Jakobus (Implied)

It was nothing like the bomb-shelter he had found while in Dun Morogh. There were windows, to start, and everything was too warm, with the fading sun beating down on the red marble roof. No long passages with those heavy metal doors to seal himself away from the world with. No security system to alarm him of trespassers. No geothermal greenhouse to grow all of his food in. No cats. But, it would have to do for the time being.

I have marched through these sands since Her hourglass began to tremble. This is no wasteland, but a perfected encephalon, mighty and vast. Everything works as it should; every grain of time, every sun-bleached carcass that constitutes as a thought forgotten. This land of the South is not where emotion or ideas go to perish, but a place where they are made to change and be everlasting in Her glimmering world. This is reality; truth.

The Baroness had never been a static creature, nor a consummate being. She had always been there, however, letting her bare feet be caressed by sands so scorching hot that other shades or Guardians might have melted upon trespassing. Her form shifts and contorts at a near-constant. Her hair is never as long or as curly as it was the moment prior, or turning around to pour ringlets over her statuesque figure, but so often bound in desert wraps and shrouds of thin linen.

It’s a lovely device.  A square based contraption with a rounded top. The frame is solid oak, tinted a sullen ash and accented with gold filigree. The face itself is simple, the second hand a tiny metal sliver, tipped in gold, while the minute and hour hands are unpolished, yet quite expertly crafted tin. The arms are molded in such a fashion that they leave no illusion as to the moment, so precise is their point, and it is this, perhaps, that I admire the most about it. I run my fingers over the clear glass cover, smiling. Such a lovely creation.

The rules of his existence were simple things, truly.

He could not leave the bounds of the Woods. He could not deliberately destroy the fabric of the prison that held him, though he'd found ways around that precept quickly enough. And, after a daring, rigged gamble, he was no longer allowed to harm Poet when the feeble rhymecrafter entered his domain. Infuriating checks to his power, stumbling blocks at his feet. Chains that held him at barely a fingertip's distance from what he deserved.

But they change. Bending. Tonight, I break them.

A stray piece of paper growing more ragged by the day that seems to float around Nagrand in the general vicinity of Clan Watch.

A young elf thrashes against a wooden floor like a thing gone mad.

The mission was simple.  Then again, the other task was supposed to be simple too, so who could really say if it was simple or not?  They said it was to improve her; in Tiavara's opinion, it was just further punishment for messing up.  Her quiet footsteps stopped in front of a storefront at the far end of the Bazaar.  The ornate sign above the door loomed over her, its fancy gold plating a clear indicator of a place she did not belong.  Taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to settle her stomach, she stepped into Keelen's Trustworthy Tailoring.

The gut feeling she got at the door was almost immediately made an unquestionable fact as she eyed the assistant who was very clearly looking at her, or at least her threadbare, hand-me-down robes.  The slight trace of a sneer was replaced with a painted grin as she saw Tiavara's eyes on her.  The worker finished folding the fancy doily shirt on the table and called to the girl in a syrup-sweet voice, the kind used to hide something less savory, "Let me know if you need anything, sweetie."  And, without a second look, she left Tiavara to go into the back room.  Tiavara, meanwhile, stared at her shoes.  How was she supposed to do this?  On a mannequin display was the cloak she needed, the silken stitches so close, yet so out of reach.  Well, there wasn't any use standing about.  Pulling the silken curtains aside, she walked to the back of the store, following the stairs to an open, circular room.

"What do you think you're doing back here?"

Relax.

This would be easy.  Super-easy, even.  Nothing to it.  Just one vial into the other, no drips, nice and quick, like a bandage.  She checked the time.  It was still five minutes until it would be ready, about five seconds since the last time she'd checked.  Muscles clenched in her back, persistently reminding her that for the past hour, she had been sitting straight-backed in a wooden chair, huddled over a desk, watching two vials for the slightest hint of a color change.  Vial still clutched in hand, she rubbed the haze from her eyes before continuing her vigil.  Stilll blue..a little patch of sky in a bottle.  They looked almost pretty, illuminated by the lamp light.  If only the job that involved them wasn't so important.  She frowned at the little blue vials, accusingly.  So pleasant in its looks, but deep down, not nearly so good, like the sparkly city of Silvermoon or the stars who could afford houses named after seasons.  It made sense, that term, stars.  High, lofty, beautiful, sparkling, always looking down on everyone and nothing to give but their shine.  Tiavara decided then that she hated stars.

Purple!

The sky is a blanket of indigo speckled with glitter. If you move just right, a star will peek out from its hiding spot to say 'hello'. Beneath the shroud stands dear, little Héra in her most favorite summer dress. A comforting haze drifts through the air, giving her a feeling of moderate protection. She wanders the night, her bare feet quiet against the cool, rain covered stone of the city's smooth streets. Alone in its glory, she can still hear the faint chatterings of people in the distance and the music from corners where unfortunate beggars usually play.

Slow and calm, her legs carry her to the familiar hub of the city, the Royal Exchange. With not another soul in sight, Héra manages to break apart from her insecurity of being left behind and steps into the cold, wet grass of the fountain's home. The fog shifts as she nears the trickle of water, and a figure appears.