Sebastien's blog

((See part one here: http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/sebastien/revelation ))

"Regent Lord." Rommath's tone was dire as he strode into the spire throne room. 

"We have the latest reports from the coast - the Ghostlands is all right, apparently their barriers were still functional enough to keep the seawall intact.  Remind me to thank Kerwin and Firatril for that old cannibalizing op on the ruins, turns out it worked."  Halduron Brightwing held a small stack of similar reports, some from every corner of Quel'thalas.  "My agents are reporting something huge going on in Stormwind, as well.  Something about a black dragon attack.  I'm certain there's more, but they haven't been in touch for a while."

The two blood elves kept their eyes on the forming portal, wincing to look at the bright magical energies coalescing despite their protective goggles.  At last, the site took shape - the cave coming into view, bioluminescent fungus the only illumination through the portal.

"Output to 30 percent.  Readying portal channel..."  Ixidos slowly adjusted the arcane machinery, the portal glyph on the floor stabilizing.  Sebastien watched with care, focusing it on the geomantic coordinates they'd just acquired with a pair of magi supporting him.

"Steady lads."  Two mage guardians stood near at hand.  If anything came through that portal, it was destined to be interesting, at the least.

The portal opened to a sheen of solid rock.  Pebbles and ground dirt dusted slightly through it onto the floor.

"Damnation!" Sebastien fumed as the portal opened, leaving it hovering.  The entire sin'dorei population of the room winced.  "Ixidos, I've spent far too long this day staring at blank rock faces.  I thought we'd recalibrated this tinker-toy of yours to give us accurate coordinates?"

50.) Wood

Calligan idly carved and whittled at the branch he'd collected from Eversong's reaches, setting down the tiny figure of a lounging female blood elf on the rock by the falls.  He gave a soft, sad smile, turning away and moving to the next one.  A wooden flower carved by hand was set in the hollow under a bridge.  And a small carved dragonhawk toy sat idly by his desk at work, all for hands that would never hold them.

49.) Winter

The letter was drafted simply by Sebastien's own hand and sealed personally, hand-delivered to the convocates alone.  They were the only ones who could be made aware of this, only they had the discretion to keep panic to a minimum. He warded each letter individually, ensuring that if it were read by someone other than the intended recipient it would blank the page.  Leaving it for each of the ready convocates, he returned to the secured quarters of the Arcana.

"Ixidos, status report." he said, his tone calm and serious.

"The fluctuations are still there, sir.  Irregular, we haven't really found any kind of pattern to them yet."  The stiff-haired young blood elf engineer didn't bother looking at Kerwin, engrossed in the readings that hummed past his arcane display. 

"And the elementals?"

The passers by barely paid any heed to the shrouded, filthy old elf in the corner.  Dressed in rags, huddling a threadbare cloak around his shoulders, he muttered weakly, holding out a hand. 

"Alms...alms for a veteran of the wars..."

I must move forward. 

My people are gone, and only I remain, a relic who will not be here long. 

My children are dead.  My heart, taken from me.

I must lift the stones, I must hold the gates. No one else can.

I must move forward.

I cannot look back and see only myself.

Sebastien recieved the last memo with a sigh. 

"No word from the others, eh?" he asked, looking to the apprentices around the room.  No one dared respond until one of the younger, bolder fire students spoke.

"They're calling it extended leave to attend to duties in the field, sir.  Convocate-General Firatril's tendered a formal resignation, same with Featherfax and Prideux.  No word whatsoever from LaMont."

Kerwin closed his eyes solemnly, taking a long, patient breath.  "Then the situation has become as we feared.  Gentlemen and ladies, inform your superiors.  Operation Al'ar is now in effect."

Satchiel glanced around the streets with eyes sharp, shield raised and blade readied.  He'd been on his way to see Fae when the guards had raised alarms - it was typical around Tranquillien that a raised alarm usually meant a guard letting out a bloodcurdling scream as he died.  Life on the ragged edge, Satch mused as he looked around for the source.  He had been chasing through the ruined city with a small patrol of four spellbreakers, rushing past scenes of civillians murdered without mercy or pity.  Not Scourge, the cuts were too clean.  Not Trolls either, the wounds weren't from axes.

Sebastien calmly dictated to the apprentice, the young blood elf quickly scribbling as he sat with quill and paper at the smaller writing desk. 

Posted in the Silvermoon Gazette, the Silvermoon Sentinel, and near every paper of repute.  In response to an Anonymous letter ( http://www.rp-haven.com/story/silentfox/anonymous_letter )

Unto the Citizens of the Blackened Woods and people of Quel'Thalas -

I feel your suffering more keenly than you may believe.  For centuries I have myself fought against the Amani, from the initial troll wars that brought about our first meetings with the base Humans, through the wars of our more recent age.  I fought the Scourge as they advanced through our lands, and it was only after being rendered unconscious from a near fatal injury that my own brother dragged me from the front.  I suspect I will fight the Amani and study the craft of War as a reality of our times until the day I die. 

Begin Recording.

It's ironic, it would seem, that a device such as this has become so helpful to me, another little bauble Ixidos had been coming up with.  Such a fine researcher, that boy, if only he had the mind to lead...but I digress.  I record this speech from my sanctum, warded away from the world and its thousands of other recording devices called eyes, ears, and minds.  For so long, I have lived in the public gaze, always swift to recognize my face to the world first.

I have served our people for thousands of years.  I am a very, very old elf, and I know my time is finite.  These are...difficult thoughts, to be sure. 

Good evening Silvermoon, it's lovely to see you all again.  We've had us an interesting series of months here, and you know that yours truly has been keeping close eyes on the doings of the Convocation as a whole and the course our city's been waiting to take.

That course, as I'm sure many of you know, is now guarded by the man himself, the iron-clad patriot, Hamlen Prideux, the newly-anointed Convocate of Regulation.  An intimidating sight if ever you saw one, just know that any time a lawbreaker, criminal or other kind of miscreant threatens our fair city it's into that searing gaze that they'll fall. 

Good morning Silvermoon, the Dawn is at hand.

By Risael Salvius

Good evening Silvermoon, it's wonderful to see you all again here, reading my column.  And yes, I can see you all, it's called Scrying, I love what you've done with your hair. 

Sebastien calmly folded and prepared the notes to be sent, the packages mailed to Tiphira with care.  He smiled softly, imagining the look on his young apprentice's face as his fingers traced lightly over the hat she had sent him.   Blue - not his favorite color, not any more - but the memories washed over him on touching it, just as they had when he'd tasted the tea she had prepared for them.  A mystery that would have to wait, he resolved, rising slowly and walking to the door.  Ixidos stood just outside, the jittery young arcanist holding Sebastien's cloak and weapons. 

"Sir...I don't like the idea of you going out on this alone."

This is one of my favorite songs ever, off the Scarlet Pimpernel soundtrack.  It's something I've often imagined would come to Seb in a vast impromptu musical number through the streets of Silvermoon, and nearly seems like an anthem for the Blood Elves as a whole to me. 

By Risael Salvius

Silvermoon, if you've been seeing what I have, you've gotta be pretty damn annoyed right now.  Since the changing of the guard in the Convocation, we've had us a real winner of an autumn and, as some might think, a questionable future going into winter.  All I have to say is simply: Bollocks. 

Silvermoon, it's been a lovely summer.  But now as autumn rolls around...well, nothing really changes in our Eversong, may the spring never stop, but the world around us is turning to...jousting?

Yes, that's right Silvermoon, we're now embroiled in a competition, the Alliance versus Us for all the marbles in a tournament put together by the Argent Crusade.  As if all the chest-thumping, lances, and the shape of the tournament grounds themselves (a long, thin stadium with our tent and the Alliance's right across from each other, this is what happens when goblins design your festival grounds) weren't phallic and masculine enough for you all, then just remember how we're doing this for no reason other than prestige! 

Interviewer: Beginning recording, first session.  Knight Adept Kerwin, it's good to meet you.  Just so you're aware, this gem here is a recording device, it's just to make certain we can review this later. 

Satchiel Valas Kerwin: I know Arcana goodies when I see them, Doc.  What precisely is this for, anyway?

Well, there have been reports since you left active service to Silvermoon that you've been acting erratically.  Admitting to not sleeping for days at a time, running off on expeditions to far areas of the Kingdoms or Kalimdor without advanced warning, et cetera.  The Order of Blood Knights is concerned for your wellbeing.

Considering I've already caused them PR trouble with Rivanne, they're just making sure I'm not gonna do it again.  Cute. 

Either way, Knight Adept, I'm here and I want to talk to you if that's all right.  I take it the rumors are true?

Yes.

Ixidos Quel'Rama sputtered and gesticulated nervously as he fell into step behind Sebastien, the young Arcanist struggling to find words to comprehend this action.

"Sir, this is unprecedented, there's no way of knowing anything for certain about this!  Even the Bronze Dragonflight can only make situational and temporary measures like this...this..."

"Experiment?" Sebastien offered, not breaking stride. "One would posit that I've had a number of experimental practices in my history."  He smiled faintly upon remembering his re-emergence from the crystal Ixidos had recovered all those years ago, striding forth nude before the assembled archmagi.  The respective gazes of fear and astonisment from the male and female magisters was a sight Sebastien had grown quite fond of in his many years.

By Risael Salvius

Silvermoon, I'm telling you, this is one grand season for us.  Midsummer is here, the fires are burning, and it's one more reminder of why we do what we do and why we are who we are.  If anything, it's one more opportunity to show the Alliance and the Horde alike that we've got our place.  Fire is a national symbol for us in all practicality, take one look at the gold phoenix on our flag and tell me otherwise, I dare you.  As the flames roar up to show the world they won't be extinguished, it's a living reminder of Sin'dorei tenacity.  We were pushed to the brink, we were down to the wire, and not only have we flourished in adversity, we've rebounded and we're on the brink of surpassing the old glory days.  There's not a single race that can claim that.

By Risael Salvius

That's good, that's my boy...my wonderful boy, my Rothschilde...

The words were an ephemeral murmur in the Rothschilde's mind, feeling his dear Auntie's presence even as the brown-skinned orc gurgled and writhed on his blades, the blood leaving a rime of frost upon the weapons.  Mere moments before, the Rothschilde had killed alongside these silly brown gorilla-people, slaughtering the prettily-colored demons and red spiky gorilla-people all across Hellfire Penninsula.  They needed his help so much it had gotten boring.

"But..." the Mag'har choked, blood spilling from his lips.  "We are...allies, deathknight!"

"You annoy Father."  The Rothschilde smirked.  "And you can't kill things good enough.  You'll be more fun dead."

The Rothschilde ducked down behind an alleyway as a troop of deathguards and abominations stormed through the street past him, deep in the heart of Undercity.  This was indeed fun.  He liked the lazy blood elf they'd picked to talk to him, this time.  Even if he was weak, he let the Rothschilde have his fun.

He heard a gasp, and whipped out one of his twin blades on reflex, lancing it upwards at the overlooking railing.  The forsaken's skull was pierced by the blade, and Rothschilde just as quickly pulled the entire body over the side, shoving it cruelly off his weapon even as the undead's blackened blood frosted across the sword.  The red-haired elf gave a cruel smirk as the commoner tried to rise, decapitating the body with a casual swing of one blade and cleaving the head fully in twain with the other before it hit the ground. 

Sebastien wiped the sweat from his brow even as the hawkstrider beneath him fretted anxiously.  It didn't like being here, this place which had so quickly turned from home to hellscape.  They'd been working all day, purging the streets of the infected and the shambling.  Many of the spellbreakers had begun deferring to him as he rode through the streets barking orders, moreso as others rallied to his side whilst he hurled magics into the masses of ghouls plaguing the streets.   Even one of the trolls had begun calling him "captain elfie" which he'd taken as its own odd term of respect.

"Easy there, Camilla..." he chided the Hawkstrider, petting her neck gently.  "We've got this bested yet."

"Sir!" A harried apprentice shouted, pulling up on his own hawkstrider.  "The Argent Dawn is being ordered to pull back, they're being told the situation is untenable." 

Satchiel laid back in his cell, eyes closed drowsily, one foot propped on a bent knee as he relaxed on the hard floor.  If I were lucky, he thought to himself, this'd be about the time that the sexy warden wanders down, eager to see the famous Kerwin and teach him a lesson.  He smirked.  With Wind.  Maybe even that cute Sergeant Sunbow. 

"You've certainly gotten yourself in trouble now, lad." came a booming, authoritative voice.

Satchiel winced, his ears drooping.  Thank you, o Light, not exactly what I was asking for, he thought.

Sitting up, Satchiel's gaze met that of an older blood elf, dressed in a richly accoutremented blue silken suit.  His long white hair streamed down over his shoulders, and he looked over Satchiel with a stern yet sad expression.

"Hi, Dad."

The old sin'dorei strode proudly down the hallway, his boots clicking along the floor as he walked.  His expression stern and authoratative, the blue silken outfit he wore contrasting sharply amidst the dim red lighting leading to the cell block.  Two spellbreaker guards stood in his path, crossing their blades before him as he halted his advance.

"Sir, no one's to see the prisoner unless it's on official business.  You're going to have to leave."

"Nonsense, lad!" Sebastien beamed, smiling in a grandfatherly fashion.  "It's normal visiting hours, and besides that I'm the lad's family.  Surely there's no trouble."

The Spellbreaker held firm.  "No, sir.  No exceptions, we're not chancing this with someone who's already accused of breaking someone out of prison."

Sunwing on the loose - Two guards murdered - Blood Knight implicated in escape

Silvermoon Correctional -

The city was rocked today to hear of the sudden and brazen escape of Rivanne Sunwing, the implicated suspect of multiple counts of torture and kidnapping as well as an attack upon the pregnant Convocate-General Aramalia Solisbane during Sunwing's capture by the city authorities.

The old blood elf poured over his books in silence, reclining in a long couch specifically meant for such things in the midst of the library.  Though old was definitively the descriptive for the magus as he studied, he hardly seemed fraught with the fragility of the term - indeed, his form was fit and able, the peak of health as one might imagine it, his features not so much degraded as tempered by the years.  Some had claimed him more attractive than those a third his age, but such was the right of a true mage of the sin'dorei. 

"Magister Kerwin?"

One of the magus's long white brows twitched, and he rose from his seat with vigor, clapping the aged book closed and looking to the apprentice that now entered the room.  "Ah, excellent lad, it's about time.  What of it, then?"

"Er..." the student glanced away, clearly nervous.  "The academy has bad news, I'm afraid."