A Day in the LifeEdit
Insomnia stained his eyes like soot whilst raven hair tangled about his face. His vision cast downward -- and it was many a day he sat in such silence at the arced window, gazing through frosted glass to the dark snow embankments that lined the Northrend hillside. The wind blew through the trees and the groans of the wood were the cadence of the night, scattered pine needles caught in tow.
The saunter of snow was constant and it didn’t so much howl as a blizzard would, but instead it steadily fell in small wisps of frigid air. A continuous breathing of the slopes and curves of the land lost to humanity, deep and finite. No longers in the cluthes of mortality.
Many other days whilst bundled in dark wool would he walk the grounds alone in contemplation. Pale lips giving way to steaming breath, a sign of the warmth that still managed to course through his veins. His heavy steps trod along ice and snow, harbingers of the fracture lines that would be seen branching out from one to the next under his feet.
He was learned of his purpose, but it was not his decision when such events would unfold. Everything was as it should be.
The servants frequent removed themselves from his sight when he roamed the dark oak hallways, fingers trailing along the tapestries hung about the walls. It was the sense of touch that kept him level, as if it was the only certainty left to him.
Meals were harvested from the local wildlife on occasion and stored in the lower levels of the household. He would sit at the end of a table fit for twenty, a wine glass filled to the brim at his left and silverware arranged in front of him. The servants took to setting up the other plates as was due custom, but never did any guests partake in the meals. Instead, the single occupant would sit with vacant stare, hand clasped about the bottom of the wine glass, spending his hours in apprehension as the light from the candles scattered along his features, excentuating hollow sleep deprived sockets and lips drawn thin and pursed in thought.
Sleep never came easy, and it was frequently that the high-post bed would be unattended. The Count sitting restless in the nearby study with emerald eyes poring over detailed maps and transcripts. A fire nestled behind him at the hearth.
And when it was that he closed his eyes for an evening’s rest, only nightmares did await him.
"I go on journeys out of my body and look at my red hands and my mean face and I wonder about that man who's gone so wrong..."
A Tale from the Past Pt.1-4Edit
The green skyline paints the way, rays of tainted light streaming through tree limbs, illuminating the figure in the window.
Within the twisted wood, land where the malefic dead dwell, the manor does sit.
But it was not always this way. The Dark Count did not sit in apathetic silence, for he was once a boy. A Boy brimming with life, love, ambition.
The past is a faded memory now, stretched over a foreign soul. But come, for you will never understand this twisted man in the window, until you uncover his journey…
Pieces of the future, figures and figments alike are falling into place. A final encounter draws near, but we must first delve into days long gone.
The smile of utter contentment, the innocent smile of a boy who could find the light in the most simple of things, untouched by care or worry. His back was against the divot in the large Eversong forest tree. Biting his lower lip in concentration as he heard the clumsy footsteps of others heading his way. He waited until they got close, and then, jumping out from his hiding place, he held the tree-branch in two hands, pointing outward at the three other Elf Boys.
They seem shocked, and one of them turned to the others speaking and pointing, “It’s King Sunstrider!”
“Aha!” Andarius said triumphantly, “You Trolls will never take over Quel’Thalas! Not while I’m King!”
He swished the ‘sword’ around a bit, in a haphazard flourish. The others seemed to look at each other for a moment, before they ran at him. Andarius blinked a few times, before he was mowed down, and they all went tumbling down the hill. It would have made for an interesting sight for anyone who had been watching, that was of a certainty.
When they settled at the base of the hill, Andarius, crawling his way out from under the others, slowly got up and started dusting off his robe.
“No fair! I’m supposed to have an army, or something,” He said, muttering to himself. “Next time, I get Naril! He’s going to be an Arch-Mage, and freeze you guys!”
One of the other boys got up, shaking his head vehemently as he spoke, “That’s no fair! I don’t want to be the crummy trolls anymore, this game is no fun that way.”
Andarius rested his hand on his chin, this matter being the most important in his world, presently.
“What if we go ask Kaelindor and his friends if they want to play? We can make them the Trolls, and then we can all be in the Quel’Dorei Legion.”
Naril shook his head, “It’s late, and I have to go home.”
Frowning, Andarius realized he himself was already out past his proper time, “We can play again tomorrow, after school.”
“Yeah, if V doesn’t get in trouble again being lazy!”
They all seemed to snicker at this, and Andarius frowned. “I’m not lazy, I just get distracted.” He said, realizing he had something tangled up in his hair. Pulling the twig from his ebon locks and discarding it at his side in bewilderment, he waved to the others a few times as they dispersed, running off in their separate directions…
“I don’t want you hanging about with those simpletons anymore, I won’t allow it,” She said shrewdly, “You are a son of the Vrenna name, and its best you start acting like it.”
Andarius head was bowed, his voice broking disagreement, “But Mother, they are my friends—“
“Friends?” She scoffed, leaning back in the chair, “You’re better than that, Andarius. Mind your studies, and if you still wish it, you will have time for these petty ‘friends’ come school’s end, should I be feeling charitable.”
Andarius pouted, walking crushed and defeated up to his room, the knapsack containing his books in tow.
His Mother spoke, raising the tome back to her lap as she muttered, “Honestly, will that boy never learn?”
And it was. Years passed, studies attended to, interactions limited. The Young boy grew into a young man, subverted by a family name.
Andarius walked quietly, the nightline streets illuminated by the risen moon. Naril, the silver-haired elf walked at his side, “So, are you going?”
He looked up from his thoughts with quirked eyebrow, hands rested in the folds of his robes. He took a moment before he realized what Naril was talking about, “The Gala? No, I shan’t think so. I’ve sipped enough of the noble wine for one night.” He said faintly as Naril waved to him, taking a few steps backwards. “Right, well, I better be under way. You take care of yourself, V.”
Andarius stopped, raising a hand as Naril headed off in the other direction of the street.
There he stood, the calm empty street of Silvermoon bathed in silence.
And so, he walked. Clear out the gates of Silvermoon, along the winding paths of Quel’thalas forest quite content to walk until he was absorbed into the ground.
And then, he heard it, the sound of instruments in the forest. Carefully, he picked his way through the trees, brushing aside foliage as he peered out. They were gathered about a fire, instruments plucking away, some people dancing while others were sporting frothy glasses of ale.
The Lower class, the plague as far as he was brought up to believe. They seemed content in each other’s company, many of them laughing and smiling.
In his world, formality was the standard. To truly have fun was not the point. It was of an image.
And yet, he was offered this glimpse into another dimension, and it pulled at him longingly.
He sighed, and found himself about to turn when she caught his eye…
Staring, he looked upon her. She was a dance about the fire, blue eyes glowing in the heat; dirty-blonde curls all a tangle about her face, highlighted by the sun, plush lips parting in laughter. Cheap white linens were swaying as she moved, the curve of her body causing his heart to skip a beat.
He was frozen, utterly stopped in his path. She was beautiful, enticing, and radiant.
And he would die, if only to utter her name as his dying breath.
Pushing his way from the edge of the encampment, he strode into a world unknown to him…
Radiance, it's the only word I could draw from as I encroached upon this bold new world. An existence of movement, love, happiness.
People were positioned all about the centerpiece, a roaring fire. I was greeted by a few strange looks, being such an outsider. Others were more hospitable, and clapped me on the back in greeting.
There was no need for formality, no cause to stand on ceremony. Such regal aspirations were forfeit, and the remainder was a gala of genuine enjoyment.
I was hesitant as I approached them, the moving figures locked in an endless dance...
Andarius was swept up in the dance, smiling faces that ushered his movements to and fro. He picked up on the steps rather quickly, and soon found himself paired up with the fair maiden.
At first, he was simply stunned. From afar, she was beautiful, from up close, she was immaculate. He remained content to hold her as they moved about the circle. Words formed numbly about his lips as they stepped in dance,
"Would you do me the honor of telling me your name?"
"Miranda," She said sweetly, as Andarius heart knotted. His goddess now had a name.
"Miranda," He heard himself say, rolling the name off his tongue.
She smiled as they parted, and the Vrenna boy was left standing about the group.
But it was only then that he felt the taut arm about his throat, figures behind him whisking him away into the darkness beyond the camp...
Andarius was tossed to the ground, landing uncomfortably as he looked up. There were three of them; he gathered they were about his age, perhaps older.
He was about to inquire, before the fist found itself cracking along his jaw. Recoiling back against the grass, the boot that followed was none the more pleasant. Knocking the wind from his lungs and causing him to follow in a brutal gasp.
“You rich types; you think you can just waltz on in on us whenever you damned well please!”
Said the forerunner whilst swinging in with another clenched fist, the blow glancing off Andarius’ cheek painfully.
He tried to right himself, bringing his body upwards, on hands and knees as one of the others went in for a strike.
Reaching up, Vrenna grabbed quickly at his wrist, twisting it around. The boy let out a yelp of pain. Continuing the motion, Andarius went to a stand and brought his foot up hard into his back, sending him stumbling into a nearby tree.
Turning, he ducked in time to avoid a strike from the second Quel’dorei boy. As his swing went wide over his head, Andarius rose up quickly at his side and drove a vicious palm hard into his kidney, following up with a quick kick to the back of his leg. As the boy fell, he brought the back of his hand hard across his face, his knuckles catching on his nose and causing him to fall backwards against the ground, blood streaming from the strike.
Breathing haggardly, Andarius held at his stomach, the blonde-haired Elf in front of him drawing a serrated blade out from his pocket.
“Stop!” She yelled from atop the hill behind him, causing him to look up.
“This is none of your concern, Miranda!” He said gruffly, as she came bounding down to where they stood.
“Damn you and yours, Lundial! Can’t you see he meant no trouble?” She said, her eyes regarding Andarius and Lundial pensively. “Just leave him alone!”
Lundial glared at Andarius, daggers in his eyes as he slipped the knife back into one of his pockets. With a sharp whistle to the other two, they headed back up the hill to the camp.
Andarius held at his stomach, watching them leave before he looked to Miranda.
“Thank you, I’m not sure who he is, or moreover, what his problem with me is.”
She sighed, running a hand along her forehead, “He’s just had problems with upper-class people in the past, and he’s taking it out on you, like a bully. Don’t mind him, though.” She said, trying to reassure him.
“He certainly seemed willing to go to dire lengths,” Andarius said painfully.
“I think that may have a little bit to do with me, as well.” She said, looking downward.
Andarius raised an eyebrow, speaking faintly, “Why is that?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Where did you learn to fight like that anyway, Andarius?”
They walked side by side, Andarius arms folded across his chest and his robe trailing gently after him in the night air. Crisp golden leaves falling from the nearby trees littered the path they followed, to the Western section of Silvermoon city proper.
Vrenna seemed hesitant before he spoke, “Mother was insistent that I learn to defend myself, in all manner of combat. She seems to suspect I will need it later in life, for whatever reason…”
“Well, it certainly seemed to help tonight.” She said with a faint smile, brushing some of the blonde curls from her eyes and trapping them behind one of her ears.
Vrenna shrugged somewhat, folding his arms behind his back as they continued walking.
Miranda bit her lip, glancing up at him with brow raised, “Are you alright?”
Andarius looked to her for a moment before raising a hand to the small cut on his lip, drawing his finger away and glancing at the lingering blood, “It’s fine –“
“No,” She said, waving a hand a few times, “That’s not what I meant.”
Andarius quirked an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”
Miranda walked ahead a bit, before stopping in front of him and pressing her hands together as she looked down and spoke, “It’s just – You don’t seem too happy.”
“I don’t?” He said faintly with a frown, “Is it really that obvious?”
Gesticulating as she spoke, she continued, “It’s just, you seem all rigid and focused…Don’t you have any fun, or anything?”
Vrenna smirked at the idea, shaking his head as he brought a hand to his brow, “There really isn’t time for indulging my own aspirations. I’m the successor to the Vrenna name, so, my life is rigid, without impulse,” He said quietly, before raising his head and shrugging, “I know, what have I to complain about, right? With silk sheets on my bed and land to my name.”
Miranda shrugged, “Well, It can’t be all that great, I mean, not being able to pursue what you want, I don’t know if I could handle that,” She wrinkled her nose, continuing, “I mean, life is supposed to be about seeing what Is out there, and finding your own path – Not picking up on the one left for you by the people that came before. Where would we ever get with that?”
Andarius smiled, speaking jokingly “You’re quite insightful for a commoner,”
Miranda grinned, poking him in the chest, “There, I got a smile out of you yet!”
They both laughed faintly, before continuing on down the road…
The Boy and the Emerald EyeEdit
Silver scattered along the rain-slicked cobblestone, the young beggar rustling from the cover of the wall-shelter and fishing for the coins. He glanced upwards, catching the billowing of the cloak just as the figure turned the corner.
He stuffed the coins away in his threadbare vest, pulling himself to his feet as they padded along the walkway after the man.
He stopped at the corner, peering out from behind it. The steady footfalls of the man’s boots were constant. He was silhouetted against the moon as it peered over the towers of Stormwind, casting his image out across the street that was set alongside the channels of the city.
He held nothing, he walked calmly. It was a strange stride to behold. His body swaying little as his feet touched ground. He didn’t rush, he savored every step.
The boy watched carefully.
And then, the figure stopped, standing utterly still. It was his head that turned slowly, and the beggar huddled his body closer together, only peering from beyond the corner’s edge.
The singular green eye, it didn’t stare at him, but rather, through him.
A shiver ran down his spine, the dark figure was looking over his shoulder, with a single apathetic eye of frozen emerald. It glowed in the night, and all around it seemed grayscale in comparison.
They shared a moment in time, as all of Stormwind was silent. Giving way to their connection.
The boy and the emerald eye.
It was then that he turned his gaze away, making another left, and disappearing in the confines of the book-store.
By now, the boy was hesitant. But equally, in due measure, he was curious.
Padding along the walkway, he stopped beneath the outcrop made by the second story of the book-store, out of the rain. Rubbing his sleeve along the window to clear the frosted glass, he heard talking inside. The figure with the cape had his back to him, his hands were interlaced at his front, and the Human fellow he was talking to was ashen.
He heard raised voices from the Human, pointing an accusing finger at the man with the emerald eye.
The boy’s mouth was agape at what happened next.
The human had turned his back, waving an arm in the direction of the dark menace.
It was then that the malevolent figure raised a pale hand, darkness weaving around his fingers. A lance of green malice pierced the man’s back, he spasmed, arching backwards at an obscene angle as he clawed vehemently at the row of books in front of him. And then, the man with the emerald eye twisted his fingers, causing the human to fall to the floor in a heap, a mist settling about him.
The Count took his time coming to the Human’s side, lowering himself slowly as he spoke a phrase to him.
And through the patter of the rain, the crackle of thunder in the storm, the boy almost thought he could hear it.
“…We are even.”
A Stark ValentineEdit
My Wretched Heart, and the Valentine that was not to be.
There he sat, within the glade, the glow of the moon shattered on the shifting trees that enclosed the Holm, casting light about the haven.
The torch was burrowed into the corrupted earth, casting a flickering flame that drew out the Count’s shadow.
His hand cleared away the matter obscuring the name.
A name that was so clearly emblazoned upon frigid stone.
The Count buried his head in his hands. He wished so very much that night that he could lament, shed a tear for the hollowness inside him.
A void he only felt was filled when he was in her embrace, an embrace he would never again know.
But he could not.
He knew love, it had burned inside him. That blistering flame had withered, and was now nothing more than a candle in the windswept dark.
His fingers traced the outline of her name, and his words were but a whisper shared between them.
“Oh, what would you think of me, my love?”
“The Eye of Dalaran,” The Elder mage said, a smile worn beneath his hood, “What do you know of it?”
The bespectacled youth looked up from the tome at his instructor, blinking a few times as he grabbed at the words, “It’s a source of Magic for Dalaran, it keeps their borders safe and maintained – Well, It did,” He said with a frown.
“The mages there created it to focus their power to reconstruct the citadel, and still use it to maintain their barriers against prying eyes.”
The Elder Mage’s smile slowly faded, as he nodded a few times.
“Forgive the inquiry, Master, but what provoked such a topic?”
The Elder Mage’s temples creased, shaking his head dismissively, “A simple inquisition, nothing more... I will leave you to your studies.”
He turned, leaving the youth at the table filled with tomes and a single flickering candle.
The Mage followed the winding path to an inconspicuous door. It resided at a small inlet, not intent on attracting any attention. Removing an ornate key from within the folds of his robe he let it slide into place within the lock, the sound of shifting tumblers came first -- and then the sound of a series of heavy bolts sliding away around the door.
An age-spotted hand pushed the door open to reveal a room lined with shelves and inscriptions, scrolls and scribblings. He meandered about the stacks of artifacts until he came to a heavy latched chest, his fingers tracing the edges.
His brow furrowed, hand resting atop the arcane cache.
A cache that held a most sought after sieve of power.
It was only a sliver of a whole, but it was more than enough. No more than a pin in stature, beheld in an obsidian capsule.
Gorefiend had known it intimately and it still bore his corrupted mark. He knew not victory in capturing the Orb, but for such a folly he did return with one gift.
Such a gift that would later fall into the caretaking of the Magus, under the watchful eye of key Paladins of the Light. Lest attempts ever be had to spirit it away.
A Single corrupted shard of the Eye of Dalaran.
The Sundering of SilvermoonEdit
I was on the precipice of death, and he pulled me from my suffering. My devotion is forever to his will.
Quel’Thalas burned; smoke and ash littered a red sundered sky. The Sunwell has been claimed, the Lich was born. Undeath washed over the hills, minions of the Scourge devouring all in their path and rending a scar through the land of blighted ground.
Screams echoed about the Quel’dorei village, High elves mercilessly having their lives brought to forfeit.
Andarius’ plated hands grazed the old tomes assembled on the desk, his cold eyes surveying the house. Its occupants had recently been dragged outside and ritually executed by acolytes of the scourge; their souls would find use elsewhere. Forever would they be ensnared, very much like his own, he mused.
He heard a whimper from the corner, turning slowly to the figure hunched there. It was a boy, blue orbs glowing through the darkness he was veiled behind. The child of parents slain, of village razed and of society ruined.
Andarius walked slowly over to him, his cloak trailing behind him. The forlorn blade was clutched in his hand glowing through runes of ice blue. The menacing weapon had seen to the death of many, and it would see still to the death of many more…
The Death-Knight pulled a chair from the desk, seating himself as he rested the tip of the blade on the floor, his hands folding over themselves atop the pommel. He stared into the eyes of the boy at length, before removing the glowing stone from his pocket, speaking a few words silently under his breath.
“Lament for those you have lost, grow strong, and one day…You may come to find me.”
With that, Andarius reached down, grabbing the boy by the lapels of his shirt. The swirling portal opened up at their side as Andarius pushed him through, disappearing into lands unknown. Lands not yet scourged.
He stood in silence, before pocketing the stone of green runes in his armor and stepping out the door.
There was still much death that needed be done.
A Conversation Amongst FriendsEdit
Andarius watched the ebb and flow of the liquid in the glass, distracted by its simplicity.
“…Oh, I’m sorry, what were we talking about?” He said apologetically in common, turning to the bound Knight in front of him.
The elder Paladin was seething; he wore the tabard of the Silver Hand across his chest, and he spoke in a low growl. “You can’t succeed, for whatever your triumphs, we garner more support by the day. Soon, you will be cleansed of this land, along with your traitorous Lord!”
“Ah,” The Count said quietly, “Now, there is a concept I would love to hear.” He said, crossing one of his legs across the other, swiveling the glass as he took a short sip. The room flickered occasionally, as the Torches set along the dungeon walls wavered to and fro.
“We will march by the hundreds, Icecrown will –“
Andarius interrupted him, waving a hand dismissively, “Yes, Yes. I’ve heard all that Fire and Brimstone recital from your Order.” He smiled faintly, taking another sip before he continued, “Did you honestly believe we had no knowledge of Valgarde? Or what measures the Silver Hand have been taking?”
Vrenna rose to his feet, walking slowly about the Knight.
“Northrend belongs to us. How foolish do you believe us not to monitor our own coastline?”
The Knight raised an eyebrow, “I – Don’t understand. What are you saying?”
Andarius let out a heavy sigh, leaning in close to the Knight as he whispered in his ear.
“You are here, because we allow you to be here. We could have set out a force to the coast the moment you landed that would have quaked the very ground, but do you know why we didn’t?” The knight arced his head slightly away from Vrenna, shaking his head negatively.
“We are allowing you this foothold of Valgarde. Because for far too long has our Lord been absent from the world,” The Count said, leaning up as he walked to the far wall, eyeing the display of weapons inlaid on the wooden rack.
“Northrend has been silent, and soon, it shall be renewed by the blood of foreign invaders. And such is why our King bids you welcome.”
Andarius could now picture the gears starting to turn in the Knight’s head.
“Tell me,” he said sincerely, “Are you deaf?”
He could feel the Knight give him an incredulous look behind his back, “No, of cour—“
Vrenna pulled the rapier from the wall, turning and lunging it through the right side of the Knight’s chest, impaling his lung.
“Pity,” He said quite simply, over the sounds of the man choking on his own blood as it crowded his airway. “Or, you could have avoided that…”
“Now,” He said, “While you still have conscious, it’s important that you hear this. I promised you to one of my servants, so it’s unfortunate for you that you must ascend to the afterlife by way of pain.” He said, swiveling the glass slowly as he walked to the entryway, a cowled figure appearing just beyond.
Vrenna nodded, before walking onward.
The Knight was shaking violently in the chair, as he looked to the doorway.
Darkness abated, as the cowl of the monster rose. Pale skin hung loose around his face, empty eyes staring into the soul of the Man. The Monster smiled, baring its stained teeth sharp as razorblades.
The manor was filled with ghoulish screams.
The old hillside manor in the Hillsbrad foothills sat quiet, shadows of occupants passing by veiled windows.
The evening was dark, rainclouds dominating the patch of sky. All the while it was teetering on the precipice of rain as the sound of thunder boomed over the hills, strange electricity in the air; the grassland swaying in the gentle wind of the coming storm.
The Count swiveled the glass of absinthe, his other hand resting under his chin and his leg propped up against his knee, his face marked with quiet contemplation.
A Gangly creature moved about in the shadows beside him, voice hushed and reverent.
“Mobilization, you say? So, the King intends to greet the interlopers?”
Andarius lowered his head, running a finger in the groove of his temple, “It would appear so; the sigil is active.”
This caused the shadowed figure to straighten up and stand frozen, “Active, you say?”
The Count drew the glass to his lips, savoring the taste on his palate before continuing, “War is stirring, and the forces of Horde and Alliance can see it plainly, as we can.”
His hand gently parted the curtains enough to get a view outside, a slight drizzle had begun, voice soft under his breath, “Yes, It won’t be long now…”
The Dark visitor wringed his hands together uncomfortably whilst muttering, “This isn’t what we need right now, we had assumed that the attention in Outland would keep their eyes focused elsewhere long enough to gather the resources for the subversion, but now that they have launched the offensive…”
Andarius pursed his lips, looking downward, “It matters little.”
“Do you not realize? The traitors of Windrunner may have finally done it; their greatest alchemists have been working to turn the tide since their sunder of his will! That, combined with this fragile alliance between the two bastions of Azeroth, we can’t stand agains—“
The glass shattered against the floor, Andarius pushing the veiled figure against the far wall with his forearm and speaking low and deliberate, “Listen here, you wretched creature. You have made the same pact as I, a pact not even death may fully relinquish. You had best mind your tongue, lest I should cut it out. After all, what has a mere subservient need for such a thing?”
The lowly creature squirmed against his hold for a moment before The Count released him, walking to the windowsill.
“You will retain your position in Hillsbrad, keeping a wary eye on Silverpine and Tirisfal. Along with any news from the Undercity regarding this great alchemical solution…Unless, of course, I need remind you how easily you would be replaced?” He said, without turning his gaze from the steady rainfall outside.
“You needn’t, Count.” He said begrudgingly. Andarius didn’t speak, but merely nodded, his gaze still fixed upon the storm…
Belinor closed the door tightly behind him, veils fluttering in the dark Silvermoon night. The sky was a crisp violet, stars setting the sky all ablaze. Judgment; it hung over his head like a wreath of thorns.
“Belinor, my dearest friend.” The cryptic voice said.
The Blood-Elf known as Belinor turned swiftly, jarred by the sudden voice as a green gaze furrowed to the darkness. “Who’s there? Show Yourself!”
“Oh, I think you know, friend of mine. Has it really been so long?”
Belinor’s heated blood ran cold, the air of the night had run frigid, and his breath caught amongst it.
Twin embers of emerald burned in the twilight, the figure behind the veil. Vrenna exited the shadows, clutching to his cane. He was adorned in black, passionate eyes staring through the enfeebled Belinor.
Belinor stammered, “But, But you’re dead, how can that be?”
“Dead? Well, I certainly don’t feel it.” Vrenna glanced about himself, “Why, I have never felt more alive.”
“I didn’t have any part in it, Andarius. Know that, know that I didn’t have any part in it!” He stumbled over a side-table as he retreated further into the apartment.
“Don’t be so hasty, my old friend. Calm yourself, I only came to talk. Please, sit.”
The Blood-Elf seemed hesitant, glancing about the apartment.
“…Now, That’s just rude.” Vrenna stated bluntly.
Belinor mouthed something several times before lowering himself into the couch in the center of the room.
Vrenna smiled, that wicked smile. It cut through Belinor’s composure, his fingers fidgeting restlessly. The Count moved silently to the window, fingers clasped around the hilt of the cane, he rested upon it as he gazed out into the night air. “I did miss these nights terribly, Old friend. A shame they were taken from me.” The last of his words were a low growl. Belinor stopped suddenly, glancing over his shoulder as he reached for the center table.
“Yo- You already killed Sindril.”
Vrenna seemed occupied, picking at his index finger with his thumb. “Regrettable, but you know how stubborn the man can be, or is it, could be?” He gave a nonchalant shrug as he stopped picking at his finger, taking a deep breath of the night air.
Belinor closed his fingers around the object in the table, folding it up into the sleeve of his robe. “I suppose you are here to end me as well?
“Not if you give me what I want,” He said quietly.
“…That ragged old thing?” Belinor slowly started to laugh, “That? That’s what you have gone through all of this for?”
The Count’s gaze turned to stone, as The Elf behind him slowly started to rise from the couch, making his way about it. “Shall we do this my way, Old friend?”
Belinor let the knife fall from within his robe, clutching it in his fist, he breathed the words slowly. “Not on your life.”
The Count smiled slowly, “Pity.”
Belinor lunged at his lower back, just as Andarius thumbed down the activator beneath the hilt of the cane, shaft falling away to reveal the folded steel beneath, glinting in the night. He spun on his heel, the blade shearing through the Elf’s neck, muted crimson painting the walls around him.
The Elf fell, holding hopelessly to the gaping wound as blood spilled out.
Vrenna lowered himself slowly, slipping the shaft back over the disguised blade, the activator clicking back out.
“Were you able to speak, I would hear whatever smug goodbye you had to issue, but seeing as that is not the case, know that I will find what I want; and the rest of them shall sleep at your side, old friend.”
The Count flashed his wicked smile, “You will have company in Hell, and when the time is right, I shall pull you from it one by one to serve. Know that.”
“Have you heard?”
“It’s that Sunspark fellow; I hear he has himself a new mistress.”
“That’s precisely what I thought, a terrible shame too, that poor wife of his being swept up in such an affair.”
“Foolish Girl, I say it’s her own fault, not attending to him as obviously required.”
“You don’t think that it’s merely a matter of him being insatiable? By the sunwell, who really knows?”
“Where did you hear such a rumor anyway?”
“I have it on good authority it’s no rumor. A very reliable source whispered on the wind.”
“Don’t tell me; Goldenthorn? How many times must I tell you, the woman is a travesty! She will spill any contrivance to tarnish the name of another and garner to her some meager importance.”
The waiter donned in blue and gold shuffled past the pair. He encountered similar arrangements around the floor of the great hall. Quel’dorei Noblemen with their arms interlaced, speaking quietly, and with the occasional raucous laughter from one of the far dining tables of the manor. It was all in a strange sort of cohesion. As if everything was in absolute autonomy.
The Countess Vrenna stood at the head of one of the tables, addressing the leagues of rich before her.
It was late in the evening, and the wine had flowed in abundance.
Women gossiped and laughed as dainty fingers cradled crystal. Slender arms which seemed to waver, as if caught in a subtle wind, beckoning to and fro.
Their male counterparts assembled quite in similar fashion across the hall, smiling faintly and discussing all manner of important Silvermoon affairs.
“Can you really blame him?”
“Of course not, with such a tumultuous state of affairs in the Alliance, we are better off as I see it.”
“You say that now, but one questions the future.”
Beyond the noise of the great hall however, something else lingered.
Fingers danced on ivory.
Had his mother known he was so far removed from the evening’s affairs, he would likely never hear the end of it.
The boy had slipped away from the bureaucrats at a moment’s convenience.
Now sitting at the end of the winding halls, soothing in the quiet tones of the melody. An Endless Melody.