Dalaran

The fair blonde turned to her dark-skinned, white-haired friend seated at the table with her – before glancing away, to peer over the balcony.

Dalaran fairly sparkled at this hour – the dew like glitter on the spires as the sun climbed. The 'tink-tink' of silver bouncing off of china broke the silence as each woman stirred her respective morning drink.

There in the City

A lady and business man sat down for a drink

She was nervous, but fascinated

By the man with blue hair and frosty blue eyes

Turns out he is dead

Why does she talk to a dead man

So she took too many sips on cherry grog.

Showing her medallion, she was reminded

He was not her father, for her own good

But she feels like a child

So she takes another round of grog.

Business they concluded, for the betterment of children

Three of the brightest would be fresh blood for his businesses

  It had to be Silvermoon, of all places.

  Sabine knew damn well how uncomfortable it was going to be for me too. Light knows she can be as cruel and vindictive as she is beautiful- though I suppose she is entitled to a bit of rancor; even the most talented of our people aren't exactly welcomed with open arms by most of the folks living in the so-called city of mages. For such a short-lived race, humans are really keen to hold onto their grudges. Wasn't there some adage about grudges backfiring, or something? Ah, not that we're really ones to talk, I suppose.

Dalaran, my home for all of my life that I can remember. The City of Mages, home to some of the world's most powerful magi, for good and evil. Me? I'm not a mage. I'm just a mailwoman, sorting out the parcels and packages that come in from all over the world, and Outland. I've had this gig for a very long time, since my mother (named Marion) died ten years ago. Light bless her soul peddling simple clothes to the soldier's wives in the city.

We barely got by, as soldiers were not getting paid much. If they didn't get paid much, the wives couldn't take much of anything from them. Mages never took the time to come on in and buy out the store, they wanted 'free-flowing robes and hats to suit their personalities, and their styles of magic.' Hah. What a load of hot air for me and my mother. Trying to measure their scrawny appearances, and not laugh at their preposterous claims of being like Antonidas someday.

THUMP!

Biarzenne awoke with a start as a book landed on the desk where she had only a few seconds slumbered over in a hangover induced sleep, lurching back in her seat to a point where the seat creaked ominously under her weight. Squinting with bleary eyes which travelled upwards from the drool covered book placed open before the mage, she was treated to the sight of a older, plumper blood elf mage brandishing a cane in one hand, the other hand on the offending book that woke the younger mage with a start.

So I was going through Dalaran as I was leveling this week, and I can't help but think what a great city this is for RP. So much going on there. All during Wrath it was too busy for most RPers tastes, but now that Cata is out, it's a virtual ghost town. Surely the Kirin Tor are breathing easier and relaxing, but it's very very quiet now.

With the reintroduction of the portals to Stormwind and Orgrimmar, I can't help but think it would be a great hub for RP now! Everyone has their hearth set to Org or Stormwind, I'm guessing, so a few seconds more for getting to a portal in Dalaran to go to your PvE hub seems a pretty nice thing.

The spellbreaker moved through the crowd of sickly Sin'dorei milling around the improperly closed portal in the outskirts of Dalaran, their faces a mixture of weariness, despondency and hope. Weary from their journey and battles and broken over of the loss of family, friends and home, the crowd hoped the man atop the ramp would lead them to the cure for both pains as well as the burning emptiness inside them.

She plops down on the soft familiar bed, searching the surroundings with her eyes for a few moments before leaning back onto and looking up into the iridescent fabrics hanging from the ceiling of her room in Dalaran.  She quietly closes her eyes taking a few minutes to calm herself after all the recent events.  When she finally does reopen them she takes in the surroundings and smells once more.. Pastries and fruit from the market and inns, even the scent of flowers from the various garden beds throughout the majestic floating city.  After taking a deep breath and looking around the room from her supine position she thought, 

"Truly.. its not that good to be home..." 

((Continued from Never Lend a Book ))

The bag looked far larger than her frame could carry.  She limped with it against her shoulders, wobbly like an old pedlar woman or a snail wearing its home like a pack.  If it pained her, none on the streets would notice.  Her head bent with her back, and a threadbare hood sheltered any shadow of the effort in her expression.  The stones below her feet could see.  They stared up with flat faces, a thousand little mirrors of the still resolve in her burnished gaze. 

With the defeat of the Lich King and the Scourge threat subdued, Dalaran had become a quiet city. Of course, there were still the magisters, scholars, tradespeople, and those practiced in certain other skills, but the streets only had a few travelers, outsiders, here and there, seeking something quickly before disappearing by portal or hearthstone.

Like Shattrath after the desctruction of the Burning Legion, Dalaran earned the "Ghost Town" nickname by anyone who was not a resident. For those whom lived in the floating metropolis, it felt very much like times before the influx of adventurers and heroes.

Just the way Diemtri liked it.

Memories turn and reflect back on this day, set aside just for the two of us; a day that almost didn't happen...

Dalaran, Late Afternoon, One year ago:
The Sunreavers glared as Vereesa Windrunner proclaimed to the city that Drauglos was the new bearer of the restored dragon blade. The Half-Elf didn't even notice them, as he strode across the Violet Citadel to the petite, pale blond priestess and her companions.

Lirriel beamed in delight. “I knew you could do this.” Cerwis slowly clapped for her friend, smirking. Mag smiled slightly, observing quietly with hands clasped behind her back.

Drauglos grinned down at the sword, and then reverently sheathed it on his back. "If I spend the rest of my life trying to atone for what I did...Will you forgive me?"

Lirriel smiled. “Already done.”

((link to prior: http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/meladela/singing_dead ))

Mairead for her own reasons offered her estates Dalaran as a place of refuge from my father and the beast he had summoned to kill me.  I accepted as it was one place where that demon would never be able to touch me as I recovered. 

Plus there was a  major bonus she had a library. 

It was one room where I could completely relax since even the servants didn't  bother or try to wait on me in there.

((A backstory to "... In a Far Away Land ..." ))

How foolish I am to tell you this story here.

As you may have guessed, as you may assume correct as I told my last story, I was not born in the place that I am now. As we are now sitting further away from the ears and eyes of those whom could use the information to my disadvantage, I have decided to give you the full truth. You are a boy of an age that is able to understand these sort of things, Lawrence, and will soon be a man with such burdons I believe you will hold as well.

My full name is Dimetrius Aleksandr Epemtheus, as my mother had named me after my father and her mother's family.

What a week.

I rubbed my hands over my face and laid back in the bed that I now had to myself. I sunk into the soft blankets and it reminded me one of the things I'd missed about Dal. I could rough it with the best of them, but taking a break once in a while was a welcome change. I propped some pillows up behind my back and grabbed my enchanted tome from my bag. I began taking notes, trying to catch up on the jumble of thoughts in my mind.

“Remember what I said about predator and prey?”

Snow-draped plains passed by, far below the feathery wings that beat against the chill winds of Northrend. Like some great, white, crystalline sheet being pulled away by an unseen hand. Vanassa gaped in awe at the stark beauty of the Dragonblight. It was an astonishment she had not allowed herself to fully express in the presence of the Marquis Vinguld, back in the Howling Fjord.

That would mean admitting that Ythgar had put me in awe, despite my protests at being dragged halfway across the world just for atmosphere. If I admit that, he enjoys too much triumph. Bother, how ridiculous the Game is sometimes, the way we concern ourselves with these tiny maneuvers and victories. But even a mountain can be brought low one grain of sand at a time.

A crosswind evoked a squawk from the gryphon and whipped Vanassa's midnight hair about her head. She hastilly drew up a hood, tucking the loose strands into it.

miss you. Have you written to

class that couldn’t possibly be more mund

were here, I wouldn’t have to feel so

me. Next semester? We should

ssed trials. After, maybe you could visit

    It had happened fast. Like accidents or disasters do, each moment tumbled into the next. Like an artist’s flip-book of pictures, only the images didn’t match up.

rewriting a chapter for thurs

vintage you like? I’ll pick up a bot

thinking of you. It was funny, the

Clump.

The door shut softly behind Micah, and he rested his shoulders against the solid oak, feeling the wood rasp under his bony hands as he surveyed the inside of Ryberg’s apartment. The tips of bony fingers scrabbled on the wood, precisely tugging at different threads of the arcane.

“The third property of Warding is the Key. It builds on the First and Second – the Shield and Sword – and gives a sort of reason to them. The Key is a matrix of components, itself, and by altering one, a Magus alters the rest. With detailed manipulation, the Key may be weakened, strengthened, or even changed.”

I was lying in my bed, remembering the conversation I had with Ashle a few days ago, remembering her claims of disrespecting my own people. I will not lie to myself, I truely did, but that is only because of what I had seen through everything. My home slowly becoming more and more corrupt from within. I understood her viewpoint on it, but it was a viewpoint much to close to that of the Sin’dorei nobles, thinking they are superior for small things.

Trying to get my mind off of the subject, I arose from my bed, or atleast if you could call a pile of lumber a bed, the Dragonmaw truely did not know what a good bed looked or felt like, but I can not trouble an alliance with them over a simple thing such as a bed. Downing a quick mug of ale, I walked outside to my Black Drake, Helanthion and flew back home to Silvermoon.

“Excuse me, sir? Is there anything else I can get you?”

From under the deep cowl he wore, Micah could see the hips of the café waiter. The fellow had his pink hands clasped before him. The tone of his voice was pleasant, but carried a hidden message: I want to go home.

“No, no… thank you.” Micah resisted the urge to look up and make eye contact. The tilt of his head would reveal his features, and he never got used to the small looks of disgust he garnered from the living.

“Have a good night, then; thanks for coming by!”

Twelfth month, Day 5 - Grizzly Hills, Northrend, Azeroth:

Camping in the wild northern frontier with Miss Synn, Mister Jericho and some friendlies of our kin was not quite what I imagined.  It’s cold as to be expected, but as long as I stay near the fire, it’s not so bad.  The country is amazing though, mountains, rivers, strange fauna and plenty of wildlife.  I can definitely see myself coming back here to explore further, maybe even a bit of rock climbing up to that peak I saw earlier in the distance while we hiked through the wilderness. There was a breath taking forest we passed through with boughs of lovely violet hues and so many wolves.  The General seems to like the north quite well.  I like playing my flute in different locales to see how the notes resonate off the environment.  It is very agreeable here.

It was a steady beating rhythm, she could match it with her heart if she believed in them, she had no belief in hearts, not that they existed or thrummed blood through ones veins.  They did not beat, love, bleed or break, they did not exist for the evil in the world had vanquished them, dried them up and blew them away with some deep breath, this is what she believed and this is what her voices told her.  

Students passed from class to the café to their dormitories in whirling groups; very few stayed put for long. Micah, who had found himself a seat at a little bistro in Dalaran’s university district, felt as if he had been sculpted from heavy clay in contrast to the firefly-lightness of the students that flickered and wheeled about him.

Mid-way across the commons, a tall young man broke into a run to laughingly meet with his strawberry-blonde girlfriend. The other bustling students paid no heed as they kissed; didn’t notice the youthful strength in his bare forearms as they snugged at the small or her back; didn’t see the grins that appeared in the breathless spaces between kisses on their lips; were blind to the way her leg, bent whimsically at the knee, made her skirt drape artfully against her shapely calf. Micah spared a small, secret smile before he guiltily looked down at his espresso. He felt he had glimpsed something private and special, despite their public location.

Jaffry Galbraith watched the room as youths danced away the night. Galbraith, proprietor of a prominent enchanting shop and son of a once well-regarded magister, was acting as chaperone at the usual club many students attended to unwind after studies, and many of the adventurers who used Dalaran as a base found their way here as well. It was a safe, respectable establishment--not like that place that death knight lord ran. Galbraith wrinkled his nose and sipped his drink.

Twenty-five years ago he had been one of the youths on the floor, trying to sneak around the watchful elders who’d report misconduct to masters and families. This was a place to come and be seen, to mingle publicly with less scandal and suspicion than other locations. It was a landmark full of tradition and history.