World of Warcraft®

Over a month before the Theramore incident.

"I am the very model of a modern Elven Magister..."

There's a rather cheery voice coming from the open laboratory, today - singing, no less, the voice actually quite pleasant on the ears, pretty, perhaps even what one might call talent. It would seem Vanyris is up to something.

Something exciting.

"I've information magical, ethereal, and alchemical."

Inside the room, the room that is so very rarely left open in such a state, the Magister actually seems to have cleaned up a bit. Long gone are any signs of tests upon fel and unstable magics, those of which he wards the room so heavily for, usually keeping it sealed tight. Instead, he has an extensive alchemy set atop his primary desk, along with -stacks- of books, and journals.

"I've known the kings of Quel'thalas, and I quote the fights historical~."

Most of which seem to be, oddly, from Outland - many of the books still bearing the marking of the Crown. Some of the journals do not even seem to be in the Magister's handwriting, relics from the promised land reclaimed, perhaps, or simply books he's collected from various libraries and colleagues.

"I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters math-e-matical!"

For now, however, he's focusing on a few journals in specific. The drawings are quite clear, for one who knows what they're looking at, or for. It's some sort of device used for the containment of massive energy, with a complex trigger device for releasing said source of energy quite suddenly - though to what effect, and why, would likely take more experience in such matters.

"I understand equations, both simple and quadraticallll."

Experience that many Sin'dorei, who have no doubt heard of Firewing Point, if perhaps even witnessed the aftermath of the events there, would undoubtedly have.

"About temporal magics I'm teeming with a lot of news..."

Vanyris, oh-so-cheerfully, is studying mana-bombs.

To what effect, it's hard for an observer to discern - but at the moment, he appears to be mixing various, heavily charged liquids with more mundane materials, and observing the effects beneath a microscope.

He also seems to be rather enjoying himself.

It was just a few days after the bomb had been dropped.

The streets of Silvermoon were somewhat less busy than usual, though in the lingering hours of twilight there were still small crowds and groups gathered in the Bazaar.

One such small group consisted of a Magister, his betrothed - a warrior, from his build and the scars, and a small fox which seemed to be quite content to follow the latter man about.

The warrior was in rather plain garb, a brown tunic, with matching brown pants and a black pair of work boots, and a rather cheery, happy expression planted upon his face as he followed the Magister about, arms full of books, the topics of which ranging from the study of the arcane to theatre.

The Magister, as one could instantly recognize him from the sigils embroided upon his robes, as well as the proud, calm manner in which he carried himself, was dressed far more elegantly. A golden mask obscured his face, and the rest of his clothing consisted of white and gold robes, with matching pauldrons, gloves, and boots. A fiery rapier rested at his belt, and on the opposite side, a book was chained, the handle and cover a rather intricate pattern of gold and red.

As they pass by another small crowd, the Magister suddenly comes to a halt, holding up a hand to warn the warrior of his stop. The dark skinned Sin'dorei pauses at the gesture, blinks, and as he comes to a halt his ears twitch about, as if trying to discern why exactly the masked man has stopped moving.

The darkened gaze of that mask turns itself towards the small crowd, observing. A small, unofficial gathering of Magisters - four younger ones, in specific, as they tended to unfortunately be, in the years after the Fall. They did not whisper, but rather spoke aloud words of discontent with the Warchief's actions - indeed, they spoke in rather callous tones of how Hellscream was a fool, and how Theramore was a mistake, questioning aloud who could've possibly seen the right in presenting him with such a weapon.

"Ah, a moment, if you will, Olarius." The mask speaks without motion, tone rather dark. There's a somewhat unnatural, almost eerie air about how he speaks and carries himself, the way his robes do not move as they should when he draws breath.

Blinking once more, the warrior, Olarius gives a bit of a goofy, appreciative grin and steps aside to make way for the Magister, bobbing his head agreeably to the man's words. Infact, he looks almost all too pleased to step aside, watching his Magister with what seems to be a mixture of keen interest and excitement.

Approaching the other group till he is a mere few steps away, he addresses the crowd of Magisters with a broad stroke of his arm, almost as if he is drawing his weapon. His tone is cheery, if expectant, and he looks each of them in the eye as he speaks.

"My fellow Sin'dorei, where is the merryment? The celebration?"

The four suddenly fell silent at being addressed by the elder Magister, and it seemed a great many moments till one gained the presence of mind to speak once more. It was the elder of the young group, though to say as much would be saying very little indeed. He fancied himself far more intelligent than he was, and his fiery temper matched his short, spiky red hair.

"Excuse us, Magister Spellsong?"

Magister Spellsong, it seemed, was the man behind the golden mask, and at that, his tone fell far darker, words cutting sharper than the blade he deigned unnecessary to draw ever could.

"I asked you, Sunsworn, why you are not celebrating. The streets of Orgrimmar flow freely with Orcish grog and song, and they chant praise of their Warchief - there is even talk of a Lok'vadnod for the Warchief Hellscream, when he passes. They do not question the Warchief, nor those that support him, including the Reagant Lord, because they know their place. The city is cheered, rightfully so, and they bask in a decisive victory - for us all. For the Horde. Why is it, then, that in Silvermoon there seems to be children filling the corners, spreading lies and discontentment? Are we not as proud a people as the Orcs?"

There's a pause, this one far less expectant, and somehow the mask seems to garner a mixture of emotion and expression despite it's lifeless state - anger, disappointment, condescension.

"I ask you again, Magister Sunsworn, Theralon, Starrift, and Shadowheart - why do you not celebrate?"

There's a short period of silence, before the four all attempt to speak up at once, voicing various concerns.

"The retaliation will hit Quel'thalas!"

"He could've destroyed reality, or worse."

"How could we possibly condone so many deaths?"

"-We- helped create that weapon! Surely others must know!"

Magister Spellsong tips his head as he listens to their concerns, and with a single wave of his hand, discards them immediately.

"The retaliation." He replies calmly. "If there is any, shall come to the Forsaken's door before our own. Should they wish to feed more corpses to the Forsaken war machine, so be it. Far be it from me to stop them. That IS, of course..."

As he speaks, the Magister carefully folds his hands behind his back, slowly walking back and forth before the small gathering of magisters, a few passerbys beginning to gather in the background to watch the exchange. Every so often, he spares a look towards the other Magisters, one of which could only be filled with disdain.

"That they are not -cowed- by the might of the Horde. Our weapon is so great that it could have, as you said, destroyed reality - and yet, did it? No. For here we stand. With a -decisive- victory in Kalimdor - or would you rathered we had left Theramore alone, allowing them to cut Thunder Bluff off from Orgrimmar, and let them bleed to death the very people who took us in in our greatest hour of need."

Glancing directly at Magister Sunsworn, he nods, pausing in his pacing and speech for just a moment, locking eye contact, to make certain he knows that he is being addressed, in specific, when he continues.

"You are absolutely correct, though, Magister Sunsworn. Everyone shall know that the Sin'dorei created such a powerful weapon for the Horde. -Everyone-, Alliance and Horde alike, shall know the might of the Sin'dorei. Our Allies will give us the respect we are due, and our enemies shall fear us equally so. And should they not?"

He pauses very briefly, just enough time to make certain they know the question is rhetorical.

"We are the Children of the Sun! Masters of the Arcane, unparalled by any race. Let this serve as a REMINDER to all who had forgotten that WE are the true descendants of the Highborne, and that we, nor our allies, are to be trifled with."

Chuckling quietly, he regards the quieter, female Magister - Theralon - who had voiced concerns over a death toll.

"Yet, do not let this prevent you from sleeping at night, Magistrix. You have served for several years in the Horde, now - you have no reason to flinch at such a miniscule number in comparison to the plague our allies have used. The plague, need I remind you, that you have not spoken out against because it has been used to our aid."

Sunsworn, the self appointed leader of the group, seemed to find his voice again. "But, the Kirin Tor -"

"Ah, yes." Spellsong cuts the younger man off, tone faintly amused at the prospect. "The Kirin Tor. How very -tragic-. Perhaps you are too young to remember, Sunsworn, but I most certainly am not, that these are the very people whom we save from their own foolish recklessness, time and time again, because they are unable to handle the gift of the arcane. Of course, there was a time that even our Prince called himself a member of the Kirin Tor. Many did. But I most certainly have not forgotten the fate they damned our Prince to, nor the rest of us! Why is it that we /mourn/ the deaths of those would've seen us hang, under orders of a madman, in their very dungeons? Rhonin may now be the leader, but under his command he -allowed- Modera and Ansirem to remain upon the council."

The Magister lowers his voice just barely, so that the small, gathering crowd, and the younger Magisters can still hear him, but they must strain to do so. "They are traitors. It is only now that their treachery has been repaid."

Trailing off into silence, Magister Vanyris Spellsong lets that sink in for a few moments, the expressions of the four having long since fallen. When he speaks once more, his voice reaches a commanding, elegant near-roar, gesturing for them to be gone.

"Above all else, you are Magisters. Examples to our people, pinnacles of the arcane ability that flows in all of us, that which we strive to earn and leads our very destinies. If you cannot compose yourself as such in public, then I recommend you resign for the night. Think upon what I have said. Moreover, think about what you are, and what that title means. Should you not be able to -lead- properly, and with honor, in the future, then I shall expect your resignations in my mailbox by morning, for we do not tolerate failures nor children."

At that, the four seem soundly defeated. They slump, and slowly slink off, holding together what few scraps of their dignity they have left.

Finally, the Magister turns to address the small crowd, near a dozen people, that has gathered.

"Ah, my apologies that you all had to witness such a lesson. Go now, to your families, inns, and homes - and drink, be merry, as you may, for in these past few days we have not only proven ourselves to the Horde, but to the world. Should you find yourself in the inns, you are free to put your drink upon a tab for the Razortalons, and be certain to spread the word of good cheer. Shorel'aran, Sin'dorei."

At that, the Magister bows, and there's a small bout of applause and cheering - particularly at the bit about the tab.

He turns, walking back to his warrior's side and taking the man's arm. Olarius, by now, seems to be positively giddy, practically bouncing along the man's side, the fox following suit.

(( So rare it is for Vanyris to be in such a good mood where others can witness it. I love the song. Oh, yes. Yes, I do. ))

(( Everytime I read a Vany story I just want to meet him on one of my toons.... eventually! ))