A Wizard is Never Late
"You do me a great honor, m'lord, a great honor," a midde-aged mage of ill-repute purrs in a rich baritone. His flowing, dark purple robes accent a slim yet refined build, and a set of shoulder pads give posture to his frame. In his black eyes sit a malice brought only by the worst kind of madness, though his cunning is diminished none for the fact.
"Then see it done. Mark, for if it is not, you will be the one to die in the elder mage's stead." Thus spoke the voice of the Tothrezim, a mere whisper in the man's mind.
"It shall be. Not a match for power have I seen. Not even an Archmage of the
Kirin Tor."
"Do not be a fool. You will meet the others in five hours time." A rush of images and thoughts pour into the mage's mind. "This is where you will convene. Before your departure, a plan will be devised."
"So it will be, m'lord." The mage bows his head, though he knew the demon could not see him. He waits for a response. Upon hearing none, he gathers his midnight-colored cloak around him and mutters an incantation, disappearing in a flash of purple.
~___________________________________________________~
A week later...
After fleeing Garrin's burning summer home, Vainar had taken his mentor and himself to a floating island in Nagrand, where he unveiled the true reason for the recent attacks. He told him of the Tothrezim, and of his bouts of magically forced madness. From there, Garrin took Vainar to his inherited home in Stormwind. Vainar, being of course a blood elf, promptly panicked. After being assured no harm would come to him in his short stay, he left to restock the house and speak with some people.
It was hours until Garrin returned bearing food and other amenities. In the mean time, Vainar had helped himself to a wash and a tour of the house. It was a rather small affair, with only four rooms and a washroom at the end of the single hall. The kitchen wasn't terribly supplied, and the dining room had wooden dining accoutrement. His old family plaza, with its eight bedrooms, several washrooms, and superbly tended garden, was much better. Granted, it was mostly rubble, as was his family name with it.
Garrin, with bags of food wrapped in his arms, opens the door with much difficulty, stepping over the threshold and closing it with his foot. He stops for a moment, closing his eyes and staying stock still. He opens them again and relaxes.
"Unnecessary, making yourself invisible. You would also have trouble throwing one of your balls of fire at a target, not being able to see your hand," he says aloud, in all appearance conversing with an imaginary friend. Rather more corporeal in substance, Vainar appears in the corner, his palm trained on Garrin.
"Actually, it appears I would have hit you," he announces triumphantly. Garrin clucks his tongue.
"Luck. At any rate, I presume vegetable stew will be sufficient for dinner?"
"No meat?"
"I do not partake of meat," Garrin states matter-of-factly. Vainar gives him a blank look.
"I...do. Fine, I will survive...for now."
"If you desire to consume cooked flesh, by all means, concoct some yourself."
"I will."
"You cook?"
"Yes. Of course. I can cook." Garrin perks an eyebrow, giving Vainar a long, quizzical look. "What? You assume because I am a blood elf I have a servant making all of my meals?"
"Oh, don't be a child. I will get your meat tomorrow." Garrin moves off to the kitchen, the sounds of food preparation come from the arched frame. Vainar moves from the corner and glances out the window. Presumably, he could disguise himself as a human and leave the house. He was in dire need of a walk. In a district permeated by magi, perhaps such an action wasn't so clever.
He groans, turning from the window and sauntering into his preordained bedroom at the end of the hall. Lying down, he realizes he hadn't slept in years. Technically, it had been hours, but he still felt tired. He rolls over with a sigh, falling asleep within seconds.
~___________________________________________________~
"Wake up. Food is ready, then I'm going to assess you," a voice that was presumably Garrin's says over Vainar, the sound of footsteps leaving the room present afterward. Grudgingly, he swings his legs out of the bed and stands, stretching languidly. He smooths his robes down, pulls his hair from his face (he had a recent aversion to styling it), and steps out of the room. He follows the smell of food into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Did you say assess?" he asks blearily, accepting a bowl from Garrin and approaching the pot.
"Yes," he begins as Vainar spoons stew into his wooden bowl, "an assessment. I believe it has been some time since you last had one."
"I presume you are referring to my time in the Land of White. Er, that is to say, my dream. While the lapse of time is present in my mind, when I woke things shortly began to compartmentalize. The past seems not so far away." Garrin nods, and begins eating. He doesn't bother with the table, but simply eats the food from the counter top. Vainar joins him, consuming the stew ravenously. He finishes shortly, conjuring a cup of spring water and draining it in a few gulps. Garrin consumes the last of his stew, waving his hand and sending the dishes scooting across the counter. Garrin motions for Vainar to follow and exits the room. Vainar falls in behind him, and they emerge into the sitting room.
"You are ready, I presume?" Garrin inquires.
"I am," Vainar replies.
"Good then. We will work our way up from the basics; make fire."
Without hesitation, Vainar conjures a swath of flame, the spell coming easily to him. It licks at the air above his hand for a few moments before disappearing as if blown out by the wind.
"Excellent. Now abjure a shield."
Vainar channels arcane, forming it into a physical shield around him, a barrier of purple.
"Elementary. Harder, then. Conjure a muffin."
"You want me to make you a pastry?"
"Precisely."
Vainar rolls his eyes and mutters the spell, focusing his will on casting the spell. A wave of purple energy rises from his hand, stopping an inch above his palm and swirling. It condenses, taking the rough shape of a muffin before solidifying into bread.
"Splendid. Next, I will have you scry Dalaran."
"Anywhere specific?" he replies.
Garrin nods. "My home. Hold a moment, I have an orb about somewhere...excuse me." Garrin exits the room, walking down the hall and disappearing for several minutes before returning with a slightly dusty purple orb. He passes the scrying orb without a word, folding his arms in expectation. Vainar looks down into the orb, summoning the Arcane and muttering the spell to himself. The orb drains of color, filling with mist. It clears almost immediately, showing a three dimensional representation of Garrin's apartment. Things were far from orderly. The table, cloven in two, lies next to the wall. The chairs were out of the view of the orb, but what was inside its view showed varying degrees of trauma.
"Jarrod," Garrin begins stonily, "is gone. He must be alive, or otherwise he has been found already."
"Alive? What happened?"
"Ah, yes. I forgot to mention. Events have been moving quite fast...I woke long before you. Almost as soon as you were killed in my dream, and I leapt from the tower, I woke to you asleep in a chair next to me, and Jarrod reading in another chair. Almost as soon as I had risen, a barrage of arcane bolts crashed through the windows. I had the presence of mind to escape with you. Jarrod, however, was struck. The sound of him hitting the wall was surely lethal, I had thought. I review that conclusion with some skepticism, now."
"You just left him? Never mind, let's just move on." He lets the image fade, handing it back to Garrin. He graciously accepts, then clears his throat.
"Next you must conjure an illusion. Any illusion will do, though complexity is welcome."
Vainar nods, stroking his chin in thought for a moment. He grins and reaches for the Arcane, channeling the necessary amount and casting the spell. Bright white light suffuses him, then fades. A copy of Garrin stands in Vainar's place, gazing upon the real Garrin with a look of indifference, hands behind his back. Real Garrin smiles thinly.
"Canny. Do I really stare in such a way?"
Vainar lets the image fade to be replaced by him once again. "You do. Rather often, really."
"And yet, I feel no urge to change. Curious. Now, impress me."
"Impress you? Can you be impressed?"
"We shall find out, shan't we?"
With a frown, Vainar jumbles ideas around his mind. How does one impress an Archmage? Veritable masters of magic...ridiculous. There was nothing he could think to do in the building. He was looking for something clever, yet deceptively powerful. Illusion would be the natural choice.
Oh. Interesting...
Vainar closes his eyes, simultaneously reaching for the Arcane. He stands there, eyes shut and mind at work for a minute...then two. He raises his hands, which begin glowing steadily with blue light. After several long moments of channeling, a flicker appears in the corner of Garrin's vision. It gains intensity, then forms into a person. A blood elf woman with blood red hair. Then another flicker of light winks into existence in the opposite corner. It quickly forms into an image of Garrin. All around, flickers of light appear and create illusions of different people, spanning four races. After nearly a dozen appear, they begin walking to the end of the room and form into a group, their movements stiff, but passable.
Garrin turns to look at Vainar, who's eyes were now open and squinting with rapt concentration. A last sphere of flickering light appears in the front of the group, remaining as such for longer than any of the others, but creating an image more convincing than any of those before it. Adanne as Vainar remembers her stands, hands on hips, looking at Garrin. He freezes, shaking his head. "Marvelous, Vainar. Just...marvelous. Never before have I seen such a thing. It is...wonderful." The images disappear as a whole, leaving the rest of the room looking even more bare than it had before.
Vainar staggers as the spell ends, groaning. "I need some food..."
Garrin twists his hand in a quick gesture, a hunk of bread appearing in the air and floating toward Vainar. He snatches it, biting into the arcane conjuration with zeal.
"Impressive, but wasteful. Such a spell would drain most any mage, and your energy is best used for smaller things. However, I must applaud the skill and power shown therein. Each image was a memory, no?"
"Yes. As best as I could remember them, at any rate."
Garrin looks at Vainar in a pondering way, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "You have improved. By much, I should say. Not necessarily in power, but in understanding. And yet, your power has increased. We are making progress. Excellent progress. I daresay it shan't be long 'til I stop teaching you."
"Why are you speaking like that?"
"Like what?"
"So poetically."
"I daresay I do not know what you mean," the old archmage protests. Vainar smiles, shaking his head.
"Never mind. What do we do now?"
"Now I will contact the Kirin Tor and alert them to the series of crimes that have taken place right under their noses and offer them what I know."
"You can't possibly be considering telling them about the Tothrezim."
"I assume you think they will not believe me?" Garrin says with indignity.
"Well...most believe Tothrezim don't exist. I didn't myself, in fact."
"And nor did I. Yet I am now a believer, yes? I trust your word, and they will trust the word of a Senior Archmage," he declares haughtily. "I have that title for more than self-gratification, you know." Vainar bows his head and moves to a cushioned chair facing a large fireplace. Spying dead wood in the grate, he presses the chimney's opening lever with his foot and lights a fire with a spell. Garrin moves over and joins him in the chair beside his own.
"I did not mean to sound impudent," Vainar says, looking back up at Garrin, a frown painting his features negatively, "but if you have not yet observed, the Magocracy is made up of die-hard skeptics and shrewd
businessmen. Dalaran may pride itself on its elective government, but it seems to suffer no less the ignorance of other human nations under their uncompromising monarchies."
Garrin laughs, a startling enough occurrence without it being completely unexpected. "You say you aren't a politician, but your words say otherwise. You aren't entirely hopeless after all."
"I had much time to think."
Garrin frowns, going from mirth to modesty in an only slightly comical short period of time.
"That you did. I forget myself. Would you recommend it to others?"
"Certainly not. It was maddening at times. There were moments when I had to remind myself that there was a real world."
"But the way you described it; it seems a marvel. If one could perhaps control the passage of time..."
"Yes, all good in thought, but even on parchment the idea is sketchy. If something went wrong, one could be asleep for hours and wake up an old man. Granted, I was not there for so long. I never did bother counting, but I would say it was less than a decade, though more than long enough to become perfectly at home. Several times already I have found myself attempting to control my surroundings in the way of dreams, and felt confusion at the obstinacy of reality."
"Charming. I would advise not mentioning that to others, lest they think you utterly mad."
"By this point, it couldn't do much harm."
Garrin nods. "Quite." Silence ensues following the word, which Vainar seems uncharacteristically comfortable in. After a few minutes, his eyes droop closed, the illusion spell showing its strain as he slips into a sleep. Images and sequences of his battles in the Land of White replay, failures and victories all.
~___________________________________________________~
Vainar's senses return before he opens his eyes, and he cherishes the moment of relaxation before opening them to a slightly less lively fire than when he'd slept. He looks over at Garrin, still sitting in the chair and reading a book.
"I see you've decided to join the waking world once more. You have been asleep for a few hours. That spell must really have taken a toll," he says, eyes still on the book.
"Yes. At least now I know about where my limits lie."
"And that, my friend, is always a good thing to be aware of." They both fall silent, Vainar clasping his hands and gazing at the ceiling in thought as Garrin continues reading.
"I will make some tea," Garrin states abruptly, breaking the peace. Vainar simply nods in turn and gazes at the fire, lost utterly in his thoughts - or lack thereof. Superlative intellect aside, he had been uncharacteristically empty-headed as of late...
"Honey?" Garrin calls from the kitchen. Vainar raises an eyebrow slowly and turns in his chair to stare at him as he peeks his head around the wall.
"...What did you call me?"
Garrin brings a palm up and covers his face, sighing melodramatically. "Would you like honey in your tea."
"Oh. Yes, I would, thank you."
"You're welcome. Sugar?"
"...What? Did you just call me Sugar?"
"No, you dolt, would you like sug- Oh, you are not clever, Vainar. I prohibit any such humor from here-on-out."
Vainar grins as Garrin goes back to his tea-making. What great fun reality was. He had almost forgotten. Then again, it did have its pros and cons. Predominant among those were murderous Tothrezim. It goes without saying that it would fall snugly under the "cons" category.
Vainar pulls the fabric of his robe down, finger trailing over the crescent scar on his chest. Deals with the Nathrezim had their prices. He'd sought it out begging answers to his illness. Perhaps he could have made himself a target for things such as this.
"Was I always so reckless?" he mutters to himself.
Ah yes, he thinks to himself,
I'm in the capital of a major human kingdom. Sometimes I forget myself. Reckless indeed. With this in mind, he extricates himself from the chair and walks to the kitchen archway, stepping through and rubbing the back of his neck. Garrin stands ramrod straight, hand on his hip while the other strokes his beard in a painfully philosophical manner.
"I understand tea must be the beverage of gentlemen, but I had no idea it invoked such a philosophical reaction in you."
Garrin looks over at Vainar without breaking his posture, a strange look in his eyes. "Indeed? I had no idea you had an eye for people."
Vainar raises his right hand and flexes it, closing and opening his palm repeatedly. "Being a classical fencer, I have a natural tendency to study my opponent. Or ally, as the case may be."
"Mmyes, but your persuasion could use work."
Vainar frowns. "Beg your pardon? I am very persuasive, in my own right. My tongue has saved me from many tangles my magic could not."
"Indeed..."
Vainar blinks and coughs. "That is...not what I intended to say. I assume you're referring to the incident in the dream. Try convincing someone in the street that you've never met that everything around them isn't real and that they are in a dream. They might just call the guards."
Garrin chuckles, nodding his head. "I agree, it was an unfair jibe. I have always been a thick dreamer." Silence ensues with a lull in the conversation as each train their eyes on the tea kettle with expectation. After a few minutes, Vainar sighs.
"I'm going to need new clothes. And a sword."
"A sword? Really?"
"Yes...sometimes you don't have time to cast a spell. A good sword has saved my life countless times. And besides...it's stylish."
"Oh, stylish, yes? Stylish? You should be worrying about efficiency. Now that we are on the subject, you should cut your hair. It is very ostentatious."
"What? Is that necessary?" Vainar says hastily, running a hand through his hair self-consciously.
"Absolutely. I would cut my hair, but as you can see, there is little to cut, yes?"
Vainar grumbles to himself, then nods. "Fine. But it won't do much good, you know. I could dye my hair and change my clothes...doesn't matter. They could still find me."
Garrin cups his chin again, nodding. "You are right. You obviously have a firm grasp of Illusion magic. Make yourself another race. A high elf would be easy, perhaps, but expected. A human? Or perhaps...a dwarf. Yes, I like that idea..."
"You..
are joking, right? A dwarf? Besides, we both agreed, I'm not leaving this house." Now thoroughly on the subject, Vainar thinks to ask "When are we leaving, again?"
"Soon. Calm yourself. I've already told you, nobody will look for you here. None of my associates know of this place, and I doubt anybody knows it exists other than me and the two people living next door. Still, we should leave very soon, and I expect you to have an adequate disguise."
"Fine. I will think of something."
"Something clandestine, I hope?"
"More incognito than a gnome in slippers."
Garrin rolls his eyes. "Lovely. Clothes can be found in your room. Search the armoir, I'm sure something must fit you. How tall are you?"
"Six feet, two inches. Or three, perhaps."
"We will hope my brother did not have a personal tailor, and frequently bought clothing too large for his frame, then."
Vainar shrugs his shoulders and steps out of the kitchen, traversing the hallway to his room. He crosses the room to the aforementioned armoir and brushes some clothes aside, frowning. This man was clearly not the most fashionable. Giving up hope, he salvages a matching outfit and tries in vain to get it on. He stares down at his exposed midsection with a look of lost hope. He looked like a poorly dressed, racy woman from the wrong part of Silvermoon. He rolls his eyes and casts a spell over the clothing, extending them fluidly to fit him. He smiles. Where would elvenkind be without magic?
He exits the room and goes back to the kitchen, entering just as Garrin is pouring the tea. "It was a struggle, but I found something suitable." He looks up at Vainar and eyes him critically.
"It will do. Have you thought of a disguise?"
"I know humans well enough, obviously. I will go as that, for now."
"Very well. I will assume the guise of a traveling merchant."
"What if someone tries to buy something from you?"
"Then we make a tactical exit," he replies without the smallest pause. Vainar's lips curl devilishly.
"I rather enjoy the sound of that." Garrin smiles grimly.
"I joke. In that event, I will attempt to barter from a few baubles I am bringing along. Otherwise, I devise an excuse and we leave immediately afterward."
"I assume you will be teaching me along the way?"
"What need I teach you?"
"Theory, I suppose. I am still lacking in fundamental knowledge."
"I suppose you are at that, though I would have no hesitation in releasing you from apprenticeship immediately. At any rate, we will discuss how best to deal with the current situation as we travel."
"I have two questions," Vainar says, raising a finger. Garrin nods for him to continue, taking the kettle from the stove fire and setting it on the counter to steep. "Firstly, let's say you manage to convince this man that you're telling the truth about the Tothrezim. What kind of help can we expect?"
"I will be requesting the help of two, perhaps more Archmagi, and that notwithstanding, a few more less prestigious men to help us with the mortal thralls of the demon's."
"Mercenaries?"
"Perhaps. Your next question?"
"Yes. Exactly how do you plan to get back into Dalaran without them noticing? They've had ample time to dig in, and I doubt we can get back without them catching wind of it."
"I am delighted you ask. This is, I assume, no simple matter. I assume they will be doing all they can to get to you. I also assume each of them are willing to die for whatever the demon has promised them. Assuming is all well and fine, but I managed to contact a member of the Kirin Tor not long ago. I was able to reach Diviner Jarrod, in fact. He seems well enough, by the way, if bruised. He and a few others have arranged a way in for us. I do hope you don't mind the sewers."
"The sewers? Lovely. You don't think they would be thick in that place?"
"Not where we are going. Trust me. Or, rather, trust them. We leave in two days, as they need time to prepare. Tomorrow I will acquire your weapon. How is your enchanting?"
"My enchanting? Well enough, I suppose. I haven't a great amount of experience."
"You are in luck; I do. I will acquire us both weapons tomorrow. Staves and the like. I will have no more of this sword business while I am with you," Garrin states adamantly. Vainar sighs melodramatically.
"Oh, very well," he mutters, reaching for the kettle of tea and pouring a glass. He fills it with sugar and reaches for the honey, opening the lid to discover a long dead spider curled up within the amber syrup. He grimaces in distaste. "I hope you take your honey with dead arachnids," he announces flatly, stirring his tea and sipping from it. "I'm going to bed."
"I will leave early in the morning. Expect me back by noon."
Vainar nods and cups his tea in both hands, leaving the kitchen and stepping down the hall to his room. He pulls a book from the shelf and lies down, reading about the state of human politics as it was approximately a decade ago. How boring. He sets his tea on the inn table and shifts in the bed, sleep already overtaking him.