Aestan

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. 

((Hi all,

Whew! The end-of-term madness has come to an end for me, and for those interested: it would appear like I am going to be graduating! Nothing official yet, but let's keep our fingers crossed!

You might notice that the event set for Hamlen's trial has been removed - this should have happened much earlier this week, but a feeling of guilt prevented me from actually doing so. I realize it's the second time in a row that this has to be postponed, but I've talked it over with Hamlen's player, and he understands and is fine with it.

The young woman sits at the back of the bar.  She has selected a table with several chairs and she waits expectantly, her back to the wall, her eyes watchful.  She fiddles with her still-full glass, small and delicate fingers pale against the dark liquid it holds.  She nibbles nervously at her bottom lip, muttering softly to herself.

Aestan, freshly returned from his morning run through the city, quietly washed himself in the bathtub of his room, removing sweat and grime from his skin. Clambering out of the tub he shivered, swiftly walking over to grab a towel and get dressed. A servant entered the room, averting her eyes politely from the General as she laid out his cleaned and pressed uniform on the chair. “Will you require a shave, sir?” she inquired.

A separate peice of paper rests on top, in clear, neat handwriting: You'll find the first few pages are abridged. The candidate interviews are verbatim. For your files I have included my written statement of discretion, signed and dated.

-Rhosyn

See below the cut!

(( Tywyll sits at her desk in the library, carefully penning two notes ))

((The following are two letters from Aestan's hand))

MEMORANDUM
TO: LUCAS MALKIN
SUBJECT: ARAMALIA SOLISBANE
CLASSIFICATION: STANDARD

Hello Lucas,

As we discussed, I have taken lady Aramalia Solisbane to the Bazaar today, where she took a vow proclaiming her loyalty to the city, the Legion, and swearing that she had never betrayed us. As you know - the reason I suspected her of treason was because she refused to take this vow. She changed her mind, and her vow was clear-voiced and sincere. Her name, as far as I am concerned, is entirely cleared, and I hope you will feel the same, and make clear to any doubting voices that she is loyal.

As her previous rank was Colonel, before she became the General, I have decided to give her the rank of Lt. Colonel, and as such, I offered her the option to take an Adept under her care. She has chosen Sijmen Beauregarde, and I've decided to honor her request.

The ticking of seconds on the clock threatened to drive her insane.

How long had she been confined to rooms, now? Each new city was a prison, the spare rooms of Aestan Firatril her holding cell. Perhaps the rooms were more comforting than a tent on the street, where the Convocate-General had first discovered her during her ill-begotten snake charming act. Her hair in tatters, the skin around her eyes bruised, her nose badly broken. Did he pity her, or had she charmed him as thoroughly as the snakes? He'd fixed her nose-- only she knew that it was slightly different than the features she'd been born with. So the Light wasn't perfect... what else was new?

((VERY much in-character, btw. I lurve you guys.))

((This is a little closer to the present, but really out of place.  It was a comment left under Jasper's blog, when the civil war broke out, but I think it belongs in the book.))

Tabalah sat at the altar at the edge of the still pond, watching the sun rise over Shattrath City, and bit her lip as she read the letter in her hand.

                My Dearest Tabalah~

                Please stay where you are, you will be safer there in Shattrath City.  Civil war has broken out in Silvermoon.

Citizens of Silvermoon,

The following is on wanted posters, spread around Silvermoon on all government buildings and buildings of note.

Good morning Silvermoon, the Dawn is at hand.

Dearest brother,

Silvermoon turned out to be something far more interesting that I had originally anticipated. What started out to be just another excuse for the girls to go shopping turned into a most exciting insider's look at the workings of the city. Most of which I can be thankful for because of a most peculiar man named Jakobus Nachtengaal. He's a scholar and a charmer and an utter amusement all on his own. I know you don't like hearing about it, brother darling, but his arms practically gravitate toward anything pretty, especially if it just so happens to have a pair of breasts.

His tour was a wild gryphon ride of tests and teasing challenges. Like how he tried to see if I had told him my real name, which I had, or even snatching up a copy of a library card admission just to see the details. Don't worry. I put the Academy's address on the form. I wouldn't dare lead any strange men to your door.

[[ Didn't think this was worth a 'mature' tag, even though there is one naughty word in it :-)  ]]

To: Office of the Convocate of Regulation, Giuseppe Quattrochi
Regarding: Charges against Lady Shryn'Dael Dawningsun

Convocate Quattrochi,

Over the past months, Lady Dawningsun has seen fit to often seek me out in public and treat me with a degree of disrespect unbefitting her, or my, station. She often sees fit to slap me with various objects, such as bouquets, or kick me in various locations such as the shins. For a long time, I chose not to act on these actions, simply because this was the sort of thing she did before I took seat as a Convocate-General, and because I, quite frankly, did not see the harm in it. Aside from the occasional bruise, which pales in comparison to the type sustained in combat, I saw no problem with this. 

((In response to the Ask Aestan column))

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. 

Rancor surveyed the materials he'd gathered on the table absently, in the corner of Oneska's apartment. Our apartment, he corrected himself. It wasn't a slip he made often, these days. A quiet snore from the other end of the apartment, issuing from the bed, brought a scowl to his face. Of course, it wasn't just 'their' apartment anymore, their private, calm island in the sea of activity that was Silvermoon City.

In a cozy little cottage, a haven of warmth and comfort in the blistering cold of Winterspring, Oneska and Tywyll tell Aestan about that afternoon, the slaughter of Tor’Watha. Together, they guide him through his memories, start to explore his dreams, and find something they didn't expect.

(larger image after break)

The temperature in Silvermoon is almost suffocatingly warm today. It hardly ever changes, but right now I feel as if someone must have set the fountain to boil and put a lid over the walls, let us steam. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's this stuffy little apartment, my one-room sanctuary now serving two tenants. Not that I'm complaining- Rann's a much better housekeeper than I am, let me tell you.

Why is it so dark? Why can't I see?

His hands moved around in front of him, helplessly looking for some indicator of where he was. Out of habit, he brought his right hand up, feeling for the hilt of the axe he always wore slung across his back. All he could find were the leather straps of some type of satchel.  

No axe. And... no sword. No eyes, no ears, no axe and no sword...

The bright-eyed eagerness in Aestan's expression as he held out the rancid mason jar towards her was hard to resist. Grimacing, she skewered one of the “treats” with her fork and examined it. Green brine dripped off of the squishy dough ball, and the sour smell of vinegar assaulted her nostrils.

“What... is it?” Oneska asked, not exactly wanting to know the answer.

How did this happen?

Surrounded by the dark towers of Deatholme, the young knight sat on the cold stone, his feet dangling above the moat of bubbling, putrid waters. The soft sounds of the agonized spirits never quite reaching his awareness, as if his very survival instincts had abandoned him.

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.