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Irilin regretted that he had seen anything at all. He regretted more that he had made mention of what he saw. Someone would have noticed eventually--and more vocally. And yet, he had stepped forward, offered what he saw, and consented to be watched.

Staying in the Spire afforded him the opportunity to comb through the library, to find old treatises he had written in his youth, as well as some of his more literary works. His first collection of sonnets, three early plays. He doubted any of these saw much circulation, but there was satisfaction in knowing they were there.

The satisfaction could not bury the feeling biting away at his mind. The feeling that, despite reassurances, there was danger. Not necessarily to him, but in his proximity. Danger which everyone would only elude to, but never confirm, and certainly never name.

After an evening of cryptic hints at vague perils of which no one had the courtesy to tell him, he had had enough. He knew, perhaps more than anyone, that knowledge was power; right now, he was powerless. Though he was no grand warrior, no saviour of his people, he deserved to have power over at least his own well-being. As he faded into the shadows of Silvermoon at night, he set out to find the one person who could give him the answers he was looking for. He didn't know how they would affect him, but he knew he wanted them. And damn those who would assume, after all he'd lived through to this point, he could not hold his own

Loved your poetry Irilin, would love to meet you in game to discuss some more poetry readings! Hope you do not mind my adding a bit to your thread?

Tick. Tock. Well into the witching hours, Benoite Dawnsong, suspended archivist, was awake.

She made for a perfect statue upon Confessor Gideon’s throne--in her ivory nightgown that whispered against her ankles, her thick hair coiled into a psyche knot.

On her lap was a sheet of creamy parchment.

The handwritten note was on Director Graellius Dawnstrider’s personal letterhead. Dated and signed out of centuries of habit, its casual contents were meant for the friendly eyes of a dear protege.

Dear Benoite,

I am quite pleased that you have taken up my suggestion for a salon around Skycaller’s text. It will be so good to hear your bright young mind tackle a topic that has preoccupied mine for so long, even as it slows and dulls.

I wonder if you would be so kind as to send a personalized invitation to my good friend Ser Trenetir Moradinel. It was he who encouraged the bold idea of displaying Yogg’Saron to the public as he regaled me with his fond memories of listening to my lectures during our Academy days.

I remember young Trenetir as a brilliant and ambitious student. It strikes me that you have much in common.

I feel fortunate, indeed, to be surrounded by tutees and colleagues who still humor this ancient creature with his many whims. I hope you will continue to do so when I suggest that a kind heart and sharp mind like yours would do Trenetir much good. I am certain you will be fast friends.

Looking forward to seeing you both on Sunday. Glory to you, child.

All the best,
Graellius Dawnstrider

Yogg’Saron was returned, safely, to the Library. The good names of her beloved friends shone even brighter for their heroic deeds. The bruise on her cheek was fading.

When Benoite Dawnsong closed her eyes, what pressed upon her the most in ghostly colors was Trenetir Moradinel as a frightened little boy, so desperately wanting to be loved. Gripping one of her hands in both of his, the man that heartbroken child had grown into had told her about the ruthlessness of his father--and worse still, the mercilessness of his mother. She had witnessed such pain in his eyes.

Benoite rose from the Confessor's throne.

With steady hands, she folded Director Dawnstrider’s letter in half. She creased it twice more, slowly--before holding the neat square of parchment over a candle’s flame. In the span of a breath, there was nothing left of it--save ashes to smudge the dove wings of her hands.

The Light guide you, Trenetir Moradinel.

To Miss Benoite Dawnsong,
Archivist, Royal Library,
Silvermoon

From Arjah,
Razor Hill Encampment,
Durotar

My Dear Benoite,

It occurs to me that your Library might be a wonderful solution to a problem I have had for some time.

I was left, in his will, the collected letters and memoirs of an orc named Grummak, who may be unfamiliar to you but who enjoyed some degree of fame in his lifetime: first as a savage warlord who specifically targeted civilian settlements in a series of raids on the Alliance, and later as the first CEO of the merged, cross-faction AAMS, in a sort of peace-making atonement for his earlier deeds.

The papers have sat in my desk for years, and moved with me to several homes, and to my embarrassment I have never quite gotten around to "arranging them for publication with all the competence her own works have shown," as he requested of me in the will.

Does your library collect such things? It is quite a mountain of information: many public speeches and letters, even more drafts and unpublished efforts at the same, three or four truly dreadful poems, and perhaps a dozen or so secret treaties and political letters that would have been priceless secrets a decade ago, but are now largely obsolete.

There is of course also the will itself, and copies of various treaties that the AAMS worked out between Horde and Alliance guilds during his tenure.

It would all be of great interest to a scholar making a study of the AAMS or of Grummak himself, and not, I suspect, to many other people at all. Would your library care for either copies or the originals? So long as they are well cared-for and made publicly accessible, I can hardly think that he would have objected. It would certainly be an improvement on my desk.

Yours in Friendship,

Arjah

He'd gotten it in his head, beneath that twisted oak.

The occasion was unimportant in a grander scheme, but they celebrated all the same. Old, blonde Bloodwing and birdboned Benoite exchanged muted pleasantries on what had turned out to be the finest summer afternoon in weeks. The field surrounding them was a wind-swept ocean of verdant green, a boy with golden eyes and a cherub's laugh waging war with his Chi'ji kite.

They sailed the hours away upon their white and red flannel blanket, working steadily through a round of asiago and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Gentle claws of sunlight raked through the mighty oak's swishing leaves, tracing the passage of time in jagged, oblong shapes in the grass. A solitary cloud pouted deep in the sky, nodding off.

"Well it's become habit by now, hasn't it?"

Sunday night salons. Hosted by the renowned Royal Library. Events and displays. Something of measure, to uplift the intellectual. Companionship, to soothe the lonesome.

"I just believe it would be a shame to miss even one. Ghastly suspension or no."

The way he hissed that word before sipping at his red. In one of their evening talks, he had drudged up the old 'golden goose' fable. In person with Directer Silverson, he had been -significantly- less cordial.

Liore sat upright, bracing himself on an elbow.

"Why don't I do it? Say a few words, share some drinks. Someone picks a fight, everyone goes home drunk and entertained.

"How hard could it be?"

The Royal Library presents an evening at the beach with Inquisitor Liore Bloodwing as he shares his ruminations on the idea of solidarity.

On Solidarity: A Discourse
5pm, Sunday, September 8th
Azurebreeze Coast, East of Duskwither Spire, Eversong Woods

Admission is free and refreshments will be provided. Dress code is casual. For more information, please contact Dr. Phrynia Emberbane of The Royal Library.

He followed her to that haunted cathedral she called home. He waited until she was alone.

At last, she was on her knees in the overgrowth her tenderness was turning into a garden, linen-gloved hands dipped into a bed of azaleas. She was humming. Then, she was singing.

Did he have ears? He wasn't sure. He was, after all, a spider.

But Spider was sure of this, beyond doubt: he could hear Her song, and it was the most beautiful song.

Down he dropped from the curtain of a weeping willow, landing gracefully on all eight of his legs, right in front of the Song Bird. He smiled his best smile, baring his magnificent silvery fangs coated in shining venom.

How unfortunate that she chose that moment to fall asleep!

But, oh, she looked so peaceful when she was sleeping! How he adored her all the more. He took some time skittering in circles around her so that he could admire her from all angles with all of his eyes.

Then, he spotted the azaleas. With glee, he plucked as many as he could with great sweeping movements of his front-most legs. He soon had enough to blanket the sleeping Song Bird with flowers, getting only a little bit of oozing venom on her vermillion sundress.

How happy she would be to awake to a bed of flowers!

Back home in his cave of skull-infested waters, as his mistress convened all her creatures great and small for a spot of tea, Spider recounted his tale of how he'd given flowers to a girl for the first time in his life.

Sister Dawnsong,

I am returned at last from my travels. Apologies for missing last Sunday. My new assistant Gary is proving to be a handful.

Is it true that you are being sent away just as I return? I do not know how you came to be on Sunsorrow's delegation to Pandaria, but keep safe, Sister.

I will run your poetry event. Gary will ready and distribute the invitations with the details you provided. It troubles me to hear that you've yet to be reinstated. Will you still stay my hand?

Glory,
P. Emberbane

Dr. Phrynia Augustine Emberbane
Physician
The Royal Library

The Royal Library presents an evening of poetry with a powerful lineup of contemporary poets. Featuring the Library's inaugural Sylvia Pathos Writing Fellow, Greatmother Arjah of the Darkspear.

Strength and Honor: The Defense of Poetry
5pm, Sunday, September 15th
Hall of Respite, Silvermoon

Admission is free and refreshments will be provided. Dress code is formal. For more information, please contact Dr. Phrynia Augustine Emberbane.

Arjah looked quizzically at the invitation. She was not, of course, unused to seeing her name on such things -- if anything, she took it as her due -- but the formality of elven events still seemed an odd match for her improvisational approach to writing.

"A defense a'poetry?" she asked curiously. "Ah wasn' aware it was under attack...still, ah suppose ah shall come up wit' somethin' ta say. Ah always do."

Absently, she bent her head back over the pile of scribbled-upon pages littering her desk. "An' somethin' new ta read. Always somethin' new ta read..."

Morgana sat in her study, scribbling a few notes and trying to write. Her loyal pet, Mr. Sparkles bounced around her happily. She idly reached down and patted the lid of the wooden box as a ghastly tongue sprang out and have her palm a lick. "Hrmm, Mr.Sparkles you already ate." She continued to write, putting the finishing touches on her poem for the Salon.

Irilin gazed at the notice, not sure what to think. Was he considered contemporary? Was he considered at all, or had his ego grown so much that he thought he ought to be?

He dreaded the thought that someone might butcher his writings. He loathed that he could not read them himself.

With little to do but arrive and see what the day would bring, Irilin dusted off his dress attire and waited.

Luncheon was duck breast glazed in cinnamon, a warm red beet salad, and peppery mashed pumpkin. Satisfied and refreshed, Graellius Dawnstrider committed an extra half-hour to tea and company around the executive dining table, simmering with laughter. Balbanes, a colleague from distant Winterspring, had delayed his afternoon departure simply to share in old company. The man was simply riotous, with his tales of yeti and snowy exploration. It was a good meal, a good diversion from his constant, ardent duties.

The cheer clung to him like the scent of cinnamon to his robes. As he negotiated the steps to his office, he might have hummed, whirled his cane like some much younger dandy out for a stroll.

“Sun bless, Medea, Sun bless,” he called as he swept through the hall. It was a room chased and finished with succulent mahogany, golds and reds radiating brilliance, ceiling high windows overlooking the vast spread of the Royal Library's bustling campus. Medea Neverglare attended the spacious corner-desk planted like a bastion by the heavily panelled double-doors. His secretary nodded her scarlet-endowed head and touched the rim of her glasses and instantly Graellius Dawnstrider felt the joy snuffed from him. Like a candle hissed upon by a snake.

He knew her nervous habits as dearly as his own. Someone had come. And he feared he knew who.

The Director directed his ancient eyes to the golden nameplate of his office, and breathed a timeless sigh.

“Ms Neverglare, hold my schedule, if you would be so kind.”

“Yes, Ser.”

He mustered for her a smile, touched her shoulder as he passed. It faded as he entered his sanctum.

There was no natural light here. The scarlet drapes criss-crossed over the massive windows, such that not a single beam of sun could penetrate. The shelf-laden walls were instead illuminated by thousands upon thousands of candles, some placed on iron-wrought stands, others simply on the floor. Some hovered of their own accord, the rivulets of wax twisting to the ground like a lady's skirts. A phonograph one hundred million years old coughed out an old, Crakian dirge.

A single figure, lean and slouched with the wear of ages, leaned against Graellius' massive desk. It appeared to be considering a gold-framed picture, one of many tilted to face the seat where Director Dawnstrider conducted his affairs.

Twin points of baleful emerald slithered up to meet him expectantly. The vast doors clambered shut, and locked.

“Inquisitor,” the elder stated mildly, crossing along the hardwood with the click of his cane. “You must forgive me. Had I known you were due, I'd have made more suitable arrangements.”

The harsh glow of his eyes drifted about the office, and Liore frowned a fraction deeper. “You have an impressive collection, Graellius. The better to occupy idle time.”

Dawnstrider shifted to his chair, a leather masterpiece that swallowed him into its plush caress. He took great care, to set his cane against his desk and steeple his fingers. They fit one into the other, fingers into fingers, cane into desk, placed as such for centuries. Bloodwing remained standing. Leered, in what had become his manner.

You were not always so, Graellius thought. He then took notice of the picture Liore was holding and a piece of him writhed silently. The Inquisitor recognized the expression as it flitted across the ancient's craggy face, and set the frame back on the desk. He spoke quietly.

“Skycaller's text has been returned, justice -such as it is- meted. I think you know what I have come to ask.”

“Yes,” the Director said. “Yes I do. Though you understand, it is not so simple as a wave of my fingers. I am not the tyrant, of this library. Nor the redeemer. It has functioned so, for years. To prevent-”

Liore interrupted. “To prevent occurrences like -this- marring the goodly process of fairness.”

His eyes flickered to one candle out of the thousands. Its flickering flame changed color, into a light-consuming black.

“Your cooperation has cost you, Graellius. I can appreciate that. Leeched from you a measure of your conviction. But I am here to tell you, it needn't. You have served your Library in the best manner your situation allowed. In that, there is no guilt.”

Ancient Dawnstrider was not at all comfortable with what he had allowed. It would scythe at him in the restless hours of the night. But, as with every story, there were threads trailing off into a darkness he could not yet appreciate. If he -hadn't-, if he had resisted, the price might have been all the greater.

Graellius Dawnstrider did not relish the prospect of lives hanging upon his choices.

“It was an entanglement of elaborate design, Liore,” he stated at last. His use of the formal name came a little too easily. Old habits, and such. “I sincerely hope it has made your work worthwhile.”

Bloodwing shifted, one leg to the other. He didn't blink, though he remembered clearly her deep, deep sadness. “It hasn't,” he confessed at last. “I hadn't planned on suspension.”

“I -had- warned you.”

“Yes.”

“You -did- insist.”

“I did.”

“I can only hope the price of admission was worth the theatrics.”

“We've got him,” the Inquisitor stated simply.

There was an uncomfortable silence. An inhale, an exhale. The perfect sigh.

“I'll not be party to your schemes again,” Dawnstrider decided.

“No.”

“I owed your father -that- much, but not again.”

Silence.

“I will bring the motion forward, and press the council to reconvene regarding the reinstatement of Archivist Benoite Dawnsong. Retrieval of the texts and time to simmer may have cooled some of our more... passionate board members, but it is they who will ultimately decide.”

“Thank you.”

“No, my boy.” It was coiled in his old voice, his shoulders; his displeasure and his eagerness to be done with this whole business. “It is not for you.”

Graellius Dawnstrider regretted his words. They cut the Inquisitor deeply, scattering his luminous glare to the floor. But that was life. The truth, it hurts.

For what stretched on like an eternity, Liore Bloodwing just stood there. Inscrutable as a handsome, tortured statue. Graellius realized that he must have been waiting to be dismissed. Like they sat centuries ago, a boy with an empty plate smiling patiently while the rest finished their meals.

How he'd grown. How he'd endured. Still sinking, still spinning. Still hanging by a thread. But you are being sewn back together, aren't you. By hands far more capable than your own.

The question burned in the back of his throat, and he spat it out without thinking. “Haven't you found-" Here his voice faltered, and he simply could not will the rest out.

Liore whispered. “No. But I will.”

And turned to stalk out.

Graellius Dawnstrider was left with his thoughts, his candles, his tomes. Before resuming the days work, he reached out to drape an old finger over the frame the Inquisitor had inspected. He tilted it back into place.

And frowned at the picture of Liore Bloodwing and Asimenios Dawnstrider, arm in arm as boys.

Auraelith's lips trembled as she scribbled upon the parchment, her usual poise painfully dismissed as she beckoned the black ink across the paper. What would have been lovely swirls and divots comprising her eloquent cursive had become sharp, jagged...flawed. Her eyes fluttered along the page, the scribbles appearing to be nonsensical blather, and by all outward appearances at this moment, she herself looked looked nothing short of mad. She would miss attending the salon this evening, the banter, the smiles, the life, and the dignity it bestowed upon her...but some things are better off left alone sometimes.

It hardly mattered, this poem that she had written as a teenager was all she could look to for solace at this moment. -He- had appeared to her last night, and she knew that -he- had been killed decades ago.

How....why...did he appear before her and compel her to do such a thing? One so pure, so ideal, Semajir would have never encouraged such a selfish act. Thank the gods, no one knew- nor would they.

Banishing any semblance of doubt the night's events had embedded in her bleeding heart, she focused what little she could manage of her mind on the poem as it appeared before her. Sadri would be checking on her soon. The Inquisitor would be stopping by. Ivyris had places to go and each of them required her attention this day.

Just focus.

As the last words materialized, her pulse slowed slightly, the trembling ceased superficially- and that was better than nothing at all. She heard a knock upon her door and placed the scrawled parchment upon her desk for the few who'd enter to see. Perhaps it could serve as a warning, a petition, a blessing...an execution.

Soulshattered

The quietly cloaked, seemless wimpers brought to light only by the tear-streaked flesh…Such words illuminated away from the ebon shields only in the fleeting flashes of lightning striking her hollowed fields of hope.
Glassy eyes exposed, her tale is whispered ‘til the thunder rumbles with it’s darkened mask to shield her truths once more.
The anesthetized emotion cannot be free.

To remain numb
-a beautifully etched shard of what was meant to be-
Begets another day endured-nay-just one more agonized breath in an ailing, repulsively lovely existence….

“Do accept my apologies for neglecting the invitation, darling.” The words politely and effortlessly slipped from her mouth as if someone worth noting had dared to her blackened chamber. She rose from her desk, leaving the mangled paper behind.

Regardless, the show must go on.

The stationery was pale creamy parchment, edged with the bright turquoise of the Cirque's colors. A jester's cap at the top of the page surrounded by a crested shield. It was simple but elegant. Vivieka Dawnstrike penned the note carefully in elegant script.

To Graellius Dawnstrider,

In the course of my studies in the fair city of Silvermoon, I have had chance to explore the Royal Library. Let me take the chance now to express my appreciation of the fine work you do for the betterment of Sindorei society.

The recent salons of the Royal Library have piqued my interest. I would like to offer the services of my musicians Hahnai Dawnsinger and Azmos Whitemane to play for any of your salons that may benefit from the addition of fine chamber music. I assure you they are musicians of extraordinary skill. Whether to offer entertainment on their own or to provide an ambiance to the proceedings.

If this interests you feel free to send me a message as to where and when you might like the use of such fine talent. The Cirque prides itself on offering quality entertainment. It is my humble wish to volunteer this service to you with pride in the Sindorei traditions.

Cordially yours,

Vivieka Dawnstrike

"You should go."

Anyanara Sunwhisper did not look up when she said it. She did not have eyes for her brother - she had only eyes for the text in her hands.

"I don't do well at those things," Araneon responded, waving his hand. He sat on his sister's couch in her flat in Silvermoon. It was a beautiful place, lavishly decorated, but it did not feel comfortable to him.

"Your decision," she said. "How long are you staying here?"

"Just until I can find another place."

"Dare I ask what happened to the last one?"

"Better off not," Araneon said. He got caught up with an undead priest and his search for some troll druid. It was all convoluted, and the last time he spoke with the priest the conversation did not end amicably. "I should have a new flat in a week or two."

"No rush," Anyanara said. "But you should go."

"I'm not a party person."

"They aren't parties."

"I'm not much for high, intellectual pursuits."

"Something you do not need to remind me of. But it's irrelevant. Go anyways. The Royal Library does great things for our people, and the crowd is top notch. It'll get you away from that fringe lifestyle you love so much."

"I happen to value solitude."

"You overvalue it," she said. "What is the point of penance if you're never allowed to feel forgiven? Enough of this. You need to start integrating into society," Anya said, finally looking up. "You're so morose and morbid. Withdrawn. If you're so desperate to prove that there is more to you than that horrible tattoo on your arm, then go prove it. Otherwise, stop sulking. It's exhausting and I'm not going to have you darkening my doorstep while you're here."

Araneon's gaze instinctively went to the spider tattoo on his arm. Every time someone mentioned the thing he swore that it burned.

"Most won't even know the stories of the Spider," Anyanara continued. "You'll be fine."

"I'm not worried about what people will say," Araneon responded. The sentence didn't have to be finished for his sister to understand. She gave him a hard look, shook her head, and then turned her gaze back towards the text.

"You'll be fine." There was a pause. Without looking up, she added, "And if not, I'll kill you myself."

“Director Dawnstrider’s office. This is Raezel D’Azul speaking, please hold.”

Click.

“Director Dawnstrider’s office. This is Raezel D’Azul speaking, please hold.”

Click.

“Director Dawnstrider’s office. This is Raez--oh hey, girl! Yeah, I can talk.”

Raezel D’Azul Sunspot flipped back his shiny golden hair. He adjusted the microphone on his sleek headset. “Oh, you know, just thanking the Light it’s Friday. What’s going on with you? And OH EM EL did you SEE what Lala wore to the gala last nigh--oh, hold on girl--Archivist Dawnsong! Yoohoo!”

Raezel put his call on hold as he noticed Benoite Dawnsong exiting the boardroom. He flashed his perfect teeth for her. “So? How did it go?” It was all he could do to not roll his eyes as the demure woman blushed and dipped her head.

“I’ve been reinstated, Mister Sunspot,” Benoite said softly.

“Well congraaaatulations! I knew, I just KNEW they would! You GO girl!” Raezel made a show of clapping his hands. “Between you and me, hun, it was suuuuch a silly thing for them to suspend you in the first place!”

“That is very kind of you to say, Mister Sunspot. Oh, and I meant to thank you for forwarding the inquiry regarding the salon to me. We’ll be having a pair of musicians performing for us this Sund-- ”

“Oh, don’t mention it, hun! Though if you could do me, like, the hugest favor and tell your little salon friends that the Director’s office isn’t the place for questions regarding those salons, I would so, so appreciate it, hun.” Raezel fluttered his lashes.

“Of course, Mister Sunspot. Thank you again for your kindness. I do hope you’ll be able to make it this Sunday? It would be so good to see you there.”

“Oh! Oh. You know, I would SO go, I SO would, but I’ve got this thing that I absolutely cannot push back! You know how these things go! Ugh, one second, hun--Director Dawnstrider’s office, this is Raezel D’Azul speaking, please hold--so sorry about that, hun! I better get back to it! You have yourself a fabulous day now!”

“Thank you, Mister Sunspot. A … fabulous day to you, as well.” Benoite swept into a curtsey before departing.

Raezel waited until the office door closed behind the petite archivist before unleashing the eyerolls. He took one of his calls off hold and adjusted his headset.

“Hey girl. You still there? Ugh. You will NEVER guess who’s just been taken off suspension! Mmhmm! She was just all up in here prancing around. I know, I know! I can’t STAND her.”

Raezel twirled a strand of his hair around her finger. “I mean, she’s not THAT bad, just like, ugh, she is just SO dull. Like, come talk to me after you’ve had a few drinks and put on a push-up bra!”

The receptionist spun around in his seat and examined his freshly manicured nails, held up to the light.

“And you just KNOW there’s a FREAK in there somewhere. I mean, everyone know’s she’s sleeping around with that death knight--GROSS. Oh, you know! The security guy! I mean, that's obviously the REAL reason he was fired. Why else would she have covered for him like tha--hold on, gurl--Director Dawnstrider’s office. This is Raezel D’Azul speaking, please hold.”

Click.

“You still there, hun? So, anyway, I don’t care how you spin it, but you could not paaaaay me enough to screw a dead man.” Raezel giggled. “Mmhmm! It’s practically confirmed. She suddenly started wearing this hideous ring on her finger. Like, hello? Ever hear of Piffeny’s? And you know what ELSE they’re saying about her! She’s also got--UGH, hold on, girl.”

Click.

“Director Dawnstrider’s office. This is Raezel D’Azul speaking, please hold.”

The Royal Library presents an evening of contemporary restylings of traditional Sin'dorei lamentations. Special guests from Cirque will be performing live.

From Darkness, Comes Light: Songs of Lament
5pm, Sunday, September 22nd
Throne room, Ruins of Lordaeron

Admission is free and refreshments will be provided. Dress code is business casual. For more information, please contact Archivist Benoite Dawnsong.

For your listening pleasure of Sunday night's music, may I suggest the following playlist to put in a You Tube list. This will give you something to listen to as Hahnai and Azmos rp the announcements of the song and a little bit of macros to tell you what they are doing. I appreciate the comments and reactions to the music.

1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I97_x79hWA0

2.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tTdqdOC2DtI

3.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upkYQqbrjSc

4. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5anLPw0Efmo

5.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=No6jHwe0QoQ

Adding one more for us to play, actually for Azmos,

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFbfvlHhSoY

This is all I think unless someone has a request?

A carefully folded and marvelously scripted letter sent to Benoite Dawnsong:

Miss Dawnsong,

Please know that Azmos and I enjoyed the salon very much this Sunday evening. I was honored beyond measure by the reception of the music we presented. The Cirque is proud to give to the community and will continue to do so.

To be able to perform the song by Sharinel Firelight was a special delight. I do hope we have more promising poets and song writers to allow us to perform their compositions. I am working on some poetry and song writing myself, but for the most part I collect the folk songs of Azeroth in order to save them for posterity.

I have had occasion to travel to Outland and collect some unusual songs from the world of Draenor as well. It is my pleasure and hobby to collect music scores and songs.

Please give my regards to those in the Royal Library who helped to make the evening so marvelous. Staff is always appreciated, even to the lowliest cooks and housekeepers.

Sincerely, Hahnai Dawnsinger