World of Warcraft®

The moon had just peeked over the mountains surrounding Moonglade, a small beam finding its way through the window of Irilin’s small dwelling, up in the hills and away from Nighthaven. Irilin sat on his bed, staring down at a page of parchment half-filled with his practised writing. The ending to the play—which should have been delivered weeks ago—still eluded him. His pen moved toward the paper countless times, and every time, he pulled it away again. The words sounded wrong, the scene stilted, the staging unworkable.

Irilin sighed and set down his pen, leaning back for a moment to rest on the pillows behind him. The first play had been so easy, he thought. It just poured from his pen as though it was already on the parchment, and he merely broke the enchantment that hid it from sight. Now…
It’s not as if his writing had been productive; this was the first thing of substance which he had tried to write since the last play. A few limericks, perhaps a sonnet, but nothing deep or meaningful, nothing worth of what his output used to be. Perhaps he was getting old. Perhaps the words just didn’t hold as much meaning as they did when the world was older, different. Perhaps…he just didn’t have anything else he needed to say.

He sighed and gazed out the window at Lake Elune’ara, the moon creating a line of pale light crossing the surface, growing as the moon rose higher into the sky. He and Jordenn used to stand on the balcony overlooking the lake, gazing down at the beauty of the water. They had loved Moonglade more than a non-druid should, and the druids who lived there, or kept vigil, remembered the Elves from their visits. Though Irilin was alone now, they allowed him a small dwelling, away from the noise and war, the distraction and disappointment that he had come to know in his life.

Irilin rose from the bed, and crossed to a small table. He didn’t sit, though he thought about it, staring at the empty chair that sat tucked underneath it. There was a restlessness coming over him. The sensation was still foreign to him, though it had been poking at him for months now. He’d always felt some sort of purpose in his life, until suddenly it seemed like it was gone. Since then, he struggled with a sense of wasted potential, energy unspent. He was struggling with it again, which is why he didn’t notice the shadow that passed briefly over the glow of the moon in the open window. He was finally brought back to the present when a pair of feet came flying through it, connecting with his chest and toppling him over onto the floor, the wind knocked out of him.

Elf, human…he couldn’t make out the person who had toppled him, and he scrambled to get himself upright and standing. Before he could, though, a foot thrust his shoulder back down to the floor, and his head made hard contact as his torso landed prone again. The disorientation was shattered when a sharp blade went through his shoulder, pinning him to the floor. His mouth opened as though to scream, but it was just instinct; no sound emerged. The foot came down on his cheek, pushing his face into the floor. A wet glob flew into what face was exposed, and he shuddered as a second blade pinned his other shoulder.

A third blade flirted with his throat, hovering within a hair’s breadth of the scar across his neck. The edge of the blade kissed his skin, bringing a thin line of blood to the surface, but not sinking into the flesh. Irilin’s body attempted to gasp, but made at most a spasm.

The intruder stepped away from where Irilin was pinned, standing just next to the table. One hand opened, and an orange ball of flame began to form in their palm. The light from the fire revealed a hood, pulled down to hide the face, save a smile that seethed something evil. With a flick of the wrist, the fire jumped to the bed. The pages of the play went up in flames almost instantly, the bed itself smouldering and quickly catching fire itself. Two more balls of flame jumped into the dwelling, one in the fireplace, the other atop the small wooden table, which crackled happily as the flames spread over its surface. Without another word, the figure slid out the window.

Irilin tried to force his way up the blades into a sitting position, but the hilts of the blades stopped his rise, and he slid back down them, gasping in pain. Each gasp brought smoke from the fire into his lungs, fire that was spreading to the actual structure of the dwelling. He gazed up at the ceiling, watching the fire crawl along the supports, eating away at them until they began to buckle. He coughed roughly, feeling a drop drip from his neck and trickle down to the floor.

Before he lost consciousness, he felt himself smiling.

*****

The guards did not notice the fire until it exploded from the dwelling, consuming it in a ball of fire that rose to the sky. Druids who could, shifted themselves to creatures of flight, procuring buckets to fill at the lake and topple over the fire. Others did what they could to bring up dirt to throw on the fire, hoping to smother it out before it could do more damage.

In the end, they prevented the fire from descending the hill into Nighthaven, but they could not save the dwelling. As the sun rose on the smouldering rubble the next morning, little remained save piles of ash and the occasional piece of splintered beam. It wasn’t until the following day, when sifting through the debris to clear it from the area that someone came across a blackened skeleton lying between two short swords.

The druids who remembered the silent elf mourned, quietly and respectfully, for their lost friend, knowing that they were likely the only ones he had left in the world. They interred the bones high in the hills overlooking the lake, a simple marker of two stones side-by-side the only indication of what lies beneath. And every night, when the moon rises, its light glows softly on the stones, embracing them.

((Wow ... I'm in a bit of shock.))

((But...I only just got to know his work =( I'm blaming the Red Mage!! She probably didn't do it, but I'm blaming her anyway!))

((That's... that's a terrible thing to make me read before I log off for the night. Quick! Someone link me something cheerful! T.T))

07/31/2015 08:33 PMPosted by Cerulana

((But...I only just got to know his work =( I'm blaming the Red Mage!! She probably didn't do it, but I'm blaming her anyway!))

((Anyone who would like to claim responsibility is more than welcome to do so. The more public the better :) ))

((....huh. That's one way to whack your character. :D Wish I'd have got to hate him more.))

((Aww. :( This is sad. Would you like some sort of funeral/memorial for him?))

(*Blames it on the red mage and her lackies, because reasons)

It’d been several days since Kezrin visited Booty Bay. It’d been days since she’d been in anyplace for more than a few hours. The bossgnome was keeping her busy and not easily found, which meant either cooped up north at Solendenus’s estate, or doing so many deliveries few could say for certain where she was.

It was with both dread and relief that Kezrin remembered she still needed to contact Irilin Duskwhisper about his most recent AAMS request. Irilin was one of the few people she’d ever felt comfortable chatting with (so to speak) and she rather liked the calm energy of Moonglade, even if the druids there weren’t so pleased to have a goblin in their midst. It’d be definitely a break from the stress to head that way.

Yet it was with trepidation that she left the flight master's roost with a folder tucked under her arm, filled with her… no, the bossgnome’s recommendations to Irilin for a potential date. There weren’t many men Kezrin was willing to seriously consider, though there was one warrior fellow who seemed fairly promising. Trying to find a “match” for the poet had made Kezrin realize how very little she actually knew about him, or what he’d find suitable. It was possible he’d reject every candidate she proposed.

Kezrin had exactly one point of solid data for “men Irilin found attractive” and she was not very keen on setting him up with anyone like that again.

She adjusted the folder with a sigh and set about finding directions to the Duskwhisper abode. Which meant finding a druid. One who was hopefully awake. And knew whom she was talking about. And most importantly, where to find him.

At last she found a large tauren who seemed to fit the first two criteria.

It turned out… she didn’t need to worry so much about anyone not knowing who Irilin Duskwhisper was.

“He’s… what?” Her voice cracked on the question.

“I am quite sorry to break the news to you,” the tauren rumbled sympathetically, crouching low to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. Kezrin swatted it away like a reed striking a tree trunk. It wasn’t very effective, but the druid respectfully withdrew from her personal space.

He couldn’t be! No!

She numbly stared at the blades of grass, the longer ones curling over the tips of her shoes. Moonglade was never quite as cold as she expected. The air was humid… perhaps it had rained recently, or maybe it was the proximity to the lake… the air was still, far too still for her taste. It was much nicer at the beach and its constant breeze. She preferred the sounds of the oceans to all the birds chirping… she never really like birds.

The grass swayed as the tauren stood back to his full height.

“Tell me what happened,” she forced herself to speak.

A few hours later, she was sitting near a couple of stones, the small stack of papers getting smudged in the dirt beside her. With long practice and precision she folded the top sheet into a glider, then carefully launched it into the air. It sailed further than she expected before abruptly nosediving into the soil.

Another glider joined it soon, gaining a foot on its predecessor; there wasn’t any point in keeping the papers, after all.

A third. The druids would likely scold her for littering. They’d been quick enough to clean up after Irilin, after all. But had they done anything to stop the fire? They were druids! Surely someone had noticed!

A fourth. Let them scold her. The papers were worthless. If she could, she’d burn them, too-

The glider disappeared in a burst of flames, ghostly white ashes drifting to the ground.

Something vaguely tugged at Kezrin’s awareness. Cautiously, she crumpled the next paper and tossed it into the air, willing the elemental to do as it wished. Another bloom of orange and wisps of ash. She suddenly knew that it would burn all of it if she asked.

The elemental was restless, uneasy. It needed something to do.

She tossed another crumpled paper; it became a short-lived spinning fireball. She made another glider and let it soar. This time, it burned slowly, the embers trailing from its edges like a firehawk. She was almost out of paper; she crumpled the rest up and threw them into the air at once.

They popped into small sparks, reminding her of midsummer’s fireworks. She almost giggled. Ash littered the ground around her. The smell reminded her of the candle she’d once given Irilin for his wedding that was scented like burning wood… one of her own favorites...

The small moment of fun dissipated. Irilin was dead, his home burned. Fire had taken away everything.

But maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t happy about it, either.

“Thanks,” she whispered softly, curling up to rest her chin on her knees. “I hope Irilin didn’t mind the show. But I think I’d rather be alone, now.”

The presence lingered a few moments longer before fading away, leaving her in peace.

((Jeez, I leave home for a couple of days and I get blamed for all sorts of stuff. Speaking of, there will indeed be a slaying soon(TM)....))

[[What? Irilin? Why? Why the playwright?]]

((*sobs* That's not okay!))

Upon word of Irilin's death reaching Silvermoon City, a banker moves to empty out Irlin's holdings from the vault. Inside, a few bills of sale, notes of modest holdings, and a single piece of parchment with the following:

If you should read these words, then I am dead.
Though I have little to my name, I leave
This will and testament, which should be read
And followed to the letter. Do not grieve
Too long for me; just live, and love your days.
To Kezrin Kanzelry, I leave the rights
To all my published works: the sonnets, plays,
And tomes on casting spells. For all the nights
Of company, I leave th'AAMS
My flats in Silvermoon and Orgrimmar.
The Park receives what wealth I have. I guess
That's everything I have accrued thus far.
And last, to Trenetir, I leave the blame,
Should it be his or not. It's all the same.

Not being an executor of estate, and unsure who to contact, as no relations are listed in Irilin's file, the banker sends word to the AAMS office, since the vault did contain the deeds to the flats. He only hoped the AAMS would know what to do with the rest.

The panda nudged Reagan's shoulder with her paw. "Bloodhawk, ya got a letta honeh, messenger says it's important." The elf lay on the floor of the inn. She had returned to her old hunting grounds in Pandaria for a little job and had enjoyed it, immensely. After the job she had taken to celebrate, with the best mead Pandaria had - perhaps she had celebrated a tad too hard.

"What do ya want?" Reagan grumbled, pulling the blankets further around her.

The panda, a female twice the size of Reagan, huffed. Reagan heard the Panda leave, only to return a few minutes later. Next she knew, a bucket of water was tossed upon her and she was drenched and chilled. With a small yell, Reagan sat up, now freezing and soaked and - oh, there comes the headache.... "Ya fel better have a good reason for doing that Layla. I may give you quite a bit of my coin but no one is beyond a good stabbing." She glared up at the innkeeper with a snarl. The panda seemed to not care one bit; as if she got this threat every day - and perhaps she had. Instead, she shoved a parchment into Reagan's hands. "Read it, love, then tell me if it was worth it all."

Reagan unfolded the parchment, which she knew Layla had already opened and read simply because it was missing the envelope and the creases had been redone twice.

"Reagan. You wanted word if anything dire should happen while you are gone.

The poet is dead and your fiance will most likely require your..services. Best to come home quick. I will summon you when you are ready."

There was no signature on the parchment, a simply "A" written in calligraphy at the bottom, like any other A should be written.

Reagan sighed, running a hand through her soaking wet hair. "Thank you Layla. I would like my bill now if you please, and some coffee. This might be a long week."

[ Crappy and written sorta quick, sorry! ]

The news hit him like a ton of bricks. He felt so many emotions, shock, rage, frustration, disappointment, anger, and loss... such a deep aching loss that he had not felt in years. He left Stranglethorn, left the sycophants and naysayers, the illwishers and the fools.

When his drake touched down in Moonglade it was only a matter of time before he found a druid willing to point him to the grave-site. It was here that Trenetir collapsed, burying his head in his hands and sobbing openly, all semblance of stoicism lost. "I'm sorry..." he repeated, over and over again, "I'm sorry it wasn't enough."

Thunder Bluff.

The somber melancholy of the near-abandoned Lodge veiled Blaine in a myriad of emotions. Should he be experiencing burning rage? Crushing grief? Nothing? He was not quite sure, himself.

It had been almost an hour since the messenger owl bearing news of the grisly scene departed back to the Moonglade. The Lodge's shutters had been closed since then; its heavy door dead-bolted shut. People he loved had died before. Many of them, in fact. However, this felt...different. Most fell valiantly in battle, or drifted away peacefully in their sleep. Never so heinous an act had been committed against one of Blaine's friends, leaving him uneasy. Was this an one-off? Or should he expect more to come? Vigilance, he thought, is warranted.

He stood in the foyer for several minutes, trying in vain to collect himself. With a heavy sigh, he marched to a storage cabinet, withdrawing a single candle. After fetching a match, he took his ingredients to the hearth, where he lit the candle, a sentinel against the darkness drowning the Lodge.

Blaine collapses into the large easy chair nearby, groaning as his tired bones do the same. He watches as the candle burns down, his thoughts always on his former resident poet. Though he never spoke, Irilin was always good to listen to Blaine's inane ramblings about whatever project he was working on at the time. Those days have passed, and the looming isolation of the silent Longhouse bears down on his trembling frame.

"Damn," he whispers. "Damn, damn...."

Yuuko couldn’t help but hide her smile. She’d do anything it took to destroy Trenetir, but this was an unexpected gift. She was one of the select few that had seen with her own eyes how much Trenetir loved Irilin. Trenetir was a twisted man, but complex and capable of deep caring. Now to see what he once cherished snuffed out, was quite savory. She’d once tried to do the very same thing, but her hired blade had been incompetent.

She sighed as she moved from the shadows. It was rare for her to show herself at Lounge, but she’d wanted to see the expression on Trenetirs face. She wanted to see him break. Her eyes watched him coldly as he walked away from the gathering. She knew there was another. She knew there was someone else he would seek out.

Yuuko clenched her jaw as she thought hard. If that last support was removed he would fall and what was his would be hers. Her head bowed as the thoughts raced through her mind. This isn’t what she wished to become, but hatred was flowing through her like a torrent. Without anyone to turn to she felt the need to embrace this old friend.

Yuuko’s head rose slowly, she needed answers before she acted further. Her eyes shifted down to the ring finger on her right hand, a plain silver ring shown back with two opals in the shapes of leaves, holding up a dark red ruby, the mark of someone who may have answers. She would go to him next.

The wolf spirit howled as it raced across Kalimdor to Moonglade. The druids always understood his solitude more than others. He had only been back a few days after nearly half a year being absent in the minds of his colleagues. The shaman doubted many knew he was gone, but that wasn't important. The news he had heard, that he had to reassure it was a lie. That was important.

His incandescence solidified into the molten armor he wore and the flames flickered quietly in the beautiful serenity of the lake. They dimmed further as the shaman realized the news was true, only a few crackles of fire sounded off as his emotions quieted. A few of the druids had noticed the shaman and approached with silence perhaps offering reassurance. A quick wave of the hand was all that was needed and he was left alone.

"Khaz'kah Atal'ai..." he murmed. That was a title given to him by Bonswamdi. Devoted to the death totem...a fitting phrase to remember as he stared at the ground. Tazjiin positioned himself indian-style next to the resting place. He took his battle-scarred hand and began to draw in the dirt, a glyph he had learned while at the Throne of the Elements. The ground hummed and reverberated as if mourning the loss of the elf as well.

The shaman sat there, eyes closed, and hummed an old Zandali lullaby that he learned from his mother. As he hummed, the water and wind danced as if performing a somber ballet to the song. A fitting tribute to one he respected so much.

I could have saved him... I should have been there...

The blackened skeleton gazed with empty eye sockets at the piece of parchment in it's hands. Dead. The playwright was dead. Dusk cawed as he shifted position, pecking the ground.

You are right, dusk. You are right. Do not worry, dear friend, I will not forget you.

Scrawling an elegant picture in the dirt, Morver began to hum a small tune, sounding like a chilling north wind through the pine. That picture would be transferred to parchment later, when there was ink. Yes, such a picture should be drawn. This was not something to be forgotten. Dusk cawed again, and flew to a nearby tree branch.

...Ink... Yes, I need ink. If only to preserve the memory... I should have been there... I could have saved him...

((Farewell, Irilin. May your plays be remembered and beloved for generations to come. Also, I'm eager to find out who did this. Perhaps a formal investigation?))