World of Warcraft®

Careful not to spill any of the itching powder on her exposed skin, Yuuko carefully sprinkled the powder throughout the entire dress. She wore protective gloves to insure none of the obnoxious dust came into contact with her. An evil grin adorned her face as she carefully folded the beautiful garment and placed it neatly in a box.

The garment carried the Moradinel label and was exquisite, she carried much hate for Trenetir, but even she couldn’t discount his ability to design. She sealed the package and wrote the recipient’s name neatly on its cover. She’d seen Mr. Moradinel’s writing enough to be able to approximate his style with some passible skill.

Yuuko’s grin turned slowly into a lip curl as she reflected on what had transpired during the Undermarket’s showing in Undercity. She was nobody’s lapdog and she wasn’t about to let anyone tell her what to do. Especially being told to follow Trenetir’s orders, something that had always ended poorly in the past. Her sour expression slowly turned to a smile as she walked to the mailbox. She paused looking at the package with Armaya’s name written boldly in the center. She shrugged, dropping the package in the mail and left for home.

"Milady, you have a package from Sir Moradinel." The male forsaken guard bowed low, holding the package out to the blood elf.

Armaya glanced up from her parchments, perking a brow. "A gift?" She stood, motioning to the table. "Sit it down there, and you may open it." She spoke clearly in demonic, and a moment later a voidwalker stood in front of her. Armaya had moved just partially away from the table, enough that if there was some sort of explosion she'd be mostly protected by her voidwalker. The forsaken placed the package on the table, but hesitated in opening it, clearly nervous. "Ma'am?"

"Open it. Worse that happens is you blow up and we stitch you back together."

The forsaken sighed, as if this had happened to him one too many times already and he'd prefer it to not happen again. But nevertheless, he was oathed to the Modas il Toralar. He unwrapped the package and ccarefully, slowly, opened the box, closing his eyes as he expected a blast. But there was nothing. He glanced into the box.

"Well? What is it?"

"A dress, milady. Very exquisite work, if I may say so myself. Sir Moradinel clearly has outdone himself this time." His voice changed to glee as he spoke about the paladin.

"Yeah yeah, I know you have a major !@#$% for Trenetir." Armaya moved around her voidwalker and glanced at the dress. "There was no letter?"

"None, ma'am."

"Why the fel is Trenetir sending me a dress..."

"No clue, m'am. But it is quite lovely, perhaps he has finally gotten over his lust of that rogue and has decided to sweep you off your feet, and maybe he'll take you to Feralas you can both sit on the sands of the lovely beach ----"

"Enough. Thought a lot about eloping off with Trenetir, have ya?" She snickered softly, peering over the package and dress. "Send Trenetir a letter, ask him why he sent me the dress and what's it for. Til then, no one touches it." She flicked her wrist towards her voidwalker and the demon writhed and crumbled, disappearing back into the nether as Armaya exited the room, the dress untouched and the package still on the table.

The forsaken guard bowed low. "Yes ma'am." He watched the warlock go, following her out to make sure she had no intention of returning. He then made his way back to the dress, grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, Lord Moradinel, my dear, you didn't -HAVE- to." He quickly took the dress from the package and slid it on. It was a bit short on him, but other than that it fit well, the forsaken skipped over to the mirror and began twirling around. "Why yes, Trenetir, you CAN kiss me." He giggled softly as he started itching his shoulder. "Why I do declare my Lord that you are being very naughty." He then itched his thigh. "Oh my dear, Trenetir such a gorgeous night to spend with youuuuu!" He then itched his back, and then it all hit at once.

"What the fel." Armaya entered the room again. "What are you....." She was cut off, the forsaken was now on the floor writhing around, attempting to use the floor as some sort of scratching post. "It itches, make it stop, please mistress, I'm so sorry, I will never touch your things again.." Armaya blinked, and then it all made sense. "Practical jokes, my dear Jensen. Maybe next time you'll learn. Go shower, and get rid of the dress. Or keep it for your fantasies, whichever." The forsaken sort of ran and leaped out of the room, his claws still attempting to scratch at any part of his body he could reach. Armaya ran after him. "If the bath doesn't work, you'll need to find a mage and see if it's magical!" The last part was all of Armaya laughing. She might be Headmistress of Modas il Toralar, but humor never evaded her.