed. To be offered, even without consummation, a place in a Clan.

But it was not to be. Like so much in their lives

There was one thing different now. They had unlocked a trick of the Magi. One earned through effort and skill and will, not merely taken by the Rite of Connsumption.


--Later--


Mor'Lag ponders this great mage. One very like her had killed her father's, but that was war. These things happened.

"For us, This is good."
"No great love of the Horde,"
"But no great love from the Alliance"

"We have one project"
"To learn the arcane"

"As our ancestors used in glittering cities'
"Before the Crusade was brought to Draenor"

Mor'Lag knew enough to be politic. The extermination of the Eredar who refused to join the Crusade, and their religion based on the cowardly consul of the Naaru...was something lightwielders saw differently.

For Mor'Lag, it was enough to know that Sargeras, the last True God saw it meet to destroy the multiverse and begin again, cleansed of the mistakes of old. As a God, it was defintionally his place to do so, a d enlist whomever he chose in his great task. It was not a happy thought, but the truth seldom was.

But... Draenor was only targeted as soon as it was as collateral damage from the absconsion of the blue-skins. A Fact that the hypocrites of the Light cared not a whit about.

[Plaids]

The payout was fine though the hardship the party had endured reminded Jakk'ari why so many chose to remain in mundane jobs where one could regularly return to their family.

Jakk'ari knew of Jaina Proudmoore. The exiled princess of a faraway land who had paid a great personal price to secure peace. By aiding Thrall and the fledgling Horde she confronted her father and capsized the human fleet meant to kickstart a war and annihilate any trace of the Horde.

Judging by her light and vibrant clothing it was easy to deduce she was a mage. But what surprised Jakk'ari were the unseen elementals ready to aid their eminent.

Stepping forward and dropping to a knee to bow, Jakk'ari attempts to provide enough decorum and respect for the entire party.
Raising his head he proceeds to recount the journey and give his answer.

"Thank you, Lady Proudmoore. We have seen the seen demons and dragons on our journey to recover the recruits. A journey that would have been even more treacherous without chiefs Targ, Jevan, and Hazlek who now shelter the Stonemaul ogres. I am honored by your invitation and will gladly join your peacekeeping collective. Tell me where I must be and I will go. But if no assignment exists yet then I know of an opportune place at the crossroads of Horde and Alliance activity."

Jakk'ari grasps his knee with one arm to control the emerging trembles he feels arising. The immense opportunity to occupy a place amongst so many influential organizations and leaders is exhilarating and just the breakthrough he had been seeking all this time. After so many territories traveled and sympathetic but noncommittal responses to his pleas and petitions, he had a lead. He now relies on his political experience to contain his excitement.

Spoiler: Jakk'ari thoughts and plans

Show

Jakk'ari is absolutely going to accept the deal regardless of what the rest of the party says.
Since accepting would further his goals of meeting faction leaders who will ally themselves with his people. Plus, this specific deal will keep his people out of the conflict between the Alliance and the Horde. Additionally, Jaina is a leader well-respected leader by everyone except the Kul Tirans as far as I and Jakk'ari knows so Jakk'ari wants to foster a positive relationship between himself and Jaina.

Also while Jakk'ari would be willing to go just about anywhere he would prefer to be sent to Gadgetzan. Either to do missions or maybe set up an embassy of sorts so he can get some influence and help his people. If Jaina doesn't have a mission in mind at the moment Jakk'ari will try to convince Jaina that Gadgetzan is an important foothold in Tanaris. Reason being that the Steam wheedles supply both the Horde and Alliance and might inflame the region.

[WindStruck]

Isaera is mainly silent for the trip, her thoughts embroiled in the events of the days past, searching for clues. Though it may be heartwarming to see Felix playing with the ogre children, a measure of life and cheer despite the horrible events that transpired, it was still a distraction.

She is thankful for the ride, to rest her legs, and when it's time to pass control of the steed back over to the sailor, Isaera bids Balandar farewell.

Spoiler: Thalassian

Show

Sound advice. I was considering it myself. If, on the off chance, I find myself venturing out again, it would be foolish not to. Al diel shala to you as well. I hope we may meet again...

- - - - - - -

Theramore was a welcome sight indeed. It wasn't Quel'Thalas, and the sultry climate hammered upon that fact constantly, but it was still.. the one place that may still be safe, at least for now, and one place they may yet call home. Isaera's family, or what was left of it await. But first, there was the matter of collecting their much-deserved payment.

Seventy-five silver pieces in a little over a week's time was fairly lucrative - almost ten times what she could expect to eke out with alchemy jobs she may be lucky enough to find, the same with menial mage work which was quite safe, yet usually tedious. It was a nice purse of silver to bring home, but the potential risk was so.. almost not worth it.

Perhaps Isaera should have known the trouble she was getting into, and the danger. And if she ever told her mother the full details of what transpired, she would never hear the end of it. And yet, by the smoke billowing in the horizon and with rumors spreading around, it was already probably too late. Who could have possibly expected a demonic cult and black dragons to be involved?? Absolutely no one, that's who. But this was the rub when it came to venturing outside the cushy confines of civilization. And in a mostly-unknown continent, in a world that had recently been ravaged by a demonic invasion, no less. Weird stuff was just more likely to happen.

Regardless, a deal was a deal, and while Isaera was not going to ask for more based on the described job alone, she certainly wasn't planning on doing something similar any time soon..

- - - - - -

It was odd how the captain kept them held in his office, but it made sense when Jaina Proudmore herself entered the room. Her presence was, to say the least, quite palpable, and for many would be awe-inspiring. And while Isaera could certainly appreciate basking in her arcane aura, her biased elf opinion would suggest that she had known many mages who were just as talented, and a few that were better.

The Lady gave her pitch and Isaera was caught off guard, for starters.

"Sooo... you want to give us free money..?"

The confusion and skepticism was beginning to drip from her speech. Well, okay, it honestly sounded like Jaina did want something in return for these payments, but what they were expected to do wasn't clear at all.

"When it is discovered that you are lining our pockets, wouldn't that cause everyone to think that we - er, this 'guild' - is just part of the Alliance, seeing as it is funded by the Alliance?"

[MrAbdiel]

The Lady of Theramore does not laugh, exactly; but she does smile a little, and that smile contains discernibly the implication that this is where a less burdened soul might have offered a good natured little laugh. "You're not wrong, Miss Runescribe; but fortunately, it's a matter obviated by the pleasant truth that I am not the only one intending to finance you. The group of benefactors of which I am but one part is called the Opal Collocation. Many major groups with interfaction interest - the Earthen Ring and Cenarion Circle, for example - contribute. Cairne Bloodhoof is a greater contributer than I - one could make the arguement that I'm setting you up as a Horde instrument, which..." A flicker of quiet melancholy passes over her features like a shadow, and saps just a little of the stateswomanly authority from her voice for a moment. "...Which is the kind of accusation I've come to terms with. But the all of the Collocation's investiture is channelled through the Argent Dawn. Since the Argent Dawn's work corralling elements of Horde and Alliance to oppose the Scourge in the Plaguelands has garnered them untarnished respect, they're a willing partner. It means that they'll embed a member of their organisation in your guild - not to lead you, but as a kind of check specifically against using the invested resources for partisan activity - and that agent will requisition the donated resources through the Argent Dawn as a kind of escrow procedure. Thus, a benefactrix such as myself, and a benefactor like Cairne Bloodhood, might both put up groups like yours for sponsorship in this project, but neither can succeed in smuggling genuine partisans through the process unless one believes the Argent Dawn itself to be compromised or incompetent. Which they are not."

She offers a palm face up as a contained gesture towards Isaera, as if suggesting this last fact is likely to be as evident to the elf as the palm of the open hand. Since the departure of the Traitor Arthas Menethil to Northend to become the Lich King, the desperate remnant of the Qual'Dorei had been fighting a defensive action against a less organized but still wildly threatening host of the Scourge, roughly securing the area around the unrazed half of Silvermoon and the Eversong Woods, and confining the enemy beyond the banks of the Elrendar river. This region, now mournfully called the Ghostlands, is a mess of discrete Farstrider outposts, desperately defended arcane sanctums, and roving packs of the reanimated, ghoulized elves and Amani trolls who dwelled there. Importantly, the Ghostlands is the third region of Scourge-conceded territory in the Eastern Kingdoms, along with the Eastern and Western Plaguelands. The living dead are contained on four sizes. To the North, the exhausted and hard-working Farstrider rangers harry and cunctate the pressing Scourge. To the east, the mountains and ocean beyond provide no avenue for the predatory carrion. To the West, the Forsaken who occupy the lands of desolated lands of Lordaeron ~Farewell, Shorel'aran, to you fair Elvish ladies~ have cobbled together a mighty if hasty bulwark to contain the Scourge, and from there the dark Lady Sylvannas Windrunner, who once gave her life fighting the Scourge in defense of Qual'Thalas, dispatches her cadres of Dark Rangers to mirror the efforts of the living Farstriders in the north. But south, where the Scourge presense is concentrated and issues in teeming waves from the carcass city of Stratholme, the Argent Dawn do the unenviable work of breaking these waves into smaller packs which Farstriders and Dark Rangers can effectively dismantle. They Argent Dawn has, at is core, the most respected fragment from the schism of the Silver Hand, fortified by champions of all Azerothian and Draenic races who have suffered at the hands of the Scourge and Legion; and this dedicated and nonpartisan centre is the fist that fills out a mailed gauntlet of mercenaries, adventurers, and roving heroes who come to them seeking the remunerative power of their coffers and the psychicly pleasing act of earning that pay by destroying an absolutely indefensible, uncomplicated evil like mindless zombies and their deranged necromancer shepherds. On the day Qual'Thalas is free, it will be because Argent Dawn agents, Farstriders, and Dark Rangers converge on Stratholme and find that they have, cup by bitter cup, finally depleted the deep, wide well of wrath the Traitor Arthas Menethil left for them. They are, in short, one of the few factions in the world with the track record and skilled people to make a project like the Opal Collocation credible.

The compelling sapphire eyes swing to Jakk'ari, then. Her expression had become briefly more thoughtful as he made good on his promise to report the Horde's cooperative spirit, and she gives this information a tight little nod and files it away in her memory. "I'm glad to hear it, Jakk'ari of the Farraki. I must admit, when you arrived in Theramore and began poking around for opportunities to establish credibility, I was sceptical. Your people have been mysterious and insular as long as I've been casting my eyes to our neighbours in caution and hope. I hope your spirit of cooperation is contagious among your people... And I hope we give them deeds that validate that spirit. As for the where, well. I'd secured your starting point before your group manifested so impressively. It's in Ratchet..." She says, unable to keep a little apology out of her tone, "for a few reasons. The Steamwheedle Cartel is about as neutral a territory holder as one could ask for. But more than that, even if it's surrounded by Horde territory, it's quite centralized. As far from Theramore by ship as it is to the port east of Orgimmar. About as far on foot inland west to Mulgore as it is north to the border of Night Elf patrolled Ashenvale. And the Cartel runs both ships and zeppelins across the Great Sea to Booty Bay, which means - as you grow in success and influence - it will be easier for you to send agents or resources or yourselves directly from one neutral zone to the other. It's slower than a portal, certainly; but at the rates the Kirin Tor have begun tariffing reagents, it's considerably cheaper. That said, if you take the offer and begin establishing yourselves with the guildhouse in Ratchet's dominion, at that point you're out of my influence and operating under your own instincts and goals. If you wanted to move that base of operations or establish secondary operating bases in other places, that would be up to you, with the only additional consideration that the Argent Dawn would need to believe it was not an effort to abscond with the gifted resources and fly a new flag. You'd begin with enough to see a modest guildhouse constructed for your use and, I should suggest, taking on a some salaried staff. Guilds that do well frequently end up able to support multiple teams of junior members, and a presence of salaried guild soldiers in non-trivial volumes. The possibilities are quite broad."

"As for arcane studies..." the Lady continues, tilting her countenance up to trade her gaze conversationally back and forth between Mor and Lag, "That's something I'm sure you could find the resources to arrange. There's plenty of older Kirin Tor who are at the point that they do not care to travel and troubleshoot anymore, but are more than pleased to take tutorship contracts and operate as house-magi. That is, if those aren't things your group would prefer to do internally." She gestures loosely to Isaera, and Marion. "But with the point being that spell components do not come cheaply and spell components sufficient to burn through as one masters the early forms, well... those tend to be confined to access by wealthy nobles, or those directly sponsored by magical societies. But it would be within your means, as a sponsored guild of the Collocation, I expect."

[WindStruck]

Isaera seemed to be acquiescing to the idea, up until the point Ratchet was mentioned.

"Wait, you want us to..." she begins, trying to summon words but only adds a flustered, "Ratchet?" at the end.

Collecting herself, she sighs and says, "Lady Proudmore, your offer is very generous, and your goals are noble, but.. but I think you may be asking too much of people you know nothing about."

She uneasily gazed back at Mor'Lag, whom she still felt somewhat uneasy around, even though she had to admit the ogress had begun to prove her worth. But earning trust was something which took a long time. The same could be said for Jakk'ari, though through not only the troll's deeds, but also his slightly more refined speech and the outlook Isaera could glean, she felt Jakk'ari could be trusted a little more. Zachary, she didn't really know either, as he seemed to speak the least out of everyone, but at least she had no reason to distrust him. And Marion.. well.. needless to say, she had some fel connections that could not simply be glossed over.

The eclectic group had ventured out together, and due to a miraculous stroke of luck, they managed to accomplish something great. But if Lady Proudmore were to blindly throw money at them all and sponsor them, it could spell disaster. Not counting these troubling details, the fact was, it seemed she did not know Isaera either. Because the whole reason Isaera even took up this risky job which so many other drunkards had declined, or at least the reason she told herself, was to allow her family to make ends meet. And if enough cadets survived, more than that.

But what would be the point of a more sustained income if she were to relocate into the middle of nowhere?

"I have a family here, Lady Proudmore.. a family which would sorely miss me should I be permanently relocated halfway across the continent, gallivanting around doing who-knows-what. A family who could desperately use this silver, but would nonetheless chide me for my foolishness. Now if you would excuse me.. I should be going..."

[MrAbdiel]

The sapphire eyes of the Lady of Theramore narrow just a little, as Isaera hedges away from the offer; not an accusing look, but one striving to discern. Her follow up comments are spoken carefully, as though she is making an effort not to lay them heavily and be mistaken for throwing clout, rather than striving for connection.

“I know your family, Ms Runescribe. Or, I’ve met some of them, at least. I’m aware of most of the magical talent that exists within the walls of Theramore; and I fought with your brother Kaleneus, at the battle for Mount Hyjal. I know that power runs in your family; but duty in equal measure. And if it’s your best judgement that duty to your family is best served by remaining with them, then I will not level a grudge on you, over it.” She raises one slim finger after that concession, trading her understanding for a moment’s indulgence. “But if it changes the matter for you in any way, Ratchet is not so far away. Not much more than a hundred and twenty nautical miles, with trade vessels moving up and down the coast regularly. You could board one at our dock on a Wednesday afternoon and be in Ratchet by Thursday evening. And, mage that you are, it might interest you to know that my tower has recently been approved for teleport atunement by the Kirin Tor. I’d happily expedite your access to a key-rune so you could teleport back here as often as you like, even if you are forced to sail back to Ratchet the slow way. I won’t be monitoring the hours you log on-site, or wagging my finger at you if you split your time in a proportion you approve of between here, and there. That would be up to you, and your guild mates to decide; and as long as that guild continues to demonstrate the capacities of varied peoples to accomplish good together, I’m happy to take that risk on you all, even knowing you so superficially. You needn’t secure an answer now. I’m sure you’re exhausted from all you’ve been through. But do give it a second thought, when you can.” And with that, she delays the elf no longer; allowing Isaera to make her exit and journey home.

Spoiler: Isaera's Journey Home

Show

Past the tavern, Janene’s, where this jagged opportunity fell into your lap; past the rows of short, squat houses that smell like fish affable poverty; past the tower district, where the houses grade up into respectable and even luxurious by human standards; past the mage tower, in which the Lady Proudmoore and her cadre of Kirin Tor affiliate wizards did their research, and gazed from its high windows over the city. It’s almost embarrassing to call it a tower. Like their revealing garb, human wizard towers typically ape elven precedence even if they miss much of the architectural subtlety; but this tower is build in the alliance military format: taller than most buildings, but not so tall it could be broken with cannon fire at the middle of its shaft too easily. Pudgy, almost. Past the tower, past the fine houses as they slope back down into unimpressiveness and finally, at the border of where real estate can be considered respectable and where respect becomes an unaffordable commodity, you come to the Runescribe residence. It’s a one-and-a half story house, wedged between a two story house on the north side towards the tower, and a one story house on the south towards the southern city wall. One and a half, because much, even most, of the upper story is completed. The shingles carefully removed, frame for the second story layer and timbered and the new roof frame constructed from the old. But a full third of it is just the bare frame; the fullness of the project abandoned at a time when funds ran particularly dry and the family elected to sell off the remaining building supplies just for now. Canvas sheets have been nailed over the frame to prevent rain from getting too freely into the structure, but it’s a haphazard solution at best. But the completed sections of the upper floor, like every other other room, are needed for storage, and bedrooms; and weather penetrable though they may be, they serve their rough purpose.

You remember the day you and your family fled from Windrunner Village, with your aunts Jaana and Reyna and their young children in tow. There had been a full ten of those young cousins, then; none of them older than fifteen, still shy of physical maturity and well shy of being considered an elven adult. That was the second war; but it was the third, and the coming of the scourge, that put its scythe most deeply in your family. Your father and your aunt Reyna were both killed in the failed defence of Silvermoon. Your oldest brother Kaleneus survived and carried on in service before setting off to the battle of Mount Hyjal against the Archdemon Archimonde, from which he never returned. And your aunt Jaana took her five children to flee with a different group, tearfully reasoning with your mother that, splitting up, they had a better chance of survival. This was darkly prophetic advice: while your mother and family broke off from with a splinter group of refugees taking their chances in the troll-filled forests, Jaana and her children fled under the cover of a defence from the Farstriders - the battle in which, distant observers would later report, the undead brutally overran defenders and refugees alike, their terrible leader striking the soul of the ranger general Sylvannas Windrunner clear from her body, raising her then and there as a wailing spirit. Your family does not talk about Jaana and her children, these days; though their names are all carved into the wall by the blackened pot-belly stove that serves as a fireplace for your home.

All in all, you are considered lucky by elven standards. For every ten high elves, nine were killed by the Traitor Arthas Menethil’s hordes, and the calamitous circumstances through which the refugees were forced to strive. To have only lost half your family is, by that standard, enviable; but you do not often feel flushed with fortune. Of your cousins, the three girls - Dalana, Eira and Jasylla - are all apprenticing magecraft at the tower, in the grand tradition of your family. The boys - Aerdithane, and Rayadel - have taken labour work, to finance the petty supplies their sisters need for their studies, expecting some day to learn the arcane craft as well. This arrangement, like so many others, is just for now. Aerdithane and Rayadel are responsible for the partial construction of the second floor of the house, a decent enough job before it ran out of resource. They’re good lads, as close as brothers can be; and you almost never detect in them a trace of resentment that they are performing work with their hands that elves for so many generations before have done by gesturing at enchanted implements.

Your cousins are at work, and at study, when you arrive home; though you know your sister and brother and mother are all home before you reach the door. You can hear them from the stoop outside.

“...-how everyone is coping now, mother! It’s not a big deal.” Your brother, Tarien, his voice raised with a tone of reluctance to for having done so.
“What is ‘big deal’? Why do you always talk in these human expressions? We don’t do that in this house!” Your mother Aunara, less retrained, going a notch above Tarien’s volume to browbeat him, which usually works.
“Don’t yell at him! It’s not about him. It’s about you refusing to accept where we are now, and what life is like now!” Your sister Aleeana, by the sounds of it as much defending Tarien as taking an opening to antagonize your mother.

As you approach the door, it cracks open before you. Aleisha, the young daughter - perhaps ten years old - of the humans who live next to you in the two story house sneaks out, dustpan and brush in her hands, looking up at you with a faint smile but awkward apology glancing up from the tops of her eyes. Your mother pays her coppers to do jobs around the house; a vice that your family can’t afford but everyone tolerates, because it is silently agreed upon that the day Aunara Runescribe does housework is the day her spirit just abandons her body in final, mortal disgust. The ability to compel someone else to do the dusting and mopping may well comprise a significant part of her remaining pride as an elven woman of the last generation of elves to live the Quel’Thalassian dream, for as long as she did.

Aleisha is hard working, and uncomplaining, and she knows when to make an excuse and go home and come back tomorrow to finish working, and this is one of those times; so she hustles past you back to her house.

Inside, the fight is happening in the kitchen - or rather, the kitchen and living room, with the potbelly stove in one corner that warms the house in winter, and the two tables and ten chairs that get pushed to the side of the room in the evening so Aerdithane and Rayadel can lay out their fold up cots, just for now, until the upstairs is complete. Your mother is pacing, one hand raking back through her raven black locks in frustration, the other squeezing the stem of a carved wooden goblet, thankfully empty and in no danger of spilling in her angry motions. On the other side of the table, Tarien leans against the wall with his arms tightly folded like a bunker for his impressionable heart. But Aleeana stands on that side too, close enough to the table to be leaning over it, as if almost ready to jump over it, both hands before her clenching in the air like she’s trying to physically capture her point which her mother obviously cannot grasp herself. Unlike Tarien, Aleeana looks packed, and ready to leave. A cloak rests well on her shoulders, the hood back and tucked beneath her quiver and bow.

Aleeana might have been the most gifted of all your siblings, but she suffered from a lack of discipline that undercuts so many talents. Yet she learned easily enough magic to excel as a Farstrider Spellbow, and this is not the first time she has dressed up and threatened to be running off to become just that. That, your insight suggests, was the start of this conflict; but it’s migrated to a new topic which seems to have developed in your absence:

Both Tarien’s and Aleeana’s eyes are a bright, Fel-fire green.

[WindStruck]

Isaera is silent as Jaina speaks. A more wise part of her keeps it that way, refraining from asking, 'If you knew my brother so well, why can't you nor anyone else say what happened to him?' It almost felt unfair throwing him out there like a chip on the gaming table, adding more weight to the player's bluff. But Isaera wasn't biting today.

With barely-contained contempt, Isaera says in an even tone, "Well then. I suppose it is fortunate for us that the Great Lady of Theramore fought alongside my brother. Otherwise, the Alliance may have simply forgotten his sacrifice altogether."

...she probably shouldn't have said that either. But off she went, practically scurrying at first and trudging the long walk to her dilapidated, half-renovated home.

Spoiler: Isaera's home

Show

She was walking into another argument again.. and things were probably only going to get more heated and focused on her..

Isaera smiled softly at Aleisha and continued on. Thankfully they would have much money to spare for paying neighbors' children to clean the house....

Isaera walked in, expecting to either get sucked into this latest dispute and forced to take sides, or having all the attention turned on her and her absence. But her siblings' eyes caught her off guard.

"Hello, everyone! I'm - " Isaera stopped, gaping at their eyes. "Aleeana. Tarien. Your eyes..."

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Isaera's House

Show

"Isaera, oh thank the Light!" Your mother snaps around in her pacing, fixing her pale blue eyes on you as relief fills her features, and crosses the intervening space at speed to embrace you tightly. "I worried so much. I worried so much. Can you believe these two?" The speed at which she transitions from gushing gratitude to recruitment drive would make her sentiment seem inauthentic to someone who didn't know her. But she means it at every level, and that much you do not doubt. Indeed, over her shoulder in the hug, you can see both Aleeana and Tarien have turned their eyes to you, green as they are, with matching expressions of personal relief and affection for you. Whatever your family's trouble, they love each other dearly. Even your mother and sister, who so often seem to be one measure of escalation short of throttling each other, love each other despite the complex matrix of grief and house-pride and parental-disappointment and absolute-blindness-to-a-mutual-flair-for-drama through which they relate to each other. The only reason they aren't moving to hug you is that Aunara got there first, and the bristling field of familial static prevents them from approaching just now.

"They're tapping demon crystals. They're buying this lunatic craze about consuming fel energy!" It doesn't help her case that she, of everyone in the house now and most often, is the most prone to escalating moods and behaviour closest to what one might call lunatic. She held her family desperately together while the world ended, but she did so with a hope that when it was over, the world would rebuild as fast as it fell apart. Some might call having that kind of hope crazy. But she's not crazy - just working her way through an incredible backlog of grief, like everyone else.

"Fel energy is just energy. They're not demon crystals. And it's better than sucking the arcane dust out of every broom and rag in the house - not that we have that option anymore." This causes your mother to uncurl from the embrace, though she keeps one arm around you and leans on you some as she renews her facing at Aleeana's biteback. For the first couple of years after your family's flight from Silvermoon, you had indeed benefited from some of the luxuries of home including brooms and cloths that cleaned the house and themselves with intuitive ease, as well as a whole set of pots and pans and utensils that could make a meal out of food placed in their midst - as well as dance in a merry performance on the tabletop, delighting your youngest cousins. But over the last two years, all of these items began disanimating and losing function. While the surface possibility that they, like you, were suffering from the destruction of the sunwell, the obvious truth was that someone - perhaps everyone - had at some point felt so desperately ached with that knot in their soul that they raised a hand to whatever ladle or brush they could smuggle to their room, and absorbed the glimmering motes that drifted off it, rendering it inert.

"Have some self control, girl! You come from one of the greatest families in the greatest people that have walked on this world. Why taint that with this..." Aunara gestures loosely mournfully, to Aleeana's vibrant green eyes; but the gesture contains within it a spectre of a greater accusation - one that Aleeana feels, and it tightens her expression into venomous anger.

Tarien doesn't interject. He just watches you, like he usually does; bright green eyes full of expectation, and reverence.

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: Isaera's house

Show

Iseara hugs her mother back. The hug was just as genuine and intense as her mother's, though she did want to hug her siblings too, and that was being made a little hard right now. And of course, her mother was trying to get her to side with her. Not that she didn't agree, but she was escalating things.

"Alright, alright, everyone calm down.." She looked reassuringly at her mother, and more appraisingly at her siblings.

"I mean, I guess I could believe it. I met a captain of a ship not long ago on my journey who showed me such a technique. It seems Prince Kael’Thas has been spreading this knowledge to everyone," Isaera said, first fluffing it up as something more befitting a high elf.

"But.. as you can see, there are clearly some side-effects. I was afraid of something like this, and I fear there may be even more dire consequences later. Did you buy these crystals or make them yourselves? How long ago? How many?" she asks, beginning a very concerned interrogation.

(ooc: we've been speaking in Thalassian, right?)

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Isaera’s House

Show

The interrogation buys a pause in the hostilities; Aleeana confident you will see her side, Aunara confident that you will not. Aleeana explains that one of Kael’Thas’s magisters dispatched an acolyte all the way to Theramore, arriving from a southbound ship about a week ago, a few days after your departure. He taught her the technique, and she mastered it quickly; and more than a few within the elven diaspora have received it as a miracle - mana from heaven. She made the ones that she and Tarien tapped, she had here a few days ago, Tarien earlier today.

“And it costs functionally nothing. Which is about as much as we can afford!”, your sister punctuates.

OOC: Oh yeah, all Thalassian.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion had been rather quiet on the travel home, suspiciously so even. The warlock had just bore witness to the impact of a small infernal invasion against a village of ogres, followed by a brood of black dragons finishing what those infernals could not.

Furthermore, she had a piece of one of the demonic engines still wrapped up in her backpack, along with her book on demonology, and she fully intended to learn the most she could from the seemingly inactive piece of granite before disposing of it safely (probably).

The initial reward was...adequate, Marion supposed. After all, she had grown up within the halls of opulence of her homestead which had been bought by the riches of mountains, and so to compare a pouch of a few hundred silver to that...well. The Alteracci noble gave a polite smile and a curtsy as thank you. There wasn't any need to be rude.

And then she arrived. The head honcho. The big cheese of Theramore. The one whose actions this entire towns existence had to thank: Jaina Proudmoore.

Marion had mixed feelings about the mage. She was a hero of the third war, a skilled and knowledgeable practitioner of the arcane, and her actions and rescued much of their race by delivering them from demons and undead ravaging Lordaeron to the relative safety of Theramore. But, she had also betrayed her own father. The Horde, for all its animalistic might, would have been unable to resist Admiral Proudmoore's fleet and they would have been neutralised as any threat now or in the future, if Jaina had not of knifed her own father, her own people, in the back.

Did Marion hate Jaina for her actions? Or were they almost a too-close-for-comfort reminder of her own nations similar machinations? Maybe. Jaina was simply just an Alterac that had been successful.

Nevertheless, her offer was an intriguing one. But Ratchet? Really? Is this how far she had fallen? The daughter of a nation of traitors having to dwell among the goblins on a sponsorship from an actual traitor.

After Jaina and Isaera hit it off swimmingly, Marion allowed a pregnant pause to linger in the environment before she stepped forth from the shadows.

"I would be interested in accepting your proposal," Marion spoke, that practiced talk back in her words and her speech lined with the educated accent a human highborn would have, "traveling through the swamps beyond these walls has allowed me to observe first-hand the potential for development to be had within this region of Dustwallow. Lady Proudmoore, the lands immediately outside the walls of Theramore, between here and the watch tower perimeter dozens of miles over yonder...what are your current plans for this wild region?"

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: Isaera's home

Show

The fact that Kael'thas and his magisters had delivered this news and technique was in itself something that was difficult to combat. And honestly, if she had the utmost respect for him and their leaders, maybe she would swallow it all hook line and sinker. But her cautious nature (usually, anyway) and study of the arcane left her with many nagging doubts.

Raising her hands in a placatory manner, she says, "There is no such thing as free. That energy comes from somewhere. I fear it may only be a matter of time before a demonic presence realizes its mana is slowly being siphoned.. And besides, we don't know the long-term side effects of this, alright? For all we know, prolonged exposure could make you grow horns, claws, or subtly twist your mind in some way. It would be better to just wait and see what comes of others who try this technique, wouldn't it?"

She looked from sibling, to sibling, to parent, family members who were seemingly underwhelmed by her attempts at reasonableness. It was hard to argue against Prince Sunstrider himself, and the fact that they were pretty much broke. And then on the other hand, for not outright condemning Tarien and Aleeana as demon-spawn, she wasn't really winning favor with her mother either.

After an awkward pause, Isaera remembers her trump card. "Wait. You are wrong about one thing. We are not broke." She stomps up to the table and overturns her pouch of coins, unloading the entire seventy-five pieces of silver onto the table.

Taking advantage of this moment, in which she had hoped the din of seventy-five much-needed shiny silver coins would literally purchase her some clout, she declares, "With this, we can easily pay a whole year's levy. We can finish the second floor of our house. I could reanimate our brooms, the cloths, and the cookware again." Then looking directly into Aleeana's eyes, she delivers the coup de grace. "And you could afford something a little safer than fel energy."

Spoiler: ooc

Show

Should I roll? I guess I'll roll...

persuasion: (1d20+14)[25] And I probably have massive penalties against my own family members, who knows?

By the way. Might Isaera get any VP for mouthing off to Jaina a bit? It's part of the complication: Bad Blood. Maybe not.. unless there's actually a consequence or setback due to that though.

[Plaids]

Seeing Isaera's mud speckled robes waving farewell Jakk'ari can't help but sympathize with her motivations.
The thought of being away from family and the constancy one provided was burdensome and the reality unpleasant.

The young arcanist was an eager participant who pulled her weight in their journey with an admirable magical arsenal and a gift for placating people of different cultures. There was no clue if Isaera would reconsider Lady Proudmoore's offer after the generous amount of leniency she was prepared. But right now, Lady Proudmoore would need to be assured of the parties' unwavering enthusiasm and dedication to the mission provided.

Mor'Lag continued to ponder the benefits of the proposal with banter between two heads that shared the same life together. Zachary stood resolute seeming to not give much away with his eyes out of sight but likely scanning the environment.

Thankfully Marion also seemed enthused, stating her interest in the mission. But the enthusiasm sublimated to a subtle but insistent probing. The line of questioning indicated a keen interest with additional ancillary reward. While veiled interests were used by savvy leaders to further entice a partner, sincere ones chafed at the prospect of debating a cascading list of conditions and precedents. While there was no clue which on Lady Proudmoore is it is best to mitigate the risk.

After hearing Jaina's response to Marion

Rising to his feet and attempting his most sincere smile Jakk'ari offers his own request. A small gesture to hopefully endear Jaina with the party.
Lady Proudmoore, we are grateful for your offer. As of now it is growing late, and my party has neglected several meals. Would you care to take a rest from your duties join us?

(1d20+3)[17] Rolling if needed with +3 from presence.

[MrAbdiel]

The Lady of Theramore raises one blonde eyebrow, and her gaze instinctively moves to the wall behind the group, beyond which the marsh landscape unrolls down the path the party has just travelled; before she looks to Marion again. “I have hopes that the land can be developed over time. It’s a long process - these kinds of tidal wetlands have a high salt content, and it will take some time to attract enough engineering talent that isn’t afraid that one day the Horde is just going to wipe us off the map.” She shakes her head a little, lips pressed pensively together. “Obviously, I don’t think that is going to happen. And I think that kind of hysterical over-caution is self-replicating, and leads to rash action; so I’m willing to wait for the talent to show. At the same time, I’m in no rush. Dustwallow is bad land. There’s a reason it’s seen so little colonization by the Kalimdor peoples. Most of our wealth, such that it is, in Theramore comes from two things: skilled and productive fishing fleets, and the industrious attitude of our people. Everyone here is working hard because they know they’re building a new life for themself, and those who come after them; not just running in place. I figure we have about twenty years before we need to have expanded out capacities enough to keep a new generation interested in staying, and not sailing back East. We’re going to lose a lot of the next generation to Stormwind, I think, now that it’s rebuilt.” She seems to realize she’s wandered a little, and offers Marion a mild apology in her smile. “So I’d like to see some satellite villages cultivating the land, like you might have seen around Brackenwall. But not so quickly that it’s cheap work; and not so hastily that the Night Elves end up breathing down my neck for deforming the natural state of the land. Druids are the best friends a fledgling settlement can have - I hope to get them on side. Those are my plans, for now. That timetable could move up, if there is a sudden emergence of, for example, individuals with technical talent and a known and performed pedigree of non-hostility to our Horde and Steamwheedle neighbors.” This is said with a little humor in her expression; enough to offer Marion two assurances - that she has detected at least some framing of her ambition, and that she is not hostile to it, despite Marion’s Alterac accent and known study of the fel powers. The Lady’s mind is broad enough to imagine that orcs, who came into this world rampaging in front of the whip of warlocks and demons, can become fine friends and honorable countrymen. There is certainly room to imagine that someone like Marion can afford to have some questionable marks on her record and still turn out to be perhaps a respectable regional administrator and fellow shaper of the new world.

When Jakk’ari offers his very professional and well spoken appreciation, she smiles at him again and then seems almost amused at the offer to dine with them. Not an insulting humor, as if it is humorous that such people would think she would dine with them; but more a humorous appreciation that the troll possessed the audacity to push past the presumption that she would not. “If only I could, good Jakk’ari. I’m afraid the next few days will allow very little respite for me, however. A demonic attack on this scale, and the atrocity at the hand of the dragons, both propel me to alert my peers in the Kirin Tor. An investigation will have to take place, to try to untangle the mess of it. It’s hard to imagine dragons striking like that unless the Stonemaul were threatening their deepest interests. And their deepest interests are secrecy and survival, both of which are undermined by such a flagrant attack on what is for all intents and purposes a Horde outpost. Not to mention our cadets, geographically inconvenient as they might have been. Someone must answer for these things. But I thank you, all the same. Perhaps, another time.” The raincheck sounds more genuine that one might expect, and the Lady takes the offer in the spirit it is intended. “I ought to get to those matters now. Do consider my offer. I’d like your whole group for this project, if I can get it. Take a few days to rest and speak among yourselves; and if I’m not available in my tower, you can leave a message with Ysuria. She’s also the one who will instruct Isaera on the use of the teleport key-rune.” With that, she seems ready to finish the audience; though not so ready she would cut off a chance to respond.

Spoiler: Isaera's House

Show

The reactions to the splash of cash are ostensibly positive, but also mixed. Your mother is stunned for a moment, and then so overwhelmed by the surge of extra relief she didn’t expect to feel that she actually reaches out and puts her hand on the coin pile as if to make sure they’re real. “Oh, Isaera! That’s amazing! What did you have to do for all this? Are you alright?” One genuine question, one rhetorical, both on a voice suddenly blooming with maternal pride, untethered to the lodestone of present destitution.

Aleeana’s expression ranges in sequence from astonishment, to avarice, to sisterly jealousy, to a flash of self-reproach for that jealousy, to a directed faint smile of appreciation, and finally a thoughtful frown as she digests the cocktail of feelings that just rushed through her. Some part of her, you’re sure, is also disappointed that the conflict has been defused. There remains in potentia a conflict between your sister and mother in which your sister actually follows through with her threats and walks out, vanishing to join the reclamation project back in Quel’Thalas, hunting the flesh eating parodies of your deceased elven countrymen and women; maybe dying in the attempt; maybe worse. The tragedy that befell your family quelled her rebellious spirit for a while, and drew her into the family effort for a while; but wanderlust, and the need to strike out and define herself as something other than a scion of greatness or a refugee statistic has been back in her heart in force.

Tarien’s face is the most complex, in that moment. He’s relieved to see the money, but shortly after worried again. His eyes skip over the the coins as they spill over the table, and your eyes catch him quietly mouthing a count, seventy, seventy four… A very impressive display of numeracy you haven’t seen in him before. But after that, he catches your eyes while your sister and mother are still processing the display, and gives you a very faint worried look, and an almost imperceptible shake of the head - a look that turns to back to his neutral, henpecked countenance once the other two are aware of their surroundings again.

Aleeana’s primary argument solidly undercut by this display of liquidity, she can mount no reasonable counter argument against Isaera’s suggested slow-and-steady approach. She does, however, mount a defense of the physical alteration: “I like the green eyes. I think they make me look more mysterious.” This provokes a roll of more conventionally blue eyes from your mother, but she seems to respect the peace you’ve bought and doesn’t bite on that particular bait. Discussion on how to prioritize spending this money immediately breaks out between your mother and sister. Construction supply for the upper floor. Beds for Aerdithane and Rayadel. The actual wands and reagents the girls require to practise at home so they don’t have to spend so much time using the loan-items at the mage tower. The reenchantment of some of the cleaning equipment. Paint for the house, when the top floor is completed. Some decent food - maybe not like they used to have in Quel’Thalas, but surely they can afford better than fish and hard bread. A little wine, obviously. And enough vision dust to keep the nine of them in the house clear-headed and focused, just for now. Maybe a small stash of dream dust? Just for emergencies?

Rapidly, the ideas balloon from purchasing essentials and frugally smoothing the remainder out over a long time, to blowing it all now in a well-earned and long-awaited splurge on things that the family has wanted for a long time. And when you think about it, occasionally getting things you merely want is a kind of need, isn’t it? And back and forth the negotiations go. Tarien remains on the periphery, but he opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something; but then simply doesn’t. He does, however, take the opportunity to come over to your side, and give you the delayed hug. Tarien’s magical talent is pedestrian, and now mostly lapsed. His other talents, if they exist, have not really emerged. He contributes to the house by absorbing the blows to elven pride that many others in the house cannot accept - the cooking, the cleaning that cannot be done by a ten year old borrowed from next door, the walking the hand-cart borrowed from the other neighbour to buy food, late on the market day when the folk were closing up and prone to selling their remnant stock cheap. A thousand other small duties that might cause a conflict if someone else had to do it, which he simply does quietly, impervious to the wrinkled pride of others. And right now, ignoring whatever complex thing he is feeling about this burst of material relief, he wraps you in his arms and squeezes you like he has been suspecting, for the last ten days, that he had lost you.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Excellent.

Marion's social attenae were attuned enough to recognise a tentative opportunity when she saw one. The lack of flat denial was promising, and the absence of even a subtle or hinted rejection only further cemented the Warlocks animation towards fostering her ambitious idea.

After being addressed, Marion waited until Lady Proudmoore had finished speaking to the troll, as was simple etiquette. Jakk’ari deserved the respect to not have his audience interrupted, after all.

Once Lady Proudmoore had ceased this wave of discussion, Marion waited several seconds before continuing, her tone a probing and curious one.

"Lady Proudmoore," she started, "if you would be so kind as to indulge my curiosity...but per say, what sum have you valuated the wetlands that exist between the exterior of Theramore's walls and the watch-tower perimeter?"

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: Iseara's house

Show

"I'll find a way to make your eyes glow pink and gold, if it will only stop you from this foolishness," Isaera says, playfully hugging her sister, and eventually getting a hug from Tarien as well.

But discussion of the money seemed to take a turn for the worse pretty quickly. "Please, this doesn't mean we are rich and can just waste it all on frivolous things! We.. we still need to keep working. Do you know what I had to do? Oh, it was awful, traveling through the swamps, and making niceties with orcs and ogres!"

Isaera recounts her tale, or at least most important parts anyway. Out to find and rescue four cadets. One found in the swamps, another in the orc village, two dead under a desecrated elven runestone, and a surprise, freak demonic/dragon attack.

[Plaids]

Jaina's response to both his and Marion's probing ease the shaman's spirit. The Lady was clearly savvy enough to comfortably wade into minutia while tactful enough to entertain or rebuff offers without condescension. With a contact of this caliber this was surely a mutualistic relationship. Not the risky but enticing pump and dumping of mercenaries to leapfrog into power seen in Gadgetzan. While such ambition from Marion had not been observed prior the young woman could be trusted to negotiate with Jaina. The small kindnesses towards the Theramore escort were proof enough.

Before the appraisal of land and marginal benefits can fully begin Jakk'ari bids Jaina and the remainder of the party farewell after once more receiving the time and place to meet the group's contact to the Opal Collocation.
Inviting the rest of the party to join at Janene's if they have the time Jakk'ari makes his exit.

Walking into the street Jakk'ari prepares to warm a seat for most likely Mor'Lag and Marion given their status as newcomers like himself. Feeling the rigid shape of a lock reminds Jakk'ari of the artifact he held. The decision to choose the lock as his consolation prize was influenced by his inebriation and bedazzlement of Hezlak's insider knowledge. Though the money now is preferrable the lack of a heavy jingling sack within the swamp was a minor blessing.

Deciding to take a detour Jakk'ari spins around towards the tallest mage tower to hopefully to appraise his trinket.

[MrAbdiel]

“The monetary value?” She puffs the front half of a truncated laugh; again, in a reasonably positive spirit. “Invaluable. There’s fifty miles between here and Northpoint tower; the full extent of where Theramore projects authority on land. There is no amount of money in the world that would cause me to cede it to someone else as their domain, even if the political ramifications of such an exchange were more easily navigable. But if you’re talking about the value I would place on that land or part thereof, as a way of asking what would cause me to set someone in delegated authority over a parcel of that land? That’s something I could only do for someone who had proven trustworthy personally, and not a political liability publicly. Does that answer your inquiry for now, Ms Mordis?” She leans forward a little as she asks this; a noticeable but gentle suggestion that the rearrangement of land title is neither out of the picture entirely, nor available to be effected in this conversation itself. The Lady Proudmore is Friendly to Marion; but would need to have Honored her more substantially for such plans to manifest.

Spoiler: Jakk’ari’s Pitstop

Show

You depart in good grace, and head off from the barracks towards the Tower district, and its eponymous magical hub. As you wander through the streets, you receive the same kinds of looks you’re used to in Theramore, at this point. Some outright shock to see a troll on a stroll, some too innocent to imagine a threat and simply curious, some educated enough to know you are not a denizen of the Echo Isles or Zul’Aman, but interested as to what relationship a sand troll might have to their city. Others, either because of an overflow of good nature or recognizing you as the novelty you are in the city, offer wary smiles. You’re used to all these reactions - but you are gratified to see that the proportions are changing. It used to be all veiled hostility of bewilderment. Then there was a little larger share of tolerant dismissal. Now there’s a non-trivial element of cautious benevolence. You had no expectation it would be fast or easy, but this is the result you’ve always wanted: incremental improvement, on a long, patient arc.

You stop by at the mage tower, and enter into the open door of the lower level which accepts all comers. Walled with bookcases around a central spiral staircase up to a second floor forty feet up, the room features just enough of the scattered accoutrements - wall mounted staves, sconceless magical torches, the occasional flickering mote of mana forced into manifestation and then popping out of it again - that you associate with such a building. There appears to be some manner of class in session. There are eight students of different ages, all elves and humans, sitting on chairs manifested from pinkish arcane constructum and receiving instruction on how to maintain those constructs by their tutors - a high elven woman, and an elderly male gnome with a hat as tall as his whole person. It’s one of the students who gives you their attention first - one of the elves, at the borderline of maturity for such a creature, with hair so bright red it almost becomes magenta, tied back in two tail nodding just behind her extravagant ears. She seems bored waiting for her instruction, and so rises from the vanishing chair to cross to you.

“Hey! Hey, you’re the troll who went with the wagons looking for the cadets. Does that mean you’re back?” And then, a flicker of worry crossing her features. “Does that mean everyone is back? Safe?”

Spoiler: Isaera’s House

Show

Your brother, mother, and sister take seats around the table and listen with appropriate rapture as you regale them. Your mother’s expression is usually vicarious worry, complete with flinching when you describe obvious threats like an orc village, and demons, and dragons. Your sister Aleeana by contrast dips back and forth between surface level jealousy, and vicarious thrill. The part where you bombarded the burning palisade for your allies to break out of the dragonfire inferno makes her smile with pride at you, just long enough for you to know that such pride is there, in her, before she simply enjoys the telling; and in doing so, perhaps misses the point of your telling it. Your brother Tarien listens with that same thoughtful, almost neutral look. With one hand he is arraying and stacking the coins absently while you lay down the dynamic details of the outing.

“Well. Your father would be so proud of you. He always had a softness for the sons of Thoradin, and the ancient bonds of men and elves. And it’s good to really flex your combat magic on live targets - though I’d wished it wasn’t so dangerous, so soon.” This from your mother, whose magic has never been particularly combative. Back in Silvermoon, she knew the boilerplate levels of battle magic expected of a talent of her level, but her profession was more spectacular: an anarcadian, something that could be crudely described to humans as a blend of prima ballerina and pyrotechnician, responsible for both astonishing physical performance and simultaneously projected illusory phantasmagorias of sensory wonder. Productions on that scale, naturally, have been out of demand since the fall of Silvermoon. Still, she knows enough about combat magic to not be speaking out her ear when she says such things.

“So what happens now? Back to sweat-rash cures for portly human sailors?” Aleeana asks, obviously angling for a negative response. Tarien remains quiet, internally focused; almost brooding.

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: Isaera's house

Show

Isaera smiles softly at her mother and looks down. Yes, she hoped he would be proud of her. If only he was here...

"Perhaps it wasn't all heroism. If I hadn't helped them break through the burning walls, and they all died trapped in an inferno.. we might have just been picked off in the night. Or at the very least, it would mean only 1 gold piece split up among three..." She may have been downplaying her accomplishments to her family again, but nonetheless, the weight of the story was still gripping.

Eying her younger sister and her .. sarcasm? Isaera sighs. "Well, maybe? If we use this money wisely, we may even be able to start expanding. There's lots of things that still need doing around this city, many little problems that need to be solved, things that people will pay good money for. With the right ingenuity, and if we know where to look..." she trails off and shrugs.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Isaera's House

Show

Spoiler: OOC

Show

First things first, I forgot to say:

By the way. Might Isaera get any VP for mouthing off to Jaina a bit? It's part of the complication: Bad Blood. Maybe not.. unless there's actually a consequence or setback due to that though.

I'll definitely give you my personal approval for it, since I like the way you play Isaera! But VP are more metaresources for the crunchy parts of the game where I'm demanding you roll a bunch, and this is sort of an "in between sessions" scene, so not this time. On the other hand, I'm not going to require you to do anything in this scene that would require a VP! So it all balances out.

I assume a small move of scene for you here, rather than require an extra back-and-forth post; but if Isaera wouldn't have followed, let me know and I can change stuff.[/I]

With Aunara and Aleeana concurring with the general sentiment that this is just a beginning place to be wisely expanded upon, they restart (more moderated this time) their interwar period of dreamcasting. If they invest in a decent set of alchemical tools, not just the travel kit, then perhaps they can indeed maximise Isaera's ability there and make a small business out of potion dealing. They'd need to advertise, of course. Hire someone to stitch together a nice eye catching marquee to set up near the market...

Tarien finally breaks, and takes the opportunity to push up from the chair. "Can we...?" The obvious third word, talk, is left as unformed vapor, as though even a three word sentence was too much imposition for the unintrusive Tarien to impose on you at once. Something about the scene has obviously made him uncomfortable, and rubbing the back of his neck, he hears to the nearby staircase up to the partly formed second floor, pushing past a canvas sheet and stepping over the line of L shaped apex tiles that have been layed upside down nesting in a line to run storm water away from the doorway, just for now.

Upstairs, Tarien goes to sit on the edge of the roof, with his legs hanging over while his now-green eyes scan the street. Up the street, houses grading up into respectable and even fancy; down the street, grading down to unassuming shacks. As your closest sibling in age, Tarien and yourself have often had cause to perch together for long conversations on a high limb of a slender Eversong Elm, or the balcony of your old estate home, or halfway down the stairs on the westward case of that home, while your parents hashed out their fears and promises about the wars to come.

"I worried about you while you were gone. But I guess I was... sort of hoping that being out in the world would get your blood up for spellcraft, again. Do you mean it, when you're talking about going into... odd-job magical solutions, instead of real, combat-assisted formal study?" He looks incredulous, maybe even mildly disappointed; a strange look on Tarien, whose first wish is usually to make sure no one is disappointed in anyone.

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: siblings on the roof

Show

Isaera looked at Tarien, studying him, trying to figure out what was wrong. He seemed to have a lot on his mind, and in these recent times had been much more thoughtful.

She can't help but answer the question as honestly as she can. They've always been open with one another. Isaera lets out a long breath before speaking. "Well.. that's the only sensible thing to do. And I have to admit, I do not think I should have taken that job. It was pretty miserable and dangerous. We're all fortunate the ogre and troll didn't turn on us. Though after fighting along side them, perhaps they may be honorable..." she says, letting on that hint of camaraderie from their time working together.

"Given what I went through, it didn't seem worth that silver, nor the risk. And that was before those demons and dragons appeared..."

Isaera points at the evening sky, the faintly diluted billows of smoke still lingering from the smoldering ruins of the ogre encampment, and the surrounding swamps. "You can still see it, can't you? The smoke? And I bet it was as discernible as the Sunwell some days ago. That could have been me in there..." she says, morosely.

"I shouldn't have left you all in the first place. You lot are all I have. And I'm sorry to have worried you." Isaera leans over and wraps an arm around her brother in a hug, bare, a bit mud-flecked, and riddled with bug bites as it was. A reminder of just how much crap she went through and survived just to secure her family's well-being. At least, for now..

"So what is wrong? You've been awfully quiet. And.. you look disappointed. Why?"

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Siblings on the Roof

Show

"It does sound dangerous. I'm glad you're okay. So don't take this as ingratitude or anything like it, it's just..." He gives her a final squeeze before terminating the hug just a little prematurely, freeing his hands to grind the heels of his palms against his eyesockets as if physically requiring a moment to cork the thoughts that would otherwise stream out of his head that way. His lips move to speak, and he stops; then his lips move again, and they stop; and then with a little shake of his head, he gets around to it.

"So, this is something I've been trying to find the words to say for a while. And it's taken me a while, because I'm not as... articulate as you, or Aleeana, or the rest of out family. But you just... you need to tell me if you're going to do what it takes to become an archsorceress. Because we're all pretty good, but father was just..." He lifts an arm straight up, the fingers of the hand held flat horizontal; trying to contain the prodigious stature of a lost father's greatness in that physical gesture. "And so was his mother, and all the way back to the making of the Sunwell. And it was important to him that the tradition of excellence just kept going. That's what Arkhana'skrit means, right? Not someone who copies out the runes; someone who conceives them and makes them real things with shape, and power, that enriches our people. And all four of us were going that way, for a while, before... everything."

Everything. Such an insufficient word for the reality of the Scourge, and the Legion, and all they wrought. He looks away up the street, toward the stubby human mage tower, and you wonder what about it is drawing his attention; but the quaver in his voice when he begins again tells you that his gaze is not toward the tower as much as away from you, tactically shifted in case words he would prefer stand with strength are softened by tears. He seems to be holding it in; but not without effort.

"Kalenaus was great, and he would have followed that path to the end if he'd had a chance. But he didn't. Aleeana is..." He flaps a hand, loosely. "She's already out the door. We all know it. It might take her two hundred years to grow up into the kind of woman who can focus herself like you can. And I just don't have it. I don't know what I'm meant for, but it's not excellence at the level that requires real world combat experience and expensive components and runecloth robes. I know. I've tried. I'm pretty good. I could be very good. But I'll never be excellent." This, you do not relish, is probably true. If you permit yourself to look past the gauzy veil of loving encouragement a good sibling has for another, Tarien does not have the makings of an excellent mage. He's too much introspection, not enough instinct. Too much indecision, not enough confidence. Too much heart; not enough brain. Not to run him down as less than clever; he's clever and insightful in equal measure. But he's not a weapon of intellect. Not like Aleeana. Not like Kalenaus. Not like you.

"So you need to tell me if you're going to do what it takes to be the next loop in the chain of our family dynasty, at the level our father wanted when would give you that look like he had no fear at all you were going to make it there. Because if you're not going to, tthen I need to just..."

He glances to you for a moment, and you catch a flash of something like mortal fear in his eyes; like he is contemplating the vastness of something too heavy for him to hold, too precious and fragile to let slip from his grasp, upon which all the world depends. But he cannot stand your gaze for very long; it's too accepting, and good, and forgiving for him in a moment when he has decided he needs to regard himself and his limitations in the cold light of day. So his eyes, felfire green with the light of bad decisions, stare down at his own hands, resting now on his knees.

"Then I need to just figure out what I have to do, or find, or gain to become strong enough to bend my own life to it."

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: siblings on the roof

Show

Oh.. so that's what it was. It was like a nagging concern Isaera had as well, but more like an afterthought in the back of her mind. But they were in survival mode, had been for quite some time. Even with this silver she brought, it was a small start, and may only be a reprieve, depending on luck and how thriftily they spent it.

But now Tarien had brought up a point that no one else had yet. Their family, their people had a great lineage. And now, the thought of losing it, and losing everyone...

"I'm scared," Isaera quietly said. It was impulsive. She had almost not said it out loud at all.

"I'm afraid I might never live up to our name, either. That if I go out there like Kalenaus, and father, I'll just.. I'll just be another casualty. And the thought of you all mourning..."

Her eyes watered as she looked at her brother, but she turned to look more vacantly at the sky. "We're lucky, compared to many other of our kin, to still have each other. I don't want to lose anyone else. Including me."

She gazed at her brother again, let down by her resignation to defeat. She didn't like the look of his disappointment. "Tarien, you aren't.." bad? excellent? How would she finish that sentence?

"You don't have to.." she sighed once again, unable to complete her sentence.

She sighed. "Listen, Tarien. Don't let my success keep you down, away from greatness. And don't let my failures push you beyond your limits. You- You are talented. Maybe not excellent. Not yet. You have centuries to improve. But combat-magic, hurling spells amidst a battlefield with.. I don't know.. orcs swarming at the shield wall and axes flying past you, and your dead kin all around.. that is not the singular way we measure you. You've more talent and heart than you realize. And the truth is.. this family would have fallen apart without you."

It was almost certain that the house wouldn't be in the process of a renovation, all the manual work wouldn't get done, her sister would have ran off, her mother would be wasting away, her cousins would be completely out of control... and Isaera would have no one to really talk to.

[Plaids]

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop

Show

Being hailed by the young elf woman is a small relief. Being approached as helper and not an oddity or opportunity for a rebellious youth to get a rise out of their parents.

Taking stock of the young elf it would certainly be possible she is a friend with one of the cadets. Hoping to not have to deliver any bad news Jakk'ari reports the good news which luckily outweighed bad in this case.


Yes indeed. My companions and I have returned with our escort led by Brother Bright. Oscar will have quite the story to tell. If you wish you can meet Felix and Aedan at the medical center. Now if I may I require the aid of a skilled mage who can help me in a magical matter.

Jakk'ari takes a step towards the dwarf and high elf. He crosses his fingers hoping the elf will be elated by the news of a friend returned safely and recuperating or indulge in her curiosity and offer her arcane skills. Assuming that her boredom earlier was evidence of her prowess outpacing her instructors' lessons.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Siblings On The Roof

Show

Tarien listens, offers a minimal nodding of receipt; but doesn't reply right away. A short, comfortable silence follows; side by side with those scraping by on the left and those not quite scraping by on the right; straddling the poverty line in the quiet evening air.
Somewhere down the road, a dog starts barking. It's annoying at first, but then you get used to it; and pretty soon, it's just another feature of the ambience: another little feature of life that wasn't okay, and then was.

"...I don't know. I don't know if I'm going to bother with magic at all. I think I might be the only person in this family who doesn't even mind being poor." Light, it's an ugly expression said out loud - being poor. Tarien chooses this moment to abandon the plump quiver of euphemisms that he has available: hard times, difficulty, and so on. "But... Thank you. You're right, I think I can hold the family together. Some day mother is going to need to accept the new reality and decide how she's going to support herself, but... She's lost more than all of us, with her sisters; so I don't want to push that on her. Not for a long time yet. And Isa... I don't want you to feel like this is an ultimatum, because it's not, it's just... Someone has to carry the name. And if it's me, then I have to start figuring some things out real soon because I'm going to need those spare centuries.
Much as a part of me just wants to... wrap us all up and hide indoors. But I remember him saying - I can't recall when - that we were being... I think, spoiled by peace, and he wanted to set an example. He knew the dangers, and he knew he was better equipped to deal with them if he was better at spellcraft; and he knew that one day that might not be enough and it was still the right thing to do. I don't want to wait until there's another war to find out if our family has power left to give to the good fight, or if all we have to give is our lives, one at a time."

Insanely, the dog chooses that moment to stop barking. You only notice because its absence is so heavy in contrast; like it heard the conversation and detected now, quite late, how serious the discussion was.

"So... Are you going to carry his name while I stay here... or am I going to carry it, while you stay here? I need to know, Isa. I need to know."

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop

Show

"Well, that's good. I worr- hey, wait!" The young elven student jogs around in front of him. He has correctly pegged her as bored, and ready to offer magical assistance as an alternative to the numbing basic of her studies. Her eyes, big and pale blue, are almost pleading for him to take her seriously. "What kind of magical matter? If it's complex, I can at least point you to the right person. If it's not overly so, maybe I can help."

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: siblings on the roof

Show

Isaera took a good, hard, long look at Tarien. Then she sighed.

"Oh come now, you aren't being very reasonable... I'd think it's only fair that if I become an archmage, then you have to as well. Or if I stay, so do you," she said with a slight tease in her voice. Then she grows more serious again, exhaling.

"I should tell you something. I met Jaina Proudmore earlier today, just before I came home. She made me an offer to.. oh that's the trouble. No specific task stated. It's sort of like.. a peacekeeping mission. Being a part of a sponsored 'guild' as she called it. This could bring us some more money, and.. help accomplish what you're aiming for, I suppose. But it is going to be situated in Ratchet." She lets out a disappointed huff.

"I'm.. really not fond of the idea.. What do you think? Maybe, if anything, I could take Aleeana along. It's only a matter of time before she just disappears into the nether. Perhaps it would be best if I could.. at least try to steer her away from certain death every now and then..."

Isaera chuckled dryly to herself, just imagining all the trouble her younger sister would get into with that rash, bullheaded personality of hers.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Siblings on the Roof

Show

“You met the Lady of Theramore? And she… what does that mean, exactly?”. This news is interesting and exciting for Tarien - especially since it feels like fate taking a hand and advocating, like he is, for Isaera’s training and greatness. You furnish him with the sparse details you have, and he thinks on it with obvious fascination.

“Isa, it sounds almost too good to be true. If you can take jobs like the one you just did - fewer dragons, maybe - you can make money on top of whatever Lady Proudmoore is securing for you. That’s enough to buy you proper elven goods - books, and orbs, and rare tutelage. And you don’t have to wander off into risk alone; you can do it with people who have already faced the worst the world has to offer and stuck around for it. And if you can bring Aleeana, she’ll either find something to do roe come back home with her tail between her legs. Both good for her. And Ratchet is…”

He trails off, purses his lips, and begins again. “Well, you don’t have to live in the town square, right? You get your own hall? Maybe you can be there and here, week on, week off. If you can survive demons and dragons, you can survive little green men trying to sell you things. That’s what I think.”

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: Siblings on the roof

Show

"That is what I was thinking. Too good to be true. At least, how it was presented..."

Isaera sighs again. "I guess I'll have to tell the others about this... And maybe I'll go, if they're willing."